THE OLD HOMESTEAD

A STORY OF NEW ENGLAND FARM LIFE. 

BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS. 

AUTHOR OF "FASHION AND FAMINE, " "THE REIGNING BELLE, " "THE GOLDBRICK, " "MABEL'S MISTAKE, " "THE WIFE'S SECRET, " "BELLEHOOD ANDBONDAGE, " "LORD HOPE'S CHOICE, " "BERTHA'S ENGAGEMENT, " "THE CURSEOF GOLD, " "NORSTON'S REST, " "A NOBLE WOMAN, " "THE SOLDIER'S ORPHANS, ""THE HEIRESS, " "MARRIED IN HASTE, " "PALACES AND PRISONS, " "DOUBLYFALSE, " "MARY DERWENT, " "THE REJECTED WIFE, " "RUBY GRAY'S STRATEGY, ""THE OLD COUNTESS, " "SILENT STRUGGLES, " "WIVES AND WIDOWS, " ETC. 

"THE OLD HOMESTEAD" is a superb story of quaint New England farm lifein the vein now so popular both in fiction and on the stage. Withan absorbing plot, effective incidents and characters entirely trueto nature, it holds attention as very few stories do. It possessesall that powerful attraction which clings to a romance of home, thefamily fireside and the people who gather about it. Simplicity andstrength are happily combined in its pages, and no one can begin itwithout desiring to read it through. All the works of Mrs. Ann S. Stephens are books that everybody should read, for in point of realmerit, wonderful ingenuity and absorbing interest they loom far abovethe majority of the books of the day. She has a thorough knowledgeof human nature, and so vividly drawn and natural are her charactersthat they seem instinct with life. Her plots are models ofconstruction, and she excels in depicting young lovers, their trials, troubles, sorrows and joys, while her love scenes fascinate the youngas well as the old. In short, Mrs. Stephens' novels richly merit boththeir vast renown and immense popularity, and they should find a placein every house and in every library. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE FATHER'S RETURN. 

 She kneels beside the pauper bed, As seraphs bow while they adore! Advance with still and reverent tread, For angels have gone in before!

"I wonder, oh, I wonder if he will come?"

The voice which uttered these words was so anxious, so pathetic withdeep feeling, that you would have loved the poor child, whose heartgave them forth, plain and miserable as she was. Yet a more helplesscreature, or a more desolate home could not well be imagined. Shewas very small, even for her age. Her little sharp features had nofreshness in them; her lips were thin; her eyes not only heavy, butfull of dull anguish, which gave you an idea of settled pain, bothof soul and body, for no mere physical suffering ever gave that depthof expression to the eyes of a child. 

But all was of a piece, the garret, and the child that inhabited it. The attic, which was more especially her home, was crowded under thelow roof of a tenant house, which sloped down so far in front, thateven the child could not stand upright under it, except where it wasperforated with a small attic window, which overlooked the chimneysand gables of other tenement buildings, hived full of poverty, andswarming with the dregs of city life. 

This was the prospect on one side. On the other a door with one hingebroken, led into a low open garret, where smoke-dried rafters slantedgrimly over head, like the ribs of some mammoth skeleton, and looseboards, whose nails had rusted out, creaked and groaned under foot. They made audible sounds even beneath the shadowy tread of the littlegirl, as she glided toward the top of a stair-case unrailed and outin the floor like the mouth of a well. Here she sat down, supportingher head with one hand, in an attitude of touching despondency. 

"I wonder oh, I wonder, if he will come!" she repeated, lookingmournfully downward. 

It was a dreary view, those flights of broken stairs, slippery andsodden with the water daily carried over them. They led by othertenement rooms, which sent forth a confusion of mingled voices, butopened with a glimpse of pure light upon the street below. 

But for this gleam of light, breaking as it were, like a smile throughthe repulsive vista, Mary Fuller might have given up in absolutedespair, for she was an imaginative child, and glimpses of light likethat came like an inspiration to her. 

After all, what was it that kept the child chained for an hour toone spot, gazing so earnestly down toward the opening? Did she expectany one?

No, it could not be called expectation, but something more beautifulstill--FAITH. 

Most persons would call it presentiment; but presentiment is not thegrowth of prayer, or the conviction which follows that earnestpleading when the soul is crying for help. 

"Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, forof such is the kingdom of heaven. "

Again and again Mary Fuller had read these words, and always to creepupon her knees and ask God to let her come, for she was scarcely morethan a little child. 

But even upon her knees the trouble of her soul grew strong. She feltas if the air around whispered--

"But you are not a little child--they have no sins of disobedienceto confess--no vengeful thoughts or unkind words to atone for as youhave. "

And all the evil that had yet taken growth in a soul planted amongevil arose before the child, to startle her from claiming theprivilege of her childhood. 

But though she did not know it, those very feelings were an answerto the unrevealed want that had become clamorous in her soul; it wasthe promise of a bright revelation yet to come; her heart was beingunfolded to the sunshine, leaf by leaf, and God's angels might havesmiled benignly as they watched the development of good in that littlesoul, amid the depressing atmosphere that surrounded it. 

From the day that her poor father left home and went up to thehospital a pauper to die there, these feelings had grown strongerand stronger within the bosom of the child. His words, unheeded atthe time, came back to her with power. The passages read over so oftento a careless ear from his Bible, seemed to have taken music in theirremembrance, that haunted her all the time. 

She did not know it, but the atmosphere of prayers, unheard save inheaven, was around her. From its pauper bed at Bellevue a strongearnest soul was pleading for that child, and thus God sent his angeldown to trouble the waters of life within her. 

As we grow good, a sense of the beautiful always awakens within us;and this became manifest in Mary Fuller. For the first time thesqualid misery of her home became a subject of self-reproach, andwith a thoughtful cloud upon her brow, she set herself patiently towork drawing out all the scant elements of comfort that the placeafforded. Out of this grew a longing for the presence of her father, that he too might enjoy the benefit of her exertion. 

Never in her life had she so yearned for a sight of that pale face. It seemed as if the trouble and darkness in her soul must turn tolight when he came. With this intense desire arose a thought thathe might return home without warning. The thought grew into hope, and at last strengthened into faith. 

Mary Fuller not only believed that her father would come, but shefelt sure he would be with her that very night. Thus she sat uponthe stairs waiting. 

But time wore on, and anxiety made the child restless. She began todoubt--to wonder how she could have expected her father without oneword or promise to warrant the hope. That which had been faith anhour before, grew into a sharp anxiety. She folded her arms upon herknees, and burying her face upon them, began to cry. 

At last she arose with her eyes full of tears, and walked sadly intothe attic room where she sat down looking with sorrow on all thelittle preparations that she had made. She crept to the window, andclinging with both hands to the sill, lifted herself up to see, bythe shadows that lay among the chimneys, and the slanting gold ofthe sunshine which, thank God, warms the tenement house and the palacetowers alike, how fast the hours wore on. 

"Oh, the sun is up yet, and the long chimney's shadow is only halfway to the eves, " she exclaimed, hopefully, dropping down from thewindow, while a flush, as of joyful tears, stole around her eyes. 

"Is there anything else I can do?" and she looked eagerly around theroom. 

It had been neatly swept. A fire burned in the little coffee-pot stovethat occupied one corner, and the hum of boiling water stole out froma tea-kettle that stood upon it. 

"Everything nice and warm as toast--won't he like it--clean sheetsupon the bed, and--and--oh, I forgot--it always lay back of hispillow--he mustn't miss it"; and opening a worn Bible that had seenbetter days, she found a passage that cheered her heart like aprophecy, and read it with solemn attention as she walked slowlyacross the room. 

She placed the Bible reverently beneath the single pillow arrangedso neatly on the bed, and turned away murmuring--

"At any rate, I will have everything ready. "

She opened the drawer of a pine table and looked in. Everything wasin order there, and the table itself; she employed another minutein giving its spotless surface an extra polish; then arranged afragment of carpet before the bed, and sat down to wait again. 

It would not do; her poor little heart was getting restless withimpatience. She went into the open garret closing the door after her, that no heat might escape, and sat down on the upper flight of stairsagain. How she longed to run down--to hang about the door-step, andeven go as far as the corner to meet him! But this would bedisobedience. How often had he told her never to loiter in the streetor about the door? So she sat, stooping downward, and looking throughthe gleams of light that came through the open hall over flights ofsteps below, thrilled from head to foot with loving expectation. Halfan hour--an hour--and there poor Mary Fuller sat, her heart sinkinglower and lower with each moment. At last she arose, went back toher room with a dejected air, and sat down by the stove weary withdisappointment. 

An old house cat that lay by the stove looked at her gravely, closedher eyes an instant as if for reflection, and leaped into her lap. Anything--the fall of a straw would have set Mary Fuller to cryingthen, and she burst into a passion of tears, rocking herself backand forth and moaning out--

"He will not come--it is almost dark now--he will not come. Oh, dear, how can I wait--how can I wait!"

As she moaned thus, the cat leaped from her lap and walked into thegarret, stood a moment at the head of the stairs, and came back againlooking at his little mistress wistfully through the door. 

Mary started up. Surely, that was his step! No! there was no firmnessin it. Whoever mounted those stairs, moved with a staggering, unsteadywalk, like that of a drunken person. 

Mary turned very pale and hardly breathed. 

"Oh, if it should be mother, " she thought, casting a startled lookback into the little room, "staggering, too!" and trembling withaffright, she stole softly to the top of the stairs and looked down. 

A gush of welcome broke from her lips. She held out her arms, descending rapidly to meet him. 

"Father! oh, my blessed, blessed father!"

They came up slowly, the deathly pale man leaning partly on his stick, partly on the shoulder of the child, whose frame shivered with joybeneath his pressure, and whose eyes, beaming with affection, wereuplifted to his. 

"Not here, don't sit down here, " she cried, resisting his impulseto rest at the head of the stairs. "I have got a fire--the room iswarm--just five steps more--don't stop till then!"

He moved on, attempting to smile, though his lips were blue and hisemaciated limbs shivered painfully. 

"There, sit down, father: I borrowed this rocking-chair of Mrs. Ford;isn't it nice? Let me put the pillow behind your head. Are you verysick, father?"

His lips quivered out, "Yes, very!"

She stooped down and kissed his forehead, then knelt by his side andkissed his hands, also, with such reverential affection. 

"Oh, father, father, how sorry I am; you will stay with us--you willstay at home now--they have let you grow worse at the hospital; butI--your own little girl--see if I don't make you well. You will notgo to Bellevue again, father. "

"No, I shall never go back again; the doctors can do nothing for me, but I could not die without seeing you again--that wish was strongerthan death. "

"Oh, father, don't. "

The sick man looked down upon her with his glittering eyes, and apathetic smile stole over his lips. An ague chill seized upon him, and ran in a shiver through his limbs; but it had no power to quenchthat smile of ineffable affection--that solemn, sweet smile, thatsaid more softly than words--

"Yes, my child, your father must die here in his poverty-strickenhome. "

"No, no!" cried Mary, in fond affright; for the look affected hermore than his words; "it is only the cold, your clothes are so thin, dear father--it is only the cold; a good warm cup of tea will driveit off. Here is the kettle, boiling hot; besides, you are hungry--ah, I thought of that; here are crackers and a dear little sponge-cake, and such nice bread and butter; of course, it's only the cold andthe hunger. I always feel as if I should die the next minute, whenwe've gone without anything to eat a day or two; nothing is sodiscouraging as that. "

She ran on thus, striving to cheat her own aching heart, while shecheered the sick man. As if activity would drive away her fear, shebustled about, put her tea to drawing by the stove, spread the littletable, and pulled it close to her father, and strove, by a thousandsweet caressing ways, to entice him into an appetite. The sick manonly glanced at the food with a weary smile; but seizing upon thewarm cup of tea, drank it off eagerly, asking for more. 

This was some consolation to the little nurse; and she stood by, watching him wistfully through her tears, as he drained the secondcup. It checked the shivering fit somewhat, and he sat upwright amoment, casting his bright eyes around the room. 

"Isn't it nice and warm?" said Mary, as he leaned back. 

The sick man murmured softly--

"Yes, child, it feels like home. God bless you. But your mother--didshe help to do this?"

Mary's countenance fell. She shrunk away from the glance of thosebright, questioning eyes. 

"Mother has not been home in five or six days, " she said, gently. 

The sick man turned his head and closed his eyes. Directly, Mary sawtwo great tears press through the quivering lashes, followed by afaint gasping for breath. 

"I have prayed--I have so hoped to see her before"--

He broke off; and Mary could see, by the glow upon his face, thathe was praying then. 

She knelt down, reverently, and leaned her forehead upon the arm ofhis chair. 

After a little, Fuller opened his eyes, and lifting one pale handfrom his knee, laid it on his child's shoulder. 

"Mary!"

She looked up and smiled. There was something so loving and holy inhis face, that the child could not help smiling, even through hertears. 

"Mary, listen to me while I can speak, for in a little while I shallbe gone. "

"Not to the hospital again--oh, not there!"

"No, Mary, not there; but look up--be strong, my child, you know whatdeath is!"

"Oh, yes, " whispered the child with a shudder. 

"Hush, Mary, hush--don't shake so--I must die, very, very soon, Ifeel, " he added, looking at his fingers and dropping them gently backto her shoulder; "I feel now that it is very nigh, this death whichmakes you tremble so. "

Mary broke forth into a low, wailing sob. 

"Hush! stop crying, Mary; look up!"

Mary lifted her eyes, filled with touching awe, and choked back theagony of her grief. 

"Father, I listen. "

Oh, the holy love with which those eyes looked down into hers!

"Have you read the Bible that I left behind for you?"

"Yes, father; oh, yes, morning and night. "

"Then, you know that the good meet again, after death?"

"But I--I am not good. Oh, father, father, I cannot make myself goodenough to see you again; you will go, and I shall be left behind--Iand mother!--I and mother!"

"Have you been patient with your mother--respectful to her?" he asked, sadly. 

"There--there it is. I have tried and tried, but when she strikesme, or brings those people here, or comes home with that horriblebottle under her shawl, I cannot be respectful--I get angry and longto hide away when she comes up stairs. "

"Hush, my child, hush; these are wicked words!"

"I know it, father; it seems to me as if no one ever was sowicked--try ever so much, I cannot be good. I thought when you came"--

"Well, my child. "

"I thought that you would tell me how, and you talk of--. Don't, father, don't; I want you so much. "

"It is God who takes me, " said Fuller, gently; "He will teach youhow to be good. "

"Oh, but it takes so long; I have asked and asked so often. "

Again that beautiful smile beamed over the dying man's face. 

"He will hear you--He has heard you--I felt that you had need of me, and came; see how God has answered your want in this, my child!"

"But I can do nothing alone; when you are with me, I feel strong;but if you leave me, what can I do?"

"Pray without ceasing; and in everything give thanks, " said that faintgentle voice once more. 

"But I have prayed till my heart seemed full of tears. "

"They were sweet tears, Mary. "

"No, no; my heart grew heavy with them; and--mother, how could I givethanks when she came home so--!"

"Hush, hush, Mary--it is your mother!"

"But I can't give thanks for that, when I remember how she let yousuffer--how miserable everything was--how she left you to starve, day by day, spending all the money you had laid up in drink!"

"Oh, my child, my child!" cried the dying man, sweeping the tearsfrom his eyes with one pale hand, and dropping it heavily on hershoulder. 

She cowered beneath the pressure. 

"It is wrong--I know it, " she said, clasping her hands and droppingthem heavily before her, as if weighed down by a sense of her utterunworthiness. "But oh, father, what shall I do! what _shall_ I do!"

"Honor your mother!"

"How can I honor her, when she degrades and abuses us all!"

"God does not make you the judge of your parents, but commands youunconditionally to honor them. "

Mary dropped her eyes and stooped more humble downward. She saw nowwhy the darkness had hung so long over her prayers. Filled withunforgiving bitterness against her mother she had asked God to forgiveher, scarcely deeming her fault one to be repented of. A briefstruggle against the memory of bitter ill-usage and fierce wronginflicted by her mother, and Mary drew a deep free breath. Her eyesfilled, and meekly folding her hands she held them toward her father. 

"What shall I do, father?"

He drew her toward him, and a look of holy faith lay upon his face. 

"Listen to me, Mary; God may yet help you to save this woman, yourmother and my wife; for next to God I always loved her. "

"But what can I do? She hates me because I am so small and ugly. Shewill never let me love her, and without that what can a poor littlething like me do?"

"My child, there is no human being so weak or so humble that it isincapable of doing good, of being happy, and of making others happyalso. The power of doing good does not rest so much in what wepossess, as in what we are. Gentle words, kind acts are more preciousthan gold. These are the wealth of the poor; more precious thanworldly wealth, because it is never exhausted. The more you give, the more you possess. "

A strange beautiful light came into Mary's eyes, as she listened. 

"Go on, father, say more. "

She drew a deep breath. 

"Then the good are never poor!"

"Never, my child. "

"And never unhappy?"

"Never utterly miserable, as the wicked are--never without hope. "

"Oh, father, tell me more; ask God to help me--He will listen to you. "

He laid his pale hands upon her head, and as a flower folds itselfbeneath the night shadow, Mary sunk to her knees. She clasped herlittle hands, and dropping them upon her father's knee, buried herface there; then the lips of that dying man parted, and the lastpulses of his life glowed out in a prayer so fervent, so powerfulin its faith, that the very angels of heaven must have veiled theirfaces as they listened to that blending of eternal faith and humansorrow. 

Mary listened at first tremblingly, and with strange awe; then theburning words began to thrill her, heart and limb, and yielding tothe might of a spirit which his prayer had drawn down from heaven. She also broke forth with a cry of the same holy anguish; and thevoice of father and child rose and swelled together up to the throneof God. 

As he prayed, the face of the sick man grew sublime in its paleness, and the death sweat rolled over it like rain, while that of the childgrew strangely luminous. Gradually mouth, eyes and forehead kindledwith glorious joy, and instead of that heart-rending petition thatbroke from her at first, her voice mellowed into soft throes andmurmurs of praise. 

The sick man hushed his soul and listened; his exhausted voice brokeinto sighs, and thus, after a little time, they both sunk intosilence--the child filled with strange ecstasy--the father bowingwith calm joy beneath the hand of death. 

"Let me lie down. I am very, very weak, " he said, attempting to rise. 

Mary stood up and helped him. She had grown marvellously strong withinthe last hour, and her soul, better than that slight form, supportedthe dying man. 

He lay down. She placed the pillow under his head and knelt again. It seemed as if her heart could give forth its silent gratitude toGod best in that position. 

He laid his hand upon her head. It was growing cold. 

"And you are willing now that I should die?"

"Yes, my father, only---, " and here a human throb broke in her voice, "if I could but go with you!"

"No, my child, it is but a little time, at most. For _her_ sake becontent to wait. "

"Father, I am content. "

"And happy?"

"Very, very happy, father!"

The dying man closed his eyes, and a faint murmur rose to his lips. 

"Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyeshave seen thy salvation. "

His hand was still upon her head, and there it rested till the purpleshadows died off into cold grey tints, and upon his still face thererose a smile pure as moonlight, luminous as waters that gush fromthe throne of heaven. 

The same holy spirit must have touched the living and the dead, forwhen the little girl lifted her face, the pale, pinched features wereradiant as those of an angel. She had gone close to the gate of heavenwith her father, soul and body. She was bathed in the holy light thathad gushed through the portals. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE MAYOR AND THE POLICEMAN. 

 When the strong man turns, with a haughty lip, On poverty, stern and grim, When he seizes the fiend with a ruthless grip, Ye need not fear for him. But when poverty comes to a little child, Freezing its bloom away-- When its cheeks are thin and its eyes are wild, Give pity its gentle sway. 

It was a bitter cold night--a myriad of stars hung in the sky, clearand glittering, as if burnished by the frost. The moon sent down apale, freezing brilliancy that whitened all the ground, as if asprinkling of snow had fallen, but there was not a flake on the earthor in the air. Little wind was abroad, but that little pierced throughmufflers and overcoats, like a swarm of invisible needles, sharp andstinging. It was rather late in the evening, and in such weather fewpersons were tempted abroad. Those who had comfortable hearthsremained at home, and even the street beggars crept within theiralleys and cellars; many of them driven to seek shelter in theirrags, without hope of fire or food. 

But there was one man in New York city, who could neither seek restnor shelter till a given time, however inclement the weather mightbe. With a thick pilot cloth overcoat buttoned to the chin, and hisglittering police star catching the moonbeams as they fell upon hisbreast, he strode to and fro on his beat, occasionally pausing, withhis eyes lifted towards the stars, to ponder over some thought inhis mind, but speedily urged to motion again by the sharp tinglingof his feet and hands. 

A feeling and thoughtful man was this policeman; he possessed muchoriginality of mind, which had received no small share of cultivation. He had been connected with a mercantile house till symptoms of apulmonary disease drove him from his desk; then, by the kind aid ofa politician, who had not entirely lost all human feelings in thecouncil chamber, he was enrolled in the city police. To a mind lessnobly constructed, this minor position might have been a cause ofdepression and annoyance, but John Chester, though not yet thirty-two, had learned to think for himself. He felt that no occupation coulddegrade an honorable man, and that gentlemanly habits, integrity andintelligence were certain to shine out with greater lustre when foundin the humbler spheres of life. 

Chester possessed both education and refinement, but having no bettermeans of support, accepted that which Providence presented, not withgrumbling condescension, but with that grateful alacrity which wasa sure proof that his duties would be faithfully performed; and that, though capable of higher things, he was not one to neglect the mosthumble, when they became duties. 

To a man like Chester, the solitude of his night watches was at timesa luxury. When the great city lay slumbering around him, his mindfound subjects of deep thought in itself and in surrounding things. Even on the night when we present him to the reader, the cold air, while it chilled his body, seemed only to invigorate his mind. Insteadof brooding gloomily over his own position, certainly very inferiorto what it had been, he had many a compassionate thought for thosepoorer than himself, without one envious feeling for the thousandsand thousands who would have deemed his small income of ten dollarsa week absolute poverty. 

The ward in which he was stationed exhibited in a striking degreethe two great extremes of social life. Blocks of palatial buildingsloomed imposingly along the broad streets. Each dwelling, with itsspacious rooms and luxurious accommodations, was occupied by a singlefamily, sometimes of not more than two or three persons. Here plateglass, silver mounted doors, and rich traceries in bronze and iron, gave brilliant evidence of wealth; while many small gardens throwntogether, rich with shrubbery and vines in their season of verdure, threw a fresh glow of nature around the rich man's dwelling. Resourcesof enjoyment were around him on every hand. Each passing cloud seemedto turn its silver lining upon these dwellings, as it rolled acrossthe heavens. 

You had but to turn a corner, and lo! the very earth seemed vitaland teeming with human beings. Poor men and the children of poor men, disputed possession of every brick upon the sidewalks. Every holein those dilapidated buildings swarmed with a family; every cornerof the leaky garrets and damp cellars was full of poverty-strickenlife. Here were no green trees, no leaf-clad vines climbing upon thewalls; empty casks, old brooms, and battered wash-tubs littered theback yards, which the sweet fresh grass should have carpeted. Ashpans and tubs of kitchen offal choked up the areas. The very light, as it struggled through those dingy windows, seemed pinched and smoky. 

All this contrast of poverty and wealth lay in the policeman's beat. Now he was with the rich, almost warmed by the light that came likea flood of wine through some tall window muffled in crimson damask. The smooth pavements under his feet glowed with brilliant gas-light. The next moment, and a few smoky street lamps failed to reveal thebroken flagging on which he trod. Now and then the gleam of a coarsetallow candle swaling gloomily away by some sick bed, threw its murkylight across his path. Still, but for the cold moonlight, Chesterwould have found much difficulty in making his rounds in the poorman's district. Yet here he remained longest; here his step alwaysgrew heavy and his brow thoughtful. Surrounded by suffering, shutout from his eyes only by those irregular walls, and clouded, as itwere, with the slumbering sorrow around him, this dark place alwayscast him into painful thought. That cold night he was more thanusually affected by the suffering which he knew was close to him, and only invisible to the eye. 

The night before, he had entered one of those dismal houses and hadtaken from thence a woman who, squalid and degraded as she was, hadevidently once been in the higher walks of life. As he passed herdwelling, the remembrance of this woman sent a thrill of mingled pityand disgust through his heart. The miserable destitution of her home, the glimpses of refinement that broke through her outbursts ofpassion, the state of revolting intoxication in which she wasplunged--all arose vividly to his mind. He paused before the housewith a feeling of vague interest. The night before, a scene of perfectriot greeted him as he approached the door. Now the inmates seemednumbed, silent and torpid with cold. 

As Chester stood gazing on the house, he saw that the door was open, and fancied that some object was moving in the hall. It seemed atfirst like a lame animal creeping down the steps. As it came forthinto the moonlight, Chester saw that it was a child with a singular, crouching appearance, muffled in an old red cloak that had belongedto some grown person. With a slow and painful effort the child draggeditself along the pavement, its face bent down, and stooping, as ifit had some burden to conceal. The old cloak brushed Chester'sgarments, yet the child seemed quite unconscious of his presence, but moved on, breathing hard and shuddering with the cold, till hecould hear her teeth knock together. Chester did not speak, but softlyfollowed the child. 

The Mayor of New York at that time lived within Chester's beat, andtoward his dwelling the little wanderer bent her way. As she drewnear the steps, the child lifted her face for the first time, andreaching forth a little wan hand, held herself up by the railing. She was not seeking that particular house, but there her strengthgave way, and she clung to the cold iron, faint and trembling, withher eyes lifted wildly towards the drawing-room windows. 

The plate glass was all in a blaze from a chandelier that hung within, and the genial glow fell upon that little frost-bitten face, lightingit up with intense lustre. The face was not beautiful--those featureswere too pale--the eyes large and hollow, while black lashes ofunusual length gave them a wild depth of color that was absolutelyfearful. Still there was something in the expression of those wanfeatures indescribably touching--a look of meek suffering and of moralstrength unnatural in its development. It was the face of a child, suffering, feeble, with the expression of a holy spirit breakingthrough, holy but tortured. 

The child clung to the railing, waving to and fro, but holding onwith a desperate grasp. She seemed struggling to lift herself to anupright position, but without sufficient strength. Chester advanceda step to help her, but drew back, for, without perceiving him, shewas creeping feebly up the steps, with her face shrouded in darknessagain. She reached the bell with difficulty, and drew the silver knob. 

Scarcely had the child taken her hand from the cold metal, when theshadow of a man crossed the drawing-room window, and his measuredstep sounded along the oilcloth in the hall. The door was unfastened, and the Mayor himself stood in the opening. The child lifted her eyes, and saw standing before, or rather above her, a tall man with lighthair turning grey, and a cast of features remarkable only for anabsence of all generous expression. He fixed his cold eyes on thelittle wanderer with a look that chilled her worse than the frost. As he prepared to speak, she could see the corners of his mouth curvehaughtily downward, and when his voice fell upon her ear, though notparticularly loud, it was cold and repelling. 

"Well, what are you doing here? What do you want?" said the greatman, keeping his eyes immovably on the shivering child, enraged athimself for having opened the door for a miserable beggar like that. 

He was in the habit of extending these little condescensions to thevoters of his ward; it had a touch of republicanism in it that lookedwell; but from that wretched little thing what was to be gained? Stillthe child might have a father, and that father might be a citizen, one of the sovereign people, possessed of that inestimableprivilege--a vote. So the Mayor was cautious, as usual, aboutexhibiting any positive traces of the ill-humor that possessed him. He had not groped and grovelled his way to the Mayoralty, withoutknowing how and when to exhibit the evil feelings of his heart. Thosethat were not evil he very prudently left to themselves, knowing thatthey could never obtain strength enough in his barren nature to becomein the slightest degree troublesome. 

Had kindly feelings still lived in his bosom, they must have beenaroused by the sweet, humble voice that answered him. 

"They have turned me out of doors. I am hungry, sir. I am very cold. "

"Turned you out of doors! Where is your father? Can't he take careof you?"

"I have no father--he is dead. "

No father, no vote! The little beggar had not the most indirect claimfor sympathy or forbearance from the Mayor of New York. He couldafford to be angry with her; nay, better, to seem angry also, andthat was an uncommon luxury with him. 

"Well, why didn't you go to the basement?"

"It was dark there--and through that window everything looked sowarm--I could not help it!"

"Could not help it, indeed! Go away! I never encourage street beggars. It would be doing a wrong to the people who look up to me for anexample. Go away this minute--how dare you come up to this door? Youare a bad little girl, I dare say!"

"No sir--no--no, I am _not_ bad! Please not to say that. It hurts meworse than the cold!" said the child, raising her sweet voice andclasping her little wan hands, while over her features many a woundedfeeling trembled, though she gave no signs of weeping. 

What a contrast there was between the heartless face of that man, and the meek, truthful look of the child! How cold and harsh seemedhis voice after the troubled melody of hers!

"I tell you, there is no use in attempting to deceive me. Stationhouses are built on purpose for little thieves that prowl about atnight!" and the cold-hearted man half closed the door, adding, "goaway--go away! Some policeman will take you to a station house, thoughI dare be sworn you know how to find one without help. "

The door was closed with these words, shutting the desolate childinto the cold night again. She neither complained nor wept; butsinking on the stone, gathered her frail limbs in a heap and buriedher face in the old cloak. 

Chester heard the whole conversation; he saw the expression of meekdespair which fell upon the child as the door closed against her, and with a swelling heart mounted the steps. 

"My little girl, " he said very gently, touching the crouching formwith his hand, "my poor, little girl!"

The child looked up wildly, for the very benevolence of his voicefrightened her, she was so unused to anything of the kind; but theinstant her eyes fell upon his bosom, where the silver star glitteredin the moonlight, she uttered a faint shriek. 

"Oh, do not--do not take me--I am not a thief--I am not wicked!" andshe shrunk back into a corner of the iron railing shuddering, andwith her wild eyes bent upon him like some little wounded animalhunted down by fierce dogs. 

"Don't be frightened--I will take care of you--I"--

"They took _her_--the policemen, I mean. Where is she? What have youdone with her?"

"But I wish to be kind, " said Chester, greatly distressed; sheinterrupted him, pointing to his star with her finger. 

"Kind? see--see. I tell you I am not a thief!"

"I know, I am sure you are not, " was the compassionate answer. 

"Then why take me up if I am not a thief?"

"But you will perish with the cold!"

"No--no; it's not so very cold here since the gentleman went away!"cried the child in a faint voice, muffling the old cloak close aroundher, and trying to smile. "Only--only"--

Her voice grew fainter. She had just strength to draw up her knees, clasp the little thin hands over them, and in attempting to rockherself upon the cold stone to prove how comfortable she was, fellforward dizzy and insensible. 

"Great Heavens! this is terrible, " cried Chester, gathering up thechild in his arms. 

Agitated beyond all self-control, he gave the bell-knob a jerk thatmade the Mayor start from his seat with a violence that threw oneof his well-trodden slippers half across the hearth-rug. 

"Who is coming now?" muttered the great man, thrusting his foot intothe truant slipper with a peevish jerk, for he had taken supper atthe City Hall that evening, and after a temperance movement of thatkind, the luxurious depth of his easy-chair was always inviting. 

"Will that bell never have done? These gas-lights--I verily believethey entice beggars to the door; besides, that great Irish girl haslighted double the number I ordered, " and, with a keen regard to theeconomy of his household, the Chief Magistrate of New York mounteda chair and turned off four of the six burners that had been lightedin the chandelier. Another sharp ring brought him to the carpet, andto the street-door again. There he found Chester with the littlebeggar girl in his arms, her eyes shut and her face pale as death, save where a faint violet color lay about the mouth. 

"Sir, this child, you have driven her from your door--she is dying!"said Chester, passing with his burden into the hall and moving towardsthe drawing-room, from which the light of an anthracite fire glowedwarm; and ruddily "she needs warmth. I believe in my soul she isstarving!"

"Well, sir, why do you bring her here--who are you? Is there nostation-house? I do not receive beggars in my drawing-room!" saidthe Mayor, following the policeman. 

Chester, heedless of his remonstrance, strode across the carpet andlaid the wretched child tenderly into the great crimson chair which"his honor" had just so reluctantly abandoned. Wheeling the chairclose to the fire, he knelt on the rug and began to chafe those thinpurple hands between his own. 

"I could not take her anywhere else--she was dying with cold--a minutewas life or death to her, " said Chester, lifting his fine eyes tothe sullen countenance of the Mayor, and speaking in a tone ofapology. 

The Mayor bent his eyes on that manly face, so warm and eloquent withbenevolent feeling; then, just turned his glance over the deathlyform of the child. 

"You will oblige me by moving that bundle of rags from my chair!"he said. 

"But she is dying!" cried the policeman, trembling all over withgenerous indignation; "she may be dead now!"

"Very well, this is no place for a coroner's inquest, " was the tersereply. 

The policeman half started up, and in his indignation almost crushedone of the little hands that he had been chafing. 

"Sir, this is inhuman--it is shameful. "

"Do you know where you are?--whom you are speaking to?" said the greatman, growing pale about the mouth, but subduing his passion withwonderful firmness. 

"Yes, I know well enough. This is your house, and you are the Mayorof New York!"

"And you--may I have the honor of knowing who it is that favors mypoor dwelling, and with company like that!" said the Mayor, pointingto the child, while his upper lip contracted and the corners of hismouth drooped into a cold sneer. 

"Yes, sir, you can know: I am a policeman of this ward, appointedby your predecessor--a just and good man; my name is John Chester. Taking pity on this forlorn little creature, I followed her from ahouse whence she had crept out into the cold, hoping to be of someuse; she came up here, and rang at your door. I heard what passedbetween you. As a citizen, I should have been ashamed, had Iunfortunately been among those who placed you in power; I must sayit--your conduct to this poor starved thing, shocked me beyondutterance. I thank God that no vote of mine aided to lift you whereyou are. "

"And so you are a policeman of this ward. Very well, " said the Mayor;and the sneer upon his face died away while he began to pace the room, the soft fall of his slippers upon the carpet giving a cat-likestillness to his movements. 

He felt that a man who could thus fearlessly speak out his justindignation, was not the kind of person to persecute openly. Besides, it was not in this man's nature to do anything openly. Like a mole, he burrowed out his plans under ground, and when forced to brave thedaylight, always cunningly allowed some pliant tool to remove theearth that was unavoidably cast up in his passage. His genius layin that low cunning and prudent management, with which small men oflittle intellect and no heart sometimes deceive the world. He hadlong outlived all feelings sufficiently strong to render himimpetuous, and was utterly devoid of that generous self-respect whichprompts a man to repel an attack fearlessly and at once. In short, he was one of those who _lie still and wait_, like the crafty pointerdogs that creep along the grass, hunting out game for others to shootdown for them, and devouring the spoil with a keener relish than thenoble hound that makes the forest ring as he plunges upon his prey. 

True to his character and his system, the Mayor paused in his walk, and, bending over the child, said coldly, but still with someappearance of feeling--

"She seems to be getting better--probably it will be nothing serious!"

Chester looked up, and a smile illuminated his face. Always willingto look on the bright side of human nature, his generous heart smotehim for having perhaps judged too harshly. The little hand which hewas chafing began to warm with life; this relieved him of the terribleexcitement which the moment before had rendered his words, if just, more than imprudent. 

"Thank you, sir, she _is_ better, " he said, with an expression offrank gratitude beaming over every feature, "I think she will livenow, so we will only trouble you a few minutes longer. "

"My family are in bed--and these street beggars are so little to berelied upon, " observed the Mayor, evidently wishing to offer someexcuse for his former harshness, without doing so directly; "but thisseems a case of real distress. "

Chester was subdued by this speech. More and more he regretted theexcitement of his former language. He longed to make some reparationto a man who, after all, might be only prudent, not unfeeling. 

"If, " said he, looking at the child, whose features began to quiverin the glowing fire-light, "if I had a drop of wine now. "

"Oh, we are temperance people here, you know, " replied the Mayor, coldly. 

"Or anything warm, " persisted Chester, as the child opened her eyeswith a famished look. 

"You can get wine at the station-house. My girls are in bed. "

"I am afraid she will have small hopes of help at the station-house. The Common Council make no provision for medical aid where the sickor starving are brought in at night. It is a great omission, sir. "

"The Common Council cannot do everything, " replied the Mayor, becomingimpatient, but still subduing himself. 

"I know sir, but its first duty is to the poor. "

"Oh, yes, no one denies that;" replied the Mayor, observing withsatisfaction that Chester was preparing to remove the little intruder. "You will not have a very long walk, " he added. "The station-houseis not more than eight or ten blocks off. She will be strong enough, I fancy, to get so far. "

"Don't, don't take me there! I am not a thief!" murmured the child, and two great tears rolled over her cheek slowly, as if the fire-lighthad with difficulty thawed them out from her heart. 

They were answered--God bless the policeman--they were answered bya whole gush of tears that sprang into his fine eyes, and sparkledthere like so many diamonds. 

"No, " he said, taking off his overcoat, and wrapping it around thechild, his hands and arms shaking with eager pity as he lifted herfrom the chair. "She shall go home with me for one night at least. I will say to my wife, 'Here is a little hungry thing whom God hassent you from the street. ' She will be welcome, sir. I am sure shewill be as welcome as if I were to carry home a casket of gold inmy bosom. Will you go home with me, little girl?"

The child turned her large eyes upon him; a smile of ineffablesweetness floated over her face, and drawing a deep breath, she said:

"Oh, yes, I will go!"

"You will excuse the trouble, " said Chester, turning with his burdentoward the Mayor as he went out, "the case seemed so urgent!"

"Oh, it is all excused, " replied his honor, bowing stiffly as hewalked towards the door, "but I shall remember--never doubt that!"he muttered with a smile, in which all the inward duplicity of hisnature shone out. 

That instant a carriage drove up to the door, and after some bustlea lady entered, followed by a young lad, who paused a moment on theupper step and gave some orders to the coachman in a clear, cheerfulvoice, that seemed out of place in that house. 

"Why don't you come in?" cried the lady, folding her rose-coloredopera-cloak closely around her, "you fill the whole house with cold. "

"In a moment--in a moment, " cried the boy, breaking into a snatchof opera music as if haunted by some melody; "but pray send Tim outa glass of wine, or he will freeze on the box this Greenland night. "

"Nonsense! come in!" cried the mother, entering the drawing-room andapproaching the fire. Here she threw back her opera-cloak, revealinga rich brocade dress underneath, lighted up with jewels and coveredas with a mist of fine lace! "he'll do well enough--come to the fire!"she continued, holding out her hands in their snowy gloves for warmth. 

The lady had not noticed Chester, who stood back in the hall, thatshe might pass. Applicants of all kinds were so common at herdwelling, even at late hours, that she seldom paused, even to regarda stranger. But the noble-looking lad was far more quick-sighted. As he turned reluctantly to close the door, Chester advanced withthe little girl in his arms, and would have passed. 

"What is this?--what is the matter?--is she sick?" inquired the boy, earnestly. 

"She is a poor, homeless child, half frozen and almost famished, "answered Chester. 

"Homeless on a night like this!--hungry and cold!" exclaimed the lad, throwing off his Spanish cloak and tossing his cap to the hall table. "Come back, till she gets thoroughly warm, and I'll soon ransack thekitchen for eatables; a glass of Madeira now to begin with. LadyMother, come and look at this little girl--it's a sin and a shameto see anything with a soul reduced to this. "

"What is it, Fred?" cried the lady, sweeping across the drawing-room;"oh, I see, a little beggar girl! Why don't you let the man pass?He's taken her up for something, I dare say. "

"No, " said Chester with a faint hope of getting food; "it is want, nothing worse--she is frozen and starved. "

"What a pity, and the authorities make such provision for the poor, too! I declare, Mr. Farnham, you ought to stop this sort of thing--itis scandalous to have one's house haunted with such frightfulobjects. "

Young Farnham drew toward his mother, flushed and eager. 

"If the girls are in bed, let me go down and search for something, the poor child looks so forlorn. "

As he pleaded with his mother the hall light lay full upon him, andnever did benevolence look more beautiful on a young face. It musthave been a cold-hearted person, indeed, who could have resisted thosefine, earnest eyes, and that manner so full of generous grace. 

"Come, mother, music should open one's heart--may I go?"

"Nonsense, Fred, what would you be at? The man is in a hurry to go. Why can't you be reasonable for once, " replied the weak woman, glancing at her husband, who was walking angrily up and down thedrawing-room; and sinking her voice she added:

"See, your father is out of sorts; do come in!"

"In a moment--in a moment, " answered, the youth, moving up the halland searching eagerly in his pockets--"stop, my dear fellow, don'tbe in such a confounded hurry--oh, here it is. "

The lad drew forth a portmonnaie, and emptied the only bit of goldit contained into his hand. 

"Here, here, " he said, blushing to the temples and forcing it uponChester; "I haven't a doubt that everything is eaten up in the house, but this will go a little way. You are a fine fellow, I can see that;don't let the poor thing suffer--if help is wanted, I'm always onhand for a trifle like that; but good night, good night, the governoris getting fractious, and my lady mother will take cold--good night. "

Chester grasped the hand so frankly extended, and moved down thesteps, cheered by the noble sympathy so unexpected in that place. 

"You will understand, " said the Mayor, turning short upon poor Fred, as he entered the room, "you will please to understand, sir, thatto station yourself on my door-steps and call for wine as if you werein a tavern, is an insult to your father's principles. It is not tobe supposed that this house contains Madeira or any other alcoholicdrink. Remember, sir, that your father is the chief magistrate ofNew York, and the head of a popular principle. "

"But why may I not request wine for a poor child suffering for warmthand food, when we have it every now and then on the dinner table?"inquired the boy seriously. 

"You are mistaken; you are too young for explanations of this kind, "answered the father sternly; "we never have wine on the table, exceptwhen certain men are here. When did you ever see even an empty glassthere, when our temperance friends visit us?"

The boy did not answer, but kept his fine honest eyes fixed on hisfather, and their half astonished, half grieved expression disturbedthe politician, who really loved his son. 

"You are not old enough to understand the duties of a public stationlike mine, Frederick; a politician, to be successful, must be a littleof all things to all men. "

"Then I, for one, will never be a politician, " exclaimed the boy, while childish tears were struggling with manly indignation. 

"God forbid that you ever should, " was the thought that rose in thefather's heart; for there was yet one green spot in his nature keptfresh by love of his only son. 

"And, " continued the boy still more impetuously, "I will never drinkanother glass of wine in my life. What is wrong for the poor is wrongfor the rich. What I may not give to a suffering child, I will notdrink myself. "

"Now that is going a little too far, I should say, Fred, " interposedMrs. Farnham, softly withdrawing her gloves, and allowing thefire-light to flash over her diamond rings; "my opinion has long beenthat whisky punches, brandy what-do-you-call-'ems, and things of thatsort, are decidedly immoral; but champaigne and Madeira, sherrycoblers--a vulgar name that--always puts one in mind of lowshoemakers--don't it Mr. Farnham? if it wasn't for the glass tubesand cut-crystal goblets, that beverage ought to be legislated on. Well, Fred, as I was saying, refreshments like these are gentlemanly, and I rather approve of them, so don't let me hear more nonsense aboutyour drinking wine in a quiet way, you know, and with the right set. Isn't this about the medium, Mr. Farnham?"

The Mayor, who usually allowed the wisdom of his lady to flow by himlike the wind, did not choose to answer this sapient appeal, butobserved curtly, that he had some writing to do, and should like, as soon as convenient, to be left to himself. Upon this the ladyfolded her white gloves spitefully and left the room, tossing herhead till the marabouts on each side of her coiffure trembled likedrifting snow-flakes, while she muttered something about husbandsand bears, which sounded very much as if she mingled the twounpleasantly together in her ideas of natural history. 

Frederick followed his mother with a serious and grieved demeanor, taking leave of his father with a respectful "good night, " which theMayor, dissatisfied with himself, and consequently angry, did notdeign to notice. 

When left to himself, the Mayor impatiently rang a bell connectedwith the kitchen. This brought a hard-faced Irish woman to the room, who was ordered to wheel the easy-chair into the hall, and have itthoroughly aired the first thing in the morning. After that he gaveher a brief reprimand for exceeding his directions regarding thegas-lights, and dismissed her for the night. 

After she disappeared, the Mayor continued to pace up and down theroom, meditating over the scene that had just transpired. 

"I was right in smoothing the thing over, " he muttered; "one nevercares for the report of a little beggar like that. Who would believeher? But this Chester might tell the thing in a way that would proveawkward; a man like him has no business in the police. He thinks forhimself and acts for himself, I'll be sworn; besides, he is a fine, gentlemanly-looking fellow, and somehow the people get attached tosuch men, and are influenced by them. It always pleases me to twistthe star from a breast like that. It shall be done!" he added, suddenly. "His language to me, a magistrate, is reason enough forbreaking him; but then I must not bring the complaint. It can bemanaged without that. "

Thus gently musing over his hopes of vengeance on a man, who, belonging to an adverse party, had dared to speak the truth rathertoo eloquently in his presence, the Mayor spent perhaps half an hourvery much in his usual way; for he had always some small plot to ripenjust before retiring for the night, and his plan of vengeance on poorChester was only a little more piquant than others, because it wasmore directly personal. 

CHAPTER III. 

THE POLICEMAN'S GUEST. 

 "Home, sweet home, Be it ever so humble there is no place like home. "

Home is emphatically the poor man's paradise. The rich, with theirmany resources, too often live away from the hearth-stone, in heart, if not in person; but to the virtuous poor, domestic ties are theonly legitimate and positive source of happiness short of that holierHeaven which is the soul's home. 

The wife of Chester sat up for him that winter's night. It was sointensely cold that she could not find the heart to seek rest whilehe was exposed to the weather. The room in which she sat was a smallchamber in the second story of a dwelling that contained two otherfamilies. Around her were many little articles of comfort tastefullyarranged, and bearing a certain degree of elegance that always betraysthe residence of a refined woman, however poor she may be. A wellworn but neatly darned carpet covered the floor. The chairs, withtheir white rush bottoms, were without stain or dust. A mahoganybreakfast-table, polished like a mirror, stood beneath a prettylooking-glass, whose guilt frame shone through a net-work of goldentissue-paper. Curtains of snow-white cotton, starched till they lookedclear and bright as linen, were looped back from the windows, withknots of green riband. A pot or two of geraniums stood beneath thecurtains, and near one of the windows hung a Canary bird sleepingupon its perch, with its feathers ruffled up like a ball of yellowsilk. 

All these objects, nothing in themselves, but so combined that anair of comfort and even elegance reigned over them, composed a mostbeautiful domestic picture; especially when Mrs. Chester, obeyingthe gentle sway of her Boston rocking-chair, passed to and fro beforethe lamp by which she was sewing--cutting off the light from someobject, and then allowing it to flow back again--giving a sort ofanimation to the stillness, peculiarly cheerful. 

Now and then Jane Chester would lift her eyes to the clock, which, with a tiny looking-glass, framed in the mahogany beneath its dial, stood directly before her upon the mantle-piece. As the pointerapproached the half hour before midnight, she laid the child's dresswhich she had been mending upon the little oblong candle-stand thatheld her lamp, and put a shovelful of coal on the grate of her littlecooking-stove. Then she took a tea-kettle bright as silver from thestove, and went into a closet room at hand, where you could hear theclink of thin ice as it flowed from the water-pail into thetea-kettle. 

When Mrs. Chester entered the room again with the kettle in her hand, a soft glow was on her cheek, and it would be difficult to imaginea lovelier or more cheerful face than hers. You could see by therising color and the sweet expression of her mouth, that her heartwas beginning to beat in a sort of fond tumult, as the time of herhusband's return drew near. The fire was darting in a thousand brightflashes, through the black mass that had just been cast upon it, shooting out here and there a gleam of gold on the polished blacknessof the stove, and curling up in little prismatic eddies around thetea-kettle as she placed it on the grate. The lamp, clean and brightas crystal could be made, was urged to a more brilliant flame by thepoint of her scissors, and then with another glance at the clock, the pretty housekeeper sat down in her chair again, and with onefinely-shaped foot laced in its trim gaiter resting upon the stovehearth, she began to rock to and fro just far enough to try the springof her ankle, without, however, once removing her boot from itspressure on the hearth. 

"In twenty minutes more, " she said aloud, lifting her fine eyes to thedial with a smile that told how impatiently she was coquetting withthe time. "In twenty minutes. There, one has gone--another--five!--sonow I may go to work in earnest. "

She started up as if it delighted her to be in a hurry, and rollingup the child's frock removed it with a little work basket to thetable. Then she spread a spotless cloth upon the stand, smoothingit lightly about the edges with both hands, and opening a littlecupboard where you might have caught glimpses of a tea-set, all ofsnow-white china, and six bright silver spoons in a tumbler, spreadout like a fan, with various other neat and useful things, part ofwhich she busily transferred to the stand. 

By the time her little supper table was ready, the kettle began tothrow up a cloud of steam from its bright spout. A soft, mellow humarose with it, rushing out louder and louder, like an imprisoned birdcarousing in the vapor. The fire glowed up around it red, andcheerfully throwing its light in a golden circle on the carpet, thestand, and on the placid face of Jane Chester as she knelt beforethe grate, holding a slice of bread before the coals, now a littlenearer, then further off, that every inch of the white surface mightbe equally browned. 

When everything was ready--the plate of toast neatly buttered--thetea put to soak in the drollest little china tea-pot you ever seteyes on, old fashioned, but bearing in every painted rose thatclustered around it the most convincing evidence that Mrs. Chestermust at least have had a grand mother--when all was ready, and whileMrs. Chester stood by the little supper stand pondering in her mindif anything had been omitted, she heard the turn of her husband'slatchkey in the door. 

"Just in time, " she said, with one of those smiles which one neversees in perfect beauty away from home. 

But as she leaned her head gently on one side to listen, the smileleft her face. There was something heavy and unnatural in herhusband's tread that troubled her. She was turning toward the door, when Chester opened it and entered the room with his overcoat off, and bearing in his arms a mysterious burden. 

"Why, Chester, how is this?--the night so cold, and your foreheadall in a perspiration. What is this wrapped in your coat?"

As Mrs. Chester spoke, her husband sat down near the door, stillholding the child. She took off his hat and touched her lips to hisdamp forehead, while he gently opened his overcoat and revealed thelittle thin face upon his bosom. 

"See here, Jane, it is a poor little girl I found in the streetfreezing to death. "

"Poor thing! poor little creature!" said Mrs. Chester, filled withcompassion, as she encountered the glance of the great wild eyes thatseemed to illuminate the whole of that miserable face, "here, lether sit in the rocking-chair close up to the fire--dear me!"

This last exclamation broke from Mrs. Chester, as she drew the greatcoat from around the child, and saw how miserably she was clad; butchecking her astonishment, she placed her guest in the rocking-chair, took off the old cloak, and was soon kneeling on the carpet holdinga saucer of warm tea to the pale lips of the child. 

"Give me a piece of the toast, John, " she said, holding the saucerin one hand, and reaching forth the other towards her husband, whohad seated himself at the supper table. "This is all she wants--agood fire and something to eat. Please pour out your own tea, whileI take care of her. She hasn't had a good warm drink before, thislong time, I dare say--have you, little girl?"

"No, " said the child, faintly, "I never tasted anything so good asthat before in my life. "

Mrs. Chester laughed, and the tears came into her eyes. 

"Poor thing! it is only because she is starved, that this tea andtoast seem so delicious, " she said, looking at her husband; "a smallpiece more. I must be careful, you know, John, and not give her toomuch at once, " and breaking off what she deemed a scant portion ofthe toast, the kind woman gave it into the eager hands of the child. 

The little girl swallowed the morsel of toast greedily, and held outher hand again. 

Mrs. Chester shook her head and smiled through the tears that filledher eyes. A look of meek self-denial settled on the child's face. She dropped her hand, drew a deep breath, and tried to be content;but in spite of herself, those strange eyes wandered toward the foodwith intense craving. 

"No, " said Chester, answering the appealing glance of his wife, "itmight do harm. "

The little girl gently closed her eyes, and thus shut out the sightof food. 

"Are you sleepy?" said Mrs. Chester. 

"No, " replied the child, almost with a sob. "I only would rather notlook that way; it makes me long for another piece. "

Tears gushed through her black eyelashes as she spoke, and rolleddown her cheek. 

"Wait a little while. In an hour--shall I say an hour, John?" saidMrs. Chester, deeply moved. 

Chester nodded his head; he did not like to trust his voice just then. 

"Well, " said the generous woman; "in an hour you shall have somethingmore; a cake, perhaps, and a cup of warm milk. "

The child opened her eyes, and through their humid lashes flasheda gleam that made Mrs. Chester's heart thrill. 

"Now, " she said, rising cheerfully, "we must make up some sort ofa nest for the little creature. Let me see, the bolster and pillowsfrom our bed, with a thick blanket folded under them, and four chairsfor a bedstead; that will do very nicely. You remember, Chester, whenour Isabel was ill, she fancied that sort of bed before anything. Would you like to sleep that way, my dear?"

"I don't know, ma'am; I ain't used to sleeping in a bed, lately, "faltered the little girl, bewildered by all the gentle kindness thatshe was receiving. 

"Not used to sleeping in a bed!" cried Mrs. Chester, looking at herhusband; "just fancy our Isabel saying that, Chester. "

And with fresh tears in her eyes the gentle housewife proceeded tomake up the temporary couch, which she had so ingeniously contrivedfor her little beggar-guest. She entered her bed-room for the pillows. The light in her hand shed its beams full upon a little girl, whoselong raven curls lay in masses over the pillow, and down upon hernight-dress, till they were lost among the bed-clothes. The childmight be ten years of age, and nothing more beautiful could well beimagined than the sweet and oval cast of her countenance. Color softand rich as the downy side of a peach, bloomed upon her cheek, whichrested against the palm of one plump little hand. Her chin wasdimpled, and around her pretty mouth lay a soft smile that just partedits redness, as the too ardent sunbeam cleaves open a cherry. 

"Isabel, bless the darling, " murmured Mrs. Chester, as she bent overher child, passing one hand under her beautiful head very carefully, that her fingers might not get entangled in those rich tresses andthus arouse the little sleeper. 

She gently removed the pillow, and permitting the head to fall softlyback, stole away. The child murmured in her sleep, and feeling thechange of position, turned indolently. One hand and a portion of hertresses fell over the side of the bed, her curls sweeping downwardhalf-way to the floor. When Mrs. Chester returned she found her childin this position, partly out of bed, and with the quilt thrown back. With a kiss and a murmured thanksgiving for the rosy health so visiblein that sleeping form, the happy mother covered up those little whiteshoulders. 

The little miserable child seemingly about her own daughter's age, sat in the rocking-chair, following her with those singular eyes andwith that wan smile upon her lips. The contrast was too striking--herown child so luxuriant in health and beauty--that little homelessbeing with cheeks so thin and eyes so full of intelligence. It seemedto her that moment as if the fate of these two children would bejostled together--as if they, so unlike, would travel the same pathand suffer with each other. Nothing could be more improbable thanthis; but it was a passing thought, full of pain, which the mothercould not readily fling from her heart. For a moment it made herbreathe quick, and she sat down gazing upon the strange child as iffascinated, holding the warm hand of Isabel with both of hers. 

Chester wondered at the stillness and called to his wife. She cameforth looking rather sad, but soon arranged the pillows, the blanketsand snowy sheets, which she brought with her, into a most invitinglittle nest in one corner of the room. The little stranger watchedher earnestly, with a wan smile playing about her mouth. 

Mrs. Chester saw that the strange child, though thinly clad, was cleanin her attire, and that some rents in her old calico frock had beenneatly mended. 

"What is your name?" she said, gently taking the child's hand anddrawing her into the bed-room, "we have not asked your name yet, little girl. "

"Mary Fuller, that is my name ma'am, " replied the child, in her sweet, low voice. 

"And have you got a mother?"

"I don't know, " faltered the child, and a spot of crimson sprang intoher pinched cheek. 

"Don't know!"

"Please not to ask me about it, " said the child, meekly. "I don'tlike to talk about my mother. "

"But your father, " said Mrs. Chester, remarking the color that glowedwith such unnatural brightness on the child's face with a thrill ofpain, for it seemed to her as if a corpse had blushed. 

"My father! Oh, he is dead. "

The color instantly went out from her cheek, like a flash of firesuddenly extinguished there, and the child clasped her hands in asort of thoughtful ecstasy, as if the mention of her father's namehad lifted her soul to a communion with the dead. 

Mrs. Chester sat down by a bureau, and searched for one of Isabel'snight-gowns in the drawer, now and then casting wistful glances onher singular guest. 

"Come, " she said, gently, after a few minutes had elapsed, "let metake off your frock, then say your prayers and go to bed. "

"I have said my prayers, " replied the child, lifting her eyes witha look that thrilled through and through Mrs. Chester. "When I thinkof my father, then I always say the prayers that he taught me, overin my heart. "

"Then you loved your father?"

"Loved him!" replied the child, with a look of touching despondency. "My dear dead father--did you ask me if I loved him? What else inthe wide, wide world had I to love?"

"Your mother, " said Mrs. Chester. 

That flush of crimson shot over the child's face again, and bowingher head with a look of the keenest anguish, she faltered out, "My mother!"

"Well, my poor child, " said Mrs. Chester, compassionating the strangefeeling whose source she could only guess at, "I will not ask anymore questions to-night. Keep up a good heart. You are almost anorphan, and God takes care of little orphans, you know. "

"Oh, yes, God will take care of me, " answered the child, turning herlarge eyes downward upon her person, with a look that said moreplainly than words, "helpless and ugly as I am. "

"It is the helpless--it is children whom our Saviour--you know aboutour Saviour?"

"Oh, yes, I know. "

"Well, it was such little helpless creatures as you are whom ourSaviour meant, when he said, 'Of such is the kingdom of Heaven. '"

"Yes, such as I am, ma'am. "

The child again glanced at her person, and then with a look of tearfulhumility at Mrs. Chester. 

Mrs. Chester bent over the drawer she was searching, to conceal hertears; there was something strangely pathetic in the child's looksand words. 

"I thought, " said the child, lifting her face and pointing to littleIsabel, with a look of thrilling admiration, "I thought when I camein here, that Heaven must be full of little children like her. "

"And why like her?"

"Because she looks in her sleep like the picture which I have seenof Heaven, where beautiful, curly-headed children just like her, liedreaming on the clouds. "

"Then you think she is like those little angels?" said Mrs. Chester, unable to suppress a feeling of maternal pride, and smiling throughher tears as she gazed on her daughter's beauty. 

"I never saw an ugly little girl in those pictures in my whole life, and I have looked for one a great many times, " said the child, sadly. 

"Yes, but these pictures are only according to the artist'sfancy--they are not the real Heaven. "

"I know; but then those who make these pictures do not so much asfancy a little girl like--like me, among the angels. "

"But I can fancy them there, " said Mrs. Chester, carried away by thestrange language of the child--"remember, little girl, that it isour souls--the spirit that makes us love and think--which God takeshome to Heaven. "

"I know, " said the little girl, shaking her head with a mournfulsmile, "but she would not like to leave all those curls and that redupon her mouth behind her, would she?"

Mrs. Chester shook her head and tried to smile; the child puzzledher with these singular questions. 

"And I--I should not like either, to leave my body behind!"

"Indeed--why not, little girl?" said Mrs. Chester, amazed. 

"Oh, we have suffered so much together, my soul and this poor body!"replied the child, sadly. 

"This is all very strange and very mournful, " murmured Mrs. Chester, deeply moved. But she checked herself, and drawing the child towardher, began to untie her dress. A faint exclamation of surprise andpity broke from her lips as she loosened the garment and observedthat it was the only one which the little creature had on. 

"Oh, this _is_ destitution, " she said, covering her eyes with one handas little Mary crouched down and put on the nightdress. "What if she, my own child, were left thus, "--and dashing aside her tears, Mrs. Chester went to the bed and covered the little Isabel with kisses. 

The strange child stood by in her long night-gown. A smile of singularpleasure lay about her mouth as she attempted with her little palehands to arrange the plaited ruffles around her neck and bosom. Drawing close to Mrs. Chester, she took hold of her dress, and lookedearnestly in her face. Mrs. Chester turned away her head; her lipswere yet tremulous with the caresses which she had bestowed upon herchild; and it seemed as if those large eyes reproached her. 

"You are cold, " she said, looking down upon the child. 

"No, ma'am. "

"Well, what is it you want--the milk I promised you?"

"No, not that. I will give up the milk, if you will only--only"--

"Only what, child?"

"If you will only kiss my forehead just once as you kissed hers, "answered the child. And after one yearning look, her head droopedupon her bosom. She seemed completely overpowered by her own boldness. 

Mrs. Chester stood gazing on her in silent surprise. There wassomething in the request that startled and pained her. Here stooda poor, miserable orphan, begging with a voice of unutterabledesolation for a few moments of that affection which she saw profuselylavished upon a happier child. Her silence seemed to strike the littlegirl with terror. She lifted her eyes with a look of humbledeprecation, and said:

"Nobody has kissed me since my father died!"

Mrs. Chester conquered the repugnance, that spite of herself arosein her heart, at the thought of chilling the lips yet warm from therosy mouth of her child, by contact with anything less dear, andbending down, she pressed a tremulous kiss upon the uplifted foreheadof the little stranger. 

Mary drew an uneven breath; an expression of exquisite content spreadover her face, and giving her hand to Mrs. Chester, she allowedherself to be lead toward the pretty couch, made up so temptinglyin a corner of the outer room. 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE MIDNIGHT CONSULTATION

 Oh, it is hard for rich men in their pride, To know how dear a thing it is to give; When, for sweet charity, the poor divide The little pittance upon which they live, And from their scanty comforts take a share, To save a wretched brother from despair. 

Chester was sitting by the fire, and a serious expression settledon his features--he was pondering over the events of the evening;his mind reverting constantly in spite of himself to the conversationwhich he had held with the Mayor. Like most excitable persons, hefound, on reviving his own words, much to regret in them. His impulsehad been kind, his intention good, but notwithstanding this, he wascompelled to admit that his entrance into the Mayor's house must haveseemed singular and his words imprudent. Both were certainly justifiedby the occasion. Still, Chester felt that he had made an enemy ofone who had the power to injure him deeply, and this thought gavea serious cast to his features. 

Jane Chester had put her little charge to bed. She now drew a chairclose to her husband, and placed her hand upon his. 

"You are tired, John, " she said. "You seem worn out. Has anythinggone wrong that you look so grave?"

"I fear, Jane, " said Chester, turning his eyes upon the benign faceof his wife, with a look of anxious affection; "I fear that I havenot acted in the wisest manner to-night--by a few rash words I mayhave made an enemy. "

"An enemy, and of whom?" inquired the wife, entering as she alwaysdid, heart and soul, into any subject that disturbed her husband. 

Seeing her look of anxiety, Chester told her of his interview withthe Mayor, and the rash words which he had used regarding the littlegirl. As Jane Chester listened, the anxious expression on her facegave way to a glow of generous indignation. 

"Why, what else could you have done with the poor little thing inthat dreadful state, and the station-house so far off? Surely, theMayor deserved all that you said and more--he must be conscious ofthis, and glad enough to forget it. "

"I don't know, " said Chester, thoughtfully; "I should think himcapable of anything, but a frank and honest feeling of forgiveness. "

"Well, " said Jane Chester, hopefully, "we must not anticipate evilin this way. Let the Mayor be ever so angry, he really has no powerto harm us. You can only be broken for bad conduct, and there we candefy him, you know. "

Chester smiled, but more at the trust and exulting love that beamedin his wife's face, than from any confidence excited by her words. He had relieved his mind by this little confidential chat, and madean effort to be cheerful again. 

Mrs. Chester turned and glanced toward the bed where her little guestlay quite still, and to all appearance asleep. She looked socomfortable in her snow-white gown and the little cap of spottedmuslin, with its border of cheap lace falling softly around the highforehead and hollow temples, that Mrs. Chester could not help smiling. 

"How contented she looks, " murmured the happy wife, pressing herhusband's hand, and thus drawing his attention toward the little bed. "Did you ever see such a change in your life?"

"She does sleep very quietly and looks almost pretty, now that sheis comfortable and quiet. You are pleased that I brought her home, Jane?"

"Pleased, why yes, of course I am pleased, but then this is only forone night, John. What will become of her to-morrow?" and Mrs. Chesterlooked with a sort of pleading earnestness into her husband's face, as if she had something on her mind which he might not quite sanction. 

"I know--it was that partly which made me a little downhearted justnow. It will be hard for her to go away to-morrow--she will feel itvery much after you have made her so snug and comfortable. "

"But why send her away?" said Mrs. Chester softly, as if she wereproposing something very wrong, only that her eyes were brim fullof kindness, and a world of gentle persuasion lay in the smile withwhich she met his surprised look--it was a smile of audaciousbenevolence, if we may use the term. 

"If we could afford it, " said Chester, heaving a sigh; "but no--no, Jane, we must not think of this, remember I am in debt still. Letus be just before we are charitable. We have no right to give whilewe owe a cent which is not yet earned. "

The smile left Jane Chester's face--she sighed and looked gravelyin the fire; this view of the matter dampened her spirits. After alittle her face brightened up. 

"Well, John, I suppose you are right, but then what if I manage tokeep the child, and save just as much as usual at the end of the week?then it would be my own little charity, you know. "

"But how can you manage that, Jane?"

"Well, now, promise to let me have my own way--just promise thatbefore we go another step--and I will manage it; you shall see. "

Chester shook his head, and was about to speak, but his wife rosejust then half leaning on his chair, her arm somehow got around hisneck, and bending her red lips close to his cheek she raised the onlyhand that was disengaged and folded the fingers over his mouth. 

"Not a word, John--not a word; only promise to let me have my ownway--I will have it--you know that well enough!"

"Well, " said Chester, laughing, and trying to speak through thefingers that held his lips, "well, go on--I promise--only don't quitestop my breath!"

"Very well, " said Jane Chester, removing her hand, and clasping itwith the other that fell over his shoulder; "now you shall hear. "

"With our little family, you know, I have a great deal of spare time. "

"I don't know any such thing, Jane--you are always at work. "

"Oh, yes, stitching your shirt-bosoms in plaits so fine that nobodycan see them; ruffling Isabel's pantalets, and knitting lace to trimmorning-gowns and frocks--but what does that amount to?"

"Why, nothing, only you and Isabel always look so pretty and lady-likewith these things. "

"Very well--but does all this stitching and so on, help to pay yourdebts?"

"No, perhaps not; but then it pleases me--it sends us into the worldwell dressed, and"--

"Gratifies your pride a little, hey!" said Mrs. Chester, interruptinghim. "Very well, this shall not be all my own charity. You and Isabelshall help--we will all adopt the little girl. "

"Well, what do you mean--what would you be at?"

"Why, just this--all the extra work that occupies me so much, we mustdo without; you shall be content with clean white linen, and Isabel'sfrocks and things must go with less trimming--she is pretty enoughwithout them, you know--then I can take in sewing, and earn enoughto pay for what the poor little thing will eat. Perhaps she knowshow to sew a little; at any rate, she and Isabel will be handy aboutthe house, and give me more time. There, now, isn't my plan a goodone? after all, I shall only do about the same work as ever. You andIsabel will make all the sacrifices. "

"I'm afraid not, " replied Chester, drawing his wife towards him andkissing her forehead; "but we shall make some, for I have oftenthought how dreadful it would be to have you--so pretty, so welleducated--obliged to go round from shop to shop inquiring for work;and have felt with some pride, perhaps, that while I lived you shouldnever come to this. "

"But, " said Mrs. Chester, with animation, "if we had no other way--ifIsabel were crying for bread, then you would not object--you wouldgive up this feeling of pride--for after all, it is only that. "

"No, it is something more than pride, Jane, " said Chester, tenderly. "I love to feel that your comforts are all earned by my own strength;that I am soul and body your protector; were I able, you should neversoil these hands with labor again!"

Mrs. Chester lifted the hand which she held to her lips, and her eyesbeamed with joy through the tears that filled them. 

"I know all this, John, and it makes me love you! oh, how dearly;but then it is wrong--very, very delightful, but still wrong. "

"Why wrong, Jane, I cannot understand that?"

"Wrong--why because it might, if I were only selfish enough to takeadvantage of your tenderness, make me a very useless, gossiping, idlesort of person. "

"You would never come to that, Jane. "

"No, I should not like to become one of those worthless drones inthe great hive of human life, who exist daintily on their husbands'energies, making him the slave of capricious wants that would neverarise but for the idea that it is refined and feminine to be useless. I would be a wife; a companion; a help to my husband. "

"And so you are, all these and more, " said Chester, gazing withdelight on her animated face. "God bless you, Jane, for you have beento me a noble and a true wife. "

"Well, then, of course I am to have my own way now. This poor child, I shall not mind in the least asking about work, when it is for her. "

"But the shopkeepers, they will not know why you do this. "

"Well, what need I care for them?"

"They will think you have a very shiftless, or perhaps dissipatedhusband, who obliges you to go about among them begging for work. "

"No--no, these miseries are not written in my face, John, they willnever think that of me. "

"Or a widow, perhaps!" rejoined Chester, with a faint smile. 

"Don't talk in that way, " and Mrs. Chester's eyes filled with tears. "A widow--your widow--I should never live to be that. The very thoughtmakes my heart stand still. With you I can do anything--but alone--awidow--John, never mention that word again!"

Chester drew down his wife's head and kissed her cheek very tenderly, smoothing her bright tresses with his hand the while. 

"Why you should learn to think of these things without so much terror, Jane, " he said, in a voice full of tenderness, but still sad, as ifsome unconquerable presentiment were overshadowing him. 

"No--no--I cannot! Talk of something else, John; the little girl, we have forgotten her. "

The husband and wife both looked toward the couch. Mary had halfrisen, and with her elbow resting on the pillow, was regarding themintently with her large and glittering eyes. 

"We have disturbed her!" said Jane Chester. "How wide wake she is, "and she went up to the couch. 

"I could not help listening, " said the child, falling back on thepillow as Jane came up. "Besides I want to say something. I can sewvery nicely, and wash dishes, and sweep, and a great many otherthings--if you will only let me stay!"

"You shall stay--now go to sleep--you shall stay. Is it not so, John?"said Mrs. Chester turning to her husband. 

"Yes, " said Chester, "the child shall stay with us; let her go tosleep. "

They all slept sweetly that night; Chester, his wife, little Isabel, and the orphan, and such dreams as they had--such soft, bright dreams. Could you have seen them slumbering beneath the humble roof, smilingtranquilly on their pillows, you might have fancied that those littlerooms were swarming with invisible angels--spirits from paradise thathad come down to make a little heaven of the poor man's home. Indeed, I am not quite sure that the idea would have been all fancy--forCharity, that brightest spirit of heaven, was there, and what aglorious troop she always brings in her train. Talk of flinging yourbread upon the waters, waiting for it to be cast up after manydays--why the very joy of casting the bread you have earned with yourown strength upon the bright waves of humanity, is reward enough forthe true heart. 

CHAPTER V. 

THE MAYOR AND THE ALDERMAN. 

 A smooth and subtle man was he-- Of crafty heart and Christian mien; His wisdom--cheating sophistry, Flung o'er his sins a mocking sheen. 

Chester had business with the Chief of Police, and about nine o'clockthe next morning, after his adventure with the orphan, he passed intothe Park, through the south entrance, on his way to the Chief'soffice. At the same moment, his Honor the Mayor came through a gatenear the corner of Chambers street, and walked with calm and statelydeliberation toward the City Hall. Nothing could have been moreprecise or perfect than the outward man, which his honor exhibitedto the gaze of his constituents. Neatly-fitting boots, square toed, and of the most elaborate manufacture, encased his feet. Not a speckdefiled their high polish; the very dust and mud which introducesitself cosily into the habiliments of your common, warm hearted men, seemed to shrink away chilled and repulsed by the immaculate coldnessthat clung like an atmosphere around the Mayor of New York. The napof his hat lay shining and smooth as satin; so deeply and thoroughlywas it brushed down into the stock, that it seemed as if a whirlwindwould have failed to ripple the fur. His black coat, his satin vestand plaited linen presented a glossy and spotless surface to thewinter sun. His black gloves--in New York we have a great many publicfunerals, and the city supplies mourning gloves to the CommonCouncil--his black gloves were neatly buttoned, and above them layhis snow-white wristbands, folded carefully over the cuffs of hiscoat, and his right hand grasped a prudish-looking cane which seemedpart and parcel of the man. 

A sublime picture of official dignity was the Mayor as he crossedthe Park that morning. An expression of bland courtesy lay upon hisfeatures; all the proprieties of life were elaborated in his slightestmovement. Nothing, save heart and principle, was lacking that couldensure popularity; but this deficiency, if it does not render a manabsolutely unpopular, chills all enthusiasm regarding him. 

A man must possess fire in himself before he can kindle up theelectricity that thrills the great popular heart. With all hispropriety--with all his silky and subtle efforts, our Mayor wasgenerally regarded with indifference. He was neither loved nor hatedsufficiently for the populace to know or care much about him. OilyGammon himself could not have presented a more perfect surface tothe people. Still this man could hate like an Indian and sting likea viper. You would not have doubted that, had you seen him when hefirst encountered Chester in the Park. There was a glitter in hiseye which you could not have, mistaken. During the moment when hesaw Chester turning an angle of the City Hall, this flash came andwent, leaving his face unmoved as before, only that he almost smiledas the policeman drew near. 

"And how is your little charge this morning?" inquired his honor, pausing in the walk where it curves to the back entrance of the CityHall. "Better, I hope?"

"Oh, yes, sir, much better, " answered Chester with generous warmth. "I thank your honor for inquiring. "

"I suppose you are going to the Alms House Commissioner, " rejoinedthe Mayor, glancing toward the old building which ran along Chambersstreet, where many of the public offices were held; "she will be wellcared for at Bellevue. "

Chester blushed as if he were confessing some fraud, and answeredwith embarrassment that the little girl would remain with him, atleast for the present. 

The Mayor looked perfectly satisfied with the answer, bowed and walkedforward. On his way up the steps and along the lobby, he occasionallysaluted some lawyer that plunged by him with a load of calf-boundvolumes pressed ostentatiously under his arm, and paused once or twiceto exchange words with a street inspector or petty official, whoformed the small wires of his political machinery. 

The Mayor spent half an hour in his private office, closeted withhis chief clerk, who had been busy over night preparing a speech whichhis honor was to deliver before some distinguished city guest thenext day. In these matters the chief magistrate proved rather hardto please, as he was fond of high-sounding words and poetical ideas, but found them very difficult to commit to memory. 

In this case the clerk had done wonders, and taking a copy for study, his honor disposed himself in the great easy-chair of his privateroom, with the manuscript before him, as if profoundly occupied withsome intricate law opinion, and commenced the arduous task ofcommitting the ideas of a better cultivated mind to his own sterilebrain. While he was thus occupied, a man entered with a good-humored, blustering air, and threw himself into a seat by the fire, carelesslyshaking the Mayor's hand as he passed, as if quite certain of a goodreception at all times. 

"Busy making out a new veto case, I dare say?" observed the visitor, glancing at the sheet of manuscript which his honor held. 

The Mayor folded up his unlearned speech, and turning quietly in hisseat, dropped into a desultory conversation with this man about citymatters, talking in a circle, and gradually drawing toward the subjectwhich he had at heart, till it seemed to drop in quite by accident. 

"Speaking of policemen, " said the Mayor, "there is a man in our ward, Alderman, whom I have heard of very often, lately, a tall, gentlemanlysort of a fellow--Chester, I think that is his name. Do you happento know anything about him?"

"Chester--Chester--yes, I should think so. A fellow that reads likea minister and writes like a clerk; he is a perfect nuisance in theward. You have no idea what mischief he does with his gentlemanlyairs. "

"What! a strong politician is he?"

"I hardly know; but he is not one of us, that is certain. "

"It is due to the party--the fellow ought to be removed, " said theMayor. "I wonder some one has never preferred charges against him. "

"Plenty of our people have been lying in wait for him, but he is notto be trapped; he understands all the rules, and lives up to them. Never drinks--is always respectful--appears on his beat punctual asa clock. In short, it is a hopeless case. "

"Then it must be a very singular one, " said the Mayor, with a meaningsmile. "Is there no good friend of your own who would be glad of thesituation?"

"Oh, yes--one to whom I have made a half promise, but we can get nohold on this Chester, he will baffle us, depend on it. "

"Perhaps not. Let your friend, who is waiting for the situation, continue vigilant. If he is keen-sighted, his evidence will haveweight with me. "

Our Alderman looked hard at the Mayor, somewhat doubtful if heunderstood the whole meaning conveyed, more in the glance than inthe words of that honorable gentleman, who saw his perplexity andspoke again. 

"You know, my dear friend, how far I would strain a point to serveyou, but there must be some evidence--something, however slight, youunderstand--which can be readily obtained against any man. "

The Mayor saw by the smile that disturbed the lip of his friend, thathe was at length thoroughly understood. 

"You know that there is no appeal from my decision, " he added, witha smile, "and I decide alone!"

"I comprehend, " replied the Alderman, standing up and rubbing hispalms pleasantly together. "This is very kind of you, very kind, indeed. I shall not forget it. "

"I think your friend may be sure of his situation, " was the amiablereply; "you know it is our duty to watch these people well. I thinkyour friend may deem himself secure. "

"No doubt of it, now that we have a friend at court. "

"Oh, not a word of that, " said the Mayor, lifting his handreprovingly, "everything must be in order, according to rule, youknow. "

The Mayor smiled, while his friend laughed outright, repeating tohimself between each chuckle--"Oh, yes, according to rule, accordingto rule;" and eager to undertake his new enterprise, the elatedAlderman took his leave, walking through the outer room with anexaggeration of his previous blustering importance, that quiteastonished the clerks. 

The Mayor looked after him with a bland smile, but when the worthyofficial was out of sight, the smile glided into a contemptuous sneer, and he muttered to himself--"The pompous blockhead, he is so easilycajoled that one scarcely feels a pleasure in using him. "

With these characteristic words the noble-hearted magistrate betookhimself to the manuscript again, certain that the wire he had pulled, would never cease to vibrate till poor Chester was ruined. 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE DRAM SHOP PLOT

 The stars hang burning in the skies, The earth gives back their diamond light, Where like a radiant bride it lies Reposing in that glorious night. 

Again the night was intensely cold. There had been a storm of sleetand rain during two whole days, and now came on a keen frost, sheetingthe pavements, the trees and the housetops with ice. 

Chester was pacing his rounds, as on the first night when we presentedhim to the reader. Sometimes he paused to remark the delicate traceryof ice that hung in fretted masses over the gutters, or was frozenin waves along the curb-stones, or looked upwards to the tall treesthat seemed absolutely dripping with light, as the moonbeams streamedover them, while the gas from the street lanterns sent up goldengleams through the lower branches and along the glittering trunks. 

Intensely cold as the night was, Chester could not resist thatexquisite sense of the beautiful, which objects so novel andpicturesque were sure to excite in his imaginative mind. There wassomething so purely ideal in those massive branches, stripped ofleaves and laden down with crystalline spray, while the wind swayedthem heavily about, and the moonlight flooded them through andthrough, that even a duller man than Chester must have paused toadmire. 

Through the glittering arcade--for along the rich man's district thetrees grew thick and high--Chester could see the bright winter starsshining, and the deep blue Heavens slumbering afar off, while withfolded arms and eyes uplifted he paced along the street, forgetful, for the time, that the night was so cold, or that his own frame wasyet too feeble for unnecessary exposure. 

In going to the poor man's district, Chester was obliged to pass oneof those majestic old elms which our forefathers planted, still tobe found here and there scattered over the great city. This elm stoodon a corner, and beneath its great pendent branches a small dram-shopdesecrated the soil which gave nourishment to the brave old foresttree. This was the squalid object that fell upon Chester's gaze ashe glanced reluctantly from those long pendent branches, flashingand shivering as it were with a fruitage of diamonds, to the dulland dirty windows. 

The dram-shop seemed to be full, for he could see the shadows ofseveral men passing to and fro behind the murky windows, and whenthe door opened to let out a woman, who passed him with a smallpitcher in her hand, he saw that many others were left within thebuilding. There was something startling in the contrast between thesublime beauty of the sky and the vice hovel underneath, and Chesterstopped to gaze on it, pondering in his thoughts how it was that men, upright and honorable in other things, should ever become so lostto all sense of humanity, as to legalize the vicious traffic whichthis old elm, rising so nobly and so free against the sky, was obligedto shelter. 

As these thoughts occupied his mind, two men came out of the store, arm in arm, and passed the place where he was standing. One of themen looked keenly at him as he went by, but Chester scarcely observedhim, and remained as before, with his mind wholly engrossed. 

"It is he!" said one of the men to his companion, "and looking towardthe corner, as if it would not be a hard job to get him in. "

"Hush! he will hear you, " replied the other. "Let us walk round theblock and go in from the other street; he will not know us again!"

"If we could but get him in for once, just long enough to taste oneglass, that would settle his business, " was the rejoinder. "Moveslower, and let us talk it over. Jones will go in with us throughthick and thin, for the fellow has hurt his business more than alittle, reformed a great many of his best customers, and persuadedothers to be off. We shall find Jones ready for anything. "

The two men walked forward, feeling their way along the slipperysidewalk, and conversing earnestly until they reached the dram-shopagain. 

Chester was still there, pondering the ideas of blended pleasure andpain, which the scene had presented to him with unusual force thatevening. The dram-shop had opened two or three times while he wasstanding there, and when the two men passed in he saw without closelyobserving them. 

At length, he was about to move forward, when the shop, that had beenup to that time remarkably quiet, became a scene of some strangetumult. Three or four persons left abruptly, and the sound of loud, angry voices reached him through the door whenever it was flung opento allow persons to pass out. After a few minutes there came runningacross the street a little boy, who seemed quite breathless with hasteand terror. 

"Oh! you are a policeman, sir; I am so glad, pray come with me!" hecried, seizing hold of Chester's coat. "They are quarreling--two menare quarreling in there, and one of them has a knife drawn. "

Chester hastened across the street, for the angry voices were becominglouder, and there really seemed to be some danger threatened. Heentered the store, and to his surprise, found only two personspresent, besides the owner, who stood back of a little imitationmarble counter with his arms folded, evidently enjoying a scene ofaltercation that was carried on, it appeared, with some effort betweenhis guests; for as one of the men was thrown back against the counterin the scuffle, he merely circled two or three half empty decanterswith his arm, and laughingly told them not to interfere with theirbest friends; then throwing half his weight upon the counter again, he seemed to enter heart and soul into the dispute. 

"There, there, " said the owner, rising as Chester came in, "we havehad enough of this--here is the police. Give up, give up, both ofyou. Shake hands and take a drink--that is the way to settle theselittle matters. Come, Mr. Policeman, help me to pacify these twohot-heads; what do you say to my recommendation, brandy and waterall round?"

"That would be the last thing that I should recommend, " said Chester, speaking in his usual bland and gentlemanly manner. "These twopersons, I doubt not, will listen to the reason without firing uptheir blood with more strong drink. "

"With more strong drink!" cried one of the men, laughing rudely ashe cast his antagonist carelessly from him; "why we haven't had adrop yet. It was thirst, sheer thirst that made us both so savage. Come, Smith, here is my hand. Let us drink and make up. "

The man thus addressed rose from the cask against which he had beenthrown, and suddenly took the offered hand of his antagonist. 

Chester saw that the quarrel, if it ever had been serious, was nowat an end, and turned to leave the store; but Jones, the owner, followed him with an anxious face, and whispered that it was onlyfear of the police that had so suddenly quieted the men, and besoughthim not to withdraw till they were ready to leave the establishment. Chester turned back; both the place and company were repugnant tohim, but it was his duty to remain, and he sat down regarding thetwo men as they drank at the counter, boisterously knocking theirglasses together in token of renewed fellowship. 

"Come, Mr. Policeman, take a glass, " said Smith, who all the whilehad been the most noisy. "You look pale as a ghost, " and the man tooka glass half full of brandy and brought it to the stove by whichChester had drawn his chair. 

Chester did indeed look pale, for coming out of the clear night intoa room heated to suffocation by a close stove, and redolent with themingled fumes of tobacco smoke and alcohol, the atmosphere oppressedhim with a sickening sensation; his head began to reel, and he satunsteadily in his chair. Thus oppressed, he reached forth his handand lifted the glass to his lips. The scent of its contents, however, warned him; he arose without tasting the brandy, and placed it onthe counter. Just then two or three persons came in from the street. Jones and Smith exchanged triumphant glances, and Chester sat downagain, supporting his forehead upon one hand, sickened with the heat, and becoming each moment more pallid. 

"Come, " said Smith, at length addressing his companion, "let us gonow, we can soon find a place where gentlemen can settle theirdisputes without being hunted down by the police!" and the two wentout. 

Jones hastily came round the counter and addressed Chester. 

"They will get up a street fight, " he said, with great apparentanxiety. "Had you not better follow them?"

Chester arose with difficulty and left the store, scarcely consciousof his own movements, for he was still faint from the changedatmosphere. But the cold air revived him, and he walked on beneaththe old elm, passing the two men, who stood on the curb-stone leaningagainst its trunk, apparently in excited conversation. The pavementall around was one glaze of ice, and Chester was obliged to guardhis footsteps with great care, as he moved slowly forward. As he camenear the two men, one of them put forth his foot, and Chester fellforward with a faint cry, striking his temples against the curb stonewith a violence that sent the broken ice in a shower over his head. 

"Halloo! here is a fallen star, " cried Smith, lifting his voice. Thedram-shop was flung open at the sound, and its owner came forthfollowed by several persons who had entered the place just as Chesterleft it. 

They found the policeman stretched on the ice with the two men, whohad been the cause of his mishap, bending over him with that jeeringexpression in their words and features, with which the coarse-mindedusually meet accidents which result from intoxication. 

Chester was much hurt, but he had lost no blood, so the bystandersturned away with a laugh, and he was left to the mercy of those twoevil men. 

CHAPTER VII. 

THE BIRTH-DAY FESTIVAL. 

 Her soul was full of tender thought, Ardent and strong but gentle, too, Like gems, in purest gold o'er wrought, Or flowers that banquet on the dew. Love seemed more holy in her heart, Than human passions ever are; She took from Heaven its purest part, And found on earth its sweetest care. 

It was Chester's birth-day, always a season of bright joy in hislittle household. He had entirely recovered from the ill-effects ofhis fall upon the ice. The little stranger, instead of being a burdenupon his narrow resources, became quite a help and comfort to them. She had now been three weeks in the family, industrious as a bee, meekly cheerful, and with a sort of homely sweetness in her mannerthat won affection without effort. Never boisterous or obtrusive inher desire to please she moved about the house like some meek andgood spirit, acting, not speaking, the soft gratitude with which herlittle heart was brimming over. You could see it in her large andhumid eyes. You could feel it in the quick joy that came and wentover her face, when any one asked a service of her. She seemedperfectly possessed of that most lovely of all earthly feelings, humangratitude; yet she uttered but few words, and was always too busyfor extreme sadness. 

Occupation, occupation!--what a glorious thing it is for the humanheart. Those who work hard seldom yield themselves entirely up tofancied or real sorrow. When grief sits down, folds its hands, andmournfully feeds upon its own tears, weaving the dim shadows, thata little exertion might sweep away, into a funeral pall, the strongspirit is shorn of its might, and sorrow becomes our master. Whentroubles flow upon you, dark and heavy, toil not with thewaves--wrestle not with the torrent!--rather seek, by occupation, to divert the dark waters that threaten to overwhelm you, into athousand channels which the duties of life always present. Beforeyou dream of it, those waters will fertilize the present, and givebirth to fresh flowers that may brighten the future--flowers thatwill become pure and holy, in the sunshine which penetrates to thepath of duty, in spite of every obstacle. Grief, after all, is buta selfish feeling, and most selfish is the man who yields himselfto the indulgence of any passion which brings no joy to his fellowman. 

If little Mary Fuller did not reason thus--poor thing, she was onlytwelve years old--she felt thus, and a good heart is, after all, yourbest philosopher. 

She was grateful, and that sweet feeling is, in itself, almost ahappiness. So, in her meekness and her industry, this little girlmight have shamed the fortitude of many a stout man, for there areno sufferings so sharp as those that sting our childhood, and hers, both of soul and body, had been bitter indeed. 

It would have done your heart good to witness the pleasant bustlegoing on in the policeman's dwelling on his birth-day. Mary Fullerentered into the preparations with delightful spirit. There was thekitchen table, spread out with currants and raisins, and boxes ofsugar, and plates of butter--and there was Mrs. Chester, with thesleeves of her calico dress rolled up from her white arms, and herslender hands, all snowy with the flour she was measuring out in atea-cup, while her sweet smiling lips were in motion as she countedoff each cupful, now of sugar, now of fruit, and now of butter forthe birth-day cake. There was little Isabel beating up eggs in a greatChina bowl, and laughing as she shook back her curls, that threatenedevery moment to drop into the snowy froth. 

Down on a little seat by the stove, crouched Mary Fuller, with herlap full of black currants, looking so mild and tranquil as shegathered up the fruit, and allowed it to flow from one thin hand tothe other, blowing away the dust with her mournful little mouth, andlifting up her eyes to Mrs. Chester now and then, with a look of suchquiet and trusting affection. 

And now Mrs. Chester lifted up the bright tin-pan half full of goldenand fruit-studded paste between both her hands, with a satisfied andhappy look. Mary Fuller quietly opened the stove door, and theprecious cake was soon browning over, and rising in a soft cone, almost to the top of the oven. Every other instant Isabel would takea peep in, and thus fill the room with luscious fragrance, and Marywas full of curiosity, for the composition of a cake like that wasquite a miracle to her, poor thing!

Then Mrs. Chester could not quite conceal her anxiety that Isabelmight interrupt the baking by constantly opening the door. In short, you have no idea what an interest was felt in that birth-day cake. It kept them quite anxious and animated for a full hour. 

Then all this suspense was followed by such delighted exclamationswhen the cake came out, done to a turn, so high, so delicately brown, and with a light golden fissure breaking through the warm swell, likethe furrow in a hill-side, betraying the perfect lightness and spongyperfection at the centre--altogether, the whole thing was quite ahousehold picture, a pleasant domestic scene, full of spirit andhappiness. 

But this was only a preliminary of the day's work. There was thefrosting to put on, and there was a pair of plump little pulletswaiting to be stuffed, and so many things to be done, that withbringing out little round wooden boxes and bright tin pans, and forksand spoons, and putting them up again, everything was kept in a stateof pleasant excitement the whole day. 

At nightfall it was perfectly surprising, the bower that lovelyhousewife and her children had made of the room. The muslin curtainswere bordered with wreaths of evergreens; festoons of hemlock andfeathery pine tufts fell along the snow-white wall. On a little shelfunder the window, stood a bird cage sheltered by a miniature forestof tea-roses and ivy geraniums. The golden feathers of its inmategleamed out beautifully from among the leaves and crimson flowers;for the genial warmth seemed to have brought all the buds into blossomat once, and there was a perfect flush of them among the glossy anddeep green leaves. 

As if quite conscious that there was a birth-day developing in allthese cheerful preparations, the bird was in a joyous state ofexcitement, and seemed to enter, with all its little musical soul, into the spirit of the thing. Instead of going sleepily to his perchas the sun went down, he kept chirping about, hopping hither andthither, flinging off the husks from his seed on the bottom of thecage, or standing on his perch with his head on one side, and eyeingthe tea roses askance, as if questioning them regarding this unusualcommotion. Then, as if satisfied with the blushing silence of theflowers, he would hop upon his perch and break into a gush of songthat made the leaves around him tremble again, having, to allappearances, made up his birdly mind not to give up before midnightat the furthest. 

Now everything was ready, save some petty arrangements of thetable-top which were in a state of progression. 

Mary Fuller, arrayed in a Marino dress, almost as good as new, andwith her hair neatly braided, was busy with Isabel's curls, rollingtheir glossy blackness delightedly around her finger, and droppingthem in shining masses over those dimpled shoulders, with far moreexulting pride than the little beauty felt herself. 

She was a lovely creature, that fair Isabel, more beautiful fromcontrast with the sallow child that bent over her. The pretty pinkfrock looped back from those snowy shoulders, with knots of ribbon, her embroidered pantalets peeping from beneath it, and those daintylittle slippers on her feet--altogether, the two girls made a charmingpicture. The Canary stopped singing to watch them, giving out a chirpof admiration now and then, as if he approved of the whole thing, but did not care to make a scene about it. 

At last, Mrs. Chester came forth, her cheeks all in a glow of blushes, for she was rather shy of appearing before her children in thatpretty, white-muslin dress, fastened over the bosom with bows of pinkribbon, and with a belt of the same color girding her waist. 

The girls started up with exclamations of delight, for this dresstook them by surprise, and in order to get clear of her awkwardness, Mrs. Chester kissed them both, while the bird went off in a fit ofmusical enthusiasm quite astounding, hopping frantically about hiscage and throwing off gushes of song till his golden throat seemedready to burst with a flood of melody. 

Mary Fuller stood, after the first outbreak of admiration, lookingwistfully from her benefactress to the crimson roses. Her keen senseof the beautiful was excited. 

"May I?" she said, softly bending down one of the crimson flowers. 

Mrs. Chester smiled, and Mary broke off the half-open blossom. 

"Please let _me_ put it in. "

Again Mrs. Chester smiled, and sat down in her rocking chair, whileMary placed the rose among the snowy folds on her bosom, and Isabelhovered near, admiring the effect. 

"Isn't she beautiful!" exclaimed Mary, gently exultant, standing backto enjoy the contrast of the crimson leaves and the white muslin. 

"Isn't she?" cried Isabel, in all the flush of her young beauty, "Isn't she, my own, dear, pretty mother?" and she held up her armsfor an embrace. 

Mary sighed very gently, for she thought of her mother. 

And now four crystal lamps were lighted, two upon the mantel-piece, and two before the looking-glass, which of course made four byreflection, and a splendid illumination all this light made amongthe roses and evergreens. 

There was nothing more to arrange, so Mrs. Chester returned to herrocking-chair. Isabel hung about her, sometimes with an arm aroundher neck, sometimes playing with the folds of her dress. After alittle hesitation, Mary drew her stool to the other side and satthere, smiling softly and with her eyes brimful of contentment, asMrs. Chester laid one hand kindly upon her head, while with the othershe caressed the beautiful Isabel. Thus forming a group that mighthave served our inimitable Terry for a picture of Charity, Mrs. Chester waited for her company. 

And for what company was all this preparation made?

In the third story of the house lived a poor artist, whose eyesighthad become so dim, that he was only capable of doing the very coarsestwork. Sometimes a theatrical scene, or a rude transparency gave himtemporary support; but the little that he was able to do in this waycould not have kept him free from debt, humble as his mode of lifewas, had he not possessed some other means of subsistence. His familyconsisted of an only son, apparently not more than eleven or twelveyears of age. He was some years older than that, but the extremesensitiveness of his character and ill health gave unusual delicacyto his appearance. A distant relative of the artist lived with thesetwo as a housekeeper, and by her needle managed to contributesomething toward the general support. The widow was not yet an oldwoman, but loneliness and poverty had exhausted the littlecheerfulness of character that she once possessed. So pale and wearywith toil, she lived on, centering all the hopes and energies of herdull life in the artist and his motherless boy, the object of hisespecial love. 

This old man--this worn, tried woman, whose toil was so constant, and whose amusements were so few--and the delicate boy--these werethe guests that Mrs. Chester expected. Even in her amusements sheloved to blend the exquisite joy of charity. With every daintyprepared that day, she had given some gentle thought of the rarepleasure that it would bring to the old man and his family. 

In the lower story of the house there was also a family, to whom Mrs. Chester had extended her invitation. It was her wish that every onesheltered under the roof with her husband should be as joyous andhappy as she was; but she entertained serious doubts whether thisinvitation would be accepted. 

The man in the attic sometimes went an errand or carried in a loadof wood, thus cheerfully earning a few shillings for the family athome. The man on the first floor kept a small thread-needleestablishment. The difference was considerable, and the aristocraticpride of the man who sold needles, might revolt at the idea of sittingat the same table with the man who carried in wood. 

Misgivings on this subject gave a slight shade of anxiety to Mrs. Chester's sweet countenance, as she sat waiting for her guests. Shecould just hear the two chickens that lay cosily, wing to wing, inthe oven, simmering in their warm nest. The potatoes in a sauce-panin front of the stove were slowly lifting up the lid and pouring theirsteam about the edges; and everything promised so well that she beganto feel quite anxious that none of her invited guests should beabsent. 

There really was some cause for apprehension, for the thread-needleman stationed before the parlor grate below was that moment holdingconjugal council with a tall, dark-featured woman, on the very subjectwhich cast the one little shadow over Mrs. Chester's expectations. Dear to him, as the apple of his eye, was the pride of his station;but then the needle-merchant had members of the corporeal frame, petted and prompted till it was difficult to resist them. He lovedhis dignity much, but dignity was, after all, an abstraction, whilein a good supper there was something substantial. He had returnedhome fully resolved not to accept Mrs. Chester's invitation, and inthis his tall wife reluctantly concurred, though a black silk dressand a gay cap fluttering with straw-colored ribbons, revealed veryplainly that her own inclinations had pointed the other way. 

The Chesters were pleasant people, and she felt that it would berather tantalizing to sit down stairs alone all the evening, whilethey enjoyed themselves heart and soul above. 

When aristocracy is a matter of opinion, not of power, every man ofcourse feels compelled to guard his claim to position with peculiarwatchfulness; so with a benign conviction that he and his taller halfhad made a laudable sacrifice for the good of society, the littleneedle-merchant and his wife sat down together over a weak cup oftea, feeling rather miserable and disconsolate. They had no children;and a social evening away from home now and then, was a relief tothe conjugal tete-a-tetes, which will sometimes become a littletiresome when married people have nothing but themselves to talkabout. 

While the worthy needle-merchant and his wife were sitting at thetable the outer door opened, and a light, quick footstep sounded alongthe hall and ascended the stairs, seemingly two steps at a time. Therewas something so buoyant and cheerful in this springing footstep, that it quite aroused the needle-merchant, who got up and openingthe door carefully, peeped into the hall. 

"It is Chester just coming home, " he said, thrusting his rosy facethrough the opening. "How happy the fellow looks. Hark! here comeshis wife to meet him all in white--upon my word she is a handsomewoman--and here is the little girl bounding forward with her armsout--and, and--really, my dear, it is refreshing to hear a kiss likethat. "

Here the little man turned ardently back, and standing on his toesmade a fruitless attempt to reach the tall lady's face with his littlepursed-up mouth, which his better half resented with great dignity. "There, they have gone in now, " continued the little man, goingsheepishly to the door again. "They cannot have closed the doorthough--Laura--Laura! come here, is not this tantalizing?--turkeyor chickens, one or the other, I stake my reputation upon it, and--hot--reeking with gravy and brown as a chestnut, nothing lesscould send forth this delicious scent. What do you say, Laura? Speakthe word and I am half a mind to go up, notwithstanding the woodcarrier!"

"You know he does other things. I dare say it is not often that hestoops to this!" said the wife brightening up and beginning to arrangeher cap before the glass. 

"Probably not--besides he really is a gentlemanly old fellow enough. I dare say he would not presume upon it if we did sit down with himfor once. "

"Not in the least, " replied the wife, fastening a cameo pin, as largeas the palm of her hand into the worked collar which she had justarranged about her neck. "It will be our fault if he does! You knowit is easy to keep up a certain reserve, even at the same table!"

"Certainly--certainly--my dear, as you say, we can be _with_ them andnot _of_ them. Just hand out my satin stock from that drawer and givemy coat a dash with the hand brush!" and inhaling a deep breath, thelittle man reluctantly closed the door and began a hasty and vigoroustoilet. 

You never in your life saw a finer-looking fellow than Chester wasthat night as he kissed his wife, gave the beautiful Isabel a tossin the air, and patted little Mary on the head, all in the sameminute. 

"Why Jane, what a winter bower you have made of the room, " he cried, his eyes sparkling with delight and surprise as he glanced at theevergreens, whose soft shadows were trembling like pencil-work onthe walls. Why the very Canary seems all in a flutter of delight!Cake too, frosted like a snow-bank, and--here he opened the stovedoor, "have you been among the fairies, wife! I for one cannot tellwhere you raised the money for all this?"

"Oh, yes, we have been among the fairies, haven't we, little Mary, "cried Mrs. Chester, delighted with her husband's spirits, "the Jewfairies that give out collars to stitch, and cloth caps to make. "

Nothing but a tear breaking through the happy flash of John Chester'seyes, could have rendered them so full of joyous tenderness. 

"And so you have done all this for me. You and the poor little angel?Why you must have worked night and day!--and Isabel, what portionof the work has my lady-bird done?" added the happy man, sitting downand placing the child on his knee. 

"Oh, she has done a great deal!" said Mary in a low but eager voice, creeping to Chester's side. "You have no idea how very handy she isabout the house, has he, Mrs. Chester?"

Mrs. Chester laughed and shook her head; but further than this shehad no time to speak, for that moment the old man from up stairs camein, looking quite neat and gentlemanly in his black silk cravat, andhis darned and well-brushed coat. He led by the hand a tall delicateboy with light brown hair and sad blue eyes; a smile seemed strugglingwith a look of habitual pain on his face. He sat down and glancedaround, greeting Mary with a wan smile. The widow followed; her dresswas poverty-stricken but very neat, and upon her face was a look ofpatient endurance, indescribably touching. 

"I have invited them to supper, " whispered Mrs. Chester to herhusband. "They came so soon I had no time to tell you. The peopledown stairs, I expect them, too. "

Chester comprehended it all in an instant. You would have thoughtby the way he placed chairs and shook hands with his guests, thathe had been expecting them with the utmost impatience. His mannerbrought a cordial smile to the old man's lips, and even the face ofthe widow brightened with a pleasant glow. 

"Let Joseph sit here, " said Mary Fuller, rising from her stool withmoist eyes, as she saw a spasm of pain pass over the lad's face. "Perhaps he would rather stay by me. "

The boy lifted his blue eyes to her face, and his heart yearned towardone who bore such traces of having suffered like himself. 

"I should be glad to sit by her, " he said, appealing to his father. "She knows what it is. "

The next instant his delicate hand was clasped within hers, and Marywas soothing him in a low voice that sounded like the whisper of anangel. 

The table was spread, and the young fowls, plump with a rich loadof dressing, were placed upon it. 

These were supported by a fine oyster pie, plates of vegetables, bloodred beets, and the greenest pickles, with a dish of cranberry sauce, while a bunch of golden green celery curled in crisp masses over thecrystal goblet that occupied the centre of the table. The littlecandle-stand on one side, supported the fruit cake, all one crustof snowy sugar, with the most delicate little green wreath lyingaround the edge. Over all this the four lamps shed their light, whichthe looking-glass did its best to multiply. Indeed, nothing couldbe more perfect than the whole arrangement, except it might be thefullness of content which sparkled and shone over the face of everyonepresent. 

Just as the company were all standing--for each guest had resigneda chair, which was placed by the table--the needle-merchant and hiswife made their advent, arm in arm, all pompous with a sense ofpersonal importance, and looking stiffly condescending as they bowedto the old gentleman and the widow. 

But it was quite astonishing how soon the bustle of sitting down tosupper, the cheerful faces and the fragrant steam that rose from theplump pullet as Chester thrust his fork into its bosom, seemed tosoften down and carry off all their superfluous dignity. Before thelittle needle-merchant knew it, he found himself quite interestedin the old man at his elbow, for after the ladies, Chester had helpedthe artist first, and on his plate was a choice morsel of thechicken's liver which made the little merchant's mouth water. 

Now what does the old gentleman do but hand over this plate, witha bow, to his next neighbor, and so handsomely, too, that it was quiteimpossible for the little man to resist good fellowship a momentlonger? As the coveted morsel melted away in his mouth, the pridefled from his heart, and in less than three minutes he was the mostnatural and happy person at the table. It was delightful to hear himcomplimenting Mrs. Chester, while he helped the children goodnaturedly, as if he had been the father of a large and uproariousfamily for years! Indeed, he was quite surprised at it himselfafterward, but just then it seemed the most natural thing in theworld. 

There was room enough for all. There was pleasure for all. Even thesuffering boy had sunshine in his eyes and smiles upon his mouth, as he lifted that delicate face to his widow friend; and for the firsttime in months, her pale cheeks grew red, and she met the boy's glancewith a smile that did not threaten to be quenched in tears the nextinstant. 

Mrs. Chester luxuriated in all this happiness as a flower brightensin the sunshine. She seemed to grow more beautiful every moment; theneedle-merchant told her so. Chester only laughed, and his own wifedid not frown, but glanced complacently down to her cameo breast-pin, feeling confident that there she could defy competition. 

The supper was over, the table cleared away, and around the brightstove they all gathered in a circle, chatting, laughing and tellingstories. Here the old artist's talent came in play, and he made eventhe tall lady shake with merriment behind her broad cameo; and thegentle boy who had crept close to Mary Fuller again, was absolutelyheard to laugh aloud, while Mary's smile was softer and sweeter thanIsabel's shouts of merriment. 

"I say, " whispered Joseph to Mary Fuller, "how happy and bright fatheris--wouldn't it be pleasant if we could do something to make all therest happy as he does?"

"But we don't know how, like him, " answered Mary. 

"I am worse than that, it makes people sad to look at me, but youhave done something, I dare say, to help make them happy?"

"I helped get the supper and make that, " said Mary, pointing to thebirth-day cake which still lay glistening white beneath its wreathof evergreens. 

"Ah, that was a great deal for you. Now what if I try a little? Benddown your head. I have a violin up stairs. Father bought it for menew year's day. It did not cost much, but there is music in it, andI have learned to play a little. Now I will just steal away and bringit down without letting them see me. Won't it astonish them to hearthe music burst up all at once from our corner?"

The boy's eyes sparkled, and he seemed quite animated with his littleplot. 

"That will be pleasant, " replied Mary, equally delighted with theidea. "Let me go! Where shall I find the violin?"

"In the corner cupboard--there is a little fire-light--you will notmiss it, " answered the lad, smiling gratefully. 

Mary stole away and soon returned with the violin. She contrived toreach the boy without being seen, and the two sat close together, while he noiselessly tried the strings and fixed the bow. 

There was a momentary hush in the conversation. 

"Now!" whispered Mary, "now!"

The boy drew his bow, and such a burst of music poured from thestrings, that even Mary started with astonishment. 

"Ha, my son!" said the artist, "that was well thought of! now do yourbest!"

The boy answered only with a smile, but his slender fingers flew upand down on the strings, the bow flashed across them like lightning, and the apartment rung with music. 

Spite of all its good resolutions, the Canary bird had gone to sleep, with its head under one wing, but with the first note of music itwas all in a flutter of delight, and set up an opposition to theviolin that threatened to rend its quivering little form in twain. 

Isabel, light and graceful as the bird, sprang from her seat and beganto waltz about the room, her curls floating in the air, and her cheeksbright as a ripe peach. She looked like a fairy excited by the music. 

"Come, what if we all get up a dance?" said Chester, approaching theneedle-merchant's wife. 

She looked at her husband. 

"A capital idea!" cried the little man, all in a glow, seizing uponthe hand of the widow. 

"Indeed, I--I--my dancing days are over, " faltered the widow, halfwithdrawing her hand, but looking provokingly irresolute. 

"Oh, aunty, let me see you dance once, only this once!" cried theboy, breaking the strain of his music. 

The widow turned a look of tenderness upon her charge, and with ablush on her cheek was led to the floor. 

"They want another couple--who will dance with me?" said Mrs. Chester, casting a smiling challenge at the old gentleman. 

"Oh, father, do, " cried the boy, "see, they cannot get along withoutyou. "

"I shall put you all out--I haven't taken a step in twenty years, "pleaded the old man. 

"Never mind, we will teach you--we will all teach you--so come along, "broke from half a dozen voices, and Mrs. Chester laughingly took theold man captive, leading him to the floor with a look of playfultriumph. 

Isabel, after a vain effort to persuade Mary to join her, took a sideby herself, quite capable of dancing enough for two at least. 

Then the violin sent forth an air that kindled the blood even in thatold man's veins. The dancers put themselves in motion--right andleft--ladies' chain. It went off admirably. The old man was ratherstiff and awkward at first, but the young folks soon broke him inand he turned, now the little girls then Mrs. Chester, and then thetall lady with the cameo; true she was on the side, but then the oldgentleman was not particular, and his ladies' chain became ratheran intricate affair at last, he added so many superfluous links toit. 

But nothing could daunt him after he once got into the spirit of it, and he went through the whole like an old hero; the only difficultywas, he never knew when to stop. 

Just in the height of the dance, when the needle-merchant was allin a glow, balancing to every lady, and getting up a sort ofextemporaneous affair, made from old remembrances of "The Cheat" and"The Virginia Reel, " the whole company stopped short, and heexclaimed--

"Bless my soul!"

And drawing forth a red silk handkerchief, he made a motion, as ifhis forehead wanted dusting. 

"Bless my soul!" he repeated, "Laura, my dear, have the goodness tolook, my love. "

Mrs. Peters turned, and spite of her cameo defences, blushed guiltily. 

"Dear me, my nephew, Frederick Farnham, who would have expected this?"she exclaimed, instantly assuming her dignity, and gliding from amongthe dancers. 

"I couldn't help it, Aunt Peters, I know it is very impertinent forme to follow you up here, but how could you expect me to stay downyonder, with the floor trembling over head, and that violin--? I begyour pardon, sir, " continued young Farnham, addressing Chester, "butthe fact is, everything was so gloomy down stairs, and so brilliant;up here besides you left the door open as if you'd made up your mindto tempt a fellow into committing an impertinence. "

"Don't think of it, there's no intrusion--my wife has found abirth-day, and is making the most of it, " answered Chester, advancingtoward the door with his hand frankly extended. 

The youth stepped forward, and the light fell upon his face. His eyeslighted up splendidly as they fell on Chester. 

"What, my fine fellow, is it you?" he said, with a dash of youngAmericanism that was only frank, not assuming, while Chesterexclaimed--

"I'm glad to see you--heartily glad to see you--come in, come in. "

"Allow me, " said Mrs. Peters, with a stately wave of the hand, "Mr. Chester, allow me to present Mr. Frederick Farnham, my nephew, andonly son of the Mayor of New York--Mrs. Chester, Mr. Farnham. "

"Never mind all about that, aunt, " said the boy, blushing at hispompous introduction, "this gentleman and I have met before--he knowsmy father. "

"Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Peters, coming out from his retirement, "I amdelighted to hear it; nothing but this was wanting, my dear Chester. I'm charmed to have been found enjoying your hospitality. Laura, mydear, we are both charmed; my brother-in-law, the mayor, will becharmed also--in short, Fred, we are having a charming time of it. "

"I'm sure of it, " answered Fred Farnham, pressing his uncle, andlooking earnestly at Mary Fuller till his face became quite serious, then, turning to Chester, he said in a low voice, "so you keep thepoor girl; I'm glad of it--that was what brought me here. "

No one had observed the artist while this interruption took place;but as the youth stepped into the light and spoke, a vertigo seizedupon the old man, and staggering back to the wall he leaned againstit, pale and with a wild expression in his eyes. When Mrs. Petersproclaimed the lad's name this strange agitation subsided somewhatand took a shade of sadness, as if some train of thought had beenaroused that weighed down his spirits. He seemed to forget that hispartner waited, and sat down by the window, sighing heavily. 

Mrs. Chester remarked this forgetfulness, and with a graceful smileinvited young Farnham to take the place which the old man hadabandoned. Fred smiled his assent, and the dance went on again; butjust as the young musician began to play, there came a knock at thestreet door. Isabel ran down to open it, and came back with a letterin her hand. 

"It is for you, papa, " she said, holding up the letter. 

"Very well, put it on the mantel-piece. Some direction from thecaptain or chief, I suppose, " said Chester. "Come, Isabel, take yourplace. "

The little girl ran to her partner, and the dancing commenced again. 

During this interruption, young Farnham happened to come close upto the artist, and he was struck by the earnest gaze which the oldman fixed on him. Some strange magnetic influence was in the glance, for it thrilled him from head to foot. He was seized with anunaccountable desire to hear the old man speak, but all his naturalself-command forsook him. He could not find the courage to utter aword. Those dark, earnest eyes seemed to have taken away his strength. 

Joseph saw the strange pallor that had come upon his father's face, and, laying down his violin, crossed the room. 

"What is the matter, are you ill, father?" he inquired in his usuallow voice, "or is it only the light? I thought you looked pale acrossthe room. "

The artist cast quick wild glances from his son to young Farnham. At last he drew a heavy breath, and turned with a bewildered air tohis son. 

"What did you ask, Joseph?"

"Are you in pain? What is the matter, father?" repeated the lad. 

"Nothing--no; I--I am not used to this, you know, " faltered the oldman. "Do not mind me, I am well. "

Joseph went away, but cast wistful glances at his father over hisviolin. According to the unaccountable desire that had seized him, young Farnham heard the old man's voice. It ran through his veinswith a glow, as if he had drained a glass of old wine, and it wassome moments before he felt the thrill leave his nerves. Joseph tookup his violin, but anxiety had depressed him, and his music lost itscheerfulness. 

The dancers took their places, but Fred Farnham still lingered bythe artist. Another strange impulse seized him. He obeyed it andtouched the hand that lay upon the old man's knee. 

The artist started, lifted his eyes and a smile broke over his face. 

"Excuse me, " said the youth deprecatingly, "I did not intend it. "

Still the artist kept his eyes upon the boy, without speaking, butthe smile grew sad as he gazed; and when Fred turned to go away, thehand he had touched was held eagerly forth. 

"Don't--don't leave me yet, " said the old man in a low, patheticvoice. 

"I will come back again, " said the youth gently. "I could not helpit if I wished. "

Again the old man smiled, and, bowing his head, allowed the youthto regain his partner. 

When the set broke up it was to assemble round the fruitcake, whichwas cut up by Chester in broad, liberal slices, and then, afteranother dance, and a plaintive song from the widow, Chester'sbirth-day party broke up, leaving him alone with the family. 

The old artist waited at the head of the stairs, and young Farnham, who had remained a moment to speak with Chester, found him leaningagainst the banisters as he came out. 

"Good night, " said the young lad with gentle respect, pausing in hopeof being addressed. 

The artist took the extended hand, and held it between his, withoutspeaking. Fred felt those old hands tremble. 

"Shall I never see you again?" inquired the artist. 

"Will you let me come and see you?" asked the lad joyfully. 

"Come, come! it will be like the break of day after a dark night. "

"I will come, " said the youth earnestly. 

Still the artist kept the boy's hand in his clasp. At length he bentforward and kissed the lad upon his forehead. 

"God bless you--the God of Heaven bless you!" he said in a low, solemnvoice, and the old man glided away through the dark hall, leavingFrederick strongly affected by the interview. 

With all her cheerfulness, Mrs. Chester was a little weary after herguests departed, and leaned against the mantel-piece, longing to sinkinto the rocking-chair which the old man had just abandoned. 

Chester approached his wife, and saw the letter lying at her elbow. A moment of unaccountable dread came over him, but taking the notein his hand he broke the seal. Mrs. Chester was looking at him ashe read the letter, she saw his face turn pale, then his eyes beganto flash. 

"What is it! what evil news does the letter bring?" she faltered out, for his countenance frightened her. 

Chester crushed the letter in his hand. 

"I thought that man would follow me!" he said bitterly--"thatcold-blooded, relentless Mayor!"

"What has he done? Do not keep me in this terrible suspense, Chester, "said the anxious woman. 

"I am ordered to appear before him to answer a charge of drunkenness, "replied Chester, forcing himself to speak calmly, though the huskinessof his voice betrayed the fierce struggle which the effort cost him. 

"Drunkenness! you!" and a smile of proud scorn swept over the featuresof that noble young wife. 

"Let us go to rest, " said Chester, taking her hand. "Let us try andforget this letter!"

"We were so happy only half an hour since!" said Jane Chester, placingher hand in that of her husband, and they disappeared in the littlebedroom. 

"But for me, but for me, this had not been!" murmured poor littleMary Fuller, cowering down by the stove and locking both little handsover her forehead. "Oh, if I could help it now. If I had never rungat that cruel man's door. What shall I do--what can I do!"

"Come, Mary--come roll up my hair--mother has forgotten it, " saidIsabel, standing in the closet door where the two girls slepttogether, and yawning heavily--for the child was weary with comingsleep. "What a splendid night we have had--only I am so tired!"

Mary arose meekly, and sitting down on the bed, began to arrangeIsabel for the night. The eyes of the little beauty were heavy, andshe did not observe the tearful depression that hung over her patientfriend. But during all that night, the beautiful eyes of Isabel alonein that humble dwelling, were visited with sleep. It was a weary, weary night for Chester and his wife; but most unhappy of all, wasthe poor child whom their charity had warmed into life. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

CHESTER'S TRIAL. 

 In his dusty web the spider lay-- All bloated and black was he, And he watched his victim pass that way, With a quiver of horrid glee!

A few mornings before the little birth-day party described in ourlast chapter, two men were seen to enter the Mayor's office, accompanied by the Alderman, whom we have seen closeted with himbefore. The Mayor was alone in his private room, and the Aldermanleft his two companions in the outer office, while he held a moment'sprivate conversation with his honor. There was a sort of boisterousexultation in the Alderman's manner, which rather displeased theMayor, who looked upon the exhibition of any feeling as a weakness, but he received his friend with his usual bland smile, and requestedhim to be seated. 

The Alderman drew his leather-cushioned seat close to the Mayor, andlaid his broad red hand on his honor's knee. 

"They are here--both the witnesses are here ready to enter acomplaint--I told you they were just the men to nail this Chester?"

"Here!" said the Mayor, "my friend--my good fellow--you should nothave brought the witnesses here. In all these doubtful cases--do youunderstand?--_I_ never receive a direct complaint. It must comethrough the Chief of Police. This one especially. He must call uponme officially to act!"

"The chief!" exclaimed the Alderman, in dismay, "why Chester is oneof his especial pets. It will never do to entrust the business withhim. "

"Oh! have no fear. His duty forces him to present the complaint, whenonce entered, before him. Further than that, he has no power, no voicein the matter. It rests by law with the Mayor alone. He isjudge--juror. He is _the law_ in these cases, you know. "

"Then you think we may venture the case with the chief?" said theAlderman, still doubtful. "He will do all in his power to saveChester, I am certain. "

"But he has no power! He has no right even to hear the evidence, unless I desire it. His interference is a mere form--but it has agood appearance--half these fellows know nothing about the law, andwhen we break them it casts some of the odium on him. It gives himan appearance of responsibility, but not a particle of power. Takeyour witnesses to the chief--to the chief, my dear fellow, and leavethe rest to me--_to the law_. "

The Alderman rejoined his witnesses, and went to the chief's office. From that office, twenty-four hours after, was sent the letter whichChester received on the night of his birth-day. 

The day of trial came. Within the railing of the chief's office sathis honor, the Mayor, calmly shaving down the point of a pencil, whichhe tried from time to time on a sheet of paper that lay on the deskbefore him. At his elbow was the clerk, with a quire of foolscapneatly arranged, and holding a pen idly in his hand. 

In a little room back of the office sat the Chief of Police--hisportly person filling the circumference of a comfortable office chair, and his jovial, good-humored countenance somewhat clouded with anxietyfor the fate of the noble young man on trial, for he had learned bothto love and respect the accused. His presence was evidently annoyingto his honor, who dreaded the shrewd observation, the keen knowledgeof men and things which would be brought to bear on the examination. He would rather have encountered the whole bar of New York, than thesharp, but apparently careless scrutiny of this one man. But theresat the chief just within the shadow of his private closet, the starof office glittering on his broad chest, linked to his garments bya chain of massive gold. The walls behind him were garnished withheavy oaken clubs, highly polished hand-cuffs and iron shackles, withvarious other grim insignia of his office. 

In vain the Mayor moved restlessly in his chair. In vain he turnedhis cold and repelling look toward the immovable chief. You mighthave seen a covert smile now and then gleam in the eyes of thatobstinate functionary, but otherwise he seemed profoundly unconsciousthat his presence was in the least disagreeable. The Mayor did notventure upon the unprecedented step of requiring him to withdraw, so after a good deal of meaningless delay, the trial went on. 

Chester stood without the railing which encircled the Mayor and hisclerk. His air was firm, his countenance calm, and almost haughty. He awaited the proceedings with quiet indignation. Behind him stoodthe two men whom he had followed from the dram-shop on the night ofhis fall, and in a corner of the office sat Jones, the liquor dealer, with two or three persons entirely unknown to Chester. 

The Mayor lifted his eyes, but they glanced beyond Chester. With allhis coolness he had not the nerve to look directly into the proudand searching eyes bent so calmly on him. 

"Is your counsel here, Mr. Chester?" inquired his honor. 

"I am here, needing no other counsel, if I am to have a fair trial, "replied Chester, firmly. 

"I hope you do not doubt that your trial will be a fair one!" saidthe Mayor, sharpening his pencil afresh, for he wanted some occupationfor both eyes and hands. 

Chester smiled with so much reproachful scorn, that the Mayor feltit without turning his glance that way. 

"I am waiting, " said Chester, "for proof of the charges that havebeen preferred against me!"

At a sign from the Mayor, the man Smith came forward and was placedunder oath. Chester's eyes were upon him as he touched the book, andthe man turned visibly pale. But in his false oath--for the manperjured himself in the first sentence--he gained more courage. 

"Chester, " he said, "had entered the dram-shop, where he and hisfriend"--here the man pointed to his accomplice--"were quietly passingan hour before going to fulfill an engagement. Here he spent perhapshalf an hour, drinking brandy-and-water by the stove. They had noticedhim particularly, knowing it to be against the law for policemen toindulge in drinking while on duty. The witness went out with hiscompanion, leaving Chester by the stove, evidently much affected bywhat he had drank. As he and his companion stood beneath an old treethat grew in front of the liquor store, Chester came forth, reelingin his walk, and after a vain effort to maintain his foothold, fellupon the pavement wholly intoxicated. Several other persons saw himin this position, but the witness and his friend led him home, andconsigned him to the care of his wife. "

It was a plausible perjury, and several innocent persons came forwardto strengthen it. They had seen Chester down upon the ice, and hadbeen told that he was intoxicated; so in good faith, and with nointention of wrong, they corroborated the treacherous story that wasto destroy a good name. 

Chester stood by as this story was artfully strengthened by thesweet-toned and subtle questionings of the Mayor. His face was verypale, and he trembled from head to foot with honest and sternanger--nay, he felt something of horror, something unselfish, inanalyzing the cold-blooded craft, and unflinching perjury that hadbeen brought to bear upon him. There was absolute sublimity in hispale silence, as he allowed witness after witness to pass from thebox unchallenged--unquestioned. And all this foul perjury the clerkregistered down, and the Alderman who had arranged the charges stoodby to hear. 

Then Chester was called upon for his defence. He stood upright, grasping the railing with his right hand. His voice was low anddeep-toned as a bell; it made the Mayor start with its clear, searching accents. He told the truth, the simple, natural truth, asit has been given to the reader, but with eloquence, and energy whichthe pen has no power to describe. 

"That man, " he said, turning as he stood, and pointing his fingerat the perjured Smith, "that man--let him step forward and tell thestory he has sworn to, with his face lifted to mine, eye to eye, withthe man he accuses. If he can do this, I ask no other defence. Lethim say who it is that has instigated him to heap this foul wrongupon an innocent man, what is to be his reward--whose deeper and moresubtle enmity he is working out! Let him but speak these things withhis eye looking into mine, and I am content. "

The craven thus addressed, did look in Chester's eyes as a bird gazesupon the eye of a serpent; he could not do otherwise--his face, hisvery mouth were white; he trembled from head to foot. Consciencetugging at his evil heart, had well-nigh dragged forth the truth, but the cold, low voice of the Mayor, drove it back again, even fromhis pallid lips. 

"The witness has told his story under oath--others have substantiatedit. You had the right to question him then. There is no reason whyhe should undergo a second examination. "

This speech had its desired effect. Smith drew a deep breath, andputting on an air of dogged bravado, looked round at his companionslike a mastiff who had been just rescued from a fight that threatenedto destroy him. The Mayor fell to sharpening his pencil again, andthe Alderman made an effort to open a little gate in the corner ofthe railing, and would have approached his honor. But the constraininglook with which his attempt to open the gate was received by thatprudent functionary, checked him. The Mayor felt that any appearanceof understanding even with the Alderman, might be perilous, whilethe Chief sat regarding the proceedings with such real interest andapparent unconcern. 

"And have you nothing else to offer--no witnesses?" said the Mayor, addressing Chester. 

"None!" answered Chester, wiping the drops from his forehead. "I havetold the truth; if that is not believed all the witnesses on earthwould be of no avail. "

Then came from an outer chamber, grated by the iron door of a cellwhere chance prisoners were sometimes locked, and hung with gildedstars, and firemen's banners, a young figure diminutive, and of paleand sickly features. 

"Mary, my poor child!" said Chester, but she only lifted her largeeyes to his an instant, and going up to the railing held to it withher hand. 

"May I be sworn as those men have been?" she said, addressing thestartled Mayor in the same sweet tones that had claimed his compassionmonths before. 

"You! what can you know of the matter?" said his honor sharply, andalmost thrown off his guard. 

"Not much, but something I do know, " answered the child meekly. "MayI speak?"

"But you are too young--how old are you?" cried the Mayor, hopingto have found a legal reason for sending away the obtrusive littleimp, as he called the child in his heart. 

"I am twelve, sir--just twelve. "

The Mayor cast an uneasy glance at the Chief's closet and then atthe child. 

"Sir, " said Chester, "I do not know what this poor child desires tosay, but it is my wish that she be heard. "

"If she is offered as a witness there is no disputing her right tospeak, " replied his honor, but with a disturbed countenance, andtaking a little worn Bible, marked with a broad cross from the deskbefore him, his honor held it toward the child. 

She took the Bible between both her hands and pressed her lipsreverently upon it. 

"Now, " said the Mayor, "what do you wish to say?"

"It was so still out yonder that I could not help but hear--poor Mrs. Chester was very anxious, and I thought perhaps some one might giveme good news to carry home. "

"This has nothing to do with the matter, child. "

"I know, " replied the little girl, meeting the Mayor's rebuff withher usual humility. "But I thought perhaps you might ask how I cameby the door. Well, sir, I heard what these men said about Mr. Chester. I knew their voices, sir, for I have heard them before, on the nightthey were talking about, as they stood under the great elm treewaiting for Mr. Chester to come out. "

"The great elm tree--and how came you there, Mary?" exclaimed Chester, greatly surprised by the child's appearance. 

"Do you remember, sir, that you were complaining and quite ill thatnight before you went out? Mrs. Chester felt very anxious about him, sir, " continued the child, reminded that it was her duty to addressthe Mayor. "We sat up together sewing, and after he went out I sawthe tears come into Mrs. Chester's eyes, and once or twice they fellupon her work. She was crying because her husband--oh, if you onlyknew how good he is--was obliged to go out in such bitter coldweather, when his cough was coming on again. I saw what she wasfretting about, and so as he had been too ill to eat supper, I askedher to let me make a cup of warm coffee and carry it out to him onhis beat. She would not let me make the coffee, but the idea pleasedher and she made it herself, and poured it into a little coveredpitcher, while I put on a hood and shawl. I knew the way, sir, andwas not in the least afraid of the night or anything else, for thestars were out and nobody ever thinks of harming a little girl likeme. Some pity, and some laugh; but I am never afraid of real harmeven in the night. I said this to Mrs. Chester, for she did not liketo have me go out alone. She kissed me and said I might go, for Godwas sure to take care of me anywhere. Well, sir, I went on, up onestreet and down another very slow, for the ice was slippery. ThenI saw Mr. Chester standing on a corner and looking toward the windowsof a store, over which was a great elm tree all dripping with ice. I knew him by the way he stood and by his star which shone in themoonlight. Just as I was crossing over the street, with my pitcherof coffee, I saw a little boy come out from under the tree and speakto Mr. Chester, who ran over and went into the store. 

"I knew that Mr. Chester would not stay long in that place, and socrept close up to the trunk of the tree, on the shady side, andholding the coffee under my shawl, to keep it warm, waited for himto come out. There had been some noise in the store, as if peoplewere quarrelling, but all that died away, and then two men came outand stopped by the tree where I was standing. I kept still as a mouse, and pressed close up to the dark side, for the men were laughing, and I was afraid they might laugh at me if I came into the light. I heard every word that they said, sir, but did not know the meaningof it till now. 

"'We have got him at last--Jones saw him take the brandy, ' said one. 

"'Yes, but he did not drink it; Jones cannot say that. ' It was anothervoice that made this answer, sir. 

"'But he _will_ say that or anything else likely to get this fellowout of the way--and so must you, and so will I;' answered the loudestvoice again. 

"Just then Mr. Chester came out of the store. He looked very pale, but I thought it was only the moonlight striking on him through theice that hung all over the elm tree. 

"'Now!' said one of the men, 'now have your foot ready if he comesthis way. '

"Mr. Chester did come that way, sir, walking carefully on the ice. But for the men I should have gone up to him at once. I did not liketo let them see me, and so waited a little, meaning to follow himwhen they were gone, and give him the coffee. He passed close by usand fell. I heard the men laugh low--_so_ low just as he came up. Iheard them call out, and saw other people come up. 

"They lifted him from the ice--these two men--and held his face upto the cold air. I thought that he was dead, his face shone so white, and it seemed as if the thought hardened me into ice. I could notspeak nor move. Everything went dark around me. I felt thecoffee-pitcher slip from my hand and break upon the stones, but couldnot even try to save it. He had been so kind to me--there was onlyone thought come to me through the cold--they would take him hometo his wife, dead. I knew it would break her heart, and still I couldnot move. When I did get a little strength, those two men were goingdown the street, and Mr. Chester walked between them. I followedafter, but the fright had made me weak, and my eyes were so full oftears that I could only see them moving before me like people in afog. 

"Just before I reached the house, two men--the same who had gone homewith Mr. Chester--went by me, walking very fast and laughing. I knewthem by the laugh, for they gave me no time to look up. I hoped bythat to find Mr. Chester not so badly hurt as he seemed. This gaveme strength, and I got home sooner than I should have done. When Iwent in Mr. Chester sat by the fire trembling like a leaf, and hiswife stood over him bathing his head, paler than I ever saw her beforeor since!"

The little girl paused here, her eyes fell, and the eager look diedon her face, for she saw that cold, sneering smile, peculiar to theMayor, drawing down his upper lip--and it struck a chill to her heart. 

"Did you see the faces of those men--can you point them out again?"questioned the Mayor. 

"I did not see their faces plain enough to know them again, but bythe voice of that man, " and she pointed toward Smith, "I am sure hewas one of them!"

"And this is all you know!" said the Mayor. 

"It is all!" was the faint reply. "It is all!" and the child creptto the side of Chester, and put her hand in his. 

He pressed that little hand, looked down kindly upon her, and thenher tears began to flow. 

The Mayor arose. 

"We have heard the evidence, " he said, "and it has been carefullywritten down. In a few days, or weeks at farthest, the case shallbe decided--it requires consideration; it requires a patient reviewof the evidence. Until the decision, Mr. Chester, you are suspended, without pay. "

The Mayor ended his speech with a gentle bend of the head, andprepared to withdraw. The clerk rolled up his minutes and thewitnesses went out, anxious to quit a scene that had been moreexciting than they expected. 

Chester stood alone in the office, holding little Mary by the hand, when the Chief came out from his closet, looking very grave, but withmuch friendly sympathy in his manner. He wrung Chester's hand, anduttered a few cheering words. Chester could not speak. His firm lipsbegan to quiver, and throwing himself upon a chair, he cast his armsover the railing, his face fell upon them, and the proud, wrongedman sobbed like a child. 

What all the coldness and falsehood of his enemies had failed to do, was accomplished by a few words of unaffected sympathy. These alonehad power to wring tears from his firm manhood, and Chester led hislittle protege home with a heavy heart, and a heavy, heavy heart wasthat which met his with its wild throb of anguish, as he entered thehome where his wife sat weeping, and watching for him. 

CHAPTER IX. 

POVERTY, SICKNESS AND DEATH. 

 How little would there be of grief or want If love and honesty held away on earth! The demon poverty, so grim and gaunt, But for injustice never need have birth! Give room and wages for the poor man's toil, And thus the fiend ye weaken and despoil. 

During six long weeks did the Mayor of New York keep Chester insuspense, and all that time the heart-stricken man had no means ofsupport, save that derived from the labor of his wife. Day and nightthat gentle woman sat toiling at her needle, the smile upon her lipchasing the tear from her eye. Her sympathy was all given to thehusband of her choice. She was grieved and indignant at the wrongthat had been done to him. She was a generous and feminine woman, but her sense of justice was powerful, and her feelings ofcondemnation strong against any man who could violate the bonds ofcommon equity which should bind neighbor to neighbor. 

With that keen intuitive sense that belongs to thoughtful womanhood, her conviction settled at once on the man from whom her husband hadreceived his deepest wrong. Great love gave her almost the power ofdivination, and with all his craft, the Mayor failed to deceive onepure-hearted and clear-minded woman. She knew that he was herhusband's enemy, and--blame her not, reader, till you have sufferedsimilar wrongs--her gentle soul rose up against this man; she couldnot think of him without an indignant glow of heart and cheek. Shecould not hear his name without a thrill of dislike. She saw herhusband's cheek grow paler each day; she saw his firm step grow weakerand weaker. In the night-time his hollow cough would start her fromthe brief slumber into which she had fallen. Then would the form ofthis, his unprovoked and relentless enemy, rise before her mind, andher soul turned shuddering from the image. 

I know that it is a Christian duty to forgive--that when a bad mansmites one defenceless cheek, we are taught to offer the other tohis upraised hand. But the Lord of Heaven and earth promises noforgiveness of transgression unless it is followed by repentance;and where God himself draws the strict line between Justice and Mercy, let no merely human being be censured for withholding forgivenessto an unrepented wrong. Forgiveness to injuries for which atonementis offered is a duty, and a sweet one to the noble of heart. Butwithout repentance--that soul offering of the sinful--let no man hopeto receive from his fellow what Divine Justice withholds. While weleave vengeance to the Lord, let His great wisdom decide upon theduties of forgiveness also!

And so with an aching heart Mrs. Chester saw her husband sinkingbefore her. His spirit remained firm but sorrowful; the shadow layupon it; but his body, being the weaker, gave way, and continuedsuspense was devouring his strength like a demon. Chester knew thatany day he might be called up before that man, branded with thedrunkard's infamy, and cast forth with a sullied character and brokenhealth to the mercies of humanity. This thought clung around him nightand day, deepening his cough, hollowing out his eyes, and visiblybowing down his stately form. 

Still Mrs. Chester worked on, and by her side, calm and sweet in herbeautiful gratitude, might always be seen the little Mary, toilingalso, for the mere pittance that supplied the family with food. Theyhad nothing left for rent--nothing for the thousand little wants thatare constantly arising in a household. These two noble females couldearn food and nothing more; so after a time gaunt poverty came withthe rent-day, and stood before them face to face, darkening the doorwith his eternal presence. Then Jane Chester began to tremble--oneby one she gave up to the fiend her little household treasures--herwork-box--her table--every personal trinket, and at last her bed. The poverty fiend took them all, still crying for more, till she hadnothing to give. Notwithstanding all this, Jane Chester was hopeful;she would not think that their bright days had wholly departed. Herhusband must be acquitted--he would recover then, and conquer thedisease that anxiety had brought upon him. She said these things againand again--little Mary listened with tears in her eyes, and Chesterwould turn away his head or look upon her with a mournful smile. 

At last, when suspense had eaten into his very life, Chester wassummoned before the Mayor. Excitement gave him unnatural strengththat day, and he obeyed the summons, nerved to meet his fate. 

His honor received him alone, in the Chief's office. A look offriendly commiseration was on his face, and he took Chester's handwith a gentle pressure. 

"I have sent for you, " he said, relinquishing the burning hand hehad taken, and motioning Chester to be seated--"I have sent for youas a friend, to advise and counsel you. "

Chester bent his head, but did not speak. He sat down, however, forhis limbs trembled with weakness. 

"I have put off the decision in your case longer than usual, " resumedthe Mayor, playing with a pen that lay on the desk before him, "because I was in hopes that something might come up to change theaspect of things. It is a very painful case, Mr. Chester, and I wishthe responsibility rested somewhere else--but the evidence wasconclusive. You heard it all--several persons testified to the samething--no facts have appeared since, and as a sworn Magistrate, Imust do my duty. "

Chester did not speak, his cheek and lips grew a shade paler thandisease had left them, and he bent his large eyes, glittering withfever and excitement, full upon the Mayor. 

There was something in the glance of those eyes that made the ChiefMagistrate sit uneasily on his leather cushion. He betook himselfto making all kinds of incongruous marks upon a sheet of paper thatlay before him. 

"I shall be compelled to break you, " resumed his honor. "With theevidence, I could not answer to my constituents, were I to actotherwise; but there is a way, and it was for this I sent foryou--there is a way by which the disgrace may be avoided. If youcould make up your mind to resign now, on the score of ill-health, for instance--you really do look anything but robust--all the disgraceof expulsion would be got over at once, and I should be saved a verypainful task. "

Chester arose, gently and firmly, the blood-red hectic flushed backto his cheek, and his eyes grew painfully brilliant. 

"You can disgrace me, sir; you can ruin me if you choose, I know thatyou have the power--that, against the very letter and spirit of ourinstitutions, the breath of one man is potent to decide upon the fateof nine hundred of his fellow men--I know that the accused has noappeal from your decision if you decide unfairly--no redress frominjustice should you be unjust. Knowing all this--knowing that, savein the magnitude of his power to do wrong, the autocrat of all theRussias possesses no authority more absolute than the citizens ofNew York have given to you, a single man, and a citizen likethemselves--I say, knowing all this, and feeling in my own personall the injustice and all the peril it brings upon the individual, I will not, by my own act, give strength or color, for one instant, to the injustice you meditate. I will not resign--with my last breathI will protest, fruitlessly as I know, against the cruel fraud thathas been practiced upon me. "

The Mayor dropped his pen. For once in his life, the blood did rushinto that immovable face--save around the upper lip, which grew white, as it contracted beneath the nostril, that began to dilate faintly, as anger got the master over his colder feelings. He turned his eyesunsteadily, from object to object, casting only furtive glances atthe face of his victim. 

"I have advised you for your own good!" he said at length, "if youchoose to let the law take its course there is nothing more to besaid. "

Chester wiped away the heavy drops from his forehead and his upperlip, where they had gathered like rain. 

"You are then decided. You will not be advised!" persisted the Mayor, after a moment's silence, observing that Chester was about to rise. 

"No, I will not resign. Not to save my life would I give this cowardlyrecognition of your act. If I am sent from the police, you, sir, musttake the responsibility!"

Chester took up his hat and walking-stick. 

"I will wait still longer. You may think better of this?" said theMayor, rising also. 

Chester turned back, leaning for support upon his walking stick. 

"I have given my answer, I am ready to meet my fate!" and withoutanother word the unhappy man walked forth trembling in every limb, and girded as it were by a band of iron across the chest. 

The Mayor watched him depart with an uneasy glance. He had failedin his usual game of securing a resignation when the responsibilitythreatened to become heavy. In this case the presence of the Chiefof Police at Chester's trial--the character of the man, and aboveall his own knowledge of the means by which his ruin had beenprocured, rendered the worthy magistrate peculiarly anxious. It wasone of those cases that the public might question, especially whenit became known that the principal witness was to receive the placemade vacant by Chester's ruin. He found most men willing to redeemsome fragment of a lost character by resignation, and thus hadcraftily frightened many an honest man from his place whom he wouldnot have ventured to condemn openly. The Mayor had summoned Chesterto his presence with this hope. But the high and courageous natureof the policeman, the simplicity, the energy and deep true feelinginherent in him formed a character entirely above the level of hishonor's comprehension. His craft and subtle policy were completelythrown away here. Following the noble young man, with hatred in hiseye, the Mayor arose muttering--

"Though it cost me my seat, he shall go!" and he followed thepoliceman, calling him by name. 

"It needs no longer time for a decision, " he said, touching his hatas he passed out of the City Hall, "to-morrow you can bring your starand your book to the Chief's office; they will be wanted for another!"

"To-night--I will bring them at once!" said Chester, with a start, for he was very weak, and the Mayor's voice struck his ear suddenly. "Then, " he murmured to himself, "God help me, to-morrow I may nothave the strength. "

When Chester went out in the morning, his wife had complained ofillness, and this added to his depression as he returned home. "Oh, what news do I bring to make her better, " he thought. "What but sorrowand pain shall I ever have to offer her on this side the grave? Feebleas a child--disgraced. Oh, Jane, my wife, how will she live throughall that must too surely come upon her!"

Saddened by these thoughts, Chester mounted the stairs. He enteredthe chamber formerly the scene of so much innocent happiness, andfound Isabel sitting by the fire alone and crying. Chester loved hisbeautiful child, and her tears sent a fresh pang through his heart. The idea crossed his mind that she might be hungry and crying forfood. He had often thought of late, that this want must come uponthem all at last, but now that it seemed close at hand, it made himfaint as death. He sat down and attempted to lift the little girlto his knee, but he had not strength to raise her from the floor, and, abandoning the attempt with a mournful look, he drew her closeto his bosom; his forehead fell upon her shoulder, and he wept likea child. 

Isabel wiped away his tears, and put her arm softly around his neck. "Oh, papa, don't take on so, I wish I had not cried. "

"And what are you grieving about?" said Chester, struggling withhimself, "were--were you hungry, darling?"

"No, it was not that, but mamma, you know, had such a headache, andwe wanted to do something for her, but Mary find I could find nocamphor nor cologne nor anything in the house, and poor mamma keptgrowing worse, so we made it up between us, Mary and I, to sell theCanary bird. There was not a bit of seed, nothing but husks in thecage, and the poor thing begun to hang its head; so don't blame us, we had no money for seed, and now that you and mamma are both sick, Mary thought we had better sell the bird. "

Chester groaned, and his face fell once more upon the child'sshoulder. 

"Papa, are you angry, " said Isabel, while the tears came afresh toher beautiful eyes. 

"No, my child, no. It was right, it was best. But your mother, isshe so very ill?"

"She is asleep now! That was the reason I only cried very softly whenMary Fuller went away with the bird--Mary made me promise not to cryout loud, for fear of waking her. "

Chester arose and moved softly toward the bedroom. It had a desolateand poverty-stricken look--that little room--but still was neatlyarranged and tidy in every part. The bureau was gone, and thestraw-bed, though made with care, looked comfortless in comparisonwith the couch in which we first saw Isabel. 

Mrs. Chester was lying upon the bed sleeping heavily, her cheeks werecrimson, and there was some difficulty in her breathing which seemedunnatural. Still there did not seem to be cause for apprehension. Since her troubles came on, the poor wife had often been a suffererfrom nervous headaches, and this seemed but a more violent attackthan usual. 

Chester put the hair away from her forehead, and kissing it, softlywent out, thankful that she was not awake to hear his evil news. 

He sat down by the window, for it was now early spring, and Isabelcrept to his side. The little creature found in his presenceconsolation for the loss of her bird. They had been sitting togetherperhaps half an hour, when Mary Fuller came in; her face bore a lookof keen disappointment, and her eyes were full of tears. 

"You have told him?" she said, addressing Isabel, "you have told himabout it?"

"Yes, my good little girl, she told me. You were very right to sellthe bird, " said Chester, reaching forth his hand. 

The child came close to him and looked earnestly in his face. 

"You look very bad--you are in pain?" she said, "something is thematter with you, Mr. Chester. "

"I have a little pain here, " said Chester, with a sad smile, pressingone hand upon his breast. "It seems, Mary, as if an iron girdle wereabout me, straining tighter and tighter. Sometimes it troubles meto breathe at all?"

Mary touched his hand, it seemed as if a glowing coal were buriedin the palm. Her eyes filled with strange terror, and without a wordshe sat down at Chester's feet, burying her troubled face in hergarments. 

"Did--did you sell the bird?" asked Isabel, touching Mary's shoulder. 

"Yes, " replied Mary, in a smothered voice, "I sold it, but they wouldonly give me half a dollar. They saw that we wanted money--but I wouldnot let it go for ever--sometime they will let us buy it back again. "

"Oh, that is so much better! When papa gets his place again, we canhave birdy back, " said Isabel, relieved from her most pressing grief;but the hope so innocently expressed struck upon the poor father'sheart like a knife. When he got his place back! That time would never, never come! He was disgraced--a branded, ruined man. The fullconviction had been cruelly brought home to him by the words of thathopeful little girl. A smothered groan broke from him. Little Marylifted her head, regarding him sadly, as he paced up and down thefloor. 

"Mr. Chester, " she said, following him, and speaking in a troubledunder-tone, "don't look so sorrowful. I wish you could only cry alittle--just a little, it will do you good; come in and see _her_, perhaps that will bring the tears. "

"It is here, my girl, it is here!" said Chester, laying one hand uponhis chest. "I cannot breathe. "

"Perhaps--oh, I am almost sure it is only the tears that cannot getto your eyes lying heavy there. That does give dreadful pain--I know. "

"It is something worse than that, " said Chester, and the tears gushedinto his eyes. "I feel--I feel that it is"--

"Is what, sir? oh you may tell me!"

"No, it is nothing, God may yet spare me!"

Mary gazed at him a moment, and then turned away. She entered thelittle closet where her bed was, and closing the door, knelt down. She did not weep as other children of her age might have done, butclasping her hands, and lifting her meek forehead to Heaven, prayedin her heart; a little time and the words came gushing to her lips, earnest, eloquent, and full of deep, simple pathos. Her eyelidsquivered; her mouth grew bright with the soul that troubled it. Herdiminutive frame seemed to dilate and straighten with the energy ofher prayer. 

"Oh, God, oh, my Father, who art in Heaven, Thou who hast made these, Thy children, so good and so beautiful, look down upon me--bend forone moment from the bright home where Thou hast taken my own father, and listen to me, his only child--I am feeble, helpless, and allalone. Oh, God, no one need grieve or shed a tear upon the earth ifI am laid in my little grave before morning. Look upon me, oh, Lord, see if I am not a useless and unsightly thing, whom Thy creaturesmay look upon with pity, but no love save that which bringeth tears. Take me, oh, Father, take me from the earth, and leave the good manwith his wife and with his child. I am ready, I am willing, thisnight, to lie down in the deepest grave, so this, my kind friend, live for those who love him so much. Father--oh, my own father, whoart nearer unto God than I am, plead for me, plead for him; pleadthat thy little unseemly child, may be taken up to the home whereher father is--and that he who saved, and fed, and sheltered thychild, may be left to feed and shelter his own. "

It seemed as if the holy spirit of self-sacrifice that possessed thischild, had sublimated both her language and her countenance. Her face, so thin, so pallid, beamed with the spirit of an angel--the subduedpathos of her voice, was like the fall of water-drops upon puremarble. Long after her lips ceased to move her face and hands wereuplifted to Heaven. 

Chester heard the murmur of her voice, and his heart was soothed byit. He went into his wife's bed-room, and bent gently over her asshe slept. The fever was still hot upon her cheek, and she murmuredin her unrest as Chester took her hand softly in his and pressed hispale brow upon it. Long and mournfully did the heart-stricken mangaze upon those loved features. He smoothed the pillow, he spreadthe cool linen softly over her arms, he bathed her forehead with coldwater, and afterward with his tears, as he bent down to kiss it beforehe went out. 

Then he went into the outer room, and took from a drawer his star, and his official book. These he folded up carefully and placed inhis pocket. Still he lingered in the room, moving from window towindow, and looking sadly upon his child. 

"Isabel, I am going out, come and kiss me. "

The child came up, cheerful and smiling, with her arms extended. Chester sat down, and taking her upon his knee, and gathering herlittle hands in his, gazed mournfully into her eyes. 

"Isabel!" he said, with a degree of solemnity that filled the childwith awe. 

She looked up wonderingly; he said no more, but sat gazing upon her. His bosom heaved with a sort of gasping struggle, sob after sob brokefrom his lips, and he removed her gently from his knee. He was turningto go out when Mary Fuller came from her little bedroom. Chesterturned, laid both hands upon her head, and, as she lifted her gentleeyes to his, he bent down and kissed her--the first time in his life, and the last. 

With a feeble and slow step, Chester entered the Chief's office, andrendered up his book and star. He stayed for no conversation, andonly answered the words of sympathy with which he was received bya faint smile. It was raining when he went forth, and a thick fogfell low upon the ground. The night was drawing on dark and dreary, and everything seemed full of gloom. Chester walked on; he took noheed of the way, but turned corner after corner with reckless haste, one hand working in his bosom as if he could thus wrest away the painthat seemed strangling him, and the other grasping his walking-stickupon which he paused and leaned heavily from time to time. 

It was now quite dark, and Chester found himself in one of those murkystreets that lead out among the shipping. The air came in from theriver struggling through a forest of tall masts, and, as it flowedover his face, Chester drew almost a deep breath, not quite, for asharp pain followed the effort--a cough that cut through his lungslike a knife--and then gushed from his mouth and nostrils a torrentof blood, frothy, vividly red, that fell upon his hands and garmentsin waves of crimson foam. 

Chester was standing upon the pier. Beyond him was the water--closeby the tall and silent ships. He cast one wild glance on thesepulseless objects and sat down upon the timbers of the pier, graspingthe head of his walking-stick with both hands and leaning his dampforehead upon them. Faster and faster gurgled up the vital blood tohis lips. Like wine from the press it gushed, and every fresh wavebore with it a portion of his life. 

Chester thought of his home--his wife, his child--he would die withthem, he would struggle yet with the death fiend and wrest back thelife that should suffice to reach them. He pressed one hand to hismouth, he staggered to his feet--the staff bent under him to and frolike a sapling swayed by the wind. He advanced a single step;faltered, and, reeling back, fell upon the timbers. A sob, a faintmoaning sound, answered only by the dull, heavy surge of the watersbelow, as they lapsed against the timbers of the pier. Another moan--ashudder of all the limbs, and then the fog rolled down upon him likea winding-sheet. 

CHAPTER X

WAKING AND WATCHING. 

 Burning with thirst and wild with fever, She tossed and moaned on her couch of pain; With an aching heart he must go and leave her; Never shall they two meet again! Never? Oh, yes, where the stars are burning O'er his path to Heaven with a golden glow, His soul turns back with its human yearning To watch her anguish and soothe her woe. 

When Mrs. Chester awoke from her slumber, which had been one wildand harrowing dream, she inquired of the children, who were earlyto her bed, if their father had not come back, and if there was yetno tidings from the Mayor's office. They answered that he had butjust left the house, and that he had been with her nearly an houras she slept. She smiled gently, and closing her heavy eyes, turnedher head upon the pillow, moaning with the pain this slight motiongave. 

Mary went to the little supper table which she had spread inanticipation of Mr. Chester's return, and came back with a bowl ofwarm tea in her hand. 

"If you can only drink a little of this ma'am, " she said, stirringthe tea with a bright silver teaspoon, the last they had left of afull set, "it always does your head so much good!"

Mrs. Chester rose upon her elbow and attempted to take the tea, buther head was dizzy, and after the first spoonful she turned away indisgust. 

"I cannot drink it. Oh, for a glass of cold, cold water!"

Mary ran into the next room and came back with some water. But ittasted tepid to the poor invalid, and she only bathed her parchedmouth with it. 

"You are ill, you are very ill, ma'am, " said Mary; "this does notseem like nothing but a slight headache. May I run for a doctor?"

"We have no money to pay doctors with, my child, " said the poorinvalid, clasping her hot fingers together, "now that I am sick, whowill earn bread for you all? who will comfort _him_?"

"I will do my best, and so will Isabel!" replied Mary, "besides, perhaps--"

The child paused and her eyes fell. She was about to say that perhapsthe Mayor might not be so very hard on Mr. Chester, after all; butremembering the look and manner of that unhappy man, she could notsay this with truth, knowing well, as if it had been told her inwords, that her benefactor had no hope. "Perhaps, " she added, "something may happen. When it was at the worst with me, you knowsomething happened. "

"And surely it is at the worst with us now, " murmured Mrs. Chester, meekly folding her hands, "no, not the worst, " she added, with a wildstart, "for I am not a widow yet. "

God help the poor woman. She was a widow, even then. 

The two children sat up that night watching by the sick, and waitingfor the father to return, who lay so cold and still upon the soddentimber of that dismal pier. They had eaten nothing all day--at leastMary had not--and now they cut the sixpenny loaf in slices and partookof it, leaving a small covered dish, which had been prepared forChester, untouched. His supper was sacred to those little girls. Hungry and worn-out as they were, neither of them even once glancedat it longingly. They were quite content with the dry bread, and evenate of that sparingly, for Mrs. Chester had asked for ice, and variouslittle things in her delirium--she was delirious then--and thechildren ran out after everything she mentioned, hoping to relievethe terrible state she was in, till they had but one shilling left. 

So they made a sparing meal of the bread--those poor littlecreatures--and a cup of cold water, for the tea must be saved forhim and for her. "Children, " they said, with tears in their eyes, "ought not to want such things. "

With all her brave effort to sit up till her father came, poor littleIsabel dropped to sleep with her head upon the table, weary and almostheartbroken, for she was not used to suffering like Mary Fuller, andher childish strength yielded more readily. After this, Mary satwatching quite alone, for Mrs. Chester had muttered herself into afeverish sleep, and the house was in profound silence. 

Then came upon Mary Fuller a terrible sense of the desolation thathad overtaken them. Dark and shadowy thoughts swept over her soul, leaving it calm, but oh, how unutterably miserable. This foreshadowingof evil fastened upon her like a conviction. She felt in the verydepths of her being that some solemn event was approaching itsconsummation that very moment. She ceased to listen for Chester'scoming, but hushing her tread, as if in the close presence of death, crept away to a corner and prayed silently. 

There are moments in human life when persons linked together in aseries of events may form tableaux, which stand out from ordinarygrouping, like an illustration stamped in strong light and shadowon the book of destiny. Thus was Chester's household revealed on thatsolemn midnight. 

Mary Fuller, upon her knees, her small hands uplifted, her face turnedto the wall; Isabel, with her lovely head pillowed on her arms; and, through an open door, Jane Chester, in her feverish sleep, with thepale lamplight glimmering over them all--this was one picture. 

Another, equally distinct in its mournful outline, was revealed tothe all-seeing One alone. 

Upon that dark wharf, among the motionless ships, that seemed likespectres gazing upon his hushed agony, Chester still lay, shroudedby the heavy clinging fog. The tide rose slowly lapping the soddentimbers which formed his death-bed, and creeping upwards, inch byinch, like the weltering folds of a pall. The whisper of these waters, black and sluggish, gurgling and creeping toward him, was the lastsound poor Chester ever heard on earth. 

Oh, it was a wretched picture that might have won pity from theghostlike shrouds and spars which hedged it in as with a forest ofblasted trees. 

One more picture, and the night closes. The Common Council was insession. Both marble wings of the City Hall were brilliantlyilluminated, and crowds of eager spectators gathered around the twocouncil chambers. Some fifty or sixty poor and efficient men wereto be turned out of office, and the populace were eager to witnessthe jocose and delicate way in which the New York city fathersdecapitated their children. To have witnessed the smiling jests thatpassed to and fro in the Board, the quiet and sneering pleasure ofone man--the careless tone of another--the indifferent air of athird--you would have supposed that these wise men had met to performsome great public benefit. It seemed like a gala night, the majoritywere so full of generous glee. 

And why should they not be jovial and happy in the legislative halls?What was there to dampen their spirits in these gay proceedings? True, the heads of fifty or sixty families were thus playfully deprivedof the means of an honest support. Efficient and experienced men weretaken from almost all the city departments, and cast withoutoccupation upon the world. Men who had toiled in the city's service, for years, for a bare livelihood, were suddenly cast forth to wantand penury. It was in the season of a terrible epidemic, andphysicians who had braved pestilence and death, heaped together inthe great hospitals of the city--who had made a home of thelazar-house, when to breathe its atmosphere was almost to die--wereamong those who were to be given up as victims to party. 

These men, some of them yet trembling upon the brink of the gravefrom pestilence, inhaled while nobly performing duties for which theywere scarcely better paid than the commonest soldier--these were themen whom our city fathers were so blandly and pleasantly removingfrom their field of duty. Was it wonderful, then, that the wholeaffair seemed quite like pastime to those engaged in it; or that theymade themselves jocosely eloquent upon the subject, whenever one ofthe grave minority ventured to lift his voice against the proceedings?

When the two Boards broke up for recess, nothing could exceed thespirit and good fellowship with which they went down to supper. TheMayor was present, for having been an Alderman himself, he alwaysknew when anything peculiarly agreeable to his taste was coming offat the hall. The President of the Upper Board was in splendid spirits, and altogether it was a brilliant scene when the Mayor took his seatnext the President, and the aldermen and assistants ranged themselveson either side the groaning board. 

With what relish the city fathers ate their supper that night! Birdsworth their weight in gold vanished from their plates as if they hadtaken wing. Great, luscious oysters, delicately cooked after everyconceivable fashion--canvas-backed ducks, swimming in foreignjellies--turkeys and roasted chickens, that went from the table whole, being too common for men who had learned to indulge in wild game andcondiments at the cost of ten thousand a year--decanters, throughwhich the wine gleamed red and bright, interspersed here and therewith others of a darker tinge and more potent flavor--brandied fruitand rich sweetmeats, all shed their dull sickening fragrance throughthe tea-room. The flash of glasses in the light; the flash of coarsewit that followed the drained glasses; the clatter of plates; thenoiseless tread of the waiters--why it was enough to make the silverurn and curious old pitchers start of themselves from the side-boardto claim a share in the feast. It was enough to make the publicdocuments, prisoned in the surrounding book-cases, shiver and rustlewith an effort to free themselves from bondage. 

The very fragments of that official supper would have fed many a poorfamily for weeks; but the city fathers really did enjoy it so muchit would have been a pity to dampen their spirits by an idea so atvariance with their action. They had consigned at least fiftyblameless families to poverty that night, and surely that was laborenough without troubling themselves about the means by which theywere to be kept from perishing. 

You could see by the quiet smile upon the Mayor's lip, as he arosefrom the supper table, and helped himself to a handful of cigars froma box on the side-board, that he was in excellent spirits. Adistinguished guest from the country partook of the city's hospitalitythat night, and as the two lighted their cigars, they conversedtogether on city matters. 

"To-morrow--to-morrow, " said his honor, "you must go over ourinstitutions--Bellevue, the Island, and the various Asylums. "

The stranger shook his head. 

"Not to Bellevue, if that is where your people are dying off sorapidly of ship-fever, " he said. "I have a terror of the disease;why I saw it stated that half the physicians at your Alms House weredown with it, and that three or four out of the number have died thisseason. "

"Yes, " said the Mayor, lighting a cigar, "the mortality has been verygreat at Bellevue, especially among the young doctors. They arepeculiarly exposed, however. "

"I should think, " said the stranger, laying down his cigar, for hecould not find the heart to smoke quietly, when conversing on asubject so painful, "I should suppose it would be difficult to findpersons ready to meet almost certain death, as these young men aresure to do. It must be a painful task to you, sir, when you sign theirappointments. It would seem to me like attaching my name to a deathwarrant. "

"Yes, " replied the Mayor, taking out his cigar and examining the end, for it did not burn readily; "it is very disagreeable. Why, sir, thecity has paid, already, nearly five hundred dollars for funeralexpenses; and there is no knowing how far it may be carried. "

The stranger looked up in surprise; he could not believe that he hadheard aright--that the Mayor of New York was absolutely counting, as a subject of regret, the funeral cost attending the death of thosebrave young men who had perished amid the pestilence, more bravelya thousand times, than warriors that fall on the battle-field. 

But as he was about to speak again, several aldermen who stilllingered at the table, called loudly for the Mayor. 

"I say, " said the Alderman, who has been particularly presented tothe reader, leaning over the back of his chair, with a glass of winein one hand--"I say, have you settled that Chester yet? My man isgetting impatient. "

"Hush!" said his honor; "not so loud, my good friend. Bring in thenomination to-morrow--I gave Chester his quietus this afternoon. "

And so he had; for while this scene was going on at the City Hall, the two pictures we have given, were stamped upon the eternal pagesof the Past, and so was this. 

CHAPTER XI. 

CHESTER'S HOME IN THE MORNING

 It is dancing--dancing--dancing, Oh, the little purplish sprite! Now moving, shining, glancing Through the mazes of the light. 

The grey morning dawned gloomily on Chester's desolated home. Isabelawoke and looked around with dull and heavy eyes. The beauty of heryoung face was clouded by a night of sharp anxiety and broken rest. Mary sat opposite, leaning with both elbows on the table, andregarding the poor child with a haggard and sorrowful countenance. 

"Has he not come back--oh, Mary, is he not here yet?"

Mary shook her head. "I have been awake all night, every moment. Hehas not come!"

"And I--how could I sleep with my poor father away, and mamma so ill?I did not think that anything could make me sleep at such a time, Mary!"

"But, you were so tired; oh, I was glad when your head drooped onthe table; it looked so pitiful to see you growing paler and paler, while she kept muttering to herself. I was glad that you could sleepat all, Isabel. "

"I feel now as if I should never sleep again, " replied the child, looking at the covered plate where her father's supper had beenstanding all night. "He will never come back, Mary Fuller, I feelsure of it now!"

Mary did not answer--she only covered her eyes with one hand and satstill. 

Isabel arose, took the covered plate in both her hands and placedit in the cupboard, weeping bitterly. This act showed even plainerthan her words that she really did not expect to see her father again. She crept back to Mary, and, leaning upon her shoulder, began to crywith low and suppressed passion. Poor thing, it is a hard lesson whenchildhood first learns to curb its natural grief. 

"What shall we do, Mary?" whispered the poor child, burying her wetface upon Mary's shoulder that received its burden unshrinkingly;"oh, what can we do?"

"Isabel, " said Mary, solemnly, "what should we do if--if your fathershould be dead?"

"He is dead--or very, very sick--I am sure of that; what else couldkeep him from home, and mamma calling for him so pitifully? Mary, I am sure that he is dead; we shall never, never see him again!" and, with a burst of terrible grief, the poor child flung her arms aroundMary Fuller, and sunk to the floor, almost dragging the little girlwith her. "Mary, he is dead--he is dead!"

"Who is dead--who is dead, I say? Why do you crowd the room with thoselittle dancing creatures, all in loose clothes--scarlet, gold, purple, green--why do you not send them away?" cried the voice of Mrs. Chester, and there was a rustling of the bed-clothes, as if she weretrying to cast them from her. 

The children held their breath, and cowered close together. AgainMrs. Chester spoke:

"Leave the children, leave them; I did not tell you to drive thechildren away; Chester, Chester, they are taking our children off;Isabel--Mary Fuller, come back!"

"I am here--no one shall take me away, " said Mary Fuller, bendingover the bed; "Isabel, too, is close by your pillow--she has beencrying to see you so sick; do not mind her eyes, they will grow brightagain when you are well!"

Mrs. Chester started up in the bed. A moment of consciousness seemedto come over her. She looked at Mary and at Isabel, and spoke to themin a whisper, leaning half out of bed--

"Girls, where is he? tell me now, Mary, that's a good littlegirl--what have they done with him?"

The children looked at each other, and Isabel began to sob. 

"How long is it since I went to sleep? He was here, you know!" saidthe invalid. 

"Only a little while!" answered Mary, quickly. "You have not sleptlong. "

"Oh! I thought--but then people will dream such things--I say, justtell me--come, will he be back soon--can't you tell me that, littlefolks?"

"Lie down, there, now take a glass of ice-water, and I will go afterhim, " said Mary, exerting all her little strength to persuade theinvalid back to her pillow. 

"Ice, ice! give me a whole handful--no water, but clear cold ice!"

They gave it to her; in her burning hands and her parched mouth theyplaced the crystal coldness; and it slaked the burning fever. Itmelted in her hand, dripping in soft rain down her arms and over herbosom, where the hand lay clenched tightly upon its cool treasure. With her white teeth she crushed the diamond fragments in her mouth, and laughed to feel the drops flowing down her throat. 

"Now, Mary, little Mary Fuller, go and tell him that I am wide awake, and waiting for him! Go now, while the ice is plenty, he shall havea share. "

"I will go!" said Mary, and drawing Isabel from the room, she toldher to stay close by her mother, and let her have anything she wanted. While giving these directions she put on her hood and shawl. 

"I will find him; I will not come back without news; but, oh! Isabel, I have little hope of anything but news that will kill her, and almostkill us; I would not say this, but it has been in my heart since teno'clock last night. I was all alone, and--don't cry again, Isabel--itseemed to me as if he died then!"

Isabel turned very pale, and gazed upon Mary in terrible silence. 

"And I was asleep then?" she said, with a pang of self reproach. 

"Hush!" said Mary, "in our sleep we must be nearest to Heaven; whyshould you feel bad because you were closer to him than I was?"

"I dreamed of him!" answered Isabel, as if struck by some suddenremembrance, and her eyes so heavy the moment before, lighted up;"I dreamed of him!"

"And what did you dream, tell me, Isabel--what did you dream?"

"I don't know all--but he was away in such a beautiful, beautifulplace; the hills were all purple and gold and crimson with light, or flowers or something that made them more lovely than anything youever set eyes on. The rivers were so clear that you could see down, down into the water--and the banks, all covered with flowers, seemedto slope down and line the bottom with soft colors that broke upthrough; it was all shifting and rolling before me like a cloud. Butas true as you live, Mary, I saw my father there, and--yes--now Iam sure--mamma was with him--she was, Mary Fuller; and so you seethey will meet again, if there is anything in dreams. You will findhim, I am sure you will find him. Oh, Mary. I am so glad that I fellasleep, while you were watching!"

Mary did not speak, but threw her arms around the beautiful child, kissing her tenderly before she went forth. 

"It was a sweet dream!" she murmured, going down the stairs; "I hadmany such before my father died. I suppose God sends them to comfortlittle children when he makes orphans of them--but I never saw mymother and father together; oh, if I had but seen that only once!"With these thoughts Mary Fuller passed into the street, pursuing hermournful errand with a heavy spirit. "I will go, " she said, communingwith herself; "I will go first to the Chief's office--Mr. Chestertook away the star and book in his pocket, and must have gone there. They will know something of him at the Chief's office;" and she benther way to the Park. 

It was a bright spring morning. The fog which had hung upon the cityover night, was swept upward by the sun, and lay upon the horizonin a host of fleecy clouds. The trees around the Park fountain andthe City Hall, were in the first tender green of their foliage, andthe damp night had left them vivid with moisture, through which thesun was shining. The fountain was in full force at the time, shootingup its columns of diamond spray to the very tree-tops. Gleams ofsunshine laced the myriads and myriads of liquid threads together, with a rainbow that seemed to tremble and break every instant, butalways shone out again brighter than before. The rush and hum of thewaters, the showers of cool and broken spray, the soft shiver of theleaves and the young grass just peeping from the earth all around, were enough to make a happy heart beat happier tenfold, under theinfluence of so much beauty. But poor little Mary looked upon thescene with a heavy eye; all the fresh growth of nature seemed butto mock her as she passed through it. She would have given worldsfor power to convey the sweet air that swept with such coolprodigality by her face, to the close room of Mrs. Chester. It seemeda sin to breathe that delicious spring breeze, while her benefactresslay panting on her sick-bed. 

The chief received the little girl very kindly, and gave her all theinformation he possessed regarding Chester; but that was very little, only dating half an hour from the time that unhappy man left home. 

Mary turned away with an aching heart--where should she go? of whommight she inquire? The broad city was before her, but to what partmust her search be directed?

Mary crossed the Park and moved down towards the corner of Ann street. She paused for a moment, pondering over the heavy doubt in her mind, when a cart, over which an old blanket had been flung, guarded bytwo policemen, drove by her. Something smote her heart as the rudevehicle passed her; it seemed as if she could detect the outline ofa human form beneath the blanket. She started, and followed the cart. It rolled slowly up Broadway and turned into Chambers street--alongthe whole length of the old Alms House buildings it went, and stillthe little girl followed, trembling in every limb and scarcely drawinga full breath. 

The cart stopped at the point nearest to that building, where theunrecognized dead were carried. The two policemen drew away theblanket, and there, outstretched upon a piece of carpet, Mary sawher benefactor. She moved slowly forward; she clung with her coldhands to the side of the cart, and bent her eyes upon that still, white face. The sunshine lay upon it, and the breeze swept back fromthat marble forehead the bright hair that she had seen Mrs. Chesterarrange so often. It might have been the sunshine--or perhaps thatGod, "who careth for the fall of a sparrow, " had left a smile uponthose white lips to comfort the little girl; for it is in small thingsoften that the goodness of our Heavenly Father is most visible. 

"He is smiling--oh, he smiles on me, " cried the child, with a burstof tears, lifting her face to the policeman, with a look that wentto his heart. "He has not smiled like that, not once since hisbirth-day, " and overcome with all the sweet recollections of thatday, the child covered her face and wept aloud while the bystandersstood, lost in sympathy, gazing upon her. 

"Did you know this man?" questioned one of the officers, addressingthe child, and motioning the driver to be quiet, for he had otherwork to do, and was in haste to get the body of Chester into thedead-house. 

"Did I know him?" repeated the child, looking up through her tearswith an expression of wonder that he should ask the question. "DidI know him?"

"If you did, " rejoined the man, "tell us his name, and perhaps weneed not carry him in there. "

"In where?" said the child, looking wildly at the building to whichthe man pointed. "That is not his home. "

"No, it is the dead house, " replied the man. 

"The dead house?" repeated the child, and her lips grew pale withhorror. "And must he go in there?"

"Not if you can point out his home; perhaps he is your father?"

"He was more than that--he was--oh, sir, you do not know how muchhe was to me!"

"Well, what was his name? if you can tell us that, we will take himhome at once. The coroner has seen him--there is nothing to prevent. "

"His name, sir, " answered the little girl, making a brave effort tospeak calmly. "His name was John Chester. "

"John Chester! that is the man who held the place that Smith has gotthis very morning. I saw him at the Mayor's office not half an hourago with the appointment in his hand, " said the officer, addressinghis companion. 

"Poor fellow, poor fellow, it was a hard case!" and the policemanreverently settled the body upon the cart and bade the driver go tothe Chief's office and bring a cloak which he had left there. 

While the man was absent, there came along Chambers street two personswalking close together and conversing earnestly. They were passingthe cart without seeming to heed its mournful burden, when Mary Fullerlooked up and saw them. A faint cry broke from her lips, her eyeskindled through the tears that filled them, and drawing her bent formalmost proudly upright, she stood directly before the gate, throughwhich the Mayor and his companion were about to pass on their wayto the City Hall. 

"Sir, " she said, with dignity which was almost solemn from itscontrast with her frail person, pointing with one pale and tremblingfinger toward the cart, "turn and look. "

The Mayor at first stepped back, for the sight of that little creaturewas loathsome to him, but there was something in her attitude andin her eye which he could not resist. He turned in spite of himself, and his eyes fell upon the dead form of Chester. For an instant hisface changed, a pallor stole over his lips, and he trembled in thepresence of the wronged dead; but he was a man whom emotion neverentirely conquered, and turning coldly from the child, he went upto the cart and addressed the policeman in charge of the corpse. 

"How and where did this man die?" he said, in his usual cold voice. 

"He died in the street--alone upon a pier unfrequented after dark. Last night somewhere between nine o'clock and morning was the time. The coroner renders in his verdict, hemorrhage of the lungs. "

"He died, " said the little girl, solemnly gazing upon the dead, "hedied of a broken heart. I know that it was of a broken heart he died. "

"Men do not die of broken hearts in these days, " said the Mayor, turning away. "It is only women and children that talk of such things. See, " he continued, addressing the officer, "that the body is takento his house and properly cared for. This should be a warning to allin your department, sir. "

The policeman bit his lip and his eyes flashed. The only answer thathe made was given in a stern voice. 

"I will do my duty, sir!"

The Mayor passed on, joining his companion. The ruddy face of theAlderman was many shades paler than usual, and his voice falteredas he addressed his friend. 

"This is very shocking. If I had known that it would end so, I, forone, would have had nothing to do with it. "

"I am sorry that you are dissatisfied, " answered his honor, coldly. "The case you brought against the man seemed a very clear one--nothingcould have been stronger than the evidence, otherwise, with all mydisposition to serve you, I should not have acted as I did. "

The Alderman paused in profound astonishment, his eyes wide open, and his heavy lips parted, gazing upon the impassive form of hisfriend. 

"But, sir, but"--he could not go on, the profound composure of theMayor paralyzed him. He really began to think that the whole guiltof this innocent man's death rested with himself, that he hadaltogether misunderstood his honor from the first. 

Having deepened and settled this conviction upon his conscience-strickendupe by a lengthened and grave silence, the Mayor added, consolingly:

"In political life these things must be expected; of course no oneis responsible for the casualties that may occur; no doubt this manwas consumptive long before you ever saw him!"

"I wish that he had never crossed my path, at any rate, " replied theAlderman, almost sternly. "To my dying day I shall never forget thatface! I do not know, I cannot think, how I was ever led intopersecuting him. Smith wanted the appointment, true enough, and hehad done something toward my election, but so had fifty others; howon earth did I ever come to take all this interest in his claim?"

An expression that was almost a smile stole over the Mayor's lip, as he received this compliment to his consummate craft, and the twopassed on. 

Meantime, the policeman returned from the Chief's office with a cloak, which was placed reverently over the body of poor Chester. The littlegirl crept close to the cart, and arranged the hair upon that coldforehead as the poor wife had loved to see it best. The cart movedon with its mournful lead, at last, and she followed after. 

How sad and heavy was that young creature's heart, as she drew nearthe once happy home! She began to weep as they stopped by the door. 

"Let me! oh, let me go up first. It will kill them to see him allof a sudden, in this way, " she pleaded. 

The driver had lost much time, but he could not resist that touchingappeal. 

"It is a dreadful thing, " he said, --"let her go up first. "

Poor child! Heavy was her heart, and heavy was her step as she mountedthe stairs. She paused at the door. Her hand trembled upon the latch;her strength was giving way before the terrible trial that awaitedher. But, she heard them from below lifting in the dead. She heardthe heavy cloak sweeping along the hall, and, wild with fear thatit would all come upon poor Mrs. Chester while she was unprepared, she turned the latch and went in. 

The chamber was empty. Mary ran to the little bedroom. It was as stillas a grave. The tumbled bed was unoccupied; the bed-clothes fallinghalf upon the floor. Upon the stand was a glass of water, and a lumpof ice lay near it. The loose night-dress which Mrs. Chester had worn, lay trailing across the door-sill, and a pillow rested upon the sideof the bed, indented in the centre, as if some one sitting upon thefloor had rested against it. 

When the three men came in, bearing Chester's body between them, Marystood gazing upon this desolation in speechless and pale astonishment. 

"They are gone, " she said, turning her wild eyes upon the men. "Someone must have told her what was coming, and she could not bear it. "

"No one here?" questioned one of the officers, "only this little girlto watch over him?--this is strange!" And the three men paused inthe midst of the room, gazing upon each other over their mournfulburden. 

"Smooth up the bed a little, and let us lay him there!" said thedriver, becoming impatient with the delay. 

"Not there--_she_ will come back--she could not go far--on my bed--layhim here, on my bed and Isabel's. It is made up--no one slept in itlast night!" exclaimed Mary, opening the door of her little room. 

They laid poor Chester upon the bed that his noble benevolence hadsupplied to the orphan who stood weeping over him. The rustle of thatpoor straw, as it shrunk to meet his body, was a nobler tribute tohis memory than a thousand minute guns could have been. 

They were about to arrange his head upon the bolster, but Mary wentinto the next room, in haste, and brought forth the pillow which stillrevealed the pressure that Mrs. Chester had left upon it. 

"Lay him upon her pillow, " said the child. "He would have asked forit, I know. "

Those stout men looked upon the child with a feeling of profoundrespect. They drew back, and allowed her to arrange the death-couchaccording to her own will. She could not bear the stiff and rigidposition in which they had placed him, but laid the hands gently andnaturally down. When she turned away, the cold look had been softenedsomewhat, and in the solemn repose of death there was blended thesweetness of that calm, deep slumber, when the soul is dreaming ofHeaven. 

The three men went forth, and Mary followed them, closing the doorreverently after her. 

"I must stay with him, " she said, "Mrs. Chester and Isabel are gone;he must not be left alone, or I ought to go in search of them. Shewas very, very ill, and out of her head I am afraid, and poor Isabelis only a little girl that would not know what to do!"

"I will search for them, " said one of the policemen, kindly. "Stayhere till some one comes--I am far more certain to find them thansuch a little thing as you would be. "

They left the child alone. For a little time she sat down and wept, but her grief was not of a kind to waste itself in tears, whileanything remained undone that could give comfort to others. 

"They will bring her back--they will both come, " she said, inly, checking her tears. "I will make up her bed, and find something forIsabel to eat; she had no breakfast, and did not relish the breadlast night. If they find everything snug and tidy it will not seemso bad. "

So the little girl went to work, putting everything in its place, and noiselessly removing the dust that had settled on the scantfurniture. Alas, there was not much for her to do, for those desolatedrooms contained few of the comforts that had once rendered them socheerful. When the bed was arranged and the outer room swept, Marysat down a moment, for grief and watching rendered her very weary, and she was so young that the profound stillness appalled her. Thenthere came a faint knock at the door, and she was arising to openit when Joseph stood on the threshold. 

"I saw it all from the window, and thought that you might be gladto have some one sit with you, " said the gentle boy, moving acrossthe room. 

Mary looked up, and these low words unsealed her grief again. 

"Oh, Joseph! Joseph! they are gone. He is dead. He is lying in there, all alone!"

"I know it, " answered the boy, sitting down by her, "and I was justthinking how strange it was that people so handsome and so good, should be sick and die off, when such poor creatures as you and Iare left. "

Mary looked up eagerly through her tears. 

"Oh, you don't know how I prayed, and prayed that God would only takeme, and let him live! But He wouldn't; He didn't think it best; hereI am, stronger than ever, and there _he_ is!"

The boy sat still and mused, with his eyes bent on the floor. 

"It does seem strange, " he said, after a time, "but then God oughtto know best, because He knows every thing. "

"I said that to myself, when I saw him on the cart with that wicked, wicked Mayor looking on, " answered Mary. 

"I dare say Mr. Chester was so good to every body that perhaps hehad done enough, and ought to be in Heaven, and it may be that thereis a great deal for you to do, yet, little and weak as you seem. Ishouldn't wonder!"

"What could I do, compared to him?" answered Mary, meekly. 

"I don't know, I am sure, but I dare say that God does, " replied thelittle boy. 

Mary did not answer. Oppressed by the mournful solitude of the place, worn out by long watching and excitement, she could hardly findstrength to speak. Still it was a comfort to have the boy in the sameroom, and his gentle efforts at consolation comforted her greatly. 

"That--that is Isabel's step, " she said, at length, lifting her eyesand fixing them upon the door. "How slow--how heavy! She is alone, too. Oh, Joseph, do not go away, I cannot bear to tell her yet. "

"I will stay!" said the boy. 

The door opened, and Isabel came in. She was hardly beautiful then. Her cheeks were pale; her eyes heavy and swollen, and the raven hairfell in dishevelled waves over her shoulders. She crossed the roomto where the two children sat, and seating herself wearily on thefloor, laid her head in Mary's lap. 

"She is gone, Mary, I cannot find her anywhere, " said the child. "Ihave been walking, walking, walking, and no mother--no father. I don'tknow where I have been, Mary, I don't know what I said to the people, but they couldn't tell me anything about them. "

"Poor Isabel!--poor little Isabel!" said Mary, laying her thin handupon the child's head, and turning her mournful look on Joseph, whomet the glance with a sorrowful shake of the head. 

"I am tired out, Mary. It seemed to me a little while ago, that Iwas dying; and if it hadn't been for thinking that you would be leftalone, I should have been glad of it. "

"Oh, don't, Isabel, don't talk in that way!" said Mary, "you are tiredand hungry--she must be hungry, " and Mary looked at the boy. "Seehow the shadows are slanting this way, and she hasn't tasted amouthful since last night. "

"I don't know; I hadn't thought of it--but I believe I am hungry, "and the big tears rolled over Isabel's cheeks. 

Mary arose and placed that little weary head upon the seat of herchair. 

"She isn't used to it, like us, " she said, addressing the boy. 

"No, " he answered, "she can't be expected to stand it as we should. I hope you have got something for her to eat; we haven't a mouthfulup stairs, I'm afraid!"

Mary went to the cupboard. It was empty--not a crust was there savethe supper which had been put away for poor Chester the night before. Mary hesitated--it seemed terrible to offer that food to the poorchild, and yet there was nothing else. Mary went up to Isabel, andwhispered to her. 

"Have you a sixpence--or only a penny or two left of the money?"

"No, " replied Isabel, with a sob. "I spent the last for ice, and whenI came back with it, she wasn't in the room. I flung the ice on thestand, and ran out into the street after her, but you know how itwas--she has gone like him. "

Mary turned toward the cupboard; she placed the cold supper on anotherplate, and bringing it forth, spread a clean cloth upon the table, and placed a knife and fork. 

"Come, " she said, bending over the sorrow-stricken child. "Isabel, dear, get up, and try if you can eat this--it will give you strength. "

The child arose, put back the dishevelled hair that had fallen overher face, and sat down by the table. She took up the knife and fork, but as her heavy eyes fell upon the contents of the plate, she laidthem down again. 

"Oh! Mary, I mustn't eat that; he may come home yet, and what shallwe have to give him?"

Again the lame boy and Mary exchanged glances--both were pale, andthe soft eyes of the boy glistened, with coming tears. He beckonedMary to him, and whispered--

"Tell her now--she must know; if those men come back while she ishoping on, it will kill her. "

Mary stood for a moment, mustering strength for this new trial; thenshe crept slowly up to Isabel, and laid her thin arm around thechild's neck. That little arm shook, and the low speech of Mary Fullertrembled more painfully still. 

"Isabel, your father will never want food again--they have broughthim home--he is lying in there. "

"Asleep!" said Isabel, starting to her feet, while a flash of wildjoy came to her face. 

"No, Isabel, he is dead!"

Isabel stood motionless. Her arms fell downward, her parted lips grewwhite, and closed slowly together. The life seemed freezing in heryoung veins. 

"Come, and you shall see, Isabel, it is like sleep, only morebeautiful, " and Mary drew the heart-stricken child into the chamberof death. 

Chilled with grief and shivering with awe, Isabel gazed upon herfather, the tears upon her cheek seemed freezing; a feeble shudderpassed over her limbs, and after the first long gaze she turned hereyes upon Mary with a look of helpless misery. Mary wound her armsaround the child, her tears fell like rain, while the expression thatlay upon her lip was full of holy sweetness. 

"Isabel, dear, let us kneel down and say our prayers, he will knowit. "

"I can't, I am frozen. " Isabel shook her head. 

"Don't--don't, heaven is but a little way off, " answered Mary: "youand I have both got a father there now!"

The two little girls knelt down together, and truly it seemed as ifthat marble face smiled upon them. 

The door was closed between them and the outer room where the boy sat. He heard the low tone of their voices; he heard sobs and a passionateoutbreak of sorrow; these ebbed mournfully away, and then arose alow silvery voice, deep, clear, angel-like, and with it camewords--simple in their pathos--such as springs from the heart of achild when it overflows with love and tears. The boy bent his headreverently; his meek blue eyes filled with unshed drops; he sunk tohis knees and wept, softly, as he listened. 

Thus the children were found a little time after, when an undertakercame by orders of the Chief of Police to prepare the dead forhonorable burial. Following his example, a few noble fellows abouthis office had contributed out of their pay, and thus poor Chesterwas saved from a pauper's grave. 

A little before night they carried Chester out through the hall thathis light foot had trod so often. Behind him went the two littlegirls, hand in hand, looking very sorrowful but weeping no longer. Upon Mary's head was an old but well kept mourning bonnet--a littletoo large--which Joseph had brought down from the scant wardrobe ofhis aunt, and around Isabel's little straw cottage lay a band of blackcrape, which had served her as a neck-tie. The boy watched them fromthe window while these mournful objects could be seen, and then creptto his own home. 

Surely Mary Fuller's father was right when he said that no human beingwas so weak or poor that she could not contribute something to thehappiness of others. With an old black bonnet, and a scrap of sablecrape, Joseph had managed to comfort the two orphan girls as theywent forth on their mournful duty. Now he was ready for a braver work. As the limbs grow sinewy and powerful by muscular action, so the soulbecomes stronger with each beneficent act that it performs. Josephbegan to feel this truth and his whole being brightened under it. 

As Joseph went up stairs he met his father coming in from the street. The old man looked tired and disappointed, for he had been walkingall the morning in search of Mrs. Chester; but having obtained notrace of her, came home disconsolate. 

"You are tired, father, come up and rest; this is too much for you;keep quiet, and let me go. "

"But what can you do, Joseph, without hardly knowing a street in thecity, and so much weaker than I am?"

"Did you go to the Mayor's?" questioned the boy, without answering. 

"Did I go to the Mayor!--I to James Farnham!" exclaimed the artistalmost sternly. "No, not for the whole universe. "

The artist checked himself, and added--"What could I have done withhim?"

"He is head of the police, Mrs. Chester told me, and might have putyou in the way of tracking her, poor lady. I would not go to him afterhis cruelty; but that handsome young man, I know he would help me. "

"Yes, yes, " exclaimed the artist with animation, "go to him; he isnoble-hearted, God bless the boy, go to him, Joseph. "

"The last time he was here, father, you were not at home; but he mademe promise to find him out if anything happened, especially if wefound it hard to get along without your working too hard for youreyes. "

"Did he? Heaven bless the boy. "

"Why father, you seem to love him so much, almost more than you loveme, " said the boy with a faint pang. "Don't do that father, for hehas so much, and I have nothing in the wide world but my father!"

"No, no, I don't love him so much--not more than his bright goodnessdeserves, Joseph; but you are my son--my only son sent to me fromyour sweet mother's death-bed--how could I love anything so well!"

"Forgive me, father, " cried the boy, and his blue eyes sparkledthrough pendent tears. "Forgive me; I was jealous only a little, andit is all gone; I will go and tell Frederick that you want him tohelp me!"

"But you are weak, my boy. "

"No, father, Mary Fuller has shamed my weakness all away. She is nostronger than I am, but what would that poor family do without her?I will never be so feeble again. "

"Yes I will go and rest, and these boys shall do my work, " said theold man proudly; "they will find her, together, I think; I could donothing. "

"We will find her, never fear, " answered Joseph hopefully and puttingon his straw hat he went out. 

CHAPTER XII. 

THE MAYOR AND HIS SON. 

 Nature hath many voices, and the soul Speaks, with a power, when first it feels the thrill Of buried Love. Then breaking all control, She claims her own, against man's haughty will. 

The Mayor was alone in his office--alone with his conscience. Coldas he had seemed, the face of that murdered man haunted him. Therewas no subterfuge for his conscience; now it was wide awake, stinginghim like a serpent. The sensation was so new, that the Mayor writhedunder it in absolute anguish; his hand was lifted to his foreheadunconsciously, as if to hide the brand of Cain, that seemed to beburning there. 

This was a sudden shock of conscience that he could neither shakeoff nor endure. His act of injustice against the man Chester hadbeen followed so close by his death, that with all his subtlereasoning he could not separate the two events in his mind. He beganto wonder about the family so terribly bereaved, and more than oncethe form of Mary Fuller rose before him, with her little handextended, exclaiming, "He died of a broken heart--he died of a brokenheart. "

The Mayor almost repeated these words with his lips, for hisconscience kept echoing them over and over, till they haunted himworse even than that pale dead face. 

As he sat with one hand shrouding his forehead, the office dooropened, and a boy stood in the entrance. 

A strange thrill rushed through every nerve and pulse of Farnham'sframe, even before he looked up. It seemed as if a gush of puremountain wind had swept in upon him when he was struggling for breath. 

It was a strange thing, but Farnham did not remove the hand from hisforehead, even when he looked up, and when his eyes fell upon thegentle boy that stood with his straw hat in one hand, and his softgolden hair falling in waves down his shoulders--for Joseph followedthe artistic taste of his father--the hand was pressed more tightly, and the proud man felt as if he were thus concealing the stain uponhis brow from those pure blue eyes. 

As Joseph looked at the Mayor, whose sternness had all departed, thesmall hand that grasped the rim of his hat began to tremble, and anexpression full of gentleness shone over his face. 

"I beg pardon, sir, " he said, and the strong man was thrilled againby his voice, "but I wish to see your son, and thought perhaps youwould be good enough to tell me where I can find him. "

"My son, my son!" repeated the Mayor, with a sort of tenderexclamation. "Oh, I had forgotten, you wish to see Frederick. "

"Yes, Frederick, " said the boy. 

"He is at home--at least I think so, " answered Farnham, speaking withkindly respect, as if he had not regarded the torn hat and humble garbin which his visitor came, but thought it the most natural thing inlife that a boy like that should inquire thus familiarly after hisson, "I am almost certain that Fred is at home. "

"I do not know where he lives, " said the lad, hesitating, and drawinga step forward as if held in that presence by some irresistibleinfluence. 

"Indeed, " said the Mayor, holding out his hand, "but you know my son!"

Joseph came forward and placed his little slender hand in that soirresistibly, as it seemed, held towards him. The same tremor, tookeen for pleasure and too exquisite for pain, ran through the proudman and the gentle boy while their fingers came lovingly together. 

"He visits us sometimes, and you cannot think how much my fatherloves him. "

"But he must love you better, " said Farnham, sweeping his hand downthe boy's golden hair with caressing gentleness. 

"I don't know, " said Joseph with a faint sigh, "but he loves me agreat deal, I am sure of that!"

"And where do you live?" questioned Farnham, rather as an excuse tokeep the boy's hand in his, than from a desire for information. 

Joseph mentioned the street and number of his residence. 

The Mayor started. "Great Heavens, you cannot be his child?"

"Who are you speaking of?" inquired Joseph. 

"Is--is--was your father's name Chester?"

The tears rushed into Joseph's eyes. He drew his hand suddenly fromthe Mayor's clasp, and his voice was broken as he answered:

"No, sir, it was my father's best friend that you killed!"

Farnham fell back in his chair, his hand dropped heavily upon thetable, he strove to disclaim the guilt so mournfully imputed to him, but his eyes fell, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. The strong man was dumb in the presence of that rebuking child. 

"I must go now, " said Joseph, moving backward, "Mrs. Chester is lost, and we must find her. "

The Mayor did not hear him; he did not even know when the lad glidedfrom his office; the last words had stunned him. 

After a little he looked up and saw that Joseph was gone. As if drawnby some powerful magnetic force, he arose, took his hat and followedthe lad. 

Joseph was half across the park, but Farnham saw him at once, andfollowed with a sort of hushed feeling, as the wise men looked uponthe star which led them to a Saviour. 

Meantime, Fred Farnham had heard of Chester's death and was preparingto go out, hoping to give some comfort to his family. To this endhe had gone to his mother for money. The Chesters had refused aidof him before, but now he was resolved to deceive them into acceptingit through his Uncle Peters. 

"What do you want money for, Fred--twenty dollars--if you are in fora champagne supper or something of that sort, I don't mind; but Imust know where the money goes?"

Mrs. Farnham was arranging a tiny French cap on the back of her head, as she made these motherly demonstrations, and its graceful lightnessthrew her into a charming state of liberality. 

"As a mother, you know, Fred, I am bound to see that the money whichyou ask rather liberally, I must say, is judiciously spent; now tellme where this is going?"

"I intend to help a poor family, who have been wronged and are introuble, " said the generous boy. 

Mrs. Farnham closed her pearl portmonnaie with a fierce snap of theclasp. 

"Frederick, " she said, with a degree of energy that made the delicatespray in her cap tremble, as if it shared her indignation, "I cannotencourage this extravagance, you are getting into low society, sir, and--oh! Fred, you will break your mother's heart if you persist infollowing after these low people. "

"Why, they live in the house with my Aunt Peters, mamma. "

"There it is--I do believe you intend to drive me into hysterics;will you never learn that your Aunt Peters is not to be spoken of, and only visited in a quiet way? There is a medium, Fred, a medium, do you comprehend?"

"But what has my Aunt Peters done?"

"She has been ungrateful, Fred, so very ungrateful after I gaveup--that is, after I set them up in business; she would keep claimingme as a sister, just as much as ever. Oh! it is heart-rending to knowthat my own son is encouraging this impertinence. "

"Will you give me a portion of the money, ten dollars? I shall bevery grateful for that. "

"Not a shilling, sir, " exclaimed the lady, putting the portmonnaieinto the pocket of her rustling silk-dress; "I will not pay you forgoing among poor people and degrading yourself; only keep a propermedium, my son, and you have a most indulgent mamma, but without thatI'm granite. "

A very soft and unstable sort of granite the lady seemed, as she shookher head and rustled across the room, repeating the hard word, moreand more emphatically, as Frederick resumed his pleading. 

Whether the granite would have given way at last, it is impossibleto guess; for while Fred was urging his request with the eloquenceof desperation, the street-door opened, and the tall gentleman, whomwe have met in the tea-room, as the Mayor's guest, was seen in thehall. 

"Do be quiet, Fred, here is Judge Sharp, " said Mrs. Farnham, fretfully; "I won't be teased in this way about a parcel ofvagabonds!"

Fred Farnham was a passionate boy, and he stood with burning cheeksand flashing eyes in the midst of the floor when the country-gentlemancame in. 

"I will go to my father, then, or pawn my watch--something desperateI'm sure to do, " he muttered, walking to a window and half-concealinghimself behind the waves of crimson damask that swept over it. 

Mrs. Farnham shook her head at him, reprovingly, as she advanced toreceive her visitor, with a torrent of superficial compliments andfrothy welcomes. 

Before the Judge could recover from this overwhelming reception, thedoor-bell rang, and a boy was admitted to the hall. 

Frederick had seen the new-comer through the window, and went eagerlyforward to meet him, at which his lady-mother drew herself up withimposing state, and called out--

"Frederick Farnham! will you never learn the just medium proper toyour father's position?"

Frederick did not heed this remonstrance, but, after a few eager wordsin the hall, came forward, leading Joseph Esmond by the hand. Theboy had taken off his straw-hat, and the entire beauty of hiscountenance, shaded by that rich golden hair, was exposed to the bestadvantage, notwithstanding his poverty-stricken garments; even thevolubility of Mrs. Farnham was checked, as her eyes fell upon thatdelicate face. She caught the glance of those large blue eyes, andceased speaking. It was the greatest proof of interest possible forher to exhibit. 

Fred led his friend directly up to his mother. 

"This is the boy--this is Joseph, dear mother; he tells me that thosetwo little girls are suffering--that they have not a cent to get foodwith; now will you refuse me?"

Mrs. Farnham kept her eyes bent upon Joseph. 

"What is it you have been telling my son about these poor people?"

"Oh, they have suffered so much, Madam--not a morsel to eat nor ahouse to rest in when they come home from poor Mr. Chester's funeral;but worst of all, the good lady who was so very, very ill, has gotup when the girls were out, and gone away. She wasn't in her head, ma'am, raving with fever, and may be killed in the street. "

It seemed impossible to look into those pleading eyes, and resistthem. Mrs. Farnham took out her portmonnaie again, ratherostentatiously, for vanity always mingled with the best feelingsand most trivial acts of her life. 

"There, " she said, presenting a bank-note to the lad, "take this, and give it to the poor family, " and she looked consequentially roundupon the stranger, as if to claim his approbation for her charity. 

The Judge smiled rather constrainedly, and Mrs. Farnham added, turningto Joseph, "See now that the money is spent for comforts, nothing else; I wouldhave given it to you, Fred, only as I was saying, there is a mediumto be observed--you will remember, my boy. "

Joseph's eyes shone like sapphires. 

"I will give it to your sister, Mrs. Peters, ma'am; she lives downstairs in the same house, and will take care of it for the littlegirls, " he said, giving a terrible blow to Mrs. Farnham's pride, inthe innocence of his gratitude. 

Mrs. Farnham blushed up to the temples, shaded by her pale, flaxencurls, at this exposure, and the Judge smiled a little more decidedly, which turned the mean crimson of her shame into a flush of anger. 

"You are a very forward little boy, " she was about to say, but thewords faltered on her lips, and she merely turned away, overwhelmingpoor Joseph with her stateliness. 

"Mother, I am going with him to look for this poor lady, " exclaimedFrederick. "The police must help us. "

"You will do no such thing, " answered Mrs. Farnham, sharply; "Ideclare, sir, the boy torments my life out with his taste for runningafter low people. "

"They are not low people. "

Fred broke off abruptly, for his father entered very quietly, andwith a look so at variance with his usual cold reserve, that evenhis vixenish and very silly wife observed it. 

"What is the matter?--you have been walking home in the heat!" sheexclaimed. "Mr. Farnham, will you never remember that there is amedium?"

For once Farnham deigned to answer his wife. 

"I walked very slowly, and am not tired, " he said, "but what is this?what is it Frederick proposes to do?"

"Mrs. Chester has escaped from her house, sir, in a raving fever, and cannot be found. I was going with Joseph, here, to search forher, " answered Frederick, looking anxiously into his father's face. 

"What, another!" muttered the Mayor, with a pang of remorse. "Yes, go my son, I will help you; the whole police shall be put on thesearch if necessary. "

Joseph lifted his eyes to the Mayor as he was speaking, and as Farnhamcaught the look, a smile broke over his face, one of those powerfulsmiles that transfigure the very features of some men. 

"Thank you! oh! thank you!" exclaimed the boy, "we shall find hernow. "

Here Judge Sharp stepped forward and held out his hand, for the Mayorhad not seen him till then. 

"Let me go with these young people, perhaps I can help them betterthan the whole police, " he said, kindly. 

"I wish you would, " answered the Mayor, "for I feel very strangelyto-day. " He certainly was pale, and seemed much shaken, as if somepowerful feeling had seized upon his vitality. 

"Then I will leave you to your wife, while I go with these boys ontheir merciful errand, " said the Judge. "Come, my lads. "

"One moment, " said the Mayor, taking Joseph by the hand, while heled him away from the group, and whispered in his ear. His lips werepale with intense feeling, as he listened for the answer. 

"My name is Joseph Esmond, that is his name also. "

"I knew it--I was sure of it, " muttered Farnham, and he sat down inan easy chair, and watched the boy wistfully as he left the room. 

God had reached the conscience of that man at last, and his graniteheart was breaking up with the force of old memories and suddenremorse. That day, his past and present life had been linked forciblytogether. The shock made him look inward, and he saw clearly thatthe hard, barren track of politics had led him to become a murderer. The law did not recognize this, but his soul did. 

CHAPTER XIII

JANE CHESTER AND THE STRANGER. 

 Disease, thou art a fearful thing When, half disarmed by household care, Thou sweepest with thy poison wing, O'er the loved forms to which we cling, And bending to the sweet and fair, Leav'st thy corroding mildew there!

 But if thou treadst the plundered track, Where poverty has swept before, Leaving his victim on the rack, Then, then, thou art a demon black, That steals within the poor man's door. Crushing his hopes forevermore!

And Jane Chester--where was she while strangers were bearing awaythe husband of her youth to his lone grave? Amid her fever that day, amid all her delirium, one idea had been vivid and prominent beforeher. The woman's heart remained true to its anchorage amid the stormand fire of approaching ship-fever. Long after reason had failed, the love that was stronger than reason told her that some great evilwas befalling her husband. Time was to her a vague idea; she thoughtthat he had been gone for weeks--that he was seeking for her and thechildren along the wharves and in the dim alleys of the city, andthat the Mayor had forbidden him to come home. She would find him--shewould take food and clean garments to him in the street. He shouldnot wander there so poverty-stricken and neglected, without her. Indefiance of the Mayor, in defiance of the whole world, she would goto him. 

This thought ran through her burning brain, and trembled wildly onher tongue. Her husband--her husband--he could not come to her, andshe must go to him. But the two little girls--they appeared to herlike guards--great gaunt creatures dressed in fantastic uniform, stationed by her bed to coerce and frighten her. They held her back;they seemed to smother her in the bed-clothes, and gird her head downto the pillow with the hot clasp of their united hands. Those twolittle creatures became to her an object of terrible dread. She longedfor strength to tear them down from the towering altitude which herimagination gave, and blindfold them, as they, in her wild fancy, had blindfolded her with their scorching hands. 

She saw little Mary Fuller put on her hood and go forth with a thrillof insane delight. That wild, uncouth form had seemed far moreterrible than the other, and yet now the petite figure of her ownchild seemed to rise and swell over her like a fiend. 

"Ice--ice!"

She knew, in her delirium, that this cry sometimes sent her dreadedjailors from the room. If they were absent, she could find herclothes--she could steal softly down stairs, and away after _him_. 

"Ice--ice!" she cried, "I will drink nothing unless the ice rattlesin the glass--cold, cold. It must be cold as death, I say. "

Isabel rose up in terror, and taking their last sixpence, went forthfor the ice. Then the mother laughed beneath the bedclothes--alone, all alone. She started up--tore off her cap and her night-dress, andthrust her unstockinged feet in a pair of slippers that stood nearthe bed. 

Several dresses hung in the room. With her eager and burning handsshe took them down, cast all but one on the floor, and put that on, laughing low and dismally all the while. A bandbox stood at the footof the bed. She crept to it, took out a bonnet, and drew it with hertrembling hands over the disordered masses of her hair, which shetried vainly to smooth with her hot palms. Strong with fever, wildwith apprehension that her guard might return, the poor woman aroseto her feet, and after steadying herself by the door-frame awhile, staggered from the room down the stairs and into the broad city. 

Filled with the one idea, that of finding her husband, she passedon, turning a corner--another, pausing now and then by an ironrailing, to which she clung, with a desperate effort to keep herselfupright. 

Many persons saw her as she passed, reeling in her walk, and withher sweet face flushed crimson; but, alas! these sights are notuncommon in our city, from causes far more heart-rending than illness, and with passing wonder that a person of her appearance should bethus exposed at mid-day. Those who noticed her went by, some smilingin scorn, others filled with such pity as the truly good feel forerring humanity. But the poor invalid tottered forward, unconsciousof their pity or their scorn. She had but one object--one fixedthought among all the wild ideas that floated through her brain--herhusband. She was in search of him, and, in her fever-strength, shewalked on and on, murmuring his name over and over to herself, asa lost child mutters the name of its parents. 

At last, her strength gave way. She was upon a broad sidewalk, towhich the granite steps swept down from many a lordly mansion. Herhead reeled; the sunshine fell upon her eyes like sparks of fire;she clung to an iron balustrade, swung half round with a feeble effortto sustain herself, and sunk upon the pavement, moaning as she fell. 

Many persons passed by the poor invalid as she lay thus helpless uponthe stones. At last, one more thoughtful and more humane than therest, bent down and spoke to her. She opened her eyes, looked at himwith a dull, vacant gaze, and besought him, in husky tones, to goaway and tell Chester that she was there, waiting. The man saw thatshe was suffering, and, let the cause be what it might, incapableof moving. He called to a woman, who was passing by with a basketon her arm, and gave her a shilling to sit down and hold the invalid'shead in her lap, while he went for help. 

"She may be only ill, " said the benevolent Samaritan to the officerof police, whom he met on a corner. "There is no look about her ofhabitual intemperance; at any rate, she cannot be hardened. "

The officer followed this kind man, and they found Mrs. Chestermoaning bitterly, and much exhausted by the exertion she had made. 

"It is a singular case, " said the policeman, "her language is good, her appearance might be ladylike. But, see. " The man pointed witha meaning smile at the symmetrical feet in their loose slippers. Theblue veins were swelling under the white surface, and there was afaint spasmodic quiver of the muscles that seemed to spread over herwhole frame. 

"I can hardly believe that this is intoxication, " said the stranger, gazing compassionately on the prostrate woman. "She must be ill--takendown suddenly in the street. "

"But how came she barefooted? and her hair, it has not been done upin a week? I'm afraid we can't make out a clear case, sir. "

"But where will you take her?"

"Home, if she can tell us where it is--to the Tombs, if she is sofar gone as not to know, " replied the man. 

"The Tombs!"

"Oh, that is the City Prison, sir. "

"I know, but the City Prison is no place for a person like this!"

"Well, if you can point out anything better. "

"If I had a home in the city, this poor creature should never sleepin a prison, " was the answer. 

"Oh, I thought you must be a stranger, " was the half compassionatingreply. "It takes some time before one gets used to these sights, butthey are common enough, I can tell you, sir. Now let us see if shecan be made to comprehend what we say. "

With that sort of half-contemptuous interest with which the insaneare sometimes cajoled, the policeman began to question the invalid;but she only asked him very earnestly if her husband had come; andturning her face from the hot sunshine that was pouring upon her, began to complain piteously that they had laid her down there to beconsumed by a storm of fire-flakes that was dropping upon her neckand forehead. 

"You see the poor creature can tell us nothing; she is quite besideherself, " said the policeman. "I must take her to the prison--it isthe best I can do--to-morrow her friends may claim her, perhaps. Atthe worst she will only be committed for a day or two. "

"Wait here, " said the stranger, hurriedly, "wait till I get acarriage; she must not be taken through the streets in this state, "and the kind man went off in haste. 

The officer looked after him smiling. 

"You might know that he was from the country, poor fellow, " hemuttered, turning his back upon the sun, and good-naturedly shelteringMrs. Chester from its rays. "After all, I hope he is right; thereis something about her that one does not often meet with! upon myword I hope she is only sick. "

The stranger came back with a carriage, a showy and rather expensiveaffair, the cushions covered with fresh linen, and the driver quitean aristocrat in his way. 

"So that is the fun, is it?" he said, eyeing poor Mrs. Chester witha look of superb disdain. "I don't, as a usual thing, take peopleup from the sidewalks in this carriage, my good friend. "

"But I will pay you--I have paid you in advance, " urged the stranger. 

"Not for a job like this. Gentlemen who have an interest in keepingthese little affairs quiet, should be ready to pay well--couldn'tthink of starting without another dollar at the least!"

"There is the dollar--now help lift the lady in!"

"The lady--a pretty place this for a lady!" muttered the man, dismounting from his seat with a look of magnificent condescension, and approaching Mrs. Chester. 

"Gently--lift her with great care!" said the stranger, placing hisarm under Mrs. Chester's head. "There, my good woman, get in first, and be ready to receive her. "

The poor woman who had given her lap to the invalid as a pillow, attempted to get up, but the driver, after eyeing her from head tofoot, turned to the stranger:

"I couldn't think of taking in that sort of person; the sick womanseems clean enough; but, as for the other, she'll have to walk ifshe goes at all! Carriages wasn't made for the like of her. "

The noble face of the stranger flushed with something akin toindignation, but, relinquishing Mrs. Chester to the policeman, hestepped into the carriage, and received the poor invalid in his ownarms. 

The policeman had become more and more charitable in his opinion ofthe unhappy lady. He hesitated a moment, with his hand on the carriagewindow. 

"I say, sir, there does seem to be a doubt if this poor lady is notreally ill. Perhaps, you might as well take her to the Alms HouseCommissioner first. He may think it right to send her up to theHospital, and, then, she need not go before a magistrate. "

"And can we do this? can she be taken directly to a hospital?"

"If the Commissioner pleases, he has the power to send her there atonce. "

"Then order the man to drive to the Commissioner's office, " criedthe stranger, eagerly. "I thought that in this great city theunfortunate might find shelter short of a prison. Tell him to driveon. "

The door was closed; the carriage moved on; and in it sat the generousstranger, with the head of that poor invalid resting on his shoulder, supporting her with all the benign gentleness of a father. He feltthat the hot breath floating across his cheek was heavy withcontagion; he knew that fever raged and burned in the blue veins thatswelled over those drooping arms and the unstockinged feet, but, heneither shrank nor trembled at the danger. Possessed of that pureand holy courage which tranquilly meets all peril when it presentsitself--a courage utterly beyond that selfish bravado which mocksat death and exults in carnage--he scarcely gave his own positiona thought. Bravery, with this man, was a principle, not an excitement. He was fearless because he was good; and, from this cause, also, waskindly and unpretending. 

The carriage drew up in Chambers street, not far from the place wherethe cart had stood with poor Chester's body upon it, not an hourbefore. The stranger composed Mrs. Chester on the seat, and placeda cushion against the carriage for her head to rest on; then, openinga gate, he hurried through the narrow flower-garden that ran betweenthe old Alms House and Chambers street, crossed through one of thosebroad halls to be found in the basement, lined on each side withpublic officers, and, mounting half a dozen steps, he found himselfin the Park. An Irish woman sat upon the steps of the nearestentrance, holding a forlorn bundle in her lap, and with a ragged babyplaying with its little soiled feet on the pavement before her. Thiswoman turned her head, and nodded toward the door when he inquiredfor the Commissioner's office, then bent her eyes again with a deadheavy gaze upon the pavement. The stranger, mounting the steps, foundhimself in a place utterly new and bewildering to him. 

It happened to be "pay-day" for the out-door poor, and, into theante-room of the Alms House, the alleys, rear buildings and dens ofthe city, once a fortnight, pour forth their human misery. The roomwas nearly full, and, amid this mass of poverty--such as he, freshfrom the pure country air, had never even dreamed of--the strangerstood overpowered. 

There is something horrible in the aspect of poverty when it reachesthat low and bitter level that seeks relief in the lobby of an AlmsHouse! The stranger looked around, and the philanthropy within himwas put to its severest test. For the first time in his whole lifehe saw poverty in one dark, struggling mass clamoring for money!money! money! coarse, grasping poverty, such as crushes and killsall the honest pride of man's nature. 

The room, large as it was, appeared more than half full, and not asingle happy face was there. At the upper end was a platform, reachedby two or three steps, and fenced in by a low wooden railing, alongwhich ran a continuous desk. At this desk half a dozen clerks andvisitors sat, with ponderous and soiled books spread open before them. 

Up to this railing pressed the want-stricken crowd, the strong andhealthy bustling and crowding back the fallen and infirm. Here oldwomen struggled in the human tide, some casting fierce and quarrelsomeglances at each other, others shrinking back with tears in their eyes, unequal to the coarse strife. Here, too, were men lean and gaunt withthe hunger of a long sea voyage, elbowed aside by some brawny armedwoman, who clamored loudly of the children she had left fast lockedup in her little place, that she could but just pay the rent for. Here, too, were young girls, children with an aged, worn look, likethe fruit that withers to half its size before it ripens. Mostheartrending of all, persons of real refinement were mingled up withthis rude mass; poor wretches who had indeed seen better days, andtheir helpless, broken-hearted looks, the remnants of earlysensitiveness, that still clung around them, was pitiful to behold. 

The stranger saw that upon the outskirts of the crowd these personsalways lingered, waiting patiently till the coarse and strong wereserved. Outstretched upon the benches near the walls, and restingupon their bundles, were eight or ten sick men, with the fever uponthem, waiting for the van which was to convey them to Bellevue. 

Through all this misery, huddled and jostling together, our goodSamaritan must force his way; for when he asked for the Commissioner, the people pointed their lank fingers toward a door within therailing, and between himself and that was all this crowd of hungrybeings. 

"Let me pass, will you? Let me pass, " he said, pale with the effectsof the scene, but speaking in a gentle tone. 

"And why should you pass? Wait your turn like the rest of us!" saida harsh-featured woman, turning fiercely upon him. "Is't becauseyou've a fine coat on that you'd put before your bethers, I'd beliking to know?"

The stranger drew back. With all his benevolence he could not breastthat rough wave of human life, which dashes weekly against the stepsof our Alms House. 

"Make room--make room there. What does the gentleman want? Make room, I say!"

It was the voice of a clerk, who, casting his eyes over the crowd, had seen the stranger. 

The people did not fall back, but they huddled close together, withtheir heads turned and gazing upon the stranger, some mutteringfiercely, others taking advantage of the moment to crowd closer tothe railing. Thus a passage was made, and the stranger made his waythrough a little gate up to the platform, where the attentive clerkcame forward to learn his business. 

"Oh, you should have passed on to the next entrance. It is difficultto get along in this room on Saturdays, " he said, after the strangerhad unfolded his errand. "You will find the Commissioner in hisoffice, " and the clerk courteously opened a door. 

The stranger entered a large, airy room, furnished as most publicoffices are, with the most hideous carpets and the stiffest lookingchairs; in this instance there was a sofa that seemed to have beenfor years the pauper inmate of some furniture store, and to have beentransferred from thence to the City Poor House, when the owners becametired of keeping it as a private charity. 

Many persons were in the office, two or three women occupied the sofa, one of them weeping bitterly. Half a score of men, some from thecountry, others belonging to the institution, were grouped about theroom reading newspapers, conversing, or waiting patiently for anopportunity to transact the business which brought them there. 

A large table covered with dark cloth ran along one end of the room, around which stood half a dozen chairs more commodious than the rest, two of them occupied by the head clerks of the department, and inone, before which stood a small writing-desk, sat the Commissioner. 

He was a slight, active man, with eyes like an eagle's; his featureswere finely cut, and you could read each thought as it kindled overthe dark surface of his face. 

By the side of the Commissioner sat an old woman, talking in a lowvoice and weeping bitterly. You could see by the expression of theforehead, and by the faint changes of a countenance which no habitof self-control could entirely subdue, that the tale which this poorold creature poured into his ear was one of bitter sorrow. His darkeyes were bent thoughtfully on the table, and a look of deepcommiseration lay upon his features as she continued her low andbroken narrative. 

This man was a benefactor to the poor. Sights of distress, even whenthey become habitual, had no power to damp his kindly sympathies. Yet while generous to the poor, he was faithful to the people. 

At length the Commissioner looked up. You could see by the suddenkindling of his face, that he had bethought himself of some meansby which this old woman might be benefited. He addressed her in alow but cheering voice. The poor old creature lifted her head, thetears still hung amid the wrinkles in her cheek; but over her witheredlips there came a smile. The Commissioner reached out his hand, shechanged her staff, leaned upon it with her left hand, and half timidlyheld out the other. You could see by the brightening of those agedeyes, and by the increased vigor of her footsteps as she left theroom, how like a cordial this evidence of sympathy in her distresshad cheered her aged heart. 

The stranger whom we have introduced saw all this, and his heartwarmed alike to the old woman and to the man who had comforted her. He approached the table, and could hardly refrain from holding outhis hand to the Commissioner, so surely do truthful feelings vibrateto the good acts that they witness. 

Had you seen those two men as they sat down together, you might havesupposed that they had been old friends for twenty years. 

The stranger told his story in few words, for he saw by the businessappearance of the office that it was no place for long speeches. TheCommissioner listened attentively. 

"Where is the poor woman now?" he questioned, when the man pausedin his narrative. 

"She is waiting in the street--I brought her with me. "

"I will see her myself: one minute and I am ready. "

The Commissioner took up his hat, crossed the room, spoke a few wordsto the woman who sat weeping on the sofa, told an old man who stoodwaiting by the door that he would return in a very few minutes andattend to him, then with a light, active step he left the room, followed by the stranger. 

They found Mrs. Chester in the carriage, grasping the cushion beneathher head with both hands, and muttering wildly to herself. The lastfew hours had brought her disease into its most malignant state. Shewas incapable of a single connected thought. 

The Commissioner stepped into the carriage and helped to arrange thecushions. 

"She is delirious; it is the fever. Typhus, I should think, in itsworst form, " he said. "She must have prompt care. "

"She must, indeed, " replied the stranger. "The noise, the hot sun, all are making her worse. "

"And you do not know her name?"

"No; she has muttered over several names, but I could not tell whichwas hers. "

"Nor her home, of course?"

"No; I found her in the street as I have told you. "

"It is strange. She seems like an American. It is a pity to send herto the hospital, but I can do no better. "

"You will send her there!" exclaimed the stranger, joyfully, "Thepoliceman talked of the Tombs. "

"No, no, she is no person for that, I am certain, " exclaimed theCommissioner. "I only wish we had the power of doing more than canbe expected at Bellevue; but certainly she shall go to no worse placethan that. "

"Oh, thank you!" said the stranger, gratefully. 

"I will write out an order, with a few lines to the resident physicianat Bellevue. Nothing more can be done, I am afraid. "

"Oh, that is a great deal--everything, in fact--of course she willhave proper attention in an institution where you have control. "

The Commissioner looked grave, but did not answer that over theBellevue Hospital his power was merely a name--that he could grantsupplies and give directions, but had no real authority oversubordinates appointed by the Common Council, and could not, for themost flagrant misconduct, discharge the lowest man about thedepartment of which he was the bonded and responsible head. Shackledin his actions and even in his speech, this truly efficient and goodman would pledge himself to nothing, so he merely said:

"Will you, sir--you who have done so much--conduct this poor womanyourself to Bellevue? The van will go up soon, but she does not seemof the usual class. "

"I will go with her, of course, " replied the stranger, resuming hisseat in the carriage with benevolent alacrity, while the Commissionerreturned to his office and hastily wrote a letter to the residentphysician, beseeching him to bestow especial care on the unknownpatient who seemed so ill, and so completely alone in the world. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

BELLEVUE AND A NEW INMATE. 

 A gloomy home for one like this; So pure, so gentle and so fair, -- Must her sweet life, in weariness, Go out for lack of human care?

The carriage which bore Mrs. Chester paused before the gates atBellevue. The gloomy and prison-like buildings loomed in heavy andsombre masses before the stranger, as he leaned from the carriageto deliver his order to the gatekeeper. The Hospital, with its wallsof dark stone blackened by age, its sombre wings sweeping out fromthe main building and lowering above the massive walls, struck himwith a feeling of gloom. It seemed like a prison that he was entering. The Hospitals were drear to him, and the dull, heavy atmosphere seemedfull of contagion. He looked at the poor creature thus unconsciouslybrought there, perhaps to die, and his heart swelled with compassion. 

The gate swung open, and down a paved causeway leading to the water, bounded on one side by a high stone wall, and on the other by a bakeryand various workshops belonging to the institutions, the carriagewas driven. The wharf in which this causeway terminated, was fullof lounging inmates; some were attempting to fish in the turbid water;others leaning half asleep against the wall, and some were groupedtogether, not in conversation, but basking lazily in the sunshine. 

Before it reached this wharf the carriage turned and was driventhrough an iron-studded gate, into an open and paved court that ranalong the front of the main Alms House. The hospitals were somedistance back of this building, but here the sick and dying must bebrought first, for their names were to be registered in the Alms Housebooks before they could be permitted to die in peace. 

As the carriage drove in, up came the swarm of idlers from the wharf, dragging themselves heavily along, laughing stupidly at the ponderousgambols and grimaces of a huge idiot boy, who, on seeing a newarrival, rolled rather than walked up from the water with his handextended, crying out--money--money. It was all the language the poorcreature possessed. He had learned to beg, and that was knowledgeenough for him. In everything else he was the merest animal thatcrawled the earth. Yet, the other paupers followed him as they wouldhave chased a dog or tame animal of any kind, whose gambols brokethe monotony of their idleness. 

Up came this idiot boy to the carriage, leering in upon its inmates, and rolling from side to side, with his hand out, mumbling that oneword over and over between his heavy lips: and up came the gang ofpaupers, gazing in also with stupid curiosity. 

It was well for Jane Chester that she could neither see nor hear allthis--that the fever had grown strong enough to shut out all the realworld to her heated senses! As it was, the sight of these miserableobjects did create some new and more harrowing pain. She began tomurmur of the torment to which she had been consigned--of the strange, heavy fiends so unwieldy and coarse that had taken her in charge. Every event of that fearful day was absolutely thrusting her a stepnearer to the grave. 

Just as the driver had dismounted from his seat and was about to openthe door, the Alms House van came tumbling along the pavement andinto the court with another freight of misery. Along by the carriageand nearer to the entrance rolled the ponderous black vehicle, andout from its tomb-like depths were taken forth the men and women, that an hour before had been lying so helplessly on the benches atthe Commissioner's office. 

One by one these poor creatures were carried up the steps, and afterthem rolled the idiot, calling out--money, money--as if the emigrantswhom England consigns to our charity, had anything but their ownmiserable lives to give away. 

And now with the heat, the noise, and the motion of the carriage, the poor invalid became almost frantic. She struggled with thestranger--she called wildly for Chester--and would have cast herselfheadlong to the pavement, for in her hallucination she fancied thatthe pauper gang were carrying away her husband. 

They bore her into the Alms House in a fit of momentary exhaustion. 

Her name and history was a blank in the Alms House books. Her lipswere speechless--her eyes closed. They only knew that she wasnameless, homeless; and thus was her entrance registered. 

And now came two men to carry her to the hospital. One was old, withgrey hairs, who tottered beneath his burden; and the other a palelad, who had just recovered from the fever. Out through the backentrance, down a flight of steps into the hot sunshine again, theybore the helpless woman, her garments sweeping the pavement, and herpale hand sometimes striking the stones as they passed along. 

But there was no rest for her yet; another registering was to be made. In the Hospital office a pauper clerk had charge, and to hisinvestigation the invalid must be consigned. He was no physician, certainly; but the hospital was divided into wards, each ward havingits own class of diseases. It was this man's prerogative to decidewhat particular malady afflicted each patient, and to assign theproper ward. The two men placed Mrs. Chester in a chair, and thestranger stood behind it supporting her head upon his arm. 

The clerk had entered the blank order upon his books, and now cameforward to examine the patient. 

"Put out your tongue?"

The order was given in a peremptory tone, worthy the captain of aDown-East militia company. Poor Mrs. Chester opened her wild eyesand looked at the man. 

"Your tongue, woman! open your mouth--don't you hear?"

Jane Chester unclosed her parched lips and revealed her tongue. Theedges were red, as if they had been dipped in blood; and down thecentre, like an arrow, lay the dark incrustations peculiar to shipfever. 

The clerk shook his head, and laid his hand upon the sinking pulse. 

"Low, very low. Just gone of consumption--no doubt of it--phthisispulmonalis--a bad case--very. Take her to the wing!"

"I should doubt, if you are not a physician, sir, " said the stranger, mildly, "I should venture to doubt, if this lady is not sufferingfrom fever. Not half an hour ago her pulse could hardly be counted;now you feel that each beat threatens to be the last! These terriblechanges--do they bespeak consumption?"

"I have pronounced upon her case!" replied the clerk, "but it makesno difference. Let her go to the fever ward. If the doctor don't agreewith your opinion, sir, she can be sent to the wing!"

"I am no physician, but she requires prompt care!" interposed thestranger. 

"Then you are not an M. D. , " cried the clerk, with a look of annoyancethat he should have yielded to anything less than a professional man. 

"No, but it is quite certain that all this moving about from placeto place is killing the poor lady. She requires the greatesttranquillity, I am sure!"

"Well, well, take her up to number ten, " said the clerk, addressingthe persons who had brought Mrs. Chester in. "The doctor will seeto her when he goes his rounds!"

The two men raised Mrs. Chester in their arms, and carried her upa flight of broad stairs and through a neighboring passage, till thestranger, who looked earnestly after them, could no longer detectthe faint struggle with which she sought to free herself, or hearthe moan as it trembled on her pallid lips. 

The stranger drew a deep breath as she disappeared, and turned backto the office greatly oppressed by all that he saw. The clerk wasleaning back in his chair, drumming with his fingers upon the seat. Inured to an atmosphere of misery, he felt but little of the painfulcompassion, the mingled horror and pity which almost overwhelmed thatbenevolent man. 

"You are sure, quite sure, that this poor lady will be cared for, "said the kind man, addressing the clerk. "Here is money, I would givemore, but am some distance from home and may require all that Ihave--see that she wants for no little comfort that can be bought!"

The clerk's eye brightened as he saw the money. 

"Oh, be sure, sir, she shall have every care. "

"I have a letter for the resident physician--where can he be found?"

"Oh, he has just started for the island in his boat. The aldermenand their families dine at the Insane Asylum, and he has gone withthem. You might have seen his yellow flag on the water as you camein. "

"And when will he return to the Hospital?"

"Oh, in a day or two; his rooms are in the other building, but heusually walks over the wards once or twice a week!"

"Once or twice a week! Why I heard that the ship fever was raginghere--that the hospitals were crowded, and many of your doctors sick!"

"Well, no one disputes that the hospitals are crowded--half thepatients are on the floor now; and some of the assistants are sickenough!"

"And your resident physician only passes through these hospitals onceor twice a week--who attends to the patients?"

"Oh, the young doctors of course!"

"And are they experienced men?"

"Some of them are graduates, almost half I should think. "

"And the rest?"

"I suppose, all have studied a year or two. "

"And do these men--who have only studied a or year two--prescribefor the patients--without the advice of a superior?"

"Certainly, why not? They must begin sometime, you know. "

"And will this poor woman, laboring as she is under an acute disease, be placed under the care of a mere student?"

The clerk mused before he answered. 

"Let me see, number ten--yes, young Toules has charge there. It ishis turn in the fever ward. He has never graduated, I believe. "

"And has he had no practice among fevers?"

"Oh! yes, he has been three days in number ten, and one sees a gooddeal of fever in three days, I can tell you. "

The stranger turned away sick at heart. 

"Let me, " he said, in a broken voice, "let me speak with the nursewho is to take care of the person I brought here. "

The clerk called to a lame pauper who was limping through the buildingand ordered him to summon the nurse from number ten. The old manwent with difficulty up the stairs that led from the hall, and soonreturned, followed by a tall dissipated-looking woman of forty, whostill retained in her swollen features traces of intelligence andearly refinement that redeemed them in some degree from positivebrutality. 

A look of fierce and settled discontent lay on this woman's features, which was aggravated by the dress of dark blue that fell scant andill-shapen around her stately figure, and was fastened tightly overthe bosom with a succession of coarse horn buttons that but halffilled the yawning buttonholes. 

This woman approached the stranger with a dogged and sullen air. 

"Is it you that wants me?" she said, looking earnestly at him. "Thatman said somebody wanted to see the nurse!"

"And is this woman a nurse to the sick? Is she to have the chargeof this poor lady?" questioned the stranger, turning to the clerk. 

"That is the nurse, and I hope she suits you, for you seem hard toplease, " answered the clerk, crustily. "She is one of the best womenin the hospital, at any rate!"

The stranger turned his eyes upon the woman with a grave and painedlook. 

"I sent to ask your kindness for the poor lady that has just beencarried to your ward, " he said; "of course you are well paid by thecity; but I am willing to reward you for extra care in this case!"

"Well paid by the city!" cried the woman, with a fierce and sneeringlaugh; "oh, yes, hard work and prison fare at the Penitentiary--harderwork and pauper fare when they send us here for nurses. That is thepay we get from the corporation for nursing here in the fever. Ifwe die there is a scant shroud, a pine coffin and Potter's field. That, is our pay, sir!" and the woman folded her arms, laughing lowand dismally. 

"The Penitentiary--what does she mean?" inquired the stranger, greatlyshocked. 

"Oh! they come from the Penitentiary, these nurses, " said the clerk. "The corporation have to support the prisoners, you know, and thehospitals all get their help by law from Blackwell's Island. "

"And is this woman a prisoner?"

"A prisoner--to be sure I am--you don't take me for a Poor Housewoman, I hope?" cried the nurse. "I haven't got to that yet--nobodycan say that I was contemptible enough to come here of my own accord. "

There was something too horrible in all this. The stranger sat downand drew out his purse with a suppressed groan. 

"Here, " he said, giving some money to the woman, "this will pay youfor a little kindness to the poor lady. In the name of that God whohas afflicted her, see that she has proper care. "

The woman's face softened. For one instant some remnant ofhalf-forgotten pride made her hesitate to take the money, but thiswas soon conquered, and she reached forth her hand clutching iteagerly. 

"I will take care of the lady, sir, never fear, " she said, and forthe moment, she really intended to perform her promise. 

"Do, and when you lie ill as she does, God be merciful to you as youare to her!" said the stranger, solemnly, and taking his hat he wentforth with a sad countenance. 

When Judge Sharp left Bellevue he went directly to the Mayor'sresidence, where he had made a dinner engagement the night before. We have already described his meeting with Joseph Esmond. 

He was satisfied that the person whom he had conducted to the hospitalwas the lady for whom the lad was in search, and resolved to go withthe boy and obtain more knowledge of her condition. The little girlshad just returned from the funeral, and were sitting desolately intheir bed-room, shrinking into the farthest corner like frightenedbirds in a cage, for the landlord had taken possession, and the poorchildren had no home but the street; even in that little bed-roomthey felt like intruders. 

But the Judge came with Frederick and Joseph, and this was a sunbeamto their grief. 

The noble man questioned them gently, and at last told the wholeanxious group that Mrs. Chester was alive and in Bellevue, where hehad himself conducted her. 

The little girls uttered a cry. 

Oh, the wild, the bitter joy of that moment. She was alive--alive!They should see her again--stand by her bedside. She would look atthem--speak to them. They clung to each other, the sobs they couldnot suppress filled the room. The Poor House! They were going to thePoor House! What was that to them? She was there, and with her theycould lie down and sleep once more. It was better thus. The landlordhad taken possession of their home. He determined to keep the scantfurniture, for his rent, and after that the home of those poorchildren was the street. The Alms House! It had a pleasant sound tothem. That was a home from which no landlord could send them forth. They went gladly with Judge Sharp before the Commissioner. 

"You will not let them take us away from her--we may all be together!"pleaded Mary. 

The Commissioner mused; it was unusual, but he resolved to requestof the superintendent that these children might not be taken fromBellevue until the mother was pronounced out of danger, or shouldbe no more. He wrote to this effect, and with his own hands placedthe children in the carriage that was to convey them to Bellevue. 

CHAPTER XV. 

THE FEVER WARD AND ITS PATIENTS. 

 Rest--give me rest--my forehead burns, Hot fires are kindled in my brain! Oh, give me rest, till he returns, Rest--rest from all this racking pain. 

Poor Mrs. Chester, half dying and quite insensible, was borne intothe fever ward of that close and crowded Hospital. Number ten wasa large airy room, capable of holding twenty patients with comparativecomfort, but now the fever was raging fiercely. Nearly six hundredpatients crowded those gloomy walls, and in the room where twentypersons might have been almost comfortable, eighty poor creatureswere huddled together, breathing the infected air over and over againtill their struggling lungs were poisoned and saturated with thedeadly atmosphere. 

Close together, along the walls, were ranged narrow wooden cots, withtheir straw beds and coverings of coarse cotton check. And closetogether on those contracted couches--the meagre causeway from whichmany of these poor creatures were lifted to a pauper's grave, thepatients were huddled, suffering in all the stages of that fierceand terrible disease, the malignant typhus. 

There the sufferers lay, their death-couches jostling, the hot poisonof their breaths mingling together, and spreading a dank miasma frombed to bed. 

Some were in the first creeping stages of the disease flatteringthemselves that it was only a little cold they had taken. Others wereshivering with that deathly chill that glides like the icy trail ofa serpent down the back; the limbs aching as with severe toil, andthe brain literally on fire with seething poison. Others were fierceand mad with delirium; their faces, their breasts and arms had turnedof a dull copper color, the strongest and unmistakable sign of thedeadly form which typhus takes when it is called malignant ship fever. 

The poor creatures rolled to and fro on their narrow couches, tearingout the straw with their hot and quivering fingers, or twisting thesoiled sheets with a feeble and shaking grasp. Some were calling forwater, and praying in piteous tone for mountains of ice, cold brightice to fall down and bury them. 

Others were still further advanced in the terrible disease, and laywith the last heavy clouds of delirium resting upon the brain. Pale, emaciated and motionless, they spoke in whispers of the husbands andchildren whom they had left, it seemed to them years before, and ofwhom they faintly pleaded for tidings. It was piteous to see thoseweaker still, that lay more helpless than infants, the tears rollingmournfully from their eyes, unable to utter the inquiries that kepttheir white lips in constant motion, but gave out no sound. 

More than one stretched back upon the meagre pillow, was in herdeath-throe groping in the air, with glazed eyes rolled upward tothe ceiling, while the under jaw dropped lower, lower, leaving themouth half open never to be closed again, save by a penitentiarynurse. 

One lay dead upon her couch stiffening, there unheeded, the God ofheaven only knowing at what moment the breath left her body. 

Scant and miserable as were those pauper beds, enough for all to dieupon could not be found at the Hospital; so blankets had been castupon the floor, and on them were laid the sick, till the whole wardwas completely littered with human misery. Over this scene came theglaring daylight, for the windows had neither blinds nor shutters, nothing but a valance of gingham through which the sunshine pouredupon the aching eyes of the sick. 

They laid Mrs. Chester among those who moaned and writhed upon thefloor. Nothing but the rough folds of a blanket lay between herdelicate limbs and the hard boards. Amid the groans, the ravings ofdelirium, the faint death rattle that rose and swelled upon the horridatmosphere, they laid her down. The student physician had been hisrounds that day, and so she was left to the care of the nurses. Thusshe remained quite unconscious of the horrors that surrounded her, till the nurse came back from her interview with Judge Sharp. Thiswoman grasped the money in her palm, and the touch seemed to givea glow of animal pleasure to her features, as she threaded her waythrough the prostrate sick. 

A nurse some years younger than herself, but with less of characterin her face, stood near the door. She approached this woman, andsoftly unclosing her hand revealed the money. 

"What! there have but four died to-day--you did not find that aboutthem? I searched thoroughly myself, and none of them had a cent. "

"Never mind where it came from. You shall have a share, but rememberI have got to work for it yet. Where is the woman they have justbrought in?"

"What, the slender woman with all that beautiful hair? She is abouthere, on the floor, I believe. "

"She must have a cot, I am determined on it, " said the elder nurse, resolutely. "Those who pay us shall be first served, " and the womanwent on through the prostrate sick, searching eagerly for Mrs. Chester. "Yes, here she is, sure enough, " talking softly toherself--"now let us see what can be done about a bed. "

The woman moved from cot to cot, gazing on the inmates, not with pity, she was used to their moans, but eagerly searching for a bed thatpromised soon to be empty. Her eyes fell upon the corpse that laywithin a few paces of Mrs. Chester, and she approached the cot withgleeful alacrity, saying to her companion:

"Oh, here is an empty bed--I thought it would not be long before wefound something for her to lie on besides the floor. Go and callCrofts. "

The younger nurse went out, and directly there came two men into theward, bearing a rude pine coffin between them. They trod heavily alongthe floor, knocking the coffin now and then against a cot till itjarred the helpless inmate, and thus they carried it down the wholelength of the ward. They deposited the rude thing close by the blanketon which Mrs. Chester lay, and then went out, leaving the women torelieve the bed of its mournful burden. 

The younger nurse had brought with her a scant shroud, of the coarsestmuslin, and there in the midst of the sick, one of the women put thisgrave garment on, while the other stealthily searched in the bosomof the corpse and under the pillow for any little valuable that thepoor woman might have hoarded in her death-bed. After groping aboutawhile, the young nurse drew forth her hand with a low chuckle. Itcontained a bit of tissue paper, soiled and crumpled in a heap. Abank note! what else could it be? The two women looked at the paperand their eyes gleamed. It was not often that they found bank notesabout the Bellevue paupers! How they longed to examine it then andthere! But the sick were not all insensible, and the young womanthrust the treasure into her bosom, whispering as she stooped downto smooth the shroud:

"By and by--of course we go halves to-day!"

"That is fair and above board!" replied the other, folding the armsof the dead upon the pulseless bosom they had robbed, "there now, call in the men!"

Again those two men came tramping heavily among the sick. There wassome bustle and a little joking as they placed the pauper corpse inits pine coffin; and when they bore it out one of the men inquired, in a voice that might have been heard half over the room, if therewas much chance of their being wanted again within an hour or two. 

The elder nurse looked around upon the cots, and answered that itwas very likely, but that the next coffin must be longer--at leastfour inches longer!

The two women followed the coffin out, and when quite alone in thepassage, fell to examining the value of their prize. 

"There must be two bills, " said the younger, beginning to unfold thelittle parcel, "what if each of them should be a five, now!"

These words were followed by a short and scornful laugh, accompaniedby an oath, that most fearful thing on the lips of a woman. The scrapof soiled tissue paper unfolded a lock of grey hair. 

"Never mind, mine is here all in hard chink!" said the elder nurse, striking her bosom. "Here will be enough, with what the doctor allowsfor the patients, to give us one glorious night. Just help me liftthe woman into bed, then slide round to the consumption wards; or, what's better, whisper a word to the orderly, and ask him to come;we'll make the old shanty shake again before midnight. "

The young woman, after appeasing her disappointment by casting thelock of hair upon the floor, and grinding it fiercely beneath herheavy shoe, became somewhat consoled. But she sullenly expressed adetermination to find her share of the drink, if she were obligedto rob every patient in the ward. 

After this conference the nurses returned to the ward. One took offMrs. Chester's outer garments, while the other proceeded to arrangethe empty cot. In the same cot, the same sheets, and on the verypillow from which the dead had just been removed, they laid thehelpless woman. Upon her fair hands and face still rested the dustthat had been gathering upon her from the street. But under ourbenignant Common Council, the largest hospital in America containedno bath for its patients, though the Croton water gushed everywherearound the building. There was a shower bath for punishment of thepenitentiary women, but for the suffering---not even that. 

They laid her down, therefore, unrefreshed in that death couch; andthere she remained moaning like the rest, lifting her sweet voicelouder and louder in her excitement; for the noise, the atmosphereand the horrid sights everywhere in the room drove her wild. She flungup her hands and laughed as the nurses passed to and fro before herbed. She called them angels--those two besotted creatures--andbesought them with wild, sweet energy to cherish and care for Chesterwhile she was so far away. These women promised her cajolingly, patting her head with their bloated hands, which, in her madness, shewould gather to her bosom or kiss eagerly with her hot lips. 

The ordinary course of her disease might not have arrived so early tothe fierce virulence that it had now obtained; but the day had beenone of fearful turmoil, even for a healthy person, and this fever, ina single hour, grows fierce and strong upon such causes. Fuel for adeath-fire had been heaped up in that one miserable day. Now the poorcreature began to rave--her child, her husband, and little Mary. Sheshrieked for them louder and louder, that her voice might rise abovethe wild, strong cries that swelled as she thought in defiance of herfeebleness. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

JANE CHESTER AND HER LITTLE NURSES. 

 As the starbeams come earthward, and smile on the night, Awaking the blossoms that drooped in the day, And kindling their hearts with a dewy delight, They came to the couch where the sufferer lay. 

All at once, in the very height and fury of her delirium, Mrs. Chesterfell back upon the pillow smiling; the hot tears rolled from her eyes, and her shaking hand was outstretched. She knew them--for one minute, that woman's heart grew stronger than her frenzied brain, She knewthose two little girls who crept hand in hand to her couch, holdingback their tears, and striving to look cheerful; though each smilethat they forced broke away in a quiver upon their lips, and the veryeffort to be calm made their grief more visible. 

"Children--_my_ children!" whispered the poor woman, softly, for, after they came in, she never once lifted her voice as she had done, "come, I will make room--the bed is cool and broad--better, so muchbetter than that in which they shook and jostled me--come, my littletired birds--here is pillow enough for us all; when he comes homeagain it will please him to see us here, so comfortable. Ah, here comemy angels; sit close, little ones, till they sweep by. You cannot seetheir wings now--they are furled close under those comical dresses, but that is because we are not good enough to look upon them. Someday, when he comes, my angels will throw off those blue clothes, andthen their wings will unfurl and scatter soft, sweet air all over us. You shall see them then, so beautiful--fringed and starred and spottedwith gold and purple and bright green--with sunshine melting through, and the scent of violets dropping around--hush, girls, don't cry, youshall have a good sight at my angels then--see, see, I am beckoningthem here. Now, hold your breath and wait; hush!"

The two nurses, who had been at another end of the ward, came thatway, and with her hand quivering in the air, the poor invalid beckonedthem. They came on, loitering heavily along, and talking to eachother. The young woman turned away to another side, and the eldernurse moved forward, grumbling. 

"See, one is coming. I have been bad to-day, you know, and only thisangel will appear, " whispered the invalid, pointing with her unsteadyfinger toward the nurse. 

Mary Fuller looked up; her large eyes began to dilate, and her facegrew very pale. The woman's eyes fell upon her. A look of ferociouspleasure rose to her face, and she came forward, laying her handheavily upon the child's shoulder. 

"Mother!" broke from Mary Fuller, and the tears stood in heraffrighted eyes, "oh, mother!"

"Don't mother me, puss! A pretty child you are, to sneak off, getyourself new frocks and the like, while your own poor mamma is inprison!" cried the woman, clutching the child's shoulder. "And howcame you here at last?"

"I came in search of her!" said the child, pointing to Mrs. Chester;"she was good to me, after--after they took you away. I lived withthem; this is her little girl!"

"Then you did not come to see your own mother!--very well--very well!I only wait till I get out, that's all!" and giving the poor child ashake, the woman fell to settling the bed-clothes about Mrs. Chester, muttering threats against the child who stood trembling by her side. 

"I have come, " said Mary, meekly, following the woman as she turnedfrom the bed; "I have come to stay. The kind gentleman at the Parksaid that we might both live at Bellevue till she was better. Mother, oh! mother, let me help take care of her. I can--see how strong I havegrown!"

"Take care of her, indeed--and who would take care of me, if I weresick, I should like to know?"

"I would, indeed I would, mother. "

"Indeed you would--very likely, " sneered the woman. "But stay, forwhat I care--you will be sure to catch the fever though; and thatlittle doll, with long curls, let her stay, too. It's a sweet place, here, for children!"

"I don't want her to stay here--only let her come in once in awhile tosee her poor mother--she is so young and so pretty; the fever takesthose first, I am sure!"

"Well, let her come or go--only remember this, if you stay here itwill be no baby play, but work--I'll make you work, let me tell youthat!"

"I will work--oh, mother, if anything I can do will only save her! Youdon't know how hungry I was after you went away--and she fed me!"

"Well, feed her, then!" cried the woman, a little softened, "there isa cup, get some water and give her drinks!"

Mary Fuller took the tin-cup pointed out, and filled it with water. She went up to the patient with her gentle voice, and held the waterto her lips. The poor woman drank greedily, and then Mary went aboutseeking for other means of comfort. The doctor had not yet seen hispatient, so she could only act by her own feeble judgment. She founda large bowl, and filling it with water, bathed the neck and face andhands of the poor invalid. Then she saturated Isabel's handkerchief, and laid it moist and dripping upon the hot forehead. 

"She is better--see, it does her good!" cried the child, with gladtears in her eyes, turning to Isabel, who stood by, weeping as if herheart would break, and trembling with a fit of terror that had seizedher the moment she entered the room. 

This cool ablution had indeed relieved the patient. She sighed deeply, and her mind seemed to change its tone. She was wandering in sweet andpleasant places, where fountains gushed high, and wild flowers shookand brightened beneath the soft rain-drops that fell around; nothingcould be more beautiful than the words that denoted this bright changein her wanderings. Mary's heart thrilled to hear these words, for sheknew that it was her hand that had created the paradise in which thesufferer fancied herself to be wandering. 

Only once during the next twenty-four hours did Mary leave that humblebed; then it was to accompany Isabel to the matron, who kindly gaveher a pillow, and allowed her to lie down on the carpet in her room. The poor child was completely worn out with fatigue and grief. 

But Mary never left her watch for a minute. All the evening she sat byMrs. Chester's couch, bathing the forehead of her benefactress, cooling the palms of her hands, and listening to the soft murmurs thatfell from her lips. 

About ten in the evening, there came into the ward a young man, notmore than twenty years of age, and singularly effeminate in hisappearance. He wore a loose calico dressing-gown, and embroideredslippers. His manners were gentle, and he seemed greatly distressed byall the misery that surrounded him. Never in his brief existence hadthis young man prescribed for a patient, till he entered the Hospitalsat Bellevue; yet there he stood, in the midst of a pestilence thatmight have taxed the skill of twenty old physicians, free to tamper ashe pleased with all that mass of human misery. 

It was well for those poor creatures, that this young student madeup in goodness of heart what he lacked in experience. He did not fearthe pestilence half so much as his own ignorance. But for thatprofessional pride that clings so powerfully to the young, he wouldhave resigned at once, rather than take upon his conscience the solemnresponsibility of life and death, as it lay before him in thatfever-ward. But the ignorance that does nothing, is preferable to thatwhich absolutely kills. The student had little confidence in himself, but he did not strangle nature with his presumption, and lackingdeeper skill, made a kind nurse. He had learned how to watch thechanges of this disease--an important thing to know--and gave littlemedicine, but was prompt at sustaining life with stimulants when thetime came for that. Altogether, it was a fortunate chance for the poorcreatures huddled in that fever-ward, that they were consigned to noworse hands. 

The young doctor went his rounds, with a small blank-book in his hand, writing down with a pencil the few and simple prescriptions that hegave. His presence had a soothing effect upon the patients, for hespoke kindly to them all. At length he came to Mrs. Chester--two daysand three nights she had been struggling with the fatal disease. Thelittle Mary sat meekly by her side, for up to this time she alone hadministered to the sick woman. 

The young man took Mrs. Chester's hand from the checked coverlet andbegan to count her pulse. A hundred--more, even more than that hecounted before the minute went by. It was a case of fearful danger;he saw that at once. Gladly would he have called in counsel, but nophysician had a right within the walls of Bellevue, except thoseappointed by the Resident. Two of the assistants were ill, and theResident had not yet returned from his dinner with the Common Council. Perhaps this was a fortunate chance, for the simple remedies venturedupon by the student did no harm, and nature was left untrammelled towrestle with the disease. 

"You will let me stay with her. The gentleman at the Park said I mightstay, if the Doctor did not object!" said Mary, lifting her eyes tothe young man as he laid Mrs. Chester's hand upon the bed. 

The student had hardly noticed the child before; but the sweetness ofher voice pleased him, and he answered that she might stay if shecould do any good to her sick friend. 

"I have been listening. I heard what you said about them all alonghere. In the morning you shall see if I hav'n't taken some care!"

"I hope so, " said the student, sadly, "for, without care, the greatestcare, a good many must be dead before morning!"

"Show me which. Just point them out very softly, and tell me whatought to be done. You need not be afraid that I shall fall asleep!"whispered the little girl, rising eagerly. 

The student looked at the child in surprise. Her plain face, a momentbefore so sad, shone with the brightness of an angel's. 

"I am sure you will not sleep, " he said. "Now follow me around tothese beds and I will repeat my directions to you--the women, I seeare gone out. You will make a small nurse, but a very good one, Idare say!"

Mary followed him, listening to every word that fell from his lips, and reading the expression of his face with her intelligent eyes. 

All night long the child was on her feet moving from bed to bed, carrying drink to one, persuading another to swallow the medicine thathad been prescribed, and pouring a spoonful of wine or brandy into thepale mouth of another; thus keeping the feeble lamp of life flickeringon, pauper life, it is true, but precious to them as the breath thatswells the purple-clad bosom of a monarch. 

The nurses left the ward about midnight, and did not return for manyhours. When they came back Mary turned very pale, and cowered down atthe foot of Mrs. Chester's bed. Her mother--she knew the signs, oh, how well--her mother had been drinking. Judge Sharp's benevolence hadprovided the means of a carouse for those two wretched women. Theyboth came in reeling from one sick bed to another; the older mutteringtaunts upon the wretched inmates; the other shedding maudlin tearsmore horrible and disgusting still. After wandering about the ward fora time, the two wretched creatures seated themselves upon the floor, and throwing their arms around each other, sunk into a brutal slumberwhich lasted till day-light. 

Again Mary Fuller arose from her place by Mrs. Chester; again sheministered to the lips that unconsciously muttered her name, couplingit with words of tender love; and again she hovered around thosepauper couches, treading very lightly, for she trembled with fear thather mother might awake. When daylight came, the child went noiselesslyround to those whom the doctor had supposed in the greatest danger. They were all alive. One looked up, blessing her with eyes that, lacking her gentle care, must have been sealed in death. Anotherparted her pale lips, and besought the child not to leave her againto the care of those rude women. A third took her little thin hand andkissed it. 

The child crept back to her seat, weeping tears of thankfulness. She, apparently one of the most helpless of God's creatures, had that nightsaved the lives of three human beings. She had done this great good, and with her little hands folded in her lap thanked God--not audibly, but as children sometimes do thank the Heavenly Father--that He hadmade her so strong. 

While these feelings comforted the child, the mother arose heavilyfrom her drunken slumber. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

THE STUDENT PHYSICIAN AND THE CHILD. 

 Softly she came like a spirit of light, And her goodness shone out like the glow in a gem; As she waited and watched through the wearisome night, The fall of her footstep was music to them. 

Another day went by. New patients were crowded into the hospital, andsome were carried out with their feet toward the door. For an hour ortwo that day Mary Fuller slept a little, with her head resting againstMrs. Chester's cot. The groans and the depression of the sick did notshake her nerves as they had at first; and the poor thing was soexhausted that even in that place, and in the poisoned atmosphere, herslumber was deep and tranquil; and then came a remembrance of herfather's dying words, that no human being was so humble or weak thatsome good to humanity might not be won from her exertions. She lookedaround the ward and saw a blessing in every eye, and she knew that onein heaven was blessing her also. 

Oh, if Mrs. Chester could have slept for one hour like that littlecreature at her feet. But the poison seemed kindling afresh in herbrain; her fancies grew wild and terrible; she was climbing mountains, sinking deep, deep, deep into the very bowels of the earth, whereserpents coiled and hissed, and writhed with horrid joy as they sawher descend. Now she clung to the point of some sharp rock, holding onwith her fingers, while those huge serpents trailed themselves upward, crawling slowly from the abyss from which she was saved only by thegrip of her own slender fingers. 

Then you knew by her voice that the scene had changed. She waspleading for Chester--pleading with low broken tones, that would havetouched a heart of stone. She besought the Mayor not to wrong herhusband, not to press and wring his proud spirit so cruelly as he haddone; and then she believed that her sweet eloquence had prevailed, for her lips trembled with thanks; she murmured nothing but softblessings upon the man who had been to her worse than a murderer. Another change, and she passed on to some new hallucination, visionaryas the last, for day and night her brain never rested. When theyquestioned her, the poor woman always answered that she was not ill, that nothing was the matter, nothing whatever--she only wondered thepeople would tease her so with inquiries that had no meaning. 

Another night came on, and again Mary prepared herself to watch by thesick. The few hours of slumber she had obtained, made quite a newcreature of her. She was resolved to be doubly vigilant--that no oneof the suffering persons around her should lack nourishment or care. How cheerful and strong the little creature grew, as a sense of herpower to accomplish good increased upon her. It was strange, but afterthe first few minutes she never once thought of the danger. There shewas, feeble and helpless, in the very midst of a pestilence that wouldhave terrified the strongest man; but it seemed quite impossible tothe brave girl that the fever should reach her. Perhaps this veryconfidence protected her, for while she inhaled poison with everybreath, it produced no harmful effect upon her. 

The nurses were sullen and bitter in their language to the child allday. They seemed to think her an intruder, and, but for the youngphysician, she must have been driven forth from the ward by her ownmother. Toward night these two women whispered much together, goingfrequently into the passage where several nurses from other wards metthem stealthily. As the night drew on, Mrs. Chester sunk into a fitfulsleep, and this encouraged the little watcher, who sat gazingwistfully on her face, scarcely daring to move, though the noisearound was unabated. The hours crept on, and darkness gathered overthose pauper-couches. Mary looked up through the gloom, and saw hermother creeping softly from couch to couch, making herself very busywith the medicines. The doctor had just paid his last visit for thenight; finding Mrs. Chester low, and evidently sinking, he had orderedboth brandy and wine to be given in small quantities, but veryfrequently, during the night. 

The tin-cups which held the precious stimulants--for they wereprecious in the sick-room, holding life and death in theirstrength--stood upon a little stool near Mrs. Chester's cot. It wasthese tin-cups that drew the nurse like a vampire to the spot whereher child sat watching. 

"Go, " she said, in a more kindly tone than she had hitherto used whenaddressing the gentle girl, "go and bring that little curly-headeddoll in, if she wants to kiss her mother again to-night--I suppose shewould like to see her fast asleep, as she is now!"

Mary arose, dissatisfied, she knew not why, with the tone of cajolingkindness in which she had been addressed. But Mrs. Chester slept, andduring the next ten minutes would not require her attendance. Isabelhad been drooping like a strange bird, since she came to the AlmsHouse, and Mary knew that it would cheer her to see her poor mother inthat calm sleep. Still the child went forth with unaccountablereluctance. The moment she was out of sight, that wretched womanpounced like a bird of prey upon those tin-cups, and pouredthree-fourths of their contents into a dark earthern pitcher that shecarried under her apron. Then she hastily filled the cups with water, leaving just enough of the original contents to color the whole. 

The next and next patient was robbed in like manner; then with herblack pitcher reeking with the life she had plundered from those poorcreatures, the wretch went out, comparing with a chuckle her horridspoil, with the jar half-full of brandy, which the younger nurse hadgathered from her end of the ward. 

"Hurry, hurry, or we shan't get through before the young cockatricecomes back to catch us at work! She has got the eye of a hawk, I cantell you, " cried the woman, emptying her pitcher into the jar, whichwas carried away to a safe corner by her accomplice. 

"Come, bring the water and fill up after me. There is twenty beds leftyet. I gave the right sort of symptoms to the doctor, and he left thekind of medicine that we like best for almost the whole lot. "

The young woman followed her ruthless leader into the ward, carryingthe water-pitcher in her unsteady hand, for she had not reached thehardened audacity of her preceptress, and there was something in thescene to make even a debased nature tremble. 

"Don't, don't take more than half; they will die before morning if wedo!" she whispered, as the eyes of a patient, full of heart-rendingreproach, was turned upon their work. "See, this one is so feeble. "

"Poh, a little brandy, more or less, what does it signify?" cried Mrs. Fuller. 

"The wine, then leave the wine. I did not take a drop!"

"More fool, you!"

"Hush!" said the young woman, "I hear her coming. Leave the rest; weshall be found out. "

"Take this and give me the water. Out of the way, now, and see thatyou don't drink any till I come!"

The young woman hurried out of the room, meeting Mary Fuller andlittle Isabel in the passage. 

"They want water. I am going for more water. It is wonderful how theykeep us running night and day!" she said, hoping to draw off theirattention with a gratuitous falsehood. 

Neither of the little girls answered, but passed gently into the ward. 

Mrs. Fuller was by a cot near the door, holding her water-pitcherto the lips of a patient; nothing could appear more kind than herdemeanor. "Ah, here you are, " she said, nodding to the children, "she is asleep yet! Don't make any more noise than you can help. "

Isabel went up to her mother's cot, and kneeling by it lookedearnestly upon the pale and languid features. 

"_Is_ she better?--see how white she is, how her eyes are sunken. Shehardly breathes at all. Oh, Mary, _is_ she better?"

"Yes, the Doctor says so--and she does not mutter to herself or seemso restless as she did. I think, Isabel that she _is_ better!"

The tears gushed into Isabel's eyes. She bent down and softly kissedthe pale hand of her mother. Mrs. Chester started and opened her eyes;they fell upon her child, and instantly that full gaze was blendedwith tears. 

"Isabel, my child. " The words were very, very faint, but oh, howsweetly they fell upon those young hearts. 

"She knows me--oh, Mary, she knows me!" cried the child, and herbeautiful face grew radiant amid the tears that covered it, like aflower struck with sunshine when the dew is heaviest on its petals. "Mamma, oh, my own mamma, this is Mary, our Mary Fuller!"

The sick woman turned her eyes toward her little nurse. She tried tolift her hand, but it only shook on the checked quilt. 

"Mary, my good, good Mary!"

Mary knelt down softly by her friend, and bowing her head wept insweet and grateful joy. 

"Where am I? Where have I been?" asked the invalid, still morefaintly. 

"You are with us, this is our home!" answered Mary, almost catchingher breath, for she dared not tell the poor lady where she really was. 

Mrs. Chester was now quite exhausted, her eyes closed, and shescarcely breathed. Mary started up and poured out a spoonful of whatshe supposed to be wine. 

"Every ten minutes--every ten minutes we must give her this, with thebeef tea when she can take it. "

"Let me--oh, let me give it to her this one time, " pleaded Isabel. 

Mary resigned the pewter spoon with a faint smile, and Isabel held thecolored water to her mother's pale lips. Then Mrs. Chester slept againwhile the two girls sat watching her with their hopeful eyes. Onceevery ten minutes these little creatures would steal up to the pillowand pour the mockery of strength between those white and parted lips, hoping each time that she would open her eyes and speak to themagain--but no, she slept on and each moment her breath grew fainter. While the two girls sat with their arms interlinked watching thatbeloved face, the nurses stole out from the ward, and crept, each withan earthen pitcher in her hand, down the Hospital stairs, and out intothe open grounds. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE MIDNIGHT REVEL--MARY AND HER MOTHER. 

 Time stole into eternity, And they stood wondering by, Breathless, and oh, how silently To watch the lov'd one die. 

Between that portion of Bellevue occupied as an hospital and the mainbuilding lay several enclosures sparsely cultivated with flowers, butaltogether possessing a barren and dismal aspect. Scattered throughthese enclosures were offices and shanties, some occupied by favoredpaupers, and others used as work-shops and for the culinary purposesof the Hospitals. 

In one of these shanties a shocking scene presented itself that night. The signal for a secret carouse had been given, and the orderlies andnurses crept stealthily from their posts by the sick, and came throughthe midnight darkness towards the shanty. Some came slowly and atonce; while others stole like gaunt wild beasts, by the high wall thatsweeps parallel with the western front of the main Hospital, sheltering themselves beneath the willow trees and the deep shadowcast by the building, while with their hands they groped eagerly alongthe wall. They found, after some trouble, the cords for which theywere seeking, each with a piece of iron at the end, that had been castover the wall by an accomplice outside the gate. Three of these cordslay tightened across the wall, their iron ballast sunk into the turf, and with breathless haste they were drawn over each with a bottle atthe end, which, as it reached the top of the wall, fell into the foulhands grasping at it. 

One bottle was broken in the fall, for the man stationed to receive itwas very old, and he could not see like the others. When the vesselwas dashed against the stones bespattering the aged drunkard with itscontents, he fell upon the grass wringing his hands and bemoaning hishard fate. The others met his grief with muttered curses, and one ofthem spurned the grovelling creature with his foot, showering fiercereproaches upon his carelessness. 

They drove this miserable being back to his lair in the shanties, but he crawled abjectly toward them, begging to join the carousenotwithstanding his great misfortune. They would still have rejectedhim, but the old man had learned craft with his age, and when pleadingwas of no avail, betook himself to threats, which proved moreeffectual than his tears. Fearing that he might expose them in themorning, they consented that the old man should have a portion oftheir spoils, and he followed them through the darkness like a lameold hound that takes his food greedily, though beaten by the hand thatgives it. 

A cooking-stove stood in the shanty, with a pine table and somestools. Upon the stove was a metal lamp burning dimly and emitting acloud of smoke. One end of the table held a tin candlestick, where ameagre tallow-candle swaled away in the socket, and the table waslittered with fragments of food in little round pans. An iron spoon ortwo, with three or four tin cups, lay amid this confusion. Around thistable hovered half a dozen women nearly intoxicated with brandysupplied by the nurses, from number ten. 

In this state was the shanty when the two orderlies came in, huggingthe great black bottles to their bosoms, followed by the old pauper, who still muttered discontentedly at his loss. 

Then began the carouse in earnest! The tin cups were filled again andagain--the earthen pitchers circulated from lip to lip--like wildanimals, they devoured the fragments stolen from the convalescentpatients, and swallowed the stimulants, of which they had plunderedthe dying not a stone's throw off; pipes and tobacco were produced, the women smoking fiercely like the men; while ribald jests andmuttered curses rose through the foul smoke. 

And these were the persons provided by a law of New York City for thesick poor--these fierce women, reeling to and fro like fiends amid thesmoke, making sport of pain, joking about coffins--laughing withdrunken glee over the death throes they had witnessed. These were thenurses a great and rich city gave to its poor--merciful economy--sweet, beautiful humanity!

And there sat those gentle children in the fever wards so wickedlydeserted. From time to time Isabel parted the violet lips of her poormother, and forced through them the liquid fraud that was so cruellydeceiving them. Mary went from bed to bed administering to the dyingpoor, as she had done the night before; but with a heavy heart, forall that she gave them imparted no strength. She could see thehelpless creatures droop and sink from minute to minute; one or twowere benefited, but the rest only seemed worse from all her tending. 

Mary was giving a draught of water to a young woman, who in herdelirium clamored constantly for drink, when Isabel stole softly toher side. The child was very pale, and her large eyes dilated withterror. She took hold of Mary's dress and pulled it. 

"Mary, oh, Mary, she did not swallow the last. Come, come and helpme!"

Mary sat down the water pitcher and went to Mrs. Chester. She bentdown close to the motionless face, listening. You could see her cheekgrow pale in the dim light, as she held her own breath, hoping tocatch one flutter from those white and parted lips. She lifted herhead at last, and turned her mournful eyes on Isabel. 

The little girl looked imploringly upon her--she shed no tear--utteredno word; but fell, like a wounded bird, prone to the floor, and therestood poor Mary in the midst of death, utterly alone. 

When the nurses came reeling up from their carouse, three lay deadupon those narrow cots besides Mrs. Chester, and two were dying. 

"Go and call Crofts!" cried Mrs. Fuller, staggering from bed to bed, reckless and fierce. "Let us have the cots cleared--bring in theshrouds, I say. Tell Crofts we have plenty of use for his pine boxesto-night. "

The other nurse obeyed her, muttering fiercely against the unevennessof the floor. 

The coffins were brought in, and these two wretched women arranged thepoor creatures they had murdered, for their pauper graves. They cameto Mrs. Chester last, but Mary Fuller, who knelt by the bed-side withpoor Isabel senseless at her feet, arose and stood firmly before hermother. 

"You shall not touch her! You shall not even look at her!" cried thenoble child--and with her trembling hand she drew the sheet over thefeatures she had so dearly loved. 

The woman glared fiercely upon the child. Drink had rendered herferocious--she lifted her clenched hand, shaking it savagely, and anoath broke from her hot lips--an oath over the beautiful dead. 

"I--I will put that on, " said the child, pointing to the shroud whichthe nurse held crushed under her arm. 

"Out of my way!" cried the furious woman--"out of the way, or I willstrike you!"

"Mother, leave this poor lady to me, or I will go myself and call upthe doctor, " answered the child firmly. 

"Out of my way!" repeated the wretched woman. 

The child grew pale as death, but in her eyes rose the steady firmnessof a meek but strong spirit, fully aroused. 

"Mother, though you strike me to your feet, though you kill me, I willnot let you come near this poor lady--not now--not as you are!"

"As I am!--how is that?" cried the vile mother, lifting her soiledapron to her eyes and heaving a sob. "Here I am, a poor, forlornprisoner, and you, my own child, must come to taunt me in thisway--I wish I were dead--oh, I do--I do!"

And in a fit of maudlin self-condolence, the base woman betook herselfto a corner of the ward where, with her arms flung across the cot of adelirious patient, she muttered herself into a heavy slumber. 

Mary Fuller turned to her mournful task. First she sprinkled water inpoor Isabel's face, and strove with all her feeble skill to bring thechild from the death-like swoon in which she had fallen; but thebeautiful child lay upon the floor, pale as her mother, and lookingnearly as much like death. When all her own simple efforts atrestoration proved fruitless, Mary went out in search of help; she metCrofts in the passage, who took the child in his arms and bore her tothe matron's room. 

When Crofts returned with the pine coffin he found the remains of poorJane Chester reposing beneath the scant folds of an Alms House shroud. The pale hands were laid meekly on her bosom, and her hair--that long, beautiful hair, which Chester had been so proud of, lay in all itsbright beauty over her brow. Disease had not yet reached the purplebloom that lay upon those tresses, and Mary, following her own gentlememory of the past, had disposed them in rich waves back from theforehead, which gave a singular but beautiful look to that calm, deadface. They lifted the pale form of Jane Chester, and laid itreverently in the pauper coffin. There was neither pillow nor liningthere, nothing but the bare boards to receive those delicate limbs, and this bleak poverty made even the heart of Crofts sink within him. 

"It is a pity--she does not seem like the rest--I wish we had askedthe matron for a strip of cloth or something to put under her head, "he whispered, addressing the stolid man who stood by. 

"Wait, only wait a few minutes, " answered Mary, laying her handeagerly on Crofts' arm. "How kind it is of you to think of this. Youwill wait, I am sure. I--I will get something!"

"Very well, we will take out the others first, " said Crofts, who wasvery kindly disposed toward the little girl; "be quick, though. "

Mary went out in breathless haste. She was very pale, and her eyeswere full of sorrowful eagerness as she went forth into the dim, greymorning, just breaking through the fog that lay on the Long Islandshore, and revealing the waters that rolled darkly between that andBellevue. She threaded her way through the enclosures which we havementioned. The light was just sufficient to reveal a few springflowers, starting up from the soil, and the soft foliage of an oldvine or two that covered the nakedness of some outbuilding. 

Ignorant of those rules that made her act a trespass, Mary wanderedon, gathering up the hyacinths, violets and golden crocuses to whichthe night had given birth. Down to the water's edge she rambled, carefully gathering up each bud in her passage. In a corner of thesuperintendent's garden she found an old pear tree, dead, except thetrunk and a single limb nearest to the ground, that was studded withsnow-white blossoms. 

Mary clambered up by the wall, and breaking off handful after handfulof these fragrant buds, carried them, all wet with dew, back to thehospital. As she bore her treasure along the fever ward, scenting thepestilential atmosphere with their pure breath, the sick turned theirlanguid faces toward her, greedily inhaling the transient sweetness. Two or three of the convalescent women followed her with longing eyes. She felt these glances and turned back, leaving a spray of the dewybuds upon the pillow of each. The grateful look with which herkindness was greeted softened somewhat the sorrow that oppressed her. 

With the most touching reverence she knelt by Mrs. Chester's coffin, lifted that cold head softly from the boards, and placed the flowersshe had brought beneath it. Softly she laid her benefactress down uponthe blossom pillow. The delicate blending of rosy purple with the richgold of the crocuses and the golden green willow leaves, relieved bythe pure white of the blossoms underneath, cast around the dead a haloof spiritual beauty. The soft and blended brightness of the flowersseemed to illuminate those beautiful and tranquil features. Around theform of Jane Chester there seemed nothing of death but its solemnrepose. 

"Not yet--a little, only a little longer!" pleaded the child, asCrofts came to close the coffin, "I hope, I am almost sure, Isabel canbear to look at her now!"

Crofts smiled grimly, and sat down on the empty cot. In a few momentsMary came into the ward, supporting Isabel with her frail strength. The child wept no longer, but the trembling of her little form waspainfully visible as she tottered forward. Not a word passed betweenthe children--not a look was exchanged, but when Isabel bent over hermother, and saw the blossom shadows trembling around her head, herlips began to quiver, and the tears gushed from her heart. 

Crofts, the common upholsterer of the Poor House, turned away hisface, and wiped his eyes with the skirt of his coat. Close by himstood the man who shared his horrid duties, gazing with a look ofstolid indifference on the scene. Crofts arose, and taking this manby the arm, led him out from the ward. 

The two little girls went away after the coffin was removed; directlyMary came back with her shawl and hood on. She was ready to leaveBellevue, and returned to say a last, kind word to her mother. Thepromise she had made her father on his death-bed rose to her mind, andtook the form of a prayer. 

"Mother, look up, mother, I am going. " The woman turned heavily andlifted her head. "I am going, mother. "

"Very well, I can't help it, " muttered the mother, heavily. 

"I don't know where they will take us, or if we shall ever see oneanother again, " persisted the child; "but, oh, mother before we part, tell me how I can make you love me?"

"If there is a drop of brandy anywhere about, bring it and I'll loveyou dearly, indeed I will, little Mary; I ain't at all well, Mary, anda drop of brandy is good for sickness; get some, that's a dear; I'mvery fond of you, Mary!"

"Mother, I cannot; but, if you will never ask for it again, I will. Oh, I will die for you; I hav'n't anything but my life to give--northat, " she added, with a sudden thought, "for it belongs to God; Ihave nothing. "

Mrs. Fuller had fallen asleep, and heard nothing of this. So Maryturned away sorrowful, but not altogether hopeless. Those who trust inGod never are. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

A SPRING MORNING--AND A PAUPER BURIAL. 

 Not here--not here with our lovely dead-- Oh, give one spot of sacred earth! Where the grass may wave, above her head, And the sweet, wild flowers have holy birth. 

 Oh, grant our prayer--our solemn prayer-- A lonely grave--and fresh, green sod-- There is earth around us everywhere; And the mother earth belongs to God. 

A long heavy boat lay at the Bellevue wharf. In the bow sat half adozen paupers, who started up now and then to range the coffins thatcame in wheelbarrow loads from a little brick building near the wharf. 

A name was marked rudely in chalk upon the lid of each coffin, andthis was all that those who brought them knew or cared about thesenseless forms they carried. Out from that brick house, and along thewharf, they were trundled amid a swarm of loungers, who helped eagerlyto lower them into the boat. 

It was the harvest time of death at Bellevue, and those pine coffinswere garnered by tens and twenties each day. That morning the weightof twenty-four human forms, all breathing souls fifteen hours before, sunk that stout boat to the water's edge. 

When the last coffin came alone upon the handbarrow, Croftsaccompanied it, followed by two little girls. With his own hands hehelped to lower that coffin into the boat, and those paupers who couldread saw Jane Chester's name chalked upon the lid. As Crofts settledhis burden gently down across an empty seat, a faint odor of flowersstole through the crevices, and when the rude sail cloth was flungcarelessly over the rest, he laid a strip of clean, coarse linen overthis coffin, then clambering across to the man who sat with the helmin his hand, he imparted some directions to him in a low voice. 

"What, up to Randall's Island! Take those two children in the boatthere and back to the nurseries! It can't be done, I tell you, " saidthe man, sulkily. "I won't do it without the Superintendent's order, nor then either, if I can help myself. "

"Oh, let us go with her--pray take us!" cried Mary Fuller, who wasanxiously watching the man, while Isabel bent over the wharf, herhands hanging down, and her eyes full of helpless woe. 

The pauper captain neither heeded the pleading cry of Mary Fuller, orthe more touching look of the orphan--and to all the humane argumentsof Crofts he turned a deaf ear. At length Crofts found a means ofpersuasion more potent than tears or words. He took from his pocketfour twists of coarse tobacco, which the captain received with a grin. Hiding the treasure under his seat, he cast a sharp glance over thepile of coffins to assure himself that the transfer had not beenobserved by the men in the bow. 

"Holloa, there, stop crying and jump in if you want to go!" cried theman, addressing the children; "make room in the bow, will you--we havegot to leave these children at the nurseries as we come back. "

Crofts lifted the little girls into the boat, sat them gently down inthe shadow of Mrs. Chester's coffin, and went back to the hospital. 

"Give way, all hands!" cried the captain, seizing the helm. "Pull astrong oar, boys, or the tide will turn agin us!"

Half a dozen oars splashed into the water as this command was given. The boat moved slowly from the wharf, and wheeling through a narrowinlet, shot heavily out with its freight of death, into the EastRiver. 

Oh, what a change was there, from the dull and murky gloom ofBellevue! Down upon the broad expanse of waters came the morningsunshine. Rosy and golden it fell upon the waves, as they tossed androlled and dimpled to the soft spring breeze. Here a current of liquidgold went eddying in and out, like the trail of a comet; there, laythe smooth, calm surface, rosy with the young light, or blackened bythe shadow of an overhanging bank. Behind them lay New York city, Brooklyn, and Williamsburg, the tall masts and steeples rising througha sea of hazy gold, and belted with the silvery flash of the river. The banks, on either side, were clothed with soft, vivid green, brokenwith dog-wood trees in full flower, and maples in the first sweetcrimson of their foliage. The fragrance from these banks swept downupon the water and trembled through the air. 

All this seemed like the very atmosphere of paradise to those littlegirls, after their dreary sojourn in the pestilential gloom ofBellevue. They could not realize that the mother, the benefactress, whose smile had been so sweet only a few days before, was really andtruly gone. She was there close by; their little hands could touch hercoffin; the scent of flowers stealing through its chinks, constantlyreminded them of the mournful truth; but, with everything so brightand lovely around, they could not believe in the reality. The motionof the boat--the melodious dip of the oars in the water--these thingswere new and strange. There was nothing like death in it all save theheap of coffins, and from them they shrank shuddering and appalled. 

As the boat crept by Hurl Gate, a fearful change came over them. Theglorious beauty of nature conflicting with the gloom of death; thefrightful jokes of the crew; the boiling waters, leaping up only a fewyards off, in long glittering flashes, like banners of silver, tornand weltering in the breeze; the sky bending over them deeply blue, and flooded with pleasant sunshine; the ribald criticisms of thosecoarse men, and the death-heap under which the sluggish boat toiledthrough the waters--all these sharp contrasts were enough to haveunsettled the nerves of strong manhood. To those children, worn outand heartbroken, it brought strange and fearful excitement. Theirhands were interlinked; a thrill of keen magnetic sympathy shotthrough their frames. They looked at the bright water leaping andflashing so near. A wild temptation came over them, to spring from theshadow of that death-heap into the sparkling flood. This thrillingdesire assailed them both at once--their hands clung closer--theireyes, a moment before so heavy and sad, gleamed with intense meaning. They crept close to the side of the boat. 

"We are alone--we are all alone in the wide, wide world, " said Isabel, in a low voice that thrilled through and through the heart thatlistened. 

Isabel leaned over the boat; she was gazing wistfully into the water. 

"One spring, Mary, and we both have a home. "

The child stood up, her foot was on the edge of the boat, her face wasturned toward Hurl Gate. 

Mary Fuller started, as if from a wild dream, and flung her armsaround the half frenzied child, standing there upon the threshold ofa great crime. 

"Isabel, oh, Isabel! can we leave _her_ here, all alone?"

The child turned her head, her foot was slowly withdrawn, and her eyessank to her mother's coffin. She fell into Mary's arms, and burst intoa wild passion of tears. Filled with the same terrible feelings, MaryFuller could scarcely restrain the wild sobs that broke to her lips. She clung close to Isabel, and, cowering down in the boat, afraid totrust themselves with another sight of the rushing waters that had sotempted them, the little creatures remained motionless till theyreached Randall's Island. 

All this passed before the stolid crew, and they did not know it, butjoked and jeered each other in the midst of death, as if their horridduties had been a pastime. These men were so used to the King ofTerrors, that his aspect had ceased to disturb them. 

They landed on Randall's Island, a lovely spot at all seasons, but nowteaming with luxuriant beauty. The apple orchards were all in blossom. The cherry and pear trees, white as if a snow-storm had drifted overthem. The oak groves were robed with delicate foliage, and a carpet ofyoung grass lay everywhere around. Again the contrast between natureand that death-freight was more than painful. 

Two or three men came down to the landing with wheelbarrows, and theboat was disencumbered of its gloomy load. The little girls sat downupon the shore, watching each load as it was trundled away. At length, the men brought the coffin in which their hearts rested, and laid itacross a hand barrow. They arose silently, and followed it hand andhand. 

They turned into an orchard; the blossoming apple boughs drooped overthe coffin as it passed under them. A host of birds made the fragrantair tremble with their songs. The single wheel of the hand-barrowcrushed hundreds of wild flowers down in the tender grass. Once moreit seemed like a dream to those young hearts. Surely, surely it couldnot be her grave they were approaching through all this labyrinth ofblossoms!

All at once they came into an open space. The world of flowers wasleft behind. Thickets and broken hillocks were on the right and left. A sweep of green sward fell gently down to the water; here the turfwas torn up and mangled, and long deep ridges of fresh soil sweptdownward toward the shore. Some were heaped high with fresh mould andaround them all the young grass lay trampled and dead. There was onedeep trench open half the way down, into which a man leaped, while theothers handed down the coffins ranged on either side the trench. Withtheir hands clinging together, the children crept close to the brinkof the abyss and looked down. One low cry and, in pale silence, theyrecoiled back to the coffin and sunk down by it, like twin flowersbroken at the stem. 

An old man rose up from the trench, casting down his spade and dashingthe soil from his hands, rejoicing that his task was over for thatday; but his eyes fell upon the mournful group we have described. 

"What, another yet!" he muttered, with sullen discontent, as he movedforward. The little girls heard his approach and crept closer to thecoffin. 

"Not there! oh, do not put her there!" cried Isabel, lifting her ashenface to the man. 

The pauper-sexton shook his head. 

"This is always the way, " he muttered, "when the friends are allowedto come here, we are sure of trouble!"

"Is there no other place? oh, do not put her with all them!"

So pleaded Mary, rising to her feet, and taking hold of the old man'sgarments. 

"In all this island is there no room where one person can be buriedalone?"

"If you have a dollar to pay for the trouble--yes, " answered the oldman, softened by her distress. 

"A dollar!"

The child turned away in utter despondency. Where on the wide earthwas she to find a dollar? Isabel looked at her with mournfulsolicitude. A dollar! she would have given her young life for thatlittle sum of money; but, alas! even her life would not procure somuch. 

The old man stood gazing upon those little pale faces, the one sobeautiful, the other vivid and wild with intense feeling. His heartwas touched, and going back to the trench he took up his spade. 

"Come and point out the place where you would like to have her buried, and I will do the work for nothing, " he said; "as likely as not mylittle grandchildren will some day be crying over me for want of adollar. "

The old man seemed like an angel to those little girls. They could notspeak from fullness of gratitude, but followed the grave digger backtowards the orchard. Here the earth was broken, and rendered uneven bysome fifty or sixty hillocks; some marked by a single pine board, others without even this frail memorial by which the death-couch mightbe traced. 

On the outskirts of this humble burial-place they found a fragment ofrock, half buried in the rich turf, and overrun with wild flowers, mingled with fresh young moss. An apple-tree sheltered this spot, anda honeysuckle-vine had taken root in a cleft of the rock, around whichits young tendrils lay, covered with budding foliage. 

The little girls pointed out this spot, and the old man kindly sentthem away, before he sunk his spade in the turf. 

When his task was done he came toward them, wiping the drops from hisforehead. The sexton was poor, but out of the feeble strength left tohis old age, he had given something to alleviate distress greater thanhis own. A consciousness of this made his voice peculiarly gentle, ashe called a man from the trench to aid in the humble funeral of JaneChester. 

Again that coffin was borne beneath the sweeping boughs of theorchard, and lowered into its solitary grave, amid the sweet breath oftheir restless blossoms. The two children followed it with meek andtearful gratitude. The horrors of the tomb seemed nothing to them now, that the beloved form was secure of a quiet resting-place. The dreadof seeing her cast into that trench had swallowed up all minorfeelings. It seemed like leaving her there in a holy sleep, when theold man led them from the grave. They knew that it was a sleep fromwhich their grief could never arouse her, but still they went away, greatly comforted. 

The last boat was ready to put off when these children reached theshore. They sat down close together, without much apparent emotion. Their energies were completely prostrated; they had lost, almost, thepower to suffer or to weep. 

"We were ordered to leave you at the nurseries. Do you wish to gothere?" inquired the captain. 

Isabel looked at him vacantly, and Mary answered, "We do not know. "

"Would you not rather go back to the city, or to Bellevue?" persistedthe man, determined to force them into conversation; but still thechild answered, "We do not know. "

This mild and passive sorrow was more touching than their worst agonyhad been. They seemed like two wounded birds bleeding to death withouta struggle. 

CHAPTER XX. 

THE FATHER'S PROPHECY--THE DAUGHTER'S FAITH. 

 Oh, faith, how beautiful thou art! Like some pure, snowy-breasted dove, Nested within that gentle heart, Ye filled its softest pulse with love. 

Just where the banks of the East River are the most broken andpicturesque on the New York shore, and the sunny slopes of Long Islandare most verdant in their Arcadian beauty, the river opens its brightwaters, and Blackwell's Island rises, green and beautiful, from itsazure bosom. Years ago, when this gem of the East River was a privateestate, with only one dwelling-house to break its entire seclusion, itmust have seemed like a mile's length of paradise dropped into thewater. Then, its hollows were fragrant with wild roses, haunted byblackbirds and thrushes. Its shores were hedged in by the snow-whitedogwood, wild cherry and maple trees, laced together with nativegrape-vines and scarlet creepers, that, even a year or two back, hungalong its shores, like torn banners left upon a battle-field. Blackwell's Island had other inhabitants than the singing birds andthe sweet wild blossoms, when the orphans first landed there. Then itsextremities were burdened to the very water's edge, with edifices ofmassive stone, where human crime and human misery were crowdedtogether in masses appalling to reflect upon. 

On one end of the island, naturally so quiet and beautiful, rose therugged walls of the Penitentiary, flanked by outhouses, hospitals andoffices, every stone of which was eloquent of human degradation. Here, a thousand wretched men, bowed with misery and branded with crime, were crowded together. All the day long, herds of these degradedbeings might be seen in their coarse and faded uniform, burrowing inthe earth, blasting and shaping the rocks that were to form newprison-walls, and filling the sweet air with groans and curses, whichonce thrilled only to the songs of summer-birds. 

At the other extremity of the island stood the Insane Asylum, abeautiful pile, towering over a scene of misery that should fill theheart with awe. There is, perhaps, no spot of its size, throughout thelength and breadth of our land, where every variety of human sufferingis so closely condensed as it has been for years on this island. Themoment your foot touches the shore you feel oppressed with feelingsthat seem inexplicable. Pity, horror, and a painful blending of both, crowd upon the heart with every breath you draw. Nothing but the airseems free; nothing but the blue sky above seems pure, as you walkfrom one scene of distress to another. You feel the more oppressedbecause human effort seems so powerless to alleviate the misery youwitness; for who can minister to a mind diseased? What can take awaythe deformity and sting of guilt? Where lies the power to lift povertyfrom the degradation that the haughty and evil spirit of man has flungaround it? The very heart grows faint as it beats in this wildernessof woe, and finds no fitting answer to questions like these. 

But at the time these events happened there was one remnant ofbeautiful nature left on Blackwell's Island--one spot where theflowers were permitted to bloom in the pure breath of heaven--wherethe trees were yet rooted to the earth, and filled as of old, with themusic of summer birds. On the very centre of the island stood an oldmansion house, the residence of its proprietor before the paradisebecame city property. It was a rambling old building, with wings ofunequal length shaded with magnificent willows, and surrounded byshrubbery, and pretty lawns, interspersed with fine old trees. Terraces beautifully lifted from the water's edge; and gravel walks, bordered with the thickest and heaviest box-myrtle, with here andthere a grape arbor spanning them with its leafy arch, sloped withpicturesque beauty to the river which washed both sides of the island. A neglected and rude old place it was, but perhaps the more lovely forthat. Neglect only seemed to give richer luxuriance to every thingaround; the hedges and rose-thickets were tangled together. Greatsnow-ball trees, trumpet vines and honeysuckles seemed to shoot outmore rigorously from want of pruning, and the trees had becomemajestic with age. 

From the broad hall you might see the river on either hand, gleamingthrough the spreading branches. Now and then a snow-white sail glidedby, and at sunset the water seemed heaving up waves of gold whereveryour eye turned. 

This was the Children's Hospital. In the low chambers, and the fineold fashioned rooms, from two hundred and fifty to three hundredchildren lay upon their little cots, in all stages of suffering towhich infancy is subject. It was a painful scene--those helplesslittle creatures, orphaned, or worse than orphaned, in the morning oflife, wearing such looks of pain, and yet so patient. God help them!

It was a touching sight to watch the brightening of those littlefaces, whenever the good matron passed into the wards ministering totheir comfort--poor things--by a kind look and soothing word, wheremedicine might often less avail. Strange manifestations of charactermight be witnessed among those little creatures--fortitude that mightshame a warrior--patience the most saintlike; and again--but why dwellupon the evil that sometimes exhibits itself fullgrown, in the heartof an infant?

If cries of bitter passion sometimes arose from those little couchesthey came, alas! from hearts that had never learned that unrestrainedpassion was a sin. If fierce words were wrung from those infant lips, it was that anger, not kindness had been showered on them from thecradle. To some of these little creatures oaths had been familiar ascaresses are to the infancy of others. Such was their householdlanguage. 

To this place, so beautiful in itself, so full of painful associations, Isabel Chester was brought in less than a week after her mother'sburial. Since that day she had drooped like a broken lily. Theterrible grief to which her delicate nature had bent and swayed likea reed; the sudden change from a home of quiet and tranquil love, tothe most bitter solitude known to the human heart--that of a crowd--hadcompletely prostrated the orphan. A slow fever preyed upon her; shecould not speak without feeling the hot tears gush from her eyes. 

In this state she came under the observation of the Children'sphysician, and, touched with compassion, he took her to the InfantHospital. Mary went also, for she too, was ailing, and the doctor sawthat it would be cruelty to part them. At the hospital these helplesscreatures had better food and more comfort than could be allowed themamong the seven or eight hundred healthy children with which thenurseries on the Long Island shore were crowded. For days and weeksIsabel lay prostrate on her little cot. She had no settled disease. The child only seemed quietly fading away. 

Mary Fuller never left her bed-side. She, too, was broken down withgrief, and her wearied frame had lost all its power of endurance; butthough the hand which held Isabel's drink trembled with weakness, thelittle creature never complained, nor ever acknowledged that she wasill enough to be in bed. Patient and sweet-tempered as an angel, shewatched by the child of those who had done so much for her. The loveand gratitude of her whole being seemed centered in that pale, butstill lovely orphan. 

At length all this patient love had its reward. Isabel was well enoughto walk in the grounds, and with their feeble arms around each other, these children might be seen from morning till night, wandering alongthe shore, or sitting quietly beneath the grape-arbors that overlookedthe water. To the other children they were always gentle and kind, butthey had no companions, and they clung together with the deep trustand holy love of sisters. They had no future--those hopeless children. Chester had left no relatives that his child ever heard of, and hisgentle wife had been an orphan. Mary Fuller possessed only herwretched, wretched mother. 

But their gentleness, and Isabel's singular beauty, were sure to winthem friends. The Physician and the matron began to love the littlegirls, and after a time they became the pets of the establishment. While the locks of the other children were cut close to the head, Isabel still possessed her long and flowing tresses. Day by day herexquisite beauty deepened into health again, and the pensive castwhich grief had given to her features rendered them ideal as they werelovely. 

But as Isabel grew better, Mary Fuller seemed to sink and droop in allher being. She was often found amid the shrubbery, weeping bitterly, and alone. Toward nightfall, and at early morning, she might have beendetected stealing softly up the Hospital stairs, and away to a dimcorner of the garret, with a handful of berries or a fragment of cakewhich the matron had given her during the day. Sometimes her voice, low and sweet, as if in tearful entreaties, floated along the garret, and then might have been heard another voice, sometimes rude, sometimes querulous, but very feeble, answering her with sharpreprimands. After this the child would come down in tears and stealaway, as we have described, to weep alone. 

Thus they entered upon sweet June, literally a month of roses at theInfant's-Hospital. The pale little invalids grew better that month, and were gathered beneath the huge old trees with their nurses, forgetting their pain in the sweet breath of the flowers; but thatmonth, though the butterflies were numerous, and humming-birds cameand went through the thickets like flashes from a rainbow, Mary Fullerwas seldom abroad with the rest. More and more of her time was spentin the low, dim garret; but when she did come forth, those whoobserved her saw a new and tranquil light upon her face. She wassometimes seen to smile, as if a pleasant thought possessed her mind. Just before this, Mary had asked permission to carry away a littleBible from the matron's table. It was not brought back, but the matrononly smiled, and never inquired the reason. She had learned to loveand trust Mary Fuller. 

There was a clergyman stationed at Blackwell's Island, to whosespiritual charge was given from four to seven hundred persons at thePenitentiary, four or five hundred of the insane, and nearly athousand children, at the nursery and its hospital. The welfare of allthese souls was entrusted to this meek Christian, and most faithfullyhas he performed the solemn duties of his office from that day tothis. Always busy in behalf of the unhappy creatures, who, amid alltheir degradation, loved and respected him, always cheerful, alwaysready with his gentle word and consoling advice, he made this holymission with the helpless and the prisoner the one great business ofhis life. 

This good clergyman had a family to support on his miserable salary ofthree hundred dollars a year, voted him by a Common Council that spentten thousand carousing in their tea-room. Had any one of those cityfathers ever been up so early, they might often have seen this goodman at daybreak toiling on foot to the city, or perchance miles awayto some country town, in search of a service place for some repentantprisoner, or to carry a message from a sick child to its friends. Inhis gentle humility the good man never complained, never said that thepay awarded to his labors by the Common Council of our most wealthycity, was too little for his wants. You saw it in his garments. Youmight have read it in his meek sigh, when some object of compassionpresented unusual claims to his charity; but in his speech anddeportment he seemed ever grateful for the little that was given him. This true-hearted Christian remains upon his post to this day. If asingle hundred dollars has been added to his yearly means of support, it was through the intercession of others, and from no discontentexpressed by himself. Surely the reward of such men must be hereafter, or in the heaven of their own souls. 

It was pleasant to see the eyes of those little children brighten, when the good clergyman entered the hospital. They were fatherless, and he was better than a father to them. They were sick, and hecomforted them, even as our Lord comforted little children when theywere brought to Him. His hand touched their pale foreheads caressingly;his mild voice sunk into their little hearts like dew upon a bruisedflower. His very tread upon the stairs was a blessing to them; whenthey heard it, all unconsciously the little creatures would smile upontheir pillows, and murmur over fragments of the Lord's Prayer, forwith its holy language, his own lips had rendered most of themfamiliar. 

To this brave Christian little Isabel and her friend had becomegreatly attached. He sat with them in the grape arbors; he helped themarrange bouquets for the sick children, and while they were busy attheir sweet task, he, in his gentle way, would lead their thoughtsfrom the flowers to the God who gives them to beautify the earth. Atsuch times he would go quietly away, leaving the children happier andbetter, but without the slightest consciousness that they had beenreceiving religious instruction. 

This was the man to whom Mary Fuller appealed one night, as he pausedto speak with her in the garden-path that leads along the water. 

"Oh! sir, I have been waiting for you here; I thought you would comethis way, " cried the child, placing her little hand in his, "I havesomething to tell you--something that makes me happy as a bird?"

"You look happy, my child, and you look good, too, " said theclergyman, shaking her hand with a smile. "Come, now, tell me whatit is. "

"It is a long story, and one that would make you cry if you knew all. You are not in a hurry sir?"

"No, no! I am never in a hurry, my dear little girl, so if you havemuch to say come in here, and I will listen an hour if you like. "

There was an old summer-house on the bank, dilapidated, andthreatening to tumble over the declivity with the first rough wind. The clergyman led his little friend into this open building, and satdown upon the only entire seat that it contained. 

The child sat by his side awhile, thoughtful and evidently striving toarrange her ideas. 

"Do you remember, sir, a long time ago, when we first came here, youasked me about my father and mother? I told you that my father wasdead, but I did not say much of my mother. Sir, she was a prisonerthen, and I did not like to mention it; that perhaps was wrong, but Icouldn't help being ashamed. "

"There was nothing wrong in that feeling, " answered the clergyman, gently. 

"I am glad you think so, " replied the child, "for now I am sure youwill not want me to tell you all that has ever happened--how she tookto drink when I was a little, little girl. She was not used to it, andI don't know how she was led away--for my poor father never talked ofthese things to me, but they killed him, sir--it broke his heart atlast. One day--I was only seven years old then, but I remember it, oh!how well--she had been drinking, oh, she was dreadful always at thosetimes. I don't know what I did, but I believe that I was only in herway as she crossed the floor--all that I can remember is, that shestruck at me with her hand and foot. It seemed as if she had crushedme to the floor. The breath left my body--I was the same as dead fora long, long time. "

"Poor child, " murmured the clergyman, gazing upon the little creaturewith a look of profound compassion. 

"When I came to myself, people thought I would never be good foranything again, and, sometimes, I thought so too, for after that Ialmost stopped growing, and all that was bright about me died away. I believe, after that, she hated me, sir. "

Mary paused a moment, and went on. 

"But my father, oh, he loved me better and better; he only wanted tolive for my sake, he told me so many a time. My poor father was a goodman, sir; as good as you are, as good as Mr. Chester was; but he wasso unhappy that God was very kind not to let him live only for mysake. But, oh, sir, I was all alone when he went. I need not tell youhow we lived. We were poor. You never, in your life, saw any personsso poor as we were, after father died. She would not work, and when Idid not have enough to eat I couldn't do much. Oh, sir, it was amiserable life; now when I have told you so much, you will not want meto say any more about it than I can help. "

"Say only what you wish, my child; I will listen. "

"One night--she had been drinking night and day, for a week--two orthree women had been in, and while they drank I sat in a cornerlonging for them to go. They quarreled; my mother struck one of thewomen, and while they were swearing dreadfully, a policeman came in. It was Mr. Chester--that was the first time I ever saw him. I havetold you about him, and how his child, poor, beautiful Isabel, camehere with me; but I did not tell you that the nurse at Bellevue was myown mother. The doctors found out that she had been drinking, and senther away after that night. A few weeks ago she came up here to workfor the children. Nobody knew that she was my mother, but, oh! sir, she looked very ill, and I said to myself when she passed me withouta word, only with black looks--I said, she is ill, I will take care ofher; I will go to her at night with nice things that the matron givesme to eat--I will do without them myself, and, perhaps, this will makeher love me. 

"I went up into the garret the first night, but she drove me away. Iwould not give up, but went again. She was very ill that night--livingamong that fever so long had poisoned all the pure breath she hadleft. She was crying when I went up to the bed; I knelt down by thebed and began to cry, too. She did not send me away. She did notstrike me, though I thought it was for that when she lifted her hand, but she laid the hand on my head. Indeed she did, sir, and then I feltshe might be my mother yet!"

The child paused; the big tears that welled up from her heart werechoking her. 

"I went to see her very often after that, for she was growing worse. I carried her nice things, and tried every way to make her love me. She was not always kind, but I didn't mind a little crossness now andthen, for great hopes were in my heart. My father loved his wife, andI thought of him, and what a joy it would be if I, the poor thing hewanted to live for, could do something toward making her good enoughto see him once more when she dies. 

"Sir, may I ask you one question? If you want a thing very much, andthink and pray for it--does not God, sometimes, bring it all aboutwhen you least expect anything of the kind? It seemed to me as if Hehad done it when my mother complained of being so lonesome up there inthe Hospital garret, and wished that she had something to read. Shewas a great reader, sir, once. I went down stairs, trembling like aleaf, and got the matron's Bible. She did not say a word against it, and I read to her a long time. After that she would ask me to read, and every day as she grew weaker and weaker, I could see that she wasgrowing better, too. 

"At last I asked her if she would let me bring you up to see her, butshe was vexed at the idea of a clergyman. Once or twice after that Imentioned it, but she still answered no. Last night, as I was sayingmy prayers by her bed, she began to cry softly, and then, sir, sherose up and kissed me on the forehead. Then I asked her again, and shesaid you might come--only she made me promise to tell you everythingabout her first. But for that I would not talk of my poor mother'sfaults, though it is only to you. "

The child ceased speaking--she looked earnestly into the clergyman'sface. 

"You will not go home till you have seen her?" she said. 

"No, my child, I only trust that my poor efforts may be blessed asyours have been, " and the clergyman went into the Hospital, leadingMary by the hand. It was an hour before he left the building, and whenhe turned to shake hands with the little girl, you could see by theexpression of his face that it had been an important and heart-rendinghour to them all; over and over again did that good man's feet treadthose worn stairs, and each time his face looked more thankful than ithad done before. One evening he remained much longer than usual. Little Mary had been in the garret since morning, and here, about nineo'clock, the physician was called for the fourth time that day. He wasabsent but a few minutes. 

"You had better go up, " he said to the matron, who met him in thehall, "that poor woman is gone. "

Mary Fuller turned her head as the matron came into that dimly-lightedgarret. Tears stood on her cheek, but her eyes were radiant with holylight. 

"Oh, madam, she was my mother! She kissed me! with her last breath shekissed me!"

"She died, " said the clergyman, in his low mild voice, "she died withher arms round this little girl, calm and peaceful as a child. "

"Go, " said the matron, gently sending Mary to the stairs, "go, mychild, to-morrow you shall see her again. "

The child went down, not to weep as they supposed, for there was ahigher and more holy feeling than grief in her young heart. She hadfound her mother. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

THE TWO OLD MEN

 The past, sometimes, comes dimly back, Stealing like shadows on the brain; We see the ruins on its track, And feel the dead flowers bloom again. 

Since the day of Chester's death, a great change had fallen upon theMayor. He went to his office as usual, and performed its duties withhabitual exactitude, but he never entered the Aldermen's tea-roomagain. When his political friends called upon him to accomplish anyunfinished business, such as giving out contracts long before theywere advertised by law--selling city property for a song toconfederates, who were certain to allow a portion of the profits toflow back into greedy official pockets--or empowering some favorite tonegotiate worthless real estate, and more worthless goods, for whichthe ever-enduring people were compelled to pay fabulous prices--for inall these things, directly or indirectly, he had been engaged--Farnhamresolutely refused to enter into these transactions more. 

He felt in the depths of his heart, that the demoralizing influencesconsequent upon those half-secret, half-audacious speculations had ledhim to the brink--nay, had actually plunged him into a great crime. 

Again and again he had reconsidered the events of Chester's trial anddeath, following so closely on each other, with a hope of findingsomething that might remove the terrible responsibility from hisconscience. But his stubborn and acute reason would not be convincedby the sophistry that had so often deceived the public. He had nopower to blind his own conscience, and that told him, more and moreloudly every hour, that his cruel acts had murdered a blameless fellowcreature, directly almost as if the deed had been accomplished by ablow. 

Yes, Joseph had uttered the right word--it was murder. 

True there was no earthly tribunal to reach his impalpable crime, for the law recognizes only physical violence by which death isaccomplished. But there is a just God, before whose high court, sooner or later, will be arraigned the bloodless murderer, whosedagger has been words--low whispers, and assassin machinations--orperchance neglect, and the sweeping back of warm affections on atrue heart. 

There the all-seeing One, who judges the thought as well as the actwill make no distinction between life drained drop by drop from thesoul, and that sent forth at a blow with the red hand. 

These startling truths fastened themselves at last upon his conviction, breaking through his worldliness and all the hard accumulations whicha life of underground politics had heaped upon a nature capable ofgreat good. 

It was not without a struggle that the Mayor had yielded himself tothis true self-knowledge. But in vain he argued that he had notanticipated this fearful result, from proceedings that after all wereonly intended as the means of removing an obnoxious person from hispath. In vain he reasoned with himself, "I did not wish the man'sdeath, nor use means to bring it about. " The fault lay in his ownsensitive nature. But his reason answered back, neither does the manwho commits murder in his hour of intoxication, mean to becomeinebriated or to take a human life when he lifts the first cup to hislip; yet even the law, that which takes hold only of actual things, deems this man guilty as if his soul had not been brutalized and madeblind before the blow. 

There might have been other influences besides poor Chester's death, that aided to accomplish this transfiguration of character; for asFarnham bent beneath the pressure of this truth, other impressions, perhaps not less potent because unrecognized, stole in upon him;angels sometimes come softly and fill a newly aroused soul with love, as the night sheds its dew on the green leaves of an oak, after thestorm has passed by. 

What was there in the appearance of Joseph to soften theself-upbraiding of this stern man? The boy's words had been, perhaps, the most severe reproof that he had ever met; but they called forth nobitterness. Instead of this arose an attraction so powerful that hecould not resist it. Thus he had followed the lad to his own door, andafterwards would turn in the street and gaze on any boy of his sizewith a yearning desire to see him again. 

But the gentle lad was at home, studying his father's beautiful art, and seldom went into the street. His life had always been so secludedthat this one event was a great epoch, to which his mind wasconstantly going back. A spirit of loneliness came upon him after thelittle girls left the house, and at sunset he might sometimes be foundalmost in tears, homesick for a sight of them. A beautiful sympathyhad sprung up between him and Mary Fuller that filled him with vagueuneasiness. 

Sometimes, too, he would think of the Mayor, so stern and cold toothers, but so full of gentleness to him, and with the warm gratitudeof youth he could not help looking forward to the time when he mightvisit Fred again, and thus see the man who had filled him with so muchof terror unseen, and with such strange happiness after. 

Once or twice he spoke of this in a timid way, but his father checkedhim almost with harshness, and with the reserve of a sensitive nature, he buried this strange feeling in his bosom till it became almost awant, which after a time was gratified. 

One night, when he had spent the whole day in attempting to copy oneof his father's pictures, while the old artist sat by, giving him suchhelp as lay in his power, an unaccountable desire seized upon the lad, and he arose almost with tears in his eyes. 

"Father, " he said, with great earnestness. "Father I cannot hold thebrush, my hand grows unsteady; please let me go and see Frederick; itseems to me as if some one there wanted me very much!"

"If Frederick wanted to see us, he would come here, I should think!"answered the father. 

"I believe--I almost think that his father is sick, " said Joseph. 

"And how did you know this?" asked Mr. Esmond, rather sharply, for heseemed jealous of his son's interest in the Mayor's family. 

"I don't know it--but it seemed to me all day yesterday and to-day, that something was the matter. "

"And if there is, your mother's child--my child should not troublehimself about it!"

Joseph looked at his father in astonishment. These sharp words were sounlike his usual kindliness, that the lad was bewildered. 

"I--I thought you liked Fred so much, " he said, at last. 

"But it is not Fred--it is his father you are thinking of, unnaturalchild that you are!"

"Father--oh, father!"

"There--there, " said the old man, more gently. "I did not mean it. Go, my son if you wish, I will not stop you, but do not give much love toany one but your father, he has had so little, so very little onearth. Don't let this man get your heart away from me. "

"Away from you, my own, own father?" said Joseph, grieved, and deeplyhurt. 

"Well--well, all this is foolish talk--but I am getting very childish. It ages one so to live alone, Joseph, you would not believe it, but Iam a younger man by five years than the Mayor. "

"The Mayor has grown very old since I first saw him father, you wouldbe astonished!"

"Then you have seen him more than once?"

"Yes; he comes to Mrs. Peters, now, almost every day, and sometimes Isee him. "

"In this house--in this house!" exclaimed the artist, "to-morrow wewill move--to-night, if another room can be got!"

As the old man spoke, a hesitating knock was heard at the door. Josephand his father looked at each other wistfully; at length the boystepped forward and turned the latch. 

Mr. Farnham stood on the threshold. The artist drew his tall form up, and remained immovable, with his dark eyes fixed sternly on theMayor's. 

Joseph paused irresolute, with the last dying gold of sunset fallingon his head, from a neighboring window. 

The artist glanced from him to the Mayor, and a look of sudden painswept across his face. It was a strange, jealous pang to strike a manof his age. 

"Go, " said the Mayor gently to the lad; "go, and leave us alone, Iwish to speak with your father. "

Joseph looked at his father questioningly. 

"Go!" said the old man, in a voice so husky that he could only forcehimself to utter that single word. 

Joseph went out, and those two old men--for the Mayor looked very oldthat night--sat down in the dim chamber, and talked together for thefirst time in their lives. 

Joseph shut himself in the dark hall, and found a seat upon thestairs, filled with vague wonder; for his keen imagination seized uponthis event, and his affectionate nature turned lovingly to the oldmen, whose voices came through the ill-fitting door in indistinctmurmurs. 

It must have been an hour when the door opened, and Joseph saw theMayor and his father standing just within the room. The light from atallow candle fell upon them from behind, striking their side faceswith singular effect. Both were pale, but the cheek of the Mayor, onwhich the light lay strongest, glistened with moisture. Could it bethat this was the trace of tears?--and, if so, what power had thathumble artist, to make a man weep who had not been known to shed tearssince his boyhood!

The artist too had a look of tender sadness on his face, as if all hisdeeper feelings had been moved. 

The two old men--we call them old, but events rather than time hadleft hoary marks upon them--the two old men held each other by thehand; Joseph arose and drew back, that the Mayor might pass, but whenhe went by without a word, the boy was seized with a pang ofdisappointment, and followed him. 

"Mayor, " he said, "please won't you say good-bye to me, I have wantedto see you so much all day?"

The Mayor turned his face; the light from a street-lamp shone upon it, as he stood in the lower entrance. Surely there had been tears on thatstern face. 

"Yes, " answered Mr. Farnham, looking into those deep earnest eyes, "Iwill bid you good-bye. "

"Mr. Farnham, " said Joseph, "won't you stay a little?"

The Mayor stepped back into the hall, but wavered in his walk, andsupported himself by the lad. Joseph could feel that the hands whichwere laid on his shoulders trembled. 

"Are you sick?" questioned the lad, with his forehead up lifted inreverential tenderness. 

"Sick--no! I think it is not sickness, but, but"--

"Have I or father done anything to hurt you, sir?"

"Hurt me!--no, no--but Joseph you said once that I had murdered Mr. Chester, did you believe it?"

Joseph's head drooped forward. His eyes were suffused with sadness, he could not answer. 

"Did you think so, Joseph?" repeated the Mayor, in a voice of strangesolicitude. 

"I thought so then, but now I am sure you could not have intended todo it. "

"No!" answered the Mayor, impressively. "I did not intend it; when youthink of me hereafter you will remember this--and remember too, mychild, that when a man takes the first step toward an unjust act, heloses a great portion of his power to control the second--great crimegrows out of small errors, my boy, remember that, and I charge you, repeat it to my son, when he has need of such warning. "

"I will repeat it to him, as you wish me to, sir!"

"And now farewell. "

Joseph felt a kiss quiver upon his forehead, like the touch of aspirit that had taken flight. He looked around, the Mayor was gone. 

"Farewell--why did not he say good-bye--or good-night, Joseph?Farewell! that is a very solemn word. I wish he had not saidfarewell!"

CHAPTER XXII. 

THE WALK AND THE WILL. 

 Now do I drop my heavy load of woe, As some wet mantle saturate with rain, And rise as a soft spirit that doth glow In rays of light beyond the realm of pain. 

 W. W. FORDICK. 

The Mayor walked home very slowly, for remorse, while softening intopenitence, had sapped the foundations of his life; and he had grown afeeble old man in so short a time, that those who look upon God as anavenger, rather than a chastiser, might have supposed that old age hadfallen as a judgment upon him. But the All-wise one knows best how toredeem the souls he has created, and that weary man as he walked homein the darkness, was a thousand times more worthy of respect, than hehad ever been in his whole lifetime before. 

There was a private room in the lower story of his house, in which Mr. Farnham had usually received his constituents and persons who came tohis residence on private business. It had been little used of late, for the routine of his old life was broken up, and when he went tothis apartment, it was usually to be secure of the solitude whichdaily became more necessary to his habits of self-communion. Thatnight he found company in the drawing-room. Mrs. Farnham had guestsfrom the South; other friends were invited to meet them, and the lowerportion of the house was in a blaze of magnificence. This scene was soat variance with his state of feelings, that the Mayor recoiled fromits glitter, as the sick man shrinks from a noonday sun. 

His wife, who was standing in the centre of a group near the door, resplendent with jewels and brocade, saw him pass through the hall, and playfully shaking her fan called after him. 

Either he did not hear, or he did not heed her, and with the usualobstinacy of a silly woman, she called to her son and bade him gobring his father back. 

Frederick went and found Mr. Farnham in his private room, looking coldand weary. The greatest retribution that had fallen upon this man forhis evil act had been the effect it had produced upon his own son. Frederick had known and loved Chester. With his energy and quicknessof character, it was impossible that he should not have gathered allthe facts regarding his trial and death. The very silence which hemaintained on the subject was a proof of this. His manner too hadchanged so completely that it was a constant reproach to the sufferingman. There had always existed a certain reserve between the father andson, but now it amounted almost to coldness. Perhaps this repulsionhad driven the unhappy man to seek sympathy in the child of another, for it became a weary trial to seek his home day after day, and findall affection chilled there. 

That night Farnham's heart was softened toward the whole world, andmost of all did he yearn for the old look of confidence from the nowconstantly averted eyes of his son. Just as these feelings werestrongest in his bosom, Frederick entered the room where he sat. TheMayor looked up wistfully. 

"My mother wishes me to call you, sir; she has company in the drawingroom. " The cold respectfulness of his manner fell like snow upon theMayor. 

"I cannot come, Frederick; tell your mother that I am not well enoughfor company, " he said, so mournfully that the warm heart of the ladwas touched. 

"Are you really ill, father?" he said. 

The Mayor could not answer. It was the first time that his son hadcalled him father since Chester's burial. 

The boy was struck by his silence. 

"Tell me--speak to me father, are you ill?"

The Mayor held out his hands. 

"Frederick!"

It was enough--the boy fell upon his knees and kissed those tremblinghands. 

"Father, forgive me, I had no right to make myself your judge. "

"God bless you, my boy, and remember this night you have made yourfather very happy. "

After Frederick left him, Mr. Farnham began to write. His strength hadreturned, and his whole energies of soul and body were concentrated inthe work he was doing. After he had written an hour, pausing now andthen in deep thought, there lay before him a legal document, carefullydrawn up, which he read twice. Then he arose and rang the bell; aservant came, and he directed her to go to the drawing-room and telltwo gentlemen who were his guests at the time, that he wished to seethem. The gentlemen came up flushed and laughing. Champagne had freelycirculated below, and they were in splendid spirits. 

"I will only detain you a moment, " said the Mayor, "but here is adocument which requires witnesses. Will you sign it?"

The gentlemen laughed gaily. 

The Mayor laid his finger on the signature. Again the gentlemenlaughed. 

"What is it, a marriage contract, or your last will and testament?"said one, delighted with his own wit. 

"It is my last will and testament, " answered the Mayor, quietly. 

Again the men laughed; they did not believe him. 

"Well, well, give us hold here, at any rate, we know it's all right, so here goes!"

They signed their names and went out laughing. The next morning theystarted South without seeing their host, and with a confused sense ofwhat they had signed over night. 

But with all these sources of agitation the Mayor was breaking down. He went up to his bed-room after signing the will, greatly exhausted. His wife passed through the room an hour after, and saw the documenton the table. It was late, and she resolved to read it over at leisurein the morning before her husband was up; so dropping it quietly intoher pocket she went up stairs. 

Three days after the city was in mourning. The public building andmilitary banners were all draped with black. It was the first time inyears that a Mayor of New York had died in office, and the people werelavish of funereal honors to Farnham's memory. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE FESTIVAL OF ROSES. 

 A ring--a ring of roses, Laps full of posies; Awake--awake! Now come and make A ring--a ring of roses. 

The month of June had littered its path with roses, and now came July, with its crimson berries, its ruddier blossoms, and its profusefoliage. On the Fourth of this luxurious month some gleams andglimpses of the great National Jubilee are sure to reach even theprisoners and the poor on Blackwell's Island. The sick children at theHospital had a share of enjoyment; presents of toys, cake and fruitwere liberally distributed. The grounds produced an abundance offlowers, and it was marvellous how these little creatures managed toamuse themselves. The matron, the nurses, and many of the littlepatients, were busy as so many bees that morning, before the sun hadchanged his first rose-tints to the shower of vivid gold with which hesoon boldly deluged the water. Among the first and the busiest wereMary Fuller and Isabel. They sat beneath a great elm tree back of theHospital, with a heap of flowers between them, out of which theytwined a world of bouquets, fairy garlands, and pretty crowns. Half-a-dozen little girls, lame, or among the convalescent sick, volunteered to gather the flowers, and some of the larger boys were upamong the branches of the elm tree, garlanding them with ropes of thecoarser blossoms. The birds were in full force that morning, asbecame the little republican rovers, absolutely rioting among theleaves, and pouring forth their music with a wild _abandon_ that madethe foliage thrill again. 

"Now, now the sun will be up in no time. Run, Isabel, with theflowers--here they are, a whole apron full--I will be tying up morewhile you leave these!" said Mary Fuller, heaping Isabel's apron withthe pretty bouquets she had been preparing; "don't leave a pillowwithout them!"

Isabel gathered up her apron and ran into the house. Up the stairs shewent with a fairy footstep, and glided into the wards. Stealing softlyfrom one little cot to another, she left upon each pillow her prettytribute, where the sick child was sure to see it the moment itslanguid eyes were unclosed. When her store was exhausted she ran downfor more. 

"Did any of them wake up? Did they see the flowers?" inquired Mary, eagerly. 

"Some were awake--they hadn't slept all night, poor things--but theflowers made them smile, " was the cheerful reply. "Come, fill my apronagain, and give me those large ones, with the white lilies, for themantel-pieces. Won't the doctor be astonished when he goes up? They'rebetter than medicine, I can tell him. "

Again Isabel's apron was heaped full, and again she glided, in all herbright, young beauty, through the sick wards. When she came down, anearthern pitcher, crowded with great white lilies, honeysuckles andsweetbriar, stood on the windows or mantel-pieces of every room. Therewas not a pillow without its pretty garland, or bouquet of buds, tiedwith the spray of some fragrant shrub. She had made the atmosphere ofthose sick wards redolent with fragrance. 

"Now for the boys' hats!" said Mary, "here are plenty of soldier'sfeathers. "

The boys cast down their straw-hats from the tree, shouting for her tomake soldiers of them, each one clamoring for a red plume. 

But the red hollyhocks did not quite hold out, so, perforce some ofthe slender plumes were of yellow, some of snow-white--for you neversaw such hollyhocks as grew in the Hospital-gardens--and Mary had allvariety of tints around her, even to some of a deep maroon. 

When each straw hat had its plume, the little girls fell to ornamentingthree or four large paper kites, and then they began forming garlandsfor their own heads. Mary twined a beautiful wreath of white clematisaround the dark tresses of Isabel's hair. 

"Nothing but white, " she said with a gentle sigh, "for that is almostmourning. "

The others arrayed themselves according to their own fancy, and whenthe sun rose high it kindled up a happy and picturesque group beneaththat old elm tree. 

A company of boys, with a red silk handkerchief streaming over themfor a banner, their hollyhock plumes rising jauntily in the sunshine, the tallest mounting an epaulette of red, yellow, and purple flowers, marched out with gallant parade from the shelter of the old tree. Tintrumpets, an old milk pail, and various similar instruments, made theair ring again as this warlike band sallied forth. 

A score of little pale creatures watched them from the Hospital stoopand the upper windows. Some of the boys were lame; some were blind;while others bore evidence of recent disease; but if they looked inthese things like a company of volunteers returning from Mexico, itonly gave them a more warlike appearance, and of this they were veryambitious. 

Then the little girls began to seek their own amusements. They played"hide and seek, " "ring, ring a rosy, " and a thousand wild and prettygames; for the place was so beautiful, and the day so bright, thelittle rogues quite forgot that they were in the Poor House, or hadever been sick in the whole course of their lives. 

Mary and Isabel were a little pensive at times, but when all the restseemed so happy, they could not choose but smile with them--and so theFourth of July wore over. 

There was a great tumult and glorious time on Long Island shore thatday. The children had a festival of flowers over there also; crowds ofpeople were walking along the banks of the river; and you could seehundreds of gaily-dressed visitors landing every minute from thewater, while the children huzzaed, and flung up their hats till youcould hear them across the broad river. Still it is to be doubted ifthere was more real enjoyment among them than our little band ofconvalescents experienced among the flowery nooks of the old Hospital. 

The hour for cakes and fruit to be served under the elm surprised ourlittle warriors down by the river. When the signal was given, theymarched along the broad walk, lined on each side with box-myrtle oftwenty years' growth. They paraded superbly up the terrace steps--downagain--through the grape arbors, and around the end of the Hospital, in gallant array, with colors flying, sixpenny trumpets blowing, andthe tin pails doing their best to glorify the occasion. 

Our little troop bivouacked under the old elm, amid a storm offire-crackers, and a shout from the little girls. Here gingerbread andfruit were served, and the girls began their games again. Little MaryFuller sat upon the grass, singing, while the rest formed a ring, darting, with their garlands and bouquets, like a chain of flowers, through an arch made by the uplifted hands of Isabel Chester and alittle lame girl who could not run. Nothing on earth could be morebeautiful than Isabel was just then, with the white spray dancing inher hair, a pleasant smile in her dark eyes, and the faintestrose-tint breaking over her cheek. 

"She is delicate as a flower, beautiful as a star!"

The speaker was a lady dressed in the deepest possible mourning. Thelong widow's veil reached to her knees, and was double two-thirds ofthe way up. Her bombazine dress was so heavily trimmed with broadfolds of crape, that you could not judge of the original material;from head to foot she was shrouded in black, till you felt quitegloomy to look on her. She seemed to have measured off her grief in somany yards of crape. Still, as if to show that there was a gleam ofhope about her, she wore an immense diamond on the black ribbon at herthroat. A large cluster ring that gleamed through the net glove, covering a small and withered hand, with the gem sparkling at herthroat, bespoke uncommon wealth; and there was a tone of almostpampered sentimentality in her voice and manner. 

"It is indeed a very lovely child, " answered the gentleman whom sheaddressed, gazing with a smile upon Isabel. 

"Was ever anything so perfect found in a poorhouse! Oh, if thepoliceman's daughter proves only half as pretty as she is, " the ladyexclaimed again. 

"Let us inquire something about her, " answered the gentleman, gravely, "with all her beauty she may be a common-place child!"

"No--no, I am quite certain she is everything that is charming. Ifyour protege is only half as lovely, I shall be reconciled to the dutyMr. Farnham has so unreasonably--I must say, imposed upon me, "persisted the lady. 

The gentleman observed gravely that the idea of adopting a child wasno trifling matter, and walked on till they surprised the little girlsat their play. The chain broke, the girls scattered through thethickets like a flock of frightened birds. The lame girl droppedIsabel's hand and limped away, leaving the beautiful child all alonesave Mary Fuller, who had stopped singing and sat quietly on thegrass. 

"I am afraid we have frightened your little friends away, " said thegentleman, addressing the child, with a bland and gentle manner; "wedid not intend to do that!"

His voice seemed to startle the children. 

Isabel turned to her friend, with a glad smile. 

"Oh, Mary, it is he!"

Mary started up from the grass. 

"Oh, sir, we are so glad to see you!"

Judge Sharp took her hand--"You must be glad to see this lady, too. "

Mary blushed, and looked timidly at the lady. 

Mrs. Farnham stepped back, holding up both hands, as if to prevent thechild approaching. 

"Judge--Judge Sharp, you don't mean to say that this is the child?Little girl, is your name Chester!"

"No, " answered Mary, "that is Isabel Chester--I am only Mary Fuller. "

Isabel drew close to her friend. 

"She's just the same as me--just like my own, own sister, ma'am. "

The lady turned to Judge Sharp, and shook her mourning parasol at him. 

"Oh, you naughty wicked man, to frighten me so; but is this dear, pretty darling really the policeman's daughter? I won't believe ityet--how providential, isn't it?"

"I thought you would like her, " answered the Judge. 

"Like her, indeed; won't she be a lovely pet!" answered the lady, muchas she would have spoken of a King Charles spaniel; "how brave she is, too; when all the others ran off she remained!"

"Mary stayed, too, " said Isabel, gliding one arm around her friend'swaist; "besides, I dare say they were not afraid, ma'am, they onlyfelt a little strange to play before people they didn't know, Isuppose! They don't mind the doctor or the matrons in the least!"

"But you are not afraid of strangers!" said the lady. "You didn't runaway and hide in the bushes when we came up, but stood all alone likea dear love of a little girl. "

Isabel glanced at Mary Fuller. 

"She was here, ma'am, just as much as I was. "

The gentleman turned and looked earnestly at Mary. There was somethingin her face that pleased him even more than Isabel's beauty. From thefirst she had been his favorite. 

"And what is this little girl to you?" he said, very kindly. 

"Oh, she is everything, everything in the wide world to me now!"answered Isabel with tears in her eyes. 

"You know, sir, Mr. And Mrs. Chester died, " said Mary, with gentlehumility. "And now we are left alone together. "

"I knew that the poor lady was dead, " answered the Judge, feelingly. 

Isabel was weeping; she could not reply, but Mary answered in afaltering voice, "Yes, sir, we are both orphans!"

"And would you not like to go away from here where you will have a newfine home, with pretty clothes and books and birds to amuse yourselfwith?" said Mrs. Farnham, bending over Isabel and kissing her. 

The child did not answer. She only turned very pale, and drew backtoward Mary. 

"Would you not be pleased with all those pretty things?" said theJudge, who observed that Mary Fuller turned white as death when theyspoke of taking Isabel away. 

"If _she_ can have them, too. Will you take her, sir? if not I wouldrather stay here!"

"But we do not wish to adopt more than one little girl, " said thelady, hastily. "You have no mother, I will be one to you. In a littletime you will forget all about the people here. "

"I shall never forget her, ma'am, " replied Isabel, firmly, "never. "

"Lead the child away and talk with her alone. This little creatureseems intelligent, I will gather something of their history from her, "said the Judge. 

When Mary saw that the gentleman was about to address her, she aroseand stood meekly before him, as he leaned against the elm. 

"So, you would not like to have the little girl go away and leave youhere?"

Mary struggled bravely with herself, her bosom heaved, she could notkeep the tears from swelling to her eyes, but she answered truly andfrom her aching heart. 

"If she will be better off. If you will love her as--as I do, as theydid, I will try to think it best!"

"You will try to think it best, " repeated the gentleman, and the smilethat trembled across his lips was beautiful; "if she goes, my littlegirl, you shall go with her!"

"Me!" said Mary, lifting up her meek eyes to his face. "Oh, sir, don'tmake fun of me. Nobody would ever think of making a pet of _me_!"

"No, not a pet, that is not the word, but, if God prospers us, we willmake a good and noble woman of you!" said the gentleman, with generousenergy. 

"Oh, don't, don't--if you are not in earnest--don't say this!" saidthe child, almost panting for breath. 

"I am in earnest, heaven forbid that I should trifle with you for amoment. If we take the other child you go also. Now, sit down and tellme about yourself. "

Mary obeyed with a swelling heart. She told him simply that they wereboth orphans--that no one on earth could claim them; but with thefirst few words her voice broke. So the gentleman arose, sought Isabeland led her back to the elm tree, then he took the lady aside andconversed with her long and earnestly. The little girls watched hercountenance in breathless suspense. It was dissatisfied, --angry, butshe had the will of a strong mind to contend against, and Judge Sharpwas resolute. 

"As the legal guardian of your son, chosen by the Court and yourself, I have the power to sanction this adoption, and, to own the truth, gave my consent to it before Fred went to College; I doubt if we couldhave got him off without that!"

"Fred never could find a medium; he is always in extremes. The idea ofadopting an ugly little thing like that, and he a mere lad yet! Ideclare it's too ridiculous; but he need not expect me to take chargeof her. There is a medium in all things, Judge, and that is beyondendurance. "

"That is all considered; I will see that Mary has a home and properprotection. "

"Very well, I wash my hands of the whole affair; poor dear Mr. Farnhamwas very anxious about this pretty little Isabel. I don't choose toask why, Judge, I hope I've got pride enough not to stoop so low asthat; but, as I was saying, he made a point of it, and you see howresolute I am to perform my duty. It's hard, but I've had to endure agreat deal, indeed I have. "

"I did hope--in fact, I had reason, " said the Judge, "to believe thatMr. Farnham would have provided for that child by will. "

Mrs. Farnham colored violently. 

"Then you had a reason. He said something to you about it, perhaps?"

"Yes, he certainly did; but then his death at last was so sudden. Idon't remember when anything has shocked me so much. "

Mrs. Farnham lifted her handkerchief to her eyes; there was somethingvery pathetic in the action, and the deep black border which wasintended to impress the Judge with a sense of her combined martyrdomand widowhood. 

"Well madam, " said that gentleman, heartily weary of her airs, "I hopeFred has your consent to adopt this child. Remember the expense willbe nothing compared to the great wealth which he inherits. My word forit, the young fellow will find much worse methods of spending hismoney if you thwart his generous impulses. "

"I have nothing to say. It is my destiny to make sacrifices; ofcourse, if my son chooses to incumber himself with a miserable thinglike that, he need not ask his mother. Why should he, she is nobodynow. "

"Then you consent, " said the Judge, impatiently, for he saw theanxious looks of the little girls and pitied their suspense. 

Mrs. Farnham removed the handkerchief with its sable border from hereyes, and shook her head disconsolately. 

"Yes, I consent. What else can I do--a poor heart-broken widow is ofno account anywhere. "

The Judge turned away rather abruptly. 

"Well, now that it is settled let us go; the poor children aresuffering a martyrdom of suspense. The Commissioner is on the otherside; we can settle the whole thing at once. "

"I fancy he'll wonder a little at your taste. But I wash my hands ofit--this is your affair. I submit, that is a woman's destiny, especially a widow's. "

Judge Sharp advanced toward the children. 

"Say to your matron that we may call for you at any minute, and shallhope to find you ready. Tell her that you are both adopted!"

"Together, oh, Mary! we are going away, and together!" cried Isabel, casting herself into the arms of her friend. Mary answered nothing, her heart was too full. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

WILD WOODS AND MOUNTAIN PASSES. 

 Oh, give me a home on the mountains high, Where the wind sweeps wild and free, Where the pine-tops wave 'gainst a crimson sky, -- Oh, a mountain home for me!

A travelling carriage, drawn by four grey horses, toiled up an ascentof the mountains some twenty miles back of Catskill. It was a warm dayin September, and though the load which those fine animals drew was byno means a heavy one, they had been ascending the mountains for morethan two hours, and now their sleek coats were dripping with sweat, and drops of foam fell like snow-flakes along the dusty road as theypassed upward. This carriage contained Judge Sharp, the two orphans, and Mrs. Farnham, looking very slender, very fair, but faded, and witha sort of restless self-complacency in her countenance, which seemedever on the alert to make itself recognized by those about her. 

The gentleman had been reading, or rather holding a book before hisface, but it would seem rather as an excuse for not keeping up theincessant talk, for conversation it could not be called, which thelady had kept in constant flow all the morning, than from anyparticular desire to read. 

True, he did now and then glance at the book, but much oftener hisfine deep eyes were looking out of the carriage window and wanderingover the broad expanse of scenery that began to unfold beneath them, as the carriage mounted higher and higher up the mountains. Sometimes, when he appeared most intent on the volume, those eyes were glancingover it towards a little wan face opposite, that began to blush andhalf smile whenever the thoughtful but kindly look of those eyes fellupon it. 

The carriage at last reached a platform on the spur of a mountainridge where the road made a bold curve, commanding one of the finestviews, perhaps--nay, we will not have perhaps, but certainly, in thecivilized world. 

You should have seen that little pale face then, how it sparkled andglowed with intelligence, nay, with something more than intelligence. The deep, grey eyes lighted up like lamps suddenly kindled, the widebut shapely mouth broke into a smile that spread and brightened overevery feature of her face. She started forward, grasped thewindow-frame, and looked out with an expression of such eager joy thatthe judge who was gazing upon her, glanced down at his book with awell-pleased smile. "I thought so--I was sure of it. She feels all thegrandeur, all the beauty, " he said to himself, inly, but to allappearance intent on his book. "Now let us see how the others takeit. "

"Isabel, Isabel, look out--look look, " whispered the excited child, turning with that sort of wild earnestness peculiar to persons ofvivid imaginations, when once set on fire with some beautiful thingthat God has created. "Look out, Isabel, I do believe that the sky yousee yonder is heaven. "

"Heaven!" cried Isabel, starting forward and struggling to reach thedoor, "Heaven! oh, Mary, it makes me think of mamma"--

Mary fell back in her chair, frightened by the effect of herenthusiasm. 

"There is nothing, I can see nothing but hills, corn, lots, and sky, "said the beautiful child, drawing back and looking at Mary with hergreat, reproachful eyes half full of tears. 

"Oh, Isabel, I did not mean that, not the real heaven, whereyour--where our mother is, where they all are--but it was so beautifulover yonder, the sky and all, I could not help saying what I did. "

Isabel drew back to her seat half petulant, half sorrowful; she wasnot really child enough to think that Mary could have spoken of heavenas a place actually within view; still it was not wonderful that thethought had for a moment flashed across her brain. Heaven itself couldnot have seemed more strange to those children than the magnificentmountain scenery through which they were passing. Born in the city, they were thrown for the first time among the most beautiful scenerythat man ever dreamed of, with all their wild, young ideas afloat. Isit wonderful, then, that an imaginative child like Mary should havecried out the name of heaven in her admiration, or that Isabel, solately made an orphan, should have sent forth the cry of mother, mother, from the depths of her poor little heart when she heard theheaven mentioned, where she believed her mother was still longing forher child?

She sat down cowering close in a corner of the seat, and in order toconceal her tears turned her face to the cushions. 

"Sit up, " the lady interposed, "my beauty, sit up; don't you see howyour pretty marabouts are being crushed against the side of thecarriage? Nonsense, child, what can you be crying about?"

"My mother, oh, she made me think of my mother. I thought--it seemedas if she must be there. "

The lady frowned and looked toward the Judge with a pettish movementof the head. 

"Be quiet, child, I am your mother, now; remember that, I am yourmother. "

Isabel looked up and gazed through her tears at the pale, characterlessface, bent in weak displeasure upon her. 

"I am your mother, " repeated the lady, in a tone that she intended tobe impressive, but it was only snappish; "your benefactress, your morethan mamma; forget that you ever had any but me. "

"I can't, oh, dear, I never can, " cried the child, bursting into apassion of tears, and casting her face back upon the cushion. 

Mrs. Farnham seized the child by the shoulder, and placed her, with aslight shake, upright. 

"Stop crying; I never could endure crying children, " she said. "Seehow you have crushed the pretty Leghorn, you ungrateful thing! Betterbe thanking heaven that I took you from that miserable poor-house, than fly in the face of Providence in this manner, crushing Leghornflats and marabout feathers that cost me mints of money, as if theywere city property. "

"She did not mean to spoil the feathers, ma'am, it was all my fault, "said Mary Fuller; "Isabel loved her poor mother so much. "

"And am not I her mother? Can't you children let the poor woman restin her pine coffin at Potter's Field, without tormenting me with allthis sobbing and crying? Remember my little lady, it is not too lateyet; a few more scenes like this and it will be an easy matter to sendyou back where I took you from. Then, perhaps, you will find it worthwhile to cry after your new mother a little. "

The two little girls looked at each other through their tears. Perhapsat the moment they thought of the Infants' Hospital, where Mrs. Farnham had found them, with something of regret. The contrast of acarriage cushioned with velvet and four superb horses, had notimpressed them as it might have done older persons. Shut up withstrangers, while their hearts were full of regret, they had not foundthe change for which they were expected to be grateful, quite so happyas she fancied. 

Up to the hour we mention they had kept their places demurely, and insilence, drawing their little feet up close to the seats, fearful ofbeing found in the way, and stealing their hands together now and thenwith a silent clasp, which spoke a world of feeling to the noble manwho sat regarding them over his book. 

He had watched the scene we have described in silence, and with a sortof philosophical thoughtfulness, using it as a means of studying thesouls of those two little girls. When Mrs. Farnham ceased speaking andturned to him for concurrence in her mode of drawing out theaffections and settling the preliminaries of a life-time for thatlittle soul, he only answered by leaning from the window and callingout. 

"Ralph, draw up and let the horses have a rest under the shadow ofthis high rock. Come, children, get out, and let's take a look aroundus; your little limbs will be all the better for a good run among theunderbrush. "

Suiting the action to his words, Judge Sharp sprang from the carriage, took Isabel in his arms, set her carefully down, then more gently, andwith a touch of tenderness, drew Mary Fuller forward, and folded herlittle form to his bosom. 

"We will leave you to rest in the carriage, Mrs. Farnham, " he said, with off-hand politeness, as if studying that lady's comfort more thananything on earth. "We will see what wild flowers can be found amongthe rocks. Take care of yourself; that's right, Ralph, let the horseswet their mouths at this little brook--not too much though, it is awarm day. Now, Isabel, let's see which will climb this rockfirst--you, or little Mary and I. "

Isabel's eyes brightened through her tears. There was something in thecordial goodness of Judge Sharp that no grief could have resisted. 

"Please, sir, " said Mary, struggling faintly in the arms of her noblefriend--"please, sir, I can walk very well. "

"And I can carry you very well--why not? Come, now for a climb. "

And away strode the great-hearted man, holding her up that she mightgaze on the scenery over his shoulder. 

Isabel followed close, helping herself up the steep rocks, now bycatching hold of a spice-bush and shaking off all its ripe goldenblossoms; now drawing down the loops of a grape-vine and swingingforward on it, encouraged in each new effort by the heartycommendations of her new friend. 

At last they reached the summit of a detached ridge of rocks that roselike a fortification back of the highway. Judge Sharp sat down upon ashelf cushioned like an easy-chair with the greenest moss and placedthe children at his feet. 

A true lover of nature himself, he did not speak, or insist uponforcing exclamations of delight from the children who shared theglorious view with him. But he looked now and then into Mary Fuller'sface, and was satisfied with all that he saw there. 

He turned and glanced also into the beautiful eyes of little Isabel. They were wandering dreamily from object to object, searching, as itwere, along the misty horizon for some sign of her dead mother. It washer heart rather than her intellect that wandered over thatmagnificent scenery for something to dwell upon. 

"Are you sure, sir?" said Mary Fuller, timidly, looking up; "are youquite sure that this is the same world that Isabel and I were inyesterday?"

"Why not? Doesn't it seem like the same?"

"No, " answered Mary, kindling up and looking eagerly around; "it is athousand times larger, so vast, so grand, so--. Pray help me out, Iwish to say so much and can't. Something chokes me here when I try tosay how beautiful all this seems. "

Mary folded her hands over her bosom, and began to waver to and fro onthe moss seat, struck with a pang of that exquisite pleasure which soclosely approaches pain when we fully appreciate the beautiful. 

"You like this?" said the Judge, watching her face more than thelandscape, that had been familiar to him when almost a wilderness. 

"I should like to stay here for ever. It seems as if every one that wehave loved so much, is resting near the sky away off yonder fallingclose down upon the mountains. "

"It is a noble view, " said the Judge, standing up, and pointing to theright. "Have you ever learned anything of geography, children?"

"A little, " they both answered, glancing at each other as if ashamedof confessing so much knowledge. 

"Then you have heard of the Green Mountains yonder; they are likethunder-clouds under the horizon?"

The children shaded their eyes, and looked searchingly at what seemedto them a dark embankment of clouds, and then Mary turned, holding herbreath almost with awe, and gathered in with one long glance the broadhorizon, sweeping its circle of a hundred miles from right to left, closed by the mountain spur on which they stood. 

Where distance levelled small inequalities of surface, and made greatones indistinct and cloudy, the whole aspect of the scenery took anair of high cultivation and abundant richness. Thousands and thousandsof farms, cut up and colored with their ripened crops, lay beforethem--golden rye stubbles; hills white with buckwheat and rich withsnowy blossoms; meadows, orchards, and groves of primeval timber, allbrightened those luxuriant valleys and plains that open upon theHudson. Deep into New York State, and far, far away among themountains of New England the eye ranged, charmed and satisfied with afullness of beauty. 

Mary saw it, and all the deep feelings as fervent, but less understoodin the child than in the woman, swelled and grew rich in her bosom. Not a tint of those luxuriously colored hills ever left hermemory--not a shadow upon the distant mountains ever died from herbrain. It is such memories, vivid as painting, and burnt upon the mindlike enamel, from childhood to maturity, that feed and invigorate thesoul of genius. 

Enoch Sharp had been a man of enterprise. Action had ever followedquick upon his thought. Placed by accident in certain avenues of life, he had exerted strong energies, and a will firm as it was kindly, indoing all things thoroughly that he undertook; in no circumstanceswould he have been an ordinary man. Had destiny placed his field ofaction among scientific or military men, he would have proven himselffirst among the foremost; as it was, much of the talent that wouldhave distinguished him there, grew and throve upon those domesticaffections which were to him the poetry of life. 

Thrown into constant communion with nature in her most noble aspects, he became her devotee, and was more learned in all the beautifulthings which God has created, than many a celebrated savant whostudies with his brain only. 

True to the unearthed poetry lying in rich veins throughout his wholenature, Enoch Sharp sat keenly regarding the effect this grandpanorama of scenery produced on the two children. 

He looked on Isabel in her bright, half-restless beauty, with a smileof affectionate forbearance. There was everything in her face to love, but it had to answer to the glow and enthusiasm of his own nature. 

But it was far otherwise with little Mary. His own deep grey eyekindled as it perused her sharp features, lighted up, as it were, withsome inward flame. His heart warmed toward the little creature, andwithout uttering a word he stooped down and patted her head in silentapprobation. 

The child had given him pleasure, for there is nothing more annoyingto the true lover of nature than want of sympathy, when the heart isin a glow of fervent admiration; alive with a feeling which is so nearakin to religion itself, that we sometimes doubt where the dividingline exists which separates love of God from love of the beautifulobjects He has created. 

Thus it was that Mary with her plain face and small person found herway to the great, warm heart of Enoch Sharp; and as he sat upon therock a faint struggle arose in his bosom regarding her destination. 

An impulse to take her into his own house and cultivate the latenttalent so visible in every gesture and look, took possession of him, but his natural strong sense prevailed over this impulse. Many reasonswhich we will not pause to mention here, arose in contest with hisheart, and he muttered thoughtfully, "Neither men nor women become what they were intended to be bycarpeting their progress with velvet; real strength is tested bydifficulties. Still I must keep an eye upon the girl. "

Isabel soon became weary of gazing on the landscape. Impatient of thestillness, she arose softly and moved to a ledge close by, under whicha wild gooseberry bush drooped beneath a harvest of thorny fruit. 

"That is right, " said Enoch Sharp, starting up; "let me break off ahandful of the branches, they will make peace with Mrs. Farnham forleaving her in the carriage so long. "

Directly a heap of thorny branches purple with fruit lay at Isabel'sfeet, and Enoch Sharp was clambering up the rocks after some tufts oftall blue flowers that shed an azure tinge down one of the clefts;then a cluster of brake leaves mottled with brown spots tempted himon, while Mary Fuller stood eagerly watching his progress. 

"Oh, see, see how beautiful--do look, Isabel, if he could only get upso high?"

She broke off with an exclamation of delight. Enoch Sharp had glanceddownward at the sound of her voice, and directed by the eager lookwhich accompanied it, made a spring higher up the rock. 

A mountain ash, perfectly red with great clusters of berries, shot outfrom a little hollow between two ledges, and overhung the place whereMr. Sharp had found foothold. As if its own wealth of berries were notenough, a bitter-sweet vine had sprung up in the same hollow, andcoiling itself around the tree, deluged it with a shower of goldenclusters that mingled upon the same branch with the bright red fruitof the ash. 

"Oh, was there ever on earth anything so beautiful?" cried Mary, disentangling the delicate ends of the vines flung down by herbenefactor. "Oh, look, Isabel, look!"

She held up a natural wreath, to which three or four clusters hunglike drops of burnt gold. 

"Only see!"

With this exclamation she wove a handful of the blue autumn flowers inwith the berries and long slender leaves. 

"Let me put it around your hat, Isabel. Oh, Mr. Sharp, may I wind thisaround Isabel's hat; it is so pretty, I'm sure Mrs. Farnham will notmind?"

"Put it anywhere you like, " cried the kind man, holding on to a branchof the bitter-sweet, and swinging himself downward till the ash bentalmost double. It rushed back to its place, casting off a shower ofloose berries and leaves that rattled around the girls in red andgolden rain. Directly Mr. Sharp was by them once more, gathering up ahandful of gooseberry branches, bitter-sweet and ash, admiring Mary'swreath at the same time. 

"Come, now for a scramble down the hill, " he cried. "Here, let me gofirst, for we may all expect a precious blessing, and I fancy myshoulders are the broadest. "

The children looked at each other and the smiles left their lips. The"blessing, " with which he so carelessly threatened them was enough toquench all their gay spirits, and they crept on after their benefactorwith clouded faces. 

"See, Mrs. Farnham, see what a world of beautiful things we have foundfor you up the mountain, " cried Mr. Sharp, throwing two or threebranches through the carriage window. "The little folks havediscovered wonders among the bush--don't you think so?"

Mrs. Farnham drew back and gathered her ample skirts nervously abouther. 

"What on earth have the creatures brought? Bitter-sweet, gooseberries, with thorns like darning needles! Why, Mr. Sharp, what can you mean bybringing such things here to stain the cushions with?"

"Oh, never mind the cushions, " answered the gentleman, lifting Isabelup with a toss, and landing her on the front seat, while Mary stoodtrembling by his side, with her eyes fixed ruefully on the wreathwhich surrounded the crown of her companion's Leghorn flat. 

"Oh, what will become of us when she sees that?" thought the child indismay. 

But she was allowed no time to ask unpleasant questions, even ofherself, for Enoch Sharp took her in his arms and set her carefullydown opposite Mrs. Farnham, whose glance had just taken in the unluckywreath. 

"My goodness, if the little wretches have not destroyed that love of ahat with their trash! Oh, dear, put a beggar on horseback and only seehow he will ride! Mr. Sharp, I did hope that the child couldappreciate an article of millinery like that; but you see how it is, no just medium can be expected with this pauper taste; a long courseof refinement is, I fear necessary to a just comprehension of thebeautiful. Only think! two of Jarvis' most expensive marabouts crushedinto nothingness by a good-for-nothing heap of, I don't know what, tangled about them! Really, it is enough to discourage one from everdoing a benevolent act again. "

Judge Sharp strove to look decorously concerned, but spite of himselfa quiet smile would tremble at the corners of the mouth, as he lookedat the two marabout feathers flattened and crushed beneath theimpromptu wreath. 

"Whose work is it? Which of you twisted that thing over thosefeathers?" cried the lady angrily. 

Isabel looked at Mary, but did not speak. 

"It was me; I did it, " said Mary, meekly. "The berries were so pretty, we never saw any before. Please, ma'am, look again, and see if theblue flowers there against the yellow don't look beautiful. "

"Beautiful, indeed! What should you know of beauty, I wonder?" was thescornful answer, for Mrs. Farnham was by no means pleased that Maryhad been forced into her company even for a single day's travel. "Whaton earth possesses a child like you, brought up, no matter where, tospeak of this or that thing as pretty? What beautiful thing can youever have seen?"

"I have seen the sky, ma'am, when it was full of bright stars. Godlets poor people as well as rich ones look on the sky, you know; andisn't that beautiful?"

"Indeed! You think so, then?" said the lady. 

"And we have seen many, many beautiful things besides that, haven'twe, Isabel? One night, when it had been raining, in the winter--Iremember it, oh, how well--while the great trees were dripping wet, out came the moon and stars bright, with a sharp frost, and then allthe branches were hung with ice, in the moonshine, glittering andbending low toward the ground, just as if the starlight had allsettled on the limbs and was loading them down with brightness. Oh, ma'am, I wish you could have seen it. I remember the ground was allone glare of ice; but I didn't mind that. "

"I'm afraid your ward will find his protege rather forward, Judge, "said the lady, as Mary Fuller drew back, blushing at her own eagerdescription. 

"I really don't know, " answered the gentleman; "she seems to have madepretty good use of the few privileges awarded to her, and, really, there is some philosophy in it. When one finds nothing but God's skyunmonopolized, it is something for a child to make so much of that. She has a pretty knack of sorting flowers, too, as you may see by thefashion in which that is twisted. After all, madam, let us each makethe most of our favorites. Yours is pretty enough, in all conscienceFred's will give satisfaction where she goes, I dare say. "

Judge Sharp was becoming rather weary of his companion again, and soleaned out of the window, as was his usual habit, amusing himself bysearching for the first red leaves among the maple foliage, andwatching the shadows as they fell softly down the hemlock hollows. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

A PLEASANT CONVERSATION. 

 Like the patter of rain in a damp heavy day, Or the voice of a brook when its waters are low, That murmurs and murmurs and murmurs away-- Was the sound of her words in their meaningless flow. 

After a while, finding that Mrs. Farnham was still talking at thechildren, and dealing him a sharp sentence or two over theirshoulders, for preferring the scenery to her conversation, the Judgequietly drew in his head, and gathering up a quantity of the flowers, arranged a pretty bouquet for each of the little girls, who receivedthem with shy satisfaction. 

Then with more effort at arrangement, he completed a third bouquet, and laid it on Mrs. Farnham's lap with affected diffidence, that wentdirectly to that very weak portion of the lady's system, which shedignified with the name of heart. 

Enoch Sharp smiled at the effect of his adroit attention, while thelady, appeased into a state of gentle self-complacency, rewarded himwith beaming smiles and a fresh avalanche of those soft frothy words, which she solemnly believed were conversation. From time to time sherefreshed herself with the perfume of his mountain flowers, descantedon their beauties with sentimental warmth, and murmured snatches ofpoetry over them, very soft, very sentimental, and particularlyannoying to a man filled in all the depths of his soul with an honestlove of nature. 

"I wish my ward could have seen the old place before he went tocollege, " observed the Judge, adroitly seizing upon a pause in thiscataract of words, and making a desperate effort to change thesubject. "He will find Harvard rather dull, I fear, at first. "

The Judge was unfortunate. His choice of subject reminded Mrs. Farnhamof an old grievance, and that day she was ambitious to establishherself a character for martyrdom. 

"Yes, " she answered, "I'm sure he will, but Fred would go. I knewthey'd make a Unitarian of him or something of that sort, and the wayI pleaded would have touched a heart of stone, I'm sure. 

"'It was in your father's family, ' said I, 'to lean towards what theycalled liberal views, but I, your mother, Fred, I am firm on the otherside, orthodox, settled like a rock in that particular--though it hasbeen said that in other things, the affections for instance--I'm morelike a dove. '"

Here Mrs. Farnham settled the folds of her travelling dress with bothhands, as if the dove had taken a fancy to smooth its plumage. 

"Well, as I was saying to Fred, sir, 'go to Yale, don't think ofHarvard, but go to Yale. There you will get a granite foundation foryour religion--everything solid and sound there--go to Yale, my son. '

"It was in this way I reasoned, sir, but Fred has a good deal of hisfather in him, stubborn, Judge--stubborn as a--a mule, if you willexcuse me mentioning that animal to a gentleman who keeps such horsesas you do. "

The Judge bowed. The love of a fine horse was one of hischaracteristics; he rather enjoyed the compliment. 

His bow set Mrs. Farnham off again with double power. 

"'You won't go to Yale, ' said I, 'and you will go to Harvard. Let usstrike a medium, Fred, a happy medium is the most pleasant thing inthe world--go to Harvard one year, the next to Yale, then, sir, Ithought of your church--' and, said I, 'finish off at old Columbia, it'll be a compliment to your guardian. '"

"Thank you, " said the Judge, with a demure smile; "thank you forremembering my church so kindly; but what did my ward say to this?"

"Why, sir, would you believe it, he answered in the most disrespectfulmanner, that he went to college to got an education, and Harvard wasgood enough for that. 

"'But, ' said I, 'take my medium and you will try Harvard, and Yale, and old Columbia, too; only think what an introduction it would beinto all sorts of the best religious society. '

"Well, sir, what do you think he did but laugh in the most irreverentmanner, and ask me if I couldn't point out a Universalist institutionthat he could finish up at. I declare, Judge, it almost broke myheart. "

"Well, well, let us hope it will all turn out right, " answered theJudge, consolingly--"look, madam, look, what a lovely hollow that is!"

They were now descending the mountain passes. Broken hills and lovelygreen valleys rose and sunk along their rapid progress. Never on earthwas scenery more varied and lovely. Little emerald hollows shaded withhemlock, overhanging brooklets that came stealing like broken diamondthreads down the mountain sides to hide beneath their shadows, wereconstantly appearing and disappearing along the road. 

It was impossible for little Mary to sit still when these heavenlyglimpses presented themselves. Her cheeks burned, her eyes kindled;her very limbs trembled with suppressed impatience; but she dared notlean forward, and could only obtain tantalizing glances of thesparkling brooks, and the soft, green mosses that clung around themountain cliffs where they shot over the road. 

They passed through several villages, winding in and out throughmountain passes, where the hills were so interlapped that it seemedimpossible to guess how the carriage would extricate itself from thegreen labyrinth. 

Nothing could be more delicate and vivid than the foliage that clothedthe hill-sides, for the primeval growth of hemlocks had been cut awayfrom the hills, and a second crop of luxuriant young trees, beech, oak, and maple, mottled with rich clusters of mountain ash, and thedeep green of white pines, covered the whole country. 

All at once the coachman drew up his horses on a curve of the highway. The carriage was completely buried in a valley along which wound theriver, whose sweet noise they had long heard among the trees. 

"Now children, look out, " said the Judge, laughing pleasantly; "lookout and tell me how we are to get through the hills. "

Both the little girls sprang forward and looked abroad breathlessly, like birds at the open door of a cage in which they had beenimprisoned. The Judge watched them with smiling satisfaction as theycast puzzled glances from side to side, meeting nothing but shouldersand angles and ridges of the mountains heaving over each other in hugegreen waves that seemed to be endless, and to crowd close to eachother, though many a lovely valley lay between, little dreamed of bythe wondering children. 

"Well, then, tell me how you expect to get out, little ones?" repeatedthe Judge. 

"Sure enough, how?" repeated Isabel, drawing back, and looking fromthe Judge to Mrs. Farnham. 

But Mary was still gazing abroad. Her eyes wandered from hill to hill, and grew more and more luminous as each new beauty broke upon her. Atlast she drew back with a deep breath, and the loveliest of humansmiles upon her face. 

"Indeed, sir, indeed I shouldn't care if we never did get out, theriver would be company enough. "

"Yes, company enough, " replied the Judge, smiling. "But would it feedus when we are hungry?"

"It don't seem as if I ever should be hungry here, " replied the child. 

"But I am hungry now, " replied Enoch Sharp; "and so is Mrs. Farnham, I dare say!"

"No, " replied that lady, who prided herself on a delicate appetite, "Inever am hungry; dew and flowers, my friends used to say, wereintended to support sensitive nerves like mine. "

"Very likely, " thought Enoch Sharp; "I am certain no human being couldsupport them, " but he drowned this ungallant thought in a loud callfor Ralph to drive on. 

The horses made a leap forward, swept round a huge rock that concealedthe highway where it curved suddenly with a bend of the river, andbefore them lay one of the most beautiful mountain villages you everbeheld. The horses knew their old home. Away they went sweeping up thebroad winding sheet between double columns of young maple trees, through which the white houses gleamed tranquilly and dream-like onthe eyes of those city children. 

CHAPTER XXVI

A VALLEY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 

 High up among the emerald breasted hills, There lay a village, cradled in their green. Surrounded by such loveliness as thrills The poetry within us--and the sheen Of a broad river kissed the mountain's foot Where stately hemlocks found primeval root. 

Judge Sharp's carriage stopped in front of a noble mansion near thecentre of the village. I think it must have been one of the oldesthouses in the place. But modern improvements had so transfigured andbeautified it, that it bore the aspect of a noble suburban villa, rather than a mountain residence. The roof lifted in a pointed gable, and supported by brackets, shot several feet over the front, restingon a row of tall, slender columns which formed a noble portico alongthe entire front. 

In order to leave the first family homestead ever built in thosemountains entire in its simple architecture, this portico shaded thedouble row of windows first introduced into the dwelling; and the mainbuilding remained entire within and without, as it had been left yearsbefore by its primitive architect. But modern wings had been united tothe old building on the left and in the rear pointed with gables, andso interspersed with chimneys that the whole mass formed a gothicexterior singular and beautiful as it was picturesque. 

Noble old trees, maple, elm and ash, shaded the green lawn which fellfar back from the house, terminating on one side in a fine fruitorchard bending with ripened peaches and purple plums, and broken upon the south by a flower-garden gorgeous with late summer blossoms, shaded with grape arbors and clumps of mountain ash, all flushed andred with berries. 

This noble garden lost itself in the deep green of an apple orchardfull of singing birds. The waters of a mountain brook came leapingdown from the broken hills beyond, and gleamed through the thickfoliage, mingling their sweet perpetual chime with the rising breathof that little wilderness of flowers. 

This was the dwelling at which Judge Sharp's carriage stopped. Itseemed like a Paradise to the little girls, who longed to get out andenjoy a full view of its beauties from the lawn. But Mrs. Farnham wasa guest, for the time; and well disposed to use her privileges, sherefused to descend, though hospitably pressed, and seemed to think thefew moments required by the Judge to enter his own home, anencroachment on her rights and privileges. 

But the Judge cared little for this, and was far more engaged with avenerable old house-dog, toothless, grey and dim-eyed, who arose fromhis sunny nook upon the grass, and came soberly down to welcome hismaster, than he was with the lady's discontent. 

"Ha, Carlo, always on hand, old fellow, " he said, patting the grizzlyhead of his old favorite, "glad to see me, ha!"

Carlo looked up through his dim eyes and gave a feeble whine, which, in his young days, would have been a deep-mouthed bay of welcome. Then, with grave dignity, he tottered onward by his master's side, escorted him up to the entrance door, and lay down in a sunny spotwhich broke through the honeysuckle branches on the balcony, satisfiedby the soft rush of feet and the glad female voices within, that hismaster was in good hands. 

"I wonder, " said Mrs. Farnham, leaning back with an air of ineffabledisgust, and talking to no one in particular--"I wonder how the Judgecan allow that old brute to prowl after him in that manner, but thereis no medium in some people. I'm sure if he were at my house I wouldhave him shot before morning--laying down on the portico indeed!"

"But he seems so glad, " said Mary Fuller, struck with a thrill ofsympathy for the dog, rendered repulsive to that silly woman by hisage, as she was by her homeliness. 

"Isn't it the duty of every ugly thing to be still?" replied Mrs. Farnham, casting a look of feeble spite at the child. "But the Judgehas a fancy for uncouth pets. "

"Perhaps because they feel kindness so much, " answered Mary, in atrembling voice. 

"Indeed!" drawled the lady; "then I wish he would be kind enough tosend us on. This tiresome waiting, when one is worn out and halffamished, is too much. "

Just then the Judge appeared at the front door cheerful and smiling, and, in the shaded background of the hall, two fair forms werevisible, hovering near, as if reluctant to part with him again sosoon. 

"Not quite out of patience, I hope?" he said, leaning into thecarriage, while the ladies of his family came forth with offers ofhospitality. But Mrs. Farnham muttered something about fatigue, dust, and the strong desire she had to see her own home--a desire in whichthe ladies soon heartily, but silently, joined, for it needed only afirst sentence to convince them that the interesting widow would makebut a sorry acquisition to the neighborhood. 

"Then, if you absolutely insist, madam, the next best thing is toproceed, " cried Enoch Sharp, and, springing into his seat, he waved anadieu to his family, and the rather reluctant horses proceeded brisklydown the street. 

The river which we have mentioned, skirted the village with its brightwaters; two or three fine manufacturing buildings stood back from itsbanks, and, having supplied them with its sparkling strength, it swepton wildly as before, curving and deepening between its green or rockybanks with low, pleasant murmurs, like a troop of children let loosefrom school. 

The highway ran along its banks, sometimes divided from the waters byclumps of hoary old hemlocks, that had escaped the axe from theirisolation perhaps, and again separated only by thickets of wildblackberries and mountain shrubs. 

As they proceeded the hills crowded down close to the highway, thatran along the steep banks of the river; here the stream rushed on withfresh impetuosity, and gathering up its waves in a sudden curve of thechannel, leaped down the valley in one of the most beautifulwaterfalls you ever saw. 

"Oh, one minute; do, do stop one minute, " cried Mary, as the broadcrescent of the fall flashed before her. "Isabel, Isabel, did you eversee any thing like that?"

"Really, Judge, your pet is very forward, and so tiresome, " said Mrs. Farnham, gazing down upon the waters with a weak sneer; "one wouldthink she had never seen a mill-dam before. "

This sent the poor child back to her corner again. But Mrs. Farnhamhad struck the Judge on a sensitive point when she sneered at thatbeautiful crescent-shaped fall, rolling in a sheet of crystal over itsnative rocks, the sparkling waters all in sunshine; the still basinbeneath, green with stilly shadows cast over it from masses of talltrees that crowded around the brink. 

"Madam, " he said, "that mill-dam made its channel when the hillsaround had their first foundation. You must not find fault with theworkmanship, for God himself made it. "

"Indeed, you surprise me, " cried the lady, taking out her glass andleaning forward, "I really supposed it must be the result of some ofthose logging bees that we hear of in these back settlements. I quitelong to witness something of the kind; it must be gratifying, Judge, to see your peasantry enjoy themselves on these rustic occasions. "

"My peasantry, " laughed the Judge, as much ashamed of the angryfeelings with which his last speech had been given, as if he had beencaught whipping a lap-dog--"my constituents, you mean. "

"Oh, yes, of course, I mean anything that you call that sort ofpeople--constituents, is it?"

"My wife and I call that sort of people neighbors. "

"Indeed, " cried Mrs. Farnham, dropping her glass and leaning back asone who bends beneath a sudden blow; "I thought you were to be _my_neighbors. "

"If you will permit us, " said the Judge, laughing; "but here is yourhouse, and there stands the housekeeper ready to receive you. "

Mrs. Farnham brightened, and began to gather up her shawl andembroidered satchel, like one who was becoming weary of hercompanions. 

"This is really very nice, " she said, looking up to the huge squarebuilding lifted from the road by half a dozen terraces, and crownedwith a tall cupola; "depend on it, I shall make it quite a Paradise, Judge. I'm glad it's out of sight of your mill--your waterfall--I hatesounds that never stop. "

"How she must hate her own pattering voice, " thought the Judge, as hehelped the lady in her descent from the carriage. 

"And the housekeeper, I thought she was here. "

"And so I am, ma'am, " answered a slight, little woman, with a freckledcomplexion, and immense quantities of red hair gathered back of herhead in the fangs of a huge comb that had been fashionable twenty-fiveyears before; "been a-waiting at that identical front door full on toan hour, expecting you every minet; but better late than never. You'rewelcome, ma'am, as scraps to a beggar's basket. "

It was laughable--the look of indignant astonishment with which thewidow regarded her housekeeper, as in the simple honesty of her heartshe uttered this welcome. 

"And pray, who engaged you to take charge here? Could no more suitableperson be found?"

"Who engaged me, ma'am, me? why I grew up here--never was engaged inmy hull life, and never will be till men are more worth having. "

"But how came you here as my housekeeper?"

"Well, sort of nat'rally, ma'am, as children take the measles; bein'as I was in the house, I just let 'em call me what they're a mind to;hain't quite got used to the name yet, but it'll soon fit on withpractice. Come, now, walk in, and make yourself to home. "

All the time Mrs. Farnham had been standing by the carriage, with hershawl and travelling satchel on one arm. She refused to surrender themto Enoch Sharp, and stood swelling with indignation because thehousekeeper did not offer to relieve her. She might as well haveexpected the cupola to descend from its roof, as any of these menialattentions from Salina Bowles, who possessed very original ideas ofher duties as a housekeeper. 

"Gracious me! I hadn't the least notion that you had children along!"cried the good woman, totally oblivious of Mrs. Farnham's flushedface, and pressing closely up to the carriage. 

"But allow me to hope that you will grant permission, now that theyhave come!" said the widow with an attempt at biting satire, whichSalina received in solemn good faith. 

"It ain't the custom hereabouts to turn any thing out of doors, ma'am, expected or not; and I calcurlate there'll be room in the house for ayoung 'un or two if they ain't over noisy. Come, little gal, give ajump, and let's see how spry you are. "

Isabel obeyed, and impelled by Miss Bowles' vigorous arm, made aswinging leap out of the carriage. 

"Gracious sakes, but she's as hornsome as a pictur, ain't she though?Not your own darter, marm. I calcurlate. "

The flush deepened on the widow's face, and she began to bite hernether lip furiously, a sure sign that rage was approaching to whiteheat with her. For occasionally Mrs. Farnham found it difficult toretain a just medium, when her temper was up. 

"Come, child, move on, let us go into the house, if this woman willget out of the way and permit us"---

"Out of the way, goodness knows I ain't in it by a long chance, " criedSalina, waving her hand toward the house; "as for permitting, why thepath is open straight to the front door; and the house just as muchyours as it is mine, I reckon. "

"Is it indeed?" sneered the lady, lifting a fold of her travellingskirt, as she prepared to ascend the first terrace; "we shall decidethat to-morrow. "

But Salina Bowles sent an admiring glance after them, directed at thebeautiful child rather than the lady. 

"Well, now, she is a purty critter, ain't she, Judge? them long curlsdo beat all. "

But the Judge was at Mrs. Farnham's side assisting her to mount theterrace. When Salina became aware of this, her glance fell inside thecarriage again, and she saw Mary Fuller leaning forward and gazingafter Isabel with her eyes full of tears. Instantly a change came overthe rough manner of the woman--she remembered her encomiums onIsabel's beauty with a quick sense of shame, and leaning forwardreached out both hands. 

"Come, little gal, let me lift you out; harnsome is as harnsome does, you know. I hope you ain't tired, nor nothing. "

Mary began to weep outright. She tried to smile and force the tearsback with her eyelids; but the woman's kind words had unlocked herlittle grateful heart, and she could only sob out--

"Thank you--thank you very much; but I suppose I'm not to stop here, it's only Isabel. "

"And is she your sister?"

"No; but we've been together so long, and now she's gone; and--and"--

"Gone without speaking a word, or saying good bye?--well, I neverdid!"

Away darted Miss Bowles up the terraces, leaping from step to steplike an old greyhound till she seized on Isabel, and giving her alight shake, bore her back in triumph, much to the terror of bothchildren and the astonishment of the widow, who stood regarding themfrom the upper terrace in impatient wrath; while the Judge softlyrubbed his hands and wondered what would come next. 

"There now, just act like a Christian, and say good-bye to the littlegal that's left behind, " cried Salina, hissing out a long breath asshe plumped little Isabel down into the carriage. "What's the use oflong curls and fine feathers if there's no feeling under them? There, there, have a good kiss and a genuine long cry together; it'll be arefreshment to you both. "

Without another word the house-keeper marched away and ascended theterraces, her freckled face glowing with rude kindness, and thesunbeams glancing around her red hair as we see it around some of theugly saints, that the old masters stiffened on canvas before Raphaelgave ease of movement and freedom of drapery to these heavenlysubjects. 

"What have you done with the child?" almost shrieked Mrs. Farnham, asthe house-keeper drew near with a broad smile on her broader mouth. 

"Just put her in her place, that's all, " replied Salina; "she was acoming off without bidding t'other little thing good-bye. There shesot with her two eyes as wet as periwinkles, looking--looking afteryou all so wishful. I couldn't stand it; nobody about these partscould. We ain't wolves and bears, if we were brought up under thehemlocks. 'Little children should love one another, ' that's genuineScripter, or ought to be if it ain't. "

"What on earth shall I do with this creature?" cried Mrs. Farnham, half overpowered by the higher and stronger character with which shehad to deal. "She almost frightens me!"

"Still she seems to me about right in her ideas, if a little rough inher way of enforcing them. Believe me, madam, Salina Bowles will provea faithful and true friend. "

"Friend! Mr. Sharp, I do not hire my friends!"

The Judge made a slightly impatient movement. He was becoming weary ofthrowing away ideas on the well-dressed shell of humanity before him. 

"You will find the prospect very delightful, " he said, casting aglance toward the mountains, at whose feet the river wound brighteningin the sunshine, and seeming deeper where the shadows lengthened overit from the hills. "See, the spires and cupolas are just visible atthe left; though not close together, we shall be near enough for goodneighbors. "

The lady looked discontentedly around on the hills, covered with thegolden sunset, the river sleeping beneath them, and the distantvillage rising from masses of foliage, and pencilling its spiresagainst the blue sky, where it fell down in soft, wreathing clouds atthe mouth of the valley. 

"I dare say it is what you call fine scenery, and all that; but reallyI cannot see what tempted Mr. Farnham to think of forbidding the saleof this place; and, above all, to make it a condition that I shouldlive here now and then while Fred is in college. "

"Your husband started life here, madam, " answered the Judge, almoststernly; "and we love the places where our first struggles were made. "

"Yes, but then I didn't start life here with him, you know. Poor, dearMr. Farnham was so much older, and his tastes so different, Isometimes wonder how he managed to win me, so young, so--so--but youcomprehend, Judge!"

"He had managed to get a handsome property together before that, Ibelieve, " said the Judge, with a demure smile. 

"But what is property without taste, and a just idea of style? Mr. Farnham became quite aware of his deficiency in these points when hemarried me. "

"There does seem to have been a deficiency, " muttered the Judge, andhaving appeased himself with this bit of internal malice, he turned anattentive ear to the end of her speech. 

"His mother you know, was a commonish sort of person"

Here Salina, who stood upon the broad door-step with the front dooropen, strode down and confronted Mrs. Farnham. She remained thus withthose little grey eyes searching the lady's face, and with her long, bony hand tightly clenched, as if she waited for something else beforeher wrath would be permitted to reach the fighting point. But Mrs. Farnham remained silent, only muttering over "a very commonish sort ofperson indeed, " and with hound-like reluctance, Salina retreatedbackward, step by step, to her position at the door. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

NEW PEOPLE AND NEW HOMES

 There was energy and strength in her, A heart to will, with a hand to do; Like the fruit that lies in a chestnut bur That honest soul was fresh and true. 

Meantime Mary Fuller and Isabel had remained in the carriage, lockedin each others arms, murmuring out their fondness and their grief, with promises of faithful remembrance amid broken sob; and tears, suchas they had never shed before, even in their first poverty strickenorphanage. 

Something of that deep, unconscious spirit of prophecy, whichsometimes haunts the souls of children God-loving like Mary Fuller, whispered her that this separation would be for years. She hadreasoned with this presentiment all the way from the Alms House, whichhad so lately been their home, to this the place of their futureresidence. In the innocence of her heart she had taxed this feeling asa selfish one, and had covered herself with self-reproach, for havingfallen into envy of the brighter destiny which awaited Isabel, incomparison with her own prospects. But the child had done herselfinjustice, and mistook the holiest intuition of a pure heart for afeeling of which that heart was incapable. 

Isabel merely knew that they were to be parted, that the youngcreature whose care had been that of a mother, whose patience andgentle love had given a home feeling even to the Alms House, would nolonger share her room, curl her hair, and arrange her dress withkindly devotion, or in any way soothe her life as she had done. 

She did not comprehend, as Mary did, the great evil which thisseparation would bring upon her moral nature; but her affectionateheart was touched, and the passionate grief that she felt at parting, was more violent by far than the deeper and more solemn feeling thatshook Mary's heart to the centre, but made no violent outcry, aslighter grief might have done. 

Both Salina and Mary herself had done the child injustice, when theysupposed her going heartlessly away from her old companion. Confusedby the meeting of Mrs. Farnham and the housekeeper, and puzzled by thestrangeness of everything around, she had followed her benefactress, or adopted mother, without a thought that Mary would not join them;and her grief was violent, indeed, when she learned that then andthere she must separate from the only creature on earth, that herwarm, young heart could entirely love. 

The children were locked in each other's arms, weeping, each strivingto comfort the other. 

"Remember now, Isabel, say your prayers every night, the Lord'sPrayer, and after that, Isabel, remember and ask God to bless me andmake me, oh! so patient. "

"Ah! but it will seem so lonesome all by myself, with no one to kneelby me. Mary, Mary, I wish they had left us together at the hospital, Ilong to get away from here!"

"No, you mustn't feel that way, Mary, because Mrs. Farnham is verygood and very kind, to make you like her own child, and dress you upin all these pretty things. "

"They are pretty!" replied Mary, examining her plaid silk dressthrough many tears, "but somehow I don't seem to feel a bit happier inthem. "

"But this lady is to be your mother, Isabel. "

Poor Isabel burst into a fresh passion of grief. "Oh! Mary, Mary, thatis it. You know she isn't in the least like my mother, my own darling, darling mother. "

"But she is in heaven, " said Mary, in her sweet, deep voice, thatalways seemed so holy and true. "Now, dear Isabel, you will have twomothers, one here, another beyond the stars. That mother--oh, Isabel, I believe it as I do my own life--that mother comes to you always whenyou pray. "

"Oh! then I will pray so often, Mary, " cried the little girl, claspingher hands, "if that will bring her close to me. "

Mary looked long and wistfully into that lovely face, with only suchadmiration as one bereft of all personal attractions can feel forbeauty. Isabel clung closer to her, and wept more quietly. 

"You will come and see me very often?" she whispered. 

"Yes, " sobbed Mary, "if they will let me. "

"Where are they going to leave you?"

"I don't know, I haven't thought to ask till now. "

"I hope it will be near, Mary; and then, you know, we will see eachother every day, " cried the child, brightening through her tears. 

"But I am afraid Mrs. Farnham don't like me well enough. She may notallow it, " answered Mary, with a meek smile. 

"But _I_ will, " persisted Isabel, flinging back her head, with an airthat brought fresh tears into Mary's eyes. 

"Isabel, " she said gravely, and striving to suppress her grief, "don't--don't--Mrs. Farnham is your mother now. "

"No, she isn't though. She frightens me to death with her kindness. She don't love me a bit, only because my face is so pretty. I wish itwasn't, and then, perhaps, I could go with you. "

"No, no, we needn't expect that, _I_ never did. It's only a wonderthey took me at all. I'm Mr. Frederick's child, and you are hers. I'mquite sure if it hadn't been for him and Mr. Sharp, I should have beenleft in the Poor House all alone. The lady only looked at you from thefirst. "

"I know it, don't you think I heard all she said about my eyes, mycurls and my beautiful face, while you stood there with your mouth allof a tremble, and your eyes growing so large and bright under theirtears--I knew that it was my pretty face, that was doing it all; andoh! just then, Mary, I hated it so much. "

"It is a great thing to have a beautiful face, Isabel, a very greatthing. You don't know what it is to see kind people turn away theireyes for fear of hurting your feelings by a look, and to hear rude, bad persons gibing at you. Isabel, dear, you wouldn't like that. "

Mary said this in her usual sad, meek way, smiling so patiently as ifevery word were a tear wrung from her heart. 

"Oh! Mary, but you are beautiful to me--nobody on earth looks so sweetand so good in my eyes, or ever will. "

The two children embraced each other, and both wept freely as onlychildren can weep. At length, Mary Fuller withdrew herself fromIsabel's arms, lingering a moment to press fresh kisses among hercurls. 

"Now, Isabel, you must go. See, they are looking at us. Mrs. Farnhamwill be angry. "

"Mary, I want to tell you something; I like the red-haired woman, cross as she is, a thousand times better than Mrs. Farnham. If she didshake me, it was for my good, I dare say. "

"She was kind, at any rate, to let you come back, " said Mary. 

"To _let_ me? Why, Mary, she shook me up as mamma would a pillow, andshot me into the carriage so swift, it took my breath. "

Mary smiled faintly, and Isabel began to laugh through her tears, asshe scrambled out of the carriage again, Mary followed her withlonging eyes. Something of maternal tenderness mingled with her loveof that beautiful child; suffering had rendered her strangelyprecocious, and that prophetic spirit, which might have sprung froma mind too early stimulated, filled her whole being as with the loveof a guardian angel. 

"Oh, how lovely she is, how bright, how like a bird--if her fathercould only see her now, poor, poor Isabel! It is so hard for her to bewith strange people; but I, who was so long prowling the streets likea little wild beast that everybody ran away from; yes, I ought to becontent, and so grateful. But--but, I should like it _so_ much if theywould only let me come and see her once in a while. It's _so_ hard, and _so_ lonesome without that. "

Thus muttering sadly and sweetly to herself, the child sat with herlittle face buried in both hands, almost disconsolate. 

She was aroused by a vigorous footstep and the cheering voice of EnochSharp. He did not appear to notice her tears, but took his seat, waving his hand to the group just turning to enter Mrs. Farnham'sdwelling. 

"There, there, wave your hand, little one. They're looking this way. "

Mary leaned forward. Mrs. Farnham and the housekeeper had entered thehall, but Isabel took off her Leghorn flat and was waving it towardthem. The pink ribbons and marabouts fluttered joyously in the air. Mary could not see that those bright hazel eyes were dim with tears, but the position and free wave of the arms were full of buoyant joy. She drew a deep breath, and choked back her tears. It seemed as if shewere utterly deserted, then, utterly alone. 

While Mary could feel and admire Isabel's beauty, her own lack of ithad only been half felt; now her sun was gone, and she, poor moon, grew dreary in the unaided darkness. Up to this time Mary had hardlygiven a thought to the fate intended for herself. Always meek andlowly in her desires, feeling that any place was good enough for her, she was never selfishly anxious on her own account. Nor did sheinquire now. While Enoch Sharp was striving to comfort her bycaressing little cares, she only asked, "Is it far from here that you are taking me sir?"

"No, child, it is not more than a mile--you can run over and see herany time before breakfast, if you like. "

Mary did not answer, but her eyes began to sparkle, and bending herhead softly down, as a meek child does in prayer, she covered EnochSharp's hands with soft, timid kisses, that went to the very core ofhis noble heart. 

"Would you like to know where, and what, your home is to be, littleone?" he said, smoothing her hair with one disengaged hand. 

"If you please, but I am sure it will be very nice, so near her. "

"Do you wish very much to be with her?"

"Indeed I do, and if they could send us word from heaven, I know herfather and mother would say it was best. "

"But there is no relationship between you, " said he, willing to probeher frank soul to the bottom. 

"Relationship, sir, " answered the child, with the most touching smilethat ever lighted human face, "oh, sir, haven't you seen how lovelyshe is? And I"--

The child paused and spread her little hands open, as much as to say, "and I! _could_ two creatures so opposite be of the same blood?"

"I think you more lovely by half than she is, my child, " cried EnochSharp, drawing the hand, still warm with her grateful kisses, acrosshis eyes; "good children are never ugly, you know. "

The child looked at him wonderingly. 

"You have seen a thunder-cloud, " he said, answering the look, "howleaden and dismal it is of itself; but let the sun shine strike it andits edges are fringed with rosy gold, its masses turn purple and warmcrimson, it breaks apart and rainbows leap from its bosom, bridgingthe sky with light; do you understand, my child?"

"Oh! yes, sir, I have seen the clouds melt away into rainbows sooften. "

"Well, it is the sunshine that makes a thing of beauty, where was onlya dull black cloud. In the human face, my child, goodness acts likesunshine on the clouds. Be very good, little one, and the best portionof mankind will always think you handsome. "

Mary listened very earnestly, but with an irresolute and unconvincedexpression. This doctrine of immaterial loveliness she could notreadily adopt; and, strange enough, did not quite relish. Heradmiration of Isabel's beauty was so intense, that words like theseseemed to outrage it. 

"Come, come, " said the Judge, who had never had an opportunity ofconversing much with the child, "you must not cry so bitterly at beingparted. "

"Sir, " said the child, turning her large spiritual eyes upon theJudge, "her father and mother were very, very kind to me, when I hadno home, no food--nothing--nothing on earth but the cold streets tolive in; remember that!"

"It is important that I should be well informed about you, Mary. Whowas your father?"

"My father, " cried the child, starting upright, and her eyes flashedout brightly, scattering back their tears, "my father was as good aman as ever breathed; good, good, sir, as you are. He did everythingfor me, worked for me, taught me himself, nursed me in his own arms, my father--oh, my poor, poor father, he is a bright angel in heaven. "

"But your mother--did she act kindly by you?"

"My mother, oh, sir, she is with him--she is surely with my father. "

Enoch Sharp turned away his head. 

"That is a good girl, Mary, " he said at last. "But here we are at yournew home. Wipe up your tears and look cheerful. "

Mary obeyed, and her effort to smile was a pleasant tribute to hernoble friend, as he lifted her tenderly from the carriage. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

 'Twas a picturesque old homestead, With a low moss-covered roof; And trumpet vines flung over it Their green and crimson woof. 

The house at which Judge Sharp stopped was long, low, and terriblyweather-beaten. Once a coating of red paint had ornamented it, buttime had beaten this off in some places, and washed it together inothers, till the color was now a dull brown, with patches of red hereand there, visible beneath the eaves and around the windows. Thehighway separated this dwelling from the river, which took a bold, graceful curve just below the house; leaving a broad expanse ofmeadow-land and some fine clumps of trees in full view on the oppositeshore. 

Directly in front, ran a picket-fence, old, uneven and dilapidated, but in picturesque keeping with the building. The gate hung loosely onits hinges, just opposite an old-fashioned porch, that shot over thefront door, much after the fashion of that hideous thing called apoke, with which English women disfigure their pretty travellingbonnets and protect themselves from the sun. 

An immense trumpet-flower overran this porch, whose antiquemassiveness harmonized with the building, for the straggling branchesshot out in all directions, and its coarse blossoms, then in season, seemed to have drank up all the red paint as it vanished from theclapboards. Long, uncut grass, set thick with dandelions, filled thenarrow strip between the front fence and the house, except just underthe eaves, where it was worn away into a little, pebble-lined gutter, by the water-drops that poured from the roof every rainy day. 

A few of those old-fashioned roses, broad and red, but almost single, so common about old houses beyond the reach of nursery gardens, struggled up through the grass, along the lower portions of thefences, and on each side the porch. A garden, at one end of the house, was red with love-lies-bleeding and coxcombs, their deep huescontrasting with great clumps of marigolds and bachelor's-buttons, allclaiming a preemption right over innumerable weeds and any amount ofribbon grass, that struggled hard to drive them out. 

With all its dilapidation, there was something picturesque andattractive about the old homestead--a mingling of rude taste andneglect, unthrifty, but suggestive of innate character. Mary Fullerlooked around her, with that keen relish of gay colors and rudeoutline, that a rich uncultivated taste appreciates best. The glow ofthose warmly-tinted, bold garden flowers seemed like a welcome; andthe soft rush of the river, which she had so feared to love, seemedlike the voice of an old friend following her among strangers. 

She had some little time for observation, for the gate opened withdifficulty, groaning on its hinges, scraping its way in the segment ofa circle upon the ground, and tearing up grass by the roots in itsprogress. Evidently the front door was not in very frequent use, andthe stubborn old gate seemed determined that it never should be again. A wren shot away from the porch, as the Judge and his protege enteredit, and went fluttering in and out through the green branches wavingover it quite distractedly, as if she had never seen a human beingthere in her whole birdhood before. 

"Poor little coward, " said the Judge, "it's afraid we shall drive itsyoung ones from their old home. "

Mary had followed the fugitive with sparkling eyes, and she now beganpeering among the leaves, expecting to find a nest full of darlinglittle birdlings chirping for food. For aught she knew, poor alley-bredchild, the birds built nests and filled them with eggs all the yearround. 

Judge Sharp rapped upon the door with his knuckles, for the old ironknocker groaned worse than the gate when he attempted to raise it. 

After a little, the door opened with a jerk; for, like the gate, itswung low, grating upon the threshold. 

In the entry stood a woman, tall beyond what is common in her sex, square built and slightly stooping, not from feebleness, however, buthabit. The woman might have been handsome in her youth, for therestill existed a remnant of beauty in that cold, grave face, threadedwith wrinkles, and shaded by hair of a dull iron grey. Her eyes werekeen, and intensely black; they must have had fire in them once; ifso, it had burned itself out years before; for now they seemed clearand cold as ice. 

"How do you do, aunt Hannah?" said the Judge, reaching forth hishands. "I have brought the little girl, you see. "

"What little girl?" inquired the woman, casting her cold eyes on MaryFuller. "I know nothing about any little girl. "

"Then uncle Nathan didn't get my letter, " said the Judge, a littleanxiously. 

"He hasn't had a letter these three years, " was the concise reply. 

"Well, I must see him then. Where is he, aunt Hannah?"

"In his old place. "

"Where, on the back porch?"

"Yes. "

"Well, aunt Hannah, just see to my little girl, while I go and speakwith uncle Nathan, " and the Judge disappeared from the entry, througha side door. 

"Come into the out room, " said aunt Hannah to Mary, leading the waythrough an opposite door. 

Mary followed in silence, chilled through and through by this ironcoldness. 

The room was chilly and meagre of comforts like its mistress. Ahome-made carpet, striped in red and green, but greatly faded by time, covered the floor. A tall, mahogany bureau, with a back-piece andtop-drawers, stood on one side, and a long, narrow dining-table ofblack wood, with slender legs and claw-feet, grasping each a smallglobe, stood between the two front windows. Over these windows werepaper curtains of pale blue, rolled up with strings and tassels oftwisted cotton, just far enough to leave the lower panes visible. Halfa dozen chairs of dark brown wood touched with green, stood around theroom; and over the dining-table hung an antique looking-glass, in amahogany frame, rendered black by time. 

Mary sat down by an end window that overlooked the garden, and peeredthrough the little panes to avoid the steady gaze that the woman fixedupon her. A sweet-briar bush grew against the window; and she caughtbright glimpses of marigolds and asparagus laden with red berries, through the fragrant leaves. 

All at once she started and turned suddenly in her chair. The womanhad spoken. 

"Who are you?" was the curt question that aroused her. 

"I--I--ma'am?"

"Yes, I mean you. What's your name?"

"Mary Fuller, ma'am. "

"What brought you in these parts?"

"I came with Isabel and Judge Sharp. "

"What for?"

"To live with somebody, ma'am, I--I thought at first it was here!"

"Where did you come from?"

Mary blushed. Poor child! She had a vague idea that there wassomething to be ashamed of in coming from the Alms House. As shehesitated the woman repeated her question, but more briefly, onlysaying:

"Where?"

"From the Alms House!"

Aunt Hannah's eyes fell. A faint color crept through the wrinkles onher forehead, and for a few moments she ceased to interrogate thechild. But she spoke at length in the same impassive voice as before:

"Have you a father?"

"No, ma'am. "

"A mother?"

"She is dead. "

"Who is Isabel?"

"A little girl that was with me in"--she was about to say in the AlmsHouse; but more sensitive regarding Isabel than herself, she changedthe term and said, "that was with me in the carriage. "

"The carriage, " repeated aunt Hannah, moving toward a window andlifting the paper blind, "did it take four horses to drag you andanother little girl over the mountains?"

"Oh! no, ma'am, there was a lady. "

"A lady! Who?"

"A lady who lives down the river in a great square house, with a sortof short steeple on the roof. "

"What, Mrs. Farnham?" said the woman, dropping the blind as if it hadbeen a roll of fire, while her face turned white to the lips, and aglow came into her eyes that made Mary's heart beat quick, for therewas something startling in it, as the woman stood searching her facefor the answer. 

"Yes, that is the name, ma'am. "

Aunt Hannah's lips grew colder and whiter, while the glow concentratedin her eyes like a ray of fire. 

"Is she coming here to live?" broke in low, stern tones from thosecold lips. 

"Yes, I heard her say that she was, " replied the little girl, gently, warmed by a touch of sympathy; for even this stern betrayal of feelingwas less repulsive than the chill apathy of her previous manner. 

"And this Isabel. Is the girl hers?"

"No, not hers, she is like me--no, not like me--only in having nofather and mother--for Isabel is--oh, how beautiful. "

"And what is she doing here?" questioned the woman, still in herstern, low tones. 

"Mrs. Farnham has adopted her, " answered the child, "and no wonder;anybody would like to have Isabel for a child. "

"Why?"

"Because she is lovely. "

"Why didn't she adopt you?" said the woman, without a change in hervoice. 

"Me, ma'am! Oh, how could she?"

The child, as she spoke, spread her little hands abroad, and lookeddownward as was her touching habit, when her person was brought inquestion. 

The woman stood in the centre of the room, pale, and still gazing uponthat singular little face, with a degree of intensity of which itsformer coldness seemed incapable. At last she strode up to the window, and putting her hand on Mary's forehead, bent back her head, while sheperused her face. 

"And who will adopt you?" she said, at length, as if communing withherself. 

"I don't know, " said the child, sadly. "When I came here I thoughtperhaps this house was the one that Mr. Sharp expected me to live in. "

The woman continued her gaze during some seconds, then her handdropped away from the throbbing little forehead, and she returned toher seat. 

That moment the door opened, and Enoch Sharp looked through, with asmile that penetrated into the room like a sunbeam. 

"Come, aunt Hannah, " he said, "we can do nothing without you. "

CHAPTER XXIX. 

AUNT HANNAH AND UNCLE NATHAN. 

 The apple trees were all growing old, And old was the house that sheltered him; But that brave, warm heart, was a heart of gold! Though his head was grey, and his eyes were dim. 

Aunt Hannah arose, and walked with a precise and firm step from theroom. Enoch Sharp led the way into a low back porch that overlookedthat portion of the garden devoted to vegetables. In one end of thisporch stood a huge cheese-press; and on the dresser opposite, a woodenchurn was turned bottom up, with the dasher leaning against it. Several milking-pails of wood, scoured to a spotless whiteness, wereranged on each side, while nicely kept strainers hung over them. Therewas a faint, pure smell of the dairy near, as if the porch opened to abutter and cheese-room; but the exquisite cleanliness of everythingaround made this rather agreeable than otherwise. 

The principal object in the porch, however, was an old man seated in ahuge armed-chair of unpainted oak, with a splint bottom worn smooth byconstant use. The chair stood near the back entrance, and the old manseemed quite too large and unwieldy for any attempt at exercise; buthis broad, rosy face was turned toward the door, as he heard EnochSharp and his sister coming through the kitchen; and one of thefrankest smiles you ever beheld, beamed from his soft brown eyes overthe benevolent expanse of his face. 

"Well, Nathan, what do you want of me?" inquired the austere lady inher usual cold tones. 

The good man seemed taken aback by this short address. He looked atthe Judge as if for help, saying, "Hasn't he told you, Hannah?"

"Yes, he wants us to keep this little thing in yonder, and let otherspay us for it. I don't sell kindness--do you, Nathan?"

"No, no, certainly not; but then, Hannah, you must reflect; theJudge's own house is not exactly suited for a person like this littlegirl; and if we don't take her who will?"

The woman stood musing, her cold face unchanged, her eyes castthoughtfully downward. 

"You see, sister, " persisted uncle Nathan, "this little girl isn't asthe Judge says, a sort of person to make a pet of, like the one Mrs. Farnham has adopted. "

Aunt Hannah started, and looked up with one of those sharp glances, that we have once seen disturb the cold monotony of her face. Therewas something in the name of Mrs. Farnham, that seemed to sting herinto life. 

"She isn't handsome, you know, " persisted the good man, "but you won'tcare for that, Hannah. The Judge says she's a bright, good littlecreature, and she'll be company for us, don't you think so?"

Aunt Hannah looked at the Judge, who stood regarding her with somedegree of anxiety. 

"Judge, " she said, "that woman yonder? She is rich, and these twochildren loved each other--why did she send this girl to me?"

"She did not; I brought her without her knowledge, " said the Judge. "Young Farnham first suggested it. "

"Young Farnham?" said the woman, and a glow came to her forehead. 

"But why were they put asunder?"

"Mrs. Farnham seems to have taken a dislike to poor Mary, " was thereply. "The other child is very pretty, and this was a greatrecommendation, for a lady like her, you know; besides my ward wasvery anxious that you should take charge of her. "

The quick fire once more came to aunt Hannah's eyes. She drew herselfup, and looking at Enoch Sharp, said, with a degree of feeling veryunusual to her, "Judge Sharp, you can go home. I will take the girl and bring her upafter my own fashion; but, as for your money, we are not poorenough--my brother and I--to sell kindness--not, not even to him. "

The Judge would have spoken, but aunt Hannah waved her hand, after herusual cold, stately fashion, saying, "take the girl--or leave her withme. "

"But she will be a burden upon you!" he began to say. 

Aunt Hannah did not answer, but going into "the out room, " removedMary's bonnet and mantilla, then, taking her by the hand, she led herinto the porch directly before uncle Nathan. 

"Talk with her, " she said; "I have the chores to do up yet. "

"Yes, yes, talk with uncle Nathan, Mary; you will feel at home atonce, " cried the Judge, somewhat annoyed that all his benevolent planscould not be carried out, but glad, nevertheless, that his poorfavorite had found a home. 

There are faces in the world which a warm-hearted person cannot lookupon without a glow of generous emotion. Those faces are seldom amongthe most beautiful. Certainly, I have never found them so; but, thispower of waking up all the sweet emotions of an irrepressible natureis worth all the beauty on earth. Uncle Nathan Heap's face was of thischaracter. Full and ruddy, it beamed with an expression so benevolent, so warm and true, that you were ready to love and trust him at thefirst glance. 

Mary Fuller had too much character in herself not to feel all that wasnoble in his. Her eye lighted up, the color came in a faint hue to hercheeks, and, without a word, she placed her little hands between theplump brown palms that were extended to receive her. 

Uncle Nathan drew her close up to his knees, pressing her little handskindly between his, and perusing her face with his friendly browneyes. 

"There, that will do, you are a nice little girl, " he said, "I'm gladthe Judge thought of bringing you here. "

Mary was ready to cry. This reception was so cheering, after the coldinterrogations of aunt Hannah. 

"Go, bring that milking-stool, yonder, and sit down here while I talkwith you a little, " said uncle Nathan, pointing toward three or fourstools, that hung on the picket fence in the back garden. 

Mary ran across the cabbage patch, and brought the milking-stool, which she placed near the old man. 

"Close up, close up, " he said, patting his fat knee, as if he expectedher to lean against it. "There, now, this will do. Sit still and seehow you like the garden while the sunshine strikes it. "

Mary looked around full of serious curiosity. The sunshine was fallingacross the cabbage patch, which she had just crossed, tinging the greatheads with gold. The massive effect of this blended green and gold;the deep tints of the outer leaves, lined and crimped into a curiousnetwork; the inner leaves folded so hard and crisp, in their lightergreen; all struck the child as singularly beautiful. Then the dun redof the beet leaves, that took up the slanting sunbeams as they strayedover the garden, scattering gold everywhere; and the delicate andfeathery green of the parsnip beds: these all had a charm for heryoung eyes, a charm that one must feel for the first time toappreciate. 

"Don't you think it a pleasant place out here?" said uncle Nathan, looking blandly down upon her. 

"Oh! yes, very, very nice. I never saw so many things growing at oncebefore. "

"No! Don't they have gardens in New York then?"

"Some persons do, but not with these things in them: but they havebeautiful roses and honeysuckles, and sights of flowers; don't youlike flowers, sir?"

"Like flowers? Why, yes. Didn't you see the coxcombs and marigolds inthe front garden?"

"Yes, " said Mary, a little disappointed; for, to say the truth, shefound more beauty in the nicely arranged vegetable beds, with theirrich variety of tints, just then bathed in the sunset; besides, ataste for rare flowers had been excited, by many a childish visit tothose pretty angles and grass plats, bright with choice flowers, thatbeautify many of our up-town dwellings in New York. "Yes, they arelarge and grand, but I like little tiny flowers, with stems that shakewhen you only touch them. "

"Oh, you'll find lots of flowers like that in the spring time, I cantell you. Among the rocks and trees up there, the ground is coveredwith them. "

"And can I pick them?" asked the child, lifting her brightening eyeson uncle Nathan, with a world of confiding earnestness in them, butstill doubtful if she would dare to touch even a wild blossom withoutpermission. 

"Pick them!" repeated the old man, laughing till his double chintrembled like a jelly. "Why the cattle tramp over thousands of themevery day. You may pick aprons full, if you have a mind to. "

"I shouldn't like much to pick them in that way, " said the child, thoughtfully. 

"Why not, ha?"

"I don't know, sir. "

"Call me uncle Nathan!"

"Well, I don't know, uncle Nathan, " repeated the child, blushing, "butit seems to me as if it must hurt the pretty flowers to be picked, asif they had feeling like us, and would cry out in my fingers. "

"That is a queer thought, " said uncle Nathan, and he looked curiouslyon the child. 

"Is it? I don't know, " was the modest reply, "but I always feel thatway about flowers. "

"She is a strange little creature, " thought uncle Nathan, who had aworld of sympathy for every generous emotion the human soul ever knew, "what company she will be here in the old stoop nights like this. "

Then in a quiet, gentle way, uncle Nathan began to question the child, as his sister had done; but Mary did not shrink from him as she hadfrom his relative; and the sunset gathered around them, while she wastelling her mournful little history. 

The old man's eyes filled with tears more than once, as he listened. Mary saw it and drew close to him as she spoke, till her littleclasped hands rested on his knees. 

Just then aunt Hannah came into the porch with a pail in her hand, foaming over with milk. 

"Oh!" exclaimed uncle Nathan, lifting himself from the arm-chair witha heavy sigh, "I oughtn't to have been sitting here, in this way, while you are doing up the chores, Hannah. Give me the stool, littledarter, I must do my share of the milking, any how. "

"Sit still! The child's strange yet; I can do up the chores for once, I suppose, " answered aunt Hannah, placing a bright tin pan on thedresser, and tightening a snow-white strainer over the pail. "Sitdown, I say. "

Uncle Nathan dropped into his capacious chair, with a relieving sigh, though half the authority in aunt Hannah's command was lost in theflow of a pearly torrent of milk which soon filled the pan. 

"Can't I help?" inquired Mary, going up to aunt Hannah, as she liftedthe brimming pan with both hands, and bore it toward a swinging shelfin the pantry. 

"Not now; when you are rested. Go back to Nathan, " answered auntHannah, looking sideway over the uplifted milk pan. 

Mary drew back to her place by the old man, and they watched the sunas it set redly behind the hills, covering the garden and all thehills with its dusky gold. 

"See!" said uncle Nathan, pointing to an immense sun flower crowning astalk at least eight feet high. "See how that great flower wheelsround as the sun travels toward the mountains; and stands with itsface to the west, when it goes down. Did you ever see that before?"

"The great, brown flower, fringed with yellow leaves--does it reallydo that?" cried Mary, with her bright eyes wandering from the statelyflower to uncle Nathan's face. "Oh! how I should love to sit and watchit all day!"

"I do sometimes, Sundays, when it's too warm for anything else, " saiduncle Nathan; "but supposing you go to bed early, and get up in themorning, as sure as you do, that sunflower will be found lookingstraight to the east. "

Aunt Hannah, who had bustled about the porch and pantry some time, appeared after a short interval, at the back door. Uncle Nathanunderstood the signal, and taking Mary by the hand, led her into akitchen, neatly covered with a rag carpet, and furnished withold-fashioned wooden chairs. A little round tea-table stood in themiddle of the room, covered with warm tea-biscuit, preserved plumsin china saucers, and plates of molasses-pound-cake, with a saucer ofgolden butter, and one of cheese, placed at equal distances. 

Aunt Hannah took her seat behind an oblong tray of dark japaned tin, on which stood a conical little pewter tea-pot, bright as silver, anda pile of tea-spoons small enough for a modern play-house, but sobright that they scattered cheerful gleams over the whole tray. Threechairs stood around the table, and in one of these Mary placedherself, obedient to a move of aunt Hannah's hand. A bowl of bread andmilk stood by her plate, to which she betook herself with heartyrelish, while aunt Hannah performed the honors of her pewter tea-pot, mingling a judicious quantity of water with Mary's portion of herfavorite beverage, while uncle Nathan reached over and sweetened itwith prodigality, observing that "it was the nature of children tolove sweets, " at which aunt Hannah gave a cold smile of assent. 

After tea, uncle Nathan withdrew to his seat on the porch again. Marywould have made herself useful about the tea-things, but aunt Hannahdismissed her with an observation that she might rest herself in theporch. 

It was very pleasant to keep close up to the side of that old man, andfind protection from her loneliness, in the shadow of his great chair. Still, a sadness crept over her poor heart, for with all hersimple-hearted courage, the place was strange, and in spite of thecordial voice of uncle Nathan that came cheerfully through thegathering darkness, she felt a moisture creeping into her eyes. Thevery stillness and beautiful quiet of everything around had elementsof sadness in it to a creature so sensitively organized as she was. She thought of her father, and fixing her meek eyes on the stars, asthey came one by one into the sky, began to wonder if he knew whereshe was, and how much like a father that good old man was actingtoward his little girl. 

Then she thought of Isabel; and of Judge Sharp; of the great, goodfortune that had befallen her in being so near them both, and her poorlittle heart swelled with a world of thankful feelings. I do think thesweetest tears ever shed by mortal, come from those grateful feelings, that, too exquisite for words, and too powerful for silence, can findno language to express themselves in but tears. 

Mary Fuller began to sob. She had for the moment forgotten the oldman's presence. 

"What is this?" cried uncle Nathan, laying one hand over her head, andpatting her cheeks with his broad palm, "homesick a'ready?"

"No, no, " sobbed Mary, "I, I was only thinking how good you all are tome, how very, very happy I ought to feel. "

"And can't. Is that it?"

"I don't know, " answered the child, wiping her eyes, and looking up, searching for uncle Nathan's face in the star-light. "There issomething here that isn't happy entirely, or a bit like sorrow, butsometimes it almost chokes me, and would quite if I couldn't cry itoff. "

"I used to feel that way once, I remember, " said uncle Nathan, thoughtfully, "but it wore off as I grew older. "

"I shouldn't quite like to have it wear off, " said the child, fixingher eyes on the stars, and clinging to the golden dreams that sohaunted her, just before this fit of weeping came on, "altogether, Idon't think one would like to part with one's thoughts, you know. "

"Not even when they make you cry?"

"No, I think not--those are the thoughts that one loves to rememberbest. "

"Come, Nathan, " said aunt Hannah, appearing in the porch with a tallowcandle in her hand, "it's almost bed-time. "

Uncle Nathan arose and entered the kitchen. Seating himself at thelittle round stand, he opened a huge old Bible, that lay upon it, andputting on a pair of iron spectacles began to read. 

Mary, seated by aunt Hannah, listened with gentle interest with herlittle hands folded in her lap, and her large grey eyes dwellingearnestly on the face of the white-haired reader. 

When the chapter was done, they all knelt down, and uncle Nathanpoured forth the fullness of his faith in a prayer, that went over thechild's heart like the summer wind upon a water-lily, stirring all itsyoung thought to their gentle depths, as the fragrant leaves of thelily give forth their sweetness. Two or three times she heard auntHannah murmur some words uneasily, as if a thought, at variance withher brother's prayer, disturbed her. But directly the child wasenwrapped, heart and soul, in the earnest words that fell from the oldman's lips, and when she stood up again, her face had a sort of gloryin its expression. It was the first night in a long, long time thatMary had been so near heaven. 

And this was the kind of home which Enoch Sharp had given to theorphan. Did she sleep well? If grateful thoughts can summon angels, many bright spirits hovered over her little bed that night. 

But aunt Hannah never closed her eyes. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

MORNING AT THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

 Awake, poor orphan girl, awake! The wild birds flutter free, And all the trumpet blossoms quake, Amid the tuneful glee. 

Mary Fuller was aroused from her sleep the next morning by the mostheavenly sound that had ever met her ear. It was a wild gush of song, from the birds that had a habit of sleeping in the old trumpet-flowervine, and among the apple-trees back of the house. She began to smileeven in her sleep, and awoke with a thrill of new and most deliciouspleasure. Out from the old porch and distant trees came this wild gushof song, to which the river with its soft chiming, made a perpetualaccompaniment. She drew a deep breath tremulous with pleasure andreluctantly opened her eyes. 

Aunt Hannah was standing before a little upright looking-glass, combing out her long grey hair with a ferocious-looking horn comb, which she swept through those sombre tresses deliberately as a rakegathers dry hay from the meadow. The paper curtains were partly rolledup, and one of the small sashes was open, admitting a current of freshair and the bird's songs together. These two blessings, which Godgives alike to all, aunt Hannah received as she did her daily bread, without a thought and as a necessary thing; but to the child they madea heaven of the little attic chamber. 

This was not alone because habit had familiarized one to a brightcirculation of mountain air and mountain music, and the other to thesluggish atmosphere and repulsive scents inseparable from thepoverty-stricken districts of a city. Temperament had more to do withit than habit. Mary, with her sensitive nature, never could havebreathed such air, or listened to those melodious sounds, without afeeling of delight such as ordinary persons never know. Thus ithappened, while aunt Hannah was busy twisting up her hair and changingher short nightgown for a calico dress, that Mary closed her eyesagain, and a tear or two stole from beneath their long lashes. 

Aunt Hannah just then came to the bed, with both hands behind, hookingup her dress. She saw the tears as they stole through those quiveringlashes, and spoke in a voice so stern and chill that it made the childstart on her pillow. 

"Home-sick, I reckon?" she said, interrogatively. 

"No no, " answered Mary, eagerly, "it isn't that, I haven't any home, you know, to be sick about. "

"What is it then?"

"Oh, the bright air, and the sweet noise all around, it seemsso--so--indeed I cant help it. Is there another place in the wideworld like this?"

"Well, no, to my thinking there isn't, " said aunt Hannah, lookingaround the room with grim complacency; "but I don't see anything tocry about. "

"I know it's wrong in me, ma'am, but somehow I can't help making ababy of myself when I'm very happy--don't be angry with me for it. "

"I don't like crying people, never did, " answered aunt Hannah, tersely; "tears never do anything but mischief, and never will--wipeyour eyes now, and come down stairs. "

Mary drew a little hand obediently across her eyes. Aunt Hannah lefther and went down a flight of narrow steps that led to the kitchen:the child could hear her moving about among the fire-irons, as she puton her clothes. Still there was joy at her heart, for the birds keptsinging to her all the time, and when she rose from her knees, afterwhispering over her prayers, they broke forth in such a gush of music, that it seemed as if they knew what she had been about and rejoicedover it. 

When Mary descended into the kitchen, she found aunt Hannah on herknees, between two huge andirons, fanning a heap of smoking wood withher checked apron, which she tightened at the corners around eachhand. The smoke puffed out in little clouds around her, with everywave of the apron, and floated off in fantastic wreaths over her head. When Mary came down, she turned her face over one shoulder with aninclination toward the door, and the words, "You will find a place towash by the rain-water trough, " issued from amid the smoke. 

Mary found the huge trough standing full of soft water, to the left ofthe back stoop. On one end where the wood was thick, stood a yellowearthen wash-bowl, with a square piece of soap, of the same color, lying by it. 

To a child of Mary's habits this rustic toilet was luxurious. Standingupon a piece of plank, that protected her feet from the damp eartharound the trough, she bathed her hands and face again and again, drawing in deep draughts of the bright air between each ablution, witha delicious sense of enjoyment. 

"That's right--you are beginning to find out the ways of the house, darter. Grand old trough, isn't it?" said uncle Nathan, issuing fromthe porch, and turning back the cotton wristbands from his plumphands, as he came up to where Mary was standing. "That's right. Nowfor a good wash. "

Mary hastened to cast the water away that she had been using, and fillthe bowl afresh for uncle Nathan, before he reached the plank on whichshe stood. Then she resigned her place, and running into the stoop, wiped her hands and face till they were rosy again on the rollertowel, that she had observed hanging near the cheese-press. 

"Now, what must I do next?" she said, confidentially, as uncle Nathanclaimed his turn at the crash towel, "I want to be of some use, pleasetell me how!"

"That's right, " said uncle Nathan, patting her head with his wet hand"run, hang over the tea-kettle, set the table, sweep up a little. Youcan do chores, I reckon?"

"I don't know; what are chores?"

"Oh! a little of everything, " replied the old man, laughing his deep, good-natured laugh. 

"Oh! yes, I can try at that, any way, " cried the child, and her laughstole through the mellow fullness of his, much as the bird-songsmingled with the flow of the river. "I'm a good deal stronger than Ilook!"

"Bright as a dollar, and smart as a steel-trap. I knew it. Them eyesweren't made for nothing. Now run and begin; but look here, darter:don't plague Hannah with questions; just make yourself handy; and nofuss about it, you know. "

"Oh! I can do that, you'll see, " cried the girl, cheerfully, and whileuncle Nathan was polishing his broad face with the towel, she seized aheavy iron tea-kettle, and carried it to the well, which, surroundedby plantain and dock leaves, was near a corner of the house. She hadsome little difficulty in managing the windlass, and when the oldmossy bucket fell with a dash into the water twenty feet below, itmade her start and shiver all over as if she had harmed something. 

I am afraid she never could have managed with those little hands, tohave drawn the bucket over the well-curb; but while she stoodtrembling like a leaf, holding back the windlass with both hands, andgazing desperately on the bucket, down whose green sides thewater-drops were raining back into the well, good uncle Nathan cameup, panting with exertion, and seizing hold of the bucket jerked itover the curb. 

"Don't try that again; it's rather more than you can manage yet, " hesaid, breathing hard. "I was an old Ishmaelite to put you up to it. "

"I thought it was easy enough, " said Mary, trembling with affright andthe overtax of her strength, while uncle Nathan filled the tea-kettleand bore it into the porch; "next time I shall know how better. "

She took the kettle from the old man's hand, and bending her wholestrength to the task, bore it into the kitchen. 

Aunt Hannah was still on her knees, blowing away at the obstinategreen wood that smoked and smouldered at its ease. When Mary cametottering under the weight of her kettle; and hung it upon thetrammel-hook just over an incipient blaze, the old lady gave her akeen glance, as much of surprise as pleasure, and working vigorouslywith her apron, sent a whirl of smoke into the child's eyes, while herlips muttered something that sounded like "nice girl. "

It was quite wonderful how the little creature found out all the waysof that old house so noiselessly! While aunt Hannah sat, knife inhand, stripping the skins from her cold potatoes, and cutting them inround slices that dropped hissing one by one into the hot gravy, which, with thin slices of pork, simmered in the frying-pan just takenfrom the fire, Mary had drawn forth the little cherry wood table, found the tablecloth of birds-eye diaper in one end of the drawer, andthe knives and forks in the other, which she proceeded to arrangeafter the fashion she had observed the night before. 

Aunt Hannah turned her head now and then, after stirring up herpotatoes, and held the dripping knife above the frying-pan, while shegave a sharp glance at these proceedings, quite ready to impart abrief reprimand should the case require it. But each glance grewshorter, and at last those thin lips relaxed into a look of grimsatisfaction, when she saw the little girl measuring a drawing of teain the top of her tin canister, levelling it nicely off with the edgeof a spoon handle, not a grain more or less than the usual allowance. 

Aunt Hannah was not a close woman in the usual country acceptation ofthe term, but she hated changes and loved tea. That old canister lidhad been the household standard for thirty years, and it was notlikely that she would heartily sanction any addition or diminution fora little girl like that. 

At length the breakfast was ready. The slices of salt pork were neatlyarranged on a plate; and the potatoes crisped to a turn, were placedbeside it on the hearth. Between them stood a plate of milk-toast andthe little pewter tea-pot, puffing threads of steam from its punynozzle as if it really intended an opposition to the great salamanderof a kettle that sung and fumed and made a great ado over the hot fireback in the chimney. 

Just as everything seemed ready for breakfast, uncle Nathan came in, obedient to a nod from his grim sister, and seating himself before thefire, opened the Bible and began to read. 

It was a temptation to worldly thoughts, that warm breakfast, sosavory and tantalizing to a child whose appetite was stimulated withexercise and the fresh mountain air, and it is no use pretending thatonce or twice she did not wonder a little if uncle Nathan always readso slow or prayed so long. But it was a passing thought, and, as uncleNathan said afterward, "she couldn't help birds flying over her head, but that was no reason why they should build nests in her hair. " Inthis case, naughty thoughts were like the birds, and if she drove themaway, that was all that could be expected. Uncle Nathan was a good oldman in his day and generation, and we have no idea of criticising anyopinion of his. 

When the breakfast was over, aunt Hannah disappeared from the backporch, with a milk-pail in one hand and a three-legged stool in theother. Uncle Nathan followed her example, but more slowly, and thecotton handkerchief of many colors that his sister had tied on herhead, disappeared over the back garden-fence before he had halfcrossed the cabbage-patch. He lingered behind long enough to give Maryan encouraging smile through the kitchen-door, and went off murmuring, as if in confidence to his milking-stool, "Nice girl, nice girl, I wonder we never thought of taking a littlething like that before. If Hannah had only kept poor Anna's baby now, what company they would have been for each other. "

When the good man reached the little pasture-lot, thinly scatteredover with apple-trees, in which half-a-dozen fine cows grazed overnight, he found aunt Hannah beneath one of the largest trees, seatedupon her stool, and milking what she called the "hardest" cow of thelot. When disposed to be refractory she cut its "tantrums" short witha sharp "soh!" that went off from her thin lips like the crack of apistol; and this one word had more effect upon the animal, than aworld of uncle Nathan's gentle "so-hos, so-hos, " that seemed as if hewere quieting an infant. The vicious animal knew the difference wellenough, for one was usually followed by a whack of the stool over itsribs, while the other sometimes resulted in leaving the rotund oldgentleman wallowing, like a mud-turtle, on his back in the grass. 

It is natural to suppose that under these circumstances, uncle Nathanusually gave a wide berth to his sister's favorite; but this morninghe drove the meekest and fattest cow of the herd gingerly up to theold apple tree, and after placing his stool very deliberately on thegrass, and the pail between his knees, began a slow accompaniment tothe quick motion of aunt Hannah's hands, which kept two pearly streamsin rapid flow to the half-filled pail resting against her feet. 

While the milk rattled and rushed upon the bottom of his empty pail, uncle Nathan kept quiet, leaning his head against the cow, andthinking over the pleasant ideas that little Mary had aroused in hiskind heart. Unconsciously wishing to share those thoughts with hissister, he had driven his cow close to hers that they might conversetogether. Hannah took no notice of his presence, however, but went onfilling her pail so rapidly, that it began to foam over the edge. Whenher brother saw this, and knew by the soft, feathery sound that shehad nearly finished, he stooped down, and with his dear old face justvisible under the cow, called out, "I say, Hannah, what do you think of her?"

Did the vicious animal start? Or what was it that made the stern womanshriek out, and wheel round so sharply on her stool?

"Why, Hannah, did I frighten her! has she kicked again?" cried uncleNathan, surprised by the sharp action and wild look that she cast backupon him. 

"Yes, she did start, " answered aunt Hannah, rising and taking up thepail, now quite full, which made her waver to and fro, a singularweakness which no one had ever witnessed in her before. 

"But you ain't frightened, sister; nothing can frighten you, " saidNathan, soothingly. 

"No, but you asked something, what is it. "

"Only, how you liked her?"

"Her!--who?"

"Why, Mary Fuller, our little girl, you know. "

"You are thinking of her then. "

"Why, yes, Hannah, I can't think of anything else. Isn't she a nicelittle creature?"

"Yes!"

"How handy she was about the breakfast, I shouldn't wonder now if allthe dishes are washed up by the time we get back. "

"Do you think so!" said aunt Hannah, gazing down into her foaming pailso steadily, that even uncle Nathan could see that she was notthinking of anything so trivial as her morning's work. 

"Hannah, " he said, "what has come over you! you seem so strange sincethis little girl came. You scarcely speak. "

"Do I ever speak much?" she answered. 

"No, " said uncle Nathan with a sigh, "but now something has gonewrong--what is it? don't you like to keep the child?"

"Yes, I like it. "

"She will be a help to you. "

"Yes, I think so--of course she must. "

"And company for me--for us both. "

"For you, yes--as for me, brother, I have no company, good or bad, butmy own thoughts. "

She spoke with some feeling, her voice shook, her hard eyes wavered asthey turned towards her brother. In years Nathan had not seen her somoved. Why was it? What was there in the coming of a helpless childbeneath their roof, to disturb the composure of a woman like that?

As the good man sat upon his stool, pondering over these thoughts, forhe was too much surprised for speech, she hung her stool upon a limbof the apple-tree, and moved towards the house, stooping more thanusual beneath the weight of her milk-pail. 

As uncle Nathan had prophesied, Mary was busy as a humming-birdwashing up the breakfast dishes, and putting every thing to rights inthe kitchen. Aunt Hannah did not seem to observe it, but strained hermilk, and went out again. When she came back, uncle Nathan was withher, looking rather grave and perplexed. 

It was now approaching nine o'clock, and all the "chores, " as the goodcouple called the household work, "were done up. "

"Go up stairs and get your things, " said aunt Hannah to Mary, "it'sschool-time. "

Mary obeyed, and aunt Hannah proceeded to change her checked apron forone of black silk, and to invest her head in a straw bonnet that hadbeen tolerably fashionable ten years before, and since that time ithad been often bleached, but never changed in form. 

She took Mary by the hand, when she came down, with her plain mantillaand cottage bonnet on, surveyed her keenly from head to foot, and ledher into the street. 

They passed down the village, the woman not deigning to notice thatshe was an object of curiosity, the child shrinking with thatsensitive dread of observation, that always haunted her when amongstrangers. About the centre of the village stood a brick academy, withan open space before it, and surrounded by a succession of woodenverandahs. 

Aunt Hannah entered the lower story of this building, where some fortychildren were assembled under a female teacher, who came forward toreceive her visitors. 

"This little girl, " said aunt Hannah, "we have adopted her. She mustcome to school. "

"What branches do you wish her to study?" inquired the teacher. 

"Reading, writing, cyphering, enough to reckon up a store bill, if sheshould ever have one, and enough of geography to keep her from losingher way in the world. "

"Is that all?" said the teacher, "a girl of her age ought to knowthose things without further teaching. "

"Like enough she does, ask her, " said aunt Hannah. 

The teacher looked at Mary, who smiled, blushed, and after a moment'shesitation, said, modestly, "I know how to read and write, and a little of the rest. "

"Very well, I will examine you presently, " said the teacher, "yonderis an empty desk, you can take it. "

Mary advanced up the school-room, blushing and trembling beneath thecurious glances that followed her. So sensitively conscious was shethat every movement, when strange eyes were upon her, brought itssuffering. But, with true heroism, she subdued all appearance of theannoyance she felt, and, in her very meekness and fortitude, there laya charm that won more worthy affection than beauty could have done. 

Thus she entered upon her school life, alone and among strangers, foraunt Hannah left her at the door. She looked around with a forlornhope that Isabel might, like her, be sent to school, or that somethingmight happen to take the sad weight of loneliness from her heart; but, all was new, cold and depressing, and leaning her head on the desk, she felt chilled in all her veins. There was no disposition to weep inlittle Mary now. 

Sensitive as she was, no one ever saw her shed tears over her ownsorrow; but kindness, poor child! _that_ always brought the dewsparkling up from her heart to her eyes. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

HOMESICK LONGINGS. 

 Oh, give me one clasp of her friendly hand, One tender glance from those gentle eyes; For my heart is alone in this mountain land, And every joy of my childhood dies. 

Poor Isabel. She had found her new home dreary enough, notwithstandingits large airy rooms and elegant furniture, far too elegant forcountry uses, where magnificence is seldom in good taste. While natureis so beautiful, art should never appear, save to enhance itssplendor. 

In her whole life she had never been thoroughly homesick before, fornever had her young heart been taken from all its loving support socompletely as now. 

Mrs. Farnham made a great effort to be kind, and to impress upon thechild all the importance which she would henceforth derive from anassociation with herself, and the immense difference that musthereafter exist between her and Mary Fuller. 

"Remember, my pet, " said that lady, with bland self-complacency, "remember, my pet, that you are the protege of--of, as I may assert, of wealth and station, and though born I don't know where, and bred inthe Poor-House, the fact that you have my protection is enough tooverbalance that. You understand, Isabel--by the way, I think it bestto call you Isabel Farnham now--with your beauty the thing will passoff without question; with that face, nothing would seem more naturalthan that I should be your real mamma; so, be a very good girl, and, who knows but I may have you called Miss Farnham!"

The color mounted into Isabel's face. 

"No, ma'am, I would rather not; call me Isabel Chester, please, it wasmy father's name, and I love it, oh, how much!"

"You are a naughty, ungrateful little--well, well, I was a fool toexpect anything else; Chester, as if I'd have a name in my house thathas been registered on the Alms House books!"

"Is it a disgrace then, to be poor?" asked the child, innocently. 

"A disgrace to be poor! certainly it is, and a great disgrace, too!"answered the lady, speaking from her heart, "or else why are peopleashamed to own it?"

"Are they ashamed to own it? I didn't know, " answered the child. "Myfather was poor, at the last, but I don't think he was ever ashamed ofit, or ever to blame for it either. "

"I dare say not; poor people are always shameless. "

Isabel's eyes kindled and her passion rose. 

"I won't hear my father abused--please, ma'am, I won't stand it; hewasn't poor till bad people made him so, and, and"--The child brokeoff, and burst into a passion of tears. 

Mrs. Farnham was gratified. She had worried the poor child out of hersilent moodiness, and now fell to soothing her exactly as she wouldhave pulled the ears of a lap-dog, till he was ready to bite, and thenpatted him into good humor again. 

And this was the training which was to prepare poor Isabel for thegreat after-life of a soul, imbued with natural goodness, and yetpossessed of great faults. 

The lovely child, who from her infancy had been the subject of somesuperior care, was now at the mercy of a capricious, silly woman, selfish as such women usually are, and with a dash of malice in hernature, which more frequently accompanies a frivolous mind than we aredisposed to admit. 

But Isabel had a good heart, and an intellect so much superior to thatof the woman who claimed to be her benefactress, that this constantirritation of a naturally high temper, was more likely to end inexciting her passions than in really undermining her principles. 

Mary Fuller, with her gentleness and her beautiful Christianity, had, up to this time, exercised the most worthy effect upon Isabel'scharacter, and never in her after-life did she entirely lose the nobleimpressions thus obtained. 

It is difficult to spoil a human being, entirely, who has spent thefirst ten years of life under pure domestic influences. Chester'sdaughter had carried a heart of gold to the Alms House, and shebrought all this wealth away; but she was an impulsive, sensitivegirl, and if Mrs. Farnham had no influence strong enough to perverther nature, she had the power to thwart and annoy her beyond hercapacities of patient endurance. 

The truth was, Mrs. Farnham had no idea of the responsibility whichshe had taken upon herself. Isabel was to her a pet--a subject uponwhich to exercise her authority, and that promised to gratify hervanity--not a human soul which it was her solemn duty to guard, strengthen and develop. Benevolence in this woman amounted to nothinghigher than a caprice. 

The conversation we have repeated was a sample of many others thatwere constantly irritating the poor child, even amid her first hoursof homesickness. Unlike Mary Fuller, she had no occupation, for Mrs. Farnham considered usefulness of any kind the height of vulgarity. Indeed! she was so remarkably sensitive on this subject that a veryshrewd observer might have fancied that the lady had known a littlemore of labor, in her younger days, than she was willing to admit. 

The great want of Isabel's life was the society of her friend. Nochild ever pined for the presence of its mother more longingly thanshe desired the society of Mary Fuller. This was the ground of hersadness. It was this want that kept her so restless. She was like abird shut up in a cage calling for its mate and drooping when no replycame. 

But with that distrust which a want of respect always produces, Isabelkept this longing to herself. Something told her that Mrs. Farnhamwould meet it with reproof to herself or insult to Mary, and she couldnot force herself to speak of this, as a cause of her sadness, or askpermission to visit her friend. 

For two or three days she was compelled to follow Mrs. Farnham abouther sumptuous home--sumptuous and yet replete with discomfort--to pickup her handkerchief, bring her eye-glass and listen to the confusionof commands with which the lady tormented her servants from morningtill night. It was an irksome life, this forced companionship with aperson whom she could neither respect nor even like. 

The poor child's heart was famishing for love, and she began to grievefor her mother as if the mournful funeral of her last parent had takenplace but yesterday. 

Mrs. Farnham had fitted up a chamber next to her own for the littlegirl. Here intense selfishness seemed to have worked the effect ofgood taste. Isabel's room was superior to any thing in theneighborhood, but secondary to the gorgeous appointments of her ownchamber. Her pretty rose-wood bed was hung with lace that seemed likefrost-work, instead of the orange silk drapery that fell like anavalanche of gold over the couch on which Mrs. Farnham took hernightly repose. Everything around her was pure white, but the wallswere covered with clustering roses, and the carpet under her feetglowed out with flowers like the turf in a forest-glade. 

When the door stood open between this room and Mrs. Farnham's thecontrast was striking. The cold white and green, warmed up only by afew rich flowers, seemed exquisitely cool as you turned to it forrelief from the heavy drapery and costly furniture with which Mrs. Farnham smothered the fresh mountain air that visited her apartment. 

At first, Isabel was dazzled with this splendor; but after she hadbeen all day long following Mrs. Farnham like a lap-dog, till the verysound of her voice became wearisome, it was an overtax on her patiencewhen she was obliged to share almost the same chamber, and listen tothat voice so long as the lady could keep herself awake. 

But when her tormentress was once asleep, when Isabel could turn onher pillow and look upon the moonlight as it flooded her room, with afree spirit, she began to weep with a bitterness that had never fallenupon her straw cot at the Nursery Hospital. A spirit of utterloneliness possessed her, and while the delicate lace brooded over hercouch like the wings of a spirit, she murmured out--

"Oh, mother--oh, my dear, dear father--oh, Mary, dear Mary Fuller, ifI were only with you anywhere, oh, anywhere but here!"

Thus, night after night the child lay and wept. Her eyes were so heavyone morning, after a night of silent anguish, that Salina Bowlesobserved it, and in her rude way inquired the cause. 

Mrs. Farnham was still asleep, and Isabel had crept down to thekitchen, resolved to ask counsel of the housekeeper, for it seemed toher impossible to live another day without seeing Mary. 

It was a great relief to the child when Salina lifted her face fromthe tin oven, in which she had just arranged the morning biscuit forbaking, and asked in her curt but not really unkind way, what hadbrought her into that part of the house, and what on earth made hereyes look so heavy. 

"Oh, I have come to tell you--to ask you what is best; I am somiserable, so very unhappy without Mary; I cannot live another daywithout seeing Mary Fuller!"

Salina Bowles dusted the flour from her hands, and wiped them on herapron. 

"Mary Fuller! that's the little gal that came with you I calculate!"she said, walking up to the child, who retreated a step, for Salinahad a fierce way of doing things, and marched toward her like agrenadier. 

"Yes, " said Isabel, "that was Mary; do you know where she is? Oh, Imust see her or, it seems to me as if I should die!"

"So you don't know where she is?"

"No! but, oh, do tell me!"

"Why didn't you ask madam up yonder?"

"I don't know; I was afraid; I feel quite sure she won't let me go, "replied the child. 

"Let you go, of course, she won't--no more feelin' than a chestnutstump. "

"Then, what can I do?"

"What can you do--why, go without asking, and I'll help you; it'sright, and I'll do it, --there!"

"Will you, oh, will you?" cried the child, with a burst of joy. 

"Will I!--who'll stop me, I'd like to know?"

"But, how--when?" inquired the child, breathless with joy. 

"To-night, I reckon?"

"Isabel--Isabel! where is the creature gone?" cried a voice from thestairs. 

"Scamper!" exclaimed Salina, with an emphatic motion of the hand, "scamper, or she'll be coming down here, and I'd rather see oldscratch any time. "

"But you will certainly take me?" pleaded the child, breathlessly. 

"When I give my word I give it!"

"Oh, thank you--thank you!"

Isabel sprang up--flung her arms around Salina's neck, and kissed her. 

Before Miss Bowles could recover from her astonishment the child wasgone. 

"Well, now, I never did!" exclaimed the housekeeper, blushing till thehue of her face was like that of a brick fresh from the kiln; "it's agreat while since I've had a kiss before, and it raly is arefreshment. "

With this observation, Salina drew one hand across her lips and bentover the tin oven again. 

It was in this way that the orphans commenced life in their new homes. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE EVENING VISIT. 

 They have met, they have met--with a warm embrace, Those panting hearts beat free again; And joy beams out in each glowing face, -- Together, they fear not grief or pain!

A week elapsed, and Mary Fuller had heard nothing of her littlefriend, nor ventured to hint at the keen desire to see her, which grewstronger every day. 

One night, when this wish was becoming almost irresistible, and thechild sat silent and drooping by the kitchen window, she heard asweeping sound among the cabbage-heads, and, peering keenly out, saw ashadow moving through them. 

Mary's heart began to leap, and as the shadow disappeared round acorner of the house, her eyes, bright with expectation, were turnedtowards the back door. A footstep sounded from the porch, followed bya light tread that seemed but the faintest echo of the first. 

Slowly, step by step, and holding her breath, Mary crept forward. AuntHannah, who was making a cotton garment, which from its dimensionscould only have belonged to uncle Nathan, looked at her through hersteel spectacles, while the needle glittered sharply between herfingers, as she held it motionless. 

Mary stopped short in the middle of the floor. A pointed bayonet couldnot have transfixed her more completely. There was a slight noiseoutside, as of some one feeling for a latch, but uncle Nathan, who wasjust lifting his head from a doze, took it for a knock, and called outwith sleepy good nature. 

"Come in--come in. "

"Gracious me, ain't I trying to come in?" called a voice from theporch. "Why on airth didn't you keep to the old string-latch? Onecould always see light enough through the hole to find that by, butthis iron consarn is just about the most tanterlizing thing that Iever did undertake to handle. "

As this speech was uttered, the door swung open, and Salina strodeinto the kitchen, leading Isabel Chester by the hand. 

"There, now, just have a kissing frolic, you two young 'uns, and beover with it, while I shake hands with aunt Hannah and uncle Nat, "exclaimed Salina, pushing Isabel into Mary's outstretched arms. "There, now, no sobbing, nothing of that sort. Human critters weren'tsent on earth to spend their time in crying. If you're glad to seeeach other, say so, take a hug, and a kiss, and then go off up stairsor into the porch, while I have a chat with uncle Nat and aunt Hannah, if she's got anything to say for herself. "

The children obeyed her. One shy embrace, a timid kiss, and they creptaway to the porch, delighted to be alone. 

"Now, " said Salina, drawing a splint-bottomed chair close up to uncleNathan. "You hain't no idea, uncle Nat, what a time I've had a-gettinghere with that little critter. She cried and pined, and sort a-worriedme till I brought her off right in the teeth and eyes of madam. Won'tthere be a time when she misses us?"

"Why wouldn't she let the little gal come to see her playmate?" askeduncle Nathan. 

"Playmate--well now, I'd like to hear Madam Farnham hear you call herthat; she'd just tear your eyes out. But Lord-a-mercy, she hain't gotanimation enough for anything of the sort; if she had, a rattlesnakewouldn't be more cantankerous to my thinking. She's got all the pisonin her, but only hisses it out like a cat; in my hull life I never didsee such a cruel, mean varment. "

"Then Mrs. Farnham don't want her girl to come here, is that it?"inquired aunt Hannah, setting the gathers in a neck-gusset with thepoint of her needle, which she dashed in and out as if it had been aponiard, and that cotton cloth her enemy's heart. 

"You always hit the nail right on the head when you do strike, auntHannah. She don't want her gal to come here, nor your gal to comethere; that's the long and short on it. "

"What for?" inquired uncle Nathan, moving uneasily in his great woodenchair. "Isn't our little gal good enough?"

"Good enough, gracious me, I wonder if she thinks anybody in theseparts good enough for her to wipe her silk slippers on? Why, shespeaks of Judge Sharp as if he was nobody, and of the country here asif God hadn't made it. "

"But what has she against that poor child?" inquired aunt Hannah, sternly. 

"She ain't handsome, and she came from the Poor-House; isn't thatenough?" answered Salina, stretching forth her hand, and counting eachword down with a finger into the palm of her hand as if it had been acoin. "She's homely, she came from the poor-house, and more than all, she lives here. "

"So she remembers us, then?" said aunt Hannah, resting the point ofher needle in a gather while she steadied her hand. 

"Yes, you are the only people she has asked about, and her way ofdoing it was snappish enough, I can tell you. "

"I have not seen this woman in sixteen years, " said aunt Hannah, thoughtfully, "we change a good deal in that time. "

"She hasn't changed much, though; fallen away a little; her red cheekshave turned to a kind of papery white; her mouth has grown thin and_meachen_; there's something kind o' lathy and unsartin about her; asfor temper that's just the same, only a little more so, sharp as amuskeeters bill, tanterlizing as a green nettle. The rattlesnake is aking to her; there's something worth while about his bite, it's strongand in arnest, it kills a feller right off; but she keeps a nettlingand harrering one about all the time, without making an end on't, Iwish you could see her with that poor little gal, dressing her up asif she was a rag-baby, scolding her one minute, kissing her the next, calling her here, sending her there, I declare to man, it's enough toput one out of conceit with all womankind. "

"Where is Mrs. Farnham's son now?" inquired uncle Nathan, to whosegenial heart the sharp opinions of his visitor came unpleasantly; "heought to be a smart young fellow by this time. "

"I don't know who he'd take after then, " observed the housekeeper, drily. 

"His father was an enterprising man, understood business, knew how totake care of what he made, " said uncle Nathan. "We never had manysmarter men than Farnham here in the mountains. "

"Farnham was a villain!" exclaimed aunt Hannah, whose face to the verylips had been growing white as she listened. 

Uncle Nathan started as if a shot had passed through his easy-chair. 

"Hannah!"

The old woman did not seem to hear him, but lowering her face over herwork sewed on rapidly, but the whiteness of her face still continued, and you could see by the unequal motion of the cotton kerchief foldedover her bosom, that she was suppressing some powerful emotion. 

Uncle Nathan was not a man to press any unpleasant subject uponanother; but he seemed a good deal hurt by his sister's strangemanner; and sat nervously grasping and ungrasping the arm of hischair, looking alternately at her and Salina, while the silencecontinued. 

"Well, " said Salina, who had no delicate scruples of this kind tostruggle with, "you do beat all, aunt Hannah; I hadn't the least ideathat there was so much vinegar in you. Now Mr. Farnham was a kind offather to me, and I'm bound to keep any body from raking up his ashesin the grave. "

"Let them rest there--let them rest there!" exclaimed aunt Hannah, slowly folding up her work. "I did not mean to speak his name, but itis said, and I will not take anything back. "

"Well, nobody wants you to, that I know of; it's a kind of duty todefend one's friends, especially when they can't do it for themselves;but after all Mr. Farnham up and married that critter, I don't know asit's any business of mine, what you call him. "

"I remember his mother, " said uncle Nathan, striving to shake off theheavy feeling that his sister had created. 

"I remember her well, for she took me for sort of company, " saidSalina. "I was a little gal then; Farnham hadn't made all his money, and he was glad enough for me to settle down and do his work. But itwas awful lonesome, I can tell you, after she was gone; and I used togo down into the grave-yard and set down by her head-stone forcompany, day after day. But it was afore this then your sister came tohelp spin up the wool--wasn't she a harnsome critter?--your sisterAnne. "

Aunt Hannah seemed turning into marble, her face and hands grew sodeathly white; but she neither moved nor spoke. 

Uncle Nathan did not speak either, but he pressed both hands down onthe arms of his chair, and half rose; but he fell back as if theeffort were too much, and with one faint struggle sat still, with thetears of a long-buried grief stealing down his cheeks. 

"Well, what have I done wrong now?" asked Salina, looking from the oldman to the pallid sister, and shaking her head till the horn comb roselike a crest among her fiery tresses. 

"We haven't mentioned Anne's name between us in more than fifteenyears; and it comes hard to hear it now, " answered uncle Nathan, drawing first one plump hand and then another across his eyes. 

"I didn't mean any harm by it, " answered the housekeeper, penitently, "she was a sweet, purty crittur as ever lived; and no one felt worsethan I did when she died in that strange way. "

"Hush!" said aunt Hannah, standing up, pale even to ghastliness. "Itis you that rake up the ashes of the dead--ashes--ashes"--

The words died on her pale lips; she reached out her hands as if tolay hold of something, and fell senseless to the floor. 

Salina seized a pitcher that stood on the table, rushed out to thewater trough and back again, so like a spirit that the two littlegirls in the porch broke from each other's arms and shrieked aloud. But they recognized her when she came back and stood trembling by thedoor, while she dashed the contents of her pitcher both over thefainting woman and the kind old man that knelt by her. 

It had no effect. Aunt Hannah opened her eyes but once during the nexthour. Neither the chilly water nor the old brother's terror had powerto reach the numbed pulses of her life. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

AUTUMN IN THE MOUNTAINS. 

 The children gazed with a grateful thrill, 'Twas a glorious sight I know-- Those cornfields sweeping o'er the hill-- Those meadow-slopes below!-- Tall mountain ridges rich with light, Broke up the crimson skies, Their refted blossoms burning bright, With autumn's fervid dies. 

It was fortunate for Isabel that Mrs. Farnham was unstable even in herpetty oppressions. While the country was a novelty she would not allowthe child out of her sight. But after a little her agent sent her upfrom the city a dashing carriage and a superb pair of grey horses, which she gloried in supposing excelled even the noble animals withwhich Judge Sharp had brought her over the mountains. 

These new objects soon drove Isabel from her position as chieffavorite, and she was allowed to run at large without much constraint. This threw her a good deal with Salina Bowles, in whom she found arough but true-hearted friend. What was far better than this, it lefther free to visit Mary Fuller, and it was not long before the childwas almost as much at home with dear old uncle Nat, as Mary herself. 

It was pleasant to watch the two girls meet in the garden when Maryreturned from school, and go about the household work together socheerfully. That working-time was the sunny hour of Isabel's day, shedid so love the order and quiet of the old homestead. 

But the autumn drew on, and Mrs. Farnham began to talk of returning tothe city. It was time, she said, that Isabel should be placed atboarding-school, where all her old vulgar associations might bepolished away, and that she might be taught the dignity of her presentposition. 

These threats, for they appeared to poor Isabel in this light, onlymade her cling more tenaciously to her friend, and every moment shecould steal from the exactions of her benefactress was spent at theOld Homestead or among the hills where Mary wandered with a deeper anddeeper interest as the autumn wore on. 

One night, while the foliage was green and thrifty on the mountainridges, there came a sharp frost, and in the morning all thehill-sides were in a blaze of gorgeous tints. 

Never in their whole lives had the children seen anything like this. It seemed to them as if the trees had laced themselves with rainbowsthat must melt away when a cloud came over the sun. 

It was Saturday. There was no school, and Uncle Nat insisted on doingall the "chores" himself, that the little girls might have aplay-spell in the woods--but for this, I greatly fear the wildcreatures would have run off without leave, they were so crazy to seewhat those gorgeous trees were like, close to. 

Below Judge Sharp's house, and near the bold sweep of the highway thatled into the village, there was an abrupt hill, crested with a ledgeof rocks, which formed a platform high above the road--and back ofthat the forest crowded up like an army in rich uniform--checked inbattle array upon the eminence. 

A footpath wound up the face of this hill, and under a shelf of therocks that crowned it, gushed a spring of pure bright water, that lostitself in diamond drops among the grass and ferns that hung over it. 

To this spot, which commanded a fine expanse of the valley, Mary andIsabel went for the first time, that Saturday afternoon. 

They were tired with mounting the hill and sat down by the spring torest. 

Mary caught a great yellow maple leaf as it floated by, and twistingit over her hand, formed a fairy pitcher that looked like mottledgold, out of which they both drank; laughing gleefully when the brimbent and let the water dash over their dresses. 

"Now, " said Mary, flinging away her golden cup, which had transformeditself into a leaf again, "let us take a good rest and look aboutbefore we go into the woods. Look how grand and large Judge Sharp'shouse is, down below us; and away off there, don't you see, Isabel--isthe old homestead? Stand up and you can see almost all of the orchard, and a corner of the roof. "

Isabel stood up, shading her eyes with one hand. The river wassweeping its bright waves at her feet, enfolding the opposite mountainat the base as with a belt of condensed sunshine. The village hiddenamid its trees, lay dreamily in the curve of the valley, and beyondthe river rose a line of broken hills, clothed to the top of theirlofty peaks with the glory of a first autumn frost. 

"I am so happy, I can hardly breathe, " said Mary Fuller, clasping herhands. "It seems as if one could bathe in all that sea of colors! themist as it floats up seems to make them eddy in waves like the river, Isabel. I am feeling strangely glad, everything is so bright, sosoft--oh! Isabel, Isabel, what a great, good God it was who made allthis!"

Isabel saw all the marvellous beauty that surrounded her, but shecould not feel it as Mary did--few on earth ever do so look uponnature. To Isabel the scene was a pleasure, to Mary a thrillingdelight; she dwelt upon it with the eye of an artist and the spiritof a Christian. 

"Oh!" she said, in that sweet overflow of feelings, "I want to hide myface and cry!"

She sat down upon a rock covered with scarlet woodbine, and allowedthe tears that were swelling up from her heart to flow softly as thedew is shaken from a flower. It was pleasant to see deep feelings meltaway in tears, to that gentle and sweet serenity which soon fell uponthe child. 

Isabel could not entirely comprehend this almost divine feeling, butshe respected it and sat down in silence, with an arm around herfriend, sorry that she had no power to share all her joy in itsfullness. 

Thus, for a long time, they sat together in dreamy silence, with thespring murmuring behind them, and a carpet of brake leaves, touchedwith white by the frost, scattering its new-born perfume around theirfeet. 

It was a touching picture, those two girls so loving and yet sounlike, the one so wonderfully beautiful, the other awaking a deeperinterest with her soul beauty alone. 

They arose together and walked quietly to the woods. Once within itsgorgeous shades, all their cheerfulness came back, and the squirrelsthat peeped at them through the branches, and rattled nuts over theirheads from the yawning chestnut buds, were not more full of simpleenjoyment than they were. 

A light wind had followed the frost, and all the mossy turf wascarpeted with leaves crimson, green, russet and gold. Sometimes acommingling of all these colors might be found on one leaf; sometimes, as they looked upward, the great branches of an oak stooped over theirheads, heavy with leaves of the deepest green, fringed and matted withblood-red, as if the great heart of the tree were broken and bleedingto death, through all the veins of its foliage. 

Again the maple trees shook their golden boughs above them, as if theyhad been hoarding up sunshine for months, and poured it in one richdeluge over their billowy and restless leaves. 

They wandered on, picking up leaves with far more interest than theyhad ever felt in searching for wild flowers. It was wonderful, theinfinite variety that they found. Now, Isabel would hold up a crimsonleaf, clouded with pink and veined with a brown so deep that it lookedalmost black; again, she would hoard up a windfall from the gum tree, shaped like a slender arrow-head, and with its glossy crimson sothickly covered with tiny dark spots, that it seemed mottled withgems; again, it would be an ash leaf, long, slender and of a palestraw color, or a tuft of wood-moss, that contrasted its delicategreen with all this gorgeousness so strongly, that they could not helpbut gather it. 

Thus, filled with admiration of each leaf as it presented itself, theywandered on overclouded with the same foliage in gorgeous masses. Thesunbeams came shining through it in a rich haze, as if the brancheswere only throwing off their natural light, and the very wind as itstirred the woods seemed sluggish with healthy scents flung off by thedying undergrowth. 

But even delight brings its own weariness, and at last the two girlssat down upon a hemlock log, completely covered with moss, that laylike a great round cushion among the ferns, and dropped intoconversation as they sorted over the treasure of leaves that each hadgathered in her apron. 

"I suppose, " said Isabel, "this will be almost our last day togetherfor a long, long time. "

Isabel spoke rather sadly, for she was becoming thoughtful. 

"I suppose so, " answered Mary, dropping the leaf whose purplish brownshe had been admiring; "but, " after a moment's thoughtfulness, sheadded, quite cheerfully, "but, why should we fret about that; we canpractice hard and write to each other every week; I dare say, justnow, we might read each other's writing; it seems to me as if I wouldmake out some meaning even in a straight mark if you wrote it, Isabel!"

"Yes, " said Isabel, still sadly, "that is something; but if I couldonly have stayed here, and gone to school with you, we should not haveto think about writing. "

"But it'll be very nice to write letters, " answered Mary; "you don'tknow how proud I shall be with a whole letter all to myself; won't itbe pleasant to ask for it at the post office!"

"But, Mary, " persisted Isabel, "do you know they mean to send me to agreat, grand school, where I'm to learn music and French, andeverything, and be with nothing but proud, stuck-up rich men'sdaughters, that'll try to make me just as hateful as they are?"

"But, all rich men's daughters are not hateful, I dare say. RememberFrederick, he was a rich man's son, and yet, he's almost as good asJoseph!"

"No, I won't stand that, no one ever was so good as Joseph, " persistedIsabel; "besides, Fred is a Farnham, he's got his father's name, andhis father's blood too; I don't see how you can speak of Fred andJoseph in the same day. "

"At any rate, " answered Mary, "we ought to be very grateful to youngMr. Farnham, for he was good to us; only think how kind he was tobring Joseph over to see us so often, after we came from the hospital, and all without giving Mrs. Farnham a chance to scold!"

"Scold!" said Isabel, "I sometimes thought she liked Joseph betterthan her own son--she always was glad to see him. "

"That was because Frederick persuaded her. "

"I don't believe that; she was always so hateful to Fred it was not toplease him that she took to Joseph, I am sure. "

"Well, at any rate, she was very good to let him visit us so often. "

"I don't know, " said Isabel, determined not to give any credit to Mrs. Farnham; "at any rate I don't like her and I won't try. "

"This is wrong, Isabel--at first I thought I never could like auntHannah she was so queer, but now I love her dearly, almost as well asuncle Nathan, for all her hard way of speaking, she's as kind as kindcan be. "

"Oh, aunt Hannah, I like her myself, anybody couldn't help liking her, and there's Salina Bowles, she's just the best creature you ever knew, both of 'em have got feelings, but I don't believe Mrs. Farnham hasgot one bit. "

"Don't let us talk of her faults, " said Mary. 

"Well, don't scold, I won't say a word against her, but there is onething, Mary, that I must speak about, for it poisons all the rest. Icannot be content with Mrs. Farnham till that is settled. Mary, I amsure Mr. Farnham killed my father--hush, hush, I know how it was. Hedid not strike him dead, but it was his cruelty in driving him fromthe police that did it in the end. "

"Yes, " said Mary, with quiet sadness, "I think it was Mr. Farnham thatdid it. "

"Is it right then, tell me, Mary, isn't it mean and cruel for me, hisown little girl, to live with these people and let them supportme--the father's murderers, as one might say supporting his child?"

Mary remained silent some time, not that this idea had never struckher before, but the flood of remembrance it brought back affected herpainfully. 

"I have thought of that a great many times, Isabel, " she said, "for Ifelt a good deal as you do at first, but it isn't a right feeling, andso I did the best I could to conquer it without saying a word. "

"Why is it a wrong feeling?" said Isabel quickly, "wouldn't it seemhorrid to any one? Every mouthful I eat belongs to the people whomurdered my own father. "

"But Mr. Farnham was the only one to blame, and he was very, verysorry before he died. "

"How do you know that?"

A faint color came into Mary's face as she answered, "Joseph Esmond told me, Mr. Farnham came to his father's only threenights before he died, and he told Joseph with his own lips that hedid not mean to kill your father, and Joseph said he looked moresorrowful than his words. It was the last time they ever saw eachother. Poor Joseph cried when he told me about it. "

"Then Joseph believes he really was sorry, " said Isabel, softening. 

"Yes, and that he didn't mean to do it; but even if he did, and wasreally sorry, we have nothing to do but forgive him, just as yourfather would have done. "

"Yes, forgive him, but not eat his bread. "

Again Mary was thoughtful, she was pondering over the question in hermind. 

"I think, " she said at last, "to take kindnesses willingly from thosethat are sorry for a wrong is the best sort of forgiveness; Godforgives in that way when he lets us serve him, and strive by goodacts to make up for the evil thing we have done. I think you need onlyremember that, when you wish to know the right. "

"I did not think of it in that way, " said Isabel. 

"Then, there is Frederick, " continued Mary, "who loved his father somuch, and who is so full of kindness to us both--he wishes to make upfor the wrong his father did. "

"He has been kind to you, not to me; you are his pet, I am Mrs. Farnham's, " said Isabel, a little petulantly. "I shouldn't so muchmind if I were in your place, but from her"--

"He has been very kind to you, Isabel; was it nothing to buy all thepretty things you have told me of in your chamber, out of his ownpocket-money too?"

"What, my pretty bed, and the lace curtains, and that carpet, did hebuy them?" exclaimed Isabel, eagerly. 

"Yes, they were his choice, and for you. "

"Who told you this, Mary? I--I'm so surprised--so glad. Who told youabout it, dear Mary?"

"Joseph Esmond. Fred made a confidant of him, and they went togetherto look at the things. "

"And that's what makes my room different from his mother's. Oh, Mary, I wish you could see it--so white, so fresh and breezy, and hers sohot looking and smothered up with silk. How I shall love that dearroom after this. "

After a moment Isabel's face lost its sparkling expression. She wasaccusing herself of selfishness. 

"But why did he get nothing of the kind for you, Mary!" she said veryseriously. 

"Oh, I'm to be brought up so differently, such things would look queerenough at the Old Homestead, you know, " answered Mary, laughing. 

Isabel shook her head, but there was light in her eyes, and a richcolor in her cheeks. She no longer felt it wicked to receive kindnessfrom the Farnhams, and her little heart beat with gratitude to them, the first she had ever felt, for the pretty things with which she wassurrounded. 

"Come, " she said cheerfully, gathering up her apron with its treasureof leaves. "How long we have been sitting here. It is almostsun-down. "

Mary started up. True enough, the woods were flooded with a duskypurple, and the sunset was shooting its golden arrows everywhere amongthe trees around them. 

It seemed as if some of the maple boughs had taken fire, they kindledup so like living flame. The fruit of a frost-grape vine that hadclambered up one of the slender elms overhead, took a richness fromthe atmosphere and hung amid the leaves like clustering amethystsgrowing dusky in the shadow, and when they left it the hemlock logwhich they had occupied was flecked with gleams of light, that layamong its soft green like a delicate embroidery of gold. 

"It is so very beautiful, " said Mary, looking around, "I hate to goyet. "

"But it will be dark and the hill is steep, " persisted Isabel, lessenthralled by the scene. "Do hurry, the sun is sinking fast--we willcome every day next week, just as soon as school is out. "

Mary drew a deep breath and followed. Isabel led the way out of thewoods. 

The next time Mary went there it was alone, for in the morning Mrs. Farnham left for the city, with scarcely an hour's notice--and a weekfrom that time Isabel Chester was entered as a scholar in one of themost fashionable boarding-schools in New York. 

Mary Fuller continued in her school, pursuing a strangely desultorycourse of studies, but improving greatly both in intellect and health. Where her heart urged the effort, her progress was wonderful, and itwas not three months before the most neatly written letters that wentout from the village post-office, were known to be in Mary Fuller'shandwriting. 

Joseph Esmond and Isabel Chester, these were her only correspondents, and she was indeed a proud girl when the answers came directedentirely to herself. That day was an epoch in Mary's life. 

Sometimes Mary broke over the rules of the school by drawing profilesand rude landscapes in her copy-book and on the slate, till theteacher, detecting her one day, examined the productions with a smile, and gave her a few rudimental lessons in drawing. These rough effortsof her pencil happened to come under Judge Sharp's observation, and hewho never forgot the smallest thing that could make others happy, brought her some brushes and a box of water-colors from the city. 

True genius requires but little encouragement, and most frequentlydevelops itself against opposition. This little box of paints andpencils was enough to bring forth a latent talent, and the enthusiasmthat had exhausted itself in tears of delight on the hill-side, grewinto a power of creation. This beautiful development became a strongbond of sympathy between her and the boy-artist, Joseph Esmond. Intruth, Mary was drawing many sources of happiness around her, as thegood can never fail of doing. 

But we cannot follow this strange child through her school life, somonotonous, and yet full of incident, or what seemed such to herinexperience. All studies that she undertook were singularly brokenup and independent. Indeed, I much doubt if regular methodicalteaching can ever be applied to a nature like hers. Such organismsgenerally study through the taste and heart. 

Certain it is, Mary Fuller, whom no one understood, except, it may be, Enoch Sharp, through his acute observation, and uncle Nathan throughhis great warm heart, had pretty much her own way, and oftener studiedpoems and histories from Judge Sharp's library, than anything elseeven in the schoolroom. Thus her mind grew and thrived in its own richfancies; and in the wholesome atmosphere of the old homestead herheart expanded and lost nothing of its native goodness. It iswonderful how soon the scholars forgot to think her plain, if anythingis wonderful which genius and goodness has the power to accomplish. 

Thus three years wore on, and each day was one of progression to thatyoung mind. 

Besides this, Mary began to grow; the invigorating air of themountains, wholesome food, and active habits, had overcome thedeficiencies of her former life, and though still slight andunusually small, she ceased to look like a mere child. 

I dare not say that Mary was beautiful, or even handsome, for she wasstill a plain little creature, and persons who could not understandher might cavil at the assertion; yet, to aunt Hannah and uncleNat--yes, and to the Judge also--one might venture to say that Marywas a very interesting girl, and, at times really pretty; but, then, these persons loved her very dearly, and affection is, proverbially, a great beautifier of the face. Yes, on the day she received herletters, almost any one would have thought the young girl pretty, but, then, it was not her features that looked lovely, but the deep, brightjoy that broke over them. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

SUNSET IN AN ITALIAN CATHEDRAL. 

 A dim, religious light came softly stealing Along the solemn stillness of those aisles-- The sculptured arch and groined roof revealing-- As the bright present on tradition smiles. 

But Isabel Chester. I wish you could have seen her as she stood uponthe deck of the Atlantic steamer, which was to convey the Farnhams toEurope! Those large almond-shaped eyes, velvety and soft, yet capableof intense brilliancy--that raven hair, so glossy and with a purpleglow in it, and those oval cheeks, with their peachy richness ofbloom. Indeed, Isabel was very beautiful. No wonder she wasembarrassed, with all that quantity of bouquets, and seemed a littleannoyed by their profusion; for young Farnham was looking on, and hedid not appear particularly well pleased. 

Isabel was not the least of a flirt, but she really could not preventall this crowd of persons coming down to see her off, with lavishflowers and more lavish compliments; besides, what right had Fred tobe angry? he was not even a brother!

Mrs. Farnham was delighted with this display of her protege'spopularity. It seemed to cast a reflected glory on herself, and shebegan to calculate, very seriously, on marrying so much beauty to aPrince of the blood, at least, of whose palace she was herself todispense the honors. But Frederick Farnham had little time to devoteeven to the jealousy this crowd of admirers was calculated to excite, if, in reality, he cared for the matter at all. He was looking eagerlyover the side of the steamer, as if in expectation of some one who hadnot arrived. 

At last his eyes brightened, and he threw out his handkerchief as asignal. 

A young man who stood near the gangway answered this recognition witha wave of the hand; a moment after he was on the deck, and Isabel camegladly forward. 

"Dear Joseph! this is so kind of you; we heard that your father wasworse, and hardly expected you, " she said. 

"He is worse, but I could not let you and Farnham go away for so longwithout a parting word, " answered the youth, reaching his hand toFrederick, who held it affectionately in his. 

"Don't say anything sorrowful now, or you will set me off into anothercrying fit, " said Isabel, striving to laugh back the tears that cameinto her eyes, as she turned away, burying her face in the flowerswith which she was still encumbered. 

"Come this way one moment, Edward, I want to speak with you, " saidyoung Farnham, drawing the young artist aside. "I want you to paint mea picture, old fellow, anything you please!"

"Shall I paint Isabel from memory?" said the young man, with a quietsmile, glancing at the young girl. 

Farnham blushed. 

"You can't do it, Joseph; no pencil on earth can paint her! but--butif you are not joking, I should like it of all things. "

"I can make the effort, " was the good-natured reply. 

"And will?"

"And will!"

"Thank you, Esmond, you are a capital fellow, now let me--let me. Itisn't half what a picture of her would be worth. "

Here Frederick thrust a bank-note into his friend's hand, blushinglike a girl. 

"Thank you, " said Esmond, gently, "my father is so ill, for hissake--the picture shall be my first work. "

Isabel forgot her other admirers in looking at the two young men, asthey stood together contrasted, and yet in many things so much alike;both were tall, and an air of singular refinement distinguished themabove all others. 

In different styles they were remarkably fine-looking young men. Thegolden hair of the artist had taken a chestnut tinge, but still it wasbright with sunny waves, and his eyes had lost nothing of the heavenlyexpression. His manner too was calm and thoughtful. The sickly boy hadbecome an intelligent man. 

In everything Fred was a contrast to his friend; passionate andimpetuous even in his most noble acts, he carried the fire of anardent nature in his looks and his manner. His dark eyes were brightwith animation, and even Isabel's tresses of purplish black were notmore glossy, than the short curling locks that shaded his manlyforehead. In everything the young men were contrasts, and yet theyloved each other like brothers. 

"And now, good-bye, " said Joseph, with a slight tremor in his voice, but struggling manfully for firmness. 

Isabel gave him her hand, while she drew down her veil, that he mightnot see how moist her eyes were becoming. 

Fred wrung his hand. 

The bell rang, and many a warm heart leaped painfully to the farewellsummons. There arose starting tears, sobs, and the warm clasp ofhands, that might never meet again. Then there was a rush to thegangway, a moment's pause and the steamer swung out from its berth, and swept proudly into the river. 

Isabel stood upon the stern, languidly waving her embroideredhandkerchief to a group of admirers gathered on the wharf. 

You would have thought a flock of doves had taken flight by the cloudof scented cambric that answered her farewell signal. But there wasone form standing out alone, which she and Frederick watched to thelast, and even Mrs. Farnham looked earnestly in that direction throughher eye-glass, so long as Joseph Esmond was visible. 

But the steamer made rapid progress. In a few minutes the passengersupon her deck lost sight of the crowded wharf, and became themselvesinvisible, wrapped in a cloud of haze, from all the eyes that followedthem. During the voyage young Farnham and Isabel were thrownconstantly together for the first time. He was fresh from college, andthe young girl had only been two months from school. 

They travelled through England and France, stopping a month or two inParis. The winter found them in Italy, and here the reader has onemore glance at Isabel. 

She has changed somewhat, and there is a look of restlessness abouther. The color comes and goes on her cheek in crimson waves, when anyone addresses her suddenly, as if some sweet hidden thought had beendisturbed, and, like a shaken rose, sent its perfume to her face. Shehas grown a little thinner too, and the dreamy contentment of her eyesis utterly broken up; there is unrest and anxiety in the brightflashes that come like sudden gleams of starlight through those inkylashes. 

There need be no lengthened explanation of the causes which led tothese indications of an aroused heart. Indeed, we scarcely know whenor where Frederick Farnham first told Isabel of the love, which hadbecome a portion of his being; for their whole lives were sointermingled, every opening thought was so promptly shared betweenthem, that affection required no words, till it had become the essenceof their souls. It was a happy season for them while this loveremained impassive, as perfume sleeps in the heart of the Lotus bud, swayed softly by the waters and breathing out its sweet lifeimperceptibly, till some sudden gust of wind or outburst of sunshine, scatters the secret perfume from its heart, which can never closeagain. 

Through all her years of adoption, Isabel had been haunted by a senseof wrong, in receiving kindness from the mother and son of Farnham. Her education and course of reading had tended to increase thisprejudice; and she learned to look upon herself, like Hamlet, as insome way destined to avenge her father's death. She had no idea howthis was to be accomplished, but certain it is she never received anobligation from Mrs. Farnham, or a kindness from her son, but it waswith a rebellious swelling of the heart, as if she were inflicting afresh wrong on the memory of her father. 

But Frederick Farnham shared in none of these feelings, nor evensuspected their existence. When he became aware of the depth of hisown passion for the lovely orphan, he spoke it frankly, and with allthe earnestness of a true-hearted man. Love makes the proudest heartdistrustful, and even Isabel's pride was satisfied with the humilityof his pleading. Now came her punishment. In every throb of her heartand nerve of her body, Isabel felt a response to the generous loveoffered to her. But her will rose proudly against him, and againstherself. Love for Farnham's son, was in her estimation a fearful wrongto the memory of her parents. 

"I will never marry the son of my father's destroyer, " she said, "itwould be sacrilege!"

Frederick could not believe her in earnest--she, so playful, so lovingin all her bright ways; surely, these bitter feelings could not havelived all these years in her heart! He would wait--he would give hertime for reflection; his father's sin could not be so cruelly broughtup from the past, to poison his own young life; he would not believeit!

But Isabel was firm; the very love that thrilled her with every soundof his footstep or tone of his voice, brought with it bitterself-upbraiding. She looked on the purest and holiest sensations hersoul could ever know, as a sin against the dead. 

This was the condition of things when they reached Arezzo, an Etruscancity, in the mountainous portions of Italy. They were to remain inthis place overnight, on their way from Rome to Florence. 

Arezzo is a picturesque old town, rich with historical and religiousassociations, and as the birth-place of Petrarch, possessed a singularinterest in the eyes of Isabel; for, just then, she was keenly aliveto all that was sad in the life and love of the Italian poet. 

It was with all the romance of her nature aroused, that she came insight of this ancient place. It seemed to her, as she saw its spiresrising from the hill-side upon which they stood, surrounded by theluxurious beauty of an Italian winter, that, in some way, the town wasconnected with her destiny, that she would neither be so strong nor sofree when that was left behind. 

It was an unhealthy state of mind, but Isabel had become passionate, romantic and headstrong, in the process of her fashionable education. True these faults were on the surface, and had not yet reached herinner soul, but they were grave defects in a beautiful nature. 

All day their route had been among the hills, along roads hedged inwith laurestines, covered with sunny blossoms and myrtle thicketsalways in rich leafiness. The atmosphere was bland as spring-time, andthough the sun was going down when they drove up to the hotel atArezzo, Isabel entered it reluctantly, the twilight was so beautiful. 

Frederick remembered that it was the hour for vespers, and gentlytouched Isabel's arm as she was following Mrs. Farnham into the hotel. 

"There is light enough yet, let us go to the cathedral, " he said, inthe low serious voice with which he always addressed her now. 

She started, with a thrill of pleasure, and took his arm. 

The cathedral at Arezzo stands in the most elevated portion of thetown. 

Isabel was almost breathless with the rapidity of their walk, as theymounted the ascent, for Frederick hurried on in silence, urgedforward, as it seemed, by the force of buried thoughts that had kepthim silent all day. 

The cathedral was seen just touched with the coming twilight when theyentered it. A calm stillness hung around it, a stillness that seemedindependent of the strain of music that swelled, rich with sacredsweetness, from one of the chapels. 

They moved forward through the solemn twilight of the interior. Theatmosphere without had been singularly transparent, but now manystained windows tinted it with gorgeous mistiness, and the shadows, asthey gathered around the sculpture and ancient paintings, were brokenwith a soft purplish haze that was lifted in waves and eddies by theslow swell of the music. 

The chapel from which these vesper hymns were stealing, was lightedup, and the tapers gleamed like flashes of starlight across that endof the edifice, rendering the gorgeous gloom in which they stood morepalpable by contrast. 

It was by this beautiful twilight alone that they approached the grandaltar, and saw the carved foliage that lay upon it like incrustationsof frozen music, left there more than five hundred years ago, whenGeovanni Pisano gave his genius to religion. 

Those young hearts had been swelling with poetic thoughts all the day, and now, surrounded by everything that could thrill the soul anddelight the imagination, they stood hand in hand listening to thedistant music. 

Their fingers were woven together, and trembled with the electricshock of two souls thrilled with a worship of the beautiful, and thesolemn poetry of the past. 

Frederick felt Isabel's hand tremble in his; he bent down his head, clasping that little hand more tightly. 

"Isabel, my beautiful--speak to me!"

"Hush!" said Isabel, trembling, "I beseech you do not speak now. "

"Why not, Isabel! There can be no place so holy that a love like minemay not be pleaded there. It is the religion of my soul!"

"I cannot--oh, I cannot listen to this, " murmured the young girl, striving feebly to extricate her hand from his clasp; "do not, Ientreat you, do not speak to me in this way again!"

Her voice faltered, and she leaned against the altar for support, buthe would not be repulsed. He felt that her resolution was givingway--that the love of her young heart was growing powerful in hisbehalf, and drawing her from the altar supported her with his arm. 

"Isabel, be true to yourself, be just to me! Why shrink from ahappiness so great? Speak to me, beloved--speak to me!"

Isabel felt her resolution wavering; her strength gave way, sheyielded to the pressure of his arm, and for one moment was drawn tohis heart. 

Down in the distant chapel the music still swelled, and with it camethe voices of the choir, "Father, oh, our Father!"

The solemn Latin in which those words were uttered fell upon her likewinged arrows; she started forward and stood for an instant immovable, horrified by the tenderness to which she had yielded. 

"Oh, my father, my father, forgive me!" she exclaimed, passionately. 

"Isabel, Isabel, what is this?" pleaded the young man, astonished atthe abrupt change. 

"Stop!" she said, waving him back. "Tempt me no more, I cannot bearit!"

Still he pressed toward her, grieved and anxious. He had not observedthe words of the music, and her change of manner was inexplicable. 

"Listen to me, Isabel!"

She waved him back, and walking toward the high altar fell upon herknees before it, and there, touching the sculptured leaves that hadoccupied a human life five hundred years before, she uttered a solemnvow. The words fell in whispers from her white lips, her forehead wasone moment uplifted to heaven. She arose and stood before her lover, cold and pale as the marble she had touched. 

Then the music swelled out again in a slow, plaintive strain, as if itwere moaning over the burial of a dead hope. Those who had gatheredfor worship in the chapel, glided away; the tapers were extinguished, and through the gathering darkness Frederick Farnham and IsabelChester walked forth into the world again. 

Isabel had made a vow never to marry the son of her father's murderer. It was a rash act, for even then she had not the courage to tellFrederick of the oath she had taken. Oh, Isabel! that vow may provelike that of Jepthah yet--only it is your own hand that gives, andyour own heart that receives the blow. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

SISTER ANNA

 Ah, we never could resist her, Since the day that she was born; For we loved that winsome sister As we loved the opening morn. 

Four years!--yes, I think it was a little over four years, after thescene in our last chapter, when we bring our readers to the OldHomestead again. 

It was the evening of a disagreeable, chilly day. Everything wasgloomy inside and out. Salina had come up from the Farnham's desertedmansion to spend the evening with aunt Hannah, and arrange thepreliminaries for a "husking frolic, " which was to take place on themorrow in uncle Nathan's barn. But she found the good lady so taciturnand gloomy, that even her active spirit was awed into stillness. Sothe two women remained almost in silence, knitting steadily, with around candle-stand between them. 

Uncle Nathan, notwithstanding the cold and the storm, occupied hisgreat chair in the porch. I think the old man must have grown a triflestouter since the reader saw him, and his face had a still morebenevolent look; something of serene goodness, mellowing in thesunshine of his genial nature, was perceptible there, as the tints ofa golden pippin, ripened in the autumn sun. 

But you could see nothing of this, as the old man sat in hiseasy-chair that night. Everything was dark around him. Black cloudshung overhead, broken now and then with gleams of pale blue lightning. Once or twice these flashes were bright enough to reveal his features, which were strangely troubled and thoughtful. Since nightfall, he hadbeen sitting there almost in silence, watching the storm gatheroverhead, and the black shadows as they crowded down from the hillsand choked up the garden. He listened to the wind as it rose andswelled down the valley, rushing through the orchard boughs, andtossing them up and down in the darkness. The old man was notreposing; thoughtful and aroused he took a clear retrospection ofthose phases of life that had left scars even on his placid heart. 

A shadow, for it seemed nothing more, lingered by his side. 

It moved now and then, and amid the hushes of the wind you might haveknown that two persons breathed close together in the old porch. 

At length what seemed the shadow spoke. 

"Shall we go in, uncle Nathan? The wind is getting high, here. How therain beats on the porch--you will catch cold. "

"No, I'd rather sit out here yet awhile. But go in yourself, Mary; itis getting rather chilly for you. "

"No, " answered Mary, in her old gentle way, "I'd rather sit with you, uncle Nat. "

"I'm bad company, " said the old man, "somehow I can't feel liketalking to-night. "

"Nor I, " said Mary Fuller, leaning her cheek against the arm-chair, "something is the matter with us both. I wonder what it is!"

"My heart is full, " said uncle Nathan, mournfully. 

Mary crept close to him. 

"Tell me, uncle Nat, is it about Mr. Ritner's note that you feel sobad?"

"That may have set me to thinking of--of other things. I seem toremember everything that ever happened to-night, I never saw cloudsexactly like them before, or heard the wind howl so, but once. "

"When was that, uncle Nathan?" inquired his companion, in a whisper. 

"The night our sister Anna died, " answered the old man in the samehushed tone. 

"Uncle Nathan, do tell me about her, I want to hear it so much, itseems as if I must ask you now, though I never dared before. "

Uncle Nathan remained silent a minute or two, then turning in hischair, he said, in a low, husky voice, "See what they are doing in there. Hannah must not hear what we aretalking about. "

Mary opened the kitchen-door and looked through. 

"They are sitting by the fire, both of them. Salina is talking. AuntHannah knitting hard, with her eyes on the fire, as if she didn'thear. " And reseating herself she continued; "now tell me about_her_--she was very handsome, wasn't she?"

"She was like a picture, Mary. You think Isabel Chester handsome, butshe don't more than compare with our Anna. She had the softest andmost beautiful brown eyes you ever saw, bright as a star and soft as arabbit's--and such hair, it was all in crinkles and waves, breakingout into curls let her braid and twist it as she would--brown when shesat by me at her sewing-work in the morning, and shining out like goldwhen the sun lay in the porch. I wish you could a-seen her as she wasdrawing out her thread of woolen yarn, and running it up on thespindle as bright and spry as a bird. "

"I wasn't so old nor so heavy, " continued uncle Nathan, with a sigh, "as I am now-a-days, but she always loved to wait on me just as youdo; and when I came into the stoop, hot days in summer, tired withmowing or planting, away she would run after a pitcher of cool drink, holding it between her two little hands, and laughing till the dimplesswarmed about her mouth like lady-bugs around a rose. I do reallythink, Mary Fuller, that our sister Anna was the handsomest gal I everset eyes on, and so sweet tempered: you put me in mind of her everyday, Mary. "

Mary Fuller did not answer, she was afraid that uncle Nathan mightdetect the tears that swelled at her heart in her voice. 

"I didn't like to part with Anna, she was so young, and both sisterand I had promised our parents to take their place with her. We twowere the children of their youth, but she was a sort of ewe lamb inthe house, the child of their old age, and when they died we lookedupon her as our own. 

"We both gave up all ideas of marrying for her sake; that wasn't muchfor me you may think, but it was a good deal for Hannah; she was atall, good-looking woman then, and might have done well in the world;she did give up a match that I knew her heart was set on. As forme--but no matter about that--I wasn't likely to make a promise to myown parents on their death-beds and only half keep it, by marrying andputting a sort of step-mother over Anna--no, Hannah and I just putaway all thoughts of settling for life, except with one another, andgave ourselves up to little Anna, heart and soul. "

The old man paused awhile, and bent his head as if overpowered by thefierce storm that raged around the house. The porch was sheltered, andthough the rain rushed over its low eaves in sheets, nothing but thedampness reached the great easy-chair upon which uncle Nathan sat. Still Mary felt three or four heavy drops fall upon her hand, too warmfor rain and too sacred for comment. 

"I couldn't help it, " resumed uncle Nathan, in a broken voice. "Fromthe first I was agin Anna's going out to work but she wanted a newsilk dress, and we, in our old-fashioned ideas, objected to it--so inher pretty, willful fashion she determined to earn it for herself. 

"I always thought Hannah had a hankering after the dress, too, for shenever thought anything too good for the gal, but there was a good manydebts left on the old place, and she knew well enough that we couldn'tafford to indulge the child that way; but she sided with Anna agin me, and so the poor child went up to Farnham's to spin his wool. Old Mrs. Farnham kept house for her son, and no one thought harm of it. I shallnever forget how bright and pretty she looked that morning, in herpink calico dress and that little straw cottage. Her cheeks were rosyas the dress, and her eyes shone like diamonds, when she came out hereto shake hands with me. 

"I felt hurt, and couldn't help looking so. She saw how I took it, andtried to laugh in her old cheerful way, but it was of no use; thesound died on her open lips, and her eyes filled with tears. 

"'Nathan, Nathan, ' she said, 'I will give up the dress if you feel soabout it, ' and she began to untie her bonnet; 'I never had a silkdress in my life, but--but'---

"She sat down on a stool and fairly burst into sobs. 

"'Anna, ' says I, 'couldn't we make it out, and you stay at home, think? There is Hannah's orange silk gown, that mother gave her yearsago, wouldn't that make over for you nicely now?'

"Anna threw herself back on the stool and laughed like a bird, whilethe tears sparkled in her eyes. 

"'Oh, Nathan don't speak of it, I've tried it on a dozen times, andthought and thought how to make it do, but the waist is under my arms, the skirt gored like an umbrella cover, and so scant, why I couldn'tget over a fence or jump a brook in it to save my life. '

"I answered, 'But you look so nice and pretty in that pink calico, Anna, I wish a silk dress had never come into your head. I'm afraidit'll be the ruin of you. '

"'My pink calico!' said the naughty child, lifting up a fold betweenher thumb and finger, and eyeing me sideways, like a pet bird as shewas; 'don't you think, brother Nat, that I was born for somethingbetter than pink calico?'

"I couldn't keep from laughing, and at that she threw her arms roundmy neck, and thanked me for letting her go. 

"Mary Fuller, my heart sunk like lead as the door closed after her. But what could I do? she would have her own way. She had it, MaryFuller, the gal had her way!"

Once more the old man paused, while drops fell thick and heavy on MaryFuller's hand. 

"Anna staid three months at old Mrs. Farnham's, but she came home atlast with her silk dress, happy as a lark, and handsomer than ever. The dress was heavy white silk. Mr. Farnham had bought it for her inYork. 

"'But what did you get white for, Anna?' says I, as she unfolded thesilk, smiling and looking with her bright eager eyes in my face, 'Itisn't a color for use--this comes of trusting young girls to choosethings for themselves. '

"'I didn't choose it--it was Mr. Farnham, ' says she, blushing up toher temples, and trying to laugh. 

"'Well, what did he get this useless color for?' says Hannah, holdingup the silk with one of her stern looks, that I could see made poorAnna tremble from head to foot. 'It will be spoiled the first time ofwearing! fit for nothing on earth but the wedding-dress of some greatlady. '

"'It is a wedding-dress--that's what Mr. Farnham bought it for, ' saysAnna, bursting out a crying, while her face was as red as the wildrose. 

"Hannah dropped the silk as if it had been a firebrand, and her faceturned white as a curd. She looked at me, and I at her, then we bothlooked at Anna. Poor girl! how frightened she was! First she turned tosister; but Hannah was taken by surprise and didn't know how toact--then she crept towards me with a sort of smile on her mouth andher eyes pleading for her, as I've seen a rabbit when taken from atrap--I just reached out my arms without knowing it, and drew herclose to my bosom. 

"She flung her arms around my neck and then we both burst out acrying, while Hannah sat down in a chair with her hands folded hard inher lap, and looked on growing whiter and whiter every minute. 

"'It's true, brother, ' whispered Anna, at last, hiding her face aginmine, 'I'm going to be married--kiss me, please, and just whisper thatyou like it. '

"I couldn't help kissing her hot cheeks, though every word went to myheart, for I saw well enough how Hannah would take it. 

"Anna hung around me till I had kissed her more than once, I'm afraid, then she drew away from my arm like a child that's determined to standalone, and went up to sister Hannah. 

"'Sister, won't you kiss me, as well as Nathan?' says she in hersweet, coaxing way. 

"But Hannah sat still, white as ever. She only gave her fingers acloser grip around each other. Anna sunk down to the floor, bendingher ankle back and sitting upon the heel of one little foot. 

"'Mother Hannah, don't be cross--what harm have I done?' says she, lifting her pretty face, all wet with tears, to meet the hard, setlook of our sister. 'Mother Hannah, ' says the girl again, drawing herface closer and closer, 'won't you kiss me as Nathan did?'

"Hannah bent her head, and it seemed as if a marble woman had moved. She touched the girl's forehead with her lips, and, says she, "'God forgive you!'

"I think to this day that sister meant, 'God bless you' and tried tosay it, but 'God forgive you' came from her lips in spite of that. This frightened Anna. So with a sort of wild look toward me, the girlgot up and went out of the room, crying as if her heart would break. She couldn't understand the thing at all. 

"The minute she was gone, Hannah unlocked her hands, that shook likedead leaves in parting from each other, and holding them out towardme, she cried out, 'Nathan, Nathan!' and fell down in a fainting fit, just as she did the other night. "

"But why, " said Mary Fuller, drawing a deep breath, "why did auntHannah feel so dreadfully, wasn't Mr. Farnham a good man?"

Uncle Nathan bent down his head and whispered the reply. 

"I told you, when our last parent died, Hannah gave up all thoughts ofmarrying. She had thought of it day and night for two years. Mr. Farnham was the man. "

"Poor aunt Hannah!" murmured Mary, "it was hard. "

"She was up next morning and got breakfast just as usual, " said uncleNathan, "from that day to this she has never spoken of that faintingfit. You see what Hannah is now, she was not so silent or so hardbefore that day. "

"But Anna's wedding was put off, " resumed uncle Nathan, after a pause. "Mr. Farnham had gone down to York about some of his affairs, andfinally concluded to go into business there. He wrote that it would besome months before he could settle things and come after her. Poorlittle Anna, how she did practice writing, and how much letter-paperthe creature tore up and wasted in answering the long letters thatcame, at first every week, then every fortnight, and at lastirregularly, longer and longer apart. She became uneasy, and I couldsee that Hannah grew sterner and more set every day. 

"The next summer a painter came into these parts for his health and tostudy the shape of trees and rocks as they really grow. He put up atthe tavern in the village and spent his time among the hills, takingpictures of the scenery, as he called them. He took a fancy to the oldhouse here, and I caught him one day sitting across the road on astool and taking it off on paper. It was about our dinner-time, and soI asked him in to take a bite with us. 

"He was a clever, gentlemanly sort of a fellow, not over young, normuch of a dandy, and we all took a sort of liking to him; Hannah, because he'd made a genuine picture of the homestead, and may be Ifelt that too a little, for we both set everything by the old place. Anna took to him at first; she loved the homestead as well as we did, almost, besides the painter came from York, and she seemed to fancyhim for that more than anything else. 

"I remember, Anna only got one letter from Mr. Farnham, all summer, and that was the only one she did not, sooner or later, let me read. She lost her spirits, and really grew thin. The artist was a good dealof company for her; she had talent, he said, and a few lessons wouldlearn her to paint pictures almost as well as himself. He was oldenough to be the girl's father, and so Hannah and I were glad to havehim there to cheer her up. 

"All at once she took a dislike to the man, and when he came to thehouse, she would always find something to busy herself about, upstairs, or in the cheese-room. The painter seemed to feel this, andafter awhile it was as much as I could do to get him into the house. 

"One day toward fall Salina came up from the square house with aletter that she gave to Anna, who ran up stairs to read it alone. 

"Salina was the only person in the village that knew of Anna'sengagement to Mr. Farnham. His letters had always come under cover toher, after his mother died, and she loved the girl as if she had beenher own sister. Like the rest of us, she had thought it strange, thathe did not write as usual, and was as proud as a peacock when thisletter came. 

"Anna stayed up stairs a long time, reading her letter, while Salinaand I talked it over in the porch. 

"'I reckon, ' says she, 'that we shall have the white dress made upwithin a week or so. Then, uncle Nat, I'll show you what a genuinehouse warming is. Just think of little Anna's being the mistress ofour house, instead of Hannah!'

"I felt a little anxious somehow, and did not answer at once. She wasgoing to speak again, when we heard the front door shut to, with asort of groan, as if a pang had passed through it. And so there had, for when we got to the entry and looked out, Anna was a good way fromthe house, with her bonnet and shawl on, running in a wild hurry downthe street. 

"'She's gone to see the dressmaker, ' says Salina, winking her righteye-lid, and giving me a cunning look from the other eye; 'see thebundle under her arm, didn't I tell you?'

"I wanted to believe her, and we went back to the porch. But there wasa strange feeling about me, and I couldn't sit still in the old chair, no more than if it had been made of red-hot iron. As for Hannah"--

The old man paused again, and for some moments the rushing sound ofthe storm was all that filled the porch. When he spoke, it was with asort of desperate effort, as if all that was left for him to tell werefull of pain. 

"Anna did not come back in three days, and then the painter, orartist, as he called himself, came with her. She was his wife. "

"His wife!" uttered Mary Fuller; "but the letter from Mr. Farnham!"

"It told her that he was married to a city lady. You have seen her, Mary Fuller; it was the woman who came with you into these parts. Butyou never saw the poor girl they murdered between them, none of uswill ever see little Anna again. "

Mary was silent, listening to the old man's sobs, as they mingled withthe storm. 

"She came back with her husband, " uttered the old man, "the whitestand stillest creature you ever saw. Her husband loved her, and she wasso gentle and submissive to him. Poor fellow! poor fellow! he deservedsomething better than the dead ashes that she had to give him. 

"Anna's husband was nothing but a common artist, wanting to dosomething great, but with no power to do it. He could dream ofbeautiful things, and then pine his soul out, because his hand failedin making them. But he had a true, good heart; that was our onlycomfort when Anna went away with him to live in the city. 

"'Why did you act so wildly, Anna?' says I, as she crept to my chairand laid her head so sorrowfully on my knee the night before they wentaway; 'we would have worked ourselves to death, poor child, if you hadonly stayed in the old place--what possessed you that night, Anna?'

"'_He_ will never know that I was the forsaken one, ' says she, and hercheeks burned with crimson once more. 'I only thought of that atfirst, but in the pain his letter gave me, I remembered thedisappointment I had dealt on a good man who loved me--I was wild, brother Nathan, but not bad. But my husband, I will make him a humble, patient wife, see if I don't. '

"And she did, Mary Fuller--the poor girl did make a dutiful, goodwife; but it was enough to break your heart to see her trying so hardto please a man, who wanted nothing but her love to make him happy, and felt she could not give him that. "

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE TWO INFANTS. 

 And then I thought of one, who in her pale, meek beauty, died, The fair young blossom that grew up and faded by my side; In the cold, moist earth, we laid her, where the forest cast its leaf, And we sighed that one so beautiful should have a lot so brief. 

 BAYANT

After awhile the old man resumed. 

"The next year Farnham came up into the mountains with his wife. Somecity speculation had made him rich, and they sat a terrible dash--butI won't speak of that, Mary. If ever the old adversary does rise in mybosom, it is when I remember the way those two persons drove by thehouse they had made gloomy as a grave-yard. 

"Hannah was sitting by the window. Her face seemed turning into stoneas the woman leaned out of her carriage, gave a long, impudent stare, and then fell back laughing, as if she had found something about mysister's appearance to make fun of. 

"A little after this, Anna came home. She wanted care and comfort, poor little darling, and her husband let her search for it in the OldHomestead. 

"Farnham went back to New York the day after she came, so I believeshe never saw him to the day of her death. 

"Mrs. Farnham was left behind, and poor Salina had a nice time withher airs and the impudence of her city servants, as she called thewhite slaves that came with her. Our Anna came alone, for her husbandcould neither spend time nor money to bring her further than Catskill. He had been out of employment, and devided his last few dollars withAnna when they parted. 

"She was very down-hearted all the time, and it was more than I coulddo to make her smile, though I tried to say a thousand droll things;and Hannah, I'm sure it made my heart ache to see how she tried andtried to cheer the young thing up. "

Here again the old man paused. By this time the storm was raging downthe valley in a hurricane. The hoary old hemlocks on the river sideshook and bent and tossed their gnarled limbs over the vexed waterswith terrible fury. The winds roared and held a wild riot on thehill-tops. In years and years so fierce a gust of weather had not beenknown in the mountain passes. 

Uncle Nathan bowed his head, and locking his hands, went on. 

"It had been threatening weather all day, and everything looked gloomyinside and outside the house. At sunset the storm commenced just as itdid to-night. It seems to me as if it was only yesterday--no--as ifthis was the very night, " continued the old man in a faltering voice. "The wind howled among the trees, and tore down the valley, just as itdoes now. The rain came down in buckets full, rolling like volleys ofshot on the roof, pouring in sheets of water over the eaves. Outyonder you could see the old apple-trees tossing about, and groaningas they do this minute like live things tormented by the storm. It wasan awful night!"

"It is an awful night _now_!" murmured Mary Fuller, shivering. "Howthe rain beats; how the old trees tug and wrestle against the wind!The valley is full of fierce noises. I cannot even hear the river inall this rush of wind and water. "

"So it was then, " said uncle Nathan, "but there was another sound, that I seem to hear now deep in my very heart. "

"What was it, uncle Nathan? A wolf or a panther? Such animals used toprowl among the hills here, I know. "

"It was the cry of a young child, darter, of our Anna's baby; alittle, feeble wail; but I should have heard it, if the storm had beentwice as loud. I had been sitting here, from sundown to ten o'clock, with no company but my fears and the raging storm. Hannah came, onceor twice, and put her pale face through the door, and went off againas if she wanted me out of the way, but for the whole world I couldn'thave moved till that little cry came. "

"But you went then, " said Mary Fuller, deeply moved, "of course youwent then. "

"I got up to go, but it was of no use; my knees shook, and knockedtogether; the porch seemed whirling around, rain and all; I made onestep toward the out-room; fell into the chair, and burst out a crying. The baby's voice had taken away all my strength. "

"But you didn't sit here all night, in a storm like this!" said Mary. 

"After awhile--I don't know how long--I got up and went into thehouse. Everything was still as death. I stood at the out-room door andlistened. There was no noise. I thought it was the storm that drownedeverything, and opened the door. Hannah was not there, nor Salinaeither, but a window had blown open, and in drifted the rain and windover the bed that stood close by it--poor Anna's bed. I could not seedistinctly, my eyes were blinded with the storm that leapt into myface, and I could hardly close the window agin it. 

"At last I got the sash down and went up to Anna's bed. She wasthere"--

"Well!" said Mary, at length, in a low whisper. 

"She was there--all alone--dead--my little sister Anna!" answered theold man, covering his face with both hands, and crying till his sobswere carried away in the louder wail of the storm. "At first I couldnot believe it. A candle stood on the table with its wick bent double. It had swirled away at the sides till the tallow ran down upon thebrass. After I had shut the window, it gave out a steadier light, thatfell on Anna's face. I would not believe it, but bent down and kissedher on the forehead. My lips were amost as cold as hers then, Ibelieve. Oh! darter, darter, our poor little Anna was dead--dead--andcold--with the storm blowing over her. "

Mary took uncle Nathan's hand between hers, and kissed it. 

"Don't cry, " said the old man, gently removing his hand, upon whichher tears had fallen. "_I_ can't help it, but _you_ mustn't cry. Itwas very hard at the time, and the old house has never been the samesince, --or, at any rate, " continued the kind old man, thoughtful ofMary's feelings even in his grief, "not till you came. "

"But I can't be supposed to fill her place, " said Mary, "she, sobright and handsome. "

"I thought, " answered uncle Nathan, "as I sat by her bed that night, and saw her lying there, so young, and with her bright hair falling inwaves down the pillow, that one of God's own angels couldn't havelooked more lovely. She was smiling in her death, just as I'd seen hera thousand times when she fell asleep. It seemed as if a kiss frombrother Nathan would make her start up, and open those great browneyes again; but when I gave the kiss it didn't wake her, but froze mealmost into a stone. "

"But the cry you had heard?" said Mary. 

"I forgot that, and never thought to ask why every one had left poordead Anna alone, with the swirling light and the storm. But the nextday Hannah took me up into her bedroom, and showed me our sister'schild, a little boy, Mary, that might have been a comfort to us. Icouldn't bear to look at it, lying there so innocent, like a youngrobin left alone in its nest; the sight of it almost broke my heart. "

"But what became of it?"

"Hannah brought it up by hand a few weeks, and then went down to Yorkwith it herself, and left the poor baby with its father. "

"How could she?" exclaimed Mary; "I wonder you could part with it. "

"I did want to keep him, but Hannah was set in her way, and would nothear of it. She never looked at the helpless little fellow, as heslept there in Anna's bed, like a forsaken bird, without turning paleto the lips. It was enough to kill her!"

"You must have hated to give it up so much though, " said Mary. 

"She did her duty--Hannah always does, let what will come. Money hasbeen sent, every year, to help bring the boy up. Let what would comeshe always scrimps and saves enough out of the old place for that. "

"Perhaps it is this that has put you so behind-hand, " suggested thechild, thoughtfully. 

"I've often misdoubted it--but she's right. I'd rather see theHomestead sold, than have Anna's boy want anything; but, somehow, thedrain comes heavier and heavier every year. "

"And I! what am I but a burden?" said Mary, in a heart-broken voice. "What can I do? Surely, God intended some walk of usefulness to everyone of his creation. Oh, uncle Nathan, tell me where mine lies!"

"You ain't much more helpless than I am, " answered uncle Nathan, sadly. "It seems as if the more things go wrong, the more clumsy Igrow, and the heavier I weigh. The chair is getting almost too smallfor me, and I ain't fit for anything but sitting now. "

Mary shook her head, and a quaint smile stole across her lips in thedarkness. 

"You are too large, uncle Nathan, and I am too helpless; we are goodfor nothing but to comfort one another. "

"Aunt Hannah, you don't know how much she loves us both. "

Mary was very thoughtful. The story she had heard for the first time;the rush of the storm; the darkness that seemed to surround her, bodyand soul, was cruelly depressing. It seemed like an epoch in her life, as if some grave event were approaching in which she must hold ashare. 

"Now, darter, " said uncle Nathan, laying his hand or her head, "youand I have got a secret between us. It's the first time in years thatI have mentioned Anna. We needn't be afraid to talk about her now, when Hannah isn't by. "

Just then, amid the turmoil of winds, and the tossing of trees, aburst of thunder shook the house in every timber. Then came flashafter flash of lightning, shooting long fiery trails through the rain, and spreading sheets of lurid flame in the air. Another crash, anotherburst of fire, and lo! a column of flame shot up into the blackenedsky, lighting the river, the hills, and all the minute surroundings ofuncle Nathan's house; as it were with a fiery cataract. 

"It is the dry hemlock by the river-side, " cried uncle Nathan; "thatnight it was struck for the first time, this night for the last, " andhe rushed out bareheaded, into the storm of fire and rain that delugedthe valley. 

Mary followed him. A little further down the valley was thegrave-yard. The stones with which it was crowded gleamed cold andghastly in the light of the burning hemlock. 

On two of these stones, somewhat apart, but facing the same way, Marycould see the black lines with gloomy distinctness. 

"Isn't it strange?" said uncle Nathan, pointing toward the stones, "isn't it strange that the light should fall strongest on those twograves, just as we were talking about them for the first time? What isgoing to happen now? That night two children came into the world, andone good soul went out of it. While Farnham's wife lay under her silkcurtains, with her baby warm and sleeping by her side, our Anna layalone in her cold bed, and the baby would have been chilled to deathon her bosom. Why was the storm only for our Old Homestead, thesunshine for them?"

"Perhaps God will explain all this when we get to heaven, " answeredMary, lifting her forehead in the gloomy light. "Come, uncle Nat--comein. "

With gentle violence the girl drew him into the house. 

From that night Mary Fuller ceased to be a child. The story of awoman's wrongs had given her a woman's heart. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

DARK STORMS AND DARK MEMORIES. 

 Hush! be silent--let the storm sweep by! Its howlings fill me with unuttered dread! This shuddering soul hugs its dark mystery, Oh, trouble not the ashes of the dead!

While uncle Nathan and Mary were conversing on the porch, the twowomen within doors remained comparatively silent, till the storm rosealmost to a hurricane. The gloominess of the night seemed to oppressthem, and they sat before the hearth till the fire had nearlysmouldered out, leaving only a couple of large pointed brands of whathad been a back-log, protruding from a bed of ashes, that grew whiterand deeper with each coal that crumbled away from the original stock. 

With her calf-skin shoes planted on each foot of the andiron, and herdress just enough lifted to reveal a glimpse of her blue yarnstockings, aunt Hannah sat gazing on the embers, with a countenancethat grew stern and troubled as the storm raged more and morefiercely. Her knitting-work lay upon the stand beside her; three ofthe needles formed a triangle, and the fourth was thrust through thestocking, in a way that betokened a strange tumult in the owner, fornever, save when it was the sign of some great calamity, had auntHannah been known to lay down her knitting except at the seam-stitch. 

That some bitter trouble weighed upon her now was certain, for thethoughts that possessed her seemed bowing her person forward. Shestooped heavily toward the fire, with her long, flail-like armsclasped around her knees, not rocking back and forth as seemed mostnatural to the position, but immovable as the andiron upon which herfeet rested, and sombre as the storm that shook the windows and howleddown the chimney. 

Salina occupied the other andiron. Her leathern shoes were tinged withmud about the soles, and a spot or two had settled on her white yarnstockings, which were gingerly exposed at the ankles. But while auntHannah stooped forward, bowed down by thought, Salina sat upright as achurch-steeple, with one elbow planted on each knee, and her sharpchin resting in the palms of her hands. Faint flashes from the firenow and then gleamed across her hair, firing it up with ferociousredness; and her eyes were bent upon the broken back-log, as ifdefying it to a competition, while her feet were planted on theandiron. 

At last, when the storm grew so fierce that it rocked the old house toits foundations, and gusts of rain came sweeping down the chimney, thetwo women looked into each other's eyes. 

"Did you ever see anything like it!" said Salina. 

It was an exclamation only, but aunt Hannah answered as if herthoughts had been questioned. 

"Yes, once--that night!"

"True enough--that was an awful night. I hate to think of it. "

"But how can one help it?" said aunt Hannah, bending her white facedownward again, "I'd give anything on earth to forget that one night. "

"Well, " answered Salina, "I have sort of forgot a good deal about it;but now, as you bring it to mind, there was a thing or two happenedthat I never told of before, and couldn't account for in any way--thatis, for the whole of it. "

"What was that?" questioned aunt Hannah, sharply. 

"Well, now, it's no use snapping one's head off, if the night ishowling like old Nick himself, " answered Salina, kindling up. 

"If I was snappish, it wasn't because I meant it, " said aunt Hannah, sinking to her dejected position again; "you said something about thatnight--what was it?"

"Well, now, I'll up and tell you--it's nothing worth mentioning--butsomehow I always sort of remembered it. You know, after poor littleAnna died, I went home in all the storm, for I had only run over totell you about Mrs. Farnham's baby, and hadn't expected to stay. Icouldn't but jest get along, the wind and rain beat in my face so; andsomehow what I had seen here took away all my nat'ral strength;besides, it was dark as pitch, and before I got home there wasn't adry thread on me. 

"Well, I went in through the back door mighty still, I tell you, for Ididn't want any one to know that I'd been out when there was sicknessin the house. Besides, I'd promised the nus to sit up and tend thebaby, while she got a little sleep. So, without stopping to bolt theback door or anything, I jest stole up to the chamber next Mrs. Farnham's, where the nus was with the baby, and opening the door atrifle, told her to go to bed, and I'd be down in less than no time. 

"The baby was sound asleep in the cradle, that had been ready for itever so long, so the nus just put the blanket a little more over itshead and went out. 

"I ran up stairs, got off my wet clothes, and went down to the roomagin, but first I remembered the back door, and went to fasten it forfear some one would find out that I had been away from home. 

"When I got to the door, it was wide open, and the wind came stormingin like all possessed. The candle swirled till it almost went out inmy hand, and it was as much as I could make out to shut the door andget things to rights, without being wet through agin. At last I gotthe door shut to and fastened, but when I went to cross the kitchen, where I never would let them put a carpet down, you know, the whitepine boards were tramped over and over with wet footsteps. Now, Ihadn't crossed it but once with my wet things on, and the footstepswent both ways, as if some one had gone in and went out agin. 

"Well, I held down the light and followed these same steps along thecarpet clear into the room where the baby was; I hadn't gone acrossthe threshold, remember, and yet the steps were all over the room, anda little puddle of water lay close agin the cradle--are you listening, aunt Hannah?"

"Go on, " answered the old woman, in a husky voice. 

"I haven't anything more to say, only this, " said Salina, "the babylay snug in the cradle, but its little hands were as cold as stone, and I'm sartin there was a drop of water on its forehead. That wasn'tall. As I was looking around, I saw a little baby's night-gown a-lyinghalf across the door-sill. "

Aunt Hannah looked up suddenly, and Salina checked herself. 

"Good gracious, how pale you are!--do tell--what's the matter?"

"You heard the thunder--I always was afraid of thunder. "

"Yes, " answered Salina, "lightning don't amount to much, but whenthunder strikes it is awful. That clap wasn't nothing to speak of, though, after all. "

"Wasn't it?" said aunt Hannah, dropping her face between both herhands. "It seemed terribly loud to me. "

"Well, as I was a-saying about that night. There was a baby'snight-gown on the door-sill. I took it up and looked at it. It wasfine cotton, edged round with a little worked pattern, such as I'dseen our Anna working there in the out-room. The sight of it sort ofpuzzled me, I can tell you, besides it made me feel bad to think howcold her poor little fingers were then, so I sat down and cried overit all by myself. But how came the little gown there? It didn't belongto Mrs. Farnham, for her baby's clothes were all linen, cambric, andlace, and French work. I sat down and thought and thought, but at lastburst out a-crying agin. It was all clear enough. "

"How, " said aunt Hannah, lifting her face suddenly, "how was itclear?"

"Why, the night-gown must have stuck to my shawl when we laid Anna'sbaby in your bed up stairs. Everything was tossed about, you know; andI am always catching to briars and things every time I move. Nevercould go a blackberrying with other gals, but the first thing theywere calling out, 'that Salina had got a bean' and there would be agreat long briar dragging to the bottom of my frock. It was my luckalways to have things hanging onto me. I wish you could see the ticksand burdock leaves that I have picked off from this identical dresssince harvest. "

Aunt Hannah drew herself up a little more freely, but it was somemoments before she spoke. 

"Did you keep the night-gown?" she inquired. 

"Yes, I hadn't the heart to bring it here at the time, so I locked itup in the till of my chest, and there it lies yet, as yellow assaffron. Would you like to have it now?"

"No, " answered aunt Hannah, "what should I have it for? keep it safejust as it is; who knows but it may be wanted yet?"

Salina drew herself primly up, and observed that if the best man inYork State was to offer himself to her, he would get sent about hisbusiness in double quick time. 

Aunt Hannah raised her eyes, with a heavy questioning look, butdropped them again without in the least comprehending the drift ofSalina's thoughts. 

"No, " said the spinster, stoutly. "It's of no use looking at me inthat way; if every hair of his head was hung with diamonds, I wouldn'thave him. It's no use asking me, I'm a sot cretur where I am sot, auntHannah. "

While Salina was moving her head up and down, with a force that almostdislodged the horn-comb from her fiery tresses, a clap of thundershook the house to its foundations, and sheets of lightning rushedathwart the windows. 

"Nathan, where is my brother Nathan?" cried aunt Hannah, starting toher feet. 

"No, it's of no use calling even him, " persisted Salina, unmindfulof both thunder and lightning. "The face of a man can't change me; youneedn't call him, I tell you it's of no use, I'm flint. "

"The old hemlock is in flames again!" cried aunt Hannah, rushingthrough the porch, "and Nathan's chair empty. Is this thunderbolt forhim? Nathan! Nathan!"

By the light of the stricken hemlock, she saw her brother comingtoward the porch, holding Mary Fuller by the hand. 

"Come, brother, come!" she cried, stretching forth her arms, "you areall that I have left. "

Nathan heard his sister, and came toward her. She saw that he wassafe, and her old manner returned. 

"Come, " she said, opening the kitchen door, "it is time for prayers. "

"Yes, let us pray, " said uncle Nathan, solemnly, "for truly, Godspeaketh to us in the thunder and the lightning. "

Salina, who had remained standing in the room, was so struck by theunusual sadness of every face around her, that for the time she forgotherself. There was something in uncle Nathan's face that she had neverseen before, a depth and intensity of feeling that held even her rudestrength in awe. 

"Good night, " she said, tying on her hood and folding a large blanketshawl over her person; "it's time for me to be a going. "

"Not in this rain, " said Mary, "you will be wet through. "

"Well, what then? I ain't neither sugar nor salt, " she said, foldingher shawl closer. "The old tree gives light enough, and as for alittle rain I can stand that. "

"It mayn't be safe to pass the hemlock, when it's on fire. I'll gowith you till you get beyond that, " said uncle Nathan, taking his drabovercoat from a nail behind the door. 

Salina drew the shawl with still more desperate resolution around herlathy figure. 

"No, sir, " she said, with emphasis, "after what your sister has beensaying to-night, I feel it a duty that I owe to myself to go homealone. "

"But this terrible weather, " said uncle Nathan, holding his great-coatirresolutely in his hand. 

"As I observed before, " said Salina, "I'm neither sugar nor salt, sir, but rock, marble, or, if there is a stone harder than these, I'mthat. "

Uncle Nathan was too thoroughly saddened for contention; indeed hescarcely noticed the magnificent change in Salina's manner; and, ifthe truth must be told, was rather glad to be left under the shelterof a roof, when the rain was rattling over it so fiercely. 

"Well, " he said, hanging up his coat again, "if you'd rather go homealone than stay all night, or let me go with you, of course I don'twant to interfere. "

"Thank you, " answered the lady, tossing her head and snuffing the airlike a race-horse; "I'm sure I'm obleged beyond anything. It's kind ofyou to let me have my own way. "

Uncle Nathan looked at little Mary Fuller, to gather her opinion ofthe unaccountable airs their guest was putting on, but the girl'sheart was full of the story she had been listening to, and she sat bythe table gazing sadly upon the floor, with one hand supporting herforehead. 

Aunt Hannah had seated herself on the hearth again, and was gazingabsorbed into the embers. Salina had poor uncle Nathan thus entirelyto herself. 

"Now, " said she, "if you will have the goodness to turn your facetoward the chamber-door, while I pin up the skirt of my dress alittle, I shall be prepared to depart from this roof. "

Uncle Nathan quietly withdrew into the porch, and sat down in hiseasy-chair. Salina would have puzzled him exceedingly but for thepre-occupation of his feelings. As it was, the old man was rathersorry that she _would_ go home alone, in all the rain, but his heartwas too heavy for a second thought on the subject. 

I do not pretend to be a judge of these matters, but really I believeSalina was a little taken aback, when she came forth into the porch, with her dress nicely tucked up, and her shawl folded in a fashionthat left one arm at liberty, and saw uncle Nathan sitting there inthe dark, instead of standing by the cheese-press, hat in hand, determined to escort her as a man of spirit ought to have been, afterthe trouble she had taken with the shawl. Nor do I pretend to say thatshe was disappointed, or anything of the sort, because Salina in herday possessed the very germ and root of a strong-minded woman ofmodern times, and persons of ordinary capacity are shy of runningcounter to ladies of that class--all that we venture to assert is thatshe made a dead halt on the porch, looked up and down the garden, observed in an under-tone "It was raining cats and dogs yet, " devicesby which a weak-minded woman might have insinuated, that she had takenthe subject of going home alone into consideration and thought betterof it. 

Uncle Nathan, instead of suspecting the art that I have been wickedenough to insinuate, seemed perfectly oblivious of the antiquedamsel's presence. 

At last she gathered up her raiment and muttering. 

"Well, now, I never did!" prepared to step from the porch, when thevoice of uncle Nat arrested her. 

"Salina, is it you? Come here, Salina!"

Salina drew close to uncle Nathan's chair--very close considering thecircumstances, and, with a relenting voice, answered, "Well, Mr. Nathan, I'm here--what is it you want to say?"

Uncle Nathan reached forth his hand. Salina's unconsciously crept outfrom the folds of her shawl, in a sort of way as if she didn't intendto let the left hand know what the right was about. 

"Salina, " said uncle Nathan, pressing her fingers in his broad palm. 

"Well, uncle Nathan?"

"My heart is full to-night, Salina, I feel a'most broke down. "

"Well, now, don't take on this way. My bark is worse than my bite, youknow that. "

"You are a kind soul at the bottom, I always knew that, and have beena true friend to us; I shall never forget you for it. "

I don't know as uncle Nathan was conscious of it, but Salina's handcertainly tightened around his plump fingers. 

"You were kind to _her_, and I want to thank you for it. "

"_Her_! Who are you talking about?"

"Our Anna. The night has put me so in mind of her. I've been talkingabout her to little Mary all the evening, and now let me thank you, for you were always good to Anna. "

Salina drew her hand from uncle Nathan's, and folded it in her shawl. 

"I hope I haven't hurt your feelings mentioning her suddenly, after somany years, " said the old man. 

Salina stood upright while he was speaking, but the moment he ceased, the dim light through the kitchen window revealed her wading throughthe wet plaintain leaves as she turned a corner of the house. 

"She always was a kind creature, " said uncle Nathan, moving his headwith gentle compunction. "I'm afraid it came hard though to hear poorAnna mentioned, but I couldn't help it. "

With these meek words, half of sorrow, half of self-reproach, uncleNathan went back into the kitchen. Aunt Hannah had gone up stairs, butMary sat by the little stand, reading in the open Bible. She turned itgently toward the old man as he sat down, but he shook his head andmotioned her to read aloud. 

Mary had a clear, silver-toned voice, and she read with that naturalpathos which true feeling always renders effective. That night therewas depth and sweetness in her reading, that fell like the voice of anangel on the excited feelings of uncle Nathan. The storm was nowhushing itself in the valley, and her voice rose sweet and clear, tillit penetrated to the room above, where aunt Hannah lay. 

Why had aunt Hannah absented herself from family prayer that night?Why did she, as the voice of that young girl rose to her ears, cowerdown in the bed, and nervously draw up the coverlet to shut thosesweet tones out from her soul?

CHAPTER XXXVIII

APPLE GATHERINGS. 

 There's comfort in the farmer's house, In the old age of the year, When the fruit is ripe and squirrels roam Through the forests brown and sere. 

It was fortunate for uncle Nathan, that his little harvest was storedin the barn before the storm we have described swept the valley, for agood many crops of corn were destroyed that night, and not only thewinter apples, but half the leaves were shaken from the orchardboughs. The river, too, was swollen and turbid for several days, andthe splintered and half-charred trunk of the old hemlock, was at timesnearly buried in water. 

But uncle Nathan's crop of corn was safely housed in the barn, on thevery day before the tempest broke over it, and all the harm hesuffered, was a little delay in the "husking frolic, " which, for manyyears, had been a sort of annual jubilee at the Homestead, for theyoung people of the village usually managed, in some indirect way, tohelp the old man forward in his farm labor, making plowing matches inthe spring, mowing parties in the summer, and "husking frolics" in thefall; and this with a hearty good will, that would have convinced anyother man that his neighbors got up these impromptu assemblies, for nopurpose but their own amusement. 

But uncle Nathan had too much goodness in his own heart, not to detectit lurking in any disguise in the hearts of others, and with that truedignity which makes the acceptance of a frankly offered kindness, pleasant as the power of conferring it, he always looked forward tothese gala-days with interest, striving by generous hospitality toexpress a sense of the benefits he received. 

Aunt Hannah was genuinely grateful for all this kindness in her youngneighbors, and always stood ready to perform her part of theentertainment with prompt energy, which, if not as genial as the goodnature of uncle Nat, revealed itself in a form quite as acceptable, for never in any other place were such pumpkin pies, drop cakes, tartsand doughnuts produced, as emanated from aunt Hannah's kitchen onthese occasions. 

But I have said the "husking frolic" was put off a little in order togive time for repairs after the storm. For two whole days uncle Nathanhad his hands full, gathering up the winter apples that had beendashed from their boughs on that awful night. In this labor, auntHannah was first and foremost abroad with her splint basket, directlyafter breakfast, gathering up the fruit with an energy that seemedquite unequal to her age. 

I am almost afraid to say it, because some of my readers are, doubtless, young ladies of the young American school, who will thinkmy heroine degraded by her usefulness, but Mary Fuller put on herlittle quilted hood, the moment the breakfast things were washed up, and following the old man into the orchard, with another splintbasket, filled it, turn for turn with aunt Hannah, while uncleNathan--bless his old heart--carried the baskets and emptied them intoa little mountain of red and golden apples, beneath his favorite tree. 

I dislike to make this confession, because, in every sense of theword, Mary Fuller was my idea of a young gentlewoman--or as near anapproach to that exquisite being, as a girl of her years ever can be. More than this, she promised those higher and still more noblequalifications that distinguish souls lifted out from the multitude byimagination and intellect, and for this very reason perhaps she wasnot ashamed of being useful, or of partaking heartily in any laborborne by her benefactors. 

In truth, souls like hers are ashamed to undertake no duty that comesnaturally in the path of life. 

I have only spoken of Mary up to this time, as a bright, cheerful, good little girl, earnest in the right, and shrinking from the wrong, because I deem such qualities, the very essence and life of a firmintellectual character, and acknowledge no greatness that hasn'tstrong sense and moral worth for its foundation. 

Like the green leaves that clasp in a rose-bud, these qualities mustunfold themselves first, in the life of any human being, allowingthought to expand in the intellect as the sunshine pierces throughthese mossy leaves to the heart of the flower. 

Precocious intellect is not genius, but a disease. It is the bud thatblossoms out of season, because there is unwholesome warmth forcing itopen. There is a species of insanity that men call genius whichsprings from a want of intellectual harmony, without the moral andphysical strength necessary to perfect development, but with thiserratic mischief we have nothing to do. Mary, the reader well knowswas plain in person, and as a child almost dwarfish, but wholesomefood, fresh mountain air and household kindness, had modified andchanged all this. 

She was only a little smaller than ordinary girls, and verypleasant-looking even to strangers. 

Still there was something in the young girl's face difficult todescribe, but which possessed a charm that beauty never approached, aquick kindling of the eyes--a smile that lighted up all her featurestill the gaze was fascinated by it. This charm was more remarkablefrom the usual gravity of her face. She never had been what is usuallytermed a forward child, and in early life, the common expression ofher eyes was sad, almost mournful. As she grew older and happier, thissettled into a gentle serenity, only changed as we have described, bythat thrilling smile, which actually transfigured her. You forgot herplainness then, forgot her humble garments, her dull complexion, andwondered what power had, for the moment, rendered her so beautiful. 

This exquisite expression of the soul had deepened perceptibly andbecome more vivid, since her conversation with uncle Nathan on thenight of the storm; but she was more thoughtful after that, and creptaway to her room whenever she could find time, as if some object ofinterest forced her into solitude. 

The night before the apple-gathering, aunt Hannah found her seated bya little cherry-wood table near the window, with her box of paints outfinishing up a sketch on the leaf of an old copy-book. The same thinghad often happened before, but this time there was a nervous rapidityof the hand, and that singular glow upon the face, which made the oldwoman pause to look at her. 

"I wonder what on earth that girl is always working away at thempictures for?" said aunt Hannah as she surrendered her basket ofapples to uncle Nathan that day. "Last night she was at it again--Iwent close up to her and looked over her shoulder--she had not heardme till then, but the minute I touched her, the color came all overher neck and face, as if she'd been caught stealing. I wonder whatit's all about, Nathan?"

"Never you mind, Hannah. Let the child do as she pleases, " answereduncle Nathan, pouring the ripe apples softly down to the heap. "Thereis something busy in her mind that neither you nor I can make out yet. In my opinion, such girls as our Mary should be left to their own waysa good deal. Let her alone, Hannah, there is not a wrong thought inher heart, and never was. "

"I don't understand her, " said aunt Hannah, receiving her emptybasket, and tying the broad kerchief more tightly over her head. 

"Now, don't meddle with what you can't understand, " said uncle Nathan, earnestly; "you and I are getting to be old people, Hannah, and as wego down hill, this girl will be climbing up; don't let us drag herdown with the weight of our old-fashioned ideas. There is somethingmore than common, I tell you, in the girl. "

"But this painting won't get her a living, when we're dead and gone, Nathan. "

"I don't know, picters are the fashion now-a-days--who knows but shemay yet have one hung up at the Academy. "

A grim smile came to aunt Hannah's face. "You may be right, Nathan, "she said. "More strange things than that have happened in our time, so I'll just do as you think best, but she does waste a good dealof time and candle-light with her paints and things. "

"She's brought more light into the house than she will ever take away, heaven bless her, " answered uncle Nathan. 

Just then, Mary came up with her basket. Exercise and the cold autumnair had left her cheeks rosy with color; she looked beautiful in theeyes of her benefactors. 

"Now, " she said, pouring down her apples, "had not you better go intothe cellar, uncle Nathan, and get the apple-bin ready? the air feelslike frost. "

"They're not going into our cellar this year, " said aunt Hannah, looking up into the branches above her, as if she feared to encounterthe inquiring eyes of her companions; "we must do without winterapples; I've sold the whole crop. "

"Do without winter apples, " exclaimed uncle Nathan, with a downcastlook, "is it so bad as that sister?"

"Apples are high down in York this fall, " she answered, evasively. 

Mary turned away, sighing heavily, "Shall I never be able to helpalong?" she muttered to herself, and she fell into a train of thoughtthat lasted till long after the apples were all gathered in a heapready for the cart that was to carry them away. 

"Hannah, " said uncle Nathan, the moment they were alone, "what hashappened; Anna's boy, is it anything about him?"

"His father is sick, Nathan, very sick, and will starve if we don'tcome to his help a little. "

"And this is why we are to have no winter apples in the cellar, I'msure it's of no consequence. I've thought a good while that old peoplelike us have no use for apples, we hain't got the teeth to eat them, you know. But then Mary is so fond of them, supposing we take outa few just for her, you know. "

"No, " said aunt Hannah, sorrowfully, "she can do without apples, butthey cannot do without bread; besides she wouldn't touch them if sheknew. "

"No, no, I'm sure she wouldn't--but isn't there anything I could giveup: there's the cider, I used to be very fond of ginger and cider, winter evenings, but somehow without apples, it wouldn't seem exactlynat'ral: supposing you save a few apples for her without letting herknow, and sell the cider. It would be a good example to set to theyoung men, you know, these temperance times?"

"No, " answered Hannah, with unusual energy, "not a comfort shall yougive up; I will work my fingers to the bone first. "

"But, " said uncle Nathan, rather timidly, as if he ventured aproposition that was likely to be ill received. "Why not let the poorfellow come here?--it would not cost much to keep him at theHomestead, and Mary is such a dear little nurse. "

Aunt Hannah did not receive this as he had expected, but with a slowwave of the head, "That can never be--I couldn't breathe under thesame roof with them; don't mention it again, Nathan. "

"I never will, " said the old man, touched by the sad determinationin her voice and manner, "only tell me what I can do. "

"Nothing, only let me alone, " was the reply, and taking up her emptybasket, aunt Hannah went to work again. 

"Poor Hannah, " murmured the good old man, "poor Hannah, she's gota hard row to hoe and always had, I'd help her out with the weeds, if some one would only tell me how, but she will work by herself. "

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE FARNHAMS' RETURN FROM ABROAD. 

 There is fruit from the orchard and corn from the field, For old mother earth gives a bountiful yield; There is light in the kitchen and fire on the hearth, The Homestead is ready for feasting and mirth. 

It was the day before uncle Nathan's husking-frolic. All the cornwas housed and stacked upon the barn floor, which had been swept andgarnished for the occasion; for after the husking was to come adance--not in the house, aunt Hannah had some old-fashioned prejudicesabout that--and uncle Nat shrunk from the idea of having a frolic inthe out-room where poor Anna had died; so as the barn was large andthe room sufficient, the play usually ended where the work began, upon the barn floor, which was always industriously cleared from thecorn-stalks as the husking went on. 

Of course it was a busy day at the old house. Salina came early, andwas in full force among the culinary proceedings of the occasion. AuntHannah received a slight exhilaration of life; she moved about thekitchen more briskly, let her cap get somewhat awry, and twice in thecourse of the morning was seen to wear a grim smile, as Mary, in heractive desire to please, brought the flour-duster and nutmeg-grater toher help, before the rigid lady had quite found out that they werewanted. 

Uncle Nat, too, acted in a very excited and extraordinary manner, allday running in from the porch, asking breathlessly if he could doanything, and then subsiding back in his old arm-chair before auntHannah could force her thin lips into a speaking condition. 

As for Salina, though her tongue was always ready, she had found theold man too dull of comprehension for any thought of taking help athis hands; and when he meekly offered to cut up a huge pumpkin forher, she paused, with her knife plunged deep into its golden heart, and informed dear, unconscious uncle Nathan, that she did not requirehelp from the face of man, not she. 

With that, she cut down into the pumpkin with a ferocity quitestartling, and split the two halves apart with a jerk that made thehorn-comb reel among her fiery tresses, and sent uncle Nat quiteaghast through the back door. 

Salina looked after him with a smile of grim triumph, snuffed the airlike a victorious race-horse, and after forcing the half-dislodgedcomb into her hair with both hands, she proceeded to cut up thepumpkin into great yellow hoops, with another toss of her head, whichdenoted intense satisfaction. 

It is possible that Salina would have been a little provoked, had sheseen with what composure uncle Nat took the rebuff, and how quietly hesettled down to a basket of large potatoes by the barn door, which hesoftly cut in twain, scooping each half out in the centre, and cuttingoff the bottoms with mysterious earnestness. As each potatoe wasfinished, uncle Nat fastened it to the edge of a new hogshead-hoopthat lay on the floor beside him, till the whole circle was dottedwith them. 

When this mysterious circle was completed, uncle Nat tied a cord tothe four divisions of the hoop, and with the aid of a stout ladder, suspended it between two high beams in the centre of the barn. Havingdescended to the floor and taken a general observation of the effect, he was about to mount the ladder again, when Mary Fuller ran in, eagerto make herself useful. 

"Stop, stop, uncle Nathan, let me go up, while you set down on thecorn-stalks and tell me if I place them right. Here, now, hand up thecandles, " she continued, stooping down from the ladder after she hadmounted a round or two. 

Uncle Nathan drew a bundle of candles from his capacious coat-pocketand reached them up. 

"I hope there'll be enough, " he said, regretfully, "but somehow Hannahis getting rather close with her candles. "

"Plenty--plenty, " answered Mary Fuller, "we'll scatter them about, youknow; besides, Salina brought over half a dozen nice sperm ones. "

"Did she?" said uncle Nathan, heaving a deep sigh, "that's very goodof her, especially as she seems to be a little out of sorts latelywith us--don't you think so, Mary?"

"Not at all, " said Mary, laughing blithely from the top of the ladder, as she settled the candles each into the potatoe socket prepared forit. "Salina's cross sometimes, but then it amounts to nothing. "

The old man sat down on a bundle of corn-stalks, and quietly gazedupon Mary as she proceeded with her task; but all at once thefolding-door was softly opened, and a broad light flooded the barn. 

"Jump down--jump down, Mary!" cried uncle Nat, "some one is coming. "

"Oh! it's only me, don't mind me, you know, " said a sharp, littleweasel-eyed man gliding through the opening; "yes, I see, preparingfor the husking frolic. All right, just the thing, labor gives valueto everything--of course corn is worth more with the husks off. "

At first uncle Nathan seemed a little startled by this abruptentrance, and Mary came down the ladder with an anxious look, for thisman was the village constable, and with a vague sense of debts thatthey did not comprehend, both the old man and girl received him withsomething like apprehension. But he clasped both hands under his coatbehind, and looked so complacently first at the corn-stalks, then atuncle Nathan, that it quite assured the old man; though Mary, who hadglided down the ladder, and stood close by his side, still bore anapprehensive look in her eyes. 

"Fine corn!" said the constable, breaking off an ear, and strippingthe husk carelessly from the golden grain, "the rows are even as agirl's teeth, the grain plump and full as her heart I say, uncleNathan, why didn't you invite me to the husking? I'm great on thatsort of work. "

"Didn't Hannah invite you?" answered uncle Nat, blushing at thisimplied charge of inhospitality. "If she didn't, I'll do it now, ofcourse we should be glad to have you come--why not?"

"Of course--why not? If I can't dance like some of the young fellowsat a regular strife, I'll husk more corn than the best on 'em. See ifany of 'em has as big a heap as I do after the husking. Oh, yes, I'll come!"

"What are you coming for?" inquired Mary, in her low, quiet way, fixing her clear eyes on his face. 

"To dance with you, of course and to drink the old man's cider--whatelse should I come for, little bob-o'-link?"

"I don't know, " answered Mary, with a faint sigh, which uncle Nat didnot hear, for he was busy gathering himself up from his low seat onthe bundle of stalks. 

"Won't you step in and take a drink of cider now?" said the kind oldman to his visitor. 

"No, thank you; but this evening, you may depend on it, I'll be amongyou. "

As he said this, constable Boyd put on his hat, settled it a little onone side, and thrusting a hand into each pocket of his coat, walkedwith a great dignity toward the door. 

A yoke of oxen, fat, sleek, Old Homestead animals, lay in the grass alittle distance from the barn. 

"Fine yoke of cattle, " said the constable, sauntering toward them, "fat enough to kill a'most, ain't they?"

"I fed them myself, " answered uncle Nathan, patting a white star onthe forehead of the nearest animal, as he lay upon his knees halfburied in the rich aftergrowth. "Isn't he an old beauty?"

"Kind in the yoke?" questioned the constable. 

"I should think so!" answered uncle Nat, with a mellow laugh. "Come goin and see how the women folks get along. "

"No, thank you, I'll just take a short cut across the garden; but youmay depend on me to-night--good day. "

"Good day, " said uncle Nat; with his usual hearty manner, and pickingup a fragment of pine, he moved with it toward the porch. 

A barrel of new cider had been mounted on the cheese-press. It wasevidently just beginning to ferment, for drops were foaming up fromthe bung, and creaming down each side the barrel in two slenderrivulets. 

Uncle Nathan drove the bung down with his clenched hand. Then seatinghimself comfortably in the old arm-chair, took a double-bladed knifefrom his pocket, and began with great neatness to whittle out a spigotfrom the fragment of pine, sighing heavily now and then, as if someunaccountable pressure were on his mind. 

Aunt Hannah crossed the porch once or twice on her way to themilk-room, and at each time uncle Nat ceased whittling and gazedwistfully after her. Once he parted his lips to speak, but that momentSalina came to the kitchen door with a quantity of apple-paringsgathered up in her apron, and called out, "Miss Hannah, do come alongwith that colander, the pumpkin sarse will be biled dry as achip--where on arth is Mary Fuller?"

"Here, " answered Mary, in a low voice, coming down from her chamber. 

Had Salina looked up she might have seen that Mary's eyes were heavyand moist, as if she had been weeping, but the strong-minded maidenhad emptied her apron, and sat with a large earthen bowl in her lap, beating a dozen eggs tempestuously together, as if they had given hermortal offence, and she were taking revenge with every dash of herhand. 

"Throw a stick or two of wood into the oven, Mary, that's a good girl, then take these eggs and beat them like all possessed, while I rollout the gingerbread and cut some brake leaves in the pie crust. AuntHannah now always will cut the leaves all the way of a size, as if anyone with half an eye couldn't see that it isn't the way they grow bynature, but broad at the bottom and tapering off like an Injun arrowat the top. Besides, Mary, it's between us, you know, aunt Hannahnever does make her thumb-marks even about the edges, but Nathan, nowI dare say, don't know the difference between her work, and a leaflike that. "

Salina had resigned her bowl while speaking, and was now lifting upthe transparent upper crust of a pie, where she had cut a leaf, through which the light gleamed as if it had been lace-work. 

"Look a-there, now, Mary Fuller, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if henever noticed the difference between this and that outlandishconcern;" here Salina pointed, with a grim smile, to a neatly-coveredpie which aunt Hannah had left ready for the oven, and added, with aprofound shake of the head, which arose from that want of appreciationwhich is said to be the hunger of genius, "there's no use of exertingone's self when nobody seems to mind it. "

With these words Salina spread down the crust of her pie, and liftingthe platter on one hand cut around it with a flourish of thecase-knife, and began a pinching the edges with a determined pressureof the lips, as if she had quite made up her mind that everyindentation of her thumb should leave its fellow on uncle Nat'sinsensible heart. 

"There, " she said, pushing the pie against that of aunt Hannah's, "seeif any one knows the difference between that and that--I know theywon't--there now!"

This was said with a dash of defiance, as if she expected Mary tocontradict her, but the young girl sat languidly beating the eggs, lost in thought; something very sad seemed to have come over her. 

"Humph?" said Salina, snuffing the air, "what's the use talking!" andseizing the rolling-pin, she began with both hands to press out a flatof gingerbread, and proceeded to cut it up into square cards, whichshe marked in stripes with the back of her knife. Just then auntHannah came from the out-room rapidly, and with a strange look in herusually cold eyes. 

"Goodness gracious, what's the matter now?" cried the strong-mindedmaiden, pointing her case-knife toward the old lady, "one would thinkshe'd seen a bear or a painter! What is it now, do tell?"

Aunt Hannah did not reply, but sat down in uncle Nat's arm-chair insilence. Mary looked up with strange confusion in her eyes; shefancied that the cause of aunt Hannah's agitation might be the samethat had filled her own mind with forebodings, and her look waseloquent of sympathy. 

Salina failing to obtain an answer, rushed into the front room, stillgrasping her knife, and thrust her head out of the window. 

A travelling carriage was passing rather slowly, which contained threepersons, two ladies and a gentleman. The ladies leaned forward, looking out toward the house. Never were two faces more stronglycontrasted than those; the elder, pale, withered and thin, glanced outfrom a rather showy travelling bonnet for an instant, and was drawnback again; the other, dark, sparkling and beautiful, was turned witha look of eager interest toward the house, and as Salina gazed afterthe carriage, a little gloved hand was waved toward her, as if arecognition or adieu were intended. 

"Well now, I never did, if that isn't--no--yes--goodness me--it isMiss Farnham!"

Back ran the maiden to the kitchen, untying her apron as she went. Sheflung the case-knife upon the table, and began vigorously dusting theflour from her hands. 

"Where's my own bonnet? where's my shawl? I must be going--auntHannah, now do guess who was in that are carriage. "

"I know!" answered the old woman, in a hoarse voice. 

Mary Fuller sat motionless, with her eager eyes on Salina, and herlips gently parted. Thus she looked the question her lips refused toutter. 

"Yes, it's them, Mary. The old woman, Mr. Frederick and"--

"And Isabel, is she with them?"

"Well, I suppose it's her, by the way she put out her hand--but she'sgrown as beautiful as a blooming wild rose, I can tell you. Now, goodday, don't let them pies burn or have them underdone at the bottom. I'll try and run over to-night, but you mustn't depend on me; everything is uncertain where Miss Farnham is. "

Away went Salina through the out-room and into the street. Long beforeaunt Hannah arose from her easy-chair, or Mary Fuller could conquerthe joyous trepidation in which she had been thrown, the strong-mindedmaiden had disappeared along the curving shore of the river. 

After awhile aunt Hannah arose and went on with her preparation, butin silence, and with a degree of nervous haste that Mary had neverwitnessed in her before. 

CHAPTER XL. 

THE HUSKING FROLIC. 

 There were busy hands in the rustling sheaves, And the crash of corn in its golden fall, With a cheerful stir of the dry husk-leaves, And a spirit of gladness over all. 

The barn was a vast rustic bower that night. One end was heaped withcorn ready for husking; the floor was neatly swept; and overhead therafters were concealed by heavy garlands of white pine, golden mapleleaves, and red oak branches, that swept from the roof downwards likea tent. Butternut leaves wreathed their clustering gold among the darkgreen hemlock, while, sumach cones, with flame-colored leaves, shotthrough the gorgeous forest branches. The rustic chandelier was infull blaze, while now and then a candle gleamed out through thegarlands, starring them to the roof. Still, the illumination wasneither broad nor bold, but shed a delicious starlight through thebarn, that left much to the imagination, and concealed a thousandlittle signs of love-making that would have been ventured on moreslily had the light been broader. 

But the candles were aided by a host of sparkling eyes. The air waswarm and rich with laughter and pleasant nonsense, bandied from groupto group amid the rustling of corn-husks and the dash of golden ears, as they fell upon the heap that swelled larger and larger with everypassing minute. 

Uncle Nathan's great arm-chair had been placed in the centre of thebarn, just beneath the hoop of lights. There he sat, ruddy andsmiling, the very impersonation of a ripe harvest, with an ironfire-shovel fastened in some mysterious manner across his seat, alarge splint basket between his knees, working away with an energythat brought the perspiration like rain to his forehead. Up and downacross the sharp edge of the shovel, he drew the slender corn, sendinga shower of golden kernels into the basket with every pull of his arm, and stooping now and then with a well-pleased smile to even down thecorn as it rose higher and higher in his basket. 

Our old friend Salina sat at a little distance, with her fiery tressesrolled in upright puffs over each temple, and her great horn-combtowering therein like a battlement. A calico gown with very gay colorsstraggling over it, like honeysuckles and buttercups on a hill-side, adorned her lathy person, leaving a trim foot visible upon a bundle ofstalks just within range of uncle Nat's eye. Not that Salina intendedit, or that uncle Nat had any particular regard for neatly clad feet, but your strong-minded woman has an instinct which is sure to placethe few charms sparsely distributed to the class, in conspicuousrelief on all occasions. 

As Salina sat perched on the base of the corn-stalk, tearing awayvigorously at the husks, she cast an admiring glance now and then onthe old man as his head rose and fell to the motion of his hands; butthat glance was directly withdrawn with a defiant toss of the head, for uncle Nat's eyes never once turned on the trim foot with itscalf-skin shoe, much less on its owner, who began to be a littleexasperated, as maidens of her class will when their best points areoverlooked. 

"Humph!" muttered the maiden, looking down at her calico, "one mightas well have come with a linsey-woolsey frock on for what any bodycares. " In order to relieve these exasperated feelings Salina seizedan ear of corn by the dead silk and rent away the entire husk at once;when lo! a long, plump red ear appeared, the very thing that half adozen of the prettiest girls on the stalk-heap had been searching andwishing for all the evening. 

This discovery was hailed with a shout. The possession of a red ear, according to the established usage of all husking parties, entitledevery gentleman present to a kiss from the holder. 

The barn rang again with a clamor of voices and shouts of merrylaughter. There was a general crashing down of ears upon thecorn-heap. The roguish girls that had failed in finding the red ear, all abandoned work and began dancing over the stalk-heap, clappingtheir hands like mad things, and sending shout after shout of mellowlaughter that went ringing cheerily among the starlit evergreensoverhead. 

But the young men, after the first wild shout, remained unusuallysilent, looking sheepishly on each other with a shy unwillingness tocommence duty. No one seemed urgent to be first, and this veryawkwardness set the girls off like mad again. 

There sat Salina, amid the merry din, brandishing the red ear in herhand, with a grim smile upon her mouth, prepared for a desperatedefence. 

"What's the matter, why don't you begin?" cried a pretty, black-eyedpiece of mischief, from the top of the stalk-heap; "why, before thistime, I thought you would have been snatching kisses by handsful. "

"I'd like to see them try, that's all!" said the strong-minded female, sweeping a glance of scornful defiance over the young men. 

"Now, Joseph Nash, are you agoing to stand that?" cried the prettypiece of mischief to a handsome young fellow that had haunted herneighborhood all the evening; "afraid to fight for a kiss, are you?"

"No, not exactly!" said Joseph, rolling back his wristbands andsettling himself in his clothes; "it's the after-clap, if I shouldn'thappen to please, " he added, in a whisper, that brought his lips soclose to the cheek of his fair tormentor, that he absolutely gatheredtoll from its peachy bloom before starting on his pilgrimage, a tollthat brought the glow still more richly to her face. 

The maiden laughing, till the tears sparkled in her eyes, pushed himtoward Salina in revenge. 

But Salina lost no time in placing herself on the defensive. Shestarted up, flung the bundle of stalks on which she had been seated atthe head of her assailant, kicked up a tornado of loose husks with hertrim foot, and stood brandishing her red ear furiously, as if it hadbeen a dagger in the hand of Lady Macbeth, rather than inoffensivefood for chickens. 

"Keep your distance, Joe Nash; keep clear of me, now I tell you; Iain't afraid of the face of man; so back out of this while you have achance, you can't kiss me, I tell you, without you are stronger than Ibe, and I know you are!"

"I shan't--shan't I?" answered Joe, who was reinforced by half a dozenlaughing youngsters, all eager for a frolic; "well, I never did take astump from a gal in my life, so here goes for that kiss. "

Joe bounded forward as he spoke, and made a snatch at Salina with hisgreat hands; but, with the quickness of a deer, she sprang aside, leaving her black silk apron in his grasp. Another plunge, and downcame the ear of corn across his head, rolling a shower of red kernelsamong his thick brown hair. 

But Joe had secured his hold, and after another dash, that broke herear of corn in twain, Salina was left defenceless, with nothing buther two hands to fight with; but she plied these with great vigor, leaving long, crimson marks upon her assailant's cheeks with everyblow, till, in very self-defence, he was compelled to lessen thedistance between her face and his, thus receiving her assault upon hisshoulders. 

To this day it is rather doubtful if Joe Nash really did gather thefruits of his victory. If he did, no satisfactory report was made tothe eager ring of listeners; and Salina stalked away from him with anair of ineffable disdain, as if her defeat had been deprived of itsjust reward. 

But the red ear gave rights to more than one, and, in her surprise, Salina was taken unawares by some who had no roguish black eyedlady-loves laughing behind them. There was no doubt in the matter now. Salina paid her penalty more than once, and with a degree ofresignation that was really charming to behold. Once or twice she wasseen in the midst of the melee, to cast quick glances toward uncleNathan, who sat in his easy-chair laughing till the tears streameddown his cheeks. 

Then there rose a loud clamor of cries and laughter for uncle Nathanto claim his share of the fun. Salina declared that "she gave up--thatshe was out of breath--that she couldn't expect to hold her own with achild of three years old. " In truth, she made several strides towardthe centre of the barn, covering the movement with great generalship, by an attempt to gather up her hair and fasten the comb in securely, which was generous and womanly, considering how inconvenient it wouldhave been for uncle Nat, with all his weight, to have walked over themountain of corn-stalks. 

"Come, hurry up, uncle Nat, before she catches breath again, " criedhalf a dozen voices, and the girls began to dance and clap their handslike mad things once more. "Uncle Nat, uncle Nat, it's your turn--it'syour turn now!"

Uncle Nathan threw the half-shelled ear upon the loose corn in hisbasket, placed a plump hand on each arm of his chair, and liftedhimself to a standing posture. He moved deliberately toward themaiden, who was still busy with her lurid tresses. His brown eyesglistened, a broad, bland smile spread and deepened over his face, andstealing one heavy arm around Salina's waist--who gave a little shriekas if quite taken by surprise--he decorously placed a firm and modestsalute upon the unresisting--I am not sure that it was not theanswering--lips of that strong-minded woman. 

How unpleasant this duty may have been to uncle Nat I cannot pretendto say; but there was a genial redness about his face when he turnedit to the light, as if it had caught a reflection from Salina'stresses, and his brown eyes were flooded with sunshine, as if thewhole affair had been rather agreeable than otherwise. 

In fact, considering that the old man had been very decidedly out ofpractice in that kind of amusement, uncle Nat acquitted himselffamously. 

When the troop of mischievous girls flocked around, tantalizing himwith fresh shouts of laughter and eyes full of glee, the dear oldfellow's face brightened with mischief akin to their own. Histwinkling eyes turned from face to face, as if puzzled which saucymouth to silence first. But the first stride forward brought him kneedeep into the corn-stalks, and provoked a burst of laughter that madethe garlands on the rafters tremble again. Away sprang the girls tothe very top of the heap, wild with glee and daring him to follow. 

The tumult aroused Salina. She twisted up her hair with a quick sweepof the hand, thrust the comb in as if it had been a pitch-fork, anddarting forward, seized uncle Nat by the arm just as he was about tomake a second plunge after his pretty tormentors. 

Slowly and steadily, that strong-minded female wheeled the defencelessman round till he faced the arm-chair. Then quietly insinuating that"he had better not make an old fool of himself more than once a day, "she cast a look of scornful triumph upon the crowd of naughty girls, and moved back to her place again. 

The youngsters now all fell to work more cheerfully for this burst offun. The stalks rustled, the corn flashed downward, the golden heapgrew and swelled to the light, slowly and surely, like a miser's gold. All went merrily on. Among those who worked least and laughed loudest, was the little constable that had taken so deep an interest in theaffair that morning. Never did two ferret eyes twinkle so brightly, orpeer more closely into every nook and corner. 

Two or three times Mary Fuller entered the barn, whispered a few wordsto uncle Nat or Salina, and retreated again. At last aunt Hannahappeared, hushing the mirth as night shadows drink up the sunshine. 

She made a telegraphic sign to Salina, who instantly proceeded to tieon her apron, and communicate with uncle Nathan, who arose from hisseat, spreading his hands as if about to bestow a benediction upon thewhole company, and desired that the ladies would follow Salina intothe house, where they would find a barrel of new cider just tapped inthe stoop, and some ginger-cake and such things set out in the frontroom. 

As for the gentlemen, it was always manners for them to wait till thefair sex was served, besides, all hands would be wanted to clear outthe barn for a frolic after supper. Moreover, uncle Nat modestlyhinted that something a little stronger than cider might be dependedon for the young men, after the barn was cleared, an announcement thatserved to reconcile the sterner portion of the company to their fatebetter than any argument the old man had used. 

Down came the girls like a flock of birds, chatting, laughing, andthrowing coquettish glances behind, as they followed Salina from thebarn. Up sprang the young men, clearing away stalks, kicking the husksbefore them in clouds, and carrying them off by armsful, till acow-house in the yard was choked up with them, and the barn was leftwith nothing but its evergreen garlands, its starry lights, and agolden heap of corn sloping down from each corner. 

Meantime, the bevy of fair girls, full of harmless, frolicsome mirth, and blooming like wild roses, had trooped gaily into the old house. 

Aunt Hannah had allowed Mary Fuller to brighten up the rooms with aprofusion of autumn flowers, which, though common and coarse, halfserved to light the table with their freshness and gorgeous colors. Along table, loaded down with every domestic cake or pie known in thecountry, was stretched the whole length of the out-room. Great platesof doughnuts, darkly brown, contrasted with golden slices ofsponge-cake, gingerbread with its deeper yellow, and a rich variety ofseed cakes, each varying in form and tint, and arranged with suchnatural taste that the effect was beautiful, though little glass andno plate was there to lend a show of wealth. 

Little old-fashioned glasses, sparkling with the cider that gave thema deep amber tinge, were ranged down each side the board, and alongthe centre ran a line of noble pies. These pies were aunt Hannah'spride and glory. She always arranged them with her own hands insections, first of golden custard, then of ruby tart, then the duskyyellow of the pumpkin, and then a piece of mince, alternating themthus, till each pie gleamed out like a great mosaic star, beautiful tolook upon and delicious to eat. 

Then there was warm short-cake and cold biscuit, the yellowest andfreshest butter, stamped in cakes, with a pair of doves cooing in thecentre, and a thousand pretty contrivances that made the table quite athing of romance. 

At the head stood aunt Hannah, cold and solemn, but very attentive, just as they all remembered her from their birth up, with the samerusty dress of levantine silk falling in scant folds down her person, and the same little slate-colored shawl folded over her bosom, onlywith a trifle more grey in her hair, and a new wrinkle or so creepingathwart her forehead. There she stood as of old, quietly requestingthem one and all to help themselves; while Salina and Mary Fuller flewabout, breaking up the mosaic pies, handing butter to this one andcake to that, and really seeming to make their two persons five or sixat least, in this eager hospitality. 

Aunt Hannah always threw a sort of damp on the young people. Her coldsilence chilled them, and that evening there was a shadow so deep uponher aged face, that it seemed almost a frown. Still she exertedherself to be hospitable; but it was of no use; the girls rangedthemselves around the table in silence, helped themselves daintily, and conversed in whispers. Salina insisted that this state of thingsarose from the absence of the young men, but as she only suggestedthis in a whisper to Mary Fuller, no one was the wiser for heropinion, and after a little there arose a fitful outbreak or two thatbegan to promise cheerfulness. 

It certainly was aunt Hannah's presence, for when the girls left theout-room and trooped up to Mary's chamber, they grew cheerful as birdsagain; and it was delightful to see them aiding each other in thearrangement of the little finery which was intended to make terriblehavoc among the young men's hearts below. 

And now there was a flitting to and fro in Mary's room; a listening atthe door; and every one was in a flutter of expectation. Pink and blueribbons floated before the little glass, with its green crest ofasparagus-tops red with berries. Now a pair of azure eyes glanced in, then came black ones sparkling with self-admiration. A hundred prettycompliments were bandied back and forth. It was a charming scene. 

But even a gay toilet cannot give delight for ever. As the last ribbonwas settled, they heard the young men coming in from the barn, and thenext half hour, while the beaux were at supper, threatened to be aheavy one with the girls. 

"Oh, what shall we do, huddled up here like chickens in a coop?" criedone. Salina, tell us a story; come, that's a good creature. "

"Do, " said Mary, earnestly, "or they will be dull. Let me run down andhelp aunt Hannah. "

CHAPTER XLI

THE HOUSEHOLD SACRIFICE. 

 Like a human thing she looked on me, As I stood trembling there. For many a day those dreamy eyes Went with me everywhere. 

"Well, " said Salina, seating herself on Mary Fuller's bed, "if youinsist on it, I'll do my best, but I can't make up nothing, nevercould, and what I've got on my mind is the genuine truth. "

"That's right, tell us a true story, made up things are like novels, and they're so wicked, " cried the girls, swarming around thestrong-minded one full of curiosity, but arranging their ribbons andsmoothing down their dresses all the time, like a flock of pigeonspluming themselves in the sunshine. 

"Come, now, Salina, begin, or the young fellers will be throughsupper. "

"Well, " said Salina, settling herself comfortably on the bed, andderanging her attitude the next moment, "that sneaking constable whocame into the barn among the first, and went out again so sly, hasriled me up awfully. I've a nat'ral born hatred to all constables. What business had he there, I'd like to know?"

"True enough, " cried one of the girls, "An old married man! why don'the stay home with his wife and children? Nobody wants him. "

"I declare to man!" said Salina, "it made my blood bile to see himsneaking about with both hands in his pockets, whistling to himself, as if nobody was by; oh, I hate a constable like rank poison. Theyalways put me in mind of old times--when I was a young gal a year ortwo ago. "

Here the girls looked at each other; none of them remembered the timewhen she had appeared a day younger than now. 

"Well, as I was a saying, when I was a gal, my father and mother movedfrom old Connecticut into the Lackawana valley in Pennsylvania, withten little children, all younger than I was. They had lost everything, and went out into that dark, piny region to begin life agin. 

"Well, they got a patch of wild land, partly on credit, built alog-house, and went to work. Before the year was out father died, andwe found it hard dragging to get along without crops, and deep indebt. We gave up everything to pay store debts, and should have feltas rich as kings, if we could only have raised what the law allowedus. But we had no barrel of beef and pork, which even the law leavesto a poor family, but we lived on rye and injun, with a littlemolasses when we couldn't get milk. 

"The law allowed us two pigs and a cow with her calf. Our cow was agrand good critter, capital for milk, and gentle as a lamb--you don'tknow how the children took to her, and well they might--she more thanhalf supported them. 

"Marm did her best for the children, and I worked as hard as she did, spinning and carding wool, which she wove into cloth on a hand-loom. 

"Well, in a year or two the calf grew into a fine heifer, and wecalculated on having milk from her after a little. So we began to fatup the old cow, though I hain't no idea that we should ever have madeup our minds to kill her. 

"There was some debts, still, but we had given up everything once, andneither marm nor I thought of any body's coming on us agin. So we wereproud enough of our two cows, and as long as the children had plentyof milk, never thought of wanting beef, and the old cow might havelived to this time for what I know if we'd been left to ourselves. "

Here Salina's voice became disturbed, and the girls settled themselvesin an attitude of profound attention. 

"Well, as I was saying, things began to brighten with us, when one dayin came the town-constable with a printed writ in his hand. 

"He'd found out that we had one more cow than the law allowed, andcame after it. 

"I thought poor marm would a-gone crazy, she felt so bad, and nowonder, with all them children, and she a widder. It came hard, I cantell you. 

"But the constable was determined, and what could she do but give up. There stood the little children huddled together on the hearth, cryingas if their hearts were broke, at the bare thought of having the cowdrove off, and there was poor marm, with her apron up to her face, a-sobbing so pitiful!

"I couldn't stand it; my heart rose like a yeasting of bread. Idetarmined that them children and that hard-working woman should haveenough to eat, constable or no constable. 

"'Wait, ' says I to the constable, 'till I go drive up the cow; she'shard to find. '

"He sat down. Marm and the children began to sob and cry agin. I tellyou, gals, it was cruel as the grave. 

"I went to the wood-pile and took the axe from between two logs. Across the clearing and just in the edge of the woods I saw the oldcow and heifer browsing on the undergrowth. The old cow had a bell onand every tinkle as she moved her head went to my heart. I had tothink of marm and the children before I could get courage to go on, and with that to encourage me, I shook and trembled, like a murderer, all the way across the clearing. 

"The old cow and the heifer were close by each other, browsing on thesweet birch undergrowth that grew thick there. When I came up theyboth stopped and stood looking at me with their great earnest eyes, sowistfully, as if they wondered which I was after. "

Here Salina dashed a hand across her eyes and the color rushed intoher face, as if she were opposing a pressure of tears with greatbravery. 

"It was enough to break any one's heart to see that old cow, with thebirch twigs in her mouth, coming toward me so innocent. Shethought--poor old critter--that I'd come to milk her; but instead ofthe milk-pail I had that axe in my hand. She couldn't a-known what itmeant, and yet, as true as I live, it seemed as if she did. "

"There she stood, looking in my face, wondering, I hain't no doubt, why I didn't sit down on a log as usual, and fix my pail--and there Istood, trembling, before the poor dumb animal, ready to fall down onmy knees and ask pardon for my cruel thoughts, and there was theheifer looking on us both--oh, gals, gals, I hope none of you willever have to go through a thing like that. "

The girls thus addressed were very still, and a sob or two was justheard while the tears leaped like hail-stones down Salina's cheeks. 

"My heart misgive me--I would't a done it. Those great innocent eyesseemed as if they were human, I grew so weak that the axe almost fell. I turned to go back ready to starve or anything rather than look thatanimal in the face again with the axe in my hand. Yes, I turned away, but there half across the clearing was the constable with the writflying out in his hand. My blood rose--I thought of the children withnothing to eat--I don't know what I didn't think of. He was walkingfast, I turned; the cow was right before me. Oh, girls, there shestood so quiet, chewing the green birch leaves, I was like a baby, theaxe wouldn't rise from the ground, I could not do it. 

"He called out, I heard his step in the underbrush. Then my strengthflew back. I was wild--strong as a lion, but my eyes seemed hot withsparks of fire. I shut them, the axe swung back--a crash, a deep, wildbellow, and she fell like a log. I had struck in the white star on herforehead. When I opened my eyes she was looking at me, and so her eyesstiffened in their film. I had to hold myself up by the axe-helve withboth hands. It seemed to me as if I was dying too. 

"'What have you been about, where is the cow?' said the constable, ina passion, as he came up. 

"'There, ' said I, pointing to the poor murdered critter with myfinger, 'the law, you say, won't allow us two cows, but it does giveus a barrel of beef. This is our beef--touch it if you dare!'

"He skulked away and I fell down on my knees by the poor critter myown hands had killed. It seemed as if my heart would break! There shelay with the fresh green leaves in her mouth, so still, and therestood the heifer looking at me steadily as if she wanted to speak, andI couldn't make her understand why it had to be done. Oh, gals, galsit was tough!"

There was silence for a moment, they had no disposition to speak. 

"There, now, I've made you all miserable, " said Salina, wiping hereyes and making a great effort to laugh. "Hark! what's that?"

The girls jumped up and listened, smiles chased the tears from theireyes, the young men were coming out from supper, and joy of joys, theyheard the tones of a violin from the back stoop. 

You should have seen that group of mountain girls, struck by themusic, as each threw herself into some posture of natural grace andlistened. 

"It is, it _is_ a fiddle--where _did_ it come from? a fiddle, afiddle, how delightful!" and they broke into an impromptu dance, graceful as it was wild. 

CHAPTER XLII

THE STRANGE MINSTREL. 

 Time weaves the web of fate around us, In iron wool and threads of gold, The present, and the past that bound us, Still some new mystery unfold. 

There was, at the time of our story, a public house, or tavern, aboutfive minutes walk up the street from uncle Nathan's house. To thistavern the young men betook themselves, while the girls were partakingof aunt Hannah's hospitality; two or three of the upper rooms werefull of commotion created by the change which each deemed necessary tohis apparel, before he appeared in dancing trim before the ladies. Flashy vests were taken from overcoat pockets. The dickies, snuglycurled under the lining of a fur cap or narrow-brimmed hat, came forthto be arranged under neck-ties of gay hues and flowing dimensions. 

Here and there, one more exquisite than his neighbor, exchanged hismixed socks and cowhide boots for white yarn stockings and calf-skinpumps; but this was a mark of gentility that few ventured on, and thatwas assumed with a stealthy sort of an air in a dark corner, as if theowners of so much refinement were not quite certain of the way inwhich the democratic majority might receive it. 

Never were two small mirrors brought into more general requisitionthan those hanging upon the walls of the two chambers, appropriated touncle Nat's guests. It was like a panorama of human faces passing overthem. First a collar all awry was set right with a jerk; then theplaits of a false bosom were smoothed down; next the tie of a flowingsilk cravat was settled; while, in other parts of the room, there wasa stealthy display of private rolls of pomatum, and a desperatebrushing of hair, sometimes refractory to anything but the fingers. 

Then followed a deal of bustle and confusion, half a dozen youngfellows crowding at once to the mirror in hot haste to catch a lastglimpse. Red bandana handkerchiefs fluttered out of a dozen pocketsand back again, mysteriously leaving a corner visible. Then there wasa general movement toward the door, and the crowd descended, eachyouth treading lighter by far than when he went up, and moving withthe air of a man expected to change his manners somewhat with hisgarments. 

While all this was going on above stairs, there sat in the bar-roombelow a fair young man, travel-soiled and looking weary, like anover-taxed child. He was very slender, and with a sort of a lilypaleness on his forehead, that fatigue or sorrow had lent to itsnatural delicacy. 

His garments were old and threadbare. Dust from the highway hadsettled upon them, and the crown of his hat which lay on the floorbeside him, had taken a reddish tinge from the same source. 

He sat in a remote corner of the room, on a buffalo skin that had beenflung over a wooden bench, where travellers sometimes cast themselvesdown for temporary rest. His hands were clasped over the smaller endof a violin-case that stood upright before him, and his forehead fellwearily upon them. 

"Look there!" said one of the young men, turning to his companions, who were descending the stairs, "don't that look tremendously like afiddle?"

"A fiddle! a fiddle!" ran from lip to lip, till the sound ended in ashout up stairs. "Let us see where it is. Where did it come from?"

This clamor aroused the young man, who lifted his forehead from theviolin-case and turned a pair of full blue eyes misty from fatigue orsome other cause, upon the group. 

The young men paused and looked at each other. There was somethingtouchingly beautiful about that young face which impressed them with asentiment of awe. 

Still the youth gazed upon them with an unmoved look, like one wholistened rather than saw with his eyes. Meanwhile, a smile stole overhis lips, so child-like and sweet, that it made the young men stillmore reluctant to approach him; he seemed so far removed from theirnature with that smile, for the lamplight glimmering through the thickwaves of his golden brown hair shed a sort of glory around him. 

"I wonder if he plays on it himself, " said one of the young men in awhisper. 

"Did any one speak of me?" said the stranger, in a voice so rich andsweet, that there seemed no need of other music to him. 

"Well, yes, " answered the foremost youth, advancing toward him. "We'vegot a husking frolic on hand, and are all ready for dancing; but thereisn't a fiddle within ten miles, nor any one to play it if there was. We might have got along with the girls singing well enough, I suppose, but the sight of this fiddle-case has set us all agoing for a littlemusic. "

"Oh, " said the youth, with a smile, "it's my violin you wish to have;but I am very tired; for I've travelled since noon, and your stagesare wearisome over the mountains. "

"It's of no use asking you to play for us then, I suppose?" said theyoung farmer, in a disappointed tone. 

The youth shook his head, but very gently, as one who refuses againsthis will; and this gave his petitioner a gleam of hope. 

"Wouldn't a good supper, and a cup of cider that'll make your palatetingle, set you up again?" he pleaded. "There's a hull hive of purtygals over at uncle Nat's, that would jump right out of their skins atthe first sound of that fiddle. If you only could now. "

"Give me a crust of bread and a cup of drink, and I will try andplease you. I think it is, perhaps, as much the want of food asweariness that has taken away my strength. "

The young men looked at each other. "Want of food, " said one of them, "why, didn't you find taverns on the way?"

"Yes, " answered the stranger, sadly, "but I had no appetite; I camehere in hopes the mountain air would give me one, but, with fatigueand fasting, I am faint. "

The group of youngsters drew together, and a whispered conversationcommenced, which was followed by the clink of silver, as each onedropped a two shilling piece into the hat of the young man who hadbeen most active in the negotiation. 

"Here, " said the youth, holding forth the money, "an even exchange isno robbery. Set the old fiddle to work, and here is enough dimes tolast you a week. "

The stranger blushed crimson, and the white lids drooped over hiseyes, as if something had been said to wound him. 

"No, " he said, with a quivering smile, "my poor music is not worthselling. Besides, my journey must end not far from this, or I havetravelled slowly. Give me some clean water for my face and hands, thatis all I ask. "

"Of course we will, with a famous supper, too, that would make a ghosthungry. Come with us up to uncle Nat's. Water, why there is a troughfull at his back door, that you may bathe in all over if you like; andas for cider, we'll just try that before you say anything about it. "

The stranger arose and took up his violin; then lifting his largeeyes, misty with fatigue, he said almost mournfully--

"Will some one give me his arm? I am very weary. "

The young men became at once silent and respectful with these words, for there was something of reverence in their sympathy with a being atonce so feeble and so full of gentle dignity. 

"Let me carry the violin, " said one, while another stout, brave fellowclasped the slender hand of the stranger, drew it over his own strongarm and led him carefully forth, hushing even the cheery tones of hisvoice as he spoke to the youth. 

Thus subdued from hilarity to kindness, the group of young menconducted their new friend to the Old Homestead and into the outerroom, where the table was newly spread, and where uncle Nat stood witha huge brown cider pitcher in his hand from which he began to fill theglasses as the crowd of guests rushed in. 

Aunt Hannah, having performed her duty among her female guests, wasbusy in the milk-room, cutting up pies, dividing pound-cake intosections, and slicing cards of gingerbread, while uncle Nat presideddiligently at the cider-cask. 

Thus it happened that the stranger was almost overlooked in the crowd, for he sat down in a corner of the room, where his new friend broughthim in abundance of dainties from the table, for Mary was too busyeven for a glance that way. 

"How do you feel now? Stronger, I know by your mouth; there's color inthe lips now, " said the young man, who had taken a leading interest inthe stranger from the first. 

"Oh! yes, I am much stronger, " answered the youth, with one of thesweetest smiles that ever beamed on a human face. "A little freshwater now, and you shall see if I haven't music in the old violin. "

"Come this way. The water-trough is out by the back porch. "

The youth took up his violin, saying very gently that he never leftthat behind him, and following the lead of his friend glided from theroom. 

After bathing his hands and face, leaving them pure and white as thoseof a girl, he went back to the porch, and seating himself in uncleNat's arm-chair, drew forth his violin and began to tune it. 

Uncle Nat was just returning the spigot to his cider barrel, afterhaving filled the brown pitcher once more to the brim; but at thefirst sound of the violin, an instrument he had not heard for years, the spigot dropped to the floor, and out rushed the cider in a quickamber stream, overflowing the pitcher, dashing down to the floor, andrushing off in a tiny river the sloping edge of the porch. You couldhear it creeping in a rich current through the plaintain leaves, whileuncle Nat stood quite oblivious of the waste, listening like a greatschool boy to the violin. 

An exclamation from Salina, who had just left her friends in thedressing-room, as she came forth and seized the pitcher, brought thegood old man to his senses. Clapping his fat hand over the aperture, he drove the cider back in the cask, and looked right and left overhis shoulder for the spigot, avoiding the scornful eyes of thatexemplary female, who stood with the pitcher between her hands, overwhich the surplus moisture went dripping, like an antiquated Hebedefying an overgrown Ganymede. 

"There!" exclaimed the strong-minded damsel, pointing toward thespigot with her foot, "there's at least two gallons of the best ciderin the county gone to nothing. What do you think aunt Hannah will dofor apple sauce, if you go on this way, making regular mill-dams outof her sweet cider?"

"Maybe we'd better say nothing about it, " answered uncle Nat, makingfutile efforts to restrain the cider with one hand and reach thespigot with the other, "dear me, I can't reach it. Now, dear MissSalina, if you only would. "

"Dear Miss Salina!" The strong-minded one turned at the words, blushing till her face rivalled those fiery tresses. She sat down herpitcher, shook the drops from her fingers, and seizing the importantbit of pine presented it to uncle Nathan. 

All this time the young stranger had paused in tuning his violin, butwhen uncle Nat drew a deep breath, after repairing the mischiefalready done, out came a gush of music that made him start again, andthrew the strong-minded woman into a fit of excitement, quitestartling. She seized uncle Nat's moist hand and unconsciously--itmust have been unconsciously--pressed it in her wiry fingers. 

"Music! Did you ever hear such music, uncle Nathan! It's enough to setone off a-dancing. "

"Well, why not?" answered uncle Nathan. 

"Yes, why not?" replied the strong-minded one, "if the other youngpeople dance, why shouldn't we?"

"Of course, " said uncle Nat, wiping his hands on the roller towel. "Why not? I shouldn't wonder if we astonish these youngsters. "

"And aunt Hannah, too, " chimed in Salina. 

"Oh! I'd forgot her, " said uncle Nat, looking wistfully toward themilk-room door, "I'm afraid it won't do, she'll think--but here theycome, like a flock of blackbirds!"

True enough, the first full notes of the violin had drawn the crowd ofgirls from the chamber overhead, and down they came, laughing andracing through the kitchen, perfectly wild with delight. 

"Uncle Nat, dear, dear, uncle Nat, is it really a violin? Will auntHannah let us dance to anything but singing?" cried a dozen voices;and uncle Nathan was at once surrounded by a rainbow of streamingribbons and floating ringlets, while a host of merry eyes flashedtheir delight upon him. 

"I don't know--I can't take it on myself to say, " cried uncle Nathan, quite beside himself, "you must ask some one else. I haven't anyobjection in life"--

"Nor I, " said Salina, "and that's two agin one, if Miss Hannah _does_stand out. Come, I'll go with you. We'll say that I, and all the otheryoung girls, have just made up our mouths to dance after a fiddle, andwe mean to, that's all. "

"Stop, stop a minute!" exclaimed uncle Nathan, spreading his hands, "maybe you'd better say nothing about it, but just go into the barnand begin. If sister Hannah has got a conscience agin dancing to afiddle, you know, it ain't worth while to wake it up; but there's moreways of getting into a lot than by taking down the bars. Jest climbthe fence, that's all. "

How uncle Nathan ever came to give this worldly piece of advice isstill a mystery. Some insinuated that the cider had sent its sparklesto his brain, and others thought the music had aroused some sleepingmischief there. Perhaps it was both. Perhaps too the bright eyes andripe laughter around him had something to do with the matter. 

At any rate the advice was too pleasant not to be taken. A telegraphicsignal brought the young men from the out-room, and off the companyfluttered in pairs toward the barn making the starlight melodious withtheir laughter. 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

A DANCE AFTER HUSKING

 Merrily--merrily went the night The laugh rang out And a gleeful shout, Shook the autumn leaves in that starry light. 

In their haste the young people had left the strange youth seated inthe chair, in a dark end of the porch. 

"Come, " said uncle Nat, in his kindly fashion, "you and I will followthem. "

"Thank you;" said the youth, rising, "it has been a long ride, and Iwas growing weary. "

"Have you been sick?" said the old man, sorrowfully. 

"It's hard!"

He paused. A strange thrill shot over him, as the hand of the youthtouched his. "Come, " he added, tenderly, leading the stranger on, "Ihave strength for us both. "

The slender hand trembled in his clasp; the agitation was mutual; forthrough the young man's delicately organized frame ran a spark of joythat warmed him to the heart. They walked on together in silence, boththrilled with a strange sensation of pleasure, and drawn, as it were, by invisible influences toward each other. 

"I'm afraid, " said the youth, "I'm afraid my music will disappointthem. I know hardly any but sacred or sad airs. "

His voice made all the blood in uncle Nathan's veins start again; itwas music in itself, such music as brought back his youth, sad andineffably sweet. 

"Oh, " answered uncle Nathan, drawing a deep, pleasant breath, "youmust have a dancing tune or so, Yankee Doodle, Money-Musk, andMoney-in-both-pockets, as like as not. "

"Yankee Doodle, oh, yes, it was the first air I ever learned, how mypoor father loved it--as for the rest--well, we shall see. "

Uncle Nathan's chair had been placed near the door as it happened, away from the light which fell warmest in the centre of the barn. Thus, during the whole evening, the young musician had been constantlysurrounded by shadows that left his features mysteriously undefined. Still, uncle Nathan hovered by; his warm heart yearned to sun itselfnear the youth. 

When the stranger drew forth his bow, and, without a prelude, dashedinto Yankee Doodle, uncle Nat sunk to a rustic bench, covered his facewith both bands, and absolutely shivered under the floods oftenderness let into his soul with the music. 

But no one heeded the old man; why should they? Couple after couplerushed up to the centre of the barn, gaily disputing for placesbeneath the rustic chandelier, while here and there a young fellow, more eager than the rest, broke into a double shuffle or cut a subduedpigeon-wing as an impromptu while the set was forming. 

It was no wonder. The violin was absolutely showering down music. Athousand strings seemed to find voice beneath those slender fingers. It set the young people off like birds in a thicket, down the outside, up, down the middle, swinging corners, oh, it is impossible for a pento keep up with them, that is not naturally musical. 

There they go, whirling, smiling, dancing higher and faster, flyingwith the music till they pause, flushed and panting, at the bottom ofthe set. Even now they cannot be still, but give each other asuperfluous twirl, or go on in a promiscuous way, doing over again thedance in fragments, till their turn comes back. 

Somehow Yankee Doodle wavered off into various other airs quiteunknown to the dancers, all swelling free and with a bold sweep ofsound, as if the musician improvised as much in his music as thecompany certainly did in their dancing. But it was the moreexhilarating for that, and never did enjoyment run higher or mirthgush out more cheerily. 

Mary Fuller had made her way quietly into the barn, and seatingherself by uncle Nathan, watched the bright revel as it went on, filled with a pleasant sort of wonder that anything could be so happyas these gay revellers seemed. Once or twice she was asked to dance, but shrunk sensitively from the proposition. 

Salina stood erect by uncle Nathan, with her arms folded and her headon one side, filled with burning indignation against mankind ingeneral, and dear old uncle Nathan in particular, because she was lefta solitary wall-flower planted in the very calf-skin shoes which shehad expected to exhibit, at least in a French Four, with that rotundgentleman. 

There was a change in the music. The strings trembled and thrilled amoment, then out came a wild gush of melody that made the very dancerspause and hold their breath to listen. 

Mary Fuller started to her feet one moment. The color left her lips, and then back it came, firing her face with scarlet to the brows. 

"Uncle Nat, uncle Nat, " she said, seizing him by the arm, "thatmusic!--I've heard it before--listen--listen!"

She sat down trembling from head to foot, but her grey eyes flashedfrom beneath their drooping lids, and her mouth grew tremulous withagitation. When the air was finished, for it died off in a fewplaintive notes, as if the violinist had entirely forgotten thedancers, Mary arose and crept softly toward the musician, till shecould obtain a view of his face. By the stray candles that wavered toand fro among the evergreens, she could dimly see the white outline ofthose pure features and the mysterious beauty of the eyes. 

Now her countenance, hitherto varying and anxious, settled into a warmflush of joy; she drew close to the musician, and resting one hand onthe back of his chair, placed the other softly on his arm. 

"Joseph--Joseph Esmond, " she said, in a voice that scarcely rose abovea whisper. "Is it you, Joseph?"

He started and turned his eyes toward her. 

"I know the touch of your hand, Mary Fuller; and your voice is full ofthe old music. Where am I? How does it happen that you and I meethere?"

"I live here--I have friends, oh! such kind friends. And you, Joseph, how came you here? Where is your father--that dear, good father?Surely he is well. "

"My father, " said the youth, bowing his head, with a look of touchingsorrow, "my father is dead--I am alone in the world, but for this!"

He touched his violin with a mournful smile. 

"Then you and I are orphans alike. " But she added more cheerfully, "weare not alone, you have your music, and your art, and I have my, my--oh, I have many things. "

"Music, music!" called out the dancers, impatiently, from the floor. 

Mary drew back. 

"Don't leave me, " said the youth, anxiously. "Come listen to my oldfriend here, and we will talk between the dances. "

"Leave you?" replied the young girl; "you do not know, you cannotguess how happy I am to see you again. "

"And I, " answered the youth, smiling softly, "I can feel how beautifuleverything is around me when you are near. Did you know how my fatherloved you, and how he grieved over it when you left us?"

"Did he?" answered Mary, with a low sob, "how often I thought of youand him; but he must have known where we went. "

"Not till Frederick came back at vacation; soon after you began towrite, Mary. Then he was so pleased to hear from you. We heard you hadbeen taken from the Alms-House. "

"Music, music!" clamored the dancers once more. The young man took uphis bow with a sigh. 

"Listen, listen, " he said, softly, drawing it across the strings. "Doyou remember the music we had that night? I will give it to youagain. "

He began to play, and while others were dancing merrily, she listenedtill her young heart filled and her eyes were crowded full of tears. She remembered that small room high up in a city dwelling. Thefurniture was scant but neat, and so daintily arranged. The brightcooking-stove, the bird-cage, the little round work-stand, above all, the handsome, cheerful woman, with her household love and genialbenevolence, Isabel Chester's mother--how vividly the sight of thatyoung minstrel brought all this to her memory. 

The music was ringing cheerily through the barn, which trembled to thebuoyant movements of the dancers, till the garlands shook upon thewalls, and all the lights seemed to twinkle and reel with sympatheticmotion. But the face of the violinist grew sad in its expression, andas Mary Fuller gazed at it through her tears, her heart trembledwithin her, though a gleam of most exquisite pleasure lay at thebottom--pleasure so unlike anything she had ever felt that its verynewness made her tremble. 

"Don't you dance, Mary?" inquired the musician, speaking to her, butwithout a break in his music. 

"Dance!" she answered, smiling upon him, "no, I never have danced inmy life. "

"Oh! if you would dance now. I should like to see how you look whenquite happy--my heart used to ache to see you thus, Mary. "

Mary shrunk back blushing and frightened, he spoke so earnestly. 

"No, no, " she stammered, "I don't know how to dance; but I am very, very happy. "

The young musician shook his head, and the light of a stray candlerippled through his hair like gold. There was something angelic in hisaspect, as he murmured amid the music, "Oh! but she is heavenly. Never on earth have I heard a voice so fullof melody. Sweet spring sounds and the breath of flowers seem floatingin it. Oh! she is so good, this dear child. "

Then he began to smile again; richer sounds gushed from beneath hisfingers; the dancers fell into a circle; the steps grew lighter. Thering of life flashed round beneath the lights, whirling its way amidfloods of laughter, like a water-wheel casting off rainbows and foamin the sunshine. The ring gave way; its sunny links broke into pairs;balancing, smiling, and gliding off to the half-hushed music; all gladto rest, but eager to begin again. 

That moment the double doors were softly pushed open, and a group ofvisitors entered the barn, almost unnoticed at first, but that sooncast a restraint upon all this hilarity. 

It was a young man, evidently from the city, and a fair girl sobeautiful that the whole company paused to look at her. 

She was dressed very plainly, in a dark silk travelling-dress, and herair was remarkable only for its simple quietness, though her largeeyes turned with a look of eager haste from form to form, as if shewere searching for some one. 

Mary Fuller, who had been standing by the violinist, very thoughtful, and with her eyes dim with heart-mist, saw the group come in. She drewher hands across her eyes to clear their sight, clasped them with anexclamation of joy, and moving down through the shadows stood close tothe young stranger. 

"Isabel! Isabel!" broke from her eager lips. 

Isabel Chester turned. Her face was radiant. She opened her arms, andwith an exclamation of delight, received Mary to her bosom. 

"Mary, dear, dear little Mary Fuller--how glad I am. You love me yet, I know. She never would forget me, any more than I could forget her. Come, talk to me, I was determined to see you before I slept, and sopersuaded Fred--Mr. Farnham, I mean--oh, Frederick, isn't she a dearcreature?"

Isabel drew Mary's face from her bosom, and stood with one arm aroundher as she said this. 

Young Farnham reached forth his hand; before he could speak, Isabelwent on. 

"She has grown a little, too; reaches to my shoulder and rather more;her eyes, oh! I knew her eyes would be beautiful; and, and there issomething about her that I didn't expect. Frederick, why don't youtell Mary Fuller that she's handsome? There now, isn't that looksomething better than beauty? Oh! Mary Fuller, how glad I am to seeyou. "

Tears were flashing like diamonds down the peachy bloom of Isabel'scheek; for Mary had crept to her bosom again, and she felt the shiverof delight that shook the young creature from head to foot. Her ownheart leaped back to its old memories, and swelled against theclinging form of her friend. 

"That's right, that's just about as it ought to be, " exclaimed Salina, coming forward triumphantly, for her honest heart rose to meet thescene. "I knew she'd be here afore bed-time, if New York finery andforeign countries hadn't completely upset her. Isabel Chester, you'rea fust rate gal, and I say it. Mr. Farnham, she's a credit to humannature. You may reckon on that, now I tell you. Says I to myself, saysI, 'that are gal is sure to come up to the Old Homestead aforebed-time or I lose my guess. ' Wasn't I right?"

"You always think too well of me, " said Isabel, laughing through hertears. "Come, Mary, let me hear your voice. You haven't spoken a wordyet. "

"Oh! I love you so much Isabel! I'm _so_ happy, Isabel. "

Isabel bent down and kissed the happy face upon her bosom. As shelifted her eyes again, they fell upon the strange musician, who, disturbed by voices that he recognized, had moved toward themunnoticed. 

"Who, who is this, Mary Fuller? I remember the face. No, no, it's oneof Guido's heads that has bewildered me. Surely I never saw anythingliving like that before. It is Guido's Michael in repose. Look up, Mary, and tell me who this young man is. "

Isabel spoke in a low voice, regarding the youth with a look ofmingled admiration and surprise, while the tears still sparkled on hercheeks. 

Mary looked up; her eyes kindled, and she smiled proudly through hertears. 

"Isabel? Can't you remember something that you have seen before in hisface?"

"I don't know. The memory of a picture I saw at Rome blinds me. Who isit, say?"

"Hush, Isabel! you will grow sad when I tell you. That night when youand I watched"--

"Yes, " answered Isabel, drooping her head, "I shall never forget thatnight. "

"Do you remember who was with us, Isabel?"

"That angel boy. "

"Yes, Isabel. It is Joseph Esmond. "

"Oh! this is too much happiness. All of us together again, " and withher arm still flung caressingly over Mary's shoulder, Isabel Chestermoved toward the youth; but she was checked by the capacious person ofuncle Nat, who came between her and her object with a look of strangeinterest on his face. His hands were clasped, and you could see theplump fingers working nervously around each other; while his eyesfilled and shone with anxious tenderness. At length, after a longgaze, his chest swelled like the heave of an ocean wave; his handsfell apart, and he murmured softly, as if speaking only to himself. 

"It is little Anna's boy!"

"Who speaks my mother's name?" inquired the youth, in his low, gentleway; "surely some one is near that I ought to love. "

"Ought to love?" cried uncle Nat, seizing the hand which had been halfextended. "Ought to love? Why it would be again nature and the Lord'sProvidence, if you didn't love Nathan Heap, the old man that"--

Uncle Nat checked himself; a crowd had gathered around him; but thefeelings he was constrained to suppress broke forth in two large tearsthat rolled down his broad cheeks. 

"Nephew, " he sobbed, shaking the hand that he still grasped, "you'rewelcome to the Old Homestead. Neighbors, " he added with dignity, "suppose you make out the evening with blind-man's-buff, orWho's-got-the-button? This is my own nephew, that I haven't seen sincehe was a baby. You won't expect him to play any more to-night; he'stired out; and I"--

The old man's lips began to tremble, and tears came again to his eyes, and coursed rapidly after those that had fallen. He shook his head;tried to go on without success; and taking Joseph by the hand led himtoward the door. 

"Stop, just one minute, now, till I've done a little chance ofbusiness, " cried the constable, creeping out from a corner of thebarn, where the husked ears had been piled, and planting himself, likea pert exclamation point, before the old man. "I've got to make a levyon this corn heap, " he said; "the oxen out yonder, and sundry othergoods and chattels about the Old Homestead. I want to do everythingfair and above board, so just wait to see the law executed. "

Uncle Nathan paused, half wondering, half shocked at the man's words. 

"What! the corn that my kind neighbors have just husked? the oxen Ibrought up from steers? who has a right to take them?"

"There's the writ. All correct you'll find. Madam Farnham claims aright to her own, and I'm here to see that she gets it. "

"Madam Farnham, my mother!" cried young Farnham, indignantly. "Knave, you slander my mother. "

"You'll find it there, " said the little constable, dashing the back ofhis dirty hand against the open writ. "Your mother, if she is yourmother, authorized me to buy up all claims agin uncle Nat here andaunt Hannah, six months ago; and I've done it. Five hundred and tendollars with costs. "

"Come with me, " answered the young man, sternly. "Isabel, go to thehouse with Salina. I will return. "

He took the constable by the arm and led him out, followed by hootsand cheers from the young farmers. 

Uncle Nathan stood for a moment, dumb with amazement; then he drew adeep breath and grasped his nephew's hand more firmly. 

"It seems as if the Old Homestead was falling around us, " he said, "but so long as a shingle is left, it shall shelter my sister Anna'sson. "

And he led the young man forth into the starlight. 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

THE MOTHER, THE SON, AND THE ORPHAN

 Age is august, and goodness is sublime, When years have given them a solemn power. But souls that grow not with advancing time, Like withered fruit, but mock life's opening flower. 

"Mother!"

"My son, don't speak so loud; you quite make me start; and with thesedelicate nerves you know a shock is quite dreadful--why don't you saymamma, softly, with the pure French pronunciation, and an Italiantone; that's the proper medium, Fred. 'Mother!' I did hope, aftertravelling so many years, that you would have forgotten the word. "

"No, mother; I have not lost the dear old English of that word, andpray God that I never may. Still more do I hope never to lose thatrespect, that affection, which should make the name of mother a holything to every son. "

"My dear son, don't you understand that affection uttered in vulgarlanguage loses its--its--yes, its perfume, as I may express it. Nowthere is something so sweet in the word mamma, so softly fraternal--inshort, I quite hear you cry from your little crib with its lacecurtains, when you utter it. "

"Mother, let us be serious a moment. "

"Serious, my child? What on earth do you want to be serious for?"

Here young Farnham took a paper from his pocket, and held it beforehis mother's face. "Mother, what is this? Did you authorize thepurchase of these claims against the helpless old man and woman downyonder?" he said. 

Mrs. Farnham turned her head aside, and taking a crystal flask fromthe table before her, refreshed herself languidly with its perfume. 

"Did you authorize this, madam?" cried the young man, impatiently, dashing one hand against the paper that he held in the other. "Thispurchase, and after that the seizure of the old man's property?"

"Dear me, how worrying you are, " answered the lady, burying the palewrinkles of her forehead in the lace of her handkerchief; "how can Iremember all the orders with regard to a property like ours?"

"But do you remember _this_?"

"Why, no, of course I don't, " cried the lady, with a flush stealing upthrough her wrinkles, as the miserable falsehood crept out from herheart; "of course the man did it all on his own account, there's nomedium with such people. Certainly it was his own work. What do I knowabout business?"

The young man looked at her sternly. She had not deceived him, and abitter thought of her utter unworthiness made the proud heart sink inhis bosom. 

"Mother, " he said, coldly, and with a look of profound sorrow, "whoever has been the instigator, this is a cruel act; but I haveprevented the evil it might have done. "

"_You_ prevented it, how?" cried the mother, starting to her feet, white with rage, all her langour and affectation forgotten in theburst of malicious surprise, that trembled on her thin lips, and gaveto her pale, watery eyes the expression, without the brilliancy, thatwe find in those of a trodden serpent. "What have you done, I say?"

"I paid the money!"

Mrs. Farnham sat down, and remained a moment gazing on the calm, severe face of the youth, with her thin hand clenched upon the foldsof her morning dress, and her foot moving impetuously up and down onthe carpet, as if she wanted to spring up and rend him to pieces. 

The youth had evidently witnessed these paroxysms of rage before, forhe bent his eyes to the ground as if the sight awoke some old pain, and turning quietly, seemed about to leave the room. 

"You have done this without consulting me--countermanded my orders, defeated my object--how like you are to your father, now. "

The last words were uttered with a burst of spite, as if theycontained the very essence of bitterness, the last drop in the vialsof her wrath. 

The youth turned and lifted his eyes, full of sorrowful sternness, toher face. "Then you did--you did!" He paused, and his lips began totremble under the muttered reproaches that sprang up from his heart. 

"Yes, " cried the woman, weak in everything but her malice, "yes, then, I did order it done--these people have tormented me enough with theirmiserable old house, always before my eyes, and that grim ugly facestaring at me as I go to church. I tell you they shall leave theneighborhood, or I will. Give me the papers. "

The youth lifted his eyes and regarded her sternly. 

"They are cancelled, madam, and torn to ribbons, that our name mightnot be disgraced. "

"Torn to pieces?"

"Into a thousand pieces, madam. I would have ground them to dust, ifpossible. "

"You shall answer for this, " cried the baffled woman, and with thatsort of weak ferocity which is so repulsive, she sat down and began tocry. 

The young man drew close to her chair, for though his whole soulrecoiled from sympathy with her, he forced himself to remember thatshe was his mother, and in tears. 

"Why do you dislike these old people so much?" he urged, with anattempt at soothing her. 

"Because _he_ liked them!" she answered, dashing his proffered handaside; "because his low tastes followed him to the last; he was alwaystalking of the creature that died the night you were born. He caredmore for her to the last, than he ever did for me; and I hate themfor it. Now, are you satisfied?"

"Mother, you are talking of things that I do not understand. "

"Well, your father was engaged to Anna, the girl that died in the oldhovel down yonder; engaged to her when he married me. "

"Then my father committed a great wrong!"

"A great wrong! Who ever doubted it, I should like to know? Even tothink of her after marrying me--to say nothing of the way he wenton--sometimes talking about her in my presence, with tears in hiseyes. Once, once, would you believe it! he said--to me--me, his lawfulwife, that your eyes--it was when you just began to walk--that my ownbaby's eyes put him in mind of her. "

"I know very little of my father, nothing in fact, for he was areserved man, always; but it is hard to believe that he wouldwillfully do this foul wrong to a woman. "

"Willfully! I wish you could have seen him when I, with the properspirit of a woman, felt it my duty to expostulate with him about hisfeelings for that creature; how he took me up as if I were to blamefor being young and beautiful, and engaged in the bazar just under hishotel, as if I had some design in standing at the door aboutmeal-times, or could help him coming in after collars and cravatsafterward, and, and"--

She stopped suddenly, and all the sallow wrinkles of her face burnedwith a crimson more vivid than exposure in the actual commission of acrime would have kindled there. Her mean spirit cowered beneath thelooks of surprise that her son fixed upon her, as this confession oforiginal poverty escaped her lips. 

"I mean, I mean, " she stammered, after biting her lips half through inimpatient wrath, "that he should want my advice about such thingsbefore he was married. "

It is a mournful thing when respect becomes a duty impossible toperform. Young Farnham felt this, and again his eyes drooped, while aflush of shame stole over his forehead. 

"Well, madam, " a woman of more sensitive feelings would have noticedthat he did not call her mother, "well, madam, whatever cause ofdislike may have been in this case, I cannot regret that all power toharm these old people is now at an end. The notes are cancelled, themoney paid to your agent from my own pocket. "

"But you had no right to pay this. You are not yet of age by somemonths. I will not sanction this extravagance. "

"Nay, madam, this money is mine, and was saved from the extravagancethat you _did_ sanction. I had intended to purchase a gift for Isabelwith it, but she will be better pleased as it is. "

"To Isabel, five hundred dollars to Isabel!" cried the harsh woman. "This is putting a beggar on horseback with a vengeance. "

"Hush, madam, I will not listen to this; you know, or might have seenlong before this, that the young girl your language insults, hasrefused to become my wife. "

"Your _wife_! Isabel Chester _your_ wife! A pauper, and the child of apauper! Say it again, say that again if you dare!" cried the woman ina whirlwind of passion. "Say that the policeman's daughter has refusedyou!"

"When you are calmer, madam, I will repeat it, for no truth can bemore fixed, but now it would only exasperate you. "

"Go on--go on, let me hear it again. It proves the Farnham blood inyour veins, always sighing and grovelling after low objects. Go on, sir, I am listening--you intend to make _me_ mother-in-law to apauper; a miserable thing that I took to keep me company, as I would apoodle-dog, and dressed and petted just in the same way. Marry her!try it, and I'll make a beggar of _you_!"

"I do not know that you have the power to make me a beggar, madam, buta slave you never shall make me; as for Isabel, " he added, with ascornful smile on his lips, firing up with something of her ownungovernable anger, "she is at least your equal and mine. "

"_My_ equal, the pauper, the--the--oh--oh!"

Insane with bitter passion, the woman stamped her foot fiercely on thefloor, and began tearing the delicate lace from her handkerchief withher teeth, laughter and hysterical sobs hissing through them at thesame moment. 

"Madam, restrain yourself, " pleaded the young man, greatly shocked, "Ihave been to blame, I should have told you of this some other time. "

"Never, never, " she answered, tearing the handkerchief from her teeth, and dashing it fiercely to the floor. "The miserable Alms-House birdshall leave my roof. I have got her pauper garments yet--would youlike to see them?--a blue chambrey frock and checked sun-bonnet--itwas all she brought here--and shall be all she takes away. "

Again she stamped fiercely with her foot, and menaced her son with herhand. "Send the girl to me, I say!"

"I am here, madam, " said Isabel, arising from a chair by the door, where she had fallen paralyzed and unnoticed, on her entrance, just asher name was brought up. Her cheeks were in a blaze of red, and hereyes emitted quick gleams of light. "I am here to take leave of youfor ever. " Isabel's voice was constrained and hoarse; her face waswhite with passion. 

"Isabel, Isabel Chester!" exclaimed young Farnham, turning pale, andyet with a glow of animation in his fine eyes, "my mother was angry;she would not repeat those offensive words; she loves you!"

"But I do _not_ love _her_!" answered the proud girl, regarding thewoman whom the world called her benefactress, with a glance of queenlyscorn. "Her very kindness has always been oppressive; her presencealmost hateful; now it is entirely so. "

"Isabel, Isabel!" exclaimed the young man, "remember she is my mother, and you, beloved--oh, let me say to her, that you will be my wife!"

Isabel Chester turned her beautiful eyes upon him, and proud firegleamed through the tears that filled them like star-light in theevening mist. 

"No!" she answered in a very firm voice, "never will I become the wifeof that woman's son. My very soul recoils from the thought that shewho can so insult, ever had the power to confer benefits upon me. Sheis right; I will go forth in the pauper garments in which she found meat first. God has given me health, talent, energy; with his help Iwill yet repay this lady, dollar for dollar, all that she has everexpended on me. I shall never breathe deeply again till this is done. "

"This is gratitude, this is just what I expected from the first, " saidMrs. Farnham, applying the mutilated handkerchief to her eyes. "It'senough to sicken one with benevolence for ever. This girl, now, thatI've educated, taught everything, music, painting, all the ologies andother sciences see how she has repaid me, after putting herself in theway of my son, and tempting him to degrade himself by marrying her!"

Young Farnham started forward and attempted to arrest Isabel, who hadturned in proud silence, and was leaving the room. 

"Isabel, where are you going?"

She turned, and looking into his anxious eyes, answered, "Anywhere out of this house, and away from her presence. "

"No, no, you shall not do this. "

"I must; ask yourself if I could remain here another hour withoutbeing in soul what she has called me in name--a pauper. "

Farnham paused. Rapid changes, the shadows of many a turbulentthought, swept over his face. Isabel lifted her eyes to his with alook of sorrowful appeal, as if in waiting for him to confirm herresolution. 

"But where will you go, my Isabel?"

"I have not yet determined--but this lady has taught an to respectmyself. I have been spending an idle, useless life, dependent on herbounty, a pet, a protege which no human being endowed with health andenergy should ever content herself with being. Henceforth I willredeem the past. "

"Stay with me, my Isabel, stay in your own home, not as a dependent, not subject to any one's caprice. Isabel Chester throw off these cruelprejudices; become my wife, and this day shall you have a right here, holy as any that ever existed!"

"Farnham!" cried the old lady, starting fiercely upon the scene, "remember the difference, remember who she is, who you are and who Iam!"

"He need not, madam. I remember all this. But only to assure myselfthat I am incapable of becoming his wife, " answered Isabel. "Do notsuppose that I have any of that miserable pride what would make mereject this noble offer, because, in the chances of life, he happensto be rich and I poor. I give to wealth no such importance. Humansouls should match themselves without trappings, that have nothing todo with their greatness. To say that I will not marry Mr. Farnhambecause he would give me a legal right to spend wealth, which I haveno power to increase, would be to acknowledge a mean reluctance toreceive where I would gladly give. No, madam, it is not because I deemmyself in any way an unfit wife for Mr. Farnham, that I reject, gratefully reject, his offer; but I will never enter a family wherethese things can be supposed to give superiority, never while one ofits members rejects me because of my poverty. More than this, I havetaken a solemn vow, for causes for which you are not responsible, madam, never to marry your son. "

"Isabel, Isabel!" exclaimed young Farnham, with a look of distress, "you cannot love me, or this pride--this wicked vow, would notseparate us. "

Isabel laid her hand on his arm; her eyes filled, and her lips beganto tremble. 

"I _do_ love you, heart and soul I love you! but I cannot become yourwife. It would be to separate the son from his mother; to grasp athappiness through an act of disobedience; it would be to mingle mylife with--with--you know, Frederick, it is impossible. "

"But my mother will consent, " cried the young man, turning with a lookof anxious appeal to Mrs. Farnham, who stood near a window, angrilybeating the carpet with her foot. 

"You needn't look this way--you needn't expect it. I never will givemy consent. If Mr. Farnham's son chooses to marry a pauper, I willnever own him again. "

Isabel cast one sorrowful look at her lover, and feeling her eyes growmisty as they met his, turned away. 

"I will go now, " she said, in a hollow voice, and, with a heart thatlay heavy and burning like heated lead in her bosom, she left theroom. 

Young Farnham followed her, pale and anxious. 

"Isabel, sweet Isabel! you cannot be in earnest!"

"Miserably in earnest!" she answered, staggering blindly forward, fora faintness crept over her. 

He caught her in his arms. 

"I knew--I knew it could not be! you have no strength to put thiscruel threat in force against me. "

"Don't--oh! don't, I am faint, my heart is breaking--let me go while Ican!"

She clung to him as she spoke, and rested her head wearily on hisshoulder, as he strained her closer to his heart. 

"Oh, my Isabel, you love me, you have told me so now for the firsttime, with the very lips that renounce me for ever. You love me, Isabel!"

"You felt it--before this you knew it, " she murmured amid her tears. 

"Yes, yes, I felt it; what need has the heart of words? I felt ittruly, as now; but the sound is so sweet from your lips. Isabel; sayit again. "

"Yes, why not, as we shall part so soon. I love you, oh, how much Ilove you!"

"Then stay with me. "

"No, no!"

"I can and will protect you from every annoyance. Stay with me, Isabel!"

"Oh, if I could--if I only could!" cried the young creature, lookingwistfully at him, "but that terrible, terrible oath. "

"Forget it--the oath, if you made one, was an act of frenzy--cast itaside as such. You can, you will, my beloved. A little time, a littlepatience, and all will be well. Come, come, stop crying, my heartaches to see your tears. Be comforted, and say once more that you loveme. "

"I do, I do!"

"And that you will never leave me?"

She drew a deep, unsteady breath; her eyes began to brighten throughtheir tears; he held her close to his breast, and pressed his lips, quivering with an ecstasy of love, upon her forehead. 

"You will stay--you _will_ stay!"

She released herself gently from his arms, her eyes were flooded withtenderness, her cheeks lighted up with a glow of joyous shame. Withthat graceful homage which comes so naturally to the heart of a lovingwoman, she took his hand and pressed it to her lips, and stooddrooping beneath the overflow of tenderness that filled her heart, asa flower bends on its stock when loaded with honey-dew. 

But this beautiful submission did not satisfy him; he encircled heragain with his arm. 

"Tell me in words, dearest--tell me in words, consenting words, or Ishall gather them from your lips. "

Blushing and agitated, she attempted to withdraw from his arms, butsoftly as a bird moves in its nest. 

"Speak, Isabel--speak, and promise me!"

Her eyes were filled with tears, and her face burned with blushes;where was her pride, where all her haughty resolutions now? Her lipstrembled apart, and the words he coveted were forming upon them--butthat instant the door opened, and Mrs. Farnham looked through, regarding them with a cold sneer. 

Isabel started as if a viper had stung her, tore herself fromFarnham's arms, and fled. 

CHAPTER XLV. 

OLD MEMORIES AND YOUNG HEARTS. 

 Away, away, on the wide, wide world-- With aching heart and fevered brain, Like a broken waif she is sharply hurled, To her dreary orphan life again. 

When uncle Nathan led his nephew into the house, and told aunt Hannahwho he was, she grew pallid as a corpse, and when the young man tookher hand, she began to shiver from head to foot, till the chatteringof her teeth was audible in the stillness. 

"It is our nephew, little Anna's boy, come to live with us, Hannah. "

"To live with us?" she repeated, in a hoarse voice. 

"Yes, " answered uncle Nathan, taking the youth's hand between both hisplump palms, and smoothing it caressingly as he would have quieted akitten, for he felt all the chill that was in her voice. Where elseshould our sister's child make his home?"

"But his father?"

"My father is dead, " answered the youth, sadly, "and before he went Iwas told of all your kindness, how for years your own means oflivelihood had been stinted that I might become perfect in my art. Ihave not wasted your means, and some day, God willing, may returnsomething of all that you have done for me. "

Aunt Hannah listened in silence, but her eyes burned in their sockets, and her hands worked nervously around each other. Happily the youthsaw nothing of this, or he might have doubted the welcome soexpressed. 

It was now late in the night, and with anxious haste aunt Hannahturned to a stand, where an iron candlestick supported the end of whathad been a tallow candle. 

"We are all tired, " she said, presenting the candlestick to uncleNathan. "He can sleep in the spare bed up stairs. "

Uncle Nat took the candle and conducted his relative from the room, leaving aunt Hannah standing by the hearth, pale and almost as rigidas marble. 

After a little she began to pace up and down the kitchen with measuredstrides, her eyes cast down, and her fingers locked together as ifmade of iron. Thus the morning found her, for she did not go to restthat night. 

A few days after, just before sunset, uncle Nat was enjoying himselfas usual in the old porch, while Mary Fuller and Joseph sat togetheron the threshold of the door, conversing in low tones between theimpromptu air which he gave to them in delicious snatches. Behind, inthe dark of the kitchen, sat aunt Hannah, gazing over herknitting-work at the group. Her hands were motionless upon theneedles, and she seemed lost in profound thought. All at once her lipsmoved, and she muttered, "Yes, they, too, will love each other. I can see it plainly enough. Poor Mary, how he turns to her voice, how greedily he listens when shespeaks; can the love of childhood revive so suddenly? But what do Iknow of love, save its humiliation and pain--rejected, despised, trampled on!"

Here her hands began to tremble, and she worked her needles for amoment, vigorously, but made another abrupt pause the minute after, and thus her thoughts ran, "Well, why should they not marry, these two noble creatures? She isdearer than a child to us, the true-hearted Mary, and he--who couldhelp being good under the care of a father like Esmond? She loves him, I can see it in her eyes, in the quiet humility of her look; she loveshim, and he loves her; they will soon find it out, but the others, Imust see the young man; I must try to read all these young hearts. "

Aunt Hannah was disturbed in her reverie by a light step that camethrough the outer room, followed by the quick opening of a door, andIsabel Chester entered the kitchen. 

Poor Isabel! her eyes sparkled wildly through their tears, her facewas flushed, her lips quivering, and the rich masses of her hair hungin waves around her head. Still was she wondrously beautiful, forgrief softened a style of loveliness sometimes too brilliant andimperious. In tears, Isabel was always sweet and womanly. She was abeing to cherish as well as to admire. 

She entered hurriedly, and flinging back the shawl, of mingled colors, that partially covered her head, looked eagerly around. 

"Mary, where is Mary Fuller?" she inquired, "I wish to speak with MaryFuller. "

Mary heard her voice and sprang up. 

"Oh! Isabel, this is kind, I am glad you have come so soon. "

"Come with me, Mary. I must speak with you. "

"Let us go up to my room, " said Mary, with some excitement, when shesaw the flushed face and agitated manner of her friend. 

"Mary, Mary, come here, hold my head against your bosom, it aches, oh, it aches terribly, " cried Isabel, reaching out her arms as she sunk onthe bed in Mary's room. "I have come to live with you dear Mary, tellme I am welcome, oh, tell me I shall not be turned out of doors. I asknothing better than to stay at the Old Homestead all my life. "

"You are sick, darling Isabel, very sick, to talk so wildly, " saidMary, striving to soothe her excitement; "why, you would seem like abird of paradise in a robin's nest here at the Old Homestead--yes, yesyou are sick, Isabel, your hands are burning, your lips mutter thesethings strangely; what has come over you?"

"I have left Mrs. Farnham for good!" exclaimed Isabel, starting up andpushing the hair back from her temples. "I shall never see Frederickagain, never, never--Mary, Mary Fuller, I know this is death, my heartseems clutched with an iron claw. "

"Try and be calm, dear Isabel--if you have really left Mrs. Farnham, tell me, how it all came about, and what I can do. "

"She taunted me with my poverty--she flung the Alms-House in myteeth--oh, Mary, Mary, dependence on that woman has been a burningcurse to my nature--oh I would die for the power to fling back all themoney she heaped upon me. It crushes my life out. "

"Hush, hush Isabel, this is wicked rebellion--one insult should notcancel a life of benefits, " said Mary, very gently. 

Isabel laughed wildly. "Benefits! What have they made me? a beggar andan outcast. Where can I find support out of all the frothyaccomplishments she has given me? Not one useful thing has she evertaught me. You, Mary, are independent, for you work for your dailybread--no one can call you a pauper. "

"And you have really left Mrs. Farnham?" said Mary, smoothing downIsabel's disturbed tresses with her two palms, "and you would like tolive here at the Old Homestead, I hope, oh, how much I hope that itcan be so. "

"I have been wandering in the woods for hours, trying to think whatwas best. I have no friend but you, Mary. Among all my fineacquaintances, no one would stand by me. Let me stay, Mary, and makeme good like the rest of you--I wish we had never parted!"

"Lie still and rest, darling--I know aunt Hannah will let youstay--don't mind the expense or trouble, for I'll tell you a secret;Isabel, Joseph has been teaching me to paint, and in a little while hesays I can make the most beautiful pictures, and sell them formoney--besides, don't say that you can do nothing; out of all thesepretty accomplishments it will be strange if you can't make a livingwithout hard work too. "

"Dear, dear Mary, how you comfort me!" was the grateful answer, givenin the quick, rapid enunciation of coming fever. "You will ask auntHannah for me, but Mary, she must not let Frederick Farnham comehere!"

"Why not? how can you ask it, he who paid their debts and saved themfrom so much sorrow?"

Isabel drew Mary close to her and whispered in a wild hoarse way, "Welove each other; he wants me to become his wife, but I have taken anoath, a great black oath against it. "

"An oath!" said Mary, half doubting if this were not all feverishraving. 

"Yes, yes, an oath. You would not let me marry among my father'smurderers--oh, I was dreadfully tempted, but the oath saved me, and Iam here!"

Mary became terrified, there was too much earnestness among the fireof poor Isabel's eyes. Had she in reality taken an oath of this kind, and was it working out its own curse?

"Ask her, ask aunt Hannah if I can stay, " pleaded Isabel; "theseclothes are so heavy I want to get into bed where no one can findme--my head aches--my heart aches, oh, I am very miserable!"

"I will call aunt Hannah, " said Mary; "we will ask her together. "

Isabel burst into a passion of tears. "Yes, go now, while my head isclear, put some more cold water on it, that is so cool, go Mary. "

Mary went softly down stairs. 

Aunt Hannah had looked keenly after the girls as they disappeared. Shedropped the knitting-work into her lap, and sat gazing hard at thedoor long after it was closed. 

She was still motionless, gazing on the distance in this hard fashion, when the door was pushed open and Mary Fuller looked out. 

"Aunt Hannah, dear aunt Hannah, will you come up here?" she cried inan excited voice, "Isabel and I want you. "

Aunt Hannah arose, folded her needles, closed them at the end with apressure of the thumb, and thrust them into the ball of yarn, muttering all the time, "I could not help it if I wanted to, " and she mounted the stairs. 

Isabel Chester lay on the bed, white with anguish, but with a feverishheat burning in her eyes. The shawl, with its many gorgeous tints, layaround her, mingling with her purple dress in picturesque confusion. She tried to sit up when aunt Hannah approached the bed, but instantlylifted both hands to her temples, and fell back again moaningbitterly. 

"Ask her, ask her, " she cried, looking wildly up at Mary Fuller, "Ihave been wandering in the hills so long, and am tired out. Ask herfor me, Mary Fuller. "

Aunt Hannah sat down upon the bed, and Mary Fuller stood before herholding Isabel's hot hand in both hers. With the eloquence whichsprings from an earnest purpose, she told aunt Hannah all that she hadherself been able to gather from the lips now quivering with a chillthat preceded violent fever. It was a disjointed narrative, but fullof heart-fire. Mary wept as she gave it; but aunt Hannah sat perfectlypassive, gazing upon the beautiful creature before her with steadycoldness. 

When Mary had done, and stood breathlessly waiting for a reply, theold lady moved stiffly as if the silence had aroused her. 

"Then she wishes to stay with us, " she said. 

Isabel started up. "I will be no expense, I can paint, and embroiderand sew! I can do so many things. All I want is a home. Give me that, only that!"

She fell back again, shivering and distressed, looking up to auntHannah with a glance of touching appeal that disturbed even thecomposure of that stony face. 

"You will let her stay with us!" pleaded Mary. 

"What else should we do?" inquired aunt Hannah. "She wants a home, andwe have got one to give her. Isn't that enough?"

Isabel, who had been looking up with a vivid hope in her eyes, brokeinto a hysterical laugh at this, and seizing aunt Hannah's hard hand, kissed it with passionate gratitude. 

"One word, " questioned aunt Hannah; "do you love that young man?"

"Love him, oh, yes, yes, a thousand times, yes!" cried the poor girl, and the sparkle of her eyes was painful to look upon "I think it mustkill me to see him no more. I am sure it must!"

"And you are sure he loves you?"

"_Sure_?" she cried, flinging out her clasped hands, "sure, yes, as Iam of my own life!"

"And you believe him to be a good man?"

"I know it, have we not grown up together? He is passionate, proud, impulsive--but noble. I tell you his faults would be virtues in othermen. "

As aunt Hannah listened, there came a glow upon her sallow cheeks, anda soft smile to her lips, as if something in Isabel's wild enthusiasmhad given her pleasure. 

"She shall stay with us! Surely with all our debts paid, we can findroom for the child!"

"Room--room for the pauper--room!"

Isabel had caught the word, and sent it back again with wild glee, half singing half shouting it through her burning lips. The fever wasbeginning to rage through her veins. 

Three times that night aunt Hannah went to the front door, to answerthe eager questions of young Farnham, who had been wandering for hoursin sight of the house. At last, as if struck with sudden compassion, the old lady invited him into the kitchen, and these two seeminglyuncongenial persons, sat and conversed together with strangeconfidence till the day dawned. 

When young Farnham arose to go, he took the aged hand of his companionand pressed it to his lips, with a homage to years acquired fromabroad. He did not see the blood flush up into that withered face, orthe tears that gathered slowly into her eyes; and was therefore, surprised when she arose, and as if actuated by an unconquerableimpulse, kissed his forehead. 

"Good-bye, " she said, in a broken voice, "the poor girl up stairsshall not die for want of nursing. "

"How good you are!" said the young man; "how can I ever repay you?"

Aunt Hannah looked at him with strange fondness. 

"You paid our debts last night, " she said, "or we might have had nohome to give this girl. "

"That was nothing, never mention it again. "

"Nothing, why, boy, it was an act that you shall never forget to yourdying day. "

"Save _her_, and that will be an act that I shall never forget. "

"Do you love her so much, then?"

"Love! I worship her--I can hardly remember the time when I did notlove her!"

"And what would you sacrifice for her?"

"What? Everything. "

"Stop and answer me steadily. If you could choose between all theproperty left by your father and Isabel Chester, which would youtake?"

"Which would I take? Labor, poverty, and my Isabel. The property! whathas it of value in comparison to this noble girl? I answer againIsabel, Isabel!"

A singular expression stole into the old woman's face. 

"Would you live here, and work the place, when Nathan and I are tooold, if you were sure of her for a wife?"

"I would do anything with her and for her, " cried the youth, ardently. 

"And, " continued aunt Hannah, in a broken voice, still eyeing himanxiously--"you would find a corner for two old people somewhere inthe homestead!"

"This is wild talk, " said the young man, with a troubled smile. "I ammy father's heir, and have no right to throw away his wealth; so it isuseless talking of what I might, or could, do, under othercircumstances. "

"Then you would not be content to live here with your wife, andsupport yourself from the place?"

"I did not say so--but that it was impossible. Heaven knows I countwealth as nothing compared to Isabel. "

"Then you only think of her, you care nothing for, for "--

Aunt Hannah paused, and put a hand to her throat, as if the words shesuppressed pained her. 

"I care for her, and for all that have been kind to her, now or ever, "he replied, impressively; "most of all I am grateful to yourself. "

"Once again, " said aunt Hannah, clinging tenaciously to the pointwhich seemed to interest her so much, "if you could not marry IsabelChester without becoming as poor, for instance, as Joseph Esmondis--would you give up all and marry her?"

"Once again, then, yes, I would. "

"And be happy after it?"

"With _her_, yes!"

"But you have never worked?"

"I can learn!"

"You are learned and love to mingle with great men. You are proud, andthis is a poor old house!" She argued so earnestly that he could notrefrain from smiling. 

"I fancy, if the need come, I would get along with all thesedifficulties, without much regret. But this is idle speculation. Inanother month I shall be of age; then no one can claim legal authorityover me or mine. I know there is great wealth to be accounted for, buthave never known how much, or what restrictions are upon it. If itleaves me at liberty to marry Isabel, and she will give up this cruelresolve to abandon me, for her sake independence shall be welcome, ifnot, then I will answer your questions more promptly than you perhapsexpect. "

"That girl will never marry your mother's son--she has taken an oathagainst it. "

"She shall marry me. Who can help it? Do we not love each other? Ifher proud spirit rejects the property, so be it--I care as little forgold as she does. As for that miserable oath, it is worthless as thewind, taken in a moment of romantic excitement. The angels do notregister oaths like that. "

"I say it again, Isabel Chester will not marry Mrs. Farnham's son, "persisted aunt Hannah. 

And she was right. 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

THE MOTHER'S FRAUD. 

 That solemn oath is on my soul, Its weight is creeping through my life-- It binds me with a firm control, I cannot--cannot be thy wife!

Frederick Farnham would not leave the country. With the resolution ofa strong will he persisted in treating Isabel's vow as nothing, andwould not be convinced that she might not herself see it in this lightat last. As for his mother, one month more and he would be of age, andher power over him must give way; surely Isabel would recognize hisindependent position then. 

Every day he went to the Old Homestead with renewed hope, and left itin disappointment. Isabel's recovery was protracted till even thephysician believed that she was sinking into a decline. She could notsee Frederick in her wretched state, the excitement would have killedher. 

Oh, that rash, rash oath! In the pure atmosphere of her new home, withthe invigorating influence of Mary Fuller's cheerful piety and raregood sense assuming its former sway, Isabel began to see her act inits true light, but repentance could not expunge the black vow fromher soul. It was devouring her vitality like a vampire. 

At last she came down stairs; the doctor thought it possible, that oneunvaried scene retarded her advancement, and, one day, Frederick wassurprised by a vision of her pale loveliness, as she sat in hereasy-chair, by a window of the room in which sister Anna died. 

Reverently and almost holding his breath, with intense feeling, youngFarnham stole up to this window. 

"Isabel, my Isabel!"

She started, with a faint shriek. 

"Are you afraid, Isabel? has the sight of me become a terror, " hesaid, sadly. 

"No, no, " answered the young girl, and her eyes filled; "I wanted tosee you; it was for this I consented to come down stairs. "

"Bless you for that, darling. "

"I wanted to tell you how very, very sorry I am for having taken thatwicked oath. It was against you, Frederick, but more against my ownheart; I think that one sin will kill me in the end!"

"Then you repent. You see how romantic and foolish it was, how like apuff of wind it ought to be on your conscience. We shall be happy yet, dear Isabel!"

The poor girl shook her head. 

"It was foolish--cruel, but unchangeable, Frederick; I have fastenedit here between your love and mine for ever and ever. I haughtilyfancied myself an avenger. Behold, to what it has brought me!"

Isabel lifted her thin hand, which was so pale you could almost seethe light shining through it. 

"Yes, my poor Isabel, you have suffered, and this wild resolve hasgiven me so much pain. Let us cease to remember it; get well--only getwell! When your mind is strong you will look upon all this as I do. "

"Oh, how I wish it were possible! but even Mary considers a vow, suchas I have taken, binding, so does aunt Hannah, so must everyunprejudiced person. "

"They are all stupid--no, no, I did not mean that--but it's not theless nonsense. What can a nice little thing like Mary or that oldmaid, aunt Hannah, know of subtle questions in moral philosophy? Itell you, Isabel, a wicked promise, that can do no good, but infiniteharm, ought not to be kept. Besides, that vow was not solemnly taken, it was an outbreak of enthusiasm, brought on by the gorgeous twilightof that old edifice--the music and atmosphere. It was a vow of thesenses, not of the soul. "

Poor Isabel was so feeble, so completely incapable of reasoningjustly, that she dared not listen to these ingenious arguments, forshe was growing keenly conscientious, and feared that weakness mightbetray her into a fresh wrong. 

"Do not talk to me in this way just now, " she said, gently. "Let merest. "

Frederick gathered hope from her gentleness, and his voice trembledwith affection, as he promised not to excite her again. 

"Only get well by my birth-day, Isabel, " he said; "have the roses onyour cheeks then, and all will end happily. "

In spite of herself, a gleam of hope brightened in Isabel's eyes; herresolution was not shaken, but there was so much warmth in his faiththat she could not choose but share it with him. She went up to herchamber that night invigorated and almost cheerful. 

When this conversation was repeated to Mary, she looked serious, andsaid very tenderly:

"Not in that way, Isabel. It was a vow taken before the MostHigh--besides, " she added, with a faint tremor of the voice, "theredoes seem to be something that shocks the feelings in this marriage. It may be prejudice, but I should shrink from marrying a Farnham hadI your father's blood in my veins. "

Isabel's cheerfulness fled with these words, and she drooped moredespondingly than ever. 

But aunt Hannah was earnest in comforting her, and though she gave notangible grounds for hope, the confidence that woman of few wordsexpressed in the future, gave Isabel new strength. 

Salina, too, with her warm defence of Frederick's course--her contemptfor vows of any kind--for in this she was an intensely strong-mindedwoman--and her detestation of Mrs. Farnham, served to strengthen thelife in that drooping form. In spite of her hopelessness, Isabel grewperceptibly better; but with this slow gathering of strength came backthe old struggle; nothing had been changed. How could she ever be wellagain with this eternal strife between her conscience and her heart?

Cold weather came on, producing no event at the Old Homestead. UncleNathan stationed his easy-chair by the kitchen fire, but insisted onresigning it to Isabel whenever she came down to sit with the family. Aunt Hannah became more and more lonesome, but was always keenlyobservant, and towards the young girls her kindness was exhibited in athousand noiseless ways, that filled their warm hearts with gratitude. Young Farnham had been to the city, and it was only two eveningsbefore his birth-day that he returned. 

Since the time when Isabel left his house, he had avoided allconversation with his mother regarding the young girl, and Mrs. Farnham, after sending the poor girl's wardrobe after her, seemed tohave forgotten that such a being existed, except that she talked toher son about the ingratitude of the world in general, and ofpoorhouse creatures in particular. 

The young man had a clear head and a firm will, that might waver tocircumstances, but seldom swerved entirely from its object. Hisresolution to marry Isabel Chester was unshaken, even by the firmnessof the young lady herself. He was resolved to conquer the prejudice, as he thought it, which was the great obstacle to their immediateunion. His mother's consent he did not despair of attaining. 

The night after he returned home, Mrs. Farnham was in a state ofremarkable good humor. Frederick had brought her pleasant news fromthe city. The house they had been building in one of the avenues wascompleted, and ready for its furniture. There was a promise of endlessshopping excursions and important business of all kinds. The lady washeartily tired of her present still life, and found the prospect ofreturning to town, under these circumstances, exhilarating. 

"I am glad you are so well pleased, " said Frederick, seating himselfamong the silken cushions of the couch, upon which his mother hadplaced herself; for, as we have said, Mrs. Farnham affected greatsplendor even in her country residence. 

"I am glad you are pleased, mother, for I wish very much to see youhappy. "

"Oh, if it hadn't been for that wicked upstart girl we should alwayshave been happy, Fred. I'm so grateful that you have got over thatdegrading fancy, " said Mrs. Farnham, a little anxiously, for with thatlow-born cunning which is the wisdom of silly women, she took thisindirect way of ascertaining whether Frederick really held to hisattachment for the wronged girl or not. 

"Such a catch as you are, Fred; young, handsome and a millionaire, tothrow yourself away on a pauper, when half the most fashionable girlsin town are dressing and dancing at you. "

"Hush, mother, " said the young man, I cannot hear you speak lightly ofIsabel, for God willing, if I can win her consent, the day I am of agemakes her my wife. "

"Are you crazy, Farnham? how dare you say this to me?"

"Because it's the truth, mother. "

"And you _will_ brave me! you _will_ bring a pauper into my house! becareful, sir, be careful!"

"Mother, in this thing, I must judge for myself. My father, I know, intended that I should, else why did he leave me, untrammeled as Iam?"

Mrs. Farnham started up--her pale blue eyes gleamed venomously. Shestood for a moment, growing paler, and more repulsive; some evil ideaevidently possessed her. 

"Be careful, be careful, " she said, shaking her finger at him, menacingly, "do not provoke me--don't go a step farther, or I willprove how far you are untrammeled. Another word and there will be nomedium between my love and my hate. "

"Mother, are you mad?"

"Mother, indeed! I have been a mother to you. I've done what fewmothers would have the courage to undertake for a child, but what Ihave done can be taken back--don't provoke me, I tell you, again, Frederick Farnham--don't provoke your mother. "

"Oh, be a mother, a true-hearted woman, " cried Fred, imploringly;"Isabel will love you; be kind to her. "

Mrs. Farnham drew back, and folded her arms in an attitude she hadseen Rachel assume on the stage, and which she deemed very imposing. 

"Frederick Farnham, if you marry that girl I will bring you to herlevel--I will make a pauper of you. "

Frederick smiled; the whole thing struck him as a farce badly played. 

"I shall certainly marry her, if she will accept me, " he said, coldly. 

Mrs. Farnham strode from the room, sweeping by her son with a furiousdisplay of temper. Directly she returned with a folded paper in herhand. 

"Here, sir, is your father's will, made out by his own hand, threedays before his death; we shall prove how far it makes you independentof your mother. "

"My father's will!" exclaimed Frederick, turning white with surprise;"my father's will in your hands, and produced for the first time!Madam, explain this. "

The stern paleness of his face struck the woman with terror; thepassion that had made her forget everything but revenge, was quenchedbeneath his firm glance. She began to tremble, and attempted to hidethe paper in the folds of her dress. 

"Promise me to give up this girl, and I will burn it, " she said, witha frightened look. "It was for your sake I kept it back; he wanted togive your fortune away; I could not stand it, besides no one asked forthe will; promise me, and I'll burn it. "

"I will make no promise. If that is my father's will give it to me andit shall be acted upon, though every cent I have be swept away. Giveme the will, madam. "

"No, no, don't ask for it. There is a medium in all things; I wasangry, I did not mean what I said. "

"Oblige me, madam, I must see that paper--mother, I will see it!"exclaimed Frederick, impetuously, as she crumpled the document tightlyin her hand, retreating backward from the room with her eyes fixedupon his with the expression of a weak child, detected in itswickedness. 

"How dare you, Frederick Farnham, how dare you speak to your mother inthat tone?" she said, in a voice that was half defiant, halfreproachful, still retreating from him. 

"It is useless, mother, I demand that paper! It must be placed in thehand of my guardian. "

"It never shall!" cried the mother, darting through the door; andrushing toward the kitchen with angry swiftness, she dashed the paperover Salina's shoulder into a huge fire that blazed in the chimney. 

Frederick followed her, pale with excitement. 

"You have not, mother, you dare not!"

Mrs. Farnham broke into a hysterical laugh. 

"It's burned--it's ashes!" she said. "Oh, Frederick, what a mother Ihave been to you. "

Farnham turned away, muttering gloomily to himself. The old ladyfollowed him. 

"Don't be angry, Fred, I did it for your good, for your own good;nobody is hurt by it but myself; I lose all authority over you now. Why, Fred, by that will, if you'd persisted in marrying without myconsent, the whole property would have been--yes, would have beenmine. See what I have sacrificed to you; but there is a medium ineverything but a mother's love. I could have forced you to give upthat girl, but see how I have destroyed my own power. You willremember this, dear boy, and not break my heart by this low match. "

"Mother, if that paper was my father's will, you have committed agreat wrong--a serious legal wrong. I cannot be grateful for it, I cannever respect you again. "

Mrs. Farnham began to cry. 

"There it is, " she said. "If I have done any wrong, it's you thaturged me to it; as for that will, I always meant to keep the justmedium between right and wrong, and let the thing rest in mywriting-desk without saying a word about it. I wouldn't have burnedit--nor have touched it again on any account, but you made me do both. First you provoked me to bring it out from where it had restedinnocent as a lamb for so many years. Then, as if that wasn't enough, the way you went on was so dreadful. You drove me to it; what elsecould you expect from a mother's love, especially such a mother as Ihave been to you, Frederick?"

Farnham was still excited, but sternly thoughtful. 

"Mother, " he said, "I must know what the will contained. It shall beacted upon to the very letter. You know its contents; tell me on yourhonor as a lady, on your honesty as a woman, all that you remember ofit, word for word. "

"No!" said Mrs. Farnham, petulantly, "I won't say a word about it, Iwon't own that there ever was a will; but if you'll be quiet, to-morrow Mr. Wales, my lawyer will be up. I sent for him to meet yourguardian and myself on your birth-day, to help about settling theaffairs, he will talk with you. "

"Beit so, mother, but remember this testament must be carried out tothe letter. "

"Very well; I'll consult about it, we shall be able to strike a mediumyet. Fred, you may not believe it, but you've got a mother, a truemother, one in ten thousand, Frederick Farnham. "

By the way Mrs. Farnham withdrew, one might have fancied she had donea meritorious thing in concealing, and at last destroying herhusband's will. Indeed she had convinced herself of this, and went outwith an air of great self-complacency. 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

SALINA BOWLES' MISSION. 

 With an honest purpose, whatever betide, She stands like a pillar of native stone, Firm and rough, with a cap of pride-- Till her trust is given, her mission done. 

With characteristic reverence for ancient usages, Salina Bowles setherself resolutely against all cooking-stoves, modern ranges andinventions of that class. That exemplary female was often heard todeclare that no decent meal could ever be cooked by any of thesenew-fangled contrivances. A hickory back log, and good oak-woodanswered her purpose quite well enough. Only give her plenty of themand she'd cook a dinner with any woman on this side of sundown. Fromthese prejudices it happened that Salina, in order to prepare the latedinner with which Mrs. Farnham usually taxed all her culinary genius, had built a huge wood-fire, and was planting again even on the hearthbefore it, when a folded paper flashed over her shoulder, and rushingthrough the flames fell behind the back log. 

Salina rose promptly upright, gave Mrs. Farnham a sharp look, andstooped to pick up the comb that had been knocked loose from her hair. When her eyes fell once again on the young man and his mother, shebegan deliberately twisting up her hair, while the brief dialogue wehave recorded passed between them. 

After they went out, Salina removed her tin oven from before the fire, took up a huge pair of tongs and deliberately fished out Mr. Farnham'swill from behind the back-log. It had been a good deal blackened andscorched at the edges in its passage through the flames, but thewriting was only slightly obliterated. Salina, who had no scruplesagainst reading a document so obtained, recognized the signature, andgathered enough from the contents to be certain that it was animportant paper. 

She thrust the will into her bosom with great deliberation, replacedher tin oven on the hearth, and went on with her work as usual. Onceor twice she paused in her occupation, and seemed pondering over someidea in her mind, but when the other servants came in she said nothingof the subject of her thoughts. The moment dinner was over, which Mrs. Farnham partook of alone. Salina put on her sun-bonnet and shawl, merely saying that "she was going out a spell, " and took a short cutacross the fields towards Judge Sharp's house, leaving the OldHomestead on her right, determined not to visit that till after hererrand was accomplished. 

The judge was a little surprised when Salina appeared before him witha peremptory request that he would leave his women folks and give hera few words with him alone. 

He went into the library and closed the door, wondering in his mindwhat could have brought that interesting female into his presence, with her face so full of mysterious importance. 

Salina folded her shawl close over her bosom while she drew forth thewill. 

"Here, Judge, you may as well take charge of that concern, I reckon;being a friend of the family, you'll know best what to do with it. "

The Judge unfolded the paper and glanced at the first page. His eyesbegan to fill with astonishment. 

"Why, where on earth did you get this?" he said. 

"I got it honestly, and that's enough; if it's all right I'll go. "

"But tell me something more about it, " persisted the judge. 

"Least said soonest mended; I ain't a female traitor and spy, nornothing of that sort! what you've got you've got! It ain't of noconsequence where you got it, or how you got it, it's there, andthat's enough?"

"But, but"--

"I'm in a hurry, the dishes ain't washed up yet. "

"Indeed Salina you must tell me!"

Salina folded her blanket-shawl tightly around her upright person. 

"Judge Sharp, it's of no use--I'm flint. "

With these words that strong-minded female turned, with her nose inthe air, and left the room, planting her footsteps with greatfirmness, as if she meant by their very sound to impress the judgewith the strength of her determination. 

"I hate the woman like rank poison, " she said while wading through thestubble behind uncle Nat's barn on her way home, "but her name isFarnham, and it'd be mean as a nigger and meaner too for me to say aword about that document; let Judge Sharp cipher out his own sums ifhe wants to, I ain't a-going to help him--there!"

With this exclamation, the strong-minded woman returned home, perfectly satisfied with her mission and herself. 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

THE DOUBLE CONFESSION. 

 Ask her not why her heart has lost its lightness, And hoards its dreamy thoughts, serenely still, Like some pure lotus flower, that folds its whiteness Upon the bosom of its native rill!

"Mary Fuller, what ails you? All this time your eyes are heavy, andyou look every other minute as if just going to cry. What is it allabout?"

This was a long speech for aunt Hannah, and it made Mary start andblush like a guilty thing, especially as it followed a protractedsilence that had been disturbed only by the click of aunt Hannah'sknitting-needles. 

"Matter with me, aunt? Nothing. What makes you think of me at all?"

"Because it is my duty to think of you. Because there is need thatsome one should take care of you. "

"Of me?" said Mary, blushing to the temples, "what have I done, aunt?"

"What everything of womankind must do, sooner or later, I suppose, mypoor girl. "

"What is that, dear aunt?" faltered the girl. 

The old lady laid down her knitting, and leaned on the candle-standwith both her elbows; thus her aged face drew close to that of theyoung girl. 

"You have begun to love this artist youth, Mary Fuller!" she said, ina low whisper, for the very name of love pained her old heart as asudden shock sends veins of silver along a sheet of ice. "Don't cry, Mary; don't cry; it is a great misfortune, but no fault. How could youhelp it, poor child!"

"Oh! aunt Hannah, how did you find this out?" whispered theshame-stricken girl, "I thought"--

"That nobody knew it but yourself. Well, well, don't look sofrightened; it's no reason that others know it because I do. "

"And Joseph, do you think? do you believe? I would not think it for amoment, " she continued, with the most touching humility, "but hecannot fancy such a thing--and so I--I did not know but"--

"I think he loves you, Mary Fuller!" answered the old lady, breakingthrough her hesitating phrases, in womanly pity of her embarrassment. 

Mary started as if a blow had fallen upon her. 

"Oh! don't, don't, I dare not believe it. What? me?--me? Please don'tsay this, aunt Hannah, it makes the very heart quiver in my bosom. "

"I am sure he loves you, Mary, or I would not say it. Do I ever joke?Am I blind at heart?"

Mary Fuller covered her face, while great sobs of joy broke in herbosom, and rushed in tears to her eyes. 

"Oh! I am faint--I shall die of this great joy--but oh! if you shouldbe mistaken!"

"But I am _not_. How should _I_ be mistaken? When a mother buries herchild deep in the grave-yard, does she forget what mothers' love is?Those who forget their youth in happiness may be deceived. I nevercan!"

"And you think he loves me?"

Mary leaned forward and laid her clasped hands pleadingly on theknotted fingers of the old maid. 

Aunt Hannah looked down almost tenderly through her spectacles, and asmile crept over her mouth. 

"_I_ know he loves you. "

Mary Fuller's radiant face drooped forward at these words, and shefell to kissing these old hands eagerly, as if the knotted veins werefilled with honey dew upon which her heart feasted. 

"Stop, stop!" said aunt Hannah, withdrawing her hands, and laying themsoftly on the bowed head of her protege, "don't give way so; rememberJoseph is very feeble yet, from the fever that nearly cost him hislife, and that he has nothing to live on but what he calls his art;Nathan and I might help him, but we have only a few acres of land tolive on, and are getting older every day. There is not the strength ofone robust man among us all--to say nothing of the poor girl upstairs. "

"But he loves me. Oh! aunt, you are sure of that?"

"But how can he marry you, poor as he is, with no more power to workthan a child?"

"Marry me! I never thought of that, " said the girl, lifting her faceall in a glow from her hands, "but he will live here always, and sowill I. Morning and night, and all day long I shall see him, hear hismusic, watch the changes of his beautiful, beautiful face. You maygrow old as fast as you like, you and uncle Nat; I can support you, hewill teach me to paint pictures, and we can sell them in the city. Besides, Joseph can make music on the violin, and I have learned towrite it out on paper. The rich people in New York will give money formusic and pictures like his, I know; you shall not work so hard afterthis, aunt Hannah; and as for uncle Nat, he shall snooze in hiseasy-chair all day long if he likes. "

Aunt Hannah shook her head, and a mist stole over her spectacles. Shewas getting very childish in her old age, that stern old maid. 

"You are a nice girl, Mary, " she said, "and mean right, I know. ButJoseph will never be content to let you support him if you had thestrength. He is very manly and proud with all his softness. "

"I know it, aunt, but then remember I am like his sister. "

"But sisters do not support their brothers, and men do not like totake favors where they ought to give them. "

"Oh! aunt Hannah, you make me so unhappy. What difference can it makewhich does the work where two people love each other?"

"This, " answered the old maid; "women were born to look upward withtheir hearts and cling to others for support--men were made to givethis support. You cannot change places and be happy!"

"I see, I see, " murmured Mary Fuller, thoughtfully, "but Joseph willget well again; only think how much better he is since he came to theOld Homestead. "

That moment Joseph came in from the garden, where he had been walkingby himself, for the day was fine, and he loved to gratify his eye forcolors, even among the vegetable beds and coarse garden flowers, andhad been quietly enjoying them till the dusk drove him in-doors. 

Mary looked toward him wistfully. She remembered that for some days hehad seemed sad and preoccupied, going alone by himself and drawingonly sad strains from his violin. 

"Aunt Hannah, I am glad you are here, " said the youth, moving slowlytoward his seat by the stand; "I want to talk a little with you!"

Mary had drawn back as he came in; there was no candle lighted, andshe was lost in shadow. 

As he spoke, Mary started and would have gone out, but aunt Hannahextended her hands to prevent it, and the youth sat down sighingheavily, doubtless unconscious of her presence. Two or three times, aswas his habit when thoughtful, he drew the slender fingers of hisright hand through his hair, scattering the curls back on his temples. At length he spoke, but with hesitation. 

"Aunt!"

"Well, Joseph!" and the old lady began to knit. 

"Aunt, I come to say"--He paused, and drew the hand once or twiceacross his forehead, as if to sweep aside some inward pain. AuntHannah remained silent, knitting diligently. 

"I must go away from here, aunt; you have given me shelter when I mostneeded it. Now I must take to the world again. "

Mary listened with a sinking heart and parted lips that grew cold andwhite with each word. At last a wild sob arose in her throat, and theveins upon her forehead swelled with the effort she made to suppressit. 

"You wish to leave us, then?" questioned aunt Hannah, coldly, "andwhy?"

"My life is idle here, utterly idle and dependent. God did not smiteall the pride from my soul when he took my father. I cannot live onthe toil of two old people whom my own hands should support. "

"But you are welcome Joseph; and we love to have you with us. "

"I know it--still, this should make me only more anxious to relieveyour generosity of its burden. "

"This is not all, " said aunt Hannah, mildly, "you keep the principalreason back for leaving us, tell me what it is?"

"Perhaps I ought--though the reason I have given should be enough. Yes, aunt, there is another motive--do not laugh at my folly, that Icannot dwarf myself and become a helpless nonentity, without astruggle to grasp the blessings so much desired by other men. It hasbeen a happy time that I have known at the Old Homestead, still whathas it secured to me but unrest, and such disquiet as will follow methrough life, unless I work out a destiny for myself like other men?"

He broke off, hesitating for words, and a faint blush stole over hisface even in the darkness. 

Aunt Hannah felt his embarrassment, and had compassion on him. 

"I know all about it, " she said, quietly, "you love Mary Fuller. Sheis a good girl. Why not?"

"Why not?" exclaimed the youth, passionately, "I am penniless? Nay, itis more than probable that I may never be really strong again. "

"That is God's work, but no fault of yours!"

"But how can I support a wife? I who cannot earn bread for myself?"

"You wish to leave Mary then?"

"_Wish_ to leave her! Do the angels wish to flee from paradise, whenall its flowers are in blossom? No, bear with me, good aunt. It may befolly, but, I have some power. Let me try it. Every year sends a troopof persons to our country who turn their talent into gold. Why shouldnot I?"

"And what would you do then?" inquired the old lady. 

"What should I do!" exclaimed the youth, with enthusiasm. "Why, returnto you with the money I had earned, and, instead of a burden, become aprotector to your old age. "

"And Mary. "

"Then I could, without cowering with shame at my own helplessness, askher to love me even as I love her. "

"But how many years must go by before you can return to us? The bestpart of her life and yours will have passed before then. "

"I know it. I feel all the madness of my hopes. They are wild, insaneperhaps, but I will not give them up; do not ask me, do not discourageme. Why must I, with my heart and brain alive like other men's, liveand die alone?"

Aunt Hannah looked towards Mary Fuller, who sat trembling in thedarkness. The triumphant consciousness that she was beloved, overwhelmed the girl with a pleasure so exquisite that it almostamounted to pain. Still she felt like a criminal stealing the secretof her own happiness, but the shadows were too thick; aunt Hannah sawnothing of this. 

"And now, " said the youth, more calmly, "you will let me depart, or Ishall speak out the love which is becoming too powerful forconcealment. I shall tell her that the beggar loves her and dreams ofmaking her his wife. "

Mary arose, the joy at her heart swelled painfully, and her delicateframe trembled beneath it. She would gladly have crept from the roomwith her sweet burden of happiness, but this excitement had beencontinued too long; her limbs gave way and she sank to the floor. 

"Who is here? what is this?" cried the youth; "has another heard mymad confession?"

"_I_ heard it all, forgive me, forgive me. I could not go out; at thefirst attempt my strength gave way"--

"You heard me?" questioned the youth, pale and trembling. "You heardall that I said. Girl, girl, you have stolen the secret from my heartto despise me for it. "

Mary Fuller rose to her feet, and drew towards him. The beauty of anangel glowed in her face; it was bright with holy courage. 

"Despise you for it! I, who love you so much!"

"Love me! Stop, Mary, do not say this if it is not holy truth, such asone honest heart may render to another. "

"It is holy truth. Take my hands in yours. See how they quiver withthe joy of your words. "

"But I am poor, Mary Fuller, I am stricken in all my strength. "

"And I, what am I?"

"Oh, you are an angel. I know you are that!"

"No, no!" cried the poor girl, covering her face with her hands. 

"But you are. I drink in beauty from your voice, there is beauty inyour touch. Oh! how I love to hear you talk, it was music to me fromthe first day I ever saw you. "

"Oh, forbear, forbear, it is Isabel you are describing, " said Mary, shrinking away from him. "Oh! she is all this and more. "

"Hush, Mary, hush; I feel the tones of your voice thrilling throughand through me. This is the best beauty I can comprehend. When youdisclaim it, I hear the tears breaking up through your voice, and itgrows heavenly in its sadness. Your beauty is immortal, it can nevergrow old!"

The youth paused, and turned towards aunt Hannah, for his quick sensehad caught the sobs that she was striving to smother by burying herface in her folded arms. Many a stern grief and sore trial had wrungthat aged heart, but for a quarter of a century she had not weptheartily before. As she looked on these young persons, and witnessedthe first rich joy of their love, her heart gave way. The memories ofher youth came back, and in the fullness of her regrets she cried likea child. 

Mary Fuller withdrew her hand from her lover, and moving close to auntHannah, stole her arm around her neck. 

"Aunt, dear aunt, look up and tell Joseph that he must not leave us. Tell him how strong I am to work for us all. "

Aunt Hannah lifted her face, and swept the grey locks back from hertemples. 

"What day of the month is this?" asked the old lady, standing up andspeaking in a subdued voice; "it should be near the tenth ofNovember. "

"To-morrow will be the tenth, " answered Mary. 

"Stay together while I go talk with Isabel. " With these words the oldwoman went up stairs feebly, as if her tears had swept all thestrength from her frame. 

Mary and her lover sat down by the hearth and fell into a sweetfragmentary conversation. Soft low words and broken sentences, theoverflow of two hearts brimful of happiness alone, passed betweenthem. A strange timidity crept over them. Neither dared approach thesubject of a separation, though both were saddened by it. 

Aunt Hannah came down at last, calmer, and with more of her usual coldmanner. 

"Help me, " said Mary, appealing to her; "oh! aunt, persuade him tostay with us!"

"To-morrow will be time enough, " was the answer. "Go away, now, andGod bless you both!"

Never in her whole life had the voice of aunt Hannah sounded so deepwith meaning, so solemn in its earnestness. It was seldom that sheever blessed any one aloud, or entered, save passively, into thedevotions of the family--now her benediction had the energy of anearnest soul in it. The very tones of her voice were changed. Sheseemed to have thrown off the icy crust from her heart, and breatheddeeper for it. 

Mary and Joseph went out, and sat down together in the starlight, thatfell softly upon them through the apple boughs. They had so manythings to say, and confessions to make; each was timidly anxious tosearch the heart of the other, and read all the sweet hidden mysteriesthat seemed fathomless there. 

Meanwhile aunt Hannah went into the out-room--that in which her sisterAnna died, and kneeling down, with her hands pressed on the bottom ofa chair, broke into a passion so deep and earnest that her whole frameshook with the agony of her struggle. She arose at length and began towalk the floor, wringing her hands and moaning as if in pain. Thus shetoiled and struggled in prayer all night, for it was the anniversaryof her sister's anguish and death. Many a softening influence hadcrept into that frozen nature, with the young persons who broughttheir joys and their sorrows beneath her roof, and now came the solemnbreaking up of her heart. She learned the true method of atonement inthe stillness of that nightwatch. It was the regeneration of a soul. 

When the day broke, she stole up to Isabel Chester's room, and kissedher pallid cheeks as she slept. "Be comforted, " she said, smiling downupon the unconscious face; "be comforted, for the day of your joy isat hand. "

CHAPTER XLIX. 

THE DOUBLE BIRTH-DAY. 

 Brother awake--my soul is strong with pain-- And humbled with a night of solemn prayer, Never--oh, never, can I rest again, Till restitution lifts me from despair!

When aunt Hannah entered uncle Nathan's room he was sound asleep, witha smile upon his half-open mouth, and two large arms folded lovinglyover his head, as if a sweet morning nap were the most, exquisiteenjoyment known to him. For a moment aunt Hannah stood by the bed-sidewith her eyes, full of dark trouble, fixed upon his serene face. Whenhad she slept so tranquilly? would she ever know an hour of innocent, child-like slumber like that again?

"Nathan--brother Nathan, " she said, in a husky voice that aroused theold man from its very strangeness; "get up--I have something for youto do. "

"Why, Hannah, " said the old man, rubbing his eyes like a great fatchild, "am I late? what is the matter? just give me my clothes there, and I'll be up before you can get the breakfast on the table. I'm verysorry, very sorry, indeed; but somehow, I couldn't seem to get asleep, last night, tired as I was--you know what night it was. Old times keepme awake nights, Hannah, I think so much just now of poor littleAnna!"

"It isn't late, Nathan, " answered the sister, still in her hoarse, unnatural voice, "but I want you to go up the street, and ask ourminister to come here at ten o'clock. "

"The minister! why, what for, sister Hannah? You ain't gettinganxious, nor nothing--I thought the day of regeneration had come, longago, with both of us. "

"Do not ask me questions, now, brother, but get up and go my errand. "

"Yes, yes, of course, " answered uncle Nat, eyeing the pale face beforehim, anxiously; "I'll do anything that's best. "

"When you have seen the minister, go down to Mrs. Farnham's, and askthem all to come--Mr. Farnham, his mother, and Salina. After that callfor Judge Sharp. "

"Do you want them at ten?"

"Yes!"

Aunt Hannah went out, and from that hour till after nine, was shut upalone in the out-room. The family sat down to breakfast without her, marvelling why she chose to fast, that morning, all but uncleNathan--he remembered that it was the anniversary of his sister'sdeath; and when he came in from the performance of his errands, therewas a gentle look of tenderness on his face that made those aroundlong to comfort him. 

After breakfast aunt Hannah came forth, still very pale, but with alook of serene resolution that no one had ever observed on her facebefore. 

"Children, " she said, addressing Joseph and Mary Fuller, "tell me, once again, that you love one another. "

"We do--we do?" cried the young pair, lifting their faces, full ofholy sunshine, to hers, while their hands crept together, andintertwined unconsciously. 

"And you would be glad to marry this girl, Joseph?"

"Marry her!" exclaimed the youth, trembling from head to foot, "howdare I--how can I?"

"Answer me, Joseph, yes or no, would it make you happy, if within anhour, this girl could be your wife, to live with you, and love you forever and ever?"

"So happy, " cried the youth, flushing red to the temples, "so happythat I dare not think of it. "

"And you, Mary Fuller?" she questioned, moving close to the shrinkinggirl, and speaking in a low voice, impelled to gentleness by womanlycompassion. 

"Oh, do not ask me, dear, dear aunt! you know how it is with me, Ihave not dared to think of this. "

Aunt Hannah bent down, and kissed that portion of the burning foreheadwhich Mary's hands had left uncovered. 

Mary started, and lifted her moist eyes in amazement. Scarcely in herlife had she seen that cold woman kiss any one before. 

Aunt Hannah looked kindly into her eyes, and laying a hand on herhead, addressed Joseph. 

"This child is not beautiful, my son, " she said, "but she hassomething in her face, this moment, worth all the beauty in theworld. "

"I know it; I feel the sunshine of her presence, " answered the youth. 

"It is this that troubles her; she fears that, in your love forbeautiful things, she will not always please you. "

Joseph reached forth his arms and drew the shrinking girl to hisbosom. 

"Don't tremble--don't cry, Mary, you are in my heart, and that isflooded with beauty; what else do I want?"

Mary sobbed out the tenderness and gratitude that filled her bosom ina few low murmurs, that had no meaning, save to the heart over whichthey were uttered. 

Aunt Hannah turned to uncle Nathan. 

"Is it not best, my brother, that two creatures who love each other somuch should be married?"

Uncle Nathan was busy wiping the tears from his brown eyes, that werefull of tender light as those of a rabbit. It was seldom that he awoketo a sense of worldly wisdom; but the helplessness of the youngcreatures before him, for once overcame his benevolence. 

"Oh, Hannah, what would become of them when we get too old for work?"

"We are too old, now, " answered the sister, "but put all this on oneside. If you and I were rich enough to make them and theirscomfortable, what would you say then?"

"What would I say--why, God bless them and multiply them upon the faceof the earth! That's what I would say!"

"And I, " responded aunt Hannah, solemnly, "would answer amen!"

With a dignity that was very impressive, she took the clasped hands ofthe youth and maiden between both hers and once more she uttered theword "amen"

All this time Isabel Chester, pale and feeble from illness, sat in aneasy-chair upon the hearth, filled with self-compassion, and yetfeeling a generous pleasure that others could be happy though she wasso very desolate. Thus ten o'clock drew on, and the clergyman knockedat the front door. 

Aunt Hannah stood stiffly upright for a moment, as if nerving herself, then, turned toward the family. 

"Come!" she said. "It is twenty-one years to-day, since our sisterdied, come!"

CHAPTER L. 

EXPLANATIONS AND EXPEDIENTS. 

 It was a scene of solemn power and force, That woman, standing there, with marble face, As cold and still as any sheeted corse, The martyr herald of her own disgrace. 

Meantime another strange scene was going on at the Farnham mansion. Onthat day young Farnham was of age. His mother was to give up her trustas associate guardian, and for the first time in his life, the youngman would have a right to question and act for himself. 

The counsellor whom Mrs. Farnham had summoned from the city--a shrewd, unscrupulous lawyer, was present with his accounts. The young man heldthese documents in his hand, with an angry flush upon his brow. 

"And so this testament left me still a slave!" he exclaimed, passionately. "In all things where a man should be free as thought, Iam bound eternally. "

"You were only required not to marry against this lady's consent, "answered the lawyer; "in all things else, as I am informed, this greatproperty, subject to the lady's dower of course, was left to yourcontrol. "

"In all things else!" exclaimed the youth, bitterly. "Why, this iseverything. "

"Certainly, certainly, " answered the lawyer, "you see now the greatself-sacrifice made by this inestimable lady, when she destroyed thewill, leaving you encumbered only with a moral obligation"

"Which she knew to be fifty times as binding, " said Farnham, glancingsternly at his mother. 

"Yes, yes; I knew that your sense of honor would be stronger thanfifty legal documents like that; I depended on your generosity, Frederick; I drew a medium between the legal tyrant that your papamade me, and the powerless mother. Fred is noble, I argued; he lovedhis father; he will not bow to the law, but will fling all thisfortune back into my lap. I will burn the will and trust to his senseof duty. There was a medium, sir, you comprehend all its delicateoutlines, I trust. "

This was said blandly to the lawyer, who bowed with a look of profoundappreciation. 

Farnham stood up firmly. "Mother, in this thing there is no mediumbetween right and wrong. If my father left his property to me, hisonly child, on these conditions they must be enforced. " He hesitatedan instant, the crimson mounted to his temples, and he added in aclear, low voice, "madam, will you say upon your solemn word of honor, that this was the purport of the will you have burned?"

Mrs. Farnham turned white, her eyes fell, she trembled beneath thesearching glance of her son. 

"I--I cannot remember word for word, but as surely as I standhere, the property would have never been yours by the will, without--without"--

"Enough, " said the young man, "enough that you have said it once, Isubmit to the will of my father. "

"And you give up this girl. Dear, dear, Frederick!"

"No, madam; I give up the property. You have made us equal; Isabelwould have refused me with this wealth; she will not find the heart toreject me now. "

"Frederick, you are--yes--if this gentleman permits, I must sayit--you are an ingrate!"

"My guardian must be informed of this will and its conditions, " saidFarnham. 

"I expected this!" exclaimed Mrs. Farnham, addressing the lawyer; "noregard for his mother, no respect for his dear father's memory. Yousee, my friend, what a trial I have had!"

The lawyer looked keenly at young Farnham. 

"You had better let this subject rest, " he said; "it has been wellmanaged so far; leave it with this good lady and myself. "

"There seems no need of management here, " was the firm answer; "myfather's will must be carried out. "

"Let me act between you and your gentle mamma, dear sir. She mustyield a little, I see. You have a fancy, I am told, for the young ladywho has been so long an object of her bounty. Suppose your mother canbe induced to withdraw her objections to the match, on condition thatyou let this matter of the will rest. It is so unpleasant to asensitive nature like hers, this raking up of buried troubles. Consentto let them rest as they are, and I will undertake to gain consent toyour marriage with this--I must admit--very beautiful young creature. Say, is it settled?"

"Not yet, or thus, " answered the young man, firmly; "I have analternative, and I solemnly believe the only one which will win thisnoble girl to become my wife. Instead of embezzling my father'sproperty, which does not belong to me, if I marry her, I can renouncethat which brings so cruel an incumbrance. "

"But you will not, " said the lawyer. 

"Yes, if it is necessary to gain Isabel Chester, I will!" answered theyouth. 

"In that case you know the property will become your mother's!"

The young man looked suddenly and searchingly on his mother. His heartrose indignantly. He could not force himself to respect that woman!

"Have you decided?" inquired the lawyer, smiling. 

"Not till I have seen Isabel, " answered the youth, looking at hiswatch. "Madam, it is half-past nine, and I think we promised that oldman to be at his Homestead at ten; Isabel Chester is there. In herpresence you shall hear my decision. "

Mrs. Farnham looked at the lawyer, who almost imperceptibly bent hishead, and she rang the bell for Salina to bring her shawl and bonnet. 

Directly the strong-minded one came with an oriental cashmere thrownover one arm, and a costly bonnet perched on her right hand. 

"It's time for us to be a-going if we ever expect to get there, now Itell you, " she said, tossing the lady's garments into her lap, andtying her own calico hood with superfluous energy; "aunt Hannah ispunctual as the clock, and expects others to be so, too. Come!"

The lawyer had risen, and was quietly fitting a pair of dark gloves tohis hands directly in range of Mrs. Farnham's eye who could not choosebut remark the contrast between those white hands and the dark kid, while she coquetted with the folds of her shawl. 

"Come!" repeated Salina, thrusting her arm through that of the lawyer, and bearing him forward in spite of all opposition. "Just a beauapiece. Mr. Farnham will take care of the old lady, and I can getalong with you. Half a loaf is better than no bread, at any time. So, for want of a better, I'm content. "

The lawyer would have rebelled when once out-of-doors, but youngFarnham had placed himself near his mother, and was walking by herside with so stern a brow, that he resolved to submit, and, ifpossible, glean some intelligence from Salina about the object oftheir visit to the Homestead; but that exemplary female was as muchpuzzled as himself, and they reached the Homestead mutuallydiscontented. 

"This way--take a seat in the out-room till I go call Miss Hannah, "cried Salina, pushing open the front door that grated and groaned asif reluctant to admit such guests. "This door!"

Salina pushed the out-room door open as she spoke, and to her surprisefound not only aunt Hannah, but the whole family. Mary Fuller, Joseph, Isabel Chester, the two old people, and, what was most remarkable, aclergyman of the church at which uncle Nat and his sister worshipped. Judge Sharp came in a moment later. 

"Sit down, " said aunt Hannah formally, and in a suppressed voice, asif they had been invited to a funeral. Then as the party rangedthemselves in the stiff, wooden chairs, chilled by the silence andgravity of everything they saw, aunt Hannah drew close to Joseph, whosat by Mary, and said to them both in a serious gentle way:

"Have faith in me, children. "

"We have, we have!" they murmured together with a firmer clasp of thehands. 

"Remember I have promised, now be ready!"

They both began to tremble, and a thrill of strange delight ran fromframe to frame, kindling its way through their clasped fingers. 

Aunt Hannah turned towards her guests, her upright figure took an airof dignity, her dark eyes lighted up and scanned the faces of herguests firmly, they dwelt longer upon the withered features of Mrs. Farnham, and a cold smile crept over her lips as she said, "We have invited you to a wedding. It is now time, Joseph, Mary!"

The young couple stood up, still holding each other by the hands. Theceremony commenced, and it was remarkable that when the clergyman cameto that portion which commands any one that can make objections torender them then, or henceforth hold his peace, aunt Hannah held upher hand that he might pause, and stepping in front of Mrs. Farnham, said in a low stern voice, "Have you any objections?"

"_Me_!" exclaimed the lady with a sneer. "What do I care about them!"

"Then you are willing that the ceremony goes on?" persisted thesingular woman, without a change of voice or attitude. 

"What earthly objection can I have? of course the ceremony may go on, what are these people to me?"

The ceremony went on, and with a deep breath of such joy as few humanbeings ever know, the husband and wife sat down, almost faint withexcess of emotion. 

Isabel Chester had been sitting apart from the group, passive andfeeble, but now and then lifting her great mournful eyes with a lookof unuttered misery to the face of young Farnham. 

The first of these eloquent glances brought him to her side. 

"Isabel, I will give up all, I came to renounce everything but you, "he whispered. 

She shook her head mournfully and glanced with a shudder towards Mrs. Farnham. 

"Poor or rich I cannot marry her son. It may kill me, but my oath, myoath! let me rest, let me rest"--

She drew her hand wearily across her forehead and her bright eyesfilled with tears. 

"But you are sorry for this oath, my Isabel?"

"Sorry, it is killing me. "

He looked down upon the white folds of her muslin wrapper, brightenedas they were by the crimson glow of a dressing-gown that flowed overit. He saw how thin she had grown, how like wax her delicate hand layupon the crimson of her dress, and how mournfully large her eyes hadbecome. 

"This shall not be, it is madness!" he exclaimed aloud andpassionately. "Mother I"--

"Hush!" said aunt Hannah, silencing him with her uplifted hand, "let_me_ speak!"

She moved a step forward, standing almost in the centre of the room, with Mrs. Farnham and her lawyer friend on the left, and the clergymanwho stood near the newly married pair on her right. All had a fullview of her face. Her features seemed harder than ever--the expressionon them was stern as granite. Her eyes burned with a settled purpose, and her whole person was imposing. 

For a moment, when all eyes were bent upon her she seemed to falter;you could see by the choking in her throat and a spasmodic gripe ofher fingers, that the struggle for her first words was agony. 

But she did speak, and her voice was so hoarse that it struck thosearound her with amazement; nay, a look of awe stole over the facesturned so earnestly towards her. 

"Twenty-one years ago last night, I committed a great wrong in theface of God and the law, " she said; "that woman, " here she lifted herlong, boney finger and pointed it towards Mrs. Farnham, "that womanhad wronged me and the being I loved better than myself, and thisfilled me with a heathenish thirst for vengeance upon her. "

"Me! me! why, did you ever--I never wronged a creature in my wholelife--you know how bland and gentle I always am!" whimpered that lady. 

"Be still!" interposed aunt Hannah in the same deep voice. "Thehusband of that woman was betrothed to me in my youth. "

"I'll never believe that, never--never!" cried Mrs. Farnham, flushingup angrily. 

"Peace, I say, and do not interrupt me again. My parents died leavingAnna, a little girl pretty as an angel, for Nathan and I to take careof; she was the dearest, loveliest little thing. "

"I'll take my Bible oath of that, " cried Salina, reddening suddenlyaround the eyes, "I never set eyes on anything half so purty in mylife. "

"I gave up all for this child, and so did Nathan; we both agreed tolive single for her sake and be parents to her. "

"More fools you, " muttered Salina, "as if uncle Nat's wife couldn'tand wouldn't have taken care of a dozen such children, that is, ifhe'd only had sense enough to choose a smart--but what's the use, it'sall over now. "

This was said in a muttered undertone, and aunt Hannah went on withoutheeding it. 

"It was a hard struggle, for I was young then, and loved the man Iexpected to spend my life with--Nathan too"--

"No matter about me, Hannah, don't mention anything I did; it was hardat the time, but one gets used to almost everything, " cried the oldman, wiping the tears from his eyes with a cotton handkerchief thatSalina handed to him, her own eyes flushing redder and redder fromsympathy. 

"I need not speak of him, " commenced aunt Hannah, with one look at herbrother's face. "He did his duty; if I had done mine as well, thishour of shame would not have brought me where I am. 

"The child grew up into a beautiful girl--so beautiful and with suchsweet ways, that it did one good only to look at her, but she waswillful too, and loved play; wild as a kitten she was, but as harmlesstoo. 

"She would go out to work; we tried to stop it, but the child wouldgo; Salina there, kept house for old Mrs. Farnham; they wanted help tospin up the wool and Anna went. She came back engaged to Mr. Farnham. I forgave her, God is my judge; I did not hate the child forsupplanting me in the only love I ever hoped to know. It was a hardtrial, but I bore it without a single bitter thought toward either ofthem. It nearly killed me, but I did my duty by the child. 

"He went to the city, for he had gone into business there, and wasgetting rich. Time went fast with him and slow with us. In the end hemarried that woman. Anna went wild when she knew it, and like awounded bird fled to the first open heart for shelter. She marriedtoo, and in a single year died here in this room. "

"I remember it, oh! how well I remember it, " sobbed Salina, whileuncle Nat covered his face with both hands and wept aloud. 

"It was an awful night. Thunder shook the Old Homestead, and the windsrocked it as if death were rocking her to sleep; across them windowscame the lightning, flash after flash, as if the angels of heaven wereshooting fiery arrows over her as she breathed her last. Salina wasthere, but no doctor. He was at Mrs. Farnham's mansion up yonder, forthat night her only son was born. 

"He came at last, to find her dead body lying there, cold and pale inthe lightning flashes that broke against the windows. He found mealone with my dead sister, numb with sorrow, dead at the heart. 

"After this Salina brought Anna's baby and laid it in my lap. Thedoctor had ordered her home. The rich man's wife could not beneglected. "

"But I wouldn't have gone, you know I wouldn't for anything he couldsay, " cried Salina, firing up amid her tears. "If you hadn't said go, all the doctors on arth couldn't have made me stir a foot!"

"Yes, I told you to go, but it was in bitterness of heart; why shouldI with that living soul in my lap, and that cold body before me, keepyou from the rich woman's couch? Farnham's heir must be kept warm, while ours lay wailing and shivering in my lap. 

"I was left alone amid the lightning and thunder and the noise of therain; my poor dead sister seemed to call out from the clouds, that Ishould help her spirit free from the raging of the tempest--I thinkall this worked on my brain, for I sat and looked on the babe with astillness that seemed to last for months. I thought of her brokenlife--of the poverty she had felt--of that which must follow herchild. I thought of that woman, so paltry, so mean, so utterlyunworthy of care, pampered with wealth, comforted with love, while mysister, so much her better in everything had died of neglect, Ithought of many things, not connectedly, but in a wild bitter moodthat made me fierce under the wrongs that had been heaped upon us. Itis impossible for me to say how the idea came first, but I resolvedthat her child should not be the sufferer. His father was miserablypoor, but he would not, I knew, give up his child. I did not reason, but these thoughts flashed through my brain, and with them came animpulse to give her child the destiny which Anna's should escape. Itore a blanket from the bed; poor Anna did not need it then. I wrappedit about the child and went forth into the storm. The lightning blazedalong my path, and the thunder boomed over me like minute guns when afuneral is in motion. 

"I knew the house well, and stole in through the back door onward tothe half-lighted chamber of Farnham's wife. Her son lay in a sumptuouscrib under a cloud of lace. I laid Anna's babe on the floor and tookthis one from its silken nest. My hands were cold and trembling, butthe dresses were soon changed, and in a few minutes I went out withFarnham's heir rolled up in my blanket, and Anna's child sleepingsweetly in the cradle that I had robbed. "

Mrs. Farnham started up, pale and trembling. 

"What, what! my child rolled up in a blanket! a mean, coarse blanket!"

"Be still, " commanded aunt Hannah; "your child has had nothing butcoarse blankets all his life; but he is all the better for that; askhim if I have not toiled that he and the good man who brought him upmight never want; but I was a feeble woman and could do no more--awoman weighed down by a sense of the crime which I might repent ofdaily, but could not force myself to confess. "

"But my child! where is my child, you horrible kidnapper?" cried Mrs. Farnham. "I will know--but remember, if he's been brought up amongcommon people and all that, I never will own him. "

"Your son, " said aunt Hannah, going gently toward Joseph Esmond, andlaying her hand on his shoulder. "This is your son; he is worthy ofany mother's love. "

"My son, and married to that thing! I never will own him, don't askme, I never will!" cried the excited woman, eyeing the youth, disdainfully. "He is handsome enough, but I cannot own him for myson!"

"Mother, " said the youth, rising and coming forward, with both handsextended. "Mother, why will you not love me?"

She had gathered up her shawl, haughtily, and was about to leave theroom; but his voice struck upon her like a spell; the folds of hershawl dropt downward, and for once, yielding to a warm, naturalimpulse, she burst into a passion of tears, and received the youth inher arms. 

"Oh, mother, bear with me; you would, did you know how I have pinedfor a mother's love. "

She did not speak, but kissed his forehead two or three times, and satdown subdued, with gentler affections than she had ever shown before. 

"Not only to me, mother, but to my wife. Will you not love my wife?"

Mary was drawn forward, for one arm of her husband was around her, andstood with downcast eyes and flushed cheeks, waiting for the repulse, which seemed inevitable. 

Mrs. Farnham looked at him, and something of the old scorn curled herlip. Mary slowly lifted her eyes, full of meek solicitude, and evenher mother-in-law's heart was touched. 

"Well, well, make him a good wife, and I'll try to love you. "

"I, " said the youth, whom we have known as young Farnham--"I have nolonger a mother. "

"No, " said uncle Nat, arising and opening his arms; "but you have anold uncle and aunt that will divide their last crust with you. Sister, sister, he looks like Anna, now, with the tears in his eyes. "

Aunt Hannah turned; it was the first time in her life that she hadever looked her nephew full in the face, and now a consciousness ofthe wrong she had done made her timid; she stood before him withdowncast eyes, trembling and afraid. 

"My aunt, will you not look upon me?"

"I have wronged you, " she said. "How will you bear hard work andwant?"

"Ask Isabel if she thinks I cannot bear them with her. "

Isabel stood up; her strength came back with the sudden joy thatoverwhelmed her, and she held forth her hand to the youth, radiant asan angel. He led her towards Mrs. Farnham. 

"Mother, you will not repulse us, now, when we are alike in condition. Give us your blessing before we go forth on our struggle with theworld. "

All that was good in that woman's nature broke forth with the firstgush of true maternal love; for a moment she forgot herself and heldout her hand. 

"Oh, Fred! I hate to give you up altogether; but, then, I really amnot your mother. Don't you see it in his bright hair? in thosebeautiful eyes?--we ought to have known he was my son by his face. But, only think of that horrid woman's bringing him up among all thoselow people; but she could not make him like them. There is a medium inblood, you see. But, when, you took so naturally to our life; really, I don't see my way clear yet!"

"But won't you speak to Isabel, mother?"

"Isabel! dear me, I should not know her. How do you do, my dear?Certainly, it's very proper and right that you should marry Fred, now!It's quite like a romance. Isn't it? Of course, all my objections areremoved. "

"And my vow, " whispered Isabel; "thank God, we are as free as two wildbirds!"

"And as poor, " answered Frederick, smiling, while a shade of sadnesssettled on Joseph Esmond's face. 

"Not quite so bad as that, " said Judge Sharp, stepping forward with ablackened and scorched paper in his hand, "Young man, on this yourcommon birth-day, you have attained legal manhood. By Mr. Farnham'swill, which has but lately come into my hands, I find myself calledupon to resign my guardianship over you both; for--with the exceptionof his widow's dower, and ten thousand dollars left to this younglady, Isabel Chester, with direction that she should be brought up andeducated in his own family--Mr. Farnham's property was divided equallybetween his own son and the son of Joseph and Anna Esmond. I rejoiceat this, and congratulate you, young man. You have each proved worthy, and God has blessed you. "

A flush of beautiful joy drove the gloom from Esmond's face. He aroseand held out his hand. 

"Farnham! Farnham! wish me joy. You can wish me joy, now. "

Every heart rose warmly as the young men shook hands, and all eyeswere so blinded with happy tears, that no one observed Mrs. Farnham asshe shrunk cowering in a corner of the room. Even Judge Sharp avoidedlooking that way, and Salina planted herself before the pallid woman, expanding her scant skirts, till they swelled out like a half-openumbrella, in a prompt effort to screen that guilty form. 

"Young men!" and as he spoke Judge Sharp assumed a look of more thanordinary dignity. "Thank God, that in this great change, he left youto the influences which have best developed the powers within you. Now, go forth, my children, with the fair wives you have chosen, andalways remember, that the trials of early life should give strengthand power to manhood. "

 THE END.