[Illustration: MARY ERSKINE'S FARM]

MARY ERSKINE

A Franconia Story, BY THE AUTHOR OF THE ROLLO BOOKS. 

NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS. FRANKLIN SQUARE. 

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by HARPER &BROTHERS, In the Clerk's Office for the Southern District of New York. 

PREFACE. 

The development of the moral sentiments in the human heart, in earlylife, --and every thing in fact which relates to the formation ofcharacter, --is determined in a far greater degree by sympathy, andby the influence of example, than by formal precepts and didacticinstruction. If a boy hears his father speaking kindly to a robin inthe spring, --welcoming its coming and offering it food, --there arisesat once in his own mind, a feeling of kindness toward the bird, and toward all the animal creation, which is produced by a sort ofsympathetic action, a power somewhat similar to what in physicalphilosophy is called _induction_. On the other hand, if thefather, instead of feeding the bird, goes eagerly for a gun, in orderthat he may shoot it, the boy will sympathize in that desire, andgrowing up under such an influence, there will be gradually formedwithin him, through the mysterious tendency of the youthful heart tovibrate in unison with hearts that are near, a disposition to kill anddestroy all helpless beings that come within his power. There is noneed of any formal instruction in either case. Of a thousand childrenbrought up under the former of the above-described influences, nearlyevery one, when he sees a bird, will wish to go and get crumbs to feedit, while in the latter case, nearly every one will just as certainlylook for a stone. Thus the growing up in the right atmosphere, ratherthan the receiving of the right instruction, is the condition whichit is most important to secure, in plans for forming the characters ofchildren. 

It is in accordance with this philosophy that these stories, thoughwritten mainly with a view to their moral influence on the hearts anddispositions of the readers, contain very little formal exhortationand instruction. They present quiet and peaceful pictures of happydomestic life, portraying generally such conduct, and expressing suchsentiments and feelings, as it is desirable to exhibit and express inthe presence of children. 

The books, however, will be found, perhaps, after all, to be usefulmainly in entertaining and amusing the youthful readers who may perusethem, as the writing of them has been the amusement and recreation ofthe author in the intervals of more serious pursuits. 

CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER

I. --JEMMY

II. --THE BRIDE

III. --MARY ERSKINE'S VISITORS

IV. --CALAMITY

V. --CONSULTATIONS

VI. --MARY BELL IN THE WOODS

VII. --HOUSE-KEEPING

VIII. --THE SCHOOL

IX. --GOOD MANAGEMENT

X. --THE VISIT TO MARY ERSKINE'S

ENGRAVINGS. 

MARY ERSKINE'S FARM--FRONTISPIECE. 

CATCHING THE HORSE

THE LOG HOUSE

MARY BELL AT THE BROOK

THE WIDOW AND THE FATHERLESS

MRS. BELL

MARY BELL AND QUEEN BESS

MARY BELL GETTING BREAKFAST

THE SCHOOL

GOING TO COURT

THE STRAWBERRY PARTY

THE FRANCONIA STORIES. 

ORDER OF THE VOLUMES. 

MALLEVILLE. 

WALLACE. 

MARY ERSKINE. 

MARY BELL. 

BEECHNUT. 

RODOLPHUS. 

ELLEN LINN. 

STUYVESANT. 

CAROLINE. 

AGNES. 

SCENE OF THE STORY

The country in the vicinity of Franconia, at the North. 

PRINCIPAL PERSONS

MARY ERSKINE. 

ALBERT. 

PHONNY and MALLEVILLE, cousins, residing at the house of Phonny'smother. 

MRS. HENRY, Phonny's mother. 

ANTONIO BLANCHINETTE, a French boy, residing at Mrs. Henry's; commonlycalled Beechnut. 

MRS. BELL, a widow lady, living in the vicinity of Mrs. Henry's. 

MARY BELL, her daughter. 

MARY ERSKINE. 

CHAPTER I. 

JEMMY. 

Malleville and her cousin Phonny generally played together atFranconia a great part of the day, and at night they slept in twoseparate recesses which opened out of the same room. These recesseswere deep and large, and they were divided from the room by curtains, so that they formed as it were separate chambers: and yet the childrencould speak to each other from them in the morning before they got up, since the curtains did not intercept the sound of their voices. Theymight have talked in the same manner at night, after they had gone tobed, but this was against Mrs. Henry's rules. 

One morning Malleville, after lying awake a few minutes, listening tothe birds that were singing in the yard, and wishing that the windowwas open so that she could hear them more distinctly, heard Phonny'svoice calling to her. 

"Malleville, " said he, "are you awake?"

"Yes, " said Malleville, "are you?"

"Yes, " said Phonny, "I'm awake--but what a cold morning it is!"

It was indeed a cold morning, or at least a very _cool_ one. This was somewhat remarkable, as it was in the month of June. But thecountry about Franconia was cold in winter, and cool in summer. Phonnyand Malleville rose and dressed themselves, and then went down stairs. They hoped to find a fire in the sitting-room, but there was none. 

"How sorry I am, " said Phonny. "But hark, I hear a roaring. "

"Yes, " said Malleville; "it is the oven; they are going to bake. "

The back of the oven was so near to the partition wall which formedone side of the sitting-room, that the sound of the fire could beheard through it. The mouth of the oven however opened intoanother small room connected with the kitchen, which was called thebaking-room. The children went out into the baking-room, to warmthemselves by the oven fire. 

"I am very glad that it is a cool day, " said Phonny, "for perhapsmother will let us go to Mary Erskine's. Should not you like to go?"

"Yes, " said Malleville, "very much. Where is it?"

The readers who have perused the preceding volumes of this serieswill have observed that Mary Bell, who lived with her mother in thepleasant little farm-house at a short distance from the village, wasalways called by her full name, Mary Bell, and not ever, or scarcelyever, merely Mary. People had acquired the habit of speaking of her inthis way, in order to distinguish her from another Mary who lived withMrs. Bell for several years. This other Mary was Mary Erskine. MaryErskine did not live now at Mrs. Bell's, but at another house whichwas situated nearly two miles from Mrs. Henry's, and the way to itwas by a very wild and unfrequented road. The children were frequentlyaccustomed to go and make Mary Erskine a visit; but it was so long awalk that Mrs. Henry never allowed them to go unless on a very coolday. 

At breakfast that morning Phonny asked his mother if that would not bea good day for them to go and see Mary Erskine. Mrs. Henry said thatit would be an excellent day, and that she should be very glad to havethem go, for there were some things there to be brought home. BesidesBeechnut was going to mill, and he could carry them as far as Kater'scorner. 

Kater's corner was a place where a sort of cart path, branching offfrom the main road, led through the woods to the house where MaryErskine lived. It took its name from a farmer, whose name was Kater, and whose house was at the corner where the roads diverged. The mainroad itself was very rough and wild, and the cart path which led fromthe corner was almost impassable in summer, even for a wagon, thoughit was a very romantic and beautiful road for travelers on horsebackor on foot. In the winter the road was excellent: for the snow buriedall the roughness of the way two or three feet deep, and the teamswhich went back and forth into the woods, made a smooth and beautifultrack for every thing on runners, upon the top of it. 

Malleville and Phonny were very much pleased with the prospect ofriding a part of the way to Mary Erskine's, with Beechnut, in thewagon. They made themselves ready immediately after breakfast, andthen went and sat down upon the step of the door, waiting for Beechnutto appear. Beechnut was in the barn, harnessing the horse into thewagon. 

Malleville sat down quietly upon the step while waiting for Beechnut. Phonny began to amuse himself by climbing up the railing of thebannisters, at the side of the stairs. He was trying to poise himselfupon the top of the railing and then to work himself up the ascentby pulling and pushing with his hands and feet against the bannistersthemselves below. 

"I wish you would not do that, " said Malleville. "I think it is veryfoolish, for you may fall and hurt yourself. "

"No, " said Phonny. "It is not foolish. It is very useful for me tolearn to climb. " So saying he went on scrambling up the railing of thebannisters as before. 

Just then Beechnut came along through the yard, towards the house. Hewas coming for the whip. 

"Beechnut, " said Malleville, "I wish that you would speak to Phonny. "

"_Is_ it foolish for me to learn to climb?" asked Phonny. Inorder to see Beechnut while he asked this question, Phonny had totwist his head round in a very unusual position, and look out underhis arm. It was obvious that in doing this he was in imminent dangerof falling, so unstable was the equilibrium in which he was poisedupon the rail. 

"Is not he foolish?" asked Malleville. 

Beechnut looked at him a moment, and then said, as he resumed his walkthrough the entry, "Not very;--that is for a boy. I have known boys sometimes to dofoolisher things than that. "

"What did they do?" asked Phonny. 

"Why once, " said Beechnut, "I knew a boy who put his nose into thecrack of the door, and then took hold of the latch and pulled thedoor to, and pinched his nose to death. That was a _little_ morefoolish, though not much. "

So saying Beechnut passed through the door and disappeared. 

Phonny was seized with so violent a convulsion of laughter at the ideaof such absurd folly as Beechnut had described, that he tumbled offthe bannisters, but fortunately he fell _in_, towards the stairs, and was very little hurt. He came down the stairs to Malleville, andas Beechnut returned in a few minutes with the whip, they all went outtowards the barn together. 

Beechnut had already put the bags of grain into the wagon behind, and now he assisted Phonny and Malleville to get in. He gave them thewhole of the seat, in order that they might have plenty of room, andalso that they might be high up, where they could see. He had a smallbench which was made to fit in, in front, and which he was accustomedto use for himself, as a sort of driver's seat, whenever the wagon wasfull. He placed this bench in its place in front, and taking his seatupon it, he drove away. 

When the party had thus fairly set out, and Phonny and Malleville hadin some measure finished uttering the multitude of exclamations ofdelight with which they usually commenced a ride, they began to wishthat Beechnut would tell them a story. Now Beechnut was a boy ofboundless fertility of imagination, and he was almost always ready totell a story. His stories were usually invented on the spot, and wereoften extremely wild and extravagant, both in the incidents involvedin them, and in the personages whom he introduced as actors. Theextravagance of these tales was however usually no objection to themin Phonny's and Malleville's estimation. In fact Beechnut observedthat the more extravagant his stories were, the better pleased hisauditors generally appeared to be in listening to them. He thereforedid not spare invention, or restrict himself by any rules either oftruth or probability in his narratives. Nor did he usually require anytime for preparation, but commenced at once with whatever came intohis head, pronouncing the first sentence of his story, very oftenwithout any idea of what he was to say next. 

On this occasion Beechnut began as follows:

"Once there was a girl about three years old, and she had a largeblack cat. The cat was of a jet black color, and her fur was very softand glossy. It was as soft as silk. 

"This cat was very mischievous and very sly. She was _very_ sly:very indeed. In fact she used to go about the house so very slyly, getting into all sorts of mischief which the people could never findout till afterwards, that they gave her the name of Sligo. Some peoplesaid that the reason why she had that name was because she came froma place called Sligo, in Ireland. But that was not the reason. It wasveritably and truly because she was so sly. "

Beechnut pronounced this decision in respect to the etymologicalimport of the pussy's name in the most grave and serious manner, andMalleville and Phonny listened with profound attention. 

"What was the girl's name?" asked Malleville. 

"The girl's?" repeated Beechnut. "Oh, her name was--Arabella. "

"Well, go on, " said Malleville. 

"One day, " continued Beechnut, "Sligo was walking about the house, trying to find something to do. She came into the parlor. There wasnobody there. She looked about a little, and presently she saw awork-basket upon the corner of a table, where Arabella's mother hadbeen at work. Sligo began to look at the basket, thinking that itwould make a good nest for her to sleep in, if she could only get itunder the clock. The clock stood in a corner of the room. 

"Sligo accordingly jumped up into a chair, and from the chair to thetable, and then pushing the basket along nearer and nearer to the edgeof the table, she at last made it fall over, and all the sewing andknitting work, and the balls, and needles, and spools, fell out uponthe floor. Sligo then jumped down and pushed the basket along towardthe clock. She finally got it under the clock, crept into it, curledherself round into the form of a semicircle inside, so as just to fillthe basket, and went to sleep. 

"Presently Arabella came in, and seeing the spools and balls uponthe floor, began to play with them. In a few minutes more, Arabella'smother came in, and when she saw Arabella playing with these thingsupon the floor, she supposed that Arabella herself was the rogue thathad thrown the basket off the table. Arabella could not talk much. When her mother accused her of doing this mischief, she could only say"No;" "no;" but her mother did not believe her. So she made her go andstand up in the corner of the room, for punishment, while Sligo peepedout from under the clock to see. "

"But you said that Sligo was asleep, " said Phonny. 

"Yes, she went to sleep, " replied Beechnut, "but she waked up whenArabella's mother came into the room. "

Beechnut here paused a moment to consider what he should say next, when suddenly he began to point forward to a little distance beforethem in the road, where a boy was to be seen at the side of the road, sitting upon a stone. 

"I verily believe it is Jemmy, " said he. 

As the wagon approached the place where Jemmy was sitting, theyfound that he was bending down over his foot, and moaning with, pain. Beechnut asked him what was the matter. He said that he had sprainedhis foot dreadfully. Beechnut stopped the horse, and giving thereins to Phonny, he got out to see. Phonny immediately gave them toMalleville, and followed. 

"Are you much hurt?" asked Beechnut. 

"Oh, yes, " said Jemmy, moaning and groaning; "oh dear me!"

Beechnut then went back to the horse, and taking him by the bridle, he led him a little way out of the road, toward a small tree, wherehe thought he would stand, and then taking Malleville out, so thatshe might not be in any danger if the horse should chance to start, hewent back to Jemmy. 

"You see, " said Jemmy, "I was going to mill, and I was riding alonghere, and the horse pranced about and threw me off and sprained myfoot. Oh dear me! what shall I do?"

"Where is the horse?" asked Beechnut. 

"There he is, " said Jemmy, "somewhere out there. He has gone along theroad. And the bags have fallen off too. Oh dear me!"

Phonny ran out into the road, and looked forward. He could see thehorse standing by the side of the road at some distance, quietlyeating the grass. A little this side of the place where the horsestood, the bags were lying upon the ground, not very far from eachother. 

The story which Jemmy told was not strictly true. He was one of theboys of the village, and was of a wild and reckless character. Thiswas, however, partly his father's fault, who never gave him any kindand friendly instruction, and always treated him with a great degreeof sternness and severity. 

A circus company had visited Franconia a few weeks before the time ofthis accident, and Jemmy had peeped through the cracks of the fencethat formed their enclosure, and had seen the performers ride aroundthe ring, standing upon the backs of the horses. He was immediatelyinspired with the ambition to imitate this feat, and the next timethat he mounted his father's horse, he made the attempt to perform it. His father, when he found it out, was very angry with him, and sternlyforbade him ever to do such a thing again. He declared positively thatif he did, he would whip him to death, as he said. Jemmy was silent, but he secretly resolved that he would ride standing again, the veryfirst opportunity. 

Accordingly, when his father put the two bags of grain upon the horse, and ordered Jemmy to go to mill with them, Jemmy thought that theopportunity had come. He had observed that the circus riders, insteadof a saddle, used upon the backs of their horses a sort of flat pad, which afforded a much more convenient footing than any saddle; and asto standing on the naked back of a horse, it was manifestly impossiblefor any body but a rope-dancer. When, however, Jemmy saw his fatherplacing the bags of grain upon the horse, he perceived at once that agood broad and level surface was produced by them, which was muchmore extended and level, even than the pads of the circus-riders. Heinstantly resolved, that the moment that he got completely away fromthe village, he would mount upon the bags and ride standing--and rideso, too, just as long as he pleased. 

Accordingly, as soon as he had passed the house where Phonny lived, which was the last house in that direction for some distance, helooked round in order to be sure that his father was not by anyaccident behind him, and then climbing up first upon his knees, andafterward upon his feet, he drew up the reins cautiously, and thenchirruped to the horse to go on. The horse began to move slowly along. Jemmy was surprised and delighted to find how firm his footing wason the broad surface of the bags. Growing more and more bold andconfident as he became accustomed to his situation, he began presentlyto dance about, or rather to perform certain awkward antics, whichhe considered dancing, looking round continually, with a mingledexpression of guilt, pleasure, and fear, in his countenance, in orderto be sure that his father was not coming. Finally, he undertook tomake his horse trot a little. The horse, however, by this time, began to grow somewhat impatient at the unusual sensations whichhe experienced--the weight of the rider being concentrated upon onesingle point, directly on his back, and resting very unsteadilyand interruptedly there, --and the bridle-reins passing up almostperpendicularly into the air, instead of declining backwards, as theyought to do in any proper position of the horseman. He began to trotforward faster and faster. Jemmy soon found that it would be prudentto restrain him, but in his upright position, he had no controlover the horse by pulling the reins. He only pulled the horse's headupwards, and made him more uneasy and impatient than before. He thenattempted to get down into a sitting posture again, but in doingso, he fell off upon the hard road and sprained his ankle. The horsetrotted rapidly on, until the bags fell off, first one and then theother. Finding himself thus wholly at liberty, he stopped and beganto eat the grass at the road-side, wholly unconcerned at the mischiefthat had been done. 

Jemmy's distress was owing much more to his alarm and his sense ofguilt, than to the actual pain of the injury which he had suffered. Hewas, however, entirely disabled by the sprain. 

"It is rather a hard case, " said Beechnut, "no doubt, but never mindit, Jemmy. A man may break his leg, and yet live to dance many ahornpipe afterwards. You'll get over all this and laugh about it oneday. Come, I'll carry you home in my wagon. "

"But I am afraid to go home, " said Jemmy. 

"What are you afraid of?" asked Beechnut. 

"Of my father, " said Jemmy. 

"Oh no, " said Beechnut. "The horse is not hurt, and as for the gristI'll carry it to mill with mine. So there is no harm done. Come, letme put you into the wagon. "

"Yes, " said Phonny, "and I will go and catch the horse. "

While Beechnut was putting Jemmy into the wagon, Phonny ran along theroad toward the horse. The horse, hearing footsteps, and supposingfrom the sound that somebody might be coming to catch him, was atfirst disposed to set off and gallop away; but looking round andseeing that it was nobody but Phonny he went on eating as before. When Phonny got pretty near to the horse, he began to walk up slowlytowards him, putting out his hand as if to take hold of the bridle andsaying, "Whoa--Dobbin, --whoa. " The horse raised his head a littlefrom the grass, shook it very expressively at Phonny, walked on a fewsteps, and then began to feed upon the grass as before. He seemedto know precisely how much resistance was necessary to avoid therecapture with which he was threatened. 

"Whoa Jack! whoa!" said Phonny, advancing again. The horse, however, moved on, shaking his head as before. He seemed to be no more disposedto recognize the name of Jack than Dobbin. 

[Illustration: CATCHING THE HORSE. ]

"Jemmy, " said Phonny, turning back and calling out aloud, "Jemmy!what's his name?"

Jemmy did not answer. He was fully occupied in getting into the wagon. 

Beechnut called Phonny back and asked him to hold his horse, while hewent to catch Jemmy's. He did it by opening one of the bags and takingout a little grain, and by means of it enticing the stray horse nearenough to enable him to take hold of the bridle. He then fastened himbehind the wagon, and putting Jemmy's two bags in, he turned round andwent back to carry Jemmy home, leaving Malleville and Phonny to walkthe rest of the way to Mary Erskine's. Besides their ride, they lostthe remainder of the story of Sligo, if that can be said to be lostwhich never existed. For at the time when Beechnut paused in hisnarration, he had told the story as far as he had invented it. He hadnot thought of another word. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE BRIDE. 

Mary Erskine was an orphan. Her mother died when she was about twelveyears old. Her father had died long before, and after her father'sdeath her mother was very poor, and lived in so secluded and solitarya place, that Mary had no opportunity then to go to school. Shebegan to work too as soon as she was able to do any thing, and it wasnecessary from that day forward for her to work all the time; and thiswould have prevented her from going to school, if there had been onenear. Thus when her mother died, although she was an intelligent andvery sensible girl, she could neither read nor write a word. She toldMrs. Bell the day that she went to live with her, that she did noteven know any of the letters, except the round one and the crookedone. The round one she said she _always_ knew, and as for S shelearned that, because it stood for Erskine. This shows how little sheknew about spelling. 

Mrs. Bell wanted Mary Erskine to help her in taking care of her owndaughter Mary, who was then an infant. As both the girls were namedMary, the people of the family and the neighbors gradually fellinto the habit of calling each of them by her full name, in order todistinguish them from each other. Thus the baby was never called Mary, but always Mary Bell, and the little nursery maid was always known asMary Erskine. 

Mary Erskine became a great favorite at Mrs. Bell's. She was of avery light-hearted and joyous disposition, always contented and happy, singing like a nightingale at her work all the day long, when shewas alone, and cheering and enlivening all around her by her buoyantspirits when she was in company. When Mary Bell became old enough torun about and play, Mary Erskine became her playmate and companion, as well as her protector. There was no distinction of rank to separatethem. If Mary Bell had been as old as Mary Erskine and had had ayounger sister, her duties in the household would have been exactlythe same as Mary Erskine's were. In fact, Mary Erskine's position wasaltogether that of an older sister, and strangers visiting, the familywould have supposed that the two girls were really sisters, had theynot both been named Mary. 

Mary Erskine was about twelve years older than Mary Bell, so that whenMary Bell began to go to school, which was when she was about fiveyears old, Mary Erskine was about seventeen. Mrs. Bell had proposed, when Mary Erskine first came to her house, that she would go to schooland learn to read and write; but Mary had been very much disinclinedto do so. In connection with the amiableness and gentleness of hercharacter and her natural good sense, she had a great deal of prideand independence of spirit; and she was very unwilling to go toschool--being, as she was, almost in her teens--and begin there tolearn her letters with the little children. Mrs. Bell ought to haverequired her to go, notwithstanding her reluctance, or else to havemade some other proper arrangement for teaching her to read and write. Mrs. Bell was aware of this in fact, and frequently resolved that shewould do so. But she postponed the performance of her resolution frommonth to month and year to year, and finally it was not performed atall. Mary Erskine was so very useful at home, that a convenient timefor sparing her never came. And then besides she was so kind, and sotractable, and so intent upon complying with all Mrs. Bell's wishes, in every respect, that Mrs. Bell was extremely averse to require anything of her, which would mortify her, or give her pain. 

When Mary Erskine was about eighteen years old, she was walking homeone evening from the village, where she had been to do some shoppingfor Mrs. Bell, and as she came to a solitary part of the road afterhaving left the last house which belonged to the village, she saw ayoung man coming out of the woods at a little distance before her. Sherecognized him, immediately, as a young man whom she called Albert, who had often been employed by Mrs. Bell, at work about the farm andgarden. Albert was a very sedate and industrious young man, of frankand open and manly countenance, and of an erect and athletic form. Mary Erskine liked Albert very well, and yet the first impulse was, when she saw him coming, to cross over to the other side of the road, and thus pass him at a little distance. She did in fact take one ortwo steps in that direction, but thinking almost immediately that itwould be foolish to do so, she returned to the same side of the roadand walked on. Albert walked slowly along towards Mary Erskine, untilat length they met. 

"Good evening, Mary Erskine, " said Albert. 

"Good evening, Albert, " said Mary Erskine. 

Albert turned and began to walk along slowly, by Mary Erskine's side. 

"I have been waiting here for you more than two hours, " said Albert. 

"Have you?" said Mary Erskine. Her heart began to beat, and she wasafraid to say any thing more, for fear that her voice would tremble, "Yes, " said Albert. "I saw you go to the village, and I wanted tospeak to you when you came back. "

Mary Erskine walked along, but did not speak. 

"And I have been waiting and watching two months for you to go to thevillage, " continued Albert. 

"I have not been much to the village, lately, " said Mary. 

Here there was a pause of a few minutes, when Albert said again, "Have you any objection to my walking along with you here a littleway, Mary?"

"No, " said Mary, "not at all. "

"Mary, " said Albert, after another short pause, "I have got a hundreddollars and my axe, --and this right arm. I am thinking of buying alot of land, about a mile beyond Kater's corner. If I will do it, andbuild a small house of one room there, will you come and be my wife?It will have to be a _log_ house at first. "

Mary Erskine related subsequently to Mary Bell what took place at thisinterview, thus far, but she would never tell the rest. 

It was evident, however, that Mary Erskine was inclined to accept thisproposal, from a conversation which took place between her and Mrs. Bell the next evening. It was after tea. The sun had gone down, and the evening was beautiful. Mrs. Bell was sitting in a lowrocking-chair, on a little covered platform, near the door, which theycalled the stoop. There were two seats, one on each side of the stoop, and there was a vine climbing over it. Mrs. Bell was knitting. MaryBell, who was then about six years old, was playing about the yard, watching the butterflies, and gathering flowers. 

"You may stay here and play a little while, " said Mary Erskine to MaryBell. "I am going to talk with your mother a little; but I shall beback again pretty soon. "

Mary Erskine accordingly went to the stoop where Mrs. Bell wassitting, and took a seat upon the bench at the side of Mrs. Bell, though rather behind than before her. There was a railing alongbehind the seat, at the edge of the stoop and a large white rose-bush, covered with roses, upon the other side. 

Mrs. Bell perceived from Mary Erskine's air and manner that shehad something to say to her, so after remarking that it was a verypleasant evening, she went on knitting, waiting for Mary Erskine tobegin. 

"Mrs. Bell, " said Mary. 

"Well, " said Mrs. Bell. 

The trouble was that Mary Erskine did not know exactly _how_ tobegin. 

She paused a moment longer and then making a great effort she said, "Albert wants me to go and live with him. "

"Does he?" said Mrs. Bell. "And where does he want you to go andlive?"

"He is thinking of buying a farm, " said Mary Erskine. 

"Where?" said Mrs. Bell. 

"I believe the land is about a mile from Kater's corner. "

Mrs. Bell was silent for a few minutes. She was pondering the thoughtnow for the first time fairly before her mind, that the littlehelpless orphan child that she had taken under her care so many yearsago, had really grown to be a woman, and must soon, if not then, beginto form her own independent plans of life. She looked at little MaryBell too, playing upon the grass, and wondered what she would do whenMary Erskine was gone. 

After a short pause spent in reflections like these, Mrs. Bell resumedthe conversation by saying, "Well, Mary, --and what do you think of the plan?"

"Why--I don't know, " said Mary Erskine, timidly and doubtfully. 

"You are very young, " said Mrs. Bell. 

"Yes, " said Mary Erskine, "I always was very young. I was very youngwhen my father died; and afterwards, when my mother died, I was veryyoung to be left all alone, and to go out to work and earn my living. And now I am very young, I know. But then I am eighteen. "

"Are you eighteen?" asked Mrs. Bell. 

"Yes, " said Mary Erskine, "I was eighteen the day before yesterday. "

"It is a lonesome place, --out beyond Kater's Corner, " said Mrs. Bell, after another pause. 

"Yes, " said Mary Erskine, "but I am not afraid of lonesomeness. Inever cared about seeing a great many people. "

"And you will have to work very hard, " continued Mrs. Bell. 

"I know that, " replied Mary; "but then I am not afraid of work anymore than I am of lonesomeness. I began to work when I was five yearsold, and I have worked ever since, --and I like it. "

"Then, besides, " said Mrs. Bell, "I don't know what I shall do with_my_ Mary when you have gone away. You have had the care of herever since she was born. "

Mary Erskine did not reply to this. She turned her head away fartherand farther from Mrs. Bell, looking over the railing of the stooptoward the white roses. In a minute or two she got up suddenly fromher seat, and still keeping her face averted from Mrs. Bell, she wentin by the stoop door into the house, and disappeared. In about tenminutes she came round the corner of the house, at the place whereMary Bell was playing, and with a radiant and happy face, and tonesas joyous as ever, she told her little charge that they would have onegame of hide and go seek, in the asparagus, and that then it would betime for her to go to bed. 

Two days after this, Albert closed the bargain for his land, and beganhis work upon it. The farm, or rather the lot, for the farm was yetto be made, consisted of a hundred and sixty acres of land, all inforest. A great deal of the land was mountainous and rocky, fit onlyfor woodland and pasturage. There were, however, a great many fertilevales and dells, and at one place along the bank of a stream, therewas a broad tract which Albert thought would make, when the treeswere felled and it was brought into grass, a "beautiful piece ofintervale. "

Albert commenced his operations by felling several acres of trees, ona part of his lot which was nearest the corner. A road, which had beenlaid out through the woods, led across his land near this place. Thetrees and bushes had been cut away so as to open a space wide enoughfor a sled road in winter. In summer there was nothing but a wildpath, winding among rocks, stumps, trunks of fallen trees, and otherforest obstructions. A person on foot could get along very well, andeven a horse with a rider upon his back, but there was no chance forany thing on wheels. Albert said that it would not be possible to geteven a wheelbarrow in. 

Albert, however, took great pleasure in going back and forth over thisroad, morning and evening, with his axe upon his shoulder, and a packupon his back containing his dinner, while felling his trees. Whenthey were all down, he left them for some weeks drying in the sun, andthen set them on fire. He chose for the burning, the afternoon of ahot and sultry day, when a fresh breeze was blowing from the west, which he knew would fan the flames and increase the conflagration. Itwas important to do this, as the amount of subsequent labor which hewould have to perform, would depend upon how completely the trees wereconsumed. His fire succeeded beyond his most sanguine expectations, and the next day he brought Mary Erskine in to see what a "splendidburn" he had had, and to choose a spot for the log house which he wasgoing to build for her. 

Mary Erskine was extremely pleased with the appearance of Albert'sclearing. The area which had been opened ascended a little from theroad, and presented a gently undulating surface, which Mary Erskinethought would make very beautiful fields. It was now, however, onevast expanse of blackened and smoking ruins. 

Albert conducted Mary Erskine and Mary Bell--for Mary Bell had come inwith them to see the fire, --to a little eminence from which they couldsurvey the whole scene. 

"Look, " said he, "is not that beautiful? Did you ever see a betterburn?"

"I don't know much about burns, " said Mary Erskine, "but I can seethat it will be a beautiful place for a farm. Why we can see thepond, " she added, pointing toward the south. 

This was true. The falling of the trees had opened up a fine view ofthe pond, which was distant about a mile from the clearing. Therewas a broad stream which flowed swiftly over a gravelly bed along thelower part of the ground, and a wild brook which came tumbling downfrom the mountains, and then, after running across the road, fell intothe larger stream, not far from the corner of the farm. The brook andthe stream formed two sides of the clearing. Beyond them, and alongthe other two sides of the clearing, the tall trees of those parts ofthe forest which had not been disturbed, rose like a wall and hemmedthe opening closely in. 

Albert and Mary Erskine walked along the road through the whole lengthof the clearing, looking out for the best place to build their house. 

"Perhaps it will be lonesome here this winter, Mary, " said Albert. "Idon't know but that you would rather wait till next spring. "

Mary Erskine hesitated about her reply. She did, in fact, wish tocome to her new home that fall, and she thought it was proper thatshe should express the cordial interest which she felt in Albert'splans;--but, then, on the other hand, she did not like to say anything which might seem to indicate a wish on her part to hasten thetime of their marriage. So she said doubtfully, --"I don't know;--Idon't think that it would be lonesome. "

"What do you mean, Albert, " said Mary Bell, "about Mary Erskine'scoming to live here? She can't come and live here, among all theseblack stumps and logs. "

Albert and Mary Erskine were too intent upon their own thoughts andplans to pay any attention to Mary Bell's questions. So they walkedalong without answering her. 

"What could we have to _do_ this fall and winter?" asked MaryErskine. She wished to ascertain whether she could do any good bycoming at once, or whether it would be better, for Albert's plans, towait until the spring. 

"Oh there will be plenty to do, " said Albert. "I shall have to work agreat deal, while the ground continues open, in clearing up the land, and getting it ready for sowing in the spring; and it will be a greatdeal better for me to live here, in order to save my traveling backand forth, so far, every night and morning. Then this winter I shallhave my tools to make, --and to finish the inside of the house, andmake the furniture; and if you have any leisure time you can spin. But after all it will not be very comfortable for you, and perhaps youwould rather wait until spring. "

"No, " said Mary Erskine. "I would rather come this fall. "

"Well, " rejoined Albert, speaking in a tone of great satisfaction. "Then I will get the house up next week, and we will be married verysoon after. "

There were very few young men whose prospects in commencing life wereso fair and favorable as those of Albert. In the first place, he wasnot obliged to incur any debt on account of his land, as most youngfarmers necessarily do. His land was one dollar an acre. He had onehundred dollars of his own, and enough besides to buy a winter stockof provisions for his house. He had expected to have gone in debt forthe sixty dollars, the whole price of the land being one hundred andsixty; but to his great surprise and pleasure Mary Erskine told him, as they were coming home from seeing the land after the burn, that shehad seventy-five dollars of her own, besides interest; and that sheshould like to have sixty dollars of that sum go toward paying forthe land. The fifteen dollars that would be left, she said, would beenough to buy the furniture. 

"I don't think that will be quite enough, " said Albert. 

"Yes, " said Mary Erskine. "We shall not want a great deal. We shallwant a table and two chairs, and some things to cook with. "

"And a bed, " said Albert. 

"Yes, " said Mary Erskine, "but I can make that myself. The cloth willnot cost much, and you can get some straw for me. Next summer we cankeep some geese, and so have a feather bed some day. "

"We shall want some knives and forks, and plates, " said Albert. 

"Yes, " said Mary Erskine, "but they will not cost much. I thinkfifteen dollars will get us all we need. Besides there is more thanfifteen dollars, for there is the interest. "

The money had been put out at interest in the village. 

"Well, " said Albert, "and I can make the rest of the furniture thatwe shall need, this winter. I shall have a shop near the house. I havegot the tools already. "

Thus all was arranged. Albert built his house on the spot which MaryErskine thought would be the most pleasant for it, the week after hervisit to the land. Three young men from the neighborhood assisted him, as is usual in such cases, on the understanding that Albert was tohelp each of them as many days about their work as they workedfor him. This plan is often adopted by farmers in doing work whichabsolutely requires several men at a time, as for example, the raisingof heavy logs one upon another to form the walls of a house. In orderto obtain logs for the building Albert and his helpers cut down freshtrees from the forest, as the blackened and half-burned trunks, whichlay about his clearing, were of course unsuitable for such a work. They selected the tallest and straightest trees, and after fellingthem and cutting them to the proper length, they hauled them tothe spot by means of oxen. The ground served for a floor, and thefire-place was made of stones. The roof was formed of sheets ofhemlock bark, laid, like slates upon rafters made of the stems ofslender trees. Albert promised Mary Erskine that, as soon as the snowcame, in the winter, to make a road, so that he could get through thewoods with a load of boards upon a sled, he would make her a floor. 

From this time forward, although Mary Erskine was more diligent andfaithful than ever in performing all her duties at Mrs. Bell's, herimagination was incessantly occupied with pictures and images of thenew scenes into which she was about to be ushered as the mistress ofher own independent household and home. She made out lists, mentally, for she could not write, of the articles which it would be best topurchase. She formed and matured in her own mind all her house-keepingplans. She pictured to herself the scene which the interior of herdwelling would present in cold and stormy winter evenings, while shewas knitting at one side of the fire, and Albert was busy at someingenious workmanship, on the other; or thought of the beautifulprospect which she should enjoy in the spring and summer following;when fields of waving grain, rich with promises of plenty and ofwealth, would extend in every direction around her dwelling. Shecherished, in a word, the brightest anticipations of happiness. 

[Illustration: THE LOG HOUSE. ]

The house at length was finished. The necessary furniture which Albertcontrived in some way to get moved to it, was put in; and early inAugust Mary Erskine was married. She was married in the morning, and aparty of the villagers escorted her on horseback to her new home. 

CHAPTER III. 

MARY ERSKINE'S VISITORS. 

Mary Erskine's anticipations of happiness in being the mistress of herown independent home were very high, but they were more than realized. 

The place which had been chosen for the house was not only a suitableone in respect to convenience, but it was a very pleasant one. It wasnear the brook which, as has already been said, came cascading downfrom among the forests and mountains, and passing along near one sideof Albert's clearing, flowed across the road, and finally emptied intothe great stream. The house was placed near the brook, in order thatAlbert might have a watering-place at hand for his horses and cattlewhen he should have stocked his farm. In felling the forest Albertleft a fringe of trees along the banks of the brook, that it might becool and shady there when the cattle went down to drink. There was aspring of pure cold water boiling up from beneath some rocks not farfrom the brook, on the side toward the clearing. The water from thisspring flowed down along a little mossy dell, until it reached thebrook. The bed over which this little rivulet flowed was stony, andyet no stones were to be seen. They all had the appearance of roundedtufts of soft green moss, so completely were they all covered andhidden by the beautiful verdure. 

Albert was very much pleased when he discovered this spring, andtraced its little mossy rivulet down to the brook. He thought thatMary Erskine would like it. So he avoided cutting down any of thetrees from the dell, or from around the spring, and in cutting downthose which grew near it, he took care to make them fall away fromthe dell, so that in burning they should not injure the trees which hewished to save. Thus that part of the wood which shaded and shelteredthe spring and the dell, escaped the fire. 

The house was placed in such a position that this spring was directlybehind it, and Albert made a smooth and pretty path leading down toit; or rather he made the path smooth, and nature made it pretty. Forno sooner had he completed his work upon it than nature began to adornit by a profusion of the richest and greenest grass and flowers, which she caused to spring up on either side. It was so in fact in allAlbert's operations upon his farm. Almost every thing that he did wasfor some purpose of convenience and utility, and he himself undertooknothing more than was necessary to secure the useful end. But his kindand playful co-operator, nature, would always take up the workwhere he left it, and begin at once to beautify it with her rich andluxuriant verdure. For example, as soon as the fires went out over theclearing, she began, with her sun and rain, to blanch the blackenedstumps, and to gnaw at their foundations with her tooth of decay. IfAlbert made a road or a path she rounded its angles, softened away allthe roughness that his plow or hoe had left in it, and fringed it withgrass and flowers. The solitary and slender trees which had been leftstanding here and there around the clearing, having escaped the fire, she took under her special care--throwing out new and thrifty branchesfrom them, in every direction, and thus giving them massive andluxuriant forms, to beautify the landscape, and to form shady retreatsfor the flocks and herds which might in subsequent years graze uponthe ground. Thus while Albert devoted himself to the substantial anduseful improvements which were required upon his farm, with a viewsimply to profit, nature took the work of ornamenting it under her ownspecial and particular charge. 

The sphere of Mary Erskine's duties and pleasures was within doors. Her conveniences for house-keeping were somewhat limited at first, butAlbert, who kept himself busy at work on his land all day, spent theevenings in his shanty shop, making various household implements andarticles of furniture for her. Mary sat with him, usually, at suchtimes, knitting by the side of the great, blazing fire, made partlyfor the sake of the light that it afforded, and partly for the warmth, which was required to temper the coolness of the autumnal evenings. Mary took a very special interest in the progress of Albert's work, every thing which he made being for her. Each new acquisition, as onearticle after another was completed and delivered into her possession, gave her fresh pleasure: and she deposited it in its proper place inher house with a feeling of great satisfaction and pride. 

"Mary Erskine, " said Albert one evening--for though she was married, and her name thus really changed, Albert himself, as well as everybody else, went on calling her Mary Erskine just as before--"itis rather hard to make you wait so long for these conveniences, especially as there is no necessity for it. We need not have paid forour land this three years. I might have taken the money and built ahandsome house, and furnished it for you at once. "

"And so have been in debt for the land, " said Mary. 

"Yes, " said Albert. "I could have paid off that debt by the profits ofthe farming. I can lay up a hundred dollars a year, certainly. "

"No, " said Mary Erskine. "I like this plan the best. We will pay aswe go along. It will be a great deal better to have the three hundreddollars for something else than to pay old debts with. We will build abetter house than this if we want one, one of these years, when we getthe money. But I like this house very much as it is. Perhaps, however, it is only because it is my own. "

It was not altogether the idea that it was her own that made MaryErskine like her house. The interior of it was very pleasant indeed, especially after Albert had completed the furnishing of it, and hadlaid the floor. It contained but one room, it is true, but that was avery spacious one. There were, in fact, two apartments enclosed by thewalls and the roof, though only one of them could strictly be calleda room. The other was rather a shed, or stoop, and it was entered fromthe front by a wide opening, like a great shed door. The entrance tothe house proper was by a door opening from this stoop, so as to besheltered from the storms in winter. There was a very large fire placemade of stones in the middle of one side of the room, with a largeflat stone for a hearth in front of it. This hearth stone was verysmooth, and Mary Erskine kept it always very bright and clean. Onone side of the fire was what they called a settle, which was a longwooden seat with a very high back. It was placed on the side of thefire toward the door, so that it answered the purpose of a screen tokeep off any cold currents of air, which might come in on blusteringwinter nights, around the door. On the other side of the fire was asmall and \ very elegant mahogany work table. This was a present toMary Erskine from Mrs. Bell on the day of her marriage. There weredrawers in this table containing sundry conveniences. The upper drawerwas made to answer the purpose of a desk, and it had an inkstand ina small division in one corner. Mrs. Bell had thought of taking thisinkstand out, and putting in some spools, or something else which MaryErskine would be able to use. But Mary herself would not allow her tomake such a change. She said it was true that she could not write, butthat was no reason why she should not have an inkstand. So she filledthe inkstand with ink, and furnished the desk completely in otherrespects, by putting in six sheets of paper, a pen, and severalwafers. The truth was, she thought it possible that an occasionmight arise some time or other, at which Albert might wish to writea letter; and if such a case should occur, it would give her greatpleasure to have him write his letter at her desk. 

Beyond the work table, on one of the sides of the room, was acupboard, and next to the cupboard a large window. This was the onlywindow in the house, and it had a sash which would rise and fall. MaryErskine had made white curtains for this window, which could be partedin the middle, and hung up upon nails driven into the logs whichformed the wall of the house, one on each side. Of what use thesecurtains could be except to make the room look more snug and pleasantwithin, it would be difficult to say; for there was only one vastexpanse of forests and mountains on that side of the house, so thatthere was nobody to look in. 

On the back side of the room, in one corner, was the bed. It wassupported upon a bedstead which Albert had made. The bedstead had highposts, and was covered, like the window, with curtains. In the othercorner was the place for the loom, with the spinning-wheel between theloom and the bed. When Mary Erskine was using the spinning-wheel, she brought it out into the center of the room. The loom was not yetfinished. Albert was building it, working upon it from time to time ashe had opportunity. The frame of it was up, and some of the machinerywas made. 

Mary Erskine kept most of her clothes in a trunk; but Albert wasmaking her a bureau. 

Instead of finding it lonesome at her new home, as Mrs. Bell hadpredicted, Mary Erskine had plenty of company. The girls from thevillage, whom she used to know, were very fond of coming out to seeher. Many of them were much younger than she was, and they loved toramble about in the woods around Mary Erskine's house, and to playalong the bank of the brook. Mary used to show them too, every timethey came, the new articles which Albert had made for her, and toexplain to them the gradual progress of the improvements. Mary Bellherself was very fond of going to see Mary Erskine, --though she was ofcourse at that time too young to go alone. Sometimes however Mrs. Bellwould send her out in the morning and let her remain all day, playing, very happily, around the door and down by the spring. She used to playall day among the logs and stumps, and upon the sandy beach by theside of the brook, and yet when she went home at night she alwayslooked as nice, and her clothes were as neat and as clean as when shewent in the morning. Mrs. Bell wondered at this, and on observing thatit continued to be so, repeatedly, after several visits, she askedMary Bell how it happened that Mary Erskine kept her so nice. 

"Oh, " said Mary Bell, "I always put on my working frock when I go outto Mary Erskine's. "

The working frock was a plain, loose woolen dress, which Mary Erskinemade for Mary Bell, and which Mary Bell, always put on in the morning, whenever she came to the farm. Her own dress was taken off andlaid carefully away upon the bed, under the curtains. Her shoes andstockings were taken off too, so that she might play in the brook ifshe pleased, though Mary Erskine told her it was not best to remain inthe water long enough to have her feet get very cold. 

When Mary Bell was dressed thus in her working frock, she was allowedto play wherever she pleased, so that she enjoyed almost an absoluteand unbounded liberty. And yet there were some restrictions. Shemust not go across the brook, for fear that she might get lost in thewoods, nor go out of sight of the house in any direction. She mightbuild fires upon any of the stumps or logs, but not within certainlimits of distance from the house, lest she should set the house onfire. And she must not touch the axe, for fear that she might cutherself, nor climb upon the wood-pile, for fear that it might falldown upon her. With some such restrictions as these, she could dowhatever she pleased. 

She was very much delighted, one morning in September, when she wasplaying around the house in her working frock, at finding a great holeor hollow under a stump, which she immediately resolved to have forher oven. She was sitting down upon the ground by the side of it, andshe began to call out as loud as she could, "Mary Erskine! Mary Erskine!"

But Mary Erskine did not answer. Mary Bell could hear the sound of thespinning-wheel in the house, and she wondered why the spinner couldnot hear her, when she called so loud. 

She listened, watching for the pauses in the buzzing sound of thewheel, and endeavored to call out in the pauses, --but with no bettersuccess than before. At last she got up and walked along toward thehouse, swinging in her hand a small wooden shovel, which Albert hadmade for her to dig wells with in the sand on the margin of the brook. 

"Mary Erskine!" said she, when she got to the door of the house, "didn't you hear me calling for you?"

"Yes, " said Mary Erskine. 

"Then why did not you come?" said Mary Bell. 

"Because I was disobedient, " said Mary Erskine, "and now I suppose Imust be punished. "

"Well, " said Mary Bell. The expression of dissatisfaction and reproofupon Mary Bell's countenance was changed immediately into one ofsurprise and pleasure, at the idea of Mary Erskine's being punishedfor disobeying _her_. So she said, "Well. And what shall your punishment be?"

"What did you want me for?" asked Mary Erskine. 

"I wanted you to see my oven. "

"Have you got an oven?" asked Mary Erskine. 

"Yes, " said Mary Bell, "It is under a stump. I have got some wood, andnow I want some fire. "

"Very well, " said Mary Erskine, "get your fire-pan. "

Mary Bell's fire-pan, was an old tin dipper with a long handle. It hadbeen worn out as a dipper, and so they used to let Mary Bell have itto carry her fire in. There were several small holes in the bottom ofthe dipper, so completely was it worn out: but this made it all thebetter for a fire-pan, since the air which came up through the holes, fanned the coals and kept them alive. This dipper was very valuable, too, for another purpose. Mary Bell was accustomed, sometimes, to godown to the brook and dip up water with it, in order to see the waterstream down into the brook again, through these holes, in a sort of ashower. 

Mary Bell went, accordingly, for her fire-pan, which she found in itsplace in the open stoop or shed. She came into the house, and MaryErskine, raking open the ashes in the fire-place, took out two largecoals with the tongs, and dropped them into the dipper. Mary Bell heldthe dipper at arm's length before her, and began to walk along. 

"Hold it out upon one side, " said Mary Erskine, "and then if you falldown, you will not fall upon your fire. "

Mary Bell, obeying this injunction, went out to her oven and put thecoals in at the mouth of it. Then she began to gather sticks, and little branches, and strips of birch bark, and other silvancombustibles, which she found scattered about the ground, and put themupon the coals to make the fire. She stopped now and then a minute ortwo to rest and to listen to the sound of Mary Erskine's spinning. Atlast some sudden thought seemed to come into her head, and throwingdown upon the ground a handful of sticks which she had in her hand, and was just ready to put upon the fire, she got up and walked towardthe house. 

"Mary Erskine, " said she, "I almost forgot about your punishment. "

"Yes, " said Mary Erskine, "I hoped that you had forgot about it, altogether. "

"Why?" said Mary Bell. 

"Because, " said Mary Erskine, "I don't like to be punished. "

"But you _must_ be punished, " said Mary Bell, very positively, "and-what shall your punishment be?"

"How would it do, " said Mary Erskine, going on, however, all the timewith her spinning, "for me to have to give you two potatoes to roastin your oven?--or one? One potato will be enough punishment for such alittle disobedience. "

"No; two, " said Mary Bell. 

"Well, two, " said Mary Erskine. "You may go and get them in a pail outin the stoop. But you must wash them first, before you put them in theoven. You can wash them down at the brook. "

"I am afraid that I shall get my fingers smutty, " said Mary Bell, "atmy oven, for the stump is pretty black. "

"No matter if you do, " said Mary Erskine. "You can go down and washthem at the brook. "

"And my frock, too, " said Mary Bell. 

"No matter for that either, " said Mary Erskine; "only keep it as cleanas you can. "

So Mary Bell took the two potatoes and went down to the brook to washthem. She found, however, when she reached the brook, that there wasa square piece of bark lying upon the margin of the water, and shedetermined to push it in and sail it, for her ship, putting the twopotatoes on for cargo. After sailing the potatoes about for some time, her eye chanced to fall upon a smooth spot in the sand, which shethought would make a good place for a garden. So she determined to_plant_ her potatoes instead of roasting them. 

She accordingly dug a hole in the sand with her fingers, and put thepotatoes in, and then after covering them, over with the sand, shewent to the oven to get her fire-pan for her watering-pot, in order towater her garden. 

The holes in the bottom of the dipper made it an excellentwatering-pot, provided the garden to be watered was not too far fromthe brook: for the shower would always begin to fall the instant thedipper was lifted out of the water. 

[Illustration: MARY BELL AT THE BROOK. ]

After watering her garden again and again, Mary Bell concluded on thewhole not to wait for her potatoes to grow, but dug them up and beganto wash them in the brook, to make them ready for the roasting. Herlittle feet sank into the sand at the margin of the water while sheheld the potatoes in the stream, one in each hand, and watched thecurrent as it swept swiftly by them. After a while she took them outand put them in the sun upon a flat stone to dry, and when they weredry she carried them to her oven and buried them in the hot embersthere. 

Thus Mary Bell would amuse herself, hour after hour of the longday, when she went to visit Mary Erskine, with an endless variety ofchildish imaginings. Her working-frock became in fact, in her mind, the emblem of complete and perfect liberty and happiness, unboundedand unalloyed. 

The other children of the village, too, were accustomed to come outand see Mary Erskine, and sometimes older and more ceremonious companystill. There was one young lady named Anne Sophia, who, having beena near neighbor of Mrs. Bell's, was considerably acquainted with MaryErskine, though as the two young ladies had very different tastes andhabits of mind, they never became very intimate friends. Anne Sophiawas fond of dress and of company. Her thoughts were always runningupon village subjects and village people, and her highest ambitionwas to live there. She had been, while Mary Erskine had lived at Mrs. Bell's, very much interested in a young man named Gordon. He was aclerk in a store in the village. He was a very agreeable young man, and much more genteel and polished in his personal appearance thanAlbert. He had great influence among the young men of the village, being the leader in all the excursions and parties of pleasure whichwere formed among them. Anne Sophia knew very well that Mr. Gordonliked to see young ladies handsomely dressed when they appeared inpublic, and partly to please him, and partly to gratify that veryproper feeling of pleasure which all young ladies have in appearingwell, she spent a large part of earnings in dress. She was notparticularly extravagant, nor did she get into debt; but she didnot, like Mary Erskine, attempt to lay up any of her wages. She oftenendeavored to persuade Mary Erskine to follow her example. "It is ofno use, " said she, "for girls like you and me to try to lay up money. If we are ever married we shall make our husbands take care of us; andif we are not married we shall not want our savings, for we can alwaysearn what we need as we go along. "

Mary Erskine had no reply at hand to make to this reasoning, but shewas not convinced by it, so she went on pursuing her own course, while Anne Sophia pursued hers. Anne Sophia was a very capable andintelligent girl, and as Mr. Gordon thought, would do credit to anysociety in which she might be called to move. He became more and moreinterested in her, and it happened that they formed an engagement tobe married, just about the time that Albert made his proposal to MaryErskine. 

Mr. Gordon was a very promising business man, and had an offer fromthe merchant with whom he was employed as a clerk, to enter intopartnership with him, just before the time of his engagement. He declined this offer, determining rather to go into businessindependently. He had laid up about as much money as Albert had, andby means of this, and the excellent letters of recommendation which heobtained from the village people, he obtained a large stock of goods, on credit, in the city. When buying his goods he also bought a smallquantity of handsome furniture, on the same terms. He hired a store. He also hired a small white house, with green trees around it, anda pretty garden behind. He was married nearly at the same time withAlbert, and Anne Sophia in taking possession of her genteel andbeautiful village home, was as happy as Mary Erskine was in her sylvansolitude. Mr. Gordon told her that he had made a calculation, and hethought there was no doubt that, if business was tolerably good thatwinter, he should be able to clear enough to pay all his expenses andto pay for his furniture. 

His calculations proved to be correct. Business was very good. Hepaid for his furniture, and bought as much more on a new credit in thespring. 

Anne Sophia came out to make a call upon Mary Erskine, about amonth after she had got established in her new home. She came in themorning. Mr. Gordon brought her in a chaise as far as to the corner, and she walked the rest of the way. She was dressed very handsomely, and yet in pretty good taste. It was not wholly a call of ceremony, for Anne Sophia felt really a strong attachment to Mary Erskine, andhad a great desire to see her in her new home. 

When she rose to take her leave, after her call was ended, she askedMary Erskine to come to the village and see her as soon as she could. "I meant to have called upon you long before this, " said she, "but Ihave been so busy, and we have had so much company. But I want to seeyou very much indeed. We have a beautiful house, and I have a greatdesire to show it to you. I think you have got a beautiful place herefor a farm, one of these days; but you ought to make your husbandbuild you a better house. He is as able to do it as my husband is toget me one, I have no doubt. "

Mary Erskine had no doubt either. She did not say so however, but onlyreplied that she liked her house very well. The real reason why sheliked it so much was one that Anne Sophia did not consider. The reasonwas that it was her own. Whereas Anne Sophia lived in a house, which, pretty as it was, belonged to other people. 

All these things, it must be remembered, took place eight or ten yearsbefore the time when Malleville and Phonny went to visit Mary Erskine, and when Mary Bell was only four or five years old. Phonny andMalleville, as well as a great many other children, had grown up frominfancy since that time. In fact, the Jemmy who fell from his horseand sprained his ankle the day they came, was Jemmy Gordon, AnneSophia's oldest son. 

CHAPTER IV. 

CALAMITY. 

Both Mary Erskine and Anne Sophia went on very pleasantly andprosperously, each in her own way, for several years. Every springAlbert cut down more trees, and made new openings and clearings. Hebuilt barns and sheds about his house, and gradually accumulated quitea stock of animals. With the money that he obtained by selling thegrain and the grass seed which he raised upon his land, he bought oxenand sheep and cows. These animals fed in his pastures in the summer, and in the winter he gave them hay from his barn. 

Mary Erskine used to take the greatest pleasure in getting up earlyin the cold winter mornings, and going out with her husband to seehim feed the animals. She always brought in a large pile of wood everynight, the last thing before going to bed, and laid it upon the hearthwhere it would be ready at hand for the morning fire. She also had apail of water ready, from the spring, and the tea-kettle by the sideof it, ready to be filled. The potatoes, too, which were to be roastedfor breakfast, were always prepared the night before, and placed in anearthen pan, before the fire. Mary Erskine, in fact, was always veryearnest to make every possible preparation over night, for the work ofthe morning. This arose partly from an instinctive impulse which madeher always wish, as she expressed it, "to do every duty as soon as itcame in sight, " and partly from the pleasure which she derived from amorning visit to the animals in the barn. She knew them all by name. She imagined that they all knew her, and were glad to see her bythe light of her lantern in the morning. It gave her the utmostsatisfaction to see them rise, one after another, from their straw, and begin eagerly to eat the hay which Albert pitched down to themfrom the scaffold, while she, standing below upon the barn floor, heldthe lantern so that he could see. She was always very careful to holdit so that the cows and the oxen could see too. 

One day, when Albert came home from the village, he told Mary Erskinethat he had an offer of a loan of two hundred dollars, from Mr. Keep. Mr. Keep was an elderly gentleman of the village, --of a mild andgentle expression of countenance, and white hair. He was a man oflarge property, and often had money to lend at interest. He had anoffice, where he used to do his business. This office was in a wing ofhis house, which was a large and handsome house in the center of thevillage. Mr. Keep had a son who was a physician, and he used often toask his son's opinion and advice about his affairs. One day when Mr. Keep was sitting in his office, Mr. Gordon came in and told him thathe had some plans for enlarging his business a little, and wished toknow if Mr. Keep had two or three hundred dollars that he would liketo lend for six months. Mr. Keep, who, though he was a very benevolentand a very honorable man, was very careful in all his money dealings, said that he would look a little into his accounts, and see how muchhe had to spare, and let Mr. Gordon know the next day. 

That night Mr. Keep asked his son what he thought of lending Mr. Gordon two or three hundred dollars. His son said doubtfully that hedid not know. He was somewhat uncertain about it. Mr. Gordon was doingvery well, he believed, but then his expenses were quite heavy, and itwas not quite certain how it would turn with him. Mr. Keep then saidthat he had two or three hundred dollars on hand which he must disposeof in some way or other, and he asked his son what he should do withit. His son recommended that he should offer it to Albert. Albertformerly lived at Mr. Keep's, as a hired man, so that Mr. Keep knewhim very well. 

"He is going on quite prosperously in his farm, I understand, " saidthe doctor. "His land is all paid for, and he is getting quite a stockof cattle, and very comfortable buildings. I think it very likely thathe can buy more stock with the money, and do well with it. And, at allevents, you could not put the money in _safer_ hands. "

"I will propose it to him, " said Mr. Keep. 

He did propose it to him that very afternoon, for it happened thatAlbert went to the village that day. Albert told Mr. Keep that he wasvery much obliged to him for the offer of the money, and that he wouldconsider whether it would be best for him to take it or not, and lethim know in the morning. So he told Mary Erskine of the offer that hehad had, as soon as he got home. 

"I am very glad to get such an offer, " said Albert. 

"Shall you take the money?" said his wife. 

"I don't know, " replied Albert. "I rather think not. "

"Then why are you glad to get the offer?" asked Mary Erskine. 

"Oh, it shows that my credit is good in the village. It must be verygood, indeed, to lead such a man as Mr. Keep to offer to lend memoney, of his own accord. It is a considerable comfort to know that Ican get money, whenever I want it, even if I never take it. "

"Yes, " said Mary Erskine, "so it is. "

"And it is all owing to you, " said Albert. 

"To me?" said Mary Erskine. 

"Yes, " said he; "to your prudence and economy, and to your contentedand happy disposition. That is one thing that I always liked youfor. It is so easy to make you happy. There is many a wife, in yoursituation, who could not have been happy unless their husband wouldbuild them a handsome house and fill it with handsome furniture--evenif he had to go in debt for his land to pay for it. "

Mary Erskine did not reply, though it gratified her very much to hearher husband commend her. 

"Well, " said she at length, "I am very glad that you have got goodcredit. What should you do with the money, if you borrowed it?"

"Why, one thing that I could do, " said Albert, "would be to build anew house. "

"No, " said Mary Erskine, "I like this house very much. I don't wantany other--certainly not until we can build one with our own money. "

"Then, " said Albert, "I can buy more stock, and perhaps hire somehelp, and get more land cleared this fall, so as to have greater cropsnext spring, and then sell the stock when it has grown and increased, and also the crops, and so get money enough to pay back the debt andhave something over. "

"Should you have much over?" asked Mary. 

"Why that would depend upon how my business turned out, --and thatwould depend upon the weather, and the markets, and other things whichwe can not now foresee. I think it probable that we should have a gooddeal over. "

"Well, " said Mary Erskine, "then I would take the money. "

"But, then, on the other hand, " said Albert, "I should run some riskof embarrassing myself, if things did not turn out well. If I wereto be sick, so that I could not attend to so much business, or if Ishould Jose any of my stock, or if the crops should not do well, thenI might not get enough to pay back the debt. "

"And what should you do then?" asked Mary Erskine. 

"Why then, " replied Albert, "I should have to make up the deficiencyin some other way. I might ask Mr. Keep to put off the payment of thenote, or I might borrow the money of somebody else to pay him, or Imight sell some of my other stock. I could do any of these things wellenough, but it would perhaps cause me some trouble and anxiety. "

"Then I would not take the money, " said Mary Erskine. "I don't likeanxiety. I can bear any thing else better than anxiety. "

"However, I don't know any thing about it, " continued Mary Erskine, after a short pause. "You can judge best. "

They conversed on the subject some time longer, Albert being quiteat a loss to know what it was best to do. Mary Erskine, for her part, seemed perfectly willing that he should borrow the money to buy morestock, as she liked the idea of having more oxen, sheep, and cows. Butshe seemed decidedly opposed to using borrowed money to build a newhouse, or to buy new furniture. Her head would ache, she said, to lieon a pillow of feathers that was not paid for. 

Albert finally concluded not to borrow the money, and so Mr. Keep lentit to Mr. Gordon. 

Things went on in this way for about three or four years, and thenAlbert began to think seriously of building another house. He hadnow money enough of his own to build it with. His stock had become solarge that he had not sufficient barn room for his hay, and he did notwish to build larger barns where he then lived, for in the course ofhis clearings he had found a much better place for a house than theone which they had at first selected. Then his house was beginning tobe too small for his family, for Mary Erskine had, now, two children. One was an infant, and the other was about two years old. Thesechildren slept in a trundle-bed, which was pushed under the great bedin the daytime, but still the room became rather crowded. So Albertdetermined to build another house. 

Mary Erskine was very much interested in this plan. She would like tolive in a handsome house as well as any other lady, only she preferredto wait until she could have one of her own. Now that that time hadarrived, she was greatly pleased with the prospect of having herkitchen, her sitting-room, and her bed-room, in three separate rooms, instead of having them, as heretofore, all in one. Then the barns andbarn-yards, and the pens and sheds for the sheep and cattle, were allgoing to be much more convenient than they had been; so that Albertcould take care of a greater amount of stock than before, with thesame labor. The new house, too, was going to be built in a much morepleasant situation than the old one, and the road from it to thecorner was to be improved, so that they could go in and out with awagon. In a word, Mary Erskine's heart was filled with new hopes andanticipations, as she saw before her means and sources of happiness, higher and more extended than she had ever before enjoyed. 

When the time approached for moving into the new house Mary Erskineoccupied herself, whenever she had any leisure time, in packing upsuch articles as were not in use. One afternoon while she was engagedin this occupation, Albert came home from the field much earlier thanusual. Mary Erskine was very glad to see him, as she wished him tonail up the box in which she had been packing her cups and saucers. She was at work on the stoop, very near the door, so that she couldwatch the children. The baby was in the cradle. The other child, whosename was Bella, was playing about the floor. 

Albert stopped a moment to look at Mary Erskine's packing, and thenwent in and took his seat upon the settle. 

"Tell me when your box is ready, " said he, "and I will come and nailit for you. "

Bella walked along toward her father--for she had just learned towalk--and attempted to climb up into his lap. 

"Run away, Bella, " said Albert. 

Mary Erskine was surprised to hear Albert tell Bella to run away, forhe was usually very glad to have his daughter come to him when he gothome from his work. She looked up to see what was the matter. He wassitting upon the settle, and leaning his head upon his hand. 

Mary Erskine left her work and went to him. 

"Are you not well, Albert?" said she. 

"My head aches a little. It ached in the field, and that was thereason why I thought I would come home. But it is better now. Are youready for me to come and nail the box?"

"No, " said Mary, "not quite; and besides, it is no matter about itto-night. I will get you some tea. "

"No, " said Albert, "finish your packing first, and I will come andnail it. Then we can put it out of the way. "

Mary Erskine accordingly finished her packing, and Albert went to it, to nail the cover on. He drove one or two nails, and then he put thehammer down, and sat down himself upon the box, saying that he couldnot finish the nailing after all. He was too unwell. He went into theroom, Mary Erskine leading and supporting him. She conducted him tothe bed and opened the curtains so as to let him lie down. She helpedhim to undress himself, and then left him, a few minutes while shebegan to get some tea. She moved the box, which she had been packing, away from the stoop door, and put it in a corner. She drew out thetrundle-bed, and made, it ready for Bella. She sat down and gave Bellasome supper, and then put her into the trundle-bed, directing her toshut up her eyes and go to sleep. Bella obeyed. 

Mary Erskine then went to the fire and made some tea and toast forAlbert, doing every thing in as quiet and noiseless a manner aspossible. When the tea and toast were ready she put them upon a smallwaiter, and then moving her little work-table up to the side of thebed, she put the waiter upon it. When every thing was thus ready, sheopened the curtains. Albert was asleep. 

He seemed however to be uneasy and restless, and he moaned now andthen as if in pain. Mary Erskine stood leaning over him for some time, with a countenance filled with anxiety and concern. She then turnedaway, saying to herself, "If Albert is going to be sick and to die, what _will_ become of me?" She kneeled down upon the floor atthe foot of the bed, crossed her arms before her, laid them down veryquietly upon the counterpane, and reclined her forehead upon them. Sheremained in that position for some time without speaking a word. 

Presently she rose and took the tea and toast upon the waiter, andset them down by the fire in order to keep them warm. She next went tolook at the children, to see if they were properly covered. Thenshe opened the bed-curtains a little way in order that she might seeAlbert in case he should wake or move, and having adjusted them as shewished, she went to the stoop door and took her seat there, with herknitting-work in her hand, in a position from which, on one side shecould look into the room and observe every thing which took placethere, and on the other side, watch the road and see if any one wentby. She thought it probable that some of the workmen, who had beenemployed at the new house, might be going home about that time, andshe wished to send into the village by them to ask Dr. Keep to come. 

Mary Erskine succeeded in her design of sending into the village byone of the workmen, and Dr. Keep came about nine o'clock He prescribedfor Albert, and prepared, and left, some medicine for him. He said hehoped that he was not going to be very sick, but he could tell betterin the morning when he would come again. 

"But you ought not to be here alone, " said he to Mary Erskine. "Youought to have some one with you. "

"No, " said Mary Erskine, "I can get along very well, alone, to-night, --and I think he will be better in the morning. "

Stories of sickness and suffering are painful to read, as the realityis painful to witness. We will therefore shorten the tale of MaryErskine's anxiety and distress, by saying, at once that Albert grewworse instead of better, every day for a fortnight, and then died. 

During his sickness Mrs. Bell spent a great deal of time at MaryErskine's house, and other persons, from the village, came every dayto watch with Albert, and to help take care of the children. There wasa young man also, named Thomas, whom Mary Erskine employed to come andstay there all day, to take the necessary care of the cattle and ofthe farm. They made a bed for Thomas in the scaffold in the barn. Theyalso made up a bed in the stoop, in a corner which they divided offby means of a curtain. This bed was for the watchers, and for MaryErskine herself, when she or they wished to lie down. Mary Erskinewent to it, herself very seldom. She remained at her husband's bedsidealmost all the time, day and night. Albert suffered very littlepain, and seemed to sleep most of the time. He revived a little theafternoon before he died, and appeared as if he were going to bebetter. He looked up into Mary Erskine's face and smiled. It wasplain, however, that he was very feeble. 

There was nobody but Mrs. Bell in the house, at that time, besidesMary Erskine and the baby. Bella had gone to Mrs. Bell's house, andMary Bell was taking care of her. Albert beckoned his wife to come tohim, and said to her, in a faint and feeble voice, that he wished Mrs. Bell to write something for him. Mary Erskine immediately brought herwork-table up to the bedside, opened the drawer, took out one of thesheets of paper and a pen, opened the inkstand, and thus made everything ready for writing. Mrs. Bell took her seat by the table in sucha manner that her head was near to Albert's as it lay upon the pillow. 

"I am ready now, " said Mrs. Bell. 

"I bequeath all my property, "--said Albert. 

Mrs. Bell wrote these words upon the paper, and then said, "Well: I have written that. "

"To Mary Erskine my wife, " said Albert. 

"I have written that, " said Mrs. Bell, a minute afterwards. 

"Now hand it to me to sign, " said Albert. 

They put the paper upon a book, and raising Albert up in the bed, they put the pen into his hand. He wrote his name at the bottom of thewriting at the right hand. Then moving his hand to the left, he wrotethe word '_witness_' under the writing on that side. His handtrembled, but he wrote the word pretty plain. As he finished writingit he told Mrs. Bell that she must sign her name as witness. When thishad been done he gave back the paper and the pen into Mary Erskine'shand, and said that she must take good care of that paper, for it wasvery important. He then laid his head down again upon the pillow andshut his eyes. He died that night. 

Mary Erskine was entirely overwhelmed with grief, when she found thatall was over. In a few hours, however, she became comparatively calm, and the next day she began to help Mrs. Bell in making preparationsfor the funeral. She sent for Bella to come home immediately. Mrs. Bell urged her very earnestly to take both the children, and go withher to _her_ house, after the funeral, and stay there for a fewdays at least, till she could determine what to do. 

"No, " said Mary Erskine. "It will be better for me to come back here. "

"What do you think you shall do?" said Mrs. Bell. 

"I don't know, " said Mary Erskine. "I can't even begin to think now. Iam going to wait a week before I try to think about it at all. "

"And in the mean time you are going to stay in this house. "

"Yes, " said Mary Erskine, "I think that is best. "

"But you must not stay here alone, " said Mrs. Bell. "I will come backwith you and stay with you, at least one night. "

"No, " said Mary Erskine. "I have got to learn to be alone now, andI may as well begin at once. I am very much obliged to you for allyour--"

Here Mary Erskine's voice faltered, and she suddenly stopped. Mrs. Bell pitied her with all her heart, but she said no more. She remainedat the house while the funeral procession was gone to the grave; andsome friends came back with Mary Erskine, after the funeral. They all, however, went away about sunset, leaving Mary Erskine alone with herchildren. 

As soon as her friends had gone, Mary Erskine took the children andsat down in a rocking-chair, before the fire, holding them both inher lap, the baby upon one side and Bella upon the other, and began torock back and forth with great rapidity. She kissed the children againand again, with many tears, and sometimes she groaned aloud, in theexcess of her anguish. She remained sitting thus for half an hour. Thetwilight gradually faded away. The flickering flame, which rose fromthe fire in the fire-place, seemed to grow brighter as the daylightdisappeared, and to illuminate the whole interior of the room, so asto give it a genial and cheerful expression. Mary Erskine graduallybecame calm. The children, first the baby, and then Bella, fellasleep. Finally Mary Erskine herself, who was by this time entirelyexhausted with watching, care, and sorrow, fell asleep too. MaryErskine slept sweetly for two full hours, and then was awaked by thenestling of the baby. 

[Illustration: THE WIDOW AND THE FATHERLESS. ]

When Mary Erskine awoke she was astonished to find her mind perfectlycalm, tranquil, and happy. She looked down upon her children--Bellaasleep and the baby just awaking--with a heart full of maternal joyand pleasure. Her room, it seemed to her, never appeared so bright andcheerful and happy as then. She carried Bella to the bed and laid hergently down in Albert's place, and then, going back to the fire, shegave the baby the food which it required, and rocked it to sleep. Her heart was resigned, and tranquil, and happy, She put the baby, atlength, into the cradle, and then, kneeling down, she thanked God withher whole soul for having heard her prayer, and granted her the spiritof resignation and peace. She then pushed open the curtains, andreclined herself upon the bed, where she lay for some time, with apeaceful smile upon her countenance, watching the flashing of a littletongue, of flame, which broke out at intervals from the end of a brandin the fire. After lying quietly thus, for a little while, she closedher eyes, and gradually fell asleep again. 

She slept very profoundly. It was a summer night, although, as usual, Mary Erskine had a fire. Clouds rose in the west, bringing with themgusts of wind and rain. The wind and the rain beat against the window, but they did not wake her. It thundered. The thunder did not wake her. The shower passed over, and the sky became, serene again, while MaryErskine slept tranquilly on. At length the baby began to move in thecradle. Mary Erskine heard the first sound that its nestling made, andraised herself up suddenly. The fire had nearly gone out. There wasno flame, and the room was lighted only by the glow of the burningembers. Mary Erskine was frightened to find herself alone. Thetranquillity and happiness which she had experienced a few hours agowere all gone, and her mind was filled, instead, with an undefined andmysterious distress and terror. She went to the fire-place and builta new fire, for the sake of its company. She took the baby from thecradle and sat down in the rocking-chair, determining not to go tobed again till morning. She went to the window and looked out at thestars, to see if she could tell by them how long it would be beforethe morning would come. She felt afraid, though she knew not why, andholding the baby in her arms, with its head upon her shoulder, shewalked back and forth across the room, in great distress and anguish, longing for the morning to come. Such is the capriciousness of grief. 

CHAPTER V. 

CONSULTATIONS. 

Mrs. Bell went home on the evening of the funeral, very much exhaustedand fatigued under the combined effects of watching, anxiety, andexertion. She went to bed, and slept very soundly until nearlymidnight. The thunder awaked her. 

She felt solitary and afraid. Mary Bell, who was then about nine yearsold, was asleep in a crib, in a corner of the room. There was a littlenight lamp, burning dimly on the table, and it shed a faint and dismalgleam upon the objects around it. Every few minutes, however, thelightning would flash into the windows and glare a moment upon thewalls, and then leave the room in deeper darkness than ever. Thelittle night lamp, whose feeble beam had been for the moment entirelyoverpowered, would then gradually come out to view again, to diffuseonce more its faint illumination, until another flash of lightningcame to extinguish it as before. 

Mrs. Bell rose from her bed, and went to the crib to see if Mary Bellwas safe. She found her sleeping quietly. Mrs. Bell drew the crib outa little way from the wall, supposing that she should thus put it intoa somewhat safer position. Then she lighted a large lamp. Thenshe closed all the shutters of the room, in order to shut out thelightning. Then she went to bed again, and tried to go to sleep. Butshe could not. She was thinking of Mary Erskine, and endeavoring toform some plan for her future life. She could not, however, determinewhat it was best for her to do. 

In the morning, after breakfast, she sat down at the window, with herknitting work in her hand, looking very thoughtful and sad. Presentlyshe laid her work down in her lap, and seemed lost in some melancholyreverie. 

Mary Bell, who had been playing about the floor for some time, cameup to her mother, and seeing her look so thoughtful and sorrowful, shesaid, "Mother, what is the matter with you?"

"Why, Mary, " said Mrs. Bell, in a melancholy tone, "I was thinking ofpoor Mary Erskine. "

"Well, mother, " said Mary Bell, "could not you give her a littlemoney, if she is poor? I will give her my ten cents. "

[Illustration: MRS. BELL. ]

Mary Bell had a silver piece of ten cents, which she kept in a littlebox, in her mother's room up stairs. 

"Oh, she is not poor for want of money, " said Mrs. Bell. "Her husbandmade his will, before he died, and left her all his property. "

"Though I told Mr. Keep about it last night, " continued Mrs. Bell, talking half to herself and half to Mary, "and he said the will wasnot good. "

"Not good, " said Mary. "I think it is a very good will indeed. I amsure Mary Erskine ought to have it all. Who should have it, if notshe?"

"The children, I suppose, " said her mother. 

"The children!" exclaimed Mary Bell. "Hoh! They are not half bigenough. They are only two babies; a great baby and a little one. "

Mrs. Bell did not answer this, nor did she seem to take much notice ofit, but took up her knitting again, and went on musing as before. MaryBell did not understand very well about the will. The case was this:

The law, in the state where Mary Erskine lived, provided that when aman died, as Albert had done, leaving a wife and children, and a farm, and also stock, and furniture, and other such movable property, ifhe made no will, the wife was to have a part of the property, and therest must be saved for the children, in order to be delivered to them, when they should grow up, and be ready to receive it and use it. Thefarm, when there was a farm, was to be kept until the children shouldgrow up, only their mother was to have one third of the benefit ofit, --that is, one third of the rent of it, if they could let it--untilthe children became of age. The amount of the other two thirds was tobe kept for them. In respect to all movable property, such as stockand tools, and furniture, and other things of that kind, since theycould not very conveniently be kept till the children were old enoughto use them, they were to be sold, and the wife was to have half thevalue, and the children the other half. 

In respect to the children's part of all the property, they werenot, themselves, to have the care of it, but some person was to beappointed to be their guardian. This guardian was to have the care ofall their share of the property, until they were of age, when it wasto be paid over into their hands. 

If, however, the husband, before his death, was disposed to do so, hemight make a will, and give all the property to whomsoever he pleased. If he decided, as Albert had done, to give it all to his wife, thenit would come wholly under her control, at once. She would be under noobligation to keep any separate account of the children's share, butmight expend it all herself, or if she were so inclined, she mightkeep it safely, and perhaps add to it by the proceeds of her ownindustry, and then, when the children should grow up, she might givethem as much as her maternal affection should dictate. 

In order that the property of men who die, should be disposed ofproperly, according to law, or according to the will, if any will bemade, it is required that soon after the death of any person takesplace, the state of the case should be reported at a certain publicoffice, instituted to attend to this business. There is such an officein every county in the New England states. It is called the Probateoffice. The officer, who has this business in charge, is called theJudge of Probate. There is a similar system in force, in all theother states of the Union, though the officers are sometimes called bydifferent names from those which they receive in New England. 

Now, while Albert was lying sick upon his bed, he was occupied a greatdeal of the time, while they thought that he was asleep, in thinkingwhat was to become of his wife and children in case he should die. He knew very well that in case he died without making any will, hisproperty must be divided, under the direction of the Judge of Probate, and one part of it be kept for the children, while Mary Erskine wouldhave the control only of the other part. This is a very excellentarrangement in all ordinary cases, so that the law, in itself, is avery good law. There are, however, some cases, which are exceptions, and Albert thought that Mary Erskine's case was one. It was owing, in a great measure, to her prudence and economy, to her efficientindustry, and to her contented and happy disposition, that he had beenable to acquire any property, instead of spending all that he earned, like Mr. Gordon, as fast as he earned it. Then, besides, he knewthat Mary Erskine would act as conscientiously and faithfully for thebenefit of the children, if the property was all her own, as shewould if a part of it was theirs, and only held by herself, for safekeeping, as their guardian. Whereas, if this last arrangement wentinto effect, he feared that it would make her great trouble to keepthe accounts, as she could not write, not even to sign her name. Hedetermined, therefore, to make a will, and give all his property, ofevery kind, absolutely to her. This he did, in the manner described inthe last chapter. 

The law invests every man with a very absolute power in respect to hisproperty, authorizing him to make any disposition of it whatever, andcarrying faithfully into effect, after his death, any wish that he mayhave expressed in regard to it, as his deliberate and final intention. It insists, however, that there should be evidence that the wish, soexpressed, is really a deliberate and final act. It is not enough thatthe man should say in words what his wishes are. The will must be inwriting, and it must be signed; or if the sick man can not write, hemust make some mark with the pen, at the bottom of the paper, to standinstead of a signature, and to show that he considers the act, whichhe is performing, as a solemn and binding transaction. Nor will it doto have the will executed in the presence of only one witness; for ifthat were allowed, designing persons would sometimes persuade a sickman, who was rich, to sign a will which they themselves had written, telling him, perhaps, that it was only a receipt, or some otherunimportant paper, and thus inducing him to convey his property in away that he did not intend. The truth is, that there is necessity fora much greater degree of precautionary form, in the execution of awill, than in almost any other transaction; for as the man himselfwill be dead and gone when the time comes for carrying the will intoeffect, --and so can not give any explanation of his designs, it isnecessary to make them absolutely clear and certain, independentlyof him. It was, accordingly, the law, in the state where Mary Erskinelived, that there should be three witnesses present, when any personsigned a will; and also that when signing the paper, the man shouldsay that he knew that it was his will. If three credible persons thusattested the reality and honesty of the transaction, it was thoughtsufficient, in all ordinary cases, to make it sure. 

Albert, it seems, was not aware how many witnesses were required. Whenhe requested Mrs. Bell to sign his will, as witness, he thought thathe was doing all that was necessary to make it valid. When, however, Mrs. Bell, afterwards, in going home, met Mr. Keep and related tohim the transaction, he said that he was afraid that the will was notgood, meaning that it would not stand in law. 

The thought that the will was probably not valid, caused Mrs. Bell aconsiderable degree of anxiety and concern, as she imagined that itsfailure would probably cause Mary Erskine a considerable degree oftrouble and embarrassment, though she did not know precisely how. Shesupposed that the children's share of the property must necessarily bekept separate and untouched until they grew up, and that in the meantime their mother would have to work very hard in order to maintainherself and them too. But this is not the law. The guardian ofchildren, in such cases, is authorized to expend, from the children'sshare of property, as much as is necessary for their maintenance whilethey are children; and it is only the surplus, if there is any, whichit is required of her to pay over to them, when they come of age. Itwould be obviously unjust, in cases where children themselves haveproperty left them by legacy, or falling to them by inheritance, tocompel their father or mother to toil ten or twenty years to feed andclothe them, in order that they might have their property, whole anduntouched, when they come of age. All that the law requires isthat the property bequeathed to children, or falling to them byinheritance, shall always be exactly ascertained, and an account of itput upon record in the Probate office: and then, that a guardian shallbe appointed, who shall expend only so much of it, while the childrenare young, as is necessary for their comfortable support and propereducation; and then, when they come of age, if there is any surplusleft, that it shall be paid over to them. In Mary Erskine's case, these accounts would, of course, cause her some trouble, but it wouldmake but little difference in the end. 

Mrs. Bell spent a great deal of time, during the day, in trying tothink what it would be best for Mary Erskine to do, and also in tryingto think what she could herself do for her. She, however, made verylittle progress in respect to either of those points. It seemed to herthat Mary Erskine could not move into the new house, and attempt tocarry on the farm, and, on the other hand, it appeared equally outof the question for her to remain where she was, in her lonesome logcabin. She might move into the village, or to some house nearer thevillage, but what should she do in that case for a livelihood. In aword, the more that Mrs. Bell reflected upon the subject, the more ata loss she was. 

She determined to go and see Mary Erskine after dinner, again, as thevisit would at least be a token of kindness and sympathy, even if itshould do no other good. She arrived at the house about the middleof the afternoon. She found Mary Erskine busily at work, putting thehouse in order, and rectifying the many derangements which sicknessand death always occasion. Mary Erskine received Mrs. Bell at firstwith a cheerful smile, and seemed, to all appearance, as contented andhappy as usual. The sight of Mrs. Bell, however, recalled forcibly toher mind her irremediable loss, and overwhelmed her heart, again, withbitter grief. She went to the window, where her little work-tablehad been placed, and throwing herself down in a chair before it, shecrossed her arms upon the table, laid her forehead down upon them inan attitude of despair, and burst into tears. 

Mrs. Bell drew up toward her and stood by her side in silence. Shepitied her with all her heart, but she did not know what to say tocomfort her. 

Just then little Bella came climbing up the steps, from the stoop, with some flowers in her hand, which she had gathered in the yard. Assoon as she had got up into the room she stood upon her feet and wentdancing along toward the baby, who was playing upon the floor, singingas she danced. She gave the baby the flowers, and then, seeing thather mother was in trouble, she came up toward the place and stoodstill a moment, with a countenance expressive of great concern. Sheput her arm around her mother's neck, saying in a very gentle andsoothing tone, "Mother! what is the matter, mother?"

Mary Erskine liberated one of her arms, and clasped Bella with itfondly, but did not raise her head, or answer. 

"Go and get some flowers for your mother, " said Mrs. Bell, "like thosewhich you got for the baby. "

"Well, " said Bella, "I will. " So she turned away, and went singing anddancing out of the room. 

"Mary, " said Mrs. Bell. "I wish that you would shut up this house andtake the children and come to my house, at least for a while, untilyou can determine what to do. "

Mary Erskine shook her head, but did not reply. She seemed, however, to be regaining her composure. Presently she raised her head, smootheddown her hair, which was very soft and beautiful, readjusted herdress, and sat up, looking out at the window. 

"If you stay here, " continued Mrs. Bell, "you will only spend yourtime in useless and hopeless grief. "

"No, " said Mary Erskine, "I am not going to do any such a thing. "

"Have you begun to think at all what you shall do?" asked Mrs. Bell. 

"No, " said Mary Erskine. "When any great thing happens, I always haveto wait a little while till I get accustomed to knowing that it hashappened, before I can determine what to do about it. It seems as ifI did not more than half know yet, that Albert is dead. Every time thedoor opens I almost expect to see him come in. "

"Do you think that you shall move to the new house?" asked Mrs. Bell. 

"No, " said Mary Erskine, "I see that I can't do that. I don't wish tomove there, either, now. "

"There's one thing, " continued Mrs. Bell after a moment's pause, "thatperhaps I ought to tell you, though it is rather bad news for you. Mr. Keep says that he is afraid that the will, which Albert made, is notgood in law. "

"Not good! Why not?" asked Mary Erskine. 

"Why because there is only one witness The law requires that thereshould be three witnesses, so as to be sure that Albert really signedthe will. "

"Oh no, " said Mary Erskine. "One witness is enough, I am sure. TheJudge of Probate knows you, and he will believe you as certainly as hewould a dozen witnesses. "

"But I suppose, " said Mrs. Bell, "that it does not depend upon theJudge of Probate. It depends upon the law. "

Mary Erskine was silent. Presently she opened her drawer and took outthe will and looked at it mysteriously. She could not read a word ofit. 

"Read it to me, Mrs. Bell, " said she, handing the paper to Mrs. Bell. 

Mrs. Bell read as follows:

 "I bequeath all my property to my wife, Mary Erskine. Albert Forester. Witness, Mary Bell. "

"I am sure that is all right, " said Mary Erskine. "It is very plain, and one witness is enough. Besides, Albert would know how it ought tobe done. "

"But then, " she continued after a moment's pause, "he was very sickand feeble. Perhaps he did not think. I am sure I shall be very sorryif it is not a good will, for if I do not have the farm and the stock, I don't know what I shall do with my poor children. "

Mary Erskine had a vague idea that if the will should prove invalid, she and her children would lose the property, in some way or other, entirely, --though she did not know precisely how. After musing uponthis melancholy prospect a moment she asked, "Should not I have _any_ of the property, if the will proves notto be good?"

"Oh yes, " said Mrs. Bell, "you will have a considerable part of it, atany rate. "

"How much?" asked Mary Erskine. 

"Why about half, I believe, " replied Mrs. Bell. 

"Oh, " said Mary Erskine, apparently very much relieved. "That willdo very well. Half will be enough. There is a great deal of property. Albert told me that the farm and the new house are worth five hundreddollars, and the stock is worth full three hundred more. And Albertdoes not owe any thing at all. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Bell. "You will have half. Either half or a third, Iforget exactly which. "

"And what becomes of the rest?" asked Mary Erskine. 

"Why the rest goes to the children, " said Mrs. Bell. 

"To the children!" repeated Mary Erskine. 

"Yes, " said she, "you will have to be appointed guardian, and takecare of it for them, and carry in your account, now and then, to theJudge of Probate. "

"Oh, " said Mary Erskine, her countenance brightening up with anexpression of great relief and satisfaction. "That is just the samething. If it is to go to the children, and I am to take care of it forthem, it is just the same thing. I don't care any thing about the willat all. "

So saying, she threw the paper down upon the table, as if it was of novalue whatever. 

"But there's one thing, " she said again, after pausing a few minutes. "I can't keep any accounts. I can not even write my name. "

"That is no matter, " said Mrs. Bell. "There will be but little todo about the accounts, and it is easy to get somebody to do that foryou. "

"I wish I had learned to write, " said Mary Erskine. 

Mrs. Bell said nothing, but in her heart she wished so too. 

"Do you think that I could possibly learn now?" asked Mary Erskine. 

"Why, --I don't know, --perhaps, if you had any one to teach you. "

"Thomas might teach me, perhaps, " said Mary Erskine, doubtfully. Then, in a moment she added again, in a desponding tone, --"but I don't knowhow long he will stay here. "

"Then you don't know at all yet, " said Mrs. Bell, after a short pause, "what you shall conclude to do. "

"No, " replied Mary Erskine, "not at all. I am going on, just as I amnow, for some days, without perplexing myself at all about it. And Iam not going to mourn and make myself miserable. I am going to makemyself as contented and happy as I can, with my work and my children. "

Here Mary Erskine suddenly laid her head down upon her arms again, onthe little work-table before her, and burst into tears. After sobbingconvulsively a few minutes she rose, hastily brushed the tears awaywith her handkerchief, and went toward the door. She then took thewater pail, which stood upon a bench near the door, and said thatshe was going to get some water, at the spring, for tea, and that shewould be back in a moment. She returned very soon, with a countenanceentirely serene. 

"I have been trying all day, " said Mrs. Bell, "to think of somethingthat I could do for you, to help you or to relieve you in some way orother; but I can not think of any thing at all that I can do. "

"Yes, " said Mary Erskine, "there is one thing that you could dofor me, that would be a very great kindness, a very great kindnessindeed. "

"What is it?" asked Mrs. Bell. 

"I am afraid that you will think it is too much for me to ask. "

"No, " said Mrs. Bell, "what is it?"

Mary Erskine hesitated a moment, and then said, "To let Mary Bell come and stay here with me, a few days. "

"Do you mean all night, too?" asked Mrs. Bell. 

"Yes, " said Mary Erskine, "all the time. "

"Why, you have got two children to take care of now, " replied Mrs. Bell, "and nobody to help you. I should have thought that you wouldhave sooner asked me to take Bella home with me. "

"No, " said Mary Erskine. "I should like to have Mary Bell here, verymuch, for a few days. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Bell, "she shall certainly come. I will send her, to-morrow morning. "

CHAPTER VI. 

MARY BELL IN THE WOODS. 

Mary Erskine had a bible in her house, although she could not readit. When Albert was alive he was accustomed to read a chapter everyevening, just before bed-time, and then he and Mary Erskine wouldkneel down together, by the settle which stood in the corner, while herepeated his evening prayer. This short season of devotion was alwaysa great source of enjoyment to Mary Erskine. If she was tired andtroubled, it soothed and quieted her mind. If she was sorrowful, itcomforted her. If she was happy, it seemed to make her happiness moredeep and unalloyed. 

Mary Erskine could not read the bible, but she could repeat aconsiderable number of texts and verses from it, and she knew, too, the prayer, which Albert had been accustomed to offer, almost byheart. So after Mrs. Bell had gone home, as described in the lastchapter, and after she herself had undressed the children and put themto bed, and had finished all the other labors and duties of the day, she took the bible down from its shelf, and seating herself upon thesettle, so as to see by the light of the fire, as Albert had beenaccustomed to do, she opened the book, and then began to repeat suchverses as she could remember. At length she closed the book, andlaying it down upon the seat of the settle, in imitation of Albert'scustom, she kneeled down before it, and repeated the prayer. The useof the bible itself, in this service, was of course a mere form:--butthere is sometimes a great deal of spiritual good to be derived froma form, when the heart is in it, to give it meaning and life. MaryErskine went to bed comforted and happy; and she slept peacefullythrough each one of the three periods of repose, into which the careof an infant by a mother usually divides the night. 

In the morning, the first thought which came into her mind was, thatMary Bell was coming to see her. She anticipated the visit from herformer charge with great pleasure. She had had Mary Bell under hercharge from early infancy, and she loved her, accordingly, almost asmuch as if she were her own child. Besides, as Mary Bell had grown upshe had become a very attractive and beautiful child, so kind to all, so considerate, so gentle, so active and intelligent, and at thesame time so docile, and so quiet, that she was a universal favoritewherever she went. Mary Erskine was full of joy at the idea of havingher come and spend several days and nights too, at her house, and shewas impatient for the time to arrive when she might begin to expecther. At eight o'clock, she began to go often to the door to look downthe road. At nine, she began to feel uneasy. At ten, she put onher hood and went down the road, almost to the corner, to meether--looking forward intensely all the way, hoping at every turn tosee her expected visitor advancing along the path. She went on thusuntil she came in sight of the corner, without seeing or hearing anything of Mary Bell; and then she was compelled to return home alone, disappointed and sad. She waited dinner from twelve until one, butno Mary Bell appeared. Mary Erskine then concluded that something hadhappened to detain her expected visitor at home, and that she mightbe disappointed of the visit altogether. Still she could not but hopethat Mary would come in the course of the afternoon. The hours ofthe afternoon, however, passed tediously away, and the sun began todecline toward the west; still there was no Mary Bell. The cause ofher detention will now be explained. 

When Mary Bell came down to breakfast, on the morning after hermother's visit to Mary Erskine, her mother told her, as she cameinto the room, that she had an invitation for her to go out to MaryErskine's that day. 

"And may I go?" asked Mary Bell. 

"Yes, " said her mother, "I think I shall let you go. "

"I am _so_ glad!" said Mary Bell, clapping her hands. 

"Mary Erskine wishes to have you stay there several days, " continuedher mother. 

Mary Bell began to look a little sober again. She was not quite surethat she should be willing to be absent from her mother, for so manydays. 

"Could not I come home every night?" said she. 

"Why, she wishes, " answered Mrs. Bell, "to have you stay there all thetime, day and night, for several days. It is an opportunity for youto do some good. You could not do Mary Erskine any good by giving heryour money, for she has got plenty of money; nor by carrying her anything good to eat, for her house is full of abundance, and she knowsas well how to make good things as any body in town. But you can doher a great deal of good by going and staying with her, and keepingher company. Perhaps you can help her a little, in taking care of thechildren. "

"Well, " said Mary Bell, "I should like to go. "

So Mrs. Bell dressed Mary neatly, for the walk, gave her a very smalltin pail, with two oranges in it for Mary Erskine's children, and thensent out word to the hired man, whose name was Joseph, to harness thehorse into the wagon. When the wagon was ready, she directed Joseph tocarry Mary to the corner, and see that she set out upon the right roadthere, toward Mary Erskine's house. It was only about half a milefrom the corner to the house, and the road, though crooked, stony, andrough, was very plain, and Mary Bell had often walked over it alone. 

There was, in fact, only one place where there could be any dangerof Mary Bell's losing her way, and that was at a point about midwaybetween the corner and Mary Erskine's house, where a road branched offto the right, and led into the woods. There was a large pine-tree atthis point, which Mary Bell remembered well; and she knew that shemust take the left-hand road when she reached this tree. There werevarious little paths, at other places, but none that could misleadher. 

When Joseph, at length, set Mary Bell down in the path at the corner, she stood still, upon a flat rock by the side of the road, to see himturn the wagon and set out upon his return. 

"Good-bye, Joseph, " said she. "I am going to be gone several days. "

"Good-bye, " said Joseph, turning to look round at Mary Bell, as thewagon slowly moved away. 

"Bid mother good-bye, " said Mary Bell, --"and Joseph, don't you forgetto water my geranium. "

"No, " said Joseph, "and don't you forget to take the left-hand road. "

"No, " said Mary Bell. 

She felt a slight sensation of lonesomeness, to be left there insolitude at the entrance of a dark and somber wood, especially whenshe reflected that it was to be several days before she should see hermother again. But then, calling up to her mind a vivid picture of MaryErskine's house, and of the pleasure that she should enjoy there, inplaying with Bella and the baby, she turned toward the pathway intothe woods, and walked resolutely forward, swinging her pail in herhand and singing a song. 

There were a great many birds in the woods; some were hopping aboutupon the rocks and bushes by the road-side. Others were singing insolitary places, upon the tops of tall trees in the depths of theforest, their notes being heard at intervals, in various directions, as if one was answering another, to beguile the solemn loneliness ofthe woods. The trees were very tall, and Mary Bell, as she looked upfrom her deep and narrow pathway, and saw the lofty tops rocking toand fro with a very slow and gentle motion, as they were waved by thewind, it seemed to her that they actually touched the sky. 

At one time she heard the leaves rustling, by the side of the road, and looking in under the trees, she saw a gray squirrel, just in theact of leaping up from the leaves upon the ground to the end of a log. As soon as he had gained this footing, he stopped and looked round atMary Bell. Mary Bell stopped too; each looked at the other for severalseconds, in silence, --the child with an expression of curiosity andpleasure upon her countenance, and the squirrel with one of wonder andfear upon his. Mary Bell made a sudden motion toward him with her handto frighten him a little. It did frighten him. He turned off and ranalong the log as fast as he could go, until he reached the end of it, and disappeared. 

"Poor Bobbin, " said Mary Bell, "I am sorry that I frightened youaway. "

A few steps farther on in her walk, Mary Bell came to a place wherea great number of yellow butterflies had settled down together in thepath. Most of them were still, but a few were fluttering about, tofind good places. 

"Oh, what pretty butterflies!" said Mary Bell. "They have been flyingabout, I suppose, till they have got tired, and have stopped to rest. But if I were a butterfly, I would rest upon flowers, and not upon theground. "

Mary Bell paused and looked upon the butterflies a moment, and thensaid, "And now how shall I get by? I am sure I don't want to tread uponthose butterflies. I will sit down here, myself, on a stone, and waittill they get rested and fly away. Besides, I am tired myself, and_I_ shall get rested too. "

Just as she took her seat she saw that there was a little path, whichdiverged here from the main road, and turned into the woods a littleway, seeming to come back again after a short distance. There weremany such little paths, here and there, running parallel to the mainroad. They were made by the cows, in the spring of the year when theroads were wet, to avoid the swampy places. These places were now alldry, and the bye-paths were consequently of no use, though traces ofthem remained. 

"No, " said Mary Bell. "I will not stop to rest; I am not very tired;so I will go around by this little path. It will come into the roadagain very soon. "

Mary Bell's opinion would have been just, in respect to any other pathbut this one; but it so happened, very unfortunately for her, thatnow, although not aware of it, she was in fact very near the greatpine-tree, where the road into the woods branched off, and the pathwhich she was determining to take, though it commenced in the mainroad leading to Mary Erskine's, did not return to it again, but afterpassing, by a circuitous and devious course, through the bushes alittle way, ended in the branch road which led into the woods, at ashort distance beyond the pine-tree. 

Mary Bell was not aware of this state of things, but supposed, withoutdoubt, that the path would come out again into the same road thatit left, and that, she could pass round through it, and so avoiddisturbing the butterflies. She thought, indeed, it might possibly bethat the path would not come back at all, but would lose itself inthe woods; and to guard against this danger, she determined that aftergoing on for a very short distance, if she found that it did not comeout into the road again, she would come directly back. The idea ofits coming out into a wrong road did not occur to her mind as apossibility. 

She accordingly entered the path, and after proceeding in it a littleway she was quite pleased to see it coming out again into what shesupposed was the main road. Dismissing, now, all care and concern, shewalked forward in a very light-hearted and happy manner. The roadwas very similar in its character to the one which she ought to havetaken, so that there was nothing in the appearances around her to leadher to suppose that she was wrong. She had, moreover, very little ideaof measures of time, and still less of distance, and thus she went onfor more than an hour before she began to wonder why she did not getto Mary Erskine's. 

She began to suspect, then, that she had in some way or other lostthe right road. She, however, went on, looking anxiously about forindications of an approach to the farm, until at length she saw signsof an opening in the woods, at some distance before her. She concludedto go on until she came to this opening, and if she could not tellwhere she was by the appearance of the country there, she would goback again by the road she came. 

The opening, when she reached it, appeared to consist of a sort ofpasture land, undulating in its surface, and having thickets oftrees and bushes scattered over it, here and there. There was a smallelevation in the land, at a little distance from the place where MaryBell came out, and she thought that she would go to the top ofthis elevation, and look for Mary Erskine's house, all around. Sheaccordingly did so, but neither Mary Erskine's house nor any otherhuman habitation was anywhere to be seen. 

She sat down upon a smooth stone, which was near her, feeling tiredand thirsty, and beginning to be somewhat anxious in respect to hersituation. She thought, however, that there was no great danger, forher mother would certainly send Joseph out into the woods to find her, as soon as she heard that she was lost. She concluded, at first, towait where she was until Joseph should come, but on second thoughts, she concluded to go back by the road which had led her to the opening, and so, perhaps meet him on the way. She was very thirsty, and wishedvery much that one of the oranges in the pail belonged to her, for shewould have liked to eat one very much indeed. But they were not eitherof them hers. One belonged to Bella, and the other to the baby. 

She walked back again to the woods, intending to return toward thecorner, by the road in which she came, but now she could not find theentrance to it. She wandered for some time, this way and that, alongthe margin of the wood, but could find no road. She, however, atlength found something which she liked better. It was a beautifulspring of cool water, bubbling up from between the rocks on the sideof a little hill. She sat down by the side of this spring, took offthe cover from her little pail, took out the oranges and laid themdown carefully in a little nook where they would not roll away, andthen using the pail for a dipper, she dipped up some water, and had anexcellent drink. 

"What a good spring this is!" said she to herself. "It is as good asMary Erskine's. "

It was the time of the year in which raspberries were ripe, and MaryBell, in looking around her from her seat near the spring, saw ata distance a place which appeared as if there were raspberry bushesgrowing there. 

"I verily believe that there are some raspberries, " said she. "I willgo and see; if I could only find plenty of raspberries, it would beall that I should want. "

The bushes proved to be raspberry bushes, as Mary had supposed, andshe found them loaded with fruit. She ate of them abundantly, and wasvery much refreshed. She would have filled her pail besides, so asto have some to take along with her, but she had no place to put theoranges, except within the pail. 

It was now about noon; the sun was hot, and Mary Bell began to bepretty tired. She wished that they would come for her. She climbed upupon a large log which lay among the bushes, and called as loud as shecould, "_Mary Erskine! Mary Erskine!_"

Then after pausing a moment, and listening in vain for an answer, sherenewed her call, "_Thom--as! Thom--as!_"

 Then again, after another pause, "_Jo--seph! Jo--seph!_"

She listened a long time, but heard nothing except the singing of thebirds, and the sighing of the wind upon the tops of the trees in theneighboring forests. 

She began to feel very anxious and very lonely. She descended from thelog, and walked along till she got out of the bushes. She came to aplace where there were rocks, with smooth surfaces of moss and grassamong them. She found a shady place among these rocks, and sat downupon the moss. She laid her head down upon her arm and began to weepbitterly. 

Presently she raised her head again, and endeavored to composeherself, saying, "But I must not cry. I must be patient, and wait till they come. I amvery tired, but I must not go to sleep, for then I shall not hearthem when they come. I will lay my head down, but I will keep my eyesopen. "

She laid her head down accordingly upon a mossy mound, andnotwithstanding her resolution to keep her eyes open, in ten minutesshe was fast asleep. 

She slept very soundly for more than two hours. She was a littlefrightened when she awoke, to find that she had been sleeping, and shestarted up and climbed along upon a rock which was near by, until shegained a projecting elevation, and here she began to listen again. 

She heard the distant tinkling of a bell. 

"Hark, " said she. "I hear a bell. It is out _that_ way. I wonderwhat it is. I will go there and see. "

So taking up her pail very carefully, she walked along in thedirection where she had heard the bell. She stopped frequently tolisten. Sometimes she could hear it, and sometimes she could not. She, however, steadily persevered, though she encountered a great manyobstacles on the way. Sometimes there were wet places, which it wasvery hard to get round. At other times, there were dense thickets, which she had to scramble through, or rocks over which she had toclimb, either up or down. The sound, however, of the bell, came nearerand nearer. 

"I verily believe, " said she at length, "that it is Queen Bess. "

Queen Bess was one of Mary Erskine's cows. 

The idea that the sound which she was following might possibly beQueen Bess's bell, gave her great courage. She was well acquaintedwith Queen Bess, having often gone out to see Mary Erskine milkher, with the other cows. She had even tried many times to milk herherself, Mary Erskine having frequently allowed her to milk enough, ina mug, to provide herself with a drink. 

"I hope it is Queen Bess, " said Mary Bell. "She knows me, and she willgive me a drink of her milk, I am sure. "

Mary Bell proved to be right in her conjecture. It was Queen Bess. Shewas feeding very quietly, Mary Erskine's other cows being near, somecropping the grass and some browsing upon the bushes. Queen Bessraised her head and looked at Mary Bell with a momentary feeling ofastonishment, wondering how she came there, and then put down her headagain and resumed her feeding. 

"Now, " said Mary Bell, "I shall certainly get home again, for I shallstay with you until Thomas comes up after the cows. He will find youby your bell. And now I am going to put these oranges down upon thegrass, and milk some milk into this pail. "

So Mary Bell put the oranges in a safe place upon the grass, and thenwent cautiously up to the side of the cow, and attempted to milkher. But it is very difficult to milk a cow while she is grazing ina pasture. She is not inclined to stand still, but advances all thetime, slowly, step by step, making it very difficult to do any thingat milking. Mary Bell, however, succeeded very well. She was sothirsty that she did not wait to get a great deal at a time, but assoon as she had two or three spoonfuls in the pail, she stopped todrink it. In this manner, by dint of a great deal of labor and pains, she succeeded, in about a quarter of an hour, in getting as much asshe wanted. 

[Illustration: MARY BELL AND QUEEN BESS. ]

She remained in company with the cows all the afternoon. Sometimes shewould wander from them a little way to gather raspberries, and thenshe would creep up cautiously to Queen Bess, and get another drink ofmilk. When she had thus had as many raspberries, and as much milk, asshe wished, she amused herself for some time in gathering a bouquetof wild flowers to give to Mary Erskine on her return. The time, beingthus filled up with useful occupation, passed pleasantly and rapidlyalong, and at length, when the sun was nearly ready to go down, sheheard a distant voice shouting to the cows. It was Thomas, coming todrive them home. 

Thomas was of course greatly astonished to find Mary Bell in thewoods, and his astonishment was not at all diminished at hearing herstory. He offered to carry her, in going home, --but she said thatshe was not tired, and could walk as well as not. So they went downtogether, the cows running along before them in the paths. When theyreached the house, Thomas went to turn the cows into the yard, whileMary Bell went into the house to Mary Erskine, with her little pail inone hand, and her bouquet of flowers in the other. 

CHAPTER VII. 

HOUSE-KEEPING. 

One of the greatest pleasures which Mary Bell enjoyed, in her visitsat Mary Erskine's at this period, was to assist in the house-keeping. She was particularly pleased with being allowed to help in gettingbreakfast or tea, and in setting the table. 

She rose accordingly very early on the morning after her arrivalthere from the woods, as described in the last chapter, and put onthe working-dress which Mary Erskine had made for her, and which wasalways kept at the farm. This was not the working-dress which wasdescribed in a preceding chapter as the one which Mary Bell used toplay in, when out among the stumps. Her playing among the stumps wastwo or three years before the period which we are now describing. During those two or three years, Mary Bell had wholly outgrown herfirst working-dress, and her mind had become improved and enlarged, and her tastes matured more rapidly even than her body had grown. 

She now no longer took any pleasure in dabbling in the brook, orplanting potatoes in the sand, --or in heating sham ovens in stumps andhollow trees. She had begun to like realities. To bake a real cake forbreakfast or tea, to set a real table with real cups and saucers, fora real and useful purpose, or to assist Mary Erskine in the care ofthe children, or in making the morning arrangements in the room, gaveher more pleasure than any species of child's play could possiblydo. When she went out now, she liked to be dressed neatly, and takepleasant walks, to see the views or to gather flowers. In a word, though she was still in fact a child, she began to have in some degreethe tastes and feelings of a woman. 

"What are you going to have for breakfast?" said Mary Bell to MaryErskine, while they were getting up. 

"What should you like?" asked Mary Erskine in reply. 

"Why I should like some roast potatoes, and a spider cake, " said MaryBell. 

The spider cake received its name from being baked before the firein a flat, iron vessel, called a spider. The spider was so calledprobably, because, like the animal of that name, it had several legsand a great round body. The iron spider, however, unlike its livingnamesake, had a long straight tail, which, extending out behind, served for a handle. 

The spider cake being very tender and nice, and coming as it usuallydid, hot upon the table, made a most excellent breakfast, --though thiswas not the principal reason which led Mary Bell to ask for it. Sheliked to _make_ the spider cake; for Mary Erskine, after mixingand preparing the material, used to allow Mary Bell to roll it out toits proper form, and put it into the spider. Then more than all therest, Mary Bell liked to _bake_ a spider cake. She used totake great pleasure in carrying the cake in her two hands to thefire-place, and laying it carefully in its place in the spider, andthen setting it up before the fire to bake, lifting the spider bythe end of the tail. She also took great satisfaction afterward inwatching it, as the surface which was presented toward the fire becamebrowned by the heat. When it was sufficiently baked upon one side ithad to be turned, and then set up before the fire again, to be bakedon the other side; and every part of the long operation was alwayswatched by Mary Bell with great interest and pleasure. 

Mary Erskine consented to Mary Bell's proposal in respect tobreakfast, and for an hour Mary Bell was diligently employed in makingthe preparations. 

[Illustration: MARY BELL GETTING BREAKFAST. ]

She put the potatoes in the bed which Mary Erskine opened for them inthe ashes. She rolled out the spider cake, and put it into the spider;she spread the cloth upon the table, and took down the plates, andthe cups and saucers from the cupboard, and set them in order on thetable. She went down into the little cellar to bring up the butter. She skimmed a pan of milk to get the cream, she measured out the tea;and at last, when all else was ready, she took a pitcher and wentdown to the spring to bring up a pitcher of cool water. In all theseoperations Bella accompanied her, always eager to help, and Mary Bell, knowing that it gave Bella great pleasure to have something to do, called upon her, continually, for her aid, and allowed her to doevery thing that it was safe to entrust to her. Thus they went on veryhappily together. 

At length, when the breakfast was ready they all sat down around thetable to eat it, except the baby. He remained in the trundle-bed, playing with his play-things. His play-things consisted of three orfour smooth pebble stones of different colors, each being of about thesize of an egg, which his mother had chosen for him out of thebrook, and also of a short piece of bright iron chain. The chain wasoriginally a part of a harness, but the harness had become worn out, and Albert had brought in the chain and given it to the baby. The babyliked these play-things very much indeed, --both the pebbles and thechain. When he was well, and neither hungry nor sleepy, he was nevertired of playing with them, --trying to bite them, and jingling themtogether. 

"Now, " said Mary Erskine to the children, as they were sitting at thetable, at the close of the breakfast, and after Thomas had gone away, "you may go out and play for an hour while I finish my morning work, and put the baby to sleep, and then I want you to come in and have aschool. "

"Who shall be the teacher?" said Mary Bell. 

"You shall be _one_, " said Mary Erskine. 

"Are you going to have two teachers?" asked Mary Bell. "If you do, then we can't have any scholars;--for the baby is not old enough to goto school. "

"I know it, " said Mary Erskine, "but we can have three scholarswithout him. "

"Who shall they be?" asked Mary Bell. 

"You and I, and Bella, " answered Mary Erskine. "I will tell you whatmy plan is. I expect that I shall conclude to stay here, and live inthis house alone for some years to come, and the children can not goto school, for there is now nobody to take them, and it is too far forthem to go alone. I must teach them myself at home, or else they cannot learn. I am very sorry indeed now that I did not learn to read andwrite when I was a child: for that would have saved me the time andtrouble of learning now. But I think I _can_ learn now. Don't youthink I can, Mary?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, " said Mary Bell, "I am sure you can. It is very easyto read. "

"I am going to try, " continued Mary Erskine, "and so I want you toteach me. And while you are teaching me, Bella may as well begin atthe same time. So that you will have two scholars. "

"Three--you said three scholars, " rejoined Mary Bell. 

"Yes, " said Mary Erskine. "You shall be the third scholar. I am goingto teach you to draw. "

"Do you know how to draw?" asked Mary Bell, surprised. 

"No, " said Mary Erskine, "but I can show _you_ how to learn. "

"Well, " said Mary Bell, "I should like to learn to draw very muchindeed. Though I don't see how any body can teach a thing unless theycan do it themselves. "

"Sometimes they can, " said Mary Erskine. "A man may teach a horse tocanter, without being able to canter himself. "

Mary Bell laughed at the idea of a man attempting to canter, and saidthat she should be very glad to try to learn to draw. Mary Erskinethen said that after they had finished their breakfast the childrenmight go out an hour to walk and play, and that then when they shouldcome in, they would find every thing ready for the school. 

Mary Bell concluded to take a walk about the farm during the timewhich they were allowed to spend in play, before the school was tobegin. So she and Bella put on their bonnets, and bidding Mary Erskinegood morning, they sallied forth. As they came out at the great stoopdoor their attention was arrested by the sound of a cow-bell. Thesound seemed to come from the barn-yard. 

"Ah, " said Mary Bell, "there is Queen Bess going to pasture thismorning. How glad I was to see her yesterday in the woods! Let us goand see her now. "

So saying she led the way around the corner of the house, by apleasant path through the high grass that was growing in the yard, toward the barns. Bella followed her. They passed through a gate, thenacross a little lane, then through a gate on the other side of thelane, which led into the barn-yards. The barns, like the house, werebuilt of logs, but they were very neatly made, and the yards aroundthem were at this season of the year dry and green. 

Mary and Bella walked on across the barn-yard until they got to theback side of the barn, when they found Thomas turning the cows into alittle green lane which led to the pasture. It was not very far to thepasture bars, and so Mary Bell proposed that they should go and helpThomas drive the cows. They accordingly went on, but they had not gonefar before they came to a brook, which here flowed across the lane. The cows walked directly through the brook, while Thomas got across itby stepping over some stones at one side. Mary Bell thought that thespaces were a little too wide for Bella to jump over, so she concludednot to go any farther in that direction. 

Bella then proposed that they should go and see the new house. ThisMary Bell thought would be an excellent plan if Bella's mother wouldgive them leave. They accordingly went in to ask her. They found herin the back stoop, employed in straining the milk which Thomas hadbrought in. She was straining it into great pans. She said that sheshould like to have the children go and see the new house very muchindeed, and she gave them the key, so that they might go into it. Thechildren took the key and went across the fields by a winding pathuntil they came out into the main road again, near the new house. Thehouse was in a very pleasant place indeed. There was a green yard infront of it, and a place for a garden at one side. At the other sidewas a wide yard open to the road, so that persons could ride up to thedoor without the trouble of opening any gate. The children walked upthis open yard. 

They went to the door, intending to unlock it with their key, but theywere surprised to find that there was not any key hole. Mary Bell saidthat she supposed the key hole was not made yet. They tried to openthe door, but they could not succeed. It was obviously fastened on theinside. 

"Now how can we get in?" said Bella. 

"I don't see, " replied Mary Bell, "and I can't think how they lockedthe door without any key-hole. "

"Could not we climb in at one of the windows?" said Mary Bell, --"onlythey are so high up!"

The children looked around at the windows. They were all too highfrom the ground for them to reach. There was, however, a heap of shortblocks and boards which the carpenters had left in the yard near thehouse, and Mary Bell said that perhaps they could build up a "climbingpile" with them, so as to get in at a window. She accordingly went tothis heap, and by means of considerable exertion and toil she rolledtwo large blocks--the ends of sticks of timber which the carpentershad sawed off in framing the house--up under the nearest window. She placed these blocks, which were about two feet long, at a littledistance apart under the window, with one end of each block againstthe house. She then, with Bella's help, got some short boards fromthe pile, and placed them across these blocks from one to the other, making a sort of a flooring. 

"There, " said Mary Bell, looking at the work with great satisfaction, "that is _one_ story. "

Then she brought two more blocks, and laid them upon the flooring overthe first two, placing the second pair of blocks, like the first, atright angles to the house, and with the ends close against it tokeep them steady. On these blocks she laid a second flooring of shortboards, which made the second story. She then stepped up upon thestaging which she had thus built, to see if it was steady. It was verysteady indeed. 

"Let _me_ get up on it, " said Bella. 

Bella accordingly climbed up, and she and Mary Bell danced upon ittogether in great glee for some time to show how steady it was. 

Mary Bell then attempted to open the window. She found that she couldopen it a little way, but not far enough to get in. So she said thatshe must make one more "story. " They then both went back to the pile, and got two more blocks and another board to lay across upon the topof them for a flooring, and when these were placed, Mary Bell foundthat she could raise the window very high. She got a long stick to putunder it to hold it up, and then tried to climb in. 

She found, however, that the window sill over which she was to climbwas still rather too high; but, at length, after various consultationsand experiments, _Bella_ succeeded in getting up by means of thehelp which Mary Bell, who was large and strong, gave her, by "boostingher, " as she called it, that is, pushing her up from below while sheclimbed by means of her arms clasped over the window sill above. Bellabeing thus in the house, took the key, which Mary Bell handed her forthe purpose, and went along to the entry to unlock the door, whileMary Bell, stepping down from the scaffolding, went to the door on theoutside, ready to enter when it should be opened. The children had nodoubt that there was a key-hole in the lock on the inside, althoughthere was none made in the door on the outside. 

When, however, Bella reached the door on the inside, she called outto Mary Bell, through the door, to say that she could not find anykey-hole. 

"It is in the lock, " said Mary Bell. 

"But there is not any lock, " said Bella. 

"Is not there any thing?" asked Mary Bell. 

"Yes, " said Bella, "there is a bolt. "

"Oh, very well, then, open the bolt, " replied Mary Bell. 

After a great deal of tugging and pushing at the bolt, Bella succeededin getting it back, but even then the door would not come open. Itwas new, and it fitted very tight. Bella said that Mary Bell must pushfrom the outside, while she held up the latch. Mary Bell accordinglypushed with all her force, and at length the door flew open, and totheir great joy they found themselves both fairly admitted to thehouse. 

They rambled about for some time, looking at the different rooms, and at the various conveniences for house-keeping which Albert hadplanned, and which were all just ready for use when Albert had died. There was a sink in the kitchen, with a little spout leading into it, from which the water was running in a constant stream. It came froman aqueduct of logs brought under ground. There was a tin dipper thereupon the top of the post which the water-spout came out of, and MaryBell and Bella had an excellent drink from it the first thing. Thekitchen floor was covered with shavings, and the children played inthem for some time, until they were tired. Then they went and gotanother drink. 

When they at last got tired of the kitchen, they went to a window atthe back side of the sitting-room, which looked out toward the garden, and commanded also a beautiful prospect beyond. They opened thiswindow in order to see the garden better. A fresh and delightfulbreeze came in immediately, which the children enjoyed very much. The breeze, however, in drawing through the house, shut all the doorswhich the children had left open, with a loud noise, and then havingno longer any egress, it ceased to come in. The air seemed suddenly tobecome calm; the children stood for some time at the window, lookingout at the garden, and at the pond, and the mountains beyond. 

At length they shut the window again, and went to the door at whichthey had entered, and found it shut fast. They could not open it, for there was now no one to push upon the outside. Mary Bell laughed. Bella looked very much frightened. 

"What shall we do?" said she. "We can't get out. "

"Oh, don't be afraid, " said Mary Bell, "we will get out some way orother. "

She then tried again to open the door, exerting all her strength inpulling upon the latch, but all in vain. They were finally obliged togive up the attempt as utterly hopeless. 

Mary Bell then led the way to the window where Bella had got in, andlooked out upon the little scaffolding. It looked as if the window wastoo high above the scaffolding for them to get down there safely. Oneof them might, perhaps, have succeeded in descending, if the other hadbeen outside to help her down; but as it was, Mary Bell herself didnot dare to make the attempt. 

"I will tell you what we will do, " said Mary Bell. "We will go toanother window where there are no blocks below, and throw all theshavings out from the kitchen. That will make a soft bed for us tojump upon. "

"Well, " said Bella, "let us do that. "

So they went to the kitchen, and opening one of the windows, theybegan to gather up the shavings in their arms from off the floor, andto throw them out. They worked very industriously at this undertakingfor a long time, until the kitchen floor was entirely cleared. Theypicked out carefully all the sticks, and blocks, and pieces of boardwhich were mixed with the shavings, before throwing them out, in orderthat there might be nothing hard in the heap which they were to jumpupon. When the work was completed, and all the shavings were out, theywent to the window, and leaning over the sill, they looked down. 

"I wish we had some more shavings, " said Mary Bell. 

"Yes, " said Bella, "that is too far to jump down. We can't get out anyway at all. " So saying, she began to cry. 

"Don't cry, Bella, " said Mary Bell, in a soothing tone. "It is nomatter if we can't get out, for your mother knows that we came here, and if we don't come home in an hour, she will come for us and let usout. "

"But perhaps there is a ladder somewhere, " added Mary Bell, after ashort pause. "Perhaps we can find a ladder that the carpenters haveleft somewhere about. If there is, we can put it out the window, andthen climb down upon it. Let us go and look. "

"Well, " said Bella, "so we will. "

The two children accordingly set off on an exploring tour to find aladder. Mary Bell went toward the front part of the house, and Bellainto the back kitchen. They looked not only in the rooms, but also inthe passage-ways and closets, and in every corner where a ladder couldpossibly be hid. At length, just as Mary Bell was going up the stairs, in order to look into the little attic chambers, she heard Bellacalling out from the back part of the house, in a tone of voiceexpressive of great exultation and joy. 

"She has found the ladder, " said Mary Bell, and leaving the stairs shewent to meet her. 

She found Bella running through the kitchen toward the entry whereMary Bell was, calling out with great appearance of delight, "I've found the key-hole, Mary Bell! I've found the key-hole!"

This was indeed true. The lock to which the key that Mary Erskinehad given the children belonged, was upon the _back_ door, theprincipal door of the house being fastened by a bolt. Mary Bell wentto the back door, and easily opened it by means of the key. Glad todiscover this mode of escape from their thraldom, the children ranout, and capered about upon the back stoop in great glee. Presentlythey went in again and shut all the windows which they had opened, and then came out, locking the door after them, and set out on theirreturn home. 

When they arrived, they found that Mary Erskine had got every thingready for the school. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

THE SCHOOL. 

Good teachers and proper conveniences for study, tend very much, itis true, to facilitate the progress of pupils in all attempts forthe acquisition of knowledge. But where these advantages cannot beenjoyed, it is astonishing how far a little ingenuity, and resolution, and earnestness, on the part of the pupil, will atone for thedeficiency. No child need ever be deterred from undertaking anystudy adapted to his years and previous attainments, for want ofthe necessary implements or apparatus, or the requisite means ofinstruction. The means of supplying the want of these things arealways at the command of those who are intelligent, resolute, anddetermined. It is only the irresolute, the incompetent, and thefeeble-minded that are dependent for their progress on having ateacher to show them and to urge them onward, every step of the way. 

When Mary Bell and Bella returned home they found that Mary Erskinehad made all the preparations necessary for the commencement of theschool. She had made a desk for the two children by means of theironing-board, which was a long and wide board, made very smooth onboth sides. This board Mary Erskine placed across two chairs, havingpreviously laid two blocks of wood upon the chairs in a line with theback side of the board, in such a manner as to raise that side andto cause the board to slope forward like a desk. She had placed twostools in front of this desk for seats. 

Upon this desk, at one end of it, the end, namely, at which Bella wasto sit, Mary Erskine had placed a small thin board which she found inthe shop, and by the side of it a piece of chalk. This small board andpiece of chalk were to be used instead of a slate and pencil. 

At Mary Bell's end of the desk there was a piece of paper and a pen, which Mary Erskine had taken out of her work-table. By the side of thepaper and pen was Bella's picture-book. This picture-book was a smallbut very pretty picture-book, which Mary Bell had given to Bella for apresent on her birth-day, the year before. The picture-book looked, as it lay upon the desk, as if it were perfectly new. Mary Erskinehad kept it very carefully in her work-table drawer, as it was theonly picture-book that Bella had. She was accustomed to take it outsometimes in the evening, and show the pictures to Bella, one by one, explaining them at the same time, so far as she could guess at thestory from the picture itself, for neither she herself, nor Bella, could understand a word of the reading. On these occasions MaryErskine never allowed Bella to touch the book, but always turned overthe leaves herself, and that too in a very careful manner, so as topreserve it in its original condition, smooth, fresh, and unsullied. 

Mary Bell and Bella looked at the desk which Mary Erskine had preparedfor them, and liked it very much indeed. 

"But where are _you_ going to study?" asked Mary Bell. 

"I shall study at my work-table, but not now. I can't study until theevening. I have my work to do, all the day, and so I shall not beginmy studies until the evening when you children are all gone to bed. And besides, there is only one pen. "

"Oh, but you will not want the pen, " said Mary Bell. "You are going tolearn to read. "

"No, " said Mary Erskine. "I am going to learn to write first. "

"Not _first_, " said Mary Bell. "We always learn to _read_, before we learn to write. "

"But I am going to learn to write first, " said Mary Erskine. "I havebeen thinking about it, and I think that will be best. I have gotthe plan all formed. I shall want you to set me a copy, and then thisevening I shall write it. "

"Well, " said Mary Bell, "I will. The first copy must be straightmarks. "

"No, " said Mary Erskine, "the first thing is to learn to write myname. I shall never have any occasion to write straight marks, but Ishall want to write my name a great many times. "

"Oh, but you can't _begin_ with writing your name, " said MaryBell. 

"Yes, " said Mary Erskine, "I am going to begin with _Mary_: only_Mary_. I want you to write me two copies, one with the lettersall separate, and the other with the letters together. 

"Well, " said Mary Bell, "I will. " So she sat down to her desk, takingup her pen, she dipped it into the inkstand. The inkstand had beenplaced into the chair which Mary Bell's end of the ironing-boardrested upon. It could not stand safely on the board itself as that wassloping. 

Mary Bell wrote the letters M--A--R--Y, in a large plain hand uponthe top of the paper, and then in a same line she wrote them again, joining them together in a word. Mary Erskine stood by while shewrote, examining very attentively her method of doing the work, andespecially her way of holding the pen. When the copy was finished, Mary Erskine cut it off from the top of the paper and pinned it upagainst the side of the room, where she could look at it and study thenames of the letters in the intervals of her work during the day. 

"There, " said she in a tone of satisfaction when this was done. "Ihave got my work before me. The next thing is to give Bella hers. "

It was decided that Bella should pursue a different method from hermother. She was to learn the letters of the alphabet in regular order, taking the first two, _a_ and _b_, for her first lesson. Mary Bell made copies of those two letters for her, with the chalk, upon the top of the board. She made these letters in the form ofprinted and not written characters, because the object was to teachBella to read printed books. 

"Now, " said Mary Erskine to Bella, "you must study _a_ and_b_ for half an hour. I shall tell you when I think the half houris out. If you get tired of sitting at your desk, you may take yourboard and your chalk out to the door and sit upon the step. You mustspend all the time in making the letters on the board, and you may say_a_ and _b_ while you are making the letters, but besidesthat you must not speak a word. For every time that you speak, exceptto say _a_ and _b_, after I tell you to begin, you will haveto pick up a basket of chips. "

Picking up baskets of chips was the common punishment that Bella wassubjected to for her childish misdemeanors. There was a bin in thestoop, where she used to put them, and a small basket hanging up bythe side of it. The chip-yard was behind the house, and there wasalways an abundant supply of chips in it, from Albert's cutting. Thebasket, it is true, was quite small, and to fill it once with chips, was but a slight punishment; but slight punishments are alwayssufficient for sustaining any just and equitable government, providedthey are certain to follow transgression, and are strictly andfaithfully enforced. Bella was a very obedient and submissive child, though she had scarcely ever been subjected to any heavier punishmentthan picking up chips. 

"Shall I begin now?" said Bella. 

"No, " replied her mother, "wait, if you like, till Mary Bell has takenher lesson. "

"I don't see how I am going to draw, " said Mary Bell, "without anypencil. "

"You will have to draw with the pen, " said Mary Erskine. "I am verysorry that I have not got any pencil for you. "

So saying, Mary Erskine took up the picture-book, and began turningover the leaves, to find, as she said, the picture of a house. Sheshould think, she said, that the picture of a house would be a goodthing to begin with. 

She found a view of a house in the third picture in the book. Therewas a great deal in the picture besides the house, but Mary Erskinesaid that the house alone should be the lesson. There was a pond nearit, with a shore, and ducks and geese swimming in the water. Thenthere was a fence and a gate, and a boy coming through the gate, andsome trees. There was one large tree with a swing hanging from one ofthe branches. 

"Now, Mary, " said Mary Erskine, speaking to Mary Bell, "you may takethe house alone. First you must look at it carefully, and examine allthe little lines and marks, and see exactly how they are made. Thereis the chimney, for example. See first what the shape of the outlineof it is, and look at all _those_ little lines, and _those_, and _those_, " continued Mary Erskine, pointing to the differentparts of the chimney. "You must examine in the same way all the otherlines, in all the other parts of the picture, and see exactly how finethey are, and how near together they are, so that you can imitate themexactly. Then you must make some little dots upon your paper to markthe length and breadth of the house, so as to get it of the rightshape; and then draw the lines and finish it all exactly as it is inthe book. "

Bella looked over very attentively, while her mother was explainingthese things to Mary Bell, and then said that _she_ would ratherdraw a house than make letters. 

"No, " said her mother, "you must make letters. "

"But it is harder to make letters than it is to make a house, " saidBella. 

"Yes, " said her mother, "I think it is. "

"And I think, " said Bella, "that the littlest scholar ought to havethe easiest things to do. "

Mary Erskine laughed, and said that in schools, those things were notdone that seemed best to the scholars, but those that seemed best tothe teachers. 

"Then, " said Mary Bell, "why must not you write marks. "

Mary Erskine laughed still more at this, and said she acknowledgedthat the children had got her penned up in a corner. 

"Now, " said Mary Erskine, "are you ready to begin; because when youonce begin, you must not speak a word till the half hour is out. "

"Yes, " said the children, "we are ready. "

"Then _begin_, " said Mary Erskine. 

The children began with great gravity and silence, each at herseparate task, while Mary Erskine went on with her own regularemployment. The silence continued unbroken for about five minutes, when Bella laid down her chalk in a despairing manner, saying, "O dear me! I can't make a _a_. "

"There's one basket of chips, " said Mary Erskine. 

"Why I really can't, " said Bella, "I have tried three times. "

"Two baskets of chips, " said her mother. "Make two marks on the cornerof your board, " she continued, "and every time you speak put downanother, so that we can remember how many baskets of chips you have topick up. "

Bella looked rather disconsolate at receiving this direction. Sheknew, however, that she must obey. She was also well aware that shewould certainly have to pick up as many baskets of chips as shouldbe indicated by the line of chalk marks. She, therefore, resumed herwork, inwardly resolving that she would not speak another word. Allthis time, Mary Bell went on with her drawing, without apparentlypaying any attention to the conversation between Bella and her mother. 

[Illustration: THE SCHOOL. ]

Bella went on, too, herself after this, very attentively, making theletters which had been assigned her for her lesson, and calling thenames of them as she made them, but not speaking any words. 

At length Mary Erskine told the children that the half hour hadexpired, and that they were at liberty. Bella jumped up and ran awayto play. Mary Bell wished to remain and finish her house. Mary Erskinewent to look at it. She compared it very attentively with the originalin the picture-book, and observed several places in which Mary Bellhad deviated from her pattern. She did not, however, point out any ofthese faults to Mary Bell, but simply said that she had done her workvery well indeed. She had made a very pretty house. Mary Bell saidthat it was not quite finished, and she wished to remain at her desk alittle longer to complete it. Mary Erskine gave her leave to do so. 

Bella, who had gone away at first, dancing to the door, pleased to bereleased from her confinement, came back to see Mary Bell's picture, while her mother was examining it. She seemed very much pleased withit indeed. Then she asked her mother to look at her letters upon theboard. Mary Erskine and Mary Bell both looked at them, one by one, very attentively, and compared them with the letters which Mary Bellhad made for patterns, and also with specimens of the letters in thebooks. Bella took great interest in looking for the letters in thebook, much pleased to find that she knew them wherever she saw them. Her mother, too, learned _a_ and _b_ very effectually bythis examination of Bella's work. Mary Erskine selected the two bestletters which Bella had made, one of each kind, and rubbed out all therest with a cloth. She then put up the board in a conspicuous placeupon a shelf, where the two good letters could be seen by all in theroom. Bella was much pleased at this, and she came in from her playseveral times in the course of the day, to look at her letters and tocall them by name. 

When Bella's board had thus been put up in its conspicuous position, Mary Bell sat down to finish her drawing, while Bella went out topick up her two baskets of chips. Mary Bell worked upon her house fornearly the whole of another half hour. When it was finished she cutthe part of the paper which it was drawn upon off from the rest, andruled around it a neat margin of double black lines. She obtained anarrow strip of wood, from the shop which served her as a ruler. Shesaid that she meant to have all her drawing lessons of the same size, and to put the same margin around them. She marked her house No. 1, writing the numbering in a small but plain hand on one corner. Shewrote the initials of her, name, M. B. , in the same small hand, on theopposite corner. 

Mary Erskine did not attempt _her_ lesson until the evening. Shefinished her work about the house a little after eight o'clock, andthen she undressed the children and put them to bed. By this time itwas nearly nine o'clock. The day had been warm and pleasant, but thenights at this season were cool, and Mary Erskine put two or three drysticks upon the fire, before she commenced her work, partly for thewarmth, and partly for the cheerfulness of the blaze. 

She lighted her lamp, and sat down at her work-table, with Mary Bell'scopy, and her pen, ink, and paper, before her. The copy had beenpinned up in sight all the day, and she had very often examined it, when passing it, in going to and fro at her work. She had thus learnedthe names of all the letters in the word Mary, and had made herselfconsiderably familiar with the forms of them; so that she not onlyknew exactly what she had to do in writing the letters, but she felt astrong interest in doing it. She, however, made extremely awkwardwork in her first attempts at writing the letters. She, nevertheless, steadily persevered. She wrote the words, first in separate letters, and then afterwards in a joined hand, again and again, going down thepaper. She found that she could write a little more easily, if notbetter, as she proceeded, --but still the work was very hard. At teno'clock her paper was covered with what she thought were miserablescrawls, and her wrist and her fingers ached excessively. She put herwork away, and prepared to go to bed. 

"Perhaps I shall have to give it up after all, " said she. "But I willnot give up till I am beaten. I will write an hour every day for sixmonths, and then if I can not write my name so that people can readit, I will stop. "

The next day about an hour after breakfast Mary Erskine had anotherschool for the children. Bella took the two next letters _c_ and_d_ for her lesson, while Mary Bell took the swing hanging fromthe branch of the tree in the picture-book, for the subject of hersecond drawing. Before beginning her work, she studied all the touchesby which the drawing was made in the book, with great attention andcare, in order that she might imitate them as precisely as possible. She succeeded very well indeed in this second attempt. The swing madeeven a prettier picture than the house. When it was finished she cutthe paper out, of the same size with the other, drew a border aroundit, and marked it No. 2. She went on in this manner every day as longas she remained at Mary Erskine's, drawing a new picture every day. At last, when she went home, Mary Erskine put all her drawings uptogether, and Mary Bell carried them home to show them to her mother. This was the beginning of Mary Bell's drawing. 

As for Mary Erskine, her second lesson was the word _Erskine_, which she found a great deal harder to write than Mary. There was onething, however, that pleased her in it, which was that there was oneletter which she knew already, having learned it in Mary: that was the_r_. All the rest of the letters, however, were new, and she hadto practice writing the word two evenings before she could write itwell, without looking at the copy. She then thought that probably bythat time she had forgotten _Mary_; but on trying to write thatword, she was very much pleased to find that she could write itmuch more easily than she could before. This encouraged her, and sheaccordingly took Forester for her third lesson without any fear offorgetting the Mary and the Erskine. 

The Forester lesson proved to be a very easy one. There were onlythree new letters in it, and those three were very easy to write. Infine, at the end of the four days, when Mary Bell was to go home, MaryErskine could read, write, and spell her name very respectably well. 

Mrs. Bell came herself for Mary when the time of her visit expired. She was very much pleased to learn how good a girl and how useful herdaughter had been. She was particularly pleased with her drawings. Shesaid that she had been very desirous to have Mary learn to draw, butthat she did not know it was possible to make so good a beginningwithout a teacher. 

"Why I _had_ a teacher, " said Mary Bell. "I think that MaryErskine is a teacher; and a very good one besides. "

"I think so too, " said Mrs. Bell. 

The children went out to get some wild flowers for Mary Bell to carryhome, and Mrs. Bell then asked Mary if she had begun to consider whatit was best for her to do. 

"Yes, " said Mary Erskine. "I think it will be best for me to sellthe farm, and the new house, and all the stock, and live here in thishouse with my children. "

Mrs. Bell did not answer, but seemed to be thinking whether this wouldbe the best plan or not. 

"The children cannot go to school from here, " said Mrs. Bell. 

"No, " said Mary Erskine, "but I can teach them myself, I think, tillthey are old enough to walk to the school-house. I find that I canlearn the letters faster than Bella can, and that without interferingwith my work; and Mary Bell will come out here now and then and tellus what we don't know. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Bell, "I shall be glad to have her come as oftenas you wish. But it seems to me that you had better move into thevillage. Half the money that the farm and the stock will sell for, will buy you a very pleasant house in the village, and the intereston the other half, together with what you can earn, will support youcomfortably. "

"Yes, " said Mary Erskine, "but then I should be growing poorer, ratherthan richer, all the time; and when my children grow large, and I wantthe money for them, I shall find that I have spent it all. Now if Istay here in this house, I shall have no rent to pay, nor shall I losethe interest of a part of my money, as I should if I were to buy ahouse in the village with it to live in myself. I can earn enough heretoo by knitting, and by spinning and weaving, for all that we shallwant while the children are young. I can keep a little land with thishouse, and let Thomas, or some other such boy live with me, and raisesuch things as we want to eat; and so I think I can get along verywell, and put out all the money which I get from the farm and thestock, at interest. In ten or fifteen years it will be two thousanddollars. Then I shall be rich, and can move into the village withoutany danger. 

"Not two thousand dollars!" said Mrs. Bell. 

"Yes, " said Mary Erskine, "if I have calculated it right. "

"Why, how much do you think the farm and stock will sell for?" askedMrs. Bell. 

"About eight hundred dollars, " said Mary Erskine. "That put out atinterest will double in about twelve years. "

"Very well, " rejoined Mrs. Bell, "but that makes only sixteen hundreddollars. "

"But then I think that I can lay up half a dollar a week of my ownearnings, especially when Bella gets a little bigger so as to help meabout the house, " said Mary Erskine. 

"Well;" said Mrs. Bell. 

"That, " continued Mary Erskine, "will be twenty-five dollars a year. Which will be at least three hundred dollars in twelve years. "

"Very well, " said Mrs. Bell, "that makes nineteen hundred. "

"Then, " continued Mary Erskine, "I thought that at the end of thetwelve years I should be able to sell this house and the land aroundit for a hundred dollars, especially if I take good care of thebuildings in the mean while. "

"And that makes your two thousand dollars, " said Mrs. Bell. 

"Yes, " replied Mary Erskine. 

"But suppose you are sick. "

"Oh, if I am sick, or if I die, " rejoined Mary Erskine, "of coursethat breaks up all my plans. I know I can't plan against calamities. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Bell, rising from her seat with a smile ofsatisfaction upon her countenance, "I can't advise you. But if ever Iget into any serious trouble, I shall come to you to advise me. "

So bidding Mary Erskine good-bye, Mrs. Bell called her daughter, andthey went together toward their home. 

CHAPTER IX. 

GOOD MANAGEMENT. 

Whenever any person dies, leaving property to be divided amonghis heirs, and not leaving any valid will to determine the mode ofdivision, the property as has already been said, must be divided oncertain principles, established by the law of the land, and underthe direction of the Judge of Probate, who has jurisdiction overthe county in which the property is situated. The Judge of Probateappoints a person to take charge of the property and divide it amongthe heirs. This person is called the administrator, or, if awoman, the administratrix. The Judge gives the administrator or theadministratrix a paper, which authorises him or her to take charge ofthe property, which paper is called, "Letters of Administration. "The letters of administration are usually granted to the wife of thedeceased, or to his oldest son, or, if there is no wife or son, to thenearest heir who is of proper age and discretion to manage the trust. The person who receives administration is obliged to take a solemnoath before the Judge of Probate, that he will report to the Judge afull account of all the property that belonged to the deceased whichshall come to his knowledge. The Judge also appoints three persons togo and examine the property, and make an inventory of it, and appraiseevery article, so as to know as nearly as possible, how much and whatproperty there is. These persons are called appraisers. The inventorywhich they make out is lodged in the office of the Judge of Probate, where any person who has an interest in the estate can see it at anytime. The administrator usually keeps a copy of the inventory besides. 

If among the property left by a person deceased, which is to go inpart to children, there are any houses and lands, --a kind of propertywhich is called in law _real estate_, to distinguish it frommoveable property, which is called _personal estate_, --suchreal estate cannot be sold, in ordinary cases, by the administrator, without leave from the Judge of Probate. This leave the Judge ofProbate will give in cases where it is clearly best for the childrenthat the property should be so sold and the _avails of it_ keptfor them, rather than the property itself. All these things Mrs. Bellexplained to Mary Erskine, having learned about them herself someyears before when her own husband died. 

Accordingly, a few weeks after Albert died, Mary Erskine went oneday in a wagon, taking the baby with her, and Thomas to drive, to thecounty town, where the Probate court was held. 

[Illustration: GOING TO COURT. ]

At the Probate court, Mary Erskine made all the arrangements necessaryin respect to the estate. She had to go twice, in fact, before allthese arrangements were completed. She expected to have a great dealof trouble and embarrassment in doing this business, but she did notfind that there was any trouble at all. The Judge of Probate told herexactly what to do. She was required to sign her name once or twiceto papers. This she did with great trepidation, and after writing hername, on the first occasion which occurred requiring her signature, she apologized for not being able to write any better. The Judge ofProbate said that very few of the papers that he received were signedso well. 

Mary Erskine was appointed administratrix, and the Judge gave hera paper which he said was her "Letters of Administration. " What theJudge gave to her seemed to be only one paper, but she thought itprobable, as the Judge said "Letters" that there was another inside. When she got home, however, and opened the paper she found that therewas only one. She could not read it herself, her studies having yetextended no farther than to the writing of her name. The first time, however, that Mary Bell came to see her, after she received thisdocument, she asked Mary Bell to read it to her. Mary Bell did so, but after she had got through, Mary Erskine said that she could notunderstand one word of it from beginning to end. Mary Bell said thatthat was not strange, for she believed that lawyers' papers were onlymeant for lawyers to understand. 

The appraisers came about this time to make an inventory of theproperty. They went all over the house and barns, and took a completeaccount of every thing that they found. They made a list of all theoxen, sheep, cows, horses, and other animals, putting down oppositeto each one, their estimate of its value. They did the same with thevehicles, and farming implements, and utensils, and also with allthe household furniture, and the provisions and stores. When they hadcompleted the appraisement they added up the amount, and found thatthe total was a little over four hundred dollars, Mary Erskine wasvery much surprised to find that there was so much. 

The appraisers then told Mary Erskine that half of that property washers, and the other half belonged to the children; and that as much oftheir half as was necessary for their support could be used for thatpurpose, and the rest must be paid over to them when they became ofage. They said also that she or some one else must be appointed theirguardian, to take care of their part of the property; and that theguardian could either keep the property as it was, or sell it andkeep the money as she thought would be most for the interest of thechildren; and that she had the same power in respect to her own share. 

Mary Erskine said that she thought it would be best for her to sellthe stock and farming tools, because she could not take care ofthem nor use them, and she might put the money out at interest. Theappraisers said they thought so too. 

In the end, Mary Erskine was appointed guardian. The idea appearedstrange to her at first of being _appointed_ guardian to her ownchildren, as it seemed to her that a mother naturally and necessarilyheld that relation to her offspring. But the meaning of the law, inmaking a mother the guardian of her children by appointment in sucha case as this, is simply to authorize her to take care of_property_ left to them, or descending to them. It is obviousthat cases must frequently occur in which a mother, though the naturalguardian of her children so far as the personal care of them isconcerned, would not be properly qualified to take charge of anyconsiderable amount of property coming to them. When the mother isqualified to take this charge, she can be duly authorized to doit; and this is the appointment to the guardianship--meaning theguardianship of the property to which the appointment refers. 

Mary Erskine was accordingly appointed guardian of the children, andshe obtained leave to sell the farm. She decided that it would be bestto sell it as she thought, after making diligent enquiry, that shecould not depend on receiving any considerable annual rent for it, ifshe were to attempt to let it. She accordingly sold the farm, with thenew house, and all the stock, --excepting that she reserved from thefarm ten acres of land around her own house, and one cow, one horse, two pigs, and all the poultry. She also reserved all the householdfurniture. These things she took as a part of her portion. Thepurchase money for all the rest amounted to nine hundred and fiftydollars. This sum was considerably more than Mary Erskine had expectedto receive. 

The question now was what should be done with this money. There arevarious modes which are adopted for investing such sums so as to getan annual income from them. The money may be lent to some person whowill take it and pay interest for it. A house may be bought and let tosome one who wishes to hire it; or shares in a rail-road, or a bank, or a bridge, may be taken. Such kinds of property as those are managedby directors, who take care of all the profits that are made, andtwice a year divide the money among the persons that own the shares. 

Mary Erskine had a great deal of time for enquiry and reflection inrespect to the proper mode of investing her money, for the man whopurchased the farm and the stock was not to pay the money immediately. The price agreed upon for the farm, including of course the new house, was five hundred dollars. The stock, farming utensils, &c, which hetook with it, came to three hundred and sixty dollars. The purchaserwas to pay, of this money, four hundred dollars in three months, and the balance in six months. Mary Erskine, therefore, had to makeprovision for investing the four hundred dollars first. 

She determined, after a great deal of consideration and inquiry, tolay out this money in buying four shares in the Franconia bridge. These shares were originally one hundred dollars each, but the bridgehad become so profitable on account of the number of persons thatpassed it, and the amount of money which was consequently collectedfor tolls, that the shares would sell for a hundred and ten dollarseach. This ten dollars advance over the original price of the shares, is called _premium_. Upon the four shares which Mary Erskine wasgoing to buy, the premium would be of course forty dollars. This moneyMary Erskine concluded to borrow. Mr. Keep said that he would verygladly lend it to her. Her plan was to pay the borrowed money back outof the dividends which she would receive from her bridge shares. Thedividend was usually five per centum, or, as they commonly calledit, _five per cent. _, that is, five dollars on every share of ahundred dollars every six months. [A] The dividend on the four shareswould, of course, be twenty dollars, so that it would take twodividends to pay off the forty dollar debt to Mr. Keep, besides alittle interest. When this was done, Mary Erskine would have propertyin the bridge worth four hundred and forty dollars, without havingused any more than four hundred dollars of her farm money, and shewould continue to have forty dollars a year from it, as long as shekept it in her possession. 

[Footnote A: _Per_ is a Latin word meaning _for_, and_centum_ another meaning _a hundred_. ]

When the rest of the money for the farm was paid, Mary Erskineresolved on purchasing a certain small, but very pleasant house withit. This house was in the village, and she found on inquiry, that itcould be let to a family for fifty dollars a year. It is true thata part of this fifty dollars would have to be expended every year inmaking repairs upon the house, so as to keep it in good order; such aspainting it from time to time, and renewing the roof when the shinglesbegan to decay, and other similar things. But, then, Mary Erskinefound, on making a careful examination, that after expending as muchof the money which she should receive for the rent of her house, asshould be necessary for the repairs, she should still have rather morethan she would receive from the money to be invested, if it was putout at interest by lending it to some person who wanted to borrow it. So she decided to buy the house in preference to adopting any otherplan. 

It happened that the house which Mary Erskine thus determined to buy, was the very one that Mr. Gordon lived in. The owner of the housewished to sell it, and offered it first to Mr. Gordon; but he saidthat he was not able to buy it. He had been doing very well in hisbusiness, but his expenses were so great, he said, that he had not anyready money at command. He was very sorry, he added, that the ownerwished to sell the house, for whoever should buy it, would want tocome and live in it, he supposed, and he should be obliged to moveaway. The owner said that he was sorry, but that he could not help it. 

A few days after this, Mr. Gordon came home one evening, and toldAnne Sophia, with a countenance expressive of great surprise and somelittle vexation, that her old friend, Mrs. Forester, had bought theirhouse, and was going to move into it. Anne Sophia was amazed at thisintelligence, and both she and her husband were thrown into a state ofgreat perplexity and trouble. The next morning Anne Sophia went outto see Mary Erskine about it. Mary Erskine received her in a very kindand cordial manner. 

"I am very glad to see you, " said Mary Erskine. "I was coming to yourhouse myself in a day or two, about some business, if you had not comehere. "

"Yes, " said Anne Sophia. "I understand that you have been buying ourhouse away from over our heads, and are going to turn us out of houseand home. "

"Oh, no, " said Mary Erskine, smiling, "not at all. In the first place, I have not really bought the house yet, but am only talking about it;and in the second place, if I buy it, I shall not want it myself, butshall wish to have you live in it just as you have done. "

"You will not want it yourself!" exclaimed Anne Sophia, astonished. 

"No, " said Mary Erskine, "I am only going to buy it as an investment. "

There were so many things to be astonished at in this statement, thatAnne Sophia hardly knew where to begin with her wonder. First, she wassurprised to learn that Mary Erskine had so much money. When she heardthat she had bought the house, she supposed of course that she hadbought it on credit, for the sake of having a house in the village tolive in. Then she was amazed at the idea of any person continuing tolive in a log house in the woods, when she had a pretty house ofher own in the middle of the village. She could not for some time besatisfied that Mary Erskine was in earnest in what she said. But whenshe found that it was really so, she went away greatly relieved. MaryErskine told her that she had postponed giving her final answer aboutbuying the house, in order first to see Mr. Gordon, to know whetherhe had any objection to the change of ownership. She knew, of course, that Mr. Gordon would have no right to object, but she rightlysupposed that he would be gratified at having her ask him thequestion. 

Mary Erskine went on after this for two or three years veryprosperously in all her affairs. Thomas continued to live with her, in her log-house, and to cultivate the land which she had retained. Inthe fall and winter, when there was nothing to be done in the fieldsor garden, he was accustomed to work in the shop, making improvementsfor the house, such as finishing off the stoop into another room, tobe used for a kitchen, making new windows to the house, and a regularfront door, and in preparing fences and gates to be put up aroundthe house. He made an aqueduct, too, to conduct the water from a newspring which he discovered at a place higher than the house, and sobrought a constant stream of water into the kitchen which he hadmade in the stoop. The stumps, too, in the fields around the house, gradually decayed, so that Thomas could root them out and smooth overthe ground where they had stood. Mary Erskine's ten acres thus becamevery smooth and beautiful. It was divided by fences into very pleasantfields, with green lanes shaded by trees, leading from one place toanother. The brook flowed through this land along a very beautifulvalley, and there were groves and thickets here and there, both alongthe margin of the brook, and in the corners of the fields, whichgave to the grounds a very sheltered, as well as a very picturesqueexpression. Mary Erskine also caused trees and shrubbery to be plantednear the house, and trained honey-suckles and wild roses upon atrellis over the front door. All these improvements were made in avery plain and simple manner, and at very little expense, and yetthere was so much taste exercised in the arrangement of them all, thatthe effect was very agreeable in the end. The house and all about itformed, in time, an enchanting picture of rural beauty. [A]

[Footnote A: See Frontispiece. ]

It was, however, only a few occasional hours of recreation that MaryErskine devoted to ornamenting her dwelling. The main portion of hertime and attention was devoted to such industrial pursuits as weremost available in bringing in the means of support for herself and herchildren, so as to leave untouched the income from her house and herbridge shares. This income, as fast as it was paid in, she depositedwith Mr. Keep, to be lent out on interest, until a sufficient sum wasthus accumulated to make a new investment of a permanent character. When the sum at length amounted to two hundred and twenty dollars, shebought two more bridge shares with it, and from that time forwardshe received dividends on six shares instead of four; that is, shereceived thirty dollars every six months, instead of twenty, asbefore. 

One reason why Mary Erskine invested her money in a house and in abridge, instead of lending it out at interest, was that by so doing, her property was before her in a visible form, and she could take aconstant pleasure in seeing it. Whenever she went to the villageshe enjoyed seeing her house, which she kept in a complete state ofrepair, and which she had ornamented with shrubbery and trees, so thatit was a very agreeable object to look upon of itself, independentlyof the pleasure of ownership. In the same manner she liked to see thebridge, and think when teams and people were passing over it, that apart of all the toll which they paid, would, in the end, come to her. She thus took the same kind of pleasure in having purchased a house, and shares in a bridge, that any lady in a city would take in anexpensive new carpet, or a rosewood piano, which would cost about thesame sum; and then she had all the profit, in the shape of the annualincome, besides. 

There was one great advantage too which Mary Erskine derived fromowning this property, which, though she did not think of it at allwhen she commenced her prudent and economical course, at the time ofher marriage, proved in the end to be of inestimable value to her. This advantage was the high degree of respectability which it gave herin the public estimation. The people of the village gradually foundout how she managed, and how fast her property was increasing, andthey entertained for her a great deal of that kind of respect whichworldly prosperity always commands. The store-keepers were anxious tohave her custom. Those who had money to lend were always very ready tolet her have it, if at any time she wished to make up a sum for a newinvestment: and all the ladies of the village were willing that theirdaughters should go out to her little farm to visit Bella, and tohave Bella visit them in return. Thus Mary Erskine found that she wasbecoming quite an important personage. 

Her plan of teaching herself and her children succeeded perfectly. Bythe time that she had thoroughly learned to write her own name, sheknew half of the letters of the alphabet, for her name containednearly that number. She next learned to write her children's names, Bella Forester and Albert Forester. After that, she learned to writethe names of all the months, and to read them when she had writtenthem. She chose the names of the months, next after the names ofher own family, so that she might be able to date her letters if sheshould ever have occasion to write any. 

Mary Bell set copies for her, when she came out to see her, and MaryErskine went on so much faster than Bella, that she could teach hervery well. She required Bella to spend an hour at her studies everyday. Thomas made a little desk for her, and her mother bought her aslate and a pencil, and in process of time an arithmetic, and otherbooks. As soon as Mary Erskine could read fluently, Mary Bell used tobring out books to her, containing entertaining stories. At first MaryBell would read these stories to her once, while she was at her work, and then Mary Erskine, having heard Mary Bell read them, could readthem herself in the evening without much difficulty. At length shemade such progress that she could read the stories herself alone, thefirst time, with very little trouble. 

Thus things went on in a very pleasant and prosperous manner, and thiswas the condition of Mary Erskine and of her affairs, at the time whenMalleville and Phonny went to pay her their visit, as described in thefirst chapter of this volume. 

CHAPTER X. 

THE VISIT TO MARY ERSKINE'S. 

Malleville and Phonny arrived at Mary Erskine's about an hour afterBeechnut left them. They met with no special adventures by the way, except that when they reached the great pine-tree, Phonny proposed toclimb up, for the purpose of examining a small bunch which he saw uponone of the branches, which he thought was a bird's nest. It was thesame pine-tree that marked the place at which a road branched off intothe woods, where Mary Bell had lost her way, several years before. Malleville was very unwilling to have Phonny climb up upon such a hightree, but Phonny himself was very desirous to make the attempt. Therewas a log fence at the foot of the tree, and the distance was not verygreat from the uppermost log of the fence, to the lowermost branchof the tree. So Phonny thought that he could get up without anydifficulty. 

Malleville was afraid to have him try, and she said that if he did, hewould be acting just as foolish as the boy that Beechnut had told themabout, who nipped his own nose; and that she should not stop to seehim do any such foolishness. So she walked along as fast as she couldgo. 

Phonny unfortunately was rendered only the more determined to climbthe tree by Malleville's opposition. He accordingly mounted up to thetop of the fence, and thence reaching the lower branches of the treehe succeeded at length, by dint of much scrambling and struggling, inlifting himself up among them. He climbed out to the limb where he hadseen the appearances of a bird's nest, but found to his disappointmentthat there was no bird's nest there. The bunch was only a little tuftof twigs growing out together. 

Phonny then began to shout out for Malleville to wait for him. 

"Mal--le--ville! Mal--le--ville!" said he. "Wait a minute for me. I amcoming down. "

He did not like to be left there all alone, in the gloomy and solitaryforest. So he made all the haste possible in descending. There are agreat many accidents which may befall a boy in coming down a tree. Theone which Phonny was fated to incur in this instance, was to catch histrowsers near the knee, in a small sharp twig which projected from abranch, and tear them. 

When he reached the ground he looked at the rent in dismay. He wasgenerally nice and particular about his clothes, and he was veryunwilling to go to Mary Erskine's, and let her and Bella see him insuch a plight. He was equally unwilling to go home again, and to losehis visit. 

"Provoking!" said he. "That comes from Malleville's hurrying me so. It is all her fault. " Then starting off suddenly, he began to run, shouting out, "Malleville! Malleville!"

At length, when he got pretty near her, he called out for her to stopand see what she had made him do. 

"Did I make you do that?" said Malleville, looking at the rent, whilePhonny stood with his foot extended, and pointing at it with hisfinger. 

"Yes, " said Phonny, --"because you hurried me. "

"Well, I'm sorry;" said Malleville, looking very much concerned. 

Phonny was put quite to a nonplus by this unexpected answer. He hadexpected to hear Malleville deny that it was her fault that he hadtorn his clothes, and was prepared to insist strenuously that it was;but this unlooked-for gentleness seemed to leave him not a word tosay. So he walked along by the side of Malleville in silence. 

"Was it a pretty bird's-nest?" said Malleville in a conciliatory tone, after a moment's pause. 

"No, " said Phonny. "It was not any bird's nest at all. "

When the children reached the farm as they called it, Mary Erskineseated Phonny on the bed, and then drawing up her chair near to him, she took his foot in her lap and mended the rent so neatly that therewas afterwards no sign of it to be seen. 

Little Albert was at this time about three years old, and Bella wasseven. Phonny, while Mary Erskine was mending his clothes, asked wherethe children were. Mary Erskine said that they had gone out intothe fields with Thomas, to make hay. So Phonny and Malleville, aftergetting proper directions in respect to the way that they were to go, set off in pursuit of them. 

They went out at a back-door which led to a beautiful walk undera long trellis, which was covered with honey-suckles and roses. Malleville stopped to get a rose, and Phonny to admire twohumming-birds that were playing about the honey-suckles. He wishedvery much that he could catch one of them, but he could not even getnear them. From the end of the trellis's walk the children entered agarden, and at the back side of the garden they went through a narrowplace between two posts into a field. They walked along the side ofthis field, by a very pleasant path with high green grass and flowerson one side, and a wall with a great many raspberry bushes growingby it, and now and then little thickets of trees, on the other. Thebushes and trees made the walk that they were going in very cool andshady. There were plenty of raspberries upon the bushes, but they werenot yet ripe. Phonny said that when the raspberries were ripe he meantto come out to Mary Erskine's again and get some. 

Presently the children turned a sort of a corner which was formed by agroup of trees, and then they came in sight of the hay-making party. 

"Oh, they have got the horse and cart, " said Phonny. So saying he setoff as fast he could run, toward the hay-makers, Malleville followinghim. 

The horse and cart were standing in the middle of the field among thenumerous winrows of hay. The two children of Mrs. Forester, Bellaand Albert, were in the cart, treading down the hay as fast as Thomaspitched it up. As soon as Phonny and Malleville reached the place, Malleville stood still with her hands behind her, looking at the scenewith great interest and pleasure. Phonny wanted to know if Thomas hadnot got another pitch-fork, so that he might help him pitch up thehay. 

Thomas said, no. He, however, told Phonny that he might get into thecart if he pleased, and drive the horse along when it was time togo to a new place. Phonny was extremely pleased with this plan. Heclimbed into the cart, Bella helping him up by a prodigious lift whichshe gave him, seizing him by the shoulder as he came up. Mallevillewas afraid to get into the cart at all, but preferred walking alongthe field and playing among the winrows. 

Phonny drove along from place to place as Thomas directed him, untilat length the cart was so full that it was no longer safe for thechildren to remain upon the top. They then slid down the hay to theground, Thomas receiving them so as to prevent any violent fall. Thomas then forked up as much more hay as he could make stay upon thetop of his load, and when this was done, he set out to go to the barn. The children accompanied him, walking behind the cart. 

When the party reached the barn, the children went inside to a placewhich Phonny called the bay. Thomas drove his cart up near the side ofthe barn without, and began to pitch the hay in through a great squarewindow, quite high up. The window opened into the bay, so that thehay, when Thomas pitched it in, fell down into the place where thechildren were standing. They jumped upon it, when it came down, withgreat glee. As every new forkful which Thomas pitched in came withoutany warning except the momentary darkening of the window, it sometimesfell upon the children's heads and half buried them, each new accidentof this kind awakening, as it occurred, loud and long continued burstsof laughter. 

After getting in two or three loads of hay in this manner, dinnertime came, and the whole party went in to dinner. They found whenthey entered the house that Mary Erskine had been frying nut-cakes andapple-turnovers for them. There was a large earthen pan full of suchthings, and there were more over the fire. There were also around thetable four bowls full of very rich looking milk, with a spoon in eachbowl, and a large supply of bread, cut into very small pieces, upona plate near the bowls. The children were all hungry and thirsty, andthey gathered around the table to eat the excellent dinner which MaryErskine had provided for them, with an air of great eagerness anddelight. 

After their dinner was over, Mary Erskine said that they might go outand play for half an hour, and that then she would go with theminto the fields, and see if they could not find some strawberries. Accordingly, when the time arrived, they all assembled at the door, and Mary Erskine came out, bringing mugs and baskets to put thestrawberries in. There were four mugs made, of tin; such as were therecalled _dippers_. There were two pretty large baskets besides, both covered. Mary Erskine gave to each of the children a dipper, andcarried the baskets herself. She seemed to carry them very carefully, and they appeared to be heavy, as if there might be something inside. Phonny wanted very much to know what there was in those baskets. MaryErskine said he must guess. 

"Some cake, " said Phonny. 

"Guess again, " said Mary Erskine. 

"Apples, " said Phonny. 

"Guess again, " said Mary Erskine. 

"Why, have not I guessed right yet?" asked Phonny. 

"I can't tell you, " replied Mary Erskine. "Only you may guess as muchas you please. "

Phonny of course gave up guessing, since he was not to be told whetherhe guessed right or not; though he said he was sure that it was cake, or else, perhaps, some of the turn-overs. The party walked along byvery pleasant paths until they came to a field by the side of thebrook. There were trees along the banks of the brook, under which, and near the water, there were a great many cool and shady placesthat were very pleasant. Mary Erskine led the way down to one of thesewhere there was a large flat stone near the water. She hid her twobaskets in the bushes, and then directed the children to go up intothe field with her and get the strawberries. The strawberries were notonly very abundant, but also very large and ripe. Mary Erskine saidthat they might all eat ten, but no more. All that they got, exceptten, they must put into their dippers, until the dippers were full. She herself went busily at work, finding strawberries and putting theminto the dippers of the children, sometimes into one and sometimesinto another. In a short time the dippers were full. 

The whole party then went back to the brook and sat down upon thegreat flat stone, with their dippers before them. Mary Erskine thenbrought out one of her baskets, and lifting up the cover, she took outfive saucers and five spoons. 

"There, " said she, "I brought you some saucers and spoons to eat yourstrawberries with. Now take up the bunches from your dippers, and pulloff the strawberries from the stems, and put them in the saucers. "

While the children were all busily engaged in doing this, Mary Erskineopened the other basket, and took out a pitcher of very rich lookingcream. The sight of this treasure of course awakened in all theparty the utmost enthusiasm and delight. They went on hulling theirstrawberries very industriously, and were soon ready, one afteranother, to have the cream poured over them, which Mary Erskineproceeded to do, giving to each one of the children a very abundantsupply. 

[Illustration: THE STRAWBERRY PARTY. ]

Phonny finished his strawberries first, and then went to the margin ofthe brook to look into the water, in order, as he said, "to see if hecould see any fishes. " He did see several, and became greatly excitedin consequence, calling eagerly upon the rest of the party tocome down and look. He said that he wished very much that he had afishing-line. Mary Erskine said that Thomas had a fishing-line, which he would lend him, she had no doubt; and away Phonny went, accordingly, to find Thomas and to get the line. 

This procedure was not quite right on Phonny's part. It is not rightto abandon one's party under such circumstances as these, for the sakeof some new pleasure accidentally coming into view, which the wholeparty cannot share. Besides, Phonny left his dipper for Mary Erskineor Malleville to carry up, instead of taking care of it himself. MaryErskine, however, said that this was of no consequence, as she couldcarry it just as well as not. 

Mary Erskine and the three remaining children, then went back to thehouse, where Bella and Malleville amused themselves for half an hourin building houses with the blocks in Thomas's shop, when all at onceMalleville was surprised to see Beechnut coming in. Beechnut, wasreturning from the mill, and as the children had had to walk nearlyall the way to Mary Erskine's, he thought it very probable that theywould be too tired to walk back again. So he had left his horseand wagon at the corner, and had walked out to the farm to take thechildren home with him, if they were ready to go. 

"I am not _ready_ to go, " said Malleville, after having heardthis story, but I _will_ go for the sake of the ride. I amtoo tired to walk all the way. But Phonny is not here. He has gonea-fishing. "

"Where has he gone?" said Beechnut. 

"Down to the brook, " replied Malleville. 

"I will go and find him, " said Beechnut. 

So saying, Beechnut left the shop, went out into the yard, and beganto walk down the path which led toward the brook. Very soon hesaw Phonny coming out from among the bushes with his pole over hisshoulder, and walking along with quite a disconsolate air. Beechnutsat down upon a log by the side of the road, to wait for him. 

"Did you catch any fishes?" said Beechnut, as Phonny approached him. 

"No, " said Phonny, despondingly. 

"I am glad of that, " said Beechnut. 

"Glad!" said Phonny, looking up surprised, and somewhat displeased. "What are you glad for?"

"For the sake of the fishes, " said Beechnut. 

"Hoh!" said Phonny. "And the other day, when I did catch some, yousaid you were glad of that. "

"Yes, " said Beechnut, "then I was glad for your sake. There is alwaysa chance to be glad for some sake or other, happen what may. "

This, though very good philosophy, did not appear to be just at thattime at all satisfactory to Phonny. 

"I have had nothing but ill-luck all this afternoon, " said Phonny, ina pettish tone. "That great ugly black horse of Thomas's trod on myfoot. "

"Did he?" said Beechnut; his countenance brightening up at the sametime, as if Phonny had told him some good news. 

"Yes, " said Phonny, "Thomas came along near where I was fishing, and Ilaid down my fishing-line, and went up to the horse, and was standingby his head, and he trod on my foot dreadfully. "

"Did he?" said Beechnut, "I am very glad of that. "

"Glad of that!" repeated Phonny. "I don't see whose sake you can beglad of that for. I am sure it did not do the horse any good. "

"I am glad of that for your sake, " said Beechnut. "There never was aboy that grew up to be a man, that did not have his foot trod upon atsome time or other by a horse. There is no other possible way forthem to learn that when a horse takes up his foot, he will put it downagain wherever it happens, and if a boy's foot is under it, it willget trod upon. There is no possible way for boys to learn that butby experiencing it. The only difference is, that some boys take thetreading light, and others get it heavy. You have got it light. So ifyou have only learned the lesson, you have learned it very easily, andso I am glad. "

"No, it was not light, " said Phonny. "It was very heavy. What makesyou think it was light?"

"By your walking, " replied Beechnut. "I have known some boys that whenthey took their lesson in keeping out of the way of horses' forefeet, could not stand for a week after it. You have had most excellent luck, you may depend. "

By the time that Beechnut and Phonny reached the house, Mallevillehad put on her bonnet and was ready to go. Mary Erskine said that shewould go with them a little way. Bella and Albert then wanted to gotoo. Their mother said that she had no objection, and so they all wentalong together. 

"Did you know that we were going to have a new road?" said MaryErskine to Beechnut. 

"Are you?" asked Phonny eagerly. 

"Yes, " said Mary Erskine. "They have laid out a new road to thecorner, and are going to make it very soon. It will be a very goodwagon road, and when it is made you can ride all the way. But then itwill not be done in time for my raspberry party. "

"Your raspberry party?" repeated Phonny, "what is that?'

"Did not I tell you about it? I am going to invite you and all thechildren in the village that I know, to come here some day when theraspberries are ripe, and have a raspberry party, --like the strawberryparty that we had to-day. There are a great many raspberries on myplace. "

"I'm _very_ glad, " said Malleville. "When are you going to inviteus?"

"Oh, in a week or two, " said Mary Erskine. "But then the new road willnot be done until the fall. They have just begun it. We can hear themworking upon it in one place, pretty soon. "

The party soon came to the place which Mary Erskine had referred to. It was a point where the new road came near the line of the old one, and a party of men and oxen were at work, making a causeway, across alow wet place. As the children passed along, they could hear the soundof axes and the voices of men shouting to oxen. Phonny wished verymuch to go and see. So Mary Erskine led the way through the woods ashort distance, till they came in sight of the men at work. They wereengaged in felling trees, pulling out rocks and old logs which weresunken in the mire, by means of oxen and chains, and in other similarworks, making all the time loud and continual vociferations, whichresounded and echoed through the forest in a very impressive manner. 

What interested Phonny most in these operations, was to see howpatiently the oxen bore being driven about in the deep mire, and theprodigious strength which they exerted in pulling out the logs. One ofthe workmen would take a strong iron chain, and while two others wouldpry up the end of a log with crow-bars or levers, he would passthe chain under the end so raised, and then hook it together above. Another man would then back up a pair of oxen to the place, andsometimes two pairs, in order that they might be hooked to the chainwhich passed around the log. When all was ready, the oxen were startedforward, and though they went very slowly, step by step, yet theyexerted such prodigious strength as to tear the log out of its bed, and drag it off, roots, branches, and all, entirely out of the way. 

Monstrous rocks were lifted up and dragged out of the line of the roadin much the same manner. 

After looking at this scene for some time, the party returned to theold road again, and there Mary Erskine said that she would bid hervisitors good-bye, and telling them that she would not forget toinvite them to her raspberry party, she took leave of them and wentback toward her own home. 

"If all the children of the village that Mary Erskine knows, areinvited to that party, " said Phonny, "what a great raspberry party itwill be!"

"Yes, " said Beechnut, "it will be a raspberry _jam_. "

THE END.