AN ARROW IN A SUNBEAM

And Other Tales. 

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[Illustration: "MOVE ANOTHER INCH AND I'LL FIRE!" CRIED AL, POINTINGTHE MUSKET AT THE MAN'S BREAST. --P. 48. ]

London:William Nicholson and Sons, 20, Warwick Square, Paternoster Row, E. C. , and Albion Works, Wakefield. 188-

AN ARROW

IN A SUNBEAM;

AND OTHER TALES. 

 The golden sunshine, vernal air, Sweet flowers and fruits, thy love declare; When forests ripen Thou art there, Who givest all. 

London:William Nicholson and Sons, 20, Warwick Square, Paternoster Row, E. C. , and Albion Works, Wakefield. 188-

CONTENTS. 

AN ARROW IN A SUNBEAM . . . . . . Sarah Orne Jewett

MISS SYDNEY'S FLOWERS . . . . . . Sarah Orne Jewett

A BRAVE BOY . . . . . . . . . . . C. S. Sleight

LADY FERRY . . . . . . . . . . . . Sarah Orne Jewett

A BIT OF SHORE LIFE . . . . . . . Sarah Orne Jewett

HOW LILY GOT THE CAT . . . . . . . Frances Lee

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AN ARROW IN A SUNBEAM. 

The minister of a fashionable church had noticed Sunday after Sunday alittle old lady with a sad, patient face, dressed in very shabbymourning, sitting in the strangers' pew. 

Like Job this good man could say, "The cause that I knew not, I soughtout. " He soon learned from the sexton her name and residence, and wassurprised to find her in the very topmost room of a house, amidevidences of real poverty. 

In the one little window bloomed a monthly rose and a vigorousheliotrope, and beside the pots lay half-a-dozen books, such as arerarely seen in the homes of the very poor. On the wall hung two fineengravings, and an old fashioned gold watch was suspended from a fadedvelvet case over the mantel piece. 

Her story, when she was induced to tell it, was neither new norstartling. She had long been a widow. Her children had been calledfrom her, till now she had but one, and he, being a cripple, could dolittle more than supply his own absolute wants by his work as arepairer of watches. 

The pastor was charmed with her patient endurance of what others wouldcall the hard discipline of life, and when he left her he felt that hehad been a learner instead of a teacher in that poor room. 

Being too delicate to allude to her apparent poverty, he said atparting, "As you are a stranger among us, I will send some of thevisitors of the church to cheer and comfort you. "

He selected two bright, rosy girls, full of life and happiness, ofwhose visits among the poor he had often heard. 

They came to the widow like sunbeams through a storm. They talkedcheerily, and did not appear to notice the bareness of the room. Theyasked something of her history, and told of their grandmothers, whoalso had seen much sorrow; and in this way drew her out till she toldof her former competency, of her early advantages in England, and ofall the misfortunes which had brought her to her present position. "And yet, " she said, "I have little to complain of while I have thelove and tender care of such a son as Walter. "

Little by little, without a complaint from her, they found that the oldlady lacked many things for her comfort. Their sympathies werearoused. It would be a delight to make her happy by gifts that wouldbe of service to her. 

Lucy Grey, a girl full of fun as well as of kindness, said, "I wish youwould let me make you a bonnet; I make lovely ones. Grandma won't weara milliner's bonnet, she likes mine so much better. "

Grace Wheeler volunteered to make a dress and caps, adding, playfully, "As my dear grandma is gone, you must let me adopt you and do all I canfor you. There are four of us girls always looking round for somebodyto help. You can call on us for anything you want. "

Four young girls, who laughingly styled themselves "The Quartette ofMercy, " met at Grace Wheeler's house with materials for a dress, and abonnet and caps. The old lady was coming two hours afterward to befitted, having being measured before they left her house. 

The girls were in a perfect gala of joy that bright afternoon. Theychatted merrily while working, and one would have thought they weremaking costumes for comic tableaux rather than the garb of a sorrowfulwidow. 

"I'll tell you, girls, " said Lucy Grey, "the old dowager will shinewhen she gets my bonnet on!" and trying it on over her chestnut curls, she added, "I half-wish I was a downfallen lady myself, --ahaberdasher's daughter from England! Oh, I hope I shall be a widowsome time! Widows' caps are so becoming!"

"Well, " replied Grace, laughing, "do your best for Goody Horn, andmaybe she'll let you have 'dear Walter. ' Then you'll be a widowsoon, --he's so feeble. "

"Oh, I wish I had the dressing of her! 'She'd surprise herself, ' asthe Dutchman said. I'd put a canary-coloured pompon and a whiteaigrette in that bonnet, and"--here she slipped a scarlet bird out ofher own hat and stuck it into a fold of the crape Lucy was laying on tothe old fashioned close frame--"I'd make her an upper skirt with atie-back, get scarlet stockings and low shoes, and"----

"Pho! you'd make the dear old soul look like Mother Hubbard!" criedanother. 

"No, " said Grace; "but she looks now like

 "Little Dame Crump, with her brand-new broom;"

and no doubt Walter looks either like Mother Hubbard's dog, or--or Idon't know what. "

"Oh, by-the-way, did you notice a violin on the bureau? Whoever gets'dear Walter' will have a chance to do all the family dancing. Thedowager's too old, and Walter's too lame; but there, what stuff I'mtalking; it's well mother isn't within hearing. She won't let me haveany sport. But I do think old folks are so comical! I'll do anythingin the world to help them, though. "

They worked on some time, and in the real kindness which was hiddenunder this nonsense they laid plans for the dear old stranger's futurecomfort. 

"Why, girls, it's time she was here now!"

"Nora, " called Grace, as a girl passed the door, "when an old ladycomes, send her right up stairs. "

"There was an old person here an hour ago, and as you told me not tolet any one in who asked for you for an hour, I told her to sit down inthe hall. I suppose she's there now. I forgot all about her, " was thereply. 

Grace flew down, but there was no one there. 

"That was some old beggar who got tired of waiting. I'm sure she'll behere soon, " said Lucy. 

But she did not come, and they grew tired of waiting to try on thedress and hat. So they resolved to go, all four together, the nextday, to the "opening at Madam Horn's, " and carry the things themselves. 

They did so; but when the "dowager" opened the door at their knock, they hardly knew her. She looked straight, and solemn, and cold. Shedid not even ask them in; but they went in and seated themselves. 

Grace said, "You didn't come yesterday to try on the dress, andthinking you might be ill, we brought it here. "

"But I did go, ladies. I went an hour earlier than you asked me, tobeg that the dress might be cut perfectly plain, without upper skirt orflounce. The girl seated me in the hall, and while I sat there, I wasforced to hear myself and my son ridiculed and turned to scorn in a wayI could not believe possible. 

"I have done nothing to merit this. I never begged of you, nor soughtyour sympathy in my sorrows, and I cannot understand why I am made thebutt of your scorn. "

"Oh, Mrs. Horn, " cried Lucy, "we were only in sport! I hope you willforgive us. "

"Is it sport to cast contempt on an aged woman who has been walking foryears in a fiery furnace upheld and comforted by God? Is it sport toridicule an unfortunate boy who has a continual warfare with pain tokeep up this poor home?"

"Oh, don't speak of it again!" said Grace blushing deeply andhalf-ready to cry, as she untied the package in her hand, while Lucyunpinned the paper that held the bonnet. 

"Put them up, please, young ladies. I cannot look on them, and I nevercould wear them. When you first came, I told Walter that I felt as ifa sunbeam had come into the house and remained behind you. Last nightI told him that my new sunbeam had an arrow concealed in it. "

"But you _will_ take the things, after all our trouble?" imploredGrace, with tears dropping from her eyes. 

"No, never; I can hear the Gospel in my old clothes. I should take nopleasure in these; they are associated with too painful thoughts. Ihope God will bless you, children, and save you from an old age ofpoverty, and give you what He has given me, --a full trust in His loveand tenderness. Good-by. "

You can imagine the feelings of those young girls when they left thatpoor room in tears. 

Respectful treatment is more to the sensitive poor than gifts of food, garments or money; and nothing is so likely to harden the hearts of theyoung as the habit of getting sport out of the sorrows and infirmitiesof others. 

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MISS SYDNEY'S FLOWERS. 

However sensible it may have been considered by other people, itcertainly was a disagreeable piece of news to Miss Sydney, that thecity authorities had decided to open a new street from St. Mary Streetto Jefferson. It seemed a most unwarrantable thing to her that theyhad a right to buy her property against her will. It was so provoking, that, after so much annoyance from the noise of St. Mary Street duringthe last dozen years, she must submit to having another publicthoroughfare at the side of her house also. If it had only been at theother side, she would not have minded it particularly; for she rarelysat in her drawing-room, which was at the left of the hall. On theright was the library, stately, dismal, and apt to be musty in dampweather; and it would take many bright people, and a blazing wood-fire, and a great deal of sunshine, to make it pleasant. Behind this was thedining-room, which was really bright and sunny, and which opened bywide glass doors into a conservatory. The rattle and clatter of St. Mary Street was not at all troublesome here; and by little and littleMiss Sydney had gathered her favourite possessions from other parts ofthe house, and taken one end of it for her sitting-room. The mostcomfortable chairs had found their way here, and a luxurious great sofawhich had once been in the library, as we'll as the bookcase which heldher favourite books. 

The house had been built by Miss Sydney's grandfather, and in his dayit had seemed nearly out of the city: now there was only one otherhouse left near it; for one by one the quiet, aristocratic old streethad seen its residences give place to shops and warehouses, and MissSydney herself had scornfully refused many offers of many thousanddollars for her home. It was so changed! It made her so sad to thinkof the dear old times, and to see the houses torn down, or thesmall-paned windows and old-fashioned front-doors replaced with Frenchplate-glass to display better the wares which were to take the placesof the quaint furniture and well-known faces of her friends! But MissSydney was an old woman, and her friends had diminished sadly. "Itseems to me that my invitations are all for funerals in these days, "said she to her venerable maid Hannah, who had helped her dress for herparties fifty years before. She had given up society little by little. Her friends had died, or she had allowed herself to drift away fromthem, while the acquaintances from whom she might have filled theirplaces were only acquaintances still. She was the last of her ownfamily, and, for years before her father died, he had lived mainly inhis library, avoiding society and caring for nothing but books; andthis, of course, was a check upon his daughter's enjoyment of visitors. Being left to herself, she finally became content with her own society, and since his death, which followed a long illness, she had refused allinvitations; and with the exception of the interchange of occasionalceremonious calls with perhaps a dozen families, and her prettyconstant attendance at church, you rarely were reminded of herexistence. And I must tell the truth: it was not easy to be intimatewith her. She was a good woman in a negative kind of way. One neverheard of any thing wrong she had done; and if she chose to live alone, and have nothing to do with people, why, it was her own affair. Younever seemed to know her any better after a long talk. She had a veryfine, courteous way of receiving her guests, --a way of making you feelat your ease more than you imagined you should when with her, --and astately kind of tact that avoided skilfully much mention ofpersonalities on either side. But mere hospitality is not attractive, for it may be given grudgingly, or, as in her case, from mere habit;for Miss Sydney would never consciously be rude to any one in her ownhouse--or out of it, for that matter. She very rarely came in contactwith children; she was not a person likely to be chosen for aconfidante by a young girl; she was so cold and reserved, the elderladies said. She never asked a question about the winter fashions, except of her dressmaker, and she never met with reverses inhousekeeping affairs, and these two facts rendered her unsympathetic tomany. She was fond of reading, and enjoyed heartily the pleasantpeople she met in books. She appreciated their good qualities, theirthoughtfulness, kindness, wit or sentiment; but the thought neversuggested itself to her mind that there were living people not faraway, who could give her all this, and more. 

If calling were not a regulation of society, if one only went to seethe persons one really cared for, I am afraid Miss Sydney would soonhave been quite forgotten. Her character would puzzle many people. She put no visible hinderance in your way; for I do not think she wasconsciously reserved and cold. She was thoroughly well-bred, rich, andin her way charitable; that is, she gave liberally to publicsubscriptions which came under her notice, and to church contributions. But she got on, somehow, without having friends; and, though the lossof one had always been a real grief, she learned without much troublethe way of living the lonely, comfortable, but very selfish life, andthe way of being the woman I have tried to describe. There wereoccasional days when she was tired of herself, and life seemed anempty, formal, heartless discipline. Her wisest acquaintances pitiedher loneliness; and busy, unselfish people wondered how she could bedeaf to the teachings of her good clergyman, and blind to all thechances of usefulness and happiness which the world afforded her; andothers still envied her, and wondered to whom she meant to leave allher money. 

I began by telling you of the new street. It was suggested that itshould bear the name of Sydney; but the authorities decided finally tocompliment the country's chief magistrate, and call it Grant Place. Miss Sydney, did not like the sound of it. Her family had always beenindifferent to politics, and indeed the kite of the Sydney had flownfor many years high above the winds that affect commonplace people. The new way from Jefferson Street to St. Mary was a great convenience, and it seemed to our friend that all the noisiest vehicles in the cityhad a preference for going back and forth under her windows. You seeshe did not suspect, what afterwards became so evident; that there wasto be a way opened into her own heart also, and that she should confessone day, long after that she might have died a selfish old woman, andnot have left one sorry face behind her, if it had not been for thecutting of Grant Place. 

The side of her conservatory was now close upon the sidewalk, and thiscertainly was not agreeable. She could not think of putting on her biggardening-apron, and going in to work among her dear plants any more, with all the world staring in at her as it went by. John the coachman, who had charge of the greenhouse, was at first very indignant; but, after she found that his flowers were noticed and admired, his angerwas turned into an ardent desire to merit admiration, and he kept hisfinest plants next the street. It was a good thing for the greenhouse, because it had never been so carefully tended; and plant after plantwas forced into luxuriant foliage and blossom. He and Miss Sydney hadplanned at first to have close wire screens made to match those in thedining-room; but now, when she spoke of his hurrying the workmen, whomshe supposed had long since been ordered to make them, John said, "Indeed, mum, it would be the ruin of the plants shutting put thelight; and they would all be rusted with the showerings I gives themevery day. " And Miss Sydney smiled, and said no more. 

The street was opened late in October, and, soon after, cold weatherbegan in real earnest. Down in that business part of the city it wasthe strangest, sweetest surprise to come suddenly upon the long line ofblooming plants and tall green lily-leaves under a roof festooned withroses and trailing vines. For the first two or three weeks, almosteverybody stopped, if only for a moment. Few of Miss Sydney's ownfriends even had ever seen her greenhouse; for they were almostinvariably received in the drawing-room. Gentlemen stopped the thoughtof business affairs, and went on down the street with a fresher, happier feeling. And the tired shop-girls lingered longest. Many aman and woman thought of some sick person to whom a little handful ofthe green leaves and bright blossoms, with their coolness andfreshness, would bring so much happiness. And it was found, longmonths afterward, that a young man had been turned back from a plan ofwicked mischief by the sight of a tall green geranium, like one thatbloomed in his mother's sitting-room way up in the country. He had notthought, for a long time before, of the dear old woman who supposed herson was turning his wits to good account in the city. But Miss Sydneydid not know how much he wished for a bit to put in his buttonhole whenshe indignantly went back to the dining-room to wait until thatimpertinent fellow stopped staring in. 

II. 

It was just about this time that Mrs. Marley made a change in her placeof business. She had sold candy round the corner in Jefferson Streetfor a great many years; but she had suffered terribly from rheumatismall the winter before. She was nicely sheltered from too much sun inthe summer; but the north winds of winter blew straight toward her; andafter much deliberation, and many fears and questioning as to thepropriety of such an act she had decided to find another stand. You orI would think at first that it could make no possible difference whereshe sat in the street with her goods; but in fact one has regularcustomers in that business, as well as in the largest wholesaleenterprise. There was some uncertainty whether these friends wouldfollow her if she went away. Mrs. Marley's specialty wasmolasses-candy; and I am sure, if you ever chanced to eat any of it, you would look out for the old lady next time you went along thestreet. Times seemed very hard this winter. Not that trade hadseriously diminished; but still the outlook was very dark. Mrs. Marleywas old, and had been so for some years, so she was used to that; butsomehow this fall she seemed to be getting very much older all of asudden. She found herself very tired at night, and she was apt to loseher breath if she moved quickly; besides this, the rheumatism torturedher. She had saved only a few dollars, though she and her sister hadhad a comfortable living, --what they had considered comfortable, atleast, though they sometimes had been hungry, and very often cold. They would surely go to the almshouse sooner or later, --she and herlame old sister Polly. 

It was Polly who made the candy which Mrs. Marley sold. Their twolittle rooms were up three flights of stairs; and Polly, being too lameto go down herself, had not been out of doors in seven years. Therewas nothing but roofs and sky to be seen from the windows; and, asthere was a manufactory near, the sky was apt to be darkened by itssmoke. Some of the neighbours dried their clothes on the roofs, andPolly used to be very familiar with the apparel of the old residents, and exceedingly interested when a strange family came, and she sawsomething new. There was a little bright pink dress that the trigyoung French woman opposite used to hang out to dry; and somehow poorold Polly used always to be brightened and cheered by the sight of it. Once in a while she caught a glimpse of the child who wore it. Shehardly ever thought now of the outside world when left to herself, andon the whole she was not discontented. Sister Becky used to have agreat deal to tell her sometimes of an evening. When Mrs. Marley toldher in the spring twilight that the grass in the square was growinggreen, and that she had heard a robin, it used to make Polly feelhomesick; for she was apt to think much of her childhood, and she hadbeen born in the country. She was very deaf, poor soul, and her worldwas a very forlorn one. It was nearly always quite silent, it was verysmall and smoky out of doors, and very dark and dismal within. Sometimes it was a hopeless world, because the candy burnt; and ifthere had not been her Bible and hymn-book, and a lame pigeon that liton the window-sill to be fed every morning, Miss Polly would have foundher time go heavily. 

One night Mrs. Marley came into the room with a cheerful face, and saidvery loud, "Polly, I've got some news!" Polly knew by her speaking soloud that she was in good-humour. When any thing discouraging hadhappened, Becky spoke low, and then was likely to be irritated whenasked to repeat her remark. 

"Dear heart!" said Mrs. Marley, "now I am glad you had something hotfor supper. I was turning over in my mind what we could cook up, for Ifeel real hollow. It's a kind of chilly day. " And she sat down by thestove, while Polly hobbled to the table, with one hand to her ear tocatch the first sound of the good news, and the other holding somebaked potatoes in her apron. That hand was twisted with rheumatism, for the disease ran in the family. She was afraid every day that sheshould have to give up making the candy on the next; for it hurt her soto use it. She was continually being harrowed by the idea of itsbecoming quite useless, and that the candy might not be so good; andthen what would become of them? Becky Marley was often troubled by thesame thought. Yet they were almost always good-natured, poor oldwomen; and, though Polly Sharpe's pleasures and privileges were by farthe fewest of anybody's I ever knew, I think she was as glad in thosedays to know the dandelions were in bloom as if she could see them; andshe got more good from the fragments of the Sunday-morning sermon thatsister Becky brought home than many a listener did from the wholeservice. 

The potatoes were done to a turn, Mrs. Marley shouted; and then Pollysat down close by her to hear the news. 

"You know I have been worrying about the cold weather a-coming, and myrheumatics; and I was afeared to change my stand, on account of losingcustom. Well, to-day it all come over me to once that I might movedown a piece on Grant Place, --that new street that's cut through to St. Mary. I've noticed for some time past that almost all my reg'larcustomers turns down that way, so this morning I thought I'd step downthat way too, and see if there was a chance. And after I gets into thestreet I sees people stopping and looking at something as they wentalong; and so I goes down to see; and it is one of them hothouses, fullof plants a-growing like it was mid-summer. It belongs to the bigSydney house on the corner. There's a good place to sit right at thecorner of it, and I'm going to move over there to-morrow. I thought ashow I wouldn't leave Jefferson Street to-day, for it was too sudden. You see folks stops and looks at the plants, and there wasn't any windthere to-day. There! I wish you could see them flowers. "

Sister Polly was very pleased, and, after the potatoes and bread wereeaten, she brought on an apple pie that had been sent up by Mrs. Welch, the washerwoman who lived on the floor next but one below. She wasgoing away for three or four days, having been offered good pay to dosome cleaning in a new house, and her board besides, near her work. Soyou see that evening was quite a jubilee. 

The next day Mrs. Marley's wildest expectations were realized; for shewas warm as toast the whole morning, and sold all her candy, and wenthome by two o'clock. That had never happened but once or twice before. "Why, I shouldn't wonder if we could lay up considerable this winter, "said she to Polly. 

Miss Sydney did not like the idea of the old candy-woman's being there. Children came to buy of her, and the street seemed noisier than ever attimes. Perhaps she might have to leave the house, after all. But onemay get used to almost any thing; and as the days went by she wassurprised to find that she was not half so much annoyed as at first;and one afternoon she found herself standing at one of the dining-roomwindows, and watching the people go by. I do not think she had shownso much interest as this in the world at large for many years. I thinkit must have been from noticing the pleasure her flowers gave thepeople who stopped to look at them that she began to think herselfselfish, and to be aware how completely indifferent she had grown toany claims the world might have upon her. And one morning, when sheheard somebody say, "Why, it's like a glimpse into the tropics! Oh! Iwish I could have such a conservatory!" She thought, "Here I have keptthis all to myself for all these years, when so many others might haveenjoyed it too!" But then the old feeling of independence came overher. The greenhouse was out of people's way; she surely couldn't havelet people in whom she didn't know; however, she was glad, now that thestreet was cut, that some one had more pleasure, if she had not. Afterall it was a satisfaction to our friend; and from this time the seedsof kindness and charity and helpfulness began to show themselves abovethe ground in the almost empty garden of her heart. I will tell youhow they grew and blossomed; and as strangers came to see her realflowers, and to look in at the conservatory windows from the cold citystreet, instead of winter to see a bit of imprisoned summer, so friendafter friend came to find there was another garden in her own heart, and Miss Sydney learned the blessedness there is in loving and givingand helping. 

For it is sure we never shall know what it is to lack friends, if wekeep our hearts ready to receive them. If we are growing good and kindand helpful, those who wish for help and kindness will surely find usout. A tree covered with good fruit is never unnoticed in the fields. If we bear thorns and briers, we can't expect people to take very greatpains to come and gather them. It is thought by many persons to be notonly a bad plan, but an ill-bred thing, to give out to more than a fewcarefully selected friends. But it came to her more and more thatthere was great selfishness and shortsightedness in this. Onenaturally has a horror of dragging the secrets and treasures of one'sheart and thought out to the light of day. One may be willing to gowithout the good that may come to one's own self through manyfriendships; but, after all, God does not teach us, and train ourlives, only that we may come to something ourselves. He helps men mostthrough other men's lives; and we must take from him, and give outagain, all we can, wherever we can, remembering that the great God isalways trying to be the friend of the least of us. The danger is, thatwe oftenest give our friendship selfishly; we do not think of ourfriends, but of ourselves. One never can find one's self beggared;love is a treasure that does not lessen, but grows, as we spend it. 

The passers-by seemed so delighted with some new plants which she andJohn had arranged one day, that as she was going out in the afternoonto drive, she stopped just as she was going to step into the carriageand said she thought she would go round and look at the conservatoryfrom the outside. So John turned the horses, and followed. It was avery cold day, and there were few people in the street. Every thingwas so cheerless out of doors, and the flowers looked so summer-like!No wonder the people liked to stop, poor souls! For the richer, morecomfortable ones lived farther up town. It was not in the shoppingregion; and, except the business-men who went by morning and evening, almost every one was poor. 

Miss Sydney had never known what the candy-woman sold before, for shecould not see any thing but the top of her rusty black bonnet from thewindow. But now she saw that the candy was exactly like that she andher sister used to buy years upon years ago; and she stopped to speakto the old woman, and to buy some, to the utter amazement of hercoachman. Mrs. Marley was excited by so grand a customer, and was agreat while counting out the drumsticks, and wrapping them up. WhileMiss Sydney stood there a thin, pitiful little girl came along, carrying a clumsy baby. They stopped, and the baby tried to reach downfor a piece. The girl was quite as wistful; but she pulled him back, and walked on to the flowers. "Oh! pitty, pitty!" said the baby, whilethe dirty little hands patted the glass delightedly. 

"Move along there, " said John gruffly; for it was his business to keepthat glass clean and bright. 

The girl looked round, frightened, and, seeing that the coachman wasbig and cross-looking, the forlorn little soul went away. "Baby wantto walk? You're so heavy!" said she in a fretful, tired way. But thebaby was half crying, and held her tight. He had meant to stay sometime longer, and look at those pretty, bright things, since he couldnot have the candy. 

Mrs. Marley felt as if her customer might think her stingy, andproceeded to explain that she couldn't think of giving her candy away. "Bless you, ma'am, I wouldn't have a stick left by nine o'clock. "

Miss Sydney "never gave money to street-beggars. " But these childrenhad not begged, and somehow she pitied them very much, they looked sohungry. And she called them back. There was a queer tone to hervoice; and she nearly cried after she had given the package of candy tothem, and thrown a dollar upon the board in front of Mrs. Marley, andfound herself in the carriage, driving away. Had she been very silly?and what could John have thought? But the children were so glad; andthe old candy-woman had said, "God bless you, mum!"

After this, Miss Sydney could not keep up her old interest in her ownaffairs. She felt restless and dissatisfied, and wondered how shecould have done the same things over and over so contentedly for somany years. You may be sure, that, if Grant Place had been unthoughtof, she would have lived on in the same fashion to the end of her days. But after this she used to look out of the window; and she sat a greatdeal in the conservatory, when it was not too warm there, behind sometall callas. The servants found her usually standing in thedining-room; for she listened for footsteps, and was half-ashamed tohave them notice that she had changed in the least. We are all givento foolish behaviour of this kind once in a while. We are oftenrestrained: because, we feel bound to conform to people's idea of us. We must be such persons as we imagine our friends think us to be. Theybelieve that we have made up our minds about them, and are apt to showus only that behaviour which they think we expect. They are afraid ofus sometimes. They think we cannot sympathize with them. Our friendfelt almost as if she were yielding to some sin in this strangeinterest in the passers-by. She had lived so monotonous a life, thatany change could not have failed to be somewhat alarming. She toldBessie Thorne afterward, that one day she came upon that verse ofKeble's Hymn for St. Matthew's Day. Do you remember it?--

 "There are, in this loud, stunning tide Of human care and crime, With whom the melodies abide Of the everlasting chime; Who carry music in their heart Through dusky lane and wrangling mart, Plying their daily task with busier feet Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat. "

It seemed as if it were a message to herself, and she could not helpgoing to the window a few minutes afterward. The faces were mostlytired-looking and dissatisfied. Some people looked very eager andhurried, but none very contented. It was the literal daily bread theythought of; and, when two fashionably-dressed ladies chanced to go bythe window, their faces were strangely like their poorer neighbours inexpression. Miss Sydney wondered what the love for one's neighbourcould be; if she could ever feel it herself. She did not even likethese people whom she watched, and yet every day, for years and years, she had acknowledged them her brothers and sisters when she said, "OurFather who art in heaven. "

It seemed as if Miss Sydney, of all people, might have been independentand unfettered. It is so much harder for us who belong to a family, for we are hindered by the thought of people's noticing our attempts atreform. It is like surrendering some opinion ignominiously which wehave fought for. It is kind of "giving in. " But when she hadacknowledged to herself that she had been in the wrong, that she was aselfish, thoughtless old woman, that she was alone, without friends, and it had been her own fault, she was puzzled to know how to dobetter. She could not begin to be very charitable all at once. Themore she realized what her own character had become, the more hopelessand necessary seemed reform. 

Such times as this come to many of us, both in knowing ourselves andour friends. An awakening, one might call it, --an opening of the blindeyes of our spiritual selves. And our ears are open to some of thevoices which call us; while others might as well be silent, for all theheed we give them. We go on, from day to day, doing, with more or lessfaithfulness, that part of our work we have wit enough to comprehend;but one day suddenly we are shown a broader field, stretching out intothe distance, and know that from this also we may bring in a harvest byand by, and with God's help. 

Miss Sydney meant to be better, --not alone for the sake of havingfriends, not alone to quiet her conscience, but because she knew shehad been so far from living a Christian life, and she was bitterlyashamed. This was all she needed, --all any of us need, --to know thatwe must be better men and women for God's sake; that we cannot bebetter without his help, and that his help, may be had for the asking. But where should she begin? She had always treated her servantskindly, and they were the people she knew best. She would surely tryto be more interested in the friends she met; but it was nearlyChristmas time, and people rarely came to call. Every one was busy. Becky Marley's cheery face haunted her; and one day after having lookeddown from the window on the top of her bonnet, she remembered that shedid not get any candy, after all, and she would go round to see the oldlady again, she looked poor, and she would give her some money. MissSydney dressed herself for the street, and closed the door behind hervery carefully, as if she were a mischievous child running away. Itwas very cold, and there were hardly a dozen persons to be seen in thestreets, and Mrs. Marley had evidently been crying. 

"I should like some of your candy, " said our friend. 

"You know I didn't take any, after all the other day. " And then shefelt very conscious and awkward, fearing that the candy woman thoughtshe wished to remind her of her generosity. 

"Two of the large packages, if you please. But, dear me! aren't youvery cold, sitting here in the wind?" and Miss Sydney shivered, inspite of her warm wrappings. 

It was the look of sympathy that was answered first, for it was morecomforting than even the prospect of money, sorely as Mrs. Marleyneeded that. 

"Yes, mum, I've had the rheumatics this winter awful. But the windhere!--why, it ain't nothing to what it blows round in JeffersonStreet, where I used to sit. I shouldn't be out to-day, but I wascalled upon sudden to pay my molasses bill, when I'd just paid my rent;and I don't know how ever I can. There's sister Polly--she's dead lameand deaf. I s'pose we'll both be in the almshouse afore spring. I'man old woman to be earning a living out 'o doors in winter weather. "

There is no mistaking the fact that Miss Sydney was in earnest when shesaid, "I'm so sorry! Can't I help you?"

Somehow she did not feel so awkward, and she enjoyed very much hearingthis bit of confidence. 

"But my trade has improved wonderful since I came here. People mostlystops to see them beautiful flowers; and then they sees me, and stopsand buys something. Well, there's some days when I gets down-hearted, and I just looks up there, and sees them flowers blooming so cheerful, and I says, 'There! this world ain't all cold and poor and old, like Ibe; and the Lord he ain't never tired of us, with our worrying aboutwhat He's a-doing with us; and heaven's a-coming before long anyhow!'"And the Widow Marley stopped to dry her eyes with the corner of hershawl. 

Miss Sydney asking her to go round to the kitchen, and warm herself;and, on finding out more of her new acquaintance's difficulties, shesent her home happy, with money enough to pay the dreaded bill, and abasket of good things which furnished such a supper for herself andsister Polly as they had not seen for a long time. And their fortuneswere bettered from that day. "If it hadn't been for the flowers, Ishould ha' been freezing my old bones on Jefferson Street this minute, I s'pose, " said the Widow Marley. 

Miss Sydney went back to the dining-room after her _protégée_ had gone, and felt a comfortable sense of satisfaction in what she had done. Ithad all come about in such an easy way too! A little later she wentinto the conservatory, and worked among her plants. She really felt somuch younger and happier and once, as she stood still, looking at somelilies-of-the-valley that John had been forcing into bloom, she did notnotice that a young lady was looking through the window at her veryearnestly. 

III. 

That same evening Mrs. Thorne and Bessie were sitting up late in theirlibrary. It was snowing very fast, and had been since three o'clock;and no one had called. They had begun the evening by reading andwriting, and now were ending with a talk. 

"Mamma, " said Bessie, after there had been a pause, "whom do yousuppose I have taken a fancy to? And do you know, I pity her somuch!--Miss Sydney. "

"But I don't know that she is so much to be pitied, " said Mrs. Thorne, smiling at the enthusiastic tone. "She must have everything she wants. She lives all alone, and hasn't any intimate friends, but, if a personchooses such a life, why, what can we do? What made you think of her?"

"I have been trying to think of one real friend she has. Everybody ispolite enough to her, and I never heard that any one disliked her; butshe must be forlorn sometimes. I came through that new street by herhouse to-day: that's how I happened to think of her. Her greenhouse isperfectly beautiful, and I stopped to look in. I always supposed shewas cold as ice (I'm sure she looks so); but she was standing out inone corner, looking down at some flowers with just the sweetest face. Perhaps she is shy. She used to be very good-natured to me when I wasa child, and used to go there with you. I don't think she knows mesince I came home; at any rate, I mean to go to see her some day. "

"I certainly would, " said Mrs. Thorne. "She will be perfectly politeto you, at all events. And perhaps she may be lonely, though I ratherdoubt it; not that I wish to discourage you, my dear. I haven't seenher in a long time, for we have missed each other's calls. She neverwent into society much; but she used to be a very elegant woman, and isnow, for that matter. "

"I pity her, " said Bessie persistently. "I think I should be very fondof her if she would let me. She looked so kind as she stood among theflowers to-day! I wonder what she was thinking about. Oh! do youthink she would mind if I asked her to give me some flowers for thehospital?"

Bessie Thorne is a very dear girl. Miss Sydney must have beenhard-hearted if she had received her coldly one afternoon a few daysafterward, she seemed so refreshingly young and girlish a guest as sherose to meet the mistress of that solemn, old-fashioned drawing-room. Miss Sydney had had a re-action from the pleasure her charity had givenher, and was feeling bewildered, unhappy, and old that day. "What canshe wish to see me for, I wonder?" thought she, as she closed her book, and looked at Miss Thorne's card herself, to be sure the servant hadread it right. But, when she saw the girl herself, her pleasure showeditself unmistakably in her face. 

"Are you really glad to see me?" said Bessie in her frankest way, witha very gratified smile. "I was afraid you might think it was very oddin me to come. I used to like so much to call upon you with mamma whenI was a little girl! And the other day I saw you in your conservatory, and I have wished to come and see you ever since. "

"I am very glad to see you, my dear, " said Miss Sydney, for the secondtime. "I have been quite forgotten by the young people of late years. I was sorry to miss Mrs. Thorne's call. Is she quite well? I meant toreturn it one day this week, and I thought only last night I would askabout you. You have been abroad, I think?"

Was not this an auspicious beginning? I cannot tell you all thathappened that afternoon, for I have told so long a story already. Butyou will imagine it was the beginning of an intimacy that gave greatpleasure, and did great good, to both the elder woman and the younger. It is hard to tell the pleasure which the love and friendship of afresh, bright girl like Bessie Thorne, may give an older person. Thereis such a satisfaction in being convinced that one is still interestingand still lovable, though the years that are gone have each kept somegift or grace, and the possibilities of life seem to have been realizedand decided. There are days of our old age when there seems so littleleft in life, that living is a mere formality. This busy world seemsdone with the old, however dear their memories of it, however strongtheir claims upon it. They are old: their life now is only waiting andresting. It may be quite right that we sometimes speak of secondchildhood, because we must be children before we are grown, and thelife to come must find us, ready for service. Our old people havelived in the world so long; they think they know it so well: but theyoung man is master of the trade of living, and the man only hisblundering apprentice. 

Miss Sydney's solemnest and most unprepared servant was startled tofind Bessie Thorne and his mistress sitting cosily together before thedining-room fire. Bessie had a paper full of cut flowers to leave atthe Children's Hospital on her way home. Miss Sydney had givenliberally to the contribution for that object; but she never hadsuspected how interesting it was until Bessie told her, and she saidshe should like to go some day, and see the building and its occupantsfor himself. And the girl told her of other interest that were nearher kind young heart, --not all charitable interests, --and they partedintimate friends. 

"I never felt such a charming certainty of being agreeable, " wroteBessie that night to a friend of hers. "She seemed so interesting inevery thing, and, as I told you, so pleased with my coming to see her. I have promised to go there very often. She told me in the saddest waythat she had been feeling so old and useless and friendless, and shewas very confidential. Imagine her being confidential with me! Sheseemed to me just like myself as I was last year, --you remember--justbeginning to realize what life ought to be, and trying, in afrightened, blind kind of way to be good and useful. She said she wasjust beginning to understand her selfishness. She told me I had doneher ever so much good; and I couldn't help the tears coming into myeyes. I wished so much you were there, or some one who could help hermore; but I suppose God knew when he sent me. Doesn't it seem strangethat an old woman should talk to me in this way, and come to me forhelp? I am afraid people would laugh at the very idea. And only tothink of her living on and on, year after year, and then being changedso! She kissed me when I came away, and I carried the flowers to thehospital. I shall always be fond of that conservatory, because if Ihadn't stopped to look in that day, I might never have thought of her. 

"There was one strange thing happened, which I must tell you about, though it is so late. She has grown very much interested in an oldcandy-woman, and told me about her; and do you know that this eveninguncle Jack came in, and asked if we knew of anybody who would do forjanitress--at the Natural History Rooms, I think he said. There isgood pay and she would just sell catalogues, and look after things alittle. Of course the candy-woman may not be competent; but, from whatMiss Sydney told me, I think she is just the person. "

The next Sunday the minister read this extract from "Queen's Gardens"in his sermon. Two of his listeners never had half understood itsmeaning before as they did then. Bessie was in church, and Miss Sydneysuddenly turned her head, and smiled at her young friend, to the greatamazement of the people who sat in the pews near by. What could havecome over Miss Sydney?

"The path of a good woman is strewn with flowers; but they rise_behind_ her steps, not before them. 'Her feet have touched themeadow, and left the daisies rosy. ' Flowers flourish in the garden ofone who loves them. A pleasant magic it would be if you could flushflowers into brighter bloom by a kind look upon them; nay, more, if alook had the power not only to cheer, but to guard them. This youwould think a great thing? And do you think it not a greater thingthat all this, and more than this, you can do for fairer flowers thanthese, --flowers that could bless you for having blessed them, and willlove you for having loved them, --flowers that have eyes like yours, andthoughts like yours, and lives like yours?"

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A BRAVE BOY. 

"Speaking of courage, " said my friend Tom Barton, as we met one dayafter a long separation, "reminds me of an incident that happened atthe doctors' school the first winter after you left. 

"It was during the Christmas holidays, and all of the boys had gonehome except two brothers, named Fred and Albert Kobb, and myself. Theywere obliged to stay during the vacation because their parents werespending the season in Florida, and I, --well, as you know, my home wasat a distance, and we were poor, so I remained at school. 

"The brothers were very unlike, both in appearance and character. Fred, the elder of the two, was a large, muscular, ruddy-faced boy, notmuch in love with books. He was of an over-bearing disposition, andhad a great deal of conceit. 

"Albert, on the contrary, was pale and slender. He was very quiet andstudious, and had such a love of honesty and truth, and suchdetestation of meanness and wrong, that we boys had dubbed him the'Parson. '

"It was the Saturday night between Christmas and New Year's. We threeboys were hugging the stove in the little room adjoining the doctor'sstudy. Doctor was in the study writing a sermon for the following day, as he had to preach at Milltown. 

"We could hear his pen scratching over the paper during the lulls inour conversation. Occasionally that 'ahem!' of his would come throughthe partially opened door; but somehow his 'ahems' seemed to lose theirominous character during holidays. 

"The subject of our conversation was a robbery that had beenperpetrated at Squire Little's store the previous night. 

"Robberies, as you know, were unusual occurrences in the little villageof Acme. Of course this one furnished a topic for abundance of talk. 

"Wherever we had been that day we had found some groups of men and boystalking about robberies in general, and this one in particular. 

"It was but natural that in the evening we boys should discuss the samesubject, and each of us offered various speculations as to who therobber was, where he had gone, and whether he would be captured or not. 

"Then we told stories of all the daring burglaries of which we had everheard or read, and finally described such as had happened in our ownhouses. 

"In the descriptions of our personal experiences Fred gave a glowingaccount of an incident that had occurred in his father's family. Onenight he said the coachman thought he saw a man prowling in thechicken-yard. He fired a pistol at him, and had summoned the otherservants to go in pursuit of the robber. He told us how the brave men, armed with lanterns, pokers, and blunderbusses, had reached thechicken-yard, and there found traces of blood, which they followed upfor a few yards, and found, lying in the last throes of death, thevictim of the coachman's prowess, --a fine black Spanish rooster!

"At length said I, 'What would you do if you should hear a burglar somenight trying to enter your house?'

"Fred straightened himself and squared his shoulders. 'I wouldn'thesitate a moment to shoot him, ' said he, valiantly. 'I tell you, itwould be a good burglar that could get away from me. '

"Al rested his chin in his hands, and gazed thoughtfully into theglowing coals. 

"'Well, ' said he slowly, 'it is hard to tell what a fellow might dounder such circumstances. I rather believe, though, I would take goodcare to keep out of his way. What would you do, Tom?'

"'Me?" I exclaimed. 'Very likely I'd cover my head with the bedclothesand leave him to carry off house and all if he could. '

"Fred was about to make another remark, but was prevented by thedoctor, who appeared in the doorway. 'Well, boys, ' said he, 'don't youthink we've had enough talk about robberies for one evening? It isgetting late now, and your continual talking has bothered me so that Ihave only written one page during the last half hour, and on that pageI have written four times the word "burglar" instead of "bravery. "'

"Bidding him good-night we went up stairs, and were soon fast asleep. 

"About midnight I awoke with the consciousness of having been arousedby some unusual noise. Slightly raising my head I listened, and hearda scraping sound at the back hall window. 

"We three boys occupied the front room on the third floor, the samethat you and Atkinson had at one time. It was a bright moonlightnight. Glancing towards the Kobbs' bed, I saw them both sitting up. The noise had aroused them also. 

"'There's some one trying to get in that hall window, ' said Al, in awhisper. 'I'm going to see. '

"'Wait and listen awhile, ' urged Fred. 

"'And give the fellow a chance to get in?' exclaimed Al. 'No; webetter stop him where he is. '

"'Let's call the doctor, ' said Fred. 

"'There isn't time for that. Don't you hear him unfastening thewindow-bolt? Come, hurry! I'm going to take the old-musket; you takethe bat. '

"'The gun isn't loaded, ' said Fred; and his voice actually trembled. Whether he was shivering from cold or fright, I don't know. 

"'It will scare him just the same, ' said Al; and taking down the rustyfirearm, he hurried out into the hall, followed at a little distance byhis brother, armed with the base-ball bat. 

"I was never very brave, and therefore I took good care to keep as farbehind Fred as he was behind his brother; in fact to be more honest, Imerely ventured as far as the door, and there peeped into the hall. 

"A man's form was crawling through the window, but he seemed to be sooccupied by keeping the sash up that he had not as yet noticed the twoboys. As he threw one leg over the sill, he thrust his hand into hisbreast pocket and drew out a small, dark object. 

"'Murder! he's drawing a pistol!' roared Fred in terror; and turninghastily to fly, he ran against me in the doorway, and we both fellsprawling upon the floor. 

"'Robbers! fire!' shrieked Fred. 'Here's another one!' and dartinginto an opposite room, he crawled under the bed there. 

"'Move another inch and I'll fire!' cried Al, pointing the musket atthe man's breast. 

"Och!--murther! Masther Al, don't be afther a-shootin' me!' came afamiliar voice in broad Hibernian accents. 

"It was Pat, the doctor's man. 

"'What! is that you, Pat?' exclaimed Al, lowering the weapon. 

"'Sorra the day for me an' it wur, ' said the Irishman, as he carefullydeposited on the floor the pistol Fred had seen him draw, which wassimply a small, flat bottle. He then leisurely lifted his otherponderous foot over the window-sill, shook himself, as if to ascertainwhether he had a whole skin, and shut the window. Then he picked upthe bottle, and carefully replaced it in his coat pocket. 

"Meanwhile, Al had been quietly laughing, and I was still on the floorlaughing and rubbing the bruises on my legs, which had been caused byFred's collision. 

"'What's the meaning of this?' whispered Al. 'How is it, Pat, that youcome into the house in this way instead of by the door?"

"'Well, you see, ' said Pat, 'I just wint the night to say me cousin, who is a-workin' at the Smit's, an' not moindin' to disturb the doctheran' his wife, sure didn't I put the long laddher forninst the windew, intindin' to tak out that new pane of glass that was raycintly tackedin, an' inter in as nate an' quiet as ye plaze: but the lad was scareda bit. Where is he?'

"'Who? Fred?' asked Al. 

"'Ay, it's Fred I mane, ' said Pat. 

"Having by this time rubbed my bruises sufficiently and picked myselfup, I led them to Fred's place of concealment. His feet and legs werein plain sight, for, ostrich-like, he seemed to have imagined that ifhis head alone were covered, he was perfectly safe. Pat grasped him bythe ankle, and despite of his kicking hauled him out. 

"'Oh, ' cried Fred, in abject terror, supposing it was the burglar whohad caught him, 'don't kill me! don't kill me! My money is all in thetrunk in the opposite room!'

"'Do keep still, and don't make such a fool of yourself! It's onlyPat, ' said Al, with suppressed laughter, while Pat and I indulged inlaughter that was far from suppressed. 

"In the midst of this racket we heard a door open below, and thedoctor's voice called, --

"'What is the matter up there?'

"'Nothin', sur, ' replied Pat, with Irish readiness, 'only the lads gotfreighted as I was comin' to bed. '

"'Tell them to be quiet, or I shall come up, ' said doctor. 

"'D'ye hear that, b'ys?' said Pat. 'Get to bed now; ye'll tak' yourdeath runnin' round in the cowld widout your clothes on. '

"In our excitement we had forgotten that the mercury outside was nearlydown to zero, and had not noticed the cold; but Pat's words quickenedour sensitiveness, so we hastened shivering to bed, and the house wasagain quiet. 

"Monday morning the doctor summoned us all to his study, and thereinstituted one of his usual courts of inquiry. He was judge, jury andcounsel. Pat was the principal witness, and we boys were there inorder to corroborate or refute Pat's testimony, and also to sustainsomewhat the respectability of the court I suppose. 

"'Patrick, ' said the doctor, in opening the case, 'what was the causeof that noise up stairs Saturday night?'

"'Well, Your Riverence, ' began Pat, and his small gray eyes twinkled ashe cast a sly glance at me, 'Sathurday noight I fought I'd call on mecousin, who has just coom from the ould counthry, an' is workin' in thevillage'--

"'At Smith's, ' put in Al, by way of explanation. "

The doctor was not very strict when he held court during holidays, otherwise he might have told Al to remain silent until he wasquestioned. 

"'At Smit's, ' repeated Pat, 'an' moindin' not to disturb yez by comin'in late, sure I just climbed up to the hall winder, an' as I wur halft'rough, an' wur' takin' somethin' from me pocket'--

"'A flat bottle, ' interposed Al. 

"'A bottle, eh? And what was in it?' asked the doctor, suspiciously, in an unprecedented manner beginning the cross-examination before thedirect was concluded. 

"'Only a wee dhrap of medicine, sur, ' said Pat. 'Me cousin was afearedI had the influenzys, an' gave it to me for it. '

"'Go on, ' said doctor, with a smile. 

"'As I wur a-sayin', sur, I dhrew forth the bottle, whin there came wanyell from Masther Fred in the back part of the hall, an' says he, "Och!murther! he's dhrawin' his pistol!" an' thin' he run like--like'--

"'Ay, ay!' exclaimed doctor, warningly. 

"'Like a deer, ' said Pat; 'an' as I wur a-sayin', sur, I looked up andsaw Masther Al fornist me, with a gun dhrawed up to his shoulder an'pintin' at me, an' says I, "Don't murther me!"

"'An' sure, sir, he did not, an' thin we wint an' pullt Fred out fromunder the bed, where he'd crawled wid his two legs stickin' out in themoonlight, an' Tam an' messel' wur smilin' quiet like, an' YourRiverence towld us to shut up, an' we wint to bed, sur. '

"'And how did Tom act?' said the doctor. 'Eh, Tom, you young rogue, what are you snickering and giggling at behind Pat's back? Are youlaughing at him or me?'

"'Neither, ' I replied; 'but the truth is, doctor, that Pat told me hemight be out late Saturday night, and that I needn't be frightened if Iheard any unusual noise. But I forgot to tell the boys, and was sostartled and confused in waking from a sound sleep, that I at firstthought it was a burglar, and after I did recollect that it was onlyPat, I concluded not to say anything, but test their courage, as Isupposed there was no danger in it. '

"'Well, Pat, ' said doctor, 'when you visit your cousin again, don'tclimb through the window on your return. And, boys, the next time youhear any suspicious sound at midnight, come and call me the first thingyou do. '

"So having brought in a verdict of 'not guilty of any evil intentions, 'the doctor adjourned the court. 

"Poor Fred was never heard to boast of his bravery, or even to mentionthe word 'burglar, ' after that. So true it is that boasters usuallyprove cowards when put to the test. "

C. S. SLEIGHT. 

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LADY FERRY. 

We have an instinctive fear of death; yet we have a horror of a lifeprolonged far beyond the average limit: it is sorrowful; it is pitiful;it has no attractions. 

This world is only a schoolroom for the larger life of the next. Someleave it early, and some late: some linger long after they seem to havelearned all its lessons. This world is no heaven: its pleasures do notlast even through our little lifetimes. 

There are many fables of endless life, which in all ages have caughtthe attention of men; we are familiar with the stories of the oldpatriarchs who lived their hundreds of years; but one thinks of themwearily, and without envy. 

When I was a child, it was necessary that my father and mother shouldtake a long sea-voyage. I never had been separated from them before;but at this time they thought it best to leave me behind, as I was notstrong, and the life on board ship did not suit me. When I was told ofthis decision, I was very sorry, and at once thought I should bemiserable without my mother; besides, I pitied myself exceedingly forlosing the sights I had hoped to see in the country which they were tovisit. I had an uncontrollable dislike to being sent to school, havingin some way been frightened by a maid of my mother's, who had put manyideas and aversions into my head which I was very many years inoutgrowing. Having dreaded this possibility, it was a great relief toknow that I was not to be sent to school at all, but to be put underthe charge of two elderly cousins of my father, --a gentleman and hiswife whom I had once seen, and liked dearly. I knew that their homewas at a fine old-fashioned country-place, far from town, and closebeside a river, and I was pleased with this prospect, and at once beganto make charming plans for the new life. 

I had lived always with grown people, and seldom had had any thing todo with children. I was very small for my age, and a strange mixtureof childishness and maturity; and, having the appearance of beingabsorbed in my own affairs, no one ever noticed me much, or seemed tothink it better that I should not listen to the conversation. In spiteof considerable curiosity, I followed an instinct which directed menever to ask questions at these times; so I often heard stray sentenceswhich puzzled me, and which really would have been made simple andcommonplace at once, if I had only asked their meaning. I was, for themost of the time, in a world of my own. I had a great deal ofimagination, and was always telling myself stories; and my mind wasadrift in these so much, that my real absent-mindedness was mistakenfor childish unconcern. Yet I was a thoroughly simple unaffectedchild. My dreams and thoughtfulness gave me a certain tact andperception unusual in a child; but my pleasures were as deep in simplethings as heart could wish. 

It happened that our cousin Matthew was to come to the city on businessthe week that the ship was to sail, and that I could stay with myfather and mother to the very last day, and then go home with him. This was much pleasanter than leaving sooner under the care of an utterstranger, as was at first planned. My cousin Agnes wrote a kind letterabout my coming, which seemed to give her much pleasure. Sheremembered me very well, and sent me a message which made me feel ofconsequence; and I was delighted with the plan of making her so long avisit. 

One evening I was reading a story-book, and I heard my father say in anundertone, "How long has madam been at the ferry this last time? Eightor ten years, has she not? I suppose she is there yet?"--"Oh, yes!"said my mother, "or Agnes would have told us. She spoke of her in thelast letter you had, while we were in Sweden. "

"I should think she would be glad to have a home at last, after heryears of wandering about. Not that I should be surprised now to hearthat she had disappeared again. When I was staying there while I wasyoung, we thought she had drowned herself, and even had the men searchfor her along the shore of the river; but after a time cousin Matthewheard of her alive and well in Salem; and I believe she appeared againthis last time as suddenly as she went away. "

"I suppose she will never die, " said my mother gravely. "She must beterribly old, " said my father. "When I saw her last, she had scarcelychanged at all from the way she looked when I was a boy. She is evenmore quiet and gentle than she used to be. There is no danger that thechild will have any fear of her; do you think so?"--"Oh, no! but Ithink I will tell her that madam is a very old woman, and that I hopeshe will be very kind, and try not to annoy her; and that she must notbe frightened at her strange notions. I doubt if she knows whatcraziness is. "--"She would be wise if she could define it, " said myfather with a smile. "Perhaps we had better say nothing about the oldlady. It is probable that she stays altogether in her own room, andthat the child will rarely see her. I never have realized until latelythe horror of such a long life as hers, living on and on, with one'sfriends gone long ago: such an endless life in this world!"

Then there was a mysterious old person living at the ferry, and therewas a question whether I would not be "afraid" of her. She "had notchanged" since my father was a boy: "it was horrible to have one's lifeendless in this world!"

The days went quickly by. My mother, who was somewhat of an invalid, grew sad as the time drew near for saying good-by to me, and was moretender and kind than ever before, and more indulgent of every wish andfancy of mine. We had been together all my life, and now it was to belong months before she could possibly see my face again, and perhapsshe was leaving me forever. Her time was all spent, I believe, inthoughts for me, and in making arrangements for my comfort. I did seemy mother again; but the tears fill my eyes when I think how dear webecame to each other before that first parting, and with what alingering, loving touch, she herself packed my boxes, and made sure, over and over again, that I had whatever I should need; and I rememberhow close she used to hold me when I sat in her lap in the evening, saying that she was afraid I should have grown too large to be heldwhen she came back again. We had more to say to each other than everbefore, and I think, until then, that my mother never had suspected howmuch I observed of life and of older people in a certain way; that Iwas something more than a little child who went from one interest toanother carelessly. I have known since that my mother's childhood wasmuch like mine. She, however, was timid, while I had inherited from myfather his fearlessness, and lack of suspicion; and these qualities, like a fresh wind, swept away any cobwebs of nervous anticipation andsensitiveness. Every one was kind to me, partly, I think, because Iinterfered with no one. I was glad of the kindness, and, with myunsuspected dreaming and my happy childishness, I had gone through lifewith almost perfect contentment, until this pain of my first realloneliness came into my heart. 

It was a day's journey to cousin Matthew's house, mostly by rail;though, toward the end, we had to travel a considerable distance bystage, and at last were left on the river-bank opposite my new home, and I saw a boat waiting to take us across. It was just at sunset, andI remember wondering if my father and mother were out of sight of land, and if they were watching the sky; if my father would remember thatonly the evening before we had gone out for a walk together, and therehad been a sunset so much like this. It somehow seemed long ago. Cousin Matthew was busy talking with the ferry-man; and indeed he hadfound acquaintances at almost every part of the journey, and had notbeen much with me, though he was kind and attentive in his courteous, old-fashioned way, treating me with the same ceremonious politenesswhich he had shown my mother. He pointed out the house to me: it wasbut a little way from the edge of the river. It was very large andirregular, with great white chimneys; and, while the river was all inshallow [Transcriber's note: shade?], the upper windows of two highgables were catching the last red glow of the sun. On the oppositeside of a green from the house were the farm-house and buildings; andthe green sloped down to the water, where there was a wharf and anancient-looking storehouse. There were some old boats and long sticksof timber lying on the shore; and I saw a flock of white geese marchsolemnly up toward the barns. From the open green I could see that aroad went up the hill beyond. The trees in the garden and orchard werethe richest green; their round tops were clustered thickly together:and there were some royal great elms near the house. The fiery redfaded from the high windows as we came near the shore, and cousin Agneswas ready to meet me; and when she put her arms round me as kindly asmy mother would have done, and kissed me twice in my father's fashion, I was sure that I loved her, and would be contented. Her hair was verygray; but she did not look, after all, so very old. Her face was agrave one, as if she had had many cares; yet they had all made herstronger, and there had been some sweetness, and something to be gladabout, and to thank God for, in every sorrow. I had a feeling alwaysthat she was my sure defence and guard. I was safe and comfortablewith her: it was the same feeling which one learns to have toward Godmore and more, as one grows older. 

We went in through a wide hall, and up stairs, through a long passage, to my room, which was in a corner of one of the gables. Two windowslooked on the garden and the river; another looked across to the othergable, and into the square, grassy court between. It was a rambling, great house, and seemed like some English houses I had seen. It wouldbe great fun to go into all the rooms some day soon. 

"How much you are like your father!" said cousin Agnes, stooping tokiss me again, with her hand on my shoulder. I had a suddenconsciousness of my bravery in having behaved so well all day; then Iremembered that my father and mother were at every instant beingcarried farther and farther away. I could almost hear the waves dashabout the ship; and I could not help crying a little. "Poor littlegirl!" said cousin Agnes: "I am very sorry. " And she sat down, andtook me in her lap for a few minutes. She was tall, and held me socomfortably, and I soon was almost happy again; for she hoped I wouldnot be lonely with her, and that I would not think she was a stranger, for she had known and loved my father so well: and it would make cousinMatthew so disappointed and uneasy if I were discontented; and would Ilike some bread and milk with my supper, in the same blue china bowl, with the dragon on it, which my father used to have when he was a boy?These arguments were by no means lost upon me, and I was ready to smilepresently; and then we went down to the dining room, which had somesolemn-looking portraits on the walls, and heavy, stiff furniture; andthere was an old-fashioned woman standing ready to wait, whom cousinAgnes called Deborah, and who smiled at me graciously. 

Cousin Matthew talked with his wife for a time about what had happenedto him and to her during his absence; and then he said, "And how ismadam to-day? you have not spoken of her. "--"She is not so well asusual, " said cousin Agnes. "She has had one of her sorrowful timessince you went away. I have sat with her for several hours to-day; butshe has hardly spoken to me. " And then cousin Matthew looked at me, and cousin Agnes hesitated for a minute. Deborah had left the room. 

"We speak of a member of our family whom you have not seen, althoughyou may have heard your father speak of her. She is called Lady Ferryby most people who know of her; but you may say madam when you speak toher. She is very old, and her mind wanders, so that she has manystrange fancies; but you must not be afraid, for she is very gentle andharmless. She is not used to children; but I know you will not annoyher, and I dare say you can give her much pleasure. " This was all thatwas said; but I wished to know more. It seemed to me that there was areserve about this person, and the old house itself was the very placefor a mystery. As I went through some of the other rooms with cousinAgnes in the summer twilight, I half expected to meet Lady Ferry inevery shadowy corner; but I did not dare to ask a question. Myfather's words came to me, --"Such an endless life, " and "living on andon. " And why had he and mother never spoken to me afterward of myseeing her? They had talked about it again, perhaps, and did not meanto tell me, after all. 

I saw something of the house that night, the great kitchen, with itshuge fireplace, and other rooms up stairs and down; and Cousin Agnestold me, that by daylight I should go everywhere, except to Madam'srooms: I must wait for an invitation there. 

The house had been built a hundred and fifty years before, by ColonelHaverford, an Englishman, whom no one knew much about, except that helived like a prince, and would never tell his history. He and his sonsdied; and after the Revolution the house was used for a tavern for manyyears, --the Ferry Tavern, --and the place was busy enough. Then therewas a bridge built down the river, and the old ferry fell into disuse;and the owner of the house died, and his family also died, or wentaway; and then the old place, for a long time, was either vacant, or inthe hands of different owners. It was going to ruin at length, whencousin Matthew bought it, and came there from the city to live yearsbefore. He was a strange man; indeed, I know now that all thepossessors of the Ferry farm must have been strange men. One oftenhears of the influence of climate upon character; there is a stronginfluence of place; and the inanimate things which surround us indoorsand out make us follow out in our lives their own silentcharacteristics. We unconsciously catch the tone of every house inwhich we live, and of every view of the outward, material world whichgrows familiar to us, and we are influenced by surroundings nearer andcloser still than the climate or the country which we inhabit. At theold Haverford house it was a mystery which one felt when one enteredthe door; and when one came away, after cordiality, and days ofsunshine and pleasant hospitality, it was still with a sense of thismystery, and of something unseen and unexplained. Not that there wasany thing covered and hidden necessarily; but it was the quietundertone in the house which had grown to be so old, and had known themagnificent living of Colonel Haverford's time, and afterward thestruggles of poor gentlemen and women, who had hardly warmed its wallswith their pitiful fires, and shivering, hungry lives; then the longprocession of travellers who had been sheltered there in its old taverndays; finally, my cousin Matthew and his wife, who had made it theirhome, when, with all their fortune, they felt empty-handed, and as iftheir lives were ended, because their only son had died. Here they hadlearned to be happy again in a quiet sort of way, and had become olderand serener, loving this lovable place by the river, and keepers of itssecret--whatever that might be. 

I was wide awake that first evening: I was afraid of being sent to bed, and, to show cousin Agnes that I was not sleepy, I chattered far morethan usual. It was warm, and the windows of the parlour where we satlooked upon the garden. The moon had risen, and it was light out ofdoors. I caught every now and then the faint smell of honeysuckle, andpresently I asked if I might go into the garden a while; and cousinAgnes gave me leave, adding that I must soon go to bed, else I would bevery tired next day. She noticed that I looked grave, and said that Imust not dread being alone in a strange room, for it was so near herown. This was a great consolation; and after I had been told that thetide was in, and I must be careful not to go too near the river wall, Iwent out through the tall glass door, and slowly down the widegarden-walk, from which now and then narrower walks branched off atright angles. It was the pride of the place, this garden; and thebox-borders especially were kept with great care. They had partly beentrimmed that day; and the evening dampness brought out the faint, solemn odour of the leaves, which I never have noticed since withoutthinking of that night. The roses were in bloom, and the snow-ballbushes were startlingly white, and there was a long border filled withlilies-of-the-valley. The other flowers of the season, were all thereand in blossom; yet I could see none well but the white ones, whichlooked like bits of snow and ice in the summer shadows, --ghostlyflowers which one could see at night. 

It was still in the garden, except once I heard a bird twittersleepily, and once or twice a breeze came across the river, rustlingthe leaves a little. The small-paned windows glistened in themoonlight, and seemed like the eyes of the house watching me, theunknown new-comer. 

For a while I wandered about, exploring the different paths, some ofwhich were arched over by the tall lilacs, or by arbors where thegrape-leaves did not seem fully grown. I wondered if my mother wouldmiss me. It seemed impossible that I should have seen her only thatmorning; and suddenly I had a consciousness that she was thinking ofme, and she seemed so close to me, that it would not be strange if shecould hear what I said. And I called her twice softly; but the soundof my unanswered voice frightened me. I saw some round white flowersat my feet, looking up mockingly. The smell of the earth and the newgrass seemed to smother me. I was afraid to be there all alone in thewide open air; and all the tall bushes that were so still around metook strange shapes, and seemed to be alive. I was so terribly faraway from the mother whom I had called; the pleasure of my journey, andmy coming to cousin Agnes, faded from my mind, and that indescribablefeeling of hopelessness and dread, and of having made an irreparablemistake, came in its place. The thorns of a straying slender branch ofa rose bush caught my sleeve maliciously as I turned to hurry away, andthen I caught sight of a person in the path just before me. It wassuch a relief to see some one, that I was not frightened when I sawthat it must be Lady Ferry. 

She was bent, but very tall and slender, and was walking slowly with acane. Her head was covered with a great hood or wrapping of some kind, which she pushed back when she saw me. Some faint whitish figures onher dress looked like frost in the moonlight: and the dress itself wasmade of some strange stiff silk, which rustled softly like dry rushesand grasses in the autumn, --a rustling noise that carries a chill withit. She came close to me, a sorrowful little figure very dreary atheart, standing still as the flowers themselves; and for severalminutes she did not speak, but watched me, until I began to be afraidof her. Then she held out her hand, which trembled as if it weretrying to shake off its rings. "My dear, " said she "I bid you welcome:I have known your father. I was told of your coming. Perhaps you willwalk with me? I did not think to find you here alone. " There was afascinating sweetness in Madame's voice, and I at once turned to walkbeside her, holding her hand fast, and keeping pace with her feeblesteps. "Then you are not afraid of me?" asked the old lady, with astrange quiver in her voice. "It is a long time since I have seen achild. "--"No, " said I, "I am not afraid of you. I was frightenedbefore I saw you, because I was all alone, and I wished I could see myfather and mother;" and I hung my head so that my new friend could notsee the tears in my eyes, for she watched me curiously. "All alone:that is like me, " said she to herself. "All alone? a child is not allalone, but there is no one like me. I am something alone: there isnothing else of my fashion, a creature who lives forever!" and LadyFerry sighed pitifully. Did she mean that she never was going to dielike other people? But she was silent, and I did not dare to ask forany explanation as we walked back and forward. Her fingers kept movinground my wrist, smoothing it as if she liked to feel it, and to keep myhand in hers. It seemed to give her pleasure to have me with her, andI felt quite at my ease presently, and began to talk a little, assuringher that I did not mind having taken the journey of that day. I hadtaken some long journeys: I had been to China once, and it took a greatwhile to get there; but London was the nicest place I had ever seen;had Lady Ferry even been in London? And I was surprised to hear hersay drearily that she had been in London; she had been everywhere. 

"Did you go to Westminster Abbey?" I asked, going on with theconversation childishly. "And did you see where Queen Elizabeth andMary Queen of Scots are buried? Mamma had told me all about them. "

"Buried, did you say? Are they dead too?" asked Madam eagerly. "Yes, indeed!" said I: "they have been dead a long time. "--"Ah! I hadforgotten, " answered my strange companion. "Do you know of any oneelse who has died beside them? I have not heard of any one's dying andgoing home for so long! Once every one died but me--except some youngpeople; and I do not know them. "--"Why, every one must die, " said Iwonderingly. "There is a funeral somewhere every day, Isuppose. "--"Every one but me, " Madam repeated sadly, --"every one butme, and I am alone. "

Just now cousin Agnes came to the door, and called me. "Go in now, child, " said Lady Ferry. "You may come and sit with me to-morrow ifyou choose. " And I said good-night, while she turned, and went downthe walk with feeble, lingering steps. She paced to and fro, as Ioften saw her afterwards, on the flagstones: and some bats flew thatway like ragged bits of darkness, holding somehow a spark of life. Iwatched her for a minute: she was like a ghost, I thought but not afearful ghost, --poor Lady Ferry!

"Have you had a pleasant walk?" asked cousin Matthew politely. "To-morrow I will give you a border for your own, and some plants forit, if you like gardening. " I joyfully answered that I should like itvery much, and so I began to feel already the pleasure of being in areal home, after the wandering life to which I had become used. I wentclose to cousin Agnes's chair to tell her confidentially that I hadbeen walking with Madam in the garden, and she was very good to me, andasked me to come to sit with her the next day: but she said very oddthings. 

"You must not mind what she says, " said cousin Agnes; "and I wouldnever dispute with her, or even seem surprised, if I were you. Ithurts and annoys her, and she soon forgets her strange fancies. Ithink you seem a very sensible little girl, and I have told you aboutthis poor friend of ours as if you were older. But you understand doyou not?" And then she kissed me good-night, and I went up stairs, contented with her assurance that she would come to me before I went tosleep. 

I found a pleasant-faced young girl busy putting away some of myclothing. I had seen her just after supper, and had fancied her verymuch, partly because she was not so old as the rest of the servants. We were friendly at once, and I found her very talkative; so finally Iasked the question which was uppermost in my mind, --Did she knowanything about Madam?

"Lady Ferry, folks call her, " said Martha, much interested. "I neverhave seen her close to, only from the other side of the garden, whereshe walks at night. She never goes out by day. Deborah waits uponher. I haven't been here long; but I have always heard about Madame, bless you! Folks tell all kinds of strange stories. She's fearfulold, and there's many believes she never will die; and where she camefrom nobody knows. I've heard that her folks used to live here; butnobody can remember them, and she used to wander about; and once beforeshe was here, --a good while ago; but this last time she came was nineyears ago; one stormy night she came across the ferry, and scared themto death, looking in at the window like a ghost. She said she used tolive here in Colonel Haverford's time. They saw she wasn't right inher head--the ferry-men did. But she came up to the house, and theylet her in, and she went straight to the rooms in the north gable, andshe never has gone away: it was in an awful storm she came, I've heard, and she looked just the same as she does now. There! I can't tellhalf the stories I've heard, and Deborah she most took my head off, "said Martha, "because, when I first came, I was asking about her; andshe said it was a sin to gossip about a harmless old creature whosemind was broke, but I guess most everybody thinks there's somethingmysterious. There's my grandmother--her mind is failing her; but shenever had such ways! And then those clothes that my lady in the gablewears: they're unearthly looking; and I heard a woman say once, thatthey come out of a chest in the big garret, and they belonged to aMistress Haverford who was hung for a witch, but there's no knowingthat there is any truth in it. " And Martha would have gone on with herstories, if just then we had not heard cousin Agnes's step on thestairway, and I hurried into bed. 

But my bright eyes and excited look betrayed me. Cousin Agnes said shehad hoped I would be asleep. And Martha said perhaps it was her fault;but I seemed wakeful, and she had talked with me a bit, to keep myspirits up, coming to a new, strange place. The apology was accepted, but Martha evidently had orders before I next saw her; for I nevercould get her to discuss Lady Ferry again; and she carefully told methat she should not have told those foolish stories, which were nottrue: but I knew that she still had her thoughts and suspicions as wellas I. Once, when I asked her if Lady Ferry were Madam's real name, sheanswered with a guilty flush, "That's what the folks hereabout calledher, because they didn't know any other at first. " And this to me wasanother mystery. It was strongly impressed upon my mind that I mustask no questions, and that Madam was not to be discussed. No onedistinctly forbade this; but I felt that it would not do. In everyother way I was sure that I was allowed perfect liberty, so I soonceased to puzzle myself or other people, and accepted Madam's presenceas being perfectly explainable and natural, --just as the rest of thehousehold did, --except once in a while something would set me at workromancing and wondering; and I read some stories in one of the books inthe library, --of Peter Rugg the missing man, whom one may always meetriding from Salem to Boston in every storm, and of the Flying Dutchmanand the Wandering Jew, and some terrible German stories of doomedpeople, and curses that were fulfilled. These made a great impressionupon me; still I was not afraid, for all such things were far outsidethe boundaries of my safe little world; and I played by myself alongthe shore of the river and in the garden; and I had my lessons withcousin Agnes, and drives with cousin Matthew who was nearly alwayssilent, but very kind to me. The house itself was an unfailingentertainment, with its many rooms, most of which were never occupied, and its quaint, sober furnishings, some of which were as old as thehouse itself. It was like a story-book; and no one minded my goingwhere I pleased. 

I missed my father and mother; but the only time I was really unhappywas the first morning after my arrival. Cousin Agnes was ill with asevere headache; cousin Matthew had ridden away to attend to somebusiness; and, being left to myself, I had a most decided re-actionfrom my unnaturally bright feelings of the day before. I began towrite a letter to my mother; but unluckily I knew how many weeks mustpass before she saw it, and it was useless to try to go on, I waslonely and homesick. The rain fell heavily, and the garden lookedforlorn, and so unlike the enchanting moonlighted place where I hadbeen in the evening! The walks were like little canals; and therose-bushes looked wet and chilly, like some gay young lady who hadbeen caught in the rain in party-dress. It was low tide in the middleof the day, and the river-flats looked dismal. I fed cousin Agnes'flock of tame sparrows which came around the windows, and afterwardsome robins. I found some books and some candy which had come in mytrunk, but my heart was very sad; and just after noon I was overjoyedwhen one of the servants told me that cousin Agnes would like to haveme come to her room. 

She was even kinder to me than she had been the night before; but shelooked very ill, and at first I felt awkward, and did not know what tosay. "I am afraid you have been very dull, dearie, " said she, reachingout her hand to me. "I am sorry, and my headache hardly lets me thinkat all yet. But we will have better times to-morrow--both of us. Youmust ask for what you want; and you may come and spend this eveningwith me, for I shall be getting well then. It does me good to see yourkind little face. Suppose you make Madam a call this afternoon. Shetold me last night that she wished for you, and I was so glad. Deborahwill show you the way. "

Deborah talked to me softly, out of deference to her mistress'sheadache, as we went along the crooked passages. "Don't you mind whatMadam says, least ways don't you dispute her. She's got a funeralgoing on to-day;" and the grave woman smiled grimly at me. "It'scurious she's taken to you so; for she never will see any strangefolks. Nobody speaks to her about new folks lately, " she addedwarningly, as she tapped at the door, and Madam asked, "Is it thechild?" And Deborah lifted the latch. When I was fairly inside, myinterest in life came back redoubled, and I was no longer sad, butlooked round eagerly. Madam spoke to me, with her sweet old voice, inher courtly, quiet way, and stood looking out of the window. 

There were two tall chests of drawers in the room, with shining brasshandles and ornaments; and at one side, near the door, was a heavymahogany table, on which I saw a large leather-covered Bible, adecanter of wine and some glasses, beside some cakes in a queer oldtray. And there was no other furniture but a great number of chairswhich seemed to have been collected from different parts of the house. 

With these the room was almost filled, except an open space in thecentre, toward which they all faced. One window was darkened; butMadam had pushed back the shutter of the other, and stood looking downat the garden. I waited for her to speak again after the firstsalutation, and presently she said I might be seated; and I took thenearest chair, and again waited her pleasure. It was gloomy enough, with the silence and the twilight in the room; and the rain and windout of doors sounded louder than they had in cousin Agnes's room; butsoon Lady Ferry came toward me. 

"So you did not forget the old woman, " said she, with a strangeemphasis on the word old, as if that were her title and her chiefcharacteristic. "And were not you afraid? I am glad it seemed worthwhile; for to-morrow would have been too late. You may like toremember by and by that you came. And my funeral is to be to-morrow atlast. You see the room is in readiness. You will care to be here, Ihope. I would have ordered you some gloves if I had known; but theseare all too large for your little hands. You shall have a ring; I willleave a command for that;" and Madam seated herself near me in acurious, high-backed chair. She was dressed that day in a maroonbrocade, figured with bunches of dim pink flowers; and some of theseflowers looked to me like wicked little faces. It was a mocking, silly, creature that I saw at the side of every prim bouquet, and Ilooked at the faded little imps, until they seemed as much alive asLady Ferry herself. 

Her head nodded continually, as if it were keeping time to an inaudibletune, as she sat there stiffly erect. Her skin was pale and withered;and her cheeks were wrinkled in fine lines, like the crossings of acobweb. Her eyes might once have been blue; but they had become nearlycolourless, and, looking at her, one might easily imagine that she wasblind. She had a singularly sweet smile, and a musical voice, whichthough sad, had no trace of whining. If it had not been for her smileand her voice, I think madam would have been a terror to me. I noticedto-day, for the first time, a curious fragrance, which seemed to comefrom her old brocades and silks. It was very sweet, but unlike anything I had ever known before; and it was by reason of this thatafterward I often knew, with a little flutter at my heart, she had beenin some other rooms of the great house beside her own. This perfumeseemed to linger for a little while wherever she had been, and yet itwas so faint! I used to go into the darkened chambers often, or evenstay for a while by myself in the unoccupied lower rooms, and I wouldfind this fragrance, and wonder if she were one of the old timefairies, who could vanish at their own will and pleasure, and wonder, too why she had come to the room. But I never met her at all. 

That first visit to her and the strange fancy she had about the funeralI have always remembered distinctly. 

"I am glad you came, " Madam repeated: "I was finding the day long. Iam all ready, you see. I shall place a little chair which is in thenext room, beside your cousin's seat for you. Mrs. Agnes is ill, Ihear; but I think she will come to-morrow. Have you heard any one sayif many guests are expected?"--"No, Madam, " I answered, "no one hastold me;" and just then the thought flitted through my head that shehad said the evening before that all her friends were gone. Perhapsshe expected their ghosts: that would not be stranger than all the rest. 

The open space where Lady Ferry had left room for her coffin began tobe a horror to me, and I wished Deborah would come back, or that myhostess would open the shutters; and it was a great relief when sherose and went into the adjoining room, bidding me follow her, and thereopened a drawer containing some old jewelry; there were also some queerChinese carvings, yellow with age, --just the things a child wouldenjoy. I looked at them delightedly. This was coming back to morefamiliar life; and I soon felt more at ease, and chattered to LadyFerry of my own possessions, and some coveted treasures of my mother's, which were to be mine when I grew older. 

Madam stood beside me patiently, and listened with a half smile to mywhispered admiration. In the clearer light I could see her better, andshe seemed older, --so old, so old! and my father's words came to meagain. She had not changed since he was a boy; living on and on, and'the horror of an endless life in this world!' And I remembered whatMartha had said to me, and the consciousness of this mystery was agreat weight upon me of a sudden. Why was she living so long? and whathad happened to her? and how long could it be since she was a child?

There was something in her manner which made me behave, even in mypleasure, as if her imagined funeral were there in reality, and as if, in spite of my being amused and tearless, the solemn company of funeralguests already sat in the next room to us with bowed heads, and all theshadows in the world had assembled there materialized into the tangibleform of crape. I opened and closed the boxes gently, and, when I hadseen everything, I looked up with a sigh to think that such a pleasurewas ended, and asked if I might see them again some day. But the lookin her face made me recollect myself, and my own grew crimson, for itseemed at that moment as real to me as to Lady Ferry herself that thiswas her last day of mortal life. She walked away, but presently cameback, while I was wondering if I might not go, and opened the draweragain. It creaked, and the brass handles clacked in a startling way, and she took out a little case, and said I might keep it to rememberher by. It held a little vinaigrette, --a tiny silver box with a goldone inside, in which I found a bit of fine sponge, dark brown with age, and still giving a faint, musty perfume and spiciness. The outside wasrudely chased, and was worn as if it had been carried for years insomebody's pocket. It had a spring, the secret of which Lady Ferryshowed me. I was delighted, and instinctively lifted my face to kissher. She bent over me, and waited an instant for me to kiss her again. "Oh!" said she softly, "it is so long since a child has kissed me! Ipray God not to leave you lingering like me, apart from all yourkindred, and your life so long that you forget you ever were achild. "--"I will kiss you every day, " said I, and then again rememberedthat there were to be no more days according to her plan; but she didnot seem to notice my mistake. 

And after this I used to go to see Madam often. For a time there wasalways the same gloom and hushed way of speaking, and the funeralservices were to be on the morrow; but at last one day I found Deborahsedately putting the room in order, and Lady Ferry apologized for itsbeing in such confusion; the idea of the funeral had utterly vanished, and I hurried to tell cousin Agnes with great satisfaction. I thinkthat both she and cousin Matthew had a dislike for my being too muchwith Madam. I was kept out of doors as much as possible because it wasmuch better for my health; and through the long summer days I strayedabout wherever I choose. The country life was new and delightful tome. At home Lady Ferry's vagaries were carelessly spoken of, and oftensmiled at; but I gained the idea that they disguised the truth, andwere afraid of my being frightened. She often talked about persons whohad been dead a long time, --familiar characters in history, and thoughcousin Agnes had said that she used to be fond of reading, it seemed tome that Madam might have known these men and women after all. 

Once a middle-aged gentleman, an acquaintance of cousin Matthew's, cameto pass a day and night at the Ferry, and something happened then whichseemed wonderful to me. It was early in the evening after tea, and wewere in the parlour; from my seat by cousin Agnes I could look out intothe garden, and presently, with the gathering darkness, came LadyFerry, silent as a shadow herself, to walk to and fro on theflagstones. The windows were all open, and the guest had a clear, loudvoice, and pleasant, hearty laugh; and, as he talked earnestly withcousin Matthew, I noticed that Lady Ferry stood still, as if she werelistening. Then I was attracted by some story which was being told, and forgot her, but afterward turned with a start, feeling that therewas some one watching; and, to my astonishment, Madam had come to thelong window by which one went out to the garden. She stood there amoment, looking puzzled and wild; then she smiled, and, entering, walked in most stately fashion down the long room, toward thegentlemen, before whom she courtesied with great elegance, while thestranger stopped speaking, and looked at her with amazement, as herose, and returned the greeting. 

"My dear Captain Jack McAllister!" said she; "what a surprise! and areyou not home soon from your voyage? This is indeed a pleasure. " AndLady Ferry seated herself, motioning to him to take a chair beside her. She looked younger than I had ever seen her; a bright colour came intoher cheeks; and she talked so gayly, in such a different manner fromher usual mournful gentleness. She must have been a beautiful woman;indeed she was that still. 

"And did the good ship Starlight make a prosperous voyage? And had youmany perils?--Do you bring much news to us from the Spanish Main? Wehave missed you sadly at the assemblies; but there must be a dance inyour honour. And your wife; is she not overjoyed at the sight of you?I think you have grown old and sedate since you went away. You do notlook the gay sailor, or seem so light-hearted. "

"I do not understand you, madam, " said the stranger. "I am certainlyJohn McAllister; but I am no captain, neither have I been at sea. GoodGod! is it my grandfather whom you confuse me with?" cried he. "He wasJack McAllister, and was lost at sea more than seventy years ago, whilemy own father was a baby. I am told that I am wonderfully like hisportrait; but he was a younger man than I when he died. This is somemasquerade. "

Lady Ferry looked at him intently, but the light in her face was fastfading out. "Lost at sea, --lost at sea, were you, Jack McAllister, seventy years ago? I know nothing of years; one of my days is likeanother, and they are gray days, they creep away and hide, andsometimes one comes back to mock me. I have lived a thousand years; doyou know it? Lost at sea--captain of the ship Starlight? Whom did yousay?--Jack McAllister, yes, I knew him well--pardon me; good-evening;"and my lady rose, and with her head nodding and drooping, with asorrowful, hunted look in her eyes, went out again into the shadows. She had had a flash of youth, the candle had blazed up brilliantly; butit went out again as suddenly, with flickering and smoke. 

"I was startled when I saw her beside me, " said Mr. McAllister. "Pray, who is she? she is like no one I have ever seen. I have been told thatI am like my grandfather in looks and in voice; but it is years since Ihave seen any one who knew him well. And did you hear her speak ofdancing? It is like seeing one who has risen from the dead. How oldcan she be?"--"I do not know, " said cousin Matthew, "one can only guessat her age. "--"Would not she come back? I should like to questionher, " asked the other. But cousin Matthew answered that she alwaysrefused to see strangers, and it would be no use to urge her, she wouldnot answer him. 

"Who is she? Is she any kin of yours?" asked Mr. McAllister. 

"Oh, no!" said my cousin Agnes: "she has had no relatives since I haveknown her, and I think she has no friends now but ourselves. She hasbeen with us a long time, and once before this house was her home for atime, --many years since. I suppose no one will ever know the wholehistory of her life; I wish often that she had power to tell it. Weare glad to give shelter, and the little care she will accept, to thepoor soul. God only knows where she has strayed and what she has seen. It is an enormous burden, --so long a life, and such a weight ofmemories; but I think it is seldom now that she feels itsheaviness. --Go out to her, Marcia my dear, and see if she seemstroubled. She always has a welcome for the child, " cousin Agnes added, as I unwillingly went away. 

I found Lady Ferry in the garden; I stole my hand into hers, and, after a few minutes of silence, I was not surprised to hear her saythat they had killed the Queen of France, poor Marie Antoinette! shehad known her well in her childhood, before she was a queen at all--"asad fate, a sad fate, " said Lady Ferry. We went far down the gardensand by the river-wall, and when we were again near the house, and couldhear Mr. McAllister's voice as cheery as ever, madam took no notice ofit. I had hoped she would go into the parlour again, and I wished overand over that I could have waited to hear the secrets which I was suremust have been told after cousin Agnes had sent me away. 

One day I thought I had made a wonderful discovery. I was fond ofreading, and found many books which interested me in cousin Matthew'sfine library; but I took great pleasure also in hunting through acollection of old volumes which had been cast aside, either by him, orby some former owner of the house, and which were piled in a corner ofthe great garret. They were mostly yellow with age, and had dark brownleather or shabby paper bindings; the pictures in some were veryamusing to me. I used often to find one which I appropriated andcarried down stairs; and on this day I came upon a dusty, odd shapedlittle book, for which I at once felt an affection. I looked at it alittle. It seemed to be a journal, there were some stories of theIndians and next I saw some reminiscences of the town of Boston, where, among other things, the author was told the marvellous story of oneMistress Honor Warburton, who was cursed, and doomed to live in thisworld forever. This was startling. I at once thought of Madam, andwas reading on further to know the rest of the story, when some onecalled me, and I foolishly did not dare to carry my book with me. Iwas afraid I should not find it if I left it in sight; I saw an openingnear me at the edge of the floor by the eaves, and I carefully laid mytreasure inside. But, alas! I was not to be sure of its safehiding-place in a way that I fancied, for the book fell down betweenthe boarding of the thick walls, and I heard it knock as it fell, andknew by the sound that it must be out of reach, I grieved over thisloss for a long time; and I felt that it had been most unkindly takenout of my hand. I wished heartily that I could know the rest of thestory; and I tried to summon courage to ask Madam, when we were by ourselves, if she had heard of Honor Warburton, but something held me back. 

There were two other events just at this time which made this strangeold friend of mine seem stranger than ever to me. I had a dream onenight, which I took for a vision and a reality at the time. I thoughtI looked out of my window in the night, and there was bright moonlight, and I could see the other gable plainly; and I looked in at thewindows of an unoccupied parlour which I never had seen open before, under Lady Ferry's own rooms, The shutters were pushed back, and therewere candles burning; and I heard voices, and presently some tinklingmusic, like that of a harpsichord I had once heard in a very old housewhere I had been in England with my mother. I saw several couples gothrough with a slow, stately dance; and, when they stopped and seatedthemselves, I could hear their voices; but they spoke low, thesemidnight guests. I watched until the door was opened which led intothe garden, and the company came out and stood for a few minutes on thelittle lawn, making their adieus, bowing low, and behaving withastonishing courtesy and elegance: finally the last good-nights weresaid, and they went away. Lady Ferry stood under the pointed porch, looking after them, and I could see her plainly in her brocade gown, with the impish flowers, a tall quaint cap, and a high lace frill ather throat, whiter than any lace I had ever seen, and with a glitter onit, and there was a glitter on her face too. One of the other ladieswas dressed in velvet, and I thought she looked beautiful: their eyeswere all like sparks of fire. The gentlemen wore cloaks and ruffs, andhigh-peaked hats with wide brims, such as I had seen in some very oldpictures which hung on the walls of the long west room. These were notpilgrims or Puritans, but gay gentlemen; and soon I heard the noise oftheir boats on the pebbles as they pushed off shore, and the splash ofthe oars in the water. Lady Ferry waved her hand, and went in at thedoor; and I found myself standing by the window in the chilly, cloudynight: the opposite gable, the garden, and the river, wereindistinguishable in the darkness. I stole back to bed in an agony offear; for it had been very real, that dream. I surely was at thewindow, for my hand had been on the sill when I waked; and I heard achurch-bell ring two o'clock in a town far up the river. I never hadheard this solemn bell before, and it seemed frightful; but I knewafterward that in the silence of a misty night the sound of it camedown along the water. 

In the morning I found that there had been a gale in the night; andcousin Matthew said at breakfast time that the tide had risen so thatit had carried off two old boats that had been left on the shore to goto pieces. I sprang to the window, and sure enough they haddisappeared. I had played in one of them the day before. Should Itell cousin Matthew what I had seen or dreamed? But I was too surethat he would only laugh at me: and yet I was none the less sure thatthose boats had carried passengers. 

When I went out to the garden, I hurried to the porch, and saw, to mydisappointment, that there were great spiders' webs in the corners ofthe door, and around the latch, and that it had not been opened since Iwas there before. But I saw something shining in the grass, and foundit was a silver knee-buckle. It must have belonged to one of theghostly guests, and my faith in them came back for a while, in spite ofthe cobwebs. By and by I bravely carried it up to Madam, and asked ifit were hers. Sometimes she would not answer for a long time, when onerudely broke in upon her reveries, and she hesitated now, looking at mewith singular earnestness. Deborah was in the room; and, when she sawthe buckle, she quietly said that it had been on the window-ledge theday before, and must have slipped out. "I found it down by thedoorstep in the grass, " said I humbly; and then I offered Lady Ferrysome strawberries which I had picked for her on a broad green leaf, andcame away again. 

A day or two after this, while my dream was still fresh in my mind, Iwent with Martha to her own home, which was a mile or two distant, --acomfortable farmhouse for those days, where I was always made welcome. The servants were all very kind to me: as I recall it now, they seemedto have pity for me, because I was the only child perhaps. I was veryhappy, that is certain, and I enjoyed my childish amusements asheartily as if there were no unfathomable mysteries or perplexities orsorrows anywhere in the world. 

I was sitting by the fireplace at Martha's, and her grandmother, whowas very old, and who was fast losing her wits, had been talking to meabout Madam. I do not remember what she said, at least, it made littleimpression; but her grandson, a worthless fellow, sauntered in, andbegan to tell a story of his own, hearing of whom we spoke. "I wascoming home late last night, " said he, "and, as I was in that darkplace along by the Noroway pines, old Lady Ferry she went by me, and Iwas near scared to death. She looked fearful tall--towered way upabove me. Her face was all lit up with blue light, and her feet didn'ttouch the ground. She wasn't taking steps, she wasn't walking, butmovin' along like a sail-boat before the wind. I dodged behind somelittle birches, and I was scared she'd see me; but she went right outo' sight up the road. She ain't mortal. "

"Don't scare the child with such foolishness, " said his auntdisdainfully. "You'll be seein' worse things a-dancin' before youreyes than that poor, harmless old creatur' if you don't quit the waysyou've been following lately. If that was last night, you were toodrunk to see anything;" and the fellow muttered, and went out bangingthe door. But the story had been told, and I was stiffened and chilledwith fright; and all the way home I was in terror, looking fearfullybehind me again and again. 

When I saw cousin Agnes, I felt safer, and since cousin Matthew was notat home, and we were alone, I could not resist telling her what I hadheard. She listened to me kindly, and seemed so confident that mystory was idle nonsense, that my fears were quieted. She talked to meuntil I no longer was a believer in there being any unhappy mystery orharmfulness; but I could not get over the fright, and I dreaded mylonely room, and I was glad enough when cousin Agnes, with herunfailing thoughtfulness, asked if I would like to have her come tosleep with me, and even went up stairs with me at my own early bedtime, saying that she should find it dull to sit all alone in the parlour. So I went to sleep, thinking of what I had heard, it is true, but nolonger unhappy, because her dear arm was over me, and I was perfectlysafe. I waked up for a little while in the night, and it was light inthe room, so that I could see her face, fearless and sweet and sad, andI wondered, in my blessed sense of security, if she were ever afraid ofLady Ferry. 

I will not tell other stories: they are much alike, all my memories ofthose weeks and months at the ferry, and I have no wish to bewearisome. The last time I saw Madam she was standing in the gardendoor at dusk. I was going away before daylight in the morning. It wasin the autumn: some dry leaves flittered about on the stone at herfeet, and she was watching them. I said good-by again, and she did notanswer me: but I think she knew I was going away, and I am sure she wassorry, for we had been a great deal together; and, child as I was, Ithought to how many friends she must have had to say farewell. 

Although I wished to see my father and mother, I cried as if my heartwould break because I had to leave the ferry. The time spent there hadbeen the happiest time of all my life, I think. I was old enough toenjoy, but not to suffer much, and there was singularly little totrouble one. I did not know that my life was ever to be different. Ihave learned, since those childish days, that one must battle againststorms if one would reach the calm which is to follow them. I havelearned also that anxiety, sorrow, and regret fall to the lot of everyone, and that there is always underlying our lives, this mysterious andfrightful element of existence; an uncertainty at times, though we dotrust every thing to God. Under the best-loved and most beautiful facewe know, there is hidden a skull as ghastly as that from which we turnaside with a shudder in the anatomist's cabinet. We smile, and are gayenough; God pity us! We try to forget our heart-aches and remorse. Weeven call our lives commonplace, and, bearing our own heaviest burdenssilently, we try to keep the commandment, and to bear one another'salso. There is One who knows: we look forward, as He means we shall, and there is always a hand ready to help us, though we reach out for itdoubtfully in the dark. 

For many years after this summer was over, I lived in a distant, foreign country; at last my father and I were to go back to America. Cousin Agnes and cousin Matthew, and my mother, were all long sincedead, and I rarely thought of my childhood, for in an eventful andhurried life the present claims one almost wholly. We were travellingin Europe, and it happened that one day I was in a bookshop inAmsterdam, waiting for an acquaintance whom I was to meet, and who wasbehind time. 

The shop was a quaint place, and I amused myself by looking over anarmful of old English books which a boy had thrown down near me, raising a cloud of dust which was plain evidence of their antiquity. Icame to one, almost the last, which had a strange familiar look, and Ifound that it was a copy of the same book which I had lost in the wallat the ferry. I bought it for a few coppers with the greatestsatisfaction, and began at once to read it. It had been published inEngland early in the eighteenth century, and was written by one Mr. Thomas Highward of Chester, --a journal of his travels among some of theEnglish colonists of North America, containing much curious anddesirable knowledge, with some useful advice to those persons havingintentions of emigrating. I looked at the prosy pages here and there, and finally found again those reminiscences of the town of Boston andthe story of Mistress Honor Warburton, who was cursed, and doomed tolive in this world to the end of time. She had lately been in Boston, but had disappeared again; she endeavoured to disguise herself, andwould not stay long in one place if she feared that her story wasknown, and that she was recognized. One Mr. Fleming, a man of goodstanding and repute, and an officer of Her Majesty Queen Anne, hadsworn to Mr. Thomas Highward that his father, a person of great age, had once seen Mistress Warburton in his youth; that she then boreanother name, but had the same appearance. "Not wishing to seem undulycredulous, " said Mr. Highward, "I disputed this tale; but there wassome considerable evidence in its favour, and at least this woman wasof vast age, and was spoken of with extreme wonder by the town's folk. "

I could not help thinking of my old childish suspicions of Lady Ferry, though I smiled at the folly of them and of this story more than once. I tried to remember if I had heard of her death; but I was still achild when my cousin Agnes had died. Had poor Lady Ferry survived her, and what could have become of her? I asked my father, but he couldremember nothing, if indeed he ever had heard of her death at all. Hespoke of our cousins' kindness to this forlorn soul, and that, learningher desolation and her piteous history (and being the more pitifulbecause of her shattered mind), when she had last wandered to theirdoor, they had cared for the old gentlewoman to the end of herdays--"for I do not think she can be living yet, " said my father, witha merry twinkle in his eyes: "she must have been nearly a hundred yearsold when you saw her. She belonged to a fine old family which had goneto wreck and ruin. She strayed about for years, and it was a godsendto her to have found such a home in her last days. "

That same summer we reached America, and for the first time since I hadleft it I went to the ferry. The house was still imposing, theprestige of the Haverford grandeur still lingered; but it lookedforlorn and uncared for. It seemed very familiar; but the months I hadspent there were so long ago, that they seemed almost to belong toanother life. I sat alone on the doorstep for a long time, where Iused often to watch for Lady Ferry; and forgotten thoughts and dreamsof my childhood came back to me. The river was the only thing thatseemed as young as ever. I looked in at some of the windows where theshutters were put back, and I walked about the garden, where I couldhardly trace the walks, all overgrown with thick, short grass thoughthere were a few ragged lines of box, and some old rose-bushes; and Isaw the very last of the flowers, --a bright red poppy, which hadbloomed under a lilac-tree among the weeds. 

Out beyond the garden, on a slope by the river, I saw the familyburying-ground, and it was with a comfortable warmth at my heart that Istood inside the familiar old enclosure. There was my Lady Ferry'sgrave; there could be no mistake about it, and she was dead. I smiledat my satisfaction and at my foolish childish thoughts, and thanked Godthat there could be no truth in them, and that death comes surely, --sayrather that the better life comes surely--though it comes late. 

The sad-looking, yellow-topped cypress, which only seems to feel quiteat home in country burying-grounds, had kindly spread itself like acoverlet over the grave, which already looked like a very old grave;and the headstone was leaning a little, not to be out of the fashion ofthe rest. I traced again the words of old Colonel Haverford's pompousepitaph, and idly read some others. I remembered the old days sovividly there; I thought of my cousin Agnes, and wished that I couldsee her; and at last, as the daylight faded, I came away. When Icrossed the river, the ferry-man looked at me wonderingly, for my eyeswere filled with tears. Although we were in shadow on the water, thelast red glow of the sun blazed on the high gable-windows, just as itdid the first time I crossed over, --only a child then, with my lifebefore me. 

I asked the ferry-man some questions, but he could tell me nothing: hewas a new-comer to that part of the country. He was sorry that theboat was not in better order; but there were very seldom anypassengers. The great house was out of repair: people would not livethere, for they said it was haunted. Oh, yes! he had heard of LadyFerry. She had lived to be very ancient; but she was dead. 

"Yes, " said I, "she is dead. "

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A BIT OF SHORE LIFE. 

I often think of a boy with whom I made friends last summer, duringsome idle, pleasant days that I spent by the sea. I was almost alwaysout of doors, and I used to watch the boats go out and come in; and Ihad a hearty liking for the good-natured fishermen, who were lazy andbusy by turns, who waited for the wind to change, and waited for thetide to turn, and waited for the fish to bite, and were always ready togossip about the weather, and the fish, and the wonderful events thathad befallen them and their friends. 

Georgie was the only boy of whom I ever saw much at the shore. The fewyoung people living there all went to school through the hot summerdays at a little weather-beaten schoolhouse a mile or two inland. There were few houses to be seen, at any rate, and Georgie's house wasthe only one so close to the water. He looked already nothing but afisherman; his clothes were covered with an oil-skin suit, which hadevidently been awkwardly cut down for him from one of his father's, ofwhom he was a curious little likeness. I could hardly believe that hewas twelve years old, he was so stunted and small; yet he was a stronglittle fellow; his hands were horny and hard from handling the clumsyoars, and his face was so brown and dry from the hot sun and chillyspray, that he looked even older when one came close to him. The firsttime I saw him was one evening just at night fall. I was sitting onthe pebbles, and he came down from the fish-house with somelobster-nets, and a bucket with some pieces of fish in it for bait, andput them into the stern of one of the boats which lay just at the edgeof the rising tide. He looked at the clouds over the sea, and at theopen sky overhead, in an old wise way, and then, as if satisfied withthe weather, began to push off his boat. It dragged on the pebbles; itwas a heavy thing, and he could not get it far enough out to be floatedby the low waves, so I went down to help him. He looked amazed that agirl should have thought of it, and as if he wished to ask me what goodI supposed I could do, though I was twice his size. But the boatgrated and slid down toward the sand, and I gave her a last push as theboy perched with one knee on her gunwale and let the other foot drag inthe water for a minute. He was afloat after all; and he took the oars, and pulled manfully out toward the moorings, where the whale-boats anda sail-boat or two were swaying about in the wind, which was rising alittle since the sun had set. He did not say a word to me, or I tohim. I watched him go out into the twilight, --such a little fellow, between those two great oars! But the boat could not drift or loiterwith his steady stroke, and out he went, until I could only see theboat at last, lifting and sinking on the waves beyond the reef outsidethe moorings. I asked one of the fishermen whom I knew very well, "Whois that little fellow? Ought he to be out by himself, it is growingdark so fast?"

"Why, that's _Georgie_!" said my friend, with his grim smile. "Blessye! he's like a duck; ye can't drown him. He won't be in until teno'clock, like's not. He'll go way out to the far ledges when the tidecovers them too deep where he is now. Lobsters he's after. "

"Whose boy is he?" said I. 

"Why, Andrer's, up here to the fish-house. _She's dead_, and him andthe boy get along together somehow or 'nother. They've both gotsomething saved up, and Andrer's a clever fellow; took it very hard, losing his wife. I was telling of him the other day: 'Andrer, ' says I, 'ye ought to look up somebody or 'nother, and not live this way. There's plenty o' smart, stirring women that would mend ye up, and cookfor ye, and do well by ye. '--'No, ' says he; 'I've hed my wife, and I'velost her. '--'Well, now, ' says I, 'ye've shown respect, and there's theboy a-growin' up, and if either of you was took sick, why, here yebe. '--'Yes, ' says he, 'here I be, sure enough;' and he drawed a longbreath, 's if he felt bad; so that's all I said. But it's no way for aman to get along, and he ought to think of the boy. He owned a goodhouse about half a mile up the road; but he moved right down here aftershe died, and his cousin took it, and it burnt up in the winter. Fouryear ago that was. I was down to the Georges Banks. "

Some other men came down toward the water, and took a boat that waswaiting, already fitted out with a trawl coiled in two tubs, and somehand-lines and bait for rock-cod and haddock, and my friend joinedthem; they were going out for a night's fishing. I watched them hoistthe little sprit-sail, and drift a little until they caught the wind, and then I looked again for Georgie, whose boat was like a black spoton the water. 

I knew him better soon after that. I used to go out with him forlobsters, or to catch cunners, and it was strange that he never had anycronies, and would hardly speak to the other children. He was veryshy; but he had put all his heart into his work, --a man's hard work, which he had taken from choice. His father was kind to him; but he hada sorry home, and no mother, --the brave, fearless, steady little soul!

He looked forward to going one day (I hope that day has already dawned)to see the shipyards at a large seaport some twenty miles away. Hisface lit up when he told me of it, as some other child's would who hadbeen promised a day in fairy-land. And he confided to me that hethought he should go to the Banks that coming winter. "But it's socold!" said I; "should you really like it?"--"Cold!" said Georgie. "Ho! rest of the men never froze. " That was it, --the "rest of themen;" and he would work until he dropped, or tend a line until hisfingers froze, for the sake of that likeness, --the grave, slow littleman, who has so much business with the sea, and who trusts himself withtouching confidence to its treacherous keeping and favour. 

Andrew West, Georgie's father, was almost as silent as his son atfirst, but it was not long before we were very good friends, and I wentout with him at four o'clock one morning, to see him set his trawl. Iremember there was a thin mist over the sea, and the air was almostchilly: but, as the sun came up, it changed the colour of everything tothe most exquisite pink, --the smooth slow waves, and the mist that blewover them as if it were a cloud that had fallen down out of the sky. The world just then was like the hollow of a great pink sea-shell; andwe could only hear the noise of it, the dull sound of the waves amongthe outer ledges. 

We had to drift about for an hour or two when the trawl was set; andafter a while the fog shut down again gray and close, so we could notsee either the sun or the shore. We were a little more than four milesout, and we had put out more than half a mile of lines. It is veryinteresting to see the different fish that come up on thehooks, --worthless sculpin and dog-fish, and good rock-cod and haddock, and curious stray creatures which often even the fishermen do not know. We had capital good luck that morning, and Georgie and Andrew and Iwere all pleased. I had a hand-line, and was fishing part of the time, and Georgie thought very well of me when he found I was not afraid of abig fish, and, besides that, I had taken the oars while he tended thesail, though there was hardly wind enough to make it worth his while. It was about eight o'clock when we came in, and there was a horse andwagon standing near the landing; and we saw a woman come out ofAndrew's little house. "There's your aunt Hannah a'ready, " said he toGeorgie; and presently she came down the pebbles to meet the boat, looking at me with much wonder as I jumped ashore. 

"I sh'd think you might a' cleaned up your boat, Andrer, if you wasgoing to take ladies out, " said she graciously. And the fishermanrejoined, that perhaps she would have thought it looked better when itwent out than it did then; he never had got a better fare o' fishunless the trawls had been set over night. 

There certainly had been a good haul; and, when Andrew carefully putthose I had caught with the hand-line by themselves, I asked his sisterto take them, if she liked. "Bless you!" said she, much pleased, "wecouldn't eat one o' them big rock-cod in a week--I'll take a littleha'dick if Andrer 'll pick me one out. "

She was a tall, large woman, who had a direct, business-likemanner, --what the country people would call a master smart woman, or aregular driver, --and I liked her. She said something to her brotherabout some clothes she had been making for him or for Georgie, and Iwent off to the house where I was boarding for my breakfast. I washungry enough, since I had had only a hurried lunch a good while beforesunrise. I came back late in the morning, and found that Georgie'saunt was just going away. I think my friends must have spoken well ofme, for she came out to meet me as I nodded in going by, and said, "Isuppose ye drive about some? We should be pleased to have ye come upto see us. We live right 'mongst the woods; it ain't much of a placeto ask anybody to. " And she added that she might have done a good dealbetter for herself to have staid off. But there! they had the place, and she supposed she and Cynthy had done as well there as anywhere. Cynthy--well, she wasn't one of your pushing kind; but I should havesome flowers, and perhaps it would be a change for me. I thanked her, and said I should be delighted to go. Georgie and I would make her acall together some afternoon when he wasn't busy; and Georgie actuallysmiled when I looked at him, and said, "All right, " and then hurriedoff down the shore. "Ain't he an odd boy?" said Miss Hannah West, witha shadow of disapproval in her face. "But he's just like his fatherand grandfather before him; you wouldn't think they had no gratitudenor feelin', but I s'pose they have. They used to say my fathernever'd forgit a friend, or forgive an enemy. Well, I'm much obligedto you, I'm sure, for taking an interest in the boy. " I said I likedhim: I only wished I could do something for him. And then she saidgood-day, and drove off. I felt as if we were already good friends. "I'm much obliged for the fish, " she turned round to say to me again, as she went away. 

One morning, not long afterward, I asked Georgie if he could possiblyleave his business that afternoon, and he gravely answered me that hecould get away just as well as not, for the tide would not be right forlobsters until after supper. 

"I should like to go up and see your aunt, " said I. "You know sheasked me to come the other day when she was here. 

"I'd like to go, " said Georgie sedately. "Father was going up thisweek; but the mackerel struck in, and we couldn't leave. But it'sbetter'n six miles up there. "

"That's not far, " said I. "I'm going to have Captain Donnell's horseand wagon;" and Georgie looked much interested. 

I wondered if he would wear his oil-skin suit; but I was much amazed, and my heart was touched, at seeing how hard he had tried to puthimself in trim for the visit. He had on his best jacket and trousers(which might have been most boys' worst), and a clean calico shirt; andhe had scrubbed his' freckled, honest little face and his hard littlehands, until they were as clean as possible; and either he or hisfather had cut his hair. I should think it had been done with a knife, and it looked as if a rat had gnawed it. He had such a holiday air!He really looked very well; but still, if I were to have a picture ofGeorge, it should be in the oil-skin fishing-suit. He had gone out tohis box, which was anchored a little way out in the cove, and hadchosen two fine lobsters which he had tied together with a bit offish-line. They were lazily moving their claws and feelers; and hisfather, who had come in with his boat not long before, added from hisfare of fish three plump mackerel. 

"They're always glad to get new fish, " said he. "The girls can't abidea fish that's corned, and I haven't had a chance to send 'em up anymackerel before. Ye see, they live on a cross-road, and the fish-cartsdon't go by. " And I told him I was very glad to carry them, or anything else he would like to send. "Mind your manners, now, Georgie, "said he, "and don't be forrard. You might split up some kindlin's fory'r aunts, and do whatever they want of ye. Boys ain't made just tolook at, so ye be handy, will ye?" And Georgie nodded solemnly. Theyseemed very fond of each other, and I looked back some time afterwardto see the fisherman still standing there to watch his boy. He wasused to his being out at sea alone for hours; but this might be a greatrisk to let him go off inland to stay all the afternoon. 

The road crossed the salt-marshes for the first mile, and, when we hadstruck the higher land, we soon entered the pine-woods, which cover agreat part of that country. It had been raining in the morning for alittle while; and the trunks of the trees were still damp, and theunderbrush was shining wet, and sent out a sweet, fresh smell. I spokeof it, and Georgie told me that sometimes this fragrance blew far outto sea, and then you knew the wind was north-west. 

"There's the big pine you sight Minister's Ledge by, " said he, "whenthat comes in range over the white schoolhouse, about two miles out. "

The lobsters were clashing their pegged claws together in the back ofthe wagon, and Georgie sometimes looked over at them to be sure theywere all right. Of course I had given him the reins when we firststarted, and he was delighted because we saw some squirrels, and even arabbit, which scurried across the road as if I had been a fiery dragon, and Georgie something worse. 

We presently came in sight of a house close by the road, --anold-looking place, with a ledgy, forlorn field stretching out behind ittoward some low woods. There were high white-birch poles holding upthick tangles of hop-vines, and at the side there were sunflowersstraggling about as if they had come up from seed scattered by thewind. Some of them were close together, as if they were whispering toeach other; and their big, yellow faces were all turned toward thefront of the house, where people were already collected as if there wasa funeral. 

"It's the auction, " said Georgie with great satisfaction. "I heard 'emtalking about it down at the shore this morning. There's Lisha Downsnow. He started off just before we did. That's his fish-cart over bythe well. "

"What is going to be sold?" said I. 

"All the stuff, " said Georgie, as if he were much pleased. "She'sgoing off up to Boston with her son. "

"I think we had better stop, " said I, for I saw Mrs. 'Lisha Downs, whowas one of my acquaintances at the shore, and I wished to see what wasgoing on, besides giving Georgie a chance at the festivities. So wetied the horse, and went toward the house, and I found several peoplewhom I knew a little. Mrs. Downs shook hands with me as formally as ifwe had not talked for some time as I went by her house to the shore, just after my breakfast. She presented me to several of her friendswith whom she had been talking as I came up. "Let me make youacquainted, " she said: and every time I bowed she bowed too, unconsciously, and seemed a little ill at ease and embarrassed, butluckily the ceremony was soon over. "I thought I would stop for a fewminutes, " said I by way of apology. "I didn't know why the people werehere until Georgie told me. "

"She's going to move up to Boston 'long of her son, " said one of thewomen, who looked very pleasant and very tired. "I think myself it isa bad plan to pull old folks up by the roots. There's a niece of hersthat would have been glad to stop with her, and do for the old lady. But John, he's very high-handed, and wants it his way, and he says hismother sha'n't live in any such place as this. He makes a sight o'money. He's got out a patent, and they say he's just bought a newhouse that cost him eleven thousand dollars. But old Mis' Wallis, she's wonted here; and she was telling of me yesterday she was onlygoing to please John. He says he wants her up there, where she'll bemore comfortable, and see something. "

"He means well, " said another woman whom I did not know; "but folksabout here never thought no great of his judgment. He's put up somesplendid stones in the burying-lot to his father and his sister Mirandathat died. I used to go to school 'long of Miranda. She'd have beenpleased to go to Boston; she was that kind. But there! mother wassaying last night, what if his business took a turn, and he lost everything! Mother's took it dreadfully to heart; she and Mis' Wallis werealways mates as long ago as they can recollect. "

It was evident that the old widow was both pitied and envied by herfriends on account of her bettered fortunes, and they came up to speakto her with more or less seriousness, as befitted the occasion. Shelooked at me with great curiosity, but Mrs. Down told her who I was, and I had a sudden instinct to say how sorry I was for her, but I wasafraid it might appear intrusive on so short an acquaintance. She wasa thin old soul who looked as if she had had a good deal of trouble inher day, and as if she had been very poor and very anxious. "Yes, "said she to some one who had come from a distance, "it does come hardto go off. Home is home, and I seem to hate to sell off my things; butI suppose they would look queer up to Boston. John says I won't haveno idea of the house until I see it:" and she looked proud andimportant for a minute, but, as some one brought an old chair out atthe door, her face fell again. "Oh, dear!" said she, "I should like tokeep that! it belonged to my mother. It's most wore out anyway. Iguess I'll let somebody keep it for me;" and she hurried offdespairingly to find her son, while we went into the house. 

There is so little to interest the people who live on those quiet, secluded farms, that an event of this kind gives great pleasure. Iknow they have not done talking yet about the sale, of the bargainsthat were made, or the goods that brought more than they were worth. And then the women had the chance of going all about the house, andcommitting every detail of its furnishings to their tenacious memories. It is a curiosity one grows more and more willing to pardon, for thereis so little to amuse them in everyday life. I wonder if any one hasnot often been struck, as I have, by the sadness and hopelessness whichseems to overshadow many of the people who live on the lonely farms inthe outskirts of small New-England villages. It is most noticeableamong the elderly women. Their talk is very cheerless, and they have amorbid interest in sicknesses and deaths; they tell each other longstories about such things; they are very forlorn; they dwellpersistently upon any troubles which they have; and their pettydisputes with each other have a tragic hold upon their thoughts, sometimes being handed down from one generation to the next. Is itbecause their world is so small, and life affords so little amusementand pleasure, and is at best such a dreary round of the dullesthousekeeping? There is a lack of real merriment, and the fun is anodd, rough way of joking: it is a stupid, heavy sort of fun, thoughthere is much of a certain quaint humour, and once in a while a flashof wit. 

I came upon a short, stout old sister in one room, making all theeffort she possibly could to see what was on the upper shelves of acloset. We were the only persons there, and she looked longingly at aconvenient chair, and I know she wished I would go away. But my heartsuddenly went out toward an old dark-green Delft bowl which I saw, andI asked her if she would be kind enough to let me take it, as if Ithought she were there for a purpose. "I'll bring you a chair, " saidI; and she said, "Certain, dear. " And I helped her up, and I'm sureshe had the good look she had coveted while I took the bowl to thewindow. It was badly cracked, and had been mended with putty; but therich, dull colour of it was exquisite. One often comes across abeautiful old stray bit of china in such a place as this, and Iimagined it filled with apple-blossoms or wild roses. Mrs. Walliswished to give it to me, she said it wasn't good for any thing; and, finding she did not care for it, I bought it; and now it is perchedhigh in my room, with the cracks discreetly turned to the wall. "Seemsto me she never had thrown away nothing, " said my friend, whom I foundstill standing on the chair when I came back. "Here's some pieces of apitcher: I wonder when she broke it! I've heard her say it was one hergrandmother gave her, though. The old lady bought it at a vandoo downat old Mis' Walton Peters's after she died, so Mis' Wallis said. Iguess I'll speak to her, and see if she wants every thing sold that'shere. "

There was a very great pathos to me about this old home. It must havebeen a hard place to get a living in, both for men and women, with itswretched farming-land, and the house itself so cold and thin and wornout. I could understand that the son was in a hurry to get his motheraway from it. I was sure that the boyhood he had spent there must havebeen uncomfortable, and that he did not look back to it with muchpleasure. There is an immense contrast between even a moderatelycomfortable city house and such a place as this. No wonder that heremembered the bitter cold mornings, the frost and chill, and the dark, and the hard work, and wished his mother to leave them all behind, ashe had done! He did not care for the few plain bits of furniture: whyshould he? and he had been away so long, that he had lost his interestin the neighbours. Perhaps this might come back to him again as hegrew older; but now he moved about among them, in his handsome butsomewhat flashy clothes, with a look that told me he felt conscious ofhis superior station in life. I did not altogether like his looks, though somebody said admiringly, as he went by, "They say he's worth asmuch as thirty thousand dollars a'ready. He's smart as a whip. "

But, while I did not wonder at the son's wishing his mother to go away, I also did not wonder at her being unwilling to leave the dull littlehouse where she had spent so much of her life. I was afraid no otherhouse in the world would ever seem like home to her: she was a part ofthe old place: she had worn the doors smooth by the touch of her hands, and she had scrubbed the floors, and walked over them, until the knotsstood up high in the pine boards. The old clock had been unscrewedfrom the wall, and stood on a table; and when I heard its loud andanxious tick, my first thought was one of pity for the poor thing, forfear it might be homesick, like its mistress. When I went out again, Iwas very sorry for old Mrs. Wallis; she looked so worried and excited, and as if this new turn of affairs in her life was too strange andunnatural; it bewildered her, and she could not understand it; she onlyknew every thing was going to be different. 

Georgie was by himself, as usual, looking grave and intent. He hadgone aloft on the wheel of a clumsy great ox-cart in which some of themen had come to the auction, and he was looking over people's heads, and seeing every thing that was sold. I saw he was not ready to comeaway, so I was not in a hurry. I heard Mrs. Wallis say to one of herfriends, "You just go in and take that rug with the flowers on't, andgo and put it in your wagon. It's right beside my chest that's packedready to go. John told me to give away any thing I had a mind to. Hedon't care nothing about the money. I hooked that rug four year ago;it's most new; the red of the roses was made out of a dress ofMiranda's. I kept it a good while after she died; but it's no us tolet it lay. I've given a good deal to my sister Stiles: she was overhere helping me yesterday. There! it's all come upon me so sudden; Is'pose I shall wish, after I get away, that I had done thingsdifferent; but, after I knew the farm was goin' to be sold, I didn'tseem to realize I was goin' to break up, until John came, day beforeyesterday. "

She was very friendly with me, when I said I should think she would besorry to go away: but she seemed glad to find I had been in Boston agreat deal, and that I was not at all unhappy there. "But I supposeyou have folks there, " said she, "though I never supposed they was sosociable as they be here, and I ain't one that's easy to makeacquaintance. It's different with young folks; and then in a case o'sickness I should hate to have strange folks round me. It seems as ifI never set so much by the old place as I do now I'm goin' away. Iused to wish 'he' would sell, and move over to the Port, it was suchhard work getting along when the child'n was small. And there's one ofmy boys that run away to sea, and never was heard from. I've alwaysthought he might come back, though everybody gave him up years ago. Ican't help thinking what if he should come back, and find I wa'n'there! There; I'm glad to please John: he sets everything by me, and Is'pose he thinks he's going to make a spry young woman of me. Well, it's natural. Every thing looks fair to him, and he thinks he can havethe world just as he wants it; but _I_ know it's a world o' change, --aworld o' change and loss. And you see, I shall have to go to a strangemeetin' up there. Why, Mis' Sands! I am pleased to see you. How didyou get word?" And then Mrs. Wallis made another careful apology formoving away. She seemed to be so afraid some one would think she hadnot been satisfied with the neighbourhood. 

The auctioneer was a disagreeable-looking man, with a most unpleasantvoice, which gave me a sense of discomfort, the little old house andits surroundings seemed so grave and silent and lonely. It was likehaving all the noise and confusion on a Sunday. The house was so shutin by the trees, that the only outlook to the world beyond was a narrowgap in the pines, through which one could see the sea, bright, blue andwarm with sunshine, that summer day. 

There was something wistful about the place, as there must have beenabout the people who had lived there; yet, hungry and unsatisfied asher life might have been in many ways, the poor old woman dreaded thechange. 

The thought flashed through my mind that we all have more or less ofthis same feeling about leaving this world for a better one. We havethe certainty that we shall be a great deal happier in heaven; but wecling despairingly to the familiar things of this life. God pity thepeople who find it so hard to believe what he says, and who are afraidto die, and are afraid of the things they do not understand! I keptthinking over and over of what Mrs. Wallis had said: 'A world of changeand loss!' What should we do if we did not have God's love to make upfor it, and if we did not know something of heaven already?

It seemed very doleful that everybody should look on the dark side ofthe Widow Wallis's flitting, and I tried to suggest to her some of thepleasures and advantages of it, once when I had a chance. And indeedshe was proud enough to be going away with her rich son; it was notlike selling her goods because she was too poor to keep the old homeany longer. I hoped the son would always be prosperous, and that theson's wife would always be kind, and not ashamed of her, or think shewas in the way. But I am afraid it may be a somewhat uneasy idleness, and that there will not be much beside her knitting-work to remind herof the old routine. She will even miss going back and forward from theold well in storm and sunshine; she will miss looking after thechickens, and her slow walks about the little place, or out to aneighbour's for a bit of gossip, with the old brown checkedhandkerchief over her head; and, when the few homely, faithful oldflowers come up next year by the door-step, there will be nobody tocare any thing about them. 

I said good-by, and got into the wagon, and Georgie clambered in afterme with a look of great importance, and we drove away. He was verytalkative: the unusual excitement of the day was not without itseffect. He had a good deal to tell me about the people I had seen, though I had to ask a good many questions. 

"Who was the thin old fellow, with the black coat, faded yellow-greenon the shoulders, who was talking to Skipper Down about the dog-fish?"

"That's old Cap'n Abiah Lane, " said Georgie; "lives over toward LittleBeach, --him that was cast away in a fog in a dory down to the Banksonce; like to have starved to death before he got picked up. I'veheard him tell all about it. Don't look as if he'd ever had enough toeat since!" said the boy grimly. "He used to come over a good deallast winter, and go out after cod 'long o' father and me. His boatsall went adrift in a big storm in November, and he never heard nothingabout 'em; guess they got stove against the rocks. "

We had still more than three miles to drive over a lonely part of theroad, where there was scarcely a house, and where the woods had beencut off more or less, so there was nothing to be seen but the unevenground, which was not fit for even a pasture yet. But it was notwithout a beauty of its own; for the little hills and hollows werecovered thick with brakes and ferns and bushes, and in the swamps thecat-tails and all the rushes were growing in stiff and stately ranks, so green and tall; while the birds flew up, or skimmed across them aswe went by. It was like a town of birds, there were so many. It isstrange how one is always coming upon families and neighbourhoods ofwild creatures in the unsettled country places; it is so much likeone's going on longer journeys about the world, and finding town aftertown with its own interests, each so sufficient for itself. 

We struck the edge of the farming-land again, after a while, and I sawthree great pines that had been born to good luck in this world, sincethey had sprouted in good soil, and had been left to grow as fast asthey pleased. They lifted their heads proudly against the blue sky, these rich trees, and I admired them as much as they could haveexpected. They must have been a landmark for many miles to thewestward, for they grew on high land, and they could pity, from adistance, any number of their poor relations who were just able to keepbody and soul together, and had grown up thin and hungry in crowdedwoods. But, though their lower branches might snap and crackle at atouch, their tops were brave and green, and they kept up appearances, at any rate; these poorer pines. 

Georgie pointed out his aunt's house to me, after a while. It was nothalf so forlorn-looking as the others, for there were so many flowersin bloom about it of the gayest kind, and a little yellow-and-white dogcame down the road to bark at us; but his manner was such that itseemed like an unusually cordial welcome rather than an indignantrepulse. I noticed four jolly old apple-trees near by, which looked asif they might be the last of a once flourishing orchard. They werestanding in a row, in exactly the same position, with their headsthrown gayly back, as if they were dancing in an old-fashioned reel;and, after the forward and back, one might expect them to turn partnersgallantly. I laughed aloud when I caught sight of them: there wassomething very funny in their looks, so jovial and whole-hearted, witha sober, cheerful pleasure, as if they gave their whole minds to it. It was like some old gentlemen and ladies who catch the spirit of thething, and dance with the rest at a Christmas party. 

Miss Hannah West first looked out of the window, and then came to meetus, looking as if she were glad to see us. Georgie had nothingwhatever to say; but, after I had followed his aunt into the house, hebegan to work like a beaver at once, as if it were any thing but afriendly visit that could be given up to such trifles as conversation, or as if he were any thing but a boy. He brought the fish and lobstersinto the outer kitchen, though I was afraid our loitering at theauction must have cost them their first freshness; and then he carriedthe axe to the wood-pile, and began to chop up the small white-pinesticks and brush which form the summer fire-wood at thefarm-houses, --crow-sticks and underbrush, a good deal of it, --but itmakes a hot little blaze while it lasts. 

I had not seen Miss Cynthia West, the younger sister, before, and Ifound the two women very unlike. Miss Hannah was evidently the capablebusiness-member of the household, and she had a loud voice, and wentabout as if she were in a hurry. Poor Cynthia! I saw at first thatshe was one of the faded-looking country-women who have a hard time, and who, if they had grown up in the midst of a more luxurious way ofliving, would have been frail and delicate and refined, and entirelylady-like. But, as it was, she was somewhat in the shadow of hersister, and felt as if she were not of very much use or consequence inthe world, I have no doubt. She showed me some pretty picture-framesshe had made out of pine-cones and hemlock-cones and alder-burs; buther chief glory and pride was a silly little model of a house, inperforated card-board, which she had cut and worked after a patternthat came in a magazine. It must have cost her a great deal of work;but it partly satisfied her great longing for pretty things, and forthe daintiness and art that she had an instinct toward, and never hadknown. It stood on the best-room table, with a few books, which Isuppose she had read over and over again; and in the room, beside, weregreen paper curtains with a landscape on the outside, and some chairsranged stiffly against the walls, some shells, and an ostrich's egg, with a ship drawn on it, on the mantel-shelf, and ever so many rugs onthe floor, of most ambitious designs, which they had made in winter. Iknow the making of them had been a great pleasure to Miss Cynthia, andI was sure it was she who had taken care of the garden, and was alwaysat much pains to get seeds and slips in the spring. 

She told me how much they had wished that Georgie had come to live withthem after his mother died. It would have been very handy for them tohave him in winter too; but it was no use trying to get him away fromhis father; and neither of them were contented if they were out ofsight of the sea. "He's a dreadful odd boy, and so old for his years. Hannah, she says he's older now than I be, " and she blushed a little asshe looked up at me; while for a moment the tears came into my eyes, asI thought of this poor, plain woman, who had such a capacity forenjoyment, and whose life had been so dull, and far apart from thepleasures and satisfactions which had made so much of my own life. Itseemed to me as if I had had a great deal more than I deserved, whilethis poor soul was almost beggared. I seemed to know all about herlife in a flash, and pitied her from the bottom of my heart. Yet Isuppose she would not have changed places with me for any thing, orwith anybody else, for that matter. 

Miss Cynthia had a good deal to say about her mother, who had been aschoolmate of Mrs. Wallis's--I had just been telling them what I couldabout the auction. She told me that she had died the spring before, and said how much they missed her; and Hannah broke in upon her regretsin her brusque, downright way: "I should have liked to kep' her ifshe'd lived to be a hundred, but I don't wish her back. She'd hadconsiderable many strokes, and she couldn't help herself much if any. She'd got to be rising eighty, and her mind was a good deal broke, " sheadded conclusively, after a short silence; while Cynthia lookedsorrowfully out of the window, and we heard the sound of Georgie's axeat the other side of the house, and the wild sweet whistle of a birdthat flew overhead. I suppose one of the sisters was just as sorry asthe other in reality. 

"Now I want you and Georgie to stop and have some tea. I'll get itgood and early, " said Hannah, starting suddenly from her chair, andbeginning to bustle about again, after she had asked me about somepeople at home whom she knew; "Cynthy! Perhaps she'd like to walkround out doors a spell. It's breezing up, and it'll be cooler than itis in the house. --No: you needn't think I shall be put out by yourstopping; but you'll have to take us just as we be. Georgie alwayscalculates to stop when he comes up. I guess he's made off for thewoods. I see him go across the lot a few minutes ago. "

So Cynthia put on a discouraged-looking gingham sun-bonnet, whichdrooped over her face, and gave her a more appealing look than ever, and we went over to the pine-woods, which were beautiful that day. Sheshowed me a little waterfall made by a brook that came over a highledge of rock covered with moss, and here and there tufts of freshgreen ferns. It grew late in the afternoon, and it was pleasant therein the shade, with the noise of the brook and the wind in the pines, that sounded like the sea. The wood-thrushes began to sing, --and whocould have better music?

Miss Cynthia told me that it always made her think of once when she wasa little girl to hear the thrushes. She had run away, and fallen intothe marsh; and her mother had sent her to bed quick as she got home, though it was only four o'clock. And she was so ashamed, because therewas company there, --some of her father's folks from over to Eliot; andthen she heard the thrushes begin to call after a while, and shethought they were talking about her, and they knew she had been whippedand sent to bed. "I'd been gone all day since morning. I had a greatway of straying off in the woods, " said she. "I suppose mother was putto it when she see me coming in, all bog-mud, right before the company. "

We came by my friends, the apple-trees, on our return, and I saw a rowof old-fashioned square bee-hives near them, which I had not noticedbefore. Miss Cynthia told me that the bee money was always hers; butshe lost a good many swarms on account of the woods being so near, andthey had a trick of swarming Sundays, after she'd gone to meeting; and, besides, the miller-bugs spoilt 'em; and some years they didn't makeenough honey to live on, so she didn't get any at all. I saw some bitsof black cloth fluttering over the little doors where the bees went inand out, and the sight touched me strangely. I did not know that theold custom still lingered of putting the hives in mourning, and tellingthe bees when there had been a death in the family, so they would notfly away. I said, half to myself, a line or two from Whittier's poem, which I always thought one of the loveliest in the world, and thisseemed almost the realization of it. Miss Cynthia asked me wistfully, "Is that in a book?" I told her yes, and that she should have it nexttime I came up, or had a chance of sending it. "I've seen a good manypieces of poetry that Mr. Whittier wrote, " said she. "I've got somethat I cut out of the paper a good while ago. I think everything of'em. "

"I put the black on the hives myself, " said she. "It was for mother, you know. She did it when father died. But when my brother was lost, we didn't, because we never knew just when it was; the schooner wasmissing, and it was a good while before they give her up. "

"I wish we had some neighbours in sight, " said she once. "I'd like tosee a light when I look out after dark. Now, at my aunt's, over toEliot, the house stands high, and when it's coming dark you can see allthe folks lighting up. It seems real sociable. "

We lingered a little while under the apple-trees, and watched the wiselittle bees go and come; and Miss Cynthia told me how much Georgie waslike his grandfather, who was so steady and quiet, and always rightafter his business. "He never was ugly to us, as I know of, " said she;"but I was always sort of 'fraid of father. Hannah, she used to talkto him free's she would to me; and he thought, 's long's Hannah did anything, it was all right. I always held by my mother the most; and whenfather was took sick, --that was in the winter, --I sent right off forHannah to come home. I used to be scared to death, when he'd want anything done, for fear I shouldn't do it right. Mother, she'd had afall, and couldn't get about very well. Hannah had good advantages. She went off keeping school when she wasn't but seventeen, and shesaved up some money, and boarded over to the Port after a while, andlearned the tailoress trade. She was always called very smart, --yousee she's got ways different from me; and she was over to the Portseveral winters. She never said a word about it, but there was a youngman over there that wanted to keep company with her. He was going outfirst mate of a new ship that was building. But, when she got wordfrom me about father, she come right home, and that was the end of it. It seemed to be a pity. I used to think perhaps he'd come and see hersome time, between voyages, and that he'd get to be cap'n, and they'dgo off and take me with 'em. I always wanted to see something of theworld. I never have been but dreadful little ways from home. I usedto wish I could keep school; and once my uncle was agent for hisdistrict, and he said I could have a chance; but the folks laughed tothink o' me keeping school, and I never said any thing more about it. But you see it might 'a' led to something. I always wished I could goto Boston. I suppose you've been there? There! I couldn't live outo' sight o' the woods, I don't believe. "

"I can understand that, " said I, and half with a wish to show her I hadsome troubles, though I had so many pleasures that she had not, I toldher that the woods I loved best had all been cut down the winterbefore. I had played under the great pines when I was a child, and Ihad spent many a long afternoon under them since. There never will besuch trees for me any more in the world. I knew where the flowers grewunder them, and where the ferns were greenest, and it was as much hometo me as my own house. They grew on the side of a hill, and the sunalways shone through the tops of the trees as it went down, while belowit was all in shadow--and I had been there with so many dear friendswho have died, or who are very far away. I told Miss Cynthia, what Inever had told anybody else, that I loved those trees so much that Iwent over the hill on the frozen snow to see them one sunny winterafternoon, to say good-by, as if I were sure they could hear me, andlooked back again and again, as I came away, to be sure I shouldremember how they looked. And it seemed as if they knew as well as Ithat it was the last time, and they were going to be cut down. It wasa Sunday afternoon, and I was all alone, and the farewell was a realityand a sad thing to me. It was saying good-by to a great deal besidesthe pines themselves. 

We stopped a while in the little garden, where Miss Cynthia gave mesome magnificent big marigolds to put away for seed, and was muchpleased because I was so delighted with her flowers. It was a gorgeouslittle garden to look at, with its red poppies, and blue larkspur, andyellow marigolds, and old-fashioned sweet, stray things, --all growingtogether in a tangle of which my friend seemed ashamed. She told methat it looked as orderly as could be, until the things begun to growso fast she couldn't do any thing with 'em. She was very proud of onelittle pink-and-white verbena which somebody had given her. It was notgrowing very well; but it had not disappointed her about blooming. 

Georgie had come back from his ramble some time before. He had crackedthe lobster which Miss Hannah had promptly put on to boil, and I sawthe old gray cat having a capital lunch off the shells; while the horselooked meeker than ever, with his headstall thrown back on hisshoulders, eating his supper of hay by the fence; for Miss Hannah was ahospitable soul. She was tramping about in the house, getting supper, and we went in to find the table already pulled out into the floor. SoMiss Cynthia hastened to set it. I could see she was very much ashamedof having been gone so long. Neither of us knew it was so late. ButMiss Hannah said it didn't make a mite o' difference, there was next tonothing to do, and looked at me with a little smile, which said, "Yousee how it is. I'm the one who has faculty, and I favour her. "

I was very hungry; and, though it was not yet six, it seemed a wholeday since dinner-time. Miss Hannah made many apologies; and said, if Ihad only set a day, she would have had things as they ought to be. Butit was a very good supper and she knew it! She didn't know but I wastired o' lobsters. And when I had eaten two of the biscuits, and hadbegun an attack on the hot gingerbread, she said humbly that she didn'tknow when she had had such bad luck, though Georgie and I were bothsatisfied. He did not speak more than once or twice during the meal. I do not think he was afraid of me, for we had had many a lunchtogether when he had taken me out fishing; but this was an occasion, and there was at first the least possible restraint over all thecompany, though I'm glad to say it soon vanished. We had two kinds ofpreserves, and some honey besides, and there was a pie with a pale, smooth crust, and three cuts in the top. It looked like a very goodpie of its kind; but one can't eat every thing, though one does one'sbest. And we had big cups of tea; and, though Miss Hannah supposed Ihad never eaten with any thing but silver forks before, it happenedluckily that I had, and we were very merry indeed. Miss Hannah told usseveral stories of the time she kept school, and gave us somereminiscences of her life at the Port; and Miss Cynthia looked at me asif she had heard them before, and wished to say, "I know she's having agood time. " I think Miss Cynthia felt, after we were out in the woods, as if I were her company, and she was responsible for me. 

I thanked them heartily when I came away, for I had had such a pleasanttime. Miss Cynthia picked me a huge nosegay of her flowers, andwhispered that she hoped I wouldn't forget about lending her the book. Poor woman! she was so young, --only a girl yet, in spite of her havinglived more than fifty years in that plain, dull home of hers, in spiteof her faded face and her grayish hair. We came away in the rattlingwagon. Georgie sat up in his place with a steady hand on the reins, and keeping a careful lookout ahead, as if he were steering a boatthrough a rough sea. 

We passed the house were the auction had been, and it was all shut up. The cat sat on the doorstep waiting patiently, and I felt very sorryfor her; but Georgie said there were neighbours not far off, and shewas a master hand for squirrels. I was glad to get sight of the seaagain, and to smell the first stray whiff of salt air that blew in tomeet us as we crossed the marshes. I think the life in me must be nextof kin to the life of the sea, for it is drawn toward it strangely, asa little drop of quicksilver grows uneasy just out of reach of agreater one. 

"Good-night, Georgie!" said I; and he nodded his head a little as hedrove away to take the horse home. "Much obliged to you for my ride, "said he, and I knew in a minute that his father or one of the aunts hadcautioned him not to forget to make his acknowledgments. He had toldme on the way down that he had baited his nets all ready to set thatevening. I knew he was in a hurry to go out, and it was not longbefore I saw his boat pushing off. It was after eight o'clock, and themoon was coming up pale and white out of the sea, while the west wasstill bright after the clear sunset. 

I have a little model of a fishing dory that Georgie made for me, withits sprit-sail and killick and painter and oars and gaff all cleverlycut with the clumsiest of jackknives. I care a great deal for thelittle boat; and I gave him a better knife before I came away, toremember me by; but I am afraid its shininess and trig shape may haveseemed a trifle unmanly to him. His father's had been sharpened on thebeach-stones to clean many a fish, and it was notched and dingy; butthis would cut; there was no doubt about that. I hope Georgie wassorry when we said good-by. I'm sure I was. 

A solemn, careful, contented young life, with none of the playfulnessor childishness that belong to it, --this is my little fisherman, whosememory already fades of whatever tenderness his dead mother may havegiven him. But he is lucky in this, that he has found his work andlikes it; and so I say, "May the sea prove kind to him! and may he findthe Friend those other fishermen found, who were mending their nets onthe shores of Galilee! and may he make the harbour of heaven by and byafter a stormy voyage or a quiet one, whichever pleases God!"

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HOW LILY GOT THE CAT. 

When the twins were about as big as last year's chickens, they had themeasles. 

It was in the month of May, and there was a great deal to be done justthen. 

There was Celestia's flower-bed to dig into; there were Mary's chickensto kiss to death, and Aunt Ann's bowls of starch and gravy to upset. And in the shop there was the cinnamon-jar to be filled up with Scotchsnuff, and the cream of tartar to mix with the soda, and the molassesto be set running. 

Besides these, there were a great many dry wells to be dug in the yard, and brick-paint to be pounded, and the gate to be pulled off itshinges, and as many more pieces of mischief as there were minutes in aday. 

It was Davie who had all these things to do, though. Lily, sweetlittle blossom, only followed around after him and said "Yes. "

But as for Davie, he would willingly have done everybody's work allover the city, from the President of the University, wearing hisfour-cornered hat on Commencement Day, down to the charcoal man whowent by a great many times a day making the prettiest noise you everheard, and looking as though he were having the best time in the world, with nobody to worry him about washing his face or keeping his clothesclean. 

But the mischief had to wait now; for the twins were lying in thecradle all day long, with their faces as red as poppies, and their poorlittle eyes shut up and swollen. 

"It is as good as a poor play to see how beautifully the measles havecome out. Davie and Lily will get along all right now, as sure as A isapple-dumpling, only we must see to it that they don't take any cold, "said Aunt Ann, giving them a good drink of thoroughwort, and thenhurrying off to attend to the duties of the shop, with her glasses inher hand and a pair of scissors dangling at her side by a long greenbraid. 

It didn't seem much like a poor play, or any kind of a play, though tothe twins to lie there in a bed of nettles with their eyes full of hotcotton and their throats full of pepper, and the air full of peoplemaking up dreadful faces at them, all with sore eyes and horrid rednoses. 

So there they lay in the cradle while a blue-bottle-fly buzzed shrillyfrom a dark corner where a fat gray spider had tied him up by his feetand was sharpening her bill ready to make chops of him. 

The milkman whopped at the back gate; the cracked school-bell aroundthe corner rang out long and loud; somewhere a carpenter was poundingstroke upon stroke; and, as a background, beneath all came up the heavygrinding roll of wheels and the clashing beat of hoofs upon the roughpavement. 

The tall brass clock ticked and ticked and held up its hands in solemnsurprise at finding it was only ten o'clock after all. Why! it seemedalready as long as a whole day since the bell on the First Baptistchurch had struck nine. 

Then Lily began to cry with a gentle little noise, about as though ahumming-bird was fluttering his wings against the cup of atrumpet-flower. 

"What is the matter, Lily?" asked Davie, feebly. "What you crying for?"

What was the _matter_? What _wasn't_ the matter, one would think!

But Lily only whimpered, "I want the cat. "

"I'll get her for you, Lily, " said Davie, trying to fumble his blindway out of the cradle and start in search of her. 

Fortunately for the ending of the story, somebody was in the room andwas ready to pick Davie up when his weak little legs suddenly doubledup like a pocket-knife and dropped him on the nursery floor. So, though Lily did not get the cat, neither did Davie get, what Aunt Anncalled "his death o' cold. "

In due time, the measles turned and went their way wandering off aroundafter other children, one generation and then another. Lily's catlived out her nine lives and then turned into sage and catnip in theback garden. 

And now, after a long, long while, Davie and Lily have a birthday. Notthe next one, nor the second, nor the third, nor, if the truth must betold, the fiftieth. But a birthday that came running to meet them withglasses on and a flourishing of the almond-tree. 

This time the twins' birthday is not kept in the gray old mansion, withthe shop below and the garden behind, where Aunt Ann rattled her keysand lived out her bustling life. Nor does Aunt Ann come to help keepit. Her hands have long been folded in quiet rest; and it is years, too, since Mary and Celestia went where the shining is brighter thanthe sunlight and softer than the moon. 

But the twins are not alone. Bless you! I should think not! First, here is Amy Starbird, with a pair of pictures she has painted from thevery paint-box Davie gave her on her own last birthday. And here isAmy's daughter Rose, with twin marble babies tucked up in a marble cribon top of a marble match box; and Rose, all this time, is Davie'sdaughter as well as Amy's. 

And here is a bright bevy of boys and girls, some of them with Lily'sblue eyes and Lily's fair hair, each bringing some double gift fortheir mother and Uncle Davie. 

There are pairs of wristings and pairs of neckties, books in twovolumes, and double-frosted cakes; there is a pair of china slipperswith a pair of babies on the toes; there is a crystal vase held up bytwo crystal swans, and a vase of silver in the form of a chariot drawnby two doves; for everything must be in pairs for the birthday of thetwins. 

Then, last of all, Davie gave to Lily a covered box, and when sheopened it she saw within an exquisitely embroidered velvet pen-wiper, with a beautiful tortoise-shell cat lying upon it, and, playfullyjumping over her back, were two of the most charming tortoise-shellkittens ever seen. 

The mother-cat had around her neck a blue ribbon, and on the ribbon waswritten these words, --

"Here is your cat, Lily, --after fifty years. "

FRANCES LEE. 

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WILLIAM NICHOLSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, WAKEFIELD. 

VICTORIA SERIES. 

"These volumes afford excellent reading for young persons. They arevery well printed and tastefully bound. "--Bookseller. 

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 BRAVE ANTHONY ARCHER. By Emily Jane Moore. A ROSE WITH TWO AND FIFTY THORNS. By Emily Jane Moore. SET IN GOLD AND SILVER. By Emily Jane Moore. THE FORTUNES OF BRIDGET MALLORIE. By Emily Jane Moore. THE ORPHAN OF LESSONTO, and other Tales. THE BALLAD-SINGER OF THE BOULEVARD. Translated from the French. WILLIAM TELL, THE HERO OF SWITZERLAND, and other Legends. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. AN ARROW IN A SUNBEAM, and other Tales. THE FLOWER MISSION, and what grew out of it. A CROWN OF GLORY. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. CHARMING TALES FOR YOUTH. THE LITTLE WOODMAN AND HIS DOG. WENTIE ARMITAGE; or the Angel of the Hospital. THE HONEST BOY, and his Reward. THE SELF-DENIAL BOX, and other Stories. IN THE BACKWOODS. 

LONDON: PUBLISHED BY W. NICHOLSON & SONS, 20, Warwick Square, Paternoster Row, E. C. , and Albion Works, Wakefield. 

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 The SNOW STORM, or the Providential Deliverance. ROBERT JONES, or the Two Paths. A BOOK ABOUT BOYS. A BOOK ABOUT GIRLS. The EIGHT BELLS, and their Voices. The FOUR LITTLE CRUSOES. The LITTLE HUNTER, and other Stories. The BLUE SASH, and other Tales. LITTLE SUSY'S SIX TEACHERS. CHARLIE, the YOUNG CONQUEROR. The BOY ADMIRAL, or What Will You Be? The YOUNG QUEEN, or the Little Shoes. YOUTH'S NATURAL HISTORY. Illustrated. RALPH and TOMMY, or I Wish I Wasn't Black. KIT WEEDON, or the Little Trunkmaker. JACKETS and TROUSERS, and other Tales. HARRY and MAUDE, or the White Kitten. CICELY and the City Girl. The MOSS ROSE, and other Tales. The RED SHOES, and other Stories. A BLOSSOM in the DESERT, and other Tales. HERMAN the CHARCOAL BURNER. From the German. The STORY of LITTLE PATCHY. UNDER the APPLE TREE. SUSIE and CLARENCE, or the New-Year's Gift. EDA DARLING, the Little Flower Girl. BIBLE BOYS. A book for the Young. With 7 full page Engravings. 

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