FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD

by

MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY

Author of "The Gayworthy's, " "A Summer in Leslie Goldthwaite's Life, ""Footsteps on the Seas, " etc. 

New YorkThe New York Book Company1913

CONTENTS

 I.    "Money, Money!" 1 II.    Sortes. 4 III.    Aunt Henderson. 6 IV.    Glory McWhirk. 10 V.    Something Happens. 15 VI.    Aunt Henderson's Girl Hunt. 26 VII.    Cares; And What Came Of Them. 31 VIII.    A Niche In Life, And A Woman To Fill It. 34 IX.    Life Or Death? 37 X.    Rough Ends. 40 XI.    Cross Corners. 43 XII.    A Reconnoissance. 49 XIII.    Development. 54 XIV.    A Drive With The Doctor. 59 XV.    New Duties. 65 XVI.    "Blessed Be Ye, Poor. " 68 XVII.    Frost-Wonders. 75 XVIII.    Out In The Snow. 79 XIX.    A "Leading. " 85 XX.    Paul. 89 XXI.    Pressure. 94 XXII.    Roger Armstrong's Story. 99 XXIII.    Question And Answer. 103 XXIV.    Conflict. 112 XXV.    A Game At Chess. 116 XXVI.    Lakeside. 120 XXVII.    At The Mills. 124 XXVIII.    Locked In. 127 XXIX.    Home. 135 XXX.    Aunt Henderson's Mystery. 140 XXXI.    Nurse Sampson's Way Of Looking At It. 147 XXXII.    Glory Mcwhirk's Inspiration. 152 XXXIII.    Last Hours. 157 XXXIV.    Mrs. Parley Gimp. 160 XXXV.    Indian Summer. 164 XXXVI.    Christmastide. 169 XXXVII.    The Wedding Journey. 177

FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD

CHAPTER I. 

"MONEY, MONEY!"

"Shoe the horse and shoe the mare, And let the little colt go bare. "

East or West, it matters not where--the story may, doubtless, indicatesomething of latitude and longitude as it proceeds--in the city ofMishaumok, lived Henderson Gartney, Esq. , one of those Americangentlemen of whom, if she were ever canonized, Martha of Bethany must bethe patron saint--if again, feminine celestials, sainthood once achievedthrough the weary experience of earth, don't know better than to assumesuch charge of wayward man--born, as they are, seemingly, to the lifedestiny of being ever "careful and troubled about many things. "

We have all of us, as little girls, read "Rosamond. " Now, one ofRosamond's early worries suggests a key to half the worries, early andlate, of grown men and women. The silver paper won't cover the basket. 

Mr. Gartney had spent his years, from twenty-five to forty, insedulously tugging at the corners. He had had his share of silver paper, too--only the basket was a little too big. 

In a pleasant apartment, half library, half parlor, and used in thewinter months as a breakfast room, beside a table still covered with theremnants of the morning meal, sat Mrs. Gartney and her young daughter, Faith; the latter with a somewhat disconcerted, not to say rueful, expression of face. 

A pair of slippers on the hearth and the morning paper thrown downbeside an armchair, gave hint of the recent presence of the master ofthe house. 

"Then I suppose I can't go, " remarked the young lady. 

"I'm sure I don't know, " answered the elder, in a helpless, worried sortof tone. "It doesn't seem really right to ask your father for the money. I did just speak of your wanting some things for a party, but I supposehe has forgotten it; and, to-day, I hate to trouble him withreminding. Must you really have new gloves and slippers, both?"

Faith held up her little foot for answer, shod with a partly worn bronzekid, reduced to morning service. 

"These are the best I've got. And my gloves have been cleaned over andover, till you said yourself, last time, they would hardly do to wearagain. If it were any use, I should say I must have a new dress; but Ithought at least I should freshen up with the 'little fixings, ' andperhaps have something left for a few natural flowers for my hair. "

"I know. But your father looked annoyed when I told him we should wantfresh marketing to-day. He is really pinched, just now, for readymoney--and he is so discouraged about the times. He told me only lastnight of a man who owed him five hundred dollars, and came to say hedidn't know as he could pay a cent. It doesn't seem to be a time toafford gloves and shoes and flowers. And then there'll be the carriage, too. "

"Oh, dear!" sighed Faith, in the tone of one who felt herselfcheckmated. "I wish I knew what we really _could_ afford! It alwaysseems to be these little things that don't cost much, and that othergirls, whose fathers are not nearly so well off, always, have, withoutthinking anything about it. " And she glanced over the table, whereonshone a silver coffee service, and up at the mantel where stood a Frenchclock that had been placed there a month before. 

"Pull at the bobbin and the latch will fly up. " An unspoken suggestion, of drift akin to this, flitted through the mind of Faith. She wonderedif her father knew that this was a Signal Street invitation. 

Mr. Gartney was ambitious for his children, and solicitous for theirplace in society. 

But Faith had a touch of high-mindedness about her that made itimpossible for her to pull bobbins. 

So, when her father presently, with hat and coat on, came into the roomagain for a moment, before going out for the day, she sat quite silent, with her foot upon the fender, looking into the fire. 

Something in her face however, quite unconsciously, bespoke that theworld did not lie entirely straight before her, and this catching herfather's eye, brought up to him, by an untraceable association, thehalf-proffered request of his wife. 

"So you haven't any shoes, Faithie. Is that it?"

"None nice enough for a party, father. "

"And the party is a vital necessity, I suppose. Where is it to be?"

The latch string was put forth, and while Faith still stayed her hand, her mother, absolved from selfish end, was fain to catch it up. 

"At the Rushleighs'. The Old Year out and the New Year in. "

"Oh, well, we mustn't 'let the colt go bare, '" answered Mr. Gartney, pleasantly, portemonnaie in hand. "But you must make that do. " He handedher five dollars. "And take good care of your things when you have gotthem, for I don't pick up many five dollars nowadays. "

And the old look of care crept up, replacing the kindly smile, as heturned and left the room. 

"I feel very much as if I had picked my father's pocket, " said Faith, holding the bank note, half ashamedly, in her hand. 

Henderson Gartney, Esq. , was a man of no method in his expenditure. Whenmoney chanced to be plenty with him it was very apt to go as mighthappen--for French clocks, or whatsoever; and then, suddenly, the silverpaper fell short elsewhere, and lo! a corner was left uncovered. 

The horse and the mare were shod. Great expenses were incurred; moneywas found, somehow, for grand outlays; but the comfort of buying, with areadiness, the little needed matters of every day--this was foregone. "Not let the colt go bare!" It was precisely the thing he wascontinually doing. 

Mrs. Gartney had long found it to be her only wise way to make her haywhile the sun was shining--to buy, when she could buy, what she was surewould be most wanted--and to look forward as far as possible, in herprovisions, since her husband scarcely seemed to look forward at all. 

So she exemplified, over and over again in her life, the story ofPharaoh and his fat and lean kine. 

That night, Faith, her little purchases and arrangements all complete, and flowers and carriage bespoken for the next evening, went to bed todream such dreams as only come to the sleep of early years. 

At the same time, lingering by the fireside below for a half hour'sunreserved conversation, Mr. Gartney was telling his wife of anothermoney disappointment. 

"Blacklow, at Cross Corners, gives up the lease of the house in thespring. He writes me he is going out to Indiana with his son-in-law. Idon't know where I shall find another such tenant--or any at all, forthat matter. "

CHAPTER II. 

SORTES. 

"How shall I know if I do choose the right?"

"Since this fortune falls to you, Be content, and seek no new. " MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

"Now, Mahala Harris, " said Faith, as she glanced in at the nursery door, which opened from her room, "don't let Hendie get up a French Revolutionhere while I'm gone to dinner. "

"Land sakes! Miss Faith! I don't know what you mean, nor whether I canhelp it. I dare say he'd get up a Revolution of '76, over again, if heonce set out. He does train like 'lection, fact, sometimes. "

"Well, don't let him build barricades with all the chairs, so that Ishall have to demolish my way back again. I'm going to lay out my dressfor to-night. "

And very little dinner could her young appetite manage on this last dayof the year. All her vital energy was busy in her anticipative brain, and glancing thence in sparkles from her eyes, and quivering down inswift currents to her restless little feet. It mattered little thatthere was delicious roast beef smoking on the table, and Christmas piesarrayed upon the sideboard, while upstairs the bright ribbon and tiny, shining, old-fashioned buckles were waiting to be shaped into rosettesfor the new slippers, and the lace hung, half basted, from the neck ofthe simple but delicate silk dress, and those lovely greenhouse flowersstood in a glass dish on her dressing table, to be sorted for her hair, and into a graceful breast knot. No--dinner was a very secondary andcontemptible affair, compared with these. 

There were few forms or faces, truly, that were pleasanter to look uponin the group that stood, disrobed of their careful outer wrappings, inMrs. Rushleigh's dressing room; their hurried chat and gladsomegreetings distracted with the drawing on of gloves and the lastadjustment of shining locks, while the bewildering music was floating upfrom below, mingled with the hum of voices from the rooms where, aschildren say, "the party had begun" already. 

And Mrs. Rushleigh, when Faith paid her timid respects in thedrawing-room at last, made her welcome with a peculiar grace and_empressement_ that had their own flattering weight and charm; for thelady was a sort of St. Peter of fashion, holding its mystic keys, andadmitting or rejecting whom she would; and culled, with marvelous tactand taste, the flower of the up-growing world of Mishaumok to adorn "herset. "

After which, Faith, claimed at once by an eager aspirant, and beset withmany a following introduction and petition, was drawn to and kept in thejoyous whirlpool of the dance, till she had breathed in enough ofdelight and excitement to carry her quite beyond the thought even ofices and oysters and jellies and fruits, and the score of unnamableluxuries whereto the young revelers were duly summoned at half past teno'clock. 

Four days' anticipation--four hours' realization--culminated in theglorious after-supper midnight dance, when, marshaled hither and thitherby the ingenious orders of the band, the jubilant company found itself, just on the impending stroke of twelve, drawn out around the room in onegreat circle; and suddenly a hush of the music, at the very poisinginstant of time, left them motionless for a moment to burst out again inthe age-honored and heartwarming strains of "Auld Lang Syne. " Handjoining hand they sang its chorus, and when the last note hadlingeringly died away, one after another gently broke from their places, and the momentary figure melted out with the dying of the Year, neveragain to be just so combined. It was gone, as vanishes also every otherphase and grouping in the kaleidoscope of Time. 

"Now is the very 'witching hour' to try the Sortes!"

Margaret Rushleigh said this, standing on the threshold of a littleinner apartment that opened from the long drawing-room, at one end. 

She held in her hand a large and beautiful volume--a gift of ChristmasDay. 

"Here are Fates for everybody who cares to find them out!"

The book was a collection of poetical quotations, arranged by numbers, and to be chosen thereby, and the chance application taken as an oracle. 

Everything like fortune telling, or a possible peering into the thingsof coming time, has such a charm! Especially with them to whom the pastis but a prelude and beginning, and for whom the great, voluminousFuture holds enwrapped the whole mystic Story of Life!

"No, no, this won't do!" cried the young lady, as circle behind circleclosed and crowded eagerly about her. "Fate doesn't give out herrevelations in such wholesale fashion. You must come up with properreverence, one by one. "

As she spoke, she withdrew a little within the curtained archway, and, placing the crimson-covered book of destiny upon an inlaid table, brought forward a piano stool, and seated herself thereon, as apriestess upon a tripod. 

A little shyly, one after another, gaining knowledge of what was goingon, the company strayed in from without, and, each in turn hazarding anumber, received in answer the rhyme or stanza indicated; and who shallsay how long those chance-directed words, chosen for the most part withthe elastic ambiguity of all oracles of any established authority, lingered echoing in the heads and hearts of them to whom they weregiven--shaping and confirming, or darkening with their denial many anafter hope and fear?

Faith Gartney came up among the very last. 

"How many numbers are there to choose from?" she asked. 

"Three hundred and sixty-five. The number of days in the year. "

"Well, then, I'll take the number of the day; the last--no, Iforgot--the first of all. "

Nobody before had chosen this, and Margaret read, in a clear, gentlevoice, not untouched with the grave beauty of its own words, and thesweet, earnest, listening look of the young face that bent toward her totake them in:

 "Rouse to some high and holy work of love, And thou an angel's happiness shalt know; Shalt bless the earth while in the world above; The good begun by thee while here below Shall like a river run, and broader flow. "

Ten minutes later, and all else were absorbed in other thingsagain--leave-takings, parting chat, and a few waltzing a last measure toa specially accorded grace of music. Faith stood, thoughtfully, by thetable where the book was closed and left. She quietly reopened it atthat first page. Unconscious of a step behind her, her eyes ran over thelines again, to make their beautiful words her own. 

"And that was your oracle, then?" asked a kindly voice. 

Glancing quickly up, while the timid color flushed her cheek, she met alook as of a wise and watchful angel, though it came through the eye andsmile of a gray-haired man, who laid his hand upon the page as he said:

"Remember--it is _conditional_. "

CHAPTER III. 

AUNT HENDERSON. 

"I never met a manner more entirely without frill. " SYDNEY SMITH. 

Late into the morning of the New Year, Faith slept. Through her halfconsciousness crept, at last, a feeling of music that had beenwandering in faint echoes among the chambers of her brain all thosehours of her suspended life. 

Light, and music, and a sense of an unexamined, half-remembered joy, filled her being and embraced her at her waking on this New Year's Day. A moment she lay in a passive, unthinking delight; and then her first, full, and distinct thought shaped itself, as from a sweet and solemnmemory:

 "Rouse to some high and holy work of love, And thou an angel's happiness shalt know. "

An impulse of lofty feeling held her in its ecstasy; a noble longing anddetermination shaped itself, though vaguely, within her. For a little, she was touched in her deepest and truest nature; she was uplifted tothe threshold of a great resolve. But generalities are so grand--detailsso commonplace and unsatisfying. _What_ should she do? What "high andholy work" lay waiting for her?

And, breaking in upon her reverie--bringing her down with its rough andcommon call to common duty--the second bell for breakfast rang. 

"Oh, dear! It is no use! Who'll know what great things I've been wishingand planning, when I've nothing to show for it but just being late tobreakfast? And father hates it so--and New Year's morning, too!"

Hurrying her toilet, she repaired, with all the haste possible, to thebreakfast room, where her consciousness of shortcoming was in nowiselessened when she saw who occupied the seat at her father's righthand--Aunt Henderson!

Aunt Faith Henderson, who had reached her nephew's house last eveningjust after the young Faith, her namesake, had gone joyously off to"dance the Old Year out and the New Year in. " Old-fashioned AuntFaith--who believed most devoutly that "early to bed and early to rise"was the _only_ way to be "healthy, wealthy, or wise!" Aunt Faith, whohad never quite forgiven our young heroine for having said, at thediscreet and positive age of nine, that "she didn't see what her fatherand mother had called her such an ugly name for. It was a real oldmaid's name!" Whereupon, having asked the child what she would havepreferred as a substitute, and being answered, "Well--Clotilda, I guess;or Cleopatra, " Miss Henderson had told her that she was quite welcome tochange it for any heathen woman's that she pleased, and the worsebehaved perhaps the better. She wouldn't be so likely to do it anydiscredit!

Aunt Henderson had a downright and rather extreme fashion of puttingthings; nevertheless, in her heart she was not unkindly. 

So when Faithie, with her fair, fresh face--a little apprehensivetrouble in it for her tardiness--came in, there was a grim bending ofthe old lady's brows; but, below, a half-belying twinkle in the eye, that, long as it had looked out sharply and keenly on the things andpeople of this mixed-up world, found yet a pleasure in anything so youngand bright. 

"Why, auntie! How do you do?" cried Faith, cunning culprit that she was, taking the "bull by the horns, " and holding out her hand. "I wish you aHappy New Year! Good morning, father, and mother! A Happy New Year! I'msorry I'm so late. "

"Wish you a great many, " responded the great-aunt, in stereotypedphrase. "It seems to me, though, you've lost the beginning of this one. "

"Oh, no!" replied Faithie, gayly. "I had that at the party. We dancedthe New Year in. "

"Humph!" said Aunt Henderson. 

Breakfast over, and Mr. Gartney gone to his counting room, the parlorgirl made her appearance with her mop and tub of hot water, to wash upthe silver and china. 

"Give me that, " said Aunt Henderson, taking a large towel from thegirl's arm as she set down her tub upon the sideboard. "You go and findsomething else to do. "

Wherever she might be--to be sure, her round of visiting was not a largeone--Aunt Henderson never let anyone else wash up breakfast cups. 

This quiet arming of herself, with mop and towel, stirred up everybodyelse to duty. Her niece-in-law laughed, withdrew her feet from thecomfortable fender, and departed to the kitchen to give her householdorders for the day. Faith removed cups, glasses, forks, and spoons fromthe table to the sideboard, while the maid, returning with a tray, carried off to the lower regions the larger dishes. 

"I haven't told you yet, Elizabeth, what I came to town for, " said AuntFaith, when Mrs. Gartney came back into the breakfast room. "I'm goingto hunt up a girl. "

"A girl, aunt! Why, what has become of Prudence?"

"Mrs. Pelatiah Trowe. That's what's become of her. More fool she. "

"But why in the world do you come to the city for a servant? It's theworst possible place. Nineteen out of twenty are utterly good fornothing. "

"I'm going to look out for the twentieth. "

"But aren't there girls enough in Kinnicutt who would be glad to step inPrue's place?"

"Of course there are. But they're all well enough off where they are. When I have a chance to give away, I want to give it to somebody thatneeds it. "

"I'm afraid you'll hardly find any efficient girl who will appreciatethe chance of going twenty miles into the country. "

"I don't want an efficient girl. I'm efficient myself, and that'senough. "

"Going to _train_ another, at your time of life, aunt?" asked Mrs. Gartney, in surprise. 

"I suppose I must either train a girl, or let her train me; and, at mytime of life, I don't feel to stand in need of that. "

"How shall I go to work to inquire?" resumed Aunt Henderson, after apause. 

"Well, there are the Homes, and the Offices, and the Ministers at Large. At a Home, they would probably recommend you somebody they've made uptheir minds to put out to service, and she might or might not be such aswould suit you. Then at the Offices, you'll see all sorts, and mostlypoor ones. "

"I'll try an Office, first, " interrupted Miss Henderson. "I _want_ tosee all sorts. Faith, you'll go with me, by and by, won't you, and helpme find the way?"

Faith, seated at a little writing table at the farther end of the room, busied in copying into her album, in a clear, neat, but rather stiffschoolgirl's hand, the oracle of the night before, did not at oncenotice that she was addressed. 

"Faith, child! don't you hear?"

"Oh, yes, aunt. What is it?"

"I want you to go to a what-d'ye-call-it office with me, to-day. "

"An intelligence office, " explained her mother. "Aunt Faith wants tofind a girl. "

"'_Lucus a non lucendo_, '" quoted Faith, rather wittily, from her littlestock of Latin. "Stupidity offices, _I_ should call them, from thespecimens they send out. "

"Hold your tongue, chit! Don't talk Latin to me!" growled AuntHenderson. 

"What are you writing?" she asked, shortly after, when Mrs. Gartney hadagain left her and Faith to each other. "Letters, or Latin?"

Faith colored, and laughed. 

"Only a fortune that was told me last night, " she replied. 

"Oh! 'A little husband, ' I suppose, 'no bigger than my thumb; put him ina pint pot, and there bid him drum. '"

"No, " said Faith, half seriously, and half teased out of herseriousness. "It's nothing of that sort. At least, " she added, glancingover the lines again, "I don't think it means anything like that. "

And Faith laid down the book, and went upstairs for a word with hermother. 

Aunt Henderson, who had been brought up in times when all the doings ofyoung girls were strictly supervised, and who had no high-flownscruples, because she had no mean motives, deliberately walked over andfetched the elegant little volume from the table, reseated herself inher armchair--felt for her glasses, and set them carefully upon hernose--and, as her grandniece returned, was just finishing her perusalof the freshly inscribed lines. 

"Humph! A good fortune. Only you've got to earn it. "

"Yes, " said Faith, quite gravely. "And I don't see how. There doesn'tseem to be much that I can do. "

"Just take hold of the first thing that comes in your way. If the Lord'sgot anything bigger to give you, he'll see to it. There's your mother'smending basket brimful of stockings. "

Faith couldn't help laughing. Presently she grew grave again. 

"Aunt Henderson, " said she, abruptly, "I wish something would happen tome. I get tired of living sometimes. Things don't seem worth while. "

Aunt Henderson bent her head slightly, and opened her eyes wide over thetops of her glasses. 

"Don't say that again, " said she. "Things happen fast enough. Don't youdare to tempt Providence. "

"Providence won't be tempted, nor misunderstand, " replied Faith, anundertone of reverence qualifying her girlish repartee. "He knows justwhat I mean. "

"She's a queer child, " said Aunt Faith to herself, afterwards, thinkingover the brief conversation. "She'll be something or nothing, I alwayssaid. I used to think 'twould be nothing. "

CHAPTER IV. 

GLORY McWHIRK. 

"There's beauty waiting to be born, And harmony that makes no sound;And bear we ever, unawares, A glory that hath not been crowned. "

Shall I try to give you a glimpse of quite another young life than FaithGartney's? One looking also vaguely, wonderingly, for "something tohappen"--that indefinite "something" which lies in everybody's future, which may never arrive, and yet which any hour may bring?

Very little likelihood there has ever seemed for any great joy to getinto such a life as this has been, that began, or at least has itsearliest memory and association, in the old poorhouse at Stonebury. 

A child she was, of five years, when she was taken in there with herold, crippled grandmother. 

Peter McWhirk was picked up dead, from the graveled drive of agentleman's place, where he had been trimming the high trees that shadedit. An unsound limb--a heedless movement--and Peter went straight down, thirty feet, and out of life. Out of life, where he had a trim, comfortable young wife--one happy little child, for whom skies were asblue, and grass as green, and buttercups as golden as for the littleheiress of Elm Hill, who was riding over the lawn in her basket wagon, when Peter met his death there--the hope, also, of another that was tocome. 

Rosa McWhirk and her baby of a day old were buried the week after, together; and then there was nothing left for Glory and her helplessgrandmother but the poorhouse as a present refuge; and to the one death, that ends all, and to the other a life of rough and unremitting work tolook to for by and by. 

When Glory came into this world where wants begin with the first breath, and go on thickening around us, and pressing upon us until the last oneis supplied to us--a grave--she wanted, first of all, a name. 

"Sure what'll I call the baby?" said the proud young mother to theladies from the white corner house, where she had served four faithfulyears of her maidenhood, and who came down at once with comforts andcongratulations. "They've sint for the praist, an' I've niver bethoughtof a name. I made so certain 'twould be a boy!"

"What a funny bit of a thing it is!" cried the younger of the twovisitors, turning back the bedclothes a little from the tiny, red, puckered face, with short, sandy-colored hair standing up about thetemples like a fuzz ball. 

"I'd call her Glory. There's a halo round her head like the saints inthe pictures. "

"Sure, that's jist like yersilf, Miss Mattie!" exclaimed Rosa, with afaint, merry little laugh. "An' quare enough, I knew a lady once't ofthe very name, in the ould country. Miss Gloriana O'Dowd she was; an'the beauty o' County Kerry. My Lady Kinawley, she came to be. 'Deed, butI'd like to do it, for the ould times, an' for you thinkin' of it! I'llask Peter, anyhow!"

And so Glory got her name; and Mattie Hyde, who gave her that, gave hermany another thing that was no less a giving to the mother also, beforeshe was two years old. Then Mrs. Hyde and the young lady, having firstlet the corner house, went away to Europe to stay for years; and when abox of tokens from the far, foreign lands came back to Stonebury a whileafter, there was a grand shawl for Rosa, and a pretty braided frock forthe baby, and a rosary that Glory keeps to this hour, that had beenblessed by the Pope. That was the last. Mattie and her mother sailed outupon the Mediterranean one day from the bright coast of France for a fareastern port, to see the Holy Land. God's Holy Land they did see, though they never touched those Syrian shores, or climbed the hillsabout Jerusalem. 

Glory remembered--for the most part dimly, for some special pointsdistinctly--her child life of three years in Stonebury poorhouse. Howher grandmother and an old countrywoman from the same county "at home"sat knitting and crooning together in a sunny corner of the common roomin winter, or out under the stoop in summer; how she rolled down thegreen bank behind the house; and, when she grew big enough to be trustedwith a knife, was sent out to dig dandelions in the spring, and how anolder girl went with her round the village, and sold them from house tohouse. How, at last, her old grandmother died, and was buried; and how awoman of the village, who had used to buy her dandelions, found a placefor her with a relative of her own, in the ten-mile distant city, whotook Glory to "bring up"--"seeing, " as she said, "there was nobodybelonging to her to interfere. "

Was there a day, after that, that did not leave its searing impress uponheart and memory, of the life that was given, in its every young pulseand breath, to sordid toil for others, and to which it seemed nobody onearth owed aught of care or service in return?

It was a close little house--one of those houses where they have frieddinners so often that the smell never gets out in Budd Street--a streetof a single side, wedged in between the back yards of more pretentiousmansions that stood on fair parallel avenues sloping down from a hilltopto the waterside, that Mrs. Grubbling lived in. 

Here Glory McWhirk, from eight years old to nearly fifteen, scouredknives and brasses, tended doorbell, set tables, washed dishes, andminded the baby; whom, at her peril, she must "keep pacified"--i. E. , amused and content, while its mother was otherwise busy. For her, poorchild--baby that she still, almost, was herself--who amused, orcontented her? There are humans with whom amusement and content havenothing to do. What will you? The world must go on. 

Glory curled the baby's hair, and made him "look pretty. " Mrs. Grubblingcut her little handmaid's short to save trouble; so that the verydetermined yellow locks which, under more favoring circumstances ofplace and fortune, might have been trained into lovely golden curls, stood up continually in their restless reaching after the fairer destinythat had been meant for them, in the old fuzz-ball fashion; and Glorygrew more and more to justify her name. 

Do you think she didn't know what beauty was--this child who never had anew or pretty garment, but who wore frocks "fadged up" out of old, fadedbreadths of her mistress's dresses, and bonnets with brims cut off andtopknots taken down, and coarse shoes, and stockings cut out of thelegs of those whereof Mrs. Grubbling had worn out the extremities? Doyou think she didn't feel the difference, and that it wasn't this thatmade her shuffle along so with her toes in, when she sped along thestreets upon her manifold errands, and met gentle-people's childrenlaughing and skipping their hoops upon the sidewalks?

Out of all lives, actual and possible, each one of us appropriatescontinually into his own. This is a world of hints only, out of whichevery soul seizes to itself what it needs. 

This girl, uncherished, repressed in every natural longing to be and tohave, took in all the more of what was possible; for God had given herthis glorious insight, this imagination, wherewith we fill up life'sscanty outline, and grasp at all that might be, or that elsewhere, is. In her, as in us all, it was often--nay, daily--a discontent; yet anoble discontent, and curbed with a grand, unconscious patience. Shescoured her knives; she shuffled along the streets on hasty errands; shewent up and down the house in her small menial duties; she put on andoff her coarse, repulsive clothing; she uttered herself in her common, ignorant forms of speech; she showed only as a poor, low, little Irishgirl with red hair and staring, wondering eyes, and awkward movements, and a frightened fashion of getting into everybody's way; and yet, behind all this, there was another life that went on in a hidden beautythat you and I cannot fathom, save only as God gives the like, inwardly, to ourselves. 

When Glory's mistress cut her hair, there were always tears andrebellion. It was her one, eager, passionate longing, in these childishdays, that these locks of hers should be let to grow. She thought shecould almost bear anything else, if only this stiff, unseemly crop mightlengthen out into waves and ringlets that should toss in the wind likethe carefully kempt tresses of children she met in the streets. Sheimagined it would be a complete and utter happiness just once to feel itfalling in its wealth about her shoulders or dropping against hercheeks; and to be able to look at it with her eyes, and twist herfingers in it at the ends. And so, when it got to be its longest, andbegan to make itself troublesome about her forehead, and to peep belowher shabby bonnet in her neck, she had a brief season of wonderfulenjoyment in it. Then she could "make believe" it had really grown out;and the comfort she took in "going through the motions"--pretending totuck behind her ears what scarcely touched their tips, and tossing herhead continually, to throw back imaginary masses of curls, was trulyindescribable, and such as I could not begin to make you understand. 

"Half-witted monkey!" Mrs. Grubbling would ejaculate, contemptuously, seeing, with what she conceived marvelous penetration, the half of herlittle servant's thought, and so pronouncing from her own half wit. Thenthe great shears came out, and the instinct of grace and beauty in thechild was pitilessly outraged, and her soul mutilated, as it were, inevery clip of the inexorable shears. 

She was always glad--poor Glory--when the springtime came. She tookBubby and Baby down to the Common, of a May Day, to see the processionsand the paper-crowned queens; and stood there in her stained anddrabbled dress, with the big year-and-a-half-old baby in her arms, andso quite at the mercy of Master Herbert Clarence, who defiantly skippedoft down the avenues, and almost out of her sight--she looking after himin helpless dismay, lest he should get a splash or a tumble, or bealtogether lost; and then what would the mistress say? Standing thereso--the troops of children in their holiday trim passing close besideher--her young heart turned bitter for a moment, as it sometimes would;and her one utterance of all that swelled her martyr soul broke forth:

"Laws a me! Sech lots of good times in the world, and I ain't in 'em!"

Yet, that afternoon, when Mrs. Grubbling went out shopping, and left herto her own devices with the children, how jubilantly she trained thebattered chairs in line, and put herself at the head, with Bubby'sscarlet tippet wreathed about her upstart locks, and made a May Day!

I say, she had the soul and essence of the very life she seemed to miss. 

There were shabby children's books about the Grubbling domicile, thathad been the older child's--Cornelia's--and had descended to MasterHerbert, while yet his only pastime in them was to scrawl them full ofpencil marks, and tear them into tatters. These, one by one, Gloryrescued, and hid away, and fed upon, piecemeal, in secret. She couldread, at least--this poor, denied unfortunate. Peter McWhirk had taughthis child her letters in happy, humble Sundays and holidays long ago;and Mrs. Grubbling had begun by sending her to a primary school for awhile, irregularly, when she could be spared; and when she hadn't justtorn her frock, or worn out her shoes, or it didn't rain, or she hadn'tbeen sent of an errand and come back too late--which reasons, with amultitude of others, constantly recurring, reduced the school days inthe year to a number whose smallness Mrs. Grubbling would haveindignantly disputed, had it been calculated and set before her; shebeing one of those not uncommon persons who regard a duty continuallyevaded as one continually performed, it being necessarily just as muchon their minds; till, at last, Herbert had a winter's illness, and insummer it wasn't worth while, and the winter after, baby came, so thatof course she couldn't be spared at all; and it seemed little likely nowthat she ever again would be. But she kept her spelling book, and readover and over what she knew, and groped her way slowly into more, tillshe promoted herself from that to "Mother Goose"--from "Mother Goose" to"Fables for the Nursery"--and now, her ever fresh and unfailing feastwas the "Child's Own Book of Fairy Tales, " and an odd volume of the"Parents' Assistant. " She picked out, slowly, the gist of these, with alame and uncertain interpretation. She lived for weeks with Beauty andthe Beast--with Cinderella--with the good girl who worked for the witch, and shook her feather bed every morning; till at last, given leave to gohome and see her mother, the gold and silver shower came down about her, departing at the back door. Perhaps she should get her pay, some time, and go home and see her mother. 

Meanwhile, she identified herself with--lost herself utterly in, --theseimaginary lives. She was, for the time, Cinderella; she was Beauty; shewas above all, the Fair One with Golden Locks; she was Simple Susangoing to be May Queen; she dwelt in the old Castle of Rossmore, with theIrish Orphans. The little Grubbling house in Budd Street was peopled allthrough, in every corner, with her fancies. Don't tell me she hadnothing but her niggardly outside living there. 

And the wonder began to come up in her mind, as it did in FaithGartney's, whether and when "something might happen" to her. 

CHAPTER V. 

SOMETHING HAPPENS. 

"Athirst! athirst! The sandy soil Bears no glad trace of leaf or tree;No grass-blade sigheth to the heaven Its little drop of ecstasy. 

"Yet other fields are spreading wide Green bosoms to the bounteous sun;And palms and cedars shall sublime Their rapture for thee, --waiting one!"

"Take us down to see the apple woman, " said Master Herbert, going outwith Glory and the baby one day when his school didn't keep, and Mrs. Grubbling had a headache, and wanted to get them all off out of the way. 

Bridget Foye sat at her apple stand in the cheery morning sunlight, redcheeks and russets ranged fair and tempting before her, and a pile ofroasted peanuts, and one of delicate molasses candy, such as nobody butshe knew how to make, at either end of the board. 

Bridget Foye was the tidiest, kindliest, merriest apple woman in allMishaumok. Everybody whose daily path lay across that southeast cornerof the Common, knew her well, and had a smile, and perhaps a penny forher; and got a smile and a God-bless-you, and, for the penny, a rosy ora golden apple, or some of her crisp candy in return. 

Glory and the baby, sitting down to rest on one of the benches close by, as their habit was, had one day made a nearer acquaintance with blitheBridget. I think it began with Glory--who held the baby up to see thepassing show of a portion of a menagerie in the street, and heard twogirls, stopping just before her to look, likewise, say they'd go and seeit perform next day--uttering something of her old soliloquy about "goodtimes, " and why she "warn't ever in any of 'em. " However it was, Mrs. Foye, in her buxom cheeriness, was drawn to give some of it forth to theuncouth-looking, companionless girl, and not only began a chat with her, after the momentary stir in the street was over, and she had settledherself upon her stool, and leaning her back against a tree, setvigorously to work again at knitting a stout blue yarn stocking, butalso treated Bubby and Baby to some bits of her sweet merchandise, andtold them about the bears and the monkeys that had gone by, shut up inthe gay, red-and-yellow-painted wagons. 

So it became, after this first opening, Glory's chief pleasure to getout with the children now and then, of a sunny day, and sit here on thebench by Bridget Foye, and hear her talk, and tell her, confidentially, some of her small, incessant troubles. It was one more life to drawfrom--a hearty, bright, and wholesome life, besides. She had, at last, in this great, tumultuous, indifferent city, a friendship and aresource. 

But there was a certain fair spot of delicate honor in Glory's naturethat would not let her bring Bubby and Baby in any apparent hope of whatthey might get, gratuitously, into their mouths. She laid it down, arule, with Master Herbert, that he was not to go to the apple stand withher unless he had first put by a penny for a purchase. And sounflinchingly she adhered to this determination, that sometimes weekswent by--hard, weary weeks, without a bit of pleasantness for her; weeksof sore pining for a morsel of heart food--before she was free of herown conscience to go and take it. 

Bridget told stories to Herbert--strange, nonsensical fables, to besure--stuff that many an overwise mother, bringing up her children byhard rule and theory, might have utterly forbidden as harmful trash--yetthat never put an evil into his heart, nor crowded, I dare to say, abetter thought out of his brain. Glory liked the stories as well, almost, as the child. One moral always ran through them all. Troublesalways, somehow, came to an end; good creatures and children got safeout of them all, and lived happy ever after; and the fierce, andcunning, and bad--the wolves, and foxes, and witches--trapped themselvesin their own wickedness, and came to deplorable ends. 

"Tell us about the little red hen, " said Herbert, paying his money, andmunching his candy. 

"An' thin ye'll trundle yer hoop out to the big tree, an' lave Glory an'me our lane for a minute?"

"Faith, an' I will that, " said the boy--aping, ambitiously, the racyIrish accent. 

"Well, thin, there was once't upon a time, away off in the ould country, livin' all her lane in the woods, in a wee bit iv a house be herself, alittle rid hin. Nice an' quite she was, and nivir did no kind o' harrumin her life. An' there lived out over the hill, in a din o' the rocks, acrafty ould felly iv a fox. An' this same ould villain iv a fox, he laidawake o' nights, and he prowled round shly iy a daytime, thinkin' alwaysso busy how he'd git the little rid hin, an' carry her home an' bile herup for his shupper. But the wise little rid hin nivir went intil her bitiv a house, but she locked the door afther her, an' pit the kay in herpocket. So the ould rashkill iv a fox, he watched, an' he prowled, an'he laid awake nights, till he came all to skin an' bone, on' sorra aha'porth o' the little rid hin could he git at. But at lasht there camea shcame intil his wicked ould head, an' he tuk a big bag one mornin', over his shouldher, and he says till his mother, says he, 'Mother, havethe pot all bilin' agin' I come home, for I'll bring the little rid hinto-night for our shupper. ' An' away he wint, over the hill, an' camecraping shly and soft through the woods to where the little rid hinlived in her shnug bit iv a house. An' shure, jist at the very minutethat he got along, out comes the little rid hin out iv the door, to pickup shticks to bile her taykettle. 'Begorra, now, but I'll have yees, 'says the shly ould fox, and in he shlips, unbeknownst, intil the house, an' hides behind the door. An' in comes the little rid hin, a minuteafther, with her apron full of shticks, an' shuts to the door an' locksit, an' pits the kay in her pocket. An' thin she turns round--an' thereshtands the baste iv a fox in the corner. Well, thin, what did she do, but jist dhrop down her shticks, and fly up in a great fright andflutter to the big bame acrass inside o' the roof, where the foxcouldn't get at her?

"'Ah, ha!' says the ould fox, 'I'll soon bring yees down out o' that!'An' he began to whirrul round, an' round, an' round, fashter an' fashteran' fashter, on the floor, after his big, bushy tail, till the littlerid hin got so dizzy wid lookin', that she jist tumbled down off thebame, and the fox whipped her up and popped her intil his bag, andshtarted off home in a minute. An' he wint up the wood, an' down thewood, half the day long, with the little rid hin shut up shmotherin' inthe bag. Sorra a know she knowd where she was, at all, at all. Shethought she was all biled an' ate up, an' finished, shure! But, by an'by, she renumbered herself, an' pit her hand in her pocket, and tuk outher little bright schissors, and shnipped a big hole in the bag behind, an' out she leapt, an' picked up a big shtone, an' popped it intil thebag, an' rin aff home, an' locked the door. 

"An' the fox he tugged away up over the hill, with the big shtone at hisback thumpin' his shouldhers, thinkin' to himself how heavy the littlerid hin was, an' what a fine shupper he'd have. An' whin he came insight iv his din in the rocks, and shpied his ould mother a-watchin' forhim at the door, he says, 'Mother! have ye the pot bilin'?' An' the ouldmother says, 'Sure an' it is; an' have ye the little rid hin?' 'Yes, jist here in me bag. Open the lid o' the pot till I pit her in, ' sayshe. 

"An' the ould mother fox she lifted the lid o' the pot, and the rashkilluntied the bag, and hild it over the pot o' bilin' wather, an' shuk inthe big, heavy shtone. An' the bilin' wather shplashed up all over therogue iv a fox, an' his mother, an' shcalded them both to death. An' thelittle rid hin lived safe in her house foriver afther. "

"Ah!" breathed Bubby, in intense relief, for perhaps the twentieth time. "Now tell about the girl that went to seek her fortune!"

"Away wid ye!" cried Bridget Foye. "Kape yer promish, an' lave that tillye come back!"

So Herbert and his hoop trundled off to the big tree. 

"An' how are yees now, honey?" says Bridget to Glory, a whole catechismof questions in the one inquiry. "Have ye come till any good times yit?"

"Oh, Mrs. Foye, " says Glory, "I think I'm tied up tight in the bag, an'I'll never get out, except it's into the hot water!"

"An' havint ye nivir a pair iv schissors in yer pocket?" asks Bridget. 

"I don't know, " says poor Glory, hopelessly. And just then MasterHerbert comes trundling back, and Bridget tells him the story of thegirl that went to seek her fortune and came to be a queen. 

Glory half thinks that, some day or other, she, too, will start off andseek her fortune. 

The next morning, Sunday--never a holiday, and scarcely a holy day toher--Glory sits at the front window, with the inevitable baby in herarms. 

Mrs. Grubbling is upstairs getting ready for church. After baby has hisforenoon drink, and is got off to sleep--supposing he shall becomplaisant, and go--Glory is to dust up, and set table, and warm thedinner, and be all ready to bring it up when the elder Grubbling shallhave returned. 

Out at the Pembertons' green gate she sees the tidy parlor maid come, inher smart shawl and new, bright ribbons; holding up her pretty printedmousseline dress with one hand, as she steps down upon the street, andso revealing the white hem of a clean starched skirt; while the otherhand is occupied with the little Catholic prayer book and a foldedhandkerchief. Actually, gloves on her hands, too. The gate closes with acord and pulley after her, and somehow the hem of the fresh, outspreading crinoline gets caught in it, as it shuts. So she turns halfround, and takes both hands to push it open and release herself. Doingso, something slips from between the folds of her handkerchief, anddrops upon the ground. A bright half dollar, which was going to pay someof her little church dues to-day. And she hurries on, never missing itout of her grasp, and is halfway down the side street before Glory canset the baby suddenly on the carpet, rush out at the front door, regardless that Mrs. Grubbling's chamber window overlooks her fromabove, pick up the coin, and overtake her. 

"I saw you drop it by the gate, " is all she says, as she puts it intoKatie Ryan's hand. 

Katie stares with surprise, turning round at the touch upon hershoulder, and beholding the strange figure, and the still strangerevidence of honesty and good will. 

"Indeed, and I'm thoroughly obliged to ye, " says she, barely in time, for the odd figure is already retreating up the street. "It's thered-headed girl over at Grubbling's, " she continues to herself. "Well, anyhow, she's an honest, kind-hearted crature, and I'll not forget it ofher. "

Glory has made another friend. 

"Well, Glory McWhirk, this is very pretty doings indeed!" began Mrs. Grubbling, meeting the little handmaiden at the parlor door. "So this isthe way, is it, when my back is turned for a minute? That poor babydumped down on the floor, to crawl up to the hot stove, or do any otherhorrid thing he likes, while you go flacketting out, bareheaded, intothe streets, after a topping jade like that? You can't have anyhigh-flown acquaintances while you live in my house, I tell you now, once and for all. Are you going to take up that baby or not?" Mrs. Grubbling had been thus far effectually heading Glory off, by standingsquare in the parlor doorway. "Or perhaps, I'd better stay at home andtake care of him myself, " she added, in a tone of superlative irony. 

Poor Glory, meekly murmuring that it was only to give back some moneythe girl had dropped, slid past her mistress submissively, like a sentrycaught off his post and warned of mortal punishment, and shouldered armsonce more; that is, picked up the baby, who, as if taking the cue fromhis mother, and made conscious of his grievance, had at this momentbegun to cry. 

Glory had a good cry of her own first, and then, "killing two birds withone stone, " pacified herself and the baby "all under one. "

After this, Katie Ryan never came out at the green gate, of a Sunday onthe way to church, or of a week day to run down the little back streetof an errand, but she gave a glance up at the Grubblings' windows; andif she caught sight of Glory's illumined head, nodded her own, with itspretty, dark-brown locks, quite pleasant and friendly. And between thesechance recognitions of Katie's, and the good apple woman's occasionalsympathy, the world began to brighten a little, even for poor Glory. 

Still, good times went on--grand, wonderful good times--all around her. And she caught distant glimpses, but "wasn't in 'em. "

One day, as she hurried home from the grocer's with half-a-dozen eggsand two lemons, Katie ran out from the gate, and met her halfway downBudd Street. 

"I've been watchin' for ye, " said she. "I seen ye go out of an errand, an' I've been lookin' for ye back. There's to be a grand party at ourhouse to-morrow night, an' I thought maybe ye'd like to get lave, an'run over to take a peep at it. Put on yer best frock, and make yer hairtidy, an' I'll see to yer gettin' a good chance. "

Poor Glory colored up, as Mrs. Grabbling might have done if thePresident's wife had bidden her. Not so, either. With a glow of feeling, and an oppression of gratitude, and a humility of delight, that Mrs. Grubbling, under any circumstances whatever, could have known nothingabout. 

"If I only can, " she managed to utter, "and, anyhow, I'm sure I'mthankful to ye a thousand times. "

And that night she sat up in her little attic room, after everybody elsewas in bed, mending, in a poor fashion, a rent in the faded "bestfrock, " and sewing a bit of cotton lace in the neck thereof that she hadpicked out of the ragbag, and surreptitiously washed and ironed. 

Next morning, she went about her homely tasks with an alacrity that Mrs. Grubbling, knowing nothing of the hope that had been let in upon herdreariness, attributed wholly to the salutary effect of a "goodscolding" she had administered the day before. The work she got out ofthe girl that Thursday forenoon! Never once did Glory leave herscrubbing, or her dusting, or her stove polishing, to glance from thewindows into the street, though the market boys, and the waiters, andthe confectioners' parcels were going in at the Pembertons' gate, andthe man from the greenhouse, even, drove his cart up, filled withbeautiful plants for the staircase. 

She waited, as in our toils we wait for Heaven--trusting to the joy thatwas to come. 

After dinner, she spoke, with fear and trembling. Her lips turned quitewhite with anxiety as she stood before Mrs. Grubbling with the baby inher arms. 

"Please, mum, " says Glory, tremulously, "Katie Ryan asked me over for alittle while to-night to look at the party. "

Mrs. Grubbling actually felt a jealousy, as if her poor, untutoredhandmaid were taking precedence of herself. 

"What party?" she snapped. 

"At the Pembertons', mum. I thought you knew about it. "

"And what if I do? Maybe I'm going, myself. "

Glory opened her eyes wide in mingled consternation and surprise. 

"I didn't think you was, mum. But if you is----"

"You're willing, I suppose, " retorted her mistress, laughing, in abitter way. "I'm very much obliged. But I'm going out to-night, anyhow, whether it's there or not, and you can't be spared. Besides, you needn'tthink you're going to begin with going out evenings yet a while. At yourage! A pretty thing! There--go along, and don't bother me. "

Glory went along; and only the baby--of mortal listeners--heard thesuffering cry that went up from her poor, pinched, and chilled, anddisappointed heart. 

"Oh, baby, baby! it was _too_ good a time! I'd ought to a knowed Icouldn't be in it!"

Only a stone's throw from those brightly lighted windows of thePembertons'! Their superfluous radiance pouring out lavishly across thenarrow street, searched even through the dim panes behind which Glorysat, resting her tired arms, after tucking away their ordinary burden inhis crib, and answering Herbert's wearisome questions, who from histrundle bed kept asking, ceaselessly:

"What are they doing now? Can't you see, Glory?"

"Hush, hush!" said Glory, breathlessly, as a burst of brilliant melodyfloated over to her ear. "They're making music now. Don't you hear?"

"No. How can I, with my head in the pillow? I'm coming there to sit withyou, Glory. " And the boy scrambled from his feed to the window. 

"No, no! you'll ketch cold. Besides, you'd oughter go to sleep. Well--only for a little bit of a minute, then, " as Herbert persisted, and climbing upon her lap, flattened his face against the window pane. 

Glory gathered up her skirt about his shoulders and held him for awhile, begging him uneasily, over and over, to "be a good boy, and goback to bed. " No; he wouldn't be a good boy, and he wouldn't go back tobed, till the music paused. Then, by dint of promising that if it beganagain she would open the window a "teenty little crack, " so that hemight hear it better, she coaxed him to the point of yielding, andtucked him, chilly, yet half unwilling, in the trundle. 

Back again, to look and listen. And, oh, wonderful and unexpectedfortune! A beneficent hand has drawn up the white linen shade at one ofthe back parlor windows to slide the sash a little from the top. It wasKatie, whom her young mistress, standing with her partner at that cornerof the room, had called in from the hall to do it. 

"No, no, " whispered the young lady, hastily, as her companion moved torender her the service she desired, "let Katie come in. She'll get sucha good look down the room at the dancers. " There was no abatedadmiration in the young man's eye, as he turned back to her side, andallowed her kindly intention to be fulfilled. 

Did Katie surmise, in her turn, with the freemasonry of her class, howit was with her humble friend over the way--that she couldn't get letout for the evening, and that she would be sure to be looking andlistening from her old post opposite? However it was, the linen shadewas not lowered again, and there between the lace and crimson curtainsstood revealed the graceful young figure of Edith Pemberton, in herfloating ball robes, with the wreath of morning-glories in her hair. 

"Oh, my sakes and sorrows! Ain't she just like a princess? Ain't it asplendid time? And I come so near to be in it! But I ain't; and I s'poseI shan't ever get a chance again. Maybe Katie'd get me over of a commonworkday though, some time, to help her a bit or so. Wouldn't I be gladto?"

"Oh, for gracious, child! Don't ever come here again. You'll catch yourdeath. You'll have the croup and whooping cought, and everythingto-morrow. " This to Herbert, who had of course tumbled out of bed againat Glory's first rapturous exclamation. 

"No, I won't!" cried the boy, rebelliously; "I'll stay as long as Ilike. And I'll tell my ma how you was a-wantin' to go away and be thePembertons' girl. Won't she lam you when she hears that?"

"You can tell wicked lies if you want to, Master Herbert; but you know Inever said such a word, nor ever thought of it. Of course I couldn't ifI wanted to ever so bad. "

"Couldn't live there? I guess not. Think they'd have a girl like you?What a lookin' you'd be, a-comin' to the front door answerin' the bell!"

Here the doorbell rang suddenly and sharply, and Master Herbertfancying, as did Glory, that it was his mother come back, scrambledinto his bed again and covered himself up, while the girl ran down toanswer the summons. 

It was Katie Ryan, with cakes and sweetmeats. 

"I've jist rin in to fetch ye these. Miss Edith gave 'em me, so yeneedn't be feared. I knows ye're sich an honest one. An' it's a tearin'shame, if ever there was, that ye couldn't come over for a bit ofdiversion. Why don't ye quit this?"

"Oh, hush!" whispered Glory, with a gesture up the staircase, where shehad just left the little pitcher with fearfully long ears. "And thankyou kindly, over and over, I'm sure. It's real good o' you to think o'me so--oh!" And Glory couldn't say anything more for a quick little sobthat came in her throat, and caught the last word up into a spasm. 

"Pooh! it's just nothing at all. I'd do something better nor that if Ihad the chance; an' I'd adwise ye to get out o' this if ye can. Good-by. I've set the parlor windy open, an' the shade's up. I knew it would jistbe a conwenience. "

Glory ran up the back stairs to the top of the house, and hid away thesweet things in her own room to "make a party" with next day. And thenshe went down and tented over the crib with an old woolen shawl, and seta high-backed rocking chair to keep the draft from Herbert, and openedthe window "a teenty crack. " In five minutes the slight freshening ofthe air and the soothing of the music had sent the boy to sleep, andwatchful Glory closed the window and set things in their ordinaryarrangement once more. 

Next morning Herbert made hoarse complaint. 

"What did you let him do, Glory, to catch such a cold?" asked Mrs. Grabbling. 

"Nothing, mum, only he would get out of bed to hear the music, " repliedthe girl. 

"Well, you opened the window, you know you did, and Katie Ryan came overand kept the front door open. And you said how you wished you could goover there and do their chores. I told you I'd tell. "

"It's wicked lies, mum, " burst out Glory, indignant. 

"Do you dare to tell him he lies, right before my face, yougood-for-nothing girl?" shrieked the exasperated mother. "Where do youexpect to go to?"

"I don't expect to go nowheres, mum; and I wouldn't say it was lies ifhe didn't tell what wasn't true. "

"How should such a thing come into his head if you didn't say it?"

"There's many things comes into his head, " answered Glory, stoutly, "andI think you'd oughter believe me first, when I never told you a lie inmy life, and you did ketch Master Herbert fibbing, jist the other day, but. "

Somehow, Glory had grown strangely bold in her own behalf since she hadcome to feel there was a bit of sympathy somewhere for her in the world. 

"I know now where he learns it, " retorted the mistress, with persistentand angry injustice. 

Glory's face blazed up, and she took an involuntary step to the woman'sside at the warrantless accusation. 

"You don't mean that, mum, and you'd oughter take it back, " said she, excited beyond all fear and habit of submission. 

Mrs. Grubbling raised her hand passionately, and struck the girl uponthe cheek. 

"I mean _that_, then, for your impudence! Don't answer me up again!"

"No, mum, " said Glory, in a low, strange tone; quite white now, exceptwhere the vindictive fingers had left their crimson streaks. And shewent off out of the room without another word. 

Over the knife board she revolved her wrongs, and sharpened at lengththe keen edge of desperate resolution. 

"Please, mum, " said she, in the old form of address, but with quite anew manner, that, in the little dependant of less than fifteen, startledthe hard mistress, "I ain't noways bound to you, am I?"

She propounded her question, stopping short in her return toward thechina closet through the sitting room. 

"Bound? What do you mean?" parried Mrs. Grubbling, dimly foreshadowingto herself what it would be if Glory should break loose, and go. 

"To stay, mum, and you to keep me, till I'm growed up, " answered Glory, briefly. 

"There's no binding about it, " replied the mistress. "Of course Iwouldn't be held to anything of that sort. I shan't keep you any longerthan you behave yourself. "

"Then, if you please, mum, I think I'll go, " said Glory. And she burstinto a passion of tears. 

"Humph! Where?" asked Mrs. Grubbling. 

"I don't know, yet, " said Glory, the sarcasm drying her tears. "I s'poseI can go to a office. "

"And where'll you get your meals and your lodgings till you find aplace?" The cat thought she had her paw on the mouse, now, and couldplay with her as securely and cruelly as she pleased. 

"If you go away at all, " continued Mrs. Grubbling, with what she deemeda finishing stroke of policy, "you go straight off. I'll have no dancingback and forth to offices from here. "

"Do you mean right off, this minute?" asked Glory, aghast. 

"Yes just that. Pack up and go, or else let me hear no more about it. "

The next thing in Glory's programme of duty was to lay the table fordinner. But she went out of the room, and slowly off, upstairs. 

Pretty soon she came down again, with her eyes very tearful, and hershabby shawl and bonnet on. 

"I'm going, mum, " said she, as one resolved to face calmly whatevermight befall. "I didn't mean it to be sudden, but it are. And I wouldn'tnever a gone, if I'd a thought anybody cared for me the leastest bitthat ever was. I wouldn't mind bein' worked and put upon, and not havin'any good times; but when people hates me, and goes to say I doesn't tellthe truth"--here Glory broke down, and the tears poured over her stainedcheeks again, and she essayed once more to dry them, which reminded herthat her hands again were full. 

"It's some goodies--from the party, mum"--she struggled to say betweenshort breaths and sobs, "that Katie Ryan give me--an' I kept--to make aparty--for the children, with--to-day, mum--when the chores wasdone--and I'll leave 'em--for 'em--if you please. "

Glory laid her coals of fire upon the table as she spoke. Master Herberteyed them, as one utterly unconscious of a scorch. 

"I s'pose I might come back and get my bundle, " said Glory, standingstill in the hope of one last kindly or relenting word. 

"Oh, yes, if you get a place, " said her mistress, dryly, affecting totreat the whole affair as a childish, though unwonted burst ofpetulance. 

But Glory, not daring, unbidden, even to kiss the baby, went steadilyand sorrowfully out into the street, and drew the door behind her, thatshut with a catch lock, and fastened her out into the wide world. 

Not stopping to think, she hurried on, up Budd and down Branch Street, and across the green common path to the apple stand and Bridget Foye. 

"I've done it! I've gone! And I don't know what to do, nor where to goto!"

"Arrah, poor little rid hin! So, ye've found yer schiasors, have ye, an'let yersel' loose out o' the bag? Well, it's I that is glad, though Iwouldn't pit ye up till it, " says Bridget Foye. 

Poor little red hen. She had cut a hole, and jumped out of the bag, tobe sure; but here she was, "all alone by herself" once more, and thefoxes--Want and Cruelty--ravening after her all through the great, dreary wood!

This day, at least, passed comfortably enough, however, although with anundertone of sadness--in the sunshine, by Bridget's apple stand, watching the gay passers-by, and shaping some humble hopes and plans forthe future. For dinner, she shared Mrs. Foye's plain bread and cheese, and made a dessert of an apple and a handful of peanuts. At nightBridget took her home and gave her shelter, and the next day she startedher off with a "God bless ye and good luck till ye, " in the charge of anolder girl who lodged in the same building, and who was also "out aftera place. "

CHAPTER VI. 

AUNT HENDERSON'S GIRL HUNT. 

"Black spirits and white, Red spirits and gray;Mingle, mingle, mingle, You that mingle may. " MACBETH. 

It was a small, close, dark room--Mrs. Griggs's Intelligence Office--alittle counter and show case dividing off its farther end, making asanctum for Mrs. Griggs, who sat here in rheumatic ponderosity, dependent for whatever involved locomotion on the rather alarmingalacrity of an impish-looking granddaughter who is elbowing her waythrough the throng of applicants for places and servants. She paid noheed to the astonishment of a severe-looking, elderly lady, who, by herimpetuous onset, has been rudely thrust back into the very arms of afat, unsavory cook with whom she had a minute before been quiteunwillingly set to confer by the high priestess of the place. 

Aunt Henderson grasped Faith's hand as if she felt she had brought herinto a danger, and held her close to her side while she paused a momentto observe, with the strange fascination of repulsion, the manifestationof a phase of human life and the working of a vocation so utterly andastoundingly novel to herself. 

"Well, Melindy, " said Mrs. Griggs, salutatorily. 

"Well, grandma, " answered the girl, with a pert air of show off andconsequence, "I found the place, and I found the lady. Ain't I beenquick?"

"Yes. What did she say?"

"Said the girl left last Saturday. Ain't had anybody sence. Wants you tosend her a first-rate one, right off. Has Care'_line_ been here afterme?"

"No. Did you get the money?"

"She never said a word about it. Guess she forgot the month was out. "

"Didn't you ask her?"

"Me? No. I did the arrant, and stood and looked at her--jest aspious--! And when she didn't say nothin', I come away. "

"Winny M'Goverin, " said Mrs. Griggs, "that place'll suit you. Leastways, it must, for another month. You'd better go right round there. "

"Where is it?" asked the fat cook, indifferently. 

"Up in Mount Pleasant Street, Number 53. First-class place, and plentyof privileges. Margaret McKay, " she continued, to another, "you're toohard to please. Here's one more place"--handing her a card withaddress--"and if you don't take that, I won't do nothing more for you, if you _air_ Scotch and a Protestant! Mary McGinnis, it's no use yourtalking to that lady from the country. She can't spare you to come downbut twice or so a year. "

"Lord!" ejaculated Mary McGinnis, "I wouldn't live a whole year with nolady that ever was, let alone the country!"

"Come out, Faith!" said Miss Henderson, in a deep, ineffable tone ofdisgust. 

"If _that's_ a genteel West End Intelligence Office, " cried Aunt Faith, as she touched the sidewalk, "let's go downtown and try some of thecommon ones. "

A large hall--where the candidates were ranged on settees under orderand restraint, and the superintendent, or directress, occupied a deskplaced upon a platform near the entrance--was the next scene whereonMiss Henderson and Faith Gartney entered. Things looked clean andrespectable. System obtained here. Aunt Faith felt encouraged. But shemade no haste to utter her business. Tall, self-possessed, anddignified, she stood a few paces inside the door, and looked down theapartment, surveying coolly the faces there, and analyzing, by a shrewdmental process, their indications. 

Her niece had stopped a moment on the landing outside to fasten her bootlace. 

Miss Henderson did not wear hoops. Also, the streets being sloppy, shehad tucked up her plain, gray merino dress over a quilted black alpacapetticoat. Her boots were splashed, and her black silk bonnet wascovered with a large gray barége veil, tied down over it to protect itfrom the dripping roofs. Judging merely by exterior, one would hardlytake her at a glance, indeed, for a "fust-class" lady. 

The directress--a busy woman, with only half a glance to spare foranyone--moved toward her. 

"Take a seat, if you please. What kind of a place do you want?"

Aunt Faith turned full face upon her, with a look that was prepared tobe overwhelming. 

"I'm looking for a place, ma'am, where I can find a respectable girl. "

Her firm, emphatic utterance was heard to the farthest end of the hall. 

The girls tittered. 

Faith Gartney came in at this moment, and walked up quietly to MissHenderson's side. There was visibly a new impression made, and thetittering ceased. 

"I beg pardon, ma'am. I see. But we have so many in, and I didn't fairlylook. General housework?"

"Yes; general and particular--both. Whatever I set her to do. "

The directress turned toward the throng of faces whose fire of eyes wasnow all concentrated on the unflinching countenance of Miss Henderson. 

"Ellen Mahoney!"

A stout, well-looking damsel, with an expression that seemed to say sheanswered to her name, but was nevertheless persuaded of the utteruselessness of the movement, half rose from her seat. 

"You needn't call up that girl, " said Aunt Faith, decidedly; "I don'twant her. "

Ellen Mahoney had giggled among the loudest. 

"She knows what she _does_ want!" whispered a decent-appearing youngwoman to a girl at her side with an eager face looking out from a frizof short curly hair, "and that's more than half of 'em do. "

"Country, did you say, ma'am? or city?" asked the directress once moreof Miss Henderson. 

"I didn't say. It's country, though--twenty miles out. "

"What wages?"

"I'll find the girl first, and settle that afterwards. "

"Anybody to do general housework in the country, twenty miles out?"

The prevailing expression of the assemblage changed. There was asettling down into seats, and a resumption of knitting and needlework. 

One pair of eyes, however, looked on, even more eagerly than before. Oneyoung girl--she with the short curly hair who hadn't seen the countryfor six years and more--caught her breath, convulsively, at the word. 

"I wish I dar'st! I've a great mind!" whispered she to her tidycompanion. 

While she hesitated, a slatternly young woman, a few seats fartherforward, moved, with a "don't care" sort of look, to answer the summons. 

"Oh, dear!" sighed the first. "I'd ought to a done it!"

"I don't think she would take a young girl like you, " replied herfriend. 

"That's the way it always is!" exclaimed the disappointed voice, inforgetfulness and excitement uttering itself aloud. "Plenty of goodtimes going, but they all go right by. I ain't never in any of 'em!"

"Glory McWhirk!" chided the directress, "be quiet! Remember the rules, or leave the room. "

"Call that red-headed girl to me, " said Miss Henderson, turning squareround from the dirty figure that was presenting itself before her, andaddressing the desk. "She looks clean and bright, " she added, aside, toFaith, as Glory timidly approached. "And poor. And longing for a chance. I'll have her. "

A girl with a bonnet full of braids and roses, and a look of generalknowingness, started up close at Miss Henderson's side, and interposed. 

"Did you say twenty miles, mum? How often could I come to town?"

"You haven't been asked to go _out_ of town, that I know of, " repliedMiss Henderson, frigidly, abashing the office _habitué_, who had notbeen used to find her catechism cut so summarily short, and moving asideto speak with Glory. 

"What was it I heard you say just now?"

"I didn't mean to speak out so, mum. It was only what I mostly thinks. That there's always lots of good times in the world, only I ain't neverin 'em. "

"And you thought it would be good times, did you, to go off twenty milesinto the country, to live alone with an old woman like me?"

Miss Henderson's tone softened kindly to the rough, uncouth girl, andencouraged her to confidence. 

"Well, you see, mum, I should like to go where things is green andpleasant. I lived in the country once--ever so long ago--when I was alittle girl. "

Miss Henderson could not help a smile that was half amused, and whollypitiful, as she looked in the face of this creature of fourteen, sostrange and earnest, with its outline of fuzzy, cropped hair, and heardher talk of "ever so long ago. "

"Are you strong?"

"Yes'm. I ain't never sick. "

"And willing to work?"

"Yes'm. Jest as much as I know how. "

"And want to learn more?"

"Yes'm. I don't know as I'd know enough hardly, to begin, though. "

"Can you wash dishes? And sweep? And set table?"

To each of these queries Glory successively interposed an affirmativemonosyllable, adding, gratuitously, at the close, "And tend baby, too, real good. " Her eyes filled, as she thought of the Grubbling baby withthe love that always grows for that whereto one has sacrificed oneself. 

"You won't have any babies to tend. Time enough for that when you'velearned plenty of other things. Who do you belong to?"

"I don't belong to anybody, mum. Father, and mother, and grandmother isall dead. I've done the chores and tended baby up at Mrs. Grubbling'sever since. That's in Budd Street. I'm staying now in High Street, withMrs. Foye. Number 15. "

"I'll come after you to-morrow. Have your things ready to go right off. "

"I'm so glad you took her, auntie, " said Faith, as they went out. "Shelooks as if she hadn't been well treated. Think of her wanting so to gointo the country! I should like to do something for her. "

"That's my business, " answered Aunt Faith, curtly, but not crossly. "You'll find somebody to do for, if you look out. If your mother'swilling, though, you might mend up one of your old school dresses forher. 'Tisn't likely she's got anything to begin with. " And so saying, Aunt Faith turned precipitately into a drygoods store, where she boughta large plaid woolen shawl, and twelve yards of dark calico. Coming out, she darted as suddenly, and apparently unpremeditatedly, across thestreet into a milliner's shop, and ordered home a brown rough-and-readystraw bonnet, and four yards of ribbon to match. 

"And that you can put on, too, " she said to Faith. 

That evening, Faith was even unwontedly cheery and busy, taking a burnedhalf breadth out of a dark cashmere dress, darning it at the armhole, and pinning the plain ribbon over the brown straw bonnet. 

At the same time, Glory went up across the city to Budd Street, with amingled heaviness and gladness at her heart, and, after a kindlyfarewell interview with Katie Ryan at the Pembertons' green gate, rang, with a half-guilty feeling at her own independence, at the Grubblings'door. Bubby opened it. 

"Why, ma!" he shouted up the staircase, "it's Glory come back!"

"I've come to get my bundle, " said the girl. 

Mrs. Grubbling had advanced to the stair head, somewhat briskly, withthe wakeful baby in her arms. Two days' "tending" had greatly mollifiedher sentiments toward the offending Glory. 

"And she's come to get her bundle, " added the young usher, from below. 

Mrs. Grubbling retreated into her chamber, and shut herself and the babyin. 

Poor Glory crept upstairs to her little attic. 

Coming down again, she set her bundle on the stairs, and knocked. 

"What is it?" was the ungracious response. 

"Please, mum, mightn't I say good-by to the baby?"

The latch had slipped, and the door was already slightly ajar. Babyheard the accustomed voice, and struggled in his mother's arms. 

"A pretty time to come disturbing him to do it!" grumbled she. Nevertheless, she set the baby on the floor, who tottled out, and wasseized by Glory, standing there in the dark entry, and pressed close inher poor, long-wearied, faithful arms. 

"Oh, baby, baby! I'm in it now! And I don't know rightly whether it's agood time or not!"

CHAPTER VII. 

CARES; AND WHAT CAME OF THEM. 

"To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow;To feed on hope, to pine with feare and sorrow; · · · · ·To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares;To eate thy heart through comfortlesse dispaires. " SPENCER. 

Two years and more had passed since the New Year's dance at theRushleighs'. 

The crisis of '57 and '58 was approaching its culmination. The greatearthquake that for months had been making itself heard afar off by itsportentous rumbling was heaving to the final crash. Already the weakerhouses had fallen and were forgotten. 

When a great financial trouble sweeps down upon a people, there arethree general classes who receive and feel it, each in its own peculiarway. 

There are the great capitalists--the enormously rich--who, unless atremendous combination of adversities shall utterly ruin here and thereone, grow the richer yet for the calamities of their neighbors. Thereare also the very poor, who have nothing to lose but their daily laborand their daily bread--who may suffer and starve; but who, if by anylittle saving of a better time they can manage just to buy bread, shallbe precisely where they were, practically, when the storm shall haveblown over. Between these lies the great middle class--among whom, as onthe middle ground, the world's great battle is continually waging--ofpersons who are neither rich nor poor; who have neither securedfortunes to fall back upon, nor yet the independence of their hands toturn to, when business and its income fail. This is the class thatsuffers most. Most keenly in apprehension, in mortification, in afterprivation. 

Of this class was the Gartney family. 

Mr. Gartney was growing pale and thin. No wonder; with sleepless nights, and harassed days, and forgotten, or unrelished meals. His wife watchedhim and waited for him, and contrived special comforts for him, andlistened to his confidences. 

Faith felt that there was a cloud upon the house, and knew that it hadto do with money. So she hid her own little wants as long as she could, wore her old ribbons, mended last year's discarded gloves, and yearnedvaguely and helplessly to do something--some great thing if she onlycould, that might remedy or help. 

Once, she thought she would learn Stenography. She had heard somebodyspeak one day of the great pay a lady shorthand writer had received atWashington, for some Congressional reports. Why shouldn't she learn howto do it, and if the terrible worst should ever come to the worst, makeknown her secret resource, and earn enough for all the family?

Something like this--some "high and holy work of love"--she longed todo. Longed almost--if she were once prepared and certain of herself--foreven misfortune that should justify and make practicable her generouspurpose. 

She got an elementary book, and set to work, by herself. She toiledwearily, every day, for nearly a month; despairing at every step, yetpersevering; for, beside the grand dream for the future, there was apresent fascination in the queer little scrawls and dots. 

It cannot be known how long she might have gone on with the attempt, ifher mother had not come to her one day with some parcels of cut-outcotton cloth. 

"Faithie, dear, " said she, deprecatingly, "I don't like to put such workupon you while you go to school; but I ought not to afford to have MissMcElroy this spring. Can't you make up some of these with me?"

There were articles of clothing for Faith, herself. She felt the presentduty upon her; and how could she rebel? Yet what was to become of thegreat scheme?

By and by would come vacation, and in the following spring, at farthest, she would leave school, and then--she would see. She would write a book, maybe. Why not? And secretly dispose of it, for a large sum, to someself-regardless publisher. Should there never be another Fanny Burney?Not a novel, though, or any grown-up book, at first; but a juvenile, atleast, she could surely venture on. Look at all the Cousin Maries, andAunt Fannies, and Sister Alices, whose productions piled thebooksellers' counters during the holiday sales, and found their way, sooner or later, into all the nurseries, and children's bookcases! Andthink of all the stories she had invented to amuse Hendie with! Betterthan some of these printed ones, she was quite sure, if only she couldset them down just as she had spoken them under the inspiration ofHendie's eager eyes and ready glee. 

She made two or three beginnings, during the summer holidays, but alwayscame to some sort of a "sticking place, " which couldn't be hobbled overin print as in verbal relation. All the links must be apparent, andeverything be made to hold well together. She wouldn't have known whatthey were, if you had asked her--but the "unities" troubled her. Andthen the labor loomed up so large before her! She counted the lines in apage of a book of the ordinary juvenile size, and the number of lettersin a line, and found out the wonderful compression of which manuscriptis capable. And there must be two hundred pages, at least, to make abook of tolerable size. 

There seemed to be nothing in the world that she could do. She could notgive her time to charity, and go about among the poor. She had nothingto help them with. Her father gave, already, to ceaseless applications, more than he could positively spare. So every now and then sherelinquished in discouragement her aspirations, and lived on, from dayto day, as other girls did, getting what pleasure she could; hamperedcontinually, however, with the old, inevitable tether, of "can'tafford. "

"If something only would happen!" If some new circumstance would creepinto her life, and open the way for a more real living!

Do you think girls of seventeen don't have thoughts and longings likethese? I tell you they do; and it isn't that they want to have anybodyelse meet with misfortune, or die, that romantic combinations maythereby result to them; or that they are in haste to enact the everydayromance--to secure a lover--get married--and set up a life of their own;it is that the ordinary marked-out bound of civilized young-ladyexistence is so utterly inadequate to the fresh, vigorous, expandingnature, with its noble hopes, and its apprehension of limitlesspossibilities. 

Something did happen. 

Winter came on again. After a twelvemonth of struggle and pain such asnone but a harassed man of business can ever know or imagine, Mr. Gartney found himself "out of the wood. "

He had survived the shock--his last mote was taken up--he had laboredthrough--and that was all. He was like a man from off a wreck, who hasbrought away nothing but his life. 

He came home one morning from New York, whither he had been to attend ameeting of creditors of a failed firm, and went straight to his chamberwith a raging headache. 

The next day, the physician's chaise was at the door, and on thelanding, where Mrs. Gartney stood, pale and anxious, gazing into hisface for a word, after the visit to the sick room was over, Dr. Graciedrew on his gloves, and said to her, with one foot on the stair:"Symptoms of typhoid. Keep him absolutely quiet. "

CHAPTER VIII. 

A NICHE IN LIFE, AND A WOMAN TO FILL IT. 

"A Traveller between Life and Death. " WORDSWORTH. 

Miss Sampson was at home this evening. It was not what one would havepictured to oneself as a scene of home comfort or enjoyment; but MissSampson was at home. In her little room of fourteen feet square, up adismal flight of stairs, sitting, in the light of a single lamp, by herair-tight stove, whereon a cup of tea was keeping warm; that, and theopen newspaper on the little table in the corner, being the only thingsin any way cheery about her. 

Not even a cat or a canary bird had she for companionship. There was nocozy arrangement for daily feminine employment; no workbasket, or litterof spools and tapes; nothing to indicate what might be her daily way ofgoing on. On the broad ledges of the windows, where any other womanwould have had a plant or two, there was no array of geraniums orverbenas--not even a seedling orange tree or a monthly rose. But in oneof them lay a plaid shawl and a carpet bag, and in the other thatpeculiar and nearly obsolete piece of feminine property, a paperbandbox, tied about with tape. 

Packed up for a journey?

Reader, Miss Sampson was _always_ packed up. She was that much-enduring, all-foregoing creature, a professional nurse. 

There would have been no one to feed a cat, or a canary bird, or towater a rose bush, if she had had one. Her home was no more to her thanhis station at the corner of the street is to the handcart man or thehackney coachman. It was only the place where she might receive orders;whence she might go forth to the toilsomeness and gloom of one sick roomafter another, returning between each sally and the next to hercheerless post of waiting--keeping her strength for others, and livingno life of her own. 

There was nothing in Miss Sampson's outer woman that would give you, atfirst glance, an idea of her real energy and peculiar force ofcharacter. She was a tall and slender figure, with no superfluous weightof flesh; and her long, thin arms seemed to have grown long and wirywith lifting, and easing, and winding about the poor wrecks of mortalitythat had lost their own vigor, and were fain to beg a portion of hers. Her face was thin and rigid, too--molded to no mere graces ofexpression--but with a strong outline, and a habitual compression aboutthe mouth that told you, when you had once learned somewhat of itsmeaning, of the firm will that would go straight forward to its object, and do, without parade or delay, whatever there might be to be done. Decision, determination, judgment, and readiness were all in thathabitual look of a face on which little else had been called out foryears. But you would not so have read it at first sight. You wouldalmost inevitably have called her a "scrawny, sour-looking old maid. "

A creaking step was heard upon the stair, and then a knock of decisionat Miss Sampson's door. 

"Come in!"

And as she spoke, Miss Sampson took her cup and saucer in her hand. Thatwas to be kept waiting no longer for whatever visitor it might chance tobe. She was taking her first sip as Dr. Gracier entered. 

"Don't move, Miss Sampson; don't let me interrupt. "

"I don't mean to! What sends you here?"

"A new patient. "

"Humph! Not one of the last sort, I hope. You know my kind, and 'tain'tany use talking up about any others. Any old woman can make gruel, andfeed a baby with catnip tea. Don't offer me any more such work as that!If it's work that _is_ work, speak out!"

"It's work that nobody else can do for me. A critical case of typhoid, and nobody in the house that understands such illness. I've promised tobring you. "

"You knew I was back, then?"

"I knew you would be. I only sent you at the pinch. I warned them you'dgo as soon as things were tolerably comfortable. "

"Of course I would. What business should I have where there was nothingwanted of me but to go to bed at nine o'clock, and sleep till daylight?That ain't the sort of corner I was cut out to fill. "

"Well, drink your tea, and put on your bonnet. There's a carriage at thedoor. "

"Man? or woman?" asked Miss Sampson. 

"A man--Mr. Henderson Gartney, Hickory Street. "

"Out of his head?"

"Yes--and getting more so. Family all frightened to death. "

"Keep 'em out of my way, then, and let me have him to myself. One crazypatient is enough, at a time, for any one pair of hands. I'm ready. "

In fifteen minutes more, they were in Hickory Street; and the nurse wasspeedily installed, or rather installed herself, in her office. Dr. Gracie hastened away to another patient, promising to call again atbedtime. 

"Now, ma'am, " said Miss Sampson to Mrs. Gartney, who, after taking herfirst to the bedside of the patient, had withdrawn with her to thelittle dressing room adjoining, and given her a _résumé_ of thetreatment thus far followed, with the doctor's last directions toherself--"you just go downstairs to your supper. I know, by your looks, you ain't had a mouthful to-day. That's no way to help take care of sickfolks. "

Mrs. Gartney smiled a little, feebly; and an expression of almostchildlike rest and relief came over her face. She felt herself in stronghands. 

"And you?" she asked. "Shall I send you something here?"

"I've drunk a cup of tea, before I started. If I see my way clear, I'llrun down for a bite after you get through. I don't want any specialprovidings. I take my nibbles anyhow, as I go along. You needn't mind, more'n as if I wasn't here. I shall find my way all over the house. Now, you go. "

"Only tell me how he seems to you. "

"Well--not so terrible sick. Just barely bad enough to keep me here. Idon't take any easy cases. "

The odd, abrupt manner and speech comforted, while they somewhatastonished Mrs. Gartney. 

"Leave the bread and butter and cold chicken on the table, " said she, when the tea things were about to be removed; "and keep the chocolatehot, downstairs. Faithie--sit here; and if Miss Sampson comes down byand by, see that she is made comfortable. "

It was ten o'clock when Miss Sampson came down, and then it was with Dr. Gracie. 

"Cheer up, little lady!" said the doctor, meeting Faith's anxious, inquiring glance. "Not so bad, by any means, as we might be. The onlydifficulty will be to keep Nurse Sampson here. She won't stay a minute, if we begin to get better too fast. Yes--I will take a bit of chicken, Ithink; and--what have you there that's hot?" as the maid came in withthe chocolate pot, in answer to Faith's ring of the bell. "Ah, yes!Chocolate! I missed my tea, somehow, to-night. " The "somehow" had beenin his kindly quest of the best nurse in Mishaumok. 

"Sit down, Miss Sampson. Let me help you to a scrap of cold chicken. What? Drumstick! Miss Faithie--here is a woman who makes it a principleto go through the world, choosing drumsticks! She's a study; and I setyou to finding her out. "

Last night, as he had told Miss Sampson, the family had been "frightenedto death. " He had found Faith sitting on the front stairs, at midnight, when he came in at a sudden summons. She was pale and shivering, andcaught him nervously by both hands. 

"Oh, doctor!"

"And oh, Miss Faithie! This is no place for you. You ought to be inbed. "

"But I can't. Mother is all alone, except Mahala. And I don't dare stayup there, either. What _shall_ we do?"

For all answer, the doctor had just taken her in his arms, and carriedher down to the sofa in the hall, where he laid her, and covered herover with his greatcoat. There she stayed, passively, till he came back. And then he told her kindly and gravely, that if she could be _quite_quiet, and firm, she might go and lie on the sofa in her mother'sdressing room for the remainder of the night, to be at hand for anyneeded service. To-morrow he would see that they were otherwiseprovided. 

And so, to-night, here was Miss Sampson eating her drumstick. 

Faith watched the hard lines of her face as she did so, and wonderedwhat, and how much Dr. Gracie had meant by "setting her to find herout. "

"I'm afraid you haven't had a vary nice supper, " said she, timidly. "Doyou like that best?"

"Somebody must always eat drumsticks, " was the concise reply. 

And so, presently, without any further advance toward acquaintance, theywent upstairs; and the house, under the new, energetic rule, soonsubsided into quiet for the night. 

CHAPTER IX. 

LIFE OR DEATH?

"With God the Lord belong the issues from death. "--Ps. 68; 18. 

The nursery was a corner room, opening both into Faith's and hermother's. Hendie and Mahala Harris had been removed upstairs, and theapartment was left at Miss Sampson's disposal. Mrs. Gartney's bed hadbeen made up in the little dressing room at the head of the front entry, so that she and the nurse had the sick room between them. 

Faith came down the two steps that led from her room into the nursery, the next night at bedtime, as Miss Sampson entered from her father'schamber to put on her night wrapper and make ready for her watch. 

"How is he, nurse? He will get well, won't he? What does the doctorsay?"

"Nothing, " said Miss Sampson, shortly. "He don't know, and he don'tpretend to. And that's just what proves he's good for something. Heain't one of the sort that comes into a sick room as if the Almighty hadmade him a kind of special delegit, and left the whole concern to him. He knows there's a solemner dealing there than his, whether it's forlife or death. "

"But he can't help _thinking_, " said Faith, tremblingly. "And I wish Iknew. What do _you_--?" But Faith paused, for she was afraid, after all, to finish the question, and to hear it answered. 

"I don't think. I just keep doing. That's my part. Folks that think toomuch of what's a-coming, most likely won't attend to what there is. "

Faith was finding out--a little of Miss Sampson, and a good deal ofherself. Had she not thought too much of what might be coming? Had shenot missed, perhaps, some of her own work, when that work was easierthan now? And how presumptuously she had wished for "something tohappen!" Was God punishing her for that?

"You just keep still, and patient--and wait, " said Miss Sampson, notingthe wistful look of pain. "That's your work, and after all, maybe it'sthe hardest kind. And I can't take it off folks' shoulders, " added sheto herself in an under voice; "so I needn't set up for the _very_toughest jobs, to be sure. "

"I'll try, " answered Faith, submissively, with quivering lips, "only ifthere _should_ be anything that I could do--to sit up, oranything--you'll let me, won't you?"

"Of course I will, " replied the nurse, cheerily. "I shan't be squeamishabout asking when there's anything I really want done. "

Faith moved toward the door that opened to her father's room. It wasajar. She pushed it gently open, and paused. "I may go in, mayn't I, nurse, just for a good-night look?"

The sick man heard her voice, though he did not catch her words. 

"Come in, Faithie, " said he, with one of his half gleams ofconsciousness, "I'll see you, daughter, as long as I live. "

Faith's heart nearly broke at that, and she came, tearfully andsilently, to the bedside, and laid her little, cool hand on her father'sfevered one, and looked down on his face, worn, and suffering, andflushed--and thought within herself--it was a prayer and vowunspoken--"Oh, if God will only let him live, I will _find_ somethingthat I can do for him!"

And then she lifted the linen cloth that was laid over his forehead, anddipped it afresh in the bowl of ice water beside the bed, and put itgently back, and just kissed his hair softly, and went out into her ownroom. 

Three nights--three days--more, the fever raged. And on the fourth nightafter, Faith and her mother knew, by the scrupulous care with which thedoctor gave minute directions for the few hours to come, and theresolute way in which Miss Sampson declared that "whoever else had amind to watch, she should sit up till morning this time, " that thecritical point was reached; that these dark, silent moments that wouldflit by so fast, were to spell, as they passed by, the sentence of lifeor death. 

Faith would not be put by. Her mother sat on one side of the bed, whilethe nurse busied herself noiselessly, or waited, motionless, upon theother. Down by the fireside, on a low stool, with her head on thecushion of an easy-chair, leaned the young girl--her heart full, andevery nerve strained with emotion and suspense. 

She will never know, precisely, how those hours went on. She canremember the low breathing from the bed, and the now and thenhalf-distinct utterance, as the brain wandered still in a dreamy, feverish maze; and she never will forget the precise color and patternof the calico wrapper that Nurse Sampson wore; but she can recollectnothing else of it all, except that, after a time, longer or shorter, she glanced up, fearfully, as a strange hush seemed to have come overthe room, and met a look and gesture of the nurse that warned her downagain, for her life. 

And then, other hours, or minutes, she knows not which, went by. 

And then, a stir--a feeble word--a whisper from Nurse Sampson--a low"Thank God!" from her mother. 

The crisis was passed. Henderson Gartney lived. 

CHAPTER X. 

ROUGH ENDS. 

 "So others shallTake patience, labor, to their heart and hand, From thy hand and thy heart, and thy brave cheer, And God's grace fructify through thee to all. " MRS. BROWNING. 

"M. S. What does that stand for?" said little Hendie, reading the whiteletters painted on the black leather bottom of nurse's carpetbag. He gotback, now, often, in the daytime, to his old nursery quarters, where hisfather liked to hear his chatter and play, for a short timetogether--though he still slept, with Mahala, upstairs. "Does that mean'Miss Sampson'?"

Faith glanced up from her stocking mending, with a little fun and alittle curiosity in her eyes. 

"What does 'M. ' stand for?" repeated Hendie. 

The nurse was "setting to rights" about the room. She turned round atthe question, from hanging a towel straight over the stand, and looked alittle amazed, as if she had almost forgotten, herself. But it came out, with a quick opening and shutting of the thin lips, like the snipping ofa pair of scissors--"Mehitable. "

Faith had been greatly drawn to this odd, efficient woman. Beside thather skillful, untiring nursing had humanly, been the means of saving herfather's life, which alone had warmed her with an earnest gratitude thatwas restless to prove itself, and that welled up in every glance andtone she gave Miss Sampson, there were a certain respect and interestthat could not withhold themselves from one who so evidently worked onwith a great motive that dignified her smallest acts. In whomself-abnegation was the underlying principle of all daily doing. 

Miss Sampson had stayed on at the Gartneys', notwithstanding thedoctor's prediction, and her usual habit. And, in truth, her patient didnot "get well _too_ fast. " She was needed now as really as ever, thoughthe immediate danger which had summoned her was past, and the fever hadgone. The months of overstrained effort and anxiety that had culminatedin its violent attack were telling upon him now, in the scarcely lessperilous prostration that followed. And Mrs. Gartney had quite given outsince the excessive tension of nerve and feeling had relaxed. She wasalmost ill enough to be regularly nursed herself. She alternated betweenher bed in the dressing room and an easy-chair opposite her husband's, at his fireside. Miss Sampson knew when she was really wanted, whetherthe emergency were more or less obvious. She knew the mischief of achange of hands at such a time. And so she stayed on, though she didsleep comfortably of a night, and had many an hour of rest in thedaytime, when Faith would come into the nursery and constitute herselfher companion. 

Miss Sampson was to her like a book to be read, whereof she turned but aleaf or so at a time, as she had accidental opportunity, yet whose everypage rendered up a deep, strong--above all, a most sound and healthymeaning. 

She turned over a leaf, one day, in this wise. 

"Miss Sampson, how came you, at first, to be a sick nurse?"

The shadow of some old struggle seemed to come over Miss Sampson's face, as she answered, briefly:

"I wanted to find the very toughest sort of a job to do. "

Faith looked up, surprised. 

"But I heard you tell my father that you had been nursing more thantwenty years. You must have been quite a young woman when you began. Iwonder--"

"You wonder why I wasn't like most other young women, I suppose. Why Ididn't get married, perhaps, and have folks of my own to take care of?Well, I didn't; and the Lord gave me a pretty plain indication that Hehadn't laid out that kind of a life for me. So then I just looked aroundto find out what better He had for me to do. And I hit on the very workI wanted. A trade that it took all the old Sampson grit to follow. Imade up my mind, as the doctor says, that _somebody_ in the world hadgot to choose drumsticks, and I might as well take hold of one. "

"But don't you ever get tired of it all, and long for something to restor amuse you?"

"Amuse! I couldn't be amused, child. I've been in too much awful earnestever to be much amused again. No, I want to die in the harness. It'shard work I want. I couldn't have been tied down to a common, easy sortof life. I want something to fight and grapple with; and I'm thankfulthere's been a way opened for me to do good according to my nature. If Ihadn't had sickness and death to battle against, I should have got intohuman quarrels, maybe, just for the sake of feeling ferocious. "

"And you always take the very worst and hardest cases, Dr. Gracie says. "

"What's the use of taking a tough job if you don't face the toughestpart of it? I don't want the comfortable end of the business. _Somebody's_ got to nurse smallpox, and yellow fever, andraving-distracted people; and I _know_ the Lord made me fit to do justthat very work. There ain't many that He _does_ make for it, but I'mone. And if I shirked, there'd be a stitch dropped. "

"Yellow fever! where have you nursed that?"

"Do you suppose I didn't go to New Orleans? I've nursed it, and I've_had_ it, and nursed it again. I've been in the cholera hospitals, too. I'm seasoned to most everything. "

"Do you think everybody ought to take the hardest thing they can find, to do?"

"Do you think everybody ought to eat drumsticks? We'd have to kill anunreasonable lot of fowls to let 'em! No. The Lord portions out breastsand wings, as well as legs. If He puts anything into your plate, takeit. "

Dr. Gracie always had a word for the nurse, when he came; and, to do herjustice, it was seldom but she had a word to give him back. 

"Well, Miss Sampson, " said he gayly, one bright morning, "you're asfresh as the day. What pulls down other folks seems to set you up. Ideclare you're as blooming as--twenty-five. "

"You--fib--like--sixty! It's no such thing! And if it was, I'd ought tobe ashamed of it. "

"Prodigious! as your namesake, the Dominie, would say. Don't tell me awoman is ever ashamed of looking young, or handsome!"

"Now, look here, doctor!" said Miss Sampson, "I never was handsome; andI thank the Lord He's given me enough to do in the world to wear off myyoung looks long ago! And any woman ought to be ashamed that gets to bethirty and upward, to say nothing of forty-five, and keeps her baby faceon! It's a sign she ain't been of much account, anyhow. "

"Oh, but there are always differences and exceptions, " persisted thedoctor, who liked nothing better than to draw Miss Sampson out. "Thereare some faces that take till thirty, at least, to bring out all theirpossibilities of good looks, and wear on, then, till fifty. I've seen'em. And the owners were no drones or do-nothings, either. What do yousay to that?"

"I say there's two ways of growing old. And growing old ain't alwaysgrowing ugly. Some folks grow old from the inside, out; and some fromthe outside, in. There's old furniture, and there's growing trees!"

"And the trunk that is roughest below may branch out greenest a-top!"said the doctor. 

The talk Faith heard now and then, in her walks from home, or when someof "the girls" came in and called her down into the parlor--about prettylooks, and becoming dresses, and who danced with who at the "German"last night, and what a scrape Loolie Lloyd had got into with mixing upand misdating her engagements at the class, and the last new roll forthe hair--used to seem rather trivial to her in these days!

Occasionally, when Mr. Gartney had what nurse called a "good" day, hewould begin to ask for some of his books and papers, with a thoughttoward business; and then Miss Sampson would display her carpetbag, andmake a show of picking up things to put in it. "For, " said she, "whenyou get at your business, it'll be high time for me to go about mine. "

"But only for half an hour, nurse! I'll give you that much leave ofabsence, and then we'll have things back again as they were before. "

"I guess you will! And _further_ than they were before. No, Mr. Gartney, you've got to behave. I _won't_ have them vicious-looking accountsabout, and it don't signify. "

"If it don't, why not?" But it ended in the accounts and the carpetbagdisappearing together. 

Until one morning, some three weeks from the beginning of Mr. Gartney'sillness, when, after a few days' letting alone the whole subject, hesuddenly appealed to the doctor. 

"Doctor, " said he, as that gentleman entered, "I must have Braybrook uphere this afternoon. I dropped things just where I stood, you know. It'stime to take an observation. "

The doctor looked at his patient gravely. 

"Can't you be content with simply picking up things, and putting themby, for this year? What I ought to tell you to do would be to sendbusiness to the right about, and go off for an entire rest and change, for three months, at least. "

"You don't know what you're talking about, doctor!"

"Perhaps not, on one side of the subject. I feel pretty certain on theother, however. "

Mr. Gartney did not send for Braybrook that afternoon. The next morning, however, he came, and the tabooed books and papers were got out. 

In another day or two, Miss Sampson _did_ pack her carpetbag, and goback to her air-tight stove and solitary cups of tea. Her occupation inHickory Street was gone. 

CHAPTER XI. 

CROSS CORNERS. 

"O thou that pinest in the imprisonment of the Actual, and criestbitterly to the Gods for a kingdom, wherein to rule and create, know this of a truth, the thing thou seekest is already with thee, 'here or nowhere, ' couldst thou only see!"--CARLYLE. 

"It is of no use to talk about it, " said Mr. Gartney, wearily. "If Ilive--as long as I live--I must do business. How else are you to getalong?"

"How shall we get along if you do _not_ live?" asked his wife, in a low, anxious tone. 

"My life's insured, " was all Mr. Gartney's answer. 

"Father!" cried Faith, distressfully. 

Faith had been taken more and more into counsel and confidence with herparents since the time of the illness that had brought them all so closetogether. And more and more helpful she had grown, both in word anddoing, since she had learned to look daily for the daily work set beforeher, and to perform it conscientiously, even although it consisted onlyof little things. She still remembered with enthusiasm Nurse Sampson andthe "drumsticks, " and managed to pick up now and then one for herself. Meantime she began to see, indistinctly, before her, the vision of awork that must be done by some one, and the duty of it pressed hourlycloser home to herself. Her father's health had never been fullyreëstablished. He had begun to use his strength before and faster thanit came. There was danger--it needed no Dr. Gracie, even, to tell themso--of grave disease, if this went on. And still, whenever urged, hisanswer was the same. "What would become of his family without hisbusiness?"

Faith turned these things over and over in her mind. 

"Father, " said she, after a while--the conversation having been droppedat the old conclusion, and nobody appearing to have anything more tosay--"I don't know anything about business; but I wish you'd tell me howmuch money you've got!"

Her father laughed; a sad sort of laugh though, that was not so muchamusement as tenderness and pity. Then, as if the whole thing were amere joke, yet with a shade upon his face that betrayed there was fartoo much truth under the jest, after all, he took out his portemonnaieand told her to look and see. 

"You know I don't mean that, father! How much in the bank, andeverywhere?"

"Precious little in the bank, now, Faithie. Enough to keep house withfor a year, nearly, perhaps. But if I were to take it and go off andspend it in traveling, you can understand that the housekeeping wouldfall short, can't you?"

Faith looked horrified. She was bringing down her vague ideas of moneythat came from somewhere, through her father's pocket, as water comesfrom Lake Kinsittewink by the turning of a faucet, to the narrow pointof actuality. 

"But that isn't all, I know! I've heard you talk about railroaddividends, and such things. "

"Oh! what does the Western Road pay this time?" asked his wife. 

"I've had to sell out my stock there. "

"And where's the money, father?" asked Faith. 

"Gone to pay debts, child, " was the answer. 

Mrs. Gartney said nothing, but she looked very grave. Her husbandsurmised, perhaps, that she would go on to imagine worse than had reallyhappened, and so added, presently:

"I haven't been obliged to sell _all_ my railroad stocks, wifey. I heldon to some. There's the New York Central all safe; and the MichiganCentral, too. That wouldn't have sold so well, to be sure, just when Iwas wanting the money; but things are looking better, now. "

"Father, " said Faithie, with her most coaxing little smile, "please justtake this bit of paper and pencil, and set down these stocks and things, will you?"

The little smile worked its way; and half in idleness, half inacquiescence, Mr. Gartney took the pencil and noted down a short list ofitems. 

"It's very little, Faith, you see. " They ran thus:

 New York Central Railroad 20 shares. Michigan Central " 15 " Kinnicutt Branch " 10 " Mishaumok Insurance Co. 15 " Merchants Bank 30 "

"And now, father, please put down how much you get a year in dividends. "

"Not always the same, little busybody. "

Nevertheless he noted down the average sums. And the total was betweensix and seven hundred dollars. 

"But that isn't all. You've got other things. Why, there's the house atCross Corners. "

"Yes, but I can't let it, you know. "

"What used you to get for it?"

"Two hundred and fifty. For house and land. "

"And you own this house, too, father?"

"Yes. This is your mother's. "

"How much rent would this bring?"

Mr. Gartney turned around and looked at his daughter. He began to seethere was a meaning in her questions. And as he caught her eye, he read, or discerned without fully reading, a certain eager kindling there. 

"Why, what has come over you, Faithie, to set you catechising so?"

Faith laughed. 

"Just answer this, please, and I won't ask a single question moreto-night. "

"About the rent? Why, this house ought to bring six hundred, certainly. And now, if the court will permit, I'll read the news. "

About a week after this, in the latter half of one of those spring daysthat come with a warm breath to tell that summer is glowing somewhere, and that her face is northward, Aunt Faith Henderson came out upon thelow, vine-latticed stoop of her house in Kinnicutt. 

Up the little footpath from the road--across the bit of greensward thatlay between it and the stoop--came a quick, noiseless step, and therewas a touch, presently, on the old lady's arm. 

Faith Gartney stood beside her, in trim straw bonnet and shawl, with ablack leather bag upon her arm. 

"Auntie! I've come to make you a tiny little visit! Till day afterto-morrow. "

"Faith Gartney! However came you here? And in such a fashion, too, without a word of warning, like--an angel from Heaven!"

"I came up in the cars, auntie! I felt just like it! Will you keep me?"

"Glory! Glory McWhirk!" Like the good Vicar of Wakefield, Aunt Hendersonliked often to give the whole name; and calling, she disappeared roundthe corner of the stoop, without ever a word of more assured welcome. 

"Put on the teapot again, and make a slice of toast. " The good lady'svoice, going on with further directions, was lost in the intricatethreading of the inner maze of the singular old dwelling, and Faithfollowed her as far as the first apartment, where she set down her bagand removed her bonnet. 

It was a quaint, dim room, overbrowed and gloomed by the roofedprojection of the stoop; low-ceiled, high-wainscoted and paneled. All inoak, of the natural color, deepened and glossed by time and wear. Theheavy beams that supported the floor above were undisguised, and leftthe ceiling in panels also, as it were, between. In these highestplaces, a man six feet tall could hardly have stood without bending. Hecertainly would not, whether he could or no. Even Aunt Faith, with herfive feet, six-and-a-half, dropped a little of her dignity, habitually, when she entered. But then, as she said, "A hen always bobs her headwhen she comes in at a barn door. " Between the windows stood an old, old-fashioned secretary, that filled up from floor to ceiling; and overthe fireplace a mirror of equally antique date tilted forward from thewall. Opposite the secretary, a plain mahogany table; and eighthigh-backed, claw-footed chairs ranged stiffly around the room. 

Aunt Henderson was proud of her old ways, her old furniture, and herhouse, that was older than all. 

Some far back ancestor and early settler had built it--the beginning ofit--before Kinnicutt had even become a town; and--rare exception to thechanges elsewhere--generation after generation of the same name and linehad inhabited it until now. Aunt Faith, exultingly, told each curiousvisitor that it had been built precisely two hundred and ten years. Outin the back kitchen, or lean-to, was hung to a rafter the identical gunwith which the "old settler" had ranged the forest that stretched thenfrom the very door; and higher up, across a frame contrived for it, wasthe "wooden saddle" fabricated for the back of the placid, slow-movingox, in the time when horses were as yet rare in the new country, andused with pillions, to transport I can't definitely say how many of thefamily to "meeting. "

Between these--the best room and the out-kitchen--the labyrinth ofsitting room, bedrooms, kitchen proper, milk room, and pantry, partitioned off, or added on, many of them since the primary date of themain structure, would defy the pencil of modern architect. 

In one of these irregularly clustered apartments that opened out ondifferent aspects, unexpectedly, from their conglomerate center, Faithsat, some fifteen minutes after her entrance into the house, at a littleround table between two corner windows that looked northwest andsouthwest, and together took in the full radiance of the evening sky. 

Opposite sat her aunt, taking care of her as regarded tea, toast, andplain country loaf cake, and watching somewhat curiously, also, herface. 

Faith's face had changed a little since Aunt Henderson had seen herlast. It was not the careless girl's face she had known. There was athought in it now. A thought that seemed to go quite out from, andforget the self from which it came. 

Aunt Henderson wondered greatly what sudden whim or inward purpose hadbrought her grandniece hither. 

When Faith absolutely declined any more tea or cake, Miss Henderson'stap on the table leaf brought in Glory McWhirk. 

A tall, well-grown girl of eighteen was Glory, now--quite another Glorythan had lightened, long ago, the dull little house in Budd Street, andfilled it with her bright, untutored dreams. The luminous tresses hadhad their way since then; that is, with certain comfortable boundsprescribed; and rippled themselves backward from a clear, contentedface, into the net that held them tidily. 

Faith looked up, and remembered the poor office girl of three yearssince, half clad and hopeless, with a secret amaze at what "Aunt Faithhad made of her. "

"You may give me some water, Glory, " said Miss Henderson. 

Glory brought the pitcher, and poured into the tumbler, and gazed atFaith's pretty face, and the dark-brown glossy rolls that framed it, until the water fairly ran over the table. 

"There! there! Why, Glory, what are you thinking of?" cried MissHenderson. 

Glory was thinking her old thoughts--wakened always by all that wasbeautiful and _beyond_. 

She came suddenly to herself, however, and darted off, with her face asbright a crimson as her hair was golden; flashing up so, as she did mosteasily, into as veritable a Glory as ever was. Never had baby been moreaptly or prophetically named. 

Coming back, towel in hand, to stop the freshet she had set flowing, shedared not give another glance across the table; but went busily anddeftly to work, clearing it of all that should be cleared, that shemight make her shy way off again before she should be betrayed intoother unwonted blundering. 

"And now, Faith Gartney, tell me all about it! What sent you here?"

"Nothing. Nobody. I came, aunt. I wanted to see the place, and you. "

The rough eyebrows were bent keenly across the table. 

"Hum!" breathed Aunt Henderson. 

There was small interior sympathy between her ideas and those thatgoverned the usual course of affairs in Hickory Street. Fond of hernephew and his family, after her fashion, notwithstanding Faith's oldrebellion, and all other differences, she certainly was; but they wenttheir way, and she hers. She felt pretty sure theirs would sooner orlater come to a turning; and when that should happen, whether she shouldmeet them round the corner, or not, would depend. Her path would need tobend a little, and theirs to make a pretty sharp angle, first. 

But here was Faith cutting across lots to come to her! Aunt Hendersonput away her loaf cake in the cupboard, set back her chair against thewall in its invariable position of disuse, and departed to the milk roomand kitchen for her evening duty and oversight. 

Glory's hands were busy in the bread bowl, and her brain kneading itssecret thoughts that no one knew or intermeddled with. 

Faith sat at the open window of the little tea room, and watched theyoung moon's golden horn go down behind the earth rim among the purple, like a flamy flower bud floating over, and so lost. 

And the three lives gathered in to themselves, separately, whatsoeverthe hour brought to each. 

At nine o'clock Aunt Faith came in, took down the great leather-boundBible from the corner shelf, and laid it on the table. Glory appeared, and seated herself beside the door. 

For a few moments, the three lives met in the One Great Life thatoverarches and includes humanity. Miss Henderson read from the sixthchapter of St. John. 

They were fed with the five thousand. 

CHAPTER XII. 

A RECONNOISSANCE. 

"Then said his Lordship, 'Well God mend all!' 'Nay, Donald, we musthelp him to mend it, ' said the other. "--Quoted by CARLYLE. 

"Oh, leave these jargons, and go your way straight to God's work insimplicity and singleness of heart!"--MISS NIGHTINGALE. 

"Auntie, " said Faith, next morning, when, after some exploring, she haddiscovered Miss Henderson in a little room, the very counterpart of theone she had had her tea in the night before, only that this opened tothe southeast, and hailed the morning sun. "Auntie, will you go overwith me to the Cross Corners house, after breakfast? It's empty, isn'tit?"

"Yes, it's empty. But it's no great show of a house. What do you want tosee it for?"

"Why, it used to be so pretty, there. I'd like just to go into it. Haveyou heard of anybody's wanting it yet?"

"No; and I guess nobody's likely to, for one while. Folks don't makemany changes, out here. "

"What a bright little breakfast room this is, auntie! And how grand youare to have a room for every meal!"

"It ain't for the grandeur of it. But I always did like to follow thesun round. For the most part of the year, at any rate. And this is justas near the kitchen as the other. Besides, I kind of hate to shut up anyof the rooms, altogether. They were all wanted, once; and now I'm allalone in 'em. "

For Miss Henderson, this was a great opening of the heart. But shedidn't go on to say that the little west room had been her youngbrother's, who long ago, when he was just ready for his Master's work inthis world, had been called up higher; and that her evening rest wassweeter, and her evening reading holier for being holden there; or thathere, in the sunny morning hours, her life seemed almost to roll backits load of many years, and to set her down beside her mother's knee, and beneath her mother's gentle tutelage, once more; that on the little"light stand" in the corner by the fireplace stood the selfsame basketthat had been her mother's then--just where she had kept it, too, whenit was running over with little frocks and stockings that were alwayswaiting finishing or mending--and now held only the plain gray knittingwork and the bit of sewing that Aunt Faith might have in hand. 

A small, square table stood now in the middle of the floor, with a freshbrown linen breakfast cloth upon it; and Glory, neat and fresh, also, with her brown spotted calico dress and apron of the same, came insmiling like a very goddess of peace and plenty, with the steamingcoffeepot in one hand, and the plate of fine, white rolls in the other. The yellow print of butter and some rounds from a brown loaf werealready on the table. Glory brought in, presently, the last addition tothe meal--six eggs, laid yesterday, the water of their boiling justdried off, and modestly took her own seat at the lower end of the board. 

Aunt Faith, living alone, kept to the kindly old country fashion ofadmitting her handmaid to the table with herself. "Why not?" she wouldsay. "In the first place, why should we keep the table about, half anhour longer than we need? And I suppose hot cakes and coffee are as muchnicer than cold, for one body as another. Then where's the sense? Wetake Bible meat together. Must we be more dainty about 'meat thatperisheth'?" So her argument climbed up from its lower reason to itsclimax. 

Glory had little of the Irish now about her but her name. And all thatshe retained visibly of the Roman faith she had been born to, was herlittle rosary of colored shells, strung as beads, that had been blessedby the Pope. 

Miss Henderson had trained and fed her in her own ways, and with suchfood as she partook herself, physically and spiritually. Glory sat, every Sunday, in the corner pew of the village church, by her mistress'sside. And this church-going being nearly all that she had ever had, shetook in the nutriment that was given her, to a soul that recognized it, and never troubled itself with questions as to one truth differing fromanother, or no. Indeed, no single form or theory could have containedthe "credo" of her simple, yet complex, thought. The old Catholicreverence clung about her still, that had come with her all the way fromher infancy, when her mother and grandmother had taught her the prayersof their Church; and across the long interval of ignorance and neglectflung a sort of cathedral light over what she felt was holy now. 

Rescued from her dim and servile city life--brought out into the lightand beauty she had mutely longed for--feeling care and kindliness abouther for the long-time harshness and oppression she had borne--she waslike a spirit newly entered into heaven, that needs no priestlyministration any more. Every breath drew in a life and teaching purerthan human words. 

And then the words she _did_ hear were Divine. Miss Henderson did nopreaching--scarcely any lip teaching, however brief. She broke the breadof life God gave her, as she cut her daily loaf and shared it--lettingeach soul, God helping, digest it for itself. 

Glory got hold of some old theology, too, that she could butfragmentarily understand but that mingled itself--as all we gather doesmingle, not uselessly--with her growth. She found old books among MissHenderson's stores, that she read and mused on. She trembled at thewarnings, and reposed in the holy comforts of Doddridge's "Rise andProgress, " and Baxter's "Saint's Rest. " She traveled to the Holy City, above all, with Bunyan's Pilgrim. And then, Sunday after Sunday, sheheard the simple Christian preaching of an old and simple Christian man. Not terrible--but earnest; not mystical--but high; not lax--but liberal;and this fused and tempered all. 

So "things had happened" for Glory. So God had cared for this, Hischild. So, according to His own Will--not any human plan or forcing--she grew. 

Aunt Faith washed up the breakfast cups, dusted and "set to rights" inthe rooms where, to the young Faith's eyes, there seemed such orderalready as could not be righted, made up a nice little pudding fordinner, and then, taking down her shawl and silk hood, and putting onher overshoes, announced herself ready for Cross Corners. 

"Though it's all cross corners to me, child, sure enough. I suppose it'snone of my business, but I can't think what you're up to. "

"Not up to any great height, yet, auntie. But I'm growing, " said Faith, merrily, and with meaning somewhat beyond the letter. 

They went out at the back door, which opened on a little footpath downthe sudden green slope behind, and stretched across the field, diagonally, to a bar place and stile at the opposite corner. Here theroads from five different directions met and crossed, which gave thelocality its name. 

Opposite the stile at which they came out, across the shady lane thatwound down from the Old Road whereon Miss Henderson's mansion faced, agateway in a white paling that ran round and fenced in a grassy dooryard, overhung with pendent branches of elms and stouter canopy ofchestnuts, let them in upon the little "Cross Corners Farm. "

"Oh, Aunt Faith! It's just as lovely as ever! I remember that path upthe hill, among the trees, so well! When I was a little bit of a girl, and nurse and I came out to stay with you. I had my 'fairy house' there. I'd like to go over this minute, only that we shan't have time. Howshall we get in? Where is the key?"

"It's in my pocket. But it mystifies me, what you want there. "

"I want to look out of all the windows, auntie, to begin with. "

Aunt Faith's mystification was not lessened. 

The front door opened on a small, square hall, with doors to right andleft. The room on the left, spite of the bare floor and firelesshearth, was warm with the spring sunshine that came pouring in at thesouth windows. Beyond this, embracing the corner of the houserectangularly, projected an equally sunny and cheery kitchen; at theright of which, communicating with both apartments, was divided off atiny tea and breakfast room. So Faith decided, though it had very likelybeen a bedroom. 

From the entrance hall at the right opened a room larger than either ofthe others--so large that the floor above afforded two bedrooms overit--and having, besides its windows south and east, a door in thefarther corner beyond the chimney, that gave out directly upon thegrassy slope, and looked up the path among the trees that crossed theridge. 

Faith drew the bolt and opened it, expecting to find a closet or apassage somewhither. She fairly started back with surprise and delight. And then seated herself plump upon the threshold, and went into amidsummer dream. 

"Oh, auntie!" she cried, at her waking, presently, "was ever anything soperfect? To think of being let out so! Right from a regular, properparlor, into the woods!"

"Do you mean to go upstairs?" inquired Miss Henderson, with a vagueamaze in her look that seemed to question whether her niece had notpossibly been "let out" from her "regular and proper" wits!

Whereupon Faith scrambled up from her seat upon the sill, and hurriedoff to investigate above. 

Miss Henderson closed the door, pushed the bolt, and followed quietlyafter. 

It was a funny little pantomime that Faith enacted then, for the furtherbewilderment of the staid old lady. 

Darting from one chamber to another, with an inexplicable look ofbusiness and consideration in her face, that contrasted comically withher quick movements and her general air of glee, she would take herstand in the middle of each one in turn, and wheeling round to get aswift panoramic view of outlook and capabilities, would end by asuccession of mysterious and apparently satisfied little nods, as if ateach pause some point of plan or arrangement had settled itself in hermind. 

"Aunt Faith!" cried she, suddenly, as she came out upon the landing whenshe had peeped into the last corner, and found Miss Henderson on thepoint of making her descent--"what sort of a thing do you think it wouldbe for us to come here and live?"

Aunt Faith sat down now as suddenly, in her turn, on the stairhead. Recovering, so, from her momentary and utter astonishment, and takingin, during that instant of repose, the full drift of the questionpropounded, she rose from her involuntarily assumed position, andcontinued her way down--answering, without so much as turning her head, "It would be just the most sensible thing that Henderson Gartney everdid in his life!"

What made Faithie a bit sober, all at once, when the key was turned, andthey passed on, out under the elms, into the lane again?

Did you ever project a very wise and important scheme, that involves alittle self-sacrifice, which, by a determined looking at the bright sideof the subject, you had managed tolerably to ignore; and then, by theinstant and unhesitating acquiescence of some one to whose judgment yousubmitted it, find yourself suddenly wheeled about in your own mind tothe standpoint whence you discerned only the difficulty again?

"There's one thing, Aunt Faith, " said she, as they slowly walked up thefield path; "I couldn't go to school any more. "

Faith had discontinued her regular attendance since the recommencementfor the year, but had gone in for a few hours on "French and Germandays. "

"There's another thing, " said Aunt Faith. "I don't believe your fathercan afford to send you any more. You're eighteen, ain't you?"

"I shall be, this summer. "

"Time for you to leave off school. Bring your books and things alongwith you. You'll have chance enough to study. "

Faith hadn't thought much of herself before. But when she found her auntdidn't apparently think of her at all, she began to realize keenly allthat she must silently give up. 

"But it's a good deal of help, auntie, to study with other people. Andthen--we shouldn't have any society out here. I don't mean for the sakeof parties, and going about. But for the improvement of it. I shouldn'tlike to be shut out from cultivated people. "

"Faith Gartney!" exclaimed Miss Henderson, facing about in the narrowfootway, "don't you go to being fine and transcendental! If there's oneword I despise more than another, in the way folks use it nowadays--it's'Culture'! As if God didn't know how to make souls grow! You just takeroot where He puts you, and go to work, and live! He'll take care of thecultivating! If He means you to turn out a rose, or an oak tree, you'llcome to it. And pig-weed's pig-weed, no matter where it starts up!"

"Aunt Faith!" replied the child, humbly and earnestly, "I believe that'strue! And I believe I want the country to grow in! But the thing willbe, " she added, a little doubtfully, "to persuade father. "

"Doesn't he want to come, then? Whose plan is it, pray?" asked MissHenderson, stopping short again, just as she had resumed her walk, in afresh surprise. 

"Nobody's but mine, yet, auntie! I haven't asked him, but I thought I'dcome and look. "

Miss Henderson took her by the arm, and looked steadfastly in her dark, earnest eyes. 

"You're something, sure enough!" said she, with a sharp tenderness. 

Faith didn't know precisely what she meant, except that she seemed tomean approval. And at the one word of appreciation, all difficulty andself-sacrifice vanished out of her sight, and everything brightened toher thought, again, till her thought brightened out into a smile. 

"What a skyful of lovely white clouds!" she said, looking up to thepure, fleecy folds that were flittering over the blue. "We can't seethat in Mishaumok!"

"She's just heavenly!" said Glory to herself, standing at the back door, and gazing with a rapturous admiration at Faith's upturned face. "Andthe dinner's all ready, and I'm thankful, and more, that the custard'sbaked so beautiful!"

CHAPTER XIII. 

DEVELOPMENT. 

"Sits the wind in that corner?" MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 

"For courage mounteth with occasion. " KING JOHN. 

The lassitude that comes with spring had told upon Mr. Gartney. He haddyspepsia, too; and now and then came home early from the counting roomwith a headache that sent him to his bed. Dr. Gracie dropped in, friendly-wise, of an evening--said little that was strictlyprofessional--but held his hand a second longer, perhaps, than he wouldhave done for a mere greeting, and looked rather scrutinizingly at himwhen Mr. Gartney's eyes were turned another way. Frequently he made someslight suggestion of a journey, or other summer change. 

"You must urge it, if you can, Mrs. Gartney, " he said, privately, to thewife. "I don't quite like his looks. Get him away from business, at_almost any_ sacrifice, " he came to add, at last. 

"At _every_ sacrifice?" asked Mrs. Gartney, anxious and perplexed. "Business is nearly all, you know. "

"Life is more--reason is more, " answered the doctor, gravely. 

And the wife went about her daily task with a secret heaviness at herheart. 

"Father, " said Faith, one evening, after she had read to him the paperwhile he lay resting upon the sofa, "if you had money enough to live on, how long would it take you to wind up your business?"

"It's pretty nearly wound up now! But what's the use of asking such aquestion?"

"Because, " said Faith, timidly, "I've got a little plan in my head, ifyou'll only listen to it. "

"Well, Faithie, I'll listen. What is it?"

And then Faith spoke it all out, at once. 

"That you should give up all your business, father, and let this house, and go to Cross Corners, and live at the farm. "

Mr. Gartney started to his elbow. But a sudden pain that leaped in histemples sent him back again. For a minute or so, he did not speak atall. Then he said:

"Do you know what you are talking of, daughter?"

"Yes, father; I've been thinking it over a good while--since the nightwe wrote down these things. "

And she drew from her pocket the memorandum of stocks and dividends. 

"You see you have six hundred and fifty dollars a year from these, andthis house would be six hundred more, and mother says she can manage onthat, in the country, if I will help her. "

Mr. Gartney shaded his eyes with his hand. Not wholly, perhaps, toshield them from the light. 

"You're a good girl, Faithie, " said he, presently; and there wasassuredly a little tremble in his voice. 

"And so, you and your mother have talked it over, together?"

"Yes; often, lately. And she said I had better ask you myself, if Iwished it. She is perfectly willing. She thinks it would be good. "

"Faithie, " said her father, "you make me feel, more than ever, how muchI _ought_ to do for you!"

"You ought to get well and strong, father--that is all!" replied Faith, with a quiver in her own voice. 

Mr. Gartney sighed. 

"I'm no more than a mere useless block of wood!"

"We shall just have to set you up, and make an idol of you, then!" criedFaith, cheerily, with tears on her eyelashes, that she winked off. 

There had been a ring at the bell while they were speaking; and now Mrs. Gartney entered, followed by Dr. Gracie. 

"Well, Miss Faith, " said the doctor, after the usual greetings, and aprolonged look at Mr. Gartney's flushed face, "what have you done toyour father?"

"I've been reading the paper, " answered Faith, quietly, "and talking alittle. "

"Mother!" said Mr. Gartney, catching his wife's hand, as she came roundto find a seat near him, "are you really in the plot, too?"

"I'm glad there is a plot, " said the doctor, quickly, glancing roundwith a keen inquiry. "It's time!"

"Wait till you hear it, " said Mr. Gartney. "Are you in a hurry to loseyour patient?"

"Depends upon _how_!" replied the doctor, touching the truth in a jest. 

"This is how. Here's a little jade who has the conceit and audacity topropose to me to wind up my business (as if she understood the wholeprocess!), and let my house, and go to my farm at Cross Corners. What doyou think of that?"

"I think it would be the most sensible thing you ever did in your life!"

"Just exactly what Aunt Henderson said!" cried Faith, exultant. 

"Aunt Faith, too! The conspiracy thickens! How long has all this beendiscussing?" continued Mr. Gartney, fairly roused, and springing, despite the doctor's request, to a sitting position, throwing off, as hedid so, the afghan Faith had laid over his feet. 

"There hasn't been much discussion, " said Faith. "Only when I went outto Kinnicutt I got auntie to show me the house; and I asked her how shethought it would be if we were to do such a thing, and she said justwhat Dr. Gracie has said now. And, father, you _don't_ know howbeautiful it is there!"

"So you really want to go? and it isn't drumsticks?" queried the doctor, turning round to Faith. 

"Some drumsticks are very nice, " said Faith. 

"Gartney!" said Dr. Gracie, "you'd better mind what this girl of yourssays. She's worth attending to. "

The wedge had been entered, and Faith's hand had driven it. 

The plan was taken into consideration. Of course, such a change couldnot be made without some pondering; but when almost the continualthought of a family is concentrated upon a single subject, a good dealof pondering and deciding can be done in three weeks. At the end of thattime an advertisement appeared in the leading Mishaumok papers, offeringthe house in Hickory Street to be let; and Mrs. Gartney and Faith werebusy packing boxes to go to Kinnicutt. 

Only a passing shade had been flung on the project which seemed tobrighten into sunshine, otherwise, the more they looked at it, when Mrs. Gartney suddenly said, after a long "talking over, " the second eveningafter the proposal had been first broached:

"But what will Saidie say?"

Now Saidie--whom before it has been unnecessary to mention--was Faith'selder sister, traveling at this moment in Europe, with a wealthy eldersister of Mrs. Gartney. 

"I never thought of Saidie, " cried Faith. 

Saidie was pretty sure not to like Kinnicutt. A young lady, educated ata fashionable New York school--petted by an aunt who found nobody elseto pet, and who had money enough to have petted a whole asylum oforphans--who had shone in London and Paris for two seasons past--was notexceedingly likely to discover all the possible delights that Faith haddone, under the elms and chestnuts at Cross Corners. 

But this could make no practical difference. 

"She wouldn't like Hickory Street any better, " said Faith, "if wecouldn't have parties or new furniture any more. And she's only avisitor, at the best. Aunt Etherege will be sure to have her in NewYork, or traveling about, ten months out of twelve. She can come to usin June and October. I guess she'll like strawberries and cream, and--whatever comes at the other season, besides red leaves. "

Now this was kind, sisterly consideration of Faith, however little so itseems, set down. It was very certain that no more acceptable provisioncould be made for Saidie Gartney in the family plan, than to leave herout, except where the strawberries and cream were concerned. In return, she wrote gay, entertaining letters home to her mother and young sister, and sent pretty French, or Florentine, or Roman ornaments for them towear. Some persons are content to go through life with such exchange ofsympathies as this. 

By and by, Faith being in her own room, took out from her letter box thelast missive from abroad. There was something in this which vexed Faith, and yet stirred her a little, obscurely. 

All things are fair in love, war, and--story books! So, though she wouldnever have shown the words to you or me, we will peep over her shoulder, and share them, "_en rapport_. "

"And Paul Rushleigh, it seems, is as much as ever in Hickory Street!Well--my little Faithie might make a far worse '_parti_' than that! Tellpapa I think he may be satisfied there!"

Faith would have cut off her little finger, rather than have had herfather dream that such a thing had been put into her head! Butunfortunately it was there, now, and could not be helped. She couldonly--sitting there in her chamber window with the blood tingling to thehair upon her temples, as if from every neighboring window of theclustering houses about her, eyes could overlook and read what she wasreading now--"wish that Saidie would not write such things as that!"

For all that, it was one pleasant thing Faith would have to lose inleaving Mishaumok. It was very agreeable to have him dropping in, withhis gay college gossip; and to dance the "German" with the nicestpartner in the Monday class; and to carry the flowers he so often senther. Had she done things greater than she knew in shutting her eyesresolutely to all her city associations and enjoyments, and urging, forher father's sake, this exodus in the desert?

Only that means were actually wanting to continue on as they were, andthat health must at any rate be first striven for as a condition to thefuture enlargement of means, her father and mother, in their thought forwhat their child hardly considered for herself, would surely have beenmore difficult to persuade. They hoped that a summer's rest might enableMr. Gartney to undertake again some sort of lucrative business, afterbusiness should have revived from its present prostration; and that ayear or two, perhaps, of economizing in the country, might make itpossible for them to return, if they chose, to the house in HickoryStreet. 

There were leave takings to be gone through--questions to be answered, and reasons to be given; for Mrs. Gartney, the polite wishes of hervisiting friends that "Mr. Gartney's health might allow them to returnto the city in the winter, " with the wonder, unexpressed, whether thiswere to be a final breakdown of the family, or not; and for Faith, thehorror and extravagant lamentations of her young _coterie_, at hercoming occultation--or setting, rather, out of their sky. 

Paul Rushleigh demanded eagerly if there weren't any sober old ministerout there, with whom he might be rusticated for his next college prank. 

Everybody promised to come as far as Kinnicutt "some time" to see them;the good-bys were all said at last; the city cook had departed, and awoman had been taken in her place who "had no objections to the country";and on one of the last bright days of May they skimmed, steam-sped, overthe intervening country between the brick-and-stone-encrusted hills ofMishaumok and the fair meadow reaches of Kinnicutt; and so disappearedout of the places that had known them so long, and could yet, alas! doso exceedingly well without them. 

By the first of June nobody in the great city remembered, or rememberedvery seriously to regard, the little gap that had been made in itsmidst. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

A DRIVE WITH THE DOCTOR. 

"And what is so rare as a day in June?Then, if ever, come perfect days;Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays. " LOWELL. 

"All lives have their prose translation as well as their idealmeaning. "--CHARLES AUCHESTER. 

But Kinnicutt opened wider to receive them than Mishaumok had to letthem go. 

If Mr. Gartney's invalidism had to be pleaded to get away with dignity, it was even more needed to shield with anything of quietness theirentrance into the new sphere they had chosen. 

Faith, with her young adaptability, found great fund of entertainment inthe new social developments that unfolded themselves at Cross Corners. 

All sorts of quaint vehicles drove up under the elms in the afternoonvisiting hours, day after day--hitched horses, and unladed passengers. Both doctors and their wives came promptly, of course; the "old doctor"from the village, and the "young doctor" from "over at Lakeside. " QuietMrs. Holland walked in at the twilight, by herself, one day, to explainthat her husband, the minister, was too unwell to visit, and to say herpleasant, unpretentious words of welcome. Squire Leatherbee's daughtersmade themselves fine in lilac silks and green Estella shawls, to offeracquaintance to the new "city people. " Aunt Faith came over, once ortwice a week, at times when "nobody else would be round under foot, " andalways with some dainty offering from dairy, garden, or kitchen. Atother hours, Glory was fain to seize all opportunity of errands thatMiss Henderson could not do, and irradiate the kitchen, lingeringly, until she herself might be more ecstatically irradiated with a glanceand smile from Miss Faith. 

There was need enough of Aunt Faith's ministrations during these first, few, unsettled weeks. The young woman who "had no objections to thecountry, " objected no more to these pleasant country fashions ofneighborly kindness. She had reason. Aunt Faith's "thirds bread, " orcrisp "vanity cakes, " or "velvet creams, " were no sooner disposed ofthan there surely came a starvation interval of sour biscuits, heavygingerbread, and tough pie crust, and dinners feebly cooked, with noattempt at desserts, at all. 

This was gloomy. This was the first trial of their country life. Plainly, this cook was no cook. Mr. Gartney's dyspepsia must beconsidered. Kinnicutt air and June sunshine would not do all thecurative work. The healthy appetite they stimulated must be wholesomelysupplied. 

Faith took to the kitchen. To Glory's mute and rapturous delight, shebegan to come almost daily up the field path, in her pretty round hatand morning wrapper, to waylay her aunt in the tidy kitchen at the earlyhour when her cookery was sure to be going on, to ask questions andinvestigate, and "help a little, " and then to go home and repeat theoperation as nearly as she could for their somewhat later dinner. 

"Miss McGonegal seems to be improving, " observed Mr. Gartney, complacently, one day, as he partook of a simple, but favorite pudding, nicely flavored and compounded; "or is this a charity of AuntHenderson's?"

"No, " replied his wife, "it is home manufacture, " and she glanced atFaith without dropping her tone to a period. Faith shook her head, andthe sentence hung in the air, unfinished. 

Mrs. Gartney had not been strong for years. Moreover, she had not agenius for cooking. That is a real gift, as much as a genius for poetryor painting. Faith was finding out, suddenly, that she had it. But shewas quite willing that her father should rest in the satisfactory beliefthat Miss McGonegal, in whom it never, by any possibility, could bedeveloped, was improving; and that the good things that found their wayto his table had a paid and permanent origin. He was more comfortableso, she thought. Meanwhile, they would inquire if the region round aboutKinnicutt might be expected to afford a substitute. 

Dr. Wasgatt's wife told Mrs. Gartney of a young American woman who wasstaying in the "factory village" beyond Lakeside, and who had asked herhusband if he knew of any place where she could "hire out. " Dr. Wasgattwould be very glad to take her or Miss Faith over there, of a morning, to see if she would answer. 

Faith was very glad to go. 

Dr. Wasgatt was the "old doctor. " A benign man, as old doctors--whenthey don't grow contrariwise, and become unspeakably gruff andcrusty--are apt to be. A benign old doctor, a docile old horse, anold-fashioned two-wheeled chaise that springs to the motion like a boughat a bird flitting, and an indescribable June morning wherein to drivefour miles and back--well! Faith couldn't help exulting in her heartthat they wanted a cook. 

The way was very lovely toward Lakeside, and across to factory village. It crossed the capricious windings of Wachaug two or three times withinthe distance, and then bore round the Pond Road, which kept its oldtraditional cognomen, though the new neighborhood that had grown up atits farther bend had got a modern name, and the beautiful pond itselfhad come to be known with a legitimate dignity as Lake Wachaug. 

Graceful birches, with a spring, and a joyous, whispered secret in everyglossy leaf, leaned over the road toward the water; and close down toits ripples grew wild shrubs and flowers, and lush grass, and ladybracken, while out over the still depths rested green lily pads, likefloating thrones waiting the fair water queens who, a few weeks hence, should rise to claim them. Back, behind the birches, reached the fringeof woodland that melted away, presently, in the sunny pastures, and heldin bush and branch hundreds of little mother birds, brooding in a stillrapture, like separate embodied pulses of the Universal Love, over acoming life and joy. 

Life and joy were everywhere. Faith's heart danced and glowed withinher. She had thought, many a time before, that she was getting somewhatof the joy of the country, when, after dinner and business were over, she had come out from Mishaumok, in proper fashionable toilet, with herfather and mother, for an afternoon airing in the city environs. Buthere, in the old doctor's "one-hoss shay, " and with her round straw hatand chintz wrapper on, she was finding out what a rapturously differentthing it is to go out into the bountiful morning, and identify oneselftherewith. 

She had almost forgotten that she had any other errand when they turnedaway from the lake, and took a little side road that wound off from it, and struck the river again, and brought them at last to the WachaugMills and the little factory settlement around them. 

"This is Mrs. Pranker's, " said the doctor, stopping at the third door ina block of factory houses, "and it's a sister-in-law of hers who wantsto 'hire out. ' I've a patient in the next row, and if you like, I'llleave you here a few minutes. "

Faith's foot was instantly on the chaise step, and she sprang to theground with only an acknowledging touch of the good doctor's hand, upheld to aid her. 

A white-haired boy of three, making gravel puddings in a scalloped tindish at the door, scrambled up as she approached, upset his pudding, andsidled up the steps in a scared fashion, with a finger in his mouth, andhis round gray eyes sending apprehensive peeps at her through the lintylocks. 

"Well, tow-head!" ejaculated an energetic female voice within, to anaccompaniment of swashing water, and a scrape of a bucket along thefloor; "what's wanting now? Can't you stay put, nohow?"

An unintelligible jargon of baby chatter followed, which seemed, however, to have conveyed an idea to the mother's mind, for sheappeared immediately in the passage, drying her wet arms upon her apron. 

"Mrs. Pranker?" asked Faith. 

"That's my name, " replied the woman, as who should say, peremptorily, "what then?"

"I was told--my mother heard--that a sister of yours was looking for aplace. "

"She hain't done much about _lookin'_, " was the reply, "but she wassayin' she didn't know but what she'd hire out for a spell, if anybodywanted her. She's in the keepin' room. You can come in and speak to her, if you're a mind to. The kitchen floor's wet. I'm jest a-washin' of it. You little sperrit!" This to the child, who was amusing himself with thefloor cloth which he had fished out of the bucket, and held up, dripping, letting a stream of dirty water run down the front of his redcalico frock. "If children ain't the biggest torments! Talk about Job!His wife had to have more patience than he did, I'll be bound! Andpatience ain't any use, either! The more you have, the more you're tookadvantage of! I declare and testify, it makes me as cross as sin, jestto think how good-natured I be!" And with this, she snatched the clothfrom the boy's hands, shook first him and then his frock, to get rid, inso far as a shake might accomplish it, of original depravity and sandysoapsuds, and carried him, vociferant, to the door, where she set himdown to the consolation of gravel pudding again. 

Meanwhile Faith crossed the sloppy kitchen, on tiptoe, toward an opendoor, that revealed a room within. 

Here a very fat young woman, with a rather pleasant face, was seated, sewing, in a rocking-chair. 

She did not rise, or move, at Faith's entrance, otherwise than to lookup, composedly, and let fall her arms along those of the chair, retaining the needle in one hand and her work in the other. 

"I came to see, " said Faith--obliged to say something to explain herpresence, but secretly appalled at the magnitude of the subject she hadto deal with--"if you wanted a place in a family. "

"Take a seat, " said the young woman. 

Faith availed herself of one, and, doubtful what to say next, waited forindications from the other party. 

"Well--I _was_ calc'latin' to hire out this summer, but I ain't verypartic'ler about it, neither. "

"Can you cook?"

"Most kinds. I can't do much fancy cookin'. Guess I can make bread--allsorts--and roast, and bile, and see to common fixin's, though, as wellas the next one!"

"We like plain country cooking, " said Faith, thinking of AuntHenderson's delicious, though simple, preparations. "And I suppose youcan make new things if you have direction. "

"Well--I'm pretty good at workin' out a resate, too. But then, I ain'tanyways partic'ler 'bout hirin' out, as I said afore. "

Faith judged rightly that this was a salvo put in for pride. The Yankeegirl would not appear anxious for a servile situation. All the while theconversation went on, she sat tilting herself gently back and forth inthe rocking-chair, with a lazy touching of her toes to the floor. Hervery _vis inertiĉ_ would not let her stop. 

Faith's only question, now, was with herself--how she should get awayagain. She had no idea that this huge, indolent creature would be at allsuitable as their servant. And then, her utter want of manners!

"I'll tell my mother what you say, " said she, rising. 

"What's your mother's name, and where d'ye live?"

"We live at Kinnicutt Cross Corners. My mother is Mrs. HendersonGartney. "

"'M!"

Faith turned toward the kitchen. 

"Look here!" called the stout young woman after her; "you may jest sayif she wants me she can send for me. I don't mind if I try it a spell. "

"I didn't ask _your_ name, " remarked Faith. 

"Oh! my name's Mis' Battis!"

Faith escaped over the wet floor, sprang past the white-haired child atthe doorstep, and was just in time to be put into the chaise by Dr. Wasgatt, who drove up as she came out. She did not dare trust her voiceto speak within hearing of the house; but when they had come round themills again, into the secluded river road, she startled its quietnessand the doctor's composure, with a laugh that rang out clear andoverflowing like the very soul of fun. 

"So that's all you've got out of your visit?"

"Yes, that is all, " said Faith. "But it's a great deal!" And she laughedagain--such a merry little waterfall of a laugh. 

When she reached home, Mrs. Gartney met her at the door. 

"Well, Faithie, " she cried, somewhat eagerly, "what have you found?"

Faith's eyes danced with merriment. 

"I don't know, mother! A--hippopotamus, I think!"

"Won't she do? What do you mean?"

"Why she's as big! I can't tell you how big! And she sat in arocking-chair and rocked all the time--and she says her name is MissBattis!"

Mrs. Gartney looked rather perplexed than amused. 

"But, Faith!--I can't think how she knew--she must have been, listening--Norah has been so horribly angry! And she's upstairs packingher things to go right off. How _can_ we be left without a cook?"

"It seems Miss McGonegal means to demonstrate that we can! Perhaps--thehippopotamus _might_ be trained to domestic service! She said you couldsend if you wanted her. "

"I don't see anything else to do. Norah won't even stay till morning. And there isn't a bit of bread in the house. I can't send thisafternoon, though, for your father has driven over to Sedgely about somecelery and tomato plants, and won't be home till tea time. "

"I'll make some cream biscuits like Aunt Faith's. And I'll go out intothe garden and find Luther. If he can't carry us through theReformation, somehow, he doesn't deserve his name. "

Luther was found--thought Jerry Blanchard wouldn't "value lettin' himhave his old horse and shay for an hour. " And he wouldn't "be mor'n thatgoin'. " He could "fetch her, easy enough, if that was all. "

Mis' Battis came. 

She entered Mrs. Gartney's presence with nonchalance, and "flumped"incontinently into the easiest and nearest chair. 

Mrs. Gartney began with the common preliminary--the name. Mis' Battisintroduced herself as before. 

"But your first name?" proceeded the lady. 

"My first name was Parthenia Franker. I'm a relic'. "

Mrs. Gartney experienced an internal convulsion, but retained heroutward composure. 

"I suppose you would quite as lief be called Parthenia?"

"Ruther, " replied the relict, laconically. 

And Mrs. Parthenia Battis was forthwith installed--_pro tem_. --in theCross Corners kitchen. 

"She's got considerable gumption, " was the opinion Luther volunteered, of his own previous knowledge--for Mrs. Battis was an old schoolmate andneighbor--"but she's powerful slow. "

CHAPTER XV. 

NEW DUTIES. 

"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might. "--Ecc. 9:10. 

"A servant with this clause Makes drudgery divine;--Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws, Makes that and the action fine. " GEORGE HERBERT. 

Mis' Battis's "gumption" was a relief--conjoined, even, as it was, to amighty _inertia_--after the experience of Norah McGonegal's utterincapacity; and her admission, _pro tempore, _ came to be tacitly lookedupon as a permanent adoption, for want of a better alternative. Shecontinued to seat herself, unabashed, whenever opportunity offered, inthe presence of the family; and invariably did so, when Mrs. Gartneyeither sent for, or came to her, to give orders. She always spoke of Mr. Gartney as "he, " addressed her mistress as Miss Gartney, and ignored allprefix to the gentle name of Faith. Mrs. Gartney at last remedied thepronominal difficulty by invariably applying all remarks bearing noother indication, to that other "he" of the household--Luther. Her ownclaim to the matronly title she gave up all hope of establishing; for, if the "relic'" abbreviated her own wifely distinction, how should shebe expected to dignify other people?

As to Faith, her mother ventured one day, sensitively and timidly, tospeak directly to the point. 

"My daughter has always been accustomed to be called _Miss_ Faith, " shesaid, gently, in reply to an observation of Parthenia's, in which theungarnished name had twice been used. "It isn't a _very_ importantmatter--still, it would be pleasanter to us, and I dare say you won'tmind trying to remember it?"

"'M! No--I ain't partic'ler. Faith ain't a long name, and 'twon't bemuch trouble to put a handle on, if that's what you want. It's Englishfashion, ain't it?"

Parthenia's coolness enabled Mrs. Gartney to assert, somewhat moreconfidently, her own dignity. 

"It is a fashion of respect and courtesy, everywhere, I believe. "

"'M!" reëjaculated the relict. 

Thereafter, Faith was "Miss, " with a slight pressure of emphasis uponthe handle. 

"Mamma!" cried Hendie, impetuously, one day, as he rushed in from a walkwith his attendant, "I _hate_ Mahala Harris! I wish you'd let me dressmyself, and go to walk alone, and send her off to Jericho!"

"Whereabouts do you suppose Jericho to be?" asked Faith, laughing. 

"I don't know. It's where she keeps wishing I was, when she's cross, andI want anything. I wish she was there!--and I mean to ask papa to sendher!"

"Go and take your hat off, Hendie, and have your hair brushed, and yourhands washed, and then come back in a nice quiet little temper, andwe'll talk about it, " said Mrs. Gartney. 

"I think, " said Faith to her mother, as the boy was heard mounting thestairs to the nursery, right foot foremost all the way, "that Mahaladoesn't manage Hendie as she ought. She keeps him in a fret. I hear themin the morning while I am dressing. She seems to talk to him in ataunting sort of way. "

"What can we do?" exclaimed Mrs. Gartney, worriedly. "These changes aredreadful. We might get some one worse. And then we can't afford to payextravagantly. Mahala has been content to take less wages, and I thinkshe means to be faithful. Perhaps if I make her understand how importantit is, she will try a different manner. "

"Only it might be too late to do much good, if Hendie has really got todislike her. And--besides--I've been thinking--only, you will say I'm sofull of projects----"

But what the project was, Mrs. Gartney did not hear at once, for justthen Hendie's voice was heard again at the head of the stairs. 

"I tell you, mother said I might! I'm going--down--in a nice--littletemper--to ask her--to send you--to Jericho!" Left foot foremost, a dropbetween each few syllables, he came stumping, defiantly, down thestairs, and appeared with all his eager story in his eyes. 

"She plagues me, mamma! She tells me to see who'll get dressed first;and if _she_ does, she says:

 "'The first's the best, The second's the same; The last's the worst Of all the game!'

"And if _I_ get dressed first--all but the buttoning, you know--she says:

 "'The last's the best, The second's the same; The first's the worst Of all the game!'

"And then she keeps telling me 'her little sister never behaved like me. 'I asked her where her little sister was, and she said she'd gone overJordan. I'm glad of it! I wish Mahala would go too!"

Mrs. Gartney smiled, and Faith could not help laughing outright. 

Hendie burst into a passion of tears. 

"Everybody keeps plaguing me! It's too bad!" he cried, with tumultuoussobs. 

Faith checked her laughter instantly. She took the indignant littlefellow on her lap, in despite of some slight, implacable struggle on hispart, and kissed his pouting lips. 

"No, indeed, Hendie! We wouldn't plague you for all the world! And youdon't know what I've got for you, just as soon as you're ready for it!"

Hendie took his little knuckles out of his eyes. 

"A bunch of great red cherries, as big as your two hands!"

"Where?"

"I'll get them, if you're good. And then you can go out in the frontyard, and eat them, so that you can drop the stones on the grass. "

Hendie was soon established on a flat stone under the old chestnuttrees, in a happy oblivion of Mahala's injustice, and her littlesister's perfections. 

"I'll tell you, mamma. I've been thinking we need not keep Mahala, ifyou don't wish. She has been so used to do nothing but run round afterHendie, that, really, she isn't much good about the house; and I'll takeHendie's trundle bed into my room, and there'll be one less chamber totake care of; and you know we always dust and arrange down here. "

"Yes--but the sweeping, Faithie! And the washing! Parthenia never wouldget through with it all. "

"Well, somebody might come and help wash. And I guess I can sweep. "

"But I can't bear to put you to such work, darling! You need your timefor other things. "

"I have ever so much time, mother! And, besides, as Aunt Faith says, Idon't believe it makes so very much matter _what_ we do. I was talkingto her, the other day, about doing coarse work, and living a narrow, common kind of life, and what do you think she said?"

"I can't tell, of course. Something blunt and original. "

"We were out in the garden. She pointed to some plants that were comingup from seeds, that had just two tough, clumsy, coarse leaves. 'What doyou call them?' said auntie. 'Cotyledons, aren't they?' said I. 'I don'tknow what they are in botany, ' said she; 'but I know the use of 'em. They'll last a while, and help feed up what's growing inside andunderneath, and by and by they'll drop off, when they're done with, andyou'll see what's been coming of it. Folks can't live the best rightout at first, any more than plants can. I guess we all want some kindof--cotyledons. '"

Mrs. Gartney's eyes shone with affection, and something that affectioncalled there, as she looked upon her daughter. 

"I guess the cotyledons won't hinder your growing, " said she. 

And so, in a few days after, Mahala was dismissed, and Faith took uponherself new duties. 

It was a bright, happy face that glanced hither and thither, about thehouse, those fair summer mornings; and it wasn't the hands alone thatwere busy, as under their dexterous and delicate touch all thingsarranged themselves in attractive and graceful order. Thoughtstraightened and cleared itself, as furniture and books were dusted andset right; and while the carpet brightened under the broom, somethingelse brightened and strengthened, also, within. 

It is so true, what the author of "Euthanasy" tells us, that exercise oflimb and muscle develops not only themselves, but what is in us as wework. 

"Every stroke of the hammer upon the anvil hardens a little what is atthe time the temper of the smith's mind. "

"The toil of the plowman furrows the ground, and so it does his browwith wrinkles, visibly; and invisibly, but quite as certainly, itfurrows the current of feeling, common with him at his work, into analmost unchangeable channel. "

Faith's life purpose deepened as she did each daily task. She had hold, already, of the "high and holy work of love" that had been prophesied. 

"I am sure of one thing, mother, " said she, gayly; "if I don't learnmuch that is new, I am bringing old knowledge into play. It's the samething, taken hold of at different ends. I've learned to draw straightlines, and shape pictures; and so there isn't any difficulty in sweepinga carpet clean, or setting chairs straight. I never shall wonder againthat a woman who never heard of a right angle can't lay a table even. "

CHAPTER XVI. 

"BLESSED BE YE, POOR. "

"And so we yearn, and so we sigh, And reach for more than we can see;And, witless of our folded wings, Walk Paradise, unconsciously. "

October came, and brought small dividends. The expenses upon the farmhad necessarily been considerable, also, to put things in "good runningorder. " Mr. Gartney's health, though greatly improved, was not yet soconfidently to be relied on, as to make it advisable for him to think ofany change, as yet, with a view to business. Indeed, there was littleopportunity for business, to tempt him. Everything was flat. Mr. Gartneymust wait. Mrs. Gartney and Faith felt, though they talked of waiting, that the prospect really before them was that of a careful, obscurelife, upon a very limited income. The house in Mishaumok had stoodvacant all the summer. There was hope, of course, of letting it now, asthe winter season came on, but rents were falling, and people were timidand discouraged. 

October was beautiful at Kinnicutt. And Faith, when she looked out overthe glory of woods and sky, felt rich with the great wealth of theworld, and forgot about economies and privations. She was so glad theyhad come here with their altered plans, and had not struggled shabbilyand drearily on in Mishaumok!

It was only when some chance bit of news from the city, or a girlish, gossipy note from some school friend found its way to Cross Corners, that she felt, a little keenly, her denials--realized how the world shehad lived in all her life was going on without her. 

It was the old plaint that Glory made, in her dark days ofchildhood--this feeling of despondency and loss that assailed Faith nowand then--"such lots of good times in the world, and she not in 'em!"

Mrs. Etherege and Saidie were coming home. Gertrude Rushleigh, Saidie'sold intimate, was to be married on the twenty-eighth, and had fixed herwedding thus for the last of the month, that Miss Gartney might arriveto keep her promise of long time, by officiating as bridesmaid. 

The family eclipse would not overshadow Saidie. She had made her placein the world now, and with her aunt's aid and countenance, would keepit. It was quite different with Faith--disappearing, as she had done, from notice, before ever actually "coming out. "

"It was a thousand pities, " Aunt Etherege said, when she and Saidiediscussed with Mrs. Gartney, at Cross Corners, the family affairs. "Andthings just as they were, too! Why, another year might have settledmatters for her, so that this need never have happened! At any rate, thechild shouldn't be moped up here, all winter!"

Mrs. Etherege had engaged rooms, on her arrival, at the Mishaumok House;and it seemed to be taken for granted by her, and by Saidie as well, that this coming home was a mere visit; that Miss Gartney would, ofcourse, spend the greater part of the winter with her aunt; and thatlady extended also an invitation to Mishaumok for a month--includingthe wedding festivities at the Rushleighs'--to Faith. 

Faith shook her head. She "knew she couldn't be spared so long. "Secretly, she doubted whether it would be a good plan to go back and geta peep at things that might send her home discontented and unhappy. 

But her mother reasoned otherwise. Faithie must go. "The child mustn'tbe moped up. " She would get on, somehow, without her. Mothers alwayscan. So Faith, by a compromise, went for a fortnight. She couldn't quiteresist her newly returned sister. 

Besides, a pressing personal invitation had come from Margaret Rushleighto Faith herself, with a little private announcement at the end, that"Paul was refractory, and utterly refused to act as fourth groomsman, unless Faith Gartney were got to come and stand with him. "

Faith tore off the postscript, and might have lit it at her cheeks, butdropped it, of habit, into the fire; and then the note was at thedisposal of the family. 

It was a whirl of wonderful excitement to Faith--that fortnight! So manypeople to see, so much to hear, and in the midst of all, the gorgeouswedding festival!

What wonder if a little dream flitted through her head, as she stoodthere, in the marriage group, at Paul Rushleigh's side, and looked abouther on the magnificent fashion, wherein the affection of new relativesand old friends had made itself tangible; and heard the kindly words ofthe elder Mr. Rushleigh to Kate Livingston, who stood with his sonPhilip, and whose bridal, it was well known, was to come next? Jewels, and silver, and gold, are such flashing, concrete evidences of love! Andthe courtly condescension of an old and world-honored man to the younggirl whom his son has chosen, is such a winning and distinguishingthing!

Paul Rushleigh had finished his college course, and was to go abroadthis winter--between the weddings, as he said--for his brother Philip'swas to take place in the coming spring. After that--things were notquite settled, but something was to be arranged for him meanwhile--hewould have to begin his work in the world; and then--he supposed itwould be time for him to find a helpmate. Marrying was like dying, hebelieved; when a family once began to go off there was soon an end ofit!

Blushes were the livery of the evening, and Faith's deeper glow at thisaudacious rattle passed unheeded, except, perhaps, as it might besomewhat willfully interpreted. 

There were two or three parties made for the newly married couple in theweek that followed. The week after, Paul Rushleigh, with the bride andgroom, was to sail for Europe. At each of these brilliant entertainmentshe constituted himself, as in duty bound, Faith's knight and swornattendant; and a superb bouquet for each occasion, the result of theransack of successive greenhouses, came punctually, from him, to herdoor. For years afterwards--perhaps for all her life--Faith couldn'tsmell heliotrope, and geranium, and orange flowers, without floatingback, momentarily, into the dream of those few, enchanted days!

She stayed in Mishaumok a little beyond the limit she had fixed forherself, to go, with the others, on board the steamer at the time of hersailing, and see the gay party off. Paul Rushleigh had more significantwords, and another gift of flowers as a farewell. 

When she carried these last to her own room, to put them in water, onher return, something she had not noticed before glittered among theirstems. It was a delicate little ring, of twisted gold, with aforget-me-not in turquoise and enamel upon the top. 

Faith was half pleased, half frightened, and wholly ashamed. 

Paul Rushleigh was miles out on the Atlantic. There was no help for it, she thought. It had been cunningly done. 

And so, in the short November days, she went back to Kinnicutt. 

The east parlor had to be shut up now, for the winter. The familygathering place was the sunny little sitting room; and with closed doorsand doubled windows, they began, for the first time, to find that theywere really living in a little bit of a house. 

It was very pretty, though, with the rich carpet and the crimsoncurtains that had come from Hickory Street, replacing the white muslindraperies and straw matting of the summer; and the books and vases, andstatuettes and pictures, gathered into so small space, seemed to fillthe room with luxury and beauty. 

Faith nestled her little workstand into a nook between the windows. Hendie's blocks and picture books were stowed in a corner cupboard. Mr. Gartney's newspapers and pamphlets, as they came, found room in a deepdrawer below; and so, through the wintry drifts and gales, they were"close hauled" and comfortable. 

Faith was happy; yet she thought, now and then, when the whistling windbroke the stillness of the dark evenings, of light and music elsewhere;and how, a year ago, there had always been the chance of a visitor ortwo to drop in, and while away the hours. Nobody lifted theold-fashioned knocker, here at Cross Corners. 

By day, even, it was scarcely different. Kinnicutt was hibernating. Eachhousehold had drawn into its shell. And the huge drifts, lying defiantagainst the fences in the short, ineffectual winter sunlight, held outlittle hope of reanimation. Aunt Faith, in her pumpkin hood, and Rob Roycloak, and carpet moccasins, came over once in two or three days, andeven occasionally stayed to tea, and helped make up a rubber of whistfor Mr. Gartney's amusement; but, beyond this, they had no socialexcitement. 

January brought a thaw; and, still further to break the monotony, therearose a stir and an anxiety in the parish. 

Good Mr. Holland, its minister of thirty years, whose health had beenfailing for many months, was at last compelled to relinquish the dutiesof his pulpit for a time; and a supply was sought with the ultimateprobability of a succession. A new minister came to preach, who was tofill the pastor's place for the ensuing three months. On his firstSunday among them, Faith heard a wonderful sermon. 

I indicate thus, not the oratory, nor the rhetoric; but the _sermon_, ofwhich these were the mere vehicle--the word of truth itself--which wasspoken, seemingly, to her very thought. 

So also, as certainly, to the long life-thought of one other. GloryMcWhirk sat in Miss Henderson's corner pew, and drank it in, as a soulathirst. 

A man of middle age, one might have said, at first sight--there was, here and there, a silver gleam in the dark hair and beard; yet a fireand earnestness of youth in the deep, beautiful eye, and a look in theface as of life's first flush and glow not lost, but rather merged inbroader light, still climbing to its culmination, belied these tokens, and made it as if a white frost had fallen in June--rising up before thecrowded village congregation, looked round upon the upturned faces, asOne had looked before who brought the bread of Life to men's eagerasking; and uttered the selfsame simple words. 

It was a certain pause and emphasis he made--a slight new rendering ofpunctuation--that sent home the force of those words to the people whoheard them, as if it had been for the first time, and fresh from thelips of the Great Teacher. 

 * * * * *

"'Blessed are the poor: _in spirit_: for theirs is the kingdom ofheaven. '

"Herein Christ spoke, not to a class, only, but to the world! A world ofsouls, wrestling with the poverty of life!

"In that whole assemblage--that great concourse--that had thronged fromcities and villages to hear His words upon the mountainside--was there, think you, _one satisfied nature_?

"Friends--are _ye_ satisfied?

 · · · · ·

"Or, does every life come to know, at first or at last, how something--ahope, or a possibility, or the fulfillment of a purpose--has gotdropped out of it, or has even never entered, so that an emptinessyawns, craving, therein, forever?

"How many souls hunger till they are past their appetite! Go on--downthrough the years--needy and waiting, and never find or grasp that whicha sure instinct tells them they were made for?

"This, this is the poverty of life! These are the poor, to whom God'sGospel was preached in Christ! And to these denied and waiting ones thefirst words of Christ's preaching--as I read them--were spoken inblessing. 

"Because, elsewhere, he blesses the meek; elsewhere and presently, hetells us how the lowly in spirit shall inherit the earth; so, when Iopen to this, his earliest uttered benediction upon our race, I read itwith an interpretation that includes all humanity:

"'Blessed, in spirit, are the poor. Theirs is the kingdom of heaven. '

 · · · · ·

"What is this Kingdom of Heaven? 'It is within you. ' It is that whichyou hold, and live in spiritually; the _real_, of which all earthly, outward being and having are but the show. It is the region whereinlittle children 'do always behold the Face of my Father which is inHeaven. ' It is where we are when we shut our eyes and pray in the wordsthat Christ taught us. 

 · · · · ·

"What matters, then, where your feet stand, or wherewith your hands arebusy? So that it is the spot where God has put you, and the work He hasgiven you to do? Your real life is within--hid in God withChrist--ripening, and strengthening, and waiting, as through the long, geologic ages of night and incompleteness waited the germs of all thatwas to unfold into this actual, green, and bounteous earth!

 · · · · ·

"The narrower your daily round, the wider, maybe, the outreach. Isolatedupon a barren mountain peak, you may take in river and lake--forest, field, and valley. A hundred gardens and harvests lift their bloom andfullness to your single eye. 

"There is a sunlight that contracts the vision; there is a starlightthat enlarges it to take in infinite space. 

 "'God sets some souls in shade, alone. They have no daylight of their own. Only in lives of happier ones They see the shine of distant suns. 

 "'God knows. Content thee with thy night. Thy greater heaven hath grander light, To-day is close. The hours are small. Thou sit'st afar, and hast them all. 

 "'Lose the less joy that doth but blind; Reach forth a larger bliss to find. To-day is brief: the inclusive spheres Rain raptures of a thousand years. '"

Faith could not tell what hymn was sung, or what were the words of theprayer that followed the sermon. There was a music and an uplifting inher own soul that made them needless, but for the pause they gave her. 

She hardly knew that a notice was read as the people rose before thebenediction, when the minister gave out, as requested, that "the VillageDorcas Society would meet on Wednesday of the coming week, at Mrs. Parley Gimp's. "

She was made aware that it had fallen upon her ears, though heardunconsciously, when Serena Gimp caught her by the sleeve in the churchporch. 

"Ain't it awful, " said she, with a simper and a flutter of importance, "to have your name called right out so in the pulpit? I declare, if ithadn't been for seeing the new minister, I wouldn't have come to meeting, I dreaded it so! Ain't he handsome? He's old, though--thirty-five! He'sbroken-hearted, too! Somebody died, or something else, that he was goingto be married to, ever so many years ago; and they say he hasn't hardlyspoken to a lady since. That's so romantic! I don't wonder he preachessuch low-spirited kind of sermons. Only I wish they warn't quite so. Isuppose it's beautiful, and heavenly minded, and all that; but yet I'drather hear something a little kind of cheerful. Don't you think so? Butthe poetry was elegant--warn't it? I guess it's original, too. They sayhe puts things in the _Mishaumok Monthly_. Come Wednesday, won'tyou? We shall depend, you know. "

To Miss Gimp, the one salient point, amidst the solemnities of the day, had been that pulpit notice. She had put new strings to her bonnet forthe occasion. Mrs. Gimp, being more immediately and personally affected, had modestly remained away from church. 

Glory McWhirk went straight through the village, home; and out to herlittle room in the sunny side of the low, sloping roof. This was herwinter nook. She had a shadier one, looking the other way, for summer. 

"I wonder if it's all true!" she cried, silently, in her soul, while shestood for a minute with bonnet and shawl still on, looking out from herlittle window, dreamily, over the dazzle of the snow, even as herhalf-blinded thought peered out from its own narrowness into theinfinite splendor of the promise of God--"I wonder if God will ever makeme beautiful! I wonder if I shall ever have a real, great joyfulness, that isn't a make believe!"

Glory called her fancies so. They followed her still. She lived yet inan ideal world. The real world--that is, the best good of it--had notcome close enough to her, even in this, her widely amended condition, todisplace the other. Remember--this child of eighteen had missed herchildhood; had known neither father nor mother, sister nor brother. 

Don't think her simple, in the pitiful meaning of the word; but shestill enacted, in the midst of her plain, daily life, wonderful dreamsthat nobody could have ever suspected; and here, in her solitarychamber, called up at will creatures of imagination who were to her whathuman creatures, alas! had never been. Above all, she had a sister here, to whom she told all her secrets. This sister's name was Leonora. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

FROST-WONDERS. 

"No hammers fell, no ponderous axes rung;Like some tall palm, the mystic fabric sprung. Majestic silence!" HEBER. 

The thaw continued till the snow was nearly gone. Only the great driftsagainst the fences, and the white folds in the rifts of distanthillsides lingered to tell what had been. Then came a day of warm rain, that washed away the last fragment of earth's cast-off vesture, andbathed her pure for the new adornment that was to be laid upon her. Atnight, the weather cooled, and the rain changed to a fine, slow mist, congealing as it fell. 

Faith stood next morning by a small round table in the sitting-roomwindow, and leaned lovingly over her jonquils and hyacinths that werecoming into bloom. Then, drawing the curtain cord to let in the firstsunbeam that should slant from the south upon her bulbs, she gave alittle cry of rapturous astonishment. It was a diamond morning!

Away off, up the lane, and over the meadows, every tree and bush washung with twinkling gems that the slight wind swayed against each otherwith tiny crashes of faint music, and the sun was just touching with alevel splendor. 

After that first, quick cry, Faith stood mute with ecstasy. 

"Mother!" said she, breathlessly, at last, as Mrs. Gartney entered, "look there! have you seen it? Just imagine what the woods must be thismorning! How can we think of buckwheats?"

Sounds and odors betrayed that Mis' Battis and breakfast were in thelittle room adjoining. 

"There is a thought of something akin to them, isn't there, under allthis splendor? Men must live, and grass and grain must grow. "

Mr. Gartney said this, as he came up behind wife and daughter, and laida hand on a shoulder of each. 

"I know one thing, though, " said Faith. "I'll eat the buckwheats, as avulgar necessity, and then I'll go over the brook and up in the woodsbehind the Pasture Rocks. It'll last, won't it?"

"Not many hours, with this spring balm in the air, " replied her father. "You must make haste. By noon, it will be all a drizzle. "

"Will it be quite safe for her to go alone?" asked Mrs. Gartney. 

"I'll ask Aunt Faith to let me have Glory. She showed me the walk lastsummer. It is fair she should see this, now. "

So the morning odds and ends were done up quickly at Cross Corners andat the Old House, and then Faith and Glory set forth together--thelatter in as sublime a rapture as could consist with mortal cohesion. 

The common roadside was an enchanted path. The glittering rimetransfigured the very cart ruts into bars of silver; and every coarseweed was a fretwork of beauty. 

"Bells on their toes" they had, this morning, assuredly; each footfallmade a music on the sod. 

Over the slippery bridge--out across a stretch of open meadow, and thenalong a track that skirted the border of a sparse growth of trees, projecting itself like a promontory upon the level land--round itsabrupt angle into a sweep of meadow again, on whose farther verge rosethe Pasture Rocks. 

Behind these rocks swelled up gently a slope, half pasture, halfwoodland--neither open ground nor forest; but, although clear enough forcomfortable walking, studded pretty closely with trees that ofteninterlaced their branches overhead, and made great, pillared aisles, among whose shade, in summer, wound delicious little footpaths that allcame out together, midway up, into--what you shall be told of presently. 

Here, among and beyond the rocks, were oaks, and pines, and savins--eachneedle-like leaf a shimmering lance--each clustering branch a spray ofgems--and the stout, spreading limbs of the oaks delineating themselvesagainst the sky above in Gothic frost-work. 

Suddenly--before they thought it could be so near--they came up and outinto a broader opening. Between two rocks that made, as it were, agateway, and around whose bases were grouped sentinel evergreens, theycame into this wider space, floored with flat rock, the surface of ahidden ledge, carpeted with crisp mosses in the summer, whose every cupand hollow held a jewel now--and inclosed with lofty oaks and pines, while, straight beyond, where the woods shut in again far closer thanbelow, rose a bold crag, over whose brow hung pendent birches that intheir icy robing drooped like glittering wings of cherubim above analtar. 

All around and underneath, this strange magnificence. Overhead, theeverlasting Blue, that roofed it in with sapphire. In front, the rough, gigantic shrine. 

"It is like a cathedral!" said Faith, solemnly and low. 

"See!" whispered Glory, catching her companion hastily by thearm--"there is the minister!"

A little way beyond them, at the right, out from among the clumps ofevergreen where some other of the little wood walks opened, a figureadvanced without perceiving them. It was Roger Armstrong, the newminister. He held his hat in his hand. He walked, uncovered, as he wouldhave into a church, into this forest temple, where God's finger had justbeen writing on the walls. 

When he turned, slowly, his eye fell on the other two who stood there. It lighted up with a quick joy of sympathy. He came forward. Faithbowed. Glory stood back, shyly. Neither party seemed astonished at themeeting. It was so plain _why_ they came, that if they had wondered atall, it would have been that the whole village should not be pouring outhither, also. 

Mr. Armstrong led them to the center of the rocky space. "This is thebest point, " said he. And then was silent. There was no need of words. Agreatness of thought made itself felt from one to the other. 

Only, between still pauses, words came that almost spoke themselves. 

"'Eye hath not seen, nor hath it entered into the heart of man toconceive, that which God hath prepared for them that love him. ' What acommentary upon His promise is a glory like this!

"'And they shall all shine like the sun in the kingdom of my Father!'"

Faith stood by the minister's side, and glanced, when he spoke, from thewonderful beauty before her to a face whose look interpreted it all. There was something in the very presence of this man that drew otherswho approached him into the felt presence of God. Because he stoodtherein in the spirit. These are the true apostles whom Christ sendsforth. 

Glory could have sobbed with an oppression of reverence, enthusiasm, andjoy. 

"It is only a glimpse, " said Mr. Armstrong, by and by. "It is going, already. "

A drip--drip--was beginning to be heard. 

"You ought to get away from under the trees before the thaw comes fullyon, " continued he. "A branch breaks, now and then, and the ice will befalling constantly. I can show you a more open way than the one you cameby, I think. "

And he gave his arm to Faith over the slope that even now was growingwet and slippery in the sun. Faith touched it with a reverence, anddropped it again, modestly, when they reached a safer foothold. 

Glory kept behind. Mr. Armstrong turned now and then, with a kindlyword, and a thought for her safety. Once he took her hand, and helpedher down a sudden descent in the path, where the water had run over andmade a smooth, dangerous glare. 

"I shall call soon to see your father and mother, Miss Gartney, " saidhe, when they reached the road again beyond the brook, and their wayshome lay in different directions. "This meeting, to-day, has given mepleasure. "

"How?" Faith wondered silently, as she kept on to the Cross Corners. Shehad hardly spoken a word. But, then, she might have remembered that theminister's own words had been few, yet her very speechlessness beforehim had come from the deep pleasure that his presence had given to her. The recognition of souls cares little for words. Faith's soul had beenin her face to-day, as Roger Armstrong had seen it each Sunday, also, inthe sweet, listening look she uplifted before him in the church. He benttoward this young, pure life, with a joy in its gentle purity; the joyof an elder over a younger angel in the school of God. 

And Glory? she laid up in her own heart a beautiful remembrance ofsomething she had never known before. Of a near approach to somethinggreat and high, yet gentle and beneficent. Of a kindly, helping touch, agracious smile, a glance that spoke straight to the mute aspirationwithin her. 

The minister had not failed, through all her humbleness and shyness, toread some syllables of that large, unuttered life of hers that laybeneath. He whose labor it is to save souls, learns always the insightthat discerns souls. 

"I have seen the Winter!" cried Faith, glowing and joyous, as she camein from her walk. 

"It has been a beautiful time!" said Glory to her shadow sister, whenshe went to hang away hood and shawl. "It has been a beautiful time--andI've been really in it--partly!"

CHAPTER XVIII. 

OUT IN THE SNOW. 

 "Sydnaein showersOf sweet discourse, whose powersCan crown old winter's head with flowers. " CRASHAW. 

Winter had not exhausted her repertory, however. She had more wonders tounfold. 

There came a long snowstorm. 

"Faithie, " said her father, coming in, wrapped up in furs from a visitto the stable, "put your comfortables on, and we'll go and see the snow. We'll make tracks, literally, for the hills. There isn't a road fairlybroken between here and Grover's Peak. The snow lies beautifully, though; and there isn't a breath of wind. It will be a sight to see. "

Faith brought, quickly, sontag, jacket, and cloak--hood and veil, andlong, warm snow boots, and in ten minutes was ready, as she averred, fora sledge ride to Hudson's Bay. 

Luther drove the sleigh close to the kitchen door, that Faith might nothave to cross the yard to reach it, and she stepped directly from thethreshold into the warm nest of buffalo robes; while Mis' Battis put agreat stone jug of hot water in beside her feet, asserting that it was"a real comfortin' thing on a sleigh ride, and that they needn't beafraid of its leakin', for the cork was druv in as tight as an eyetooth!"

So, out by the barn, into the road, and away from the village toward thehills, they went, with the glee of resonant bells and excitedexpectation. 

A mile, or somewhat more, along the Sedgely turnpike, took them into abit of woods that skirted the road on either side, for a considerabledistance. Away in, under the trees, the stillness and the whiteness andthe wonderful multiplication of snow shapes were like enchantment. Eachbush had an attitude and drapery and expression of its own, as if someweird life had suddenly been spellbound in these depths. Cherubs, andold women, and tall statue shapes like images of gods, hovered, andbent, and stood majestic, in a motionless poise. Over all, the bentboughs made marble and silver arches in shadow and light, and, far downbetween, the vistas lengthened endlessly, still crowded with mysticfigures, haunting the long galleries with their awful beauty. 

They went on, penetrating a lifeless silence; their horse's feet makingthe first prints since early morning in the unbroken smoothness of theway, and the only sound the gentle tinkle of their own bells, as theymoved pleasantly, but not fleetly, along. 

So, up the ascent, where the land lay higher, toward the hills. 

"I feel, " said Faith, "as if I had been hurried through the Louvre, orthe Vatican, or both, and hadn't half seen anything. Was there everanything so strange and beautiful?"

"We shall find more Louvres presently, " said her father. "We'll keep theroad round Grover's Peak, and turn off, as we come back, down GarlandLane. "

"That lovely, wild, shady road we took last summer so often, where thegrapevines grow so, all over the trees?"

"Exactly, " replied Mr. Gartney. "But you mustn't scream if we thumpabout a little, in the drifts up there. It's pretty rough, at the bestof times, and the snow will have filled in the narrow spaces between therocks and ridges, like a freshet. Shall you be afraid?"

"Afraid! Oh, no, indeed! It's glorious! I think I should like to goeverywhere!"

"There is a good deal of everywhere in every little distance, " said Mr. Gartney. "People get into cars, and go whizzing across whole States, often, before they stop to enjoy thoroughly something that is very likewhat they might have found within ten miles of home. For my part, I likemicroscopic journeying. "

"Leaving 'no stone unturned. ' So do I, " said Faith. "We don't half knowthe journey between Kinnicutt and Sedgely yet, I think. And then, too, they're multiplied, over and over, by all the different seasons, and bydifferent sorts of weather. Oh, we shan't use them up, in a long while!"

Saidie Gartney had not felt, perhaps, in all her European travel, thesense of inexhaustible pleasure that Faith had when she said this. 

Down under Grover's Peak, with the river on one side, and thewhite-robed cedar thickets rising on the other--with the low afternoonsun glinting across from the frosted roofs of the red mill buildings andbarns and farmhouses to the rocky slope of the Peak. 

Then they came round and up again, over a southerly ridge, by beautifulGarland Lane, that she knew only in its summer look, when the wild grapefestooned itself wantonly from branch to branch, and sometimes, even, from side to side; and so gave the narrow forest road its name. 

Quite into fairyland they had come now, in truth; as if, skirting thedark peak that shut it off from ordinary espial, they had lighted on abypath that led them covertly in. Trailing and climbing vines wore theirdraperies lightly; delicate shrubs bowed like veiled shapes in groupsaround the bases of tall tree trunks, and slight-stemmed birchesquivered under their canopies of snow. Little birds hopped in and outunder the pure, still shelter, and left their tiny tracks, like magicalhieroglyphs, in the else untrodden paths. 

"Lean this way, Faith, and keep steady!" cried Mr. Gartney, as the horseplunged breast high into a drift, and the sleigh careened toward theside Faith was on. It was a sharp strain, but they plowed their waythrough, and came upon a level again. This by-street was literallyunbroken. No one had traversed it since the beginning of the storm. Thedrifts had had it all their own way there, and it involved no littleadventurousness and risk, as Mr. Gartney began to see, to pioneer apassage through. But the spirit of adventure was upon them both. On all, I should say; for the strong horse plunged forward, from drift to drift, as though he delighted in the encounter. Moreover, to turn wasimpossible. 

Faith laughed, and gave little shrieks, alternately, as they rosetriumphantly from deep, "slumpy" hollows, or pitched headlong into othersagain. Thus, struggling, enjoying--just frightened enough, now and then, to keep up the excitement--they came upon the summit of the ridge. Nowtheir way lay downward. This began to look really almost perilous. Withcareful guiding, however, and skillful balancing--tipping, creaking, sinking, emerging--they kept on slowly, about half the distance down thedescent. 

Suddenly, the horse, as men and brutes, however sagacious, sometimeswill, made a miscalculation of depth or power--lost his surebalance--sunk to his body in the yielding snow--floundered violently inan endeavor to regain safe footing--and, snap! crash! was down againstthe drift at the left, with a broken shaft under him!

Mr. Gartney sprang to his head. 

One runner was up--one down. The sleigh stuck fast at an angle of aboutthirty degrees. Faith clung to the upper side. 

Here was a situation! What was to be done? Twilight coming on--no helpnear--no way of getting anywhere!

"Faith, " said Mr. Gartney, "what have you got on your feet?"

"Long, thick snow boots, father. What can I do?"

"Do you dare to come and try to unfasten these buckles? There is nodanger. Major can't stir while I hold him by the head. "

Faith jumped out into the snow, and valorously set to work at thebuckles. She managed to undo one, and to slip out the fastening of thetrace, on one side, where it held to the whiffletree. But the horse waslying so that she could not get at the other. 

"I'll come there, father!" she cried, clambering and struggling throughthe drift till she came to the horse's head. "Can't I hold him while youundo the harness?"

"I don't believe you can, Faithie. He isn't down so flat as to be quiteunder easy control. "

"Not if I sit on his head?" asked Faith. 

"That might do, " replied her father, laughing. "Only you would getfrightened, maybe, and jump up too soon. "

"No, I won't, " said Faith, quite determined upon heroism. While shespoke, she had picked up the whip, which had fallen close by, doubledback the lash against the handle, and was tying her blue veil to itstip. Then she sat down on the animal's great cheek, which she had neverfancied to be half so broad before, and gently patted his nose with onehand, while she upheld her blue flag with the other. Major's big, panting breaths came up, close beside her face. She kept a quick, watchful eye upon the road below. 

"He's as quiet as can be, father! It must be what Miss Beecher calledthe 'chivalry of horses'!"

"It's the chivalry that has to develop under petticoat government!"retorted Mr. Gartney. 

At this moment Faith's blue flag waved vehemently over her head. She hadcaught the jingle of bells, and perceived a sleigh, with a man in it, come out into the crossing at the foot of Garland Lane. The man descriedthe signal and the disaster, and the sleigh stopped. Alighting, he ledhis horse to the fence, fastened him there, and turning aside into thesteep, narrow, unbroken road, began a vigorous struggle through thedrifts to reach the wreck. 

Coming nearer, he discerned and recognized Mr. Gartney, who also, at thesame moment, was aware of him. It was Mr. Armstrong. 

"Keep still a minute longer, Faith, " said her father, lifting theremaining shaft against the dasher, and trying to push the sleigh back, away from the animal. But this, alone, he was unable to accomplish. Sothe minister came up, and found Faith still seated on the horse's head. 

"Miss Gartney! Let me hold him!" cried he. 

"I'm quite comfortable!" laughed Faith. "If you would just help myfather, please!"

The sleigh was drawn back by the combined efforts of the two gentlemen, and then both came round to Faith. 

"Now, Faith, jump!" said her father, placing his hands upon thecreature's temple, close beside her, while Mr. Armstrong caught her armsto snatch her safely away. Faith sprang, or was lifted as she sprang, quite to the top of the huge bank of snow under and against which theyhad, among them, beaten in and trodden down such a hollow, and theinstant after, Mr. Gartney releasing Major's head, and uttering a soundof encouragement, the horse raised himself, with a half roll, and amighty scramble, first to his knees, and then to his four feet again, and shook his great skin. 

Mr. Gartney examined the harness. The broken shaft proved the extent ofdamage done. This, at the moment, however, was irremediable. He knottedthe hanging straps and laid them over the horse's neck. Then he folded abuffalo skin, and arranged it, as well as he could, above and behind thesaddle, which he secured again by its girth. 

"Mr. Armstrong, " said he, as he completed this disposal of matters, "youcame along in good time. I am very much obliged to you. If you will dome the further favor to take my daughter home, I will ride to thenearest house where I can obtain a sleigh, and some one to send back forthese traps of mine. "

"Miss Gartney, " said the minister, in answer, "can you sit a horse'sback as well as you did his eyebrow?"

Faith laughed, and reaching her arms to the hands upheld for them, wasborne safely from her snowy pinnacle to the buffalo cushion. Her fathertook the horse by the bit, and Mr. Armstrong kept at his side holdingFaith firmly to her seat. In this fashion, grasping the bridle with onehand, and resting the other on Mr. Armstrong's shoulder, she wastransported to the sleigh at the foot of the hill. 

"We were talking about long journeys in small circuits, " said Faith, when she was well tucked in, and they had set off on a level and notutterly untracked road. "I think I have been to the Alhambra, and toRome, and have had a peep into fairyland, and come back, at last, overthe Alps!"

Mr. Armstrong understood her. 

"It has been beautiful, " said he. "I shall begin to expect always toencounter you whenever I get among things wild and wonderful!"

"And yet I have lived all my life, till now, in tame streets, " saidFaith. "I thought I was getting into tamer places still, when we firstcame to the country. But I am finding out Kinnicutt. One can't see thewhole of anything at once. "

"We are small creatures, and can only pick up atoms as we go, whether ofthings outward or inward. People talk about taking 'comprehensiveviews'; and they suppose they do it. There is only One who does. "

Faith was silent. 

"Did it ever occur to you, " said Mr. Armstrong, "how little your thoughtcan really grasp at once, even of what you already know? How narrow yourmental horizon is?"

"Doesn't it seem strange, " said Faith, in a subdued tone, "that theearth should all have been made for such little lives to be lived in, each in its corner?"

"If it did not thereby prove these little lives to be but the beginning. This great Beyond that we get glimpses of, even upon earth, makes it sosure to us that there must be an Everlasting Life, to match the InfiniteCreation. God puts us, as He did Moses, into a cleft of the rock, thatwe may catch a glimmer of His glory as He goes by; and then He tells usthat one day we 'shall know even as also we are known'!"

"And I suppose it ought to make us satisfied to live whatever littlelife is given us?" said Faith, gently and wistfully. 

Mr. Armstrong turned toward her, and looked earnestly into her eyes. 

"Has that thought troubled _you_, too? Never let it do so again, mychild! Believe that however little of tangible present good you mayhave, you have the unseen good of heaven, and the promise of all thingsto come. "

"But we do see lives about us in the world that seem to be and toaccomplish so much!"

"And so we ask why ours should not be like them? Yes; all souls thataspire, must question that; but the answer comes! I will give you, someday, if you like, the thought that comforted me at a time when thatquestion was a struggle. "

"I _should_ like!" said Faith, with deeply stirred and gratefulemphasis. 

Then they drove on in silence, for a while; and then the minister, pleasantly and easily, brought on a conversation of everyday matters;and so they came to Cross Corners, just as Mrs. Gartney was gazing alittle anxiously out of the window, down the road. 

Mrs. Gartney urged the minister to come in and join them at the teatable; but "it was late in the week--he had writing to finish at homethat evening--he would very gladly come another time. "

"Mother!" cried Faith, presently, moving out of a dream in which she hadbeen sitting before the fire, "I wonder whether it has been two hours, or two weeks, or two years, since we set off from the kitchen door! Ihave seen so much, and I have heard so much. I told Mr. Armstrong, afterwe met him, that I had been through the Alhambra and the Vatican, andinto fairyland, and over the Alps. And after that, mother, " she added, low, "I think he almost took me into heaven!"

CHAPTER XIX. 

A "LEADING. "

"The least flower, with a brimming cup, may standAnd share its dewdrop with another near. " MRS. BROWNING. 

Glory McWhirk was waiting upstairs, in Faith's pretty, white, dimity-hung chamber. 

These two girls, of such utterly different birth and training, weredrawing daily toward each other across the gulf of social circumstancethat separated them. 

Twice a week, now, Glory came over, and found her seat and her booksready in Miss Faith's pleasant room, and Faith herself waiting to impartto her, or to put her in the way of gathering, those bits of week-dayknowledge she had ignorantly hungered for so long. 

Glory made quick progress. A good, plain foundation had been laid duringthe earlier period of her stay with Miss Henderson, by a regularattendance, half daily, at the district school. Aunt Faith said"nobody's time belonged to anybody that knew better themselves, untilthey could read, and write, and figure, and tell which side of the globethey lived on. " Then, too, the girl's indiscriminate gleaning from suchbooks as had come in her way, through all these years, assorted itselfgradually, now, about new facts. 

Glory's "good times" had, verily, begun at last. 

On this day that she sat waiting, Faith had been called down by hermother to receive some village ladies who had walked over to CrossCorners to pay a visit. Glory had time for two or three chapters of"Ivanhoe, " and to tell Hendie, who strayed in, and begged for it, Bridget Foye's old story of the little red hen, while the regular courseof topics was gone through below, of the weather--the new minister--thelast meeting of the Dorcas Society--the everlasting wants andhelplessness of Mrs. Sheffley and her seven children, and whether thesociety had better do anything more for them--the trouble in the westdistrict school, and the question "where the Dorcas bag was to go nexttime. "

At last, the voices and footsteps retreated, through the entry, the doorclosed somewhat promptly as the last "good afternoon" was said, andFaith sprang up the narrow staircase. 

There was a lesson in Geography, and a bit of natural Philosophy to bedone first, and then followed their Bible talk; for this was Saturday. 

Before Glory went it had come to be Faith's practice always to read toher some bit of poetry--a gem from Tennyson or Mrs. Browning, or a straypoem from a magazine or paper which she had laid by as worthy. 

"Glory, " said she, to-day, "I'm going to let you share a little treasureof mine--something Mr. Armstrong gave me. "

Glory's eyes deepened and glowed. 

"It is thoughts, " said Faith. "Thoughts in verse. I shall read it toyou, because I think it will just answer you, as it did me. Don't youfeel, sometimes, like a little brook in a deep wood?"

Glory's gaze never moved from Faith's face. Her poetical instinct seizedthe image, and the thought of her life applied it. 

"All alone, and singing to myself? Yes, I _did_, Miss Faith. But I thinkit is growing lighter and pleasanter every day. I think I amgetting----"

"Stop! stop!" said Faith. "Don't steal the verses before I read them!You're such a queer child, Glory! One never can tell you anything. "

And then Faith gave her pearls; because she knew they would not betrampled under foot, but taken into a heart and held there; and becausejust such a rapt and reverent ecstasy as her own had been when theminister had given her, in fulfillment of his promise, this thought ofhis for the comfort that was in it, looked out from the face that wasuplifted to hers. 

 "'Up in the wild, where no one comes to look, There lives and sings, a little lonely brook; Liveth and singeth in the dreary pines, Yet creepeth on to where the daylight shines. 

 "'Pure from their heaven, in mountain chalice caught, It drinks the rains, as drinks the soul her thought; And down dim hollows, where it winds along, Bears its life-burden of unlistened song. 

 "'I catch the murmur of its undertone That sigheth, ceaselessly, --alone! alone! And hear, afar, the Rivers gloriously Shout on their paths toward the shining sea!

 "'The voiceful Rivers, chanting to the sun; And wearing names of honor, every one; Outreaching wide, and joining hand with hand To pour great gifts along the asking land. 

 "'Ah, lonely brook! creep onward through the pines! Press through the gloom, to where the daylight shines! Sing on among the stones, and secretly Feel how the floods are all akin to thee!

 "'Drink the sweet rain the gentle heaven sendeth; Hold thine own path, howeverward it tendeth; For, somewhere, underneath the eternal sky, Thou, too, shalt find the Rivers, by-and-by!'"

Faith's voice trembled with earnestness as she finished. When she lookedup from the paper as she refolded it, tears were running down Glory'scheeks. 

"Why, the little brook has overflowed!" cried Faith, playfully. If shehad not found this to say, she would have cried, herself. 

"Miss Faith!" said Glory, "I ain't sure whether I was meant to tell; butdo you know what the minister has asked Miss Henderson? Perhaps shewon't; I'm afraid not; it would be _too_ good a time! but he wants herto let him come and board with her! Just think what it would be for himto be in the house with us all the time! Why, Miss Faith, it would bejust as if one of those great Rivers had come rolling along through thedark woods, right among the little lonely brooks!"

Faith made no answer. She was astonished. Miss Henderson had saidnothing of it. She never did make known her subjects of deliberationtill the deliberations had become conclusions. 

"Why, you don't seem glad!"

"I _am_ glad, " said Faith, slowly and quietly. She was strangelyconscious at the moment that she said so, glad as she would be if Mr. Armstrong were really to come so near, and she might see him daily, of ahalf jealousy that Glory should be nearer still. 

It was quite true that Mr. Armstrong had this wish. Hitherto, he hadbeen at the house of the elder minister, Mr. Holland. A unanimousinvitation had been given to Mr. Armstrong by the people to remain amongthem as their settled pastor. This he had not yet consented to do. Buthe had entered upon another engagement of six months, to preach forthem. Now he needed a permanent home, which he could not convenientlyhave at Mr. Holland's. 

There was great putting of heads together at the "Dorcas, " about it. 

Mrs. Gimp "would offer; but then--there was Serena, and folks wouldtalk. "

Other families had similar holdbacks--that is the word, for they werenot absolute insuperabilities--wary mothers were waiting until it shouldappear positively necessary that _somebody_ should waive objection, andtake the homeless pastor in; and each watched keenly for the criticalmoment when it should be just late enough, and not too late, for her toyield. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Armstrong quietly left all this seething, and walked offout of the village, one day, to Cross Corners, and asked Miss Hendersonif he might have one of her quaint, pleasant, old-fashioned rooms. 

Miss Henderson was deliberating. 

This very afternoon, she sat in the southwest tea parlor, with herknitting forgotten in her lap, and her eyes searching the bright westernsky, as if for a gleam that should light her to decision. 

"It ain't that I mind the trouble. And it ain't that there isn't houseroom. And it ain't that I don't like the minister, " soliloquized she. "It's whether it would be respectable common sense. I ain't going totake the field with the Gimps and the Leatherbees, nor to have themthink it, either. She's over here almost every blessed day of her life. I might as well try to keep the sunshine out of the old house, as tokeep her; and I should be about as likely to want to do one as theother. But just let me take in Mr. Armstrong, and there'd be all theeyes in the village watching. There couldn't so much as a cat walk in orout, but they'd know it, somehow. And they'd be sure to say she wasrunning after the minister. "

Miss Henderson's pronouns were not precise in their reference. It isn'tnecessary for soliloquy to be exact. She understood herself, and thatsufficed. 

"It would be a disgrace to the parish, anyhow, " she resumed, "to letthose Gimps and Leatherbees get him into their net; and they'll do it ifProvidence or somebody don't interpose. I wish I was sure whether it wasa leading or not!"

By and by she reverted, at last, as she always did, to that question ofits being a "leading, " or not; and, taking down the old Bible from thecorner shelf, she laid it with solemnity on the little light stand ather side, and opened it, as she had known her father do, in theimportant crises of his life, for an "indication. "

The wooden saddle and the gun were not all that had come down to AuntFaith from the primitive days of the Puritan settlers. 

The leaves parted at the story of the Good Samaritan. Bible leaves areapt to part, as the heart opens, in accordance with long habit and holyuse. 

That evening, while Glory was washing up the tea things, Aunt Faith puton cloak and hood, and walked over to Cross Corners. 

"No--I won't take off my things, " she replied to Mrs. Gartney's advanceof assistance. "I've just come over to tell you what I'm going to do. I've made up my mind to take the minister to board. And when the washingand ironing's out of the way, next week, I shall fix up a room for him, and he'll come. "

"That's a capital plan, Aunt Faith!" said her nephew, with a tone ofpleased animation. "Cross Corners will be under obligation to you. Mr. Armstrong is a man whom I greatly respect and admire. "

"So do I, " said Miss Henderson. "And if I didn't, when a man is besetwith thieves all the way from Jerusalem to Jericho, it's time for somekind of a Samaritan to come along. "

Next day, Mis' Battis heard the news, and had her word of comment tooffer. 

"She's got room enough for him, if that's all; but I wouldn't a believedshe'd have let herself be put about and upset so, if it was for John theBaptist! I always thought she was setter'n an old hen! But then, she'sgittin' into years, and it's kinder handy, I s'pose, havin' a ministerround the house, sayin' she should be took anyways sudden!"

Village comments it would be needless to attempt to chronicle. 

April days began to wear their tearful beauty, and the southwest room atthe old house was given up to Mr. Armstrong. 

CHAPTER XX. 

PAUL. 

"Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet!" LONGFELLOW. 

Glory had not been content with the utmost she could find to do inmaking the southwest room as clean, and bright, and fresh, and perfectin its appointments as her zealous labor and Miss Henderson's nice, old-fashioned methods and materials afforded possibility for. Twentytimes a day, during the few that intervened between its fitting up andMr. Armstrong's occupation of it, she darted in, to settle a festoon offringe, or to pick a speck from the carpet, or to move a chair ahair's-breadth this way or that, or to smooth an invisible crease in thecounterpane, or, above all, to take a pleased survey of everything oncemore, and to wonder how the minister would like it. 

So well, indeed, he liked it, when he had taken full possession, that heseemed to divine the favorite room must have been relinquished to him, and to scruple at keeping it quite solely to himself. 

In the pleasant afternoons, when the spring sun got round to hiswesterly windows, and away from the southeast apartment, whither MissHenderson had betaken herself, her knitting work, and her Bible, andwhere now the meals were always spread, he would open his door, and letthe pleasantness stray out across the passage, and into the keepingroom, and would often take a book, and come in, himself, also, with thesunlight. Then Glory, busy in the kitchen, just beyond, would catchwords of conversation, or of reading, or even be called in to hear thelatter. And she began to think that there were good times, truly, inthis world, and that even she was "in 'em!"

April days, as they lengthened and brightened, brought other things, also, to pass. 

The Rushleigh party had returned from Europe. 

Faith had a note from Margaret. The second wedding was close at hand, and would she not come down?

But her services as bridesmaid were not needed this time; there wasnothing so exceedingly urgent in the invitation--Faith's intimacy waswith the Rushleighs, not the Livingstons--that she could not escape itsacceptance if she desired; and so--there was a great deal to be done insummer preparation, which Mis' Battis, with her deliberate dignity, would never accomplish alone; also, there was the forget-me-not ringlying in her box of ornaments, that gave her a little troubledperplexity as often as she saw it there; and Faith excused herself in agraceful little note, and stayed at Cross Corners, helping her motherfold away the crimson curtains, and get up the white muslin ones, makeup summer sacks for Hendie, and retouch her own simple wardrobe, whichthis year could receive little addition. 

One day, Aunt Faith had twisted her foot by a slip upon the stairs, andwas kept at home. Glory, of course, was obliged to remain also, as MissHenderson was confined, helpless, to her chair or sofa. 

Faith Gartney and the minister walked down the pleasant lane, and alongthe quiet road to the village church, together. 

Faith had fresh, white ribbons, to-day, upon her simple straw bonnet, and delicate flowers and deep green leaves about her face. She seemedlike an outgrowth of the morning, so purely her sweet look and fairunsulliedness of attire reflected the significance of the day's ownnewness and beauty. 

"Do you know, " said Mr. Armstrong, presently, after the morning greetinghad passed, and they had walked a few paces, silently, "do you know thatyou are one of Glory's saints, Miss Faith?"

Faith's wondering eyes looked out their questioning astonishment from adeep rosiness that overspread her face. 

The minister was not apt to make remarks of at all a personal bearing. Neither was this allusion to sainthood quite to have been looked for, from his lips. Faith could scarcely comprehend. 

"I found her this morning, as I came out to cross the field, sitting onthe doorstone with her Bible and a rosary of beautiful, small, variouslytinted shells upon her lap. I stopped to speak with her, and asked leaveto look at them. 'They were given to me when I was very little, ' shesaid. 'A lady sent them from Rome. The Pope blessed them!' 'They arevery beautiful, ' I said, 'and a blessing, if that mean a true man'sprayer, can never be worthless. But, ' I asked her, 'do you _use_ these, Glory?' 'Not as she did once, ' she said. She had almost forgotten aboutthat. She knew the larger beads stood for saints, and the smaller onesbetween were prayers. 'But, ' she went on, 'it isn't for my prayers Ikeep them now. I've named some of my saints' beads for the people thathave done me the most good in my life, and been the kindest to me; andthe little ones are thoughts, and things they've taught me. This largeone, with the queer spots, is Miss Henderson; and this lovelyrose-colored one is Miss Faith; and these are Katie Ryan and BridgetFoye; but you don't know about them. ' And then she timidly told me thatthe white one next the cross was mine. The child humbled me, Miss Faith!It is nearly fearful, sometimes, to get a glimpse of what one is to sometrustful human soul, who looks through one toward the Highest!"

Faith had tears in her eyes. 

"Glory is such a strange girl, " said she. "She seems to have an instinctfor things that other people are educated up to. "

"She has seized the spirit of the dead Roman calendar, and put it intothis rosary. Our saints _are_ the spirits through whom God wills to sendus of His own. Whatever becomes to us a channel of His truth and love wemust involuntarily canonize and consecrate. Woe, if by the same channelever an offense cometh!"

Perhaps Faith was nearly the only person in church, to-day, who did notnotice that there were strangers in the pew behind the Gimps. When shecame out, she was joined; and not by strangers. Margaret and PaulRushleigh came eagerly to her side. 

"We came out to Lakeside to stay a day or two with the Morrises; and ranaway from them here, purposely to meet you. And we mean to be very good, and go to church all day, if you will take us home with you meanwhile. "

Faith, between her surprise, her pleasure, her embarrassment, the rushof old remembrance, and a quick, apprehensive thought of Mis' Battis andher probable arrangements, made almost an awkward matter of her reply. But her father and mother came up, welcomed the Rushleighs cordially, and the five were presently on their way toward Cross Corners, andFaith had recovered sufficient self-possession to say something beyondmere words of course. 

Paul Rushleigh looked very handsome! And very glad, too, to see shyFaith, who kept as invisible as might be at Margaret's other side, andlooked there, in her simple spring dress contrasted with Margaret's richand fashionable, though also simple and ladylike attire, like a fielddaisy beside a garden rose. 

Dinner was of no moment. There was only roast chicken, dressed the daybefore, and reheated and served with hot vegetables since their comingin, and a custard pudding, and some pastry cakes that Faith's fingershad shaped, and coffee; but they drank in balm and swallowed sunshine, and the essence of all that was to be concrete by and by in fruitfulfields and gardens. And they talked of old times! Three years old, nearly! And Faith and Margaret laughed, and Mrs. Gartney listened, anddispensed dinner, or spoke gently now and then, and Paul did hiscleverest with Mr. Gartney, so that the latter gentleman declaredafterwards that "young Rushleigh was a capital fellow; well posted; hisfather's million didn't seem to have spoiled him yet. "

Altogether, this unexpected visit infused great life at Cross Corners. 

Why was it that Faith, when she thought it all over, tried to weigh sovery nicely just the amount of gladness she had felt; and was dimlyconscious of a vague misgiving, deep down, lest her father and mothermight possibly be a little more glad than she was quite ready to havethem? What made her especially rejoice that Saidie and the strawberrieshad not come yet?

When Paul Rushleigh took her hand at parting, he glanced down at thefair little fingers, and then up, inquiringly, at Faith's face. Her eyesfell, and the color rose, till it became an indignation at itself. Shegrew hot, for days afterwards, many a time, as she remembered it. Whohas not blushed at the self-suspicion of blushing?

Who has not blushed at the simple recollection of having blushed before?On Monday, this happened. Faith went over to the Old House, to inquireabout Aunt Henderson's foot, and to sit with her, if she should wish it, for an hour. She chose the hour at which she thought Mr. Armstrongusually walked to the village. Somehow, greatly as she enjoyed all theminister's kindly words, and each moment of his accidental presence, shehad, of late, almost invariably taken this time for coming over to seeAunt Faith. A secret womanly instinct, only, it was; waked into noconsciousness, and but ignorantly aware of its own prompting. 

To-day, however, Mr. Armstrong had not gone out. Some writing that hewas tempted to do, contrary to his usual Monday habit, had detained himwithin. And so, just as Miss Henderson, having given the history of herslip, and the untoward wrenching of her foot, and its present condition, to Faith's inquiries, asked her suddenly, "if they hadn't had some cityvisitors yesterday, and what sent them flacketting over from Lakeside tochurch in the village?" the minister walked in. If he hadn't heard, shemight not have done it; but, with the abrupt question, came, asabruptly, the hot memory of yesterday; and with those other eyes, besidethe doubled keenness of Aunt Faith's over her spectacles, upon her, itwas so much worse if she should, that of course she couldn't help doingit! She colored up, and up, till the very roots of her soft hairtingled, and a quick shame wrapped her as in a flaming garment. 

The minister saw, and read. Not quite the obvious inference Faith mightfear--he had a somewhat profounder knowledge of nature than that--butwhat persuaded him there was a thought, at least, between the two whomet yesterday, more than of a mere chance greeting; it might not lie somuch with Faith as with the other; yet it had the power--even theconsciousness of its unspoken being, to send the crimson to her face. What kept the crimson there and deepened it, he knew quite well. He knewthe shame was at having blushed at all. 

Nevertheless, Mr. Armstrong remembered that blush, and pondered it, almost as long as Faith herself. In the little time that he had felthimself her friend, he had grown to recognize so fully, and to prize sodearly, her truth, her purity, her high-mindedness, her reverence, thatno new influence could show itself in her life, without touching hissolicitous love. Was this young man worthy of a blush from Faith? Wasthere a height in his nature answering to the reach of hers? Was thequick, impulsive pain that came to him in the thought of how much thatrose hue of forehead and cheek might mean, an intuition of his strongerand more instructed soul of a danger to the child that she might notdream? Be it as it might, Roger Armstrong pondered. He would alsowatch. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

PRESSURE. 

"To be warped, unconsciously, by the magnetic influence of allaround is the destiny, to a certain extent, of even the greatestsouls. "--OAKFIELD. 

June came, and Saidie Gartney. Not for flowers, or strawberries, merely;but for father's and mother's consent that, in a few weeks, when flowersand strawberries should have fully come, there should be a marriagefeast made for her in the simple home, and she should go forth into thegay world again, the bride of a wealthy New York banker. 

Aunt Etherege and Saidie filled the house. With finery, with bustle, with important presence. 

Miss Gartney's engagement had been sudden; her marriage was to bespeedy. Half a dozen seamstresses, and as many sewing machines, werebusy in New York--hands, feet, and wheels--in making up the delicatedraperies for the _trousseau_; and Madame A---- was frantic with theheap of elaborate dresses that was thrust upon her hands, and must beready for the thirtieth. 

Mrs. Gartney and Faith had enough to do, to put the house and themselvesin festival trim. Hendie was spoiled with having no lessons, and moretoys and sugar plums than he knew what to do with. Mr. Selmore's comingsand goings made special ebullitions, weekly, where was only a continuouslesser effervescence before. Mis' Battis had not been able to subsideinto an armchair since the last day of May. 

Faith found great favor in the eyes of her brother-in-law elect. Hepronounced her a "_naïve, piquante_ little person, " and already therewas talk of how pleasant it would be, to have her in Madison Square, andshow her to the world. Faith said nothing to this, but in her heart sheclung to Kinnicutt. 

Glory thought Miss Gartney wonderful. Even Mr. Armstrong spoke to AuntFaith of the striking beauty of her elder niece. 

"I don't know how she _does_ look, " Aunt Faith replied, with all herancient gruffness. "I see a great show of flounces, and manners, andhair; but they don't look as if they all grew, natural. I can't make_her_ out, amongst all that. Now, _Faith's_ just Faith. You see herprettiness the minute you look at her, as you do a flower's. "

"There are not many like Miss Faith, " replied Mr. Armstrong. "I neverknew but one other who so wore the fresh, pure beauty of God's giving. "

His voice was low and quiet, and his eye looked afar, as he spoke. 

Glory went away, and sat down on the doorstone. There was a strangetumult at her heart. In the midst, a noble joy. About it, a disquietude, as of one who feels shut out--alone. 

"I don't know what ails me. I wonder if I ain't glad! Of course, it'snothing to me. I ain't in it. But it must be beautiful to be so! And tohave such words said! _She_ don't know what a sight the minister thinksof her! I know. I knew before. It's beautiful--but I ain't in it. Only, I think I've got the feeling of it all. And I'm glad it's real, somewhere. Some way, I seem to have so much _here_, that never grows outinto anything. Maybe I'd be beautiful if it did!"

So talked Glory, interjectionally, with herself. 

In the midst of these excited days, there came two letters to Mr. Gartney. 

One was from a gentleman in Michigan, in relation to some land Mr. Gartney owned there, taken years ago, at a very low valuation, for adebt. This was likely, from the rapid growth and improvement in theneighborhood, to become, within a few years, perhaps, a property of someimportance. 

The other letter was from his son, James Gartney, in San Francisco. Theyoung man urged his father to consider whether it might not be a goodidea for him to come out and join him in California. 

James Gartney's proposal evidently roused his attention. It was a greatdeal to think of, certainly; but it was worth thinking of, too. Jameshad married in San Francisco, had a pleasant home there, and wasprospering. Many old business friends had gone from Mishaumok, in theyears when the great flood of enterprise set westward across thecontinent, and were building up name and influence in the Golden Land. The idea found a place in his brain, and clung there. Only, there wasFaith! But things might come round so that even this thought need to beno hindrance to the scheme. 

Changes, and plans, and interests, and influences were gathering; all tobear down upon one young life. 

"More news!" said Mr. Gartney, one morning, coming in from his walk tothe village post office, to the pleasant sitting room, or morning room, as Mrs. Etherege and Saidie called it, where Faith was helping hersister write a list of the hundreds who were to receive Mr. And Mrs. Selmore's cards--"At Home, in September, in Madison Square. " "Whom doyou think I met in the village, this morning?"

Everybody looked up, and everybody's imagination took a discursive leapamong possibilities, and then everybody, of course, asked "Whom?"

"Old Jacob Rushleigh, himself. He has taken a house at Lakeside, forthe summer. And he has bought the new mills just over the river. That isto give young Paul something to do, I imagine. Kinnicutt has begun togrow; and when places or people once take a start, there's no knowingwhat they may come to. Here's something for you, Faithie, that I daresay tells all about it. "

And he tossed over her shoulder, upon the table, a letter, bearing hername, in Margaret Rushleigh's chirography, upon the cover. 

Faith's head was bent over the list she was writing; but the vexatiouscolor, feeling itself shielded in her face, crept round till it made herear tips rosy. Saidie put out her forefinger, with a hardly perceptiblemotion, at the telltale sign, and nodded at Aunt Etherege behind hersister's back. 

Aunt Etherege looked bland and sagacious. 

Upstairs, a little after, these sentences were spoken in Saidie's room. 

"Of course it will be, " said the younger to the elder lady. "It's beengoing on ever since they were children. Faith hasn't a right to say no, now. And what else brought him up here after houses and mills?"

"I don't see that the houses and mills were necessary to the object. Rather cumbersome and costly machinery, I should think, to bring to bearupon such a simple purpose. "

"Oh, the business plan is something that has come up accidentally, nodoubt. Running after one thing, people very often stumble upon another. But it will all play in together, you'll see. Only, I'm afraid I shan'thave the glory of introducing Faithie in New York!"

"It would be as good a thing as possible. And I can perceive that yourfather and mother count upon it, also. In their situation what a greatrelief it would be! Of course, Henderson never could do so mad a thingas take the child up by the roots, again, and transplant her to SanFrancisco! And I see plainly he has got that in his own head. "

A door across the passage at this moment shut, softly, but securely. 

Behind it, in her low chair by her sewing table sat the young sisterwhose fate had been so lightly decreed. 

Was it all just so, as Saidie had said? Had she no longer a right to sayno? Only themselves know how easily, how almost inevitably, youngjudgments and consciences are drawn on in the track beaten down for themby others. Many and many a life decision has been made, through this_taking for granted_ that bears with its mute, but magnetic power, uponthe shyness and irresolution that can scarcely face and interpret itsown wish or will. 

It was very true, that, as Saidie Gartney had said, "this had beengoing on for years. " For years, Faith had found great pleasantness inthe companionship and evident preference of Paul Rushleigh. There hadbeen nobody to compare with him in her young set in Mishaumok. She knewhe liked her. She had been proud of it. The girlish fancy, that may beforgotten in after years, or may, fostered by circumstance, endure andgrow into a calm and happy wifehood, had been given to him. And whattroubled her now? Was it that always, when the decisive momentapproaches, there is a little revulsion of timid feminine feeling, evenamidst the truest joy? Or was it that a new wine had been given intoFaith's life, which would not be held in the old bottles? Was sheuncertain--inconstant; or had she spiritually outgrown her oldattachment? Or, was she bewildered, now, out of the discernment of whatwas still her heart's desire and need?

Paul was kind, and true, and manly. She recognized all this in him assurely as ever. If he had turned from, and forgotten her, she would havefelt a pang. What was this, then, that she felt, as he came near, andnearer?

And then, her father! Had he really begun to count on this? Do men knowhow their young daughters feel when the first suggestion comes that theyare not regarded as born for perpetual daughterhood in the father'shouse? Would she even encumber his plans, if she clung still to hermaidenly life?

By all these subtleties does the destiny of woman close in upon her. 

Margaret Rushleigh's letter was full of delight, and eagerness, andanticipation. She and Paul had been so charmed with Kinnicutt andLakeside; and there had happened to be a furnished house to let for theseason close by the Morrises, and they had persuaded papa to take it. They were tired of the seashore, and Conway was getting crowded todeath. They wanted a real summer in the country. And then this hadturned up about the mills! Perhaps, now, her father would build, andthey should come up every year. Perhaps Paul would stay altogether, andsuperintend. Perhaps--anything! It was all a delightful chaos ofpossibilities; with this thing certain, that she and Faith would betogether for the next four months in the glorious summer shine andbloom. 

Miss Gartney's wedding was simple. The stateliness and show were allreserved for Madison Square. 

Mr. Armstrong pronounced the solemn words, in the shaded summer parlor, with the door open into the sweeter and stiller shade without. 

Faith stood by her sister's side, in fair, white robes, and Mr. RobertSelmore was groomsman to his brother. A few especial friends fromMishaumok and Lakeside were present to witness the ceremony. 

And then there was a kissing--a hand-shaking--a well-wishing--a goingout to the simple but elegantly arranged collation--a disappearance ofthe bride to put on traveling array--a carriage at the door--smiles, tears, and good-bys--Mr. , and Mrs. , and Mr. Robert Selmore were off tomeet the Western train--and all was over. 

Mrs. Etherege remained a few days longer at Cross Corners. As Mis'Battis judiciously remarked, "after a weddin' or a funeral, there oughtto be somebody to stay a while and cheer up the mourners. "

This visit, that had been so full of happenings, was to have a strangeoccurrence still to mark it, before all fell again into the usual order. 

Aunt Etherege was to go on Thursday. On Wednesday, the three ladies sattogether in the cool, open parlor, where Mr. Armstrong, walking overfrom the Old House, had joined them. He had the July number of the_Mishaumok_ in his hand, and a finger between the fresh-cut leaves at apoem he would read them. 

Just as he had finished the last stanza, amidst a hush of the room thatpaid tribute to the beauty of the lines and his perfect rendering ofthem, wheels came round from the high road into the lane. 

"It is Mr. Gartney come back from Sedgely, " said Aunt Etherege, lookingfrom her window, between the blinds. "Whom on earth has he picked up tobring with him?"

A thin, angular figure of a woman, destitute of crinoline, wearing bigboots, and a bonnet that ignored the fashion, and carrying in her hand ablack enameled leather bag, was alighting as she spoke, at the gate. 

"Mother!" said Faith, leaning forward, and glancing out, also, "it lookslike--it is--Nurse Sampson!"

And she put her work hastily from her lap, and rose to go out at theside door, to meet and welcome her. 

To do this, she had to pass by Mr. Armstrong. How came that rigid look, that deadly paleness, to his face? What spasm of pain made him clutchthe pamphlet he held with fingers that grew white about the nails?

Faith stopped, startled. 

"Mr. Armstrong! Are you not well?" said she. At the same instant of herpausing, Miss Sampson entered from the hall, behind her. Mr. Armstrong'seye, lifted toward Faith in an attempt to reply, caught a glimpse of thesharp, pronounced outlines of the nurse's face. Before Faith couldcomprehend, or turn, or cry out, the paleness blanched ghastlier overhis features, and the strong man fell back, fainting. 

With quick, professional instinct, Miss Sampson sprang forward, seizing, as she did so, an ice-water pitcher from the table. 

"There, take this!" said she to Faith, "and sprinkle him with it, whileI loosen his neckcloth! Gracious goodness!" she exclaimed, in an alteredtone, as she came nearer to him for this purpose, "do it, some of therest of you, and let me get out of his way! It was me!"

And she vanished out of the room. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

ROGER ARMSTRONG'S STORY. 

"Even by means of our sorrows, we belong to the Eternal Plan. " HUMBOLDT. 

"Go in there, " said Nurse Sampson to Mr. Gartney, calling him in fromthe porch, "and lay that man flat on the floor!"

Which Mr. Gartney did, wondering, vaguely, in the instant required forhis transit to the apartment, whether bandit or lunatic might await hisoffices. 

All happened in a moment; and in that moment, the minister's fugitivesenses began to return. 

"Lie quiet, a minute. Faith, get a glass of wine, or a little brandy. "

Faith quickly brought both; and Mr. Armstrong, whom her father nowassisted to the armchair again, took the wine from her hand, with asmile that thanked her, and depreciated himself. 

"I am not ill, " he said. "It is all over now. It was the sudden shock. Idid not think I could have been so weak. "

Mrs. Gartney had gone to find some hartshorn. Mrs. Etherege, seeing thatthe need for it was passing, went out to tell her sister so, and to askthe strange woman who had originated all the commotion, what it couldpossibly mean. Mr. Gartney, at the same instant, caught a glimpse of hishorse, which he had left unfastened at the gate, giving indications ofrestlessness, and hastened out to tie him. 

Faith and Mr. Armstrong were left alone. 

"Did I frighten you, my child?" he asked, gently. "It was a strangething to happen! I thought that woman was in her grave. I thought shedied, when--I will tell you all about it some day, soon, Miss Faith. Itwas the sad, terrible page of my life. "

Faith's eyes were lustrous with sympathy. Under all other thought was abeating joy--not looked at yet--that he could speak to her so! That hecould snatch this chance moment to tell her, only, of his sacred sorrow!

She moved a half step nearer, and laid her hand, softly, on the chairarm beside him. She did not touch so much as a fold of his sleeve; butit seemed, somehow, like a pitying caress. 

"I am sorry!" said she. And then the others came in. 

Mr. Gartney walked round with his friend to the old house. 

Miss Sampson began to recount what she knew of the story. Faith escapedto her own room at the first sentence. She would rather have it as Mr. Armstrong's confidence. 

Next morning, Faith was dusting, and arranging flowers in the eastparlor, and had just set the "hillside door, " as they called it, open, when Mr. Armstrong passed the window and appeared thereat. 

"I came to ask, Miss Faith, if you would walk up over the Ridge. It is alovely morning, and I am selfish enough to wish to have you to myselffor a little of it. By and by, I would like to come back, and see MissSampson. "

Faith understood. He meant to tell her this that had been heavy upon hisheart through all these years. She would go. Directly, when she hadbrought her hat, and spoken with her mother. 

Mrs. Etherege and Mrs. Gartney were sitting together in the guestchamber, above. At noon, after an early dinner, Mrs. Etherege was toleave. 

Mr. Armstrong stood upon the doorstone below, looking outward, waiting. If he had been inside the room, he would not have heard. The ladies, sitting by the window, just over his head, were quite unaware andthoughtless of his possible position. 

He caught Faith's clear, sweet accent first, as she announced herpurpose to her mother, adding:

"I shall be back, auntie, long before dinner. "

Then she crossed the hall into her own room, made her slight preparationfor the walk, and went down by the kitchen staircase, to give Partheniasome last word about the early dinner. 

"I think, " said Mrs. Etherege, in the keenness of her worldly wisdom, "that this minister of yours might as well have a hint of how mattersstand. It seems to me he is growing to monopolize Faith, rather. "

"Oh, " replied Mrs. Gartney, "there is nothing of that! You know whatnurse told us, last evening. It isn't quite likely that a man wouldfaint away at the memory of one woman, if his thoughts were turned, theleast, in that way, upon another. No, indeed! She is his Sunday scholar, and he treats her always as a very dear young friend. But that is all. "

"Maybe. But is it quite safe for her? He is a young man yet, notwithstanding those few gray hairs. "

"Oh, Faith has tacitly belonged to Paul Rushleigh these three years!"

Mr. Armstrong heard it all. He turned the next moment, and met his "dearyoung friend" with the same gentle smile and manner that he always woretoward her, and they walked up the Ridge path, among the trees, together. 

A bowlder of rock, scooped into smooth hollows that made pleasant seats, was the goal, usually, of the Ridge walk. Here Faith paused, and Mr. Armstrong made her sit down and rest. 

Standing there before her, he began his story. 

"One summer--years ago, " he said, "I went to the city of New Orleans. Iwent to bring thence, with me, a dear friend--her who was to have beenmy wife. "

The deep voice trembled, and paused. Faith could not look up, her breathcame quickly, and the tears were all but ready. 

"She had been there, through the winter and spring, with her father, who, save myself, was the only near friend she had in all the world. 

"The business which took him there detained him until later in theseason than Northerners are accustomed to feel safe in staying. Andstill, important affairs hindered his departure. 

"He wrote to me, that, for himself, he must risk a residence there forsome weeks yet; but that his daughter must be placed in safety. Therewas every indication of a sickly summer. She knew nothing of hiswriting, and he feared would hardly consent to leave him. But, if Icame, she would yield to me. Our marriage might take place there, and Icould bring her home. Without her, he said, he could more quicklydispatch what remained for him to do; and I must persuade her of this, and that it was for the safety of all that she should so fulfill thepromise which was to have been at this time redeemed, had their earlierreturn been possible. 

"In the New Orleans papers that came by the same mail, were paragraphsof deadly significance. The very cautiousness with which they wereworded weighted them the more. 

"Miss Faith! my friend! in that city of pestilence, was my life! Nightand day I journeyed, till I reached the place. I found the address whichhad been sent me--there were only strangers there! Mr. Waldo had been, but the very day before, seized with the fatal disease, and removed to afever hospital. Miriam had gone with him--into plague and death!

"Was I wrong, child? Could I have helped it? I followed. Ah! God letsstrange woes into this world of His! I cannot tell you, if I would, whatI saw there! Pestilence--death--corruption!

"In the midst of all, among the gentle sisters of charity, I found a NewEngland woman--a nurse--her whom I met yesterday. She came to me on myinquiry for Mr. Waldo. He was dead. Miriam had already sickened--waspast hope. I could not see her. It was against the rule. She would notknow me. 

"I only remember that I refused to be sent away. I think my brain reeledwith the weariness of sleepless nights and horror of the shock. 

"I cannot dwell upon the story. It was ended quickly. When I struggledback, painfully, to life, from the disease that struck me down, therewere strange faces round me, and none could even tell me of her lasthours. The nurse--Miss Sampson--had been smitten--was dying. 

"They sent me to a hospital for convalescents. Weeks after, I came out, feeble and hopeless, into my lonely life!

"Since then, God, who had taken from me the object I had set for myself, has filled its room with His own work. And, doing it, He has not deniedme to find many a chastened joy. 

"Dear young friend!" said he, with a tender, lingering emphasis--it wasall he could say then--all they had left him to say, if he would--"Ihave told you this, because you have come nearer into my sympathies thanany in all these years that have been my years of strangerhood andsorrow! You have made me think, in your fresh, maidenly life, and yoursoul earnestness, of Miriam!

"When your way broadens out into busy sunshine, and mine lies otherwise, do not forget me!"

A solemn baptism of mingled grief and joy seemed to touch the soul ofFaith. One hand covered her face, that was bowed down, weeping. Theother lay in her companion's, who had taken it as he uttered these lastwords. So it rested a moment, and then its fellow came to it, and, between the two, held Roger Armstrong's reverently, while the fair, tearful face lifted itself to his. 

"I do thank you so!" And that was all. 

Faith was his "dear, young friend!" How the words in which her motherlimited his thoughts of her to commonplace, widened, when she spoke themto herself, into a great beatitude! She never thought of more--scarcelywhether more could be. This great, noble, purified, God-loving soul thatstood between her and heaven, like the mountain peak, bathing its headin clouds, and drawing lightnings down, leaned over her, and blessed herthus!

She never suspected her own heart, even when the remembrance of Paulcame up and took a tenderness from the thought how he, too, might love, and learn from, this her friend. She turned back with a new gentlenessto all other love, as one does from a prayer!

CHAPTER XXIII. 

QUESTION AND ANSWER. 

"Unless you can swear, 'For life, for death!'Oh, fear to call it loving!" MRS. BROWNING. 

Faith sent Nurse Sampson in to talk with Mr. Armstrong. Then he learnedall that he had longed to know, but had never known before; that whichtook him to his lost bride's deathbed, and awoke out of the silent yearsfor him a moment refused to him in its passing. 

Miss Sampson came from her hour's interview, with an unbending of thehard lines of her face, and a softness, even, in her eyes, that told oftears. 

"If ever there was an angel that went walking about in black broadcloth, that man is the one, " said she. 

And that was all she would say. 

"I'm staying, " she explained, in answer to their inquiries, "with ahalf-sister of mine at Sedgely. Mrs. Crabe, the blacksmith's wife. Yousee, I'd got run down, and had to take a rest. Resting is as much a partof work as doing, when it's necessary. I had a chance to go to Europewith an invaleed lady; but I allers hate such halfway contrivances. Ieither want to work with all my might, or be lazy with all my might. Andso I've come here to do nothing, as hard as ever I can. "

"I know well enough, " she said again, afterwards, "that something'sbeing cut out for me, tougher'n anything I've had yet. I never had anhour's extra rest in my life, but I found out, precious soon, what ithad been sent for. I'm going to stay on all summer, as the doctor toldme to; but I'm getting strong, already; and I shall be just like a tigerbefore the year's out. And then it'll come, whatever it is. You'll see. "

Miss Sampson stayed until the next day after, and then Mr. Gartney droveher back to Sedgely. 

In those days it came to pass that Glory found she had a "follower. "

Luther Goodell, who "did round" at Cross Corners, got so into the way ofstraying up the field path, in his nooning hours, and after chores weredone at night, that Miss Henderson at last, in her plain, outrightfashion, took the subject up, and questioned Glory. 

"If it means anything, and you mean it shall mean anything, well andgood. I shall put up with it; though what anybody wants with men folkscluttering round, is more than I can understand. But, if you don't wanthim, he shan't come. So tell me the truth, child. Yes, or no. Have youany notion of him for a husband?"

Glory blushed her brightest at these words; but there was no falling ofthe eye, or faltering of the voice, as she spoke with answeringstraightforwardness and simplicity. 

"No ma'am. I don't think I shall ever have a husband. "

"No ma'am's enough. The rest you don't know anything about. Most likelyyou will. "

"I shouldn't want anybody, ma'am, that would be likely to want me. "

And Glory walked out into the milk room with the pans she had beenscalding. 

It was true. This woman-child would go all through life as she hadbegun; discerning always, and reaching spiritually after, that which wasbeyond; which in that "kingdom of heaven" was hers already; but which toearthly having and holding should never come. 

God puts such souls, oftener than we think, into such life. These areHis vestals. 

Miss Henderson's foot had not grown perfectly strong. She, herself, said, coolly, that she never expected it to. More than that, shesupposed, now she had begun, she should keep on going to pieces. 

"An old life, " she said, "is just like old cloth when it begins to tear. It'll soon go into the ragbag, and then to the mill that grinds all up, and brings us out new and white again!"

"Glory McWhirk, " said she, on another day after, "if you could do justthe thing you would like best to do, what would it be?"

"To-day, ma'am? or any time?" asked Glory, puzzled as to how much hermistress's question included. 

"Ever. If you had a home to live in, say, and money to spend?"

Glory had to wait a moment before she could so grasp such anextraordinary hypothesis as to reply. 

"Well?" said Miss Henderson, with slight impatience. 

"If I had--I should like best to find some little children, without anyfathers or mothers, as I was, and dress them up, as you did me, and curltheir hair, and make a real good time for them, every day!"

"You would! Well, that's all. I was curious to know what you'd say. Iguess those beans in the oven want more hot water. "

The Rushleighs had come to Lakeside. Every day, nearly, saw Paul, orMargaret, or both, at Cross Corners. 

Faith was often, also, at Lakeside. 

Old Mr. Rushleigh treated her with a benignant fatherliness, and lookedupon her with an evident fondness and pride that threw heavy weight inthe scale of his son's chances. And Madam Rushleigh, as she began to becalled, since Mrs. Philip had entered the family, petted her in the old, graceful, gracious fashion; and Margaret loved her, simply, and from herheart. 

With Paul himself, it had not been as in the days of bouquets, and"Germans, " and bridal association in Mishaumok. They were all living andenjoying together a beautiful idyl. Nothing seemed special--nothing wasembarrassing. 

Faith thought, in these days, that she was very happy. 

Mr. Armstrong relinquished her, almost imperceptibly, to her youngerfriends. In the pleasant twilights, though, when her day's pleasures andoccupations were ended, he would often come over, as of old, and sitwith them in the summer parlor, or under the elms. 

Or Faith would go up the beautiful Ridge walk with him; and he wouldhave a thought for her that was higher than any she could reach, byherself, or with the help of any other human soul. 

And the minister? How did his world look to him? Perhaps, as if cloudsthat had parted, sending a sunbeam across from the west upon the darksorrow of the morning, had shut again, inexorably, leaving him still totread the nightward path under the old, leaden sky. 

A day came, that set him thinking of all this--of the years that werepast, of those that might be to come. 

Mr. Armstrong was not quite so old as he had been represented. A mancannot go through plague and anguish, as he had, and "keep, " as NurseSampson had said, long ago, of women, "the baby face on. " There werelines about brow and mouth, and gleams in the hair, that seldom come soearly. 

This day he completed one-and-thirty years. 

The same day, last month, had been Faith's birthday. She was nineteen. 

Roger Armstrong thought of the two together. 

He thought of these twelve years that lay between them. Of the love--theloss--the stern and bitter struggle--the divine amends and holy hopethat they had brought to him; and then of the innocent girl life she hadbeen living in them; then, how the two paths had met so, in these lastfew, beautiful months. 

Whither, and how far apart, trended they now?

He could not see. He waited--leaving the end with God. 

A few weeks went by, in this careless, holiday fashion, with Faith andher friends; and then came the hour when she must face the truth forherself and for another, and speak the word of destiny for both. 

She had made a promise for a drive round the Pond Road. Margaret andher brother were to come for her, and to return to Cross Corners fortea. 

At the hour fixed, she sat, waiting, under the elms, hat and mantle on, and whiling the moments of delay with a new book Mr. Armstrong had lenther. 

Presently, the Rushleighs' light, open, single-seated wagon drove up. 

Paul had come alone. 

Margaret had a headache, but thought that after sundown she might feelbetter, and begged that Faith would reverse the plan agreed upon, andlet Paul bring her home to tea with them. 

Paul took for granted that Faith would keep to her engagement withhimself. It was difficult to refuse. She was ready, waiting. It would beabsurd to draw back, sensitively, now, she thought. Besides, it would bevery pleasant; and why should she be afraid? Yet she wished, veryregretfully, that Margaret were there. 

She shrank from _tête-à-têtes_--from anything that might help toprecipitate a moment she felt herself not quite ready for. 

She supposed she did care for Paul Rushleigh as most girls cared forlovers; that she had given him reason to expect she should; she felt, instinctively, whither all this pleased acquiescence of father andmother, and this warm welcome and encouragement at Lakeside, tended; andshe had a dim prescience of what must, some time, come of it: but thatwas all in the far-off by and by. She would not look at it yet. 

She was afraid, now, as she let Paul help her into the wagon, and takehis place at her side. 

She had been frightened by a word of her mother's, when she had gone toher, before leaving, to tell how the plan had been altered, and ask ifshe had better do as was wished of her. 

Mrs. Gartney had assented with a smile, and a "Certainly, if you likeit, Faith; indeed, I don't see how you can very well help it; only----"

"Only what, mother?" asked Faith, a little fearfully. 

"Nothing, dear, " answered her mother, turning to her with a littlecaress. But she had a look in her eyes that mothers wear when they beginto see their last woman's sacrifice demand itself at their hands. 

"Go, darling. Paul is waiting. "

It was like giving her away. 

So they drove down, through byways, among the lanes, toward the WachaugRoad. 

Summer was in her perfect flush and fullness of splendor. The smell ofnew-mown hay was in the air. 

As they came upon the river, they saw the workmen busy in and about thenew mills. Mr. Rushleigh's buggy stood by the fence; and he was there, among his mechanics, with his straw hat and seersucker coat on, inspecting and giving orders. 

"What a capital old fellow the governor is!" said Paul, in the fashionyoung men use, nowadays, to utter their affections. 

"Do you know he means to set me up in these mills he is making such ahobby of, and give me half the profits?"

Faith had not known. She thought him very good. 

"Yes; he would do anything, I believe, for me--or anybody I cared for. "

Faith was silent; and the strange fear came up in heart and throat. 

"I like Kinnicutt, thoroughly. "

"Yes, " said Faith. "It is very beautiful here. "

"Not only that. I like the people. I like their simple fashions. Onegets at human life and human nature here. I don't think I was ever, atheart, a city boy. I don't like living at arm's length from everybody. People come close together, in the country. And--Faith! what a ministeryou've got here! What a sermon that was he preached last Sunday! I'venever been what you might call one of the serious sort; but such asermon as that must do anybody good. "

Faith felt a warmth toward Paul as he said this, which was more adrawing of the heart than he had gained from her by all the rest. 

"My father says he will keep him here, if money can do it. He never goesto church at Lakeside, now. It needs just such a man among mill villageslike these, he says. My father thinks a great deal of his workpeople. Hesays nobody ought to bring families together, and build up aneighborhood, as a manufacturer does, and not look out for more than themoney. I think he'll expect a great deal of me, if he leaves me here, atthe head of it all. More than I can ever do, by myself. "

"Mr. Armstrong will be the very best help to you, " said Faith. "I thinkhe means to stay. I'm sure Kinnicutt would seem nothing without him, now. "

"Faith! Will you help me to make a home here?"

She could not speak. A great shock had fallen upon her whole nature, asif a thunderbolt she had had presentiment of, burst from a clear bluesky. 

They drove on for minutes, without another word. 

"Faith! You don't answer me. Must I take silence as I please? It can'tbe that you don't care for me!"

"No, no!" cried Faith, desperately, like one struggling for voicethrough a nightmare. "I do care. But--Paul! I don't know! I can't tell. Let me wait, please. Let me think. "

"As long as you like, darling, " said he, gently and tenderly. "You knowall I can tell you. You know I have cared for you all my life. And I'llwait now till you tell me I may speak again. Till you put on that littlering of mine, Faith!"

There was a little loving reproach in these last words. 

"Please take me home, now, Paul!"

They were close upon the return path around the Lake. A look ofdisappointed pain passed over Paul Rushleigh's features. This was hardlythe happy reception, however shy, he had hoped and looked for. Still hehoped, however. He could not think she did not care for him. She, whohad been the spring of his own thoughts and purposes for years. But, obedient to her wish, he touched his horse with the lash, and urged himhomeward. 

Paul helped her from the wagon at the little white gate at CrossCorners, and then they both remembered that she was to have gone toLakeside to tea. 

"What shall I tell Margaret?" he asked. 

"Oh, don't tell her anything! I mean--tell her, I couldn't cometo-night. And, Paul--forgive me! I do want so to do what is right!"

"Isn't it right to let me try and make you happy all your life?"

A light had broken upon her--confusedly, it is true--yet that began toshow her to herself more plainly than any glimpse she had had before, asPaul's words, simple, yet burning with his strong sure love, came toher, with their claim to honest answer. 

She saw what it was he brought her; she felt it was less she had to givehim back. There was something in the world she might go missing all theway through life, if she took this lot that lay before her now. Would henot miss a something in her, also? Yet, must she needs insist on thegreatest, the rarest, that God ever sends? Why should she, more thanothers? Would she wrong him more, to give him what she could, or torefuse him all?

"I ought--if I do--" she said, tremulously, "to care as you do!"

"You never can, Faith!" cried the young man, impetuously. "I care as aman cares! Let me love you! care a little for me, and let it grow tomore!"

Men, till something is accorded, are willing to take so little! And thenthe little must become so entire!

"Well, I declare!" exclaimed Mis' Battis, as Faith came in. "Who'd athought o' seein' you home to tea! I s'pose you ain't had none?"

"Yes--no. That is, I don't want any. Where is my mother?"

"She and your pa's gone down to Dr. Wasgatt's. I knew 'twould becontrary to the thirty-nine articles that they should get away fromthere without their suppers, and so I let the fire right down, andblacked the stove. "

"Never mind, " said Faith, abstractedly. "I don't feel hungry. " And shewent away, upstairs. 

"'M!" said Mis 'Battis, significantly, to herself, running a releasedknitting needle through her hair, "don't tell me! I've been through themill!"

Half an hour after, she came up to Faith's door. 

"The minister's downstairs, " said she. "Hope to goodness, he's had _his_supper!"

"Oh, if I dared!" thought Faith; and her heart throbbed tumultuously. "Why can't there be somebody to tell me what I ought to do?"

If she had dared, how she could have leaned upon this friend! How shecould have trusted her conscience and her fate to his decision!

"Does anything trouble you to-night, Miss Faith?" asked Mr. Armstrong, watching her sad, abstracted look in one of the silent pauses that broketheir attempts at conversation. "Are you ill, or tired?"

"Oh, no!" answered Faith, quickly, from the surface, as one often doeswhen thoughts lie deep. "I am quite well. Only--I am sometimes puzzled. "

"About what is? Or about what ought to be?"

"About doing. So much depends. I get so tired--feeling how responsibleeverything makes me. I wish I were a little child again! Or thatsomebody would just take me and tell me where to go, and where to stay, and what to do, and what not. From minute to minute, as the things comeup. "

Roger Armstrong, with his great, chastened soul, yearned over the childas she spoke; so gladly he would have taken her, at that moment, to hisheart, and bid her lean on him for all that man might give of help--oflove--of leading!

If she had told him, in that moment, all her doubt, as for the instantof his pause she caught her breath with swelling impulse to do!

"'And they shall all be led of God';" said the minister. "It is only tobe willing to take His way rather than one's own. All this that seems todepend painfully upon oneself, depends, then, upon Him. The act ishuman--the consequences become divine. "

Faith was silenced then. There was no appeal to human help from that. Her impulse throbbed itself away into a lonely passiveness again. 

There was a distance between these two that neither dared to pass. 

A word was spoken between mother and daughter as they parted for thenight. 

"Mother! I have such a thing to think of--to decide!"

It was whispered low, and with cheek hidden on her mother's neck, as thegood-night kiss was taken. 

"Decide for your own happiness, Faithie. We have seen and understood fora long time. If it is to be as we think, nothing could give us a greaterjoy for you. "

Ah! how much had father and mother seen and understood?

The daughter went her way, to wage her own battle in secret; to balanceand fix her decision between her own heart and God. So we find ourselvesleft, at the last, in all the great crises of our life. 

Late that night, while Mr. And Mrs. Gartney were felicitating eachother, cheerily, upon the great good that had fallen to the lot of theircherished child, that child sat by her open window, looking out into thesummer night; the tossing elm boughs whispering weird syllables in herears, and the stars looking down upon her soul struggle, so silently, from so far!

"Mr. Rushleigh's here!" shouted Hendie, precipitating himself, nextmorning, into the breakfast room, where, at a rather later hour thanusual, Mrs. Gartney and Faith were washing and wiping the silver andchina, and Mr. Gartney still lingered in his seat, finishing somebody'slong speech, reported in the evening paper of yesterday. 

"Mr. Rushleigh's here, on his long-tailed black horse! And he says he'llgive me a ride, but not yet. He wants to see papa. Make haste, papa. "

Faith dropped her towel, and as Mr. Gartney rose to go out and meet hisvisitor, just whispered, hurriedly, to her mother:

"I'll come down again. I'll see him before he goes. " And escaped up thekitchen staircase to her own room. 

Paul Rushleigh came, he told Mr. Gartney, because, although Faith hadnot authorized him to appeal to her father to ratify any consent ofhers, he thought it right to let him know what he had already said tohis daughter. He did not wish to hurry Faith. He only wished to standopenly with Mr. Gartney in the matter, and would wait, then, till sheshould be quite ready to give him her own answer. 

He explained the prospect his father offered him, and the likelihood ofhis making a permanent home at Kinnicutt. 

"That is, " he added, "if I am to be so happy as to have a home, anywhere, of my own. "

Mr. Gartney was delighted with the young man's unaffected warmth ofheart and noble candor. 

"I could not wish better for my daughter, Mr. Rushleigh, " he replied. "And she is a daughter whom I may fairly wish the best for, too. "

Mr. Gartney rose. "I will send Faith, " said he. 

"I do not _ask_ for her, " answered Paul, a flush of feeling showing inhis cheek. "I did not come, expecting it--my errand was one I owed toyourself--but Faith knows quite well how glad I shall be if she choosesto see me. "

As Mr. Gartney crossed the hall from parlor to sitting room, a lightstep came over the front staircase. 

Faith passed her father, with a downcast look, as he motioned with hishand toward the room where Paul stood, waiting. The bright color spreadto her temples as she glided in. 

She held, but did not wear, the little turquoise ring. 

Paul saw it, as he came forward, eagerly. 

A thrill of hope, or dread--he scarce knew which--quivered suddenly athis heart. Was he to take it back, or place it on her finger as apledge?

"I have been thinking, Paul, " said she, tremulously, and with eyes thatfell again away from his, after the first glance and greeting, "almostever since. And I do not think I ought to keep you waiting to know thelittle I can tell you. I do not think I understand myself. I cannottell, certainly, how I ought--how I do feel. I have liked you very much. And it was very pleasant to me before all this. I know you deserve to bemade very happy. And if it depends on me, I do not dare to say I willnot try to do it. If you think, yourself, that this is enough--that Ishall do the truest thing so--I will try. "

And the timid little fingers laid the ring into his hand, to do with ashe would. 

What else could Paul have done?

With the strong arm that should henceforth uphold and guard her, he drewher close; and with the other hand slipped the simply jeweled round uponher finger. For all word of answer, he lifted it, so encircled, to hislips. 

Faith shrank and trembled. 

Hendie's voice sounded, jubilant, along the upper floor, toward thestaircase. 

"I will go, now, if you wish. Perhaps I ought, " said Paul. "And yet, Iwould so gladly stay. May I come again, by and by?"

Faith uttered a half-audible assent, and as Hendie's step came nearerdown the stairs, and passed the door, straight out upon the grassplot, toward the gate, and the long-tailed black horse that stood there, sheescaped again to her own chamber. 

Hendie had his ride. Meanwhile, his sister, down upon her knees at herbedside, struggled with the mystery and doubt of her own heart. Whycould she not feel happier? Would it never be otherwise? Was this alllife had for her, in its holiest gift, henceforth? But, come what might, she would have God, always!

So, without words, only with tears, she prayed, and at last, grew calm. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

CONFLICT. 

"O Life, O Beyond, _Art_ thou fair!--_art_ thou sweet?" MRS. BROWNING. 

There followed days that almost won Faith back into her outward life ofpleasantness. 

Margaret came over with Madam Rushleigh, and felicitated herself andfriend, impetuously. Paul's mother thanked her for making her son happy. Old Mr. Rushleigh kissed her forehead with a blessing. And Mr. And Mrs. Gartney looked upon their daughter as with new eyes of love. Hendie rodethe black horse every day, and declared that "everything was just asjolly as it could be!"

Paul drove her out, and walked with her, and talked of his plans, andall they would do and have together. 

And she let herself be brightened by all this outward cheer and promise, and this looking forward to a happiness and use that were to come. Butstill she shrank and trembled at every loverlike caress, and still shesaid, fearfully, every now and then:

"Paul--I don't feel as you do. What if I don't love you as I ought?"

And Paul called her his little oversensitive, conscientious Faithie, andpersuaded himself and her that he had no fear--that he was quitesatisfied. 

When Mr. Armstrong came to see her, gravely and tenderly wishing herjoy, and looked searchingly into her face for the pure content thatshould be there, she bent her head into her hands, and wept. 

She was very weak, you say? She ought to have known her own mind better?Perhaps. I speak of her as she was. There are mistakes like these inlife; there are hearts that suffer thus, unconscious of their ail. 

The minister waited while the momentary burst of emotion subsided, andsomething of Faith's wonted manner returned. 

"It is very foolish of me, " she said, "and you must think me verystrange. But, somehow, tears come easily when one has been feeling agreat deal. And such kind words from you touch me. "

"My words and thoughts will always be kind for you, my child. And I knowvery well that tears may mean sweeter and deeper things than smiles. Iwill not try you with much talking now. You have my affectionate wishesand my prayers. If there is ever any help that I can give, to you whohave so much loving help about you, count on me as an earnest friend, always. "

The hour was past when Faith, if she could ever, could have asked of himthe help she did most sorely need. 

And so, with a gentle hand clasp, he went away. 

Mr. Gartney began to be restless about Michigan. He wanted to go and seethis wild estate of his. He would have liked to take his wife, now thathaying would soon be over, and he could spare the time from his farm, and make it a pleasant summer journey for them both. But he couldneither leave Faith, nor take her, well, it seemed. Hendie might go. Fathers always think their boys ready for the world when once they arefairly out of the nursery. 

One day, Paul came to Cross Corners with news. 

Mr. Rushleigh had affairs to be arranged and looked to, in NewYork--matters connected with the mills, which had, within a few weeks, begun to run; he had been there, once, about them; he could do all quitewell, now, by letter, and an authorized messenger; he could not just nowvery well leave Kinnicutt. Besides, he wanted Paul to see and know hisbusiness friends, and to put himself in the way of valuable businessinformation. Would Faith spare him for a week or two--he bade his son toask. 

Madam Rushleigh would accompany Paul; and before his return he would gowith his mother to Saratoga, where her daughter Gertrude and Mrs. PhilipRushleigh were, and where he was to leave her for the remainder of theirstay. 

Margaret liked Kinnicutt better than any watering-place; and she and herfather had made a little plan of their own, which, if Faith would goback with him, they would explain to her. 

So Faith went over to Lakeside to tea, and heard the plan. 

"We are going to make our first claim upon you, Faith, " said the elderMr. Rushleigh, as he led his daughter-in-law elect out on the broadpiazza under the Italian awnings, when the slight summer evening repastwas ended. "We want to borrow you, while madam and the yonker are gone. Your father tells me he wishes to make a Western journey. Now, why notsend him off at this very time? I think your mother intends accompanyinghim?"

"It had been talked of, " Faith said; "and perhaps her father would bevery glad to go when he could leave her in such good keeping. She wouldtell him what Mr. Rushleigh had been so kind as to propose. "

It was a suggestion of real rest to Faith--this free companionship withMargaret again, in the old, girlish fashion--and the very thoughtfullook, that was almost sad, which had become habitual to her face, oflate, brightened into the old, careless pleasure, as she spoke. 

Old Mr. Rushleigh saw something in this that began to seem to him morethan mere maidenly shyness. 

By and by, Margaret called her brother to sing with her. 

"Come, Faithie, " said Paul, drawing her gently by the hand. "I can'tsing unless you go, too. "

Faith went; more, it seemed, of his will, than her own. 

"How does that appear to you?" said Mr. Rushleigh to his wife. "Is itall right? Does the child care for Paul?"

"Care!" exclaimed the mother, almost surprised into too audible speech. "How can she help caring? And hasn't it grown up from childhood withthem? What put such a question into your head? I should as soon think ofdoubting whether I cared for you. "

It was easier for the father to doubt, jealously, for his son, than forthe mother to conceive the possibility of indifference in the woman herboy had chosen. 

"Besides, " added Mrs. Rushleigh, "why, else, should she have acceptedhim? I _know_ Faith Gartney is not mercenary, or worldly ambitious. "

"I am quite sure of that, as well, " answered her husband. "It is nodoubt of her motive or her worth--I can't say it is really a doubt ofanything; but, Gertrude, she must not marry the boy unless her wholeheart is in it! A sharp stroke is better than a lifelong pain. "

"I'm sure I can't tell what has come over you! She can't ever havethought of anybody else! And she seems quite one of ourselves. "

"Yes; that's just the uncertainty, " replied Mr. Rushleigh. "Whether itisn't as much Margaret, and you and I, as Paul. Whether she fully knowswhat she is about. She can't marry the family, you know. We shall die, and go off, and Heaven knows what; Paul must be the whole world to her, or nothing. I hope he hasn't hurried her--or let her hurry herself. "

"Hurry! She has had years to make up her mind in!"

Mrs. Rushleigh, woman as she was, would not understand. 

"We shall go, in three days, " said Paul, when he stood in the moonlightwith Faith at the little white gate under the elms, after driving herhome; "and I must have you all the time to myself, until then!"

Faith wondered if it were right that she shouldn't quite care to be "hadall the time to himself until then"? Whether such demonstrativeness andexclusiveness of affection was ever a little irksome to others as toher?

Faith thought and questioned, often, what other girls might feel inpositions like her own, and tried to judge herself by them; itabsolutely never occurred to her to think how it might have been ifanother than Paul had stood in this relation toward herself. 

The young man did not quite have his own way, however. His father wentdown to Mishaumok on one of the three days, and left him in charge atthe mills; and there were people to see, and arrangements to make; butsome part of each day he did manage to devote to Faith, and they hadwalking and driving together, and every night Paul stayed to tea atCross Corners. 

On the last evening, they sat together, by the hillside door, in thesummer parlor. 

"Faithie, " said Paul, a little suddenly, "there is something you must dofor me--do you know?"

"What is it?" asked Faith, quite calmly. 

"You must wear this, now, and keep the forget-me-not for a guard. "

He held her hand, that wore the ring, in one of his, and there was aflash of diamonds as he brought the other toward it. 

Then Faith gave a quick, strange cry. 

"I can't! I can't! Oh, Paul! don't ask me!" And her hand was drawn fromthe clasp of his, and her face was hidden in both her own. 

Paul drew back--hurt, silent. 

"If I could only wait!" she murmured. "I don't dare, yet!"

She could wear the forget-me-not, as she wore the memory of all theirlong young friendship, it belonged to the past; but this definite pledgefor the future--these diamonds!

"Do you not quite belong to me, even yet?" asked Paul, with aresentment, yet a loving and patient one, in his voice. 

"I told you, " said Faith, "that I would try--to be to you as you wish;but Paul! if I couldn't be so, truly?--I don't know why I feel souncertain. Perhaps it is because you care for me too much. Your thoughtfor me is so great, that mine, when I look at it, never seems worthy. "

Paul was a man. He could not sue, too cringingly, even for FaithGartney's love. 

"And I told you, Faith, that I was satisfied to be allowed to love you. That you should love me a little, and let it grow to more. But if it isnot love at all--if I frighten you, and repel you--I have no wish tomake you unhappy. I must let you go. And yet--oh, Faith!" he cried--thesternness all gone, and only the wild love sweeping through his heart, and driving wild words before it--"it can't be that it is no love, afterall! It would be too cruel!"

At those words, "I must let you go, " spoken apparently with calmness, asif it could be done, Faith felt a bound of freedom in her soul. If hewould let her go, and care for her in the old way, only as a friend! Butthe strong passionate accents came after; and the old battle of doubtand pity and remorse surged up again, and the cloud of their strifedimmed all perception, save that she was very, very wretched. 

She sobbed, silently. 

"Don't let us say good-by, so, " said Paul. "Don't let us quarrel. Wewill let all wait, as you wish, till I come home again. "

So he still clung to her, and held her, half bound. 

"And your father, Paul? And Margaret? How can I let them receive me asthey do--how can I go to them as I have promised, in all thisindecision?"

"They want you, Faith, for your own sake. There is no need for you todisappoint them. It is better to say nothing more until we do know. Iask it of you--do not refuse me this--to let all rest just here; to makeno difference until I come back. You will let me write, Faith?"

"Why, yes, Paul, " she said, wonderingly. 

It was so hard for her to comprehend that it could not be with him, anylonger, as it had been; that his written or his spoken word could notbe, for a time, at least, mere friendly any more. 

And so she gave him, unwittingly, this hope to go with. 

"I think you _do_ care for me, Faith, if you only knew it!" said he, half sadly and very wistfully, as they parted. 

"I do care, very much, " Faith answered, simply and earnestly. "I nevercan help caring. It is only that I am afraid I care so differently fromyou!"

She was nearer loving him at that moment, than she had ever been. 

Who shall attempt to bring into accord the seeming contradictions of awoman's heart?

CHAPTER XXV. 

A GAME AT CHESS. 

"Life's burdens fall, its discords cease, I lapse into the glad releaseOf nature's own exceeding peace. " WHITTIER. 

"I don't see, " said Aunt Faith, "why the child can't come to me, Henderson, while you and Elizabeth are away. I don't believe in puttingyourself under obligations to people till you're sure they're going tobe something to you. Things don't always turn out according to theAlmanac. "

"She goes just as she always has gone to the Rushleighs, " replied Mr. Gartney. "Paul is to be away. It is a visit to Margaret. Still, I shallbe absent at least a fortnight, and it might be well that she shoulddivide her time, and come to Cross Corners for a few days, if it is onlyto see the house opened and ready. Luther can have a bed here, if Mis'Battis should be afraid. "

Mis' Battis was to improve the fortnight's interval for a visit toFactory Village. 

"Well, fix it your own way, " said Miss Henderson. "I'm ready for her, any time. Only, if she's going to peak and pine as she has done eversince this grand match was settled for her, Glory and I'll have ourhands full, nursing her, by then you get back!"

"Faith is quite well, " said Mrs. Gartney. "It is natural for a girl tobe somewhat thoughtful when she decides for herself such an importantrelation. "

"Symptoms differ, in different cases. _I_ should say she was taking itpretty hard, " said the old lady. 

Mr. And Mrs. Gartney left home on Monday. 

Faith and Mis' Battis remained in the house a few hours after, settingall things in that dreary "to rights" before leaving, which is almost, in its chillness and silence, like burial array. Glory came over tohelp; and when all was done--blinds shut, windows and doors fastened, fire out, ashes removed--stove blackened--Luther drove Mis' Battis andher box over to Mrs. Pranker's, and Glory took Faith's little bag forher to the Old House. 

This night she was to stay with her aunt. She wanted just this littlepause and quiet before going to the Rushleighs'. 

"Tell Aunt Faith I'm coming, " said she, as she let herself and Glory outat the front door, and then, locking it, put the key in her pocket. "I'll just walk up over the Ridge first, for a little coolness andquiet, after this busy day. "

There was the peace of a rested body and soul upon her face when shecame down again a half hour after, and crossed the lane, and entered, through the stile, upon the field path to the Old House. Heart and willhad been laid asleep--earthly plan and purpose had been put aside in alltheir incompleteness and uncertainty--and only God and Nature had beenpermitted to come near. 

Mr. Armstrong walked down and met her midway in the field. 

"How beautiful mere simpleness and quiet are, " said Faith. "The coollook of trees and grass, and the stillness of this evening time, arebetter even than flowers, and bright sunlight, and singing of birds!"

"'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside thestill waters: He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths ofrighteousness for His name's sake. '"

They did not disturb the stillness by more words. They came uptogether, in the hush and shadow, to the pleasant doorstone, thatoffered its broad invitation to their entering feet, and where AuntFaith at this moment stood, watching and awaiting them. 

"Go into the blue bedroom, and lay off your things, child, " she said, giving Faith a kiss of welcome, "and then come back and we'll have ourtea. "

Faith disappeared through passages and rooms beyond. 

Aunt Henderson turned quickly to the minister. 

"You're her spiritual adviser, ain't you?" she asked, abruptly. 

"I ought to be, " answered Mr. Armstrong. 

"Why don't you advise her, then?"

"Spiritually, I do and will, in so far as so pure a spirit can need ahelp from me. But--I think I know what you mean, Miss Henderson--spiritand heart are two. I am a man; and she is--what you know. "

Miss Henderson's keen eyes fixed themselves, for a minute, piercinglyand unflinchingly, on the minister's face. Then she turned, without aword, and went into the house to see the tea brought in. She knew, now, all there was to tell. 

Faith's face interpreted itself to Mr. Armstrong. He saw that sheneeded, that she would have, rest. Rest, this night, from all that oflate had given her weariness and trouble. So, he did not even talk toher in the way they mostly talked together; he would not rouse, ever sodistantly, thought, that might, by so many subtle links, bear round uponher hidden pain. But he brought, after tea, a tiny chessboard, and setthe delicate carved men upon it, and asked her if she knew the game. 

"A little, " she said. "What everybody always owns to knowing--themoves. "

"Suppose we play. "

It was a very pleasant novelty--sitting down with this grave, earnestfriend to a game of skill--and seeing him bring to it all the resourceof power and thought that he bent, at other times, on more importantwork. 

"Not that, Miss Faith! You don't mean that! You put your queen indanger. "

"My queen is always a great trouble to me, " said Faith, smiling, as sheretracted the half-made move. "I think I do better when I give her up inexchange. "

"Excuse me, Miss Faith; but that always seems to me a cowardly sort ofgame. It is like giving up a great power in life because one is too weakto claim and hold it. "

"Only I make you lose yours, too. "

"Yes, there is a double loss and inefficiency. Does that make a bettergame, or one pleasanter to play?"

"There are two people, in there, talking riddles; and they don't evenknow it, " said Miss Henderson to her handmaid, in the kitchen close by. 

Perhaps Mr. Armstrong, as he spoke, did discern a possible deepersignificance in his own words; did misgive himself that he might rousethoughts so; at any rate, he made rapid, skillful movements on theboard, that brought the game into new complications, and taxed allFaith's attention to avert their dangers to herself. 

For half an hour, there was no more talking. 

Then Faith's queen was put in helpless peril. 

"I must give her up, " said she. "She is all but gone. "

A few moves more, and all Faith's hope depended on one little pawn, thatmight be pushed to queen and save her game. 

"How one does want the queen power at the last!" said she. "And how mucheasier it is to lose it, than to get it back!"

"It is like the one great, leading possibility, that life, in some sort, offers each of us, " said Mr. Armstrong. "Once lost--once missed--we maystruggle on without it--we may push little chances forward to partialamends; but the game is changed; its soul is gone. "

As he spoke he made the move that led to obvious checkmate. 

Glory came in to the cupboard, now, and began putting up the tea thingsshe had brought from washing. 

Mr. Armstrong had done just what, at first, he had meant not to do. Hadhe bethought himself better, and did he seize the opening to give vaguewarning where he might not speak more plainly? Or, had his habit, as aman of thought, discerning quick meaning in all things, betrayed himinto the instant's forgetfulness?

However it might be, Glory caught glimpse of two strange, pained facesover the little board and its mystic pieces. 

One, pale--downcast--with expression showing a sudden pang; the other, suffering also, yet tender, self-forgetful, loving--looking on. 

"I don't know whichever is worst, " she said afterwards, without apparentsuggestion of word or circumstance, to her mistress; "to see thebeautiful times that there are in the world, and not be in 'em--or tosee people that might be in 'em, and ain't!"

They were all out on the front stoop, later. They sat in the cool, summer dusk, and looked out between the arched lattices where the vinesclimbed up, seeing the stars rise, far away, eastwardly, in the blue;and Mr. Armstrong, talking with Faith, managed to win her back into thecalm he had, for an instant, broken; and to keep her from pursuing thethought that by and by would surely come back, and which she wouldsurely want all possible gain of strength to grapple with. 

Faith met his intention bravely, seconding it with her own. Thesehours, to the last, should still be restful. She would not think, to-night, of those words that had startled her so--of all they suggestedor might mean--of life's great possibility lost to him, away back in thesorrowful past, as she also, perhaps was missing it--relinquishingit--now. 

She knew not that his thought had been utterly self-forgetful. Shebelieved that he had told her, indirectly, of himself, when he hadspoken those dreary syllables--"the game is changed. Its soul is gone!"

CHAPTER XXVI. 

LAKESIDE. 

"Look! are the southern curtains drawn?Fetch me a fan, and so begone! · · · · ·Rain me sweet odors on the air, And wheel me up my Indian chair;And spread some book not overwiseFlat out before my sleepy eyes. " O. W. HOLMES. 

The Rushleighs' breakfast room at Lakeside was very lovely in a summer'smorning. 

Looking off, northwestwardly, across the head of the Pond, the longwindows, opening down to the piazza, let in all the light and joy of theearly day, and that indescribable freshness born from the union of woodsand water. 

Faith had come down long before the others, this fair Wednesday morning. 

Mr. Rushleigh found her, when he entered, sitting by a window--a bookupon her lap, to be sure--but her eyes away off over the lake, and alook in them that told of thoughts horizoned yet more distantly. 

Last night, he had brought home Paul's first letter. 

When he gave it to her, at tea time, with a gay and kindly word, thecolor that deepened vividly upon her face, and the quiet way in whichshe laid it down beside her plate, were nothing strange, perhaps;but--was he wrong? the eyes that drooped so quickly as the blushes rose, and then lifted themselves again so timidly to him as he next addressedher, were surely brimmed with feeling that was not quite, or whollyglad. 

And now, this wistful, silent, musing, far-off look!

"Good morning, Faithie!"

"Good morning. " And the glance came back--the reverie wasbroken--Faith's spirit informed her visible presence again, and badehim true and gentle welcome. "You haven't your morning paper yet? I'llbring it. Thomas left it in the library, I think. He came back from theearly train, half an hour ago. "

"Can't you women tell what's the matter with each other?" said Mr. Rushleigh to his daughter, who entered by the other door, as Faith wentout into the hall. "What ails Faith, Margaret?"

"Nothing of consequence, I think. She is tired with all that has beengoing on, lately. And then she's the shyest little thing!"

"It's a sort of shyness that don't look so happy as it might, it seemsto me. And what has become of Paul's diamonds, I wonder? I went with himto choose some, last week. I thought I should see them next upon herfinger. "

Margaret opened her eyes widely. Of course, this was the first she hadheard of the diamonds. Where could they be, indeed? Was anything wrong?They had not surely quarreled!

Faith came in with the paper. Thomas brought up breakfast. Andpresently, these three, with all their thoughts of and for each other, that reached into the long years to come, and had their roots in allthat had gone by, were gathered at the table, seemingly with no furtheranxiety than to know whether one or another would have toast ormuffins--eggs or raspberries. 

Do we not--and most strangely and incomprehensively--live two lives?

"I must write to my mother, to-day, " said Margaret, when her father haddriven away to the mills, and they had brought in a few fresh flowersfrom the terrace for the vases, and had had a little morning music, which Margaret always craved, "as an overture, " she said, "to the day. "

"I must write to my mother; and you, I suppose, will be busy withanswering Paul?"

A little consciousness kept her from looking straight in Faith's face, as she spoke. Had she done so, she might have seen that a paleness cameover it, and that the lips trembled. 

"I don't know, " was the answer. "Perhaps not, to-day. "

"Not to-day? Won't he be watching every mail? I don't know much aboutit, to be sure; but I fancied lovers were such uneasy, exactingcreatures!"

"Paul is very patient, " said Faith--not lightly, as Margaret had spoken, but as one self-reproached, almost, for abusing patience--"and they goto-morrow to Lake George. He won't look for a letter until he gets toSaratoga. "

She had calculated her time as if it were the minutes of a reprieve. 

When Paul Rushleigh, with his mother, reached Saratoga, he found twoletters there, for him. One kind, simple, but reticent, from Faith--amere answer to that which she could answer, of his own. The other wasfrom his father. 

"There seems, " he wrote to his son, toward the close, "to be a littlecloud upon Faith, somehow. Perhaps it is one you would not wish away. Itmay brighten up and roll off, at your return. You, possibly, understandit better than I. Yet I feel, in my strong anxiety for your true good, impelled to warn you against letting her deceive herself and you, bygiving you less than, for her own happiness and yours, she ought to beable to give. Do not marry the child, Paul, if there can be a doubt ofher entire affection for you. You had better go through life alone, thanwith a wife's half love. If you have reason to imagine that she feelsbound by anything in the past to what the present cannot heartilyratify--release her. I counsel you to this, not more in justice to her, than for the saving of your own peace. She writes you to-day. It may bethat the antidote comes with the hurt. I may be quite mistaken. But Ihurt you, my son, only to save a sorer pain. Faith is true. If she saysshe loves you, believe her, and take her, though all the world shoulddoubt. But if she is fearful--if she hesitates--be fearful, and hesitateyourself, lest your marriage be no true marriage before Heaven!"

Paul Rushleigh thanked his father, briefly, for his admonition, inreply. He wrote, also, to Faith--affectionately, but with something, atlast, of her own reserve. He should not probably write again. In a week, or less, he would be home. 

And behind, and beyond all this, that could be put on paper, was thehope of a life--the sharp doubt of days--waiting the final word!

In a week, he would be home! A week! It might bring much!

Wednesday had come round again. 

Dinner was nearly ended at Lakeside. Cool jellies, and creams, andfruits, were on the table for dessert. Steaming dishes of meats andvegetables had been gladly sent away, but slightly partaken. The day wassultry. Even now, at five in the afternoon, the heat was hardlymitigated from that of midday. 

They lingered over their dessert, and spoke, rather languidly, of whatmight be done after. 

"For me, " said Mr. Rushleigh, "I must go down to the mills again, beforenight. If either, or both of you, like a drive, I shall be glad to haveyou with me. "

"Those hot mills!" exclaimed Margaret. "What an excursion to propose!"

"I could find you a very cool corner, even in those hot mills, " repliedher father. "My little sanctum, upstairs, that overlooks the river, andgets its breezes, is the freshest place I have been in, to-day. Will yougo, Faith?"

"Oh, yes! she'll go! I see it in her eyes!" said Margaret. "She isgetting to be as much absorbed in all those frantic looms andthings--that set me into a fever just to think of, whizzing and hummingall day long in this horrible heat--as you are! I believe she expects tohelp Paul overseer the factory, one of these days, she is so fierce topeer into and understand everything about it. Or else, she meansmischief! You had a funny look in your face, Faithie, the other day, when you stood there by the great rope that hoists the water gate, andMr. Blasland was explaining it to us!"

"I was thinking, I remember, " said Faith, "what a strange thing it wasto have one's hand on the very motive power of it all. To see thosegreat looms, and wheels, and cylinders, and spindles, we had beenlooking at, and hear nothing but their deafening roar all about us, andto think that even I, standing there with my hand upon the rope, mighthush it all, and stop the mainspring of it in a minute!"

Ah, Faithie! Did you think, as you said this, how your little hand lay, otherwise, also, on the mainspring and motive of it all? One of thethree, at least, thought of it, as you spoke. 

"Well--your heart's in the spindles, I see!" rejoined Margaret. "So, don't mind me. I haven't a bit of a plan for your entertainment, here. Ishouldn't, probably, speak to you, if you stayed. It's too hot foranything but a book, and a fan, and a sofa by an open window!"

Faith laughed; but, before she could reply, a chaise rolled up to theopen front door, and the step and voice of Dr. Wasgatt were heard, as heinquired for Miss Gartney. 

Faith left her seat, with a word of excuse, and met him in the hall. 

"I had a patient up this way, " said he, "and came round to bring you amessage from Miss Henderson. Nothing to be frightened at, in the least;only that she isn't quite so well as ordinary, these last hot days, andthought perhaps you might as lief come over. She said she was expectingyou for a visit there, before your folks get back. No, thank you"--asFaith motioned to conduct him to the drawing-room--"can't come in. SorryI couldn't offer to take you down; but I've got more visits to make, andthey lie round the other way. "

"Is Aunt Faith ill?"

"Well--no. Not so but that she'll be spry again in a day or two;especially if the weather changes. That ankle of hers is troublesome, and she had something of an ill turn last night, and called me over thismorning. She seems to have taken a sort of fancy that she'd like to haveyou there. "

"I'll come. "

And Faith went back, quickly, as Dr. Wasgatt departed, to make hiserrand known, and to ask if Mr. Rushleigh would mind driving her roundto Cross Corners, after going to his mills. 

"Wait till to-morrow, Faithie, " said Margaret, in the tone of one whomit fatigues to think of an exertion, even for another. "You'll want yourbox with you, you know; and there isn't time for anything to-night. "

"I think I ought to go now, " answered Faith. "Aunt Henderson nevercomplains for a slight ailment, and she might be ill again, to-night. Ican take all I shall need before to-morrow in my little morocco bag. Iwon't keep you waiting a minute, " she added, turning to Mr. Rushleigh. 

"I can wait twenty, if you wish, " he answered kindly. 

But in less than ten, they were driving down toward the river. 

Margaret Rushleigh had betaken herself to her own cool chamber, wherethe delicate straw matting, and pale green, leaf-patterned chintz ofsofa, chairs, and hangings, gave a feeling of the last degree of summerlightness and daintiness, and the gentle air breathed in from thesouthwest, sifted, on the way, of its sunny heat, by the green draperiesof vine and branch it wandered through. 

Lying there, on the cool, springy cushions of her couch--turning thefresh-cut leaves of the August _Mishaumok_--she forgot the wheels andthe spindles--the hot mills, and the ceaseless whir. 

Just at that moment of her utter comfort and content, a young factorygirl dropped, fainting, in the dizzy heat, before her loom. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

AT THE MILLS. 

"For all day the wheels are droning, turning, --Their wind comes in our faces, --Till our hearts turn, --our head with pulses burning, --And the walls turn in their places. " MRS. BROWNING. 

Faith sat silent by Mr. Rushleigh's side, drinking in, also, with a coolcontent, the river air that blew upon their faces as they drove along. 

"Faithie!" said Paul's father, a little suddenly, at last--"do you knowhow true a thing you said a little while ago?"

"How, sir?" asked Faith, not perceiving what he meant. 

"When you spoke of having your hand on the mainspring of all this?"

And he raised his right arm, motioning with the slender whip he held, along the line of factory buildings that lay before them. 

A deep, blazing blush burned, at his words, over Faith's cheek and brow. She sat and suffered it under his eye--uttering not a syllable. 

"I knew you did _not_ know. You did not think of it so. Yet it is true, none the less. Faith! Are you happy? Are you satisfied?"

Still a silence, and tears gathering in the eyes. 

"I do not wish to distress you, my dear. It is only a little word Ishould like to hear you speak. I must, so far as I can, see that mychildren are happy, Faith. "

"I suppose, " said Faith, tremulously, struggling to speech--"one cannotexpect to be utterly happy in this world. "

"One does expect it, forgetting all else, at the moment when is givenwhat seems to one life's first, great good--the earthly good that comesbut once. I remember my own youth, Faithie. Pure, present content isseldom overwise. "

"Only, " said Faith, still tremblingly, "that the responsibility comeswith the good. That feeling of having one's hand upon the mainspring isa fearful one. "

"I am not given, " said Mr. Rushleigh, "to quoting Bible at all times;but you make a line of it come up to me. 'There is no fear in love. Perfect love casteth out fear. '"

"Be sure of yourself, dear child. Be sure you are content and happy; andtell me so, if you can; or, tell me otherwise, if you must, without areserve or misgiving, " he said again, as they drove down the millentrance; and their conversation, for the time, came, necessarily, to anend. 

Coming into the mill yard, they were aware of a little commotion aboutone of the side doors. 

The mill girl who had fainted sat here, surrounded by two or three ofher companions, slowly recovering. 

"It is Mary Grover, sir, from up at the Peak, " said one of them, inreply to Mr. Rushleigh's question. "She hasn't been well for some days, but she's kept on at her work, and the heat, to-day, was too much forher. She'd ought to be got home, if there was any way. She can't everwalk. "

"I'll take her, myself, " said the mill owner, promptly. "Keep her quiethere a minute or two, while I go in and speak to Blasland. "

But first he turned to Faith again. "What shall I do with you, mychild?"

"Dear Mr. Rushleigh, " said she, with all her gratitude for his justspoken kindness to herself and her appreciation of his ready sympathyfor the poor workgirl, in her voice--"don't think of me! It's lovely outthere over the footbridge, and in the fields; and that way, thedistance is nearly nothing to Aunt Faith's. I should like thewalk--really. "

"Thank you, " said Mr. Rushleigh. "I believe you would. Then I'll takeMary Grover up to the Peak. "

And he shook her hand, and left her standing there, and went up into themill. 

Two of the girls who had come out with Mary Grover, followed him andreturned to their work. One, sitting with her in the doorway, on one ofthe upper steps, and supporting her yet dizzy head upon her shoulder, remained. 

Faith asked if she could do anything, and was answered, no, with thanks. 

She turned away, then, and walked over the planking above the race way, toward the river, where a pretty little footbridge crossed it here, fromthe end of the mill building. 

Against this end, projected, on this side, a square, tower-likeappendage to the main structure, around which one must pass to reach thefootbridge. A door at the base opened upon a staircase leading up. Thiswas the entrance to Mr. Rushleigh's "sanctum, " above, whichcommunicated, also, with the second story of the mill. 

Here Faith paused. She caught, from around the corner, a sound of theangry voices of men. 

"I tell you, I'll stay here till I see the boss!"

"I tell you, the boss won't see you. He's done with you. "

"Let him _be_ done with me, then; and not go spoiling my chance withother people! I'll see it out with him, somehow, yet. "

"Better not threaten. He won't go out of his way to meddle with you;only it's no use your sending anybody here after a character. He's oneof the sort that speaks the truth and shames the devil. "

"I'll let him know he ain't boss of the whole country round! D----d if Idon't!"

Faith turned away from hearing more of this, and from facing thespeakers; and took refuge up the open staircase. 

Above--in the quiet little countingroom, shut off by double doors at theright from the great loom chamber of the mill, and opening at the frontby a wide window upon the river that ran tumbling and flashing below, spanned by the graceful little bridge that reached the green slope ofthe field beyond--it was so cool and pleasant--so still with continuousand softened sound--that Faith sat down upon the comfortable sofa there, to rest, to think, to be alone, a little. 

She had Paul's letter in her pocket; she had his father's words freshupon ear and heart. A strange peace came over her, as she placed herselfhere; as if, somehow, a way was soon to be opened and made clear to her. As if she should come to know herself, and to be brave to act as Godshould show her how. 

She heard, presently, Mr. Rushleigh's voice in the mill yard, and thenthe staircase door closed and locked below. Thinking that he should behere no more, to-night, he had shut and fastened it. 

It was no matter. She would go through the mill, by and by, and look atthe looms; and so out, and over the river, then, to Aunt Faith's. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

LOCKED IN. 

"How idle it is to call certain things godsends! as if there wereanything else in the world. "--HARE. 

It is accounted a part of the machinery of invention when, in a story, several coincident circumstances, that apart, would have had nonoticeable result, bear down together, with a nice and sure calculationupon some catastrophe or _dénouement_ that develops itself therefrom. 

Last night, a man--an employee in Mr. Rushleigh's factory--had been keptawake by one of his children, taken suddenly ill. A slight matter--butit has to do with our story. 

Last night, also, Faith--Paul's second letter just received--had lainsleepless for hours, fighting the old battle over, darkly, of doubt, pity, half-love, and indecision. She had felt, or had thought shefelt--thus, or so--in the days that were past. Why could she not be sureof her feeling now?

The new wine in the old bottles--the new cloth in the oldgarment--these, in Faith's life, were at variance. What satisfied once, satisfied no longer. Was she to blame? What ought she to do? There was aseething--a rending. Poor heart, that was likely to be burst andtorn--wonderingly, helplessly--in the half-comprehended struggle!

So it happened, that, tired with all this, sore with its daily pressureand recurrence, this moment of strange peace came over her, and soothedher into rest. 

She laid herself back, there, on the broad, soft, old-fashioned sofa, and with the river breeze upon her brow, and the song of its waters inher ears, and the deadened hum of the factory rumbling on--she fellasleep. 

How long it had been, she could not tell; she knew not whether it wereevening, or midnight, or near the morning; but she felt cold andcramped; everything save the busy river was still, and the daylight wasall gone, and stars out bright in the deep, moonless sky, when sheawoke. 

Awoke, bewilderedly, and came slowly to the comprehension that she washere alone. That it was night--that nobody could know it--that she waslocked up here, in the great dreary mill. 

She raised herself upon the sofa, and sat in a terrified amaze. She tookout her watch, and tried to see, by the starlight, the time. The slenderblack hands upon its golden face were invisible. It ticked--it wasgoing. She knew, by that, it could not be far beyond midnight, at themost. She was chilly, in her white dress, from the night air. She wentto the open window, and looked out from it, before she drew it down. Away, over the fields, and up and down the river, all was dark, solitary. 

Nobody knew it--she was here alone. 

She shut the window, softly, afraid of the sounds herself might make. She opened the double doors from the countingroom, and stood on theouter threshold, and looked into the mill. The heavy looms were still. They stood like great, dead creatures, smitten in the midst of busymotion. There was an awfulness in being here, the only breathing, movingthing--in darkness--where so lately had been the deafening hum ofrolling wheels, and clanking shafts, and flying shuttles, and busy, moving human figures. It was as if the world itself were stopped, andshe forgotten on its mighty, silent course. 

Should she find her way to the great bell, ring it, and make an alarm?She thought of this; and then she reasoned with herself that she washardly so badly off, as to justify her, quite, in doing that. It wouldrouse the village, it would bring Mr. Rushleigh down, perhaps--it wouldcause a terrible alarm. And all that she might be spared a few hourslonger of loneliness and discomfort. She was safe. It would soon bemorning. 

The mill would be opened early. She would go back to the sofa, and tryto sleep again. Nobody could be anxious about her. The Rushleighssupposed her to be at Cross Corners. Her aunt would think her detainedat Lakeside. It was really no great matter. She would be brave, andquiet. 

So she shut the double doors again, and found a coat of Paul's, or Mr. Rushleigh's, in the closet of the countingroom, and lay down upon thesofa, covering herself with that. 

For an hour or more, her heart throbbed, her nerves were excited, shecould not sleep. But at last she grew calmer, her thought wandered fromher actual situation--became indistinct--and slumber held her again, dreamily. 

There was another sleeper, also, in the mill whom Faith knew nothing of. 

Michael Garvin, the night watchman--the same whose child had been illthe night before--when Faith came out into the loom chamber, had left itbut a few minutes, going his silent round within the building, andrecording his faithfulness by the half-hour pin upon the watch clock. Six times he had done this, already. It was half past ten. 

He had gone up, now, by the stairs from the weaving room, into the thirdstory. These stairs ascended at the front, from within the chamber. 

Michael Garvin went on nearly to the end of the room above--stopped, andlooked out at a window. All still, all safe apparently. 

He was very tired. What harm in lying down somewhere in a corner, forfive minutes? He need not shut his eyes. He rolled his coat up for apillow, and threw it against the wall beneath the window. The nextinstant he had stretched his stalwart limbs along the floor, and beforeten minutes of his seventh half hour were spent--long before Faith, whothought herself all alone in the great building, had lost consciousnessof her strange position--he was fast asleep. 

Fast asleep, here, in the third story!

So, since the days of the disciples, men have grown heavy and forgottentheir trust. So they have slumbered upon decks, at sea. So sentinelshave lain down at picket posts, though they knew the purchase of thathour of rest might be the leaden death!

Faith Gartney dreamed, uneasily. 

She thought herself wandering, at night, through the deserted streets ofa great city. She seemed to have come from somewhere afar off, and tohave no place to go to. 

Up and down, through avenues sometimes half familiar, sometimes whollyunknown, she went wearily, without aim, or end, or hope. "Tired! tired!tired!" she seemed to say to herself. "Nowhere to rest--nobody to takecare of me!"

Then--city, streets, and houses disappeared; the scenery of her dreamrolled away, and opened out, and she was standing on a high, bare cliff, away up in wintry air; threatening rocky avalanches overhangingher--chill winds piercing her--and no pathway visible downward. Stillcrying out in loneliness and fear. Still with none to comfort or tohelp. 

Standing on the sheer edge of the precipice--behind her, suddenly, acrater opened. A hissing breath came up, and the chill air quivered andscorched about her. Her feet were upon a volcano! A lake of boiling, molten stone heaved--huge, brazen, bubbling--spreading wider and wider, like a great earth ulcer, eating in its own brink continually. Up in theair over her, reared a vast, sulphurous canopy of smoke. The narrowingridge beneath her feet burned--trembled. She hovered between twodestructions. 

Instantly--in that throbbing, agonizing moment of her dream, just afterwhich one wakes--she felt a presence--she heard a call--she thought twoarms were stretched out toward her--there seemed a safety and a restnear by; she was borne by an unseen impulse, along the dizzy ridge thather feet scarce touched, toward it; she was taken--folded, held; smoke, fire, the threatening danger of the cliff, were nothing, suddenly, anymore. Whether they menaced still, she thought not; a voice she knew andtrusted was in her ear; a grasp of loving strength sustained her; shewas utterly secure. 

So vividly she felt the presence--so warm and sure seemed that love andstrength about her--that waking out of such pause of peace, before hersenses recognized anything that was real without, she stretched herhands, as if to find it at her side, and her lips breathed a name--thename of Roger Armstrong. 

Then she started to her feet. The kind, protecting presence faded backinto her dream. 

The horrible smoke, the scorching smell, were true. 

A glare smote sky and trees and water, as she saw them from the window. 

There was fire near her!

Could it be among the buildings of the mill?

The long, main structure ran several feet beyond the square projectionwithin which she stood. Upon the other side, close to the front, quiteaway, of course, from all observation hence, joined, at right angles, another building, communicating and forming one with the first. Herewere the carding rooms. Then beyond, detached, were houses for storageand other purposes connected with the business. 

Was it from one of these the glare and smoke and suffocating burningsmell were pouring?

Or, lay the danger nearer--within these close, contiguous walls?

Vainly she threw up the one window, and leaned forth. 

She could not tell. 

 * * * * *

At this moment, Roger Armstrong, also, woke from out a dream. 

In this strange, second life of ours, that replaces the life of day, dowe not meet interiorly? Do not thoughts and knowledges cross, fromspirit to spirit, over the abyss, that lip, and eye, and ear, in wakingmoments, neither send nor receive? That even mind itself is scarcelyconscious of? Is not the great deep of being, wherein we rest, electricwith a sympathetic life--and do not warnings and promises and cheerpulse in upon us, mysteriously, in these passive hours of the flesh, when soul only is awake and keen?

Do not two thoughts, two consciousnesses, call and answer to each other, mutely, in twin dreams of night?

Roger Armstrong came in, late, that evening, from a visit to a distantsick parishioner. Then he sat, writing, for an hour or two longer. 

By and by, he threw down his pen--pushed back his armchair before hiswindow--stretched his feet, wearily, into the deep, old-fashioned windowseat--leaned his head back, and let the cool breeze stir his hair. 

So it soothed him into sleep. 

He dreamed of Faith. He dreamed he saw her stand, afar off, in somesolitary place, and beckon, as it were, visibly, from a wide, invisibledistance. He dreamed he struggled to obey her summons. He battled withthe strange inertia of sleep. He strove--he gasped--he broke the spelland hastened on. He plunged--he climbed--he stood in a great din thatbewildered and threatened; there was a lurid light that glowed intenseabout him as he went; in the midst of all--beyond--she beckoned still. 

"Faith! Faith! What danger is about you, child?"

These words broke forth from him aloud, as he started to his feet, andstretched his hands, impulsively, out before him, toward the openwindow. 

His eyes flashed wide upon that crimson glare that flooded sky and fieldand river. 

There was fire at the mills!

Not a sound, yet, from the sleeping village. 

 * * * * *

The heavy, close-fitting double doors between the countingroom and thegreat mill chamber were shut. Only by opening these and venturing forth, could Faith gain certain knowledge of her situation. 

Once more she pulled them open and passed through. 

A blinding smoke rushed thick about her, and made her gasp for breath. Up through the belt holes in the floor, toward the farther end of thelong room, sprang little tongues of flame that leaped higher and higher, even while she strove for sight, that single, horrified, suffocatinginstant, and gleamed, mockingly, upon the burnished shafts of silentlooms. 

In at the windows on the left, came the vengeful shine of those otherwindows, at right angles, in the adjacent building. The carding rooms, and the whole front of the mill, below, were all in flames!

In frantic affright, in choking agony, Faith dashed herself back throughthe heavy doors, that swung on springs, and closed tightly once moreafter her. 

Here, at the open window, she took breath. Must she wait here, helpless, for the fiery death?

Down below her, the narrow brink--the rushing river. No foothold--nochance for a descent. Behind her, only those two doors, barring outflame and smoke!

And the little footbridge, lying in the light across the water, and thegreen fields stretching away, cool and safe beyond. A littlefarther--her home!

"Fire!"

She cried the fearful word out upon the night, uselessly. There was noone near. The village slumbered on, away there to the left. The strong, deep shout of a man might reach it, but no tone of hers. There were nocompleted or occupied dwelling houses, as yet, about the new mills. Mr. Rushleigh was putting up some blocks; but, for the present, there wasnothing nearer than the village proper of Kinnicutt on the one hand, andas far, or farther, on the other the houses at Lakeside. 

The flames themselves, alone, could signal her danger, and summon help. How long would it be first?

Thoughts of father, mother, and little brother--thoughts of the kindfriends at Lakeside, parted from but a few hours before--thoughts of theyoung lover to whom the answer he waited for should be given, perhaps, so awfully; through all, lighting, as it were, suddenly and searchingly, the deep places of her own soul, the thought--the feeling, rather, ofthat presence in her dream; of him who had led her, taught her, liftedher so, to high things; brought her nearer, by his ministry, to God! Ofall human influence or love, his was nearest and strongest, spiritually, to her, now!

All at once, across these surging, crowding, agonizing feelings, rushedan inspiration for the present moment. 

The water gate! The force pump!

The apparatus for working these lay at this end of the building. She hadbeen shown the method of its operation; they had explained to her itspurpose. It was perfectly simple. Only the drawing of a rope over apulley--the turning of a faucet. She could do it, if she could onlyreach the spot. 

Instantly and strangely, the cloud of terror seemed to roll away. Herfaculties cleared. Her mind was all alert and quickened. She thought ofthings she had heard of years before, and long forgotten. That a wetcloth about the face would defend from smoke. That down low, close tothe floor, was always a current of fresher air. 

She turned a faucet that supplied a basin in the countingroom, held herhandkerchief to it, and saturated it with water. Then she tied it acrossher forehead, letting it hang before her face like a veil. She caught afold of it between her teeth. 

And so, opening the doors between whose cracks the pent-up smoke wascurling, she passed through, crouching down, and crawled along the endof the chamber, toward the great rope in the opposite corner. 

The fire was creeping thitherward, also, to meet her. Along from thefront, down the chamber on the opposite side, the quick flames sprangand flashed, momently higher, catching already, here and there, frompoint to point, where an oiled belt or an unfinished web of clothattracted their hungry tongues. 

As yet, they were like separate skirmishers, sent out in advance; theirmighty force not yet gathered and rolled together in such terrible sheetand volume as raged beneath. 

She reached the corner where hung the rope. 

Close by, was the faucet in the main pipe fed by the force pump. Underneath it, lay a coil of hose, attached and ready. 

She turned the faucet, and laid hold of the long rope. A few pulls, andshe heard the dashing of the water far below. The wheel was turning. 

The pipes filled. She lifted the end of the coiled hose, and directed ittoward the forward part of the chamber, where flames were wreathing, climbing, flashing. An impetuous column of water rushed, eager, hissing, upon blazing wood and heated iron. 

Still keeping the hose in her grasp, she crawled back again, halfstifled, yet a new hope of life aroused within her, to the double doors. Before these, with the little countingroom behind her, as her lastrefuge, she took her stand. 

How long could she fight off death? Till help came?

All this had been done and thought quickly. There had been less timethan she would have believed, since she first woke to the knowledge ofthis, her horrible peril. 

The flames were already repulsed. The mill was being flooded. Down thebelt holes the water poured upon the fiercer blaze below, that sweptacross the forward and central part of the great spinning room, fromside to side. 

At this moment, a cry, close at hand. 

"Fire!"

A man was swaying by a rope, down from a third-story window. 

"Fire!" came again, instantly, from without, upon another side. 

It was a voice hoarse, excited, strained. A tone Faith had never heardbefore; yet she knew, by a mysterious intuition, from whom it came. Shedropped the hose, still pouring out its torrent, to the floor, andsprang back, through the doors, to the countingroom window. The voicecame from the riverside. 

A man was dashing down the green slope, upon the footbridge. 

Faith stretched her arms out, as a child might, wakened in pain andterror. A cry, in which were uttered the fear, the horror, that were nowfirst fully felt, as a possible safety appeared, and the joy, thatitself came like a sudden pang, escaped her, piercingly, thrillingly. 

Roger Armstrong looked upward as he sprang upon the bridge. 

He caught the cry. He saw Faith stand there, in her white dress, thathad been wet and blackened in her battling with the fire. 

A great soul glance of courage and resolve flashed from his eyes. Hereached his uplifted arms toward her, answering hers. He uttered not aword. 

"Round! round!" cried Faith. "The door upon the other side!"

Roger Armstrong, leaping to the spot, and Michael Garvin, escaped by thelong rope that hung vibrating from his grasp, down the brick wall of thebuilding, met at the staircase door. 

"Help me drive that in!" cried the minister. 

And the two men threw their stalwart shoulders against the barrier, forcing lock and hinges. 

Up the stairs rushed Roger Armstrong. 

Answering the crash of the falling door, came another and more fearfulcrash within. 

Gnawed by the fire, the timbers and supports beneath the forward portionof the second floor had given way, and the heavy looms that stood therehad gone plunging down. A horrible volume of smoke and steam pouredupward, with the flames, from out the chasm, and rushed, resistlessly, everywhere. 

Roger Armstrong dashed into the little countingroom. Faith lay there, onthe floor. At that fearful crash, that rush of suffocating smoke, shehad fallen, senseless. He seized her, frantically, in his arms to bearher down. 

"Faith! Faith!" he cried, when she neither spoke nor moved. "My darling!Are you hurt? Are you killed? Oh, my God! must there be another?"

Faith did not hear these words, uttered with all the passionate agony ofa man who would hold the woman he loves to his heart, and defy for hereven death. 

She came to herself in the open air. She felt herself in his arms. Sheonly heard him say, tenderly and anxiously, in something of his oldtone, as her consciousness returned, and he saw it:

"My dear child!"

But she knew then all that had been a mystery to her in herself before. 

She knew that she loved Roger Armstrong. That it was not a love ofgratitude and reverence, only; but that her very soul was rendered up tohim, involuntarily, as a woman renders herself but once. That she wouldrather have died there, in that flame and smoke, held in hisarms--gathered to his heart--than have lived whatever life of ease andpleasantness--aye, even of use--with any other! She knew that herthought, in those terrible moments before he came, had been--notfather's or mother's, only; not her young lover, Paul's; but, deepestand mostly, his!

CHAPTER XXIX. 

HOME. 

"The joy that knows there _is_ a joy-- That scents its breath, and cries, 'tis there!And, patient in its pure repose, Receiveth so the holier share. "

Faith's thought and courage saved the mill from utter destruction. 

For one fearful moment, when that forward portion of the loom floor fellthrough, and flame, and vapor, and smoke rioted together in a wildalliance of fury, all seemed lost. But the great water wheel was plyingon; the river fought the fire; the rushing, exhaustless streams werepouring out and down, everywhere; and the crowd that in a few momentsafter the first alarm, and Faith's rescue, gathered at the spot, foundits work half done. 

A little later, there were only sullen smoke, defeated, smolderingfires, blackened timbers, the burned carding rooms, and the ruin at thefront, to tell the awful story of the night. 

Mr. Armstrong had carried Faith into one of the unfinished factoryhouses. Here he was obliged to leave her for a few moments, after makingsuch a rude couch for her as was possible, with a pile of cleanshavings, and his own coat, which he insisted, against all herremonstrances, upon spreading above them. 

"The first horse and vehicle which comes, Miss Faith, I shall impressfor your service, " he said; "and to do that I must leave you. I havemade that frightened watchman promise to say nothing, at present, ofyour being here; so I trust the crowd may not annoy you. I shall not begone long, nor far away. "

The first horse and vehicle which came was the one that had brought herthere in the afternoon but just past, yet that seemed, strangely, tohave been so long ago. 

Mr. Rushleigh found her lying here, quiet, amidst the growingtumult--exhausted, patient, waiting. 

"My little Faithie!" he cried, coming up to her with hands outstretched, and a quiver of strong feeling in his voice. "To think that you shouldhave been in this horrible danger, and we all lying in our beds, asleep!I do not quite understand it all. You must tell me, by and by. Armstronghas told me what you have _done_. You have saved me half my propertyhere--do you know it, child? Can I ever thank you for your courage?"

"Oh, Mr. Rushleigh!" cried Faith, rising as he came to her, and holdingher hands to his, "don't thank me! and don't wait here! They'll wantyou--and, oh! my kind friend! there will be nothing to thank me for, when I have told you what I must. I have been very near to death, and Ihave seen life so clearly! I know now what I did not knowyesterday--what I could not answer you then!"

"Let it be as it may, I am sure it will be right and true, and I shallhonor you, Faith! And we must bear what is, for it has come of the willof God, and not by any fault of yours. Now, let me take you home. "

"May I do that in your stead, Mr. Rushleigh?" asked Roger Armstrong, whoentered at this moment, with garments he had brought from somewhere towrap Faith. 

"I must go home, " said Faith. "To Aunt Henderson's. "

"You shall do as you like, " answered Mr. Rushleigh. "But it belongs tous to care for you, I think. "

"You do--you have cared for me already, " said Faith, earnestly. 

And Mr. Rushleigh helped to wrap her up, and kissed her foreheadtenderly, and Roger Armstrong lifted her into the chaise, and seatedhimself by her, and drove her away from out the smoke and noise andcurious crowd that had begun to find out she was there, and that she hadbeen shut up in the mill, and had saved herself and stopped the fire;and would have made her as uncomfortable as crowds always do heroes orheroines--had it not been for the friend beside her, whose foresight andprecaution had warded it all off. 

And the mill owner went back among the villagers and firemen, to directtheir efforts for his property. 

Glory McWhirk had been up and watching the great fire, since RogerArmstrong first went out. 

She had seen it from the window of Miss Henderson's room, where she wasto sleep to-night; and had first carefully lowered the blinds lest thelight should waken her mistress, who, after suffering much pain, had atlength, by the help of an anodyne, fallen asleep; and then she had comeround softly to the southwest room, to call the minister. 

The door stood open, and she saw him sitting in his chair, asleep. Justas she crossed the threshold to come toward him, he started, and spokethose words out of his restless dream:

"Faith! Faith! What danger is about you, child?"

They were instinct with his love. They were eager with his visionaryfear. It only needed a human heart to interpret them. 

Glory drew back as he sprang to his feet, and noiselessly disappeared. She would not have him know that she had heard this cry with which hewaked. 

"He dreamed about her! and he called her Faith. How beautiful it is tobe cared for so!"

Glory--while we have so long been following Faith--had no less beenliving on her own, peculiar, inward life, that reached to, thatapprehended, that seized ideally--that was denied, so much!

As Glory had seen, in the old years, children happier than herself, wearing beautiful garments, and "hair that was let to grow, " she sawthose about her now whom life infolded with a grace and loveliness shemight not look for; about whom fair affections, "let to grow, " clusteredradiant, and enshrined them in their light. 

She saw always something that was beyond; something she might notattain; yet, expectant of nothing, but blindly true to the highestwithin her, she lost no glimpse of the greater, through lowering herselfto the less. 

Her soul of womanhood asserted itself; longing, ignorantly, for a soullove. "To be cared for, so!"

But she would rather recognize it afar--rather have her joy in knowingthe joy that might be--than shut herself from knowledge in the contentof a common, sordid lot. 

She did not think this deliberately, however; it was not reason, butinstinct. She renounced unconsciously. She bore denial, and never knewshe was denied. 

Of course, the thought of daring to covet what she saw, had nevercrossed her, in her humbleness. It was quite away from her. It wassomething with which she had nothing to do. "But it must be beautiful tobe like Miss Faith. " And she thanked God, mutely, that she had thisbeautiful life near her, and could look on it every day. 

She could not marry Luther Goodell. 

 "A vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast";

But, unlike the maiden of the ballad, she could not smother it down, tobreak forth, by and by, defying the "burden of life, " in sweet brightvision, grown to a keen torture then. 

Faith had read to her this story of Maud, one day. 

"I shouldn't have done so, " she had said, when it was ended. "I'd ratherhave kept that one minute under the apple trees to live on all the restof my days!"

She could not marry Luther Goodell. 

Would it have been better that she should? That she should have gonedown from her dreams into a plain man's life, and made a plain manhappy? Some women, of far higher mental culture and social place, havedone this, and, seemingly, done well. Only God and their own hearts knowif the seeming be true. 

Glory waited. "Everybody needn't marry, " she said. 

This night, with those words of Mr. Armstrong's in her ears, revealingto her so much, she stood before that window of his and watched thefire. 

Doors were open behind her, leading through to Miss Henderson's chamber. She would hear her mistress if she stirred. 

If she had known what she did not know--that Faith Gartney stood at thismoment in that burning mill, looking forth despairingly on those brightwaters and green fields that lay between it and this home of hers--thatwere so near her, she might discern each shining pebble and the separategrass blades in the scarlet light, yet so infinitely far, so gone fromher forever--had she known all this, without knowing the help and hopethat were coming--she would yet have said "How beautiful it would be tobe like Miss Faith!"

She watched the fire till it began to deaden, and the glow paled outinto the starlight. 

By and by, up from the direction of the river road, she saw a chaiseapproaching. It was stopped at the corner, by the bar place. Two figuresdescended from it, and entered upon the field path through the stile. 

One--yes--it was surely the minister! The other--a woman. Who?

Miss Faith!

Glory met them upon the doorstone. 

Faith held her finger up. 

"I was afraid of disturbing my aunt, " said she. 

"Take care of her, Glory, " said her companion. "She has been infrightful danger. "

"At the fire! And you----"

"I was there in time, thank God!" spoke Roger Armstrong, from his soul. 

The two girls passed through to the blue bedroom, softly. 

Mr. Armstrong went back to the mills again, with horse and chaise. 

Glory shut the bedroom door. 

"Why, you are all wet, and draggled, and smoked!" said she, taking offFaith's outer, borrowed garments. "What _has_ happened to you--and howcame you there, Miss Faith?"

"I fell asleep in the countingroom, last evening, and got locked in. Iwas coming home. I can't tell you now, Glory. I don't dare to think itall over, yet. And we mustn't let Aunt Faith know that I am here. "

These sentences they spoke in whispers. 

Glory asked no more; but brought warm water, and bathed and rubbedFaith's feet, and helped her to undress, and put her night clothes on, and covered her in bed with blankets, and then went away softly to thekitchen, whence she brought back, presently, a cup of hot tea, and abiscuit. 

"Take these, please, " she said. 

"I don't think I can, Glory. I don't want anything. "

"But he told me to take care of you, Miss Faith!"

That, also, had a power with Faith. Because he had said that, she drankthe tea, and then lay back--so tired!

 * * * * *

"I waited up till you came, sir, because I thought you would like toknow, " said Glory, meeting Mr. Armstrong once more upon the doorstone, as he returned a second time from the fire. "She's gone to sleep, and isresting beautiful!"

"You are a good girl, Glory, and I thank you, " said the minister; and heput his hand forth, and grasped hers as he spoke. "Now go to bed, andrest, yourself. "

It was reward enough. 

From the plenitude that waits on one life, falls a crumb that stays thecraving of another. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

AUNT HENDERSON'S MYSTERY. 

"Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, And I said in underbreath, --All our life is mixed with death, And who knoweth which is best?

"Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness, -- Round our restlessness, His rest. " MRS. BROWNING. 

"So the dreams depart, So the fading phantoms flee, And the sharp realityNow must act its part. " WESTWOOD. 

It was a little after noon of the next day, when Mr. Rushleigh came toCross Corners. 

Faith was lying back, quite pale, and silent--feeling very weak afterthe terror, excitement, and fatigue she had gone through--in the largeeasy-chair which had been brought for her into the southeast room. MissHenderson had been removed from her bed to the sofa here, and the twowere keeping each other quiet company. Neither could bear the strain ofnerve to dwell long or particularly on the events of the night. Thestory had been told, as simply as it might be; and the rest and thethankfulness were all they could think of now. So there were deepthoughts and few words between them. On Faith's part, a patient waitingfor a trial yet before her. 

"It's Mr. Rushleigh, come over to see Miss Faith. Shall I bring him in?"asked Glory, at the door. 

"Will you mind it, aunt?" asked Faith. 

"I? No, " said Miss Henderson. "Will you mind my being here? That's thequestion. I'd take myself off, without asking, if I could, you know. "

"Dear Aunt Faith! There is something I have to say to Mr. Rushleighwhich will be very hard to say, but no more so because you will be by tohear it. It is better so. I shall only have to say it once. I am gladyou should be with me. "

"Brave little Faithie!" said Mr. Rushleigh, coming in with handsoutstretched. "Not ill, I hope?"

"Only tired, " Faith answered. "And a little weak, and foolish, " as thetears would come, in answer to his cordial words. 

"I am sorry. Miss Henderson, that I could not have persuaded this littlegirl to go home with me last night--this morning, rather. But she wouldcome to you. "

"She did just right, " Aunt Faith replied. "It's the proper place for herto come to. Not but that we thank you all the same. You're very kind. "

"Kinder than I have deserved, " whispered Faith, as he took his seatbeside her. 

Mr. Rushleigh would not let her lead him that way yet. He ignored thelittle whisper, and by a gentle question or two drew from her that whichhe had come, especially, to learn and speak of to-day--the story of thefire, and her own knowledge of, and share in it, as she alone could tellit. 

Now, for the first time, as she recalled it to explain her motive forentering the mill at all, the rough conversation she had overheardbetween the two men upon the river bank, suggested to Faith, as themention of it was upon her lips, a possible clew to the origin of themischief. She paused, suddenly, and a look of dismayed hesitation cameover her face. 

"I ought to tell you all, I suppose, " she continued. "But pray, sir, donot conclude anything hastily. The two things may have had nothing to dowith each other. "

And then, reluctantly, she repeated the angry threat that had come toher ears. 

Pausing, timidly, to look up in her listener's face, to judge of itsexpression, a smile there surprised her. 

"See how truth is always best, " said Mr. Rushleigh. "If you had keptback your knowledge of this, you would have sealed up a painful doubtfor your own tormenting. That man, James Regan, came to me this morning. There is good in the fellow, after all. He told me, just as you have, and as Hardy did, the words he spoke in passion. He was afraid, he said, they might be brought up against him. And so he came to 'own up, ' andaccount for his time; and to beg me to believe that he never had anydefinite thought of harm. I told him I did believe it; and then the poorfellow, rough as he is, turned pale, and burst into tears. Last nightgave him a lesson, I think, that will go far to take the hardness out ofhim. Blasland says, 'he worked like five men and a horse, ' at the fire. "

Faith's face glowed as she listened, at the nobleness of these two; ofthe generous, Christian gentleman--of the coarse workman, who wore hisnature, like his garb--the worse part of an everyday. 

Fire and loss are not all calamity, when such as this comes of them. 

Her own recital was soon finished. 

Mr. Rushleigh listened, giving his whole sympathy to the danger she hadfaced, his fresh and fervent acknowledgment and admiring praise to theprompt daring she had shown, as if these things, and naught else, hadbeen in either mind. 

At these thanks--at this praise--Faith shrank. 

"Oh, Mr. Rushleigh!" she interrupted, with a low, pained, humbledentreaty--"don't speak so! Only forgive me--if you can!"

Her hands lifted themselves with a slight, imploring gesture toward him. He laid his own upon them, gently, soothingly. 

"I will not have you trouble or reproach yourself, Faith, " he answered, meeting her meaning, frankly, now. "There are things beyond our control. All we can do is to be simply true. There is something, I know, whichyou think lies between us to be spoken of. Do not speak at all, if it behard for you. I will tell the boy that it was a mistake--that it cannotbe. "

But the father's lip was a little unsteady, to his own feeling, as hesaid the words. 

"Oh, Mr. Rushleigh!" cried Faith. "If everything could only be put backas it was, in the old days before all this!"

"But that is what we can't do. Nothing goes back precisely to what itwas before. "

"No, " said Aunt Faith, from her sofa. "And never did, since the days ofHumpty Dumpty. You might be glad to, but you can't do it. Things mustjust be made the best of, as they are. And they're never just alike, twominutes together. They're altering, and working, and going on, all thetime. And that's a comfort, too, when you come to think of it. "

"There is always comfort, somehow, when there has been no willful wrong. And there has been none here, I am sure. "

Faith, with the half smile yet upon her face, called there by her aunt'squaint speaking, bent her head, and burst into tears. 

"I came to reassure and to thank you, Faith--not to let you distressyourself so, " said Mr. Rushleigh. "Margaret sent all kind messages; butI would not bring her. I thought it would be too much for you, so soon. Another day, she will come. We shall always claim old friendship, mychild, and remember our new debt; though the old days themselves cannotquite be brought back again as they were. There may be better days, though, even, by and by. "

"Let Margaret know, before she comes, please, " whispered Faith. "I don'tthink I could tell her. "

"You shall not have a moment of trial that I can spare you. But--Paulwill be content with nothing, as a final word, that does not come fromyou. "

"I will see him when he comes. I wish it. Oh, sir! I am so sorry. "

"And so am I, Faith. We must all be sorry. But we are _only_ sorry. Andthat is all that need be said. "

The conversation, after this, could not be prolonged. Mr. Rushleigh tookhis leave, kindly, as he had made his greeting. 

"Oh, Aunt Faith! What a terrible thing I have done!"

"What a terrible thing you came near doing, you mean, child! Be thankfulto the Lord--He's delivered you from it! And look well to the rest ofyour life, after all this. Out of fire and misery you must have beensaved for something!"

Then Aunt Faith called Glory, and told her to bring an egg, beat up inmilk--"to a good froth, mind; and sugared and nut-megged, and ateaspoonful of brandy in it. "

This she made Faith swallow, and then bade her put her feet up on thesofa, and lean back, and shut her eyes, and not speak another word tillshe'd had a nap. 

All which, strangely enough, Faith--wearied, troubled, yetrelieved--obeyed. 

For the next two days, what with waiting on the invalids--for Faith wasfar from well--and with answering the incessant calls at the door ofcurious people flocking to inquire, Glory McWhirk was kept busy andtired. But not with a thankless duty, as in the days gone by, that sheremembered; it was heart work now, and brought heart love as its reward. It was one of her "real good times. "

Mr. Armstrong talked and read with them, and gave hand help and ministryalso, just when it could be given most effectually. 

It was a beautiful lull of peace between the conflict that was past, andthe final pang that was to come. Faith accepted it with a thankfulness. Such joy as this was all life had for her, henceforth. There was norestlessness, no selfishness in the love that had so suddenly asserteditself, and borne down all her doubts. She thought not of it, as love, any more. She never dreamed of being other to Mr. Armstrong than shewas. Only, that other life had become impossible to her. Here, if shemight not elsewhere, she had gone back to the things that were. Shecould be quite content and happy, so. It was enough to rest in such afriendship. If only she had once seen Paul, and if he could but bear it!

And Roger Armstrong, of intent, was just what he had always been--thekind and earnest friend--the ready helper--no more. He knew FaithGartney had a trouble to bear; he had read her perplexity--herindecision; he had feared, unselfishly, for the mistake she was making. Miss Henderson had told him, now, in few, plain words, how things wereending; he strove, in all pleasant and thoughtful ways, to soothe andbeguile her from her harassment. He dreamed not how the light had cometo her that had revealed to her the insufficiency of that other love. Helaid his own love back, from his own sight. 

So, calmly, and with what peace they might, these hours went on. 

"I want to see that Sampson woman, " said Aunt Faith, suddenly, to herniece, on the third afternoon of their being together. "Do you think shewould come over here if I should send for her?"

Faith flashed a surprised look of inquiry to Miss Henderson's face. 

"Why, aunt?" she asked. 

"Never mind why, child. I can't tell you now. Of course it's something, or I shouldn't want her. Something I should like to know, and that Isuppose she could tell me. Do you think she'd come?"

"Why, yes, auntie. I don't doubt it. I might write her a note. "

"I wish you would. Mr. Armstrong says he'll drive over. And I'd like tohave you do it right off. Now, don't ask me another word about it, tillshe's been here. "

Faith wrote the note, and Mr. Armstrong went away. 

Miss Henderson seemed to grow tired, to-day, after her dinner, and atfour o'clock she said to Glory, abruptly:

"I'll go to bed. Help me into the other room. "

Faith offered to go too, and assist her. But her aunt said, no, sheshould do quite well with Glory. "And if the Sampson woman comes, sendher in to me. "

Faith was astonished, and a little frightened. 

What could it be that Miss Henderson wanted with the nurse? Was itprofessionally that she wished to see her? She knew the peculiar whim, or principle, Miss Sampson always acted on, of never taking cases ofcommon illness. She could not have sent for her in the hope of keepingher merely to wait upon her wants as an invalid, and relieve Glory? Washer aunt aware of symptoms in herself, foretokening other or moreserious illness?

Faith could only wonder, and wait. 

Glory came back, presently, into the southeast room, to say to Faiththat her aunt was comfortable, and thought she should get a nap. Butthat whenever the nurse came, she was to be shown in to her. 

The next half hour, that happened which drove even this thought utterlyfrom Faith's mind. 

Paul Rushleigh came. 

Faith lay, a little wearily, upon the couch her aunt had quitted; andwas thinking, at the very moment--with that sudden, breathlessanticipation that sweeps over one, now and then, of a thing awaitedapprehensively--of whether this Saturday night would not probably bringhim home--when she caught the sound of a horse's feet that stoppedbefore the house, and then a man's step upon the stoop. 

It was his. The moment had come. 

She sprang to her feet. For an instant she would have fled--anywhither. Then she grew strangely calm and strong. She must meet him quietly. Shemust tell him plainly. Tell him, if need be, all she knew herself. Hehad a right to all. 

Paul came in, looking grave; and greeted her with a gentle reserve. 

A moment, they stood there as they had met, she with face pale, sad, that dared not lift itself; he, not trusting himself to the utterance ofa word. 

But he had come there, not to reproach, or to bewail; not even to plead. To hear--to bear with firmness--what she had to tell him. And there was, in truth, a new strength and nobleness in look and tone, when, presently, he spoke. 

If he had had his way--if all had gone prosperously with him--he wouldhave been, still--recipient of his father's bounty, and accepted of hischildish love--scarcely more than a mere, happy boy. This pain, thisstruggle, this first rebuff of life, crowned him, a man. 

Faith might have loved him, now, if she had so seen him, first. 

Yet the hour would come when he should know that it had been better asit was. That so he should grow to that which, otherwise, he had neverbeen. 

"Faith! My father has told me. That it must be all over. That it was amistake. I have come to hear it from you. "

Then he laid in her hand his father's letter. 

"This came with yours, " he said. "After this, I expected all the rest. "

Faith took the open sheet, mechanically. With half-blinded eyes, sheglanced over the few earnest, fatherly, generous lines. When she came tothe last, she spoke, low. 

"Yes. That is it. He saw it. It would have been no true marriage, Paul, before Heaven!"

"Then why did I love you, Faith?" cried the young man, impetuously. 

"I don't know, " she said, meditatively, as if she really were to answerthat. "Perhaps you will come to love again, differently, yet, Paul; andthen you may know why this has been. "

"I know, " said Paul, sadly, "that you have been outgrowing me, Faith. Ihave felt that. I know I've been nothing but a careless, merry fellow, living an outside sort of life; and I suppose it was only in thisoutside companionship you liked me. But there might be something more inme, yet; and you might have brought it out, maybe. You _were_ bringingit out. You, and the responsibilities my father put upon me. But it'stoo late, now. It can't be helped. "

"Not too late, Paul, for that noble part of you to grow. It was that Icame so near really loving at the last. But--Paul! a woman don't want tolead her husband. She wants to be led. I have thought, " she added, timidly, "so much of that verse in the Epistle--'the head of the womanis the man, and the head of the man is Christ, and the head of Christ isGod. '"

"You came _near_ loving me!" cried Paul, catching at this sentence, only, out of all that should, by and by, nevertheless, come out inletters of light upon his thought and memory. "Oh, Faith! you may, yet!It isn't all quite over?"

Then Faith Gartney knew she must say it all. All--though the hot crimsonflushed up painfully, and the breath came quick, and she trembled fromhead to foot, there, where she stood. But the truth, mighty, and holy inits might, came up from heart to lip, and the crimson paled, and thebreath grew calm, and she stood firm with her pure resolve, even in hermaidenly shame, before him. 

There are instants, when all thought of the moment itself, and the lookand the word of it, are overborne and lost. 

"No, Paul. I will tell you truly. With my little, childish heart, Iloved you. With the love of a dear friend, I hold you still, and shallhold you, always. But, Paul!--no one else knows it, and I never knew ittill I stood face to face with death--with my _soul_ I have come to loveanother!"

Deep and low these last words were--given up from the very innermost, and spoken with bowed head and streaming eyes. 

Paul Rushleigh took her hand. A manly reverence in him recognized thepure courage that unveiled her woman's heart, and showed him all. 

"Faith!" he said, "you have never deceived me. You are always noble. Forgive me that I have made you struggle to love me!"

With these words, he went. 

Faith flung herself upon the sofa, and hid her face in its cushion, hearing, through her sobs, the tread of his horse as he passed down theroad. 

This chapter of her life story was closed. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

NURSE SAMPSON'S WAY OF LOOKING AT IT. 

"I can believe, it shall you grieve, And somewhat you distrain;But afterward, your paines hard, Within a day or twain, Shall soon aslake; and ye shall take Comfort to you again. " OLD ENGLISH BALLAD. 

Glory looked in, once, at the southeast room, and saw Faith lying, stillwith hidden face; and went away softly, shutting the door behind her asshe went. 

When Mr. Armstrong and Miss Sampson came, she met them at the frontentrance, and led the nurse directly to her mistress, as she had beentold. 

Mr. Armstrong betook himself to his own room. Perhaps the hollow PaulRushleigh's horse had pawed at the gatepost, and the closed door of thekeeping room, revealed something to his discernment that kept him fromseeking Faith just then. 

There was a half hour of quiet in the old house. A quiet that everbrooded very much. 

Then Nurse Sampson came out, with a look on her face that made Faithgaze upon her with an awed feeling of expectation. She feared, suddenly, to ask a question. 

It was not a long-drawn look of sympathy. It was not surprised, norshocked, nor excited. It was a look of business. As if she knew of workbefore her to do. As if Nurse Sampson were in her own proper element, once more. 

Faith knew that something--she could not guess what--something terrible, she feared--had happened, or was going to happen, to her aunt. 

It was in the softening twilight that Miss Henderson sent for her tocome in. 

Aunt Faith leaned against her pillows, looking bright and comfortable, even cheerful; but there was a strange gentleness in look and word andtouch, as she greeted the young girl who came to her bedside with a facethat wore at once its own subduedness of fresh-past grief, and awondering, loving apprehension of something to be disclosed concerningthe kind friend who lay there, invested so with such new grace oftenderness. 

Was there a twilight, other than that of day, softening, also, aroundher?

"Little Faith!" said Aunt Henderson. Her very voice had taken anunwonted tone. 

"Auntie! It is surely something very grave! Will you not tell me?"

"Yes, child. I mean to tell you. It may be grave. Most things are, if wehad the wisdom to see it. But it isn't very dreadful. It's what I've hadwarning enough of, and had mostly made up my mind to. But I wasn't quitesure. Now, I am. I suppose I've got to bear some pain, and go through arisk that will be greater, at my years, than it would have been if I'dbeen younger. And I may die. That's all. "

The words, of old habit, were abrupt. The eye and voice were tender withunspoken love. 

Faith turned to Miss Sampson, who sat by. 

"And then, again, she mayn't, " said the nurse. "I shall stay and see herthrough. There'll have to be an operation. At least, I think so. We'llhave the doctor over, to-morrow. And now, if there's one thing moreimportant than another, it's to keep her cheerful. So, if you've gotanything bright and lively to say, speak out! If not, _keep_ out! She'lldo well enough, I dare say. "

Poor Faith! And, without this new trouble, there was so much that she, herself, was needing comfort for!

"You're a wise woman, Nurse Sampson. But you don't know everything, "said Aunt Faith. "The best thing to take people out of their ownworries, is to go to work and find out how other folks' worries aregetting on. He's been here, hasn't he, child?"

It was not so hard for Aunt Faith, who had borne secretly, so long, thesuspicion of what was coming, and had lived on, calmly, nevertheless, inher daily round, to turn thus from the announcement of her own state andpossible danger, to thought and inquiry for the affairs of another, asit was for that other, newly apprised, and but half apprised, even, ofwhat threatened, to leave the subject there, and answer. But she sawthat Miss Henderson spoke only truth in declaring it was the best way totake her out of her worries; she read Nurse Sampson's look, and saw thatshe, at any rate, was quite resolved her patient should not be let todwell longer on any painful or apprehensive thought, and she put off allher own anxious questionings, till she should see the nurse alone, andsaid, in a low tone--yes, Paul Rushleigh had been there. 

"And you've told him the truth, like a woman, and he's heard it like aman?"

"I've told him it must be given up. Oh, it was hard, auntie!"

"You needn't worry. You've done just the rightest thing you could do. "

"But it seems so selfish. As if my happiness were of so much moreconsequence than his. I've made him so miserable, I'm afraid!"

"Miss Sampson!" cried Aunt Faith, with all her old oddity andsuddenness, "just tell this girl, if you know, what kind of acommandment a woman breaks, if she can't make up her mind to marry thefirst man that asks her! 'Tain't in _my_ Decalogue!"

"I can't tell what commandment she won't be likely to break, if sheisn't pretty sure of her own mind before she _does_ marry!" said MissSampson, energetically. "Talk of making a man miserable! Supposing youdo for a little while? 'Twon't last long. Right's right, and settlesitself. Wrong never does. And there isn't a greater wrong than to marrythe wrong man. To him as well as to you. And it won't end there--that'sthe worst of it. There's more concerned than just yourself and him;though you mayn't know how, or who. It's an awful thing to tangle up anddisarrange the plans of Providence. And more of it's done, I verilybelieve, in this matter of marrying, than any other way. It's likemismatching anything else--gloves or stockings--and wearing the wrongones together. They don't fit; and more'n that, it spoils another pair. I believe, as true as I live, if the angels ever do cry over thismiserable world, it's when they see the souls they have paired off, allright, out of heaven, getting mixed up and mismated as they do downhere! Why, it's fairly enough to account for all the sin and miserythere is in the world! If it wasn't for Adam and Eve and Cain, I shouldthink it did!"

"But it's very hard, " said Faith, smiling, despite all her saddeningthoughts, at the characteristic harangue, "always to know wrong fromright. People may make mistakes, if they mean ever so well. "

"Yes, awful mistakes! There's that poor, unfortunate woman in the Bible. I never thought the Lord meant any reflection by what he said--on her. She'd had six husbands. And he knew she hadn't got what she bargainedfor, after all. Most likely she never had, in the whole six. And ifthings had got into such a snarl as that eighteen hundred years ago, howmany people, do you think, by this time, are right enough in themselvesto be right for anybody? I've thought it all over, many a time. I've hadreasons of my own, and I've seen plenty of reasons as I've gone aboutthe world. And my conclusion is, that matrimony's come to be more of adiscipline, nowadays, than anything else!"

It was strange cheer; and it came at a strange moment; with the verybirth of a new anxiety. But so our moments and their influences aremingled. Faith was roused, strengthened, confirmed in her own thought ofright, beguiled out of herself, by the words of these two odd, plain-dealing women, as she would not have been if a score ofhalf-comprehending friends had soothed her indirectly with inanities, and delicate half-handling of that which Aunt Faith and Nurse Sampsonwent straight to the heart of, and brought out, uncompromisingly, intothe light. So much we can endure from a true earnestness and simplicity, rough and homely though it be, which would be impertinent andintolerable if it came but with surface sympathy. 

She had a word that night from Robert Armstrong, when he came, late inthe evening, from a conversation with Aunt Faith, and found her at theopen door upon the stoop. It was only a hand grasp, and a fervent "Godbless you, child! You have been brave and true!" and he passed on. But abalm and a quiet fell deep into her heart, and a tone, that was a joy, lingered in her ear, and comforted her as no other earthly comfortcould. But this was not all earthly; it lifted her toward heaven. Itbore her toward the eternal solace there. 

Aunt Faith would have no scenes. She told the others, in turn, very muchas she had told Faith, that a suffering and an uncertainty lay beforeher; and then, by her next word and gesture, demanded that the lifeabout her should go right on, taking as slightly as might be itscoloring from this that brooded over her. Nobody had a chance to make awail. There was something for each to do. 

Miss Henderson, by Nurse Sampson's advice, remained mostly in her bed. In fact, she had kept back the announcement of this ailment of hers, just so long as she could resist its obvious encroachment. The twistedankle had been, for long, a convenient explanation of more than its ownactual disability. 

But it was not a sick room--one felt that--this little limited bound inwhich her life was now visibly encircled. All the cheer of the house wasbrought into it. If people were sorry and fearful, it was elsewhere. Neither Aunt Faith nor the nurse would let anybody into "theirhospital, " as Miss Sampson said, "unless they came with a bright lookfor a pass. " Every evening, the great Bible was opened there, and Mr. Armstrong read with them, and uttered for them words that lifted eachheart, with its secret need and thankfulness, to heaven. All together, trustfully, and tranquilly, they waited. 

Dr. Wasgatt had been called in. Quite surprised he was, at this newdevelopment. He "had thought there was something a little peculiar inher symptoms. " But he was one of those Ĉsculapian worthies who, havinglived a scientifically uneventful life, plodding quietly along in hisprofession among people who had mostly been ill after very ordinaryfashions, and who required only the administering of stereotypedremedies, according to the old stereotyped order and rule, had quiteforgotten to think of the possibility of any unusual complications. Ifanybody were taken ill of a colic, and sent for him and told him so, fora colic he prescribed, according to outward indications. The subtlesigns that to a keener or more practiced discernment, might havebetokened more, he never thought of looking for. What then? All cannotbe geniuses; most men just learn a trade. It is only a Columbus who, bythe drift along the shore of the fact or continent he stands on, predicates another, far over, out of sight. 

Surgeons were to come out from Mishaumok to consult. Mr. And Mrs. Gartney would be home, now, in a day or two, and Aunt Faith preferred towait till then. Mis' Battis opened the Cross Corners house, and Faithwent over, daily, to direct the ordering of things there. 

"Faith!" said Miss Henderson, on the Wednesday evening when they were tolook confidently for the return of their travelers next day, "come here, child! I have something to say to you. "

Faith was sitting alone, there, with her aunt, in the twilight. 

"There's one thing on my mind, that I ought to speak of, as things haveturned out. When I thought, a few weeks ago, that you were provided for, as far as outside havings go, I made a will, one day. Look in thatright-hand upper bureau drawer, and you'll find a key, with a brownribbon to it. That'll unlock a black box on the middle shelf of thecloset. Open it, and take out the paper that lies on the top, and bringit to me. "

Faith did all this, silently. 

"Yes, this is it, " said Miss Henderson, putting on her glasses, whichwere lying on the counterpane, and unfolding the single sheet, writtenout in her own round, upright, old-fashioned hand. "It's an old woman'swhim; but if you don't like it, it shan't stand. Nobody knows of it, andnobody'll be disappointed. I had a longing to leave some kind of a happylife behind me, if I could, in the Old House. It's only an earthlyclinging and hankering, maybe; but I'd somehow like to feel sure, beingthe last of the line, that there'd be time for my bones to crumble awaycomfortably into dust, before the old timbers should come down. I meant, once, you should have had it all; but it seemed as if you wasn't goingto _need_ it, and as if there was going to be other kind of work cut outfor you to do. And I'm persuaded there is yet, somewhere. So I've donethis; and I want you to know it beforehand, in case anything goeswrong--no, not that, but unexpectedly--with me. "

She reached out the paper, and Faith took it from her hand. It was notlong in reading. 

A light shone out of Faith's eyes, through the tears that sprang tothem, as she finished it, and gave it back. 

"Aunt Faith!" she said, earnestly. "It is beautiful! I am so glad! But, auntie! You'll get well, I know, and begin it yourself!"

"No, " said Miss Henderson, quietly. "I may get over this, and I don'tsay I shouldn't be glad to. But I'm an old tree, and the ax is lying, ground, somewhere, that's to cut me down before very long. Old folkscan't change their ways, and begin new plans and doings. I'm onlythankful that the Lord has sent me a thought that lightens all the dreadI've had for years about leaving the old place; and that I can go, thinking maybe there'll be His work doing in it as long as it stands. "

"I don't know, " she resumed, after a pause, "how your father's affairsare now. The likelihood is, if he has any health, that he'll go intosome kind of a venture again before very long. But I shall have a talkwith him, and if he isn't satisfied I'll alter it so as to do somethingmore for you. "

"Something more!" said Faith. "But you have done a great deal, as it is!I didn't say so, because I was thinking so much of the other. "

"It won't make an heiress of you, " said Aunt Faith. "But it'll be betterthan nothing, if other means fall short. And I don't feel, somehow, asif you need be a burden on my mind. There's a kind of a certainty bornein on me, otherwise. I can't help thinking that what I've done has beena leading. And if it has, it's right. Now, put this back, and tell MissSampson she may bring my gruel. "

CHAPTER XXXII. 

GLORY McWHIRK'S INSPIRATION. 

"No bird am I to sing in June, And dare not ask an equal boon. Good nests and berries red are Nature'sTo give away to better creatures, --And yet my days go on, go on. " MRS. BROWNING. 

Mr. And Mrs. Gartney arrived on Thursday. 

Two weeks and three days they had been absent; and in that time how thebusy sprites of change and circumstance had been at work! As if thescattered straws of events, that, stretched out in slender windrows, might have reached across a field of years, had been raked together, androlled over--crowded close, and heaped, portentous, into these eighteendays!

Letters had told them something; of the burned mill, and Faith's fearfuldanger and escape; of Aunt Henderson's continued illness, and itspresent serious aspect; and with this last intelligence, which met themin New York but two days since, Mrs. Gartney found her daughter'sagitated note of pained avowal, that she "had come, through all this, toknow herself better, and to feel sure that this marriage ought not tobe"; that, in short, all was at length over between her and PaulRushleigh. 

It was a meeting full of thought--where much waited for speech thatletters could neither have conveyed nor satisfied--when Faith and herfather and mother exchanged the kiss of love and welcome, once more, inthe little home at Cross Corners. 

It was well that Mis' Battis had made waffles, and spread a temptingsummer tea with these and her nice, white bread, and fruits and creams;and wished, with such faint impatience as her huge calm was capable of, that "they would jest set right down, while things was good and hot";and that Hendie was full of his wonderful adventures by boat and train, and through the wilds; so that these first hours were gotten over, andall a little used to the old feeling of being together again, beforethere was opportunity for touching upon deeper subjects. 

It came at length--the long evening talk, after Hendie was in bed, andMr. Gartney had been over to the old house, and seen his aunt, and hadcome back, to find wife and daughter sitting in the dim light beside theopen door, drawn close in love and confidence, and so glad and thankfulto have each other back once more!

First--Aunt Faith; and what was to be done--what might be hoped--whatmust be feared--for her. Then, the terrible story of the fire; and allabout it, that could only be got at by the hundred bits of question andanswer, and the turning over and over, and repetition, whereby we do thebest--the feeble best--we can, to satisfy great askings and deepsympathies that never can be anyhow made palpable in words. 

And, last of all--just with the good-night kiss--Faith and her motherhad had it all before, in the first minutes they were left alonetogether--Mr. Gartney said to his daughter:

"You are quite certain, now, Faith?"

"Quite certain, father"; Faith answered, low, with downcast eyes, as shestood before him. 

Her father laid his hand upon her head. 

"You are a good girl; and I don't blame you; yet I thought you wouldhave been safe and happy, so. "

"I am safe and happy here at home, " said Faith. 

"Home is in no hurry to spare you, my child. "

And Faith felt taken back to daughterhood once more. 

Margaret Rushleigh had been to see her, before this. It was a painfulvisit, with the mingling of old love and new restraint; and the effort, on either side, to show that things, except in the one particular, werestill unchanged. 

Faith felt how true it was that "nothing could go back, precisely, towhat it was before. "

There was another visit, a day or two after the reassembling of thefamily at Cross Corners. This was to say farewell. New plans had beenmade. It would take some time to restore the mills to working order, andMr. Rushleigh had not quite resolved whether to sell them out as theywere, or to retain the property. Mrs. Rushleigh wished Margaret to joinher at Newport, whither the Saratoga party was to go within the comingweek. Then there was talk of another trip to Europe. Margaret had neverbeen abroad. It was very likely they would all go out in October. 

Paul's name was never mentioned. 

Faith realized, painfully, how her little hand had been upon the motivepower of much that was all ended, now. 

Two eminent medical men had been summoned from Mishaumok, and had heldconsultation with Dr. Wasgatt upon Miss Henderson's case. It had beendecided to postpone the surgical operation for two or three weeks. Meanwhile, she was simply to be kept comfortable and cheerful, strengthened with fresh air, and nourishing food, and some slighttonics. 

Faith was at the old house, constantly. Her aunt craved her presence, and drew her more and more to herself. The strong love, kept down by astiff, unbending manner, so, for years--resisting almost its owngrowth--would no longer be denied or concealed. Faith Gartney hadnestled herself into the very core of this true, upright heart, unpersuadable by anything but clear judgment and inflexible conscience. 

"I had a beautiful dream last night, Miss Faith, " said Glory, onemorning, when Faith came over and found the busy handmaiden with herchurn upon the doorstone, "about Miss Henderson. I thought she was allwell, and strong, and she looked so young, and bright, and pleasant! Andshe told me to make a May Day. And we had it out here in the field. Andeverybody had a crown; and everybody was queen. And the little childrendanced round the old apple tree, and climbed up, and rode horseback inthe branches. And Miss Henderson was out there, dressed in white, andlooking on. It don't seem so--just to say it; but I couldn't tell youhow beautiful it was!"

"Dreams are strange things, " said Faith, thoughtfully. "It seems as ifthey were sent to us, sometimes--as if we really had a sort of life inthem. "

"Don't they?" cried Glory, eagerly. "Why, Miss Faith, I've dreamed on, and on, sometimes, a whole story out! And, after all, we're asleepalmost as much as we're awake. Why isn't it just as real?"

"I had a dream that night of the fire, Glory. I never shall forget it. Iwent to sleep there, on the sofa. And it seemed as if I were on the topof a high, steep cliff, with no way to get down. And all at once, therewas fire behind me--a burning mountain! And it came nearer, and nearer, till it scorched my very feet; and there was no way down. And then--itwas so strange!--I knew Mr. Armstrong was coming. And two hands tookme--just as his did, afterwards--and I felt so safe! And then I woke, and it all happened. When he came, I felt as if I had called him. "

The dasher of the churn was still, and Glory stood, breathless, in awhite excitement, gazing into Faith's eyes. 

"And so you did, Miss Faith! Somehow--through the dreamland--youcertainly did!"

Faith went in to her aunt, and Glory churned and pondered. 

Were these two to go on, dreaming, and calling to each other "throughthe dreamland, " and never, in the daylight, and their waking hours, speak out?

This thought, in vague shape, turned itself, restlessly, in Glory'sbrain. 

Other brains revolved a like thought, also. 

"Somebody talked about a 'ripe pear, ' once. I wonder if that one isn'tever going to fall!"

Nurse Sampson wondered thus, as she settled Miss Henderson in herarmchair before the window, and they saw Roger Armstrong and FaithGartney walk up the field together in the sunset light. 

"I suppose it wouldn't take much of a jog to do it. But, maybe, it's aswell to leave it to the Lord's sunshine. He'll ripen it, if He seesfit. "

"It's a pretty picture, anyhow. There's the new moon exactly over theirright shoulders, if they'd only turn their heads to look at it. I don'tthink much of signs; but, somehow, I always _do_ like to have that onecome right!"

"Well, it's there, whether they've found it out, or not, " replied AuntFaith. 

Glory sat on the flat doorstone. She had the invariable afternoonknitting work in her hand; but hand and work had fallen to her lap, andher eyes were away upon the glittering, faint crescent of the moon, thatpierced the golden mist of sunset. Close by, the evening star had filledhis chalice of silver splendor. 

"The star and the moon only see each other. I can see both. It isbetter. "

She had come to the feeling of Roger Armstrong's sermon. To receiveconsciously, as she had through her whole, life intuitively andunwittingly, all beauty of all being about her into the secret beauty ofher own. She could be glad with the gladness of the whole world. 

The two came up, and Glory rose, and stood aside. 

"You have had thoughts, to-night, Glory, " said the minister. "Where havethey been?"

"Away, there, " answered Glory, pointing to the western sky. 

They turned, and followed her gesture; and from up there, at theirright, beyond, came down the traditional promise of the beautiful youngmoon. 

Glory had shown it them. 

"And I've been thinking, besides, " said Glory, "about that dream ofyours, Miss Faith. I've thought of it all day. Please tell it to Mr. Armstrong?"

And Glory disappeared down the long passage to the kitchen, and leftthem standing there, together. She went straight to the tin baker beforethe fire, and lifted the cover, to see if her biscuits were ready fortea. Then she seated herself upon a little bench that stood against thechimney-side, and leaned her head against the bricks, and looked downinto the glowing coals. 

"It was put into my head to do it!" she said, breathlessly, to herself. "I hope it wasn't ridiculous!"

So she sat, and gazed on, into the coals. _They_ were out there in thesunset, with the new moon and the bright star above them in the saffrondepths. 

They stood alone, except for each other, in this still, radiant beautyof all things. 

Miss Henderson's window was around a projection of the rambling, irregular structure, which made the angle wherein the pleasant olddoorstone lay. 

"May I have your dream, Miss Faith?"

She need not be afraid to tell a simple dream. Any more, at this moment, than when she told it to Glory, that morning, on that very spot. Why didshe feel, that if she should speak a syllable of it now, the truth thatlay behind it would look out, resistless, through its veil? That shecould not so keep down its spirit-meaning, that it should not flash, electric, from her soul to his?

"It was only--that night, " she said, tremulously. "It seemed verystrange. Before the fire, I had the dream. It was a dream of fire anddanger--danger that I could not escape from. And I held out myhands--and I found you there--and you saved me. Oh, Mr. Armstrong! As you_did_ save me, afterwards!"

Roger Armstrong turned, and faced her. His deep, earnest eyes, lit witha new, strange radiance, smote upon hers, and held them spellbound withtheir glance. 

"I, too, dreamed that night, " said he, "of an unknown peril to you. Youbeckoned me. I sprang from out that dream, and rushed into thenight--until I found you!"

Their two souls met, in that brief recital, and knew that they had metbefore. That, through the dreamland, there had been that call andanswer. 

Faith neither spoke, nor stirred, nor trembled. This supreme moment ofher life held her unmoved in its own mightiness. 

Roger Armstrong held out both his hands. 

"Faith! In the sight of God, I believe you belong to me!"

At that solemn word, of force beyond all claim of a mere mortal love, Faith stretched her hands in answer, and laid them into his, and bowedher head above them. 

"In the sight of God, I belong to you!"

So she gave herself. So she was taken. As God's gift, to the heart thathad been earthly desolate so long. 

There was no dread, no shrinking, in that moment. A perfect love castout all fear. 

And the new moon and the evening star shone down together in an absolutepeace. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

LAST HOURS. 

"In this dim world of clouding cares We rarely know, till 'wildered eyes See white wings lessening up the skies, The angels with us unawares. · · · · ·"Strange glory streams through life's wild rents, And through the open door of death We see the heaven that beckonethTo the beloved going hence. " GERALD MASSEY. 

"Read me the twenty-third Psalm, " said Miss Henderson. 

It was the evening before the day fixed upon by her physicians for thesurgical operation she had decided to submit to. 

Faith was in her place by the bedside, her hand resting in that of heraunt. Mr. Armstrong sat near--an open Bible before him. Miss Sampson hadgone down the field for a "snatch of air. "

Clear upon the stillness fell the sacred words of cheer. There was astrong, sure gladness in the tone that uttered them, that told they wereborn anew, in the breathing, from a heart that had proved the goodnessand mercy of the Lord. 

In a solemn gladness, also, two other hearts received them, and said, silently, Amen!

"Now the fourteenth of St. John. "

"'In my father's house are many mansions. ' 'I will dwell in the house ofthe Lord, forever. ' Yes. It holds us all. Under one roof. Onefamily--whatever happens! Now, put away the book, and come here; youtwo!"

It was done; and Roger Armstrong and Faith Gartney stood up, side byside, before her. 

"I haven't said so before, because I wouldn't set people troublingbeforehand. But in my own mind, I'm pretty sure of what's coming. And ifI hadn't felt so all along, I should now. When the Lord gives us ourlast earthly wish, and the kind of peace comes over that seems as if itcouldn't be disturbed by anything, any more, we may know, by the hush ofit, that the day is done. I'm going to bid you good night, Faith, andsend you home. Say your prayers, and thank God, for yourself and for me. Whatever you hear of me, to-morrow, take it for good news; for it _will_be good. Roger Armstrong! Take care of the child! Child! love yourhusband; and trust in him; for you may!"

Close, close--bent Faith above her aunt, and gave and took that solemngood-night kiss. 

"'The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and thecommunion of the Holy Ghost, be with us all. Amen!'"

With the word of benediction, Roger Armstrong turned from the bedside, and led Faith away. 

And the deeper shadows of night fell, and infolded the Old House, andthe hours wore on, and all was still. Stillest, calmest of all, in thesoul of her who had dwelt there for nearly threescore years and ten, andwho knew, none the less, that it would be surely home to her wheresoeverher place might be given her next, in that wide and beautiful "House ofthe Lord!"

It was a strange day that succeeded; when they sat, waiting so, throughthose morning hours, keeping such Sabbath as heart and life do keep, andare keeping, somewhere, always, in whatever busy workday of the world, when great issues come to solemnize the time. 

Almost as still at the Old House as at Cross Corners. No hurry. Nobustle. Glory quietly doing her needful duties, and obeying alldirection of the nurse. Mr. Armstrong in his own room, in readinessalways, for any act or errand that might be required of him. HendersonGartney alone in that ancient parlor at the front. The three physiciansand Miss Sampson shut with Aunt Faith into her room. A faint, breathlessodor of ether creeping everywhere, even out into the summer air. 

It was eleven o'clock, when a word was spoken to Roger Armstrong, and hetook his hat and walked across the field. Faith, with pale, asking face, met him at the door. 

"Well--thus far, " was the message; and a kiss fell upon the upliftedforehead, and a look of boundless love and sympathy into the fair, anxious eyes. "All has been done; and she is comfortable. There maystill be danger; but the worst is past. "

Then a brazen veil fell from before the face of day. The sunshinelooked golden again, and the song of birds rang out, unmuffled. Thestrange, Sabbath stillness might be broken. They could speak commonwords, once more. 

Faith and her mother sat there, in the hillside parlor, talkingthankfully, and happily, with Roger Armstrong. So a half hour passed by. Mr. Gartney would come, with further tidings, when he had been able tospeak with the physicians. 

The shadows of shrub and tree crept and shortened to the lines of noon, and still, no word. They began to wonder, why. 

Mr. Armstrong would go back. He might be wanted, somehow. They shouldhear again, immediately, unless he were detained. 

He was not detained. They watched him up the field, and into the angleof the doorway. He was hidden there a moment, but not more. Then theysaw him turn, as one lingering and reluctant, and retrace his stepstoward them. 

"Faith! Stay here, darling! Let me meet him first, " said Mrs. Gartney. 

Faith shrank back, fearful of she knew not what, into the room they hadjust quitted. 

A sudden, panic dread and terror seized her. She felt her hearingsharpened, strained, involuntarily. She should catch that first word, however it might be spoken. She dared not hear it, yet. Out at thehillside door, into the shade of the deep evergreens, she passed, with aquick impulse. 

Thither Roger Armstrong followed, presently, and found her. With thekeen instinct of a loving sympathy, he knew she fled from speech. So heput his arm about her, silently, tenderly; and led her on, and up, underthe close, cool shade, the way their steps had come to know so well. 

"Take it for good news, darling. For it is good, " he said, at last, whenhe had placed her in the rocky seat, where she had listened to so manytreasured words--to that old, holy confidence--of his. 

And there he comforted her. 

 * * * * *

A sudden sinking--a prostration beyond what they had looked for, hadsurprised her attendants; and, almost with their notice of the change, the last, pale, gray shadow had swept up over the calm, patient face, and good Aunt Faith had passed away. 

Away--for a little. Not out of God's house. Not lost out of Hishousehold. 

 * * * * *

This was her will. 

 "I, Faith Henderson, spinster, in sound mind, and of my own will, direct these things. 

 "That to my dear grandniece, Faith Henderson Gartney, be given from me, as my bequest, that portion of my worldly property now invested in two stores in D---- Street, in the city of Mishaumok. That this property and interest be hers, for her own use and disposal, with my love. 

 "Also, that my plate, and my box of best house linen, which stands beside the press in the northwest chamber, be given to her, Faith Henderson Gartney; and that my nephew, Henderson Gartney, shall, according to his own pleasure and judgment, appropriate and dispose of any books, or articles of old family value and interest. But that beds, bedding, and all heavy household furniture, with a proper number of chairs and other movables, be retained in the house, for its necessary and suitable furnishing. 

 "And then, that all this residue of personal effects, and my real estate in the Old Homestead at Kinnicutt Cross Corners, and my shares in the Kinnicutt Bank, be placed in the hands of my nephew, Henderson Gartney, to be held in trust during the natural life of my worthy and beloved handmaiden, Gloriana McWhirk; for her to occupy said house, and use said furniture, and the income of said property, so long as she can find at least four orphan children to maintain therewith, and 'make a good time for, every day. '

 "Provided, that in case the said Gloriana McWhirk shall marry, or shall no longer so employ this property, or in case that she shall die, said property is to revert to my above-named grandniece, Faith Henderson Gartney, for her and her heirs, to their use and behoof forever. 

 "And if there be any failure of a legal binding in this paper that I write, I charge it upon my nephew, Henderson Gartney, on his conscience, as I believe him to be a true and honest man, to see that these my effects are so disposed of, according to my plain will and intention. 

 "(Signed) FAITH HENDERSON. 

 "(Witnessed) ROGER ARMSTRONG, HIRAM WASGATT, LUTHER GOODELL. "

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

MRS. PARLEY GIMP. 

"The best laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft agley. " BURNS. 

Kinnicott had got an enormous deal to talk about. The excitement of thegreat fire, and the curiosity and astonishment concerning Miss Gartney'sshare in the events of that memorable night had hardly passed into thequietude of things discussed to death and laid away, unwillingly, intheir graves, when all this that had happened at Cross Corners poureditself, in a flood of wonder, upon the little community. 

Not all, quite, at once, however. Faith's engagement was not, at first, spoken of publicly. There was no need, in this moment of their commonsorrow, to give their names to the little world about them, for suchhandling as it might please. Yet the little world found plenty to say, and a great many plans to make for them, none the less. 

Miss Henderson's so long unsuspected, and apparently brief illness, hersudden death, and the very singular will whose provisions had somehowleaked out, as matters of the sort always do, made a stir and ferment inthe place, and everybody felt bound to arrive at some satisfactoryconclusion which should account for all, and to get a clear idea of whateverybody immediately concerned would do, or ought, in thecircumstances, to do next, before they--the first everybodies--could eatand sleep, and go comfortably about their own business again, in theordinary way. 

They should think Mr. Gartney would dispute the will. It couldn't be avery hard matter, most likely, to set it aside. All that farm, and theOld Homestead, and her money in the bank, going to that Glory McWhirk!Why, it was just ridiculous. The old lady must have been losing herfaculties. One thing was certain, anyway. The minister was out of aboarding place again. So that question came up, in all its intricatebearings, once more. 

This time Mrs. Gimp struck, while, as she thought, the iron was hot. 

Mr. Parley Gimp met Mr. Armstrong, one morning, in the village street, and waylaid him to say that "his good lady thought she could make roomfor him in their family, if it was so that he should be looking out fora place to stay at. "

Mr. Armstrong thanked him; but, for the present, he was to remain atCross Corners. 

"At the Old House?"

"No, sir. At Mr. Gartney's. "

The iron was cold, after all. 

Mrs. Parley Gimp called, one day, a week or two later, when the ministerwas out. A visit of sympathetic scrutiny. 

"Yes, it was a great loss, certainly. But then, at her age, you know, ma'am! We must all expect these things. It was awfully sudden, to besure. Must have been a terrible shock. Was her mind quite clear at thelast, ma'am?"

"Perfectly. Clear, and calm, and happy, through it all. "

"That's very pleasant to think of now, I'm sure. But I hear she's made avery extraordinary arrangement about the property. You can't tell, though, to be sure, about all you hear, nowadays. "

"No, Mrs. Gimp. That is very true, " said Mrs. Gartney. 

"Everybody always expected that it would all come to you. At least, toyour daughter. She seemed to make so much of her. "

"My daughter is quite satisfied, and we for her. "

"Well, I must say!--and so Mr. Armstrong is to board here, now? A littleout of the way of most of the parish, isn't it? I never could see, exactly, what put it into his head to come so far. Not but what he makesout to do his duty as a pastor, pretty prompt, too. I don't hear anycomplaints. He's rather off and on about settling, though. I guess he'sa man that keeps his intentions pretty close to himself--and all hisaffairs, for that matter. Of course he's a perfect right to. But I willsay I like to know all about folks from the beginning. It aggravates meto have to begin in the middle. I tell Serena, it's just like reading abook when the first volume's lost. I don't suppose I'm _much_ morecurious than other people; but I _should_ like to know just how old heis, for one thing; and who his father and mother were; and where he camefrom in the first place, and what he lives on, for 'tain't our salary, Iknow that; he's given away more'n half of it a'ready--right here in thevillage. I've said to my husband, forty times, if I've said it once, 'Ideclare, I've a great mind to ask him myself, straight out, just to seewhat he'll say. '"

"And why not?" asked a voice, pleasantly, behind her. 

Mr. Armstrong had come in, unheard by the lady in her own rush of words, and had approached too near, as this suddenly ceased, to be able toescape again unnoticed. 

Mis' Battis told Luther Goodell afterwards, that she "jest looked infrom the next room, at that, and if ever a woman felt cheap--allover--and as if she hadn't a right to her own toes and fingers, and asif every thread and stitch on her turned mean, all at once--it was Mrs. Gimp, that minit!"

"Has Faith returned?" Mr. Armstrong asked, of Mrs. Gartney, after alittle pause in which Mrs. Gimp showed no disposition to develop intodeed her forty-times declared "great mind. "

"I think not. She said she would remain an hour or two with Glory, andhelp her to arrange those matters she came in, this morning, to ask usabout. "

"I will walk over. "

And the minister took his hat again, and with a bow to the two ladies, passed out, and across the lane. 

"Faith!" ejaculated the village matron, her courage and her mind tomeddle returning. "Well, that's intimate!"

It might as well be done now, as at any time. Mr. Armstrong, himself, had heedlessly precipitated the occasion. It had only been, among them, a question of how and when. There was nothing to conceal. 

"Yes, " replied Mrs. Gartney, quietly. "They will be married by and by. "

"Did she go out the door, ma'am? Or has she melted down into the carpet?'Cause, I _have_ heerd of people sinkin' right through the floor, " saidMis' Battis, who "jest looked in" a second time, as the bewilderedvisitor receded. 

 * * * * *

The pleasant autumn months, mellowing and brightening all things, seemedalso to soften and gild their memories of the life that had ended, ripely and beautifully, among them. 

Glory, after the first overwhelm of astonishment at what had befallenher--made fully to understand that which she had a right, and was induty bound to do--entered upon the preparations for her work with thesame unaffected readiness with which she would have done the bidding ofher living mistress. It was so evident that her true humbleness wasuntouched by all. "It's beautiful!" and the tears and smiles would cometogether as she said it. "But then, Miss Faith--Mr. Armstrong! I nevercan do any of it unless you help me!"

Faith and Mr. Armstrong did help with heart and hand, and every word ofcounsel that she needed. 

"I must buy some cotton and calico, and make some little clothes andtyers. Hadn't I better? When they come, I'll have them to take care of. "

And with the loving anticipation of a mother, she made up, and laidaway, Faith helping her in all, her store of small apparel for littleones that were to come. 

She had gone down, one day, to Mishaumok, and found out Bridget Foye, atthe old number in High Street. And to her she had intrusted the care oflooking up the children--to be not less than five, and not more thaneight or nine years of age--who should be taken to live with her at"Miss Henderson's home, " and "have a good time every day. "

"I must get them here before Christmas, " said Glory to her friends. "Wemust hang their stockings all up by the great kitchen chimney, and putsugarplums and picture books in!"

She was going back eagerly into her child life--rather into the life herchildhood wist of, but missed--and would live it all over, now, withthese little ones, taken already, before even they were seen or found, out of their strangerhood into her great, kindly heart!

A plain, capable, motherly woman had been obtained, by Mr. Armstrong'sefforts and inquiry, who would live with Glory as companion andassistant. There was the dairy work to be carried on, still. This, andthe hay crops, made the principal income of the Old Farm. A few fieldswere rented for cultivation. 

"Just think, " cried Glory when the future management of these matterswas talked of, "what it will be to see the little things let outa-rolling in the new hay!"

Her thoughts passed so entirely over herself, as holder and arbiter ofmeans, to the good--the daily little joy--that was to come, thereby, toothers!

When all was counted and calculated, they told her that she might safelyventure to receive, in the end, six children. But that, for the present, four would perhaps be as many as it would be wise for her to undertake. 

"You know best, " she said, "and I shall do whatever you say. But I don'tfeel afraid--any more, that is, for taking six than four. I shall justdo for them all the time, whether or no. "

"And what if they are bad and troublesome, Glory?"

"Oh, they won't be, " she replied. "I shall love them so!"

CHAPTER XXXV. 

INDIAN SUMMER. 

"'Tis as if the benignant HeavenHad a new revelation given, And written it out with gems; For the golden tops of the elmsAnd the burnished bronze of the ashAnd the scarlet lights that flashFrom the sumach's points of flame, Like blazonings on a scrollSpell forth an illumined Name For the reading of the soul!"

It is of no use to dispute about the Indian summer. I never found twopeople who could agree as to the time when it ought to be here, or upona month and day when it should be decidedly too late to look for it. Itkeeps coming. After the equinoctial, which begins to be talked aboutwith the first rains of September, and isn't done with till the sun hasmeasured half a dozen degrees of south declination, all the pleasantweather is Indian summer--away on to Christmastide. For my part, I thinkwe get it now and then, little by little, as "the kingdom" comes. Thatevery soft, warm, mellow, hazy, golden day, like each fair, fragrantlife, is a part and outcrop of it; though weeks of gale and frost, orages of cruel worldliness and miserable sin may lie between. 

It was an Indian summer day, then; and it was in October. 

Faith and Mr. Armstrong walked over the brook, and round by PastureRocks, to the "little chapel, " as Faith had called it, since the time, last winter, when she and Glory had met the minister there, in thestill, wonderful, pure beauty that enshrined it on that "diamondmorning. "

The elms that stood then, in their icy sheen, about the meadows, likegreat cataracts of light, were soft with amber drapery, now; translucentin each leaf with the detained sunshine of the summer; and along theborders of the wood walk, scarlet flames of sumach sprang out, vivid, from among the lingering green; and birches trembled with their goldenplumes; and bronzed ash boughs, and deep crimsons and maroons andchocolate browns and carbuncle red that crowned the oaks with richer andintenser hues, made up a wealth and massiveness of beauty wherein eyeand thought reveled and were sated. 

Over and about all, the glorious October light, and the dreamy warmththat was like a palpable love. 

They stood on the crisp moss carpet of the "halfway rock"--the altarcrag behind them, with its cherubim that waved illumined wings oftenderer radiance now--and gazed over the broad outspread of marvelouscolor; and thought of the summer that had come and gone since they hadstood there, last, together, and of the beauty that had breathed alikeon earth and into life, for them. 

"Faith, darling! Tell me your thought, " said Roger Armstrong. 

"This was my thought, " Faith answered, slowly. "That first sermon youpreached to us--that gave me such a hope, then--that comes up to me so, almost as a warning, now! The poor--that were to have the kingdom! Andthen, those other words--'how hardly shall they who have riches enterin!' And I am _so_ rich! It frightens me. "

"Entire happiness does make one tremble. Only, if we feel God in it, andstand but the more ready for His work, we may be safe. "

"His work--yes, " Faith answered. "But now he only gives me rest. Itseems as if, somehow, I were not worthy of a hard life. As if all thingshad been made too easy for me. And I had thought, so, of some great anddifficult thing to do. "

Then Faith told him of the oracle that, years ago, had first wakened herto the thought of what life might be; of the "high and holy work" thatshe had dreamed of, and of her struggles to fulfill it, feebly, in theonly ways that as yet had opened for her. 

"And now--just to receive all--love, and help, and care--and to rest, and to be so wholly happy!"

"Believe, darling, that we are led, through all. That the oil of joy isbut as an anointing for a nobler work. It is only so I dare to think ofit. We shall have plenty to do, Faithie! And, perhaps, to bear. It willall be set before us, in good time. "

"But nothing can be _hard_ to do, any more. That is what makes me almostfeel unworthy. Look at Nurse Sampson. Look at Glory. They have onlytheir work, and the love of God to help them in it. And I--! Oh, I amnot poor any longer. The words don't seem to be for me. "

"Let us take them with their double edge of truth, then. Holdingourselves always poor, in sight of the infinite spiritual riches of thekingdom. Blessed are the poor, who can feel, even in the keenest earthlyjoy, how there is a fullness of life laid up in Him who gives it, ofwhose depth the best gladness here is but a glimpse and foretaste! Wewill not be selfishly or unworthily content, God helping us, my littleone!"

"It is so hard _not_ to be content!" whispered Faith, as the strong, manly arm held her, in its shelter, close beside the noble, earnestheart. 

"I think, " said Roger Armstrong, afterwards, as they walked down overthe fragrant pathway of fallen pine leaves, "that I have never known aninstance of one more evidently called, commissioned, and prepared for agood work in the world, than Glory. Her whole life has been hereducation for it. It is not without a purpose, when a soul like hers isleft to struggle up through such externals of circumstance. We can loveand help her in it, Faith; and do something, in our way, for her, as shewill do, in hers, for others. "

"Oh, yes!" assented Faith, impulsively. "I have wished--" but there shestopped. 

"Am I to hear no more?" asked Mr. Armstrong, presently. "Have I not aright to insist upon the wish?"

"I forgot what I was coming to, " said Faith, blushing deeply. "I spokeof it, one day, to mother. And she said it was a thing I couldn't decidefor myself, now. That some one else would be concerned, as well as I. "

"And some one else will be sure to wish as you do. Only there may be awisdom in waiting. Faithie--I have never told you yet--will you befrightened if I tell you now--that I am not a poor man, as the worldcounts poverty? My friend, of whom you know, in those terrible days ofthe commencing pestilence, having only his daughter and myself to carefor, made his will; in provision against whatever might befall themthere. By that will--through the fearful sorrow that made iteffective--I came into possession of a large property. Your littleinheritance, Faithie, goes into your own little purse for privateexpenditures or charities. But for the present, as it seems to me, Gloryhas ample means for all that it is well for her to undertake. By and by, as she gains in years and in experience, you will have it in your powerto enlarge her field of good. 'Miss Henderson's Home' may grow into awider benefit than even she, herself, foresaw. "

Faith was not frightened. These were not the riches that could make hertremble with a dread lest earth should too fully satisfy. This was onlya promise of new power to work with; a guarantee that God was notleaving her merely to care for and to rest in a good that must needs beall her own. 

"We shall find plenty to do, Faithie!" Mr. Armstrong repeated; and heheld her hand in his with a strong pressure that told how the thought ofthat work to come, and her sweet and entire association in it, leapedalong his pulses with a living joy. 

Faith caught it; and all fear was gone. She could not shrink from thegreat blessedness that was laid upon her, any more than Nature couldrefuse to wear her coronation robes, that trailed their radiance in thispath they trod. 

Life held them in a divine harmony. 

The October sun, that mantled them with warmth and glory; the Indiansummer, that transfigured earth about them; all tints--allredolence--all broad beatitude of globe and sky--were none too much tobreathe out and make palpable the glad and holy auspice of the hour. 

 * * * * *

Mr. Gartney had gradually relinquished his half-formed thought of SanFrancisco. Already the unsettled and threatening condition of affairs inthe country had begun to make men feel that the time was not one for newschemes or adventurous changes. Somehow, the great wheels, mercantileand political, had slipped out of their old grooves, and went laboring, as it were, roughly and at random, with fierce clattering and jolting, quite off the ordinary track; so that none could say whether they shouldfinally regain it, and roll smoothly forward, as in the prosperous andpeaceful days of the past, or should bear suddenly and irretrievablydown to some horrible, unknown crash and ruin. 

Henderson Gartney, however, was too restless a man to wait, with entirepassiveness, the possible turn and issue of things. 

Quite strong, again, in health--so great a part of his burden andanxiety lifted from him in the marriages, actual and prospective, of histwo daughters--and his means augmented by the sale of a portion of hisWestern property which he had effected during his summer visitthereto--it was little to be looked for that he should consent tovegetate, idly and quietly, through a second winter at Cross Corners. 

The first feeling of some men, apparently, when they have succeeded inshuffling off a load of difficulty, is a sensation of the delightfulease with which they can immediately shoulder another. As when one hasjust cleared a desk or drawer of rubbish, there is such a temptingopportunity made for beginning to stow away and accumulate again. Well!the principle is an eternal one. Nature does abhor a vacuum. 

The greater portion of the ensuing months, therefore, Mr. Gartney spentin New York; whither his wife and children accompanied him, also, for astay of a few weeks; during which, Faith and her mother accomplished theinevitable shopping that a coming wedding necessitates; and set in trainof preparation certain matters beyond the range of Kinnicutt capacityand resource. 

Mr. Armstrong, too, was obliged to be absent from his parish for alittle time. Affairs of his own required some personal attention. Hechose these weeks while the others, also, were away. 

It was decided that the marriage should take place in the coming spring;and that then the house at Cross Corners should become the home of Mr. Armstrong and Faith; and that Mr. Gartney should remove, permanently, toNew York, where he had already engaged in some incidental andpreliminary business transactions. His purpose was to fix himself there, as a shipping and commission merchant, concerning himself, for a largeproportion, with California trade. 

The house in Mishaumok had been rented for a term of five years. Onechange prepares the way for another. Things never go back precisely towhat they were before. 

Mr. Armstrong, after serious thought, had come to this conclusion ofaccepting the invitation of the Old Parish at Kinnicutt to remain withit as its pastor, because the place itself had become endeared to himfor its associations; because, also, it was Faith's home, which she hadlearned to love and cling to; because she, too, had a work here, inassisting Glory to fulfill the terms of her aunt's bequest; and because, country parish though it was, and a limited sphere, as it might seem, for his means and talents, he saw the way here, not only to accomplishmuch direct good in the way of his profession, but as well for a widerexercise of power through the channel of authorship; for which a moreonerous pastoral charge would not have left him the needful quiet orleisure. 

So, with these comings and goings, these happy plans, and helpings andonlookings, the late autumn weeks merged in winter, and days slippedalmost imperceptibly by, and Christmas came. 

Three little orphan girls had been welcomed into "Miss Henderson'sHome. " And only one of them had hair that would curl. But Glory gave theother two an extra kiss each, every morning. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

CHRISTMASTIDE. 

"Through suffering and through sorrow thou hast past, To show us what a woman true may be;They have not taken sympathy from thee, Nor made thee any other than thou wast; · · · · ·"Nor hath thy knowledge of adversityRobbed thee of any faith in happiness, But rather cleared thine inner eye to seeHow many simple ways there are to bless. " LOWELL. 

"And if any painter drew her, He would paint her unaware, With a halo round the hair. " MRS. BROWNING. 

There were dark portents abroad. Rumors, and threats, andprognostications of fear and strife teemed in the columns of each day'ssheet of news, and pulsed wildly along the electric nerves of the land;and men looked out, as into a coming tempest, that blackened all thesoutherly sky with wrath; and only that the horror was too great to bebelieved in, they could not have eaten and drunken, and bought and sold, and planted and builded, as they did, after the age-old manner of man, in these days before the flood that was to come. 

Civil war, like a vulture of hell, was swooping down from the foulfastness of iniquity that had hatched her in its high places, and thatreared itself, audaciously, in the very face of Heaven. 

And a voice, as of a mighty angel, sounded "Woe! woe! woe! to theinhabiters of earth!"

And still men but half heard and comprehended; and still they slept androse, and wrought on, each in his own work, and planned for the morrow, and for the days that were to be. 

And in the midst of all, came the blessed Christmastide! Yes! even intothis world that has rolled its seething burden of sin and pain and shameand conflict along the listening depths through waiting cycles of God'seternity, was Christ once born!

And little children, of whom is the kingdom, in their simple faith andholy unconsciousness, were looking for the Christmas good, and wonderingonly what the coming joy should be. 

The shops and streets of Mishaumok were filled with busy throngs. Peopleforgot, for a day, the fissure that had just opened, away there in thefar Southland, and the fierce flames that shot up, threatening, from theabyss. What mattered the mass meetings, and the shouts, and the guns, along those shores of the Mexican Gulf? To-night would be Christmas Eve;and there were thousands of little stockings waiting to be hung by happyfiresides, and they must all be filled for the morrow. 

So the shops and streets were crowded, and people with arms full ofholiday parcels jostled each other at every corner. 

There are odd encounters in this world tumble that we live in. In theearly afternoon, at one of the bright show cases, filled within andheaped without with toys, two women met--as strangers are alwaysmeeting, with involuntary touch and glance--borne together in acrowd--atoms impinging for an instant, never to approach again, perhaps, in all the coming combinations of time. 

These two women, though, had met before. 

One, sharp, eager--with a stylish-shabby air of dress about her, and thelook of pretense that shopmen know, as she handled and asked prices, where she had no actual thought of buying--holding by the hand a childof six, who dragged and teased, and got an occasional word that crushedhim into momentary silence, but who, tired with the sights and theChristmas shopping, had nothing for it but to begin to drag and teaseagain; another, with bright, happy, earnest eyes and flushing cheeks, and hair rolled back in a golden wealth beneath her plain straw bonnet;bonnet, and dress, and all, of simple black; these two came face toface. 

The shabby woman with a sharp look recognized nothing. Glory McWhirkknew Mrs. Grubbling, and the child of six that had been the Grubblingbaby. 

All at once, she had him in her arms; and as if not a moment had gone bysince she held him so in the little, dark, upper entry in Budd Street, where he had toddled to her in his nightgown, for her grieved farewell, was hugging and kissing him, with the old, forgetting and forgivinglove. 

Mrs. Grubbling looked on in petrified amaze. Glory had transferred afragrant white paper parcel from her pocket to the child's hands, andhad thrust upon that a gay tin horse from the counter, before itoccurred to her that the mother might, possibly, neither remember norapprove. 

"I beg your pardon, ma'am, for the liberty; and it's very likely youdon't know me. I'm Glory McWhirk, that used to live with you, and mindthe baby. "

"I'm sure I'm glad to see you, Glory, " said Mrs. Grubblingpatronizingly; "and I hope you've been doing well since you went awayfrom me. " As if she had been doing so especially well before, that theremight easily be a doubt as to whether going farther had not been faringworse. I have no question that Mrs. Grubbling fancied, at the moment, that the foundation of all the simple content and quiet prosperity thatevidenced themselves at present in the person of her former handmaid, had been laid in Budd Street. 

"And where are you living now?" proceeded she, as Glory resigned the boyto his mint stick, and was saying good-by. 

"Out in Kinnicutt, ma'am; at Miss Henderson's, where I have been eversince. "

She never thought of triumphing. She never dreamed of what it would beto electrify her former mistress with the announcement that she whom shehad since served had died, and left her, Glory McWhirk, the life use ofmore than half her estate. That she dwelt now, as proprietress, whereshe had been a servant. Her humbleness and her faithfulness were soentire that she never thought of herself as occupying, in the eyes ofothers, such position. She was Miss Henderson's handmaiden, still; doingher behest, simply, as if she had but left her there in keeping, whileshe went a journey. 

So she bade good-by, and courtesied to Mrs. Grubbling and gathered upher little parcels, and went out. Fortunately, Mrs. Grubbling was halfstunned, as it was. It is impossible to tell what might have resulted, had she then and there been made cognizant of more. Not to the shornlamb, alone, always, are sharp winds beneficently tempered. There is amercy, also, to the miserable wolf. 

Glory had one trouble, to-day, that hindered her pure, free and utterenjoyment of what she had to do. 

All day she had seen, here and there along the street, little forlornand ragged ones, straying about aimlessly, as if by any chance, a scrapof Christmas cheer might even fall to them, if only they kept out in themidst of it. There was a distant wonder in their faces, as they met thebuyers among the shops, and glanced at the fair, fresh burdens theycarried; and around the confectioners' windows they would cluster, sometimes, two or three together, and _look_; as if one sense could takein what was denied so to another. She knew so well what the feeling ofit was! To see the good times going on, and not be in 'em! She longed soto gather them all to herself, and take them home, and make a Christmasfor them!

She could only drop the pennies that came to her in change loose intoher pocket, and give them, one by one, along the wayside. And she morethan once offered a bright quarter (it was in the days when quarters yetwere, reader!), when she might have counted out the sum in lesser bits, that so the pocket should be kept supplied the longer. 

 * * * * *

Down by the ---- Railway Station, the streets were dim, and dirty, andcheerless. Inside, the passengers gathered about the stove, where thered coals gleamed cheerful in the already gathering dusk of the winterafternoon. A New York train was going out; and all sorts of people--fromthe well-to-do, portly gentleman of business, with his good coatbuttoned comfortably to his chin, his tickets bought, his wallet linedwith bank notes for his journey, and secretly stowed beyond the reach(if there be such a thing) of pickpockets, and the _Mishaumok Journal_, Evening Edition, damp from the press, unfolded in his fingers, to thecare-for-naught, dare-devil little newsboy who had sold it to him, andwho now saunters off, varying his monotonous cry with:

"_Jour-nal_, gentlemen! Eve-nin' 'dition! Georgy out!"

("What's that?" exclaims an inconsiderate. )

"Georgy out! (Little brother o' mine. Seen him anywhere?) Eve-nin''dition! _Jour-nal_, gentleman!" and the shivering little candy girl, threading her way with a silent imploringness among the throng--werebustling up and down, in waiting rooms, and on the platforms, till onewould think, assuredly, that the center of all the world's activity, atthis moment, lay here; and that everybody _not_ going in this particularexpress train to New York, must be utterly devoid of any aim or objectin life, whatever. 

So we do, always, carry our center about with us. A little while ago allthe world was buying dolls and tin horses. Horizons shift and ringthemselves about us, and we, ourselves, stand always in the middle. 

By and by, however, the last call was heard. 

"Passengers for New York! Train ready! All aboard!"

And with the ringing of the bell, and the mighty gasping of theimpatient engine, and a scuffle and scurry of a minute, in whichcarpetbags and babies were gathered up and shouldered indiscriminately, the rooms and the platforms were suddenly cleared of all but a fewstragglers, and half a dozen women with Christmas bundles, who satwaiting for trains to way stations. 

Two little pinched faces, purple with the bitter cold, looked in at thedoor. 

"It's good and warm in there. Less' go!"

And the older drew the younger into the room, toward the glowing stove. 

They looked as if they had been wandering about in the dreary streetstill the chill had touched their very bones. The larger of the two, aboy--torn hopelessly as to his trousers, dilapidated to the last degreeas to his fragment of a hat--knees and elbows making their way out intothe world with the faintest shadow of opposition--had, perhaps fromthis, a certain look of pushing knowingness that set itself, by theobscure and inevitable law of compensation, over against the giganticantagonism of things he found himself born into; and you knew, as youlooked at him, that he would, somehow, sooner or later, make his smalldint against the great dead wall of society that loomed itself in hisway; whether society or he should get the worst of it, might happen asit would. 

The younger was a little girl. A flower thrown down in the dirt. A jewelencrusted with mean earth. Little feet in enormous coarse shoes, crackedand trodden down; bare arms trying to hide themselves under a bit of oldwoolen shawl; hair tangled beneath a squalid hood; out from amidst all, a face of beauty that peeped, like an unconscious draft of God's ownsigning, upon humanity. Was there none to acknowledge it?

An official came through the waiting room. 

The boy showed a slink in his eyes, like one used to shoving and rebuff, and to getting off, round corners. The girl stood, innocent andunheeding. 

"There! out with you! No vagrums here!"

Of course, they couldn't have all Queer Street in their waiting rooms, these railway people; and the man's words were rougher than his voice. But these were two children, who wanted cherishing!

The slink in the boy's eye worked down, and became a sneak and ashuffle, toward the door. The girl was following. 

"Stop!" called a woman's voice, sharp and authoritative. "Don't you stira single step, either of you, till you get warm! If there isn't anyother way to fix it, I'll buy you both a ticket somewhere and thenyou'll be passengers. "

It was a tall, thin, hoopless woman, with a carpetbag, a plaid shawl, and an umbrella; and a bonnet that, since other bonnets had begun topoke, looked like a chaise top flattened back at the first spring. In aword, Mehitable Sampson. 

Something twitched at the corners of the man's mouth as he glanced roundat this sudden and singular champion. Something may have twitched underhis comfortable waistcoat, also. At any rate, he passed on; and thechildren--the brief battledore over in which they had been theshuttlecocks--crept back, compliant with the second order, much amazed, toward the stove. 

Miss Sampson began to interrogate. 

"Why don't you take your little sister home?"

"This one ain't my sister. " Children always set people right before theyanswer queries. 

"Well--whoever she is, then. Why don't you both go home?"

"'Cause it's cold there, too. And we was sent to find sticks. "

"If she isn't your sister, who does she belong to?"

"She don't belong to nobody. She lived upstairs, and her mother died, and she came down to us. But she's goin' to be took away. Mother's gotfive of us, now. She's goin' to the poorhouse. She's a regular littlebrick, though; ain't yer, Jo?"

The pretty, childish lips that had begun to grow red and lifelike again, parted, and showed little rows of milk teeth, like white shells. Theblue eyes and the baby smile went up, confidingly, to the youngragamuffin's face. There had been kindness here. The boy had taken toJo, it seemed; and was benevolently evincing it, in the best way hecould, by teaching her good-natured slang. 

"Yes; I'm a little brick, " she lisped. 

Miss Sampson's keen eyes went from one to the other, resting last andlong on Jo. 

"I shouldn't wonder, " she said, deliberately, "if you was Number Four!"

"Whereabouts do you live?" suddenly, to the boy. 

"Three doors round the corner. 'Tain't number four, though. It'sninety-three. "

"What's your name?"

"Tim Rafferty. "

"Tim Rafferty! Did anybody ever trust you with a carpetbag?"

"I've carried 'em up. But then they mostly goes along, and looks sharp. "

"Well, now I'm going to leave you here, with this one. If anybody speaksto you, say you was left in charge. Don't stir till I come back. And--look here! if you see a young woman come in, with bright, wavyhair, and a black gown and bonnet, and if she comes and speaks to you, as most likely she will, tell her I said I shouldn't wonder if this wasNumber Four!"

And Nurse Sampson went out into the street. 

When she came back, the children sat there, still; and Glory McWhirk waswith them. 

"I don't know as I'd any business to meddle; and I haven't made anypromises; but I've found out that you can do as you choose about it, andwelcome. And I couldn't help thinking you might like to have this onefor Number Four. "

Glory had already nestled the poor, tattered child close to her, andgiven her a cake to eat from the refreshment counter. 

Tim Rafferty delivered up the carpetbag, in proud integrity. To be sure, there were half a dozen people in the room who had witnessed itsintrustment to his hands; but I think he would have waited there, allthe same, had the coast been clear. 

Miss Sampson gave him ten cents, and recounted to Glory what she hadlearned at number ninety-three. 

"She's a strange child, left on their hands; and they're as poor asdeath. They were going to give her in charge to the authorities. Thewoman said she couldn't feed her another day. That's about the whole ofit. If Tim don't bring her back, they'll know where she is, and bethankful. "

"Do you want to go home with me, and hang up your stocking, and have aChristmas?"

"My golly!" ejaculated Tim, staring. 

The little one smiled shyly, and was mute. She didn't know whatChristmas was. She had been cold, and she was warm, and her mouth andhands were filled with sweet cake. And there were pleasant words in herears. That was all she knew. As much as we shall comprehend at first, perhaps, when the angels take us up out of the earth cold, and give usthe first morsel of heavenly good to stay our cravings. 

This was how it ended. Tim had a paper bag of apples and cakes, withsome sugar pigs and pussy cats put in at the top, and a pair of warmstockings out of Glory's bag, to carry home, for himself; and he was tosay that the lady who came to see his mother had taken Jo away into thecountry. To Miss Henderson's, at Kinnicutt. Glory wrote these names upona paper. Tim was to be a good boy, and some day they would come and seehim again. 

Then Nurse Sampson's plaid shawl was wrapped about little Jo, and pinnedclose over her rags to keep out the cold of Christmas Eve; and the bellrang presently; and she was taken out into the bright, warm car, andtucked up in a corner, where she slept all the hour that they weresteaming over the road. 

And so these three went out to Kinnicutt to keep Christmas at the OldHouse. 

So Glory carried home the Christ gift that had come to her. 

Tim went back, alone, to number ninety-three. He had his bag of goodthings, and his warm stockings, and his wonderful story to tell. Andthere was more supper and breakfast for five than there would have beenfor six. Nevertheless, somehow, he missed the "little brick. "

Out at Cross Corners, Miss Henderson's Home was all aglow. The longkitchen, which, by the outgrowth of the house for generations, had cometo be a central room, was flooded with the clear blaze of a great pineknot, that crackled in the chimney; and open doors showed neat adjoiningrooms, in and out which the gleams and shadows played, making asuggestive pantomime of hide and seek. It was a grand old place forChristmas games! And three little bright-faced girls sat round the kneeof a tidy, cheery old woman, who told them, in a quaint Irish brogue, the story of the "little rid hin, " that was caught by the fox, and gotaway, again, safe, to her own little house in the woods, where she"lived happy iver afther, an' got a fine little brood of chickens tolive wid her; an' pit 'em all intill warrum stockings and shoes, an'round-o-caliker gowns. "

And they carped at no discrepancies or improbabilities; but seized alleagerly, and fused it in their quick imaginations to one beautifulmeaning; which, whether it were of chicken comfort, overbrooded withwarm love, or of a clothed, contented childhood, in safe shelter, mattered not a bit. 

Into this warm, blithe scene came Glory, just as the fable was ended forthe fourth time, bringing the last little chick, flushed and rosy from abath; born into beauty, like Venus from the sea; her fair hair, combedand glossy, hanging about her neck in curls; and wrapped, not in a"round-o-caliker, " but in a scarlet-flannel nightgown, comfortable andgay. Then they had bowls of bread and milk, and gingerbread, and atetheir suppers by the fire. And then Glory told them the old story ofSanta Claus; and how, if they hung their stockings by the chimney, therewas no knowing what they mightn't find in them to-morrow. 

"Only, " she said, "whatever it is, and whoever He sends it by, it allcomes from the good Lord, first of all. "

And then, the two white beds in the two bedrooms close by held fourlittle happy bodies, whose souls were given into God's keeping till hisChristmas dawn should come, in the old, holy rhyme, said after Glory. 

By and by, Faith and Mr. Armstrong and Miss Sampson came over from theCorner House, with parcels from. Kriss Kringle. 

And now there was a gladsome time for all; but chiefly, for Glory. 

What unpacking and refolding in separate papers! Every sugar pig, anddog, and pussy cat must be in a distinct wrapping, that so the childrenmight be a long time finding out all that Santa Claus had brought them. What stuffing, and tying, and pinning, inside, and outside, and over thelittle red woolen legs that hung, expectant, above the big, openchimney! How Glory laughed, and sorted, and tied and made errands forstring and pins, and seized the opportunity for brushing away greattears of love, and joy, and thankfulness, that would keep coming intoher eyes! And then, when all was done, and she and Faith came back froma little flitting into the bedrooms, and a hovering look over the wee, peaceful, sleeping faces there, and they all stood, for a minute, surveying the goodly fullness of small delights stored up and waitingfor the morrow--how she turned suddenly, and stretched her hands outtoward the kind friends who had helped and sympathized in all, and said, with a quick overflow of feeling, that could find only the old wordswherein to utter herself:

"Such a time as this! Such a beautiful time! And to think that I shouldbe in it!"

Miss Henderson's will was fulfilled. 

A happy, young life had gathered again about the ancient hearthstonethat had seen two hundred years of human change. 

The Old House, wherefrom the last of a long line had passed on into theEverlasting Mansions, had become God's heritage. 

Nurse Sampson spent her Christmas with the Gartneys. 

They must have her again, they told her, at parting, for the wedding;which would be in May. 

"I may be a thousand miles off, by that time. But I shall think of you, all the same, wherever I am. My work is coming. I feel it. There's asmell of blood and death in the air; and all the strong hearts andhands'll be wanted. You'll see it. "

And with that, she was gone. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE WEDDING JOURNEY. 

 "The treeSucks kindlier nurture from a soil enrichedBy its own fallen leaves; and man is made, In heart and spirit, from deciduous hopesAnd things that seem to perish. "

"A stream always among woods or in the sunshine is pleasant to alland happy in itself. Another, forced through rocks, and choked withsand, under ground, cold, dark, comes up able to heal theworld. "--FROM "SEED GRAIN. "

"Shall we plan a wedding journey, Faith?"

It was one evening in April that Mr. Armstrong said this. The day forthe marriage had been fixed for the first week in May. 

Faith had something of the bird nature about her. Always, at this momentof the year, a restlessness, akin to that which prompts the flitting ofwinged things that track the sunshine and the creeping greenness thatgoes up the latitudes, had used to seize her, inwardly. Something thatcame with the swelling of tender buds, and the springing of brightblades, and the first music born from winter silence, had prompted herwith the whisper: "Abroad! abroad! Out into the beautiful earth!"

It had been one of her unsatisfied longings. She had thought, what a joyit would be if she could have said, frankly, "Father, mother! let ushave a pleasant journey in the lovely weather!"

And now, that one stood at her side, who would have taken her in histender guardianship whithersoever she might choose--now that there wasno need for hesitancy in her wish--this child, who had never been beyondthe Hudson, who had thought longingly of Catskill, and Trenton, andNiagara, and had seen them only in her dreams--felt, inexplicably, acontrary impulse, that said within her, "Not yet!" Somehow, she did notcare, at this great and beautiful hour of her life, to wander away intostrange places. Its holy happiness belonged to home. 

"Not now. Unless you wish it. Not on purpose. Take me with you, sometime, when, perhaps, you would have gone alone. Let it _happen_. "

"We will just begin our quiet life, then, darling, shall we? The lifethat is to be our real blessedness, and that has no need to give itselfa holiday, as yet. And let the workdays and the holidays be portioned asGod pleases?"

"It will be better--happier, " Faith answered, timidly. "Besides, withall this fearful tramping to war through the whole land, how can onefeel like pleasure journeying? And then"--there was another littlereason that peeped out last--"they would have been so sure to make afuss about us in New York!"

The adjuncts of life had been much to her in those restless days when adark doubt lay over its deep reality. She had found a passing cheer andrelief in them, then. Now, she was so sure, so quietly content! It was ajoy too sacred to be intermeddled with. 

So a family group, only, gathered in the hillside parlor, on the fairMay morning wherein good, venerable Mr. Holland said the words that madeFaith Gartney and Roger Armstrong one. 

It was all still, and bright, and simple. Glory, standing modestly bythe door, said within herself, "it was like a little piece of heaven. "

And afterwards--not the bride and groom--but father, mother, and littlebrother, said good-by, and went away upon their journey, and left themthere. In the quaint, pleasant home, that was theirs now, under thebudding elms, with the smile of the May promise pouring in. 

And Glory made a May Day at the Old House, by and by. And the littlechildren climbed in the apple branches, and perched there, singing, likethe birds. 

And was there not a white-robed presence with them, somehow, watchingall?

 * * * * *

Nearly three months had gone. The hay was down. The distillation ofsweet clover was in all the air. The little ones at the Old House wereout, in the lengthening shadows of the July afternoon, rolling andreveling in the perfumed, elastic heaps. 

Faith Armstrong stood with Glory, in the porch angle, looking on. 

Calm and beautiful. Only the joy of birds and children making sound andstir across the summer stillness. 

Away over the broad face of the earth, out from such peace as this, might there, if one could look--unroll some vision of horrible contrast?Were blood, and wrath, and groans, and thunderous roar of guns downthere under that far, fair horizon, stooping in golden beauty to thecool, green hills?

Faith walked down the field path, presently, to meet her husband, comingup. He held in his hand an open paper, that he had brought, just nowfrom the village. 

There was news. 

Rout, horror, confusion, death, dismay. 

The field of Manassas had been fought. The Union armies were fallingback, in disorder, upon Washington. 

Breathlessly, with pale faces, and with hands that grasped each other ina deep excitement that could not come to speech, they read thosecolumns, together. 

Down there, on those Virginian plains, was this. 

And they were here, in quiet safety, among the clover blooms, and thenew-cut hay. Elsewhere, men were mown. 

"Roger!" said Faith, when, by and by, they had grown calmer over thefearful tidings, and had had Bible words of peace and cheer for thefevered and bloody rumors of men--"mightn't we take our wedding journey, now?"

All the bright, early summer, in those first months of their lifetogether, they had been finding work to do. Work they had hardly dreamedof when Faith had feared she might be left to a mere, unworthy, selfishrest and happiness. 

The old New England spirit had roused itself, mightily, in the littlecountry town. People had forgotten their own needs, and the provisionthey were wont to make, at this time, each household for itself. Moneyand material, and quick, willing hands were found, and a good work wenton; and kindling zeal, and noble sympathies, and hearty prayers wovethemselves in, with toil of thread and needle, to homely fabrics, andembalmed, with every finger touch, all whereon they labored. 

They had remembered the old struggle wherein their country had beenborn. They were glad and proud to bear their burden in this grander onewherein she was to be born anew, to higher life. 

Roger Armstrong and his wife had been the spring and soul and center ofall. 

And now Faith said: "Roger! mayn't we take our wedding journey?"

Not for a bridal holiday--not for gay change and pleasure--but for aholy purpose, went they out from home. 

Down among the wounded, and war-smitten. Bearing comfort of gifts, andhelpful words, and prayers. Doing whatsoever they found to do, now;seeking and learning what they might best do, hereafter. Truly, God leftthem not without a work. A noble ministry lay ready for them, at thisvery threshold of their wedded life. 

In the hospital at Georgetown, they found Nurse Sampson. 

"I told you so, " she said. "I knew it was coming. And the first gunbrought me down here to be ready. I've been out to Western Virginia; andI came back here when we got the news of this. I shall follow round, wherever the clouds roll. "

In Washington, still another meeting awaited them. 

Paul Rushleigh, in a Captain's uniform, came, one day, to the table oftheir hotel. 

The first gun had brought him, also, where he could be ready. He hadsailed for home, with his father, upon the reception, abroad, of thetidings of the fall of Sumter. 

"Your country will want you, now, my son, " had been the words of thebrave and loyal gentleman. And, like another Abraham, he had set hisface toward the mount of sacrifice. 

There was a new light in the young man's eye. A soul awakened there. Apurpose, better than any plan or hope of a mere happy living in theearth. 

He met his old friends frankly, generously; and, seemingly, without apang. They were all one now, in the sublime labor that, in their severalspheres, lay out before them. 

"You were right, Faith, " he said, as he stood with them, and spokebriefly of the past, before they parted. "I shall be more of a man, thanif I'd had my first wish. This war is going to make a nation of men. I'mfree, now, to give my heart and hand to my country, as long as she needsme. And by and by, perhaps, if I live, some woman may love me with thesort of love you have for your husband. I feel now, how surely I shouldhave come to be dissatisfied with less. God bless you both!"

"God bless you, Paul!"

THE END. 

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BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY

MRS. ADELINE DUTTON (Train) WHITNEY, American novelist and poet, wasborn in Boston, September 15, 1824, and was married to Seth D. Whitney, of Milton, Mass. , in 1843. Writing little for publication in early life, she produced, in 1863, _Faith Gartney's Girlhood_, which brought hergreat popularity both at home and in England, where the novel gainedespecially favorable commendation. Although planned purely as a girl'sbook, the story of _Faith_ grew into her womanhood, and after the lapseof almost half a century continues to be a prime favorite. It is apurely told story of New England life, especially with dramaticincidents and an excellent bit of romance. 

_The Gayworthys: a Story of Threads and Thrums_ (1865), continued Mrs. Whitney's popularity and received flattering notices from the London_Reader_, _Athenĉum_, _Pall Mall Gazette_, and _Spectator_. Mrs. Whitneywas a contributor to the _Atlantic Monthly_, _Our Young Folks_, _Old andNew_ and various other periodicals. 

Among her other published works are: _Footsteps on the Seas_ (1857), poems; _Mother Goose for Grown Folks_ (1860); _Boys at Chequasset_(1862); _A Summer in Leslie Goldthwaite's Life_ (1866); _PatienceStrong's Outings_ (1868); _Hitherto: a Story of Yesterday_ (1869); _WeGirls_ (1870); _Real Folks_ (1871); _Zerub Throop's Experiment_ (1871);_Pansies_, verse (1872); _The Other Girls_ (1873); _Sights and Insights_(1876); _Odd or Even_ (1880); _Bonnyborough_ (1885); _Holy-Tides_, verse(1886); _Homespun Yarns_ (1887); _Bird Talk_, verse (1887); _Daffodils_, verse (1887); _Friendly Letters to Girl Friends_ (1897); _Biddy'sEpisodes_ (1904). 

Breadth of view on social conditions, a deeply religious spirit, and acharming facility both in descriptive and romantic passages, give thisnovelist her sustained popularity. 

Mrs. Whitney died in Boston on March 21st, 1906. 

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Transcriber's Notes

 1. Some punctuation has been changed to conform to contemporary standards. 

 2. The author's biography has been moved to the end of the text from the reverse of the title page. 

 3. A Table of Contents was not present in the original edition. 

 4. The "certain pause and emphasis" differentiated by the author is marked with spaced mid-dots in Chapter XVI, as in the original text.