CHAPTER I.

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SILVER PITCHERS: AND INDEPENDENCE,

A Centennial Love Story.

By LOUISA M. ALCOTT,

AUTHOR OF "LITTLE WOMEN," "AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL," "LITTLE MEN," "EIGHT

COUSINS," "WORK," "HOSPITAL SKETCHES," ETC.

BOSTON:

ROBERTS BROTHERS.

1888.

_Copyright_,

BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

1876.

UNIVERSITY PRESS: JOHN WILSON & SON,

CAMBRIDGE.

CONTENTS

SILVER PITCHERS

ANNA'S WHIM

TRANSCENDENTAL WILD OATS

THE ROMANCE OF A SUMMER DAY

MY ROCOCO WATCH

BY THE RIVER

LETTY'S TRAMP

SCARLET STOCKINGS

INDEPENDENCE: A CENTENNIAL LOVE STORY

SILVER PITCHERS.

CHAPTER I.

_HOW IT BEGAN._

"We can do nothing about it except show our displeasure in some proper

manner," said Portia, in her most dignified tone.

"_I_ should like to cut them all dead for a year to come; and I'm not

sure that I won't!" cried Pauline, fiercely.

"We _ought_ to make it impossible for such a thing to happen again, and

I think we _might_," added Priscilla, so decidedly that the others

looked at her in surprise.

The three friends sat by the fire "talking things over," as girls love

to do. Pretty creatures, all of them, as they nestled together on the

lounge in dressing-gowns and slippers, with unbound hair, eyes still

bright with excitement, and tongues that still wagged briskly.

Usually the chat was of dresses, compliments, and all the little

adventures that befall gay girls at a merry-making. But to-night

something of uncommon interest absorbed the three, and kept them talking

earnestly long after they should have been asleep.

Handsome Portia looked out from her blonde locks with a disgusted

expression, as she sipped the chocolate thoughtful mamma had left inside

the fender. Rosy-faced Pauline sat staring indignantly at the fire;

while in gentle Priscilla's soft eyes the shadow of a real sorrow seemed

to mingle with the light of a strong determination.

Yes, something had happened at this Thanksgiving festival which much

offended the three friends, and demanded grave consideration on their

part; for the "Sweet P's," as Portia, Pris, and Polly were called, were

the belles of the town. One ruled by right of beauty and position, one

by the power of a character so sweet and strong that its influence was

widely felt, and one by the wit and winsomeness of a high yet generous

spirit.

It had been an unusually pleasant evening, for after the quilting bee in

the afternoon good Squire Allen had given a bountiful supper, and all

the young folks of the town had joined in the old-fashioned games, which

made the roof ring with hearty merriment.

All would have gone well if some one had not privately introduced

something stronger than the cider provided by the Squire,--a mysterious

and potent something, which caused several of the young men to betray

that they were decidedly the worse for their libations.

That was serious enough; but the crowning iniquity was the putting of

brandy into the coffee, which it was considered decorous for the young

girls to prefer instead of cider.

Who the reprobates were remained a dead secret, for the young men

laughed off the dreadful deed as a joke, and the Squire apologized in

the handsomest manner.

But the girls felt much aggrieved and would not be appeased, though the

elders indulgently said, "Young men will be young men," even while they

shook their heads over the pranks played and the nonsense spoken under

the influence of the wine that had been so slyly drank.

Now what should be done about it? The "Sweet P's" knew that their mates

would look to them for guidance at this crisis, for they were the

leaders in all things. So they must decide on some line of conduct for

all to adopt, as the best way of showing their disapproval of such

practical jokes.

When Pris spoke, the others looked at her with surprise; for there was a

new expression in her face, and both asked wonderingly, "How?"

"There are several ways, and we must decide which is the best. One is to

refuse invitations to the sociable next week."

"But I've just got a lovely new dress expressly for it!" cried Portia,

tragically.

"Then we might decline providing any supper," began Pris.

"That wouldn't prevent the boys from providing it, and I never could get

through the night without a morsel of something!" exclaimed Polly, who

loved to see devoted beings bending before her, with offerings of ice,

or struggling manfully to steer a glass of lemonade through a tumultuous

sea of silk and broadcloth, feeling well repaid by a word or smile from

her when they landed safely.

"True, and it _would_ be rather rude and resentful; for I am sure they

will be models of deportment next time," and gentle Pris showed signs of

relenting, though that foolish joke bad cost her more than either of the

others.

For a moment all sat gazing thoughtfully at the fire, trying to devise

some awful retribution for the sinners, no part of which should fall

upon themselves. Suddenly Polly clapped her hands, crying with a

triumphant air,--

"I've got it, girls! I've got it!"

"What? How? Tell us quick!"

"We _will_ refuse to go to the first sociable, and that will make a

tremendous impression, for half the nice girls will follow our lead, and

the boys will be in despair. Every one will ask why we are not there;

and what can those poor wretches say but the truth? Won't that be a

bitter pill for my lords and gentlemen?"

"It will certainly be one to us," said Portia, thinking of the "heavenly

blue dress" with a pang.

"Wait a bit; our turn will come at the next sociable. To this we can go

with escorts of our own choosing, or none at all, for they are free and

easy affairs, you know. So we need be under no obligation to any of

those sinners, and can trample upon them as much as we please."

"But how about the games, the walks home, and all the pleasant little

services the young men of our set like to offer and we to receive?"

asked Portia, who had grown up with these "boys," as Polly called them,

and found it hard to turn her back on the playmates who had now become

friends or lovers.

"Bless me! I forgot that the feud might last more than one evening. Give

me an idea, Pris," and Polly's triumph ended suddenly.

"I will," answered Pris, soberly; "for at this informal sociable we can

institute a new order of things. It will make a talk, but I think we

have a right to do it, and I'm sure it will have a good effect, if we

only hold out, and don't mind being laughed at. Let us refuse to

associate with the young men whom we know to be what is called 'gay,'

and accept as friends those of whose good habits we are sure. If they

complain, as of course they will, we can say their own misconduct made

it necessary, and there we have them."

"But, Pris, who ever heard of such an idea? People will say all sorts of

things about us!" said Portia, rather startled at the proposition.

"Let them! I say it's a grand plan, and I'll stand by you, Pris, through

thick and thin!" cried Polly, who enjoyed the revolutionary spirit of

the thing.

"We can but try it, and give the young men a lesson; for, girls, matters

are coming to a pass, when it is our _duty_ to do something. I cannot

think it is right for us to sit silent and see these fine fellows

getting into bad habits because no one dares or cares to speak out,

though we gossip and complain in private."

"Do you want us to begin a crusade?" asked Portia, uneasily.

"Yes, in the only way we girls can do it. We can't preach and pray in

streets and bar-rooms, but we may at home, and in our own little world

show that we want to use our influence for good. I know that you two can

do any thing you choose with the young people in this town, and it is

just that set who most need the sort of help you can give, if you will."

"You have more influence than both of us put together; so don't be

modest, Pris, but tell us what to do, and I'll do it, even if I'm hooted

at," cried warm-hearted Polly, won at once.

"You must do as you think right; but _I_ have made up my mind to protest

against wine-drinking in every way I can. I know it will cost me much,

for I have nothing to depend upon but the good opinion of my friends;

nevertheless, I shall do what seems my duty, and I may be able to save

some other girl from the heart-aches I have known."

"You won't lose our good opinion, you dear little saint! Just tell us

how to begin and we will follow our leader," cried both Portia and

Polly, fired with emulation by their friend's quiet resolution.

Pris looked from one to the other, and, seeing real love and confidence

in their faces, was moved to deepen the impression she had made, by

telling them the sad secret of her life. Pressing her hands tightly

together, and drooping her head, she answered in words that were the

more pathetic for their brevity,--

"Dear girls, don't think me rash or sentimental, for I _know_ what I am

trying to do, and you will understand my earnestness better when I tell

you that a terrible experience taught me to dread this appetite more

than death. It killed my father, broke mother's heart, and left me all

alone."

As she paused, poor Pris hid her face and shrank away, as if by this

confession she had forfeited her place in the respect of her mates. But

the girlish hearts only clung the closer to her, and proved the

sincerity of their affection by sympathetic tears and tender words, as

Portia and Polly held her fast, making a prettier group than the marble

nymphs on the mantelpiece; for the Christian graces quite outdid the

heathen ones.

Polly spoke first, and spoke cheerfully, feeling, with the instinct of a

fine nature, that Priscilla's grief was too sacred to be talked about,

and that they could best show their appreciation of her confidence by

proving themselves ready to save others from a sorrow like hers.

"Let us be a little society of three, and do what we can. I shall begin

at home, and watch over brother Ned; for lately he has been growing away

from me somehow, and I'm afraid he is beginning to be 'gay.' I shall get

teased unmercifully; but I won't mind if I keep him safe."

"I have no one at home to watch over but papa, and he is in no danger,

of course; so I shall show Charley Lord that I am not pleased with him,"

said Portia, little dreaming where her work was to be done.

"And you will set about reforming that delightful scapegrace, Phil

Butler?" added Polly, peeping archly into the still drooping face of

Pris.

"I have lost my right to do it, for I told him to-night that love and

respect must go together in my heart," and Pris wiped her wet eyes with

a hand that no longer wore a ring.

Portia and Polly looked at one another in dismay, for by this act Pris

proved how thoroughly in earnest she was.

Neither had any words of comfort for so great a trouble, and sat

silently caressing her, till Pris looked up, with her own serene smile

again, and said, as if to change the current of their thoughts,--

"We must have a badge for the members of our new society, so let us each

wear one of these tiny silver pitchers. I've lost the mate to mine, but

Portia has a pair just like them. You can divide, then we are all

provided for."

Portia ran to her jewel-case, caught up a pair of delicate filigree

ear-rings, hastily divided a narrow velvet ribbon into three parts,

attached to each a silver pitcher, and, as the friends smilingly put on

these badges, they pledged their loyalty to the new league by a silent

good-night kiss.

CHAPTER II.

_A DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE._

Great was the astonishment of their "set" when it was known that the

"Sweet P's" had refused all invitations to the opening sociable.

The young men were in despair, the gossips talked themselves hoarse

discussing the affair, and the girls exulted; for, as Polly predicted,

the effect of their first step was "tremendous."

When the evening came, however, by one accord they met in Portia's room,

to support each other through that trying period. They affected to be

quite firm and cheerful; but one after the other broke down, and sadly

confessed that the sacrifice to principle was harder than they expected.

What added to their anguish was the fact that the Judge's house stood

just opposite the town-hall, and every attempt to keep away from certain

windows proved a dead failure.

"It is _so_ trying to see those girls go in with their dresses bundled

up, and not even know what they wear," mourned Portia, watching shrouded

figures trip up the steps that led to the paradise from which she had

exiled herself.

"They must be having a capital time, for every one seems to have gone. I

wonder who Phil took," sighed Pris, when at length the carriages ceased

to roll.

"Girls! I wish to be true to my vow, but if you don't hold me I shall

certainly rush over there and join in the fun, for that music is too

much for me," cried Polly, desperately, as the singing began.

It was an endless evening to the three pretty pioneers, though they went

early to bed, and heroically tried to sleep with that distracting music

in their ears. Slumber came at last, but as the clocks were striking

twelve a little ghost emerged from Portia's room, and gliding to the

hall window vanished among the heavy damask curtains.

Presently another little ghost appeared from the same quarter, and

stealing softly to the same window was about to vanish in the same

capacious draperies, when a stifled cry was heard, and Portia, the

second sprite, exclaimed in an astonished whisper,--

"Why, Pris, are you here, too? I saw Polly creep away from me, and came

to take her back. How dare you go wandering about and startling me out

of my wits in this way?"

"I was only looking to see if it was all over," quavered Pris, meekly,

emerging from the right-hand curtain.

"So was I!" laughed Polly, bouncing out from the left-hand one.

There was a sound of soft merriment in that shadowy hall for a moment,

and then the spirits took a look at the world outside, for the moon was

shining brightly. Yes, the fun was evidently over, for the lamps were

being extinguished, and several young men stood on the steps exchanging

last words. One wore a cloak theatrically thrown over the shoulder, and

Polly knew him at once.

"That's Ned! I _must_ hear what they are saying. Keep quiet and I'll

listen," she whispered, rolling herself in the dark folds of the curtain

and opening the window a crack, so that a frosty breeze could blow

freely into her left ear.

"You'll get your death," murmured Portia, shivering in her quilted

wrapper.

"O, never mind!" cried Pris, who recognized the tallest man in the

group, and was wild to catch a word from "poor Phil."

"They think they've done a fine thing; but, bless their little hearts,

we'll show that we can do without them by not asking them to the next

sociable, or taking notice of them if they go. That will bring them

round without fail," said one masculine voice, with a jolly laugh.

"Many thanks for letting us know your plots, Mr. Lord. Now we can

arrange a nice little surprise for _you_," and Portia made a scornful

courtesy in the dark.

"Faith! I don't blame the girls much, for that was a confoundedly

ungentlemanly trick of yours, and I'll thank you not to lay any of the

blame of it on me; I've got as much as I can carry without that," said

the tall figure, stalking away alone.

"I'm _so_ glad to know that Phil had nothing to do with it!" breathed

Pris, gratefully.

"Come on, Charley! I must get home as soon as possible, or Polly will be

down on me, for she has taken a new tack lately, and holds forth on the

error of my ways like a granny."

"Won't I give Ned an extra lecture for that speech, the rascal!" and

Polly shook a small fist at him as her brother passed under the window,

blissfully unconscious of the avenging angels up aloft.

"'Tis well; let us away and take sweet counsel how we may annihilate

them," added Polly, melodramatically, as the three ghosts vanished from

the glimpses of the moon.

Every one turned out to the sociables, for they were town affairs, and

early hours, simple suppers, and games of all sorts, made it possible

for old and young to enjoy them together.

On the night of the second one there was a goodly gathering, for the

public rebuke administered to the young men had made a stir, and

everybody was curious to see what the consequences would be when the

parties met.

There was a sensation, therefore, when a whisper went round that the

"Sweet P's" had come, and a general smile of wonder and amusement

appeared when the girls entered, Portia on the arm of her father, Polly

gallantly escorted by her twelve-year-old brother Will, and Pris beside

Belinda Chamberlain, whose five feet seven made her a capital cavalier.

"Outwitted!" laughed Charley Lord, taking the joke at once as he saw

Portia's gray-headed squire.

"I _knew_ Polly was plotting mischief, she has been so quiet lately,"

muttered Ned, eying his little brother with lofty scorn.

Phil said nothing, but he gave a sigh of relief on seeing that Pris had

chosen an escort of whom it was impossible to be jealous.

The Judge seldom honored these gatherings, but Portia ruled papa, and

when she explained the peculiar state of things, he had heroically left

his easy chair to cast himself into the breach.

Master Will was in high feather at his sudden promotion, and bore

himself gallantly, though almost as much absorbed by his wristbands as

Mr. Toots; for Polly had got him up regardless of expense, with a gay

tie, new gloves, and, O, crowning splendor! a red carnation in his

button-hole.

Buxom Belinda was delighted with the chance to play cavalier, and so get

her fair share of all the fun going, for usually she stood in a corner

smiling at an unappreciative world, like a patient sunflower.

The faces of the young men were a study as the games began, and the

three girls joined in them with the partners they had chosen.

"The Judge is evidently on his mettle, but he can't stand that sort of

thing long, even to please Portia; and then her Majesty will have to

give in, or condescend to some one out of our set," thought Charley

Lord, longing already to be taken into favor again.

"Polly will have to come and ask me to lead, if she wants to sing her

favorite songs; for I'll be hanged if I do it till she has humbled

herself by asking," said Ned, feeling sure that his sister would soon

relent.

"If it was any one but Belinda, I don't think I could stand it,"

exclaimed Phil, as he watched his lost sweetheart with wistful eyes;

for, though he submitted to the sentence which he knew he deserved, he

could not relinquish so much excellence without deep regret.

But the young men underrated the spirit of the girls, and overrated

their own strength. The "Sweet P's" went on enjoying themselves,

apparently quite indifferent to the neglect of their once devoted

friends. But to the outcasts it was perfectly maddening to see stately

Portia promenading with stout Major Quackenboss, who put his best foot

foremost with the air of a conquering hero; also to behold sweet Pris

playing games with her little pupils in a way that filled their small

souls with rapture. But the most aggravating spectacle of all was

captivating Polly, chatting gayly with young Farmer Brown, who was

evidently losing both head and heart in the light of her smiles.

"It's no use, boys; I _must_ have one turn with Portia, and you may hang

me for a traitor immediately afterward," cried Charley at last,

recklessly casting both pride and promise to the winds.

"O, very well; if you are going to give in, we may as well all eat

humble pie 'together,'" and Ned imitated his weak-minded friend, glad of

an excuse to claim the leadership of the little choir who led off the

weekly "sing."

Phil dared not follow their example as far as Pris was concerned, but

made his most elegant bow to Belinda, and begged to have the honor of

seeing her home. His chagrin may be imagined when the lofty wall-flower

replied, with a significant emphasis that made his face burn,--

"No, thank you. I need a very _steady_ escort, for I shouldn't take a

fall into a snow-bank as lightly as Pris did not long ago."

Charley met with a like fate at Portia's hands, for she outraged

established etiquette by coldly declining his meek invitation to

promenade, and two minutes later graciously accepting that of an

unfashionable young man, who was known to belong to a temperance lodge.

But Ned's repulse was the most crushing of all, for in reply to his

condescending hint,--

"I suppose people won't be satisfied unless we give them our favorites,

hey, Polly?" he received a verbal box on the ear in the sharp answer,--

"We don't want _you_, for I intend to lead myself, and introduce a new

set of songs which won't be at all to your taste."

Then, to his utter amazement and confusion, Miss Polly began to sing one

of the good old temperance songs, the burden whereof was,--

"O, that will be joyful, joyful, joyful,

O, that will be joyful,

When young men drink no more!"

It was taken up all over the hall, and the chorus rang out with an

energy that caused sundry young men to turn red and dodge behind any

capacious back they could find, for every one understood Polly's motive,

and looked approvingly upon her as she stood singing, with an occasional

quiver in the voice that usually was as clear and sweet as a

blackbird's.

This unexpected manoeuvre on the part of the fair enemy produced

direful perplexity and dismay in the opposing camp, whither the

discomfited trio fled with tidings of their defeat. None of them dared

try again in that quarter, but endeavored to console themselves by

flirting wildly with such girls as still remained available, for, sad to

relate, many of the most eligible took courage and followed the example

of the "Sweet P's." This fact cast added gloom over the hapless

gentlemen of the offending set, and caused them to fear that a social

revolution would follow what they had considered merely a girlish freak.

"Shouldn't wonder if they got up a praying-band after this," groaned

Ned, preparing himself for the strongest measures.

"Portia had better lead off, then, for the first time I indulged too

freely in the 'rosy' was at her father's house," added Charley, laying

all the blame of his expulsion from Eden upon Eve, like a true Adam.

"Look here, boys, we ought to thank, not blame them, for they want to

help us, I'm sure, and some of us need help, God knows!" sighed Phil,

with a look and tone that made his comrades forget their pique in sudden

self-reproach; for not one of them could deny his words, or help feeling

that the prayers of such innocent souls would avail much.

CHAPTER III.

_WHAT PORTIA DID._

"I know your head aches, mamma, so lie here and rest while I sit in my

little chair and amuse you till papa comes in."

As Portia bent to arrange the sofa-cushions comfortably, the tiny silver

pitcher hanging at her neck swung forward and caught her mother's eye.

"Is it the latest fashion to wear odd ear-rings instead of lockets?" she

asked, touching the delicate trinket with an amused smile.

"No, mamma, it is something better than a fashion; it is the badge of a

temperance league that Pris, Polly, and I have lately made," answered

Portia, wondering how her mother would take it.

"Dear little girls! God bless and help you in your good work!" was the

quick reply, that both surprised and touched her by its fervency.

"Then you don't mind, or think us silly to try and do even a very little

towards curing this great evil?" she asked, with a sweet seriousness

that was new and most becoming to her.

"My child, I feel as if it was a special providence," began her mother,

then checked herself and added more quietly, "Tell me all about this

league, dear, unless it is a secret."

"I have no secrets from you, mother," and nestling into her low chair

Portia told her story, ending with an earnestness that showed how much

she had the new plan at heart.

"So you see Polly is trying to keep Ned safe, and Pris prays for Phil;

not in vain, I think, for he has been very good lately, they tell me.

But _I_ have neither brother nor lover to help, and I cannot go out to

find any one, because I am only a girl. Now what _can_ I do, mamma, for

I truly want to do my share?"

The mother lay silent for a moment, then, as if yielding to an

irresistible impulse, drew her daughter nearer, and whispered with lips

that trembled as they spoke,--

"You can help your father, dear."

"Mamma, what can you mean?" cried Portia, in a tone of indignant

surprise.

"Listen patiently, child, or I shall regret that your confidence

inspired me with courage to give you mine. Never think for one moment

that I accuse my husband of any thing like drunkenness. He has always

taken his wine like a gentleman, and never more than was good for him

till of late. For this there are many excuses; he is growing old, his

life is less active than it was, many of the pleasures he once enjoyed

fail now, and he has fallen into ways that harm his health."

"I know, mamma; he doesn't care for company as he used to, or business,

either, but seems quite contented to sit among his papers half the

morning, and doze over the fire half the evening. I've wondered at it,

for he is not really old, and looks as hale and handsome as ever," said

Portia, feeling that something hovered on her mother's lips which she

found it hard to utter.

"You are right; it is _not_ age alone that makes him so unlike his once

cheerful, active self; it is--bend lower, dear, and never breathe to any

one what I tell you now, only that you may help me save your father's

life, perhaps."

Startled by the almost solemn earnestness of these words, Portia laid

her head upon the pillow, and twilight wrapt the room in its soft gloom,

as if to shut out all the world, while the mother told the daughter the

danger that threatened him whom they both so loved and honored.

"Papa has fallen into the way of taking more wine after dinner than is

good for him. He does not know how the habit is growing upon him, and is

hurt if I hint at such a thing. But Dr. Hall warned me of the danger

after papa's last ill turn, saying that at his age and with his

temperament apoplexy would be sure to follow over-indulgence of this

sort."

"O mamma, what can I do?" whispered Portia, with a thrill, as the words

of Pris returned to her with sudden force, "It killed my father, broke

mother's heart, and left me all alone."

"Watch over him, dear, amuse him as you only can, and wean him from this

unsuspected harm by all the innocent arts your daughterly love can

devise. I have kept this to myself, because it is hard for a wife to see

any fault in her husband; still harder for her to speak of it even to so

good a child as mine. But my anxiety unfits me to do all I might, so I

need help; and of whom can I ask it but of you? My darling, make a

little league with mother, and let us watch and pray in secret for this

dear man who is all in all to us."

What Portia answered, what comfort she gave, and what further

confidences she received, may not be told, for this household covenant

was too sacred for report. No visible badge was assumed, no audible vow

taken, but in the wife's face, as it smiled on her husband that night,

there was a tenderer light than ever, and the kiss that welcomed papa

was the seal upon a purpose as strong as the daughter's love.

Usually the ladies left the Judge to read his paper and take his wine in

the old-fashioned way, while they had coffee in the drawing-room. As

they rose, Portia saw the shadow fall upon her mother's face, which she

had often seen before, but never understood till now; for _this_ was the

dangerous hour, this the moment when the child must stand between

temptation and her father, if she could.

That evening, very soon after the servant had cleared the table of all

but the decanters, a fresh young voice singing blithely in the parlor

made the Judge put down his glass to listen in pleased surprise.

Presently he stepped across the hall to set both doors open, saying, in

a half reproachful tone,--

"Sing away, my lark, and let papa hear you, for he seldom gets a chance

nowadays."

"Then he must stay and applaud me, else I shall think that speech only

an empty compliment," answered Portia, as she beckoned with her most

winsome smile.

The Judge never dreamed that his good angel spoke; but he saw his

handsome girl beaming at him from the music stool, and strolled in,

meaning to go back when the song ended.

But the blue charmer in the parlor proved more potent than the red one

in the dining-room, and he sat on, placidly sipping the excellent

coffee, artfully supplied by his wife, quite unconscious of the little

plot to rob him of the harmful indulgence which too often made his

evenings a blank, and his mornings a vain attempt to revive the spirits

that once kept increasing years from seeming burdensome.

That was the beginning of Portia's home mission; and from that hour she

devoted herself to it, thinking of no reward, for such "secret service"

could receive neither public sympathy nor praise.

It was not an easy task, as she soon found, in spite of the stanch and

skilful ally who planned the attacks she dutifully made upon the enemy

threatening their domestic peace.

When music ceased to have charms, and the Judge declared he _must_ get

his "forty winks" after dinner, Portia boldly declared that she would

stay and see that he had them comfortably. So papa laughed and

submitted, took a brief nap, and woke in such good-humor that he made no

complaint on finding the daughter replacing the decanter.

This answered for a while; and when its effacacy seemed about to fail,

unexpected help appeared; for mamma's eyes began to trouble her, and

Portia proposed that her father should entertain the invalid in the

evening, while she served her through the day.

This plan worked capitally, for the Judge loved his good wife almost as

much as she deserved, and devoted himself to her so faithfully that the

effort proved a better stimulant than any his well-stocked cellar could

supply.

Dr. Hall prescribed exercise and cheerful society for his new patient,

and in seeing that these instructions were obeyed the Judge got the

benefit of them, and found no time for solitary wine-bibbing.

"I do believe I'm growing young again, for the old dulness is quite

gone, and all this work and play does not seem to tire me a bit," he

said, after an unusually lively evening with the congenial guests Portia

took care to bring about him.

"But it must be very stupid for you, my dear, as we old folks have all

the fun. Why don't you invite the young people here oftener?" he added,

as his eye fell on Portia, gazing thoughtfully into the fire.

"I wish I dared tell you why," she answered wistfully.

"Afraid of your old papa?" and he looked both surprised and grieved.

"I won't be, for you are the kindest father that ever a girl had, and I

know you'll help me, as you always do, papa. I don't dare ask my young

friends here because I'm not willing to expose some of them to

temptation," began Portia, bravely.

"What temptation? This?" asked her father, turning her half-averted face

to the light, with a smile full of paternal pride.

"No, sir; a far more dangerous one than ever I can be."

"Then I should like to see it!" and the old gentleman looked about him

for this rival of his lovely daughter.

"It is these," she said, pointing to the bottles and glasses on the

side-board.

The Judge understood her then, and knit his brows but before he could

reply Portia went steadily on, though her cheeks burned, and her eyes

were bent upon the fire again.

"Father, I belong to a society of three, and we have promised to do all

we can for temperance. As yet I can only show bravely the faith that is

in me; therefore I can never offer any friend of mine a drop of wine,

and so I do not ask them here, where it would seem most uncourteous to

refuse."

"I trust no gentleman ever had cause to reproach me for the hospitality

I was taught to show my guests," began the Judge, in his most stately

manner.

But he got no further, for a soft hand touched his lips, and Portia

answered sorrowfully,--

"One man has, sir; Charley Lord says the first time he took too much was

in this house, and it has grieved me to the heart, for it is true. O

papa, never let any one have the right to say that again of us! Forgive

me if I seem undutiful, but I _must_ speak out, for I want my dear

father to stand on my side, and set an example which will make me even

fonder and prouder of him than I am now."

As Portia paused, half frightened at her own frankness, she put her arms

about his neck, and hid her face on his breast, still pleading her cause

with the silent eloquence so hard to resist.

The Judge made no reply for several minutes, and in that pause many

thoughts passed through his mind, and a vague suspicion that had haunted

him of late became a firm conviction. For suddenly he seemed to see his

own weakness in its true light, to understand the meaning of the

watchful love, the patient care that had so silently and helpfully

surrounded him; and in Portia's appeal for younger men, he read a tender

warning to himself.

He was a proud man, but a very just one; and though a flush of anger

swept across his face at first, he acknowledged the truth of the words

that were so hard to speak.

With his hand laid fondly on the head that was half-hidden, lest a look

should seem to reproach him, this brave old gentleman proved that he

loved his neighbor better than himself, and honestly confessed his own

shortcomings.

"No man shall ever say again that _I_ tempted him."

Then as Portia lifted up a happy face, he looked straight into the

grateful eyes that dimmed with sudden tears, and added tenderly,--

"My daughter, I am not too proud to own a fault, nor, please God, too

old to mend it."

CHAPTER IV.

_WHAT POLLY DID._

Since their mother's death, Polly had tried to fill her place, and take

good care of the boys. But the poor little damsel had a hard time of it

sometimes; for Ned, being a year or two older, thought it his duty to

emancipate himself from petticoat government as rapidly as possible, and

do as he pleased, regardless of her warnings or advice.

Yet at heart he was very fond of his pretty sister. At times he felt

strongly tempted to confide his troubles and perplexities to her, for

since the loss of his mother he often longed for a tender, helpful

creature to cheer and strengthen him.

Unfortunately he had reached the age when boys consider it "the thing"

to repress every sign of regard for their own women-folk, sisters

especially; so Ned barricaded himself behind the manly superiority of

his twenty years, and snubbed Polly.

Will had not yet developed this unpleasant trait, but his sister

expected it, and often exclaimed, despairingly, to her bosom friends,--

"When _he_ follows Ned's example, and begins to rampage, what _will_

become of me?"

The father--a learned and busy man--was so occupied by the duties of his

large parish, or so absorbed in the abstruse studies to which his brief

leisure was devoted, that he had no time left for his children. Polly

took good care of him and the house, and the boys seemed to be doing

well, so he went his way in peace, quite unconscious that his eldest son

needed all a father's care to keep him from the temptations to which a

social nature, not evil propensities, exposed him.

Polly saw the danger, and spoke of it; but Mr. Snow only answered

absently,--

"Tut, tut, my dear; you are over-anxious, and forget that young men all

have a few wild oats to sow."

While Ned silenced her with that other familiar and harmful phrase, "I'm

only seeing life a bit, so don't you fret, child," little dreaming that

such "seeing life" too often ends in seeing death.

So Polly labored in vain, till something happened which taught them all

a lesson. Ned went on a sleighing frolic with the comrades whom of all

others his sister dreaded most.

"Do be careful and not come home as you did last time, for father will

be in, and it would shock him dreadfully if I shouldn't be able to keep

you quiet," she said anxiously.

"You little granny, I wasn't tipsy, only cheerful, and that scared you

out of your wits. I've got my key, so don't sit up. I hate to have a

woman glowering at me when I come in," was Ned's ungracious reply; for

the memory of that occasion was not a pleasant one.

"If a woman had not been sitting up, you'd have frozen on the door-mat,

you ungrateful boy," cried Polly, angrily.

Ned began to whistle, and was going off without a word, when Polly's

loving heart got the better of her quick temper, and, catching up a

splendid tippet she had made for him, she ran after her brother. She

caught him just as he opened the front door, and, throwing both her arms

and her gift about his neck, said, with a kiss that produced a sensation

in the sleigh-full of gentlemen at the gate,--

"Ah, do be friends, for I can't bear to part so."

Now if no one had been by, Ned would have found that pleasant mingling

of soft arms and worsted a genuine comforter; but masculine pride would

not permit him to relent before witnesses, and the fear of being laughed

at by "those fellows" made him put both sister and gift roughly aside,

with a stern,--

"I won't be molly-coddled! Let me alone and shut the door!"

Polly did let him alone, with a look that haunted him, and shut the door

with a spirited bang, that much amused the gentlemen.

"I'll never try to do any thing for Ned again! It's no use, and he may

go to the bad for all I care!" said Polly to herself, after a good cry.

But she bitterly repented that speech a few hours later, when her

brother was brought back, apparently dead, by such of the "cheerful"

party as escaped unhurt from a dangerous upset.

There was no concealing this sad home-coming from her father, though

poor Ned was quiet enough now, being stunned by the fall, which had

wounded his head and broken his right arm.

It _was_ a shock, both to the man and the minister; and, when the worst

was over, he left Polly to watch her brother, with eyes full of

penitential tears, and went away, to reproach himself in private for

devoting to ancient Fathers the time and thought he should have given to

modern sons.

Ned was very ill, and when, at last, he began to mend, his helplessness

taught him to see and love the sweetest side of Polly's character; for

she was in truth his right hand, and waited on him with a zeal that

touched his heart.

Not one reproach did she utter, not even by a look did she recall past

warnings, or exult in the present humiliation, which proved how needful

they had been. Every thing was forgotten except the fact that she had

the happy privilege of caring for him almost as tenderly as a mother.

Not quite, though, and the memory of her whose place it was impossible

to fill seemed to draw them closer together; as if the silent voice

repeated its last injunctions to both son and daughter, "Take care of

the boys, dear;" "Be good to your sister, Ned."

"I've been a regular brute to her, and the dear little soul is heaping

coals of fire on my head by slaving over me like an angel," thought the

remorseful invalid, one day, as he lay on the sofa, with a black patch

adorning his brow, and his arm neatly done up in splints.

Polly thought he was asleep, and sat quietly rolling bandages till a

head popped in at the door, and Will asked, in a sepulchral whisper,--

"I've got the book Ned wanted. Can I come and give it to you?"

Polly nodded, and he tiptoed in to her side, with a face so full of

good-will and spirits that it was as refreshing as a breath of fresh air

in that sick room.

"Nice boy! he never forgets to do a kindness and be a comfort to his

Polly," she said, leaning her tired head on his buttony jacket, as he

stood beside her.

Will wasn't ashamed to show affection for "his Polly," so he patted the

pale cheeks with a hand as red as his mittens, and smiled down at her

with his honest blue eyes full of the protecting affection it was so

pleasant to receive.

"Yes, _I'm_ going to be a tiptop boy, and never make you and father

ashamed of me, as you were once of somebody we know. Now don't you

laugh, and I'll show you something; it's the best I could do, and I

wanted to prove that I mean what I say; truly, truly, wish I may die if

I don't."

As he spoke, Will pulled out of his vest-pocket a little pewter

cream-pot, tied to a shoe-string, and holding it up said, with a funny

mixture of boyish dignity and defiance,--

"I bought it of Nelly Hunt, because her tea-set was half-smashed up.

Folks may laugh at my badge, but I don't care; and if you won't have me

in your society I'll set up all alone, for I'm going into the temperance

business, any way!"

Polly hugged him on the spot, and made his youthful countenance glow

with honest pride by saying solemnly,--

"William G. Snow, I consider our league honored by the addition of so

valuable a member; for a boy who can bear to be laughed at, and yet

stick to his principles, is a treasure."

"The fellows _do_ laugh at me, and call me 'Little Pitcher;' but I'd

rather be that than 'Champagne Charlie,' as Ned called Mr. Lord," said

Will, stoutly.

"Bless the little pitchers!" cried Polly, enthusiastically surveying

both the pewter pot and its wearer.

A great tear was lying on her cheek, checked in its fall by the dimple

that came as she looked at her brother's droll badge. Will caught it

dexterously in the tiny cup, saying, with a stifled laugh,--

"Now you've baptized it, Polly, and it's as good as silver; for your

tear shines in there like a great big diamond. Wonder how many it would

take to fill it?"

"You'll never make me cry enough to find out. Now go and get my little

silver chain, for that dear pewter pot deserves a better one than an old

shoe-string," said Polly, looking after him with a happy face, as the

small youth gave one ecstatic skip and was off.

"I'm afraid we've waked you up," she added, as Ned stirred.

"I was only day-dreaming; but I mean this one shall come true," and Ned

rose straight up, with an energy that surprised his sister.

"Come and have your lunch, for it's time. Which will you take, Mrs.

Neal's wine-jelly or my custard?" asked Polly, settling him in his big

chair.

To her astonishment, Ned pitched the little mould of amber jelly into

the fire, and tried to eat the custard with his left hand.

"My dear boy, have you lost your senses?" she ejaculated.

"No; I've just found them," he answered, with a flash of the eye, that

seemed to enlighten Polly without more words.

Taking her usual seat on the arm of the chair, she fed her big nursling

in silence, till a sigh made her ask tenderly,--

"Isn't it right? I put in lots of sugar because you like it sweet."

"All the sugar in the world won't sweeten it to me, Polly; for there's a

bitter drop at the bottom of all my cups. Will said your tear shone like

a diamond in his little pitcher, and well it might. But you can't cry

happy tears over me, though I've made you shed enough sad ones to fill

the big punch-bowl."

Ned tried to laugh, but somehow the custard choked him; and Polly laid

the poor, cropped head on her shoulder for a minute, saying softly,--

"Never mind, dear, I wouldn't think about the old troubles now."

She got no farther, for with a left-handed thump that made all the cups

dance wildly on the table, Ned cried out,--

"But I _will_ think about the old troubles, for I don't intend to have

any new ones of that sort! Do you suppose I'll see that snip of a boy

standing up for what is right, and not have the pluck to do the same? Do

you suppose I'll make my own father ashamed of me more than once? Or let

the dearest little girl in the world wear herself out over me, and I not

try to thank her in the way she likes best? Polly, my dear, you can't be

as proud of your elder brother as you are of the younger, but you shall

never have cause to blush for him again; _never_, sir, _never_!"

Ned lifted his hand for another emphatic thump, but changed his mind,

and embraced his sister as closely as one arm could do it.

"I ought to have a badge if I'm going to belong to your select society;

but I don't know any lady who will give me an ear-ring or a cream-pot,"

said Ned, when the conversation got round again to the cheerful side of

the question.

"I'll give you something better than either," answered Polly, as she

transferred a plain locket from her watch-guard to the one lying on the

table.

Ned knew that a beloved face and a lock of gray hair were inside; and

when his sister added, with a look full of sweet significance, "For her

sake, dear," he answered manfully,--

"I'll try, Polly!"

CHAPTER V.

_WHAT PRIS DID._

Priscilla, meantime, was racking her brain to discover how she could

help Philip; for since she had broken off her engagement no one spoke of

him to her, and she could only judge of how things were going with him

by what she saw and heard as she went about her daily task.

Pris kept school, and the road which she must take twice a day led

directly by the office where Phil was studying medicine with old Dr.

Buffum. Formerly she always smiled and nodded as she passed, or stopped

to chat a moment with the student, who usually chanced to be taking a

whiff of fresh air at that instant. Little notes flew in and out, and

often her homeward walk was cheered by a companion, who taught the

pretty teacher lessons she found it very easy to learn.

A happy time! But it was all over now, and brief glimpses of a brown

head bent above a desk near that window was the only solace poor Pris

had. The head never turned as she went by, but she felt sure that Phil

knew her step, and found that moment, as she did, the hardest of the

day.

She longed to relent, but dared not yet. He longed to show that he

repented, but found it difficult without a sign of encouragement. So

they went their separate ways, seldom meeting, for Phil stuck to his

books with dogged resolution, and Pris had no heart for society.

Of course the affair was discussed with all the exasperating freedom of

a country town, some blaming Pris for undue severity, some praising her

spirit, and some, friends,--not gossips,--predicting that both would be

the better for the trial, which would not separate them long. Of this

latter class were Portia and Polly, who felt it their duty to lend a

hand when matters reached a certain point.

"Pris, dear, may I tell you something that I think you'd be glad to

know?" began Polly, joining her friend one afternoon, as she went home

weary and alone.

"_You_ may tell me any thing," and Pris took her arm as if she felt the

need of sympathy.

"You know Dr. Buffum let Phil help with Ned, so we have seen a good deal

of him, and that is how I found out what I've got to tell you."

"He spoke of me, then?" whispered Pris, eagerly.

"Not a word till Ned made him. My boy is fond of your boy, and they had

confidences which seem to have done them both good. Of course Ned didn't

tell me all about it, as _we_ tell things (men never do, they are so

proud and queer), but he said this,--

"'Look here, Polly, you must be very kind to Phil, and stand by him all

you can, or he will go down. He is doing his best, and will hold on as

long as he can, but a fellow _must_ have comfort and encouragement of

some sort, and if he don't get the right kind he'll try the wrong.'"

"O Polly! you will stand by him?"

"I have; for I just took Phil in a weakish moment, and found out all I

wanted to know. Ned is right and you are wrong, Pris,--not in giving

back the ring, but in seeming to cast him off entirely. He does not

deserve that, for he was not to blame half so much as you think. But he

won't excuse himself, for he feels that you are unjust; yet he loves you

dearly, and you could do any thing with him, if you chose."

"I do choose, Polly; but how _can_ I marry a man whom I cannot trust?"

began Pris, sadly.

"Now, my child, I'm going to talk to you like a mother, for I've had

experience with boys, and I know how to manage them," interrupted Polly,

with such a charmingly maternal air that Pris laughed in spite of her

trouble. "Be quiet and listen to the words of wisdom," continued her

friend, seriously.

"Since I've taken care of Ned, I've learned a great deal, for the poor

lad was so sick and sorry he couldn't shut his heart against me any

more. So now I understand how to help and comfort him, for hearts are

very much alike, Pris, and all need lots of love and patience to keep

them good and happy. Ned told me his troubles, and I made up my mind

that as _we_ don't have so many temptations as boys, we should do all we

can to help them, and make them the sort of men we can both love and

trust."

"You are right, Polly. I've often thought how wrong it is for us to sit

safe and silent while we know things are going wrong, just because it

isn't considered proper for us to speak out. Then when the harm is done

we are expected to turn virtuously away from the poor soul we might

perhaps have saved if we had dared. God does not do so to us, and we

ought not to do so to those over whom we have so much power," said Pris,

with a heart full of sad and tender memories.

"We won't!" cried Polly, firmly. "We began in play, but we will go on in

earnest, and use our youth, our beauty, our influence for something

nobler than merely pleasing men's eyes, or playing with their hearts.

We'll help them to be good, and brave, and true, and in doing this we

shall become better women, and worthier to be loved, I know."

"Why, Polly, you are quite inspired!" and Pris stopped in the snowy road

to look at her.

"It isn't all _my_ wisdom. I've talked with father as well as Ned and

Phil, and they have done me good. I've discovered that confidence is

better than compliments, and friendship much nicer than flirting; so I'm

going to turn over a new leaf, and use my good gifts for higher ends."

"Dear thing, what a comfort you are!" said Pris, pressing Polly's hands,

and looking into her bright face with grateful eyes. "You have given me

courage to do my duty, and I'll follow your example as fast as I can.

Don't come any farther, please: I'd better be alone when I pass Phil's

window, for I'm going to nod and smile, as I used to in the happy time.

Then he will see that I don't cast him off and leave him to 'go down'

for want of help, but am still his friend until I dare be more."

"Now, Pris, that's just lovely of you, and I know it will work wonders.

Smile and nod away, dear, and try to do your part, as I'm trying to do

mine."

For an instant the little gray hat and the jaunty one with the scarlet

feather were bent close together; but what went on under the brims, who

can say? Then Polly trotted off as fast as she could go, and Pris turned

into a certain street with a quicker step and a brighter color than she

had known for weeks.

She was late, for she had lingered with Polly, and she feared that

patient watcher at the window would be gone. No; the brown head was

there, but it lay wearily on the arms folded over a big book, and the

eyes that stared out at the wintry sky had something tragic in them.

Poor Phil did need encouragement, and was in the mood to take the worst

sort if the best failed him, for life looked very dark just then, and

solitude was growing unbearable.

Suddenly, between him and the ruddy sunset a face appeared,--the dearest

and the loveliest in the world to him. Not half averted now, nor set

straightforward, cold and quiet as a marble countenance, but bent

towards him, with a smile on the lips, and a wistful look in the tender

eyes that made his heart leap up with sudden hope. Then it vanished; and

when he sprung to the window nothing could be seen but the last wave of

a well-known cloak, fluttering round the corner.

But Priscilla's first effort was a great success; for the magic of a

kind look glorified the dingy office, and every bottle on the shelves

might have been filled with the elixir of life, so radiant did Phil's

face become. The almost uncontrollable desire to rush away and

recklessly forget his loneliness in the first companionship that offered

was gone now, for a happy hope peopled his solitude with helpful

thoughts and resolutions; the tragic look left the eyes, that still saw

a good angel instead of a tempting demon between them and the evening

sky; and when Phil shut up the big book he had been vainly trying to

study, he felt that he had discovered a new cure for one of the sharpest

pains the heart can suffer.

Next morning Pris unconsciously started for school too soon, so when she

passed that window the room was empty. Resolved that Phil should not

share her disappointment, she lifted the sash and dropped a white azalea

on his desk. She smiled as she did it, and then whisked away as if she

had taken instead of left a treasure. But the smile remained with the

flower, I think, and Phil found it there when he hurried in to discover

this sweet good-morning waiting for him.

He put it in the wine-glass which he had sworn never should be filled

again with any thing but water, and sitting down before it listened to

the little sermon the flower preached; for the delicate white azalea was

Pris to him, and the eloquence of a pure and tender heart flowed from

it, working miracles. One of them was that when sunset came it shone on

two faces at the window, and the little snow-birds heard two voices

breaking a long silence.

"God bless you, Pris!"

"God help you, Phil!"

That was all, but from that hour the girl felt her power for good, and

used it faithfully; and from that hour the young man worked bravely to

earn the respect and confidence without which no love is safe and happy.

"We are friends now," they said, when they were seen together again; and

friends they remained, in spite of shrugs and smiles, ill-natured

speeches, and more than one attempt to sow discord between them, for

people did not understand the new order of things.

"I trust him," was the only answer Pris gave to all warnings and

criticisms.

"I _will_ be worthy of her," the vow that kept Phil steady in spite of

the ridicule that is so hard to bear, and gave him courage to flee from

the temptation he was not yet strong enough to meet face to face.

Portia and Polly stood by them stanchly; for having made her father's

house a safe refuge, Portia offered Phil all the helpful influences of a

happy home. Polly, with Ned to lend a hand, gave his comrade many a

friendly lift; and when it was understood that the Judge, the minister,

and the "Sweet P's" indorsed the young M. D., no one dared cast a stone

at him.

All this took time, of course, but Phil got his reward at last, for one

night a little thing happened which showed him his own progress, and

made Pris feel that she might venture to wear the ring again.

At a party Phil was graciously invited to take wine with a lady, and

refused. It was a very hard thing to do, for the lady was his hostess, a

handsome woman, and the mother of a flock of little children, who all

preferred the young doctor to the old one; and, greatest trial of all,

several of his most dreaded comrades stood by to laugh at him, if he

dared to let principle outweigh courtesy.

But he did it, though he grew pale with the effort to say steadily,--

"Will Mrs. Ward pardon me if I decline the honor? I am"--

There he stopped and turned scarlet, for a lie was on his lips,--a lie

so much easier to tell than the honest truth that many would have

forgiven its utterance at that minute.

His hostess naturally thought ill health was his excuse, and, pitying

his embarrassment, said, smiling,--

"Ah! you doctors don't prescribe wine for your own ailments as readily

as for those of your patients."

But Phil, angry at his own weakness, spoke out frankly, with a look that

said more than his words,--

"I cannot even accept the kind excuse you offer me, for I am not ill. It

may be my duty to order wine sometimes for my patients, but it is also

my duty to prescribe water for myself."

A dreadful little pause followed that speech; but Mrs. Ward understood

now, and though she thought the scruple a foolish one, she accepted the

apology like a well-bred woman, and, with a silent bow that ended the

matter, turned to other guests, leaving poor Phil to his fate.

Not a pleasant one, but he bore it as well as he could, and when his

mates left him stranded in a corner, he said, half aloud, with a long

breath, as if the battle had been a hard one,--

"Yes, I suppose I _have_ lost my best patient, but I've kept my own

respect, and that ought to satisfy me."

"Let me add mine, and wish you health and happiness, dear Phil," said a

voice behind him, and turning quickly he saw Pris standing there with

two goblets of water, and a smile full of love and pride.

"You know what that toast means for me?" he whispered, with sudden

sunshine in his face, as he took the offered glass.

"Yes; and I drink it with all my heart," she answered, with her hand in

his.

CHAPTER VI.

_HOW IT ENDED._

The leaven dropped by three girls in that little town worked so slowly

that they hardly expected to do more than "raise their own patty-cakes,"

as Polly merrily expressed it. But no honest purpose is ever wasted, and

by-and-by the fermentation began.

Several things helped it amazingly. The first of these was a temperance

sermon, preached by Parson Snow, which produced a deep impression,

because in doing this he had the courage, like Brutus, to condemn his

own son. The brave sincerity, the tender earnestness of that sermon,

touched the hearts of his people as no learned discourse had ever done,

and bore fruit that well repaid him for the effort it cost.

It waked up the old people, set the young ones to thinking, and showed

them all that they had a work to do. For those who were down felt that

they might be lifted up again, those who were trifling ignorantly or

recklessly with temptation saw their danger, and those who had longed to

speak out now dared to do it because he led the way.

So, warned by the wolf in his own fold, this shepherd of souls tried to

keep his flock from harm, and, in doing it, found that his Christianity

was the stronger, wiser, and purer for his humanity.

Another thing was the fact that the Judge was the first to follow his

pastor's example, and prove by deeds that he indorsed his words. It was

hard for the hospitable old gentleman to banish wine from his table, and

forego the pleasant customs which long usage and many associations

endeared to him; but he made his sacrifice handsomely, and his daughter

helped him.

She kept the side-board from looking bare by filling the silver tankards

with flowers, offered water to his guests with a grace that made a

cordial of it, and showed such love and honor for her father that he was

a very proud and happy man.

What the Judge did was considered "all right" by his neighbors, for he

was not only the best-born, but the richest man in town, and with a

certain class these facts had great weight. Portia knew this, and

counted on it when she said she wanted him on her side; so she exulted

when others followed the new fashion, some from principle, but many

simply because he set it.

At first the young reformers were disappointed that every one was not as

enthusiastic as themselves, and as ready to dare and do for the cause

they had espoused. But wiser heads than those on their pretty shoulders

curbed their impetuosity, and suggested various ways of gently

insinuating the new idea, and making it so attractive that others would

find it impossible to resist; for sunshine often wins when bluster makes

us wrap our prejudices closer around us, like the traveller in the

fable.

Portia baited _her_ trap with Roman parties,--for she had been

abroad,--and made them so delightful that no one complained when only

cake and tea was served (that being the style in the Eternal City), but

went and did likewise.

Artful Polly set up a comic newspaper, to amuse Ned, who was an invalid

nearly all winter, and in it freed her mind on many subjects in such a

witty way that the "Pollyanthus," as her brother named it, circulated

through their set, merrily sowing good seed; for young folks will

remember a joke longer than a sermon, and this editor made all hers

tell.

Pris was not behindhand in her efforts, but worked in a different way,

and got up a branch society among her little pupils, called "The Water

Babies." That captivated the mothers at once, and even the fathers found

it difficult to enjoy their wine with blue eyes watching them wistfully

over the rims of silver mugs; while the few topers of the town hid

themselves like night-birds flying from the sun, when, led by their

gentle General, that little army of innocents marched through the

streets with banners flying, blithe voices singing, rosy faces shining,

and childish hearts full of the sweet delusion that _they_ could save

the world.

Of course the matrons discussed these events at the sewing-circle, and

much talk went on of a more useful sort than the usual gossip about

servants, sickness, dress, and scandal.

Mrs. Judge waxed eloquent upon the subject, and, being president, every

one listened with due respect. Mrs. Ward seconded all her motions, for

this lady had much surprised the town, not only by installing Phil as

family physician, but by coming out strong for temperance. Somebody had

told her all about the girls' labor of love, and she had felt ashamed to

be outdone by them; so, like a conscientious woman, she decided to throw

her influence into the right scale, take time by the forelock, and help

to make the town a safer place for her five sons to grow up in than it

was then.

These two leading ladies kept the ball rolling so briskly that others

were soon converted and fell into rank, till a dozen or so were heartily

in earnest. And then the job was half done; for in a great measure women

make society what they choose to have it.

"We are told that home is our sphere, and advised to keep in it; so let

us see that it is what it should be, and then we shall have proved our

fitness for larger fields of labor, if we care to claim them," said Mrs.

Judge, cutting out red flannel with charitable energy, on one occasion.

"Most of us will find that quite as much as we can accomplish, I fancy,"

answered Mrs. Ward, thinking of her own riotous lads, who were probably

pulling the house about their ears, while she made hoods for Mrs.

Flanagan's bare-headed lasses.

"'Pears to me we hain't no call to interfere in other folks's affairs.

This never was a drinkin' town, and things is kep' in fustrate order, so

_I_ don't see the use of sech a talk about temperance," remarked Miss

Simmons, an acid spinster, whose principal earthly wealth consisted of a

choice collection of cats.

"If your tabbies took to drinking, you _would_ see the use, I'm sure,"

laughed Polly, from the corner, which was a perfect posy-bed of girls.

"Thank goodness, _I've_ no men folks to pester myself about," began Miss

Simmons, with asperity.

"Ah, but you should; for if you refuse to make them happy, you ought at

least to see that they console themselves in ways which can work them no

further woe," continued Polly, gravely, though her black eyes danced

with fun.

"Well, that wouldn't be no more than fair, I'm free to confess; but,

sakes alive, I couldn't attend to 'em all!" said Miss Simmons, bridling

with a simper that nearly upset the whole bevy of girls.

"Do make the effort, and help us poor things who haven't had your

experience," added Pris, in her most persuasive voice.

"I declare I will! I'll have Hiram Stebbins in to tea; and when he's as

good-natured as muffins and pie can make him, I'll set to and see if I

can't talk him out of his attachment to that brandy bottle," cried Miss

Simmons, with a sudden yearning towards the early sweetheart, who had

won, but never claimed her virgin affections.

"I think you'll do it; and, if so, you will have accomplished what no

one else could, and you shall have any prize you choose," cried Portia,

smiling so hopefully that the faded old face grew almost young again, as

Miss Simmons went home with something better to do than tend her

tabbies.

"We've bagged that bird," said Polly, with real satisfaction.

"That's the way we set people to work," added Portia, smiling.

"She will do what we can't, for her heart is in it," said Pris, softly;

and it was pleasant to see the blooming girls rejoice that poor old

Hiram was in a fair way to be saved.

So the year went round, and Thanksgiving came again, with the home

jollity that makes a festival throughout the land. The day would not be

perfect if it did not finish with a frolic of some sort, and for reasons

of their own the young gentlemen decided to have the first sociable of

the year an unusually pleasant one.

"Everybody is going, and Ned says the supper is to be water-ice and

ice-water," said Polly, taking a last look at herself in the long

mirror, when the three friends were ready on that happy evening.

"I needn't sigh now over other girls' pretty dresses, as I did last

year;" and Portia plumed herself like a swan, as she settled Charley's

roses in her bosom.

"And I needn't wonder who Phil will take," added Pris, stopping, with

her glove half on, to look at the little ring back again from its long

banishment in somebody's waistcoat pocket.

Never had the hall looked so elegant and gay, for it was charmingly

decorated; couches were provided for the elders, mirrors for the

beauties, and music of the best sounded from behind a thicket of shrubs

and flowers. Every one seemed in unusually good spirits; the girls

looked their loveliest, and the young men were models of propriety;

though a close observer might have detected a suspicious twinkle in the

eyes of the most audacious, as if they plotted some new joke.

The girls saw it, were on the watch, and thought the secret was out when

they discovered that the gentlemen of their set all wore tiny pitchers,

hanging like orders from the knots of sweet-peas in their button-holes.

But, bless their innocent hearts! that was only a ruse, and they were

taken entirely by surprise when, just before supper, the band struck up,

"Drink to me only with thine eyes;"

and every one looked smilingly at the three girls who were standing

together near the middle of the hall.

They looked about them in pretty confusion, but in a moment beheld a

spectacle that made them forget themselves; for the Judge, in an

impressive white waistcoat, marched into the circle gathered about them,

made a splendid bow, and said, with a smile that put the gas to shame,--

"Young ladies! I am desired by the gentlemen now present to beg your

acceptance of a slight token of their gratitude, respect, and penitence.

As the first man who joined the society which has proved a blessing to

our town, Mr. William Snow will now have the honor of presenting the

gift."

Then appeared Mr. William Snow, looking as proud as a peacock; and well

he might, for on the salver which he bore stood a stately silver

pitcher. A graceful little Hebe danced upon the handle, three names

shone along the fretted brim, and three white lilies rose from the

slender vase,--fit emblems of the maiden founders of the league.

Arriving before them, Master Will nearly upset the equilibrium of his

precious burden in attempting to make a bow equal to the Judge's; but

recovered himself gallantly, and delivered the following remarkable

poem, which the public was expected to believe an emanation of his own

genius:--

"Hebe poured the nectar forth

When gods of old were jolly,

But graces three _our_ goblets fill,

Fair Portia, Pris and Polly.

Their draughts make every man who tastes

Happier, better, richer;

So here we vow ourselves henceforth

Knights of the Silver Pitcher."

ANNA'S WHIM.

"Now just look at that!" cried a young lady, pausing suddenly in her

restless march to and fro on one of the wide piazzas of a seaside hotel.

"At what?" asked her companion, lazily swinging in a hammock.

"The difference in those two greetings. It's perfectly disgraceful!" was

the petulant reply.

"I didn't see any thing. Do tell me about it," said Clara, opening her

drowsy eyes with sudden interest.

"Why, young Barlow was lounging up the walk, and met pretty Miss Ellery.

Off went his hat; he gave her a fine bow, a gracious smile, a worn-out

compliment, and then dawdled on again. The next minute Joe King came

along. Instantly Barlow woke up, laughed out like a pleased boy, gave

him a hearty grip of the hand, a cordial 'How are you, old fellow? I'm

no end glad to see you!' and, linking arms, the two tramped off, quite

beaming with satisfaction."

"But, child, King is Barlow's best friend; Kitty Ellery only an

acquaintance. Besides, it wouldn't do to greet a woman like a man."

"Yes, it would, especially in this case; for Barlow adores Kate, and

might, at least, treat her to something better than the nonsense he

gives other girls. But, no, it's proper to simper and compliment; and

he'll do it till his love gets the better of 'prunes and prisms,' and

makes him sincere and earnest."

"This is a new whim of yours. You surely wouldn't like to have any man

call out 'How are you, Anna?' slap you on the shoulder, and nearly shake

your hand off, as Barlow did King's, just now," said Clara, laughing at

her friend.

"Yes, I would," answered Anna, perversely, "if he really meant it to

express affection or pleasure. A good grip of the hand and a plain,

hearty word would please me infinitely better than all the servile

bowing down and sweet nonsense I've had lately. I'm not a fool; then,

why am I treated like one?" she continued, knitting her handsome brows

and pacing to and fro like an angry leopardess. "Why don't men treat me

like a reasonable being?--talk sense to me, give me their best ideas,

tell me their plans and ambitions, let me enjoy the real man in them,

and know what they honestly are? I don't want to be a goddess stuck up

on a pedestal. I want to be a woman down among them, to help and be

helped by our acquaintance."

"It wouldn't do, I fancy. They wouldn't like it, and would tell you to

keep to your own sex."

"But my own sex don't interest or help me one bit. Women have no hope

but to be married, and that is soon told; no ideas but dress and show,

and I'm tired to death of both; no ambition but to outshine their

neighbors, and I despise that."

"Thank you, love," blandly murmured Clara.

"It is true, and you know it. There _are_ sensible women; but not in my

set. And I don't seem to find them. I've tried the life set down for

girls like me, and for three years I've lived and enjoyed it. Now I'm

tired of it. I want something better, and I mean to have it. Men _will_

follow, admire, flatter, and love me; for I please them and they enjoy

my society. Very well. Then it's fair that I should enjoy theirs. And I

should if they would let me. It's perfectly maddening to have flocks of

brave, bright fellows round me, full of every thing that is attractive,

strong, and helpful, yet not be able to get at it, because society

ordains twaddle between us, instead of sensible conversation and sincere

manners."

"What shall we do about it, love?" asked Clara, enjoying her friend's

tirade.

"_You_ will submit to it, and get a mental dyspepsia, like all the other

fashionable girls. I won't submit, if I can help it; even if I shock

Mrs. Grundy by my efforts to get plain bread and beef instead of

confectionery."

Anna walked in silence for a moment, and then burst out again, more

energetically than ever.

"Oh! I do wish I could find one sensible man, who would treat me as he

treats his male friends,--even roughly, if he is honest and true; who

would think me worthy of his confidence, ask my advice, let me give him

whatever I have that is wise and excellent, and be my friend in all good

faith."

"Ahem!" said Clara, with a significant laugh, that angered Anna.

"You need not try to abash me with your jeers. I know what I mean, and I

stand by my guns, in spite of your 'hems.' I do _not_ want lovers. I've

had dozens, and am tired of them. I will not marry till I know the man

thoroughly; and how _can_ I know him with this veil between us? They

don't guess what I really am; and I want to prove to them and to myself

that I possess brains and a heart, as well as 'heavenly eyes,' a

'queenly figure,' and a 'mouth made for kissing.'"

The scorn with which Anna uttered the last words amused her friend

immensely, for the petulant beauty had never looked handsomer than at

that moment.

"If any man saw you now, he'd promise whatever you ask, no matter how

absurd. But don't excite yourself, dear child; it is too warm for

heroics."

Anna leaned on the wide baluster a moment, looking thoughtfully out upon

the sea; and as she gazed a new expression stole over her charming face,

changing its disdainful warmth to soft regret.

"This is not all a whim. I know what I covet, because I had it once,"

she said, with a sigh. "I had a boy friend when I was a girl, and for

several years we were like brother and sister. Ah! what happy times we

had together, Frank and I. We played and studied, quarrelled and made

up, dreamed splendid dreams, and loved one another in our simple child

fashion, never thinking of sex, rivalry, or any of the forms and follies

that spoil maturer friendships."

"What became of him? Did he die angelically in his early bloom, or

outgrow his Platonics with round jackets?" asked Clara.

"He went to college. I went abroad, to be 'finished off;' and when we

met a year ago the old charm was all gone, for we were 'in society' and

had our masks on."

"So the boy and girl friendship did not ripen into love and end the

romance properly?"

"No, thank Heaven! no flirtation spoilt the pretty story. Frank was too

wise, and I too busy. Yet I remember how glad I was to see him; though I

hid it properly, and pretended to be quite unconscious that I was any

thing but a belle. I got paid for my deceit, though; for, in spite of

his admiration, I saw he was disappointed in me. I should not have cared

if I had been disappointed in him; but I was quick to see that he was

growing one of the strong, superior men who command respect. I wanted to

keep his regard, at least; and I seemed to have nothing but beauty to

give in return. I think I never was so hurt in my life as I was by his

not coming to see me after a week or two, and hearing him say to a

friend, one night, when I thought I was at my very best, 'She is spoilt,

like all the rest.'"

"I do believe you loved him, and that is why you won't love any one

else," cried Clara, who had seen her friend in her moods before; but

never understood them, and thought she had found a clew now.

"No," said Anna, with a quiet shake of the head. "No, I only wanted my

boy friend back, and could not find him. The fence between us was too

high; and I could not climb over, as I used to do when I leaped the

garden-wall to sit in a tree and help Frank with his lessons."

"Has the uncivil wretch never come back?" asked Clara, interested in the

affair.

"Never. He is too busy shaping his life bravely and successfully to

waste his time on a frivolous butterfly like Anna West."

An eloquent little gesture of humility made the words almost pathetic.

Kind-hearted Clara was touched by the sight of tears in the "heavenly

eyes," and tumbling out of the hammock she embraced the "queenly figure"

and warmly pressed the "lips that were made for kissing," thereby

driving several approaching gentlemen to the verge of distraction.

"Now don't be tragical, darling. You have nothing to cry for, I'm sure.

Young, lovely, rich, and adored, what more _can_ any girl want?" said

Clara, gushingly.

"Something besides admiration to live for," answered Anna, adding, with

a shrug, as she saw several hats fly off and several manly countenances

beam upon her, "Never mind, my fit is over now; let us go and dress for

tea."

Miss West usually took a brisk pull in her own boat before breakfast; a

habit which lured many indolent young gentlemen out of their beds at

unaccustomed hours, in the hope that they might have the honor of

splashing their legs helping her off, the privilege of wishing her "_Bon

voyage_," or the crowning rapture of accompanying her.

On the morning after her "fit," as she called the discontent of a really

fine nature with the empty life she led, she was up and out unusually

early; for she had kept her room with a headache all the evening, and

now longed for fresh air and exercise.

As she prepared the "Gull" for a start, she was idly wondering what

early bird would appear eager to secure the coveted worm, when a loud

and cheerful voice was heard calling,--

"Hullo, Anna!" and a nautically attired gentleman hove in sight, waving

his hat as he hailed her.

She started at the unceremonious salute and looked back. Then her whole

face brightened beautifully as she sprang up the bank, saying, with a

pretty mixture of hesitation and pleasure,--

"Why, Frank, is that you?"

"Do you doubt it?"

And the new-comer shook both her hands so vigorously that she winced a

little as she said, laughing,--

"No, I don't. That is the old squeeze with extra power in it."

"How are you? Going for a pull? Take me along and show me the lions.

There's a good soul."

"With pleasure. When did you come?" asked Anna, settling the black

ribbon under the sailor collar which set off her white throat

charmingly.

"Last night. I caught a glimpse of you at tea; but you were surrounded

then and vanished immediately afterward. So when I saw you skipping over

the rocks just now, I gave chase, and here I am. Shall I take an oar?"

asked Frank, as she motioned him to get in.

"No, thank you. I prefer to row myself and don't need any help," she

answered, with an imperious little wave of the hand; for she was glad to

show him she could do something besides dance, dress, and flirt.

"All right. Then I'll do the luxurious and enjoy myself." And, without

offering to help her in, Frank seated himself, folded his arms,

stretched out his long legs, and placidly remarked,--

"Pull away, skipper."

Anna was pleased with his frank and friendly greeting, and, feeling as

if old times had come again, sprang in, prepared to astonish him with

her skill.

"Might I suggest that you"--began Frank, as she pushed off.

"No suggestions or advice allowed aboard this ship. I know what I'm

about, though I _am_ a woman," was the severe answer, as the boat glided

from the wharf.

"Ay, ay, sir!" And Frank meekly subsided, with a twinkle of amusement in

the eyes that rested approvingly on the slender figure in a blue boating

suit and the charming face under the sailor hat.

Anna paddled her way dexterously out from among the fleet of boats

riding at anchor in the little bay; then she seated herself, adjusted

one oar, and looked about for the other rowlock. It was nowhere visible;

and, after a silent search, she deigned to ask,--

"Have you seen the thing anywhere?"

"I saw it on the bank."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I began to, but was quenched; so I obeyed orders."

"You haven't forgotten how to tease," said Anna, petulantly.

"Nor you to be wilful."

She gave him a look that would have desolated most men; but only made

Frank smile affably as she paddled laboriously back, recovered the

rowlock and then her temper, as, with a fine display of muscle, she

pulled out to sea.

Getting into the current, she let the boat drift, and soon forgot time

and space in the bewildering conversation that followed.

"What have you been doing since I saw you last?" she asked, looking as

rosy as a milkmaid, as she stopped rowing and tied up her wind-tossed

hair.

"Working like a beaver. You see"--and then, to her utter amazement,

Frank entered into an elaborate statement of his affairs, quite as if

she understood all about it and her opinion was valuable. It was all

Greek to Anna, but she was immensely gratified; for it was just the way

the boy used to tell her his small concerns in the days when each had

firm faith in the other's wisdom. She tried to look as if she understood

all about "investments, percentage, and long credit;" but she was out of

her depth in five minutes, and dared say nothing, lest she should betray

her lamentable ignorance on all matters of business. She got out of the

scrape by cleverly turning the conversation to old times, and youthful

reminiscences soon absorbed them both.

The faint, far-off sound of a gong recalled her to the fact that

breakfast was nearly ready; and, turning the boat, she was dismayed to

see how far they had floated. She stopped talking and rowed her best;

but wind and tide were against her, she was faint with hunger, and her

stalwart passenger made her task doubly hard. He offered no help,

however; but did the luxurious to the life, leaning back, with his hat

off, and dabbling his hands in the way that most impedes the progress of

a boat.

Pride kept Anna silent till her face was scarlet, her palms blistered,

and her breath most gone. Then, and not till then, did she condescend to

say, with a gasp, poorly concealed by an amiable smile,--

"Do you care to row? I ought to have asked you before."

"I'm very comfortable, thank you," answered Frank. Then, as an

expression of despair flitted over poor Anna's face, he added bluntly,

"I'm getting desperately hungry, so I don't care if I do shorten the

voyage a bit."

With a sigh of relief, she rose to change seats, and, expecting him to

help her, she involuntarily put out her hands, as she passed. But Frank

was busy turning back his cuffs, and never stirred a finger; so that she

would have lost her balance and gone overboard if she had not caught his

arm.

"What's the matter, skipper?" he asked, standing the sudden grip as

steadily as a mast.

"Why didn't you help me? You have no more manners than a turtle!" cried

Anna, dropping into the seat with the frown of a spoiled beauty,

accustomed to be gallantly served and supported at every step.

Frank only added to his offence by laughing, as he said carelessly,--

"You seemed so independent, I didn't like to interfere."

"So, if I had gone overboard, you would not have fished me out, unless I

asked you to do it, I suppose?"

"In that case, I'm afraid I shouldn't have waited for orders. We can't

spare you to the mermen yet."

Something in the look he gave her appeased Anna's resentment; and she

sat silently admiring the strong swift strokes that sent the "Gull"

skimming over the water.

"Not too late for breakfast, after all," she said graciously, as they

reached the wharf, where several early strollers stood watching their

approach.

"Poor thing! You look as if you needed it," answered Frank. But he let

her get out alone, to the horror of Messrs. Barlow, King, & Co.; and,

while she fastened the boat, Frank stood settling his hatband, with the

most exasperating unconsciousness of his duty.

"What are you going to do with yourself this morning?" she asked, as she

walked up the rocky path, with no arm to lean upon.

"Fish. Will you come along?"

"No, thank you. One gets so burnt. I shall go to my hammock under the

pine," was the graciously suggestive reply of the lady who liked a slave

to fan or swing her, and seldom lacked several to choose from.

"See you at dinner, then. My room is in the Cottage. So by-by for the

present." And, with a nod, Frank strolled away, leaving the lovely Miss

West to mount the steps and cross the hall unescorted.

"The dear fellow's manners need polish. I must take him in hand, I see.

And yet he is very nice, in spite of his brusque ways," thought Anna,

indulgently. And more than once that morning she recalled his bluff

"Hullo, Anna!" as she swung languidly in her hammock, with a devoted

being softly reading Tennyson to her inattentive ears.

At dinner she appeared in unusual spirits, and kept her end of the table

in a ripple of merriment by her witty and satirical sallies, privately

hoping that her opposite neighbor would discover that she could talk

well when she chose to do so. But Frank was deep in politics, discussing

some new measure with such earnestness and eloquence that Anna, pausing

to listen for a moment, forgot her lively gossip in one of the great

questions of the hour.

She was listening with silent interest, when Frank suddenly appealed to

her to confirm some statement he had just made; and she was

ignominiously obliged to confess she knew too little about the matter to

give any opinion. No compliment ever paid her was more flattering than

his way of turning to her now and then, as if including her in the

discussion as a matter of course; and never had she regretted any thing

more keenly than she did her ignorance on a subject that every man and

woman should understand and espouse.

She did her best to look intelligent; racked her brain to remember facts

which she had heard discussed for weeks, without paying any attention to

them; and, thanks to her quick wit and womanly sympathy, she managed to

hold her own, saying little, but looking much.

The instant dinner was over, she sent a servant to the reading-room for

a file of late papers, and, retiring to a secluded corner, read up with

a diligence that not only left her with clearer ideas on one subject,

but also a sense of despair at her own deficiencies in the knowledge of

many others.

"I really must have a course of solid reading. I do believe that is what

I need; and I'll ask Frank where to begin. He always was an intelligent

boy; but I was surprised to hear how well he talked. I was actually

proud of him. I wonder where he is, by the way. Clara wants to be

introduced, and I want to see how he strikes her."

Leaving her hiding-place, Anna walked forth in search of her friends,

looking unusually bright and beautiful, for her secret studies had waked

her up and lent her face the higher charm it needed. Clara appeared

first. The new-comer had already been presented to her, and she

professed herself "perfectly fascinated." "Such a personable man! Quite

distinguished, you know, and so elegant in his manners! Devoted,

graceful, and altogether charming."

"You like his manners, do you?" and Anna smiled at Clara's enthusiasm.

"Of course I do; for they have all the polish of foreign travel, with

the indescribable something which a really fine character lends to every

little act and word."

"Frank has never been abroad, and if I judged his character by his

manners I should say he was rather a rough customer," said Anna, finding

fault because Clara praised.

"You are so fastidious, nothing ever suits you, dear. I didn't expect to

like this old friend of yours. But I frankly confess I do immensely; so,

if you are tired of him, I'll take him off your hands."

"Thank you, love. You are welcome to poor Frank, if you can win him. Men

are apt to be more loyal to friendship than women; and I rather fancy,

from what I saw this morning, that he is in no haste to change old

friends for new."

Anna spoke sweetly, but at heart was ill pleased with Clara's admiration

of her private property, as she considered "poor Frank," and inwardly

resolved to have no poaching on her preserves.

Just then the gentleman in question came up, saying to Anna, in his

abrupt way,--

"Every one is going to ride, so I cannot get the best horses; but I've

secured two, and now I want a companion. Will you come for a good

old-time gallop?"

Anna thought of her blistered hands, and hesitated, till a look at

Clara's hopeful face decided her to accept. She did so, and rode like an

Amazon for several hours, in spite of heat, dust, and a hard-mouthed

horse, who nearly pulled her arms out of the sockets.

She hoped to find a chance to consult Frank about her course of useful

reading; but he seemed intent on the "old-time gallop," and she kept up

gallantly till the ride was over, when she retired to her room, quite

exhausted, but protesting with heroic smiles that she had had a

delightful time.

She did not appear at tea; but later in the evening, when an informal

dance was well under way, she sailed in on the arm of a distinguished

old gentleman, "evidently prepared to slay her thousands," as young

Barlow said, observing the unusual brilliancy of her eyes and the

elaborate toilette she had made.

"She means mischief to-night. Who is to be the victim, I wonder?" said

another man, putting up his glass for a survey of the charmer.

"Not the party who came last evening. He is only an old friend," she

says.

"He might be her brother or her husband, judging by the cavalier way in

which he treats her. I could have punched his head this morning, when he

let her pull up that boat alone," cried a youthful adorer, glaring

irefully at the delinquent, lounging in a distant doorway.

"If she said he was an old friend, you may be sure he is an accepted

lover. The dear creatures all fib in these matters; so I'll lay wagers

to an enormous amount that all this splendor is for the lord and master,

not for our destruction," answered Barlow, who was wise in the ways of

women and wary as a moth should be who had burnt his wings more than

once at the same candle.

Clara happened to overhear these pleasing remarks, and five minutes

after they were uttered she breathed them tenderly into Anna's ear. A

scornful smile was all the answer she received; but the beauty was both

pleased and annoyed, and awaited with redoubled interest the approach of

the old friend, who was regarded in the light of a successful lover. But

he seemed in no haste to claim his privileges, and dance after dance

went by, while he sat talking with the old general or absently watching

the human teetotums that spun about before him.

"I can't stand this another moment!" said Anna to herself, at last, and

beckoned the recreant knight to approach, with a commanding gesture.

"Why don't you dance, sir?"

"I've forgotten how, ma'am."

"After all the pains I took with you when we had lessons together, years

ago?"

"I've been too busy to attend to trifles of that sort."

"Elegant accomplishments are not trifles, and no one should neglect them

who cares to make himself agreeable."

"Well, I don't know that I do care, as a general thing."

"You ought to care; and, as a penance for that rude speech, you must

dance this dance with me. I cannot let you forget all your

accomplishments for the sake of business; so I shall do my duty as a

friend and take you in hand," said Anna, severely.

"You are very kind; but is it worth the trouble?"

"Now, Frank, don't be provoking and ungrateful. You know you like to

give pleasure, to be cared for, and to do credit to your friends; so

just rub up your manners a bit, and be as well-bred as you are sensible

and brave and good."

"Thank you, I'll try. May I have the honor, Miss West?" and he bowed low

before her, with a smile on his lips that both pleased and puzzled Anna.

They danced the dance, and Frank acquitted himself respectably, but

relapsed into his objectionable ways as soon as the trial ended; for the

first thing he said, with a sigh of relief, was,--

"Come out and talk; for upon my life I can't stand this oven any

longer."

Anna obediently followed, and, seating herself in a breezy corner,

waited to be entertained. But Frank seemed to have forgotten that

pleasing duty; for, perching himself on the wide baluster of the piazza,

he not only proceeded to light a cigarette, without even saying, "By

your leave," but coolly offered her one also.

"How dare you!" she said, much offended at this proceeding. "I am not

one of the fast girls who do such things, and I dislike it exceedingly."

"You used to smoke sweet-fern in corn-cob pipes, you remember; and these

are not much stronger," he said, placidly restoring the rejected

offering to his pocket.

"I did many foolish things then which I desire to forget now."

"And some very sweet and sensible ones, also. Ah, well! it can't be

helped, I suppose."

Anna sat silent a moment, wondering what he meant; and when she looked

up, she found him pensively staring at her, through a fragrant cloud of

smoke.

"What is it?" she asked, for his eyes seemed seeking something.

"I was trying to see some trace of the little Anna I used to know. I

thought I'd found her again this morning in the girl in the round hat;

but I don't find her anywhere to-night."

"Indeed, Frank, I'm not so much changed as I seem. At least, to you I am

the same, as far as I can be. Do believe it, and be friends, for I want

one very much?" cried Anna, forgetting every thing but the desire to

reestablish herself in his good opinion. As she spoke, she turned her

face toward the light and half extended her hand, as if to claim and

hold the old regard that seemed about to be withdrawn from her.

Frank bent a little and scanned the upturned face with a keen glance. It

flushed in the moonlight and the lips trembled like an anxious child's;

but the eyes met his with a look both proud and wistful, candid and

sweet,--a look few saw in those lovely eyes, or, once seeing, ever

forgot. Frank gave a little nod, as if satisfied, and said, with that

perplexing smile of his,--

"Most people would see only the beautiful Miss West, in a remarkably

pretty gown; but I think I catch a glimpse of little Anna, and I am very

glad of it. You want a friend? Very good. I'll do my best for you; but

you must take me as I am, thorns and all."

"I will, and not mind if they wound sometimes. I've had roses till I'm

tired of them, in spite of their sweetness."

As he spoke, Frank had taken the hand she offered, and, having gravely

shaken it, held the "white wonder" for an instant, glancing from the

little blisters on the delicate palm to the rings that shone on several

fingers.

"Are you reading my fortune?" asked Anna, wondering if he was going to

be sentimental and kiss it.

"After a fashion; for I am looking to see if there is a suspicious

diamond anywhere about. Isn't it time there was one?"

"That is not a question for you to ask;" and Anna caught away her hand,

as if one of the thorns he spoke of had suddenly pricked.

"Why not? We always used to tell each other every thing; and, if we are

to go on in the old friendly way, we must be confidential and

comfortable, you know."

"You can begin yourself then, and I'll see how I like it," said Anna,

aroused and interested, in spite of her maidenly scruples about the new

arrangement.

"I will, with all my heart. To own the truth, I've been longing to tell

you something; but I wasn't sure that you'd take any interest in it,"

began Frank, eating rose-leaves with interesting embarrassment.

"I can imagine what it is," said Anna, quickly, while her heart began to

flutter curiously, for these confidences were becoming exciting. "You

have found your fate, and are dying to let everybody know how happy you

are."

"I think I have. But I'm not happy yet. I'm desperately anxious, for I

cannot decide whether it is a wise or foolish choice."

"Who is it?"

"Never mind the name. I haven't spoken yet, and perhaps never shall; so

I may as well keep that to myself,--for the present, at least."

"Tell me what you like then, and I will ask no more questions," said

Anna, coldly; for this masculine discretion annoyed her.

"Well, you see, this dear girl is pretty, rich, accomplished, and

admired. A little spoilt, in fact; but very captivating, in spite of it.

Now, the doubt in my mind is whether it is wise to woo a wife of this

sort; for I know I shall want a companion in all things, not only a

pretty sweetheart or a graceful mistress for my house."

"I should say it was _not_ wise," began Anna, decidedly; then hastened

to add, more quietly: "But perhaps you only see one side of this girl's

character. She may have much strength and sweetness hidden away under

her gay manner, waiting to be called out when the right mate comes."

"I often think so myself, and long to learn if I am the man; but some

frivolous act, thoughtless word, or fashionable folly on her part

dampens my ardor, and makes me feel as if I had better go elsewhere

before it is too late."

"You are not madly in love, then?"

"Not yet; but I should be if I saw much of her, for when I do I rather

lose my head, and am tempted to fall upon my knees, regardless of time,

place, and consequences."

Frank spoke with sudden love and longing in his voice, and stretched out

his arms so suggestively that Anna started. But he contented himself

with gathering a rose from the clusters that hung all about, and Anna

slapped an imaginary mosquito as energetically as if it had been the

unknown lady, for whom she felt a sudden and inexplicable dislike.

"So you think I'd better not say to my love, like the mad gentleman to

Mrs. Nickleby, 'Be mine, be mine'?" was Frank's next question, as he sat

with his nose luxuriously buried in the fragrant heart of the rose.

"Decidedly not. I'm sure, from the way you speak of her, that she is not

worthy of you; and your passion cannot be very deep if you can quote

Dickens's nonsense at such a moment," said Anna, more cheerfully.

"It grows rapidly, I find; and I give you my word, if I should pass a

week in the society of that lovely butterfly, it would be all over with

me by Saturday night."

"Then don't do it."

"Ah! but I want to desperately. Do say that I may, just for a last

nibble at temptation, before I take your advice and go back to my

bachelor life again," he prayed beseechingly.

"Don't go back, love somebody else, and be happy. There are plenty of

superior women in the world who would be just the thing for you. I am

sure you are going to be a man of mark, and you _must_ have a good

wife,--not a silly little creature, who will be a clog upon you all your

life. So _do_ take my advice, and let me help you, if I can."

Anna spoke earnestly, and her face quite shone with friendly zeal; while

her eyes were full of unspoken admiration and regard for this friend,

who seemed tottering on the verge of a precipice. She expected a serious

reply,--thanks, at least, for her interest; and great was her surprise

to see Frank lean back against the vine-wreathed pillar behind him, and

laugh till a shower of rose-leaves came fluttering down on both their

heads.

"I don't see any cause for such unseemly merriment," was her dignified

reproof of this new impropriety.

"I beg your pardon. I really couldn't help it, for the comical contrast

between your sage counsels and your blooming face upset me. Your manner

was quite maternal and most impressive, till I looked at you in your

French finery, and then it was all up with me," said Frank, penitently,

though his eyes still danced with mirth.

The compliment appeased Anna's anger; and, folding her round white arms

on the railing in front of her, she looked up at him with a laugh as

blithe as his own.

"I dare say I was absurdly sober and important; but you see it is so

long since I have had a really serious thought in my head or felt a

really sincere interest in any one's affairs but my own that I overdid

the matter. If you don't care for my advice, I'll take it all back; and

you can go and marry your butterfly as soon as you like."

"I rather think I shall," said Frank, slowly. "For I fancy she _has_ got

a hidden self, as you suggested, and I'd rather like to find it out. One

judges people so much by externals that it is not fair. Now, you, for

instance, if you won't mind my saying it, don't show half your good

points; and a casual observer would consider you merely a fashionable

woman,--lovely, but shallow."

"As you did the last time we met," put in Anna, sharply.

If she expected him to deny it, she was mistaken for he answered, with

provoking candor,--

"Exactly. And I quite grieved about it; for I used to be very fond of my

little playmate and thought she'd make a fine woman. I'm glad I've seen

you again; for I find I was unjust in my first judgment, and this

discovery gives me hope that I may have been mistaken in the same way

about my--well, we'll say sweetheart. It's a pretty old word and I like

it."

"If he only _would_ forget that creature a minute and talk about

something more interesting!" sighed Anna to herself. But she answered,

meekly enough: "I knew you were disappointed in me, and I did not wonder

for I am not good for much, thanks to my foolish education and the life

I have led these last few years. But I do sincerely wish to be more of a

woman, only I have no one to tell me how. Everybody flatters me and"--

"I don't!" cried Frank, promptly.

"That's true." And Anna could not help laughing in the middle of her

confessions at the tone of virtuous satisfaction with which he repelled

the accusation. "No," she continued, "you are honest enough for any one;

and I like it, though it startles me now and then, it is so new."

"I hope I'm not disrespectful," said Frank, busily removing the thorns

from the stem of his flower.

"Oh, no! Not that exactly. But you treat me very much as if I was a

sister or a--masculine friend." Anna meant to quote the expression Clara

had reported; but somehow the word "wife" was hard to utter, and she

finished the sentence differently.

"And you don't like it?" asked Frank, lifting the rose to hide the

mischievous smile that lurked about his mouth.

"Yes, I do,--infinitely better than the sentimental homage other men pay

me or the hackneyed rubbish they talk. It does me good to be a little

neglected; and I don't mind it from you, because you more than atone for

it by talking to me as if I could understand a man's mind and had one of

my own."

"Then you don't quite detest me for my rough ways and egotistical

confidences?" asked Frank, as if suddenly smitten with remorse for the

small sins of the day.

"No, I rather fancy it, for it seems like old times, when you and I

played together. Only then I could help you in many ways, as you helped

me; but now I don't seem to know any thing, and can be of no use to you

or any one else. I should like to be; and I think, if you would kindly

tell me what books to read, what people to know, and what faculties to

cultivate, I might become something besides 'a fashionable woman, lovely

but shallow.'"

There was a little quiver of emotion in Anna's voice as she uttered the

last words that did not escape her companion's quick ear. But he only

smiled a look of heartfelt satisfaction to the rose, and answered

soberly:

"Now that is a capital idea, and I'll do it with pleasure. I have often

wondered how you bright girls _could_ be contented with such an empty

sort of life. We fellows are just as foolish for a time, I know,--far

worse in the crops of wild oats we sow; but we have to pull up and go to

work, and that makes men of us. Marriage ought to do that for women, I

suppose; but it doesn't seem to nowadays, and I do pity you poor little

things from the bottom of my heart."

"I'm ready now to 'pull up and go to work.' Show me how, Frank, and I'll

change your pity into respect," said Anna, casting off her lace shawl,

as if preparing for immediate action; for his tone of masculine

superiority rather nettled her.

"Come, I'll make a bargain with you. I'll give you something strong and

solid to brace up your mind, and in return you shall polish my manners,

see to my morals, and keep my heart from wasting itself on false idols.

Shall we do this for one another, Anna?"

"Yes, Frank," she answered heartily. Then, as Clara was seen

approaching, she added playfully, "All this is _sub rosa_, you

understand."

He handed her the flower without a word, as if the emblem of silence was

the best gage he could offer. Many flowers had been presented to the

beauty; but none were kept so long and carefully as the thornless rose

her old friend gave her, with a cordial smile that warmed her heart.

A great deal can happen in a week, and the seven days that followed that

moonlight _tete-a-tete_ seemed to Anna the fullest and the happiest she

had ever known. She had never worked so hard in her life; for her new

tutor gave her plenty to do, and she studied in secret to supply sundry

deficiencies which she was too proud to confess. No more novels now; no

more sentimental poetry, lounging in a hammock. She sat erect upon a

hard rock and read Buckle, Mill, and Social Science Reports with a

diligence that appalled the banished dawdlers who usually helped her

kill time. There was early boating, vigorous horse exercise, and tramps

over hill and dale, from which she returned dusty, brown, and tired, but

as happy as if she had discovered something fairer and grander than wild

flowers or the ocean in its changeful moods. There were afternoon

concerts in the breezy drawing-rooms, when others were enjoying siestas,

and Anna sang to her one listener as she had never sung before. But best

of all were the moonlight _seances_ among the roses; for there they

interchanged interesting confidences and hovered about those dangerous

but delightful topics that need the magic of a midsummer night to make

the charm quite perfect.

Anna intended to do her part honorably; but soon forgot to correct her

pupil's manners, she was so busy taking care of his heart. She presently

discovered that he treated other women in the usual way; and at first it

annoyed her that she was the only one whom he allowed to pick up her own

fan, walk without an arm, row, ride, and take care of herself as if she

was a man. But she also discovered that she was the only woman to whom

he talked as to an equal, in whom he seemed to find sympathy,

inspiration, and help, and for whom he frankly showed not admiration

alone, but respect, confidence, and affection.

This made the loss of a little surface courtesy too trifling for

complaint or reproof; this stimulated and delighted her; and, in

striving to deserve and secure it, she forgot every thing else, prouder

to be one man's true friend than the idol of a dozen lovers.

What the effect of this new league was upon the other party was less

evident; for, being of the undemonstrative sex, he kept his

observations, discoveries, and satisfaction to himself, with no sign of

especial interest, except now and then a rapturous allusion to his

sweetheart, as if absence was increasing his passion.

Anna tried to quench his ardor, feeling sure, she said that it was a

mistake to lavish so much love upon a person who was so entirely

unworthy of it. But Frank seemed blind on this one point; and Anna

suffered many a pang, as day after day showed her some new virtue,

grace, or talent in this perverse man, who seemed bent on throwing his

valuable self away. She endeavored to forget it, avoided the subject as

much as possible, and ignored the existence of this inconvenient being

entirely. But as the week drew to an end a secret trouble looked out at

her eyes, a secret unrest possessed her, and every moment seemed to grow

more precious as it passed, each full of a bitter sweet delight never

known before.

"I must be off to-morrow," said Frank, on the Saturday evening, as they

strolled together on the beach, while the sun set gloriously and the

great waves broke musically on the sands.

"Such a short holiday, after all those months of work!" answered Anna,

looking away, lest he should see how wistful her tell-tale eyes were.

"I may take a longer holiday, the happiest a man can have, if somebody

will go with me. Anna, I've made up my mind to try my fate," he added

impetuously.

"I have warned you, I can do no more." Which was quite true, for the

poor girl's heart sunk at his words, and for a moment all the golden sky

was a blur before her eyes.

"I won't be warned, thank you; for I'm quite sure now that I love her.

Nothing like absence to settle that point. I've tried it, and I can't

get on without her; so I'm going to 'put my fortune to the touch and win

or lose it all.'"

"If you truly love her, I hope you will win, and find her the wife you

deserve. But think well before you put your happiness into any woman's

hands," said Anna, bravely trying to forget herself.

"Bless you! I've hardly thought of any thing else this week! I've

enjoyed myself, though; and am very grateful to you for making my visit

so pleasant," Frank added warmly.

"Have I? I'm so glad!" said Anna, as simply as a pleased child; for real

love had banished all her small coquetries, vanities, and affectations,

as sunshine absorbs the mists that hide a lovely landscape.

"Indeed, you have. All the teaching has not been on my side, I assure

you; and I'm not too proud to own my obligation to a woman! We lonely

fellows, who have neither mother, sister, nor wife, need some gentle

soul to keep us from getting selfish, hard, and worldly; and few are so

fortunate as I in having a friend like little Anna."

"Oh, Frank! what have I done for you? I haven't dared to teach one so

much wiser and stronger than myself. I've only wanted to, and grieved

because I was so ignorant, so weak, and silly," cried Anna, glowing

beautifully with surprise and pleasure at this unexpected revelation.

"Your humility blinded you; yet your unconsciousness was half the charm.

I'll tell you what you did, dear. A man's moral sense gets blunted

knocking about this rough-and-tumble world, where the favorite maxim is,

'Every man for himself and the Devil take the hindmost.' It is so with

me; and in many of our conversations on various subjects, while I seemed

to be teaching you, your innocent integrity was rebuking my worldly

wisdom, your subtle instincts were pointing out the right which is above

all policy, your womanly charity softening my hard judgments, and your

simple faith in the good, the beautiful, the truly brave was waking up

the high and happy beliefs that lay, not dead, but sleeping, in my soul.

All this you did for me, Anna, and even more; for, in showing me the

hidden side of your nature, I found it so sweet and deep and worshipful

that it restores my faith in womankind, and shows me all the lovely

possibilities that may lie folded up under the frivolous exterior of a

fashionable woman."

Anna's heart was so full she could not speak for a moment; then like a

dash of cold water came the thought, "And all this that I have done has

only put him further from me, since it has given him courage to love and

trust that woman." She tried to show only pleasure at his praise; but

for the life of her she could not keep a tone of bitterness out of her

voice as she answered gratefully,--

"You are too kind, Frank. I can hardly believe that I have so many

virtues; but if I have, and they, like yours, have been asleep, remember

you helped wake them up, and so you owe me nothing. Keep your sweet

speeches for the lady you go to woo. I am contented with honest words

that do not flatter."

"You shall have them;" and a quick smile passed over Frank's face, as if

he knew what thorn pricked her just then, and was not ill pleased at the

discovery. "Only, if I lose my sweetheart, I may be sure that my old

friend won't desert me?" he asked, with a sincere anxiety that was a

balm to Anna's sore heart.

She did not speak, but offered him her hand with a look which said much.

He took it as silently, and, holding it in a firm, warm grasp, led her

up to a cleft in the rocks, where they often sat to watch the great

breakers thunder in. As she took her seat, he folded his plaid about her

so tenderly that it felt like a friendly arm shielding her from the

fresh gale that blew up from the sea. It was an unusual attention on his

part, and coming just then it affected her so curiously that, when he

lounged down beside her, she felt a strong desire to lay her head on his

shoulder and sob out,--

"Don't go and leave me! No one loves you half as well as I, or needs you

half so much!"

Of course, she did nothing of the sort; but began to sing, as she

covertly whisked away a rebellious tear. Frank soon interrupted her

music, however, by a heavy sigh; and followed up that demonstration with

the tragical announcement,--

"Anna, I've got something awful to tell you."

"What is it?" she asked, with the resignation of one who has already

heard the worst.

"It is so bad that I can't look you in the face while I tell it. Listen

calmly till I am done, and then pitch me overboard if you like, for I

deserve it," was his cheerful beginning.

"Go on." And Anna prepared herself to receive some tremendous shock with

masculine firmness.

Frank pulled his hat over his eyes, and, looking away from her, said

rapidly, with an odd sound in his voice.--

"The night I came I was put in a room opening on the back piazza; and,

lying there to rest and cool after my journey, I heard two ladies

talking. I knocked my boots about to let them know I was near; but they

took no notice, so I listened. Most women's gabble would have sent me to

sleep in five minutes; but this was rather original, and interested me,

especially when I found by the names mentioned that I knew one of the

parties. I've been trying your experiment all the week. Anna, how do you

like it?"

She did not answer for a moment, being absorbed in swift retrospection.

Then she colored to her hat-brim, looked angry, hurt, amused, gratified,

and ashamed, all in a minute, and said slowly, as she met his laughing

eyes,--

"Better than I thought I should."

"That's good! Then you forgive me for my eavesdropping, my rudeness, and

manifold iniquities? It was abominable; but I could not resist the

temptation of testing your sincerity. It was great fun; but I'm not sure

that I shall not get the worst of it, after all," said Frank, sobering

suddenly.

"You have played so many jokes upon me in old times that I don't find it

hard to forgive this one; though I think it rather base in you to

deceive me so. Still, as I have enjoyed and got a good deal out of it, I

don't complain, and won't send you overboard yet," said Anna,

generously.

"You always were a forgiving angel." And Frank settled the plaid again

more tenderly than before.

"It was this, then, that made you so brusque to me alone, so odd and

careless? I could not understand it and it hurt me at first; but I

thought it was because we had been children together and soon forgot it,

you were so kind and confidential, so helpful and straightforward. It

_was_ 'great fun,' for I always knew you meant what you said; and that

was an unspeakable comfort to me in this world of flattery and

falsehood. Yes, you may laugh at me, Frank, and leave me to myself

again. I can bear it, for I've proved that my whim was a possibility. I

see my way now, and can go on alone to a truer, happier life than that

in which you found me."

She spoke out bravely, and looked above the level sands and beyond the

restless sea, as if she had found something worth living for and did not

fear the future. Frank watched her an instant, for her face had never

worn so noble an expression before. Sorrow as well as strength had come

into the lovely features, and pain as well as patience touched them with

new beauty. His own face changed as he looked, as if he let loose some

deep and tender sentiment, long held in check, now ready to rise and

claim its own.

"Anna," he said penitently, "I've got one other terrible confession to

make, and then my conscience will be clear. I want to tell you who my

sweetheart is. Here's her picture. Will you look at it?"

She gave a little shiver, turned steadily, and looked where he pointed.

But all she saw was her own astonished face reflected in the shallow

pool behind them. One glance at Frank made any explanation needless;

indeed, there was no time for her to speak before something closer than

the plaid enfolded her, something warmer than tears touched her cheek,

and a voice sweeter to her than wind or wave whispered tenderly in her

ear,--

"All this week I have been studying and enjoying far more than you; for

I have read a woman's heart and learned to trust and honor what I have

loved ever since I was a boy. Absence proved this to me: so I came to

look for little Anna, and found her better and dearer than ever. May I

ask her to keep on teaching me? Will she share my work as well as

holiday, and be the truest friend a man can have?"

And Anna straightway answered, "Yes."

TRANSCENDENTAL WILD OATS.

A CHAPTER FROM AN UNWRITTEN ROMANCE.

On the first day of June, 184--, a large wagon, drawn by a small horse

and containing a motley load, went lumbering over certain New England

hills, with the pleasing accompaniments of wind, rain, and hail. A

serene man with a serene child upon his knee was driving, or rather

being driven, for the small horse had it all his own way. A brown boy

with a William Penn style of countenance sat beside him, firmly

embracing a bust of Socrates. Behind them was an energetic-looking

woman, with a benevolent brow, satirical mouth, and eyes brimful of hope

and courage. A baby reposed upon her lap, a mirror leaned against her

knee, and a basket of provisions danced about at her feet, as she

struggled with a large, unruly umbrella. Two blue-eyed little girls,

with hands full of childish treasures, sat under one old shawl, chatting

happily together.

In front of this lively party stalked a tall, sharp-featured man, in a

long blue cloak; and a fourth small girl trudged along beside him

through the mud as if she rather enjoyed it.

The wind whistled over the bleak hills; the rain fell in a despondent

drizzle, and twilight began to fall. But the calm man gazed as

tranquilly into the fog as if he beheld a radiant bow of promise

spanning the gray sky. The cheery woman tried to cover every one but

herself with the big umbrella. The brown boy pillowed his head on the

bald pate of Socrates and slumbered peacefully. The little girls sang

lullabies to their dolls in soft, maternal murmurs. The sharp-nosed

pedestrian marched steadily on, with the blue cloak streaming out behind

him like a banner; and the lively infant splashed through the puddles

with a duck-like satisfaction pleasant to behold.

Thus these modern pilgrims journeyed hopefully out of the old world, to

found a new one in the wilderness.

The editors of "The Transcendental Tripod" had received from Messrs.

Lion & Lamb (two of the aforesaid pilgrims) a communication from which

the following statement is an extract:--

"We have made arrangements with the proprietor of an estate of about a

hundred acres which liberates this tract from human ownership. Here we

shall prosecute our effort to initiate a Family in harmony with the

primitive instincts of man.

"Ordinary secular farming is not our object. Fruit, grain, pulse, herbs,

flax, and other vegetable products, receiving assiduous attention, will

afford ample manual occupation, and chaste supplies for the bodily

needs. It is intended to adorn the pastures with orchards, and to

supersede the labor of cattle by the spade and the pruning-knife.

"Consecrated to human freedom, the land awaits the sober culture of

devoted men. Beginning with small pecuniary means, this enterprise must

be rooted in a reliance on the succors of an ever-bounteous Providence,

whose vital affinities being secured by this union with uncorrupted

field and unworldly persons, the cares and injuries of a life of gain

are avoided.

"The inner nature of each member of the Family is at no time neglected.

Our plan contemplates all such disciplines, cultures, and habits as

evidently conduce to the purifying of the inmates.

"Pledged to the spirit alone, the founders anticipate no hasty or

numerous addition to their numbers. The kingdom of peace is entered only

through the gates of self-denial; and felicity is the test and the

reward of loyalty to the unswerving law of Love."

This prospective Eden at present consisted of an old red farm-house, a

dilapidated barn, many acres of meadow-land, and a grove. Ten ancient

apple-trees were all the "chaste supply" which the place offered as yet;

but, in the firm belief that plenteous orchards were soon to be evoked

from their inner consciousness, these sanguine founders had christened

their domain Fruitlands.

Here Timon Lion intended to found a colony of Latter Day Saints, who,

under his patriarchal sway, should regenerate the world and glorify his

name for ever. Here Abel Lamb, with the devoutest faith in the high

ideal which was to him a living truth, desired to plant a Paradise,

where Beauty, Virtue, Justice, and Love might live happily together,

without the possibility of a serpent entering in. And here his wife,

unconverted but faithful to the end, hoped, after many wanderings over

the face of the earth, to find rest for herself and a home for her

children.

"There is our new abode," announced the enthusiast, smiling with a

satisfaction quite undamped by the drops dripping from his hat-brim, as

they turned at length into a cart-path that wound along a steep hillside

into a barren-looking valley.

"A little difficult of access," observed his practical wife, as she

endeavored to keep her various household gods from going overboard with

every lurch of the laden ark.

"Like all good things. But those who earnestly desire and patiently seek

will soon find us," placidly responded the philosopher from the mud,

through which he was now endeavoring to pilot the much-enduring horse.

"Truth lies at the bottom of a well, Sister Hope," said Brother Timon,

pausing to detach his small comrade from a gate, whereon she was perched

for a clearer gaze into futurity.

"That's the reason we so seldom get at it, I suppose," replied Mrs.

Hope, making a vain clutch at the mirror, which a sudden jolt sent

flying out of her hands.

"We want no false reflections here," said Timon, with a grim smile, as

he crunched the fragments under foot in his onward march.

Sister Hope held her peace, and looked wistfully through the mist at her

promised home. The old red house with a hospitable glimmer at its

windows cheered her eyes; and, considering the weather, was a fitter

refuge than the sylvan bowers some of the more ardent souls might have

preferred.

The new-comers were welcomed by one of the elect precious,--a regenerate

farmer, whose idea of reform consisted chiefly in wearing white cotton

raiment and shoes of untanned leather. This costume, with a snowy beard,

gave him a venerable, and at the same time a somewhat bridal appearance.

The goods and chattels of the Society not having arrived, the weary

family reposed before the fire on blocks of wood, while Brother Moses

White regaled them with roasted potatoes, brown bread and water, in two

plates, a tin pan, and one mug; his table service being limited. But,

having cast the forms and vanities of a depraved world behind them, the

elders welcomed hardship with the enthusiasm of new pioneers, and the

children heartily enjoyed this foretaste of what they believed was to be

a sort of perpetual picnic.

During the progress of this frugal meal, two more brothers appeared. One

a dark, melancholy man, clad in homespun, whose peculiar mission was to

turn his name hind part before and use as few words as possible. The

other was a bland, bearded Englishman, who expected to be saved by

eating uncooked food and going without clothes. He had not yet adopted

the primitive costume, however; but contented himself with meditatively

chewing dry beans out of a basket.

"Every meal should be a sacrament, and the vessels used should be

beautiful and symbolical," observed Brother Lamb, mildly, righting the

tin pan slipping about on his knees. "I priced a silver service when in

town, but it was too costly; so I got some graceful cups and vases of

Britannia ware."

"Hardest things in the world to keep bright. Will whiting be allowed in

the community?" inquired Sister Hope, with a housewife's interest in

labor-saving institutions.

"Such trivial questions will be discussed at a more fitting time,"

answered Brother Timon, sharply, as he burnt his fingers with a very hot

potato. "Neither sugar, molasses, milk, butter, cheese, nor flesh are to

be used among us, for nothing is to be admitted which has caused wrong

or death to man or beast."

"Our garments are to be linen till we learn to raise our own cotton or

some substitute for woollen fabrics," added Brother Abel, blissfully

basking in an imaginary future as warm and brilliant as the generous

fire before him.

"Haou abaout shoes?" asked Brother Moses, surveying his own with

interest.

"We must yield that point till we can manufacture an innocent substitute

for leather. Bark, wood, or some durable fabric will be invented in

time. Meanwhile, those who desire to carry out our idea to the fullest

extent can go barefooted," said Lion, who liked extreme measures.

"I never will, nor let my girls," murmured rebellious Sister Hope, under

her breath.

"Haou do you cattle'ate to treat the ten-acre lot? Ef things ain't

'tended to right smart, we shan't hev no crops," observed the practical

patriarch in cotton.

"We shall spade it," replied Abel, in such perfect good faith that Moses

said no more, though he indulged in a shake of the head as he glanced at

hands that had held nothing heavier than a pen for years. He was a

paternal old soul and regarded the younger men as promising boys on a

new sort of lark.

"What shall we do for lamps, if we cannot use any animal substance? I do

hope light of some sort is to be thrown upon the enterprise," said Mrs.

Lamb, with anxiety, for in those days kerosene and camphene were not,

and gas unknown in the wilderness.

"We shall go without till we have discovered some vegetable oil or wax

to serve us," replied Brother Timon, in a decided tone, which caused

Sister Hope to resolve that her private lamp should be always trimmed,

if not burning.

"Each member is to perform the work for which experience, strength, and

taste best fit him," continued Dictator Lion. "Thus drudgery and

disorder will be avoided and harmony prevail. We shall rise at dawn,

begin the day by bathing, followed by music, and then a chaste repast of

fruit and bread. Each one finds congenial occupation till the meridian

meal; when some deep-searching conversation gives rest to the body and

development to the mind. Healthful labor again engages us till the last

meal, when we assemble in social communion, prolonged till sunset, when

we retire to sweet repose, ready for the next day's activity."

"What part of the work do you incline to yourself?" asked Sister Hope,

with a humorous glimmer in her keen eyes.

"I shall wait till it is made clear to me. Being in preference to doing

is the great aim, and this comes to us rather by a resigned willingness

than a wilful activity, which is a check to all divine growth,"

responded Brother Timon.

"I thought so." And Mrs. Lamb sighed audibly, for during the year he had

spent in her family Brother Timon had so faithfully carried out his idea

of "being, not doing," that she had found his "divine growth" both an

expensive and unsatisfactory process.

Here her husband struck into the conversation, his face shining with the

light and joy of the splendid dreams and high ideals hovering before

him.

"In these steps of reform, we do not rely so much on scientific

reasoning or physiological skill as on the spirit's dictates. The

greater part of man's duty consists in leaving alone much that he now

does. Shall I stimulate with tea, coffee, or wine? No. Shall I consume

flesh? Not if I value health. Shall I subjugate cattle? Shall I claim

property in any created thing? Shall I trade? Shall I adopt a form of

religion? Shall I interest myself in politics? To how many of these

questions--could we ask them deeply enough and could they be heard as

having relation to our eternal welfare--would the response be

'Abstain'?"

A mild snore seemed to echo the last word of Abel's rhapsody, for

Brother Moses had succumbed to mundane slumber and sat nodding like a

massive ghost. Forest Absalom, the silent man, and John Pease, the

English member, now departed to the barn; and Mrs. Lamb led her flock to

a temporary fold, leaving the founders of the "Consociate Family" to

build castles in the air till the fire went out and the symposium ended

in smoke.

The furniture arrived next day, and was soon bestowed; for the principal

property of the community consisted in books. To this rare library was

devoted the best room in the house, and the few busts and pictures that

still survived many flittings were added to beautify the sanctuary, for

here the family was to meet for amusement, instruction, and worship.

Any housewife can imagine the emotions of Sister Hope, when she took

possession of a large, dilapidated kitchen, containing an old stove and

the peculiar stores out of which food was to be evolved for her little

family of eleven. Cakes of maple sugar, dried peas and beans, barley and

hominy, meal of all sorts, potatoes, and dried fruit. No milk, butter,

cheese, tea, or meat, appeared. Even salt was considered a useless

luxury and spice entirely forbidden by these lovers of Spartan

simplicity. A ten years' experience of vegetarian vagaries had been good

training for this new freak, and her sense of the ludicrous supported

her through many trying scenes.

Unleavened bread, porridge, and water for breakfast; bread, vegetables,

and water for dinner; bread, fruit, and water for supper was the bill of

fare ordained by the elders. No tea-pot profaned that sacred stove, no

gory steak cried aloud for vengeance from her chaste gridiron; and only

a brave woman's taste, time, and temper were sacrificed on that domestic

altar.

The vexed question of light was settled by buying a quantity of bayberry

wax for candles; and, on discovering that no one knew how to make them,

pine-knots were introduced, to be used when absolutely necessary. Being

summer, the evenings were not long, and the weary fraternity found it no

great hardship to retire with the birds. The inner light was sufficient

for most of them. But Mrs. Lamb rebelled. Evening was the only time she

had to herself, and while the tired feet rested the skilful hands mended

torn frocks and little stockings, or anxious heart forgot its burden in

a book.

So "mother's lamp" burned steadily, while the philosophers built a new

heaven and earth by moonlight; and through all the metaphysical mists

and philanthropic pyrotechnics of that period Sister Hope played her own

little game of "throwing light," and none but the moths were the worse

for it.

Such farming probably was never seen before since Adam delved. The band

of brothers began by spading garden and field; but a few days of it

lessened their ardor amazingly. Blistered hands and aching backs

suggested the expediency of permitting the use of cattle till the

workers were better fitted for noble toil by a summer of the new life.

Brother Moses brought a yoke of oxen from his farm,--at least, the

philosophers thought so till it was discovered that one of the animals

was a cow; and Moses confessed that he "must be let down easy, for he

couldn't live on garden sarse entirely."

Great was Dictator Lion's indignation at this lapse from virtue. But

time pressed, the work must be done; so the meek cow was permitted to

wear the yoke and the recreant brother continued to enjoy forbidden

draughts in the barn, which dark proceeding caused the children to

regard him as one set apart for destruction.

The sowing was equally peculiar, for, owing to some mistake, the three

brethren, who devoted themselves to this graceful task, found when about

half through the job that each had been sowing a different sort of grain

in the same field; a mistake which caused much perplexity, as it could

not be remedied; but, after a long consultation and a good deal of

laughter, it was decided to say nothing and see what would come of it.

The garden was planted with a generous supply of useful roots and herbs;

but, as manure was not allowed to profane the virgin soil, few of these

vegetable treasures ever came up. Purslane reigned supreme, and the

disappointed planters ate it philosophically, deciding that Nature knew

what was best for them, and would generously supply their needs, if they

could only learn to digest her "sallets" and wild roots.

The orchard was laid out, a little grafting done, new trees and vines

set, regardless of the unfit season and entire ignorance of the

husbandmen, who honestly believed that in the autumn they would reap a

bounteous harvest.

Slowly things got into order, and rapidly rumors of the new experiment

went abroad, causing many strange spirits to flock thither, for in those

days communities were the fashion and transcendentalism raged wildly.

Some came to look on and laugh, some to be supported in poetic idleness,

a few to believe sincerely and work heartily. Each member was allowed to

mount his favorite hobby and ride it to his heart's content. Very queer

were some of the riders, and very rampant some of the hobbies.

One youth, believing that language was of little consequence if the

spirit was only right, startled new-comers by blandly greeting them with

"good-morning, damn you," and other remarks of an equally mixed order. A

second irrepressible being held that all the emotions of the soul should

be freely expressed, and illustrated his theory by antics that would

have sent him to a lunatic asylum, if, as an unregenerate wag said, he

had not already been in one. When his spirit soared, he climbed trees

and shouted; when doubt assailed him, he lay upon the floor and groaned

lamentably. At joyful periods, he raced, leaped, and sang; when sad, he

wept aloud; and when a great thought burst upon him in the watches of

the night, he crowed like a jocund cockerel, to the great delight of the

children and the great annoyance of the elders. One musical brother

fiddled whenever so moved, sang sentimentally to the four little girls,

and put a music-box on the wall when he hoed corn.

Brother Pease ground away at his uncooked food, or browsed over the farm

on sorrel, mint, green fruit, and new vegetables. Occasionally he took

his walks abroad, airily attired in an unbleached cotton _poncho_, which

was the nearest approach to the primeval costume he was allowed to

indulge in. At midsummer he retired to the wilderness, to try his plan

where the woodchucks were without prejudices and huckleberry-bushes were

hospitably full. A sunstroke unfortunately spoilt his plan, and he

returned to semi-civilization a sadder and wiser man.

Forest Absalom preserved his Pythagorean silence, cultivated his fine

dark locks, and worked like a beaver, setting an excellent example of

brotherly love, justice, and fidelity by his upright life. He it was who

helped overworked Sister Hope with her heavy washes, kneaded the endless

succession of batches of bread, watched over the children, and did the

many tasks left undone by the brethren, who were so busy discussing and

defining great duties that they forgot to perform the small ones.

Moses White placidly plodded about, "chorin' raound," as he called it,

looking like an old-time patriarch, with his silver hair and flowing

beard, and saving the community from many a mishap by his thrift and

Yankee shrewdness.

Brother Lion domineered over the whole concern; for, having put the most

money into the speculation, he was resolved to make it pay,--as if any

thing founded on an ideal basis could be expected to do so by any but

enthusiasts.

Abel Lamb simply revelled in the Newness, firmly believing that his

dream was to be beautifully realized, and in time not only little

Fruitlands, but the whole earth, be turned into a Happy Valley. He

worked with every muscle of his body, for _he_ was in deadly earnest. He

taught with his whole head and heart; planned and sacrificed, preached

and prophesied, with a soul full of the purest aspirations, most

unselfish purposes, and desires for a life devoted to God and man, too

high and tender to bear the rough usage of this world.

It was a little remarkable that only one woman ever joined this

community. Mrs. Lamb merely followed wheresoever her husband led,--"as

ballast for his balloon," as she said, in her bright way.

Miss Jane Gage was a stout lady of mature years, sentimental, amiable,

and lazy. She wrote verses copiously, and had vague yearnings and

graspings after the unknown, which led her to believe herself fitted for

a higher sphere than any she had yet adorned.

Having been a teacher, she was set to instructing the children in the

common branches. Each adult member took a turn at the infants; and, as

each taught in his own way, the result was a chronic state of chaos in

the minds of these much-afflicted innocents.

Sleep, food, and poetic musings were the desires of dear Jane's life,

and she shirked all duties as clogs upon her spirit's wings. Any thought

of lending a hand with the domestic drudgery never occurred to her; and

when to the question, "Are there any beasts of burden on the place?"

Mrs. Lamb answered, with a face that told its own tale, "Only one

woman!" the buxom Jane took no shame to herself, but laughed at the

joke, and let the stout-hearted sister tug on alone.

Unfortunately, the poor lady hankered after the flesh-pots, and

endeavored to stay herself with private sips of milk, crackers, and

cheese, and on one dire occasion she partook of fish at a neighbor's

table.

One of the children reported this sad lapse from virtue, and poor Jane

was publicly reprimanded by Timon.

"I only took a little bit of the tail," sobbed the penitent poetess.

"Yes, but the whole fish had to be tortured and slain that you might

tempt your carnal appetite with that one taste of the tail. Know ye not,

consumers of flesh meat, that ye are nourishing the wolf and tiger in

your bosoms?"

At this awful question and the peal of laughter which arose from some of

the younger brethren, tickled by the ludicrous contrast between the

stout sinner, the stern judge, and the naughty satisfaction of the young

detective, poor Jane fled from the room to pack her trunk, and return to

a world where fishes' tails were not forbidden fruit.

Transcendental wild oats were sown broadcast that year, and the fame

thereof has not yet ceased in the land; for, futile as this crop seemed

to outsiders, it bore an invisible harvest, worth much to those who

planted in earnest. As none of the members of this particular community

have ever recounted their experiences before, a few of them may not be

amiss, since the interest in these attempts has never died out and

Fruitlands was the most ideal of all these castles in Spain.

A new dress was invented, since cotton, silk, and wool were forbidden as

the product of slave-labor, worm-slaughter, and sheep-robbery. Tunics

and trowsers of brown linen were the only wear. The women's skirts were

longer, and their straw hat-brims wider than the men's, and this was the

only difference. Some persecution lent a charm to the costume, and the

long-haired, linen-clad reformers quite enjoyed the mild martyrdom they

endured when they left home.

Money was abjured, as the root of all evil. The produce of the land was

to supply most of their wants, or be exchanged for the few things they

could not grow. This idea had its inconveniences; but self-denial was

the fashion, and it was surprising how many things one can do without.

When they desired to travel, they walked, if possible, begged the loan

of a vehicle, or boldly entered car or coach, and, stating their

principles to the officials, took the consequences. Usually their dress,

their earnest frankness, and gentle resolution won them a passage; but

now and then they met with hard usage, and had the satisfaction of

suffering for their principles.

On one of these penniless pilgrimages they took passage on a boat, and,

when fare was demanded, artlessly offered to talk, instead of pay. As

the boat was well under way and they actually had not a cent, there was

no help for it. So Brothers Lion and Lamb held forth to the assembled

passengers in their most eloquent style. There must have been something

effective in this conversation, for the listeners were moved to take up

a contribution for these inspired lunatics, who preached peace on earth

and good-will to man so earnestly, with empty pockets. A goodly sum was

collected; but when the captain presented it the reformers proved that

they were consistent even in their madness, for not a penny would they

accept, saying, with a look at the group about them, whose indifference

or contempt had changed to interest and respect, "You see how well we

get on without money;" and so went serenely on their way, with their

linen blouses flapping airily in the cold October wind.

They preached vegetarianism everywhere and resisted all temptations of

the flesh, contentedly eating apples and bread at well-spread tables,

and much afflicting hospitable hostesses by denouncing their food and

taking away their appetites, discussing the "horrors of shambles," the

"incorporation of the brute in man," and "on elegant abstinence the sign

of a pure soul." But, when the perplexed or offended ladies asked what

they should eat, they got in reply a bill of fare consisting of "bowls

of sunrise for breakfast," "solar seeds of the sphere," "dishes from

Plutarch's chaste table," and other viands equally hard to find in any

modern market.

Reform conventions of all sorts were haunted by these brethren, who said

many wise things and did many foolish ones. Unfortunately, these

wanderings interfered with their harvest at home; but the rule was to do

what the spirit moved, so they left their crops to Providence and went

a-reaping in wider and, let us hope, more fruitful fields than their

own.

Luckily, the earthly providence who watched over Abel Lamb was at hand

to glean the scanty crop yielded by the "uncorrupted land," which,

"consecrated to human freedom," had received "the sober culture of

devout men."

About the time the grain was ready to house, some call of the Oversoul

wafted all the men away. An easterly storm was coming up and the yellow

stacks were sure to be ruined. Then Sister Hope gathered her forces.

Three little girls, one boy (Timon's son), and herself, harnessed to

clothes-baskets and Russia-linen sheets, were the only teams she could

command; but with these poor appliances the indomitable woman got in the

grain and saved food for her young, with the instinct and energy of a

mother-bird with a brood of hungry nestlings to feed.

This attempt at regeneration had its tragic as well as comic side,

though the world only saw the former.

With the first frosts, the butterflies, who had sunned themselves in the

new light through the summer, took flight, leaving the few bees to see

what honey they had stored for winter use. Precious little appeared

beyond the satisfaction of a few months of holy living.

At first it seemed as if a chance to try holy dying also was to be

offered them. Timon, much disgusted with the failure of the scheme,

decided to retire to the Shakers, who seemed to be the only successful

community going.

"What is to become of us?" asked Mrs. Hope, for Abel was heart-broken at

the bursting of his lovely bubble.

"You can stay here, if you like, till a tenant is found. No more wood

must be cut, however, and no more corn ground. All I have must be sold

to pay the debts of the concern, as the responsibility rests with me,"

was the cheering reply.

"Who is to pay us for what we have lost? I gave all I had,--furniture,

time, strength, six months of my children's lives,--and all are wasted.

Abel gave himself body and soul, and is almost wrecked by hard work and

disappointment. Are we to have no return for this, but leave to starve

and freeze in an old house, with winter at hand, no money, and hardly a

friend left, for this wild scheme has alienated nearly all we had. You

talk much about justice. Let us have a little, since there is nothing

else left."

But the woman's appeal met with no reply but the old one: "It was an

experiment. We all risked something, and must bear our losses as we

can."

With this cold comfort, Timon departed with his son, and was absorbed

into the Shaker brotherhood, where he soon found that the order of

things was reversed, and it was all work and no play.

Then the tragedy began for the forsaken little family. Desolation and

despair fell upon Abel. As his wife said, his new beliefs had alienated

many friends. Some thought him mad, some unprincipled. Even the most

kindly thought him a visionary, whom it was useless to help till he took

more practical views of life. All stood aloof, saying: "Let him work out

his own ideas, and see what they are worth."

He had tried, but it was a failure. The world was not ready for Utopia

yet, and those who attempted to found it only got laughed at for their

pains. In other days, men could sell all and give to the poor, lead

lives devoted to holiness and high thought, and, after the persecution

was over, find themselves honored as saints or martyrs. But in modern

times these things are out of fashion. To live for one's principles, at

all costs, is a dangerous speculation; and the failure of an ideal, no

matter how humane and noble, is harder for the world to forgive and

forget than bank robbery or the grand swindles of corrupt politicians.

Deep waters now for Abel, and for a time there seemed no passage

through. Strength and spirits were exhausted by hard work and too much

thought. Courage failed when, looking about for help, he saw no

sympathizing face, no hand outstretched to help him, no voice to say

cheerily,--

"We all make mistakes, and it takes many experiences to shape a life.

Try again, and let us help you."

Every door was closed, every eye averted, every heart cold, and no way

open whereby he might earn bread for his children. His principles would

not permit him to do many things that others did; and in the few fields

where conscience would allow him to work, who would employ a man who had

flown in the face of society, as he had done?

Then this dreamer, whose dream was the life of his life, resolved to

carry out his idea to the bitter end. There seemed no place for him

here,--no work, no friend. To go begging conditions was as ignoble as to

go begging money. Better perish of want than sell one's soul for the

sustenance of his body. Silently he lay down upon his bed, turned his

face to the wall, and waited with pathetic patience for death to cut the

knot which he could not untie. Days and nights went by, and neither food

nor water passed his lips. Soul and body were dumbly struggling

together, and no word of complaint betrayed what either suffered.

His wife, when tears and prayers were unavailing, sat down to wait the

end with a mysterious awe and submission; for in this entire resignation

of all things there was an eloquent significance to her who knew him as

no other human being did.

"Leave all to God," was his belief; and in this crisis the loving soul

clung to this faith, sure that the All-wise Father would not desert this

child who tried to live so near to Him. Gathering her children about

her, she waited the issue of the tragedy that was being enacted in that

solitary room, while the first snow fell outside, untrodden by the

footprints of a single friend.

But the strong angels who sustain and teach perplexed and troubled souls

came and went, leaving no trace without, but working miracles within.

For, when all other sentiments had faded into dimness, all other hopes

died utterly; when the bitterness of death was nearly over, when body

was past any pang of hunger or thirst, and soul stood ready to depart,

the love that outlives all else refused to die. Head had bowed to

defeat, hand had grown weary with too heavy tasks, but heart could not

grow cold to those who lived in its tender depths, even when death

touched it.

"My faithful wife, my little girls,--they have not forsaken me, they are

mine by ties that none can break. What right have I to leave them alone?

What right to escape from the burden and the sorrow I have helped to

bring? This duty remains to me, and I must do it manfully. For their

sakes, the world will forgive me in time; for their sakes, God will

sustain me now."

Too feeble to rise, Abel groped for the food that always lay within his

reach, and in the darkness and solitude of that memorable night ate and

drank what was to him the bread and wine of a new communion, a new

dedication of heart and life to the duties that were left him when the

dreams fled.

In the early dawn, when that sad wife crept fearfully to see what change

had come to the patient face on the pillow, she found it smiling at her,

saw a wasted hand outstretched to her, and heard a feeble voice cry

bravely, "Hope!"

What passed in that little room is not to be recorded except in the

hearts of those who suffered and endured much for love's sake. Enough

for us to know that soon the wan shadow of a man came forth, leaning on

the arm that never failed him, to be welcomed and cherished by the

children, who never forgot the experiences of that time.

"Hope" was the watchword now; and, while the last logs blazed on the

hearth, the last bread and apples covered the table, the new commander,

with recovered courage, said to her husband,--

"Leave all to God--and me. He has done his part; now I will do mine."

"But we have no money, dear."

"Yes, we have. I sold all we could spare, and have enough to take us

away from this snow-bank."

"Where can we go?"

"I have engaged four rooms at our good neighbor, Lovejoy's. There we can

live cheaply till spring. Then for new plans and a home of our own,

please God."

"But, Hope, your little store won't last long, and we have no friends."

"I can sew and you can chop wood. Lovejoy offers you the same pay as he

gives his other men; my old friend, Mrs. Truman, will send me all the

work I want; and my blessed brother stands by us to the end. Cheer up,

dear heart, for while there is work and love in the world we shall not

suffer."

"And while I have my good angel Hope, I shall not despair, even if I

wait another thirty years before I step beyond the circle of the sacred

little world in which I still have a place to fill."

So one bleak December day, with their few possessions piled on an

ox-sled, the rosy children perched atop, and the parents trudging arm in

arm behind, the exiles left their Eden and faced the world again.

"Ah, me! my happy dream. How much I leave behind that never can be mine

again," said Abel, looking back at the lost Paradise, lying white and

chill in its shroud of snow.

"Yes, dear; but how much we bring away," answered brave-hearted Hope,

glancing from husband to children.

"Poor Fruitlands! The name was as great a failure as the rest!"

continued Abel, with a sigh, as a frostbitten apple fell from a leafless

bough at his feet.

But the sigh changed to a smile as his wife added, in a half-tender,

half-satirical tone,--

"Don't you think Apple Slump would be a better name for it, dear?"

THE ROMANCE OF A SUMMER DAY.

"What shall we do about Rose? We have tried Saratoga, and that failed to

cheer her up; we tried the sea-shore, and that failed; now we have tried

the mountains, and they are going to fail, like the rest. See if your

woman's wit can't devise something to help the child, Milly."

"Time and tenderness will work the cure; and she will be all the better

for this experience, I hope."

"So do I. But I don't pretend to understand these nervous ailments; so,

if air, exercise, and change of scene don't cure the vapors, I give it

up. Girls didn't have such worries in my day."

And the old gentleman shook his head, as if modern ills perplexed him

very much.

But Milly smiled the slow, wise smile of one who had learned much from

experience; among other things, the wisdom of leaving certain troubles

to cure themselves.

"Has the child expressed a wish for any thing? If so, out with it, and

she shall be gratified, if it can be done," began Uncle Ben, after a

moment of silence, as they sat watching the moonlight, that glorified

the summer night.

"The last wish is one that we can easily gratify, if you don't mind the

fatigue. The restless spirit that possesses her keeps suggesting new

things. Much exercise does her good, and is an excellent way to work off

this unrest. She likes to tire herself out; for then she sleeps, poor

dear."

"Well, well, what does the poor dear want to do?" asked Uncle Ben,

quickly.

"She said to-day that, instead of going off on excursions, as we have

been doing, she would like to stroll away some pleasant morning, and

follow the road wherever it led, finding and enjoying any little

adventures that might come along,--as Richter's heroes do."

"Yes, I see: white butterflies, morning red, disguised counts,

philosophic plowmen, and all the rest of the romantic rubbish. Bless the

child, does she expect to find things of that sort anywhere out of a

German novel?"

"Plenty of butterflies and morning-glories, uncle, and a girl's

imagination will supply the romance. Perhaps we can get up some little

surprise to add flavor to our day's adventures," said Milly, who rather

favored the plan, for much romance still lay hidden in that quiet heart

of hers.

"Where shall we go? What shall we do? I don't know how this sort of

thing is managed."

"Do nothing but follow us. Let her choose her road; and we will merely

see that she has food and rest, protection, and as much pleasure as we

can make for her out of such simple materials. Having her own way will

gratify her, and a day in the open air do her good. Shall we try it,

sir?"

"With all my heart, if the fancy lasts till morning. I'll have some

lunch put up, and order Jim to dawdle after us with the wagon full of

waterproofs, and so on, in case we break down. I rather like the idea,

now I fairly take it in." And Uncle Ben quite beamed with interest and

good-will; for a kinder-hearted man never breathed, and, in spite of his

fifty years, he was as fond of adventures as any boy.

"Then, as we must be up and away very early, I'll say good-night, sir,"

and Milly rose to go, looking well satisfied with the success of her

suggestion.

"Good-night, my dear," and Uncle Ben rose also, flung away his cigar,

and offered his hand with the old-fashioned courtesy which he always

showed his niece's friend; for Milly only called him uncle to please

him.

"You are sure this wild whim won't be too much for _you_? You are such a

self-sacrificing soul, I'm afraid my girl will wear you out," he said,

looking down at her with a fatherly expression, very becoming to his

comely countenance.

"Not a bit, sir. I like it, and would gladly do any thing to please and

help Rose. I'm very fond of her, and love to pet and care for her. I'm

so alone in the world I cling to my few friends, and feel as if I

couldn't do enough for them."

Something in Milly's face made Uncle Ben hold her hand close in both of

his a moment, and look as if he was going to stoop and kiss her. But he

seemed to think better of it; for he only shook the soft hand warmly,

and said, in his hearty tone,--

"I don't know what we should do without you, my dear. You are one of the

women born to help and comfort others, and ask no reward but love."

As the first streaks of dawn touched the eastern sky, three faces

appeared at three different windows of the great hotel. One was a

masculine face, a ruddy, benevolent countenance, with kind eyes, grayish

hair cheerfully erect upon the head, and a smile on the lips, that

softly whistled the old air of

"A southerly wind and a cloudy sky

Proclaim a hunting morning."

The second was one of those serene, sweet faces, possessing an

attraction more subtle than beauty; eyes always full of silent sympathy,

a little wistful sometimes, but never sad, and an expression of peace

and patience that told of battles fought and victories won. A happy,

helpful soul shone from that face and made it lovely, though its first

bloom was past and a solitary future lay before it.

The third was rich in the charms that youth and health lend any

countenance. But, in spite of the bloom on the rounded cheeks, the

freshness of the lips, and the soft beauty of the eyes, the face that

looked out from the bonny brown hair, blowing in the wind, was not a

happy one. Discontent, unrest, and a secret hunger seemed to sadden and

sharpen all its outlines, making it pathetic to those who could read the

language of an unsatisfied heart.

Poor little Rose was waiting, as all women must wait, for the good gift

that brightens life; and, while she waited, patience and passion were

having a hard fight in the proud silence of her heart.

"It will be a capital day, girls," called Uncle Ben, in his cheery

voice.

"I thought it would be," answered Milly, nodding back, with a smile.

"I know it will pour before night," added Rose, who saw every thing just

then through blue spectacles.

"Breakfast is ready for us. Come on, girls, or you'll miss your morning

red," called Uncle Ben, retiring, with a laugh.

"I lost mine six months ago," sighed Rose, as she listlessly gathered up

the brown curls, that were once her pride.

"Hark! hark! the lark at Heaven's gate sings," sounded from Milly's

room, in her blithe voice.

"Tiresome little bird! Why don't he stay in his nest and cheer his

mate?" muttered Rose, refusing to be cheered.

"Now lead on, my dear, we'll follow till we drop," said Uncle Ben,

stoutly, as they stood on the piazza, half an hour later, with no one

but a sleepy waiter to watch and wonder at the early start.

"I have always wondered where that lonely road went to, and now I shall

find out," answered Rose, with an imperious little gesture, as she led

the way. The others followed so slowly that she felt alone, and enjoyed

it, in spite of herself.

It was the most eloquent hour of the day, for all was beautiful, all was

fresh; nothing was out of order, nothing disturbed eye or ear, and the

world seemed to welcome her with its morning face. The road wound

between forests full of the green gloom no artist can ever paint. Pines

whispered, birches quivered, maples dropped grateful shadows, and a

little river foamed and sparkled by, carrying its melodious message from

the mountains to the sea. Glimpses of hoary peaks broke on her now and

then, dappled with shadows or half-veiled in mists, floating and fading

like incense from altars fit for a cathedral not built with hands. Leafy

vistas opened temptingly on either side, berries blushed ripely in the

grass, cow-bells tinkled pleasantly along the hillsides, and that busy

little farmer, the "Peabody bird," cried from tree to tree, "Sow your

wheat, Peabody! Peabody! Peabody!" with such musical energy one ceased

to wonder that fields were wrested from the forest, to wave like green

and golden breast-knots on the bosoms of the hills.

The fresh beauty and the healthful peace of the hour refreshed the girl

like dew. The human rose lifted up her drooping head and smiled back at

the blithe sunshine, as if she found the world a pleasant place, in

spite of her own thorns. Presently a yellow butterfly came wandering by;

and she watched it as she walked, pleasing herself with the girlish

fancy that it was a symbol of herself.

At first it fluttered idly from side to side, now lighting on a purple

thistle-top, then away to swing on a dewy fern; now vanishing among the

low-hanging boughs overhead, then settling in the dust of the road,

where a ray of light glorified its golden wings, unmindful of its lowly

seat.

"Little Psyche is looking for her Cupid everywhere, as I have looked for

mine. I wonder if she ever found and lost him, as I did? If she does

find him again, I'll accept it as a good omen."

Full of this fancy, Rose walked quickly after her airy guide, leaving

her comrades far behind. Some tenderhearted spirit surely led that

butterfly, for it never wandered far away, but floated steadily before

the girl, till it came at last to a wild rose-bush, full of delicate

blossoms. Above it a cloud of yellow butterflies were dancing in the

sun; and from among them one flew to meet and welcome the new-comer.

Together they fluttered round the rosy flowers for a moment, then rose

in graceful circles, till they vanished in the wood.

Rose followed them with eyes that slowly dimmed with happy tears, for

the innocent soul accepted the omen and believed it gratefully.

"He will come," she said softly to herself, as she fastened a knot of

wild roses in her bosom and sat down to rest and wait.

"Tired out, little girl?" asked Uncle Ben, coming up at a great pace,

rather amazed at this sudden burst of energy, but glad to see it.

"No, indeed! It was lovely!" and Rose looked up with a brighter face

than she had worn for weeks.

"Upon my word, I think we have hit upon the right thing at last," said

Uncle Ben, aside, to Milly. "What have you been doing to get such a look

as that?" he added aloud.

"Chasing butterflies," was all the answer Rose gave; for she could not

tell the foolish little fancy that had comforted her so much.

"Then, my dear, I beg you will devote yourself to that amusement. I

never heard it recommended, but it seems to be immensely beneficial; so

keep it up, Rosy, keep it up."

"I will, sir," and on went Rose, as if in search of another one.

For an hour or two she strolled along the woody road, gathering red

raspberries, with the dew still on them, garlanding her hat with

fragrant Linnaeea wreaths, watching the brown brooks go singing away into

the forest, and wishing the little wood creatures good-morrow, as they

went fearlessly to and fro, busy with their sylvan housekeeping. At

every turn of the road Rose's wistful eyes looked forward, as if hoping

to see some much-desired figure approaching. At every sound of steps she

lifted her head like a deer, listening and watching till the stranger

had gone by; and down every green vista she sent longing looks, as if

memory recalled happy hours in green nooks like those.

Presently the road wound over a bridge, below which flowed a wide,

smooth river, flecked with alternate sun and shadow.

"How beautiful it is! I must float down this stream a little way. It is

getting warm and I am tired, yet don't want to stop or turn back yet,"

said Rose; adding, as her quick eye roved to and fro: "I see a boat down

there, and a lazy man reading. I'll hire or borrow it; so come on."

Away she went into the meadow, and, accosting the countryman, who lay in

the shade, she made her request.

"I get my livin' in summer by rowin' folks down to the Falls. It ain't

fur. Will you go, Miss?" he said, smiling all over his brown face, as he

regarded the pretty vision that so suddenly appeared beside him.

Rose accepted the proposition at once; but half regretted it a minute

after, for, as the man rose, she saw that he had a wooden leg.

"I'm afraid we shall be too heavy a load for you," she began, as he

stumped about, preparing his boat.

The young fellow laughed and squared his broad shoulders, with a quick

look, that thanked her for the pitiful glance she gave him, as he

answered, in a bluff, good-natured tone,--

"Don't be afraid. I could row a dozen of you. I look rather the worse

for wear; but my old mother thinks I'm about the strongest man in the

State. Now, then, give us your hand, Miss, and there you are."

With that he helped her in. The others obediently followed their

capricious leader, and in a moment they were floating down the river,

with a fresh wind cooling their hot faces.

"You have been in the army, I take it?" began Uncle Ben, in his social

way, as he watched the man pulling with long, easy strokes.

"Pretty nigh through the war, sir," with a nod and a glance at the

wooden leg.

Uncle Ben lifted his hat, and Rose turned with a sudden interest from

the far-off bend of the river to the honest face before her.

"Oh! tell us about it. I love to hear brave men fight their battles

over," she cried, with a look half pleading, half commanding, and wholly

charming.

"Sho! It ain't much to tell. No more than the rest of 'em; not so much

as some. I done my best, lost my leg, got a few bullets here and there,

and ain't much use any way now."

A shadow passed over the man's face as he spoke; and well it might, for

it was hard to be disabled at twenty-five with a long life of partial

helplessness before him. Uncle Ben, who was steering, forgot his duty in

his sympathy, and regarded the wooden leg with silent interest.

Milly showed hers by keeping the mosquitoes off him by gently waving a

green bough, as she sat behind him. But Rose's soft eyes shone upon him

full of persuasive interest, and a new tone of respect was in her voice

as she said, with a martial salute,--

"Please tell about your last battle. I had a cousin in the war, and feel

as if every soldier was my friend and comrade since then."

"Thanky, Miss. I'll tell you that with pleasure, though it ain't much,

any way." And, pushing back his hat, the young man rested on his oars,

as he rapidly told his little tale.

"My last battle was----," naming one of the latest and bloodiest of the

war. "We were doing our best, when there came a shell and scattered

half-a-dozen of us pretty lively. I was knocked flat. But I didn't feel

hurt, only mad, and jumped up to hit 'em agin; but just dropped, with an

awful wrench, and the feeling that both my legs was gone."

"Did no one stop to help you?" cried Rose.

"Too busy for that, Miss. The boys can't stop to pick up their mates

when there are Rebs ahead to be knocked down. I knew there was no more

fighting for me; and just laid still, with the balls singing round me,

and wondering where they'd hit next."

"How did you feel?" questioned the girl, eagerly.

"Dreadful busy at first; for every thing I'd ever said, seen, or done,

seemed to go spinning through my head, till I got so dizzy trying to

keep my wits stiddy that I lost 'em altogether. I didn't find 'em again

till some one laid hold of me. Two of our boys were luggin' me along

back; but they had to dodge behind walls and cut up and down, for the

scrimmage was going on all round us. One of the fellers was hit in the

shoulder and the other in the face, but not bad; and they managed to get

me into a sort of a ravine, out of danger. There I begged 'em to leave

me. I thought I was bleeding to death rapid, and just wanted to die in

peace."

"But they didn't leave you?" And Rose's face was all alive with interest

now.

"Guess they didn't," answered the man, giving a stroke or two, and

looking as if he found it pleasant to tell his story to so winsome a

listener. "Just as they were at their wit's end what to do with me, we

come upon a young surgeon, lurking there to watch the fight or to

hide,--don't know which. There he was any way, looking scared half to

death. Tom Hunt, my mate, made him stop and look at me. My leg was

smashed, and ought to come off right away, he said. 'Do it, then!' says

Tom. He was one of your rough-and-readys, Tom was; but at heart as kind

as a--well, as a woman."

And the boatman gave a smile and a nod at the one opposite him.

"Thanks; but do tell on. It is so interesting."

And Rose let all her flowers stray down into the bottom of the boat, as

she clasped her hands and leaned forward to listen.

"Don't know as I'd better tell this part. It ain't pleasant," began the

man.

"You must. I want it all. Dreadful things do me good, and other people's

sufferings teach me how to bear my own," said Rose, in her imperious

way.

"You don't look as if you ought to have any."

And the man's eyes rested on the delicate face opposite, full of a

pleasant blending of admiration, pity, and protection.

"I have; but not like yours. Go on, please."

"Well, if you say so, here goes. The surgeon was worried, and said he

couldn't do nothing,--hadn't got his instruments, and so on. 'Yes, you

have. Out with em,' says Tom, rapping on a case he sees in the chap's

breast-pocket. 'Can't do it without bandages,' he says next. 'Here they

are, and more where they came from,' says Tom; and off came his

shirt-sleeves, and was stripped up in a jiffy. 'I must have help,' says

that confounded surgeon, dawdling round, and me groaning my life out at

his feet. 'Here's help,--lots of it,' says Tom, taking my head on his

arm; while Parkes tied up his wounded face and stood ready to lend a

hand. Seeing no way out of it, the surgeon went to work. Good Lord, but

that _was_ awful!"

The mere memory of it made the speaker shut his eyes with a shiver, as

if he felt again the sharp agony of shattered bones, rent flesh, and

pitiless knife.

"Never mind that. Tell how you got comfortable again," said Milly,

shaking her head at Rose.

"I wasn't comfortable for three months, ma'am. Don't mind telling about

it, 'cause Tom done so well, and I'm proud of him," said the rower, with

kindling eyes. "Things of that sort are hard enough done well, with

chloroform and every thing handy. But laying on the bare ground, with

nothing right, and a scared boy of a surgeon hacking away at you, it's

torment and no mistake. I never could have stood it, if it hadn't been

for Tom. He held me close and as steady as a rock; but he cried like a

baby the whole time, and that did me good. Don't know why; but it did.

As for Parkes, he gave out at once and went off for help. I'll never

forget that place, if I live to be a hundred. Seems as if I could see

the very grass I tore up; the muddy brook they laid me by; the steep

bank, with Parkes creeping up; Tom's face, wet and white, but so full of

pity; the surgeon, with his red hands; and all the while such a roar of

guns I could hardly hear myself groaning for some one to shoot me and

put me out of my misery."

"How did you get to the hospital?" asked Uncle Ben, anxious to get over

this part of the story, for Rose was now as pale as if she actually saw

the scene described.

"Don't know, sir. There come a time when I couldn't bear any more, and

what happened then I've never been very clear about. I didn't know much

for a day or two; then I was brought round by being put in a transport.

I was packed with a lot of poor fellows, and was beginning to wish I'd

stayed queer, till I heard Tom's voice saying, 'Never mind, boys; put me

down anywheres, and tend to the others. I can wait.' That set me up. I

sung out, and they stowed him alongside. It was so dark down there I

could hardly see his face; but his voice and ways were just as hearty

and comforting as ever, and he kept up my spirits wonderful that day. I

was pretty weak, and kept dozing off; but whenever I woke I felt for

Tom, and he was always there. He told me, when Parkes came with help, he

saw me off, and then went back for another go at the Rebs; but got a

ball in the breast, and was in rather a bad way, he guessed. He couldn't

lay down; but sat by me, leaning back, with his hand on my pillow, where

I could find it easy. He talked to me all he could, till his voice give

out; for he got very weak, and there was a dreadful groaning all around

us."

"I know, I know. I went aboard one of those transports to help; but

couldn't stay, it was so terrible," said Uncle Ben, with a groan at the

mere memory of it.

"That was a long day, and I thought it was my last; for when night came

I felt so gone I reckoned I was 'most over Jordan. I gave my watch to

Tom as a keepsake, and told him to say good-by to the boys for me. I

hadn't any folks of my own, so it wasn't hard to go. Tom had a

sweetheart, an old mother, and lots of friends; but he didn't repine a

word,--only said: 'If you do pull through, Joel, just tell mother I done

my best, and give Hetty my love.' I promised, and dropped asleep,

holding on to Tom as if he was my sheet-anchor. So he was; but I can't

tell all he done for me in different ways."

For a minute Joel rowed in silence, and no one asked a question. Then he

pushed up his old hat again, and went on, as if anxious to be done.

"Soon's ever I woke, next morning, I looked round to thank Tom, for his

blanket was over me. He was sitting as I left him, his hand on my

pillow, his face toward me, so quiet and happy-looking I couldn't

believe he was gone. But he was, and I have had no mate since."

"Where did he live?" asked Rose, as softly as if speaking of one she had

known and loved.

"Over yonder." And Joel pointed to a little brown house on the hillside.

"Are his mother and Hetty there?"

"Hetty married a number of years ago; but the old lady is there."

"And you are visiting her?"

"I live with her. You see Tom was all she had; and, when Hetty left, it

was only natural that I tried to take Tom's place. Can't never fill it

of course; but I do what I can, and she's comfortable."

"So _she_ is the 'old mother' who thinks so much of you? Well she may,"

said Rose, giving him her brightest smile.

"Yes, she's all I've got now. Couldn't do no less, could I, seein' how

much Tom done for me?" answered the man, with a momentary quiver of

emotion in his rough voice.

"You're a trump!" said Uncle Ben, emphatically.

"Thanky, sir. Starboard, if you please. I don't care to get into the

rapids just here."

Joel seemed to dislike telling this part of the story; but the three

listeners beamed upon him with such approving faces that he took to his

oars in self-defence, rowing with all his might, till the roar of the

Fall was faintly heard.

"Now, where shall I land you, sir?"

"Let us lunch on the island," proposed Rose.

"I see a tent, and fancy some one is camping there," said Milly.

"A lot of young fellows have been there this three days," said Joel.

"Then we will go on, and take to the grove above the Fall," ordered

Uncle Ben.

Alas! alas! for Rose. That decision delayed her happiness a whole half

day; for on that island, luxuriously reading "The Lotus Eaters," as he

lay in the long grass, was the Gabriel this modern Evangeline was

waiting for. She never dreamed he was so near. And the brown-bearded

student never lifted up his head as the boat floated by, carrying the

lady of his love.

"I want to give him more than his fare. So I shall slip my cigar-case

into the pocket of this coat," whispered Uncle Ben, as Joel was busy

drawing up the boat and getting a stone or two to facilitate the ladies'

landing dryshod.

"I shall leave my book for him. He was poring over an old newspaper, as

if hungry for reading. The dash and daring of 'John Brent' will charm

him; and the sketch of Winthrop's life in the beginning will add to its

value, I know." And, hastily scribbling his name in it, Rose slipped the

book under the coat.

But Milly, seeing how old that coat was, guessed that Joel gave his

earnings to the old woman to whom he dutifully played a son's part.

Writing on a card "For Tom's mother and mate," she folded a five-dollar

bill round it, fastened it with a little pearl cross from her own

throat, and laid it in the book.

Then all landed, and, with a cordial hand-shake and many thanks, left

Joel to row away, quite unconscious that he was a hero in the pretty

girl's eyes, till he found the tokens of his passengers' regard and

respect.

"Now that is an adventure after my own heart," said Rose, as they

rustled along the grassy path toward the misty cloud that hung over the

Fall.

"We have nothing but sandwiches and sherry for lunch, unless we find a

house and add to our stores," said Uncle Ben, beginning to feel hungry

and wondering how far his provisions would go.

"There is a little girl picking berries. Call her and buy some,"

suggested Milly, who had her doubts about the state of the sandwiches,

as the knapsack had been sat upon.

A shout from Uncle Ben caused the little girl to approach,--timidly at

first; but, being joined by a boy, her courage rose, and when the idea

of a "trade" was impressed upon their minds fear was forgotten and the

Yankee appeared.

"How much a quart?"

"Eight cents, sir."

"But that birch-bark thing is not full."

"Now it is," and the barefooted, tow-headed lad filled the girl's

pannier from his own.

"Here's chivalry for you," said Rose, watching the children with

interest; for the girl was pretty, and the boy evidently not her

brother.

"You don't pick as fast as she does," said Milly, while Uncle Ben hunted

up the money.

"He's done his stent, and was helpin' me. I'll have to pick a lot before

I git my quarter," said the girl, defending her friend, in spite of her

bashfulness.

"Must you each make a quarter?"

"Yes'm. We don't have to; but we wanter, so we can go to the circus

that's comin' to-morrer. He made his'n ketchin' trout; so he's helpin'

me," explained the girl.

"Where do you get your trout?" asked Uncle Ben, sniffing the air, as if

he already smelt them cooking.

"In the brook. I ain't sold mine yet. Want to buy 'em? Six big ones for

a quarter," said the boy, seeing hunger in the good man's eye and many

greenbacks in the corpulent purse.

"Yes, if you'll clean them."

"But, Uncle, we can't cook them," began Milly.

"_I_ can. Let an old campaigner alone for getting up a gipsy lunch. You

wanted a surprise; so I'll give you one. Now, Billy, bring on your

fish."

"My name is Daniel Webster Butterfield Brown," returned the boy, with

dignity; adding, with a comical change of tone: "Them fish _is_ cleaned,

or you'd a got 'em cheaper."

"Very well. Hand them over."

Off ran the boy to the brook; and the girl was shyly following, when

Rose said,--

"Will you sell me that pretty bark pannier of yours? I want one for my

flowers."

"No'm. I guess I'd ruther not."

"I'll give you a quarter for it. Then you can go to the circus without

working any more."

"Dan made this for me, real careful; and I couldn't sell it, no way. He

wouldn't go without me. And I'll pick stiddy all day, and git my money.

See if I don't!" answered the child, hugging her treasure close.

"Here's your romance in the bud," said Uncle Ben, trying not to laugh.

"It's beautiful!" said Rose, with energy. "What is your name, dear?"

"Gusty Medders, please'm."

"Dan isn't your brother?"

"No'm. He lives to the poor-house. But he's real smart, and we play

together. And him and me is going to the show. He always takes care o'

me; and my mother thinks a sight of him, and so do I," returned the

child, in a burst of confidence.

"Happy little Gusty!" said Rose, to herself.

"Thrice happy Dan," added Uncle Ben, producing the fat pocket-book

again, with the evident intention of bestowing a fortune on the small

couple.

"Don't spoil the pretty little romance. Don't rob it of its

self-sacrifice and simplicity. Let them earn their money. Then they will

enjoy it more," cried Milly, holding his hand.

Uncle Ben submitted, and paid Dan his price, without adding a penny.

"The lady wanted to buy my basket. But I didn't sell it, Danny; 'cause

you give it as a keepsake," they heard Gusty say, as the children turned

away.

"Good for you, Gus; but I'll sell mine." And back came Dan, to dispose

of his for the desired quarter. "Now we're fixed complete, and you

needn't pick a darned berry. We've got fifty cents for the show, and

eight, over for peanuts and candy. Won't we have a good time, though?"

With which joyful remark Dan turned a somersault, and then the little

pair vanished in the wood, with shining faces, to revel in visions of

the splendors to come.

"Now you have got your elephant, what are you going to do with him?"

asked Rose, as they went on again,--she with her pretty basket of fruit,

and he with a string of fish wrapped in leaves.

"Come on a bit, and you will see."

Uncle Ben led them to the shade of a great maple, on a green slope, in

sight of the noisy Fall, leaping from rock to rock, till the stream went

singing away through wide, green meadows below.

"Now rest and cool yourselves, while I cook the dinner." And away

bustled the good man, on hospitable thoughts intent.

Plenty of dry drift-wood lay about the watercourse, and soon a brisk

fire burned on the rocks not far away. Shingles for plates, with pointed

sticks for forks, seemed quite in keeping with the rustic feast; and

when the edibles were set forth on leaves the girls were charmed, and

praised the trout, as it came hot from the coals, till even the flushed

cook was satisfied.

"I'd like to live so always. It is so interesting to pick up your food

as you go, and eat it when and where you like. I think I could be quite

happy leading a wild life like this," said Rose, as she lay in the

grass, dropping berries one by one into her mouth.

"You would soon tire of it, Miss Caprice; but, if it amuses for a single

day, I am satisfied," answered Milly, with her motherly smile, as she

stroked the bright head in her lap, feeling sure that happiness was in

store for so much youth and beauty.

Lulled by the soft caress, and the song of the waterfall, Rose fell

asleep, and for an hour dreamed blissfully, while the maple dropped its

shadows on her placid face, and all the wholesome influences of the

place worked their healing spell on soul and body.

"A thunder-shower is rolling up in the west, my dears. We must be

getting toward some shelter, unless we are to take a drenching as part

of the day's pleasure," said Uncle Ben, rising briskly after his own

nap.

"I see no house anywhere; but a big barn down in the intervale, and a

crowd of people getting in their hay. Let us make for that, and lie on

the sweet haycocks till the shower comes," proposed Milly.

As they went down the steep path, Rose began to sing; and at the

unwonted sound her uncle and friend exchanged glances of satisfaction,

for not a note had she sung for weeks. A happy mood seemed to have taken

possession of her; and when they reached the intervale she won the old

farmer's heart by catching up a rake and working stoutly, till the first

heavy drops began to fall. Then she rode up to the barn on a fragrant

load, and was so charmed with the place that she declined his invitation

to "Come up and see the old woman and set a spell," and declared that

she depended on enjoying the thunder-storm where she was.

The farmer and his men went their way, and Rose was just settling

herself at the upper window, where the hay had been pitched in, when a

long line of gay red vans came rattling down the road, followed by

carriages and gilded cars, elephants and camels, fine horses and frisky

ponies, all more or less excited by the coming storm.

"It's the circus! How I wish Gusty and Dan could see it!" cried Rose,

clapping her hands like a child. "I do believe they are coming here. Now

that will be charming, and the best adventure of all," she added, as a

carriage and several vans turned into the grassy road leading to the

barn.

A pair of elephants slowly lumbered after, with a camel or two, and the

finest gilded car. The rest rattled on, hoping to reach the town in

time. In a moment the quiet country scene was changed, and the big barn

transformed into a theatrical Babel.

Our party retreated to a loft, and sat looking down on the show,

enjoying it heartily; especially Rose, who felt as if suddenly

translated into an Eastern tale. The storm came on dark and wild, rain

poured, thunder rolled, and lightning gave lurid glimpses of the strange

surroundings.

The elephants placidly ate hay; the tired camels lay down with gusty

sighs and queer groanings; but the lion in his lonely van roared royally

at intervals, and the tigers snarled and tore about their cage like

restless demons.

The great golden car lit up the gloom; and in it sat, or lay, the

occupants of the carriage,--a big, dark man, and a little blonde

creature, with a pretty, tired, painted face. Rose soon found herself

curiously attracted to this pair, for they were evidently lovers; and

there was a certain frank, melodramatic air about them that took her

fancy. The dark man lay on the red cushion, smoking tranquilly; while

the girl hovered about him with all manner of small attentions.

Presently he seemed to drop asleep, undisturbed by the thunder without

or the clamor within. Then the small creature smoothed her gay yet

shabby dress, and braided up her hair, as composedly as if in her own

room. That done, she looked about her for amusement; and, spying Rose's

interested face peering down at her from above, she nodded, and called

out, in a saucy voice,--

"How do you like us? Shall I come up and make you a visit?"

"I beg you will," answered Rose, in spite of a warning touch from Milly.

Up sprang the little circus-rider; and, disdaining the ladder, skipped

to the gilded dome of the car, and then took a daring leap on to the

loft, landing near them with a laugh.

For a minute she eyed the others with a curious mixture of coolness and

hesitation, as if it suddenly struck her that they were not country

girls, to be dazzled by her audacity. Milly saw and understood the

pause, liked the girl for it, and said, as courteously as if to a lady

in her own parlor,--

"There is plenty of room for us all. Pray sit down and enjoy this fine

view with us. The storm is passing over now, and it will soon be fair."

"Thank you!" said the girl, dropping on to the hay, with her bold,

bright eyes, full of admiration, fixed on Rose, who smiled, and said

quickly,--

"You belong to the troop, I suppose?"

"First lady rider," replied the girl, with a toss of the head.

"It must be very romantic to lead such a life, and go driving from place

to place in this way."

"It's a hard life, any way; and not much romance, you'd better believe."

"Not even for _you_." And Rose glanced at the sleeper below.

The girl smiled. Her bold eyes turned to him with a softened look, and

the natural color deepened on her painted cheeks, as she said, in a

lower voice,--

"Yes, Joe does make a difference for me. We've only been married three

weeks."

"What does he do?"

"He's the lion-tamer." And the girl gave them a glance of wifely pride

in her husband's prowess.

"Oh! tell me about it!" cried Rose. "I admire courage so much."

"You ought to see him do Daniel in the lion's den, then. Or his great

tiger act, where he piles four of 'em up, and lays on top. It's just

splendid!"

"But very dangerous! Does he never fear them? And do they never hurt

him?"

"He don't fear any thing in the world," said the girl, entirely

forgetting herself, in enthusiastic praise of her husband.

"Caesar, the lion, loves him like a dog; and Joe trusts him as he does

me. But them tigers are deceitful beasts, and can't be trusted a minute.

Judas went at Joe once, and half killed him. He seems tame enough now;

but I hate him, for they say that if a tiger once tastes a man's blood

he's sure to kill him sooner or later. So I don't have a minute's peace

when Joe is in that cage." And the little woman shivered with very

genuine anxiety at the thought of her husband's danger.

"And, knowing this, he runs the risk every day! What a life!" said Uncle

Ben, looking down at the unconscious Joe.

"A brave life, Uncle, and full of excitement. The minutes in that cage

must be splendid. I wish I could see him once!" cried Rose, with the

restless look in her eyes again.

"He'd do it, if he had his things here. He'll do any thing _I_ ask him,"

said the girl, evidently proud of her power over the lion-tamer.

"We will come and see him to-morrow. Can't you tell us how he manages to

subdue these wild animals? I always wanted to know about it," said Rose,

wondering if she could not get some hints for the taming of men.

"Joe'll tell you." And, calling from her perch, the girl waked the

sleeper and ordered him up to amuse the gentle-folk.

The big man came, with comical meekness; and, lounging on the hay,

readily answered the questions showered upon him. Rose enjoyed that hour

intensely; for the tales Joe told were full of wild adventure,

hair-breadth escapes, and feats of strength or skill, that kept his

listeners half breathless with interest. The presence of the little wife

gave an added charm to these stories; for it was evident that the tamer

of lions was completely subdued by the small woman. His brown, scarred

face softened as it turned to her. While he talked, the strong hands

that clutched lions by the throat were softly stroking the blonde head

at his side; and, when he told of the fierce struggle with Judas, he

grew so eloquent over the account of Kitty's nursing him that it was

plain to see he was prouder of the conquest of her girl's heart than of

his hard-won victory over the treacherous tiger.

The man's courage lent romance to his vulgar life, and his love ennobled

his whole nature for a time. Kitty ate peanuts while he thrilled his

hearers with his feats; but her face was so full of pride and affection

all the while that no one minded what she did, and even Milly forgave

the painted cheeks and cotton velvet dress for the sake of the womanly

heart underneath.

The storm passed, the circus people bestirred themselves, and in a few

minutes were on their way again. Joe and Kitty said "Good-by" as

heartily as if that half-hour had made them friends; and, packing

themselves into the little carriage drawn by the calico tandem, dashed

away as gayly as if their queer honeymoon journey had just begun. Like

parts of a stage pageant, the gilded car, the elephants and camels,

frisky ponies, and gay red vans vanished along the winding road, leaving

the old barn to silence and the scandalized swallows twittering among

the rafters.

"I feel as if I'd been to an Arabian Night's entertainment," said Rose,

as they descended and turned toward home.

"It was very interesting, and I do hope that brave Joe won't get eaten

up by the tigers. What would poor Kitty do?" returned Milly, warmly.

"It would be sad and dreadful; but she would have the comfort of knowing

how much he loved her. Some women don't even have that," added Rose,

under her breath.

"A capital fellow and a nice little woman. We'll go and see them

to-morrow; though I fancy I shall not like Mrs. Kitty half so well in

gauze and spangles, jumping through hoops and over banners on horseback,

as I did on the hayloft. And I shall be desperately anxious till Joe is

safely out of the tiger's cage," said Uncle Ben, who had been as

interested as a boy in the wild tales told them.

For an hour they walked back along the river-side, enjoying the wood

odors brought out by the shower, the glories of the sunset sky, and the

lovely rainbow that arched overhead,--a bow of promise to those who

seemed passing under it from the old life to a new one, full of tender

promise.

"I see a nice old woman in that kitchen, and I want to stop and ask for

some new milk. Perhaps she will give us our supper, and then we can go

on by moonlight," said Rose, as they came to a weather-beaten

farm-house, standing under an ancient elm, with its door hospitably

open, and a grandmotherly figure going to and fro within.

Rose's request was most graciously received, for the old woman seemed to

regard them as most welcome cheerers of her solitude, and bustled about

with an infectious cordiality that set them at their ease directly.

"Do tell! Caught in the shower? It come so suddin', I mistrusted some

folks would get a duckin'. You kin hev supper jest as wal as not.

'Tain't a mite o' trouble, ef you don't mind plain vittles. Enos and me

lives alone, and he ain't no gret of an eater; but I allers catle'ate to

hev a good store of pervision on hand this time a year, there's such a

sight of strangers round the mountains. The table's all set; and I'll

jest add a pinch of tea and a couple of pies, and there we be. Now draw

right up, and do the best you kin."

The cheery old soul was so hospitable that her presence gave a grace to

her homely table and added flavor to her plain fare. Uncle Ben's eyes

twinkled when he saw dainty Rose eating brown-bread and milk out of a

yellow bowl, with the appetite of a dairymaid; and Milly rejoiced over

the happy face opposite; wishing that it might always wear that

self-forgetful look.

Enos was a feeble, bed-ridden, old man, who lay in a small room opening

from the kitchen. A fretful invalid he seemed to be, hard to suit and

much given to complaint. But the tender old wife never lost patience

with him; and it was beautiful to see how cheerfully she trotted to and

fro, trying to gratify every whim, without a reproachful word or thought

of weariness.

After tea, as Rose wanted to wait till moonrise, Uncle Ben went in to

chat with the invalid, while Milly insisted on wiping the cups for the

old lady; and Rose sat on the doorstep, listening to their chat, and

watching twilight steal softly up the valley. Presently her attention

was fixed by something the old lady said in answer to Milly's praises of

the quaint kitchen.

"Yes, dear, I've lived here all my days. Was born in that bed-room; and

don't ask no better than to die there when my time comes."

"Most people are not fortunate enough to keep their old home when they

marry. It must be very dear to you, having spent both your maiden and

married life here," said Milly, interested in her hostess.

"Wal, you see my maiden life lasted sixty year; and my married life

ain't but jest begun," answered the old lady, with a laugh as gay as a

girl's.

Seeing curiosity in the quick glance Rose involuntarily gave her, the

chatty old soul went on, as if gossip was dear to her heart, and her

late-coming happiness still so new that she loved to tell it.

"I s'pose that sounds sing'lar to you young things; but, you see, though

me and Enos was engaged at twenty or so, we warn't married till two year

ago. Things was dreadful con'try, and we kep a waitin' and a waitin',

till I declare for't I really did think I should die an old maid." And

she laughed again, as if her escape was the best joke in the world.

"And you waited forty years?" cried Rose, with her great eyes full of

wonder.

"Yes, dear. I had other chances; but somehow they didn't none of them

suit, and the more unfort'nate Enos was the more I kinder held on to

him. He was one of them that's allers tryin' new things, and didn't

never seem to make a fortin out of any on 'em. He kept a tryin' because

he had nothin', and would'nt marry till he was wal off. My mother was

dead, and left a family to be took care on. I was the oldest gal, and so

I nat'rally kept house for father till he died, and the children grew up

and married off. So I warn't idle all them years, and got on first-rate,

allers hopin' Enos's luck would turn. But it didn't (them cups goes in

the right-hand corner, dear); and so I waited and waited, and hoped and

hoped."

"Oh! how could you?" sighed Rose, from the soft gloom of the doorway.

"'Pears to me strength is give us most wonderful to bear trials, if we

take 'em meek. I used to think I couldn't bear it no way when I was left

here alone, while Enos was in Californy; and I didn't know for seven

year whether he was dead or alive. His folks give him up; but I never

did, and kept on hopin' and prayin' for him till he come back."

"How happy you were then!" cried Rose, as if she could sympathize

heartily with that joy.

"No, I warn't, dear. That was the hardest part on't; for Enos was

married to a poor, shiftless thing, that was a burden to him for ten

year."

"That _was_ hard," and Rose gave a groan, as if a new trouble had

suddenly come upon her.

"I done my best for 'em, in their ups and downs, till they went West.

Then I settled down to end my days here alone. My folks was all dead or

fur away, and it was uncommon lonesome. But I kinder clung to the old

place, and had it borne in upon me strong that Enos would turn up agin

in time. I wanted him to find me here, ready to give him a helpin' hand

whenever and however he come."

"And he did, at last?" asked Rose, with a sympathetic quiver in her

voice that went to the old woman's heart.

"Yes, my deary; he did come at last," she said, in a voice full of a

satisfaction that was almost solemn in its intensity. "Ruther mor'n two

years ago he knocked at that door, a poor, broken-down old man, without

wife, or child, or money, or home,--nothin' in the wide world but me. He

didn't think I'd take him in, he was so mis'able. But, Lord love him,

what else had I been a waitin' for them forty year? It warn't the Enos

that I loved fust; but that didn't matter one mite. And when he sat

sobbin' in that chair, and sayin' he had no friend but me, why I just

answered back: 'My home is your'n, Enos; and I give it jest as hearty as

I did when you fust pupposed, under the laylock bushes, in the back

gardin. Rest here, my poor dear, and let Becky take care on you till she

dies.'"

"So he stayed?" said Milly, with tears in her voice, for Rose's head was

down on her knees, so eloquent had been the pathos of that old voice,

telling its little tale of faithful love.

"Certin. And we was married, so no one need make no talk. Folks said it

was a dreadful poor match, and took on about my doin' on't; for I'm wal

off, and Enos hadn't a cent. But we was satisfied, and I ain't never

repented of that day's work; for he took to his bed soon after, and

won't quit it, the doctor says, till he's took to his grave."

"You dear soul, I must kiss you for that lovely deed of yours, and thank

you from my heart for this lesson in fidelity." And, obeying an

irresistible impulse, Rose threw her arms round the old lady's neck,

kissing the wrinkled cheek with real reverence and tenderness.

"Sakes alive! Wal, I never did see sech a softhearted little creter.

Why, child, what I done warn't nothin' but a pleasure. We women are such

queer things, we don't care how long we wait, ef we only hev our way at

last."

As she spoke, the old woman hugged the blooming girl with a motherly

warmth, most sweet and comfortable to see; yet the longing look, the

lingering touch, betrayed how much the tender old heart would have loved

to pillow there a child of its own.

Just then Uncle Ben appeared, and the early moon peeped over the

mountain-top, plainly hinting that it was time for the wanderers to turn

homeward. Bidding their hospitable hostess good night, they came again

into the woody road, now haunted with soft shadows and silvery with

falling dew. The brown brooks were singing lullabies, the pines

whispering musically in the wind, the mellow moonlight was falling

everywhere, and the world was full of the magical beauty of a

midsummer's night.

"Go on, please, and let me follow alone. I want to think over my

pleasant day, and finish it with waking dreams, as I go through this

enchanted wood," said Rose, whose mind was full of sweet yet sober

thoughts; for she had gathered herbs of grace while carelessly pulling

wayside flowers, and from the simple adventures of the day had

unconsciously received lessons that never were forgotten.

The other walked on, and the girl followed, living over again the happy

winter during which she had learned to know and love the young neighbor

who had become the hero of her dreams. She had felt sure he loved her,

though the modest youth had never told her so, except with eloquent

glances and tender devotion. She believed in him, loved him truly, and

waited with maidenly patience to hear the words that would unseal her

lips. They did not come, and he had left her with no hope but such as

she could find in the lingering pressure of his hand and the warmly

uttered "I shall see you again."

Since then, no line, no word; and all through the lovely spring she had

looked and waited for the brown-bearded student,--looked and waited in

vain. Then unrest took possession of her, anxiety tormented her, and

despair made her young face pathetic. Only the sad, simple old story,

but as bitter to live through now as in poor Dido's day; more bitter,

perhaps, because we cannot erect funeral pyres and consume the body with

a flame less fierce than that which burns away the soul unseen.

Now in the silence of that summer night a blessed peace seemed to fall

on the girl's unquiet heart, as she trod thoughtfully along the shadowy

road. Courage and patience seemed to spring up within her. To wait and

hope and love without return became a possibility; and, though a few hot

tears rolled down the cheeks, that had lost their roses, the eyes that

shed them were more tender for the tears, and the heart that echoed the

old wife's words--"Strength is given us to bear our trials, if we take

them meekly"--was worthier of life's best blessing, love, because of its

submission.

As she paused a moment to wipe away the tell-tale drops, before she

joined the others, the sound of far-off music came on the wings of the

wind,--a man's voice, singing one of the love-lays that are never old.

As if spell-bound, Rose stood motionless in the broad streak of light

that fell athwart the road. She knew the voice, the sweet old song

seemed answering her prayer, and now it needed no golden butterfly to

guide her to her lover.

Nearer and nearer came the singer, pouring out his lay as if his heart

was in it. Brighter and brighter glowed the human rose, as the

featherless nightingale told his tale in music, unconsciously

approaching the happy sequel with each step.

Out from the gloom he came, at last; saw her waiting for him in the

light; seemed to read the glad truth in her face, and stretched both

hands to her without a word. She took them; and what followed who shall

say? For the moon, best friend of lovers, discreetly slipped behind a

cloud, and the pines whispered their congratulations as they wrapped the

twain in deepest shadow.

When, half an hour later, they joined the other pair (who, strange to

say, had quite forgotten their charge), Uncle Ben exclaimed, as he

welcomed the new-comer with unusual cordiality: "Why, Rose! You look

quite glorified in this light and as well as ever. We must try this cure

again."

"No need, sir. I have done with the heartache, and here is my

physician," answered Rose, with a look at her lover which told the story

better than the best chosen words.

"And here is mine," echoed Milly, leaning on Uncle Ben's arm as if it

belonged to her; as it did, for the moonlight had been too much for the

old bachelor, and, in spite of his fifty years, he had wooed and won

Milly as ardently as any boy. So the lonely future she had accepted so

cheerfully suddenly bloomed with happy hopes; and the older couple

looked as blissfully content as the young pair, who greeted with the

blithest laughter that ever woke the echoes of the wood, this fit ending

to the romance of a summer day.

MY ROCOCO WATCH.

All three of us were inspired with an intense desire to possess one of

these quaint watches, the moment we saw one hanging at the side of a

certain lovely woman at a party where it created a great sensation.

Imitations we would not have, and the genuine article could not be found

even in Geneva, the paradise of time-pieces. My sisters soon ceased to

pine for the impossible, and contented themselves with other antique

gauds. Fan rejoiced in a very ugly Cinque-Cento ring like a tiny coffin,

and Mary was the proud possessor of a Roman necklace composed of gods

and goddesses.

I, however, remained true to my first love and refused to be satisfied

with any thing but a veritable rococo watch, for that, I maintained,

united the useful and the beautiful. Resisting the temptations of Rome,

Paris, and Geneva, I skilfully lured my unsuspecting party into all

sorts of out-of-the-way places under pretence of studying up the old

French cathedrals.

The girls did the churches faithfully, but I shirked them and spent my

shining hours poking about dirty streets and staring in at the windows

of ancient jewelry shops, patiently seeking for the watch of my dreams.

I was rallied unmercifully upon my mania, and many jokes were played

upon me by the frolicksome girls, who more than once sent me posting off

by reports of some remarkable trinket in some almost unattainable place.

But, nothing daunted, I continued my vain search all through France, and

never relinquished my hope till we left St. Malo on our way to Brest,

whence we were to sail for home. Then I despaired, and, having nothing

more to toil for, began to enjoy myself with a free mind, and then it

was that capricious fortune chose to smile upon me and reward my long

quest.

Finding that we had a day before us, we explored the queer old town,

and, as our tastes varied, each went a different way. I roamed about the

narrow streets, seeking some odd souvenir to carry away, and was peering

into a dark lane, attracted by some fine shells, when suddenly I was

arrested by a sight which caused me to pause in the middle of a puddle,

exclaiming dramatically, "At last! at last!"

Yes, there, in the dusty window of a pawnbroker's shop, hung the most

enchanting watch, crystal ball, silver chains, enamelled medallions, and

cluster of charms, all encrusted with pearls, garnets, and turquoises

set in the genuine antique style. One long gaze, one rapturous

exclamation, and I skipped from the puddle to the doorstep, bent on

securing the prize at all costs.

Bouncing in upon a withered little man, who was taking coffee in a

shadowy recess, I demanded the price of the watch. Of course the little

man was on the alert at once, and began by protesting that it was not

for sale; but I saw the fib in his eye, and sweetly insisted that I must

have it. Then he improvised a mournful tale about a family of rank

reduced by misfortune and forced to dispose of their cherished relics in

some private manner. I affected to believe the touching romance, and

offered a handsome sum for the watch, which, on closer inspection,

struck me as rather more antique than even I desired.

Instantly the little man clasped his hands and protested that it was an

insult to propose such a paltry price for so beautiful and perfect a

treasure. Double the sum might be a temptation, but not a sou less.

This was so absurd that I tried to haggle a little; but I never

succeeded in that line, so my attempt ended in both of us getting angry,

when the little man tore the watch from my hands, and I left the shop as

precipitately as I entered it.

Retiring to the square to cool my indignation, I was reposing on a

bench, when I beheld the little man approaching with the blandest

expression, and, bowing profoundly, he resumed the subject as if we had

parted amicably.

"If madame would allow him to consult the owner of this so charming

watch, the affair might yet be arranged in a satisfactory manner. If

madame would leave her address, he would report to her in a few hours,

and have the happiness of obliging the dear lady."

I consented, but preferred to return to his shop later in the day, for I

wished to astonish the girls by producing my prize at some opportune

moment, and I much feared if I told them of my discovery that the

bargain would never be made.

I suffered agonies of suspense for hours, but basely attributed my

restlessness to the heat and weariness. Five o'clock and dinner, but I

declined going down, and slipped away to my tryst with the little old

man. He was ready for me with another romance of the noble owner's

reluctance to part with an heirloom for less than the price he had

named. In vain I talked, wheedled, and protested; the crafty little man

saw that I meant to have that watch, and was firm. At last I pretended

to give it up, and, thanking him for his trouble, retired mournfully,

hoping he would follow me again, for I had told him that I should leave

in the steamer expected next day.

But the evening passed, and no little man appeared, although I sat on

the balcony till the moon rose. Morning came, and with it the steamer,

but still no watch arrived, as other coveted articles had often done,

when we firmly refused to be imposed upon.

My secret agitation increased, and my temptation waxed stronger and

stronger as the hour of departure approached. The girls thought me

nervous about the voyage, but were too busy to heed my preoccupation,

while I was too much ashamed of my infatuation to confess it and ask

advice.

Fifteen minutes before we started for the wharf, I gave in, and

muttering something about looking up the carriage, I flew round the

corner, demanded the watch, paid an abominable price for it, and sneaked

back, knowing I had been cheated by the sly old fellow, who had

evidently expected me, and whom I left chuckling over his bargain, as

well he might, the rascal!

The moment the deed was done my spirits returned, and I beamed upon my

sisters as benignly as if I carried a boundless supply of good humor in

my pocket instead of that costly watch packed up in a shabby little box.

We sailed, and for several days I forgot every thing but my own woe;

then came a calm, and then choosing a moment when the girls were

comparing their treasures with those of other returning voyagers, I

proudly produced my watch. The effect was superb. Cries of admiration

greeted it from all but my sisters, who looked at one another in comic

dismay and burst into fits of laughter.

"We saw it and tried to get it, but it cost so much we gave it up, and

never told lest Penelope should be tempted beyond her strength. We might

have spared our pains, for it was to be, and it is vain to fight against

fate, only do tell us if you paid that Shylock what he asked us?" said

Mary, naming a smaller sum than my first handsome offer.

"I did not pay that, and I shall never tell what it cost, for you

wouldn't believe me if I did. It was a good bargain, I assure you--for

Shylock," I added to myself, and kept my secret jealously, knowing I

never should hear the last of it if the awful truth was known.

My treasure was so much admired that I was afraid it would be ravished

from me, and I hid it in all sorts of places, like a magpie with a

stolen spoon. I never went on deck without taking it with me for safe

keeping. I never woke in the morning without burrowing under my mattress

to see if it was safe, and never turned in for the night without seeing

that I was prepared for shipwreck by having my life-preserver handy and

half-a-dozen ship biscuits, a bottle of water, and the precious box

lashed firmly together, for with that dearly bought watch I was resolved

to sink or swim, live or die.

Being permitted to reach land in safety, I prepared to eclipse Fan's

ring and Mary's necklace with my rich and rare rococo watch. But I found

it impossible to set it going, though I tried all the keys in the house,

so I took it to an experienced watchmaker and left it to be regulated.

Every one knows what that means, and can imagine my impatience as week

after week went by and still that blessed thing was not done. It came at

last, however, and with it a bill that startled me; but I could not

dispute it, for the job was a difficult one, owing to the antiquity of

the works and the skill required to set a watch going that probably had

not been wound up for half a century.

It went for a week, and then stopped for ever; for the general verdict

was that no modern tinkering would restore its tone, since the springs

of life were broken and the venerable wheels at a dead lock.

"Well, it is ornamental if not useful, only I am sorry I gave away my

good old watch, thinking this would be all I needed," I said, making the

best of what I alone knew to be a desperately bad bargain.

So I hung the silent thing to my girdle and went forth to awaken the

envy and admiration of all beholders. But, alas! the second time I wore

it, one of the medallions was lost, could not be found, and its place

had to be filled with a modern one, entirely out of keeping with the

others. Bill the second was paid with much lamentation, and again I

tried to enjoy my watch. But the fates seemed to be against me, for

presently it was stolen by a maid who admired mediaeval jewelry as well

as her mistress.

What a state of excitement we were in then, to be sure! Cousin Dick took

the matter in hand, and searched for the lost watch with the patience,

if not the skill, of a detective. Mysterious men came to examine the

servants, dreadful questions as to its value were put to me, and, worst

of all, I knew that this sort of hide-and-go-seek was a fearfully

expensive game, and of course I wasn't going to let Dick pay for it.

It was found at last, and restored to me somewhat the worse for the

rough handling of curious admirers. Bill the third was paid with the

calmness of despair, for I really began to think some evil spell was

hidden in that crystal ball; a spell which attracted, then infatuated,

and now controlled me, leading me slowly and surely, through tribulation

after tribulation, to the poor-house in the end.

The accidents that befell that fatal watch would fill a chapter, and the

narrow escapes it had would make a thrilling tale. Babies half choked

themselves with the charms, little Tommy was discovered trying to divest

it of all incumbrances that he might use it as a "jolly big marble." It

was always falling off, catching in buttons, or bobbing wildly about

when I danced, and more than once I was cut to the soul by hearing

benighted people wonder at Miss Pen's bad taste in wearing Salom

jewelry. Salom, be it known to the ignorant, is an excellent man who

deals in mock ornaments of great brilliancy and cheapness.

Soon the jewels began to fall out, and I scattered pearls about me like

the young lady in the fairy tale. Then the chain broke, and the charms

were lost. In one of the many falls, the crystal got cracked; the silver

tarnished till it looked like dingy lead, and at last no beauty remained

to reconcile me to its utter uselessness. My poor watch was the standing

joke of the family, and kept every one merry but its owner. To me it was

a disgrace, and I suffered endless disappointments and delays by having

no trusty time-keeper at hand. Pride prevented my applying to others,

and bitterly I mourned in secret for the true old friend I had deserted

when the false new one came.

I ceased to wear the hollow mockery, and hoped people would forget it,

but the girls still displayed their more successful ornaments; and I was

forced to tell the sad tale of my mortifying failure in reply to the

natural question,--

"And what charming old trinket did Pen get?"

But this was not the worst of it. Like little Rosamond in the moral

tale, I had to wear my old shoes when the purple jar proved a delusion

and a snare. I had overrun my allowance by that rash purchase, and had

to economize just when I most wished to be fine. "Beauty unadorned," and

that sort of thing, is all nonsense when a woman burns to look her

loveliest in the eyes of certain persons, and the anguish I endured when

I looked at that rubbishy old watch, and thought what sweet things could

have been bought with the money recklessly lavished upon it, can better

be imagined than described.

Fain would I have sold my treasure for a quarter what I gave for it, but

who would buy the ruined relic now? And the mere idea of having it even

partially repaired made my blood run cold. So I laid it away as a

warning example of woman's folly, and began to save up, that I might

replace it by a modern watch with all the improvements procurable for

money.

I was effectually cured of my passion for antiquities, and hated the

sound of the word _rococo_. Nothing could be too new for me now, and I

privately studied up on watches, being bound never to buy another,

which, though it might last to all eternity, yet had no connection with

time.

Slowly the memory of that temptation and fall seemed to fade from all

minds but my own; slowly my little hoard increased at the expense of

many an ungratified whim, inviting bargain, or girlish vanity, and

slowly I decided what sort of watch would most entirely combine the

solid virtues and modest graces I desired to possess in the new one I

intended to choose so wisely and well.

But just as my hundred dollars was nearly completed, I discovered that

Dick's younger brother, Geordie, had got himself into a boyish scrape,

and was planning to run away to sea as the best means of settling the

difficulty. I was immediately possessed with an intense desire to help

the poor lad, and, having won his confidence in a desponding moment, I

offered my little hoard as a loan, to be paid in time, if he would

accept it on no other condition.

I really don't think I could have done it for any one but Dick's

brother, and I did not desire any praise for it, since I made the boy

take a solemn vow that it should be a secret between us for ever. It was

reward enough to know that I had spared dear Dick another care, and done

something to be more worthy of him, though it was only a little

sacrifice like this.

So Geordie was a free man again, and my devoted slave from that day

forth, causing much merry wonderment in the family, and actually making

Dick jealous by his grateful gallantry.

My sacrifice cost me something more than the loss of my watch, however,

for with a part of the money I had planned to get a fine Christmas gift

for some one, and now I was obliged to content myself with such a poor

little offering that the girls called me mean, and nearly broke my heart

by insisting that I did not care for somebody who cared a great deal for

me. I bore it all and kept Geordie's secret faithfully; but I will

confess that, in a paroxysm of anger with myself, I clashed that hateful

rococo watch upon the floor and trampled on it as the only adequate vent

for the conflicting emotions which possessed me.

But the good fairies who fly about at Christmas time set every thing

right, and broke the evil spell cast over me by the Breton magician in

his gloomy cell. As we sat about the breakfast-table, talking over our

gifts on the morning of that happy day, Dick and Geordie came in to see

how we were after the fatigues of a grand family frolic the night

before.

"Here's a new conundrum; guess it, girls," said Geordie, who had the

Dundreary fever upon him just at that time. "I was sent to India and

stopped there; I came back because I did not go there. Now what was it?"

We puzzled over it, but gave it up at last, and when Geordie answered,

"A watch," there was a general laugh, for since my ruinous speculation

that word always produced a sensation among us.

"The place mentioned should have been Brittany, not India, hey, Pen?"

said Dick, with a wicked twinkle of the eye.

"Don't," I began, pathetically, as the girls giggled, and Mary added,

with mock sympathy, "Hush, boys, and let that sacred sorrow be for ever

hidden in Pen's own breast."

"Watch and pray, dear, watch and pray, for I'm sure you have need of

both," cried Fan, seeing my rising wrath.

"Put your hands before your face but don't strike, I beg of you," cut in

Geordie, trying to be witty.

"It is a sad case, but I think I have a key that will wind up the affair

and set all going right," began Dick, still twinkling with fun.

To have him join the enemy was too much for me, because he had always

been very careful to avoid that tender point.

"If you say another word, I'll throw the horrid thing into the fire, for

I'm sick to death of hearing bad jokes made on it," I cried, feeling a

strong desire to shake them all round.

"No doubt; give it to me, and you shall never see or hear of it again. I

like old trinkets, and I'll never tell the story of that one, on my

honor as a gentleman," said Dick, in a tone that appeased my wrath at

once.

"Do you really want it?" I asked, pleased and surprised, yet still a

little suspicious of some new joke.

"I do, because, although it will never go again, it will always remind

me of some of the happiest hours and minutes of my life, Pen."

There was no fun in Dick's eyes as he said that, and I was glad to hide

the sudden color in my cheeks by running away to get the poor old watch.

But I found there _was_ a surprise, and a very pleasant one, in store

for me; for, as I thrust the shabby box into Dick's pocket, he handed me

a little parcel prettily tied up with white ribbons, saying in his most

captivating way, "Fair exchange is no robbery, you know, so you must

take this, and then we shall be square."

"It looks like wedding cake," I said, surveying it with curiosity, and

wondering why Geordie and the girls did not stop to see the mystery

unfolded.

"No, that comes later, dear," answered Dick, in a tone that made me

devote myself to the white ribbons with sudden zeal.

A blue velvet case appeared, and I could not resist saying, in a voice

more tender than reproachful, "You extravagant man! I know it is

something costly and beautiful in return for the disgracefully mean gift

I gave you."

"Bless your innocent heart, did you think you could hide any thing from

me? Geordie couldn't keep a secret, and I'm only paying his debt, Pen

dear, with the sort of interest women like," Dick answered, with an

audacious arm around my waist and a brown beard close to my cheek.

As I did not refuse the offered interest, he added, in a softer tone,

"My own debt I never can settle unless with all my worldly goods I thee

endow; my heart you have had for years. Say yes, dear, and be my little

_chatelaine_."

Never mind what I said, but I assure you if it had not been for Dick's

arm I should have gone under the table, when, a few minutes later, I

lifted the blue velvet lid and saw a dainty watch luxuriously lying on

its white satin bed.

BY THE RIVER.

A LEGEND OF THE ASSABET.

CHAPTER I.

In the shadow of the bridge a boy lay reading on the grass,--a slender

lad, broad-browed and clear-eyed, barefooted and clad in homespun, yet

happy as a king; for health sat on his sunburned cheeks, a magic book

lay open before him, and sixteen years of innocence gave him a passport

to the freshest pleasures life can offer.

"Nat! Nat! come here and see!" cried a shrill voice from among the

alders by the river-side.

But Nat only shook his head as if a winged namesake had buzzed about his

ears, and still read on. Presently a twelve-years child came scrambling

up the bank, dragging a long rod behind her with a discontented air.

"I wish you'd come and help me. The fish won't bite and my line is in a

grievous snarl. Don't read any more. I'm tired of playing all alone."

"I forgot you, Ruthy, and it was ill done of me. Sit here and rest while

I undo the tangle," and Nat looked up good-naturedly at the small figure

before him, with its quaint pinafore, checked linen gown, and buckled

shoes; for this little maid lived nearly a hundred years ago and this

lad had seen Washington face to face.

"Now tell me a story while I wait. Not out of that stupid play-book you

are always reading, but about something that really happened, with

naughty children and nice folks in it, and have it end good," said Ruth,

beginning a dandelion chain; for surely it is safe to believe that our

honored grandmothers enjoyed that pretty pastime in their childhood.

Nat lay in the grass, dreamily regarding the small personage who ruled

him like a queen and whom he served with the devotion of a loyal heart.

Now the royal command was for a story, and, stifling a sigh, this rustic

gentleman closed the book, whose magic had changed the spring morning to

a Midsummer Night's Dream for an hour, and set himself to gratify the

little damsel's whim.

"You liked the last tale about the children who were lost. Shall I tell

one about a child who was found? It really happened, and you never heard

it before," he asked.

"Yes; but first put your head in my lap, for there are ants in the grass

and I like to see your eyes shine when you spin stories. Tell away."

"Once upon a time there was a great snow-storm," began Nat, obediently

pillowing his head on the blue pinafore.

"Whereabouts?" demanded Ruth.

"Don't spoil the story by interrupting. It was in this town, and I can

show you the very house I'm going to tell about."

"I like to know things straight along, and not bounce into a snow-storm

all in a minute. I'll be good. Go on."

"Well, it snowed so hard that people stayed indoors till the storm had

beat and blown itself away. Right in the worst of it, as a farmer and

his wife sat by the fire that night, they heard a cry at the door. You

see they were sitting very still, the man smoking his pipe and the woman

knitting, both thinking sorrowfully of their only son, who had just

died."

"Don't have it doleful, Nat," briskly suggested Ruth, working busily

while the narrator's hands lay idle, and his eyes looked as if they

actually saw the little scene his fancy conjured up.

"No, I won't; only it really was like that," apologized Nat, seeing that

sentiment was not likely to suit his matter-of-fact auditor. "When the

cry came a second time, both of these people ran to the door. No one was

to be seen, but on the wide step they saw a little mound not there an

hour before. Brushing off the snow, they found a basket; and, when they

opened it, there lay a little baby, who put out its arms with a pitiful

cry, that went to their hearts. The woman hugged it close, fed it, and

hushed it to sleep as if it had been her own. Her husband let her do as

she liked, while he tried to find where it came from; but no trace

appeared, and there was no name or mark on the poor thing's clothes."

"Did they keep it?" asked Ruth, tickling Nat's nose with a curly

dandelion stem, to goad him on, as he lay silent for a moment.

"Yes, they kept it; for their hearts were sore and empty, and the

forlorn baby seemed to fill them comfortably. The townsfolk gossiped

awhile, but soon forgot it; and it grew up as if it had been born in the

farmer's house. I've often wondered if it wasn't the soul of the little

son who died, come back in another shape to comfort those good people."

"Now don't go wandering off, Nat; but tell me if he was a pretty, nice,

smart child," said Ruth, with an eye to the hero's future capabilities.

"Not a bit pretty," laughed Nat, "for he grew up tall and thin, with big

eyes and a queer brow. He wasn't 'nice,' either, if you mean good, for

he got angry sometimes and was lazy; but he tried,--oh! yes, he truly

tried to be a dutiful lad. He wasn't 'smart,' Ruth; for he hated to

study, and only loved story books, ballads, and plays, and liked to

wander round alone in the woods better than to be with other boys.

People laughed at him because of his queersome ways; but he couldn't

help it,--he was born so, and it would come out."

"He was what Aunt Becky calls shiftless, I guess. She says you are; but

I don't mind as long as you take care of me and tell me stories."

The boy sighed and shook his head as if a whole swarm of gnats were

annoying him now. "He was grateful, anyhow, this fellow I'm telling

about; for he loved the good folks and worked on the farm with all his

might to pay them for their pity. He never complained; but he hated it,

for delving day after day in the dirt made him feel as if he was nothing

but a worm."

"We are all worms," Deacon Hurd says; "so the boy needn't have minded,"

said Ruth, trying to assume a primly pious expression, that sat very ill

upon her blooming little face.

"But some worms can turn into butterflies, if they get a chance; so the

boy did mind, Ruthy." And Nat looked out into the summer world with a

longing glance, which proved that he already felt conscious of the

folded wings and was eager to try them.

"Was he a God-fearing boy?" asked Ruth, with a tweak of the ear; for her

friend showed signs of "wandering off" again into a world where her

prosaic little mind could not follow him.

"He didn't _fear_ God; he loved Him. Perhaps it was wrong; but somehow

he couldn't believe in a God of wrath when he saw how good and beautiful

the world was and how kind folks were to him. He felt as if the Lord was

his father, for he had no other; and when he was lonesomest that thought

was right comfortable and helpful to him. Was it wrong?" asked Nat of

the child.

"I'm afraid Aunt Becky would think so. She's awful pious, and boxed my

ears with a psalm-book last Sabbath, when I said I wished the lions

would bite Daniel in the den, I was so tired of seeing them stare and

roar at him. She wouldn't let me look at the pictures in the big Bible

another minute, and gave me a long hymn to learn, shut up in the back

bed-room. She's a godly woman, Deacon Hurd says; but I think she's

uncommon strict."

"Shall I tell any more, or are you tired of this stupid boy?" said Nat,

modestly.

"Yes, you may as well finish. But do have something happen. Make him

grow a great man, like Whittington, or some of the story-book folks,

it's so nice to read about," answered Ruth, rather impatiently.

"I hope he did something better than trade cats and be lord mayor of

London. But that part of the story hasn't come yet; so I'll tell you of

two things that happened, one sad and one merry. When the boy was

fourteen, the good woman died, and that nearly broke his heart; for she

had made things easy for him, and he loved her dearly. The farmer sent

for his sister to keep house, and then the boy found it harder than ever

to bear his life; for the sister was a notable woman, well-meaning, but

as strict as Aunt Becky, and she pestered the lad as Aunt pesters me.

You see, Ruthy, it grew harder every year for him to work on the farm,

for he longed to be away somewhere quiet among books and learned folk.

He was not like those about him, and grew more unlike all the time, and

people often said: 'He's come of gentle blood. That's plain to see.' He

loved to think it was true,--not because he wanted to be rich and fine,

but to find his own place and live the life the Lord meant him to. This

feeling made him so unhappy that he was often tempted to run away, and

would have done it but for the gratitude that kept him.

"Lack-a-daisy! What a bad boy, when he had good clothes and victuals and

folks were clever to him! But did he ever find his grand relations?"

asked Ruth, curiosity getting the better of the reproof she thought it

her duty to administer.

"I don't know yet. But he did find something that made him happier and

more contented. Listen now; for you'll like this part, I know. One

night, as he came home with the cows, watching the pretty red in the

sky, hearing the crickets chirp, and picking flowers along the way,

because he liked to have 'em in his room, he felt uncommon lonesome, and

kept wishing he'd meet a fairy who'd give him all he wanted. When he got

to the house, he thought the fairy had really come; for there on the

door-stone stood a little lass, looking at him. A right splendid little

lass, Ruth, with brown hair long upon her shoulders, blue eyes full of

smiles, and a face like one of the pink roses in Madam Barrett's

garden."

"Did she have good clothes?" demanded Ruth, eagerly, for this part of

the tale did interest her, as Nat foretold.

"Let me see. Yes, nice clothes; but sad-colored, for the riding-cloak

that hung over her white dimity frock was black. Yet she stood on a pair

of the trimmest feet ever seen, wearing hose with fine clocks, and

silver buckles in the little shoes. You may believe the boy stared well,

for he had never seen so pretty a sight in all his days, and before he

knew it he had given her his nosegay of sheepsbane, fern, and

honeysuckle. She took it, looking pleased, and made him as fine a

courtesy as any lady; whereat he turned red and foolish, being shy, and

hurried off into the barn. But she came skipping after, and peeped at

him as he milked, watched how he did it for a bit, and then said, like a

little queen, 'Boy, get up and let me try.' That pleased him mightily;

so, taking little madam on his knee, he let her try. But something went

amiss, for all at once Brindle kicked over the pail, away went the

three-legged stool, and both the milkers lay in the dirt."

"Why, Nat! why, Nat! that was you and I," cried Ruth, clapping her hands

delightedly, as this catastrophe confirmed the suspicions which had been

growing in her mind since the appearance of the child.

"Hush! or I'll never tell how they got up," said Nat, hurrying on with a

mirthful face. "The boy thought the little maid would cry over her

bruised arm or go off in a pet at sight of the spoilt frock. But no; she

only laughed, patted old Brindle, and sat down, saying stoutly, 'I shall

try again and do it right.' So she did, and while she milked she told

how she was an orphan and had come to be Uncle Dan's girl all her life.

That was a pleasant hearing for the lad, and he felt as if the fairy had

done better by him than he had hoped. They were friends at once, and

played cat's cradle on the kitchen settle all the evening. But, when the

child was put to bed in a strange room, her little heart failed her, and

she fell a-sobbing for her mother. Nothing would comfort her till the

boy went up and sang her to sleep, with her pretty hand in his and all

her tears quite gone. That was nigh upon two years ago; but from that

night they were fast friends, and happier times began for the boy,

because he had something to love and live for besides work. She was very

good to him, and nowhere in all the world was there a dearer, sweeter

lass than Nat Snow's little maid."

During the latter part of this tale "founded upon fact," Ruth had been

hugging her playmate's head in both her chubby arms, and when he ended

by drawing down the rosy face to kiss it softly on the lips it grew a

very April countenance, as she exclaimed, with a childish burst of

affection, curiosity, and wonder,--

"Dear Nat, how good you were to me that night and ever since! Did you

really come in a basket, and don't you know any thing about your folks?

Good lack! And to think you may turn out a lord's son, after all!"

"How could I help being good to you, dear? Yes, I'll show you the very

basket, if Aunt Becky has not burnt it up as rubbish. I know nought

about my folk, and have no name but Snow. Uncle Dan gave me that because

I came in the storm, and the dear mother added Nathaniel, her own boy's

name, since I was sent to take his place, she said. As for being a

lord's son, I'd rather be a greater man than that."

And Nat rose up with sudden energy in his voice, a sudden kindling of

the eyes, that pleased Ruth, and made her ask, with firm faith in the

possibility of his being any thing he chose,--

"You mean a king?"

"No, a poet!"

"But that's not fine at all!" and Ruth looked much disappointed.

"It is the grandest thing in the world! Look now, the man who wrote this

play was a poet, and, though long dead, he is still loved and honored,

when the kings and queens he told about would be forgotten but for him.

Who cares for them, with all their splendor? Who does not worship

William Shakespeare, whose genius made him greater than the whole of

them!" cried Nat, hugging the dingy book, his face all aglow with the

beautiful enthusiasm of a true believer.

"Was Master Shakespeare rich and great?" asked Ruth, staring at him with

round eyes.

"Never rich or great in the way you mean, or even famous, till after he

was dead."

"Then I'd rather have you like Major Wild, for he owns much land, lives

in a grand house, and wears the finest-laced coat in all the town. Will

you be like him, please, Nat?"

"No, I won't!" answered the lad, with emphatic brevity, as the image of

the red-faced, roystering Major passed before his mind's eye.

His bluntness ruffled his little sovereign's temper for a moment, and

she asked with a frown,--

"What do you think Aunt Becky said yesterday, when we found ever so many

of your verses hidden in the clothes-press, where we went to put

lavender among the linen?"

"Something sharp, and burnt the papers, I'll warrant," replied Nat, with

the resignation of one used to such trials.

"No, she kept 'em to cover jam-pots with, and she said you were either a

fool or a genus. Is a genus very bad, Nat?" added Ruth, relenting as she

saw his dreamy eyes light up with what she fancied was a spark of anger.

"Aunt Becky thinks so; but I don't, and, though I may not be one, sooner

or later folks shall see that I'm no fool, for I feel, I know, I was not

born to hoe corn and feed pigs all my life."

"What will you do?" cried Ruth, startled by the almost passionate energy

with which he spoke.

"Till I'm twenty-one I'll stay to do my duty. When the time comes, I'll

break away and try my own life, for I shall have a right to do it then."

"And leave me? Nay, I'll not let you go." And Ruth threw her dandelion

chain about his neck, claiming her bondsman with the childish tyranny he

found so sweet.

He laughed and let her hold him, seeing how frail the green links were;

little dreaming how true a symbol it was of the stronger tie by which

she would hold him when the time came to choose between liberty and

love.

"Five years is a long time, Ruthy. You will get tired of my odd ways,

and be glad to have me go. But never fret about it; for, whatever

happens, I'll not forget you."

Quite satisfied with this promise, the little maid fell to sticking

buttercups in the band of the straw hat her own nimble fingers had

braided, as if bent on securing one crown for her friend. But Nat,

leaning his head upon his hand, sat watching the sunshine glitter on the

placid stream that rippled at his feet, with such intentness that Ruth

presently disturbed him by demanding curiously,--

"What is it? A kingfisher or a turtle?"

"It's the river, dear. It seems to sing to me as it goes by. I always

hear it, yet I never understand what it says. Do you?"

Ruth fixed her blue eyes on the bluer water, listened for an instant,

then laughed out blithely, and sprung up, saying,--

"It sings: 'Come and fish, Nat. Come and fish!'"

The boy's face fell, the dreamy look faded, and, with a patient sort of

sigh, he rose and followed her, leaving his broken dream with his

beloved book among the buttercups. But, though he sat by Ruth in the

shadow of the alder-bushes, his rod hung idly from his hand, for he was

drawing bright fancies from a stream she never saw, was dimly feeling

that he had a harder knot to disentangle than his little friend's, and

faintly hearing a higher call than hers, in the ripple of the river.

CHAPTER II.

Five years later Ruth was in the dairy making up butter, surrounded by

tier above tier of shining pans, whence proceeded a breath as fresh and

fragrant as if the ghosts of departed king-cups and clover still haunted

the spot. Standing before a window where morning-glories rung their

colored bells in the balmy air, she was as pleasant a sight as any eye

need wish to see upon a summer's day; for the merry child had bloomed

into a sprightly girl, rich in rustic health and beauty. All practical

virtues were hers; and, while they wore so comely a shape, they

possessed a grace that hid the lack of those finer attributes which give

to womanhood its highest charm. The present was all in all to Ruth. Its

homely duties were her world, its petty griefs and joys her life, and

her ambition was bounded by her desire to show her mates the finest

yarn, the sweetest butter, the gayest cardinal, and the handsomest

sweetheart, in the town. An essentially domestic character, cheery as

the blaze upon the hearth, contented as the little kettle singing there,

and so affectionate, discreet, and diligent that she was the model

damsel of the town, the comfort of Uncle Daniel's age, the pride of Aunt

Becky's heart, the joy of Nat's life, and the desire of his eyes.

Unlike as ever, the pair were still fast friends. Nay, more, for the

past year had been imperceptibly transforming that mild sentiment into a

much warmer one by the magic of beauty, youth, and time. Year after year

Nat had patiently toiled on, for gratitude controlled ambition, and

Ruth's presence made his life endurable. But Nature was stronger than

duty or love, and as the boy ripened into the man he looked wistfully

beyond the narrow present into the great future, which allures such as

he with vague, sweet prophecies, hard to be resisted. Silently the

struggle went on, steadily the inborn longing strengthened, and slowly

the resolution was fixed to put his one gift to the test and learn if it

was a vain delusion or a lovely possibility. Each year proved to himself

and those about him that their world was not his world, their life his

life; for, like Andersen's young swan, the barnyard was no home to him,

and when the other fowls cackled, hissed, and scolded, he could only put

his head under his wing and sigh for the time when he should join "the

beautiful white birds among the rushes of the stream that flowed through

the poet's garden, where the sun shone and the little children played."

Ruth knew his dreams and desires; but, as she could not understand them,

she tried to cure them by every innocent art in her power, and nursed

him through many a fit of the heart-sickness of hope deferred as

patiently as she would have done through any less occult disease that

flesh is heir to. She was thinking of him as she worked that day, and

wishing she could mould his life as easily as she did the yellow lumps

before her, stamping them with her own mark, and setting them away for

her own use. She felt that some change was about to befall Nat, for she

had listened to the murmur of voices as the old man and the young sat

talking far into the night. What the result had been was as yet unknown;

for Uncle Daniel was unusually taciturn that morning, and Nat had been

shut up in his room since breakfast, though spring work waited for him

all about the farm.

An unwonted sobriety sat on Ruth's usually cheerful face, and she was

not singing as she worked, but listening intently for a well-known step

to descend the creaking stairs. Presently it came, paused a moment in

the big kitchen, where Aunt Becky was flying about like a domestic

whirlwind, and Ruth heard Nat ask for her with a ring in his voice that

made her heart begin to flutter.

"She's in the dairy. But for landsake where are you a-going, boy? I

declare for't, you look so fine and chirk I scursely knew yer," answered

the old lady, pausing in her work to stare at the astonishing spectacle

of Nat in his Sunday best upon a week day.

"I'm going to seek my fortune, Aunty. Won't you wish me luck?" replied

Nat, cheerily.

Aunt Becky had a proverb for every occasion, and could not lose this

opportunity for enriching the malcontent with a few suited to his case.

"Yes, child, the best of lucks; but it's my opinion that, if we 'get

spindle and distaff ready, the Lord will send the flax,' without our

goin' to look for't. 'Every road has its puddle,' and 'he that prieth

into a cloud may get struck by lightenin'.' God bless you, my dear, and

remember that 'a handful of good life is wuth a bushel of learnin'.'"

"I will, Ma'am; and also bear in mind that 'he who would have eggs must

bear the cackling of hens,'" with which return shot Nat vanished,

leaving the old lady to expend her energies and proverbs upon the bread

she was kneading with a vigor that set the trough rocking like a cradle.

Why Ruth began to sing just then, and why she became so absorbed in her

oleaginous sculpture as to seem entirely unconscious of the appearance

of a young man at the dairy door, are questions which every woman will

find no difficulty in answering. Actuated by one of the whims which

often rule the simplest of the sex, she worked and sang as if no anxiety

had ruffled her quiet heart; while Nat stood and watched her with an

expression which would have silenced her, had she chosen to look up and

meet it.

The years that had done much for Ruth had been equally kind to Nat, in

giving him a generous growth for the figure leaning in the doorway

seemed full of the vigor of wholesome country life. But the head that

crowned it was such as one seldom sees on a farmer's shoulders; for the

brown locks, gathered back into a ribbon, after the fashion of the time,

showed a forehead of harmonious outline, overarching eyes full of the

pathos and the passion that betray the presence of that gift which is

divine when young. The mouth was sensitive as any woman's, and the lips

were often folded close, as if pride controlled the varying emotions

that swayed a nature ardent and aspiring as a flame of fire. Few could

read the language of this face, yet many felt the beauty that it owed to

a finer source than any grace of shape or color, and wondered where the

subtle secret lay.

"Ruth, may I tell you something?"

"Of course you may. Only don't upset the salt-box or sit down upon the

churn."

Nat did neither, but still leaned in the doorway and still watched the

trim figure before him, as if it was very pleasant to his eyes; while

Ruth, after a brief glance over her shoulder, a nod and a smile, spatted

away as busily as ever.

"You know I was one-and-twenty yesterday?"

"I'm not like to forget it, after sewing my eyes out to work a smart

waistcoat as a keepsake."

"Nor I; for there's not such another in the town, and every rosebud is

as perfect as if just pulled from our bush yonder. See, I've put it on

as knights put on their armor when they went to fight for fortune and

their ladies' love."

As he spoke, Nat smilingly thrust his hands into the pockets of a

long-flapped garment, which was a master-piece of the needlework in

vogue a century ago. Ruth glanced up at him with eyes full of hearty

admiration for the waistcoat and its wearer. But something in those last

words of his filled her with a trouble both sweet and bitter, as she

asked anxiously,--

"Are you going away, Nat?"

"For a week only. Uncle has been very kind, and given me a chance to

prove which road it's best for me to take, since the time has come when

I must choose. I ride to Boston this afternoon, Ruth, carrying my poems

with me, that I may submit them to the criticism of certain learned

gentlemen, who can tell me if I deceive myself or not. I have agreed to

abide by their decision, and if it is in my favor--as God grant it

be--Uncle leaves me free to live the life I love, among my books and all

that makes this world glorious. Think, Ruth,--a poet in good truth, to

sing when I will, and delve no more! Will you be pleased and proud if I

come back and tell you this?"

"Indeed, I will, if it makes you happy. And yet"--She paused there,

looking wistfully into his face, now all aglow with the hope and faith

that are so blissful and so brief.

"What is it, lass? Speak out and tell me all that's in your heart, for I

mean to show you mine," he said in a commanding tone seldom heard

before, for he seemed already to have claimed the fair inheritance that

makes the poet the equal of the prince.

Ruth felt the change with a thrill of pride, yet dared suggest the

possibility of failure, as a finer nature would have shrunk from doing

in such a happy, hopeful hour as that.

"If the learned gentlemen decide that the poems have no worth, what

then?"

He looked at her an instant, like one fallen from the clouds, then

squared his shoulders, as if resettling the burden put off for a day,

and answered bravely, though a sudden shadow crossed his face,

"Then I give up my dream and fall to work again,--no poet, but a man,

who will do his best to be an honest one. I have promised Uncle to abide

by this decision, and I'll keep my word."

"Will it be very hard, Nat?" and Ruth's eyes grew pitiful, for in his

she read how much the sacrifice would cost him.

"Ay, lass, very hard," he said briefly; then added, with an eloquent

change in voice and face, "unless you help me bear it. Sweetheart,

whichever road I take, I had no thought to go alone. Will you walk with

me, Ruth? God knows I'll make the way as smooth and pleasant as a

faithful husband can."

The busy hands stopped working there, for Nat held them fast in his, and

all her downcast eyes could see were the gay flowers her needle wrought,

agitated by the beating of the man's heart underneath. Her color

deepened beautifully and her lips trembled, in spite of the arch smile

they wore, as she said half-tenderly, half-wilfully,--

"But I should be afeared to marry a poet, if they are such strange and

delicate creatures as I've heard tell. 'Twould be like keeping house for

a butterfly. I tried to cage one once; but the poor thing spoilt its

pretty wings beating against the bars, and when I let it go it just

dropped down and died among the roses there."

"But if I be no poet, only a plain farmer, with no ambition except how I

may prosper and make my wife a happy woman, what answer then, Ruth?" he

asked, feeling as the morning-glories might have felt if a cold wind had

blown over them.

"Dear lad, it's this!" and, throwing both arms about his neck, the

honest little creature kissed his brown cheek heartily.

After that no wonder if Ruth forgot her work, never saw an audacious

sunbeam withering the yellow roses she had caused to bloom, never heard

the buzz of an invading fly, nor thought to praise the labor of her

hands, though her plump cheek was taking off impressions of the buttons

on the noble waistcoat. While to Nat the little dairy had suddenly

become a Paradise, life for a moment was all poetry, and nothing in the

wide world seemed impossible.

"Ruth! Ruth! The cat's fell into the pork-kag, and my hands is in the

dough. For massy sake, run down suller and fish her out!"

That shrill cry from Aunt Becky broke the spell, dissolved the blissful

dream, for, true to her instincts, Ruth forgot the lover in the

housewife, and vanished, leaving Nat alone with his love--and the

butter-pats.

CHAPTER III.

He rode gallantly away to Boston that afternoon, and ten days later came

riding slowly home again, with the precious manuscript still in his

saddle-bag.

"What luck, boy?" asked Uncle Dan, with a keen glance from under his

shaggy brows, as the young man came into the big kitchen, where they all

sat together when the day's work was done.

"Pretty much what you foretold, sir," answered Nat, trying to smile

bravely as he took his place beside Ruth on the settle, where she sat

making up cherry-colored breast-knots by the light of one candle.

"Fools go out to shear and come home shorn," muttered Aunt Becky from

the chimney-corner, where she sat reeling yarn and brooding over some

delectable mess that simmered on the coals.

Nat did not hear the flattering remark; for he was fingering a little

packet that silently told the story of failure in its dog-eared leaves,

torn wrappers, and carelessly knotted string.

"Yes," he said rapidly, as if anxious to have a hard task over, "I

showed my poems to sundry gentlemen, as I proposed. One liked them much,

and said they showed good promise of better things; but added that it

was no time for such matters now, and advised me to lay them by till I

was older. A very courteous and friendly man this was, and I felt much

beholden to him for his gracious speeches. The second criticized my work

sharply, and showed me how I should mend it. But, when he was done, I

found all the poetry had gone out of my poor lines, and nothing was left

but fine words; so I thanked him and went away, thinking better of my

poems than when I entered. The third wise man gave me his opinion very

briefly, saying, as he handed back the book, 'Put it in the fire.'"

"Nay! but that was too harsh. They are very pretty verses, Nat, though

most of them are far beyond my poor wits," said Ruth, trying to lighten

the disappointment that she saw weighed heavily on her lover's spirit.

"In the good gentleman's study, I had a sight of some of the great poets

of the world, and while he read my verses I got a taste of Milton,

Spenser, and my own Shakespeare's noble sonnets. I saw what mine lacked;

yet some of them rang true, so I took heart and trimmed them up in the

fashion my masters set me. Let me read you one or two, Ruth, while you

tie your true lover's knots."

And, eagerly opening the beloved book, Nat began to read by the dim

light of the tallow candle, blind to the resigned expression Ruth's face

assumed, deaf to Aunt Becky's muttered opinion that "an idle brain is

the devil's workshop," and quite unconscious that Uncle Dan spread a

checked handkerchief over his bald pate, ready for a nap. Absorbed in

his delightful task, the young poet went on reading his most perfect

lines, with a face that brightened blissfully, till, just as he was

giving a love-lay in his tenderest tone, a mild snore checked his

heavenward flight, and brought him back to earth with a rude shock. He

started, paused, and looked about him, like one suddenly wakened from a

happy dream. Uncle Dan was sound asleep, Aunt Becky busily counting her

tidy skeins, and Ruth, making a mirror of one of the well-scoured pewter

platters on the dresser, was so absorbed in studying the effect of the

gay breast-knots that she innocently betrayed her inattention by

exclaiming, with a pretty air of regret,--

"And that's the end?"

"That is the end," he answered, gently closing the book which no one

cared to hear, and, hiding his reproachful eyes behind his hand, he sat

silent, till Uncle Dan, roused by the cessation of the melodious murmur

that had soothed his ear, demanded with kindly bluntness,--

"Well, boy, which is it to be, moonshine or money? I want you to be spry

about decidin', for things is gittin' behindhand, and I cattle'ate to

hire if you mean to quit work."

"Sakes alive! No man in his senses would set long on the fence when

there's a good farm and a smart wife a-waitin' on one side and nothin'

but poetry and starvation on the other!" ejaculated Aunt Becky, briskly

clattering the saucepan-lid, as if to add the savory temptations of the

flesh to those of filthy lucre.

Ruth said nothing, but looked up at Nat with the one poetic sentiment of

her nature shining in her eyes and touching her with its tender magic,

till it seemed an easy thing to give up liberty for love. The dandelion

chain the child wove round the boy had changed to a flowery garland now,

but the man never saw the thorns among the roses, and let the woman

fetter him again; for, as he looked at her, Nat flung the cherished book

into the fire with one hand, and with the other took possession of the

only bribe that could win him from that other love.

"I decide as you would have me, sir. Not for the sake of the farm you

promise me, but for love of her who shall one day be its happy mistress,

please God."

"Now that's sensible and hearty, and I'm waal pleased, my boy. You jest

buckle to for a year stiddy and let your ink-horn dry, and we'll have as

harnsome a weddin' as man could wish,--always providin' Ruth don't

change her mind," said Uncle Dan, beaming benignantly at the young pair

through a cloud of tobacco smoke; while Aunt Becky poked the condemned

manuscript deeper into the coals, as if anxious to exorcise its

witchcraft by fire, in the good old fashion.

But even in Ruth's arms Nat cast one longing, loving glance at his

first-born darling on its funeral-pyre; then turned his head resolutely

away, and whispered to the girl,--

"Never doubt that I love you, sweetheart, since for your sake I have

given up the ambition of my life. I don't regret it, but be patient with

me till I learn to live without my 'moonshine,' as you call it."

"Sunshine is better, and I'll make it for you, if I can. So cheer up,

dear lad, fall to work like a man, and you'll soon forget your pretty

nonsense," answered Ruth, with firm faith in the cure she proposed.

"I'll try."

And, folding his wings, Pegasus bent his neck to the yoke and fell to

ploughing.

Nat kept his word and did try manfully, working early and late, with an

energy that delighted Uncle Dan, made Aunt Becky bestir herself to

bleach her finest webs for the wedding outfit, and caused Ruth to

believe that he had forgotten the "pretty nonsense;" for the pen lay

idle and he gave all his leisure to her, discussing house-gear and stock

with as deep an interest as herself apparently. All summer long he

toiled like one intent only on his crops; all winter he cut wood and

tended cattle, as if he had no higher hope than to sell so many cords

and raise likely calves for market.

Outwardly he was a promising young farmer, with a prosperous future and

a notable wife awaiting him. But deep in the man's heart a spark of the

divine fire still burned, unquenched by duty, love, or time. The spirit

that made light in Milton's darkness, walked with Burns beside the

plough, and lifted Shakespeare higher than the royal virgin's hand, sang

to Nat in the airy whisper of the pines, as he labored in the wintry

wood, smiled back at him in every ox-eyed daisy his scythe laid low

along the summer fields, and solaced him with visions of a fairer future

than any buxom Ruth could paint. It would not leave him, and he learned

too late that it was the life of his life, a gift that could not be

returned, a blessing turned into a curse; for, though he had burned the

little book, from its ashes rose a flame that consumed him, since it

could find no vent. Even the affection, for which he had made a costlier

sacrifice than he knew, looked pale and poor beside the loftier

loveliness that dawned upon him in the passionate struggle, ripening

heart and soul to sudden manhood; and the life that lay before him

seemed very bleak and barren when he returned from playing truant in the

enchanted world Imagination opens to her gifted children.

Ruth vaguely felt the presence of this dumb despair, dimly saw its

shadow in the eyes that sometimes wore a tragic look, and fancied that

the hand working so faithfully for her was slipping from her hold, it

grew so thin and hot with the inward fever, which no herb in all her

garden could allay. She vainly tried to rise to his level; but the busy

sparrow could not follow the aspiring lark, singing at heaven's gate. It

could only chirp its little lay and build its nest, with no thought

beyond a straw, a worm, and the mate that was to come.

Nat never spoke of the past, and Ruth dared not, for she grew to feel

that he did "regret it" bitterly, though too generous for a word of

reproach or complaint.

"I'll make it up to him when we are married; and he will learn to love

the farm when he has little lads and lasses of his own to work for," she

often said to herself, as she watched her lover sit among them, after

his day's work, listening to their gossip with a pathetic sort of

patience, or, pleading a weariness there was no need to feign, lie on

the old settle, lost in thoughts that made his face shine like one who

talked with angels.

So the year rolled round, and May came again. Uncle Dan was well

satisfied, Aunt Becky's preparations were completed, and Ruth had not

"changed her mind."

"Settle about the weddin' as soon as you like, my girl, and I'll see

that it is a merry one," said the old man, coming in from work, as Ruth

blew the horn from the back porch one night at sunset.

"Nat must decide that. Where is he, Uncle?" asked the girl, looking out

upon the quiet landscape, touched with spring's tenderest green.

"Down in the medder, ploughin'. It's a toughish bit, and he'll be late,

I reckon; for he took a long noon-spell, and I give him a piece of my

mind about it, so I'll venter to say he won't touch a bit of victuals

till the last furrow is laid," answered Uncle Dan, plodding away to wash

his hands at the horse-trough.

"Nay, Uncle, it is his birthday, and surely he had a right to a little

rest, for he works like a slave, to please us, though far from well, I'm

thinking." And, waiting for no reply, Ruth hurried in, filled a tankard

with cider, and tripped away to bring her lover home, singing as she

went, for Nat loved to hear her voice.

Down the green lane toward the river the happy singer stepped, thinking

in what sweet words she could give the old man's message. But the song

died on her lips and the smiling eyes grew wistful suddenly; for,

passing by the willow-trees, she saw the patient oxen standing in the

field alone.

"Nat is hunting violets for me," she thought, with a throb of pleasure;

for she was jealous of a viewless rival, and valued every token of

fidelity her lover gave her.

But as she drew nearer Ruth frowned; for Nat lay beside the river,

evidently quite forgetful of scolding, supper, and sweetheart. No, not

of the latter; for a little nosegay of violets lay ready near the paper

on which he seemed to be writing a song or sonnet to accompany the gift.

Seeing this, the frown faded, as the girl stole noiselessly across the

grass, to peep over his shoulder, with a soft rebuke for his imprudence

and delay.

Alas for Ruth! One glance at the placid face, pillowed on his arm, told

her that this birthday was Nat's last; for the violets were less white

than the cheek they touched, the pencil had fallen from nerveless

fingers, and Death's hand had written "Finis" to both life and lay. With

a bitter cry, she gathered the weary head into her arms, fearing she had

come too late to say good-by. But the eyes that opened were so tranquil,

and the pale lips that answered wore such a happy smile, she felt that

tears would mar his peace, and hushed her sobs, to listen as he

whispered brokenly, with a glance that brightened as it turned from the

wide field where his last hard day's work lay finished, to the quiet

river, whose lullaby was soothing him to sleep.

"Tell Uncle I did not stop till the job was done, nor break my promise;

for the year is over now, and it was so sweet to write again that I

forgot to go home till it was too late."

"O Nat, not too late. You shall work no more, but write all day, without

a care. We have been too hard upon you, and you too patient with our

blindness. Dear lad, forgive us, and come home to live a happier year

than this has been," cried Ruth, trying with remorseful tenderness to

keep the delicate spirit that was escaping from her hold, like the

butterfly that died among her roses with broken wings.

But Nat had no desire to stay; for he _was_ going home, to feel hunger,

thirst, and weariness no more, to find a love Ruth could not give, and

to change earth's prose to heaven's immortal poetry. Yet he lingered on

the threshold to look back and whisper gently: "It is better so,

sweetheart. There was no place for me here, and I was homesick for my

own friends and country. I'm going to find them, and I'm quite content.

Forget me and be happy; or remember me only in the springtime, when the

world is loveliest and my birthday comes. See, this is all I had to give

you; but my heart was in it."

He tried to lift the unfinished song and give it to her; but it

fluttered down upon his breast, and the violets dropped after, lying

there unstirred by any breath, for with the words a shadow deeper than

that twilight laid upon the fields stole over the face on Ruth's bosom,

and all the glory of the sunset sky could only touch it with a pathetic

peace, as the poet lay asleep beside the river.

He lies there still, the legend says, under the low green mound, where

violets bloom earliest, where the old willows drop their golden tassels

in the spring, and blackbirds fill the air with their melodious ecstasy.

No song of his lived after him; no trace of him remains, except that

nameless grave; and few ever heard of one who came and went like the

snow for which they christened him. Yet it seems as if his gentle ghost

still haunted those sunny meadows, still listened to the enchanted

river, and touched with some mysterious charm the places that knew him

once. For strangers find a soft attraction in the quiet landscape;

lovers seek those green solitudes to tell the story that is always new;

and poets muse beside the shadowy stream, hearing, as he heard, a call

to live the life that lifts them highest by unwavering fidelity to the

gift Heaven sends.

LETTY'S TRAMP.

Letty sat on the doorstep one breezy summer day, looking down the road

and wishing with all her heart that something pleasant would happen. She

often did this; and one of her earliest delights when a lonely child was

to sit there with a fairy book upon her knee, waiting and watching in

all good faith for something wonderful to happen.

In those days, Cinderella's golden coach dashing round the corner to

carry her away was the favorite dream; but at eighteen one thinks more

of the prince than either golden coach or splendid ball. But no prince

as yet had cut his way through the grove of "laylocks" round the gate,

and the little beauty still dreamed waking dreams on the doorstep, with

her work forgotten in her lap.

Behind her in the quaint, quiet room Aunt Liddy dozed in her easy chair,

the clock ticked, the bird chirped, old Bran snapped lazily at the

flies, and nothing else broke the hush that brooded over the place. It

was always so, and Letty often felt as if an earthquake would be a

blessed relief to the dreadful monotony of her life.

To-day it was peculiarly trying, for a slight incident had ruffled the

calm; and, though it lasted but a moment, it had given Letty a glimpse

into that lovely "new world which is the old." A carriage containing a

gay young couple on their honeymoon trip had stopped at the gate, for

the bride had a fancy for a draught from the mossy well, and the

bridegroom blandly demanded that her whim be gratified.

Letty served them, and while one pretty girl slaked her thirst the other

watched her with admiring eyes and a tender interest, touched by envy.

It was all over in a minute. Then bonny bride and enamoured bridegroom

rolled away on that enchanted journey which is taken but once in a

lifetime, leaving a cloud of dust behind and a deeper discontent in

Letty's heart.

With a long sigh she had gone back to her seat, and, closing her eyes

upon a world that could offer her so little, fell a-dreaming again, till

a rough voice startled her wide awake.

"I say, miss, can you give a poor fellow a bite and a sup?"

Opening her eyes, she saw a sturdy tramp leaning over the low gate, so

ragged, dusty, worn, and weary that she forgave the look of admiration

in the bold black eyes which had been fixed on her longer than she knew.

Before she could answer, however, Aunt Liddy, a hospitable old soul,

called out from within,--

"Certin, certin. Set right down on the doorstep and rest a spell, while

we see what we can do about vittles."

Letty vanished into the pantry, and the man threw himself down in the

shady porch, regardless of Bran's suspicious growl. He pulled off his

hat, stretched out his tired limbs, and leaned his rough head back among

the woodbine leaves, with a long breath, as if nearly spent.

When Letty brought him a plate of bread and meat, he took it from her so

eagerly and with such a ravenous look that she shrank back

involuntarily. Seeing which he said, with a poor attempt at a laugh,--

"You needn't be afraid. I look like a rough customer; but I won't hurt

you.

"Lawful sakes! We ain't no call to be afraid of no one, though we be

lone women; for Bran is better'n a dozen men. A lamb to them he knows;

but let any one try to pester Letty, and I never see a fercer beast,"

said Aunt Liddy, as the girl went back for more food, seeing the

stranger's need.

"He knows _I'm_ all right, and makes friends at once, you see," answered

the tramp, with a satisfied nod, as Bran, after a brief investigation,

sat down beside him, with a pacific wag of the tail.

"Well, I never! He don't often do that to strangers. Guess you're fond

of dumb critters," said Aunt Liddy, much impressed by Bran's unusual

condescension.

"They've been my best friends, and I don't forget it," returned the man,

giving the dog a bone, though half-starved himself.

Something in the tone, the act, touched Letty's tender heart, and made

her own voice very sweet and cordial as she said,--

"Please have some milk. It's nice and cold."

The tramp put up both hands to take the bowl, and as he did so looked

into a face so full of compassion that it seemed like an angel's leaning

down to comfort a lost and weary soul. Hard as life had been to the poor

fellow, it had not spoiled him yet, as was plainly proved by the change

that softened his whole face like magic, and trembled in the voice that

said, as if it were a sort of grace, "God bless you, Miss," as he bent

his head and drank.

Only a look of human sympathy and human gratitude; yet, in the drawing

of a breath, it cast out Letty's fear, and made the stranger feel as if

he had found friends, for it was the touch of Nature that makes the

whole world kin. Every one seemed to feel its influence. Bran turned his

benevolent eyes approvingly from his mistress to his new friend: the

girl sat down confidingly; and the old lady began to talk, for, being

fond of chat, she considered a stranger as a special providence.

"Where be you travellin'?"

"Nowhere in particular."

"Where did you come from, then?" continued Aunt Liddy, undaunted by the

short answer.

"California."

"Do tell! Guess you've been one of the rovin' sort, ain't you?"

"Haven't done much else."

"It don't appear to have agreed with you remarkable well," said the

blunt old lady, peering at him over her spectacles.

"If I hadn't had the devil's own luck, I'd have been a rich man, instead

of a beggar," answered the tramp, with a grim look and an ireful

knitting of his black brows.

"Been unfort'nate, have you? I'm sorry for that; but it 'pears to me

them as stays to home and works stiddy does better than them that goes

huntin' after luck," observed Aunt Liddy, feeling it her duty to give a

word of advice.

"Shouldn't wonder if you were right, ma'am. But some folks haven't got

any home to stay in; and fellows of my sort have to hunt after luck, for

it won't come to 'em."

"Ain't you got no friends, young man?"

"Not one. Lost the last yesterday."

"Took suddin, I suppose?" and the old lady's face was full of interest

as she put the question.

"Drowned."

"Merciful sakes! How did it happen?"

"Got hurt, couldn't be cured, so I drowned him, and"--

"What!" shrieked Aunt Liddy, upsetting her footstool with a horrified

start.

"Only a dog, ma'am. I couldn't carry him, wouldn't leave him to suffer;

so put him out of pain and came on alone."

The tramp had ceased eating, and sat with his head on his hand in a

despondent attitude, that told his story better than words. His voice

was gruffer than ever as he spoke of his dog; but the last word was

husky, and he put his hand on Bran's head with a touch that won the good

creature's heart entirely, and made him lick the downcast face, with a

little whine of sympathy and satisfaction.

Letty's eyes were full, and Aunt Liddy took snuff and settled her

footstool, feeling that something must be done for one who showed signs

of being worth the saving.

"Poor creter! And you was fond of him?" she said in a motherly tone; for

the man of five or six and twenty was but a boy to her.

"I'd have been a brute if I wasn't fond of him, for he stuck to me when

all the other fellows cut me, and tried to drag himself along with a

broken leg, rather than leave me. Talk about friends! Give me a dumb

animal if you want one worth having."

A bitter tone was in the man's voice and a wrathful spark kindled in his

eyes, as if wrong as well as want had made him what he was.

"Rest a little, and tell us about California. A neighbor went there, and

we like to hear news of that great, splendid place."

Letty spoke, and the half-eager, half-timid voice was very winning,

especially to one who seldom heard such now. Seeing her kindly interest,

and glad to pay for his meal in the only way he could, the man told some

of his adventures in brief but graphic words, while the old woman plied

him with questions and the young one listened with a face so full of

pretty wonder that the story-teller was inspired to do his best.

Aunt Liddy's cap-frills stood erect with horror at some of the

hair-breadth escapes recounted; but to Letty it was better than any

romance she had ever read to listen to tales full of danger and

hardship, told by a living voice and face to face with the chief actor

in them all, who unconsciously betrayed that he possessed many of the

manly attributes women most admire.

"After adventures like these, I don't wonder it seems hard to settle

down, as other folks do," she said warmly, when the man stopped short,

as if ashamed of talking so much of his own affairs.

"I wouldn't mind trying it, though," he answered, as he glanced about

the sunny little room, so home-like and reposeful, and so haunted by all

the sweet influences that touch men's hearts when most forlorn.

"You'd better," said Aunt Liddy, decidedly. "Git work and stick to it;

and, if luck don't come, bread and butter will, and in a world of woe

mebby that's about as much as any one on us ought to expect."

"I have tried to get it. But I'm such a hard-looking chap no one wants

me; and I don't blame 'em. Look at that hat, now! Ain't that enough to

spoil a man's chance, let alone his looks?" The young fellow held up a

battered object with such a comical mixture of disgust and indignation

that Letty could not help laughing; and the blithe sound was so

contagious that the wanderer joined in it, cheered already by rest and

food and kindly words.

"It's singular what store men-folks do set by their hats. My Moses

couldn't never read his paper till he'd put on his'n, and as for drivin'

a nail bare-headed, in doors or out, he'd never think of such a thing,"

said Aunt Liddy, with the air of one well versed in the mysterious ways

of men-folks.

But Letty clapped her hands, as if a brilliant idea had flashed upon

her, and, running to the back entry, returned with a straw hat, brown

and dusty, but shady, whole, and far more appropriate to the season than

the ragged felt the man was eying hopelessly.

"It isn't very good; but it might do for a time. We only keep it to

scare folks, and I don't feel afraid now. Would you mind if I gave it to

you?" stammered Letty, coloring up, as she tried to offer her poor gift

courteously.

"Mind! I guess I'd be glad to get it, fit or no fit," and, dropping the

old hat, the tramp clapped on the new one, making his mirror of the

bright eyes before him.

"It does nicely, and you're very welcome," said the girl, getting rosier

still, for there was something beside gratitude in the brown face that

had lost the dogged, dangerous look it wore at first.

"Now, if you was to wash up and smooth that hair of yourn a trifle,

you'd be a likely-looking young man; and, if you're civil-spoken and

willin' to lend a hand anywheres, you'll git work, I ain't a doubt,"

observed Aunt Liddy, feeling a growing interest in the wayfarer, and,

womanlike, acknowledging the necessity of putting the best foot

foremost.

Letty ran for basin and towel, and, pointing to the well, modestly

retired into the kitchen, while Aunt Liddy watched the vigorous

scrubbing that went on in the yard; for the tramp splashed the water

about like a Newfoundland dog, and Bran assisted at the brief toilet

with hospitable zeal.

It seemed as if a different man came out from that simple baptism; for

the haggard cheek had a glow upon it, the eyes had lost their

hopelessness, and something like courage and self-respect shone in the

face that looked in at the door as the stranger gave back basin and

towel, saying, with a wave of the old straw hat,--

"I'm heartily obliged, ma'am. Would you kindly tell me how far it is to

the next big town?"

"Twenty miles. The cars will take you right there, and the deepo ain't

fur," answered Aunt Liddy, showing the way.

The man glanced at his ragged shoes, then squared his broad shoulders,

as if bracing himself for the twenty long hot miles that his weary feet

must carry him, since his pockets were empty, and he could not bring

himself to ask for any thing but food enough to keep life in him.

"Good-by, ma'am, and God bless you." And, slouching the hat over his

eyes, he limped away, escorted to the gate by Bran.

At the turn of the road he stopped and looked back as wistfully as ever

Letty had done along the shadowy road, and as he looked it seemed as if

he saw a younger self setting off with courage, hope, and energy upon

the journey, which alas! had ended here. His eye went to the old well,

as if there had been some healing in its water; then turned to the

porch, where he had been fed and comforted, and lingered there as if

some kindly memory warmed his solitary heart.

Just then a little figure in blue gingham ran out and came fluttering

after him, accompanied by Bran, in a state of riotous delight. Rosy and

breathless, Letty hurried to him, and, looking up with a face full of

the innocent compassion that never can offend, she said, offering a

parcel neatly folded up,--

"Aunt Liddy sends you some dinner; and this, so that you needn't walk,

unless you like, you are so lame."

As if more touched than he cared to show, the man took the food, but

gently put away the little roll of greenbacks, saying quickly,--

"Thank you for this; but I can't take your money."

"We ain't rich, but we love to help folks. So you needn't be proud about

it." And Letty looked ruffled at his refusal.

"I'll take something else, if you don't mind," said the tramp, pulling

off his hat, with a sudden smile that made his face look young and

comely.

"What is it?" And Letty looked up so innocently that it was impossible

to resist the impulse of a grateful heart.

His answer was to stoop and kiss the blooming cheek, that instantly grew

scarlet with girlish shame and anger as she turned to fly. Catching her

by the hand, he said penitently,--

"I couldn't help it, you're so good to me. Don't begrudge me a kiss for

luck. I need it, God knows!"

The man's real destitution and despair broke out in these words, and he

grasped the little hand as if it was the only thing that kept him from

the manifold temptations of a desperate mood.

It thrilled the girl like a cry for help, and made her forget everything

except that a fellow-creature suffered. She shook the big hand warmly,

and said, with all her heart,--

"You're welcome, if it helps you. Good-by and good luck to you!" and ran

away as fast as she had come.

The man stood motionless, and watched her till she vanished, then turned

and tramped sturdily on, muttering to himself, with a suspicious

gruffness in his voice,--

"If I had a little mate like that alongside, I know my luck would turn."

CHAPTER II.

A wild December night, with bitter wind and blinding snow, reigned

outside the long, rude building, lighted only by furnace fires, that

went roaring up the tall chimneys, whence poured clouds of smoke and

showers of sparks, like beacons through the storm. No living thing

appeared in that shadowy place except a matronly gray cat, sitting bolt

upright upon an old rug spread over a heap of sand near one of the

fires. A newspaper and a tin pail were beside her, and she seemed to

have mounted guard, while the watchman of the Foundry went his rounds.

A door stood half-open upon the sheltered side of the building; and

suddenly, as if blown thither like a storm-driven bird, a little figure

came fluttering in, breathless, half-frozen, and quite bewildered by a

long struggle with the pitiless gale. Feebly brushing away the snow that

blinded her, the poor thing looked about her with frightened eyes; and,

seeing no one but the cat, seemed to take courage and crept toward the

fire, as if suffering for the moment conquered fear.

"Oh! Pussy, let me warm myself one minute, for I'm perished with the

cold," she whispered, stretching two benumbed hands to the blaze.

The cat opened her yellow eyes, and, evidently glad to meet one of her

own sex, began to purr hospitably as she rustled across the newspaper to

greet her guest. There was something inexpressibly comforting in the

sound; and, reassured by it, the girl pushed back her drenched hat,

shook her snowy garments, and drew a long breath, like one nearly spent.

Yet, even while she basked in the warmth that was salvation, her timid

eyes glanced about the great, gloomy place, and her attitude was that of

one ready to fly at a moment's warning.

Presently a step sounded on a flight of stairs leading to some loft

above. The wanderer started like a hare, and, drawing nearer to the

door, paused as if to catch a glimpse of the approaching face before she

fled away into the storm, that howled just then with a violence which

might well daunt a stouter heart.

A tall man, in a rough coat, with grizzled hair and beard under an old

fur cap, came slowly down the steps, whistling softly to himself, as he

swung his lantern to and fro.

"An old man, and the cat is fond of him. I guess I'll dare to ask my

way, or I'll never get home," thought the girl, as her eye scanned the

new-comer with a woman's quickness.

An involuntary rustle of her dress caught his ear, and, lifting the

lantern, he saw her at once; but did not speak, as if afraid of

frightening her still more, for her pale face and the appealing gesture

of the outstretched hand told her fear and need better than her hurried

words,--

"Oh! please, I've lost my way and am nearly frozen. Could I warm myself

a bit and find out where I am?"

"Of course, you may. Why, bless your heart, I wouldn't turn a dog out

such a night as this, much less a poor little soul like you," answered

the man, in a hearty tone, that rang true on the listening ear of the

girl.

Then he hung up the lantern, put a stool nearer the fire, and beckoned

her to approach. But even the kindly words and act failed to win the

timid creature; for she drew back as he advanced, gave a glance at the

door, and said, as if appealing to the best instincts of the man, whom

she longed yet feared to trust,--

"Thank you; but it's getting late, and I ought to be getting on, if I

knew the way. Perhaps you've got some girls of your own, so you can

understand how scared I am to be lost at night and in such a strange

place as this."

The man stared, then laughed, and, shaking the snow from his curly hair

and beard, showed himself to be a young and pleasant-looking fellow,

with a merry eye, an honest brown face, and a hearty voice.

"You thought I was an old chap, did you? Wish I was, if it would be any

comfort to you. I've got no little girls, neither, more's the pity; but

you needn't be afraid of me, though it is late and lonely. Why, Lord

love you, child, I'm not a brute! Sit down and thaw out, while you tell

me where you want to go."

The half-indignant tone of the man made his guest feel as if she had

insulted him; and she obeyed with a docility which appeased his anger at

once. Seating herself upon the stool, she leaned toward the fire with an

irrepressible shiver, and tried to keep her teeth from chattering as she

told her little story.

"I want work badly, and went a long way, hoping to get some. But I

didn't find it, and that discouraged me very much. I had no money, so

had to walk, and the storm got so bad I lost my way. Then I was scared

and half-frozen, and so bewildered I think I'd have died if I hadn't

seen the light and come in here."

"I guess you would. And the best thing you can do now is to stop till

the storm lifts. Shouldn't wonder if it did about midnight," said the

man, stirring up the red embers, as if anxious to do something for her

comfort.

"But that is so late, and I must be ever so far away from home; for I

came over the wrong bridge. Oh, me! What shall I do?" And the poor thing

wrung her hands in dismay.

"Won't your folks go to look for you?"

"I haven't any one in the world to care for me. The woman where I board

won't trouble herself; or she'll think I've run away, because I owe her

money. I might be dead in the river, and no one would mind!" sighed the

girl, leaning her head on her hands, while some bright, dishevelled hair

fell over her face, as if to hide its youth and innocence from a world

that seemed to have no shelter for either.

"That's hard! But don't you be down-hearted, child. Things often mend

when they seem worst. I know; for I've been through the mill, and had

friends raised up to me when I'd about done with living, as a bad job. I

can't leave here till sunrise; but I'll do the best I can for you till

then. Sam will be along early, and he'll see to you, if you can't trust

me; for he is as gray as a badger, and he's got six girls of his own, if

that's a recommendation. I've got nothing but a cat; and she trusts me.

Don't you, old Sally?"

As he spoke, the man sat down upon the sand-heap, and Sally leaped to

his knee, rubbing her head against his cheek, with a soft sound of

confidence and contentment which seemed to afford her friend great

satisfaction. The girl smiled faintly, and said, in an apologetic tone,

for there had been something like reproach in the man's voice, as he

asked the dumb animal to vouch for his character,--

"I don't believe I'd have dared to come in here if I hadn't seen Pussy.

But I thought anyone who was good to her would be good to me; and now

I'm sure of it."

"That's right. You see, I'm a lonesome sort of a chap and like something

to pet. So I took old Sally, and we get on capitally. She won't let the

other fellows touch her, but always comes and sits with me when I am

alone here nights. And it's surprising what good company she is."

He laughed as he spoke, as if half-ashamed of the amiable weakness, yet

anxious to put his guest at her ease. He evidently succeeded; for she

stretched two shabby little boots toward the fire and leaned her head

against a grimy beam, saying, with a sigh of weariness,--

"It is very comfortable; but the heat makes me feel queer and dizzy."

"You're just about used up; and I'm going to give you a cup of hot

coffee. That'll bring you round in a jiffy. It's time for supper. Hey,

Sally?"

As he spoke, the man set his pail in the hot ashes, unfolded a parcel of

bread and meat, and, laying a rude sandwich on a clean bit of paper,

offered it with a hospitable--

"Have a bit. Do, now. You've had a hard pull and need something to set

you up."

Leaning forward to give and take, two faces came into the clear red glow

of the furnace-fire, and a look of recognition flashed into each so

suddenly that it startled both man and maid into involuntary frankness

of expression.

"Why, it's little Letty!"

"And you are my tramp!"

A change so rapid as to be almost ludicrous came over the pair in the

drawing of a breath. She smoothed back her hair and hid the shabby

boots, yet sat more erect upon the stool, as if she had a right there

and felt no longer any fear. He pulled off his cap, with a pleasant

mixture of respect, surprise, and satisfaction in his manner, as he

said, in a half-proud, half-humble tone,--

"No, miss; for, thanks to you, I'm a decent man now."

"Then you did find work and get on?" she exclaimed, with a bright,

wistful look, that touched him very much.

"Didn't you get my letter?" he asked eagerly. "I sent you the first

dollar I earned, and told you and the old lady I was all right."

Letty shook her head, and all the light passed out of her face, leaving

it pathetic in its patient sorrow.

"Aunt Liddy died a week after you were there, so suddenly that every

thing was in confusion, and I never got the letter. I wish _she_ had

known of it, because it would have pleased her so. We often talked about

you and hoped you'd do well. We led such quiet lives, you see, that any

little thing interested us for a long time."

"It was a little thing to you, I dare say; but it was salvation to me.

Not the money or the food only, but the kindness of the old lady,

and--and the look in your sweet face, miss. I'd got so far down, through

sickness and bad luck, that there didn't seem any thing left for me but

deviltry or death. That day it was a toss-up between any bad job that

came along first and drowning, like my dog. That seemed sort of mean,

though; and I felt more like being revenged somehow on the world, that

had been so hard on me."

He stopped short, breathing hard, with a sudden spark in his black eyes

and a nervous clenching of the strong hands that made Letty shrink; for

he seemed to speak in spite of himself, as if the memory of that time

had left its impress on his life.

"But you didn't do any thing bad. I'm sure you didn't; for Aunt Liddy

said there was the making of a man in you, because you were so quick to

feel a little bit of kindness and take good advice."

The soft, eager voice of the girl seemed to work the miracle anew, for a

smile broke over his face, the angry spark was quenched, and the

clenched hand opened to offer again all it had to give, as he said, with

a characteristic mingling of fun and feeling in his voice,--

"I don't know much about angels; but I felt as if I'd met a couple that

day, for they saved me from destruction. You cast your bread upon the

waters, and it's come back when, maybe, you need it 'most as much as I

did then. 'Tisn't half as nice as yours; but perhaps a blessing will do

as well as butter."

Letty took the brown bread, feeling that he had said the best grace over

it; and while she ate he talked, evidently moved to open his heart by

the memory of the past, and eager to show that he had manfully persisted

in the well-doing his angels had advised.

"That was nearly two years ago, you know, and I've been hard at it ever

since. I took any thing that come along, and was glad to get it. The hat

did that, I firmly believe." And he laughed a short laugh, adding

soberly, "But I didn't take to work at first, for I'd been a rover and

liked it; so it took a long pull and a strong pull and a pull all

together before I settled down steady. The hat and the"--he was going to

say "kiss;" but a look at the lonely little creature sitting there so

confidingly made him change the word to--"the money seemed to bring me

luck; and I followed the advice of the good old lady, and stuck to my

work till I got to liking it. I've been here more than a year now, and

am getting on so well I shall be overseer before long. I'm only watchman

for a short time. Old Sam has been sick, and they wanted some one they

could trust, so they chose me."

It was good to see him square his broad shoulders and throw back his

head as he said that; and pretty to see Letty nod and smile with

sincerest pleasure in his success, as she said,--

"It looks dark and ugly now; but I've seen a foundry when they were

casting, and it was splendid to watch the men manage the furnaces and do

wonderful things with great hammers and moulds and buckets of red-hot

melted iron. I like to know you do such things, and now I'm not afraid.

It seems sort of romantic and grand to work in this place, where every

one must be strong and brave and skilful to get on."

"That's it. That's why I like it; don't you see?" he answered,

brightening with pleasure at her artless praise. "You just come some

casting day, and I'll show you sights you won't forget in a hurry. If

there wasn't danger and noise and good hard work wrastling with fire and

iron, and keeping a rough set of fellows in order, I shouldn't stay; for

the restless fit comes on sometimes, and I feel as if I must cut away

somewhere. Born so, and can't help it. Maybe I could, if I had something

to anchor me; but, as you say, 'Nobody would care much if I was in the

river,' and that's bad for a chap like me."

"Sally would care," said the girl, quite soberly; for she sympathized

now with the man's loneliness as she could not have done two years ago.

"So she would; but I'll take her with me when I leave--not for the

river, mind you. I'm in no danger of that nonsense now. But, if I go on

a tramp (and I may, if the fit gets too strong for me), she shall go

too; and we'll be Dick Whittington and his cat over again."

He spoke in a devil-may-care tone, and patted the plump Tabby with a

curious mixture of boyish recklessness and a man's sad knowledge of life

in his face.

"Don't go," pleaded Letty, feeling that she had a certain responsibility

in the matter. "I should mind, as well as Sally; for, if Aunt Liddy and

I helped put you in a good way, it would be a disappointment to have you

go wrong. Please stop here, and I'll try and come to see you work some

day, if I can get time. I'm likely to have plenty of it, I'm afraid."

She began eagerly, but ended with a despondent droop of the whole

figure, that made her new friend forget himself in interest for her.

"I'll stop, honor bright. And you come and look after me now and then.

That'll keep me steady. See if it don't. But tell me how you are getting

on? Little down on your luck just now, I guess? Come, I've told my

story, you tell yours, and maybe I can lend a hand. I owe you a good

turn, you know; and I'm one that likes to pay his debts, if he can."

"You did pay yours; but I never got the letter, for I came away after

Aunty died. You see I wasn't her own niece,--only sort of a distant

relation; and she took me because my own people were gone. Her son had

all she left,--it wasn't much; and she told him to be good to me. But I

soon saw that I was a burden, and couldn't bear to stay. So I went away,

to take care of myself. I liked it at first; but this winter, times are

so hard and work so scarce, I don't get on at all."

"What do you do, miss?" asked Whittington, with added respect; because

in her shabby dress and altered face he read the story of a struggle

Letty was too proud to tell.

"I sew," she answered briefly, smoothing out her wet shawl with a hand

so thin and small it was pathetic to see, when one remembered that

nothing but a needle in those slender fingers kept want and sin at bay.

The kindly fellow seemed to feel that; and, as his eye went from his own

strong right arm to the sledge-hammer it often swung, the instinct of

protection so keen in manly men made him long to stand between poor

Letty and the hard world he knew so well. The magnetism of sympathy

irresistibly attracted iron to steel, while little needle felt assured

that big hammer would be able to beat down many of the obstacles which

now seemed insurmountable, if she only dared to ask for aid. But help

came without the asking.

"Been after work, you say? Why, we could give you heaps of it, if you

don't mind it's being coarse and plain. This sort of thing, you know,"

touching his red shirt with a business-like air. "Our men use 'em

altogether, and like 'em strong in the seams. Some ain't, and buttons

fly off just looking at 'em. That makes a fellow mad, and swearing comes

easy."

But Letty shook her head, though she couldn't help smiling at his sober

way of explaining the case and its sad consequences.

"I've tried that work, and it doesn't pay. Six cents for a shirt, and

sometimes only four, isn't enough to earn one's board and clothes and

fire, even if one made half a dozen a day. _You_ can't get them for

that, and somebody grows rich while _we_ starve.

"Hanged if I ever buy another! See here, you make me enough for a year,

and we'll have a fair bargain between us. That is, if you can't do

better and don't mind," he added, suddenly abating his warmth and

looking almost bashful over the well-meant proposal.

"I'd love to do it. Only you mustn't pay too much," said Letty, glad of

any thing to keep her hands and thoughts busy, for life was very bare

and cold just then.

"All right. I'll see to it directly, and nobody be the wiser," returned

her new employer, privately resolving to order a bale of red flannel on

the morrow, and pay fabulous prices for the work of the little friend

who had once kept him from worse than starvation.

It was not much to offer, and red flannel was not a romantic subject of

conversation; but something in the prompt relief and the hearty

good-will of the man went to Letty's heart, already full to overflowing

with many cares and troubles. She tried to thank him, but could only

cover up her face and sob. It was so sweet and comfortable to find any

one who cared enough for her to lift her out of the slough of despond,

which was to her as dangerous a mood as the desperate one he had known.

There were hands enough to beckon the winsome creature to the wrong side

of the quagmire, where so many miss the stepping-stones; but she felt

that this was the right side, and the hand an honest one, though rough

and grimy with hard work. So the tears were glad and grateful tears, and

she let them flow, melting the fatal frost that had chilled her hope and

faith in God and man.

But the causer of them could not bear the sight, for the contrast

between this forlorn girl and the blithe, blooming Letty of that

memorable day was piteous. Manlike, he tried to express his sympathy in

deeds as well as words, and, hastily filling a tin cup from the

coffee-can, pressed it upon her with a fatherly stroke of the bent head

and a soothing,--

"Now, my dear, just take a sip of this, and don't cry any more. We'll

straighten things out. So cheer up, and let me lend a hand anywhere,

anyhow."

But hunger and fear, weariness and cold, had been too much for poor

Letty; and, in the act of lifting up her wet face to thank him, the

light left her eyes, and she would have slipped to the ground, if he had

not caught her.

In a minute she was herself again, lying on the old rug, with snow upon

her forehead and some one fanning her with a newspaper.

"I thought I was going to die," she whispered, looking about her in a

dazed sort of way.

"Not a bit of it! You're going to sleep. That's what you want, and old

Sally's going to sit by while you do it. It's a hardish pillow; but I've

put my handkerchief over it, and, being Monday, its spick-and-span

clean."

Letty smiled as she turned her cheek to the faded silk handkerchief laid

over the rolled-up coat under her head, for Pussy was nestling close

beside her, as if her presence was both a comfort and defence. Yet the

girl's eyes filled even while she smiled, for, when most desolate, a

friend had been raised up to her; and, though the face bending over her

was dark and shaggy, there was no fear in her own, as she said

half-appealingly, half-confidingly,--

"I don't believe I could go if I tried, I'm so worn out. But you'll take

care of me, and in the morning show me the way home?"

"Please God, I will!" he answered, as solemnly as if taking an oath,

adding, as he stepped back to the stool she had left: "I shall stay here

and read my paper. Nothing shall scare you; so make yourself

comfortable, and drop off with an easy mind."

Sitting there, he saw her lay her hands together, as if she said some

little prayer; then, turning her face from the light, she fell asleep,

lulled by the drowsy purr of the humble friend to whom she clung even in

her dreams. He only looked a minute, for something that was neither the

shimmer of firelight nor the glitter of snow-dust made the quiet group

dance mistily before his eyes; and, forgetting his paper, he fell to

drying Letty's hat.

It was both comical and pleasant to see how tenderly he touched the

battered thing, with what interest he surveyed it, perched on his big

hand, and how carefully he smoothed out the ribbons, evidently much

bewildered as to which was the front and which the back. Giving up the

puzzle, he hung it on the handle of the great hammer, and, leaning his

chin on his hand, began to build castles in the air and watch the red

embers, as if he saw in them some vision of the future that was very

pleasant.

Hour after hour struck from the city clocks across the river; the

lantern burned itself out, untrimmed; the storm died away; and a soft,

white silence followed the turmoil of the night. Still Letty slept like

a tired child, still old Sally, faithful to her trust, lay in the circle

of the girl's arm; and still the watchman sat before the fire, dreaming

waking dreams, as he had often done before; but never any half so

earnest, sweet, and hopeful as those that seemed to weave a tender

romance about the innocent sleeper, to whom he was loyally paying a debt

of gratitude with such poor hospitality as he could show.

Dawn came up rosy and clear along the east; and the first level ray of

wintry sunlight, as it struck across the foundry walls, fell on Letty's

placid face, with the bright hair shining like a halo round it.

Feeling very much as if he had entertained an angel unaware, the man

stood enjoying the pretty picture, hesitating to wake her, yet fearing

that a gruff hallo from old Sam might do it too suddenly. Somehow he

hated to have her go; for the gloomy foundry seemed an enchanted sort of

place this morning, with a purer heaven and earth outside, and within

the "little mate" whom he felt a strong desire to keep "always

alongside," for something better than luck's sake.

He was smiling to himself over the thought, yet half ashamed to own how

it had grown and strengthened in a night, when Letty opened wide a pair

of eyes full of the peace sleep brings and the soft lustre that comes

after tears. Involuntarily the man drew back, and waited silently for

her to speak. She looked bewildered for a moment, then remembered, and

sprang up, full of the relief and fresh gratitude that came with her

first waking thought.

"How long I've slept! How very kind you were to me! I can go now, if you

will start me right."

"You are heartily welcome! I can take you home at once, unless you'd

rather wait for Sam," he answered, with a quick look toward the door, as

if already jealous of the venerable Samuel.

"I'd rather go before any one comes. But perhaps you ought not to leave

yet? I wouldn't like to take you from your duty," began Letty, looking

about her for her hat.

"Duty be--hanged! I'm going to see you safe home, if you'll let me.

Here's your hat. I dried it; but it don't look quite shipshape somehow."

And taking the shabby little object from the nail where it hung, he

presented it with such respectful care that a glimmer of the old

mirthfulness came into Letty's face, as she said, surveying it with much

disfavor,--

"It is almost as bad as the one I gave you; but it must do."

"I've got that old thing up at my place now. Keep it for luck. Wish I

had one for you. Hold on! Here's a tippet--nice and warm. Have it for a

hood. You'll find it cold outside."

He was so intent on making her comfortable that Letty could not refuse,

and tied on the tippet, while he refilled the cup with hot coffee,

carefully saved for her.

"Little Red Riding Hood! Blest if you ain't!" he exclaimed admiringly,

as he turned to her again, and saw the sweet face in its new head-gear.

"But you are not the wolf," she answered, with a smile like sunshine,

bending to drink from the cup he held.

As she lifted her head, the blue eyes and the black exchanged again the

subtle glance of sympathy that made them friends before; only now the

blue ones looked up full of gratitude, and the black ones looked down

soft with pity. Neither spoke; but Letty stooped, and, gathering old

Sally in her arms, kissed the friendly creature, then followed her guide

to the door.

"How beautiful!" she cried, as the sun came dazzling down upon the snow,

that hid all dark and ugly things with a veil of purity.

"Looks kind of bridal, don't it?" said the man, taking a long breath of

the frosty air, and straightening himself up, as if anxious to look his

best by daylight.

He never had looked better, in spite of the old coat and red shirt; for

the glow of the furnace-fire still seemed to touch his brown face, the

happy visions of the night still shone in his eyes, and the protective

kindliness of a generous nature gave dignity to the rough figure, as he

strode into the snow and stretched his hand to Letty, saying cheerily,--

"Pretty deep, but hold on to me, and I'll get you through. Better take

my hand; I washed it a-purpose."

Letty did take it in both her little ones; and they went away together

through the deserted streets, feeling as if they were the only pair

alive in the still white world that looked so lovely in the early

sunshine.

The girl was surprised to find how short the way seemed; for, in spite

of drifts, she got on bravely, with a strong arm to help and a friendly

voice to encourage her. Yet when she reached the last corner she

stopped, and said, with a sudden shyness which he understood and

liked,--

"I'd best go on alone now. But I'm very grateful to you! Please tell me

your name. I'd love to know who my friend is, though I never shall

forget his kindness."

"Nor I yours. Joe Stone is my name. But I'd rather you called me your

tramp till we get something better," he answered, with a laugh in his

eyes, as he bent toward her for a hearty shake of the slender hand that

had grown warm in his.

"I will! Good-by, good-by!" And, suddenly remembering how they parted

before, Letty blushed like a rose, and ran away as fast as the drifts

would let her.

"And I'll call you my Letty some day, if I'm not much mistaken," Joe

said to himself, with a decided nod, as he went back to the foundry,

feeling that the world looked more "sort of bridal" than ever.

He was not mistaken; for, when spring budded, his dream came true, and

in the little sewing-girl, who bound him with a silken thread so soft

and strong it never broke, he found an anchor that held him fast to

happiness and home. To Letty something wonderful happened at last. The

prince came when most she needed him; and, though even when the beggar's

rags fell off his only crown was the old hat, his royal robes red

flannel and fustian, his sceptre a sledge-hammer, she knew and loved

him, for

"The man was a man for a' that."

SCARLET STOCKINGS.

CHAPTER I.

_HOW THEY WALKED INTO LENNOX'S LIFE_

"Come out for a drive, Harry?"

"Too cold."

"Have a game of billiards?"

"Too tired."

"Go and call on the Fairchilds?"

"Having an unfortunate prejudice against country girls, I respectfully

decline."

"What will you do, then?"

"Nothing, thank you."

And, settling himself more luxuriously upon the couch, Lennox closed his

eyes, and appeared to slumber tranquilly. Kate shook her head, and stood

regarding her brother despondently, till a sudden idea made her turn

toward the window, exclaiming abruptly,--

"Scarlet stockings, Harry!"

"Where?" and, as if the words were a spell to break the deepest

day-dream, Lennox hurried to the window, with an unusual expression of

interest in his listless face.

"I thought that would succeed! She isn't there, but I've got you up, and

you are not to go down again," laughed Kate, taking possession of the

sofa.

"Not a bad manoeuvre. I don't mind: it's about time for the one

interesting event of the day to occur, so I'll watch for myself, thank

you," and Lennox took the easy chair by the window with a shrug and a

yawn.

"I'm glad any thing does interest you," said Kate, petulantly. "I don't

think it amounts to much, for, though you perch yourself at the window

every day to see that girl pass, you don't care enough about it to ask

her name."

"I've been waiting to be told."

"It's Belle Morgan, the doctor's daughter, and my dearest friend."

"Then, of course, she is a blue-belle?"

"Don't try to be witty or sarcastic with her, for she will beat you at

that."

"Not a dumb-belle, then?"

"Quite the reverse: she talks a good deal, and very well, too, when she

likes."

"She is very pretty: has anybody the right to call her 'Ma belle'?"

"Many would be glad to do so, but she won't have any thing to say to

them."

"A Canterbury belle, in every sense of the word, then?"

"She might be, for all Canterbury loves her; but she isn't fashionable,

and has more friends among the poor than among the rich."

"Ah, I see, a diving-bell, who knows how to go down into a sea of

troubles, and bring up the pearls worth having."

"I'll tell her that, it will please her. You are really waking up,

Harry," and Kate smiled approvingly upon him.

"This page of 'Belle's Life' is rather amusing, so read away," said

Lennox, glancing up-the street, as if he awaited the appearance of the

next edition with pleasure.

"There isn't much to tell; she is a nice, bright, energetic,

warm-hearted dear; the pride of the doctor's heart, and a favorite with

every one, though she is odd."

"How odd?"

"Does and says what she likes, is very blunt and honest, has ideas and

principles of her own, goes to parties in high dresses, won't dance

round dances, and wears red stockings, though Mrs. Plantagenet says it's

fast."

"Rather a jolly little person, I fancy. Why haven't we met her at some

of the tea-fights and muffin-worries we've been to lately?"

"It may make you angry, but it will do you good, so I'll tell. She

didn't care enough about seeing the distinguished stranger to come;

that's the truth."

"Sensible girl, to spare herself hours of mortal dulness, gossip, and

dyspepsia," was the placid reply.

"She has seen you, though, at church, and dawdling about town, and she

called you 'Sir Charles Coldstream,' on the spot. How does that suit?"

asked Kate, maliciously.

"Not bad; I rather like that. Wish she'd call some day, and stir us up."

"She won't; I asked her, but she said she was very busy, and told Jessy

Tudor she wasn't fond of peacocks."

"I don't exactly see the connection."

"Stupid boy! she meant you, of course."

"Oh, I'm peacocks, am I?"

"I don't wish to be rude, but I really do think you _are_ vain of your

good looks, elegant accomplishments, and the impression you make

wherever you go. When it's worth while, you exert yourself, and are

altogether fascinating; but the 'I come-see-and-conquer' air you put on

spoils it all for sensible people."

"It strikes me that Miss Morgan has slightly infected you with her

oddity, as far as bluntness goes. Fire away! it's rather amusing to be

abused when one is dying of ennui."

"That's grateful and complimentary to me, when I have devoted myself to

you ever since you came. But every thing bores you, and the only sign of

interest you've shown is in those absurd red hose. I _should_ like to

know what the charm is," said Kate, sharply.

"Impossible to say; accept the fact calmly as I do, and be grateful that

there is one glimpse of color, life, and spirit in this aristocratic

tomb of a town."

"You are not obliged to stay in it!" fiercely.

"Begging your pardon, my dove, but I am. I promised to give you my

enlivening society for a month, and a Lennox keeps his word, even at the

cost of his life."

"I'm sorry I asked such a sacrifice; but I innocently thought that,

after being away for five long years, you might care to see your orphan

sister," and the dove produced her handkerchief with a plaintive sniff.

"Now, my dear creature, don't be melodramatic, I beg of you!" cried her

brother, imploringly. "I wished to come, I pined to embrace you, and, I

give you my word, I don't blame you for the stupidity of this confounded

place."

"It never was so gay as since you came, for every one has tried to make

it pleasant for you," cried Kate, ruffled at his indifference to the

hospitable efforts of herself and friends. "But you don't care for any

of our simple amusements, because you are spoilt by the flattery,

gayety, and nonsense of foreign society. If I didn't know it was half

affectation, I should be in despair, you are so _blase_ and absurd. It's

always the way with men: if one happens to be handsome, accomplished,

and talented, he puts on as many airs, and is as vain as any silly

girl."

"Don't you think if you took breath you'd get on faster, my dear?" asked

the imperturbable gentleman, as Kate paused with a gasp.

"I know it's useless for me to talk, as you don't care a straw what I

say; but it's true, and some day you'll wish you had done something

worth doing all these years. I was so proud of you, so fond of you, that

I can't help being disappointed to find you with no more ambition than

to kill time comfortably, no interest in any thing but your own

pleasures, and only energy enough to amuse yourself with a pair of

scarlet stockings."

Pathetic as poor Kate's face and voice were, it was impossible to help

laughing at the comical conclusion of her lament. Lennox tried to hide

the smile on his lips by affecting to curl his moustache with care, and

to gaze pensively out as if touched by her appeal. But he wasn't,--oh,

bless you, no! she was only his sister, and, though she might have

talked with the wisdom of Solomon and the eloquence of Demosthenes, it

wouldn't have done a particle of good. Sisters do very well to work for

one, to pet one, and play confidante when one's love affairs need

feminine wit to conduct them; but when they begin to reprove, or

criticise, or moralize, it won't do, and can't be allowed, of course.

Lennox never snubbed anybody, but blandly extinguished them by a polite

acquiescence in all their affirmations, for the time being, and then

went on in his own way as if nothing had been said.

"I dare say you are right; I'll go and think over your very sensible

advice," and, as if roused to unwonted exertion by the stings of an

accusing conscience, he left the room abruptly.

"I do believe I've made an impression at last! He's actually gone out to

think over what I've said. Dear Harry, I was sure he had a heart, if one

only knew how to get at it!" and with a sigh of satisfaction Kate went

to the window to behold the "Dear Harry" going briskly down the street

after a pair of scarlet stockings. A spark of anger kindled in her eyes

as she watched him, and when he vanished she still stood knitting her

brows in deep thought, for a grand idea was dawning upon her.

It _was_ a dull town; no one could deny that, for everybody was so

intensely proper and well-born that nobody dared to be jolly. All the

houses were square, aristocratic mansions with Revolutionary elms in

front and spacious coach-houses behind. The knockers had a supercilious

perk to their bronze or brass noses, the dandelions on the lawns had a

highly connected air, and the very pigs were evidently descended from

"our first families." Stately dinner-parties, decorous dances, moral

picnics, and much tea-pot gossiping were the social resources of the

place. Of course, the young people flirted, for that diversion is

apparently irradicable even in the "best society," but it was done with

a propriety which was edifying to behold.

One can easily imagine that such a starched state of things would not be

particularly attractive to a travelled young gentleman like Lennox, who,

as Kate very truly said, _had_ been spoilt by the flattery, luxury, and

gayety of foreign society. He did his best, but by the end of the first

week ennui claimed him for its own, and passive endurance was all that

was left him. From perfect despair he was rescued by the scarlet

stockings, which went tripping by one day as he stood at the window,

planning some means of escape.

A brisk, blithe-faced girl passed in a gray walking suit with a

distracting pair of high-heeled boots and glimpses of scarlet at the

ankle. Modest, perfectly so, I assure you, were the glimpses; but the

feet were so decidedly pretty that one forgot to look at the face

appertaining thereunto. It wasn't a remarkably lovely face, but it was a

happy, wholesome one, with all sorts of good little dimples in cheek and

chin, sunshiny twinkles in the black eyes, and a decided yet lovable

look about the mouth that was quite satisfactory. A busy, bustling

little body she seemed to be, for sack-pockets and muff were full of

bundles, and the trim boots tripped briskly over the ground, as if the

girl's heart were as light as her heels. Somehow this active, pleasant

figure seemed to wake up the whole street, and leave a streak of

sunshine behind it, for every one nodded as it passed, and the primmest

faces relaxed into smiles, which lingered when the girl had gone.

"Uncommonly pretty feet,--she walks well, which American girls seldom

do,--all waddle or prance,--nice face, but the boots are French, and it

does my heart good to see them."

Lennox made these observations to himself as the young lady approached,

nodded to Kate at another window, gave a quick but comprehensive glance

at himself and trotted round the corner, leaving the impression on his

mind that a whiff of fresh spring air had blown through the street in

spite of the December snow. He didn't trouble himself to ask who it was,

but fell into the way of lounging in the bay-window at about three P.M.,

and watching the gray and scarlet figure pass with its blooming cheeks,

bright eyes, and elastic step. Having nothing else to do, he took to

petting this new whim, and quite depended on the daily stirring up which

the sight of the energetic damsel gave him. Kate saw it all, but took no

notice till the day of the little tiff above recorded; after that she

was as soft as a summer sea, and by some clever stroke had Belle Morgan

to tea that very week.

Lennox was one of the best-tempered fellows in the world, but the

"peacocks" did rather nettle him, because there was some truth in the

insinuation; so he took care to put on no airs or try to be fascinating

in the presence of Miss Belle. In truth, he soon forgot himself

entirely, and enjoyed her oddities with a relish, after the prim

proprieties of the other young ladies who had simpered and sighed before

him. For the first time in his life, the "Crusher," as his male friends

called him, got crushed; for Belle, with the subtle skill of a

quick-witted, keen-sighted girl, soon saw and condemned the elegant

affectations which others called foreign polish. A look, a word, a

gesture from a pretty woman, is often more eloquent and impressive than

moral essays or semi-occasional twinges of conscience; and in the

presence of one satirical little person Sir Charles Coldstream soon

ceased to deserve the name.

Belle seemed to get over her hurry and to find time for occasional

relaxation, but one never knew in what mood he might find her, for the

weathercock was not more changeable than she. Lennox liked that, and

found the muffin-worries quite endurable with this _sauce piquante_ to

relieve their insipidity. Presently he discovered that he was suffering

for exercise, and formed the wholesome habit of promenading the town

about three P.M.; Kate said, to follow the scarlet stockings.

CHAPTER II.

_WHERE THEY LED HIM._

"Whither away, Miss Morgan?" asked Lennox, as he overtook her one bitter

cold day.

"I'm taking my constitutional."

"So am I."

"With a difference," and Belle glanced at the blue-nosed, muffled-up

gentleman strolling along beside her with an occasional shiver and

shrug.

"After a winter in the south of France, one does not find arctic weather

like this easy to bear," he said, with a disgusted air.

"I like it, and do my five or six miles a day, which keeps me in what

fine ladies call 'rude health,'" answered Belle, walking him on at a

pace which soon made his furs a burden.

She was a famous pedestrian, and a little proud of her-powers; but she

outdid all former feats that day, and got over the ground in gallant

style. Something in her manner put her escort on his mettle; and his

usual lounge was turned into a brisk march, which set his blood dancing,

face glowing, and spirits effervescing as they had not done for many a

day.

"There! you look more like your real self now," said Belle, with the

first sign of approval she had ever vouch-safed him, as he rejoined her

after a race to recover her veil, which the wind whisked away over hedge

and ditch.

"Are you sure you know what my real self is?" he asked, with a touch of

the "conquering hero" air.

"Not a doubt of it. I always know a soldier when I see one," returned

Belle, decidedly.

"A soldier! that's the last thing I should expect to be accused of," and

Lennox looked both surprised and gratified.

"There's a flash in your eye and a ring to your voice, occasionally,

which made me suspect that you had fire and energy enough if you only

chose to show it, and the spirit with which you have just executed the

'Morgan Quickstep' proves that I was right," returned Belle, laughing.

"Then I am not altogether a 'peacock'?" said Lennox, significantly, for

during the chat, which had been as brisk as the walk, Belle had given

his besetting sins several sly hits, and he couldn't resist one return

shot, much as her unexpected compliment pleased him.

Poor Belle blushed up to her forehead, tried to look as if she did not

understand, and gladly hid her confusion behind the recovered veil

without a word.

There was a decided display both of the "flash" and the "ring," as

Lennox looked at the suddenly subdued young lady, and, quite satisfied

with his retaliation, gave the order, "Forward, march!" which brought

them to the garden-gate breathless, but better friends than before.

The next time the young people met, Belle was in such a hurry that she

went round the corner with an abstracted expression which was quite a

triumph of art. Just then, off tumbled the lid of the basket she

carried; and Lennox, rescuing it from a puddle, obligingly helped

readjust it over a funny collection of bottles, dishes, and tidy little

rolls of all sorts.

"It's very heavy, mayn't I carry it for you?" he asked, in an

insinuating manner.

"No, thank you," was on Belle's lips; but, observing that he was dressed

with unusual elegance to pay calls, she couldn't resist the temptation

of making a beast of burden of him, and took him at his word.

"You may, if you like. I've got more bundles to take from the store, and

another pair of hands won't come amiss."

Lennox lifted his eyebrows, also the basket; and they went on again,

Belle very much absorbed in her business, and her escort wondering where

she was going with all that rubbish. Filling his unoccupied hand with

sundry brown paper parcels, much to the detriment of the light glove

that covered it, Belle paraded him down the main street before the

windows of the most aristocratic mansions, and then dived into a dirty

back-lane, where the want and misery of the town was decorously kept out

of sight.

"You don't mind scarlet fever, I suppose?" observed Belle, as they

approached the unsavory residence of Biddy O'Brien.

"Well, I'm not exactly partial to it," said Lennox, rather taken aback.

"You needn't go in if you are afraid, or speak to me afterwards, so no

harm will be done--except to your gloves."

"Why do _you_ come here, if I may ask? It isn't the sort of amusement I

should recommend," he began, evidently disapproving of the step.

"Oh, I'm used to it, and like to play nurse where father plays doctor.

I'm fond of children and Mrs. O'Brien's are little dears," returned

Belle, briskly, threading her way between ash-heaps and mud-puddles as

if bound to a festive scene.

"Judging from the row in there, I should infer that Mrs. O'Brien had

quite a herd of little dears."

"Only nine."

"And all sick?"

"More or less."

"By Jove! it's perfectly heroic in you to visit this hole in spite of

dirt, noise, fragrance, and infection," cried Lennox, who devoutly

wished that the sense of smell if not of hearing were temporarily denied

him.

"Bless you, it's the sort of thing I enjoy, for there's no nonsense

here; the work you do is pleasant if you do it heartily, and the thanks

you get are worth having, I assure you."

She put out her hand to relieve him of the basket, but he gave it an

approving little shake, and said briefly,--

"Not yet, I'm coming in."

It's all very well to rhapsodize about the exquisite pleasure of doing

good, to give carelessly of one's abundance, and enjoy the delusion of

having remembered the poor. But it is a cheap charity, and never brings

the genuine satisfaction which those know who give their mite with heart

as well as hand, and truly love their neighbor as themselves. Lennox had

seen much fashionable benevolence, and laughed at it even while he

imitated it, giving generously when it wasn't inconvenient. But this was

a new sort of thing entirely; and in spite of the dirt, the noise, and

the smells, he forgot the fever, and was glad he came when poor Mrs.

O'Brien turned from her sick babies, exclaiming, with Irish fervor at

sight of Belle,--

"The Lord love ye, darlin, for remimberin us when ivery one, barrin' the

doctor, and the praste, turns the cowld shouldther in our throuble!"

"Now if you really want to help, just keep this child quiet while I see

to the sickest ones," said Belle, dumping a stout infant on to his knee,

thrusting an orange into his hand, and leaving him aghast while she

unpacked her little messes, and comforted the maternal bird.

With the calmness of desperation, her aid-de-camp put down his best

beaver on the rich soil which covered the floor, pocketed his gloves,

and, making a bib of his cambric handkerchief, gagged young Pat

deliciously with bits of orange whenever he opened his mouth to roar. At

her first leisure moment, Belle glanced at him to see how he was getting

on, and found him so solemnly absorbed in his task that she went off

into a burst of such infectious merriment that the O'Briens, sick and

well, joined in it to a man.

"Good fun, isn't it?" she asked, turning down her cuffs when the last

spoonful of gruel was administered.

"I've no doubt of it, when one is used to the thing. It comes a little

hard at first, you know," returned Lennox, wiping his forehead, with a

long breath, and seizing his hat as if quite ready to tear himself away.

"You've done very well for a beginner; so kiss the baby and come home,"

said Belle approvingly.

"No, thank you," muttered Lennox, trying to detach the bedaubed

innocent. But little Pat had a grateful heart, and, falling upon his new

nurse's neck with a rapturous crow, clung there like a burr.

"Take him off! Let me out of this! He's one too many for me!" cried the

wretched young man in comic despair.

Being freed with much laughter, he turned and fled, followed by a shower

of blessings from Mrs. O'Brien.

As they came up again into the pleasant highways, Lennox said, awkwardly

for him,--

"The thanks of the poor _are_ excellent things to have, but I think I'd

rather receive them by proxy. Will you kindly spend this for me in

making that poor soul comfortable?"

But Belle wouldn't take what he offered her; she put it back, saying

earnestly,--

"Give it yourself; one can't buy blessings,--they must be _earned_ or

they are not worth having. Try it, please, and, if you find it a

failure, then I'll gladly be your almoner."

There was a significance in her words which he could not fail to

understand. He neither shrugged, drawled, nor sauntered now, but gave

her a look in which respect and self-reproach were mingled, and left

her, simply saying, "I'll try it, Miss Morgan."

"Now isn't she odd?" whispered Kate to her brother, as Belle appeared at

a little dance at Mrs. Plantagenet's in a high-necked dress, knitting

away on an army-sock, as she greeted the friends who crowded round her.

"Charmingly so. Why don't you do that sort of thing when you can?"

answered her brother, glancing at her thin, bare shoulders, and hands

rendered nearly useless by the tightness of the gloves.

"Gracious, no! It's natural to her to do so, and she carries it off

well; I couldn't, therefore I don't try, though I admire it in her. Go

and ask her to dance, before she is engaged."

"She doesn't dance round dances, you know."

"She is dreadfully prim about some things, and so free and easy about

others: I can't understand it, do you?"

"Well, yes, I think I do. Here's Forbes coming for you, I'll go and

entertain Belle by a quarrel."

He found her in a recess out of the way of the rushing and romping, busy

with her work, yet evidently glad to be amused.

"I admire your adherence to principle, Miss Belle; but don't you find it

a little hard to sit still while your friends are enjoying themselves?"

he asked, sinking luxuriously into the lounging chair beside her.

"Yes, very," answered Belle with characteristic candor. "But father does

not approve of that sort of exercise, so I console myself with something

useful till my chance comes."

"Your work can't exactly be called ornamental," said Lennox, looking at

the big sock.

"Don't laugh at it, sir; it is for the foot of the brave fellow who is

going to fight for me and his country."

"Happy fellow! May I ask who he is?" and Lennox sat up with an air of

interest.

"My substitute: I don't know his name, for father has not got him yet;

but I'm making socks, and towels, and a comfort-bag for him, so that

when found he may be off at once."

"You really mean it?" cried Lennox.

"Of course I do; I can't go myself, but I _can_ buy a pair of strong

arms to fight for me, and I intend to do it. I only hope he'll have the

right sort of courage, and be a credit to me."

"What do you call the right sort of courage?" asked Lennox, soberly.

"That which makes a man ready and glad to live or die for a principle.

There's a chance for heroes now, if there ever was. When do you join

your regiment?" she added, abruptly.

"Haven't the least idea," and Lennox subsided again.

"But you intend to do so, of course?"

"Why should I?"

Belle dropped her work. "Why should you? What a question! Because you

have health, and strength, and courage, and money to help on the good

cause, and every man should give his best, and not _dare_ to stay at

home when he is needed."

"You forget that I am an Englishman, and we rather prefer to be strictly

neutral just now."

"You are only half English; and for your mother's sake you should be

proud and glad to fight for the North," cried Belle warmly.

"I don't remember my mother,--"

"That's evident!"

"But, I was about to add, I've no objection to lend a hand if it isn't

too much trouble to get off," said Lennox indifferently, for he liked to

see Belle's color rise, and her eyes kindle while he provoked her.

"Do you expect to go South in a bandbox? You'd better join one of the

kid-glove regiments; they say the dandies fight well when the time

comes."

"I've been away so long, the patriotic fever hasn't seized me yet; and,

as the quarrel is none of mine, I think perhaps I'd better take care of

Kate, and let you fight it out among yourselves. Here's the Lancers, may

I have the honor?"

But Belle, being very angry at this lukewarmness, answered in her

bluntest manner,--

"Having reminded me that you are a 'strictly neutral' Englishman, you

must excuse me if I decline; _I_ dance only with loyal Americans," and,

rolling up her work with a defiant flourish, she walked away, leaving

him to lament his loss and wonder how he could retrieve it. She did not

speak to him again till he stood in the hall waiting for Kate; then

Belle came down in a charming little red hood, and going straight up to

him with her hand out, a repentant look and a friendly smile, said

frankly,--

"I was very rude; I want to beg pardon of the English, and shake hands

with the American, half."

So peace was declared, and lasted unbroken for the remaining week of his

stay, when he proposed to take Kate to the city for a little gayety.

Miss Morgan openly approved the plan, but secretly felt as if the town

was about to be depopulated, and tried to hide her melancholy in her

substitute's socks. They were not large enough, however, to absorb it

all; and, when Lennox went to make his adieu, it was perfectly evident

that the Doctor's Belle was out of tune. The young gentleman basely

exulted over this, till she gave him something else to think about by

saying gravely:

"Before you go, I feel as if I ought to tell you something, since Kate

won't. If you are offended about it please don't blame her; she meant it

kindly, and so did I." Belle paused as if it was not an easy thing to

tell and then went on quickly, with her eyes upon her work.

"Three weeks ago Kate asked me to help her in a little plot; and I

consented, for the fun of the thing She wanted something to amuse and

stir you up, and, finding that my queer ways diverted you, she begged me

to be neighborly and let you do what you liked. I didn't care

particularly about amusing you, but I did think you needed rousing; so

for her sake I tried to do it, and you very good-naturedly bore my

lecturing. I don't like deceit of any kind, so I confess; but I can't

say I'm sorry, for I really think you are none the worse for the teasing

and teaching you've had."

Belle didn't see him flush and frown as she made her confession, and

when she looked up he only said, half gratefully, half reproachfully,--

"I'm a good deal the better for it, I dare say, and ought to be very

thankful for your friendly exertions. But two against one was hardly

fair, now, was it?"

"No, it was sly and sinful in the highest degree, but we did it for your

good; so I know you'll forgive us, and as a proof of it sing one or two

of my favorites for the last time."

"You don't deserve any favor; but I'll do it, to show you how much more

magnanimous men are than women."

Not at all loth to improve his advantages, Lennox warbled his most

melting lays _con amore_, watching, as he sung, for any sign of

sentiment in the girlish face opposite. But Belle wouldn't be

sentimental; and sat rattling her knitting-needles industriously, though

"The Harbor Bar was moaning" dolefully, though "Douglas" was touchingly

"tender and true," and the "Wind of the Summer Night" sighed

romantically through the sitting-room.

"Much obliged. Must you go?" she said, without a sign of soft confusion

as he rose.

"I must; but I shall come again before I leave the country. May I?" he

asked, holding her hand.

"If you come in a uniform."

"Good night, Belle," tenderly.--"Good-by, Sir Charles," with a wicked

twinkle of the eye, which lasted till he closed the hall-door, growling

irefully,--

"I thought I'd had some experience, but one never _can_ understand these

women!"

Canterbury did become a desert to Belle after her dear friend had gone

(of course the dear friend's brother had nothing to do with the

desolation); and as the weeks dragged slowly Belle took to reading

poetry, practising plaintive ballads, and dawdling over her work at a

certain window which commanded a view of the railway station and hotel.

"You're dull, my dear; run up to town with me to-morrow, and see your

young man off," said the Doctor one evening, as Belle sat musing with a

half-mended red stocking in her hand.

"My young man?" she ejaculated, turning with a start and a blush.

"Your substitute, child. Stephens attended to the business for me, and

he's off to-morrow. I began to tell you about the fellow last week, but

you were wool-gathering, so I stopped."

"Yes, I remember, it was all very nice. Goes to-morrow, does he? I'd

like to see him; but do you think we can both leave home at once? Some

one might come you know, and I fancy it's going to snow," said Belle,

putting her face behind the curtain to inspect the weather.

"You'd better go, the trip will do you good; you can take your things to

Tom Jones, and see Kate on the way: she's got back from Philadelphia."

"Has she? I'll go, then; it will please her, and I do need change. You

are a dear, to think of it;" and, giving her father a hasty glimpse of a

suddenly excited countenance, Belle slipped out of the room to prepare

her best array, with a most reckless disregard of the impending storm.

It did not snow on the morrow, and up they went to see the --th regiment

off. Belle did not see "her young man," however, for while her father

went to carry him her comforts and a patriotic nosegay of red and white

flowers, tied up with a smart blue ribbon, she called on Kate. But Miss

Lennox was engaged, and sent an urgent request that her friend would

call in the afternoon. Much disappointed and a little hurt, Belle then

devoted herself to the departing regiment, wishing she was going with

it, for she felt in a warlike mood. It was past noon when a burst of

martial music, the measured tramp of many feet, and enthusiastic cheers

announced that "the boys" were coming. From the balcony where she stood

with her father, Belle looked down upon the living stream that flowed by

like a broad river, with a steely glitter above the blue. All her petty

troubles vanished at the sight; her heart beat high, her face glowed,

her eyes filled, and she waved her handkerchief as zealously as if she

had a dozen friends and lovers in the ranks below.

"Here comes your man; I told him to stick the posy where it would catch

my eye, so I could point him out to you. Look, it's the tall fellow at

the end of the front line," said the Doctor in an excited tone, as he

pointed and beckoned.

Belle looked and gave a little cry, for there, in a private's uniform,

with her nosegay at his button-hole, and on his face a smile she never

forgot, was Lennox! For an instant she stood staring at him as pale and

startled as if he were a ghost; then the color rushed into her face, she

kissed both hands to him, and cried bravely, "Good-by, good-by; God

bless you, Harry!" and immediately laid her head on her father's

shoulder, sobbing as if her heart was broken.

When she looked up, her substitute was lost in the undulating mass

below, and for her the spectacle was over.

"Was it really he? Why wasn't I told? What does it all mean?" she

demanded, looking bewildered, grieved, and ashamed.

"He's really gone, my dear. It's a surprise of his, and I was bound over

to silence. Here, this will explain the joke, I suppose," and the Doctor

handed her a cocked-hat note, done up like a military order.

"A Roland for your Oliver, Mademoiselle! I came home for the

express purpose of enlisting, and only delayed a month on

Kate's account. If I ever return, I will receive my bounty at

your hands. Till then please comfort Kate, think as kindly as

you can of 'Sir Charles,' and sometimes pray a little prayer

for

"Your unworthy

"Substitute."

Belle looked very pale and meek when she put the note in her pocket, but

she only said, "I must go and comfort Kate;" and the Doctor gladly

obeyed, feeling that the joke was more serious than he had imagined.

The moment her friend appeared, Miss Lennox turned on her tears, and

"played away," pouring forth lamentations, reproaches, and regrets in a

steady stream.

"I hope you are satisfied now, you cruel girl!" she began, refusing to

be kissed. "You've sent him off with a broken heart to rush into danger

and be shot, or get his arms and legs spoiled. You know he loved you and

wanted to tell you so, but you wouldn't let him; and now you've driven

him away, and he's gone as an insignificant private with his head

shaved, and a heavy knapsack breaking his back, and a horrid gun that

will be sure to explode: and he _would_ wear those immense blue socks

you sent, for he adores you, and you only teased and laughed at him, my

poor, deluded, deserted brother!" And, quite overwhelmed by the

afflicting picture, Kate lifted up her voice and wept again.

"I _am_ satisfied, for he's done what I hoped he would; and he's none

the less a gentleman because he's a private and wears my socks. I pray

they will keep him safe, and bring him home to us when he has done his

duty like a man, as I know he will. I'm proud of my brave substitute,

and I'll try to be worthy of him," cried Belle, kindling beautifully as

she looked out into the wintry sunshine with a new softness in the eyes

that still seemed watching that blue-coated figure marching away to

danger, perhaps death.

"It's ill playing with edged tools; we meant to amuse him, and we may

have sent him to destruction. I'll never forgive you for your part,

never!" said Kate, with the charming inconsistency of her sex.

But Belle turned away her wrath by a soft answer, as she whispered, with

a tender choke in her voice,--

"We both loved him, dear; let's comfort one another."

CHAPTER III.

_WHAT BECAME OF THEM._

Private Lennox certainly _had_ chosen pretty hard work, for the --th was

not a "kid-glove" regiment by any means; fighting in mid-winter was not

exactly festive, and camps do not abound in beds of roses even at the

best of times. But Belle was right in saying she knew a soldier when she

saw him, for, now that he was thoroughly waked up, he proved that there

was plenty of courage, energy, and endurance in him.

It is my private opinion that he might now and then have slightly

regretted the step he had taken, had it not been for certain

recollections of a sarcastic tongue and a pair of keen eyes, not to

mention the influence of one of the most potent rulers of the human

heart; namely, the desire to prove himself worthy the respect, if

nothing more, of somebody at home. Belle's socks did seem to keep him

safe, and lead him straight in the narrow path of duty. Belle's

comfort-bag was such in very truth, for not one of the stout needles on

the tri-colored cushion but what seemed to wink its eye approvingly at

him; not one of the tidy balls of thread that did not remind him of the

little hand he coveted, and the impracticable scissors were cherished as

a good omen, though he felt that the sharpest steel that ever came from

Sheffield couldn't cut his love in twain. And Belle's lessons, short as

they had been, were not forgotten, but seemed to have been taken up by a

sterner mistress, whose rewards were greater, if not so sweet, as those

the girl could give. There was plenty of exercise nowadays, and of hard

work that left many a tired head asleep for ever under the snow. There

were many opportunities for diving "into the depths and bringing up

pearls worth having" by acts of kindness among the weak, the wicked, and

the suffering all about him. He learned now how to earn, not buy, the

thanks of the poor, and unconsciously proved in the truest way that a

private _could_ be a gentleman. But best of all was the steadfast

purpose "to live and die for a principle," which grew and strengthened

with each month of bitter hardship, bloody strife, and dearly bought

success. Life grew earnest to him, time seemed precious, self was

forgotten, and all that was best and bravest rallied round the flag on

which his heart inscribed the motto, "Love and Liberty."

Praise and honor he could not fail to win, and had he never gone back to

claim his bounty he would have earned the great "Well done," for he kept

his oath loyally, did his duty manfully, and loved his lady faithfully,

like a knight of the chivalrous times. He knew nothing of her secret,

but wore her blue ribbon like an order, never went into battle without

first, like many another poor fellow, kissing something which he carried

next his heart, and with each day of absence felt himself a better man,

and braver soldier, for the fondly foolish romance he had woven about

the scarlet stockings.

Belle and Kate did comfort one another, not only with tears and kisses,

but with womanly work which kept hearts happy and hands busy. How Belle

bribed her to silence will always remain the ninth wonder of the world;

but, though reams of paper passed between brother and sister during

those twelve months, not a hint was dropped on one side in reply to

artful inquiries from the other. Belle never told her love in words; but

she stowed away an unlimited quantity of the article in the big boxes

that went to gladden the eyes and--alas for romance!--the stomach of

Private Lennox. If pickles could typify passion, cigars prove constancy,

and gingerbread reveal the longings of the soul, then would the

above-mentioned gentleman have been the happiest of lovers. But

camp-life had doubtless dulled his finer intuitions: for he failed to

understand the new language of love, and gave away these tender tokens

with lavish prodigality. Concealment preyed a trifle on Belle's damask

cheek, it must be confessed, and the keen eyes grew softer with the

secret tears that sometimes dimmed them; the sharp tongue seldom did

mischief now, but uttered kindly words to every one, as if doing penance

for the past; and a sweet seriousness toned down the lively spirit,

which was learning many things in the sleepless nights that followed

when the "little prayer" for the beloved substitute was done.

"I'll wait and see if he is all I hope he will be, before I let him

know. I shall read the truth the instant I see him, and if he has stood

the test I'll run into his arms and tell him every thing," she said to

herself, with delicious thrills at the idea; but you may be sure she did

nothing of the sort when the time came.

A rumor flew through the town one day that Lennox had arrived; upon

receipt of which joyful tidings, Belle had a panic and hid herself in

the garret. But when she had quaked, and cried, and peeped, and listened

for an hour or two, finding that no one came to hunt her up, she

composed her nerves and descended to pass the afternoon in the parlor

and a high state of dignity. All sorts of reports reached her: he was

mortally wounded; he had been made a major or a colonel or a general, no

one knew exactly which; he was dead, was going to be married, and hadn't

come at all. Belle fully expiated all her small sins by the agonies of

suspense she suffered that day, and when at last a note came from Kate,

begging her "to drop over to see Harry," she put her pride in her pocket

and went at once.

The drawing-room was empty and in confusion, there was a murmur of

voices upstairs, a smell of camphor in the air, and an empty wine-glass

on the table where a military cap was lying. Belle's heart sunk, and she

covertly kissed the faded blue coat as she stood waiting breathlessly,

wondering if Harry had any arms for her to run into. She heard the

chuckling Biddy lumber up and announce her, then a laugh, and a

half-fond, half-exulting, "Ah, ha, I thought she'd come!"

That spoilt it all; Belle took out her pride instanter, rubbed a quick

color into her white cheeks, and, snatching up a newspaper, sat herself

down with as expressionless a face as it was possible for an excited

young woman to possess. Lennox came running down. "Thank Heaven, his

legs are safe!" sighed Belle, with her eyes glued to the price of beef.

He entered with both hands extended, which relieved her mind upon

another point; and he beamed upon her, looking so vigorous, manly, and

martial, that she cried within herself, "My beautiful brown soldier!"

even while she greeted him with an unnecessarily brief, "How do you do,

Mr. Lennox?"

The sudden eclipse which passed over his joyful countenance would have

been ludicrous, if it hadn't been pathetic; but he was used to hard

knocks now, and bore this, his hardest, like a man. He shook hands

heartily; and, as Belle sat down again (not to betray that she was

trembling a good deal), he stood at ease before her, talking in a way

which soon satisfied her that he _had_ borne the test, and that bliss

was waiting for her round the corner. But she had made it such a very

sharp corner she couldn't turn it gracefully, and while she pondered how

to do so he helped her with a cough. She looked up quickly, discovering

all at once that he was very thin, rather pale in spite of the nice tan,

and breathed hurriedly as he stood with one hand in his breast.

"Are you ill, wounded, in pain?" she asked, forgetting herself entirely.

"Yes, all three," he answered, after a curious look at her changing

color and anxious eyes.

"Sit down--tell me about it--can I do any thing?" and Belle began to

plump up the pillows on the couch with nervous eagerness.

"Thank you, I'm past help," was the mournful reply accompanied by a

hollow cough which made her shiver.

"Oh, don't say so! Let me bring father; he is very skilful. Shall I call

Kate?"

"He can do nothing; Kate doesn't know this, and I beg you won't tell

her. I got a shot in the breast and made light of it, but it will finish

me sooner or later. I don't mind telling you, for you are one of the

strong, cool sort, you know, and are not affected by such things. But

Kate is so fond of me, I don't want to shock and trouble her yet awhile.

Let her enjoy my little visit, and after I'm gone you can tell her the

truth."

Belle had sat like a statue while he spoke with frequent pauses and an

involuntary clutch or two at the suffering breast. As he stopped and

passed his hand over his eyes, she said slowly, as if her white lips

were stiff,--

"Gone! where?"

"Back to my place. I'd rather die fighting than fussed and wailed over

by a parcel of women. I expected to stay a week or so, but a battle is

coming off sooner than we imagined, so I'm away again to-morrow. As I'm

not likely ever to come back, I just wanted to ask you to stand by poor

Kate when I'm finished, and to say good-by to you, Belle, before I go."

He put out his hand, but, holding it fast in both her own, she laid her

tearful face down on it, whispering imploringly,--

"Oh, Harry, stay!"

Never mind what happened for the next ten minutes; suffice it to say

that the enemy having surrendered, the victor took possession with great

jubilation and showed no quarter.

"Bang the field-piece, toot the fife, and beat the rolling drum, for

ruse number three has succeeded. Come down, Kate, and give us your

blessing!" called Lennox, taking pity on his sister, who was anxiously

awaiting the _denouement_ on the stairs.

In she rushed, and the young ladies laughed and cried, kissed and talked

tumultuously, while their idol benignantly looked on, vainly endeavoring

to repress all vestiges of unmanly emotion.

"And you are not dying, really, truly?" cried Belle, when fair weather

set in after the flurry.

"Bless your dear heart, no! I'm as sound as a nut, and haven't a wound

to boast of, except this ugly slash on the head."

"It's a splendid wound, and I'm proud of it," and Belle set a rosy

little seal on the scar, which quite reconciled her lover to the

disfigurement of his handsome forehead. "You've learned to fib in the

army, and I'm disappointed in you," she added, trying to look

reproachful and failing entirely.

"No, only the art of strategy. You quenched me by your frosty reception,

and I thought it was all up till you put the idea of playing invalid

into my head. It succeeded so well that I piled on the agony, resolving

to fight it out on that line, and if I failed again to make a masterly

retreat. You gave me a lesson in deceit once, so don't complain if I

turned the tables and made your heart ache for a minute, as you've made

mine for a year."

Belle's spirit was rapidly coming back, so she gave him a capital

imitation of his French shrug, and drawled out in his old way,--

"I have my doubts about that, _mon ami_."

"What do you say to this--and this--and this?" he retorted, pulling out

and laying before her with a triumphant flourish a faded blue ribbon, a

fat pincushion with a hole through it, and a daintily painted little

picture of a pretty girl in scarlet stockings.

"There, I've carried those treasures in my breast-pocket for a year, and

I'm firmly convinced that they have all done their part toward keeping

me safe. The blue ribbon bound me fast to you, Belle; the funny cushion

caught the bullet that otherwise might have finished me; and the blessed

little picture was my comfort during those dreadful marches, my

companion on picket-duty with treachery and danger all about me, and my

inspiration when the word 'Charge!' went down the line, for in the

thickest of the fight I always saw the little gray figure beckoning me

on to my duty."

"Oh, Harry, you won't go back to all those horrors, will you? I'm sure

you've done enough, and may rest now and enjoy your reward," said Kate,

trying not to feel that "two is company, and three is none."

"I've enlisted for the war, and shall not rest till either it or I come

to an end. As for my reward, I had it when Belle kissed me."

"You are right, I'll wait for you, and love you all the better for the

sacrifice," whispered Belle. "I only wish I could share your hardships,

dear, for while you fight and suffer I can only love and pray."

"Waiting is harder than working to such as you; so be contented with

your share, for the thought of you will glorify the world generally for

me. I'll tell you what you _can_ do while I'm away: it's both useful and

amusing, so it will occupy and cheer you capitally. Just knit lots of

red hose, because I don't intend you to wear any others hereafter, Mrs.

Lennox."

"Mine are not worn out yet," laughed Belle, getting merry at the

thought.

"No matter for that; those are sacred articles, and henceforth must be

treasured as memorials of our love. Frame and hang them up; or, if the

prejudices of society forbid that flight of romance, lay them carefully

away where moths can't devour nor thieves steal them, so that years

hence, when my descendants praise me for any virtues I may possess, any

good I may have done, or any honor I may have earned, I can point to

those precious relics and say proudly,--

"My children, for all that I am, or hope to be, you must thank your

honored mother's scarlet stockings."

INDEPENDENCE: A CENTENNIAL LOVE STORY.

CHAPTER I.

_MISS DOLLY._

"Stupid-looking old place! Dare say I shall have to waste half an hour

listening to centennial twaddle before I get what I want! The whole

thing is a bore, but I can't quarrel with my bread and butter, so here

goes;" and, with an air of resignation, the young man applied himself to

the rusty knocker.

"Rather a nice old bit; maybe useful, so I'll book it;" and, whipping

out a sketch-book, the stranger took a hasty likeness of the griffin's

head on the knocker.

"Deaf as posts; try, try, try again;" and, pocketing his work, the

artist gave an energetic rat, tat, tat, that echoed through the house.

Having rashly concluded that the inhabitants of the ancient mansion were

proportionately aged, he assumed a deferential expression as steps

approached, and prepared to prefer with all due respect the request

which he had come many miles to make. The door opened with unexpected

rapidity, but the neatly arranged speech did not glide glibly off the

young man's tongue, and the change which came over him was comically

sudden; for, instead of an old woman, a blooming girl stood upon the

threshold, with a petulant expression on her charming face, which only

made it more charming still.

"What did you wish, sir?" asked the rosy mouth, involuntarily relaxing

from a vain attempt to look severe, while the hazel eyes softened with a

mirthful gleam as they rested on the comely, but embarrassed countenance

before her.

"Beg pardon for making such a noise. I merely wished to inquire if the

famous chair in which Washington sat when he visited the town is here,"

replied the stranger, clutching off his hat with a very different sort

of respect from that which he had intended to show, and feeling as if he

had received a shock of some new and delightful sort of electricity.

"Yes;" and the girl began to close the door, as if she knew what

question was coming next.

"Could I be allowed to sketch it for 'The Weekly Portfolio'? All such

relics are so valuable this year that we venture to ask many favors, and

this is such a famous affair I've no doubt you are often troubled by

requests of this sort," continued the artist, with the persuasive tone

of one accustomed to make his way everywhere.

"This is the fifth time this week," replied the damsel, demurely; though

her lips still struggled not to smile.

"It's very good of you, I'm sure, to let us fellows in, but the public

demand is immense just now, and we only obey orders, you know," began

the fifth intruder, fervently hoping the other four had been refused.

"But Mrs. Hill never does let artists or reporters in," was the gentle

quencher which arrested him, as he was industriously wiping his feet on

the door-mat.

"Never?" he asked, stopping short, while an expression of alarm changed

suddenly to one of satisfaction.

"Never," answered the damsel, like a sweet-voiced echo.

"Then the other fellows lost their chance, and that makes the old thing

doubly valuable. If I could see Mrs. Hill for a moment, I've no doubt

she will allow _me_ to sketch the chair."

"She is not at home."

"So much the better; for, when I tell you that I've come fifty miles to

pick up antiquities in this town, I know you _won't_ have the heart to

send me away without the gem of the collection," replied the artist,

nothing daunted; for his quick eye read the artless face before him, and

saw a defiant expression come over it, which made him suspect that there

had been a falling out between mistress and maid, if such they were. He

was sure of it when the girl threw open the door with a decisive

gesture, saying briefly,--

"Walk in, if you please; she won't be home for an hour."

"What a little beauty!" thought the young man, admiring her spirit, and

feeling that the "stupid old place" contained unexpected treasures, as

he followed her into the room where the ubiquitous Father of his Country

was reported to have dried his august boots, and drunk a mug of cider

some hundred years ago.

It seemed as if the ghosts of many of the homely household articles used

then had come back to celebrate the anniversary of that thrilling event;

for there was nothing modern in the little room but the girl and her

guest, who stared about him at the tall andirons on the hearth, the

bright, brass candlesticks above it, the spinning-wheel on one side, a

dresser on the other strewn with pewter platters, porringers, and old

china, while antique garments hung over the settle by the fire.

"Bless my soul, what a capital old place!" he ejaculated, taking it all

in with an artist's keen appreciation. "I feel as if I'd gone back a

century, and the General might come in at any minute."

"_That_ is the chair he used, and _this_ the tankard he drank from,"

answered the girl, pointing out the sacred objects with a reverential

air which warned her visitor that he must treat the ancient and

honorable relics with due respect.

Then feeling that this was an unusual stroke of luck, he hastened to

make the most of it, by falling to work at once, saying, as he took a

seat, and pointed his pencils,--

"There is such a lot of treasures here that I don't know where to begin.

I hope I shall not be very much in your way."

"Oh, no! if you don't mind my going on with my work; for I can't leave

it very well. All these things are to be sent away to-morrow, that's why

the place is in such confusion," replied the girl, as she fell to

polishing up a brass snuffer-tray.

"Here's richness!" thought the artist, with a sigh of satisfaction, as

he dashed at his work, feeling wonderfully inspired by his picturesque

surroundings.

The dull winter sky gloomed without, and a chilly wind sighed through

the leafless elms; but within the little room fairly glowed with the

ruddy firelight that shone in the bright brasses, glimmered over the

tarnished silver of the quaint vests on the settle, and warmed the

artist's busy hand, as if it liked to help him in his task. But the

jolly flames seemed to dance most lovingly about their little mistress;

bathing the sweet face with a softer bloom, touching the waves of brown

hair with gold, peeping under the long lashes at the downcast eyes that

peeped back again half arch, half shy; glorifying the blue apron that

seemed to clasp the trim waist as if conscious of its advantages, and

showing up the dimples in the bare arms working so briskly that even the

verdigris of ages yielded to their persuasive touch.

"Who can this pretty Priscilla be? I must make her talk and find out.

Never shall get the eyes right, if she doesn't look up," thought the

artist, who, instead of devoting himself to the historical chair, was

basely sketching the girl whose youth and beauty were wonderfully

enhanced by the antiquity around her.

"Mrs. Hill is a rich woman, if all these treasures have a history. Even

if they haven't, they would bring a good price; for things of this sort

are all the rage now, and the older the better," he said aloud in a

sociable tone, as he affected to study the left arm of the famous chair.

"They are not hers to sell, for they belonged to the first Mrs. Hill,

who was a Quincy, and had a right to be proud of them. The present Mrs.

Hill doesn't value them a bit; but _she_ was a Smith, so _her_ family

relics are nothing to boast of," answered the girl, using her bit of

wash-leather as if the entire race of Smith ought to be rubbed out of

existence.

"And she is going to sell all these fine old things, is she?" asked the

artist, with an eye to bargains.

"No, indeed! they belong to--to the first Mrs. Hill's daughter, named

after her, Dorothy Quincy," the girl began impetuously, but checked

herself, and ended very quietly with a suddenly averted head.

"A fine name, and I shouldn't think she would be in haste to change it,"

said the artist, wondering if Miss Dorothy Quincy was before him.

"Not much hope of that, poor thing," with a shake of the head that made

several brown curls tumble out of the net which tried to confine a

riotous mass of them.

"Ah, I see, a spinster?" and the young man returned to his work with

greatly abated interest in the subject.

The bright eyes glanced quickly up, and when they fell the snuffer-tray

reflected a merry twinkle in them, as their owner answered gravely,--

"Yes, a spinster."

"Is she one of the amiable sort?"

"Oh, dear, no! very quick in her temper and sharp with her tongue. But

then she has a good deal to try her, as I happen to know."

"Sorry for that. Spinsterhood _is_ trying, I fancy, so we should be

patient with the poor old ladies. Why I asked was because I thought I

might induce Miss Dolly to let me have some of her relics. Do you think

she would?" he asked, holding his sketch at arm's length, and studying

it with his head on one side.

"I'm very sure she won't, for these old things are all she has in the

world, and she loves them dearly. People used to laugh at her for it,

but now they are glad to own her and her 'duds,' as they called them.

The Smiths are looking up every thing they can find of that sort, even

poor relations. All these things are going down to a fair to-morrow, and

Miss Dolly with them."

"As one of the relics?" suggested the artist, glancing at a green calash

and a plum-colored quilted petticoat lying on the settle.

"Exactly," laughed the girl, adding with a touch of bitterness in her

voice, "Poor Miss Dolly never got an invitation before, and I'm afraid

it's foolish of her to go now, since she is only wanted to show off the

old-fashioned things, and give the Smiths something to boast of."

"You are fond of the old lady in spite of her temper, I see."

"She is the only friend I've got;" and the speaker bent over the tray as

if to hide emotion of some sort.

"I shall probably have to 'do' that fair for our paper; if so, I'll

certainly pay my respects to Miss Dolly. Why not? Is she so very awful?"

he asked quickly, as the girl looked up with a curious mixture of mirth

and malice in her face.

"Very!" with a lifting of the brows and a pursing up of the lips

delightful to behold.

"You think I won't dare address the peppery virgin? I never saw the

woman yet whom I was afraid of, or the man either for that matter, so I

give you my word I'll not only speak to Miss Dolly, but win her old

heart by my admiration for her and her ancestral treasures, said the

artist, accepting the challenge he read in the laughing eyes.

"We shall see, for I'm going with her. I do the spinning, and it's great

fun," said the girl, prudently changing the conversation, though she

evidently enjoyed it.

"I never saw it done. Could you give me an idea of the thing, if it is

not asking too much?" proposed the artist in his most persuasive tone,

for somehow play of this sort was much more interesting than the study

of old furniture.

With amiable alacrity the girl set the big wheel buzzing, and deftly

drew out the yarn from the spindle, stepping briskly to and fro,

twirling and twisting with an ease and grace which convinced the

admiring observer that the best thing ever invented to show off a round

arm, a pretty foot, a fine figure, and a charming face, was a

spinning-wheel.

This opinion was so plainly expressed upon his own countenance that the

color deepened in the girl's cheeks as she looked over her shoulder to

see how he liked it, and dropping the thread she left the wheel still

whirling, and went back to her work without a word.

"Thank you very much; it's beautiful! Don't see how in the world you do

it," murmured the young man, affecting to examine the wheel, while his

own head seemed to whirl in sympathy, for that backward glance had

unconsciously done great execution.

A moon-faced clock behind the door striking eleven recalled the idler to

his task, and resuming his seat he drew silently till the chair was

done; then he turned a page, and looked about for the next good bit.

"Rather warm work," he said, smiling, as he shook the hair off his

forehead, and pushed his chair back from the hearth.

"This is what makes the place so hot. I've been learning to make

old-fashioned dishes for the fair, and this batch is going down to show

what I can do."

As she spoke, the girl threw open the door of a cavernous oven, and with

an air of housewifely pride displayed a goodly array of brown loaves

round as cannon-balls, earthen crocks suggestive of baked beans and

Indian pudding, and near the door a pan of spicy cakes delectable to

smell and see. These she drew forth and set upon the table, turning from

the oven after a careful inspection of its contents with the complexion

of a damask rose.

"Delicious spectacle!" exclaimed the artist, with his eyes upon the

pretty cook, while hers were on her handiwork.

"You shall taste them, for they are made from a very old receipt and are

called sweethearts," said the innocent creature, setting them forth on a

large platter, while a smile went dimpling round her lips.

"Capital name! they'll sell faster than you can make them. But it seems

to me you are to have all the work, and Miss Dolly all the credit,"

added this highly appreciative guest, subduing with difficulty the rash

impulse to embrace Miss Dolly's rosy handmaid on the spot.

She seemed to feel the impending danger, and saying hastily, "You must

have some cider to go with your cake: that's the correct thing, you

know," she tripped away with hospitable zeal.

"Upon my soul, I begin to feel like the Prince of the fairy tale in this

quiet place where every thing seems to have been asleep for a hundred

years. The little beauty ought to have been asleep too, and given me a

chance to wake her. More of a Cinderella than a princess, I fancy, and

leads a hard life of it between Miss Dolly and the second Mrs. Hill.

Wonder what happy fellow will break the spell and set her free?" and the

young man paced the kitchen, humming softly,--

"And on her lover's arm she leant,

And round her waist she felt it fold;

And far across the hills they went,

In that new world which is the old,"

till the sound of a light step made him dart into a chair, saying to

himself with a sudden descent from poetry to prose, "Bless her little

heart, I'll drink her cider if it's as sour as vinegar."

In came the maid, bearing a tankard on a salver; and, adding several

sweethearts, she offered the homely lunch with a curtsey and a smile

that would have glorified even pork and beans.

"You are sitting in the General's chair, and here is the tankard he

used; you can drink his health, if you like."

"I'd rather drink that of the maker of sweethearts;" and, rising, the

artist did so, gallantly regardless of consequences.

But the cider was excellent, and subsiding into the immortal chair he

enjoyed his lunch with the hearty appetite of a boy, while the damsel

began to fold up the garments airing on the settle, and lay them into a

chest standing near; the one quite unconscious that he was drinking

draughts of a far more potent liquor than apple-juice, the other that

she had begun to spin a golden thread instead of yarn when she turned

the great wheel that day.

An eloquent sort of silence filled the room for a moment, and a ray of

sunshine glanced from the silver tankard to the bright head bent over

the chest, as if to gild the first page of the romance which is as fresh

and sweet to-day as when the stately George wooed his beloved Martha. A

shrill voice suddenly broke that delicious pause, exclaiming, as a door

opened with a bang,--

"Not packed yet! I won't have this rubbish cluttering round another

minute--" There the voice abruptly fell, and the stranger had time to

see a withered, yellow face in a pumpkin hood stare sharply at him

before it vanished with an exclamation of unmistakable disapproval.

"Miss Dolly seems more afraid of me than I of her, you see," began the

young man, much amused at the retreat of the enemy; for such he regarded

any one who disturbed this delightful _tete-a-tete_.

"She has only gone to put her cap on, and when she comes back you can

pay your respects to--Mrs. Hill;" and the girl looked over the lid of

the chest with dancing eyes.

"Then I'd better be off, since reporters and artists are not allowed on

the premises," exclaimed the visitor, rising with more haste than

dignity.

"Don't hurry; she is only a woman, and you are not afraid, you know."

"I'm afraid _you_ will get a scolding," began the artist, pocketing his

sketch-book, and grasping his hat.

"I'm used to that," answered the girl, evidently enjoying the rout with

naughty satisfaction.

But the sharp, black eyes and the shrill voice had effectually broken

the pleasant day-dream; and Mrs. Hill in a pumpkin hood was quite enough

for his nerves, without a second appearance in one of the awe-inspiring

caps such ladies affect.

"I couldn't think of repaying your kindness by intruding any longer, now

that I've got my sketch. A thousand thanks; good-morning;" and, opening

the first door he came to, the dismayed man was about to plunge into the

buttery, when the girl arrested his flight and led him through the long

hall.

On the steps he took breath, returned thanks again with grateful warmth,

and pulling out a card presented it, as if anxious to leave some token

behind which should prevent being forgotten by one person at least.

"John Hancock Harris" read the card, and glancing up from it, with

sudden interest in her eyes, the girl exclaimed impulsively,--

"Why, then you must be a relation of--"

"No, I regret to say I'm not related to the famous Governor, only named

for him to please my father. I've always been contented with a modest

initial until now; but this year every one does their best to hang on to

the past, so I've got proud of my middle name, and find it useful as

well as ornamental," hastily explained the honest young fellow, though

just then he would have liked to claim kinship with every member of the

Continental Congress.

"I hope you will be worthy of it," answered the damsel with a little

bow, as if saluting the man for his name's sake.

"I try to be," he said soberly, adding with that engaging smile of his,

"May I ask to whom I am indebted for this very profitable and agreeable

call?"

Instantly the sweet sobriety vanished, and every feature of the pretty

face shone with mirthful malice as the girl answered sweetly,--

"Miss Dolly. Good-morning," and closed the door, leaving him to stare

blankly at the griffin on the knocker, which appeared to stare back

again with a derisive grin.