.dt Proverb Stories, by Louisa M. Alcott-A Project Gutenberg eBook
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<xxl><sc>Proverb Stories.</sc></xxl>
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BY

<xl>LOUISA M. ALCOTT,</xl>

<s>AUTHOR OF “SILVER PITCHERS,” “LITTLE WOMEN,” “AN OLD-FASHIONED
GIRL,” “LITTLE MEN,” “EIGHT COUSINS,” “ROSE IN BLOOM,”
“UNDER THE LILACS,” “JACK AND JILL,” “WORK, A
STORY OF EXPERIENCE,” “MOODS, A NOVEL,”
“HOSPITAL SKETCHES,” “AUNT JO’S
SCRAP-BAG.”</s>
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<xl>LONDON:</xl>

<l>SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON,</l>
<s><sc>Crown Buildings, 188 Fleet Street</sc>.</s>

1882.
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PREFACE.
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<sc>Being</sc> forbidden to write anything at present
I have collected various waifs and strays to appease
the young people who clamor for more,
forgetting that mortal brains need rest.

As many girls have asked to see what sort of
tales Jo March wrote at the beginning of her
career, I have added “The Baron’s Gloves,” as a
sample of the romantic rubbish which paid so well
once upon a time. If it shows them what <i>not</i> to
write it will not have been rescued from oblivion
in vain.
.rj
L. M. ALCOTT.
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CONTENTS.
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 | <s>PAGE</s>

<sc>Kitty’s Class Day</sc> | #5:ch01#

<sc>Aunt Kipp</sc> | #26:ch02#

<sc>Psyche’s Art</sc> | #55:ch03#

<sc>A Country Christmas</sc> | #84:ch04#

<sc>On Picket Duty</sc> | #124:ch05#

<sc>The Baron’s Gloves</sc> | #156:ch06#

<sc>My Red Cap</sc> | #251:ch07#

<sc>What the Bells Saw and Said</sc> | #271:ch08#
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<xxl>PROVERB STORIES.</xxl>
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KITTY’S CLASS DAY.||<s>“A stitch in time saves nine.”</s>
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“O PRIS, Pris, I’m really going! Here’s the invitation—rough
paper—Chapel—spreads—Lyceum Hall—everything splendid; and Jack to take care
of me!”

As Kitty burst into the room and performed a rapturous
<i>pas seul</i>, waving the cards over her head, sister
Priscilla looked up from her work with a smile of satisfaction
on her quiet face.

“Who invites you, dear?”

“Why, Jack, of course,—dear old cousin Jack.
Nobody else ever thinks of me, or cares whether I have
a bit of pleasure now and then. Isn’t he kind? Mayn’t
I go? and, O Pris, what <i>shall</i> I wear?”

Kitty paused suddenly, as if the last all-important
question had a solemnizing effect upon both mind and
body.

“Why, your white muslin, silk sacque, and new hat,
of course,” began Pris with an air of surprise. But
Kitty broke in impetuously,—

“I’ll never wear that old muslin again; it’s full of
darns, up to my knees, and all out of fashion. So is
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my sacque; and as for my hat, though it does well
enough here, it would be absurd for Class Day.”

“You don’t expect an entirely new suit for this occasion,—do
you?” asked Pris, anxiously.

“Yes, I do, and I’ll tell you how I mean to get it.
I’ve planned everything; for, though I hardly dreamed
of going, I amused myself by thinking how I could
manage if I <i>did</i> get invited.”

“Let us hear.” And Pris took up her work with an
air of resignation.

“First, my dress,” began Kitty, perching herself on
the arm of the sofa, and entering into the subject with
enthusiasm. “I’ve got the ten dollars grandpa sent me,
and with eight of it I’m going to buy Lizzie King’s
organdie muslin. She got it in Paris; but her aunt providentially—no,
unfortunately—died; so she can’t wear
it, and wants to get rid of it. She is bigger than I am,
you know; so there is enough for a little mantle or
sacque, for it isn’t made up. The skirt is cut off and
gored, with a splendid train—”

“My dear, you don’t mean you are going to wear
one of those absurd, new-fashioned dresses?” exclaimed
Pris, lifting hands and eyes.

“I do! Nothing would induce me to go to Class
Day without a train. It’s been the desire of my heart
to have one, and now I <i>will</i>, if I never have another
gown to my back!” returned Kitty, with immense
decision.

Pris shook her head, and said, “Go on!” as if prepared
for any extravagance after that.

“We can make it ourselves,” continued Kitty, “and
trim it with the same. It’s white with blue stripes and
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daisies in the stripes; the loveliest thing you ever saw,
and can’t be got here. So simple, yet distingué, I know
you’ll like it. Next, my bonnet,”—here the solemnity
of Kitty’s face and manner was charming to behold.
“I shall make it out of one of my new illusion undersleeves.
I’ve never worn them; and the puffed part
will be a plenty for a little fly-away bonnet of the latest
style. I’ve got blue ribbons to tie it with, and have
only to look up some daisies for the inside. With my
extra two dollars I shall buy my gloves, and pay my
fares,—and there I am, all complete.”

She looked so happy, so pretty, and full of girlish satisfaction,
that sister Pris couldn’t bear to disturb the little
plan, much as she disapproved of it. They were poor,
and every penny had to be counted. There were plenty
of neighbors to gossip and criticize, and plenty of friends
to make disagreeable remarks on any unusual extravagance.
Pris saw things with the prudent eyes of thirty,
but Kitty with the romantic eyes of seventeen; and the
elder sister, in the kindness of her heart, had no wish
to sadden life to those bright young eyes, or deny the
child a harmless pleasure. She sewed thoughtfully for
a minute, then looked up, saying, with the smile that
always assured Kitty the day was won,—

“Get your things together, and we will see what can
be done. But remember, dear, that it is both bad taste
and bad economy for poor people to try to ape the rich.”

“You’re a perfect angel, Pris; so don’t moralize.
I’ll run and get the dress, and we’ll begin at once, for
there is much to do, and only two days to do it in.”
And Kitty skipped away, singing “Lauriger Horatius,”
at the top of her voice.
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Priscilla soon found that the girl’s head was completely
turned by the advice and example of certain fashionable
young neighbors. It was in vain for Pris to remonstrate
and warn.

“Just this once let me do as others do, and thoroughly
enjoy myself,” pleaded Kitty; and Pris yielded,
saying to herself, “She shall have her wish, and if she
learns a lesson, neither time nor money will be lost.”

So they snipped and sewed, and planned and pieced,
going through all the alternations of despair and triumph,
worry and satisfaction, which women undergo when a
new suit is under way. Company kept coming, for
news of Kitty’s expedition had flown abroad, and her
young friends must just run in to hear about it, and ask
what she was going to wear; while Kitty was so glad
and proud to tell, and show, and enjoy her little triumph
that many half hours were wasted, and the second day
found much still to do.

The lovely muslin didn’t hold out, and Kitty sacrificed
the waist to the train, for a train she must have or the
whole thing would be an utter failure. A little sacque
was eked out, however, and when the frills were on, it
was “ravishing,” as Kitty said, with a sigh of mingled
delight and fatigue. The gored skirt was a fearful job,
as any one who has ever plunged into the mysteries will
testify; and before the facing, even experienced Pris
quailed.

The bonnet also was a trial, for when the lace was
on, it was discovered that the ribbons didn’t match the
dress. Here was a catastrophe! Kitty frantically
rummaged the house, the shops, the stores of her friends,
and rummaged in vain. There was no time to send to
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the city, and despair was about to fall on Kitty, when
Pris rescued her by quietly making one of the small
sacrifices which were easy to her because her life was
spent for others. Some one suggested a strip of blue
illusion,—and that could be got; but, alas! Kitty had
no money, for the gloves were already bought. Pris
heard the lamentations, and giving up fresh ribbons for
herself, pulled her sister out of a slough of despond with
two yards of “heavenly tulle.”

“Now the daisies; and oh, dear me, not one can I
find in this poverty-stricken town,” sighed Kitty, prinking
at the glass, and fervently hoping that nothing would
happen to her complexion over night.

“I see plenty just like those on your dress,” answered
Pris, nodding toward the meadow full of young white-weed.

“Pris, you’re a treasure! I’ll wear real ones; they
keep well, I know, and are so common I can refresh my
bonnet anywhere. It’s a splendid idea.”

Away rushed Kitty to return with an apron full of
American daisies. A pretty cluster was soon fastened
just over the left-hand frizzle of bright hair, and the
little bonnet was complete.

“Now, Pris, tell me how I look,” cried Kitty, as she
swept into the room late that afternoon in full gala
costume.

It would have been impossible for the primmest, the
sourest, or the most sensible creature in the world to
say that it wasn’t a pretty sight. The long train, the
big chignon, the apology for a bonnet, were all ridiculous,—no
one could deny that,—but youth, beauty,
and a happy heart made even those absurdities charming.
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The erect young figure gave an air to the crisp
folds of the delicate dress; the bright eyes and fresh
cheeks under the lace rosette made one forget its size;
and the rippling brown hair won admiration in spite of
the ugly bunch which disfigured the girl’s head. The
little jacket set “divinely,” the new gloves were as immaculate
as white kids could be, and to crown all,
Lizzie King, in a burst of generosity, lent Kitty the
blue and white Paris sunshade which she couldn’t use
herself.

“Now I could die content; I’m perfect in all respects,
and I know Jack won’t be ashamed of me. I
really owe it to him to look my best, you know, and
that’s why I’m so particular,” said Kitty, in an apologetic
tone, as she began to lay away her finery.

“I hope you will enjoy every minute of the time,
deary. Don’t forget to finish running up the facing; I’ve
basted it carefully, and would do it if my head didn’t
ache so, I really can’t hold it up any longer,” answered
Pris, who had worked like a disinterested bee, while
Kitty had flown about like a distracted butterfly.

“Go and lie down, you dear, kind soul, and don’t
think of my nonsense again,” said Kitty, feeling remorseful,
till Pris was comfortably asleep, when she
went to her room and revelled in her finery till bedtime.
So absorbed was she in learning to manage her
train gracefully, that she forgot the facing till very
late. Then, being worn out with work and worry, she
did, what girls are too apt to do, stuck a pin here and
there, and, trusting to Priscilla’s careful bastings, left
it as it was, retiring to dream of a certain Horace
Fletcher, whose aristocratic elegance had made a deep
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impression upon her during the few evenings she had
seen him.

Nothing could have been lovelier than the morning,
and few hearts happier than Kitty’s, as she arrayed herself
with the utmost care, and waited in solemn state for
the carriage; for muslin trains and dewy roads were incompatible,
and one luxury brought another.

“My goodness, where did she get that stylish suit?”
whispered Miss Smith to Miss Jones, as Kitty floated
into the station with all sail set, finding it impossible to
resist the temptation to astonish certain young ladies
who had snubbed her in times past, which snubs had
rankled, and were now avenged.

“I looked everywhere for a muslin for to-day and
couldn’t find any I liked, so I was forced to wear my
mauve silk,” observed Miss Smith, complacently settling
the silvery folds of her dress.

“It’s very pretty, but one ruins a silk at Class Day,
you know. I thought this organdie would be more
comfortable and appropriate this warm day. A friend
brought it from Paris, and it’s like one the Princess of
Wales wore at the great flower-show this year,” returned
Kitty, with the air of a young lady who had all her
dresses from Paris, and was intimately acquainted with
the royal family.

“Those girls” were entirely extinguished by this
stroke, and hadn’t a word to say for themselves, while
Kitty casually mentioned Horace Fletcher, Lyceum
Hall, and Cousin Jack, for <i>they</i> had only a little Freshman
brother to boast of, and were <i>not</i> going to Lyceum
Hall.

As she stepped out of the cars at Cambridge, Jack
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opened his honest blue eyes and indulged in a low whistle
of astonishment; for if there was anything he especially
hated, it was the trains, chignons and tiny bonnets
then in fashion. He was very fond of Kitty, and prided
himself on being able to show his friends a girl who was
charming, and yet not over-dressed.

“She has made a regular guy of herself; I won’t tell
her so, and the dear little soul shall have a jolly time in
spite of her fuss and feathers. But I do wish she had
let her hair alone and worn that pretty hat of hers.”

As this thought passed through Jack’s mind he smiled
and bowed and made his way among the crowd, whispering
as he drew his cousin’s arm through his own,—

“Why, Kitty, you’re got up regardless of expense,
aren’t you? I’m so glad you came, we’ll have a rousing
good time, and you shall see all the fun.”

“Oh, thank you, Jack! Do I look nice, really? I
tried to be a credit to you and Pris, and I did have such
a job of it. I’ll make you laugh over it some time. A
carriage for me? Bless us, how fine we are!” and
Kitty stepped in, feeling that only one thing more was
needed to make her cup overflow. That one thing was
speedily vouchsafed, for before her skirts were smoothly
settled, Jack called out, in his hearty way,—

“How are you, Fletcher? If you are bound for
Chapel I’ll take you up.”

“Thanks; good-morning, Miss Heath.”

It was all done in an instant, and the next thing
Kitty knew she was rolling away with the elegant
Horace sitting opposite. How little it takes to make a
young girl happy! A pretty dress, sunshine, and somebody
opposite, and they are blest. Kitty’s face glowed
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and dimpled with pleasure as she glanced about her,
especially when <i>she</i>, sitting in state with two gentlemen
all to herself, passed “those girls” walking in the dust
with a beardless boy; she felt that she could forgive past
slights, and did so with a magnanimous smile and bow.

Both Jack and Fletcher had graduated the year before,
but still took an interest in their old haunts, and patronized
the fellows who were not yet through the mill, at
least the Seniors and Juniors; of Sophs and Freshs
they were sublimely unconscious. Greeted by frequent
slaps on the shoulder, and hearty “How are you, old
fellows,” they piloted Kitty to a seat in the chapel. An
excellent place, but the girl’s satisfaction was marred
by Fletcher’s desertion, and she could not see anything
attractive about the dashing young lady in the pink
bonnet to whom he devoted himself, “because she was
a stranger,” Kitty said.

Everybody knows what goes on in the Chapel, after
the fight and scramble are  over. The rustle and buzz,
the music, the oratory and the poem, during which the
men cheer and the girls simper; the professors yawn,
and the poet’s friends pronounce him a second Longfellow.
Then the closing flourishes, the grand crush,
and general scattering.

Then the fun really begins, as far as the young folks
are concerned. <i>They</i> don’t mind swarming up and
down stairs in a solid phalanx; they can enjoy half a
dozen courses of salad, ice and strawberries, with stout
gentlemen crushing their feet, anxious mammas sticking
sharp elbows into their sides, and absent-minded tutors
walking over them. They can flirt vigorously in a torrid
atmosphere of dinner, dust, and din; can smile with
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hot coffee running down their backs, small avalanches
of ice-cream descending upon their best bonnets, and
sandwiches, butter-side down, reposing on their delicate
silks. They know that it is a costly rapture, but they
carefully refrain from thinking of the morrow, and energetically
illustrate the Yankee maxim which bids us
enjoy ourselves in our early bloom.

Kitty did have “a rousing good time;” for Jack was
devoted, taking her everywhere, showing her everything,
feeding and fanning her, and festooning her train with
untiring patience. How many forcible expressions he
mentally indulged in as he walked on that unlucky
train we will not record; he smiled and skipped and
talked of treading on flowers in a way that would have
charmed Kitty, if some one else had not been hovering
about “The Daisy,” as Fletcher called her.

After he returned, she neglected Jack, who took it
coolly, and was never in the way unless she wanted him.
For the first time in her life, Kitty deliberately flirted.
The little coquetries, which are as natural to a gay
young girl as her laughter, were all in full play, and had
she gone no further no harm would have been done.
But, excited by the example of those about her, Kitty
tried to enact the fashionable young lady, and, like
most novices, she overdid the part. Quite forgetting
her cousin, she tossed her head, twirled her fan, gave
affected little shrieks at college jokes, and talked college
slang in a way that convulsed Fletcher, who enjoyed
the fun immensely.

Jack saw it all, shook his head and said nothing; but
his face grew rather sober as he watched Kitty, flushed,
dishevelled, and breathless, whirling round Lyceum
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Hall, on the arm of Fletcher, who danced divinely, as all
the girls agreed. Jack had proposed going, but Kitty
had frowned, so he fell back, leaving her to listen and
laugh, blush and shrink a little at her partner’s flowery
compliments and admiring glances.

“If she stands that long she’s not the girl I took her
for,” thought Jack, beginning to lose patience. “She
doesn’t look like my little Kitty, and somehow I don’t
feel half so fond and proud of her as usual. I know one
thing, <i>my</i> daughters shall never be seen knocking about
in that style.”

As if the thought suggested the act, Jack suddenly
assumed an air of paternal authority, and, arresting his
cousin as she was about to begin again, he said, in a
tone she had never heard before,—

“I promised Pris to take care of you, so I shall carry
you off to rest, and put yourself to rights after this game
of romps. I advise you to do the same, Fletcher, or
give your friend in the pink bonnet a turn.”

Kitty took Jack’s arm pettishly, but glanced over her
shoulder with such an inviting smile that Fletcher followed,
feeling very much like a top, in danger of tumbling
down the instant he stopped spinning. As she came out
Kitty’s face cleared, and, assuming her sprightliest air,
she spread her plumage and prepared to descend with
effect, for a party of uninvited <i>peris</i> stood at the gate
of this Paradise casting longing glances at the forbidden
splendors within. Slowly, that all might see her, Kitty
sailed down, with Horace, the debonair, in her wake,
and was just thinking to herself, “Those girls won’t get
over this very soon, I fancy,” when all in one moment
she heard Fletcher exclaim, wrathfully, “Hang the
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flounces!” she saw a very glossy black hat come skipping
down the steps, felt a violent twitch backward, and,
to save herself from a fall, sat down on the lower step
with most undignified haste.

It was impossible for the bystanders to help laughing,
for there was Fletcher hopping wildly about, with one
foot nicely caught in a muslin loop, and there sat Kitty
longing to run away and hide herself, yet perfectly helpless,
while every one tittered. Miss Jones and Miss
Smith laughed shrilly, and the despised little Freshman
completed her mortification, by a feeble joke about Kitty
Heath’s new man-trap. It was only an instant, but it
seemed an hour before Fletcher freed her, and snatching
up the dusty beaver, left her with a flushed countenance
and an abrupt bow.

If it hadn’t been for Jack, Kitty would have burst
into tears then and there, so terrible was the sense
of humiliation which oppressed her. For his sake she
controlled herself, and, bundling up her torn train, set
her teeth, stared straight before her, and let him lead
her in dead silence to a friend’s room near by. There
he locked the door, and began to comfort her by making
light of the little mishap. But Kitty cried so tragically,
that he was at his wit’s end, till the ludicrous side of the
affair struck her, and she began to laugh hysterically.
With a vague idea that vigorous treatment was best for
that feminine ailment, Jack was about to empty the
contents of an ice-pitcher over her, when she arrested
him, by exclaiming, incoherently,—

“Oh, don’t!—it was so funny!—how can you
laugh, you cruel boy?—I’m disgraced, forever—take
me home to Pris, oh, take me home to Pris!”
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“I will, my dear, I will; but first let me right you
up a bit; you look as if you had been hazed, upon my
life you do;” and Jack laughed in spite of himself at
the wretched little object before him, for dust, dancing,
and the downfall produced a ruinous spectacle.

That broke Kitty’s heart; and, spreading her hands
before her face, she was about to cry again, when the
sad sight which met her eyes dispelled the gathering
tears. The new gloves were both split up the middle and
very dirty with clutching at the steps as she went down.

“Never mind, you can wash them,” said Jack, soothingly.

“I paid a dollar and a half for them, and they can’t
be washed,” groaned Kitty.

“Oh, hang the gloves! I meant your hands,” cried
Jack, trying to keep sober.

“No matter for my hands, I mourn my gloves. But
I won’t cry any more, for my head aches now so I can
hardly see.” And Kitty threw off her bonnet, as if even
that airy trifle hurt her.

Seeing how pale she looked, Jack tenderly suggested
a rest on the old sofa, and a wet handkerchief on her hot
forehead, while he got the good landlady to send her up
a cup of tea. As Kitty rose to comply she glanced at
her dress, and, clasping her hands, exclaimed, tragically,—

“The facing, the fatal facing! That made all the mischief,
for if I’d sewed it last night it wouldn’t have
ripped to-day; if it hadn’t ripped Fletcher wouldn’t have
got his foot in it, I shouldn’t have made an object of myself,
he wouldn’t have gone off in a rage, and—who
knows what might have happened?”
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“Bless the what’s-its-name if it has settled him,” cried
Jack. “He is a contemptible fellow not to stay and
help you out of the scrape he got you into. Follow his
lead and don’t trouble yourself about him.”

“Well, he <i>was</i> rather absurd to-day, I allow; but he
<i>has</i> got handsome eyes and hands, and he <i>does</i> dance
like an angel,” sighed Kitty, as she pinned up the
treacherous loop which had brought destruction to her
little castle in the air.

“Handsome eyes, white hands, and angelic feet don’t
make a man. Wait till you can do better, Kit.”

With an odd, grave look, that rather startled Kitty,
Jack vanished, to return presently with a comfortable
cup of tea and a motherly old lady to help repair
damages and soothe her by the foolish little purrings
and pattings so grateful to female nerves after a
flurry.

“I’ll come back and take you out to see the dance
round the tree when you’ve had a bit of a rest,” said Jack,
vibrating between door and sofa as if it wasn’t easy to
get away.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” cried Kitty, with a shudder at the
bare idea of meeting any one. “I can’t be seen again
to-night; let me stay here till my train goes.”

“I thought it had gone, already,” said Jack, with an
irrepressible twinkle of the eye that glanced at the draggled
dress sweeping the floor.

“How <i>can</i> you joke about it!” and the girl’s reproachful
eyes filled with tears of shame. “I know
I’ve been very silly, Jack, but I’ve had my punishment,
and I don’t need any more. To feel that you despise
me is worse than all the rest.”
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She ended with a little sob, and turned her face away
to hide the trembling of her lips. At that, Jack flushed
up, his eyes shone, and he stooped suddenly as if to
make some impetuous reply. But, remembering the old
lady (who, by the by, was discreetly looking out of
window), he put his hands in his pockets and strolled
out of the room.

“I’ve lost them both by this day’s folly,” thought
Kitty, as Mrs. Brown departed with the teacup. “I
don’t care for Fletcher, for I dare say he didn’t mean
half he said, and I was only flattered because he is rich
and handsome and the girls glorify him. But I shall
miss Jack, for I’ve known and loved him all my life.
How good he’s been to me to-day! so patient, careful,
and kind, though he must have been ashamed of me.
I know he didn’t like my dress; but he never said a
word and stood by me through everything. Oh, I wish
I’d minded Pris! then he would have respected me, at
least; I wonder if he ever will, again?”

Following a sudden impulse, Kitty sprang up, locked
the door, and then proceeded to destroy all her little
vanities as far as possible. She smoothed out her
crimps with a wet and ruthless hand; fastened up her
pretty hair in the simple way Jack liked; gave her once
cherished bonnet a spiteful shake, as she put it on, and
utterly extinguished it with a big blue veil. She looped
up her dress, leaving no vestige of the now hateful train,
and did herself up uncompromisingly in the Quakerish
gray shawl Pris had insisted on her taking for the evening.
Then she surveyed herself with pensive satisfaction,
saying, in the tone of one bent on resolutely mortifying
the flesh,—
.bn 022.png
.pn +1

“Neat but not gaudy; I’m a fright, but I deserve it,
and it’s better than being a peacock.”

Kitty had time to feel a little friendless and forlorn, sitting
there alone as twilight fell, and amused herself by
wondering if Fletcher would come to inquire about her,
or show any further interest in her; yet when the sound
of a manly tramp approached, she trembled lest it should
be the victim of the fatal facing. The door opened, and
with a sigh of relief she saw Jack come in, bearing a
pair of new gloves in one hand and a great bouquet of
June roses in the other.

“How good of you to bring me these! They are
more refreshing than oceans of tea. You know what I
like, Jack; thank you very much,” cried Kitty, sniffing
at her roses with grateful rapture.

“And you know what I like,” returned Jack, with an
approving glance at the altered figure before him.

“I’ll never do so any more,” murmured Kitty, wondering
why she felt bashful all of a sudden, when it was
only cousin Jack.

“Now put on your gloves, dear, and come out and
hear the music; your train doesn’t go for two hours yet,
and you mustn’t mope here all that time,” said Jack, offering
his second gift.

“How did you know my size?” asked Kitty, putting
on the gloves in a hurry; for though Jack had called her
“dear” for years, the little word had a new sound to-night.

“I guessed,—no, I didn’t, I had the old ones with
me; they are no good now, are they?” and too honest
to lie, Jack tried to speak carelessly, though he turned
red in the dusk, well knowing that the dirty little gloves
.bn 023.png
.pn +1
were folded away in his left breast-pocket at that identical
moment.

“Oh, dear, no! these fit nicely. I’m ready, if you
don’t mind going with such a fright,” said Kitty, forgetting
her dread of seeing people in her desire to get away
from that room, because for the first time in her life she
wasn’t at ease with Jack.

“I think I like the little gray moth better than the
fine butterfly,” returned Jack, who, in spite of his invitation,
seemed to find “moping” rather pleasant.

“You are a rainy-day friend, and he isn’t,” said
Kitty, softly, as she drew him away.

Jack’s only answer was to lay his hand on the little
white glove resting so confidingly on his arm, and, keeping
it there, they roamed away into the summer twilight.

Something had happened to the evening and the place,
for both seemed suddenly endowed with uncommon
beauty and interest. The dingy old houses might have
been fairy palaces, for anything they saw to the contrary;
the dusty walks, the trampled grass, were regular
Elysian fields to them, and the music was the music of
the spheres, though they found themselves “Right in
the middle of the boom, jing, jing.” For both had
made a little discovery,—no, not a little one, the greatest
and sweetest man and woman can make. In the
sharp twinge of jealousy which the sight of Kitty’s flirtation
with Fletcher gave him, and the delight he found in
her after conduct, Jack discovered how much he loved
her. In the shame, gratitude, and half sweet, half bitter
emotion that filled her heart, Kitty felt that to her
Jack would never be “only cousin Jack” any more.
.bn 024.png
.pn +1
All the vanity, coquetry, selfishness, and ill-temper of
the day seemed magnified to heinous sins, for now her
only thought was, “seeing these faults, he <i>can’t</i> care for
me. Oh, I wish I was a better girl!”

She did not say “for his sake,” but in the new
humility, the ardent wish to be all that a woman should
be, little Kitty proved how true her love was, and might
have said with Portia,—

.pm verse-start
“For myself alone, I would not be
 Ambitious in my wish; but, for you,
 I would be trebled twenty times myself;
 A thousand times more fair,
 Ten thousand times more rich.”
.pm verse-end

All about them other pairs were wandering under the
patriarchal elms, enjoying music, starlight, balmy winds,
and all the luxuries of the season. If the band had
played

.pm verse-start
“Oh, there’s nothing half so sweet in life
 As love’s young dream—”
.pm verse-end

it is my private opinion that it would have suited the
audience to a T. Being principally composed of elderly
gentlemen with large families, they had not that fine
sense of the fitness of things so charming to see, and
tooted and banged away with waltzes and marches,
quite regardless of the flocks of Romeos and Juliets
philandering all about them.

Under cover of a popular medley, Kitty overheard
Fletcher quizzing her for the amusement of Miss Pink-bonnet,
who was evidently making up for lost time. It
was feeble wit, but it put the finishing stroke to Kitty’s
vanity, and she dropped a tear in her blue tissue retreat,
.bn 025.png
.pn +1
and clung to Jack, feeling that she had never valued
him half enough. She hoped he didn’t hear the gossip
going on at the other side of the tree near which they
stood; but he did, for his hand involuntarily doubled
itself up into a very dangerous-looking fist, and he
darted such fiery glances at the speaker, that, if the
thing had been possible, Fletcher’s ambrosial curls would
have been scorched off his head.

“Never mind, and don’t get angry, Jack. They are
right about one thing,—the daisies in my bonnet <i>were</i>
real, and I <i>couldn’t</i> afford any others. I don’t care
much, only Pris worked so hard to get me ready I hate
to have my things made fun of.”

“He isn’t worth a thrashing, so we’ll let it pass this
time,” said Jack, irefully, yet privately resolving to
have it out with Fletcher by and by.

“Why, Kitty, I thought the real daisies the prettiest
things about your dress. Don’t throw them away. I’ll
wear them just to show that noodle that I prefer nature
to art;” and Jack gallantly stuck the faded posy in his
button-hole, while Kitty treasured up the hint so kindly
given for future use.

If a clock with great want of tact hadn’t insisted on
telling them that it was getting late, Kitty never would
have got home, for both the young people felt inclined
to loiter about arm in arm through the sweet summer
night forever. Jack had meant to say something before
she went, and was immensely surprised to find the
chance lost for the present. He wanted to go home
with her and free his mind; but a neighborly old gentleman
having been engaged as escort, there would have
been very little satisfaction in a travelling trio; so he
.bn 026.png
.pn +1
gave it up. He was very silent as they walked to the
station with Dr. Dodd trudging behind them. Kitty
thought he was tired, perhaps glad to be rid of her, and
meekly accepted her fate. But as the train approached,
she gave his hand an impulsive squeeze, and said very
gratefully,—

“Jack, I can’t thank you enough for your kindness
to your silly little cousin; but I never shall forget it,
and if I ever can return it in any way, I will with all my
heart.”

Jack looked down at the young face almost pathetic
now with weariness, humility, and pain, yet very sweet,
with that new shyness in the loving eyes, and, stooping
suddenly, he kissed it, whispering in a tone that made
the girl’s heart flutter,—

“I’ll tell you how you may return it ‘with all your
heart,’ by and by. Good-night, my Kitty.”

“Have you had a good time, dear?” asked Pris, as
her sister appeared an hour later.

“Don’t I look as if I had?” and, throwing off her
wraps, Kitty revolved slowly before her that she might
behold every portion of the wreck. “My gown is all
dust, crumple, and rags, my bonnet perfectly limp and
flat, and my gloves are ruined; I’ve broken Lizzie’s
parasol, made a spectacle of myself, and wasted money,
time, and temper; yet my Class Day isn’t a failure, for
Jack is the dearest boy in the world, and I’m very, very
happy!”

Pris looked at her a minute, then opened her arms
without a word, and Kitty forgot all her little troubles
in one great joy.

When Miss Smith and Miss Jones called a few days
.bn 027.png
.pn +1
after to tell her that Mr. Fletcher was going abroad, the
amiable creatures were entirely routed by finding Jack
there in a most unmistakable situation. He blandly
wished Horace “bon voyage,” and regretted that he
wouldn’t be there to the wedding in October. Kitty
devoted herself to blushing beautifully, and darning
many rents in a short daisy muslin skirt, “which I
intend to wear a great deal, because Jack likes it, and
so do I,” she said, with a demure look at her lover, who
laughed as if that was the best joke of the season.
.bn 028.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch02
AUNT KIPP.||<s>“Children and fools speak the truth.”</s>
.tb
.h3
I.
.sp 2
.dc 0.1 0.65
“WHAT’S that sigh for, Polly dear?”

“I’m tired, mother, tired of working and
waiting. If I’m ever going to have any fun, I want it
<i>now</i> while I can enjoy it.”

“You shouldn’t wait another hour if I could have my
way; but you know how helpless I am;” and poor Mrs.
Snow sighed dolefully, as she glanced about the dingy
room and pretty Mary turning her faded gown for the
second time.

“If Aunt Kipp would give us the money she is always
talking about, instead of waiting till she dies, we
should be <i>so</i> comfortable. She is a dreadful bore, for
she lives in such terror of dropping dead with her
heart-complaint that she doesn’t take any pleasure in
life herself or let any one else; so the sooner she goes
the better for all of us,” said Polly, in a desperate tone;
for things looked very black to her just then.

“My dear, don’t say that,” began her mother, mildly
shocked; but a bluff little voice broke in with the forcible
remark,—

“She’s everlastingly telling me never to put off till to-morrow
what can be done to-day; next time she comes
.bn 029.png
.pn +1
I’ll remind her of that, and ask her, if she is going to
die, why she doesn’t do it?”

“Toady! you’re a wicked, disrespectful boy; never let
me hear you say such a thing again about your dear
Aunt Kipp.”

“She isn’t dear! You know we all hate her, and you
are more afraid of her than you are of spiders,—so
now.”

The young personage whose proper name had been
corrupted into Toady, was a small boy of ten or eleven,
apple-cheeked, round-eyed, and curly-headed; arrayed
in well-worn, gray knickerbockers, profusely adorned
with paint, glue, and shreds of cotton. Perched on a
high stool, at an isolated table in a state of chaos, he
was absorbed in making a boat, entirely oblivious of the
racking tooth-ache which had been his excuse for staying
from school. As cool, saucy, hard-handed, and
soft-hearted a little specimen of young America was
Toady as you would care to see; a tyrant at home, a
rebel at school, a sworn foe to law, order, and Aunt
Kipp. This young person was regarded as a reprobate
by all but his mother, sister, and sister’s sweetheart,
Van Bahr Lamb. Having been, through much anguish
of flesh and spirit, taught that lying was a deadly sin,
Toady rushed to the other extreme, and bolted out the
truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, at all
times and places, with a startling abruptness that
brought wrath and dismay upon his friends and relatives.

“It’s wicked to fib; you’ve whipped that into me and
you can’t rub it out,” he was wont to say, with vivid
recollection of the past tingling in the chubby portions of
his frame.
.bn 030.png
.pn +1

“Mind your chips, Toady, and take care what you
say to Aunt Kipp, or you’ll be as poor as a little rat all
the days of your life,” said Polly, warningly.

“I don’t want her old money, and I’ll tell her so if
she bothers me about it. I shall go into business with
Van and take care of the whole lot; so don’t you preach,
Polly,” returned Toady, with as much dignity as was
compatible with a great dab of glue on the end of his
snub nose.

“Mother, did aunt say anything about coming this
week?” asked Polly, after a pause of intense thought
over a breadth with three darns, two spots, and a burn.

“Yes; she wrote that she was too feeble to come at
present, as she had such dreadful palpitations she didn’t
dare stir from her room. So we are quite safe for the
next week at least, and—bless my soul, there she is
now!”

Mrs. Snow clasped her hands with a gesture of dismay,
and sat as if transfixed by the spectacle of a ponderous
lady, in an awe-inspiring bonnet, who came
walking slowly down the street. Polly gave a groan,
and pulled a bright ribbon from her hair. Toady muttered,
“Oh, bother!” and vainly attempted to polish
up his countenance with a fragmentary pocket-handkerchief.

“Nothing but salt fish for dinner,” wailed Mrs. Snow,
as the shadow of the coming event fell upon her.

“Van will make a fool of himself, and ruin everything,”
sighed Polly, glancing at the ring on her finger.

“I know she’ll kiss me; she never <i>will</i> let a fellow
alone,” growled Toady, scowling darkly.

The garden gate clashed, dust flew from the door-mat,
.bn 031.png
.pn +1
a heavy step echoed in the hall, an imperious voice
called “Sophy!” and Aunt Kipp entered with a
flourish of trumpets, for Toady blew a blast through
his fingers which made the bows totter on her bonnet.

“My dear aunt, I’m very glad to see you,” murmured
Mrs. Snow, advancing with a smile of welcome; for
though as weak as water gruel, she was as kind-hearted
a little woman as ever lived.

“What a fib that was!” said Toady, <i>sotto voce</i>.

“We were just saying we were afraid you wouldn’t”—began
Mary, when a warning, “Mind now, Polly,”
caused her to stop short and busy herself with the newcomer’s
bag and umbrella.

“I changed my mind. Theodore, come and kiss
me,” answered Aunt Kipp, briefly.

“Yes’m,” was the plaintive reply, and, closing his
eyes, Toady awaited his fate with fortitude.

But the dreaded salute did not come, for Aunt Kipp
exclaimed in alarm,—

“Mercy on us! has the boy got the plague?”

“No’m, it’s paint, and dirt, and glue, and it <i>won’t</i>
come off,” said Toady, stroking his variegated countenance
with grateful admiration for the stains that saved
him.

“Go and wash this moment, sir. Thank Heaven, <i>I’ve</i>
got no boys,” cried Aunt Kipp, as if boys were some
virulent disease which she had narrowly escaped.

With a hasty peck at the lips of her two elder relatives,
the old lady seated herself, and slowly removed
the awful bonnet, which in shape and hue much resembled
a hearse hung with black crape.
.bn 032.png
.pn +1

“I’m glad you are better,” said Mary, reverently receiving
the funereal head-gear.

“I’m <i>not</i> better,” cut in Aunt Kipp. “I’m worse,
much worse; my days are numbered; I stand on the
brink of the tomb, and may drop at any moment.”

Toady’s face was a study, as he glanced up at the old
lady’s florid countenance, down at the floor, as if in
search of the above-mentioned “brink,” and looked unaffectedly
anxious to see her drop. “Why don’t you,
then?” was on his lips; but a frown from Polly restrained
him, and he sat himself down on the rug to
contemplate the corpulent victim.

“Have a cup of tea, aunt?” said Mrs. Snow.

“I will.”

“Lie down and rest a little,” suggested Polly.

“I won’t.”

“Can we do anything for you?” said both.

“Take my things away, and have dinner early.”

Both departed to perform these behests, and, leaning
back in her chair, Aunt Kipp reposed.

“I say, what’s a bore?” asked Toady from the rug,
where he sat rocking meditatively to and fro, holding on
by his shoe-strings.

“It’s a kind of a pig, very fierce, and folks are afraid
of ’em,” said Aunt Kipp, whose knowledge of Natural
History was limited.

“Good for Polly! so you are!” sung out the boy,
with the hearty child’s laugh so pleasant to most ears.

“What do you mean, sir?” demanded the old lady,
irefully poking at him with her umbrella.

“Why, Polly said you were a bore,” explained Toady,
with artless frankness. “You <i>are</i> fat, you know, and
.bn 033.png
.pn +1
fierce sometimes, and folks are afraid of you. Good,
wasn’t it?”

“Very! Mary is a nice, grateful, respectful, loving
niece, and I shan’t forget her, she may depend on that,”
and Aunt Kipp laughed grimly.

“May she? well, that’s jolly now. She was afraid
you wouldn’t give her the money; so I’ll tell her it’s all
right;” and innocent Toady nodded approvingly.

“Oh, she expects some of my money, does she?”

“Course she does; ain’t you always saying you’ll
remember us in your will, because father was your
favorite nephew, and all that? I’ll tell you a secret, if
you won’t let Polly know I spoke first. You’ll find it
out to-night, for you’d see Van and she were sweethearts
in a minute.”

“Sweethearts?” cried Aunt Kipp, turning red in the
face.

“Yes’m. Van settled it last week, and Polly’s been
so happy ever since. Mother likes it, and <i>I</i> like it, for
I’m fond of Van, though I do call him Baa-baa, because
he looks like a sheep. We all like it, and we’d all
say so, if we were not afraid of you. Mother and
Polly, I mean; of course we men don’t mind, but we
don’t want a fuss. You won’t make one, will you,
now?”

Anything more expressive of brotherly good-will,
persuasive frankness, and a placid consciousness of
having “fixed it,” than Toady’s dirty little face, it
would be hard to find. Aunt Kipp eyed him so fiercely
that even before she spoke a dim suspicion that something
was wrong began to dawn on his too-confiding
soul.
.bn 034.png
.pn +1

“<i>I</i> don’t like it, and I’ll put a stop to it. I won’t
have any ridiculous baa-baas in my family. If Mary
counts on my money to begin housekeeping with, she’ll
find herself mistaken; for not one penny shall she have,
married or single, and you may tell her so.”

Toady was so taken aback by this explosion that he
let go his shoe-strings, fell over with a crash, and lay
flat, with shovel and tongs spread upon him like a pall.
In rushed Mrs. Snow and Polly, to find the boy’s spirits
quite quenched, for once, and Aunt Kipp in a towering
passion. It all came out in one overwhelming flood of
words, and Toady fled from the storm to wander round
the house, a prey to the deepest remorse. The meekness
of that boy at dinner-time was so angelic that Mrs.
Snow would have feared speedy translation for him, if
she had not been very angry. Polly’s red eyes, and
Aunt Kipp’s griffinesque expression of countenance,
weighed upon his soul so heavily, that even roly-poly
pudding failed to assuage his trouble, and, taking his
mother into the china-closet, he anxiously inquired “if
it was all up with Polly?”

“I’m afraid so, for aunt vows she will make a new
will to-morrow, and leave every penny to the Charitable
Rag-bag Society,” sighed Mrs. Snow.

“I didn’t mean to do it, I truly didn’t! I thought
I’d just ‘give her a hint,’ as you say. She looked all
right, and laughed when I told her about being a bore,
and I thought she liked it. If she was a man, I’d thrash
her for making Polly cry;” and Toady shook his fist at
Aunt Kipp’s umbrella, which was an immense relief to
his perturbed spirit.

“Bless the boy! I do believe he would!” cried Mrs.
.bn 035.png
.pn +1
Snow, watching the little turkey-cock with maternal
pride. “You can’t do that: so just be careful and not
make any more mischief, dear.”

“I’ll try, mother; but I’m always getting into scrapes
with Aunt Kipp. She’s worse than measles, any day,—such
an old aggrawater! Van’s coming this afternoon,
won’t he make her pleasant again?”

“Oh, dear, no! He will probably make things ten
times worse, he’s so bashful and queer. I’m afraid our
last chance is gone, deary, and we must rub along as
we have done.”

One sniff of emotion burst from Toady, and for a moment
he laid his head in the knife-tray, overcome with
disappointment and regret. But scorning to yield to
unmanly tears, he was soon himself again. Thrusting
his beloved jack-knife, with three blades and a file, into
Polly’s hand, he whispered, brokenly,—

“Keep it forever’n’ever; I’m awful sorry!” Then,
feeling that the magnitude of this sacrifice atoned for
everything, he went to watch for Van,—the forlorn
hope to which he now clung.
.sp 2
.tb
.h3
II.
.sp 2
“<sc>Sophy</sc>, I’m surprised at your want of judgment.
Do you really mean to let your girl marry this Lamb?
Why, the man’s a fool!” began Aunt Kipp, after dinner,
by way of opening a pleasant conversation with
her relatives.
.bn 036.png
.pn +1

“Dear me, aunt! how can you know that, when you
never saw him?” mildly returned Mrs. Snow.

“I’ve heard of him, and that’s enough for me. I’ve
a deal of penetration in judging character, and I tell
you Van Bahr Lamb is a fool.”

The amiable old lady thought this would rouse Polly,
against whom her anger still burned hotly. But Polly
also possessed penetration; and, well knowing that
contradiction would delight Aunt Kipp, she completely
took the wind out of her sails, by coolly remarking,—

“I like fools.”

“Bless my heart! what does the girl mean?” ejaculated Aunt Kipp.

“Just what I say. If Van is a fool, I prefer simpletons
to wiseacres. I know he is shy and awkward, and
does absurd things now and then. But I also know
that he has the kindest heart that ever was; is unselfish,
faithful and loving; that he took good care of his old
parents till they died, and never thought of himself
while they needed him. He loves me dearly; will wait
for me a dozen years, if I say so, and work all his days
to make me happy. He’s a help and comfort to mother,
a good friend to Toady, and I love and respect and am
proud of him, though you do say he is a fool,” cried
Polly heartily.

“And you insist on marrying him?” demanded Aunt
Kipp.

“Yes, I do.”

“Then I wish a carriage immediately,” was the somewhat
irrelevant reply.

“Why, aunt, you don’t mean to go so soon?” cried
.bn 037.png
.pn +1
Mrs. Snow, with a reproachful glance at the rebellious
Polly.

“Far from it. I wish to see Judge Banks about
altering my will,” was the awful answer.

Polly’s face fell; her mother gave a despairing sigh;
Toady, who had hovered about the door, uttered a suppressed
whistle of dismay; and Mrs. Kipp looked about
her with vengeful satisfaction.

“Get the big carryall and old Bob, so the boy can
drive, and all of you come; the trip will do you good.”

It was like Aunt Kipp to invite her poor relations to
go and “nip their own noses off,” as she elegantly expressed
it. It was a party of pleasure that just suited
her, for all the fun was on her side. She grew affable
at once, was quite pressing in her invitation, regretted
that Sophy was too busy to go, praised Polly’s hat; and
professed herself quite satisfied with “that dear boy”
for a driver. The “dear boy” distorted his young
countenance frightfully behind her back, but found a
balm for every wound in the delight of being commander
of the expedition.

The big carryall appeared, and, with much creaking
and swaying Mrs. Kipp was got into the back seat,
where the big bonnet gloomed like a thunder-cloud.
Polly, in a high state of indignation, which only made
her look ten times prettier, sat in front with Toady, who
was a sight to see as he drove off with his short legs
planted against the boot, his elbows squared, and the
big whip scientifically cracking now and then. Away
they went, leaving poor Mrs. Snow to bewail herself
dismally after she had smiled and nodded them out of
sight.
.bn 038.png
.pn +1

“Don’t go over any bridges or railroad crossings or
by any saw-mills,” said the old lady, as if the town
could be suddenly remodelled to suit her taste.

“Yes’m,” returned Toady, with a crack which would
have done honor to a French postilion.

It was a fine day, and the young people would have
enjoyed the ride in spite of the breakers ahead, if Aunt
Kipp hadn’t entertained the girl with a glowing account
of the splendors of her own wedding, and aggravated
the boy by frequent pokes and directions in the art of
driving, of which she was of course, profoundly ignorant.
Polly couldn’t restrain a tear or two, in thinking
of her own poor little prospects, and Toady was goaded
to desperation.

“I’ll give her a regular shaking up; it’ll make her
hold her tongue and do her good,” he said to himself,
as a stony hill sloped temptingly before him.

A sly chuck, and some mysterious manœuvre with the
reins, and Bob started off at a brisk trot, as if he objected
to the old lady as much as her mischievous little
nephew.

“Hold him in! Keep a taut rein! Lord ’a mercy,
he’s running away!” shrieked Aunt Kipp, or tried to
shriek, for the bouncing and bumping jerked the words
out of her mouth with ludicrous incoherency.

“I am holding him, but he <i>will</i> go,” said Toady,
with a wicked triumph in his eye as he glanced back at
Polly.

The next minute the words were quite true; for, as
he spoke, two or three distracted hens flew squalling
over the wall and scattered about, under, over, and before
the horse, as only distracted hens could do. It
.bn 039.png
.pn +1
was too much for Bob’s nerves; and, taking matters
into his own hands, or feet, rather, he broke into a run,
and rattled the old lady over the stones with a velocity
which left her speechless.

Polly laughed, and Toady chuckled, as they caught
glimpses of the awful bonnet vibrating wildly in the
background, and felt the frantic clutchings of the old
lady’s hands. But both grew sober as a shrill car-whistle
sounded not far off; and Bob, as if possessed
by an evil spirit, turned suddenly into the road that led
to the railroad crossing.

“That will do, Toady; now pull up, for we can’t get
over in time,” said Polly, glancing anxiously toward the
rapidly approaching puffs of white smoke.

“I can’t, Polly,—I really can’t,” cried the boy, tugging
with all his might, and beginning to look scared.

Polly lent her aid; but Bob scarcely seemed to feel
it, for he had been a racer once, and when his blood
was up he was hard to handle. His own good sense
might have checked him, if Aunt Kipp hadn’t unfortunately
recovered her voice at this crisis, and uttered a
succession of the shrillest screams that ever saluted
mortal ears. With a snort and a bound Bob dashed
straight on toward the crossing, as the train appeared
round the bend.

“Let me out! Let me out! Jump! Jump!” shrieked
Aunt Kipp, thrusting her head out of the window, while
she fumbled madly for the door-handle.

“O Toady, save us! save us!” gasped Polly, losing
her presence of mind, and dropping the reins to cling to
her brother, with a woman’s instinctive faith in the
stronger sex.
.bn 040.png
.pn +1

But Toady held on manfully, though his arms were
nearly pulled off, for “Never say die,” was his motto, and
the plucky little lad wouldn’t show fear before the women.

“Don’t howl; we’ll do it! Hi, Bob!” and with a
savage slash of the whip, an exciting cry, a terrible
reeling and rattling, they <i>did</i> do it; for Bob cleared the
track at a breakneck pace, just in time for the train to
sweep swiftly by behind them.

Aunt Kipp dropped in a heap, Polly looked up at her
brother, with a look which he never forgot; and Toady
tried to say, stoutly, “It’s all right!” with lips that
were white and dry in spite of himself.

“We shall smash up at the bridge,” he muttered, as
they tore through the town, where every one obligingly
shouted, waved their hats, and danced about on the
sidewalks, doing nothing but add to Bob’s fright and
the party’s danger. But Toady was wrong,—they did
not smash up at the bridge; for, before they reached
the perilous spot, one man had the sense to fly straight
at the horse’s head and hold on till the momentary
check enabled others to lend a hand.

The instant they were safe, Polly, like a regular
heroine, threw herself into the arms of her dishevelled
preserver, who of course was Van, and would have refreshed
herself with hysterics if the sight of Toady
hadn’t steadied her. The boy sat as stiff and rigid as
a wooden figure till they took the reins from him; then
all the strength seemed to go out of him, and he leaned
against his sister, as white and trembling as she, whispering
with an irrepressible sob,—

“O Polly, wasn’t it horrid? Tell mother I stood by
you like a man. Do tell her that!”
.bn 041.png
.pn +1

If any one had had time or heart to laugh, they certainly
would have done it when, after much groping,
heaving, and hoisting, Mrs. Kipp was extricated and
restored to consciousness; for a more ludicrously deplorable
spectacle was seldom seen. Quite unhurt,
though much shaken, the old lady insisted on believing
herself to be dying, and kept the town in a ferment till
three doctors had pronounced her perfectly well able to
go home. Then the perversity of her nature induced
her to comply, that she might have the satisfaction of
dying on the way, and proving herself in the right.

Unfortunately she did not expire, but, having safely
arrived, went to bed in high dudgeon, and led Polly and
her mother a sad life of it for two weary days. Having
heard of Toady’s gallant behavior, she solemnly ordered
him up to receive her blessing. But the sight of Aunt
Kipp’s rubicund visage, surrounded by the stiff frills of
an immense nightcap, caused the irreverent boy to
explode with laughter in his handkerchief, and to be
hustled away by his mother before Aunt Kipp discovered
the true cause of his convulsed appearance.

“Ah! poor dear, his feelings are too much for him.
He sees my doom in my face, and is overcome by what
you refuse to believe. I shan’t forget that boy’s devotion.
Now leave me to the meditations befitting these
solemn hours.”

Mrs. Snow retired, and Aunt Kipp tried to sleep; but
the murmur of voices, and the sound of stifled laughter
in the next room disturbed her repose.

“They are rejoicing over my approaching end,
knowing that I haven’t changed my will. Mercenary
creatures, don’t exult too soon! there’s time yet,” she
.bn 042.png
.pn +1
muttered; and presently, unable to control her curiosity,
she crept out of bed to listen and peep through the key-hole.

Van Bahr Lamb did look rather like a sheep. He
had a blond curly head, a long face, pale, mild eyes, a
plaintive voice, and a general expression of innocent
timidity strongly suggestive of animated mutton. But
Baa-baa was a “trump,” as Toady emphatically declared,
and though every one laughed at him, every one
liked him, and that is more than can be said of many
saints and sages. He adored Polly, was dutifully kind
to her mother, and had stood by T. Snow, Jr., in many
an hour of tribulation with fraternal fidelity. Though
he had long blushed, sighed, and cast sheep’s eyes at
the idol of his affections, only till lately had he dared to
bleat forth his passion. Polly loved him because she
couldn’t help it; but she was proud, and wouldn’t
marry till Aunt Kipp’s money was hers, or at least a
sure prospect of it; and now even the prospect of a
prospect was destroyed by that irrepressible Toady.
They were talking of this as the old lady suspected, and
of course the following conversation afforded her intense
satisfaction.

“It’s a shame to torment us as she does, knowing
how poor we are and how happy a little of her money
would make us. I’m tired of being a slave to a cruel
old woman just because she’s rich. If it was not for
mother, I declare I’d wash my hands of her entirely,
and do the best I could for myself.”

“Hooray for Polly! I always said let her money go
and be jolly without it,” cried Toady, who, in his character
of wounded hero, reposed with a lordly air on the
.bn 043.png
.pn +1
sofa, enjoying the fragrance of the opedeldoc with which
his strained wrists were bandaged.

“It’s on your account, children, that I bear with
aunt’s temper as I do. I don’t want anything for myself,
but I really think she owes it to your dear father,
who was devoted to her while he lived, to provide for
his children when he couldn’t;” after which remarkably
spirited speech for her, Mrs. Snow dropped a tear, and
stitched away on a small trouser-leg which was suffering
from a complicated compound fracture.

“Don’t you worry about me, mother; I’ll take care
of myself and you too,” remarked Toady, with the
cheery belief in impossibilities which makes youth so
charming.

“Now, Van, tell us what to do, for things have come
to such a pass that we must either break away altogether
or be galley-slaves as long as Aunt Kipp lives,” said
Polly, who was a good deal excited about the matter.

“Well, really, my dear, I don’t know,” hesitated
Van, who did know what <i>he</i> wanted, but thought it
might be selfish to urge it. “Have you tried to soften
your aunt’s heart?” he asked, after a moment’s meditation.

“Good gracious, Van, she hasn’t got any,” cried
Polly, who firmly believed it.

“It’s hossified,” thoughtfully remarked Toady, quite
unconscious of any approach to a joke till every one
giggled.

“You’ve had hossification enough for one while, my
lad,” laughed Van. “Well, Polly, if the old lady has
no heart you’d better let her go, for people without
hearts are not worth much.”
.bn 044.png
.pn +1

“That’s a beautiful remark, Van, and a wise one.
I just wish she could hear you make it, for she called
you a fool,” said Polly, irefully.

“Did she? Well, I don’t mind, I’m used to it,” returned
Van, placidly; and so he was, for Polly called
him a goose every day of her life, and he enjoyed it
immensely.

“Then you think, dear, if we stopped worrying about
aunt and her money, and worked instead of waiting,
that we shouldn’t be any poorer and might be a great
deal happier than we are now?” asked Polly, making a
pretty little tableau as she put her hand through Van’s
arm and looked up at him with as much love, respect,
and reliance as if he had been six feet tall, with the face
of an Apollo and the manners of a Chesterfield.

“Yes, my dear, I do, for it has troubled me a good
deal to see you so badgered by that very uncomfortable
old lady. Independence is a very nice thing, and poverty
isn’t half as bad as this sort of slavery. But you
are not going to be poor, nor worry about anything.
We’ll just be married and take mother and Toady home
and be as jolly as grigs, and never think of Mrs. K.
again,—unless she loses her fortune, or gets sick, or
comes to grief in any way. We’d lend her a hand then,
wouldn’t we, Polly?” and Van’s mild face was pleasant
to behold as he made the kindly proposition.

“Well, we’d think of it,” said Polly, trying not to relent,
but feeling that she was going very fast.

“Let’s do it!” cried Toady, fired with the thought of
privy conspiracy and rebellion. “Mother would be so
comfortable with Polly, and I’d help Van in the store,
when I’ve learned that confounded multiplication table,”
.bn 045.png
.pn +1
he added with a groan; “and if Aunt Kipp comes a
visiting, we’ll just say ‘Not at home,’ and let her trot
off again.”

“It sounds very nice, but aunt will be dreadfully offended
and I don’t wish to be ungrateful,” said Mrs.
Snow, brightening visibly.

“There’s no ingratitude about it,” cried Van. “She
might have done everything to make you love, and respect,
and admire her, and been a happy, useful, motherly,
old soul; but she didn’t choose to, and now she
must take the consequences. No one cares for her, because
she cares for nobody; her money’s the plague of
her life, and not a single heart will ache when she dies.”

“Poor Aunt Kipp!” said Polly, softly.

Mrs. Snow echoed the words, and for a moment all
thought pitifully of the woman whose life had given so
little happiness, whose age had won so little reverence,
and whose death would cause so little regret. Even
Toady had a kind thought for her, as he broke the
silence, saying soberly,—

“You’d better put tails on my jackets, mother; then
the next time we get run away with, Aunt Kipp will
have something to hold on by.”

It was impossible to help laughing at the recollection
of the old lady clutching at the boy till he had hardly a
button left, and at the paternal air with which he now
proposed a much-desired change of costume, as if intent
on Aunt Kipp’s future accommodation.

Under cover of the laugh, the old lady stole back to
bed, wide awake, and with subjects enough to meditate
upon now. The shaking up had certainly done her
good, for somehow the few virtues she possessed came
.bn 046.png
.pn +1
to the surface, and the mental shower-bath just received
had produced a salutary change. Polly wouldn’t have
doubted her aunt’s possession of a heart, if she could
have known the pain and loneliness that made it ache, as
the old woman crept away; and Toady wouldn’t have
laughed if he had seen the tears on the face, between the
big frills, as Aunt Kipp laid it on the pillow, muttering,
drearily,—

“I might have been a happy, useful woman, but I
didn’t choose to, and now it’s too late.”

It <i>was</i> too late to be all she might have been, for the
work of seventy selfish years couldn’t be undone in a
minute. But with regret, rose the sincere wish to earn a
little love before the end came, and the old perversity gave
a relish to the reformation, for even while she resolved
to do the just and generous thing, she said to herself,—

“They say I’ve got no heart; I’ll show ’em that I
have: they don’t want my money; I’ll <i>make</i> ’em take it:
they turn their backs on me; I’ll just render myself so
useful and agreeable that they can’t do without me.”
.sp 2
.tb
.h3
III.
.sp 2
<sc>Aunt Kipp</sc> sat bolt upright in the parlor, hemming a
small handkerchief, adorned with a red ship, surrounded
by a border of green monkeys. Toady suspected that
this elegant article of dress was intended for him, and
yearned to possess it; so, taking advantage of his mother’s
and Polly’s absence, he strolled into the room, and,
seating himself on a high, hard chair, folded his hands,
.bn 047.png
.pn +1
crossed his legs, and asked for a story with the
thirsting-for-knowledge
air which little boys wear in the
moral story-books.

Now Aunt Kipp had one soft place in her heart,
though it <i>was</i> partially ossified, as she very truly declared,
and Toady was enshrined therein. She thought
there never was such a child, and loved him as she had
done his father before him, though the rack wouldn’t
have forced her to confess it. She scolded, snubbed,
and predicted he’d come to a bad end in public; but she
forgave his naughtiest pranks, always brought him
something when she came, and privately intended to
make his future comfortable with half of her fortune.
There was a dash and daring, a generosity and integrity,
about the little fellow, that charmed her. Sophy
was weak and low-spirited, Polly pretty and head-strong,
and Aunt Kipp didn’t think much of either of
them; but Toady defied, distracted, and delighted her,
and to Toady she clung, as the one sunshiny thing in
her sour, selfish old age.

When he made his demure request, she looked at him,
and her eyes began to twinkle, for the child’s purpose
was plainly seen in the loving glances cast upon the pictorial
pocket-handkerchief.

“A story? Yes, I’ll tell you one about a little boy
who had a kind old—ahem!—grandma. She was
rich, and hadn’t made up her mind who she’d leave her
money to. She was fond of the boy,—a deal fonder
than he deserved,—for he was as mischievous a monkey
as any that ever lived in a tree, with a curly tail. He
put pepper in her snuff-box,”—here Toady turned scarlet,—“he
cut up her best frisette to make a mane for
.bn 048.png
.pn +1
his rocking-horse,”—Toady opened his mouth impulsively,
but shut it again without betraying himself—“he
repeated rude things to her, and called her ‘an old
aggrawater,’”—here Toady wriggled in his chair, and
gave a little gasp.

“If you are tired I won’t go on,” observed Aunt
Kipp, mildly.

“I’m not tired, ’m; it’s a very interesting story,” replied
Toady, with a gravity that nearly upset the old
lady.

“Well, in spite of all this, that kind, good, forgiving
grandma left that bad boy twenty thousand dollars when
she died. What do you think of that?” asked Aunt
Kipp, pausing suddenly with her sharp eye on him.

“I—I think she was a regular dear,” cried Toady,
holding on to the chair with both hands, as if that
climax rather took him off his legs.

“And what did the boy do about it?” continued Aunt
Kipp, curiously.

“He bought a velocipede, and gave his sister half,
and paid his mother’s rent, and put a splendid marble
cherakin over the old lady, and had a jolly good time,
and—”

“What in the world is a cherakin?” laughed Aunt
Kipp, as Toady paused for breath.

“Why, don’t you know? It’s a angel crying, or
pointing up, or flapping his wings. They have them
over graves; and I’ll give you the biggest one I can
find when you die. But I’m not in a <i>very</i> great hurry
to have you.”

“Thankee, dear; I’m in no hurry, myself. But,
Toady, the boy did wrong in giving his sister half; she
.bn 049.png
.pn +1
didn’t deserve <i>any</i>; and the grandma left word she
wasn’t to have a penny of it.”

“Really?” cried the boy, with a troubled face.

“Yes, really. If he gave her any he lost it all; the
old lady said so. Now what do you think?” asked
Aunt Kipp, who found it impossible to pardon Polly,—perhaps
because she was young, and pretty, and much
beloved.

Toady’s eyes kindled, and his red cheeks grew redder
still, as he cried out defiantly,—

“I think she was a selfish pig,—don’t you?”

“No, I don’t, sir; and I’m sure that little boy
wasn’t such a fool as to lose the money. He minded
his grandma’s wishes, and kept it all.”

“No, he didn’t,” roared Toady, tumbling off his
chair in great excitement. “He just threw it out a
winder, and smashed the old cherakin all to bits.”

Aunt Kipp dropped her work with a shrill squeak, for
she thought the boy was dangerous, as he stood before
her, sparring away at nothing as the only vent for his
indignation.

“It isn’t an interesting story,” he cried; “and I
won’t hear any more; and I won’t have your money if
I mayn’t go halves with Polly; and I’ll work to earn
more than that, and we’ll all be jolly together, and you
may give your twenty thousand to the old rag-bags, and
so I tell you, Aunt Kipp.”

“Why, Toady, my boy, what’s the matter?” cried
a mild voice at the door, as young Lamb came trotting
up to the rescue.

“Never you mind, Baa-baa; I shan’t do it; and it’s
a mean shame Polly can’t have half; then she could
.bn 050.png
.pn +1
marry you and be so happy,” blubbered Toady, running
to try to hide his tears of disappointment in the coat-skirts
of his friend.

“Mr. Lamb, I suppose you <i>are</i> that misguided young
man?” said Aunt Kipp, as if it was a personal insult to
herself.

“Van Bahr Lamb, ma’am, if you please. Yes, thank
you,” murmured Baa-baa, bowing, blushing, and rumpling
his curly fleece in bashful trepidation.

“Don’t thank me,” cried the old lady. “I’m not
going to give you anything,—far from it. I object to
you altogether. What business have you to come courting
my niece?”

“Because I love her, ma’am,” returned Van, with
unexpected spirit.

“No, you don’t; you want her money, or rather my
money. She depends on it; but you’ll both be disappointed,
for she won’t have a penny of it,” cried Aunt
Kipp, who, in spite of her good resolutions, found it
impossible to be amiable all at once.

“I’m glad of it!” burst out Van, indignant at her
accusation. “I didn’t want Polly for the money; I
always doubted if she got it; and I never wished her to
make herself a slave to anybody. I’ve got enough for
all, if we’re careful; and when my share of the Van
Bahr property comes, we shall live in clover.”

“What’s that? What property are you talking of?”
demanded Aunt Kipp, pricking up her ears.

“The great Van Bahr estate, ma’am. There has
been a long lawsuit about it, but it’s nearly settled, and
there isn’t much doubt that we shall get it. I am the
last of our branch, and my share will be a large one.”
.bn 051.png
.pn +1

“Oh, indeed! I wish you joy,” said Aunt Kipp, with
sudden affability; for she adored wealth, like a few
other persons in the world. “But suppose you don’t
get it, how then?”

“Then I shall try to be contented with my salary
of two thousand, and make Polly as happy as I can.
Money doesn’t <i>always</i> make people happy or agreeable,
I find.” And Van looked at Aunt Kipp in a
way that would have made her hair stand erect if
she had possessed any. She stared at him a moment,
then, obeying one of the odd whims that
made an irascible weathercock of her, she said, abruptly,—

“If you had capital should you go into business for
yourself, Mr. Lambkin?”

“Yes, ma’am, at once,” replied Van, promptly.

“Suppose you lost the Van Bahr money, and some
one offered you a tidy little sum to start with, would you
take it?”

“It would depend upon who made the offer, ma’am,”
said Van, looking more like a sheep than ever, as he
stood staring in blank surprise.

“Suppose it was me, wouldn’t you take it?” asked
Aunt Kipp, blandly, for the new fancy pleased her.

“No, thank you, ma’am,” said Van, decidedly.

“And why not, pray?” cried the old lady, with a
shrillness that made him jump, and Toady back to the
door precipitately.

“Because, if you’ll excuse my speaking plainly, I
think you owe anything you may have to spare to your
niece, Mrs. Snow;” and, having freed his mind, Van
joined Toady, ready to fly if necessary.
.bn 052.png
.pn +1

“You’re an idiot, sir,” began Aunt Kipp, in a rage
again.

“Thank you, ma’am.” And Van actually laughed
and bowed in return for the compliment.

“Hold your tongue, sir,” snapped the old lady.
“You’re a fool and Sophy is another. She’s no strength
of mind, no sense about anything; and would make
ducks and drakes of my money in less than no time if I
gave it to her, as I’ve thought of doing.”

“Mrs. Kipp, you forget who you are speaking to.
Mrs. Snow’s sons love and respect her if you don’t, and
they won’t hear anything untrue or unkind said of a
good woman, a devoted mother, and an almost friendless
widow.”

Van wasn’t a dignified man at all, but as he said that
with a sudden flash of his mild eyes, there was something
in his face and manner that daunted Aunt Kipp
more than the small fist belligerently shaken at her from
behind the sofa. The poor old soul was cross, and
worried, and ashamed of herself, and being as feeble-minded
as Sophy in many respects, she suddenly burst
into tears, and, covering her face with the gay handkerchief,
cried as if bent on floating the red ship in a sea
of salt water without delay.

“I’m a poor, lonely, abused old woman,” she moaned,
with a green monkey at each eye. “No one loves me,
or minds me, or thanks me when I want to help ’em.
My money’s only a worryment and a burden, and I
don’t know what to do with it, for people I don’t want
to leave it to ought to have it, and people I do like
won’t take it. Oh, deary me, what <i>shall</i> I do! what
shall I do!”
.bn 053.png
.pn +1

“Shall I tell you, ma’am?” asked Van, gently, for,
though she was a very provoking old lady, he pitied and
wished to help her.

A nod and a gurgle seemed to give consent, and,
boldly advancing, Van said, with blush and a stammer,
but a very hearty voice,—

“I think, ma’am, if you’d do the right thing with
your money you’d be at ease and find it saved a deal of
worry all round. Give it to Mrs. Snow; she deserves it,
poor lady, for she’s had a hard time, and done her duty
faithfully. Don’t wait till you are—that is, till you—well,
till you in point of fact die, ma’am. Give it now,
and enjoy the happiness it will make. Give it kindly,
let them see you’re glad to do it, and I am sure you’ll
find them grateful; I’m sure you won’t be lonely any
more, or feel that you are not loved and thanked. Try
it, ma’am, just try it,” cried Van, getting excited by the
picture he drew. “And I give you my word I’ll do
my best to respect and love you like a son, ma’am.”

He knew that he was promising a great deal, but for
Polly’s sake he felt that he could make even that Herculean
effort. Aunt Kipp was surprised and touched;
but the contrary old lady couldn’t make up her mind
to yield so soon, and wouldn’t have done it if Toady
hadn’t taken her by storm. Having a truly masculine
horror of tears, a very tender heart under his tail-less
jacket, and being much “tumbled up and down in
his own mind” by the events of the week, the poor little
lad felt nerved to attempt any novel enterprise, even
that of voluntarily embracing Aunt Kipp. First a
grimy little hand came on her shoulder, as she sat sniffing
behind the handkerchief; then, peeping out, she
.bn 054.png
.pn +1
saw an apple-cheeked face very near her own, with eyes
full of pity, penitence, and affection; and then she
heard a choky little voice say earnestly,—

“Don’t cry, aunty; I’m sorry I was rude. Please
be good to Mother and Polly, and I’ll love and take
care of you, and stand by you all my life. Yes, I’ll—I’ll
<i>kiss</i> you, I will, by George!” And with one promiscuous
plunge the Spartan boy cast himself into her
arms.

That finished Aunt Kipp; she hugged him close,
and cried out with a salute that went off like a pistol-shot,—

“Oh, my dear, my dear! this is better than a dozen
cherakins!”

When Toady emerged, somewhat flushed and tumbled,
Mrs. Snow, Polly, and Van were looking on
with faces full of wonder, doubt, and satisfaction. To
be an object of interest was agreeable to Aunt Kipp;
and, as her old heart was really softened, she met them
with a gracious smile, and extended the olive-branch
generally.

“Sophy, I shall give my money to <i>you</i> at once and
entirely, only asking that you’ll let me stay with you
when Polly’s gone. I’ll do my best to be agreeable,
and you’ll bear with me because I’m a cranky, solitary
old woman, and I loved your husband.”

Mrs. Snow hugged her on the spot, and gushed, of
course, murmuring thanks, welcomes, and promises in
one grateful burst.

“Polly, I forgive you; I consent to your marriage,
and will provide your wedding finery. Mr. Lamb, you
are not a fool, but a very excellent young man. I
.bn 055.png
.pn +1
thank you for saving my life, and I wish you well with
all my heart. You needn’t say anything. I’m far
from strong, and all this agitation is shortening my
life.”

Polly and Van shook her hand heartily, and beamed
upon each other like a pair of infatuated turtle-doves
with good prospects.

“Toady, you are as near an angel as a boy can be.
Put a name to whatever you most wish for in the world,
and it’s yours,” said Aunt Kipp, dramatically waving
the rest away.

With his short legs wide apart, his hands behind him,
and his rosy face as round and radiant as a rising sun,
Toady stood before the fire surveying the scene with the
air of a man who has successfully carried through a difficult
and dangerous undertaking, and wasn’t proud.
His face brightened, then fell, as he heaved a sigh, and
answered, with a shake of his curly head,—

“You can’t give me what I want most. There are
three things, and I’ve got to wait for them all.”

“Gracious me, what are they?” cried the old lady,
good-naturedly, for she felt better already.

“A mustache, a beaver, <i>and</i> a sweetheart,” answered
Toady, with his eyes fixed wistfully on Baa-baa, who
possessed all these blessings, and was particularly enjoying
the latter at that moment.

How Aunt Kipp did laugh at this early budding of
romance in her pet! And all the rest joined her, for
Toady’s sentimental air was irresistible.

“You precocious chick! I dare say you will have
them all before we know where we are. Never mind,
deary; you shall have my little watch, and the silver-headed
.bn 056.png
.pn +1
cane with a <i>boar’s</i> head on it,” answered the old
lady, in high good-humor. “You needn’t blush, dear;
I don’t bear malice; so let’s forget and forgive. I shall
settle things to-morrow, and have a free mind. You
are welcome to my money, and I hope I shall live to
see you all enjoy it.”

So she did; for she lived to see Sophy plump, cheery,
and care-free; Polly surrounded by a flock of Lambkins;
Van in possession of a generous slice of the Van
Bahr fortune; Toady revelling in the objects of his
desire; and, best of all, she lived to find that it is never
too late to make oneself useful, happy, and beloved.
.bn 057.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch03
PSYCHE’S ART.||<s>“Handsome is that handsome does.”</s>
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I.
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ONCE upon a time there raged in a certain city one
of those fashionable epidemics which occasionally
attack our youthful population. It wasn’t the music
mania, nor gymnastic convulsions, nor that wide-spread
malady, croquet. Neither was it one of the new dances
which, like a tarantula-bite, set every one a twirling,
nor stage madness, nor yet that American lecturing influenza
which yearly sweeps over the land. No, it
was a new disease called the Art fever, and it attacked
the young women of the community with great
violence.

Nothing but time could cure it, and it ran its course
to the dismay, amusement, or edification of the beholders,
for its victims did all manner of queer things in
their delirium. They besieged potteries for clay, drove
Italian plaster-workers out of their wits with unexecutable
orders, got neuralgia and rheumatism sketching
perched on fences and trees like artistic hens, and caused
a rise in the price of bread, paper, and charcoal, by their
ardor in crayoning. They covered canvas with the expedition
of scene-painters, had classes, lectures, receptions,
and exhibitions, made models of each other, and
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rendered their walls hideous with bad likenesses of all
their friends. Their conversation ceased to be intelligible
to the uninitiated, and they prattled prettily of
“chiaro oscuro, French sauce, refraction of the angle
of the eye, seventh spinus process, depth and juiciness
of color, tender touch, and a good tone.” Even in
dress the artistic disorder was visible; some cast aside
crinoline altogether, and stalked about with a severe
simplicity of outline worthy of Flaxman. Others flushed
themselves with scarlet, that no landscape which they
adorned should be without some touch of Turner’s
favorite tint. Some were <i>blue</i> in every sense of the
word, and the heads of all were adorned with classic
braids, curls tied Hebe-wise, or hair dressed à la
hurricane.

It was found impossible to keep them safe at home,
and, as the fever grew, these harmless maniacs invaded
the sacred retreats where artists of the other sex did
congregate, startling those anchorites with visions of
large-eyed damsels bearing portfolios in hands delicately
begrimed with crayon, chalk, and clay, gliding through
the corridors hitherto haunted only by shabby paletots,
shadowy hats, and cigar smoke. This irruption was
borne with manly fortitude, not to say cheerfulness, for
studio doors stood hospitably open as the fair invaders
passed, and studies from life were generously offered
them in glimpses of picturesque gentlemen posed before
easels, brooding over master-pieces in “a divine despair,”
or attitudinizing upon couches as if exhausted
by the soarings of genius.

An atmosphere of romance began to pervade the old
buildings when the girls came, and nature and art took
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turns. There were peepings and whisperings, much
stifled laughter and whisking in and out; not to mention
the accidental rencontres, small services, and eye telegrams,
which somewhat lightened the severe studies of
all parties.

Half a dozen young victims of this malady met daily
in one of the cells of a great art bee-hive called
“Raphael’s Rooms,” and devoted their shining hours
to modelling fancy heads, gossiping the while; for the
poor things found the road to fame rather dull and
dusty without such verbal sprinklings.

“Psyche Dean, you’ve had an adventure! I see it
in your face; so tell it at once, for we are as stupid as
owls here to-day,” cried one of the sisterhood, as a
bright-eyed girl entered with some precipitation.

“I dropped my portfolio, and a man picked it up,
that’s all,” replied Psyche, hurrying on her gray linen
pinafore.

“That won’t do; I know something interesting happened,
for you’ve been blushing, and you look brisker
than usual this morning,” said the first speaker, polishing
off the massive nose of her Homer.

“It wasn’t anything,” began Pysche a little reluctantly.
“I was coming up in a hurry when I ran against
a man coming down in a hurry. My portfolio slipped,
and my papers went flying all about the landing. Of
course we both laughed and begged pardon, and I
began to pick them up, but he wouldn’t let me; so I
held the book while he collected the sketches. I saw
him glance at them as he did so, and that made me
blush, for they are wretched things, you know.”

“Not a bit of it; they are capital, and you are a
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regular genius, as we all agree,” cut in the Homeric
Miss Cutter.

“Never tell people they are geniuses unless you wish
to spoil them,” returned Psyche severely. “Well, when
the portfolio was put to rights I was going on, but he
fell to picking up a little bunch of violets I had dropped;
you know I always wear a posy into town to give me
inspiration. I didn’t care for the dusty flowers, and
told him so, and hurried away before any one came.
At the top of the stairs I peeped over the railing, and
there he was, gathering up every one of those half-dead
violets as carefully as if they had been tea-roses.”

“Psyche Dean, you have met your fate this day!”
exclaimed a third damsel, with straw-colored tresses,
and a good deal of weedy shrubbery in her hat, which
gave an Ophelia-like expression to her sentimental
countenance.

Psyche frowned and shook her head, as if half sorry
she had told her little story.

“Was he handsome?” asked Miss Larkins, the believer
in fate.

“I didn’t particularly observe.”

“It was the red-headed man, whom we call Titian:
he’s always on the stairs.”

“No, it wasn’t; his hair was brown and curly,”
cried Psyche, innocently falling into the trap.

“Like Peerybingle’s baby when its cap was taken
off,” quoted Miss Dickenson, who pined to drop the
last two letters of her name.

“Was it Murillo, the black-eyed one?” asked the
fair Cutter, for the girls had a name for all the attitudinizers
and promenaders whom they oftenest met.
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“No, he had gray eyes, and very fine ones they were
too,” answered Psyche, adding, as if to herself, “he
looked as I imagine Michael Angelo might have looked
when young.”

“Had he a broken nose, like the great Mike?” asked
an irreverent damsel.

“If he had, no one would mind it, for his head is
splendid; he took his hat off, so I had a fine view. He
isn’t handsome, but he’ll <i>do</i> something,” said Psyche,
prophetically, as she recalled the strong, ambitious face
which she had often observed, but never mentioned
before.

“Well, dear, considering that you didn’t ‘particularly
look’ at the man, you’ve given us a very good
idea of his appearance. We’ll call him Michael Angelo,
and he shall be your idol. I prefer stout old Rembrandt
myself, and Larkie adores that dandified Raphael,” said
the lively Cutter, slapping away at Homer’s bald pate
energetically, as she spoke.

“Raphael is a dear, but Rubens is more to my taste
now,” returned Miss Larkins. “He was in the hall
yesterday talking with Sir Joshua, who had his inevitable
umbrella, like a true Englishman. Just as I came up,
the umbrella fell right before me. I started back; Sir
Joshua laughed, but Rubens said, ‘Deuce take it!’ and
caught up the umbrella, giving me a never-to-be-forgotten
look. It was perfectly thrilling.”

“Which,—the umbrella, the speech, or the look?”
asked Psyche, who was not sentimental.

“Ah, you have no soul for art in nature, and nature
in art,” sighed the amber-tressed Larkins. “I have,
for I feed upon a glance, a tint, a curve, with exquisite
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delight. Rubens is adorable (<i>as a study</i>); that lustrous
eye, that night of hair, that sumptuous cheek, are perfect.
He only needs a cloak, lace collar, and slouching
hat to be the genuine thing.”

“This isn’t the genuine thing by any means. What
<i>does</i> it need?” said Psyche, looking with a despondent
air, at the head on her stand.

Many would have pronounced it a clever thing; the
nose was strictly Greek, the chin curved upward gracefully,
the mouth was sweetly haughty, the brow classically
smooth and low, and the breezy hair well done.
But something was wanting; Psyche felt that, and could
have taken her Venus by the dimpled shoulders, and
given her a hearty shake, if that would have put
strength and spirit into the lifeless face.

“Now <i>I</i> am perfectly satisfied with my Apollo,
though you all insist that it is the image of Theodore
Smythe. He says so himself, and assures me it will
make a sensation when we exhibit,” remarked Miss
Larkins, complacently caressing the ambrosial locks of
her Smythified Phebus.

“What shall you do if it does not?” asked Miss Cutter,
with elegance.

“I shall feel that I have mistaken my sphere, shall
drop my tools, veil my bust, and cast myself into the
arms of Nature, since Art rejects me;” replied Miss
Larkins, with a tragic gesture and an expression which
strongly suggested that in her eyes nature meant Theodore.

“She must have capacious arms if she is to receive all
Art’s rejected admirers. Shall I be one of them?”

Psyche put the question to herself as she turned to
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work, but somehow ambitious aspirations were not in a
flourishing condition that morning; her heart was not in
tune, and head and hands sympathized. Nothing went
well, for certain neglected home-duties had dogged her
into town, and now worried her more than dust, or heat,
or the ceaseless clatter of tongues. Tom, Dick, and
Harry’s unmended hose persisted in dancing a spectral
jig before her mental eye, mother’s querulous complaints
spoilt the song she hummed to cheer herself, and little
May’s wistful face put the goddess of beauty entirely out
of countenance.

“It’s no use; I can’t work till the clay is wet again.
Where is Giovanni?” she asked, throwing down her
tools with a petulant gesture and a dejected air.

“He is probably playing truant in the empty upper
rooms, as usual. I can’t wait for him any longer, so
I’m doing his work myself,” answered Miss Dickenson,
who was tenderly winding a wet bandage round her
Juno’s face, one side of which was so much plumper
than the other that it looked as if the Queen of Olympus
was being hydropathically treated for a severe fit of
ague.

“I’ll go and find the little scamp; a run will do me
good; so will a breath of air and a view of the park
from the upper windows.”

Doffing her apron, Psyche strolled away up an unfrequented
staircase to the empty apartments, which
seemed to be too high even for the lovers of High Art.
On the western side they were shady and cool, and, leaning
from one of the windows, Psyche watched the feathery
tree-tops ruffled by the balmy wind, that brought
spring odors from the hills, lying green and sunny far
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away. Silence and solitude were such pleasant companions
that the girl forgot herself, till a shrill whistle disturbed
her day-dreams, and reminded her what she
came for. Following the sound she found the little Italian
errand-boy busily uncovering a clay model which
stood in the middle of a scantily furnished room near
by.

“He is not here; come and look; it is greatly beautiful,”
cried Giovanni, beckoning with an air of importance.

Psyche did look and speedily forgot both her errand
and herself. It was the figure of a man, standing erect,
and looking straight before him with a wonderfully life-like
expression. It was neither a mythological nor a
historical character, Psyche thought, and was glad of it,
being tired to death of gods and heroes. She soon
ceased to wonder what it was, feeling only the indescribable
charm of something higher than beauty. Small as
her knowledge was, she could see and enjoy the power
visible in every part of it; the accurate anatomy of the
vigorous limbs, the grace of the pose, the strength and
spirit in the countenance, clay though it was. A majestic
figure, but the spell lay in the face, which, while
it suggested the divine, was full of human truth and
tenderness, for pain and passion seemed to have passed
over it, and a humility half pathetic, a courage half
heroic seemed to have been born from some great loss
or woe.

How long she stood there Psyche did not know.
Giovanni went away unseen, to fill his water-pail, and in
the silence she just stood and looked. Her eyes kindled,
her color rose, despondency and discontent vanished,
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and her soul was in her face, for she loved beauty
passionately, and all that was best and truest in her did
honor to the genius of the unknown worker.

“If I could do a thing like that, I’d die happy!”
she exclaimed impetuously, as a feeling of despair
came over her at the thought of her own poor attempts.

“Who did it, Giovanni?” she asked, still looking up
at the grand face with unsatisfied eyes.

“Paul Gage.”

It was not the boy’s voice, and, with a start, Psyche
turned to see her Michael Angelo, standing in the doorway,
attentively observing her. Being too full of artless
admiration to think of herself just yet, she neither
blushed nor apologized, but looked straight at him, saying
heartily,—

“You have done a wonderful piece of work, and I
envy you more than I can tell!”

The enthusiasm in her face, the frankness of her manner,
seemed to please him, for there was no affectation
about either. He gave her a keen, kind glance out of
the “fine gray eyes,” a little bow, and a grateful smile,
saying quietly,—

“Then my Adam is not a failure in spite of his
fall?”

Psyche turned from the sculptor to his model with
increased admiration in her face, and earnestness in her
voice, as she exclaimed delighted,—

“Adam! I might have known it was he. O sir, you
have indeed succeeded, for you have given that figure
the power and pathos of the first man who sinned and
suffered, and began again.”
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“Then I am satisfied.” That was all he said, but
the look he gave his work was a very eloquent one, for
it betrayed that he had paid the price of success in
patience and privation, labor and hope.

“What can one do to learn your secret?” asked the
girl wistfully, for there was nothing in the man’s manner
to disturb her self-forgetful mood, but much to foster it,
because to the solitary worker this confiding guest was
as welcome as the doves who often hopped in at his
window.

“Work and wait, and meantime feed heart, soul,
and imagination with the best food one can get,” he
answered slowly, finding it impossible to give a receipt
for genius.

“I can work and wait a long time to gain my end;
but I don’t know where to find the food you speak of?”
she answered, looking at him like a hungry child.

“I wish I could tell you, but each needs different
fare, and each must look for it in different places.”

The kindly tone and the sympathizing look, as well
as the lines in his forehead, and a few gray hairs among
the brown, gave Psyche courage to say more.

“I love beauty so much that I not only want to possess
it myself, but to gain the power of seeing it in all
things, and the art of reproducing it with truth. I have
tried very hard to do it, but something is wanting; and
in spite of my intense desire I never get on.”

As she spoke the girl’s eyes filled and fell in spite of
herself, and turning a little with sudden shamefacedness
she saw, lying on the table beside her among
other scraps in manuscript and print, the well-known
lines,—
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“I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty;
I woke, and found that life was duty.
Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?
Toil on, sad heart, courageously,
And thou shalt find thy dream to be
A noonday light and truth to thee.”
.pm verse-end

She knew them at a glance, had read them many
times, but now they came home to her with sudden force,
and, seeing that his eye had followed hers, she said in
her impulsive fashion,—

“Is doing one’s duty a good way to feed heart, soul,
and imagination?”

As if he had caught a glimpse of what was going on
in her mind, Paul answered emphatically,—

“Excellent; for if one is good, one is happy, and if
happy, one can work well. Moulding character is the
highest sort of sculpture, and all of us should learn that
art before we touch clay or marble.”

He spoke with the energy of a man who believed what
he said, and did his best to be worthy of the rich gift
bestowed upon him. The sight of her violets in a glass
of water, and Giovanni staring at her with round eyes,
suddenly recalled Psyche to a sense of the proprieties
which she had been innocently outraging for the last
ten minutes. A sort of panic seized her; she blushed
deeply, retreated precipitately to the door, and vanished,
murmuring thanks and apologies as she went.

“Did you find him? I thought you had forgotten,”
said Miss Dickenson, now hard at work.

“Yes, I found him. No, I shall not forget,” returned
Psyche, thinking of Gage, not Giovanni.

She stood before her work eying it intently for several
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minutes; then, with an expression of great contempt
for the whole thing, she suddenly tilted her cherished
Venus on to the floor, gave the classical face a finishing
crunch, and put on her hat in a decisive manner, saying
briefly to the dismayed damsels,—

“Good-by, girls; I shan’t come any more, for I’m
going to work at home hereafter.”
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II.
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THE prospect of pursuing artistic studies at home was
not brilliant, as one may imagine when I mention that
Psyche’s father was a painfully prosaic man, wrapt in
flannel, so to speak; for his woollen mills left him no
time for anything but sleep, food, and newspapers.
Mrs. Dean was one of those exasperating women who
pervade their mansions like a domestic steam-engine
one week and take to their sofas the next, absorbed by
fidgets and foot-stoves, shawls and lamentations. There
were three riotous and robust young brothers, whom it
is unnecessary to describe except by stating that they
were <i>boys</i> in the broadest sense of that delightful word.
There was a feeble little sister, whose patient, suffering
face demanded constant love and care to mitigate the
weariness of a life of pain. And last, but not least by
any means, there were two Irish ladies, who, with the
best intentions imaginable, produced a universal state of
topsy-turviness when left to themselves for a moment.

But being very much in earnest about doing her duty,
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not because it <i>was</i> her duty, but as a means toward an
end, Psyche fell to work with a will, hoping to serve
both masters at once. So she might have done, perhaps,
if flesh and blood had been as plastic as clay, but
the live models were so exacting in their demands upon
her time and strength, that the poor statues went to the
wall. Sculpture and sewing, calls and crayons, Ruskin
and receipt-books, didn’t work well together, and poor
Psyche found duties and desires desperately antagonistic.
Take a day as a sample.

“The washing and ironing are well over, thank goodness,
mother quiet, the boys out of the way, and May
comfortable, so I’ll indulge myself in a blissful day after
my own heart,” Psyche said, as she shut herself into her
little studio, and prepared to enjoy a few hours of hard
study and happy day-dreams.

With a book on her lap, and her own round white arm
going through all manner of queer evolutions, she was
placidly repeating, “Deltoides, Biceps, Triceps, Pronator,
Supinator, Palmanis, Flexor carpi ulnaris—”

“Here’s Flexis what-you-call-ums for you,” interrupted
a voice, which began in a shrill falsetto and
ended in a gruff bass, as a flushed, dusty, long-legged
boy burst in, with a bleeding hand obligingly extended
for inspection.

“Mercy on us, Harry! what have you done to yourself
now? Split your fingers with a cricket-ball again?”
cried Psyche, as her arms went up and her book went
down.

“I just thrashed one of the fellows because he got
mad and said father was going to fail.”

“O Harry, is he?”
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“Of course he isn’t! It’s hard times for every one,
but father will pull through all right. No use to try
and explain it all; girls can’t understand business; so
you just tie me up, and don’t worry,” was the characteristic
reply of the young man, who, being three years
her junior, of course treated the weaker vessel with
lordly condescension.

“What a dreadful wound! I hope nothing is broken,
for I haven’t studied the hand much yet, and may do
mischief doing it up,” said Psyche, examining the great
grimy paw with tender solicitude.

“Much good your biceps, and deltoids, and things
do you, if you can’t right up a little cut like that,”
squeaked the ungrateful hero.

“I’m not going to be a surgeon, thank heaven; I
intend to make perfect hands and arms, not mend damaged
ones,” retorted Psyche, in a dignified tone, somewhat
marred by a great piece of court-plaster on her
tongue.

“I should say a surgeon could improve <i>that</i> perfect
thing, if he didn’t die a-laughing before he began,”
growled Harry, pointing with a scornful grin at a clay
arm humpy with muscles, all carefully developed in the
wrong places.

“Don’t sneer Hal, for you don’t know anything
about it. Wait a few years and see if you’re not proud
of me.”

“Sculp away and do something, then I’ll hurrah for
your mud-pies like a good one;” with which cheering
promise the youth departed, having effectually disturbed
his sister’s peaceful mood.

Anxious thoughts of her father rendered “biceps,
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deltoids, and things” uninteresting, and hoping to compose
her mind, she took up The Old Painters and went
on with the story of Claude Lorraine. She had just
reached the tender scene where,—

“Calista gazed with enthusiasm, while she looked
like a being of heaven rather than earth. ‘My friend,’
she cried, ‘I read in thy picture thy immortality!’ As
she spoke, her head sunk upon his bosom, and it was
several moments before Claude perceived that he supported
a lifeless form.”

“How sweet!” said Psyche, with a romantic sigh.

“Faith, and swate it is, thin!” echoed Katy, whose
red head had just appeared round the half opened door.
“It’s gingy-bread I’m making the day, miss, and will
I be puttin’ purlash or sallyrathis into it, if ye plase?”

“Purlash, by all means,” returned the girl, keeping
her countenance, fearing to enrage Katy by a laugh;
for the angry passions of the red-haired one rose more
quickly than her bread. As she departed with alacrity
to add a spoonful of starch and a pinch of whiting to
her cake, Psyche, feeling better for her story and her
smile, put on her bib and paper cap and fell to work on
the deformed arm. An hour of bliss, then came a ring
at the door-bell, followed by Biddy to announce callers,
and add that as “the mistress was in her bed, miss
must go and take care of ’em.” Whereat “miss” cast
down her tools in despair, threw her cap one way, her
bib another, and went in to her guests with anything
but a rapturous welcome.

Dinner being accomplished after much rushing up and
down stairs with trays and messages for Mrs. Dean,
Psyche fled again to her studio, ordering no one to
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approach under pain of a scolding. All went well till,
going in search of something, she found her little sister
sitting on the floor with her cheek against the studio
door.

“I didn’t mean to be naughty, Sy, but mother is
asleep, and the boys all gone, so I just came to be near
you; it’s so lonely everywhere,” she said, apologetically,
as she lifted up the heavy head that always ached.

“The boys are very thoughtless. Come in and stay
with me; you are such a mouse you won’t disturb me.
Wouldn’t you like to play be a model and let me draw
your arm, and tell you all about the nice little bones
and muscles?” asked Psyche, who had the fever very
strong upon her just then.

May didn’t look as if the proposed amusement overwhelmed
her with delight, but meekly consented to be
perched upon a high stool with one arm propped up by
a dropsical plaster cherub, while Psyche drew busily,
feeling that duty and pleasure were being delightfully
combined.

“Can’t you hold your arm still, child? It shakes so
I can’t get it right,” she said, rather impatiently.

“No, it will tremble ’cause it’s weak. I try hard,
Sy, but there doesn’t seem to be much strongness in
me lately.”

“That’s better; keep it so a few minutes and I’ll be
done,” cried the artist, forgetting that a few minutes
may seem ages.

“My arm is so thin you can see the bunches nicely,—can’t
you?”

“Yes, dear.”

Psyche glanced up at the wasted limb, and when she
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drew again there was a blur before her eyes for a
minute.

“I wish I was as fat as this white boy; but I get
thinner every day somehow, and pretty soon there won’t
be any of me left but my little bones,” said the child,
looking at the winged cherub with sorrowful envy.

“Don’t, my darling; don’t say that,” cried Psyche,
dropping her work with a sudden pang at her heart.
“I’m a sinful, selfish girl to keep you here! you’re
weak for want of air; come out and see the chickens,
and pick dandelions, and have a good romp with the
boys.”

The weak arms were strong enough to clasp Psyche’s
neck, and the tired face brightened beautifully as the
child exclaimed, with grateful delight,—

“Oh, I’d like it very much! I wanted to go dreadfully;
but everybody is so busy all the time. I don’t
want to play, Sy; but just to lie on the grass with my
head in your lap while you tell stories and draw me
pretty things as you used to.”

The studio was deserted all that afternoon, for Psyche
sat in the orchard drawing squirrels on the wall, pert
robins hopping by, buttercups and mosses, elves and
angels; while May lay contentedly enjoying sun and
air, sisterly care, and the “pretty things” she loved so
well. Psyche did not find the task a hard one; for this
time her heart was in it, and if she needed any reward
she surely found it; for the little face on her knee lost
its weary look, and the peace and beauty of nature
soothed her own troubled spirit, cheered her heart, and
did her more good than hours of solitary study.

Finding, much to her own surprise, that her fancy was
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teeming with lovely conceits, she did hope for a quiet
evening. But mother wanted a bit of gossip, father
must have his papers read to him, the boys had lessons
and rips and grievances to be attended to, May’s lullaby
could not be forgotten, and the maids had to be looked
after, lest burly “cousins” should be hidden in the
boiler, or lucifer matches among the shavings. So
Psyche’s day ended, leaving her very tired, rather discouraged,
and almost heart-sick with the shadow of a
coming sorrow.

All summer she did her best, but accomplished very
little, as she thought; yet this was the teaching she most
needed, and in time she came to see it. In the autumn
May died, whispering, with her arms about her sister’s
neck,—

“You make me so happy, Sy, I wouldn’t mind the
pain if I could stay a little longer. But if I can’t,
good-by, dear, good-by.”

Her last look and word and kiss were all for Psyche,
who felt then with grateful tears that her summer had
not been wasted; for the smile upon the little dead face
was more to her than any marble perfection her hands
could have carved.

In the solemn pause which death makes in every family,
Psyche said, with the sweet self-forgetfulness of a
strong yet tender nature,—

“I must not think of myself, but try to comfort
them;” and with this resolution she gave herself heart
and soul to duty, never thinking of reward.

A busy, anxious, humdrum winter, for, as Harry
said, “it was hard times for every one.” Mr. Dean
grew gray with the weight of business cares about which
.bn 075.png
.pn +1
he never spoke; Mrs. Dean, laboring under the delusion
that an invalid was a necessary appendage to the family,
installed herself in the place the child’s death left vacant,
and the boys needed much comforting, for the
poor lads never knew how much they loved “the baby”
till the little chair stood empty. All turned to Sy for
help and consolation, and her strength seemed to increase
with the demand upon it. Patience and cheerfulness,
courage and skill came at her call like good
fairies who had bided their time. Housekeeping ceased
to be hateful, and peace reigned in parlor and kitchen
while Mrs. Dean, shrouded in shawls, read Hahnemann’s
Lesser Writings on her sofa. Mr. Dean sometimes forgot
his mills when a bright face came to meet him, a
gentle hand smoothed the wrinkles out of his anxious
forehead, and a daughterly heart sympathized with all
his cares. The boys found home very pleasant with Sy
always there ready to “lend a hand,” whether it was to
make fancy ties, help conjugate “a confounded verb,”
pull candy, or sing sweetly in the twilight when all
thought of little May and grew quiet.

The studio door remained locked till her brothers
begged Psyche to open it and make a bust of the child.
A flush of joy swept over her face at the request, and
her patient eyes grew bright and eager, as a thirsty traveller’s
might at the sight or sound of water. Then it
faded as she shook her head, saying with a regretful
sigh, “I’m afraid I’ve lost the little skill I ever had.”

But she tried, and with great wonder and delight discovered
that she could work as she had never done before.
She thought the newly found power lay in her
longing to see the little face again; for it grew like
.bn 076.png
.pn +1
magic under her loving hands, while every tender memory,
sweet thought, and devout hope she had ever cherished,
seemed to lend their aid. But when it was done
and welcomed with tears and smiles, and praise more
precious than any the world could give, then Psyche
said within herself, like one who saw light at last,—

“He was right; doing one’s duty <i>is</i> the way to feed
heart, soul, and imagination; for if one is good, one is
happy, and if happy, one can work well.”

III.

“She broke her head and went home to come no
more,” was Giovanni’s somewhat startling answer when
Paul asked about Psyche, finding that he no longer met
her on the stairs or in the halls. He understood what
the boy meant, and with an approving nod turned to his
work again, saying, “I like that! If there is any power
in her, she has taken the right way to find it out, I suspect.”

How she prospered he never asked; for, though he
met her more than once that year, the interviews were
brief ones in street, concert-room, or picture-gallery,
and she carefully avoided speaking of herself. But,
possessing the gifted eyes which can look below the surface
of things, he detected in the girl’s face something
better than beauty, though each time he saw it, it looked
older and more thoughtful, often anxious and sad.

“She is getting on,” he said to himself with a cordial
.bn 077.png
.pn +1
satisfaction which gave his manner a friendliness as
grateful to Psyche as his wise reticence.

Adam was finished at last, proved a genuine success,
and Paul heartily enjoyed the well-earned reward for
years of honest work. One blithe May morning, he
slipped early into the art-gallery, where the statue now
stood, to look at his creation with paternal pride. He
was quite alone with the stately figure that shone white
against the purple draperies and seemed to offer him a
voiceless welcome from its marble lips. He gave it one
loving look, and then forgot it, for at the feet of his
Adam lay a handful of wild violets, with the dew still
on them. A sudden smile broke over his face as he
took them up, with the thought, “She has been here
and found my work good.”

For several moments he stood thoughtfully turning
the flowers to and fro in his hands; then, as if deciding
some question within himself, he said, still smiling,—

“It is just a year since she went home; she must
have accomplished something in that time; I’ll take the
violets as a sign that I may go and ask her what.”

He knew she lived just out of the city, between the
river and the mills, and as he left the streets behind
him, he found more violets blooming all along the way
like flowery guides to lead him right. Greener grew the
road, balmier blew the wind, and blither sang the birds,
as he went on, enjoying his holiday with the zest of a
boy, until he reached a most attractive little path winding
away across the fields. The gate swung invitingly
open, and all the ground before it was blue with violets.
Still following their guidance he took the narrow path,
till, coming to a mossy stone beside a brook, he sat
.bn 078.png
.pn +1
down to listen to the blackbirds singing deliciously in
the willows over head. Close by the stone, half hidden
in the grass lay a little book, and, taking it up he found
it was a pocket-diary. No name appeared on the flyleaf,
and, turning the pages to find some clue to its
owner, he read here and there enough to give him
glimpses into an innocent and earnest heart which
seemed to be learning some hard lesson patiently.
Only near the end did he find the clue in words of his
own, spoken long ago, and a name. Then, though longing
intensely to know more, he shut the little book and
went on, showing by his altered face that the simple
record of a girl’s life had touched him deeply.

Soon an old house appeared nestling to the hillside
with the river shining in the low green meadows just
before it.

“She lives there,” he said, with as much certainty as
if the pansies by the door-stone spelt her name, and,
knocking he asked for Psyche.

“She’s gone to town, but I expect her home every
minute. Ask the gentleman to walk in and wait, Katy,”
cried a voice from above, where the whisk of skirts was
followed by the appearance of an inquiring eye over the
banisters.

The gentleman did walk in, and while he waited looked
about him. The room, though very simply furnished,
had a good deal of beauty in it, for the pictures were
few and well chosen, the books such as never grow old,
the music lying on the well-worn piano of the sort which
is never out of fashion, and standing somewhat apart
was one small statue in a recess full of flowers. Lovely
in its simple grace and truth was the figure of a child
.bn 079.png
.pn +1
looking upward as if watching the airy flight of some
butterfly which had evidently escaped from the chrysalis
still lying in the little hand.

Paul was looking at it with approving eyes when
Mrs. Dean appeared with his card in her hand, three
shawls on her shoulders, and in her face a somewhat
startled expression, as if she expected some novel
demonstration from the man whose genius her daughter
so much admired.

“I hope Miss Psyche is well,” began Paul, with
great discrimination if not originality.

The delightfully commonplace remark tranquillized
Mrs. Dean at once, and, taking off the upper shawl
with a fussy gesture, she settled herself for a chat.

“Yes, thank heaven, Sy is well. I don’t know what
would become of us if she wasn’t. It has been a hard
and sorrowful year for us with Mr. Dean’s business embarrassments,
my feeble health, and May’s death. I
don’t know that you were aware of our loss, sir;” and
unaffected maternal grief gave sudden dignity to the
faded, fretful face of the speaker.

Paul murmured his regrets, understanding better now
the pathetic words on a certain tear-stained page of the
little book still in his pocket.

“Poor dear, she suffered everything, and it came
very hard upon Sy, for the child wasn’t happy with any
one else, and almost lived in her arms,” continued
Mrs. Dean, dropping the second shawl to get her handkerchief.

“Miss Psyche has not had much time for art-studies
this year, I suppose?” said Paul, hoping to arrest the
shower, natural as it was.
.bn 080.png
.pn +1

“How could she with two invalids, the housekeeping,
her father and the boys to attend to? No, she gave that
up last spring, and though it was a great disappointment
to her at the time, she has got over it now, I
hope,” added her mother, remembering as she spoke
that Psyche even now went about the house sometimes
pale and silent, with a hungry look in her
eyes.

“I am glad to hear it,” though a little shadow passed
over his face as Paul spoke, for he was too true an
artist to believe that any work could be as happy as
that which he loved and lived for. “I thought there
was much promise in Miss Psyche, and I sincerely believe
that time will prove me a true prophet,” he said,
with mingled regret and hope in his voice, as he glanced
about the room, which betrayed the tastes still cherished
by the girl.

“I’m afraid ambition isn’t good for women; I mean
the sort that makes them known by coming before the
public in any way. But Sy deserves some reward, I’m
sure, and I know she’ll have it, for a better daughter
never lived.”

Here the third shawl was cast off, as if the thought of
Psyche, or the presence of a genial guest had touched
Mrs. Dean’s chilly nature with a comfortable warmth.

Further conversation was interrupted by the avalanche
of boys which came tumbling down the front
stairs, as Tom, Dick, and Harry shouted in a sort of
chorus,—

“Sy, my balloon has got away; lend us a hand at
catching him!”

“Sy, I want a lot of paste made, right off.”
.bn 081.png
.pn +1

“Sy, I’ve split my jacket down the back; come sew
me up, there’s a dear!”

On beholding a stranger the young gentlemen suddenly
lost their voices, found their manners, and with
nods and grins took themselves away as quietly as
could be expected of six clumping boots and an unlimited
quantity of animal spirits in a high state of
effervescence. As they trooped off, an unmistakable
odor of burnt milk pervaded the air, and the crash of
china, followed by an Irish wail, caused Mrs. Dean to
clap on her three shawls again and excuse herself in
visible trepidation.

Paul laughed quietly to himself, then turned sober
and said, “Poor Psyche!” with a sympathetic sigh.
He roamed about the room impatiently till the sound of
voices drew him to the window to behold the girl coming
up the walk with her tired old father leaning on one
arm, the other loaded with baskets and bundles, and
her hands occupied by a remarkably ugly turtle.

“Here we are!” cried a cheery voice, as they entered
without observing the new-comer. “I’ve done
all my errands and had a lovely time. There is Tom’s
gunpowder, Dick’s fish-hooks, and one of Professor
Gazzy’s famous turtles for Harry. Here are your bundles,
mother dear, and, best of all, here’s father home
in time for a good rest before dinner. I went to the
mill and got him.”

Psyche spoke as if she had brought a treasure; and
so she had, for though Mr. Dean’s face usually was
about as expressive as the turtle’s, it woke and warmed
with the affection which his daughter had fostered till
no amount of flannel could extinguish it. His big hand
.bn 082.png
.pn +1
patted her cheek very gently as he said, in a tone of
fatherly love and pride,—

“My little Sy never forgets old father, does she?”

“Good gracious me, my dear, there’s such a mess
in the kitchen! Katy’s burnt up the pudding, put castor-oil
instead of olive in the salad, smashed the best meat-dish,
and here’s Mr. Gage come to dinner,” cried Mrs.
Dean in accents of despair as she tied up her head in a
fourth shawl.

“Oh, I’m so glad; I’ll go in and see him a few
minutes, and then I’ll come and attend to everything;
so don’t worry, mother.”

“How did you find me out?” asked Psyche as she
shook hands with her guest and stood looking up at
him with all the old confiding frankness in her face and
manner.

“The violets showed me the way.”

She glanced at the posy in his button-hole and
smiled.

“Yes, I gave them to Adam, but I didn’t think you
would guess. I enjoyed your work for an hour to-day,
and I have no words strong enough to express my
admiration.”

“There is no need of any. Tell me about yourself;
what have you been doing all this year?” he asked,
watching with genuine satisfaction the serene and sunny
face before him, for discontent, anxiety, and sadness
were no longer visible there.

“I’ve been working and waiting,” she began.

“And succeeding, if I may believe what I see and
hear and read,” he said, with an expressive little wave
of the book as he laid it down before her.
.bn 083.png
.pn +1

“My diary! I didn’t know I had lost it. Where did
you find it?”

“By the brook where I stopped to rest. The moment
I saw your name I shut it up. Forgive me, but I
can’t ask pardon for reading a few pages of that little
gospel of patience, love, and self-denial.”

She gave him a reproachful look, and hurried the tell-tale
book out of sight as she said, with a momentary
shadow on her face,—

“It has been a hard task; but I think I have learned
it, and am just beginning to find that my dream <i>is</i> ‘a
noonday light and truth,’ to me.”

“Then you do not relinquish your hopes, and lay
down your tools?” he asked, with some eagerness.

“Never! I thought at first that I could not serve
two masters, but in trying to be faithful to one I find I
am nearer and dearer to the other. My cares and duties
are growing lighter every day (or I have learned to bear
them better), and when my leisure does come I shall
know how to use it, for my head is full of ambitious
plans, and I feel that I can do something <i>now</i>.”

All the old enthusiasm shone in her eyes, and a sense
of power betrayed itself in voice and gesture as she spoke.

“I believe it,” he said heartily. “You have learned
the secret, as that proves.”

Psyche looked at the childish image as he pointed to
it, and into her face there came a motherly expression
that made it very sweet.

“That little sister was so dear to me I could not fail
to make her lovely, for I put my heart into my work.
The year has gone, but I don’t regret it, though this is
all I have done.”
.bn 084.png
.pn +1

“You forget your three wishes; I think the year has
granted them.”

“What were they?”

“To possess beauty in yourself, the power of seeing
it in all things, and the art of reproducing it with
truth.”

She colored deeply under the glance which accompanied
the threefold compliment, and answered with grateful
humility,—

“You are very kind to say so; I wish I could believe
it.” Then, as if anxious to forget herself, she added
rather abruptly,—

“I hear you think of giving your Adam a mate,—have
you begun yet?”

“Yes, my design is finished, all but the face.”

“I should think you could image Eve’s beauty, since
you have succeeded so well with Adam’s.”

“The features perhaps, but not the expression.
That is the charm of feminine faces, a charm so subtile
that few can catch and keep it. I want a truly womanly
face, one that shall be sweet and strong without being
either weak or hard. A hopeful, loving, earnest face
with a tender touch of motherliness in it, and perhaps
the shadow of a grief that has softened but not saddened
it.”

“It will be hard to find a face like that.”

“I don’t expect to find it in perfection; but one
sometimes sees faces which suggest all this, and in rare
moments give glimpses of a lovely possibility.”

“I sincerely hope you will find one then,” said
Psyche, thinking of the dinner.

“Thank you; <i>I</i> think I have.”
.bn 085.png
.pn +1

Now, in order that every one may be suited, we will
stop here, and leave our readers to finish the story as
they like. Those who prefer the good old fashion may
believe that the hero and heroine fell in love, were married,
and lived happily ever afterward. But those who
can conceive of a world outside of a wedding-ring may
believe that the friends remained faithful friends all
their lives, while Paul won fame and fortune, and Psyche
grew beautiful with the beauty of a serene and sunny
nature, happy in duties which became pleasures, rich in
the art which made life lovely to herself and others, and
brought rewards in time.
.bn 086.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch04
A COUNTRY CHRISTMAS.||<s>“A handful of good life is worth a bushel of learning.”</s>
.sp 2
.pm letter-start
.dc 0.2 0.65
“DEAR EMILY,—I have a brilliant idea, and
at once hasten to share it with you. Three
weeks ago I came up here to the wilds of Vermont to
visit my old aunt, also to get a little quiet and distance
in which to survey certain new prospects which have
opened before me, and to decide whether I will marry a
millionnaire and become a queen of society, or remain
‘the charming Miss Vaughan’ and wait till the conquering
hero comes.

“Aunt Plumy begs me to stay over Christmas, and
I have consented, as I always dread the formal dinner
with which my guardian celebrates the day.

“My brilliant idea is this. I’m going to make it a
real old-fashioned frolic, and won’t you come and help
me? You will enjoy it immensely I am sure, for Aunt
is a character, Cousin Saul worth seeing, and Ruth a
far prettier girl than any of the city rose-buds coming
out this season. Bring Leonard Randal along with you
to take notes for his new book; then it will be fresher
and truer than the last, clever as it was.

“The air is delicious up here, society amusing, this
old farmhouse full of treasures, and your bosom friend
.bn 087.png
.pn +1
pining to embrace you. Just telegraph yes or no, and
we will expect you on Tuesday.

“Ever yours,

“<sc>Sophie Vaughan</sc>.”
.pm letter-end

“They will both come, for they are as tired of city
life and as fond of change as I am,” said the writer of
the above, as she folded her letter and went to get it
posted without delay.

Aunt Plumy was in the great kitchen making pies; a
jolly old soul, with a face as ruddy as a winter apple, a
cheery voice, and the kindest heart that ever beat under
a gingham gown. Pretty Ruth was chopping the mince,
and singing so gaily as she worked that the four-and-twenty
immortal blackbirds could not have put more
music into a pie than she did. Saul was piling wood
into the big oven, and Sophie paused a moment on the
threshold to look at him, for she always enjoyed the
sight of this stalwart cousin, whom she likened to a
Norse viking, with his fair hair and beard, keen blue
eyes, and six feet of manly height, with shoulders that
looked broad and strong enough to bear any burden.

His back was toward her, but he saw her first, and
turned his flushed face to meet her, with the sudden
lighting up it always showed when she approached.

“I’ve done it, Aunt; and now I want Saul to post
the letter, so we can get a speedy answer.”

“Just as soon as I can hitch up, cousin;” and Saul
pitched in his last log, looking ready to put a girdle
round the earth in less than forty minutes.

“Well, dear, I ain’t the least mite of objection, as
long as it pleases you. I guess we can stan’ it ef your
.bn 088.png
.pn +1
city folks can. I presume to say things will look kind
of sing’lar to ’em, but I s’pose that’s what they come
for. Idle folks do dreadful queer things to amuse ’em;”
and Aunt Plumy leaned on the rolling-pin to smile and
nod with a shrewd twinkle of her eye, as if she enjoyed
the prospect as much as Sophie did.

“I shall be afraid of ’em, but I’ll try not to make
you ashamed of me,” said Ruth, who loved her charming
cousin even more than she admired her.

“No fear of that, dear. They will be the awkward
ones, and you must set them at ease by just being your
simple selves, and treating them as if they were everyday
people. Nell is very nice and jolly when she drops
her city ways, as she must here. She will enter into
the spirit of the fun at once, and I know you’ll all like
her. Mr. Randal is rather the worse for too much
praise and petting, as successful people are apt to be,
so a little plain talk and rough work will do him good.
He is a true gentleman in spite of his airs and elegance,
and he will take it all in good part, if you treat him like
a man and not a lion.”

“I’ll see to him,” said Saul, who had listened with
great interest to the latter part of Sophie’s speech, evidently
suspecting a lover, and enjoying the idea of supplying
him with a liberal amount of “plain talk and
rough work.”

“I’ll keep ’em busy if that’s what they need, for
there will be a sight to do, and we can’t get help easy
up here. Our darters don’t hire out much. Work to
home till they marry, and don’t go gaddin’ ’round gettin’
their heads full of foolish notions, and forgettin’ all the
useful things their mothers taught ’em.”
.bn 089.png
.pn +1

Aunt Plumy glanced at Ruth as she spoke, and a
sudden color in the girl’s cheeks proved that the words
hit certain ambitious fancies of this pretty daughter of
the house of Basset.

“They shall do their parts and not be a trouble; I’ll
see to that, for you certainly are the dearest aunt in the
world to let me take possession of you and yours in
this way,” cried Sophie, embracing the old lady with
warmth.

Saul wished the embrace could be returned by proxy,
as his mother’s hands were too floury to do more than
hover affectionately round the delicate face that looked
so fresh and young beside her wrinkled one. As it
could not be done, he fled temptation and “hitched up”
without delay.

The three women laid their heads together in his absence,
and Sophie’s plan grew apace, for Ruth longed
to see a real novelist and a fine lady, and Aunt Plumy,
having plans of her own to further, said “Yes, dear,”
to every suggestion.

Great was the arranging and adorning that went on
that day in the old farmhouse, for Sophie wanted her
friends to enjoy this taste of country pleasures, and
knew just what additions would be indispensable to their
comfort; what simple ornaments would be in keeping
with the rustic stage on which she meant to play the
part of prima donna.

Next day a telegram arrived accepting the invitation,
for both the lady and the lion. They would arrive that
afternoon, as little preparation was needed for this
impromptu journey, the novelty of which was its chief
charm to these <i>blasé</i> people.
.bn 090.png
.pn +1

Saul wanted to get out the double sleigh and span,
for he prided himself on his horses, and a fall of snow
came most opportunely to beautify the landscape and
add a new pleasure to Christmas festivities.

But Sophie declared that the old yellow sleigh, with
Punch, the farm-horse, must be used, as she wished
everything to be in keeping; and Saul obeyed, thinking
he had never seen anything prettier than his cousin
when she appeared in his mother’s old-fashioned camlet
cloak and blue silk pumpkin hood. He looked remarkably
well himself in his fur coat, with hair and beard
brushed till they shone like spun gold, a fresh color in
his cheek, and the sparkle of amusement in his eyes,
while excitement gave his usually grave face the animation
it needed to be handsome.

Away they jogged in the creaking old sleigh, leaving
Ruth to make herself pretty, with a fluttering heart, and
Aunt Plumy to dish up a late dinner fit to tempt the
most fastidious appetite.

“She has not come for us, and there is not even a
stage to take us up. There must be some mistake,”
said Emily Herrick, as she looked about the shabby
little station where they were set down.

“That is the never-to-be-forgotten face of our fair
friend, but the bonnet of her grandmother, if my eyes
do not deceive me,” answered Randal, turning to survey
the couple approaching in the rear.

“Sophie Vaughan, what do you mean by making
such a guy of yourself?” exclaimed Emily, as she kissed
the smiling face in the hood and stared at the quaint
cloak.

“I’m dressed for my part, and I intend to keep it
.bn 091.png
.pn +1
up. This is our host, my cousin, Saul Basset. Come
to the sleigh at once, he will see to your luggage,” said
Sophie, painfully conscious of the antiquity of her array
as her eyes rested on Emily’s pretty hat and mantle,
and the masculine elegance of Randal’s wraps.

They were hardly tucked in when Saul appeared with
a valise in one hand and a large trunk on his shoulder,
swinging both on to a wood-sled that stood near by as
easily as if they had been hand-bags.

“That is your hero, is it? Well, he looks it, calm
and comely, taciturn and tall,” said Emily, in a tone of
approbation.

“He should have been named Samson or Goliath;
though I believe it was the small man who slung things
about and turned out the hero in the end,” added Randal,
surveying the performance with interest and a
touch of envy, for much pen work had made his own
hands as delicate as a woman’s.

“Saul doesn’t live in a glass house, so stones won’t
hurt him. Remember sarcasm is forbidden and sincerity
the order of the day. You are country folks
now, and it will do you good to try their simple, honest
ways for a few days.”

Sophie had no time to say more, for Saul came up and
drove off with the brief remark that the baggage would
“be along right away.”

Being hungry, cold and tired, the guests were rather
silent during the short drive, but Aunt Plumy’s hospitable
welcome, and the savory fumes of the dinner awaiting
them, thawed the ice and won their hearts at once.

“Isn’t it nice? Aren’t you glad you came?” asked
Sophie, as she led her friends into the parlor, which she
.bn 092.png
.pn +1
had redeemed from its primness by putting bright chintz
curtains to the windows, hemlock boughs over the old
portraits, a china bowl of flowers on the table, and a
splendid fire on the wide hearth.

“It is perfectly jolly, and this is the way I begin to
enjoy myself,” answered Emily, sitting down upon the
home-made rug, whose red flannel roses bloomed in a
blue list basket.

“If I may add a little smoke to your glorious fire, it
will be quite perfect. Won’t Samson join me?” asked
Randal, waiting for permission, cigar-case in hand.

“He has no small vices, but you may indulge yours,”
answered Sophie, from the depths of a grandmotherly
chair.

Emily glanced up at her friend as if she caught a new
tone in her voice, then turned to the fire again with a
wise little nod, as if confiding some secret to the reflection
of herself in the bright brass andiron.

“His Delilah does not take this form. I wait with
interest to discover if he has one. What a daisy the
sister is. Does she ever speak?” asked Randal, trying
to lounge on the haircloth sofa, where he was slipping
uncomfortably about.

“Oh yes, and sings like a bird. You shall hear her
when she gets over her shyness. But no trifling, mind
you, for it is a jealously guarded daisy and not to be
picked by any idle hand,” said Sophie warningly, as
she recalled Ruth’s blushes and Randal’s compliments
at dinner.

“I should expect to be annihilated by the big brother
if I attempted any but the ‘sincerest’ admiration and
respect. Have no fears on that score, but tell us what
.bn 093.png
.pn +1
is to follow this superb dinner. An apple bee, spinning
match, husking party, or primitive pastime of some
sort, I have no doubt.”

“As you are new to our ways I am going to let you
rest this evening. We will sit about the fire and tell
stories. Aunt is a master hand at that, and Saul has
reminiscences of the war that are well worth hearing if
we can only get him to tell them.”

“Ah, he was there, was he?”

“Yes, all through it, and is Major Basset, though he
likes his plain name best. He fought splendidly and
had several wounds, though only a mere boy when he
earned his scars and bars. I’m very proud of him for
that,” and Sophie looked so as she glanced at the photograph
of a stripling in uniform set in the place of honor
on the high mantel-piece.

“We must stir him up and hear these martial memories.
I want some new incidents, and shall book all I
can get, if I may.”

Here Randal was interrupted by Saul himself, who
came in with an armful of wood for the fire.

“Anything more I can do for you, cousin?” he asked,
surveying the scene with a rather wistful look.

“Only come and sit with us and talk over war times
with Mr. Randal.”

“When I’ve foddered the cattle and done my chores
I’d be pleased to. What regiment were you in?” asked
Saul, looking down from his lofty height upon the slender
gentleman, who answered briefly,—

“In none. I was abroad at the time.”

“Sick?”

“No, busy with a novel.”

“Took four years to write it?”
.bn 094.png
.pn +1

“I was obliged to travel and study before I could
finish it. These things take more time to work up than
outsiders would believe.”

“Seems to me our war was a finer story than any
you could find in Europe, and the best way to study it
would be to fight it out. If you want heroes and heroines
you’d have found plenty of ’em there.”

“I have no doubt of it, and shall be glad to atone
for my seeming neglect of them by hearing about your
own exploits, Major.”

Randal hoped to turn the conversation gracefully;
but Saul was not to be caught, and left the room, saying,
with a gleam of fun in his eye,—

“I can’t stop now; heroes can wait, pigs can’t.”

The girls laughed at this sudden descent from the
sublime to the ridiculous, and Randal joined them, feeling
his condescension had not been unobserved.

As if drawn by the merry sound Aunt Plumy appeared,
and being established in the rocking-chair fell to
talking as easily as if she had known her guests for years.

“Laugh away, young folks, that’s better for digestion
than any of the messes people use. Are you
troubled with dyspepsy, dear? You didn’t seem to
take your vittles very hearty, so I mistrusted you was
delicate,” she said, looking at Emily, whose pale cheeks
and weary eyes told the story of late hours and a gay
life.

“I haven’t eaten so much for years, I assure you,
Mrs. Basset; but it was impossible to taste all your
good things. I am not dyspeptic, thank you, but a
little seedy and tired, for I’ve been working rather hard
lately.”
.bn 095.png
.pn +1

“Be you a teacher? or have you a ‘perfessun,’ as
they call a trade nowadays?” asked the old lady in a
tone of kindly interest, which prevented a laugh at the
idea of Emily’s being anything but a beauty and a belle.
The others kept their countenances with difficulty, and
she answered demurely,—

“I have no trade as yet, but I dare say I should be
happier if I had.”

“Not a doubt on’t, my dear.”

“What would you recommend, ma’am?”

“I should say dressmakin’ was rather in your line,
ain’t it. Your clothes is dreadful tasty, and do you
credit if you made ’em yourself,” and Aunt Plumy surveyed
with feminine interest the simple elegance of the
travelling dress which was the masterpiece of a French
modiste.

“No, ma’am, I don’t make my own things, I’m too
lazy. It takes so much time and trouble to select them
that I have only strength left to wear them.”

“Housekeepin’ used to be the favorite perfessun in
my day. It ain’t fashionable now, but it needs a sight
of trainin’ to be perfect in all that’s required, and I’ve
an idee it would be a sight healthier and usefuller than
the paintin’ and music and fancy work young women
do nowadays.”

“But every one wants some beauty in their lives, and
each one has a different sphere to fill, if one can only
find it.”

“’Pears to me there’s no call for so much art when
nater is full of beauty for them that can see and love
it. As for ‘spears’ and so on, I’ve a notion if each of
us did up our own little chores smart and thorough we
.bn 096.png
.pn +1
needn’t go wanderin’ round to set the world to rights.
That’s the Lord’s job, and I presume to say He can do
it without any advice of ourn.”

Something in the homely but true words seemed to
rebuke the three listeners for wasted lives, and for a
moment there was no sound but the crackle of the fire,
the brisk click of the old lady’s knitting needles, and
Ruth’s voice singing overhead as she made ready to join
the party below.

“To judge by that sweet sound you have done one
of your ‘chores’ very beautifully, Mrs. Basset, and in
spite of the follies of our day, succeeded in keeping one
girl healthy, happy and unspoiled,” said Emily, looking
up into the peaceful old face with her own lovely one
full of respect and envy.

“I do hope so, for she’s my ewe lamb, the last of four
dear little girls; all the rest are in the burying ground
’side of father. I don’t expect to keep her long,
and don’t ought to regret when I lose her, for Saul is
the best of sons; but daughters is more to mothers
somehow, and I always yearn over girls that is left
without a broodin’ wing to keep ’em safe and warm in
this world of tribulation.”

Aunt Plumy laid her hand on Sophie’s head as she
spoke, with such a motherly look that both girls drew
nearer, and Randal resolved to put her in a book without
delay.

Presently Saul returned with little Ruth hanging on
his arm and shyly nestling near him as he took the three-cornered
leathern chair in the chimney nook, while she
sat on a stool close by.

“Now the circle is complete and the picture perfect.
.bn 097.png
.pn +1
Don’t light the lamps yet, please, but talk away and let
me make a mental study of you. I seldom find so
charming a scene to paint,” said Randal, beginning to
enjoy himself immensely, with a true artist’s taste for
novelty and effect.

“Tell us about your book, for we have been reading it
as it comes out in the magazine, and are much exercised
about how it’s going to end,” began Saul, gallantly throwing
himself into the breach, for a momentary embarrassment
fell upon the women at the idea of sitting for their
portraits before they were ready.

“Do you really read my poor serial up here, and do
me the honor to like it?” asked the novelist, both flattered
and amused, for his work was of the æsthetic sort,
microscopic studies of character, and careful pictures of
modern life.

“Sakes alive, why shouldn’t we,” cried Aunt Plumy.
“We have some eddication, though we ain’t very genteel.
We’ve got a town libry, kep up by the women
mostly, with fairs and tea parties and so on. We have
all the magazines reg’lar, and Saul reads out the pieces
while Ruth sews and I knit, my eyes bein’ poor. Our
winter is long and evenins would be kinder lonesome if
we didn’t have novils and newspapers to cheer ’em
up.”

“I am very glad I can help to beguile them for you.
Now tell me what you honestly think of my work?
Criticism is always valuable, and I should really like
yours, Mrs. Basset,” said Randal, wondering what the
good woman would make of the delicate analysis and
worldly wisdom on which he prided himself.

Short work, as Aunt Plumy soon showed him, for she
.bn 098.png
.pn +1
rather enjoyed freeing her mind at all times, and decidedly
resented the insinuation that country folk could
not appreciate light literature as well as city people.

“I ain’t no great of a jedge about anything but
nat’ralness of books, and it really does seem as if some
of your men and women was dreadful uncomfortable
creaters. ’Pears to me it ain’t wise to be always pickin’
ourselves to pieces and pryin’ into things that ought to
come gradual by way of experience and the visitations
of Providence. Flowers won’t blow worth a cent ef you
pull ’em open. Better wait and see what they can do
alone. I do relish the smart sayins, the odd ways of
furrin parts, and the sarcastic slaps at folkses weak
spots. But, massy knows, we can’t live on spice-cake
and Charlotte Ruche, and I do feel as if books was
more sustainin’ ef they was full of every-day people and
things, like good bread and butter. Them that goes to
the heart and ain’t soon forgotten is the kind I hanker
for. Mis Terry’s books now, and Mis Stowe’s, and
Dickens’s Christmas pieces,—them is real sweet and
cheerin’, to my mind.”

As the blunt old lady paused it was evident she had
produced a sensation, for Saul smiled at the fire, Ruth
looked dismayed at this assault upon one of her idols,
and the young ladies were both astonished and amused
at the keenness of the new critic who dared express
what they had often felt. Randal, however, was quite
composed and laughed good-naturedly, though secretly
feeling as if a pail of cold water had been poured over
him.

“Many thanks, madam; you have discovered my
weak point with surprising accuracy. But you see I
.bn 099.png
.pn +1
cannot help ‘picking folks to pieces,’ as you have expressed
it; that is my gift, and it has its attractions,
as the sale of my books will testify. People like the
‘spice-bread,’ and as that is the only sort my oven will
bake, I must keep on in order to make my living.”

“So rumsellers say, but it ain’t a good trade to foller,
and I’d chop wood ’fore I’d earn my livin’ harmin’ my
feller man. ’Pears to me I’d let my oven cool a spell,
and hunt up some homely, happy folks to write about;
folks that don’t borrer trouble and go lookin’ for holes
in their neighbors’ coats, but take their lives brave and
cheerful; and rememberin’ we are all human, have pity
on the weak, and try to be as full of mercy, patience
and lovin’ kindness as Him who made us. That sort
of a book would do a heap of good; be real warmin’
and strengthenin’, and make them that read it love the
man that wrote it, and remember him when he was dead
and gone.”

“I wish I could!” and Randal meant what he said,
for he was as tired of his own style, as a watch-maker
might be of the magnifying glass through which he
strains his eyes all day. He knew that the heart was
left out of his work, and that both mind and soul were
growing morbid with dwelling on the faulty, absurd and
metaphysical phases of life and character. He often
threw down his pen and vowed he would write no more;
but he loved ease and the books brought money readily;
he was accustomed to the stimulant of praise and missed
it as the toper misses his wine, so that which had once
been a pleasure to himself and others was fast becoming
a burden and a disappointment.

The brief pause which followed his involuntary betrayal
.bn 100.png
.pn +1
of discontent was broken by Ruth, who exclaimed,
with a girlish enthusiasm that overpowered
girlish bashfulness,—

“<i>I</i> think all the novels are splendid! I hope you
will write hundreds more, and I shall live to read
’em.”

“Bravo, my gentle champion! I promise that I will
write one more at least, and have a heroine in it whom
your mother will both admire and love,” answered Randal,
surprised to find how grateful he was for the girl’s
approval, and how rapidly his trained fancy began to
paint the background on which he hoped to copy this
fresh, human daisy.

Abashed by her involuntary outburst, Ruth tried to
efface herself behind Saul’s broad shoulder, and he
brought the conversation back to its starting-point by
saying in a tone of the most sincere interest,—

“Speaking of the serial, I am very anxious to know
how your hero comes out. He is a fine fellow, and I
can’t decide whether he is going to spoil his life marrying
that silly woman, or do something grand and generous,
and not be made a fool of.”

“Upon my soul, I don’t know myself. It is very
hard to find new finales. Can’t you suggest something,
Major? then I shall not be obliged to leave my story
without an end, as people complain I am rather fond of
doing.”

“Well, no, I don’t think I’ve anything to offer.
Seems to me it isn’t the sensational exploits that show
the hero best, but some great sacrifice quietly made by
a common sort of man who is noble without knowing
it. I saw a good many such during the war, and often
.bn 101.png
.pn +1
wish I could write them down, for it is surprising how
much courage, goodness and real piety is stowed away
in common folks ready to show when the right time
comes.”

“Tell us one of them, and I’ll bless you for a hint.
No one knows the anguish of an author’s spirit when he
can’t ring down the curtain on an effective tableau,”
said Randal, with a glance at his friends to ask their aid
in eliciting an anecdote or reminiscence.

“Tell about the splendid fellow who held the bridge,
like Horatius, till help came up. That was a thrilling
story, I assure you,” answered Sophie, with an inviting
smile.

But Saul would not be his own hero, and said briefly:

“Any man can be brave when the battle-fever is on
him, and it only takes a little physical courage to dash
ahead.” He paused a moment, with his eyes on the
snowy landscape without, where twilight was deepening;
then, as if constrained by the memory that winter scene
evoked, he slowly continued,—

“One of the bravest things I ever knew was done by
a poor fellow who has been a hero to me ever since,
though I only met him that night. It was after one of
the big battles of that last winter, and I was knocked
over with a broken leg and two or three bullets here and
there. Night was coming on, snow falling, and a sharp
wind blew over the field where a lot of us lay, dead and
alive, waiting for the ambulance to come and pick us
up. There was skirmishing going on not far off, and
our prospects were rather poor between frost and fire.
I was calculating how I’d manage, when I found two
poor chaps close by who were worse off, so I braced up
.bn 102.png
.pn +1
and did what I could for them. One had an arm blown
away, and kept up a dreadful groaning. The other was
shot bad, and bleeding to death for want of help, but
never complained. He was nearest, and I liked his
pluck, for he spoke cheerful and made me ashamed to
growl. Such times make dreadful brutes of men if they
haven’t something to hold on to, and all three of us
were most wild with pain and cold and hunger, for we’d
fought all day fasting, when we heard a rumble in the
road below, and saw lanterns bobbing round. That
meant life to us, and we all tried to holler; two of us,
were pretty faint, but I managed a good yell, and they
heard it.

“‘Room for one more. Hard luck, old boys, but we
are full and must save the worst wounded first. Take
a drink, and hold on till we come back,’ says one of
them with the stretcher.

“‘Here’s the one to go,’ I says, pointin’ out my
man, for I saw by the light that he was hard hit.

“‘No, that one. He’s got more chances than I, or
this one; he’s young and got a mother; I’ll wait,’ said
the good feller, touchin’ my arm, for he’d heard me
mutterin’ to myself about this dear old lady. We
always want mother when we are down, you know.”

Saul’s eyes turned to the beloved face with a glance
of tenderest affection, and Aunt Plumy answered with a
dismal groan at the recollection of his need that night,
and her absence.

“Well, to be short, the groaning chap was taken,
and my man left. I was mad, but there was no time
for talk, and the selfish one went off and left that poor
feller to run his one chance. I had my rifle, and guessed
.bn 103.png
.pn +1
I could hobble up to use it if need be; so we settled
back to wait without much hope of help, everything
being in a muddle. And wait we did till morning, for
that ambulance did not come back till next day, when
most of us were past needing it.

“I’ll never forget that night. I dream it all over
again as plain as if it was real. Snow, cold, darkness,
hunger, thirst, pain, and all round us cries and cursing
growing less and less, till at last only the wind went
moaning over that meadow. It was awful! so lonesome,
helpless, and seemingly God-forsaken. Hour
after hour we lay there side by side under one coat,
waiting to be saved or die, for the wind grew strong and
we grew weak.”

Saul drew a long breath, and held his hands to the
fire as if he felt again the sharp suffering of that night.

“And the man?” asked Emily, softly, as if reluctant
to break the silence.

“He <i>was</i> a man! In times like that men talk like
brothers and show what they are. Lying there, slowly
freezing, Joe Cummings told me about his wife and
babies, his old folks waiting for him, all depending on
him, yet all ready to give him up when he was needed.
A plain man, but honest and true, and loving as a
woman; I soon saw that as he went on talking, half to
me and half to himself, for sometimes he wandered a
little toward the end. I’ve read books, heard sermons,
and seen good folks, but nothing ever came so close or
did me so much good as seeing this man die. He had
one chance and gave it cheerfully. He longed for those
he loved, and let ’em go with a good-by they couldn’t
hear. He suffered all the pains we most shrink from
.bn 104.png
.pn +1
without a murmur, and kept my heart warm while his
own was growing cold. It’s no use trying to tell that
part of it; but I heard prayers that night that meant
something, and I saw how faith could hold a soul up
when everything was gone but God.”

Saul stopped there with a sudden huskiness in his
deep voice, and when he went on it was in the tone of
one who speaks of a dear friend.

“Joe grew still by and by, and I thought he was
asleep, for I felt his breath when I tucked him up, and
his hand held on to mine. The cold sort of numbed
me, and I dropped off, too weak and stupid to think or
feel. I never should have waked up if it hadn’t been
for Joe. When I came to, it was morning, and I
thought I was dead, for all I could see was that great
field of white mounds, like graves, and a splendid
sky above. Then I looked for Joe, remembering;
but he had put my coat back over me, and lay stiff and
still under the snow that covered him like a shroud, all
except his face. A bit of my cape had blown over it,
and when I took it off and the sun shone on his dead
face, I declare to you it was so full of heavenly peace I
felt as if that common man had been glorified by God’s
light, and rewarded by God’s ‘Well done.’ That’s all.”

No one spoke for a moment, while the women wiped
their eyes, and Saul dropped his as if to hide something
softer than tears.

“It was very noble, very touching. And you? how
did you get off at last?” asked Randal, with real admiration
and respect in his usually languid face.

“Crawled off,” answered Saul, relapsing into his
former brevity of speech.
.bn 105.png
.pn +1

“Why not before, and save yourself all that misery?”

“Couldn’t leave Joe.”

“Ah, I see; there were two heroes that night.”

“Dozens, I’ve no doubt. Those were times that
made heroes of men, and women, too.”

“Tell us more;” begged Emily, looking up with an
expression none of her admirers ever brought to her face
by their softest compliments or wiliest gossip.

“I’ve done my part. It’s Mr. Randal’s turn now;”
and Saul drew himself out of the ruddy circle of firelight,
as if ashamed of the prominent part he was playing.

Sophie and her friend had often heard Randal talk,
for he was an accomplished <i>raconteur</i>, but that night he
exerted himself, and was unusually brilliant and entertaining,
as if upon his mettle. The Bassets were
charmed. They sat late and were very merry, for Aunt
Plumy got up a little supper for them, and her cider was
as exhilarating as champagne. When they parted for
the night and Sophie kissed her aunt, Emily did the
same, saying heartily,—

“It seems as if I’d known you all my life, and this
is certainly the most enchanting old place that ever
was.”

“Glad you like it, dear. But it ain’t all fun, as you’ll
find out to-morrow when you go to work, for Sophie
says you must,” answered Mrs. Basset, as her guests
trooped away, rashly promising to like everything.

They found it difficult to keep their word when they
were called at half past six next morning. Their rooms
were warm, however, and they managed to scramble
.bn 106.png
.pn +1
down in time for breakfast, guided by the fragrance of
coffee and Aunt Plumy’s shrill voice singing the good
old hymn—

.pm verse-start
“Lord, in the morning Thou shalt hear
My voice ascending high.”
.pm verse-end

An open fire blazed on the hearth, for the cooking
was done in the lean-to, and the spacious, sunny kitchen
was kept in all its old-fashioned perfection, with the
wooden settle in a warm nook, the tall clock behind the
door, copper and pewter utensils shining on the dresser,
old china in the corner closet and a little spinning wheel
rescued from the garret by Sophie to adorn the deep
window, full of scarlet geraniums, Christmas roses, and
white chrysanthemums.

The young lady, in a checked apron and mob-cap,
greeted her friends with a dish of buckwheats in one
hand, and a pair of cheeks that proved she had been
learning to fry these delectable cakes.

“You do ‘keep it up’ in earnest, upon my word;
and very becoming it is, dear. But won’t you ruin
your complexion and roughen your hands if you do so
much of this new fancy-work?” asked Emily, much
amazed at this novel freak.

“I like it, and really believe I’ve found my proper
sphere at last. Domestic life seems so pleasant to me
that I feel as if I’d better keep it up for the rest of my
life,” answered Sophie, making a pretty picture of herself
as she cut great slices of brown bread, with the
early sunshine touching her happy face.

“The charming Miss Vaughan in the rôle of a farmer’s
wife. I find it difficult to imagine, and shrink from the
.bn 107.png
.pn +1
thought of the wide-spread dismay such a fate will produce
among her adorers,” added Randal, as he basked
in the glow of the hospitable fire.

“She might do worse; but come to breakfast and do
honor to my handiwork,” said Sophie, thinking of her
worn-out millionnaire, and rather nettled by the satiric
smile on Randal’s lips.

“What an appetite early rising gives one. I feel
equal to almost anything, so let me help wash cups,”
said Emily, with unusual energy, when the hearty meal
was over and Sophie began to pick up the dishes as if
it was her usual work.

Ruth went to the window to water the flowers, and
Randal followed to make himself agreeable, remembering
her defence of him last night. He was used to
admiration from feminine eyes, and flattery from soft
lips, but found something new and charming in the
innocent delight which showed itself at his approach in
blushes more eloquent than words, and shy glances from
eyes full of hero-worship.

“I hope you are going to spare me a posy for to-morrow
night, since I can be fine in no other way to do
honor to the dance Miss Sophie proposes for us,” he said,
leaning in the bay window to look down on the little girl,
with the devoted air he usually wore for pretty women.

“Anything you like! I should be so glad to have
you wear my flowers. There will be enough for all, and
I’ve nothing else to give to people who have made me as
happy as cousin Sophie and you,” answered Ruth, half
drowning her great calla as she spoke with grateful
warmth.

“You must make her happy by accepting the invitation
.bn 108.png
.pn +1
to go home with her which I heard given last night.
A peep at the world would do you good, and be a
pleasant change, I think.”

“Oh, very pleasant! but would it do me good?” and
Ruth looked up with sudden seriousness in her blue
eyes, as a child questions an elder, eager, yet wistful.

“Why not?” asked Randal, wondering at the hesitation.

“I might grow discontented with things here if I saw
splendid houses and fine people. I am very happy
now, and it would break my heart to lose that happiness,
or ever learn to be ashamed of home.”

“But don’t you long for more pleasure, new scenes
and other friends than these?” asked the man, touched
by the little creature’s loyalty to the things she knew
and loved.

“Very often, but mother says when I’m ready they
will come, so I wait and try not to be impatient.” But
Ruth’s eyes looked out over the green leaves as if the
longing was very strong within her to see more of the unknown
world lying beyond the mountains that hemmed
her in.

“It is natural for birds to hop out of the nest, so I
shall expect to see you over there before long, and ask
you how you enjoy your first flight,” said Randal, in a
paternal tone that had a curious effect on Ruth.

To his surprise, she laughed, then blushed like one
of her own roses, and answered with a demure dignity
that was very pretty to see.

“I intend to hop soon, but it won’t be a very long
flight or very far from mother. She can’t spare me,
and nobody in the world can fill her place to me.”
.bn 109.png
.pn +1

“Bless the child, does she think I’m going to make
love to her,” thought Randal, much amused, but quite
mistaken. Wiser women had thought so when he assumed
the caressing air with which he beguiled them
into the little revelations of character he liked to use,
as the south wind makes flowers open their hearts to
give up their odor, then leaves them to carry it elsewhere,
the more welcome for the stolen sweetness.

“Perhaps you are right. The maternal wing is a
safe shelter for confiding little souls like you, Miss
Ruth. You will be as comfortable here as your flowers
in this sunny window,” he said, carelessly pinching
geranium leaves, and ruffling the roses till the pink
petals of the largest fluttered to the floor.

As if she instinctively felt and resented something in
the man which his act symbolized, the girl answered
quietly, as she went on with her work, “Yes, if the
frost does not touch me, or careless people spoil me too
soon.”

Before Randal could reply Aunt Plumy approached
like a maternal hen who sees her chicken in danger.

“Saul is goin’ to haul wood after he’s done his
chores, mebbe you’d like to go along? The view is
good, the roads well broke, and the day uncommon
fine.”

“Thanks; it will be delightful, I dare say,” politely
responded the lion, with a secret shudder at the idea of
a rural promenade at 8 <sc>A.M.</sc> in the winter.

“Come on, then; we’ll feed the stock, and then I’ll
show you how to yoke oxen,” said Saul, with a twinkle
in his eye as he led the way, when his new aide had
muffled himself up as if for a polar voyage.
.bn 110.png
.pn +1

“Now, that’s too bad of Saul! He did it on purpose,
just to please you, Sophie,” cried Ruth presently,
and the girls ran to the window to behold Randal
bravely following his host with a pail of pigs’ food in
each hand, and an expression of resigned disgust upon
his aristocratic face.

“To what base uses may we come,” quoted Emily,
as they all nodded and smiled upon the victim as he
looked back from the barn-yard, where he was clamorously
welcomed by his new charges.

“It is rather a shock at first, but it will do him good,
and Saul won’t be too hard upon him, I’m sure,” said
Sophie, going back to her work, while Ruth turned her
best buds to the sun that they might be ready for a
peace-offering to-morrow.

There was a merry clatter in the big kitchen for an
hour; then Aunt Plumy and her daughter shut themselves
up in the pantry to perform some culinary rites,
and the young ladies went to inspect certain antique
costumes laid forth in Sophie’s room.

“You see, Em, I thought it would be appropriate to
the house and season to have an old-fashioned dance.
Aunt has quantities of ancient finery stowed away, for
great-grandfather Basset was a fine old gentleman and
his family lived in state. Take your choice of the
crimson, blue or silver-gray damask. Ruth is to wear
the worked muslin and quilted white satin skirt, with
that coquettish hat.”

“Being dark, I’ll take the red and trim it up with
this fine lace. You must wear the blue and primrose,
with the distracting high-heeled shoes. Have
you any suits for the men?” asked Emily, throwing
.bn 111.png
.pn +1
herself at once into the all-absorbing matter of
costume.

“A claret velvet coat and vest, silk stockings, cocked
hat and snuff-box for Randal. Nothing large enough
for Saul, so he must wear his uniform. Won’t Aunt
Plumy be superb in this plum-colored satin and immense
cap?”

A delightful morning was spent in adapting the faded
finery of the past to the blooming beauty of the present,
and time and tongues flew till the toot of a horn called
them down to dinner.

The girls were amazed to see Randal come whistling
up the road with his trousers tucked into his boots, blue
mittens on his hands, and an unusual amount of energy
in his whole figure, as he drove the oxen, while Saul
laughed at his vain attempts to guide the bewildered
beasts.

“It’s immense! The view from the hill is well worth
seeing, for the snow glorifies the landscape and reminds
one of Switzerland. I’m going to make a sketch of it
this afternoon; better come and enjoy the delicious
freshness, young ladies.”

Randal was eating with such an appetite that he did
not see the glances the girls exchanged as they promised
to go.

“Bring home some more winter-green, I want things
to be real nice, and we haven’t enough for the kitchen,”
said Ruth, dimpling with girlish delight as she imagined
herself dancing under the green garlands in her grandmother’s
wedding gown.

It was very lovely on the hill, for far as the eye could
reach lay the wintry landscape sparkling with the brief
.bn 112.png
.pn +1
beauty of sunshine on virgin snow. Pines sighed overhead,
hardy birds flitted to and fro, and in all the trodden
spots rose the little spires of evergreen ready for
its Christmas duty. Deeper in the wood sounded the
measured ring of axes, the crash of falling trees, while
the red shirts of the men added color to the scene, and
a fresh wind brought the aromatic breath of newly
cloven hemlock and pine.

“How beautiful it is! I never knew before what
winter woods were like. Did you, Sophie?” asked
Emily, sitting on a stump to enjoy the novel pleasure
at her ease.

“I’ve found out lately; Saul lets me come as often
as I like, and this fine air seems to make a new creature
of me,” answered Sophie, looking about her with sparkling
eyes, as if this was a kingdom where she reigned
supreme.

“Something is making a new creature of you, that is
very evident. I haven’t yet discovered whether it is
the air or some magic herb among that green stuff you
are gathering so diligently;” and Emily laughed to see
the color deepen beautifully in her friend’s half-averted
face.

“Scarlet is the only wear just now, I find. If we are
lost like babes in the woods there are plenty of Red-breasts
to cover us with leaves,” and Randal joined
Emily’s laugh, with a glance at Saul, who had just
pulled his coat off.

“You wanted to see this tree go down, so stand from
under and I’ll show you how it’s done,” said the farmer,
taking up his axe, not unwilling to gratify his guests
and display his manly accomplishments at the same time.
.bn 113.png
.pn +1

It was a fine sight, the stalwart man swinging his
axe with magnificent strength and skill, each blow
sending a thrill through the stately tree, till its heart
was reached and it tottered to its fall. Never pausing
for breath Saul shook his yellow mane out of his eyes,
and hewed away, while the drops stood on his forehead
and his arm ached, as bent on distinguishing himself as
if he had been a knight tilting against his rival for his
lady’s favor.

“I don’t know which to admire most, the man or his
muscle. One doesn’t often see such vigor, size and
comeliness in these degenerate days,” said Randal,
mentally booking the fine figure in the red shirt.

“I think we have discovered a rough diamond. I
only wonder if Sophie is going to try and polish it,”
answered Emily, glancing at her friend, who stood a
little apart, watching the rise and fall of the axe as intently
as if her fate depended on it.

Down rushed the tree at last, and, leaving them to
examine a crow’s nest in its branches, Saul went off to
his men, as if he found the praises of his prowess rather
too much for him.

Randal fell to sketching, the girls to their garland-making,
and for a little while the sunny woodland nook
was full of lively chat and pleasant laughter, for the air
exhilarated them all like wine. Suddenly a man came
running from the wood, pale and anxious, saying, as he
hastened by for help, “Blasted tree fell on him! Bleed
to death before the doctor comes!”

“Who? who?” cried the startled trio.

But the man ran on, with some breathless reply, in
which only a name was audible—“Basset.”
.bn 114.png
.pn +1

“The deuce it is!” and Randal dropped his pencil,
while the girls sprang up in dismay. Then, with one
impulse, they hastened to the distant group, half visible
behind the fallen trees and corded wood.

Sophie was there first, and forcing her way through
the little crowd of men, saw a red-shirted figure on the
ground, crushed and bleeding, and threw herself down
beside it with a cry that pierced the hearts of those who
heard it. In the act she saw it was not Saul, and covered
her bewildered face as if to hide its joy. A strong arm
lifted her, and the familiar voice said cheeringly,—

“I’m all right, dear. Poor Bruce is hurt, but we’ve
sent for help. Better go right home and forget all
about it.”

“Yes, I will, if I can do nothing;” and Sophie
meekly returned to her friends who stood outside the
circle over which Saul’s head towered, assuring them of
his safety.

Hoping they had not seen her agitation, she led Emily
away, leaving Randal to give what aid he could and
bring them news of the poor wood-chopper’s state.

Aunt Plumy produced the “camphire” the moment
she saw Sophie’s pale face, and made her lie down,
while the brave old lady trudged briskly off with bandages
and brandy to the scene of action. On her return
she brought comfortable news of the man, so the little
flurry blew over and was forgotten by all but Sophie,
who remained pale and quiet all the evening, tying evergreen
as if her life depended on it.

“A good night’s sleep will set her up. She ain’t
used to such things, dear child, and needs cossetin’,”
said Aunt Plumy, purring over her until she was in her
.bn 115.png
.pn +1
bed, with a hot stone at her feet and a bowl of herb tea
to quiet her nerves.

An hour later, when Emily went up, she peeped in to
see if Sophie was sleeping nicely, and was surprised to
find the invalid wrapped in a dressing-gown writing
busily.

“Last will and testament, or sudden inspiration,
dear? How are you? faint or feverish, delirious or in
the dumps! Saul looks so anxious, and Mrs. Basset
hushes us all up so, I came to bed, leaving Randal to
entertain Ruth.”

As she spoke Emily saw the papers disappear in a
portfolio, and Sophie rose with a yawn.

“I was writing letters, but I’m sleepy now. Quite
over my foolish fright, thank you. Go and get your
beauty sleep that you may dazzle the natives to-morrow.”

“So glad, good night;” and Emily went away,
saying to herself, “Something is going on, and I
must find out what it is before I leave. Sophie can’t
blind <i>me</i>.”

But Sophie did all the next day, being delightfully
gay at the dinner, and devoting herself to the young
minister who was invited to meet the distinguished novelist,
and evidently being afraid of him, gladly basked
in the smiles of his charming neighbor. A dashing
sleigh-ride occupied the afternoon, and then great was
the fun and excitement over the costumes.

Aunt Plumy laughed till the tears rolled down her
cheeks as the girls compressed her into the plum-colored
gown with its short waist, leg-of-mutton sleeves, and
narrow skirt. But a worked scarf hid all deficiencies,
.bn 116.png
.pn +1
and the towering cap struck awe into the soul of the
most frivolous observer.

“Keep an eye on me, girls, for I shall certainly
split somewheres or lose my head-piece off when I’m
trottin’ round. What would my blessed mother say if
she could see me rigged out in her best things?” and
with a smile and a sigh the old lady departed to look
after “the boys,” and see that the supper was all right.

Three prettier damsels never tripped down the wide
staircase than the brilliant brunette in crimson brocade,
the pensive blonde in blue, or the rosy little bride in old
muslin and white satin.

A gallant court gentleman met them in the hall with
a superb bow, and escorted them to the parlor, where
Grandma Basset’s ghost was discovered dancing with a
modern major in full uniform.

Mutual admiration and many compliments followed,
till other ancient ladies and gentlemen arrived in all
manner of queer costumes, and the old house seemed
to wake from its humdrum quietude to sudden music
and merriment, as if a past generation had returned to
keep its Christmas there.

The village fiddler soon struck up the good old tunes,
and then the strangers saw dancing that filled them with
mingled mirth and envy; it was so droll, yet so hearty.
The young men, unusually awkward in their grandfathers’
knee-breeches, flapping vests, and swallow-tail
coats, footed it bravely with the buxom girls who were
the prettier for their quaintness, and danced with such
vigor that their high combs stood awry, their furbelows
waved wildly, and their cheeks were as red as their
breast-knots, or hose.
.bn 117.png
.pn +1

It was impossible to stand still, and one after the
other the city folk yielded to the spell, Randal leading
off with Ruth, Sophie swept away by Saul, and Emily
being taken possession of by a young giant of eighteen,
who spun her around with a boyish impetuosity that
took her breath away. Even Aunt Plumy was discovered
jigging it alone in the pantry, as if the music was
too much for her, and the plates and glasses jingled
gaily on the shelves in time to Money Musk and Fishers’
Hornpipe.

A pause came at last, however, and fans fluttered,
heated brows were wiped, jokes were made, lovers exchanged
confidences, and every nook and corner held a
man and maid carrying on the sweet game which is
never out of fashion. There was a glitter of gold lace
in the back entry, and a train of blue and primrose
shone in the dim light. There was a richer crimson
than that of the geraniums in the deep window, and a
dainty shoe tapped the bare floor impatiently as the
brilliant black eyes looked everywhere for the court
gentleman, while their owner listened to the gruff prattle
of an enamored boy. But in the upper hall walked a
little white ghost as if waiting for some shadowy companion,
and when a dark form appeared ran to take its
arm, saying, in a tone of soft satisfaction,—

“I was so afraid you wouldn’t come!”

“Why did you leave me, Ruth?” answered a manly
voice in a tone of surprise, though the small hand slipping
from the velvet coat-sleeve was replaced as if it
was pleasant to feel it there.

A pause, and then the other voice answered demurely,—
.bn 118.png
.pn +1

“Because I was afraid my head would be turned by
the fine things you were saying.”

“It is impossible to help saying what one feels to
such an artless little creature as you are. It does me
good to admire anything so fresh and sweet, and won’t
harm you.”

“It might if—”

“If what, my daisy?”

“I believed it,” and a laugh seemed to finish the
broken sentence better than the words.

“You may, Ruth, for I do sincerely admire the most
genuine girl I have seen for a long time. And walking
here with you in your bridal white I was just asking myself
if I should not be a happier man with a home of my own
and a little wife hanging on my arm than drifting about
the world as I do now with only myself to care for.”

“I know you would!” and Ruth spoke so earnestly
that Randal was both touched and startled, fearing he
had ventured too far in a mood of unwonted sentiment,
born of the romance of the hour and the sweet frankness
of his companion.

“Then you don’t think it would be rash for some
sweet woman to take me in hand and make me happy,
since fame is a failure?”

“Oh, no; it would be easy work if she loved you.
I know some one—if I only dared to tell her name.”

“Upon my soul, this is cool,” and Randal looked
down, wondering if the audacious lady on his arm could
be shy Ruth.

If he had seen the malicious merriment in her eyes he
would have been more humiliated still, but they were
modestly averted, and the face under the little hat was
.bn 119.png
.pn +1
full of a soft agitation rather dangerous even to a man
of the world.

“She is a captivating little creature, but it is too
soon for anything but a mild flirtation. I must delay
further innocent revelations or I shall do something
rash.”

While making this excellent resolution Randal had
been pressing the hand upon his arm and gently pacing
down the dimly lighted hall with the sound of music in
his ears, Ruth’s sweetest roses in his button-hole, and a
loving little girl beside him, as he thought.

“You shall tell me by and by when we are in town.
I am sure you will come, and meanwhile don’t forget
me.”

“I am going in the spring, but I shall not be with
Sophie,” answered Ruth, in a whisper.

“With whom then? I shall long to see you.”

“With my husband. I am to be married in May.”

“The deuce you are!” escaped Randal, as he stopped
short to stare at his companion, sure she was not in
earnest.

But she was, for as he looked the sound of steps
coming up the back stairs made her whole face flush
and brighten with the unmistakable glow of happy love,
and she completed Randal’s astonishment by running
into the arms of the young minister, saying with an irrepressible
laugh, “Oh! John, why didn’t you come
before?”

The court gentleman was all right in a moment, and
the coolest of the three as he offered his congratulations
and gracefully retired, leaving the lovers to enjoy the
tryst he had delayed. But as he went down stairs his
.bn 120.png
.pn +1
brows were knit, and he slapped the broad railing
smartly with his cocked hat as if some irritation must
find vent in a more energetic way than merely saying,
“Confound the little baggage!” under his breath.

Such an amazing supper came from Aunt Plumy’s big
pantry that the city guests could not eat for laughing at
the queer dishes circulating through the rooms, and
copiously partaken of by the hearty young folks.

Doughnuts and cheese, pie and pickles, cider and tea,
baked beans and custards, cake and cold turkey, bread
and butter, plum pudding and French bonbons, Sophie’s
contribution.

“May I offer you the native delicacies, and share your
plate. Both are very good, but the china has run
short, and after such vigorous exercise as you have had
you must need refreshment. I’m sure I do!” said
Randal, bowing before Emily with a great blue platter
laden with two doughnuts, two wedges of pumpkin pie
and two spoons.

The smile with which she welcomed him, the alacrity
with which she made room beside her and seemed to
enjoy the supper he brought, was so soothing to his
ruffled spirit that he soon began to feel that there is no
friend like an old friend, that it would not be difficult to
name a sweet woman who would take him in hand and
would make him happy if he cared to ask her, and he
began to think he would by and by, it was so pleasant
to sit in that green corner with waves of crimson brocade
flowing over his feet, and a fine face softening
beautifully under his eyes.

The supper was not romantic, but the situation was,
and Emily found that pie ambrosial food eaten with the
.bn 121.png
.pn +1
man she loved, whose eyes talked more eloquently than
the tongue just then busy with a doughnut. Ruth kept
away, but glanced at them as she served her company,
and her own happy experience helped her to see that
all was going well in that quarter. Saul and Sophie
emerged from the back entry with shining countenances,
but carefully avoided each other for the rest of the evening.
No one observed this but Aunt Plumy from the
recesses of her pantry, and she folded her hands as if
well content, as she murmured fervently over a pan
full of crullers, “Bless the dears! Now I can die
happy.”

Every one thought Sophie’s old-fashioned dress immensely
becoming, and several of his former men said
to Saul with blunt admiration, “Major, you look to-night
as you used to after we’d gained a big battle.”

“I feel as if I had,” answered the splendid Major,
with eyes much brighter than his buttons, and a heart
under them infinitely prouder than when he was promoted
on the field of honor, for his Waterloo was won.

There was more dancing, followed by games, in which
Aunt Plumy shone pre-eminent, for the supper was off
her mind and she could enjoy herself. There were
shouts of merriment as the blithe old lady twirled the
platter, hunted the squirrel, and went to Jerusalem like
a girl of sixteen; her cap in a ruinous condition, and
every seam of the purple dress straining like sails in a
gale. It was great fun, but at midnight it came to an
end, and the young folks, still bubbling over with innocent
jollity, went jingling away along the snowy hills,
unanimously pronouncing Mrs. Basset’s party the best
of the season.
.bn 122.png
.pn +1

“Never had such a good time in my life!” exclaimed
Sophie, as the family stood together in the kitchen
where the candles among the wreaths were going out,
and the floor was strewn with wrecks of past joy.

“I’m proper glad, dear. Now you all go to bed
and lay as late as you like to-morrow. I’m so kinder
worked up I couldn’t sleep, so Saul and me will put
things to rights without a mite of noise to disturb you;”
and Aunt Plumy sent them off with a smile that was a
benediction, Sophie thought.

“The dear old soul speaks as if midnight was an
unheard-of hour for Christians to be up. What would
she say if she knew how we seldom go to bed till dawn
in the ball season? I’m so wide awake I’ve half a
mind to pack a little. Randal must go at two, he says,
and we shall want his escort,” said Emily, as the girls
laid away their brocades in the great press in Sophie’s
room.

“I’m not going. Aunt can’t spare me, and there is
nothing to go for yet,” answered Sophie, beginning to
take the white chrysanthemums out of her pretty hair.

“My dear child, you will die of ennui up here. Very
nice for a week or so, but frightful for a winter. We
are going to be very gay, and cannot get on without
you,” cried Emily, dismayed at the suggestion.

“You will have to, for I’m not coming. I am very
happy here, and so tired of the frivolous life I lead in
town, that I have decided to try a better one,” and
Sophie’s mirror reflected a face full of the sweetest
content.

“Have you lost your mind? experienced religion? or
any other dreadful thing? You always were odd, but
.bn 123.png
.pn +1
this last freak is the strangest of all. What will your
guardian say, and the world?” added Emily in the awe-stricken
tone of one who stood in fear of the omnipotent
Mrs. Grundy.

“Guardy will be glad to be rid of me, and I don’t
care that for the world,” cried Sophie, snapping her
fingers with a joyful sort of recklessness which completed
Emily’s bewilderment.

“But Mr. Hammond? Are you going to throw away
millions, lose your chance of making the best match in
the city, and driving the girls of our set out of their
wits with envy?”

Sophie laughed at her friend’s despairing cry, and
turning round said quietly,—

“I wrote to Mr. Hammond last night, and this evening
received my reward for being an honest girl. Saul
and I are to be married in the spring when Ruth is.”

Emily fell prone upon the bed as if the announcement
was too much for her, but was up again in an instant to
declare with prophetic solemnity,—

“I knew something was going on, but hoped to get
you away before you were lost. Sophie, you will repent.
Be warned, and forget this sad delusion.”

“Too late for that. The pang I suffered yesterday
when I thought Saul was dead showed me how well I
loved him. To-night he asked me to stay, and no
power in the world can part us. Oh! Emily, it is all
so sweet, so beautiful, that <i>everything</i> is possible, and I
know I shall be happy in this dear old home, full of love
and peace and honest hearts. I only hope you may
find as true and tender a man to live for as my Saul.”

Sophie’s face was more eloquent than her fervent
.bn 124.png
.pn +1
words, and Emily beautifully illustrated the inconsistency
of her sex by suddenly embracing her friend, with
the incoherent exclamation, “I think I have, dear!
Your brave Saul is worth a dozen old Hammonds, and
I do believe you are right.”

It is unnecessary to tell how, as if drawn by the irresistible
magic of sympathy, Ruth and her mother crept
in one by one to join the midnight conference and add
their smiles and tears, tender hopes and proud delight
to the joys of that memorable hour. Nor how Saul,
unable to sleep, mounted guard below, and meeting
Randal prowling down to soothe his nerves with a
surreptitious cigar found it impossible to help confiding
to his attentive ear the happiness that would break
bounds and overflow in unusual eloquence.

Peace fell upon the old house at last, and all slept as
if some magic herb had touched their eyelids, bringing
blissful dreams and a glad awakening.

“Can’t we persuade you to come with us, Miss
Sophie?” asked Randal next day, as they made their
adieux.

“I’m under orders now, and dare not disobey my
superior officer,” answered Sophie, handing her Major his
driving gloves, with a look which plainly showed that she
had joined the great army of devoted women who enlist
for life and ask no pay but love.

“I shall depend on being invited to your wedding,
then, and yours, too, Miss Ruth,” added Randal, shaking
hands with “the little baggage,” as if he had quite
forgiven her mockery and forgotten his own brief lapse
into sentiment.

Before she could reply Aunt Plumy said, in a tone of
.bn 125.png
.pn +1
calm conviction, that made them all laugh, and some of
them look conscious,—

“Spring is a good time for weddin’s, and I shouldn’t
wonder if there was quite a number.”

“Nor I;” and Saul and Sophie smiled at one another
as they saw how carefully Randal arranged Emily’s
wraps.

Then with kisses, thanks and all the good wishes that
happy hearts could imagine, the guests drove away, to
remember long and gratefully that pleasant country
Christmas.
.bn 126.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch05
ON PICKET DUTY.||<s>“Better late than never.”</s>
.sp 2
.dc 0.2 0.65
“WHAT air you thinkin’ of, Phil?”

“My wife, Dick.”

“So was I! Ain’t it odd how fellers fall to thinkin’
of thar little women, when they get a quiet spell like
this?”

“Fortunate for us that we do get it, and have such
memories to keep us brave and honest through the trials
and temptations of a life like ours.”

October moonlight shone clearly on the solitary tree,
draped with gray moss, scarred by lightning and warped
by wind, looking like a venerable warrior, whose long
campaign was nearly done; and underneath was posted
the guard of four. Behind them twinkled many camp-fires
on a distant plain, before them wound a road
ploughed by the passage of an army, strewn with the
relics of a rout. On the right, a sluggish river glided,
like a serpent, stealthy, sinuous, and dark, into a seemingly
impervious jungle; on the left, a Southern swamp
filled the air with malarial damps, swarms of noisome
life, and discordant sounds that robbed the hour of its
repose. The men were friends as well as comrades, for
though gathered from the four quarters of the Union,
.bn 127.png
.pn +1
and dissimilar in education, character, and tastes, the
same spirit animated all; the routine of camp-life threw
them much together, and mutual esteem soon grew into
a bond of mutual good fellowship.

Thorn was a Massachusetts volunteer; a man who
seemed too early old, too early embittered by some
cross, for, though grim of countenance, rough of speech,
cold of manner, a keen observer would have soon discovered
traces of a deeper, warmer nature hidden behind
the repellent front he turned upon the world. A true
New Englander, thoughtful, acute, reticent, and opinionated;
yet earnest withal, intensely patriotic, and
often humorous, despite a touch of Puritan austerity.

Phil, the “romantic chap,” as he was called, looked
his character to the life. Slender, swarthy, melancholy-eyed,
and darkly-bearded; with feminine features, mellow
voice, and alternately languid or vivacious manners.
A child of the South in nature as in aspect, ardent and
proud; fitfully aspiring and despairing; without the
native energy which moulds character and ennobles life.
Months of discipline and devotion had done much for
him, and some deep experience was fast ripening the
youth into a man.

Flint, the long-limbed lumberman, from the wilds of
Maine, was a conscript who, when government demanded
his money or his life, calculated the cost, and
decided that the cash would be a dead loss and the claim
might be repeated, whereas the conscript would get both
pay and plunder out of government, while taking excellent
care that government got very little out of him.
A shrewd, slow-spoken, self-reliant specimen, was Flint;
yet something of the fresh flavor of the backwoods
.bn 128.png
.pn +1
lingered in him still, as if Nature were loath to give him
up, and left the mark of her motherly hand upon him,
as she leaves it in a dry, pale lichen, on the bosom of
the roughest stone.

Dick “hailed” from Illinois, and was a comely young
fellow, full of dash and daring; rough and rowdy, generous
and jolly, overflowing with spirits and ready for a
free fight with all the world.

Silence followed the last words, while the friendly
moon climbed up the sky. Each man’s eye followed it,
and each man’s heart was busy with remembrances of
other eyes and hearts that might be watching and wishing
as theirs watched and wished. In the silence, each
shaped for himself that vision of home that brightens so
many camp-fires, haunts so many dreamers under canvas
roofs, and keeps so many turbulent natures tender
by memories which often are both solace and salvation.

Thorn paced to and fro, his rifle on his shoulder,
vigilant and soldierly, however soft his heart might be.
Phil leaned against the tree, one hand in the breast of
his blue jacket, on the painted presentment of the face
his fancy was picturing in the golden circle of the moon.
Flint lounged on the sward, whistling softly as he
whittled at a fallen bough. Dick was flat on his back,
heels in air, cigar in mouth, and some hilarious notion
in his mind, for suddenly he broke into a laugh.

“What is it, lad?” asked Thorn, pausing in his
tramp, as if willing to be drawn from the disturbing
thought that made his black brows lower and his mouth
look grim.

“Thinkin’ of my wife, and wishin’ she was here,
bless her heart! set me rememberin’ how I see her fust,
.bn 129.png
.pn +1
and so I roared, as I always do when it comes into my
head.”

“How was it? Come, reel off a yarn, and let’s hear
houw yeou hitched teams,” said Flint, always glad to
get information concerning his neighbors, if it could be
cheaply done.

“Tellin’ how we found our wives wouldn’t be a bad
game, would it, Phil?”

“I’m agreeable; but let’s have your romance first.”

“Devilish little of that about me or any of my doin’s.
I hate sentimental bosh as much as you hate slang, and
should have been a bachelor to this day if I hadn’t seen
Kitty jest as I did. You see, I’d been too busy larkin’
round to get time for marryin’, till a couple of years ago,
when I did up the job double-quick, as I’d like to do
this thunderin’ slow one, hang it all!”

“Halt a minute till I give a look, for this picket isn’t
going to be driven in or taken while I’m on guard.”

Down his beat went Thorn, reconnoitring river, road,
and swamp, as thoroughly as one pair of keen eyes
could do it, and came back satisfied, but still growling
like a faithful mastiff on the watch; performances which
he repeated at intervals till his own turn came.

“I didn’t have to go out of my own State for a wife,
you’d better believe,” began Dick, with a boast, as
usual; “for we raise as fine a crop of girls thar as any
State in or out of the Union, and don’t mind raisin’ Cain
with any man who denies it. I was out on a gunnin’
tramp with Joe Partridge, a cousin of mine,—poor old
chap! he fired his last shot at Gettysburg, and died
game in a way he didn’t dream of the day we popped
off the birds together. It ain’t right to joke that way;
.bn 130.png
.pn +1
I won’t if I can help it; but a feller gets awfully kind of
heathenish these times, don’t he?”

“Settle up them scores byme-by; fightin’ Christians
is scurse raound here. Fire away, Dick.”

“Well, we got as hungry as hounds half a dozen mile
from home, and when a farmhouse hove in sight, Joe
said he’d ask for a bite, and leave some of the plunder
for pay. I was visitin’ Joe, didn’t know folks round,
and backed out of the beggin’ part of the job; so he
went ahead alone. We’d come out of the woods behind
the house, and while Joe was foragin’, I took a reconnaissance.
The view was fust-rate, for the main part
of it was a girl airin’ beds on the roof of a stoop. Now,
jest about that time, havin’ a leisure spell, I’d begun to
think of marryin’, and took a look at all the girls I met,
with an eye to business. I s’pose every man has some
sort of an idee or pattern of the wife he wants; pretty
and plucky, good and gay was mine, but I’d never
found it till I see Kitty; and as she didn’t see me, I
had the advantage and took an extra long stare.”

“What was her good p’ints, hey?”

“Oh, well, she had a wide-awake pair of eyes, a
bright, jolly sort of a face, lots of curly hair tumblin’
out of her net, a trig little figger, and a pair of the
neatest feet and ankles that ever stepped. ‘Pretty,’
thinks I; ‘so far so good.’ The way she whacked the
pillers, shook the blankets, and pitched into the beds
was a caution; specially one blunderin’ old feather-bed
that wouldn’t do nothin’ but sag round in a pig-headed
sort of way, that would have made most girls get mad
and give up. Kitty didn’t, but just wrastled with it
like a good one, till she got it turned, banged, and
.bn 131.png
.pn +1
spread to suit her; then she plumped down in the
middle of it, with a sarcy little nod and chuckle to herself,
that tickled me mightily. ‘Plucky,’ thinks I,
‘better ’n’ better.’ Jest then an old woman came flyin’
out the back-door, callin’, ‘Kitty! Kitty! Squire Partridge’s
son’s here, ’long with a friend; been gunnin’,
want luncheon, and I’m all in the suds; do come down
and see to ’em.’

“‘Where are they?’ says Kitty, scrambling up her
hair and settlin’ her gown in a jiffy, as women have a
knack of doin’, you know.

“‘Mr. Joe’s in the front entry; the other man’s
somewheres round, Billy says, waitin’ till I send word
whether they can stop. I darsn’t till I’d seen you, for
I can’t do nothin’, I’m in such a mess,’ says the old
lady.

“‘So am I, for I can’t get in except by the entry
window, and he’ll see me,’ says Kitty, gigglin’ at the
thoughts of Joe.

“‘Come down the ladder, there’s a dear. I’ll pull
it round and keep it stiddy,’ says her mother.

“‘Oh, ma, don’t ask me!’ says Kitty, with a shiver.
‘I’m dreadfully scared of ladders since I broke my arm
off this very one. It’s so high, it makes me dizzy jest
to think of.’

“‘Well, then, I’ll do the best I can; but I wish
them boys was to Jericho!’ says the old lady, with a
groan, for she was fat and hot, had her gown pinned
up, and was in a fluster generally. She was goin’ off
rather huffy, when Kitty called out,—

“‘Stop, ma! I’ll come down and help you, only
ketch me if I tumble.’
.bn 132.png
.pn +1

“She looked scared but stiddy, and I’ll bet it took as
much grit for her to do it as for one of us to face a battery.
It don’t seem much to tell of, but I wish I may
be hit if it wasn’t a right down dutiful and clever thing
to see done. When the old lady took her off at the
bottom, with a good motherly hug, ‘Good,’ thinks I;
‘what more do you want?’”

“A snug little property wouldn’t a ben bad, I reckon,”
said Flint.

“Well, she had it, old skin-flint, though I didn’t
know or care about it then. What a jolly row she’d
make if she knew I was tellin’ the ladder part of the
story! She always does when I get to it, and makes
believe cry, with her head in my breast-pocket, or any
such handy place, till I take it out and swear I’ll never
do so ag’in. Poor little Kit, I wonder what she’s doin’
now. Thinkin’ of me, I’ll bet.”

Dick paused, pulled his cap lower over his eyes, and
smoked a minute with more energy than enjoyment, for
his cigar was out and he did not perceive it.

“That’s not all, is it?” asked Thorn, taking a
fatherly interest in the younger man’s love passages.

“Not quite. ’Fore long, Joe whistled, and as I
always take short cuts everywhar, I put in at the back-door,
jest as Kitty come trottin’ out of the pantry with
a big berry-pie in her hand. I startled her, she tripped
over the sill and down she come; the dish flew one way,
the pie flopped into her lap, the juice spatterin’ my
boots and her clean gown. I thought she’d cry, scold,
have hysterics, or some confounded thing or other; but
she jest sat still a minute, then looked up at me with a
great blue splash on her face, and went off into the
.bn 133.png
.pn +1
good-naturedest gale of laughin’ you ever heard in
your life. That finished me. ‘Gay,’ thinks I; ‘go
in and win.’ So I did; made love hand over hand,
while I stayed with Joe; pupposed a fortnight after,
married her in three months, and there she is, a tip-top
little woman, with a pair of stunnin’ boys in her
arms!”

Out came a well-worn case, and Dick proudly displayed
the likeness of a stout, much bejewelled young
woman with two staring infants on her knee. In his
sight, the poor picture was a more perfect work of art
than any of Sir Joshua’s baby-beauties, or Raphael’s
Madonnas, and the little story needed no better sequel
than the young father’s praises of his twins, the covert
kiss he gave their mother when he turned as if to get a
clearer light upon the face. Ashamed to show the tenderness
that filled his honest heart, he hummed “Kingdom
Coming,” while relighting his cigar, and presently
began to talk again.

“Now, then, Flint, it’s your turn to keep guard, and
Thorn’s to tell his romance. Come, don’t try to shirk;
it does a man good to talk of such things, and we’re all
mates here.”

“In some cases it don’t do any good to talk of such
things; better let ’em alone,” muttered Thorn, as he reluctantly
sat down, while Flint as reluctantly departed.

With a glance and gesture of real affection, Phil laid
his hand upon his comrade’s knee, saying in his persuasive
voice, “Old fellow, it <i>will</i> do you good, because
I know you often long to speak of something that
weighs upon you. You’ve kept us steady many a
time, and done us no end of kindnesses; why be too
.bn 134.png
.pn +1
proud to let us give our sympathy in return, if nothing
more?”

Thorn’s big hand closed over the slender one upon
his knee, and the mild expression, so rarely seen upon
his face, passed over it as he replied,—

“I think I could tell you almost anything if you
asked me that way, my boy. It isn’t that I am too
proud,—and you’re right about my sometimes wanting
to free my mind,—but it’s because a man of forty don’t
just like to open out to young fellows, if there is any
danger of their laughing at him, though he may deserve
it. I guess there isn’t now; and I’ll tell you how I
found my wife.”

Dick sat up, and Phil drew nearer, for the earnestness
that was in the man dignified his plain speech, and
inspired an interest in his history, even before it was
begun. Looking gravely at the river and never at his
hearers, as if still a little shy of confidants, yet grateful
for the relief of words, Thorn began abruptly:—

“I never hear the number eighty-four without clapping
my hand to my left breast and missing my badge.
You know I was on the police in New York, before the
war, and that’s about all you do know yet. One bitter
cold night I was going my rounds for the last time,
when, as I turned a corner, I saw there was a trifle of
work to be done. It was a bad part of the city, full of
dirt and deviltry; one of the streets led to a ferry, and
at the corner an old woman had an apple-stall. The
poor soul had dropped asleep, worn out with the cold,
and there were her goods left with no one to watch ’em.
Somebody was watching ’em, however; a girl, with a
ragged shawl over her head, stood at the mouth of an
.bn 135.png
.pn +1
alley close by, waiting for a chance to grab something.
I’d seen her there when I went by before, and mistrusted
she was up to some mischief; as I turned the
corner, she put out her hand and cribbed an apple.
She saw me the minute she did it, but neither dropped
it nor ran, only stood stock still with the apple in her
hand till I came up.

“‘This won’t do, my girl,’ said I. I never could be
harsh with ’em, poor things! She laid it back and
looked up at me with a miserable sort of a smile, that
made me put my hand in my pocket to fish for a nine-pence
before she spoke.

“‘I know it won’t,’ she says. ‘I didn’t want to do
it, it’s so mean, but I’m awful hungry, sir.’

“‘Better run home and get your supper, then.’

“‘I’ve got no home.’

“‘Where do you live?’

“‘In the street.’

“‘Where do you sleep?’

“‘Anywhere; last night in the lock-up, and I thought
I’d get in there again, if I did that when you saw me.
I like to go there, it’s warm and safe.’

“‘If I don’t take you there, what will you do?’

“‘Don’t know. I could go over there and dance
again as I used to, but being sick has made me ugly,
so they won’t have me, and no one else will take me
because I have been there once.’

“I looked where she pointed, and thanked the Lord
that they wouldn’t take her. It was one of those low
theatres that do so much damage to the like of her;
there was a gambling place one side of it, an eating
saloon the other. I was new to the work then, but
.bn 136.png
.pn +1
though I’d heard about hunger and homelessness often
enough, I’d never had this sort of thing, nor seen that
look on a girl’s face. A white, pinched face hers was,
with frightened, tired-looking eyes, but so innocent!
She wasn’t more than sixteen, had been pretty once, I
saw, looked sick and starved now, and seemed just the
most helpless, hopeless little thing that ever was.

“‘You’d better come to the Station for to-night, and
we’ll see to you to-morrow,’ says I.

“‘Thank you, sir,’ says she, looking as grateful as
if I’d asked her home. I suppose I did speak kind of
fatherly. I ain’t ashamed to say I felt so, seeing what
a child she was; nor to own that when she put her little
hand in mine, it hurt me to feel how thin and cold it
was. We passed the eating-house where the red lights
made her face as rosy as it ought to have been; there
was meat and pies in the window, and the poor thing
stopped to look. It was too much for her; off came her
shawl, and she said in that coaxing way of hers,—

“‘I wish you’d let me stop at the place close by and
sell this; they’ll give a little for it, and I’ll get some
supper. I’ve had nothing since yesterday morning,
and maybe cold is easier to bear than hunger.’

“‘Have you nothing better than that to sell?’ I
says, not quite sure that she wasn’t all a humbug, like
so many of ’em. She seemed to see that, and looked
up at me again with such innocent eyes, I couldn’t
doubt her when she said, shivering with something
beside the cold,—

“‘Nothing but myself.’ Then the tears came, and
she laid her head down on my arm, sobbing,—‘Keep
me! oh, do keep me safe somewhere!’”
.bn 137.png
.pn +1

Thorn choked here, steadied his voice with a resolute
hem! but could only add one sentence more,—

“That’s how I found my wife.”

“Come, don’t stop thar. I told the whole o’ mine,
you do the same. Whar did you take her? how’d it all
come round?”

“Please tell us, Thorn.”

The gentler request was answered presently, very
steadily, very quietly.

“I was always a soft-hearted fellow, though you
wouldn’t think it now, and when that little girl asked
me to keep her safe, I just did it. I took her to a good
woman whom I knew, for I hadn’t any women folks belonging
to me, nor any place but that to put her in. She
stayed there till spring working for her keep, growing
brighter, prettier, every day, and fonder of me, I thought.
If I believed in witchcraft, I shouldn’t think myself
such a fool as I do now, but I don’t believe in it, and
to this day I can’t understand how I came to do it. To
be sure I was a lonely man, without kith or kin, had
never had a sweetheart in my life, or been much with
women since my mother died. Maybe that’s why I
was so bewitched with Mary, for she had little ways
with her that took your fancy and made you love her
whether you would or no. I found her father was an
honest fellow enough, a fiddler in some theatre; that
he’d taken good care of Mary till he died, leaving precious
little but advice for her to live on. She’d tried to
get work, failed, spent all she had, got sick, and was
going to the bad, as the poor souls can hardly help
doing with so many ready to give them a shove. It’s
no use trying to make a bad job better; so the long
.bn 138.png
.pn +1
and short of it was, I thought she loved me; God
knows I loved her! and I married her before the year
was out.”

“Show us her picture; I know you’ve got one; all
the fellows have, though half of ’em won’t own up.”

“I’ve only got part of one. I once saved my little
girl, and her picture once saved me.”

From an inner pocket Thorn produced a woman’s
housewife, carefully untied it, though all its implements
were missing but a little thimble, and from one of its
compartments took a flattened bullet and the remnants
of a picture.

“I gave her that the first Christmas after I found
her. She wasn’t as tidy about her clothes as I liked to
see, and I thought if I gave her a handy thing like this,
she’d be willing to sew. But she only made one shirt
for me, and then got tired, so I keep it like an old fool,
as I am. Yes, that’s the bit of lead that would have
done for me, if Mary’s likeness hadn’t been just where
it was.”

“You’ll like to show her this when you go home,
won’t you?” said Dick, as he took up the bullet, while
Phil examined the marred picture, and Thorn poised
the little thimble on his big finger, with a sigh.

“How can I, when I don’t know where she is, and
camp is all the home I’ve got!”

The words broke from him like a sudden groan, when
some old wound is rudely touched. Both of the young
men started, both laid back the relics they had taken
up, and turned their eyes from Thorn’s face, across
which swept a look of shame and sorrow, too significant
to be misunderstood. Their silence assured him of their
.bn 139.png
.pn +1
sympathy, and, as if that touch of friendliness unlocked
his heavy heart, he eased it by a full confession.
When he spoke again, it was with the calmness of repressed
emotion, a calmness more touching to his mates
than the most passionate outbreak, the most pathetic
lamentation; for the coarse camp-phrases seemed to
drop from his vocabulary; more than once his softened
voice grew tremulous, and to the words “my little girl,”
there went a tenderness that proved how dear a place
she still retained in that deep heart of his.

“Boys, I’ve gone so far; I may as well finish; and
you’ll see I’m not without some cause for my stern
looks and ways; you’ll pity me, and from you I’ll take
the comfort of it. It’s only the old story,—I married
her, worked for her, lived for her, and kept my little
girl like a lady. I should have known that I was too
old and sober for a young thing like that, for the life she
led before the pinch came just suited her. She liked to
be admired, to dress, and dance and make herself pretty
for all the world to see; not to keep house for a quiet
man like me. Idleness wasn’t good for her, it bred
discontent; then some of her old friends, who’d left her
in her trouble, found her out when better times came
round, and tried to get her back again. I was away all
day, I didn’t know how things were going, and she
wasn’t open with me, afraid she said; I was so grave,
and hated theatres so. She got courage finally to tell
me that she wasn’t happy; that she wanted to dance
again, and asked me if she mightn’t. I’d rather have
had her ask me to put her in a fire, for I <i>did</i> hate
theatres, and was bred to; others think they’re no
harm. I do; and knew it was a bad life for a girl like
.bn 140.png
.pn +1
mine. It pampers vanity, and vanity is the Devil’s
help with such; so I said No, kindly at first, sharp and
stern when she kept on teasing. That roused her spirit.
‘I will go!’ she said, one day. ‘Not while you are my
wife,’ I answered back; and neither said any more, but
she gave me a look I didn’t think she could, and I
resolved to take her away from temptation before worse
came of it.

“I didn’t tell her my plan; but I resigned my place,
spent a week or more finding and fixing a little home
for her out in the wholesome country, where she’d be
safe from theatres and disreputable friends, and maybe
learn to love me better when she saw how much she
was to me. It was coming summer, and I made things
look as home-like and as pretty as I could. She liked
flowers, and I fixed a garden for her; she was fond of
pets, and I got her a bird, a kitten, and a dog to play
with her; she fancied gay colors and tasty little matters,
so I filled her rooms with all the handsome things I
could afford, and when it was done, I was as pleased
as any boy, thinking what happy times we’d have together
and how pleased she’d be. Boys, when I went
to tell her and to take her to her little home, she was
gone.”

“Who with?”

“With those cursed friends of hers; a party of them
left the city just then; she was wild to go; she had
money now, and all her good looks back again. They
teased and tempted her; I wasn’t there to keep her,
and she went, leaving a line behind to tell me that she
loved the old life more than the new; that my house
was a prison, and she hoped I’d let her go in peace.
.bn 141.png
.pn +1
That almost killed me; but I managed to bear it, for I
knew most of the fault was mine; but it was awful
bitter to think I hadn’t saved her, after all.”

“Oh, Thorn! what did you do?”

“Went straight after her; found her dancing in
Philadelphia, with paint on her cheeks, trinkets on her
neck and arms, looking prettier than ever; but the
innocent eyes were gone, and I couldn’t see my little
girl in the bold, handsome woman twirling there before
the footlights. She saw me, looked scared at first, then
smiled, and danced on with her eyes upon me, as if she
said,—

“‘See! I’m happy now; go away and let me be.’

“I couldn’t stand that, and got out somehow. People
thought me mad, or drunk; I didn’t care, I only
wanted to see her once in quiet and try to get her home.
I couldn’t do it then nor afterwards by fair means, and
I wouldn’t try force. I wrote to her, promised to forgive
her, begged her to come back, or let me keep
her honestly somewhere away from me. But she never
answered, never came, and I have never tried again.”

“She wasn’t worthy of you, Thorn; you jest forgit
her.”

“I wish I could! I wish I could!” In his voice
quivered an almost passionate regret, and a great sob
heaved his chest, as he turned his face away to hide the
love and longing, still so tender and so strong.

“Don’t say that, Dick; such fidelity should make us
charitable for its own sake. There is always time for
penitence, always certainty of pardon. Take heart,
Thorn, you may not wait in vain, and she may yet return
to you.”
.bn 142.png
.pn +1

“I know she will! I’ve dreamed of it, I’ve prayed
for it; every battle I come out of safe makes me surer
that I was kept for that, and when I’ve borne enough
to atone for my part of the fault, I’ll be repaid for all
my patience, all my pain, by finding her again. She
knows how well I love her still, and if there comes a
time when she is sick and poor and all alone again, then
she’ll remember her old John, then she’ll come home
and let me take her in.”

Hope shone in Thorn’s melancholy eyes, and long-suffering,
all-forgiving love beautified the rough, brown
face, as he folded his arms and bent his gray head on
his breast, as if the wanderer were already come.

The emotion which Dick scorned to show on his own
account was freely manifested for another, as he sniffed
audibly, and, boy-like, drew his sleeve across his eyes.
But Phil, with the delicate perception of a finer nature,
felt that the truest kindness he could show his friend
was to distract his thoughts from himself, to spare him
any comments, and lessen the embarrassment which
would surely follow such unwonted confidence.

“Now I’ll relieve Flint, and he will give you a laugh.
Come on, Hiram, and tell us about your Bewlah.”

The gentleman addressed had performed his duty by
sitting on a fence and “righting up” his pockets, to
beguile the tedium of his exile. Before his multitudinous
possessions could be restored to their native sphere,
Thorn was himself again, and on his feet.

“Stay where you are, Phil; I like to tramp, it seems
like old times, and I know you’re tired. Just forget
all this I’ve been saying, and go on as before. Thank
you, boys! thank you,” and with a grasp of the two
.bn 143.png
.pn +1
hands extended to him, he strode away along the path
already worn by his own restless feet.

“It’s done him good, and I’m glad of that; but I’d
like to see the little baggage that bewitched the poor old
boy, wouldn’t you, Phil?”

“Hush! here’s Flint.”

“What’s up naow? want me tew address the meetin’,
hey? I’m willin’, only the laugh’s ruther ag’inst me,
ef I tell that story; expect you’ll like it all the better
fer that.” Flint coiled up his long limbs, put his hands
in his pockets, chewed meditatively for a moment, and
then began, with his slowest drawl:—

“Waal, sir, it’s pretty nigh ten year ago, I was
damster daown tew Oldtaown, clos’t to Banggore. My
folks lived tew Bethel; there was only the old man, and
Aunt Siloam, keepin’ house fer him, seein’ as I was
the only chick he hed. I hedn’t heared from ’em fer a
long spell, when there come a letter sayin’ the old man
was breakin’ up. He’d said it every spring fer a
number er years, and I didn’t mind it no more’n the
breakin’ up er the river; not so much, jest then; fer the
gret spring drive was comin’ on, and my hands was tew
full to quit work all tew oncet. I sent word I’d be
’long ’fore a gret while, and byme-by I went. I ought
tew hev gone at fust; but they’d sung aout ‘Wolf!’ so
often I warn’t scared; an’ sure ’nuff the wolf did come
at last. Father hed been dead and berried a week when
I got there, and aunt was so mad she wouldn’t write,
nor scurcely speak tew me for a consider’ble spell. I
didn’t blame her a mite, and felt jest the wust kind;
so I give in every way, and fetched her raound. Yeou
see I hed a cousin who’d kind er took my place tew
.bn 144.png
.pn +1
hum while I was off, an’ the old man hed left him a good
slice er his money, an’ me the farm, hopin’ to keep me
there. He’d never liked the lumberin’ bizness, an’
hankered arfter me a sight, I faound. Waal, seein’
haow ’twas, I tried tew please him, late as it was; but
ef there was ennything I did spleen ag’inst it was farmin’,
’specially arfter the smart times I’d ben hevin’, up
Oldtaown way. Yeou don’t know nothin’ abaout it;
but ef yeou want tew see high dewin’s, jest hitch onto a
timber-drive an’ go it daown along them lakes and rivers,
say from Kaumchenungamooth tew Punnobscot Bay.
Guess yeou’d see a thing or tew, an’ find livin’ on a log
come as handy as ef you was born a turtle.

“Waal, I stood it one summer; but it was the longest
kind of a job. Come fall I turned contry, darned
the farm, and vaowed I’d go back tew loggin’. Aunt
hed got fond er me by that time, and felt dreadful bad
abaout my leavin’ on her. Cousin Siah, as we called
Josiah, didn’t cotton tew the old woman, though he did
tew her cash; but we hitched along fust-rate. She was
’tached tew the place, hated tew hev it let or sold,
thought I’d go to everlastin’ rewin ef I took tew lumberin’
ag’in, an’ hevin’ a tidy little sum er money all her
own, she took a notion tew buy me off. ‘Hiram,’ sez
she, ‘ef yeou’ll stay to hum, merry some smart girl,
an’ kerry on the farm, I’ll leave yeou the hull er my
fortin. Ef yeou don’t, I’ll leave every cent on’t tew
Siah, though he ain’t done as waal by me as yeou hev.
Come,’ sez she, ‘I’m breakin’ up like brother; I shan’t
wurry any one a gret while, and ’fore spring I dessay
you’ll hev cause tew rejice that yeou done as Aunt Si
counselled yeou.’
.bn 145.png
.pn +1

“Now, that idee kinder took me, seein’ I hedn’t no
overpaourin’ love fer cousin; but I brewdid over it a
spell ’fore I ’greed. Fin’lly, I said I’d dew it, as it
warn’t a hard nor a bad trade; and begun to look
raound fer Mis Flint, Jr. Aunt was dreadf’l pleased;
but ’mazin pertickler as tew who was goin’ tew stan’ in
her shoes, when she was fetched up ag’inst the etarnal
boom. There was a sight er likely women-folks raound
taown; but aunt she set her foot daown that Mis Flint
must be smart, pious, an good-natered; harnsome she
didn’t say nothin’ abaout, bein’ the humliest woman in
the State er Maine. I hed my own calk’lations on that
p’int, an’ went sparkin’ two or three er the pootiest gals,
all that winter. I warn’t in no hurry, fer merryin’ is
an awful resky bizness; an’ I wan’t goan to be took in
by nobuddy. Some haouw I couldn’t make up my mind
which I’d hev, and kept dodgin’, all ready to slew
raound, an’ hitch on tew ary one that seemed likeliest.
’Long in March, Aunt, she ketched cold, took tew her
bed, got wuss, an’ told me tew hurry up, fer nary cent
should I hev, ef I warn’t safely merried ’fore she stepped
out. I thought that was ruther craoudin’ a feller; but
I see she was goan sure, an’ I’d got inter a way er considerin’
the cash mine, so that it come hard to hear
abaout givin’ on ’t up. Off I went that evenin’ an’ asked
Almiry Nash ef she’d hev me. No, she wouldn’t; I’d
shilly-shallyed so long, she’d got tired er waitin’ and
took tew keepin’ company with a doctor daown ter
Banggore, where she’d ben visitin’ a spell. I didn’t
find that as hard a nub to swaller, as I’d a thought I
would, though Almiry was the richest, pootiest, and
good-naterest of the lot. Aunt larfed waal, an’ told me
.bn 146.png
.pn +1
tew try ag’in; so a couple er nights arfter, I spruced up,
an’ went over to Car’line Miles’s; she was as smart as
old cheese, an’ waal off intew the barg’in. I was just
as sure she’d hev me, as I be that I’m gittin’ the rewmatiz
a settin’ in this ma’sh. But that minx, Almiry,
hed ben and let on abaout her own sarsy way er servin’
on me, an’ Car’line jest up an’ said she warn’t goan to
hev annybuddy’s leavin’s; so daown I come ag’in.

“Things was gettin’ desper’t by that time; fer aunt
was failin’ rapid, an’ the story hed leaked aout some
way, so the hull taown was gigglin’ over it. I thought
I’d better quit them parts; but aunt she showed me
her will all done complete, ’sceptin the fust name er the
legatee. ‘There,’ sez she, ‘it all depends on yeou,
whether that place is took by Hiram or Josiah. It’s
easy done, an’ so it’s goan tew stan till the last minit.’
That riled me consid’able, an’ I streaked off tew May
Jane Simlin’s. She wan’t very waal off, nor extra
harnsome, but she was pious the worst kind, an’ dreadf’l
clever to them she fancied. But I was daown on my
luck ag’in; fer at the fust word I spoke of merryin’, she
showed me the door, an’ give me to understan’ that she
couldn’t think er hevin’ a man that warn’t a church-member,
that hadn’t experienced religion, or even ben
struck with conviction, an’ all the rest on ’t. Ef anny
one hed a wanted tew hev seen a walkin’ hornet’s nest,
they could hev done it cheap that night, as I went
hum. I jest bounced intew the kitchen, chucked my
hat intew one corner, my coat intew ’nother, kicked the
cat, cussed the fire, drawed up a chair, and set scaoulin’
like sixty, bein’ tew mad fer talkin’. The young woman
that was nussin’ aunt,—Bewlah Blish, by name,—was
.bn 147.png
.pn +1
a cooking grewel on the coals, and ’peared tew understan’
the mess I was in; but she didn’t say nothin’,
only blowed up the fire, fetched me a mug er cider, an’
went raound so kinder quiet, and sympathizin’, that I
found the wrinkles in my temper gettin’ smoothed aout
’mazin’ quick; an’ ’fore long I made a clean breast er
the hull thing. Bewlah larfed, but I didn’t mind her
doin’ on’t, for she sez, sez she, real sort o’ cunnin’,—

“‘Poor Hiram! they didn’t use yeou waal. Yeou
ought to hev tried some er the poor an’ humly girls;
they’d a been glad an’ grateful fer such a sweetheart
as yeou be.’

“I was good-natered ag’in by that time, an’ I sez,
larfin’ along with her, ‘Waal, I’ve got three mittens,
but I guess I might’s waal hev ’nother, and that will make
two pair complete. Say, Bewlah, will yeou hev me?’

“‘Yes, I will,’ sez she.

“‘Reelly?’ sez I.

“‘Solemn trew,’ sez she.

“Ef she’d up an’ slapped me in the face, I shouldn’t
hev ben more throwed aback, fer I never mistrusted she
cared two chips for me. I jest set an’ gawped; fer she
was ‘solemn trew,’ I see that with half an eye, an’ it
kinder took my breath away. Bewlah drawed the
grewel off the fire, wiped her hands, an’ stood lookin’ at
me a minnet, then she sez, slow an’ quiet, but tremblin’
a little, as women hev a way er doin’, when they’ve
consid’able steam aboard,—

“‘Hiram, other folks think lumberin’ has spilt yeou;
<i>I</i> don’t; they call you rough an’ rewd; <i>I</i> know you’ve
got a real kind heart fer them as knows haow tew find
it. Them girls give yeou up so easy, ’cause they never
.bn 148.png
.pn +1
loved yeou, an’ yeou give them up ’cause you only
thought abaout their looks an’ money. I’m humly, an’
I’m poor; but I’ve loved yeou ever sence we went a-nuttin’
years ago, an’ yeou shook daown fer me, kerried
my bag, and kissed me tew the gate, when all the others
shunned me, ’cause my father drank an’ I was shabby
dressed, ugly, an’ shy. Yeou asked me in sport, I
answered in airnest; but I don’t expect nothin’ unless
yeou mean as I mean. Like me, Hiram, or leave me,
it won’t make no odds in my lovin’ of yeou, nor helpin’
of yeou, ef I kin.’

“‘T ain’t easy tew say haouw I felt, while she was
goin’ on that way, but my idees was tumblin’ raound
inside er me, as ef half a dozen dams was broke loose
all tew oncet. One thing was rather stiddier ’n the
rest, an’ that was that I liked Bewlah more ’n I knew.
I begun tew see what kep’ me loafin’ tew hum so much,
sence aunt was took daown; why I wan’t in no hurry
tew git them other gals, an’ haow I come tew pocket my
mittens so easy arfter the fust rile was over. Bewlah
<i>was</i> humly, poor in flesh, dreadful freckled, hed red
hair, black eyes, an’ a gret mold side of her nose. But
I’d got wonted tew her; she knowed my ways, was a
fust rate housekeeper, real good-tempered, and pious
without flingin’ on’t in yer face. She was a lonely
creeter,—her folks bein’ all dead but one sister, who
didn’t use her waal, an’ somehow I kinder yearned over
her, as they say in Scripter. For all I set an’ gawped,
I was coming raound fast, though I felt as I used tew,
when I was goin’ to shoot the rapids, kinder breathless
an’ oncertin, whether I’d come aout right side up or not.
Queer, warn’t it?”
.bn 149.png
.pn +1

“Love, Flint; that was a sure symptom of it.”

“Waal, guess ’t was; anyway I jumped up all of a
sudden, ketched Bewlah raound the neck, give her a
hearty kiss, and sung aout, ‘I’ll dew it sure’s my
name’s Hi Flint!’ The words was scarcely out of my
maouth, ’fore daown come Dr. Parr. He’d ben up tew
see aunt, an’ said she wouldn’t last the night threw,
prob’ly. That give me a scare er the wust kind; an’
when I told doctor haow things was, he sez, kinder
jokin’,—

“‘Better git merried right away, then. Parson Dill
is tew come an’ see the old lady, an’ he’ll dew both jobs
tew oncet.’

“‘Will yeou, Bewlah?’ sez I.

“‘Yes, Hiram, to ’blige yeou,’ sez she.

“With that, I put it fer the license; got it, an’
was back in less ’n half an haour, most tuckered
aout with the flurry of the hull concern. Quick as
I’d been, Bewlah hed faound time tew whip on her
best gaoun, fix up her hair, and put a couple er white
chrissanthymums intew her hand’chif pin. Fer the fust
time in her life, she looked harnsome,—leastways <i>I</i>
thought so,—with a pretty color in her cheeks, somethin’
brighter ’n a larf shinin’ in her eyes, and her lips
smilin’ an’ tremblin’, as she come to me an’ whispered
so ’s ’t none er the rest could hear,—

“‘Hiram, don’t yeou dew it, ef yeou’d ruther not.
I’ve stood it a gret while alone, an’ I guess I can
ag’in.’

“Never yeou mind what I said or done abaout that;
but we was merried ten minutes arfter, ’fore the kitchen
fire, with Dr. Parr an’ aour hired man, fer witnesses;
.bn 150.png
.pn +1
an’ then we all went up tew aunt. She was goan fast,
but she understood what I told her, hed strength tew fill
up the hole in the will, an’ to say, a-kissin’ Bewlah,
‘Yeou’ll be a good wife, an’ naow yeou ain’t a poor
one.’

“I couldn’t help givin’ a peek tew the will, and there
I see not Hiram Flint nor Josiah Flint, but Bewlah
Flint, wrote every which way, but as plain as the nose
on yer face. ‘It won’t make no odds, dear,’ whispered
my wife, peekin’ over my shoulder. ‘Guess it won’t!’
sez I, aout laoud; ‘I’m glad on’t, and it ain’t a cent
more’n yeou derserve.’

“That pleased aunt. ’Riz me, Hiram,’ sez she; an’
when I’d got her easy, she put her old arms raound my
neck, an’ tried to say, ‘God bless you, dear—,’ but
died a doin’ of it; an’ I ain’t ashamed tew say I boo-hooed
real hearty, when I laid her daown, fer she was
dreadf’l good tew me, an’ I don’t forgit her in a hurry.”

“How’s Bewlah?” asked Dick, after the little tribute
of respect all paid to Aunt Siloam’s memory, by a momentary
silence.

“Fust-rate! that harum-scarum venter er mine was
the best I ever made. She’s done waal by me, hes
Bewlah; ben a grand good haousekeeper, kin kerry on
the farm better’n me, any time, an’ is as dutif’l an’ lovin’
a wife as,—waal, as annything that <i>is</i> extra dutif’l
and lovin’.”

“Got any boys to brag of?”

“We don’t think much o’ boys daown aour way;
they’re ’mazin’ resky stock to fetch up,—alluz breakin’
baounds, gittin’ intew the paound, and wurryin’ your
life aout somehaow ’nother. Gals naow doos waal;
.bn 151.png
.pn +1
I’ve got six o’ the likeliest the is goin’, every one on
’em is the very moral of Bewlah,—red hair, black eyes,
quiet ways, an’ a mold ’side the nose. Baby’s ain’t
growed yet; but I expect tew see it in a consid’able
state o’ forrardness, when I git hum, an’ wouldn’t miss
it fer the world.”

The droll expression of Flint’s face, and the satisfied
twang of his last words, were irresistible. Dick and
Phil went off into a shout of laughter; and even Thorn’s
grave lips relapsed into a smile at the vision of six little
Flints with their six little moles. As if the act were an
established ceremony, the “paternal head” produced
his pocket-book, selected a worn black-and-white paper,
which he spread in his broad palm, and displayed with
the air of a connoisseur.

“There, thet’s Bewlah! we call it a cuttin’; but the
proper name’s a silly-hoot, I b’leeve. I’ve got a harnsome
big degarrytype tew hum, but the heft on’t makes
it bad tew kerry raound, so I took this. I don’t tote it
abaout inside my shirt, as some dew,—it ain’t my way;
but I keep it in my wallet long with my other valleu’bles,
and guess I set as much store by it as ef it was all
painted up, and done off to kill.”

The “silly-hoot” was examined with interest, and
carefully stowed away again in the old brown wallet,
which was settled in its place with a satisfied slap; then
Flint said briskly,—

“Naouw, Phil, yeou close this interestin’ and instructive
meeting; and be spry, fer time’s most up.”

“I haven’t much to tell, but must begin with a confession
which I have often longed but never dared to
make before, because I am a coward.”
.bn 152.png
.pn +1

“Sho! who’s goan to b’leeve that o’ a man who fit
like a wild-cat, wuz offered permotion on the field, and
reported tew headquarters arfter his fust scrimmage.
Try ag’in, Phil.”

“Physical courage is as plentiful as brass buttons,
nowadays, but moral courage is a rarer virtue; and I’m
lacking in it, as I’ll prove. You think me a Virginian;
I’m an Alabamian by birth, and was a Rebel three
months ago.”

This confession startled his hearers, as he knew it
would, for he had kept his secret well. Thorn laid his
hand involuntarily upon his rifle, Dick drew off a little,
and Flint illustrated one of his own expressions, for he
“gawped.” Phil laughed that musical laugh of his, and
looked up at them with his dark face waking into sudden
life, as he went on:—

“There’s no treason in the camp, for I’m as fierce
a Federalist as any of you now, and you may thank a
woman for it. When Lee made his raid into Pennsylvania,
I was a lieutenant in the—well, never mind
what regiment, it hasn’t signalized itself since, and I’d
rather not hit my old neighbors when they are down.
In one of the skirmishes during our retreat, I got a
wound and was left for dead. A kind old Quaker found
and took me home; but though I was too weak to talk,
I had my senses by that time, and knew what went on
about me. Everything was in confusion, even in that
well-ordered place; no surgeon could be got at first,
and a flock of frightened women thee’d and thou’d one
another over me, but hadn’t wit enough to see that I
was bleeding to death. Among the faces that danced
before my dizzy eyes was one that seemed familiar,
.bn 153.png
.pn +1
probably because no cap surrounded it. I was glad
to have it bending over me, to hear a steady voice say,
‘Give me a bandage, quick!’ and when none was
instantly forthcoming to me, the young lady stripped
up a little white apron she wore, and stanched the
wound in my shoulder. I was not as badly hurt as I
supposed, but so worn-out, and faint from loss of blood,
they believed me to be dying, and so did I, when the
old man took off his hat and said,—

“‘Friend, if thee has anything to say, thee had
better say it, for thee probably has not long to live.’

“I thought of my little sister, far away in Alabama,
fancied she came to me, and muttered, ‘Amy, kiss me
good-by.’ The women sobbed at that; but the girl
bent her sweet compassionate face to mine, and kissed
me on the forehead. That was my wife.”

“So you seceded from Secession right away, to pay
for that lip-service, hey?”

“No, Thorn, not right away,—to my shame be it
spoken. I’ll tell you how it came about. Margaret
was not old Bent’s daughter, but a Massachusetts girl on
a visit, and a long one it proved, for she couldn’t go till
things were quieter. While she waited, she helped take
care of me; for the good souls petted me like a baby
when they found that a Rebel could be a gentleman. I
held my tongue, and behaved my best to prove my
gratitude, you know. Of course, I loved Margaret
very soon. How could I help it? She was the sweetest
woman I had ever seen, tender, frank, and spirited;
all I had ever dreamed of and longed for. I did not
speak of this, nor hope for a return, because I knew she
was a hearty Unionist, and thought she only tended me
.bn 154.png
.pn +1
from pity. But suddenly she decided to go home, and
when I ventured to wish she would stay longer, she
would not listen, and said, ‘I must not stay; I should
have gone before.’

“The words were nothing, but as she uttered them
the color came up beautifully over all her face, and her
eyes filled as they looked away from mine. Then I
knew that she loved me, and my secret broke out
against my will. Margaret was forced to listen, for I
would not let her go, but she seemed to harden herself
against me, growing colder, stiller, statelier, as I went
on, and when I said in my desperate way,—

“‘You should love me, for we are bid to love our
enemies,’ she flashed an indignant look at me and
said,—

“‘I will not love what I cannot respect! Come to
me a loyal man, and see what answer I shall give
you.’

“Then she went away. It was the wisest thing she
could have done, for absence did more to change me
than an ocean of tears, a year of exhortations. Lying
there, I missed her every hour of the day, recalled every
gentle act, kind word, and fair example she had given
me. I contrasted my own belief with hers, and found
a new significance in the words honesty and honor, and,
remembering her fidelity to principle, was ashamed
of my own treason to God and to herself. Education,
prejudice, and interest, are difficult things to overcome,
and that was the hottest fight I ever passed
through, for as I tell you, I was a coward. But love
and loyalty won the day, and, asking no quarter, the
Rebel surrendered.”
.bn 155.png
.pn +1

“Phil Beaufort, you’re a brick!” cried Dick, with
a sounding slap on his comrade’s shoulder.

“A brand snatched from the burnin’. Hallelujah!”
chanted Flint, seesawing with excitement.

“Then you went to find your wife? How? Where?”
asked Thorn, forgetting vigilance in interest.

“Friend Bent hated war so heartily that he would
have nothing to do with paroles, exchanges, or any
martial process whatever, but bade me go when and
where I liked, remembering to do by others as I had
been done by. Before I was well enough to go, however,
I managed, by means of Copperhead influence and
returned prisoners, to send a letter to my father and
receive an answer. You can imagine what both contained;
and so I found myself penniless, but not poor,
an outcast, but not alone. Old Bent treated me like a
prodigal son, and put money in my purse; his pretty
daughters loved me for Margaret’s sake, and gave
me a patriotic salute all round when I left them, the
humblest, happiest man in Pennsylvania. Margaret
once said to me that this was the time for deeds, not
words; that no man should stand idle, but serve the
good cause with head, heart, and hand, no matter in
what rank; for in her eyes a private fighting for liberty
was nobler than a dozen generals defending slavery. I
remembered that, and, not having influential friends to
get me a commission, enlisted in one of her own Massachusetts
regiments, knowing that no act of mine would
prove my sincerity like that. You should have seen her
face when I walked in upon her, as she sat alone, busied
with the army work, as I’d so often seen her sitting by
my bed; it showed me all she had been suffering in
.bn 156.png
.pn +1
silence, all I should have lost had I chosen darkness
instead of light. She hoped and feared so much she
could not speak, neither could I, but dropped my cloak,
and showed her that, through love of her, I had become
a soldier of the Union. How I love the coarse blue uniform!
for when she saw it, she came to me without a
word and kept her promise in a month.”

“Thunder! what a harnsome woman!” exclaimed
Flint, as Phil, opening the golden case that held his
talisman, showed them the beautiful, beloved face of
which he spoke.

“Yes! and a right noble woman too. I don’t deserve
her, but I will. We parted on our wedding-day, for
orders to be off came suddenly, and she would not let
me go until I had given her my name to keep. We
were married in the morning, and at noon I had to go.
Other women wept as we marched through the city,
but my brave Margaret kept her tears till we were gone,
smiling and waving her hand to me,—the hand that
wore the wedding-ring,—till I was out of sight. That
image of her is before me day and night, and day and
night her last words are ringing in my ears,—

“‘I give you freely, do your best. Better a true
man’s widow than a traitor’s wife.’

“Boys, I’ve only stood on the right side for a month;
I’ve only fought one battle, earned one honor; but I
believe these poor achievements are an earnest of the
long atonement I desire to make for five-and-twenty
years of blind transgression. You say I fight well.
Have I not cause to dare much?—for in owning many
slaves, I too became a slave; in helping to make many
freemen, I liberate myself. You wonder why I refused
.bn 157.png
.pn +1
promotion. Have I any right to it yet? Are
there not men who never sinned as I have done, and
beside whose sacrifices mine look pitifully small? You
tell me I have no ambition. I have the highest, for I
desire to become God’s noblest work,—an honest man,—living,
to make Margaret happy in a love that every
hour grows worthier of her own,—dying to make death
proud to take me.”

Phil had risen while he spoke, as if the enthusiasm of
his mood lifted him into the truer manhood he aspired
to attain. Straight and strong he stood up in the moonlight,
his voice deepened by unwonted energy, his eye
clear and steadfast, his whole face ennobled by the regenerating
power of this late loyalty to country, wife,
and self, and bright against the dark blue of his jacket
shone the pictured face, the only medal he was proud
to wear.

Ah, brave, brief moment, cancelling years of wrong!
Ah, fair and fatal decoration, serving as a mark for a
hidden foe! The sharp crack of a rifle broke the stillness
of the night, and with those hopeful words upon
his lips, the young man sealed his purpose with his
life.
.bn 158.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch06
THE BARON’S GLOVES;| <s>OR,</s>| AMY’S ROMANCE.||\
“All is fair in love and war.”
.tb
.h3
I.||<s>HOW THEY WERE FOUND.</s>
.sp 2
.dc 0.2 0.65
“WHAT a long sigh! Are you tired, Amy?”

“Yes, and disappointed as well. I never
would have undertaken this journey if I had not thought
it would be full of novelty, romance, and charming adventures.”

“Well, we have had several adventures.”

“Bah! losing one’s hat in the Rhine, getting left at
a dirty little inn, and having our pockets picked, are not
what <i>I</i> call adventures. I wish there were brigands in
Germany—it needs something of that sort to enliven its
stupidity.”

“How can you call Germany stupid when you have a
scene like this before you?” said Helen, with a sigh of
pleasure, as she looked from the balcony which overhangs
the Rhine at the hotel of the “Three Kings” at
Coblentz. Ehrenbreitstein towered opposite, the broad
river glittered below, and a mid-summer moon lent its
enchantment to the landscape.

As she spoke, her companion half rose from the low
chair where she lounged, and showed the pretty, piquant
.bn 159.png
.pn +1
face of a young girl. She seemed in a half melancholy,
half petulant mood; and traces of recent illness were
visible in the languor of her movements and the pallor
of her cheeks.

“Yes, it is lovely; but I want adventures and
romance of some sort to make it quite perfect. I don’t
care what, if something would only happen.”

“My dear, you are out of spirits and weary now,
to-morrow you’ll be yourself again. Do not be ungrateful
to uncle or unjust to yourself. Something
pleasant will happen, I’ve no doubt. In fact, something
<i>has</i> happened that you may make a little romance
out of, perhaps, for lack of a more thrilling adventure.”

“What do you mean?” and Amy’s listless face
brightened.

“Speak low; there are balconies all about us, and
we may be overheard,” said Helen, drawing nearer after
an upward glance.

“What is the beginning of a romance?” whispered
Amy, eagerly.

“A pair of gloves. Just now, as I stood here, and
you lay with your eyes shut, these dropped from the
balcony overhead. Now amuse yourself by weaving a
romance out of them and their owner.”

Amy seized them, and stepping inside the window,
examined them by the candle.

“A gentleman’s gloves, scented with violets! Here’s
a little hole fretted by a ring on the third finger. Bless
me! here are the initials, ‘S. P.,’ stamped on the inside,
with a coat of arms below. What a fop to get up
his gloves in this style! They are exquisite, though.
Such a delicate color, so little soiled, and so prettily
.bn 160.png
.pn +1
ornamented! Handsome hands wore these. I’d like
to see the man.”

Helen laughed at the girl’s interest, and was satisfied
if any trifle amused her <i>ennui</i>.

“I will send them back by the <i>kellner</i>, and in that
way we may discover their owner,” she said.

But Amy arrested her on the way to the door.

“I’ve a better plan; these waiters are so stupid
you’ll get nothing out of them. Here’s the hotel book
sent up for our names; let us look among the day’s arrivals
and see who ‘S. P.’ is. He came to-day, I’m
sure, for the man said the rooms above were just taken,
so we could not have them.”

Opening the big book, Amy was soon intently poring
over the long list of names, written in many hands and
many languages.

“I’ve got it! Here he is—oh, Nell, he’s a baron!
Isn’t that charming? ‘Sigismund von Palsdorf, Dresden.’
We <i>must</i> see him, for I know he’s handsome, if
he wears such distracting gloves.”

“You’d better take them up yourself, then.”

“You know I can’t do that; but I shall ask the man
a few questions, just to get an idea what sort of person
the baron is. Then I shall change my mind and go
down to dinner; shall look well about me, and if the
baron is agreeable I shall make uncle return the gloves.
He will thank us, and I can say I’ve known a real
baron. That will be so nice when we go home. Now,
don’t be duennaish and say I’m silly, but let me do as I
like, and come and dress.”

Helen submitted, and when the gong pealed through
the house, Major Erskine marched into the great <i>salle à</i>
.bn 161.png
.pn +1
<i>manger</i>, with a comely niece on each arm. The long
tables were crowded, and they had to run the gauntlet
of many eyes as they made their way to the head of the
upper table. Before she touched her soup, Amy glanced
down the line of faces opposite, and finding none that
answered the slight description elicited from the waiter,
she leaned a little forward to examine those on her own
side of the table. Some way down sat several gentlemen,
and as she bent to observe them, one did the
same, and she received an admiring glance from a pair
of fine black eyes. Somewhat abashed, she busied herself
with her soup; but the fancy had taken possession
of her, and presently she whispered to Helen,—

“Do you see any signs of the baron?”

“On my left; look at the hands.”

Amy looked and saw a white, shapely hand with an
antique ring on the third finger. Its owner’s face
was averted, but as he conversed with animation, the
hand was in full play, now emphasizing an opinion, now
lifting a glass, or more frequently pulling at a blond
beard which adorned the face of the unknown. Amy
shook her head decidedly.

“I hate light men, and don’t think that is the baron,
for the gloves are a size too small for those hands.
Lean back and look some four or five seats lower down
on the right. See what sort of person the dark man
with the fine eyes is.”

Helen obeyed, but almost instantly bent to her plate
again, smiling in spite of herself.

“That is an Englishman; he stares rudely, says ‘By
Jove!’ and wears no jewelry or beard.”

“Now, I’m disappointed. Well, keep on the watch,
.bn 162.png
.pn +1
and tell me if you make any discoveries, for I <i>will</i> find
the baron.”

Being hungry, Amy devoted herself to her dinner, till
dessert was on the table. She was languidly eating
grapes, while Helen talked with the major, when the
word “baron” caught her ear. The speakers sat at a
table behind her, so that she could not see them without
turning quite round, which was impossible; but she
listened eagerly to the following scrap of chat:—

“Is the baron going on to-morrow?” asked a gay
voice in French.

“Yes, he is bound for Baden-Baden. The season is
at its height, and he must make his game while the ball
is rolling, or it is all up with the open-handed Sigismund,”
answered a rough voice.

“Won’t his father pardon the last escapade?” asked
a third, with a laugh.

“No, and he is right. The duel was a bad affair,
for the man almost died, and the baron barely managed
to get out of the scrape through court influence. When
is the wedding to be?”

“Never, Palsdorf says. There is everything but
love in the bargain, and he swears he’ll not agree to it.
I like that.”

“There is much nobleness in him, spite of his vagaries.
He will sow his wild oats and make a grand man
in time. By the by, if we are going to the fortress, we
must be off. Give Sigismund the word; he is dining
at the other table with Power,” said the gay voice.

“Take a look at the pretty English girl as you go
by; it will do your eyes good, after the fat Frauleins we
have seen of late,” added the rough one.
.bn 163.png
.pn +1

Three gentlemen rose, and as they passed Amy stole
a glance at them; but seeing several pairs of eyes fixed
on herself, she turned away blushing, with the not
unpleasant consciousness that “the pretty English
girl” was herself. Longing to see which Sigismund
was, she ventured to look after the young men, who
paused behind the man with the blond beard, and
also touched the dark-eyed gentleman on the shoulder.
All five went down the hall and stood talking near the
door.

“Uncle, I wish to go,” said Amy, whose will was law
to the amiable major. Up he rose, and Amy added, as
she took his arm, “I’m seized with a longing to go to
Baden-Baden and see a little gambling. You are not a
wild young man, so you can be trusted there.”

“I hope so. Now you are a sensible little woman,
and we’ll do our best to have a gay time. Wait an instant
till I get my hat.”

While the major searched for the missing article the
girls went on, and coming to the door, Amy tried to
open it. The unwieldy foreign lock resisted her efforts,
and she was just giving it an impatient little shake, when
a voice said behind her,—

“Permit me, mademoiselle;” at the same moment a
handsome hand turned the latch, the flash of a diamond
shone before her, and the door opened.

“<i>Merci, monsieur</i>,” she murmured, turning as she
went out; but Helen was close behind her, and no one
else to be seen except the massive major in the rear.

“Did you see the baron?” she whispered eagerly, as
they went up-stairs.

“No; where was he?”
.bn 164.png
.pn +1

“He opened the door for me. I knew him by his
hand and ring. He was close to you.”

“I did not observe him, being busy gathering up
my dress. I thought the person was a waiter, and
never looked at him,” said Helen, with provoking indifference.

“How unfortunate! Uncle, you are going to see the
fortress; we don’t care for it; but I want you to take
these gloves and inquire for Baron Sigismund Palsdorf.
He will be there with a party of gentlemen. You can
easily manage it, men are so free and easy. Mind
what he is like, and come home in time to tell me all
about it.”

Away went the major, and the cousins sat on the
balcony enjoying the lovely night, admiring the picturesque
scene, and indulging in the flights of fancy all
girls love, for Helen, in spite of her three-and-twenty
years, was as romantic as Amy at eighteen. It was
past eleven when the major came, and the only greeting
he received was the breathless question,—

“Did you find him?”

“I found something much better than any baron, a
courier. I’ve wanted one ever since we started; for
two young ladies and their baggage are more than one
man can do his duty by. Karl Hoffman had such excellent
testimonials from persons I know, that I did not
hesitate to engage him, and he comes to-morrow; so
henceforth I’ve nothing to do but devote myself to
you.”

“How very provoking! Did you bring the gloves
back?” asked Amy, still absorbed in the baron.

The major tossed them to her, and indulged in a
.bn 165.png
.pn +1
hearty laugh at her girlish regrets; then bade them
good-night, and went away to give orders for an early
start next morning.

Tired of talking, the girls lay down in the two little
white beds always found in German hotels, and Amy
was soon continuing in sleep the romance she had begun
awake. She dreamed that the baron proved to be
the owner of the fine eyes; that he wooed and won her,
and they were floating down the river to the chime of
wedding-bells.

At this rapturous climax she woke to find the air full
of music, and to see Helen standing tall and white in
the moonlight that streamed in at the open window.

“Hush, hide behind the curtains and listen; it’s a
serenade,” whispered Helen, as Amy stole to her side.

Shrouded in the drapery, they leaned and listened till
the song ended, then Amy peeped; a dark group stood
below; all were bare-headed, and now seemed whispering
together. Presently a single voice rose, singing an
exquisite little French canzonet, the refrain of which
was a passionate repetition of the word “<i>Amie</i>.” She
thought she recognized the voice, and the sound of her
own name uttered in such ardent tones made her heart
beat and her color rise, for it seemed to signify that the
serenade was for them. As the last melodious murmur
ceased, there came a stifled laugh from below, and
something fell into the balcony. Neither dared stir till
the sound of departing feet reassured them; then creeping
forward Amy drew in a lovely bouquet of myrtle,
roses, and great German forget-me-nots, tied with a
white ribbon and addressed in a dashing hand to <i>La
belle Helène</i>.
.bn 166.png
.pn +1

“Upon my life, the romance has begun in earnest,”
laughed Helen, as she examined the flowers. “You
are serenaded by some unknown nightingale, and I
have flowers tossed up to me in the charming old style.
Of course it is the baron, Amy.”

“I hope so; but whoever it is, they are regular
troubadours, and I’m delighted. I know the gloves
will bring us fun of some kind. Do you take one and
I’ll take the other, and see who will find the baron
first. Isn’t it odd that they knew our names?”

“Amy, the writing on this card is very like that in
the big book. I may be bewitched by this mid-summer
moonlight, but it really is very like it. Come and
see.”

The two charming heads bent over the card, looking
all the more charming for the dishevelled curls and
braids that hung about them as the girls laughed and
whispered together in the softly brilliant light that filled
the room.

“You are right; it is the same. The men who
stared so at dinner are gay students perhaps, and ready
for any prank. Don’t tell uncle, but let us see what
will come of it. I begin to enjoy myself heartily now—don’t
you?” said Amy, laying her glove carefully
away.

“I enjoyed myself before, but I think ‘<i>La belle
Helène</i>’ gives an added relish to life, <i>Amie</i>,” laughed
Nell, putting her flowers in water; and then both went
back to their pillows, to dream delightfully till morning.
.bn 167.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.tb
.h3
II.||KARL, THE COURIER.
.sp 2
“<sc>Three</sc> days, at least, before we reach Baden. How
tiresome it is that uncle won’t go faster!” said Amy,
as she tied on her hat next morning, wondering as she
did so if the baron would take the same boat.

“As adventures have begun, I feel assured that they
will continue to cheer the way; so resign yourself and
be ready for anything,” replied Helen, carefully arranging
her bouquet in her travelling-basket.

A tap at the door, which stood half open, made both
look up. A tall, brown, gentlemanly man, in a gray
suit, with a leathern bag slung over his shoulder, stood
there, hat in hand, and meeting Helen’s eyes, bowed
respectfully, saying in good English, but with a strong
German accent,—

“Ladies, the major desired me to tell you the carriage
waits.”

“Why, who—” began Amy, staring with her blue
eyes full of wonder at the stranger.

He bowed again, and said, simply,—

“Karl Hoffman, at your service, mademoiselle.”

“The courier—oh, yes! I forgot all about it. Please
take these things.”

And Amy began to hand him her miscellaneous collection
of bags, books, shawls and cushions.

“I’d no idea couriers were such decent creatures,”
whispered Amy, as they followed him along the hall.

“Don’t you remember the raptures Mrs. Mortimer
.bn 168.png
.pn +1
used to have over their Italian courier, and her funny
description of him? ‘Beautiful to behold, with a night
of hair, eyes full of an infinite tenderness, and a sumptuous
cheek.’”

Both girls laughed, and Amy averred that Karl’s eyes
danced with merriment as he glanced over his shoulder,
as the silvery peal sounded behind him.

“Hush! he understands English; we must be careful,”
said Helen, and neither spoke again till they
reached the carriage.

Everything was ready, and as they drove away, the
major, leaning luxuriously back, exclaimed,—

“Now I begin to enjoy travelling, for I’m no longer
worried by the thought of luggage, time-tables, trains,
and the everlasting perplexity of thalers, kreutzers, and
pfenniges. This man is a treasure; everything is
done in the best manner, and his knowledge of matters
is really amazing.”

“He’s a very gentlemanly-looking person,” said
Amy, eying a decidedly aristocratic foot through the
front window of the carriage, for Karl sat up beside the
driver.

“He <i>is</i> a gentleman, my dear. Many of these
couriers are well born and educated, but, being poor,
prefer this business to any other, as it gives them
variety, and often pleasant society. I’ve had a long
talk with Hoffman, and find him an excellent and accomplished
fellow. He has lost his fortune, it seems,
through no fault of his own, so being fond of a roving
life, turned courier for a time, and we are fortunate to
have secured him.”

“But one doesn’t know how to treat him,” said
.bn 169.png
.pn +1
Helen. “I don’t like to address him as a servant, and
yet it’s not pleasant to order a gentleman about.”

“Oh, it will be easy enough as we go on together.
Just call him Hoffman, and behave as if you knew nothing
about his past. He begged me not to mention it,
but I thought you’d like the romance of the thing.
Only don’t either of you run away with him, as Ponsonby’s
daughter did with her courier, who wasn’t a gentleman,
by the way.”

“Not handsome enough,” said Amy. “I don’t like
blue eyes and black hair. His manners are nice, but
he looks like a gipsy, with his brown face and black
beard: doesn’t he, Nell?”

“Not at all. Gipsies haven’t that style of face;
they are thin, sharp, and cunning in feature as in nature.
Hoffman has large, well-moulded features, and a mild,
manly expression, which gives one confidence in him.”

“He has a keen, wicked look in his blue eyes, as you
will see, Nell. I mean mischievously, not malignantly
wicked. He likes fun, I’m sure, for he laughed about
the ‘sumptuous cheek’ till his own were red, though he
dared not show it, and was as grave as an owl when we
met uncle,” said Amy, smiling at the recollection.

“We shall go by boat to Biebrich, and then by rail
to Heidelberg. We shall get in late to-morrow night,
but can rest a day, and then on to Baden. Here we
are; now make yourselves easy, as I do, and let Karl
take care of everything.”

And putting his hands in his pockets, the major
strolled about the boat, while the courier made matters
comfortable for the day. So easily and well did he do
his duty, that both girls enjoyed watching him after he
.bn 170.png
.pn +1
had established them on the shady side of the boat, with
camp-stools for their feet, cushions to lean on, books
and bags laid commodiously at hand.

As they sailed up the lovely Rhine they grew more
and more enthusiastic in their admiration and curiosity,
and finding the meagre description of the guide-books
very unsatisfactory, Amy begged her uncle to tell her
all the legends of picturesque ruin, rock and river, as
they passed.

“Bless me, child, I know nothing; but here’s Hoffman,
a German born, who will tell you everything, I
dare say. Karl, what’s that old castle up there? The
young ladies want to know about it.”

Leaning on the railing, Hoffman told the story so
well that he was kept explaining and describing for an
hour, and when he went away to order lunch, Amy declared
it was as pleasant as reading fairy tales to listen
to his dramatic histories and legends.

At lunch the major was charmed to find his favorite
wines and dishes without any need of consulting
dictionary or phrase-book beforehand, or losing his
temper in vain attempts to make himself understood.

On reaching Biebrich, tired and hungry, at nightfall,
everything was ready for them, and all went to bed
praising Karl, the courier, though Amy, with unusual
prudence, added,—

“He is a new broom now; let us wait a little before
we judge.”

All went well next day till nightfall, when a most untoward
accident occurred, and Helen’s adventures began
in earnest. The three occupied a <i>coupé</i>, and being
.bn 171.png
.pn +1
weary with long sitting, Helen got out at one of the
stations where the train paused for ten minutes. A
rosy sunset tempted her to the end of the platform, and
there she found, what nearly all foreign railway stations
possess, a charming little garden.

Amy was very tired, rather cross, and passionately
fond of flowers, so when an old woman offered to pull a
nosegay for “the gracious lady,” Helen gladly waited
for it, hoping to please the invalid. Twice the whistle
warned her, and at last she ran back, but only in time
to see the train move away, with her uncle gesticulating
wildly to the guard, who shook his stupid German
head, and refused to see the dismayed young lady imploring
him to wait for her.

Just as the train was vanishing from the station, a
man leaped from a second-class carriage at the risk of
his neck, and hurried back to find Helen looking pale
and bewildered, as well she might, left alone and money-less
at night in a strange town.

“Mademoiselle, it is I; rest easy; we can soon go
on; a train passes in two hours, and we can telegraph
to Heidelberg that they may not fear for you.”

“Oh, Hoffman, how kind of you to stop for me!
What should I have done without you, for uncle takes
care of all the money, and I have only my watch.”

Helen’s usual self-possession rather failed her in the
flurry of the moment, and she caught Karl’s arm with a
feminine little gesture of confidence very pleasant to see.
Leading her to the waiting-room, he ordered supper,
and put her into the care of the woman of the place,
while he went to make inquiries and dispatch the telegram.
In half an hour he was back again, finding Helen
.bn 172.png
.pn +1
refreshed and cheerful, though a trace of anxiety was
still visible in her watchful eyes.

“All goes excellently, mademoiselle. I have sent
word to several posts along the road that we are coming
by the night train, so that Monsieur le Major will rest
tranquil till we meet. It is best that I give you some
money, lest such a mishap should again occur; it is not
likely so soon; nevertheless, here is both gold and
silver. With this, one can make one’s way everywhere.
Now, if mademoiselle will permit me to advise, she will
rest for an hour, as we must travel till dawn. I will
keep guard without and watch for the train.”

He left her, and having made herself comfortable on
one of the sofas, she lay watching the tall shadow pass
and repass door and window, as Karl marched up and
down the platform, with the tireless tramp of a sentinel
on duty. A pleasant sense of security stole over her,
and with a smile at Amy’s enjoyment of the adventure
when it was over, Helen fell asleep.

A far-off shriek half woke her, and starting up, she
turned to meet the courier coming in to wake her. Up
thundered the train, every carriage apparently full of
sleepy passengers, and the guard in a state of sullen
wrath at some delay, the consequences of which would
fall heaviest on him.

From carriage to carriage hurried Karl and his charge,
to be met with everywhere by the cry, “All full,” in
many languages, and with every aspect of inhospitality.
One carriage only showed two places; the other seats
were occupied by six students, who gallantly invited
the lady to enter. But Helen shrunk back, saying,—

“Is there no other place?”
.bn 173.png
.pn +1

“None, mademoiselle; this, or remain till morning,”
said Karl.

“Where will you go if I take this place?”

“Among the luggage,—anywhere; it is nothing.
But we must decide at once.”

“Come with me; I’m afraid to be locked in here
alone,” said Helen, desperately.

“Mademoiselle forgets I am her courier.”

“I do not forget that you are a gentleman. Pray
come in; my uncle will thank you.”

“I will,” and with a sudden brightening of the eyes,
a grateful glance, and an air of redoubled respect, Hoffman
followed her into the carriage.

They were off at once, and the thing was done before
Helen had time to feel anything but the relief which the
protection of his presence afforded her.

The young gentlemen stared at the veiled lady and
her grim escort, joked under their breath, and looked
wistfully at the suppressed cigars, but behaved with
exemplary politeness till sleep overpowered them, and
one after the other dropped off asleep to dream of their
respective Gretchens.

Helen could not sleep, and for hours sat studying the
unconscious faces before her, the dim landscape flying
past the windows, or forgot herself in reveries.

Hoffman remained motionless and silent, except when
she addressed him, wakeful also, and assiduous in making
the long night as easy as possible.

It was past midnight, and Helen’s heavy eyelids were
beginning to droop, when suddenly there came an awful
crash, a pang of mortal fear, then utter oblivion.

As her senses returned she found herself lying in a
.bn 174.png
.pn +1
painful position under what had been the roof of the
car; something heavy weighed down her lower limbs,
and her dizzy brain rung with a wild uproar of shrieks and
groans, eager voices, the crash of wood and iron, and
the shrill whistle of the engine, as it rushed away for
help.

Through the darkness she heard the pant as of some
one struggling desperately, then a cry close by her,
followed by a strong voice exclaiming, in an agony of
suspense,—

“My God, will no one come!”

“Hoffman, are you there?” cried Helen, groping in
the gloom, with a thrill of joy at the sound of a familiar
voice.

“Thank heaven, you are safe. Lie still. I will save
you. Help is coming. Have no fear!” panted the
voice, with an undertone of fervent gratitude in its
breathless accents.

“What has happened? Where are the rest?”

“We have been thrown down an embankment. The
lads are gone for help. God only knows what harm is
done.”

Karl’s voice died in a stifled groan, and Helen cried
out in alarm,—

“Where are you? You are hurt?”

“Not much. I keep the ruins from falling in to
crush us. Be quiet, they are coming.”

A shout answered the faint halloo he gave as if
to guide them to the spot, and a moment after, five
of the students were swarming about the wreck, intent
on saving the three whose lives were still in
danger.
.bn 175.png
.pn +1

A lamp torn from some demolished carriage was held
through an opening, and Helen saw a sight that made
her blood chill in her veins. Across her feet, crushed
and bleeding, lay the youngest of the students, and
kneeling close beside him was Hoffman, supporting by
main strength a mass of timber, which otherwise would
fall and crush them all. His face was ghastly pale, his
eyes haggard with suffering and suspense, and great
drops stood upon his forehead. But as she looked, he
smiled with a cheery,—

“Bear up, dear lady, we shall soon be out of danger.
Now, lads, work with a will; my strength is going
fast.”

They did work like heroes, and even in her pain and
peril, Helen admired the skill, energy, and courage of
the young men, who, an hour ago, had seemed to have
no ideas above pipes and beer. Soon Hoffman was free,
the poor senseless youth lifted out, and then, as tenderly
as if she were a child, they raised and set her down,
faint but unhurt, in a wide meadow, already strewn with
sad tokens of the wreck.

Karl was taken possession of as well as herself, forced
to rest a moment, drink a cordial draught from some
one’s flask, and be praised, embraced, and enthusiastically
blessed by the impetuous youths.

“Where is the boy who was hurt? Bring him to me.
I am strong now. I want to help. I have salts in my
pocket, and I can bind up his wounds,” said Helen, soon
herself again.

Karl and Helen soon brought back life and sense to
the boy, and never had human face looked so lovely as
did Helen’s to the anxious comrades when she looked
.bn 176.png
.pn +1
up in the moonlight with a joyful smile, and softly whispered,—

“He is alive.”

For an hour terrible confusion reigned, then the panic
subsided a little, and such of the carriages as were
whole were made ready to carry away as many as possible;
the rest must wait till a return train could be sent
for them.

A struggle of course ensued, for every one wished to
go on, and fear made many selfish. The wounded, the
women and children, were taken, as far as possible, and
the laden train moved away, leaving many anxious
watchers behind.

Helen had refused to go, and had given her place to
poor Conrad, thereby overwhelming his brother and comrades
with gratitude. Two went on with the wounded
lad; the rest remained, and chivalrously devoted themselves
to Helen as a body-guard.

The moon shone clearly, the wide field was miles from
any hamlet, and a desolate silence succeeded to the late
uproar, as the band of waiters roamed about, longing for
help and dawn.

“Mademoiselle, you shiver; the dew falls, and it is
damp here; we must have a fire;” and Karl was away
to a neighboring hedge, intent on warming his delicate
charge if he felled a forest to do it.

The students rushed after him, and soon returned in
triumph to build a glorious fire, which drew all forlorn
wanderers to its hospitable circle. A motley assemblage;
but mutual danger and discomfort produced mutual
sympathy and good will, and a general atmosphere
of friendship pervaded the party.
.bn 177.png
.pn +1

“Where is the brave Hoffman?” asked Wilhelm, the
blond student, who, being in the Werther period of
youth, was already madly in love with Helen, and sat
at her feet catching cold in the most romantic manner.

“Behold me! The little ones cry for hunger, so I
ransack the ruins and bring away my spoils. Eat,
Kinder, eat and be patient.”

As he spoke, Karl appeared with an odd collection of
baskets, bags, and bottles, and with a fatherly air that
won all the mothers, he gave the children whatever first
appeared, making them laugh in spite of weariness and
hunger by the merry speeches which accompanied his
gifts.

“You too need something. Here is your own basket
with the lunch I ordered you. In a sad state of confusion
but still eatable. See, it is not bad,” and he deftly
spread on a napkin before Helen cold chicken, sandwiches,
and fruit.

His care for the little ones as well as for herself
touched her and made her eyes fill, as she remembered
that she owed her life to him, and recalled the sight of
his face in the overturned car.

Her voice trembled a little as she thanked him, and
the moonlight betrayed her wet eyes. He fancied she
was worn out with excitement and fatigue, and anxious
to cheer her spirits, he whispered to Wilhelm and his
mates,—

“Sing, then, comrades, and while away this tedious
night. It is hard for all to wait so long, and the babies
need a lullaby.”

The young men laughed and sang as only German
students can sing, making the night musical with blithe
.bn 178.png
.pn +1
drinking songs, tender love-lays, battle-hymns, and
Volkslieder sweeter than any songs across the water.

Every heart was cheered and warmed by the magic
of the music, the babies fell asleep, strangers grew
friendly, fear changed to courage, and the most forlorn
felt the romance of that bivouac under the summer
sky.

Dawn was reddening the east when a welcome whistle
broke up the camp. Every one hurried to the railway,
but Helen paused to gather a handful of blue forget-me-nots,
saying to Hoffman, who waited with her wraps on
his arm,—

“It has been a happy night, in spite of the danger
and discomfort. I shall not soon forget it; and take
these as a souvenir.”

He smiled, standing bare-headed in the chilly wind,
for his hat was lost, his coat torn, hair dishevelled, and
one hand carelessly bound up in his handkerchief.
Helen saw these marks of the night’s labors and perils
for the first time, and as soon as they were seated desired
to see his hand.

“It is nothing,—a scratch, a mere scratch, I give
you my word, mademoiselle,” he began, but Wilhelm
unceremoniously removed the handkerchief, showing a
torn and bleeding hand which must have been exquisitely
painful.

Helen turned pale, and with a reproachful glance
skilfully bound it up again, saying, as she handed a
silken scarf to Wilhelm,—

“Make of that a sling, please, and put the poor hand
in it. Care must be taken, or harm will come of it.”

Hoffman submitted in bashful silence, as if surprised
.bn 179.png
.pn +1
and touched by the young lady’s interest. She saw that,
and added gratefully,—

“I do not forget that you saved my life, though you
seem to have done so. My uncle will thank you better
than I can.”

“I already have my reward, mademoiselle,” he returned,
with a respectful inclination and a look she
could neither understand nor forget.
.sp 2
.tb
.h3
III.||AMY’S ADVENTURE.
.sp 2
<sc>The</sc> excitement and suspense of the major and Amy
can be imagined when news of the accident reached
them. Their gratitude and relief were intense when
Helen appeared next morning, with the faithful Hoffman
still at his post, though no longer able to disguise the
fact that he was suffering from his wound.

When the story had been told, Karl was put under
the surgeon’s care, and all remained at Heidelberg for
several days to rest and recover.

On the afternoon of the last day the major and young
ladies drove off to the castle for a farewell view. Helen
began to sketch the great stone lion’s head above the
grand terrace, the major smoked and chatted with a
party of English artists whom he had met, and Amy,
with a little lad for a guide, explored the old castle to
her heart’s content.

The sun set, and twilight began to fall when Helen
.bn 180.png
.pn +1
put up her pencils, and the major set off to find Amy,
who had been appearing and disappearing in every nook
and cranny of the half-ruined castle.

Nowhere could he find her, and no voice answered
when he called. The other visitors were gone, and the
place seemed deserted, except by themselves and the old
man who showed the ruins.

Becoming alarmed lest the girl had fallen somewhere,
or lost her way among the vaults where the famous Tun
lies, the major called out old Hans with his lantern, and
searched high and low.

Amy’s hat, full of flowers and ferns, was found in the
Lady’s Walk, as the little terrace is called, but no other
trace appeared, and Helen hurried to and fro in great
distress, fearing all manner of dangers.

Meanwhile Amy, having explored every other part of
the castle, went to take another look at the Tun, the
dwarf, and the vaults.

Now little Anderl, her guide, had a great fear of
ghosts, and legions were said to haunt the ruins after
nightfall, so when Amy rambled on deeper and deeper
into the gloom the boy’s courage ebbed away with every
step; yet he was ashamed to own his fear, seeing that
she had none.

Amy wanted to see a certain cell, where a nun was
said to have pined to death because she would not listen
to the Margraf’s love. The legend pleased the romantic
girl, and forgetful of waning daylight, gathering damps,
and Anderl’s reluctant service, she ran on, up steps and
down, delighted with little arched doors, rusty chains on
the walls, glimpses of sky through shattered roofs, and
all manner of mysterious nooks and corners. Coming
.bn 181.png
.pn +1
at last to a narrow cell, with a stone table, and heavy
bolts on the old door, she felt sure this was poor Elfrida’s
prison, and called Anderl to come on with his candle,
for the boy had lighted one, for his own comfort rather
than hers. Her call was unanswered, and glancing
back, she saw the candle placed on the ground, but no
Anderl.

“Little coward, he has run away,” she said, laughing;
and having satisfied her curiosity, turned to retrace
her steps,—no easy task to one ignorant of the way,
for vault after vault opened on both sides, and no path
was discernible. In vain she tried to recall some landmark,
the gloom had deepened and nothing was clear.
On she hurried, but found no opening, and really frightened,
stopped at last, calling the boy in a voice that
woke a hundred echoes. But Anderl had fled home,
thinking the lady would find her way back, and preferring
to lose his kreutzers to seeing a ghost.

Poor Amy’s bewilderment and alarm increased with
every moment’s delay, and hoping to come out somewhere,
she ran on till a misstep jostled the candle from
her hand and extinguished it.

Left in the dark, her courage deserted her, and she
screamed desperately, like a lost child, and was fast
getting into a state of frantic terror, when the sound of
an approaching step reassured her.

Holding her breath, she heard a quick tread drawing
nearer, as if guided by her cries, and, straining
her eyes, she caught the outline of a man’s figure in the
gloom.

A sensation of intense joy rushed over her, and she
was about to spring forward, when she remembered
.bn 182.png
.pn +1
that as she could speak no German how could she explain
her plight to the stranger, if he understand neither
French nor English?

Fear took possession of her at the thought of meeting
some rough peasant, or some rollicking student, to
whom she could make no intelligible appeal or explanation.

Crouching close against the wall, she stood mute till
the figure was very near. She was in the shadow of an
angle, and the man paused, as if looking for the person
who called for help.

“Who is lost here?” said a clear voice, in German.

Amy shrunk closer to the wall, fearing to speak, for
the voice was that of a young man, and a low laugh followed
the words, as if the speaker found the situation
amusing.

“Mortal, ghost or devil, I’ll find it,” exclaimed the
voice, and stepping forward, a hand groped for and
found her.

“Lottchen, is it thou? Little rogue, thou shalt pay
dearly for leading me such a chase.”

As he spoke he drew the girl toward him, but with a
faint cry, a vain effort to escape, Amy’s terror reached
its climax, and spent with fatigue and excitement, she
lost consciousness.

“Who the deuce is it, then? Lottchen never faints
on a frolic. Some poor little girl lost in earnest. I
must get her out of this gloomy place at once, and find
her party afterward.”

Lifting the slight figure in his arms, the young man
hurried on, and soon came out through a shattered gateway
.bn 183.png
.pn +1
into the shrubbery which surrounds the base of the
castle.

Laying her on the grass, he gently chafed her hands,
eying the pale, pretty face meantime with the utmost
solicitude.

At his first glimpse of it he had started, smiled and
made a gesture of pleasure and surprise, then gave himself
entirely to the task of recovering the poor girl whom
he had frightened out of her senses.

Very soon she looked up with dizzy eyes, and clasping
her hands imploringly, cried, in English, like a bewildered
child,—

“I am lost! Oh, take me to my uncle.”

“I will, the moment you can walk. Upon my soul,
I meant to help you when I followed; but as you did
not answer, I fancied it was Lottchen, the keeper’s
little girl. Pardon the fright I’ve caused you, and let
me take you to your friends.”

The true English accent of the words, and the hearty
tone of sincerity in the apology, reassured Amy at once,
and, rising, she said, with a faint smile and a petulant
tone,—

“I was very silly, but my guide ran away, my candle
went out, I lost the path, and can speak no German;
so I was afraid to answer you at first; and then I lost my
wits altogether, for it’s rather startling to be clutched
in the dark, sir.”

“Indeed it is. I was very thoughtless, but now let
me atone for it. Where is your uncle, Miss Erskine?”
asked the stranger, with respectful earnestness.

“You know my name?” cried Amy in her impulsive
way.
.bn 184.png
.pn +1

“I have that happiness,” was the answer, with a smile.

“But I don’t know <i>you</i>, sir;” and she peered at him,
trying to see his face in the darkness, for the copse
was thick, and twilight had come on rapidly.

“Not yet; I live in hope. Shall we go? Your uncle
will be uneasy.”

“Where are we?” asked Amy, glad to move on, for
the interview was becoming too personal even for her,
and the stranger’s manner fluttered her, though she enjoyed
the romance of the adventure immensely.

“We are in the park which surrounds the castle.
You were near the entrance to it from the vaults when
you fainted.”

“I wish I had kept on a little longer, and not disgraced
myself by such a panic.”

“Nay, that is a cruel wish, for then I should have
lost the happiness of helping you.”

They had been walking side by side, but here were
forced to pause on reaching a broken flight of steps, for
Amy could not see the way before her.

“Let me lead you; it is steep and dark, but better
than going a long way round through the dew,” he said,
offering his hand.

“Must we return by these dreadful vaults?” faltered
Amy, shrinking back.

“It is the shortest and safest route, I assure you.”

“Are you sure you know the way?”

“Quite sure. I have lived here by the week together.
Do you fear to trust me?”

“No; but it is so dark, and everything is so strange
to me. Can we get down safely? I see nothing but a
black pit.”
.bn 185.png
.pn +1

And Amy still hesitated, with an odd mixture of fear
and coquetry.

“I brought you up in safety; shall I take you down
again?” asked the stranger, with a smile flickering over
his face.

Amy felt rather than saw it, and assuming an air of
dignified displeasure, motioned him to proceed, which
he did for three steps; then Amy slipped, and gladly
caught by the arm extended to save her.

Without a word he took her hand and led her back
through the labyrinth she had threaded in her bewilderment.
A dim light filled the place, but with unerring
steps her guide went on till they emerged into the
courtyard.

Major Erskine’s voice was audible, giving directions
to the keeper, and Helen’s figure visible as she groped
among the shadows of the ruined chapel for her
cousin.

“There are my friends. Now I am safe. Come and
let them thank you,” cried Amy, in her frank, childlike
warmth of manner.

“I want no thanks—forgive me—adieu,” and
hastily kissing the little hand that had lain so confidingly
in his, the stranger was gone.

Amy rushed at once to Helen, and when the lost
lamb had been welcomed, chidden, and exulted over,
they drove home, listening to the very brief account
which Amy gave of her adventure.

“Naughty little gad-about, how could you go and
terrify me so, wandering in vaults with mysterious strangers,
like the Countess of Rudolstadt. You are as wet
and dirty as if you had been digging a well, yet you look
.bn 186.png
.pn +1
as if you liked it,” said Helen, as she led Amy into their
room at the hotel.

“I do,” was the decided answer, as the girl pulled a
handkerchief off her head, and began to examine the
corners of it. Suddenly she uttered a cry and flew to
the light, exclaiming,—

“Nell, Nell, look here! The same letters, ‘S. P.’,
the same coat of arms, the same perfume—it was the
baron!”

“What? who? are you out of your mind?” said
Helen, examining the large, fine cambric handkerchief,
with its delicately stamped initials under the stag’s head,
and three stars on a heart-shaped shield. “Where did
you get it?” she added, as she inhaled the soft odor of
violets shaken from its folds.

Amy blushed and answered shyly, “I didn’t tell
you all that happened before uncle, but now I will. My
hat was left behind, and when I recovered my wits after
my fright, I found this tied over my head. Oh, Nell,
it was very charming there in that romantic old park,
and going through the vaults with him, and having my
hand kissed at parting. No one ever did that before,
and I like it.”

Amy glanced at her hand as she spoke, and stood
staring at it as if struck dumb, for there on her forefinger
shone a ring she had never seen before.

“Look! look! mine is gone, and this in its place!
Oh, Nell, what shall I do?” she said, looking half
frightened, half pleased.

Helen examined the ring and shook her head, for it
was far more valuable than the little pearl one which
it replaced. Two tiny hands of finest gold were linked
.bn 187.png
.pn +1
together about a diamond of great brilliancy; and on the
inside appeared again the initials, “S. P.”

“How did it happen?” she asked, rather sternly.

“Upon my word, I don’t know, unless he put it on
while I was stupidly fainting. Rude man, to take advantage
of me so. But, Nell, it is splendid, and what
shall I do about it?”

“Tell uncle, find out the man and send back his
things. It really is absurd, the manner in which German
boys behave;” and Helen frowned, though she was
strongly tempted to laugh at the whole thing.

“He was neither a German nor a boy, but an English
gentleman, I’m sure,” began Amy, rather offended.

“But ‘S. P.’ is a baron, you know, unless there are
two Richmonds in the field,” broke in Helen.

“I forgot that; never mind, it deepens the mystery;
and after this performance, I’m prepared for any enormity.
It’s my fate; I submit,” said Amy, tragically,
as she waved her pretty hand to and fro, pleased with
the flash of the ring.

“Amy, I think on the whole I won’t speak to uncle.
He is quick to take offence, especially where we are
concerned. He doesn’t understand foreign ways, and
may get into trouble. We will manage it quietly ourselves.”

“How, Nell?”

“Karl is discreet; we will merely say we found these
things and wish to discover the owner. He may know
this ‘S. P.,’ and, having learned his address, we can
send them back. The man will understand; and as we
leave to-morrow, we shall be out of the way before he
can play any new prank.”
.bn 188.png
.pn +1

“Have in Karl at once, for if I wear this lovely thing
long I shall not be able to let it go at all. How dared
the creature take such a liberty!” and Amy pulled off
the ring with an expression of great scorn.

“Come into the <i>salon</i> and see what Karl says to the
matter. Let me speak, or you will say too much. One
must be prudent before—”

She was going to say “servants,” but checked herself,
and substituted “strangers,” remembering gratefully
how much she owed this man.

Hoffman came, looking pale, and with his hand in a
sling, but was as gravely devoted as ever, and listened
to Helen’s brief story with serious attention.

“I will inquire, mademoiselle, and let you know at
once. It is easy to find persons if one has a clue. May
I see the handkerchief?”

Helen showed it. He glanced at the initials, and
laid it down with a slight smile.

“The coat-of-arms is English, mademoiselle.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite so; I understand heraldry.”

“But the initials stand for Sigismund Palsdorf, and
we know he is a German baron,” broke in Amy, forgetting
prudence in eagerness.

“If mademoiselle knows the name and title of this
gentleman it will not be hard to find him.”

“We only fancy it is the same because of the initials.
I dare say it is a mistake, and the man is English. Inquire
quietly, Hoffman, if you please, as this ring is of
value, and I wish to restore it to its owner,” said Helen,
rather sharply.

“I shall do so, mademoiselle,” and with his gentlemanly
bow, the courier left the room.
.bn 189.png
.pn +1

“Bless me, what’s that?” cried Amy, a moment
afterward, as a ringing laugh echoed through the
corridor,—a laugh so full of hearty and infectious merriment
that both girls smiled involuntarily, and Amy
peeped out to see who the blithe personage might be.

An old gentleman was entering his room near by, and
Karl was just about to descend the stairs. Both looked
back at the girlish face peeping at them, but both were
quite grave, and the peal of laughter remained a mystery,
like all the rest of it.

Late in the evening Hoffman returned to report that
a party of young Englishmen had visited the castle that
afternoon, and had left by the evening train. One of
them had been named Samuel Peters, and he, doubtless,
was the owner of the ring.

A humorous expression lurked in the courier’s eye as
he made his report, and heard Amy exclaim, in a tone
of disgust and comical despair,—

“Samuel Peters! That spoils all the romance and
dims the beauty of the diamond. To think that a
Peters should be the hero to whom I owe my safety,
and a Samuel should leave me this token of regard!”

“Hush, Amy,” whispered Helen. “Thanks, Hoffman;
we must wait now for chance to help us.”
.sp 2
.tb
.h3
IV.||<s>A POLISH EXILE.</s>
.sp 2
“<sc>Room</sc> for one here, sir,” said the guard, as the train
stopped at Carlsruhe next day, on its way from Heidelberg
to Baden.
.bn 190.png
.pn +1

The major put down his guide-book, Amy opened her
eyes, and Helen removed her shawl from the opposite
seat, as a young man, wrapped in a cloak, with a green
shade over his eyes, and a general air of feebleness, got
in and sank back with a sigh of weariness or pain.
Evidently an invalid, for his face was thin and pale, his
dark hair cropped short, and the ungloved hand attenuated
and delicate as a woman’s. A sidelong glance
from under the deep shade seemed to satisfy him regarding
his neighbors, and drawing his cloak about him
with a slight shiver, he leaned into the corner and seemed
to forget that he was not alone.

Helen and Amy exchanged glances of compassionate interest,
for women always pity invalids, especially if young,
comely and of the opposite sex. The major took one
look, shrugged his shoulders, and returned to his book.

Presently a hollow cough gave Helen a pretext for
discovering the nationality of the new-comer.

“Do the open windows inconvenience you, sir?” she
asked, in English.

No answer; the question evidently unintelligible.

She repeated it in French, lightly touching his cloak
to arrest his attention.

Instantly a smile broke over the handsome mouth,
and in the purest French he assured her that the fresh
air was most agreeable, and begged pardon for annoying
them with his troublesome cough.

“Not an invalid, I hope, sir?” said the major, in his
bluff yet kindly voice.

“They tell me I can have no other fate; that my
malady is fatal; but I still hope and fight for my life;
it is all I have to give my country now.”
.bn 191.png
.pn +1

A stifled sigh and a sad emphasis on the last word
roused the sympathy of the girls, the interest of the
major.

He took another survey, and said, with a tone of
satisfaction, as he marked the martial carriage of the
young man, and caught a fiery glance of the half-hidden
eyes,—

“You are a soldier, sir?”

“I was; I am nothing now but an exile, for Poland
is in chains.”

The words “Poland” and “exile” brought up all the
pathetic stories of that unhappy country which the three
listeners had ever heard, and won their interest at once.

“You were in the late revolution, perhaps?” asked
the major, giving the unhappy outbreak the most respectful
name he could use.

“From beginning to end.”

“Oh, tell us about it; we felt much sympathy for
you, and longed to have you win,” cried Amy, with such
genuine interest and pity in her tone, it was impossible
to resist.

Pressing both hands upon his breast, the young man
bent low, with a flush of feeling on his pale cheek, and
answered eagerly,—

“Ah, you are kind; it is balm to my sore heart to
hear words like these. I thank you, and tell you what
you will. It is but little that I do, yet I give my life,
and die a long death, instead of a quick, brave one with
my comrades.”

“You are young to have borne a part in a revolution,
sir,” said the major, who pricked up his ears like an old
war-horse at the sound of battle.
.bn 192.png
.pn +1

“My friends and myself left the University at Varsovie,
as volunteers; we did our part, and now all lie in
their graves but three.”

“You were wounded, it seems?”

“Many times. Exposure, privation, and sorrow will
finish what the Russian bullets began. But it is well.
I have no wish to see my country enslaved, and I can
no longer help her.”

“Let us hope that a happier future waits for you both.
Poland loves liberty too well, and has suffered too much
for it, to be kept long in captivity.”

Helen spoke warmly, and the young man listened with
a brightening face.

“It is a kind prophecy; I accept it, and take courage.
God knows I need it,” he added, low to himself.

“Are you bound for Italy?” said the major, in a
most un-English fit of curiosity.

“For Geneva first, Italy later, unless Montreaux is
mild enough for me to winter in. I go to satisfy my
friends, but doubt if it avails much.”

“Where is Montreaux?” asked Amy.

“Near Clarens, where Rousseau wrote his Heloise,
and Vevay, where so many English go to enjoy Chillon.
The climate is divine for unfortunates like myself, and
life more cheap there than in Italy.”

Here the train stopped again, and Hoffman came to
ask if the ladies desired anything.

At the sound of his voice the young Pole started,
looked up, and exclaimed, with the vivacity of a foreigner,
in German,—

“By my life, it is Karl! Behold me, old friend, and
satisfy me that it is thyself by a handshake.”
.bn 193.png
.pn +1

“Casimer! What wind blows thee hither, my boy,
in such sad plight?” replied Hoffman, grasping the
slender hand outstretched to him.

“I fly from an enemy for the first time in my life,
and, like all cowards, shall be conquered in the end. I
wrote thee I was better, but the wound in the breast
reopened, and nothing but a miracle will save me. I go
to Switzerland; and thou?”

“Where my master commands. I serve this gentleman,
now.”

“Hard changes for both, but with health thou art
king of circumstances, while I?—Ah well, the good
God knows best. Karl, go thou and buy me two of
those pretty baskets of grapes; I will please myself by
giving them to these pitying angels. Speak they German?”

“One, the elder; but they understand not this rattle
of ours.”

Karl disappeared, and Helen, who <i>had</i> understood
the rapid dialogue, tried to seem as unconscious as Amy.

“Say a friendly word to me at times; I am so homesick
and faint-hearted, my Hoffman. Thanks; they are
almost worthy the lips that shall taste them.”

Taking the two little osier baskets, laden with yellow
and purple clusters, Casimer offered them, with a charming
mixture of timidity and grace, to the girls, saying,
like a grateful boy,—

“You give me kind words and good hopes; permit
that I thank you in this poor way.”

“I drink success to Poland,” cried Helen, lifting a
great, juicy grape to her lips, like a little purple goblet,
hoping to hide her confusion under a playful air.
.bn 194.png
.pn +1

The grapes went round, and healths were drunk with
much merriment, for in travelling on the Continent it is
impossible for the gruffest, primmest person to long
resist the frank courtesy and vivacious chat of foreigners.

The major was unusually social and inquisitive, and
while the soldiers fought their battles over again the
girls listened and took notes, with feminine wits on the
alert to catch any personal revelations which might fall
from the interesting stranger. The wrongs and sufferings
of Poland were discussed so eloquently that both
young ladies were moved to declare the most undying
hatred of Russia, Prussia, and Austria, the most intense
sympathy for “poor Pologne.” All day they travelled
together, and as Baden-Baden approached, they naturally
fell to talking of the gay place.

“Uncle, I must try my fortune once. I’ve set my
heart upon it, and so has Nell. We want to know how
gamblers feel, and to taste the fascination of the game
which draws people here from all parts of Europe,” said
Amy, in her half-pleading, half-imperious way.

“You may risk one napoleon each, as I foolishly
promised you should, when I little thought you would
ever have an opportunity to remind me of my promise.
It’s not an amusement for respectable Englishwomen,
or men either. You will agree with me there, monsieur?”
and the major glanced at the Pole, who replied,
with his peculiar smile:—

“Surely, yes. It is great folly and waste of time
and money; yet I have known one man who found some
good in it, or, rather, brought good out of it. I have a
friend who has a mania for giving. His own fortune
.bn 195.png
.pn +1
was spent in helping needy students at the University,
and poor professors. This displeased his father, and
he refused supplies, except enough for his simple personal
wants. Sigismund chafed at this, and being skilful
at all games, as a gentleman may be in the way of
amusement, he resolved to play with those whose money
was wasted on frivolities, and give his winnings to his
band of paupers.”

“How did it succeed, this odd fancy?” asked Helen,
with an interested face, while Amy pinched her arm at
the word “Sigismund.”

“Excellently. My friend won often, and as his purpose
became known it caused no unkind feeling, this
unusual success, for fortune seemed to favor his kind
object.”

“Wrong, nevertheless, to do evil that good may come
of it,” said the major, morally.

“It may be so; but it is not for me to censure
my benefactor. He has done much for my countrymen
and myself, and is so truly noble I can see no fault in him.”

“What an odd name! Sigismund is German, is it
not?” asked Amy, in the most artless tone of interest.

“Yes, mademoiselle, and Palsdorf is a true German;
much courage, strength, and intellect, with the gayety
and simplicity of a boy. He hates slavery of all kinds,
and will be free at all costs. He is a good son, but his
father is tyrannical, and asks too much. Sigismund
will not submit to sell himself, and so is in disgrace for
a time.”

“Palsdorf!—was not that the name of the count or
baron we heard them talking of at Coblentz?” said
Helen to Amy, with a well-feigned air of uncertainty.
.bn 196.png
.pn +1

“Yes; I heard something of a duel and a broken
betrothal, I think. The people seemed to consider the
baron a wild young man, so it could not have been your
friend, sir,” was Amy’s demure reply, as she glanced at
Helen with mirthful eyes, as if to say, “How our baron
haunts us!”

“It is the same, doubtless. Many consider him
wild, because he is original, and dares act for himself.
As it is well known, I may tell you the truth of the
duel and the betrothal, if you care to hear a little romance.”

Casimer looked eager to defend his friend, and as the
girls were longing to hear the romance, permission was
given.

“In Germany, you know, the young people are often
betrothed in childhood by the parents, and sometimes
never meet till they are grown. Usually all goes well;
but not always, for love cannot come at command.
Sigismund was plighted, when a boy of fifteen, to his
young cousin, and then sent away to the University till
of age. On returning, he was to travel a year or two,
and then marry. He gladly went away, and with increasing
disquiet saw the time draw near when he must
keep his troth-plight.”

“Hum! loved some one else. Very unfortunate to
be sure,” murmured the major with a sigh.

“Not so; he only loved his liberty, and pretty Minna
was less dear than a life of perfect freedom. He went
back at the appointed time, saw his cousin, tried to do
his duty and love her; found it impossible, and, discovering
that Minna loved another, vowed he would
never make her unhappiness as well as his own. The
.bn 197.png
.pn +1
old baron stormed, but the young one was firm, and
would not listen to a marriage without love; but pleaded
for Minna, wished his rival success, and set out again
on his travels.”

“And the duel?” asked the major, who took less
interest in love than war.

“That was as characteristic as the other act. A son
of one high in office at Berlin circulated false reports of
the cause of Palsdorf’s refusal of the alliance—reports
injurious to Minna. Sigismund settled the matter in
the most effectual manner, by challenging and wounding
the man. But for court influence it would have gone
hardly with my friend. The storm, however, has blown
over; Minna will be happy with her lover, and Sigismund
with his liberty, till he tires of it.”

“Is he handsome, this hero of yours?” said Amy,
feeling the ring under her glove, for in spite of Helen’s
advice, she insisted on wearing it, that it might be at
hand to return at any moment, should chance again
bring the baron in their way.

“A true German of the old type; blond and blue-eyed,
tall and strong. My hero in good truth—brave
and loyal, tender and true,” was the enthusiastic
answer.

“I hate fair men,” pouted Amy, under her breath, as
the major asked some question about hotels.

“Take a new hero, then; nothing can be more romantic
than that,” whispered Helen, glancing at the
pale, dark-haired figure wrapped in the military cloak
opposite.

“I will, and leave the baron to you;” said Amy, with
a stifled laugh.
.bn 198.png
.pn +1

“Hush! Here are Baden and Karl,” replied Helen,
thankful for the interruption.

All was bustle in a moment, and taking leave of them
with an air of reluctance, the Pole walked away, leaving
Amy looking after him wistfully, quite unconscious that
she stood in everybody’s way, and that her uncle was
beckoning impatiently from the carriage door.

“Poor boy! I wish he had some one to take care of
him,” she sighed, half aloud.

“Mademoiselle, the major waits;” and Karl came
up, hat in hand, just in time to hear her and glance
after Casimer, with an odd expression.
.sp 2
.tb
.h3
V.||LUDMILLA.
.sp 2
“<sc>I wonder</sc> what that young man’s name was. Did
he mention it, Helen?” said the major, pausing in his
march up and down the room, as if the question was
suggested by the sight of the little baskets, which the
girls had kept.

“No, uncle; but you can easily ask Hoffman,” replied
Helen.

“By the way, Karl, who was the Polish gentleman
who came on with us?” asked the major a moment
afterward, as the courier came in with newspapers.

“Casimer Teblinski, sir.”

“A baron?” asked Amy, who was decidedly a young
lady of one idea just then.
.bn 199.png
.pn +1

“No, mademoiselle, but of a noble family, as the
‘ski’ denotes, for that is to Polish and Russian names
what ‘von’ is to German and ‘de’ to French.”

“I was rather interested in him. Where did you
pick him up, Hoffman?” said the major.

“In Paris, where he was with fellow-exiles.”

“He is what he seems, is he?—no impostor, or
anything of that sort? One is often deceived, you
know.”

“On my honor, sir, he is a gentleman, and as brave
as he is accomplished and excellent.”

“Will he die?” asked Amy, pathetically.

“With care he would recover, I think; but there is
no one to nurse him, so the poor lad must take his
chance and trust in heaven for help.”

“How sad! I wish we were going his way, so that
we might do something for him—at least give him the
society of his friend.”

Helen glanced at Hoffman, feeling that if he were not
already engaged by them, he would devote himself to
the invalid without any thought of payment.

“Perhaps we are. You want to see the Lake of
Geneva, Chillon, and that neighborhood. Why not go
now, instead of later?”

“Will you, uncle? That’s capital! We need say
nothing, but go on and help the poor boy, if we can.”

Helen spoke like a matron of forty, and looked as
full of maternal kindness as if the Pole were not out
of his teens.

The courier bowed, the major laughed behind his
paper, and Amy gave a sentimental sigh to the memory
of the baron, in whom her interest was failing.
.bn 200.png
.pn +1

They only caught a glimpse of the Pole that evening
at the Kursaal, but next morning they met, and he was
invited to join their party for a little expedition.

The major was in fine spirits, and Helen assumed her
maternal air toward both invalids, for the sound of that
hollow cough always brought a shadow over her face,
recalling the brother she had lost.

Amy was particularly merry and charming, and kept
the whole party laughing at her comical efforts to learn
Polish and teach English as they drove up the mountainside
to the old Schloss.

“I’m not equal to mounting all those steps for a view
I’ve seen a dozen times; but pray take care of the child,
Nell, or she’ll get lost again, as at Heidelberg,” said
the major, when they had roamed about the lower part
of the place; for a cool seat in the courtyard and a glass
of beer were more tempting than turrets and prospects
to the stout gentleman.

“She shall not be lost; I am her body-guard. It is
steep—permit that I lead you, mademoiselle;” Casimer
offered his hand to Amy, and they began their winding
way. As she took the hand, the girl blushed and half
smiled, remembering the vaults and the baron.

“I like this better,” she said to herself, as they
climbed step by step, often pausing to rest in the embrasures
of the loopholes, where the sun glanced in, the
balmy wind blew, and vines peeped from without, making
a pretty picture of the girl, as she sat with rosy
color on her usually pale cheeks, brown curls fluttering
about her forehead, laughing lips, and bright eyes full
of pleasant changes. Leaning opposite in the narrow
stairway, Casimer had time to study the little tableau
.bn 201.png
.pn +1
in many lights, and in spite of the dark glasses, to convey
warm glances of admiration, of which, however, the
young coquette seemed utterly unconscious.

Helen came leisurely after, and Hoffman followed
with a telescope, wishing, as he went, that his countrywomen
possessed such dainty feet as those going on
before him, for which masculine iniquity he will be pardoned
by all who have seen the foot of a German Fraulein.

It was worth the long ascent, that wide-spread landscape
basking in the August glow.

Sitting on a fallen block of stone, while Casimer held
a sun-umbrella over her, Amy had raptures at her ease;
while Helen sketched and asked questions of Hoffman,
who stood beside her, watching her progress with interest.
Once when, after repeated efforts to catch a
curious effect of light and shade, she uttered an impatient
little exclamation, Karl made a gesture as if to
take the pencil and show her, but seemed to recollect
himself and drew back with a hasty, “Pardon, mademoiselle.”
Helen glanced up and saw the expression of
his face, which plainly betrayed that for a moment the
gentleman had forgotten he was a courier. She was
glad of it, for it was a daily trial to her to order this
man about; and following the womanly impulse, she
smiled and offered the pencil, saying simply,—

“I felt sure you understood it; please show me.”

He did so, and a few masterly strokes gave the sketch
what it needed. As he bent near her to do this, Helen
stole a glance at the grave, dark face, and suddenly a
disturbed look dawned in the eyes fixed on the glossy
black locks pushed off the courier’s forehead, for he had
.bn 202.png
.pn +1
removed his hat when she spoke to him. He seemed
to feel that something was amiss, shot a quick glance at
her, returned the pencil and rose erect, with an almost
defiant air, yet something of shame in his eye, as his
lips moved as if to speak impetuously. But not a word
did he utter, for Helen touched her forehead significantly,
and said in a low tone,—

“I am an artist; let me recommend Vandyke brown,
which is <i>not</i> affected by heat.”

Hoffman looked over his shoulder at the other pair,
but Amy was making an ivy wreath for her hat, and
the Pole pulling sprays for the absorbing work. Speaking
rapidly, Karl said, with a peculiar blending of merriment,
humility, and anxiety in his tone,—

“Mademoiselle, you are quick to discover my disguise;
will you also be kind in concealing? I have
enemies as well as friends, whom I desire to escape; I
would earn my bread unknown; Monsieur le Major
keeps my foolish secret; may I hope for equal goodness
from yourself?”

“You may, I do not forget that I owe my life to you,
nor that you are a gentleman. Trust me, I never will
betray you.”

“Thanks, thanks! there will come a time when I
may confess the truth and be myself, but not yet,” and
his regretful tone was emphasized by an impatient gesture,
as if concealment was irksome.

“Nell, come down to lunch; uncle is signalling as if
he’d gone mad. No, monsieur, it is quite impossible;
you cannot reach the harebells without risking too much;
come away and forget that I wanted them.”

Amy led the way, and all went down more quietly
.bn 203.png
.pn +1
than they came up, especially Helen and Hoffman. An
excellent lunch waited on one of the tables in front of
the old gateway, and having done justice to it, the major
made himself comfortable with a cigar, bidding the girls
keep near, for they must be off in half an hour. Hoffman
went to see to the horses, Casimer strolled away
with him, and the young ladies went to gather wild
flowers at the foot of the tower.

“Not a harebell here; isn’t it provoking, when they
grow in tufts up there, where one can’t reach them.
Mercy, what’s that? Run, Nell, the old wall is coming
down!”

Both had been grubbing in a damp nook, where ferns
and mosses grew luxuriantly; the fall of a bit of stone
and a rending sound above made them fly back to the
path and look up.

Amy covered her eyes, and Helen grew pale, for part
way down the crumbling tower, clinging like a bird to
the thick ivy stems, hung Casimer, coolly gathering
harebells from the clefts of the wall.

“Hush; don’t cry out or speak; it may startle him.
Crazy boy! Let us see what he will do,” whispered
Helen.

“He can’t go back, the vines are so torn and weak;
and how will he get down the lower wall? for you see
the ivy grows up from that ledge, and there is nothing
below. How could he do it? I was only joking when
I lamented that there were no knights now, ready to
leap into a lion’s den for a lady’s glove,” returned Amy,
half angry.

In breathless silence they watched the climber till his
cap was full of flowers, and taking it between his teeth,
.bn 204.png
.pn +1
he rapidly swung down to the wide ledge, from which
there appeared to be no way of escape but a reckless
leap of many feet on to the turf below.

The girls stood in the shadow of an old gateway, unperceived,
and waited anxiously what should follow.

Lightly folding and fastening the cap together, he
dropped it down, and, leaning forward, tried to catch
the top of a young birch rustling close by the wall.
Twice he missed it; the first time he frowned, but the
second he uttered an emphatic, “Deuce take it!”

Helen and Amy looked at each other with a mutual
smile and exclamation,—

“He knows some English, then!”

There was time for no more—a violent rustle, a boyish
laugh, and down swung the slender tree, with the
young man clinging to the top.

As he landed safely, Helen cried, “Bravo!” and Amy
rushed out, exclaiming reproachfully, yet admiringly,—

“How could you do it and frighten us so? I shall
never express a wish before you again, for if I wanted
the moon you’d rashly try to get it, I know.”

“<i>Certainement</i>, mademoiselle,” was the smiling reply,
Casimer presented the flowers, as if the exploit was a
mere trifle.

“Now I shall go and press them at once in uncle’s
guide-book. Come and help me, else you will be in
mischief again.” And Amy led the way to the major
with her flowers and their giver.

Helen roamed into one of the ruined courts for a last
look at a fountain which pleased her eye. A sort of
cloister ran round the court, open on both sides, and
standing in one of these arched nooks, she saw Hoffman
.bn 205.png
.pn +1
and a young girl talking animatedly. The girl was
pretty, well dressed, and seemed refusing something
for which the other pleaded eagerly. His arm was
about her, and she leaned affectionately upon him, with
a white hand now and then caressing his face, which
was full of sparkle and vivacity now. They seemed
about to part as Helen looked, for the maiden standing
on tiptoe, laughingly offered her blooming cheek, and
as Karl kissed it warmly, he said in German, so audibly
Helen heard every word,—

“Farewell, my Ludmilla. Keep silent and I shall
soon be with you. Embrace the little one, and do not
let him forget me.”

Both left the place as they spoke, each going a different
way, and Helen slowly returned to her party, saying
to herself in a troubled tone,—

“‘Ludmilla’ and ‘the little one’ are his wife and
child, doubtless. I wonder if uncle knows that.”

When Hoffman next appeared she could not resist
looking at him; but the accustomed gravity was resumed,
and nothing remained of the glow and brightness
he had worn when with Ludmilla in the cloister.
.sp 2
.tb
.h3
VI.||<s>CHATEAU DE LA TOUR.</s>
.sp 2
<sc>Helen</sc> looked serious and Amy indignant when their
uncle joined them, ready to set out by the afternoon
train, all having dined and rested after the morning’s
excursion.
.bn 206.png
.pn +1

“Well, little girls, what’s the matter now?” he asked,
paternally, for the excellent man adored his nieces.

“Helen says it’s not best to go on with the Pole, and
is perfectly nonsensical, uncle,” began Amy, petulantly,
and not very coherently.

“Better be silly now than sorry by and by. I only
suggested that, being interesting, and Amy romantic, she
might find this young man too charming, if we see too
much of him,” said Helen.

“Bless my soul, what an idea!” cried the major.
“Why, Nell, he’s an invalid, a Catholic, and a foreigner,
any one of which objections are enough to settle
that matter. Little Amy isn’t so foolish as to be in
danger of losing her heart to a person so entirely out of
the question as this poor lad, is she?”

“Of course not. <i>You</i> do me justice, uncle. Nell
thinks she may pity and pet any one she likes because
she is five years older than I, and entirely forgets that
she is a great deal more attractive than a feeble thing
like me. I should as soon think of losing my heart to
Hoffman as to the Pole, even if he wasn’t what he is.
One may surely be kind to a dying man, without being
accused of coquetry;” and Amy sobbed in the most
heart-rending manner.

Helen comforted her by withdrawing all objections,
and promising to leave the matter in the major’s hands.
But she shook her head privately when she saw the ill-disguised
eagerness with which her cousin glanced up
and down the platform after they were in the train, and
she whispered to her uncle, unobserved,—

“Leave future meetings to chance, and don’t ask the
Pole in, if you can help it.”
.bn 207.png
.pn +1

“Nonsense, my dear. You are as particular as your
aunt. The lad amuses me, and you can’t deny you like
to nurse sick heroes,” was all the answer she got, as the
major, with true masculine perversity, put his head out
of the window and hailed Casimer as he was passing
with a bow.

“Here, Teblinski, my good fellow, don’t desert us.
We’ve always a spare seat for you, if you haven’t
pleasanter quarters.”

With a flush of pleasure the young man came up, but
hesitated to accept the invitation till Helen seconded it
with a smile of welcome.

Amy was in an injured mood, and, shrouded in a
great blue veil, pensively reclined in her corner as if
indifferent to everything about her. But soon the cloud
passed, and she emerged in a radiant state of good
humor, which lasted unbroken until the journey
ended.

For two days they went on together, a very happy
party, for the major called in Hoffman to see his friend
and describe the places through which they passed. An
arrangement very agreeable to all, as Karl was a favorite,
and every one missed him when away.

At Lausanne they waited while he crossed the lake to
secure rooms at Vevay. On his return he reported that
all the hotels and <i>pensions</i> were full, but that at La Tour
he had secured rooms for a few weeks in a quaint old
chateau on the banks of the lake.

“Count Severin is absent in Egypt, and the housekeeper
has permission to let the apartments to transient
visitors. The suite of rooms I speak of were engaged
to a party who are detained by sickness—they are
.bn 208.png
.pn +1
cheap, pleasant, and comfortable. A <i>salon</i> and four
bed-rooms. I engaged them all, thinking that Teblinski
might like a room there till he finds lodgings at Montreaux.
We can enter at once, and I am sure the ladies
will approve of the picturesque place.”

“Well done, Hoffman; off we go without delay, for
I really long to rest my old bones in something like a
home, after this long trip,” said the major, who always
kept his little troop in light marching order.

The sail across that loveliest of lakes prepared the
new-comers to be charmed with all they saw; and when,
entering by the old stone gate, they were led into a large
saloon, quaintly furnished and opening into a terrace-garden
overhanging the water, with Chillon and the
Alps in sight, Amy declared nothing could be more perfect,
and Helen’s face proved her satisfaction.

An English widow and two quiet old German professors
on a vacation were the only inmates besides themselves
and the buxom Swiss housekeeper and her
maids.

It was late when our party arrived, and there was
only time for a hasty survey of their rooms and a stroll
in the garden before dinner.

The great chamber, with its shadowy bed, dark mirrors,
ghostly wainscot-doors and narrow windows, had
not been brightened for a long time by such a charming
little apparition as Amy when she shook out her airy
muslins, smoothed her curls, and assumed all manner of
distracting devices for the captivation of mankind.
Even Helen, though not much given to personal vanity,
found herself putting flowers in her hair, and studying
the effect of bracelets on her handsome arms, as if there
.bn 209.png
.pn +1
was some especial need of looking her best on this
occasion.

Both were certainly great ornaments to the drawing-room
that evening, as the old professors agreed while
they sat blinking at them, like a pair of benign owls.
Casimer surprised them by his skill in music, for, though
forbidden to sing on account of his weak lungs, he
played as if inspired. Amy hovered about him like a
moth; the major cultivated the acquaintance of the
plump widow; and Helen stood at the window, enjoying
the lovely night and music, till something happened
which destroyed her pleasure in both.

The window was open, and, leaning from it, she was
watching the lake, when the sound of a heavy sigh caught
her ear. There was no moon, but through the starlight
she saw a man’s figure among the shrubs below, sitting
with bent head and hidden face in the forlorn attitude
of one shut out from the music, light, and gayety that
reigned within.

“It is Karl,” she thought, and was about to speak,
when, as if startled by some sound she did not hear, he
rose and vanished in the gloom of the garden.

“Poor man! he thought of his wife and child, perhaps,
sitting here alone while all the rest make merry,
with no care for him. Uncle must see to this;” and
Helen fell into a reverie till Amy came to propose retiring.

“I meant to have seen where all these doors led, but
was so busy dressing I had no time, so must leave it for
my amusement to-morrow. Uncle says it’s a very
Radcliffian place. How like an angel that man did
play!” chattered Amy, and lulled herself to sleep by
humming the last air Casimer had given them.
.bn 210.png
.pn +1

Helen could not sleep, for the lonely figure in the
garden haunted her, and she wearied herself with conjectures
about Hoffman and his mystery. Hour after
hour rung from the cuckoo-clock in the hall, but still she
lay awake, watching the curious shadows in the room,
and exciting herself with recalling the tales of German
goblins with which the courier had amused them the day
before.

“It is close and musty here, with all this old tapestry
and stuff about; I’ll open the other window,” she
thought; and, noiselessly slipping from Amy’s side, she
threw on wrapper and slippers, lighted her candle and
tried to unbolt the tall, diamond-paned lattice. It was
rusty and would not yield, and, giving it up, she glanced
about to see whence air could be admitted. There
were four doors in the room, all low and arched, with
clumsy locks and heavy handles. One opened into a
closet, one into the passage; the third was locked, but
the fourth opened easily, and, lifting her light, she
peeped into a small octagon room, full of all manner of
curiosities. What they were she had no time to see,
for her startled eyes were riveted on an object that turned
her faint and cold with terror.

A heavy table stood in the middle of the room, and
seated at it, with some kind of weapon before him, was
a man who looked over his shoulder, with a ghastly
face half hidden by hair and beard, and fierce black
eyes as full of malignant menace as was the clinched
hand holding the pistol. One instant Helen looked, the
next flung to the door, bolted it and dropped into a
chair, trembling in every limb. The noise did not wake
Amy, and a moment’s thought showed Helen the
.bn 211.png
.pn +1
wisdom of keeping her in ignorance of this affair.
She knew the major was close by, and possessing much
courage, she resolved to wait a little before rousing the
house.

Hardly had she collected herself, when steps were
heard moving softly in the octagon room. Her light
had gone out as she closed the door, and sitting close
by in the dark, she heard the sound of some one breathing
as he listened at the key-hole. Then a careful
hand tried the door, so noiselessly that no sleeper would
have been awakened; and as if to guard against a
second surprise, the unknown person drew two bolts
across the door and stole away.

“Safe for a time; but I’ll not pass another night
under this roof, unless this is satisfactorily cleared up,”
thought Helen, now feeling more angry than frightened.

The last hour that struck was three, and soon the
summer dawn reddened the sky. Dressing herself,
Helen sat by Amy, a sleepless guard, till she woke,
smiling and rosy as a child. Saying nothing of her
last night’s alarm, Helen went down to breakfast a little
paler than usual, but otherwise unchanged. The major
never liked to be disturbed till he had broken his fast,
and the moment they rose from the table he exclaimed,—

“Now, girls, come and see the mysteries of Udolpho.”

“I’ll say nothing, yet,” thought Helen, feeling
braver by daylight, yet troubled by her secret, for Hoffman
might be a traitor, and this charming chateau a den
of thieves. Such things had been, and she was in a
mood to believe anything.
.bn 212.png
.pn +1

The upper story was a perfect museum of antique
relics, very entertaining to examine. Having finished
these, Hoffman, who acted as guide, led them into a
little gloomy room containing a straw pallet, a stone
table with a loaf and pitcher on it, and, kneeling before
a crucifix, where the light from a single slit in the wall
fell on him, was the figure of a monk. The waxen
mask was life-like, the attitude effective, and the cell
excellently arranged. Amy cried out when she first saw
it, but a second glance reassured her, and she patted
the bald head approvingly, as Karl explained,—

“Count Severin is an antiquarian, and amuses himself
with things of this sort. In old times there really
was a hermit here, and this is his effigy. Come down
these narrow stairs, if you please, and see the rest of
the mummery.”

Down they went, and the instant Helen looked about
her, she burst into a hysterical laugh, for there sat her
ruffian, exactly as she saw him, glaring over his shoulder
with threatening eyes, and one hand on the pistol.
They all looked at her, for she was pale, and her merriment
unnatural; so, feeling she had excited curiosity,
she gratified it by narrating her night’s adventure.
Hoffman looked much concerned.

“Pardon, mademoiselle, the door should have been
bolted on this side. It usually is, but that room being
unused, it was forgotten. I remembered it, and having
risen early, crept up to make sure that you did not
come upon this ugly thing unexpectedly. But I was
too late, it seems; you have suffered, to my sorrow.”

“Dear Nell, and that was why I found you so pale
and cold and quiet, sitting by me when I woke, guarding
.bn 213.png
.pn +1
me faithfully as you promised you would. How
brave and kind you were!”

“Villain! I should much like to fire your own pistols
at you for this prank of yours.”

And Casimer laughingly filliped the image on its
absurdly aquiline nose.

“What in the name of common sense is this goblin
here for?” demanded the major, testily.

“There is a legend that once the owner of the chateau
amused himself by decoying travellers here, putting
them to sleep in that room, and by various devices
alluring them thither. Here, one step beyond the
threshold of the door, was a trap, down which the unfortunates
were precipitated to the dungeon at the bottom
of the tower, there to die and be cast into the lake
through a water-gate, still to be seen. Severin keeps
this flattering likeness of the rascal, as he does the monk
above, to amuse visitors by daylight, not at night,
mademoiselle.”

And Hoffman looked wrathfully at the image, as if he
would much enjoy sending it down the trap.

“How ridiculous! I shall not go about this place
alone, for fear of lighting upon some horror of this sort.
I’ve had enough; come away into the garden; it’s full
of roses, and we may have as many as we like.”

As she spoke Amy involuntarily put out her hand for
Casimer to lead her down the steep stone steps, and he
pressed the little hand with a tender look which caused
it to be hastily withdrawn.

“Here are your roses. Pretty flower; I know its
meaning in English, for it is the same with us. To give
a bud to a lady is to confess the beginning of love, a
.bn 214.png
.pn +1
half open one tells of its growth, and a full-blown one
is to declare one’s passion. Do you have that custom
in your land, mademoiselle?”

He had gathered the three as he spoke, and held the
bud separately while looking at his companion wistfully.

“No, we are not poetical, like your people, but it is
a pretty fancy,” and Amy settled her bouquet with an
absorbed expression, though inwardly wondering what
he would do with his flowers.

He stood silent a moment, with a sudden flush sweeping
across his face, then flung all three into the lake
with a gesture that made the girl start, and muttered
between his teeth.

“No, no: for me it is too late.”

She affected not to hear, but making up a second
bouquet, she gave it to him, with no touch of coquetry
in compassionate eyes or gentle voice.

“Make your room bright with these. When one is
ill nothing is so cheering as the sight of flowers.”

Meantime the others had descended and gone their
separate ways.

As Karl crossed the courtyard a little child ran to
meet him with outstretched arms and a shout of satisfaction.
He caught it up and carried it away on his
shoulder, like one used to caress and be caressed by
children.

Helen, waiting at the door of the tower while the
major dusted his coat, saw this, and said, suddenly,
directing his attention to man and child,—

“He seems fond of little people. I wonder if he has
any of his own.”
.bn 215.png
.pn +1

“Hoffman? No, my dear; he’s not married; I asked
him that when I engaged him.”

“And he said he was not?”

“Yes; he’s not more than five or six-and-twenty,
and fond of a wandering life, so what should he want of
a wife and a flock of bantlings?”

“He seems sad and sober sometimes, and I fancied
he might have some domestic trouble to harass him.
Don’t you think there is something peculiar about him?”
asked Helen, remembering Hoffman’s hint that her
uncle knew his wish to travel incognito, and wondering
if he would throw any light upon the matter. But the
major’s face was impenetrable and his answer unsatisfactory.

“Well, I don’t know. Every one has some worry or
other, and as for being peculiar, all foreigners seem
more or less so to us, they are so unreserved and demonstrative.
I like Hoffman more and more every day,
and shall be sorry when I part with him.”

“Ludmilla is his sister, then, or he didn’t tell uncle
the truth. It is no concern of mine; but I wish I
knew,” thought Helen anxiously, and then wondered
why she should care.

A feeling of distrust had taken possession of her and
she determined to be on the watch, for the unsuspicious
major would be easily duped, and Helen trusted more
to her own quick and keen eye than to his experience.
She tried to show nothing of the change in her manner;
but Hoffman perceived it, and bore it with a proud
patience which often touched her heart, but never altered
her purpose.
.bn 216.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.tb
.h3
VII.||<s>AT FAULT.</s>
.sp 2
<sc>Four</sc> weeks went by so rapidly that every one refused
to believe it when the major stated the fact at
the breakfast-table, for all had enjoyed themselves so
heartily that they had been unconscious of the lapse
of time.

“You are not going away, uncle?” cried Amy, with
a panic-stricken look.

“Next week, my dear; we must be off, for we’ve
much to do yet, and I promised mamma to bring you
back by the end of October.”

“Never mind Paris and the rest of it; this is
pleasanter. I’d rather stay here—”

There Amy checked herself and tried to hide her face
behind her coffee-cup, for Casimer looked up in a way
that made her heart flutter and her cheeks burn.

“Sorry for it, Amy; but go we must, so enjoy your
last week with all your might, and come again next
year.”

“It will never be again what it is now,” sighed Amy;
and Casimer echoed the words “next year,” as if sadly
wondering if the present year would not be his last.

Helen rose silently and went into the garden, for of
late she had fallen into the way of reading and working
in the little pavilion which stood in an angle of the wall,
overlooking lake and mountains.

A seat at the opposite end of the walk was Amy’s
haunt, for she liked the sun, and within a week or two
.bn 217.png
.pn +1
something like constraint had existed between the
cousins. Each seemed happier apart, and each was
intent on her own affairs. Helen watched over Amy’s
health, but no longer offered advice or asked confidence.
She often looked anxious, and once or twice urged the
major to go, as if conscious of some danger.

But the worthy man seemed to have been bewitched
as well as the young folks, and was quite happy sitting
by the plump, placid widow, or leisurely walking with
her to the chapel on the hillside.

All seemed waiting for something to break up the
party, and no one had the courage to do it. The major’s
decision took every one by surprise, and Amy
and Casimer looked as if they had fallen from the
clouds.

The persistency with which the English lessons had
gone on was amazing, for Amy usually tired of everything
in a day or two. Now, however, she was a devoted
teacher, and her pupil did her great credit by the
rapidity with which he caught the language. It looked
like pleasant play, sitting among the roses day after
day, Amy affecting to embroider while she taught, Casimer
marching to and fro on the wide, low wall, below
which lay the lake, while he learned his lesson; then
standing before her to recite, or lounging on the turf in
frequent fits of idleness, both talking and laughing a
great deal, and generally forgetting everything but the
pleasure of being together. They wrote little notes as
exercises—Amy in French, Casimer in English, and
each corrected the other’s.

All very well for a time; but as the notes increased
the corrections decreased, and at last nothing was said
.bn 218.png
.pn +1
of ungrammatical French or comical English, and the
little notes were exchanged in silence.

As Amy took her place that day she looked forlorn,
and when her pupil came her only welcome was a reproachful—

“You are very late, sir.”

“It is fifteen of minutes yet to ten clocks,” was Casimer’s
reply, in his best English.

“Ten o’clock, and leave out ‘of’ before minutes.
How many times must I tell you that?” said Amy,
severely, to cover her first mistake.

“Ah, not many times; soon all goes to finish, and I
have none person to make this charming English go in
my so stupide head.”

“What will you do then?”

“I <i>jeter</i> myself into the lake.”

“Don’t be foolish; I’m dull to-day, and want to be
cheered up; suicide isn’t a pleasant subject.”

“Good! See here, then—a little <i>plaisanterie</i>—what
you call joke. Can you will to see it?” and he laid a
little pink cocked-hat note on her lap, looking like a
mischievous boy as he did so.

“‘Mon Casimer Teblinski;’ I see no joke;” and
Amy was about to tear it up, when he caught it from
destruction, and holding it out of reach, said, laughing
wickedly,—

“The ‘mon’ is one abbreviation of ‘monsieur,’ but
you put no little—how do you say?—period at the
end of him; it goes now in English—‘<i>My</i> Casimer
Teblinski,’ and that is of the most charming address.”

Amy colored, but had her return shot ready.
.bn 219.png
.pn +1

“Don’t exult; that was only an oversight, not a
deliberate deception like that you put upon me. It was
very wrong and rude, and I shall not forgive it.”

“<i>Mon Dieu!</i> where have I gone in sinning? I am
a <i>polisson</i>, as I say each day, but not a villain, I swear
to you. Say to me that which I have made of wrong,
and I will do penance.”

“You told me ‘<i>Ma drogha</i>’ was the Polish for ‘My
pupil,’ and let me call you so a long time; I am wiser
now,” replied Amy, with great dignity.

“Who has said stupidities to you, that you doubt
me?” and Casimer assumed an injured look, though his
eyes danced with merriment.

“I heard Hoffman singing a Polish song to little
Roserl, the burden of which was, ‘<i>Ma drogha, Ma drogha</i>,’
and when I asked him to translate it, those two words
meant, ‘My darling.’ How dare you do it, ungrateful
creature that you are!”

As Amy spoke, half-confusedly, half-angrily, Casimer
went down upon his knees, with folded hands and penitent
face, exclaiming, in good English,—

“Be merciful to me a sinner. I was tempted, and I
could not resist.”

“Get up this instant, and stop laughing. Say your
lesson, for this will be your last,” was the stern reply,
though Amy’s face dimpled all over with suppressed
merriment.

He rose meekly, but made such sad work with the
verb “To love,” that his teacher was glad to put an end
to it, by proposing to read her French to him. It was
“Thaddeus of Warsaw,” a musty little translation which
she had found in the house, and begun for her own
.bn 220.png
.pn +1
amusement. Casimer read a little, seemed interested,
and suggested that they read it together, so that he
might correct her accent. Amy agreed, and they were
in the heart of the sentimental romance, finding it more
interesting than most modern readers, for the girl had
an improved Thaddeus before her, and the Pole a fairer,
kinder Mary Beaufort.

Dangerous times for both, but therein lay the charm;
for, though Amy said to herself each night, “Sick,
Catholic, and a foreigner,—it can never be,” yet each
morning she felt, with increasing force, how blank her
day would be without him. And Casimer, honorably
restraining every word of love, yet looked volumes, and
in spite of the glasses, the girl felt the eloquence of the
fine eyes they could not entirely conceal.

To-day, as she read, he listened with his head leaning
on his hand, and though she never had read worse, he
made no correction, but sat so motionless, she fancied
at last that he had actually fallen asleep. Thinking to
rouse him, she said, in French,—

“Poor Thaddeus! don’t you pity him?—alone, poor,
sick, and afraid to own his love.”

“No, I hate him, the absurd imbecile, with his fine
boots and plumes, and tragedy airs. He was not to be
pitied, for he recovered health, he found a fortune, he
won his Marie. His sufferings were nothing; there was
no fatal blight on him, and he had time and power to
conquer his misfortunes, while I—”

Casimer spoke with sudden passion, and pausing abruptly,
turned his face away, as if to hide some emotion
he was too proud to show.

Amy’s heart ached, and her eyes filled, but her voice
.bn 221.png
.pn +1
was sweet and steady, as she said, putting by the book,
like one weary of it,—

“Are you suffering to-day? Can we do anything for
you? Please let us, if we may.”

“You give me all I can receive; no one can help my
pain yet; but a time will come when something may be
done for me; then I will speak.”

And, to her great surprise, he rose and left her, without
another word.

She saw him no more till evening; then he looked
excited, played stormily, and would sing in defiance of
danger. The trouble in Amy’s face seemed reflected in
Helen’s, though not a word had passed between them.
She kept her eye on Casimer, with an intentness that
worried Amy, and even when he was at the instrument
Helen stood near him, as if fascinated, watching the
slender hands chase one another up and down the keys
with untiring strength and skill.

Suddenly she left the room and did not return. Amy
was so nervous by that time, she could restrain herself
no longer, and slipping out, found her cousin in their
chamber, poring over a glove.

“Oh, Nell, what is it? You are so odd to-night I
can’t understand you. The music excites me, and I’m
miserable, and I want to know what has happened,” she
said, tearfully.

“I’ve found him!” whispered Helen, eagerly, holding
up the glove with a gesture of triumph.

“Who?” asked Amy, blinded by her tears.

“The baron.”

“Where?—when?” cried the girl, amazed.

“Here, and now.”
.bn 222.png
.pn +1

“Don’t take my breath away; tell me quick, or I
shall get hysterical.”

“Casimer is Sigismund Palsdorf, and no more a Pole
than I am,” was Helen’s answer.

Amy dropped in a heap on the floor, not fainting, but
so amazed she had neither strength nor breath left.
Sitting by her, Helen rapidly went on,—

“I had a feeling as if something was wrong, and
began to watch. The feeling grew, but I discovered
nothing till to-day. It will make you laugh, it was so
unromantic. As I looked over uncle’s things when the
laundress brought them this afternoon, I found a collar
that was not his. It was marked ‘S. P.,’ and I at once
felt a great desire to know who owned it. The woman
was waiting for her money, and I asked her. ‘Monsieur
Pologne,’ she said, for his name is too much for
her. She took it into his room, and that was the end
of it.”

“But it may be another name; the initials only a
coincidence,” faltered Amy, looking frightened.

“No, dear, it isn’t; there is more to come. Little
Roserl came crying through the hall an hour ago, and I
asked what the trouble was. She showed me a prettily-bound
prayer-book which she had taken from the Pole’s
room to play with, and had been ordered by her mother
to carry back. I looked into it; no name, but the
same coat-of-arms as the glove and the handkerchief.
To-night as he played I examined his hands; they are
peculiar, and some of the peculiarities have left traces
on the glove. I am sure it is he, for on looking back
many things confirm the idea. He says he is a <i>polisson</i>,
a rogue, fond of jokes, and clever at playing them. The
.bn 223.png
.pn +1
Germans are famous for masquerading and practical
jokes; this is one, I am sure, and uncle will be terribly
angry if he discovers it.”

“But why all this concealment?” cried Amy. “Why
play jokes on us? You look so worried I know you
have not told me all you know or fear.”

“I confess I do fear that these men are political
plotters as well as exiles. There are many such, and
they make tools of rich and ignorant foreigners to further
their ends. Uncle is rich, generous, and unsuspicious;
and I fear that while apparently serving and
enjoying us they are using him.”

“Heavens, it may be! and that would account for
the change we see in him. I thought he was in love
with the widow, but that may be only a cloak to hide
darker designs. Karl brought us here, and I dare say
it is a den of conspirators!” cried Amy, feeling as if
she were getting more of an adventure than she had
bargained for.

“Don’t be alarmed! I am on the watch, and mean
to demand an explanation from uncle, or take you away
on my own responsibility, if I can.”

Here a maid tapped to say that tea was served.

“We must go down, or some one will suspect trouble.
Plead headache to excuse your paleness, and I’ll keep
people away. We will manage the affair and be off as
soon as possible,” said Helen, as Amy followed her,
too bewildered to answer.

Casimer was not in the room, the major and Mrs.
Cumberland were sipping tea side by side, and the professors
roaming vaguely about. To leave Amy in peace,
Helen engaged them both in a lively chat, and her
.bn 224.png
.pn +1
cousin sat by the window trying to collect her thoughts.
Some one was pacing up and down the garden, hatless,
in the dew.

Amy forgot everything but the danger of such exposure
to her reckless friend. His cloak and hat lay on
a chair; she caught them up and glided unperceived
from the long window.

“You are so imprudent I fear for you, and bring
your things,” said a timid voice, as the little white
figure approached the tall black one, striding down the
path tempestuously.

“You to think of me, forgetful of yourself! Little
angel of kindness, why do you take such care of me?”
cried Casimer, eagerly taking not only the cloak, but
the hands that held it.

“I pitied you because you were ill and lonely. You
do not deserve my pity, but I forgive that, and would
not see you suffer,” was the reproachful answer, as Amy
turned away.

But he held her fast, saying earnestly,—

“What have I done? You are angry. Tell me my
fault and I will amend.”

“You have deceived me.”

“How?”

“Will you own the truth?” and in her eagerness to
set her fears at rest, Amy forgot Helen.

“I will.”

She could not see his face, but his voice was steady
and his manner earnest.

“Tell me, then, is not your true name Sigismund
Palsdorf?”

He started, but answered instantly,—
.bn 225.png
.pn +1

“It is not.”

“You are not the baron?” cried Amy.

“No; I will swear it if you wish.”

“Who, then, are you?”

“Shall I confess?”

“Yes, I entreat you.”

“Remember, you command me to speak.”

“I do. Who are you?”

“Your lover.”

The words were breathed into her ear as softly as
ardently, but they startled her so much she could find
no reply, and, throwing himself down before her, Casimer
poured out his passion with an impetuosity that
held her breathless.

“Yes, I love you, and I tell it, vain and dishonorable
as it is in one like me. I try to hide it. I say ‘it cannot
be.’ I plan to go away. But you keep me; you
are angel-good to me; you take my heart, you care for
me, teach me, pity me, and I can only love and die.
I know it is folly; I ask nothing; I pray to God to
bless you always, and I say, Go, go, before it is too late
for you, as now for me!”

“Yes, I must go—it is all wrong. Forgive me. I
have been very selfish. Oh, forget me and be happy,”
faltered Amy, feeling that her only safety was in flight.

“Go! go!” he cried, in a heart-broken tone, yet still
kissed and clung to her hands till she tore them away
and fled into the house.

Helen missed her soon after she went, but could not
follow for several minutes; then went to their chamber
and there found Amy drowned in tears, and terribly
agitated.
.bn 226.png
.pn +1

Soon the story was told with sobs and moans, and
despairing lamentations fit to touch a heart of stone.

“I do love him—oh, I do; but I didn’t know it till
he was so unhappy, and now I’ve done this dreadful
harm. He’ll die, and I can’t help him, see him, or be
anything to him. Oh, I’ve been a wicked, wicked girl,
and never can be happy any more.”

Angry, perplexed, and conscience-stricken, for what
now seemed blind and unwise submission to the major,
Helen devoted herself to calming Amy, and when at
last the poor, broken-hearted little soul fell asleep in her
arms, she pondered half the night upon the still unsolved
enigma of the Baron Sigismund.
.sp 2
.tb
.h3
VIII.||<s>MORE MYSTERY.</s>
.sp 2
“<sc>Uncle</sc>, can I speak to you a moment?” said Helen,
very gravely, as they left the breakfast-room next morning.

“Not now, my dear, I’m busy,” was the hasty reply,
as the major shawled Mrs. Cumberland for an early
promenade.

Helen knit her brows irefully, for this answer had
been given her half a dozen times lately when she asked
for an interview. It was evident he wished to avoid all
lectures, remonstrances, and explanations; and it was
also evident that he was in love with the widow.

“Lovers are worse than lunatics to manage, so it is
.bn 227.png
.pn +1
vain to try to get any help from him,” sighed Helen,
adding, as her uncle was gallantly leading his stout
divinity away into the garden: “Amy has a bad headache,
and I shall stay to take care of her, so we can’t join
your party to Chillon, sir. We have been there once,
so you needn’t postpone it for us.”

“Very well, my dear,” and the major walked away,
looking much relieved.

As Helen was about to leave the <i>salon</i> Casimer appeared.
A single glance at her face assured him that
she knew all, and instantly assuming a confiding, persuasive
air that was irresistible, he said, meekly,—

“Mademoiselle, I do not deserve a word from you,
but it desolates me to know that I have grieved the little
angel who is too dear to me. For her sake, pardon that
I spoke my heart in spite of prudence, and permit me to
send her this.”

Helen glanced from the flowers he held to his beseeching
face, and her own softened. He looked so penitent
and anxious, she had not the heart to reproach
him.

“I will forgive you and carry your gift to Amy on
one condition,” she said, gravely.

“Ah, you are kind! Name, then, the condition, I
implore you, and I will agree.”

“Tell me, then, on your honor as a gentleman, are
you not Baron Palsdorf?”

“On my honor as a gentleman, I swear to you I am
not.”

“Are you, in truth, what you profess to be?”

“I am, in truth, Amy’s lover, your devoted servant,
and a most unhappy man, with but a little while to
.bn 228.png
.pn +1
live. Believe this and pity me, dearest Mademoiselle
Helène.”

She did pity him, her eyes betrayed that, and her
voice was very kind, as she said,—

“Pardon my doubts. I trust you now, and wish
with all my heart that it was possible to make you happy.
You know it is not, therefore I am sure you will be wise
and generous, and spare Amy further grief by avoiding
her for the little time we stay. Promise me this, Casimer.”

“I may see her if I am dumb? Do not deny me this.
I will not speak, but I must look at my little and dear
angel when she is near.”

He pleaded so ardently with lips and hands, and
eager eyes, that Helen could not deny him, and when
he had poured out his thanks she left him, feeling very
tender toward the unhappy young lover, whose passion
was so hopeless, yet so warm.

Amy was at breakfast in her room, sobbing and sipping,
moaning and munching, for, though her grief was
great, her appetite was good, and she was in no mood
to see anything comical in cracking eggshells while she
bewailed her broken heart, or in eating honey in the act
of lamenting the bitterness of her fate.

Casimer would have become desperate had he seen
her in the little blue wrapper, with her bright hair loose
on her shoulders, and her pretty face wet with tears, as
she dropped her spoon to seize his flowers,—three dewy
roses, one a bud, one half and the other fully blown,
making a fragrant record and avowal of the love which
she must renounce.

“Oh, my dear boy! how can I give him up, when he
.bn 229.png
.pn +1
is so fond, and I am all he has? Helen, uncle must
let me write or go to mamma. She shall decide; I can’t;
and no one else has a right to part us,” sobbed Amy,
over her roses.

“Casimer will not marry, dear; he is too generous to
ask such a sacrifice,” began Helen, but Amy cried indignantly,—

“It is no sacrifice; I’m rich. What do I care for
his poverty?”

“His religion!” hinted Helen, anxiously.

“It need not part us; we can believe what we will.
He is good; why mind whether he is Catholic or Protestant.”

“But a Pole, Amy, so different in tastes, habits,
character, and beliefs. It is a great risk to marry a
foreigner; races are so unlike.”

“I don’t care if he is a Tartar, a Calmuck, or any of
the other wild tribes; I love him, he loves me, and no
one need object if I don’t.”

“But, dear, the great and sad objection still remains—his
health. He just said he had but a little while to live.”

Amy’s angry eyes grew dim, but she answered, with
soft earnestness,—

“So much the more need of me to make that little
while happy. Think how much he has suffered and done
for others; surely I may do something for him. Oh,
Nell, can I let him die alone and in exile, when I have
both heart and home to give him?”

Helen could say no more; she kissed and comforted
the faithful little soul, feeling all the while such sympathy
and tenderness that she wondered at herself, for with
this interest in the love of another came a sad sense of
.bn 230.png
.pn +1
loneliness, as if she was denied the sweet experience
that every woman longs to know.

Amy never could remain long under a cloud, and seeing
Helen’s tears, began to cheer both her cousin and
herself.

“Hoffman said he might live with care, don’t you
remember? and Hoffman knows the case better than we.
Let us ask him if Casimer is worse. You do it; I can’t
without betraying myself.”

“I will,” and Helen felt grateful for any pretext to
address a friendly word to Karl, who had looked sad of
late, and had been less with them since the major became
absorbed in Mrs. Cumberland.

Leaving Amy to compose herself, Helen went away
to find Hoffman. It was never difficult, for he seemed
to divine her wishes and appear uncalled the moment he
was wanted. Hardly had she reached her favorite nook
in the garden when he approached with letters, and
asked with respectful anxiety, as she glanced at and
threw them by with an impatient sigh,—

“Has mademoiselle any orders? Will the ladies
drive, sail, or make a little expedition? It is fine, and
mademoiselle looks as if the air would refresh her.
Pardon that I make the suggestion.”

“No, Hoffman, I don’t like the air of this place, and
intend to leave as soon as possible.” And Helen knit
her delicate dark brows with an expression of great
determination. “Switzerland is the refuge of political
exiles, and I hate plots and disguises; I feel oppressed
by some mystery, and mean to solve or break away from
it at once.”

She stopped abruptly, longing to ask his help, yet
.bn 231.png
.pn +1
withheld by a sudden sense of shyness in approaching
the subject, though she had decided to speak to Karl of
the Pole.

“Can I serve you, mademoiselle? If so, pray command
me,” he said, eagerly, coming a step nearer.

“You can, and I intend to ask your advice, for there
can be nothing amiss in doing so, since you are a friend
of Casimer’s.”

“I am both friend and confidant, mademoiselle,” he
answered, as if anxious to let her understand that he
knew all, without the embarrassment of words. She
looked up quickly, relieved, yet troubled.

“He has told you, then?”

“Everything, mademoiselle. Pardon me if this
afflicts you; I am his only friend here, and the poor
lad sorely needed comfort.”

“He did. I am not annoyed; I am glad, for I know
you will sustain him. Now I may speak freely, and be
equally frank. Please tell me if he is indeed fatally ill?”

“It was thought so some months ago; now I hope.
Happiness cures many ills, and since he has loved, he
has improved. I always thought care would save him;
he is worth it.”

Hoffman paused, as if fearful of venturing too far;
but Helen seemed to confide freely in him, and said,
softly,—

“Ah, if it were only wise to let him be happy. It is
so bitter to deny love.”

“God knows it is!”

The exclamation broke from Hoffman as if an irrepressible
impulse wrung it from him.

Helen started, and for a moment neither spoke. She
.bn 232.png
.pn +1
collected herself soonest, and without turning, said,
quietly,—

“I have been troubled by a strong impression that
Casimer is not what he seems. Till he denied it on his
honor I believed him to be Baron Palsdorf. Did he
speak the truth when he said he was not?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“Then, Casimer Teblinski is his real name?”

No answer.

She turned sharply, and added,—

“For my cousin’s sake, I must know the truth.
Several curious coincidences make me strongly suspect
that he is passing under an assumed name.”

Not a word said Hoffman, but looked on the ground,
as motionless and expressionless as a statue.

Helen lost patience, and in order to show how much
she had discovered, rapidly told the story of the gloves,
ring, handkerchief, prayer-book and collar, omitting all
hint of the girlish romance they had woven about these
things.

As she ended, Hoffman looked up with a curious expression,
in which confusion, amusement, admiration
and annoyance seemed to contend.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, gravely, “I am about
to prove to you that I feel honored by the confidence
you place in me. I cannot break my word, but I will
confess to you that Casimer does <i>not</i> bear his own
name.”

“I knew it!” said Helen, with a flash of triumph in
her eyes. “He <i>is</i> the baron, and no Pole. You Germans
love masquerades and jokes. This is one, but I
must spoil it before it is played out.”
.bn 233.png
.pn +1

“Pardon; mademoiselle is keen, but in this she is
mistaken. Casimer is <i>not</i> the baron; he did fight for
Poland, and his name is known and honored there. Of
this I solemnly assure you.”

She stood up and looked him straight in the face.
He met her eye to eye, and never wavered till her own
fell.

She mused a few minutes, entirely forgetful of herself
in her eagerness to solve the mystery.

Hoffman stood so near that her dress touched him,
and the wind blew her scarf against his hand; and as
she thought he watched her while his eyes kindled, his
color rose, and once he opened his lips to speak, but
she moved at the instant, and exclaimed,—

“I have it!”

“Now for it,” he muttered, as if preparing for some
new surprise or attack.

“When uncle used to talk about the Polish revolution,
there was, I remember a gallant young Pole who
did something brave. The name just flashed on me, and
it clears up my doubts. Stanislas Prakora—‘S. P.’—and
Casimer is the man.”

Helen spoke with an eager, bright face, as if sure of
the truth now; but, to her surprise, Hoffman laughed,
a short, irrepressible laugh, full of hearty but brief
merriment. He sobered in a breath, and with an entire
change of countenance said, in an embarrassed tone,—

“Pardon my rudeness; mademoiselle’s acuteness
threw me off my guard. I can say nothing till released
from my promise; but mademoiselle may rest assured
that Casimer Teblinski is as good and brave a man as
Stanislas Prakora.”
.bn 234.png
.pn +1

Helen’s eyes sparkled, for in this reluctant reply she
read confirmation of her suspicion, and thought that
Amy would rejoice to learn that her lover was a hero.

“You <i>are</i> exiles but, still hope and plot, and never
relinquish your heart’s desire?”

“Never, mademoiselle!”

“You are in danger?”

“In daily peril of losing all we most love and long
for,” answered Karl, with such passion that Helen found
patriotism a lovely and inspiring thing.

“You have enemies?” she asked, unable to control
her interest, and feeling the charm of these confidences.

“Alas! yes,” was the mournful reply, as Karl dropped
his eyes to hide the curious expression of mirth which
he could not banish from them.

“Can you not conquer them, or escape the danger
they place you in?”

“We hope to conquer, we cannot escape.”

“This accounts for your disguise and Casimer’s false
name?”

“Yes. We beg that mademoiselle will pardon us
the anxiety and perplexity we have caused her, and
hope that a time will soon arrive when we may be ourselves.
I fear the romantic interest with which the
ladies have honored us will be much lessened, but we
shall still remain their most humble and devoted servants.”

Something in his tone nettled Helen, and she said
sharply,—

“All this may be amusing to you, but it spoils my
confidence in others to know they wear masks. Is your
name also false?”
.bn 235.png
.pn +1

“I am Karl Hoffman, as surely as the sun shines,
mademoiselle. Do not wound me by a doubt,” he said,
eagerly.

“And nothing more?”

She smiled as she spoke, and glanced at his darkened
skin with a shake of the head.

“I dare not answer that.”

“No matter; I hate titles, and value people for their
own worth, not for their rank.”

Helen spoke impulsively, and, as if carried away by
her words and manner, Hoffman caught her hand and
pressed his lips to it ardently, dropped it, and was
gone, as if fearing to trust himself a moment longer.

Helen stood where he left her, thinking, with a shy
glance from her hand to the spot where he had stood,—

“It <i>is</i> pleasant to have one’s hand kissed, as Amy
said. Poor Karl, his fate is almost as hard as Casimer’s.”

Some subtile power seemed to make the four young
people shun one another carefully, though all longed to
be together. The major appeared to share the secret
disquiet that made the rest roam listlessly about, till
little Roserl came to invite them to a <i>fête</i> in honor of the
vintage. All were glad to go, hoping in the novelty and
excitement to recover their composure.

The vineyard sloped up from the chateau, and on the
hillside was a small plateau of level sward, shadowed
by a venerable oak now hung with garlands, while underneath
danced the chateau servants with their families,
to the music of a pipe played by little Freidel. As the
gentlefolk approached, the revel stopped, but the major,
who was in an antic mood and disposed to be gracious,
.bn 236.png
.pn +1
bade Freidel play on, and as Mrs. Cumberland refused
his hand with a glance at her weeds, the major turned
to the Count’s buxom housekeeper, and besought her to
waltz with him. She assented, and away they went as
nimbly as the best. Amy laughed, but stopped to
blush, as Casimer came up with an imploring glance, and
whispered,—

“Is it possible that I may enjoy one divine waltz
with you before I go?”

Amy gave him her hand with a glad assent, and Helen
was left alone. Every one was dancing but herself and
Hoffman, who stood near by, apparently unconscious of
the fact. He glanced covertly at her, and saw that she
was beating time with foot and hand, that her eyes
shone, her lips smiled. He seemed to take courage at
this, for, walking straight up to her, he said, as coolly
as if a crown-prince,—

“Mademoiselle, may I have the honor?”

A flash of surprise passed over her face, but there was
no anger, pride, or hesitation in her manner, as she
leaned toward him with a quiet “Thanks, monsieur.”

A look of triumph was in his eyes as he swept her
away to dance, as she had never danced before, for a
German waltz is full of life and spirit, wonderfully captivating
to English girls, and German gentlemen make
it a memorable experience when they please. As they
circled round the rustic ball-room, Hoffman never took his
eyes off Helen’s, and, as if fascinated, she looked up at
him, half conscious that he was reading her heart as she
read his. He said not a word, but his face grew very
tender, very beautiful in her sight, as she forgot everything
except that he had saved her life and she loved
.bn 237.png
.pn +1
him. When they paused, she was breathless and pale;
he also; and seating her he went away to bring her a
glass of wine. As her dizzy eyes grew clear, she saw
a little case at her feet, and taking it up, opened it. A
worn paper, containing some faded forget-me-nots and
these words, fell out,—

“Gathered where Helen sat on the night of August
10th.”

There was just time to restore its contents to the case,
when Hoffman returned, saw it, and looked intensely
annoyed as he asked, quickly,—

“Did you read the name on it?”

“I saw only the flowers;” and Helen colored beautifully
as she spoke.

“And read <i>them</i>?” he asked, with a look she could
not meet.

She was spared an answer, for just then a lad came
up, saying, as he offered a note,—

“Monsieur Hoffman, madame, at the hotel, sends
you this, and begs you to come at once.”

As he impatiently opened it, the wind blew the paper
into Helen’s lap. She restored it, and in the act, her
quick eye caught the signature, “Thine ever, Ludmilla.”

A slight shadow passed over her face, leaving it very
cold and quiet. Hoffman saw the change, and smiled,
as if well pleased, but assuming suddenly his usual
manner, said deferentially,—

“Will mademoiselle permit me to visit my friend for
an hour?—she is expecting me.”

“Go, then, we do not need you,” was the brief reply,
in a careless tone, as if his absence was a thing of no
interest to any one.
.bn 238.png
.pn +1

“Thanks; I shall not be long away;” and giving her
a glance that made her turn scarlet with anger at its
undisguised admiration, he walked away, humming gayly
to himself Goethe’s lines,—

.pm verse-start
“Maiden’s heart and city’s wall
 Were made to yield, were made to fall;
 When we’ve held them each their day,
 Soldier-like we march away.”
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
.tb
.h3
IX.||<s>“S. P.” AND THE BARON.</s>
.sp 2
<sc>Dinner</sc> was over, and the <i>salon</i> deserted by all but
the two young ladies, who sat apart, apparently absorbed
in novels, while each was privately longing for
somebody to come, and with the charming inconsistency
of the fair sex, planning to fly if certain somebodies did
appear.

Steps approached; both buried themselves in their
books; both held their breath and felt their hearts flutter
as they never had done before at the step of mortal
man. The door opened; neither looked up, yet each
was conscious of mingled disappointment and relief when
the major said, in a grave tone, “Girls, I’ve something
to tell you.”

“We know what it is, sir,” returned Helen, coolly.

“I beg your pardon, but you don’t, my dear, as I
will prove in five minutes, if you will give me your
attention.”
.bn 239.png
.pn +1

The major looked as if braced up to some momentous
undertaking; and planting himself before the two young
ladies, dashed bravely into the subject.

“Girls, I’ve played a bold game, but I’ve won it,
and will take the consequences.”

“They will fall heaviest on you, uncle,” said Helen,
thinking he was about to declare his love for the widow.

The major laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and answered,
stoutly,—

“I’ll bear them; but you are quite wrong, my dear,
in your surmises, as you will soon see. Helen is my
ward, and accountable to me alone. Amy’s mother
gave her into my charge, and won’t reproach me for
anything that has passed when I explain matters. As
to the lads they must take care of themselves.”

Suddenly both girls colored, fluttered, and became
intensely interested. The major’s eyes twinkled as he
assumed a perfectly impassive expression, and rapidly
delivered himself of the following thunderbolt,—

“Girls, you have been deceived, and the young men
you love are impostors.”

“I thought so,” muttered Helen, grimly.

“Oh, uncle, don’t, don’t say that!” cried Amy, despairingly.

“It’s true, my dears; and the worst of it is, I knew
the truth all the time. Now, don’t have hysterics, but
listen and enjoy the joke as I do. At Coblentz, when
you sat in the balcony, two young men overheard Amy
sigh for adventures, and Helen advise making a romance
out of the gloves one of the lads had dropped. They
had seen you by day; both admired you, and being
idle, gay young fellows, they resolved to devote their
.bn 240.png
.pn +1
vacation to gratifying your wishes and enjoying themselves.
We met at the Fortress; I knew one of them,
and liked the other immensely; so when they confided
their scheme to me I agreed to help them carry it out,
as I had perfect confidence in both, and thought a little
adventure or two would do you good.”

“Uncle, you were mad,” said Helen; and Amy added,
tragically,—

“You don’t know what trouble has come of it.”

“Perhaps I was; that remains to be proved. I do
know everything, and fail to see any trouble, so don’t
cry, little girl,” briskly replied the inexplicable major,
“Well, we had a merry time planning our prank. One
of the lads insisted on playing courier, though I objected.
He’d done it before, liked the part, and would
have his way. The other couldn’t decide, being younger
and more in love; so we left him to come into the
comedy when he was ready. Karl did capitally, as you
will allow; and I am much attached to him, for in all
respects he has been true to his word. He began at
Coblentz; the other, after doing the mysterious at Heidelberg,
appeared as an exile, and made quick work with
the prejudices of my well-beloved nieces—hey, Amy?”

“Go on; who are they?” cried both girls, breathlessly.

“Wait a bit; I’m not bound to expose the poor
fellows to your scorn and anger. No; if you are going
to be high and haughty, to forget their love, refuse to
forgive their frolic, and rend their hearts with reproaches,
better let them remain unknown.”

“No, no; we will forget and forgive, only speak!”
was the command of both.
.bn 241.png
.pn +1

“You promise to be lenient and mild, to let them
confess their motives, and to award a gentle penance
for their sins?”

“Yes, we promise!”

“Then, come in, my lads, and plead for your lives.”

As he spoke the major threw open the door, and two
gentlemen entered the room—one, slight and dark,
with brilliant black eyes; the other tall and large, with
blond hair and beard. Angry, bewildered, and shame-stricken
as they were, feminine curiosity overpowered
all other feelings for the moment, and the girls sat looking
at the culprits with eager eyes, full of instant recognition;
for though the disguise was off, and neither had
seen them in their true characters but once, they felt
no doubt, and involuntarily exclaimed,—

“Karl!”

“Casimer.”

“No, young ladies; the courier and exile are defunct,
and from their ashes rise Baron Sigismund Palsdorf,
my friend, and Sidney Power, my nephew. I give
you one hour to settle the matter; then I shall return
to bestow my blessing or to banish these scapegraces
forever.”

And, having fired his last shot, the major prudently
retreated, without waiting to see its effect.

It was tremendous, for it carried confusion into the
fair enemy’s camp; and gave the besiegers a momentary
advantage of which they were not slow to avail
themselves.

For a moment the four remained mute and motionless:
then Amy, like all timid things, took refuge in
flight, and Sidney followed her into the garden, glad to
.bn 242.png
.pn +1
see the allies separated. Helen, with the courage of
her nature, tried to face and repulse the foe; but love
was stronger than pride, maiden shame overcame anger,
and, finding it vain to meet and bear down the steady,
tender glance of the blue eyes fixed upon her, she
drooped her head into her hands and sat before him,
like one conquered but too proud to cry “Quarter.”
Her lover watched her till she hid her face, then drew
near, knelt down before her, and said, with an undertone
of deep feeling below the mirthful malice of his
words,—

“Mademoiselle, pardon me that I am a foolish baron,
and dare to offer you the title that you hate. I have
served you faithfully for a month, and, presumptuous as
it is, I ask to be allowed to serve you all my life.
Helen, say you forgive the deceit for love’s sake.”

“No; you are false and forsworn. How can I believe
that anything is true?”

And Helen drew away the hand of which he had
taken possession.

“Heart’s dearest, you trusted me in spite of my disguise;
trust me still, and I will prove that I am neither
false nor forsworn. Catechise me, and see if I was not
true in spite of all my seeming deception.”

“You said your name was Karl Hoffman,” began
Helen, glad to gain a little time to calm herself before
the momentous question came.

“It is; I have many, and my family choose to call me
Sigismund,” was the laughing answer.

“I’ll never call you so; you shall be Karl, the courier,
all your life to me,” cried Helen, still unable to meet the
ardent eyes before her.
.bn 243.png
.pn +1

“Good; I like that well; for it assures me that all
my life I shall be something to you, my heart. What
next?”

“When I asked if you were the baron, you denied
it.”

“Pardon! I simply said my name was Hoffman.
You did not ask me point blank if I was the baron; had
you done so, I think I should have confessed all, for it
was very hard to restrain myself this morning.”

“No, not yet; I have more questions;” and Helen
warned him away, as it became evident that he no
longer considered restraint necessary.

“Who is Ludmilla?” she said, sharply.

“My faith, that is superb!” exclaimed the baron,
with a triumphant smile at her betrayal of jealousy.
“How if she is a former love?” he asked, with a sly
look at her changing face.

“It would cause me no surprise; I am prepared for
anything.”

“How if she is my dearest sister, for whom I sent,
that she might welcome you and bring the greetings of
my parents to their new daughter?”

“Is it, indeed, so?”

And Helen’s eyes dimmed as the thought of parents,
home and love filled her heart with tenderest gratitude,
for she had long been an orphan.

“<i>Leibchen</i>, it is true; to-morrow you shall see and
know how dear you already are to them, for I write
often and they wait eagerly to receive you.”

Helen felt herself going very fast, and made an effort
to harden her heart, less too easy victory should reward
this audacious lover.
.bn 244.png
.pn +1

“I may not go; I also have friends, and in England
we are not won in this wild way. I will yet prove you
false; it will console me for being so duped if I can
call you traitor. You said Casimer had fought in
Poland.”

“Cruelest of women, he did, but under his own name,
Sidney Power.”

“Then, he was not the brave Stanislas?—and there
is no charming Casimer?”

“Yes, there are both,—his and my friends, in
Paris; true Poles, and when we go there you shall see
them.”

“But his illness was a ruse?”

“No; he was wounded in the war and has been ill
since. Not of a fatal malady, I own; his cough misled
you, and <i>he</i> has no scruples in fabling to any extent. I
am not to bear the burden of his sins.”

“Then, the romances he told us about your charity,
your virtues, and—your love of liberty were false?”
said Helen, with a keen glance, for these tales had done
much to interest her in the unknown baron.

Sudden color rose to his forehead, and for the first
time his eyes fell before hers,—not in shame, but with
a modest man’s annoyance at hearing himself praised.

“Sidney is enthusiastic in his friendship, and speaks
too well for me. The facts are true, but he doubtless
glorified the simplest by his way of telling it. Will you
forgive my follies, and believe me when I promise to
play and duel no more?”

“Yes.”

She yielded her hand now, and her eyes were full of
happiness, yet she added, wistfully,—
.bn 245.png
.pn +1

“And the betrothed, your cousin, Minna,—is she,
in truth, not dear to you?”

“Very dear, but less so than another; for I could
not learn of her in years what I learned in a day when I
met you. Helen, this was begun in jest,—it ends in
solemn earnest, for I love my liberty, and I have lost
it, utterly and forever. Yet I am glad; look in my face
and tell me you believe it.”

He spoke now as seriously as fervently, and with no
shadow on her own, Helen brushed back the blond hair
and looked into her lover’s face. Truth, tenderness,
power, and candor were written there in characters that
could not lie; and with her heart upon her lips, she
answered, as he drew her close,—

“I do believe, do love you, Sigismund!”

Meanwhile another scene was passing in the garden.
Sidney, presuming upon his cousinship, took possession
of Amy, bidding her “strike but hear him.” Of course
she listened with the usual accompaniment of tears and
smiles, reproaches and exclamations, varied by cruel
exultations and coquettish commands to go away and
never dare approach her again.

“<i>Ma drogha</i>, listen and be appeased. Years ago you
and I played together as babies, and our fond mammas
vowed we should one day mate. When I was a youth
of fourteen and you a mite of seven I went away to
India with my father, and at our parting promised to
come back and marry you. Being in a fret because you
couldn’t go also, you haughtily declined the honor, and
when I offered a farewell kiss, struck me with this very
little hand. Do you remember it?”

“Not I. Too young for such nonsense.”
.bn 246.png
.pn +1

“I do, and I also remember that in my boyish way
I resolved to keep my word sooner or later, and I’ve
done it.”

“We shall see, sir,” cried Amy, strongly tempted to
repeat her part of the childish scene as well as her cousin,
but her hand was not free, and he got the kiss without
the blow.

“For eleven years we never met. You forgot me
entirely, and ‘Cousin Sidney’ remained an empty name.
I was in India till four years ago; since then I’ve been
flying about Germany and fighting in Poland, where I
nearly got my quietus.”

“My dear boy, were you wounded?”

“Bless you, yes; and very proud of it I am. I’ll
show you my scars some day; but never mind that now.
A little while ago I went to England, seized with a
sudden desire to find my wife.”

“I admire your patience in waiting; so flattering to
me, you know,” was the sharp answer.

“It looks like neglect, I confess; but I’d heard
reports of your flirtations, and twice of your being engaged,
so I kept away till my work was done. Was it
true?”

“I never flirt, Sidney, and I was only engaged a
little bit once or twice. I didn’t like it, and never mean
to do so any more.”

“I shall see that you don’t flirt; but you are very
much engaged now, so put on your ring and make no
romances about any ‘S. P.’ but myself.”

“I shall wait till you clear your character; I’m not
going to care for a deceitful impostor. What made you
think of this prank?”
.bn 247.png
.pn +1

“You did.”

“I? How?”

“When in England I saw your picture, though you
were many a mile away, and fell in love with it. Your
mother told me much about you, and I saw she would
not frown upon my suit. I begged her not to tell you I
had come, but let me find you and make myself known
when I liked. You were in Switzerland, and I went
after you. At Coblentz I met Sigismund, and told him
my case; he is full of romance, and when we overheard
you in the balcony we were glad of the hint. Sigismund
was with me when you came, and admired Helen immensely,
so he was wild to have a part in the frolic. I
let him begin, and followed you unseen to Heidelberg,
meaning to personate an artist. Meeting you at the
castle, I made a good beginning with the vaults and the
ring, and meant to follow it up by acting the baron, you
were so bent on finding him, but Sigismund forbade it.
Turning over a trunk of things left there the year before,
I came upon my old Polish uniform, and decided to be
a Thaddeus.”

“How well you did it! Wasn’t it hard to act all the
time?” asked Amy, wonderingly.

“Very hard with Helen, she is so keen, but not a bit
so with you, for you are such a confiding soul any one
could cheat you. I’ve betrayed myself a dozen times,
and you never saw it. Ah, it was capital fun to play
the forlorn exile, study English, and flirt with my
cousin.”

“It was very base. I should think you’d be devoured
with remorse. Aren’t you sorry?”

“For one thing. I cropped my head lest you should
.bn 248.png
.pn +1
know me. I was proud of my curls, but I sacrificed
them all to you.”

“Peacock! Did you think that one glimpse of your
black eyes and fine hair would make such an impression
that I should recognize you again?”

“I did, and for that reason disfigured my head, put
on a mustache, and assumed hideous spectacles. Did
you never suspect my disguise, Amy?”

“No. Helen used to say that she felt something was
wrong, but I never did till the other night.”

“Didn’t I do that well? I give you my word it was
all done on the spur of the minute. I meant to speak
soon, but had not decided how, when you came out so
sweetly with that confounded old cloak, of which I’d
no more need than an African has of a blanket. Then
a scene I’d read in a novel came into my head, and I
just repeated it <i>con amore</i>. Was I very pathetic and
tragical, Amy?”

“I thought so then. It strikes me as ridiculous now,
and I can’t help feeling sorry that I wasted so much pity
on a man who—”

“Loves you with all his heart and soul. Did you cry
and grieve over me, dear little tender thing? and do you
think now that I am a heartless fellow, bent only on
amusing myself at the expense of others? It’s not so;
and you shall see how true and good and steady I can
be when I have any one to love and care for me. I’ve
been alone so long it’s new and beautiful to be petted,
confided in, and looked up to by an angel like you.”

He was in earnest now; she felt it, and her anger
melted away like dew before the sun.

“Poor boy! You will go home with us now, and let
.bn 249.png
.pn +1
us take care of you in quiet England. You’ll play no
more pranks, but go soberly to work and do something
that shall make me proud to be your cousin, won’t
you?”

“If you’ll change ‘cousin’ to ‘wife’ I’ll be and do
whatever you please. Amy, when I was a poor, dying,
Catholic foreigner you loved me and would have married
me in spite of everything. Now that I’m your well,
rich, Protestant cousin, who adores you as that Pole
never could, you turn cold and cruel. Is it because the
romance is gone, or because your love was only a girl’s
fancy, after all?”

“You deceived me and I can’t forget it; but I’ll
try,” was the soft answer to his reproaches.

“Are you disappointed that I’m not a baron?”

“A little bit.”

“Shall I be a count? They gave me a title in Poland,
a barren honor, but all they had to offer, poor
souls, in return for a little blood. Will you be Countess
Zytomar and get laughed at for your pains, or plain
Mrs. Power, with a good old English name?”

“Neither, thank you; it’s only a girlish fancy, which
will soon be forgotten. Does the baron love Helen?”
asked Amy, abruptly.

“Desperately, and she?”

“I think he will be happy; she is not one to make
confidantes, but I know by her tenderness with me, her
sadness lately, and something in her way of brightening
when he comes, that she thinks much of him and loves
Karl Hoffman. How it will be with the baron I cannot
say.”

“No fear of him; he wins his way everywhere. I
.bn 250.png
.pn +1
wish I were as fortunate;” and the gay young gentleman
heaved an artful sigh and coughed the cough that always
brought such pity to the girl’s soft eyes.

She glanced at him as he leaned pensively on the low
wall, looking down into the lake, with the level rays of
sunshine on his comely face and figure. Something
softer than pity stole into her eye, as she said, anxiously,—

“You are not really ill, Sidney?”

“I have been, and still need care, else I may have a
relapse,” was the reply of this treacherous youth, whose
constitution was as sound as a bell.

Amy clasped her hands, as if in a transport of gratitude,
exclaiming, fervently,—

“What a relief it is to know that you are not doomed
to—”

She paused with a shiver, as if the word were too
hard to utter, and Sidney turned to her with a beaming
face, which changed to one of mingled pain and anger,
as she added, with a wicked glance,—

“Wear spectacles.”

“Amy, you’ve got no heart!” he cried, in a tone
that banished her last doubt of his love and made her
whisper tenderly, as she clung to his arm,—

“No, dear; I’ve given it all to you.”

Punctual to the minute, Major Erskine marched into
the <i>salon</i>, with Mrs. Cumberland on his arm, exclaiming,
as he eyed the four young people together again,—

“Now, ladies, is it to be ‘Paradise Lost’ or ‘Regained’
for the prisoners at the bar?”

At this point the astonished gentleman found himself
taken possession of by four excited individuals, for the
.bn 251.png
.pn +1
girls embraced and kissed him, the young men wrung
his hand and thanked him, and all seemed bent on
assuring him that they were intensely happy, grateful
and affectionate.

From this assault he emerged flushed and breathless,
but beaming with satisfaction, and saying paternally,—

“Bless you, my children, bless you. I hoped and
worked for this, and to prove how well I practise what
I preach, let me present to you—my wife.”

As he drew forward the plump widow with a face full
of smiles and tears, a second rush was made, and congratulations,
salutes, exclamations and embraces were
indulged in to every one’s satisfaction.

As the excitement subsided the major said, simply,—

“We were married yesterday at Montreaux. Let
me hope that you will prove as faithful as I have been,
as happy as I am, as blest as I shall be. I loved this
lady in my youth, have waited many years, and am rewarded
at last, for love never comes too late.”

The falter in his cheery voice, the dimness of his
eyes, the smile on his lips, and the gesture with which
he returned the pressure of the hand upon his arm,
told the little romance of the good major’s life more
eloquently than pages of fine writing, and touched the
hearts of those who loved him.

“I have been faithful for eleven years. Give me my
reward soon, won’t you, dear?” whispered Sidney.

“Don’t marry me to-morrow, and if mamma is willing
I’ll think about it by and by,” answered Amy.

“It is beautiful! let us go and do likewise,” said
Sigismund to his betrothed.

But Helen, anxious to turn the thoughts of all from
.bn 252.png
.pn +1
emotions too deep for words, drew from her pocket a
small pearl-colored object, which she gave to Amy with
mock solemnity, as she said, turning to lay her hand
again in her lover’s,—

“Amy, our search is over. <i>You</i> may keep the
gloves; <i>I</i> have the baron.”
.bn 253.png
.pn +1
.sp 4
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch07
MY RED CAP.||<s>“He who serves well need not fear to ask his wages.”</s>
.hr 10%
.h3
I.
.sp 2
.dc 0.2 0.65
IT was under a blue cap that I first saw the honest
face of Joe Collins. In the third year of the late
war a Maine regiment was passing through Boston, on
its way to Washington. The Common was all alive
with troops and the spectators who clustered round
them to say God-speed, as the brave fellows marched
away to meet danger and death for our sakes.

Every one was eager to do something; and, as the
men stood at ease, the people mingled freely with them,
offering gifts, hearty grips of the hand, and hopeful
prophecies of victory in the end. Irresistibly attracted,
my boy Tom and I drew near, and soon, becoming excited
by the scene, ravaged the fruit-stands in our
neighborhood for tokens of our regard, mingling candy
and congratulations, peanuts and prayers, apples and
applause, in one enthusiastic jumble.

While Tom was off on his third raid, my attention
was attracted by a man who stood a little apart, looking
as if his thoughts were far away. All the men were
fine, stalwart fellows, as Maine men usually are; but
this one over-topped his comrades, standing straight
and tall as a Norway pine, with a face full of the
.bn 254.png
.pn +1
mingled shrewdness, sobriety, and self-possession of
the typical New Englander. I liked the look of him;
and, seeing that he seemed solitary, even in a crowd, I
offered him my last apple with a word of interest. The
keen blue eyes met mine gratefully, and the apple began
to vanish in vigorous bites as we talked; for no
one thought of ceremony at such a time.

“Where are you from?”

“Woolidge, ma’am.”

“Are you glad to go?”

“Wal, there’s two sides to that question. I calk’late
to do my duty, and do it hearty; but it <i>is</i> rough on a
feller leavin’ his folks, for good, maybe.”

There was a sudden huskiness in the man’s voice that
was not apple-skins, though he tried to make believe
that it was. I knew a word about home would comfort
him, so I went on with my questions.

“It is very hard. Do you leave a family?”

“My old mother, a sick brother,—and Lucindy.”

The last word was uttered in a tone of intense regret,
and his brown cheek reddened as he added hastily, to
hide some embarrassment,—

“You see, Jim went last year, and got pretty well
used up; so I felt as if I’d ought to take my turn now.
Mother was a regular old hero about it and I dropped
everything, and come off. Lucindy didn’t think it was
my duty; and that made it awful hard, I tell you.”

“Wives are less patriotic than mothers,” I began;
but he would not hear Lucindy blamed, and said
quickly,—

“She ain’t my wife yet, but we calk’lated to be
married in a month or so; and it was wus for her than
.bn 255.png
.pn +1
for me, women lot so on not being disappointed. I
<i>couldn’t</i> shirk, and here I be. When I git to work, I
shall be all right: the first wrench is the tryin’ part.”

Here he straightened his broad shoulders, and turned
his face toward the flags fluttering far in front, as if no
backward look should betray the longing of his heart
for mother, home, and wife. I liked that little glimpse
of character; and when Tom returned with empty hands,
reporting that every stall was exhausted, I told him to
find out what the man would like best, then run across
the street and get it.

“I know without asking. Give us your purse, and
I’ll make him as happy as a king,” said the boy, laughing,
as he looked up admiringly at our tall friend, who
looked down on him with an elder-brotherly air pleasant
to see. While Tom was gone, I found out Joe’s
name and business, promised to write and tell his
mother how finely the regiment went off, and was just
expressing a hope that we might meet again, for I too
was going to the war as nurse, when the order to “Fall
in!” came rolling down the ranks, and the talk was
over. Fearing Tom would miss our man in the confusion,
I kept my eye on him till the boy came rushing
up with a packet of tobacco in one hand and a good
supply of cigars in the other. Not a romantic offering,
certainly, but a very acceptable one, as Joe’s face
proved, as we scrambled these treasures into his
pockets, all laughing at the flurry, while less fortunate
comrades helped us, with an eye to a share of these fragrant
luxuries by and by. There was just time for this,
a hearty shake of the big hand, and a grateful “Good-by,
ma’am;” then the word was given, and they were
.bn 256.png
.pn +1
off. Bent on seeing the last of them, Tom and I took
a short cut, and came out on the wide street down
which so many troops marched that year; and, mounting
some high steps, we watched for our man, as we
already called him.

As the inspiring music, the grand tramp, drew near,
the old thrill went through the crowd, the old cheer
broke out. But it was a different scene now than in
the first enthusiastic, hopeful days. Young men and
ardent boys filled the ranks then, brave by instinct,
burning with loyal zeal, and blissfully unconscious of
all that lay before them. Now the blue coats were
worn by mature men, some gray, all grave and resolute:
husbands and fathers, with the memory of wives and
children tugging at their heart-strings; homes left
desolate behind them, and before them the grim certainty
of danger, hardship, and perhaps the life-long
helplessness worse than death. Little of the glamour
of romance about the war now: they saw it as it was, a
long, hard task; and here were the men to do it well.
Even the lookers-on were different now. Once all was
wild enthusiasm and glad uproar; now men’s lips were
set, and women’s smileless as they cheered; fewer
handkerchiefs whitened the air, for wet eyes needed
them; and sudden lulls, almost solemn in their stillness,
followed the acclamations of the crowd. All
watched with quickened breath and brave souls that
living wave, blue below, and bright with a steely glitter
above, as it flowed down the street and away to distant
battle-fields already stained with precious blood.

“There he is! The outside man, and tallest of the
lot. Give him a cheer, auntie: he sees us, and remembers!”
.bn 257.png
.pn +1
cried Tom, nearly tumbling off his perch, as he
waved his hat, and pointed out Joe Collins.

Yes, there he was, looking up, with a smile on his
brave brown face, my little nosegay in his button-hole,
a suspicious bulge in the pocket close by, and doubtless
a comfortable quid in his mouth, to cheer the weary
march. How like an old friend he looked, though we
had only met fifteen minutes ago; how glad we were to
be there to smile back at him, and send him on his way
feeling that, even in a strange city, there was some one
to say, “God bless you, Joe!” We watched the tallest
blue cap till it vanished, and then went home in a glow
of patriotism,—Tom to long for his turn to come, I to
sew vigorously on the gray gown the new nurse burned
to wear as soon as possible, and both of us to think and
speak often of poor Joe Collins and his Lucindy. All
this happened long ago; but it is well to recall those
stirring times,—to keep fresh the memory of sacrifices
made for us by men like these; to see to it that the
debt we owe them is honestly, gladly paid; and, while
we decorate the graves of those who died, to remember
also those who still live to deserve our grateful care.
.sp 2
.tb
.h3
II.
.sp 2
<sc>I never</sc> expected to see Joe again; but, six months
later, we did meet in a Washington hospital one winter’s
night. A train of ambulances had left their sad freight
at our door, and we were hurrying to get the poor fellows
into much-needed beds, after a week of hunger,
.bn 258.png
.pn +1
cold, and unavoidable neglect. All forms of pain were
in my ward that night, and all borne with the pathetic
patience which was a daily marvel to those who saw it.

Trying to bring order out of chaos, I was rushing up
and down the narrow aisle between the rows of rapidly
filling beds, and, after brushing several times against a
pair of the largest and muddiest boots I ever saw, I
paused at last to inquire why they were impeding the
passage-way. I found they belonged to a very tall man
who seemed to be already asleep or dead, so white and
still and utterly worn out he looked as he lay there,
without a coat, a great patch on his forehead, and the
right arm rudely bundled up. Stooping to cover him, I
saw that he was unconscious, and, whipping out my
brandy-bottle and salts, soon brought him round, for it
was only exhaustion.

“Can you eat?” I asked, as he said, “Thanky,
ma’am,” after a long draught of water and a dizzy
stare.

“Eat! I’m starvin’!” he answered, with such a
ravenous glance at a fat nurse who happened to be passing,
that I trembled for her, and hastened to take a bowl
of soup from her tray.

As I fed him, his gaunt, weather-beaten face had a
familiar look; but so many such faces had passed before
me that winter, I did not recall this one till the ward-master
came to put up the cards with the new-comers’
names above their beds. My man seemed absorbed in
his food; but I naturally glanced at the card, and there
was the name “Joseph Collins” to give me an additional
interest in my new patient.

“Why, Joe! is it really you?” I exclaimed, pouring
.bn 259.png
.pn +1
the last spoonful of soup down his throat so hastily that
I choked him.

“All that’s left of me. Wal, ain’t this luck, now?”
gasped Joe, as gratefully as if that hospital-cot was a
bed of roses.

“What is the matter? A wound in the head and
arm?” I asked, feeling sure that no slight affliction had
brought Joe there.

“Right arm gone. Shot off as slick as a whistle. I
tell you, it’s a sing’lar kind of a feelin’ to see a piece of
your own body go flyin’ away, with no prospect of ever
coming back again,” said Joe, trying to make light of
one of the greatest misfortunes a man can suffer.

“That is bad, but it might have been worse. Keep
up your spirits, Joe; and we will soon have you fitted
out with a new arm almost as good as new.”

“I guess it won’t do much lumberin’, so that trade is
done for. I s’pose there’s things left-handed fellers can
do, and I must learn ’em as soon as possible, since my
fightin’ days are over,” and Joe looked at his one arm
with a sigh that was almost a groan, helplessness is such
a trial to a manly man,—and he was eminently so.

“What can I do to comfort you most, Joe? I’ll
send my good Ben to help you to bed, and will be here
myself when the surgeon goes his rounds. Is there anything
else that would make you more easy?”

“If you could just drop a line to mother to let her
know I’m alive, it would be a sight of comfort to both
of us. I guess I’m in for a long spell of hospital, and
I’d lay easier if I knew mother and Lucindy warn’t
frettin’ about me.”

He must have been suffering terribly, but he thought
.bn 260.png
.pn +1
of the women who loved him before himself, and, busy
as I was, I snatched a moment to send a few words of
hope to the old mother. Then I left him “layin’ easy,”
though the prospect of some months of wearing pain
would have daunted most men. If I had needed anything
to increase my regard for Joe, it would have been
the courage with which he bore a very bad quarter of an
hour with the surgeons; for his arm was in a dangerous
state, the wound in the head feverish for want of care;
and a heavy cold on the lungs suggested pneumonia as
an added trial to his list of ills.

“He will have a hard time of it, but I think he will
pull through, as he is a temperate fellow, with a splendid
constitution,” was the doctor’s verdict, as he left us for
the next man, who was past help, with a bullet through
his lungs.

“I don’no as I hanker to live, and be a burden. If
Jim was able to do for mother, I feel as if I wouldn’t
mind steppin’ out now I’m so fur along. As he ain’t,
I s’pose I must brace up, and do the best I can,” said
Joe, as I wiped the drops from his forehead, and tried
to look as if his prospect was a bright one.

“You will have Lucindy to help you, you know; and
that will make things easier for all.”

“Think so? ’Pears to me I couldn’t ask her to take
care of three invalids for my sake. She ain’t no folks
of her own, nor much means, and ought to marry a man
who can make things easy for her. Guess I’ll have to
wait a spell longer before I say anything to Lucindy
about marryin’ now;” and a look of resolute resignation
settled on Joe’s haggard face as he gave up his dearest
hope.
.bn 261.png
.pn +1

“I think Lucindy will have something to say, if she
is like most women, and you will find the burdens much
lighter, for sharing them between you. Don’t worry
about that, but get well, and go home as soon as you
can.”

“All right, ma’am;” and Joe proved himself a good
soldier by obeying orders, and falling asleep like a tired
child, as the first step toward recovery.

For two months I saw Joe daily, and learned to like
him very much, he was so honest, genuine, and kind-hearted.
So did his mates, for he made friends with
them all by sharing such small luxuries as came to him,
for he was a favorite; and, better still, he made sunshine
in that sad place by the brave patience with which
he bore his own troubles, the cheerful consolation he
always gave to others. A droll fellow was Joe at times,
for under his sobriety lay much humor; and I soon
discovered that a visit from him was more efficacious
than other cordials in cases of despondency and discontent.
Roars of laughter sometimes greeted me as I
went into his ward, and Joe’s jokes were passed round
as eagerly as the water-pitcher.

Yet he had much to try him, not only in the ills that
vexed his flesh, but the cares that tried his spirit, and
the future that lay before him, full of anxieties and responsibilities
which seemed so heavy now when the
strong right arm, that had cleared all obstacles away
before, was gone. The letters I wrote for him, and
those he received, told the little story very plainly; for
he read them to me, and found much comfort in talking
over his affairs, as most men do when illness makes them
dependent on a woman. Jim was evidently sick and
.bn 262.png
.pn +1
selfish. Lucindy, to judge from the photograph cherished
so tenderly under Joe’s pillow, was a pretty, weak
sort of a girl, with little character or courage to help
poor Joe with his burdens. The old mother was very
like her son, and stood by him “like a hero,” as he said,
but was evidently failing, and begged him to come home
as soon as he was able, that she might see him comfortably
settled before she must leave him. Her courage
sustained his, and the longing to see her hastened his
departure as soon as it was safe to let him go; for
Lucindy’s letters were always of a dismal sort, and made
him anxious to put his shoulder to the wheel.

“She always set consider’ble by me, mother did, bein’
the oldest; and I wouldn’t miss makin’ her last days
happy, not if it cost me all the arms and legs I’ve got,”
said Joe, as he awkwardly struggled into the big boots
an hour after leave to go home was given him.

It was pleasant to see his comrades gather round him
with such hearty adieus that his one hand must have
tingled; to hear the good wishes and the thanks called
after him by pale creatures in their beds; and to find
tears in many eyes beside my own when he was gone,
and nothing was left of him but the empty cot, the old
gray wrapper, and the name upon the wall.

I kept that card among my other relics, and hoped to
meet Joe again somewhere in the world. He sent me
one or two letters, then I went home; the war ended
soon after, time passed, and the little story of my Maine
lumberman was laid away with many other experiences
which made that part of my life a very memorable one.
.bn 263.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.tb
.h3
III.
.sp 2
<sc>Some</sc> years later, as I looked out of my window one
dull November day, the only cheerful thing I saw was
the red cap of a messenger who was examining the slate
that hung on a wall opposite my hotel. A tall man
with gray hair and beard, one arm, and a blue army-coat.
I always salute, figuratively at least, when I see
that familiar blue, especially if one sleeve of the coat is
empty; so I watched the messenger with interest as he
trudged away on some new errand, wishing he had a
better day and a thicker pair of boots. He was an unusually
large, well-made man, and reminded me of a
fine building going to ruin before its time; for the broad
shoulders were bent, there was a stiffness about the long
legs suggestive of wounds or rheumatism, and the curly
hair looked as if snow had fallen on it too soon. Sitting
at work in my window, I fell into the way of watching
my Red Cap, as I called him, with more interest than I
did the fat doves on the roof opposite, or the pert sparrows
hopping in the mud below. I liked the steady way
in which he plodded on through fair weather or foul, as
if intent on doing well the one small service he had
found to do. I liked his cheerful whistle as he stood
waiting for a job under the porch of the public building
where his slate hung, watching the luxurious carriages
roll by, and the well-to-do gentlemen who daily passed
him to their comfortable homes, with a steady, patient
sort of face, as if wondering at the inequalities of fortune,
yet neither melancholy nor morose over the small
share of prosperity which had fallen to his lot.
.bn 264.png
.pn +1

I often planned to give him a job, that I might see
him nearer; but I had few errands, and little Bob, the
hall-boy, depended on doing those: so the winter was
nearly over before I found out that my Red Cap was an
old friend.

A parcel came for me one day, and bidding the man
wait for an answer, I sat down to write it, while the
messenger stood just inside the door like a sentinel on
duty. When I looked up to give my note and directions,
I found the man staring at me with a beaming
yet bashful face, as he nodded, saying heartily,—

“I mistrusted it was you, ma’am, soon’s I see the
name on the bundle, and I guess I ain’t wrong. It’s
a number of years sence we met, and you don’t remember
Joe Collins as well as he does you, I reckon?”

“Why, how you have changed! I’ve been seeing
you every day all winter, and never knew you,” I said,
shaking hands with my old patient, and very glad to
see him.

“Nigh on to twenty years makes consid’able of a
change in folks, ’specially if they have a pretty hard
row to hoe.”

“Sit down and warm yourself while you tell me all
about it; there is no hurry for this answer, and I’ll pay
for your time.”

Joe laughed as if that was a good joke, and sat down
as if the fire was quite as welcome as the friend.

“How are they all at home?” I asked, as he sat
turning his cap round, not quite knowing where to
begin.

“I haven’t got any home nor any folks neither;”
and the melancholy words banished the brightness from
.bn 265.png
.pn +1
his rough face like a cloud. “Mother died soon after
I got back. Suddin’, but she was ready, and I was
there, so she was happy. Jim lived a number of years,
and was a sight of care, poor feller; but we managed
to rub along, though we had to sell the farm: for I
couldn’t do much with one arm, and doctor’s bills right
along stiddy take a heap of money. He was as comfortable
as he could be; and, when he was gone, it
wasn’t no great matter, for there was only me, and I
don’t mind roughin’ it.”

“But Lucindy, where was she?” I asked very naturally.

“Oh! she married another man long ago. Couldn’t
expect her to take me and my misfortins. She’s doin’
well, I hear, and that’s a comfort anyway.”

There was a look on Joe’s face, a tone in Joe’s voice
as he spoke, that plainly showed how much he had
needed comfort when left to bear his misfortunes all
alone. But he made no complaint, uttered no reproach,
and loyally excused Lucindy’s desertion with a simple
sort of dignity that made it impossible to express pity
or condemnation.

“How came you here, Joe?” I asked, making a
sudden leap from past to present.

“I had to scratch for a livin’, and can’t do much;
so, after tryin’ a number of things, I found this. My
old wounds pester me a good deal, and rheumatism is
bad winters; but, while my legs hold out, I can git on.
A man can’t set down and starve; so I keep waggin’ as
long as I can. When I can’t do no more, I s’pose
there’s almshouse and hospital ready for me.”

“That is a dismal prospect, Joe. There ought to be
.bn 266.png
.pn +1
a comfortable place for such as you to spend your last
days in. I am sure you have earned it.”

“Wal, it does seem ruther hard on us when we’ve
give all we had, and give it free and hearty, to be left
to knock about in our old age. But there’s so many
poor folks to be took care of, we don’t get much of a
chance, for <i>we</i> ain’t the beggin’ sort,” said Joe, with a
wistful look at the wintry world outside, as if it would
be better to lie quiet under the snow, than to drag out
his last painful years, friendless and forgotten, in some
refuge of the poor.

“Some kind people have been talking of a home for
soldiers, and I hope the plan will be carried out. It
will take time; but, if it comes to pass, you shall be
one of the first men to enter that home, Joe, if I can
get you there.”

“That sounds mighty cheerin’ and comfortable,
thanky, ma’am. Idleness is dreadful tryin’ to me, and
I’d ruther wear out than rust out; so I guess I can
weather it a spell longer. But it will be pleasant to
look forrard to a snug harbor byme-by. I feel a sight
better just hearin’ tell about it.” He certainly looked
so, faint as the hope was; for the melancholy eyes
brightened as if they already saw a happier refuge in
the future than almshouse, hospital, or grave, and, when
he trudged away upon my errand, he went as briskly as
if every step took him nearer to the promised home.

After that day it was all up with Bob, for I told my
neighbors Joe’s story, and we kept him trotting busily,
adding little gifts, and taking the sort of interest in him
that comforted the lonely fellow, and made him feel that
he had not outlived his usefulness. I never looked out
.bn 267.png
.pn +1
when he was at his post that he did not smile back at
me; I never passed him in the street that the red cap
was not touched with a military flourish; and, when
any of us beckoned to him, no twinge of rheumatism
was too sharp to keep him from hurrying to do our
errands, as if he had Mercury’s winged feet.

Now and then he came in for a chat, and always
asked how the Soldiers’ Home was prospering; expressing
his opinion that “Boston was the charitablest
city under the sun, and he was sure he and his mates
would be took care of somehow.”

When we parted in the spring, I told him things
looked hopeful, bade him be ready for a good long rest
as soon as the hospitable doors were open, and left him
nodding cheerfully.
.sp 2
.tb
.h3
IV.
.sp 2
<sc>But</sc> in the autumn I looked in vain for Joe. The
slate was in its old place, and a messenger came and
went on his beat; but a strange face was under the red
cap, and this man had two arms and one eye. I asked
for Collins, but the new-comer had only a vague idea
that he was dead; and the same answer was given me
at headquarters, though none of the busy people seemed
to know when or where he died. So I mourned for
Joe, and felt that it was very hard he could not have
lived to enjoy the promised refuge; for, relying upon
the charity that never fails, the Home was an actual
fact now, just beginning its beneficent career. People
.bn 268.png
.pn +1
were waking up to this duty, money was coming in,
meetings were being held, and already a few poor fellows
were in the refuge, feeling themselves no longer
paupers, but invalid soldiers honorably supported by
the State they had served. Talking it over one day
with a friend, who spent her life working for the Associated
Charities, she said,—

“By the way, there is a man boarding with one of my
poor women, who ought to be got into the Home, if he
will go. I don’t know much about him, except that he
was in the army, has been very ill with rheumatic fever,
and is friendless. I asked Mrs. Flanagin how she managed
to keep him, and she said she had help while he
was sick, and now he is able to hobble about, he takes
care of the children, so she is able to go out to work.
He won’t go to his own town, because there is nothing
for him there but the almshouse, and he dreads a hospital;
so struggles along, trying to earn his bread tending
babies with his one arm. A sad case, and in your
line; I wish you’d look into it.”

“That sounds like my Joe, one arm and all. I’ll
go and see him; I’ve a weakness for soldiers, sick or
well.”

I went, and never shall forget the pathetic little
tableau I saw as I opened Mrs. Flanagin’s dingy door;
for she was out, and no one heard my tap. The room
was redolent of suds, and in a grove of damp clothes
hung on lines sat a man with a crying baby laid across
his lap, while he fed three small children standing at
his knee with bread and molasses. How he managed
with one arm to keep the baby from squirming on to
the floor, the plate from upsetting, and to feed the
.bn 269.png
.pn +1
hungry urchins who stood in a row with open mouths,
like young birds, was past my comprehension. But he
did, trotting baby gently, dealing out sweet morsels
patiently, and whistling to himself, as if to beguile his
labors cheerfully.

The broad back, the long legs, the faded coat, the
low whistle were all familiar; and, dodging a wet sheet,
I faced the man to find it was indeed my Joe! A mere
shadow of his former self, after months of suffering
that had crippled him for life, but brave and patient
still; trying to help himself, and slow to ask aid though
brought so low.

For an instant I could not speak to him, and, encumbered
with baby, dish, spoon, and children, he
could only stare at me with a sudden brightening of the
altered face that made it full of welcome before a word
was uttered.

“They told me you were dead, and I only heard of
you by accident, not knowing I should find my old
friend alive, but not well, I’m afraid?”

“There ain’t much left of me but bones and pain,
ma’am. I’m powerful glad to see you all the same.
Dust off a chair, Patsey, and let the lady set down.
You go in the corner, and take turns lickin’ the dish,
while I see company,” said Joe, disbanding his small
troop, and shouldering the baby as if presenting arms
in honor of his guest.

“Why didn’t you let me know how sick you were?
And how came they to think you dead?” I asked, as
he festooned the wet linen out of the way, and prepared
to enjoy himself as best he could.

“I did send once, when things was at the wust; but
.bn 270.png
.pn +1
you hadn’t got back, and then somehow I thought I
was goin’ to be mustered out for good, and so wouldn’t
trouble nobody. But my orders ain’t come yet, and I
am doing the fust thing that come along. It ain’t much,
but the good soul stood by me, and I ain’t ashamed to
pay my debts this way, sence I can’t do it in no other;”
and Joe cradled the chubby baby in his one arm as
tenderly as if it had been his own, though little Biddy
was not an inviting infant.

“That is very beautiful and right, Joe, and I honor
you for it; but you were not meant to tend babies, so
sing your last lullabies, and be ready to go to the Home
as soon as I can get you there.”

“Really, ma’am? I used to lay and kind of dream
about it when I couldn’t stir without yellin’ out; but I
never thought it would ever come to happen. I see a
piece in the paper describing it, and it sounded dreadful
nice. Shouldn’t wonder if I found some of my
mates there. They were a good lot, and deservin’ of
all that could be done for ’em,” said Joe, trotting the
baby briskly, as if the prospect excited him, as well it
might, for the change from that damp nursery to the
comfortable quarters prepared for him would be like
going from Purgatory to Paradise.

“I don’t wonder you don’t get well living in such a
place, Joe. You should have gone home to Woolwich,
and let your friends help you,” I said, feeling provoked
with him for hiding himself.

“No, ma’am!” he answered, with a look I never
shall forget, it was so full of mingled patience, pride,
and pain. “I haven’t a relation in the world but a
couple of poor old aunts, and they couldn’t do any
.bn 271.png
.pn +1
thing for me. As for asking help of folks I used to
know, I couldn’t do it; and if you think I’d go to
Lucindy, though she is wal off, you don’t know Joe
Collins. I’d die fust! If she was poor and I rich, I’d
do for her like a brother; but I couldn’t ask no favors
of her, not if I begged my vittles in the street, or
starved. I forgive, but I don’t forgit in a hurry; and
the woman that stood by me when I was down is the
woman I believe in, and can take my bread from without
shame. Hooray for Biddy Flanagin! God bless
her!” and, as if to find a vent for the emotion that
filled his eyes with grateful tears, Joe led off the
cheer, which the children shrilly echoed, and I joined
heartily.

“I shall come for you in a few days; so cuddle the
baby and make much of the children before you part.
It won’t take you long to pack up, will it?” I asked, as
we subsided with a general laugh.

“I reckon not as I don’t own any clothes but what I
set in, except a couple of old shirts and them socks.
My hat’s stoppin’ up the winder, and my old coat is my
bed-cover. I’m awful shabby, ma’am, and that’s one
reason I don’t go out more. I can hobble some, but I
ain’t got used to bein’ a scarecrow yet,” and Joe
glanced from the hose without heels that hung on the
line to the ragged suit he wore, with a resigned expression
that made me long to rush out and buy up half
the contents of Oak Hall on the spot.

Curbing this wild impulse I presently departed with
promises of speedy transportation for Joe, and unlimited
oranges to assuage the pangs of parting for the young
Flanagins, who escorted me to the door, while Joe
.bn 272.png
.pn +1
waved the baby like a triumphal banner till I got round
the corner.

There was such a beautiful absence of red tape about
the new institution that it only needed a word in the
right ear to set things going; and then, with a long
pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together, Joe Collins
was taken up and safely landed in the Home he so
much needed and so well deserved.

A happier man or a more grateful one it would be
hard to find, and if a visitor wants an enthusiastic guide
about the place, Joe is the one to take, for all is comfort,
sunshine, and good-will to him; and he unconsciously
shows how great the need of this refuge is, as
he hobbles about on his lame feet, pointing out its
beauties, conveniences, and delights with his one arm,
while his face shines, and his voice quavers a little as
he says gratefully,—

“The State don’t forget us, you see, and this is a
Home wuth havin’. Long life to it!”
.bn 273.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.nf c
[Written in 1867.]
.nf-
.h2 id=ch08
WHAT THE BELLS SAW AND SAID.||<s>“Bells ring others to church, but go not in themselves.”</s>
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.dc 0.2 0.65
NO one saw the spirits of the bells up there in the
old steeple at midnight on Christmas Eve. Six
quaint figures, each wrapped in a shadowy cloak and
wearing a bell-shaped cap. All were gray-headed, for
they were among the oldest bell-spirits of the city, and
“the light of other days” shone in their thoughtful
eyes. Silently they sat, looking down on the snow-covered
roofs glittering in the moonlight, and the quiet
streets deserted by all but the watchmen on their chilly
rounds, and such poor souls as wandered shelterless in
the winter night. Presently one of the spirits said, in
a tone, which, low as it was, filled the belfry with reverberating
echoes,—

“Well, brothers, are your reports ready of the year
that now lies dying?”

All bowed their heads, and one of the oldest answered
in a sonorous voice:—

“My report isn’t all I could wish. You know I look
down on the commercial part of our city and have fine
opportunities for seeing what goes on there. It’s my
business to watch the business men, and upon my word
I’m heartily ashamed of them sometimes. During the
war they did nobly, giving their time and money, their
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sons and selves to the good cause, and I was proud of
them. But now too many of them have fallen back into
the old ways, and their motto seems to be, ‘Every one
for himself, and the devil take the hindmost.’ Cheating,
lying and stealing are hard words, and I don’t
mean to apply them to <i>all</i> who swarm about below there
like ants on an ant-hill—<i>they</i> have other names for
these things, but I’m old-fashioned and use plain words.
There’s a deal too much dishonesty in the world, and
business seems to have become a game of hazard in
which luck, not labor, wins the prize. When I was
young, men were years making moderate fortunes, and
were satisfied with them. They built them on sure
foundations, knew how to enjoy them while they lived,
and to leave a good name behind them when they
died.

“Now it’s anything for money; health, happiness,
honor, life itself, are flung down on that great gaming-table,
and they forget everything else in the excitement
of success or the desperation of defeat. Nobody seems
satisfied either, for those who win have little time or
taste to enjoy their prosperity, and those who lose have
little courage or patience to support them in adversity.
They don’t even fail as they used to. In my day when
a merchant found himself embarrassed he didn’t ruin
others in order to save himself, but honestly confessed
the truth, gave up everything, and began again. But
now-a-days after all manner of dishonorable shifts
there comes a grand crash; many suffer, but by some
hocus-pocus the merchant saves enough to retire upon
and live comfortably here or abroad. It’s very evident
that honor and honesty don’t mean now what they
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used to mean in the days of old May, Higginson and
Lawrence.

“They preach below here, and very well too sometimes,
for I often slide down the rope to peep and
listen during service. But, bless you! they don’t seem
to lay either sermon, psalm or prayer to heart, for while
the minister is doing his best, the congregation, tired
with the breathless hurry of the week, sleep peacefully,
calculate their chances for the morrow, or wonder which
of their neighbors will lose or win in the great game.
Don’t tell me! I’ve seen them do it, and if I dared I’d
have startled every soul of them with a rousing peal.
Ah, they don’t dream whose eye is on them, they never
guess what secrets the telegraph wires tell as the
messages fly by, and little know what a report I give to
the winds of heaven as I ring out above them morning,
noon, and night.” And the old spirit shook his head
till the tassel on his cap jangled like a little bell.

“There are some, however, whom I love and honor,”
he said, in a benignant tone, “who honestly earn their
bread, who deserve all the success that comes to them,
and always keep a warm corner in their noble hearts
for those less blest than they. These are the men who
serve the city in times of peace, save it in times of war,
deserve the highest honors in its gift, and leave behind
them a record that keeps their memories green. For
such an one we lately tolled a knell, my brothers; and
as our united voices pealed over the city, in all grateful
hearts, sweeter and more solemn than any chime, rung
the words that made him so beloved,—

“‘Treat our dead boys tenderly, and send them home
to me.’”
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He ceased, and all the spirits reverently uncovered
their gray heads as a strain of music floated up from the
sleeping city and died among the stars.

“Like yours, my report is not satisfactory in all respects,”
began the second spirit, who wore a very
pointed cap and a finely-ornamented cloak. But,
though his dress was fresh and youthful, his face
was old, and he had nodded several times during his
brother’s speech. “My greatest affliction during the
past year has been the terrible extravagance which
prevails. My post, as you know, is at the court end of
the city, and I see all the fashionable vices and follies.
It is a marvel to me how so many of these immortal
creatures, with such opportunities for usefulness, self-improvement
and genuine happiness can be content to
go round and round in one narrow circle of unprofitable
and unsatisfactory pursuits. I do my best to warn
them; Sunday after Sunday I chime in their ears the
beautiful old hymns that sweetly chide or cheer the
hearts that truly listen and believe; Sunday after Sunday
I look down on them as they pass in, hoping to see
that my words have not fallen upon deaf ears; and
Sunday after Sunday they listen to words that should
teach them much, yet seem to go by them like the wind.
They are told to love their neighbor, yet too many hate
him because he possesses more of this world’s goods or
honors than they; they are told that a rich man cannot
enter the kingdom of heaven, yet they go on laying up
perishable wealth, and though often warned that moth
and rust will corrupt, they fail to believe it till the worm
that destroys enters and mars their own chapel of ease.
Being a spirit, I see below external splendor and find
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much poverty of heart and soul under the velvet and
the ermine which should cover rich and royal natures.
Our city saints walk abroad in threadbare suits, and
under quiet bonnets shine the eyes that make sunshine
in the shady places. Often as I watch the glittering
procession passing to and fro below me, I wonder if,
with all our progress, there is to-day as much real piety
as in the times when our fathers, poorly clad, with
weapon in one hand and Bible in the other, came weary
distances to worship in the wilderness with fervent
faith unquenched by danger, suffering and solitude.

“Yet in spite of my fault-finding I love my children,
as I call them, for all are not butterflies. Many find
wealth no temptation to forgetfulness of duty or hardness
of heart. Many give freely of their abundance,
pity the poor, comfort the afflicted, and make our city
loved and honored in other lands as in our own. They
have their cares, losses, and heartaches as well as the
poor; it isn’t all sunshine with them, and they learn,
poor souls, that

.pm verse-start
‘Into each life some rain must fall,
 Some days must be dark and dreary.’
.pm verse-end

“But I’ve hopes of them, and lately they have had a
teacher so genial, so gifted, so well-beloved that all who
listen to him must be better for the lessons of charity,
good-will and cheerfulness which he brings home to them
by the magic of tears and smiles. We know him, we
love him, we always remember him as the year comes
round, and the blithest song our brazen tongues utter
is a Christmas carol to the Father of ‘The Chimes!’”

As the spirit spoke his voice grew cheery, his old
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face shone, and in a burst of hearty enthusiasm he flung
up his cap and cheered like a boy. So did the others,
and as the fairy shout echoed through the belfry a
troop of shadowy figures, with faces lovely or grotesque,
tragical or gay, sailed by on the wings of the wintry
wind and waved their hands to the spirits of the
bells.

As the excitement subsided and the spirits reseated
themselves, looking ten years younger for that burst,
another spoke. A venerable brother in a dingy mantle,
with a tuneful voice, and eyes that seemed to have grown
sad with looking on much misery.

“He loves the poor, the man we’ve just hurrahed
for, and he makes others love and remember them, bless
him!” said the spirit. “I hope he’ll touch the hearts
of those who listen to him here and beguile them to
open their hands to my unhappy children over yonder.
If I could set some of the forlorn souls in my parish
beside the happier creatures who weep over imaginary
woes as they are painted by his eloquent lips, that
brilliant scene would be better than any sermon. Day
and night I look down on lives as full of sin, self-sacrifice
and suffering as any in those famous books. Day
and night I try to comfort the poor by my cheery voice,
and to make their wants known by proclaiming them
with all my might. But people seem to be so intent on
business, pleasure or home duties that they have no
time to hear and answer my appeal. There’s a deal of
charity in this good city, and when the people do wake
up they work with a will; but I can’t help thinking that
if some of the money lavished on luxuries was spent on
necessaries for the poor, there would be fewer tragedies
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like that which ended yesterday. It’s a short story,
easy to tell, though long and hard to live; listen to it.

“Down yonder in the garret of one of the squalid
houses at the foot of my tower, a little girl has lived for
a year, fighting silently and single-handed a good fight
against poverty and sin. I saw her when she first
came, a hopeful, cheerful, brave-hearted little soul,
alone, yet not afraid. She used to sit all day sewing
at her window, and her lamp burnt far into the night, for
she was very poor, and all she earned would barely give
her food and shelter. I watched her feed the doves,
who seemed to be her only friends; she never forgot
them, and daily gave them the few crumbs that fell
from her meagre table. But there was no kind hand
to feed and foster the little human dove, and so she
starved.

“For a while she worked bravely, but the poor three
dollars a week would not clothe and feed and warm her,
though the things her busy fingers made sold for enough
to keep her comfortably if she had received it. I saw
the pretty color fade from her cheeks; her eyes grew
hollow, her voice lost its cheery ring, her step its
elasticity, and her face began to wear the haggard,
anxious look that made its youth doubly pathetic. Her
poor little gowns grew shabby, her shawl so thin she
shivered when the pitiless wind smote her, and her feet
were almost bare. Rain and snow beat on the patient
little figure going to and fro, each morning with hope
and courage faintly shining, each evening with the
shadow of despair gathering darker round her. It was
a hard time for all, desperately hard for her, and in her
poverty, sin and pleasure tempted her. She resisted,
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but as another bitter winter came she feared that in her
misery she might yield, for body and soul were weakened
now by the long struggle. She knew not where
to turn for help; there seemed to be no place for her
at any safe and happy fireside; life’s hard aspect
daunted her, and she turned to death, saying confidingly,
‘Take me while I’m innocent and not afraid
to go.’

“I saw it all! I saw how she sold everything that
would bring money and paid her little debts to the
utmost penny; how she set her poor room in order for
the last time; how she tenderly bade the doves good-by,
and lay down on her bed to die. At nine o’clock
last night as my bell rang over the city, I tried to
tell what was going on in the garret where the light
was dying out so fast. I cried to them with all my
strength,—

“‘Kind souls, below there! a fellow-creature is
perishing for lack of charity! Oh, help her before it
is too late! Mothers, with little daughters on your
knees, stretch out your hands and take her in! Happy
women, in the safe shelter of home, think of her desolation!
Rich men, who grind the faces of the poor,
remember that this soul will one day be required of
you! Dear Lord, let not this little sparrow fall to the
ground! Help, Christian men and women, in the name
of Him whose birthday blessed the world!’

“Ah me! I rang, and clashed, and cried in vain.
The passers-by only said, as they hurried home, laden
with Christmas cheer: ‘The old bell is merry to-night,
as it should be at this blithe season, bless it!’

“As the clocks struck ten, the poor child lay down,
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saying, as she drank the last bitter draught life could give
her, ‘It’s very cold, but soon I shall not feel it;’ and
with her quiet eyes fixed on the cross that glimmered
in the moonlight above me, she lay waiting for the sleep
that needs no lullaby.

“As the clock struck eleven, pain and poverty for
her were over. It was bitter cold, but she no
longer felt it. She lay serenely sleeping, with tired
heart and hands, at rest forever. As the clocks struck
twelve, the dear Lord remembered her, and with
fatherly hand led her into the home where there is room
for all. To-day I rung her knell, and though my heart
was heavy, yet my soul was glad; for in spite of all her
human woe and weakness, I am sure that little girl will
keep a joyful Christmas up in heaven.”

In the silence which the spirits for a moment kept, a
breath of softer air than any from the snowy world below
swept through the steeple and seemed to whisper,
“Yes!”

“Avast there! fond as I am of salt water, I don’t
like this kind,” cried the breezy voice of the fourth
spirit, who had a tiny ship instead of a tassel on his
cap, and who wiped his wet eyes with the sleeve of his
rough blue cloak. “It won’t take me long to spin my
yarn; for things are pretty taut and ship-shape aboard
our craft. Captain Taylor is an experienced sailor, and
has brought many a ship safely into port in spite of
wind and tide, and the devil’s own whirlpools and
hurricanes. If you want to see earnestness come
aboard some Sunday when the Captain’s on the quarter-deck,
and take an observation. No danger of falling
asleep there, no more than there is up aloft, ‘when the
.bn 282.png
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stormy winds do blow.’ Consciences get raked fore and
aft, sins are blown clean out of the water, false colors
are hauled down and true ones run up to the masthead,
and many an immortal soul is warned to steer off in
time from the pirates, rocks and quicksands of temptation.
He’s a regular revolving light, is the Captain,—a
beacon always burning and saying plainly, ‘Here are
life-boats, ready to put off in all weathers and bring the
shipwrecked into quiet waters.’ He comes but seldom
now, being laid up in the home dock, tranquilly waiting
till his turn comes to go out with the tide and safely
ride at anchor in the great harbor of the Lord. Our
crew varies a good deal. Some of ’em have rather
rough voyages, and come into port pretty well battered;
land-sharks full foul of a good many, and do a deal of
damage; but most of ’em carry brave and tender hearts
under the blue jackets, for their rough nurse, the sea,
manages to keep something of the child alive in the
grayest old tar that makes the world his picture-book.
We try to supply ’em with life-preservers while at sea,
and make ’em feel sure of a hearty welcome when ashore,
and I believe the year ’67 will sail away into eternity
with a satisfactory cargo. Brother North-End made me
pipe my eye; so I’ll make him laugh to pay for it, by
telling a clerical joke I heard the other day. Bell-ows
didn’t make it, though he might have done so, as
he’s a connection of ours, and knows how to use his
tongue as well as any of us. Speaking of the bells of a
certain town, a reverend gentleman affirmed that each
bell uttered an appropriate remark so plainly, that the
words were audible to all. The Baptist bell cried,
briskly, ‘Come up and be dipped! come up and be
.bn 283.png
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dipped!’ The Episcopal bell slowly said, ‘Apos-tol-ic
suc-cess-ion! apos-tol-ic suc-cess-ion!’ The Orthodox
bell solemnly pronounced, ‘Eternal damnation! eternal
damnation!’ and the Methodist shouted, invitingly,
‘Room for all! room for all!’”

As the spirit imitated the various calls, as only a
jovial bell-sprite could, the others gave him a chime of
laughter, and vowed they would each adopt some tune-ful
summons, which should reach human ears and draw
human feet more willingly to church.

“Faith, brother, you’ve kept your word and got the
laugh out of us,” cried a stout, sleek spirit, with a
kindly face, and a row of little saints round his cap and
a rosary at his side. “It’s very well we are doing this
year; the cathedral is full, the flock increasing, and the
true faith holding its own entirely. Ye may shake your
heads if you will and fear there’ll be trouble, but I
doubt it. We’ve warm hearts of our own, and the best
of us don’t forget that when we were starving, America—the
saints bless the jewel!—sent us bread; when
we were dying for lack of work, America opened her
arms and took us in, and now helps us to build
churches, homes and schools by giving us a share of
the riches all men work for and win. It’s a generous
nation ye are, and a brave one, and we showed our
gratitude by fighting for ye in the day of trouble and
giving ye our Phil, and many another broth of a boy.
The land is wide enough for us both, and while we
work and fight and grow together, each may learn
something from the other. I’m free to confess that
your religion looks a bit cold and hard to me, even here
in the good city where each man may ride his own
.bn 284.png
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hobby to death, and hoot at his neighbors as much as
he will. You seem to keep your piety shut up all the
week in your bare, white churches, and only let it out on
Sundays, just a trifle musty with disuse. You set your
rich, warm and soft to the fore, and leave the poor
shivering at the door. You give your people bare walls
to look upon, commonplace music to listen to, dull
sermons to put them asleep, and then wonder why
they stay away, or take no interest when they come.

“We leave our doors open day and night; our
lamps are always burning, and we may come into our
Father’s house at any hour. We let rich and poor
kneel together, all being equal there. With us abroad
you’ll see prince and peasant side by side, school-boy
and bishop, market-woman and noble lady, saint and
sinner, praying to the Holy Mary, whose motherly arms
are open to high and low. We make our churches inviting
with immortal music, pictures by the world’s
great masters, and rites that are splendid symbols of
the faith we hold. Call it mummery if ye like, but let
me ask you why so many of your sheep stray into our
fold? It’s because they miss the warmth, the hearty,
the maternal tenderness which all souls love and long
for, and fail to find in your stern, Puritanical belief.
By Saint Peter! I’ve seen many a lukewarm worshipper,
who for years has nodded in your cushioned
pews, wake and glow with something akin to genuine
piety while kneeling on the stone pavement of one of
our cathedrals, with Raphael’s angels before his eyes,
with strains of magnificent music in his ears, and all
about him, in shapes of power or beauty, the saints
and martyrs who have saved the world, and whose
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presence inspires him to follow their divine example.
It’s not complaining of ye I am, but just reminding ye
that men are but children after all, and need more
tempting to virtue than they do to vice, which last
comes easy to ’em since the Fall. Do your best in your
own ways to get the poor souls into bliss, and good
luck to ye. But remember, there’s room in the Holy
Mother Church for all, and when your own priests
send ye to the divil, come straight to us and we’ll
take ye in.”

“A truly Catholic welcome, bull and all,” said the
sixth spirit, who, in spite of his old-fashioned garments,
had a youthful face, earnest, fearless eyes, and an
energetic voice that woke the echoes with its vigorous
tones. “I’ve a hopeful report, brothers, for the reforms
of the day are wheeling into rank and marching
on. The war isn’t over nor rebeldom conquered yet,
but the Old Guard has been ‘up and at ’em’ through
the year. There has been some hard fighting, rivers of
ink have flowed, and the Washington dawdlers have
signalized themselves by a ‘masterly inactivity.’ The
political campaign has been an anxious one; some of
the leaders have deserted; some been mustered out;
some have fallen gallantly, and as yet have received no
monuments. But at the Grand Review the Cross of
the Legion of Honor will surely shine on many a brave
breast that won no decoration but its virtue here;
for the world’s fanatics make heaven’s heroes, poets
say.

“The flock of Nightingales that flew South during
the ‘winter of our discontent’ are all at home again,
some here and some in Heaven. But the music of
.bn 286.png
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their womanly heroism still lingers in the nation’s memory,
and makes a tender minor-chord in the battle-hymn
of freedom.

“The reform in literature isn’t as vigorous as I could
wish; but a sharp attack of mental and moral dyspepsia
will soon teach our people that French confectionery
and the bad pastry of Wood, Braddon,
Yates & Co. is not the best diet for the rising generation.

“Speaking of the rising generation reminds me of
the schools. They are doing well; they always are,
and we are justly proud of them. There may be a
slight tendency toward placing too much value upon
book-learning; too little upon home culture. Our girls
are acknowledged to be uncommonly pretty, witty and
wise, but some of us wish they had more health and
less excitement, more domestic accomplishments and
fewer ologies and isms, and were contented with simple
pleasures and the old-fashioned virtues, and not quite
so fond of the fast, frivolous life that makes them old
so soon. I am fond of our girls and boys. I love to
ring for their christenings and marriages, to toll proudly
for the brave lads in blue, and tenderly for the innocent
creatures whose seats are empty under my old roof. I
want to see them anxious to make Young America a
model of virtue, strength and beauty, and I believe they
will in time.

“There have been some important revivals in religion;
for the world won’t stand still, and we must
keep pace or be left behind to fossilize. A free nation
must have a religion broad enough to embrace all mankind,
deep enough to fathom and fill the human soul,
.bn 287.png
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high enough to reach the source of all love and wisdom,
and pure enough to satisfy the wisest and the best.
Alarm bells have been rung, anathemas pronounced,
and Christians, forgetful of their creed, have abused
one another heartily. But the truth always triumphs
in the end, and whoever sincerely believes, works and
waits for it, by whatever name he calls it, will surely
find his own faith blessed to him in proportion to his
charity for the faith of others.

“But look!—the first red streaks of dawn are in the
East. Our vigil is over, and we must fly home to welcome
in the holidays. Before we part, join with me,
brothers, in resolving that through the coming year we
will with all our hearts and tongues,—

.pm verse-start
‘Ring out the old, ring in the new,
 Ring out the false, ring in the true;
 Ring in the valiant man and free,
 Ring in the Christ that is to be.’”
.pm verse-end

Then hand in hand the spirits of the bells floated
away, singing in the hush of dawn the sweet song the
stars sung over Bethlehem,—“Peace on earth, good will to men.”
.bn 288.png
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.bn 289.png
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.sp 4
.pb
.sp 2
.nf c
<I>A Catalogue of American and Foreign Books Published or
Imported by</I> <sc>Messrs. Sampson Low & Co.</sc>
<I>can be had on application</I>.
.nf-
.nf r
<I>Crown Buildings, 188, Fleet Street, London,</I>
<I>December, 1881</I>
.nf-
.nf c
<xl><I>A Selection from the List of Books</I></xl>

PUBLISHED BY

<l>SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON.</l>
.nf-
.hr 10%
.nf c
ALPHABETICAL LIST.
.nf-
.in 6
.ti -6
<I><xl>A</xl> CLASSIFIED Educational Catalogue of Works</I> published
in Great Britain. Demy 8vo, cloth extra. Second Edition,
revised and corrected, 5<I>s.</I>
.ti -6
<I>About Some Fellows.</I> By an <sc>Eton Boy</sc>, Author of “A Day
of my Life.” Cloth limp, square 16mo, 2<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -6
<I>Adventures of a Young Naturalist.</I> By <sc>Lucien Biart</sc>,
with 117 beautiful Illustrations on Wood. Edited and adapted by
<sc>Parker Gillmore</sc>. Post 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, New Edition,
7<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -6
<I>Afghan Knife (The).</I> A Novel. By <sc>Robert Armitage
Sterndale</sc>, Author of “Seonee.” Small post 8vo, cloth extra, 6<I>s.</I>
.ti -6
<I>Alcott (Louisa M.) Jimmy’s Cruise in the “Pinafore.”</I> With 9
Illustrations. Second Edition. Small post 8vo, cloth gilt, 3<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -6
–– <I>Aunt Jo’s Scrap-Bag.</I> Square 16mo, 2<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
(Rose Library, 1<I>s.</I>)
.ti -6
–– <I>Little Men: Life at Plumfield with Jo’s Boys.</I> Small
post 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, 3<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I> (Rose Library, Double vol. 2<I>s.</I>)
.ti -6
–– <I>Little Women.</I> 1 vol., cloth, gilt edges, 3<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I> (Rose
Library, 2 vols., 1<I>s.</I> each.)
.ti -6
–– <I>Old-Fashioned Girl.</I> Best Edition, small post 8vo,
cloth extra, gilt edges, 3<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I> (Rose Library, 2<I>s.</I>)
.ti -6
–– <I>Work and Beginning Again.</I> A Story of Experience.
(Rose Library, 2 vols., 1<I>s.</I> each.)
.ti -6
–– <I>Shawl Straps.</I> Small post 8vo, cloth extra, gilt, 3<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -6
–– <I>Eight Cousins; or, the Aunt Hill.</I> Small post 8vo,
with Illustrations, 3<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -6
–– <I>The Rose in Bloom.</I> Small post 8vo, cloth extra,
3<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -6
–– <I>Under the Lilacs.</I> Small post 8vo, cloth extra, 5<I>s.</I>
.bn 290.png
.pn +1
.ti -6
<I>Alcott (Louisa M.) Jack and Jill.</I> Small post 8vo, cloth extra, 5<I>s.</I>
“Miss Alcott’s stories are thoroughly healthy, full of racy fun and humour ...
exceedingly entertaining.... We can recommend the ‘Eight Cousins.’”—<I>Athenæum.</I>
.ti -6
<I>Aldrich (T. B.) Friar Jerome’s Beautiful Book, &c.</I>
Selected from “Cloth of Gold,” and “Flower and Thorn.” 18mo,
very choicely printed on hand-made paper, parchment cover, 3<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -6
<I>Alpine Ascents and Adventures; or, Rock and Snow Sketches.</I>
By <sc>H. Schütz Wilson</sc>, of the Alpine Club. With Illustrations by
<sc>Whymper</sc> and <sc>Marcus Stone</sc>. Crown 8vo, 10<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I> 2nd Edition.
.ti -6
<I>Andersen (Hans Christian) Fairy Tales.</I> With Illustrations in
Colours by E. V. B. Cheap Edition, in the press.
.ti -6
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.in 0
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.nf c
<xl>THE BAYARD SERIES.</xl>
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.nf-
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.ti -2
The Essays of Abraham Cowley, including all of his Prose Works.
.ti -2
Abdallah; or The Four Leaves. By Edouard Laboullaye.
.bn 291.png
.pn +1
.ti -2
Table-Talk and Opinions of Napoleon Bonaparte.
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.ti -2
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.in 2
.nf l
<B>Hogarth.
Turner.
Rubens.
Holbein.
Tintoretto.
Little Masters of Germany.
Fra Angelico and Masaccio.
Fra Bartolommeo.
Giotto.
Raphael.
Van Dyck and Hals.
Titian.
Rembrandt.
Leonardo da Vinci.
Gainsborough and Constable.
Sir David Wilkie.
Van Eyck.
Figure Painters of Holland.
Michael Angelo.
Delaroche and Vernet.
Landseer.
Reynolds.
Velasquez.
Mantegna and Francia.
Albert Durer.</B>
.nf-
.in 0
.hr 10%
.nf c
Price 2<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I> each.
.nf-
.in 2
.nf l
<B>Claude Lorraine.
Correggio.
Watteau, Lannet, and Boucher.
Sir Thos. Lawrence.
Rousseau & Millet.
Meissonier.
Overbeck.
Murillo.
Early Italian Sculptors.</B>
.nf-
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.bn 293.png
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.bn 294.png
.pn +1
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<sc>E. H. Wehnert</sc>, <sc>Harrison Weir</sc>, &c.
.nf l
Bloomfield’s Farmer’s Boy.
Campbell’s Pleasures of Hope.
Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner.
Goldsmith’s Deserted Village.
Goldsmith’s Vicar of Wakefield.
Gray’s Elegy in a Churchyard.
Keat’s Eve of St. Agnes.
Milton’s L’Allegro.
Poetry of Nature. Harrison Weir.
Rogers’ (Sam.) Pleasures of Memory.
Shakespeare’s Songs and Sonnets.
Tennyson’s May Queen.
Elizabethan Poets.
Wordsworth’s Pastoral Poems.
.nf-
.fs 80%
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
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.bn 295.png
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
<I>Elementary History (An) of Art.</I> Comprising Architecture,
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.ti -4
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Illustrated with Portraits of the most eminent Composers, and
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.ti -4
<I>Elinor Dryden.</I> By Mrs. <sc>Macquoid</sc>. Crown 8vo, 6<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
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.ti -4
<I>Enchiridion of Epictetus; and the Golden Verses of Pythagoras.</I>
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.ti -4
<I>English Philosophers.</I> Edited by <sc>Iwan Muller</sc>, M.A., New
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and concluding with a short general summary, and a bibliographical
appendix. Each Volume contains about 200 pp. Sq. 16mo, 3<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I> each.
.nf l
<B>Bacon.</B> Professor <sc>Fowler</sc>, Professor of Logic in Oxford.
<B>Berkeley.</B> Prof. <sc>T. H. Green</sc>, Professor of Moral Philosophy, Oxford.
<B>Hamilton.</B> Professor <sc>Monk</sc>, Professor of Moral Philosophy, Dublin.
<B>J. S. Mill.</B> <sc>Helen Taylor</sc>, Editor of “The Works of Buckle,” &c.
<B>Mansel.</B> Rev. <sc>J. H. Huckin</sc>, D.D., Head Master of Repton.
<B>Adam Smith.</B> <sc>J. A. Farrer</sc>, M.A., Author of “Primitive Manners and Customs.”
.bn 296.png
.pn +1
<B>Hobbes.</B> <sc>A. H. Gosset</sc>, B.A., Fellow of New College, Oxford.
<B>Bentham.</B> <sc>G. E. Buckle</sc>, M.A., Fellow of All Souls’, Oxford.
<B>Austin.</B> <sc>Harry Johnson</sc>, B.A., late Scholar of Queen’s College, Oxford.
<B>Hartley.</B>    } <sc>E. S. Bowen</sc>, B.A., late Scholar of New College,
<B>James Mill.</B> } Oxford.
<B>Shaftesbury.</B> } Professor <sc>Fowler</sc>.
<B>Hutcheson.</B>   }
.nf-
.in 0
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.in 4
.ti -4
<I>Episodes of French History.</I> Edited, with Notes, Genealogical,
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.in 6
.nf l
1. <B>Charlemagne and the Carlovingians.</B>
2. <B>Louis XI. and the Crusades.</B>
3. <B>Part   I. Francis I. and Charles V.</B>
   <B>  " \_ II. Francis I. and the Renaissance.</B>
4. <B>Henry IV. and the End of the Wars of Religion.</B>
.nf-
.in 4
The above Series is based upon M. Guizot’s “History of France.”
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.ti -4
<I>Erema; or, My Father’s Sin.</I> <I>See</I> <sc>Blackmore</sc>.
.ti -4
<I>Etcher (The).</I> Containing 36 Examples of the Original
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.ti -4
<I>Eton.</I> <I>See</I> “Day of my Life,” “Out of School,” “About Some
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
<I>Farm Festivals.</I> By the same Author. Uniform with above.
.ti -4
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.ti -4
<I>Felkin (R. W.) and Wilson (Rev. C. T.) Uganda and the</I>
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Anthropological Institute, &c., &c.; and the Rev. <sc>C. T. Wilson</sc>,
M.A. Oxon., F.R.G.S., Member of the Society of Arts, Hon. Fellow
of the Cairo Geographical Society. 2 vols., crown 8vo, cloth, 28<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Fern Paradise (The): A Plea for the Culture of Ferns.</I> By
<sc>F. G. Heath</sc>. New Edition, entirely Rewritten, Illustrated by
Eighteen full-page, and numerous other Woodcuts, including 8 Plates of
Ferns and Four Photographs, large post 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, 12<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
Sixth Edition.
.fs 80%
“All lovers of ferns will be delighted with the illustrated edition of Mr.
Heath’s ‘Fern Paradise’”—<I>Saturday Review.</I>
.fs 100%
.bn 297.png
.pn +1
.ti -4
<I>Fern World (The).</I> By <sc>F. G. Heath</sc>. Illustrated by Twelve
Coloured Plates, giving complete Figures (Sixty-four in all) of every
Species of British Fern, printed from Nature; by several full-page
and other Engravings. Cloth, gilt edges, 6th Edition, 12<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Few (A) Hints on Proving Wills.</I> Enlarged Edition, 1<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>First Steps in Conversational French Grammar.</I> By <sc>F. Julien</sc>.
Being an Introduction to “Petites Leçons de Conversation et de
Grammaire,” by the same Author. Fcap. 8vo, 128 pp., 1<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Four Lectures on Electric Induction.</I> Delivered at the Royal
Institution, 1878-9. By <sc>J. E. H. Gordon</sc>, B.A. Cantab. With
numerous Illustrations. Cloth limp, square 16mo, 3<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Foreign Countries and the British Colonies.</I> Edited by <sc>F. S.
Pulling</sc>, M.A., Lecturer at Queen’s College, Oxford, and formerly
Professor at the Yorkshire College, Leeds. A Series of small Volumes
descriptive of the principal Countries of the World by well-known
Authors, each Country being treated of by a Writer who from
Personal Knowledge is qualified to speak with authority on the Subject.
The Volumes average 180 crown 8vo pages each, contain 2 Maps
and Illustrations, crown 8vo, 3<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.in 0
.nf c
<I>The following is a List of the Volumes</I>:—
.nf-
.in 6
.ti -3
<B>Denmark and Iceland.</B> By <sc>E. C. Otté</sc>, Author of “Scandinavian
History,” &c.
.ti -3
<B>Greece.</B> By <sc>L. Sergeant</sc>, B.A., Knight of the Hellenic Order
of the Saviour, Author of “New Greece.”
.ti -3
<B>Switzerland.</B> By <sc>W. A. P. Coolidge</sc>, M.A., Fellow of
Magdalen College, Editor of <I>The Alpine Journal</I>.
.ti -3
<B>Austria</B>. By <sc>D. Kay</sc>, F.R.G.S.
.ti -3
<B>Russia.</B> By <sc>W. R. Morfill</sc>, M.A., Oriel College, Oxford,
Lecturer on the Ilchester Foundation, &c.
.ti -3
<B>Persia.</B> By Major-Gen. Sir <sc>F. J. Goldsmid</sc>, K.C.S.I., Author of
“Telegraph and Travel,” &c.
.ti -3
<B>Japan.</B> By <sc>S. Mossman</sc>, Author of “New Japan,” &c.
.ti -3
<B>Peru.</B> By <sc>Clements H. Markham</sc>, M.A., C.B.
.ti -3
<B>Canada.</B> By <sc>W. Fraser Rae</sc>, Author of “Westward by
Rail,” “From Newfoundland to Manitoba,” &c.
.ti -3
<B>Sweden and Norway.</B> By the Rev. <sc>F. H. Woods</sc>, M.A., Fellow
of St. John’s College, Oxford.
.ti -3
<B>The West Indies.</B> By <sc>C. H. Eden</sc>, F.R.G.S., Author of “Frozen
Asia,” &c.
.ti -3
<B>New Zealand.</B>
.ti -3
<B>France.</B> By <sc>M. Roberts</sc>, Author of “The Atelier du Lys,” &c.
.ti -3
<B>Egypt.</B> By <sc>S. Lane Poole</sc>, B.A., Author of “Life of E. Lane,” &c.
.ti -3
<B>Spain.</B> By the Rev. <sc>Wentworth Webster</sc>, M.A.
.ti -3
<B>Turkey-in-Asia.</B> By <sc>J. C. McCoan</sc>, M.P.
.ti -3
<B>Australia.</B> By <sc>J. F. Vesey Fitzgerald</sc>, late Premier of New
South Wales.
.ti -3
<B>Holland.</B> By <sc>R. L. Poole</sc>.
.bn 298.png
.pn +1
.in 4
.ti -4
<I>Franc (Maude Jeane).</I> The following form one Series, small
post 8vo, in uniform cloth bindings, with gilt edges:—
.in 2
.nf l
Emily’s Choice. 5<I>s.</I>
Hall’s Vineyard. 4<I>s.</I>
John’s Wife: A Story of Life in South Australia. 4<I>s.</I>
Marian; or, The Light of Some One’s Home. 5<I>s.</I>
Silken Cords and Iron Fetters. 4<I>s.</I>
Vermont Vale. 5<I>s.</I>
Minnie’s Mission. 4<I>s.</I>
Little Mercy. 5<I>s.</I>
Beatrice Melton’s Discipline. 4<I>s.</I>
.nf-
.in 3
.ti -3
<I>Francis (F.) War, Waves, and Wanderings, including a Cruise</I>
in the “Lancashire Witch.” 2 vols., crown 8vo, cloth extra, 24<I>s.</I>
.ti -3
<I>French Revolution (The Great). Letters written from Paris</I>
during the Progress of the Great French Revolution, by Madame J——
to her Husband and Son. Edited by her Great-grandson, M. <sc>Edouard
Lockroy</sc>. From the French. Crown 8vo, cloth, 10<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -3
<I>Froissart (The Boy’s).</I> Selected from the Chronicles of England,
France, Spain, &c. By <sc>Sidney Lanier</sc>. The Volume is
fully Illustrated, and uniform with “The Boy’s King Arthur.” Crown
8vo, cloth, 7<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -3
<I>From Newfoundland to Manitoba; a Guide through Canada’s</I>
Maritime, Mining, and Prairie Provinces. By <sc>W. Fraser Rae</sc>.
Crown 8vo, with several Maps, 6<I>s.</I>
.ti -3
<I><xl>G</xl>ames of Patience.</I> <I>See</I> <sc>Cadogan</sc>.
.hr 10%
.in 0
<I>Gentle Life</I> (Queen Edition). 2 vols. in 1, small 4to, 10<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.nf c
<xl>THE GENTLE LIFE SERIES.</xl>

Price 6<I>s.</I> each; or in calf extra, price 10<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>;
Smaller Edition, cloth extra, 2<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.nf-
.in 4
.ti -4
<I>The Gentle Life.</I> Essays in aid of the Formation of Character
of Gentlemen and Gentlewomen. 21st Edition.
.ti -4
<I>About in the World.</I> Essays by Author of “The Gentle Life.”
.ti -4
<I>Like unto Christ.</I> A New Translation of Thomas à Kempis
“De Imitatione Christi.” 2nd Edition.
.ti -4
<I>Familiar Words.</I> An Index Verborum, or Quotation Handbook.
Affording an immediate Reference to Phrases and Sentences
that have become embedded in the English language. 6<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Essays by Montaigne.</I> Edited and Annotated by the Author
of “The Gentle Life.” With Portrait. 2nd Edition.
.ti -4
<I>The Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia.</I> Written by Sir <sc>Philip
Sidney</sc>. Edited with Notes by Author of “The Gentle Life.”  7<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I>The Gentle Life.</I> 2nd Series, 8th Edition.
.bn 299.png
.pn +1
.ti -4
<I>The Silent Hour: Essays, Original and Selected.</I> By the
Author of “The Gentle Life.” 3rd Edition.
.ti -4
<I>Half-Length Portraits.</I> Short Studies of Notable Persons.
By <sc>J. Hain Friswell</sc>.
.ti -4
<I>Essays on English Writers</I>, for the Self-improvement of
Students in English Literature.
.ti -4
<I>Other People’s Windows.</I> By <sc>J. Hain Friswell</sc>. 3rd Edition.
.ti -4
<I>A Man’s Thoughts.</I> By <sc>J. Hain Friswell</sc>.
.hr 10%
.ti -4
<I>German Primer.</I> Being an Introduction to First Steps in
German. By <sc>M. T. Preu</sc>. 2<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Getting On in the World; or, Hints on Success in Life.</I> By
<sc>W. Mathews</sc>, LL.D. Small post 8vo, cloth, 2<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>; gilt edges, 3<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Gilpin’s Forest Scenery.</I> Edited by <sc>F. G. Heath</sc>. Large
post 8vo, with numerous Illustrations. Uniform with “The Fern
World,” 12<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
“Deserves to be a favourite in the boudoir as well as in the library.”—<I>Saturday
Review.</I>
“One of the most delightful works ever written.”—<I>Globe.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Gordon (J. E. H.).</I> <I>See</I> “Four Lectures on Electric Induction,”
“Physical Treatise on Electricity,” &c.
.ti -4
<I>Gouffé. The Royal Cookery Book.</I> By <sc>Jules Gouffé</sc>; translated
and adapted for English use by <sc>Alphonse Gouffé</sc>, Head
Pastrycook to her Majesty the Queen. Illustrated with large plates
printed in colours. 161 Woodcuts, 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 2<I>l.</I> 2<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
—— Domestic Edition, half-bound, 10<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
“By far the ablest and most complete work on cookery that has ever been submitted
to the gastronomical world.”—<I>Pall Mall Gazette.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Great Artists.</I> <I>See</I> “Biographies.”
.ti -4
<I>Great Historic Galleries of England (The).</I> Edited by <sc>Lord
Ronald Gower</sc>, F.S.A., Trustee of the National Portrait Gallery.
Illustrated by 24 large and carefully-executed <I>permanent</I> Photographs
of some of the most celebrated Pictures by the Great Masters. Vol. I.,
imperial 4to, cloth extra, gilt edges, 36<I>s.</I> Vol. II., with 36 large
permanent photographs, £2 12<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Great Musicians (The).</I> A Series of Biographies of the Great
Musicians. Edited by <sc>F. Hueffer</sc>.
.in 4
.nf l
1. <B>Wagner.</B> By the <sc>Editor</sc>.
2. <B>Weber.</B> by Sir <sc>Julius Benedict</sc>.
3. <B>Mendelssohn.</B> By <sc>Joseph Bennett</sc>.
4. <B>Schubert.</B> By <sc>H. F. Frost</sc>.
5. <B>Rossini</B>, and the Modern Italian School. By <sc>H. Sutherland Edwards</sc>.
6. <B>Marcello.</B> By <sc>Arrigo Boito</sc>.
7. <B>Purcell.</B> By <sc>H. W. Cummings</sc>.
8. <B>English Church Composers.</B>
.nf-
.in 0

<xl>⸪</xl> Dr. Hiller and other distinguished writers, both English and
Foreign, have promised contributions. Each Volume is complete in
itself. Small post 8vo, cloth extra, 3<I>s.</I>
.bn 300.png
.pn +1
.in 4
.ti -4
<I>Guizot’s History of France.</I> Translated by <sc>Robert Black</sc>.
Super-royal 8vo, very numerous full-page and other Illustrations. In
8 vols., cloth extra, gilt, each 24<I>s.</I> This work is re-issued in cheaper
Monthly Volumes, at 10<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I> each, commencing Nov. 1, 1881. Subscription
to the set, £4 4<I>s.</I>
“It supplies a want which has long been felt, and ought to be in the hands of all
students of history.”—<I>Times.</I>
.ti -4
—— ———— <I>Masson’s School Edition.</I> The
History of France from the Earliest Times to the Outbreak of the
Revolution; abridged from the Translation by <sc>Robert Black</sc>, M.A.,
with Chronological Index, Historical and Genealogical Tables, &c.
By Professor <sc>Gustave Masson</sc>, B.A., Assistant Master at Harrow
School. With 24 full-page Portraits, and many other Illustrations.
1 vol., demy 8vo, 600 pp., cloth extra, 10<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Guizot’s History of England.</I> In 3 vols. of about 500 pp. each,
containing 60 to 70 Full-page and other Illustrations, cloth extra, gilt,
24<I>s.</I> each.
“For luxury of typography, plainness of print, and beauty of illustration, these
volumes, of which but one has as yet appeared in English, will hold their own
against any production of an age so luxurious as our own in everything, typography
not excepted.”—<I>Times.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Guyon (Mde.) Life.</I> By <sc>Upham</sc>. 6th Edition, crown 8vo, 6<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I><xl>H</xl>andbook to the Charities of London.</I> <I>See</I> Low’s.
.ti -4
–– <I>of Embroidery; which see.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Hall (W. W.) How to Live Long; or, 1408 Health Maxims</I>,
Physical, Mental, and Moral. By <sc>W. W. Hall</sc>, A.M., M.D.
Small post 8vo, cloth, 2<I>s.</I> 2nd Edition.
.ti -4
<I>Harper’s Monthly Magazine.</I> Published Monthly. 160 pages,
fully Illustrated. 1<I>s.</I> With two Serial Novels by celebrated Authors.
.nf b
Vol. I. December, 1880, to May, 1881.
 "\_\_\_II. May, 1881, to November, 1881.
.nf-
.in 4
Each cloth extra, with 400 magnificent illustrations, 8<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.fs 80%
“‘Harper’s Magazine’ is so thickly sown with excellent illustrations that to count
them would be a work of time; not that it is a picture magazine, for the engravings
illustrate the text after the manner seen in some of our choicest <I>editions de luxe</I>.”—<I>St.
James’s Gazette.</I>

“It is so pretty, so big, and so cheap.... An extraordinary shillingsworth—160
large octavo pages, with over a score of articles, and more than three times as
many illustrations.”—<I>Edinburgh Daily Review.</I>

“An amazing shillingsworth ... combining choice literature of both nations.”—<I>Nonconformist.</I>
.fs 100%
.ti -4
<I>Heart of Africa.</I> Three Years’ Travels and Adventures in the
Unexplored Regions of Central Africa, from 1868 to 1871. By Dr.
<sc>Georg Schweinfurth</sc>. Numerous Illustrations, and large Map.
2 vols., crown 8vo, cloth, 15<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Heath (Francis George).</I> <I>See</I> “Autumnal Leaves,” “Burnham
Beeches,” “Fern Paradise,” “Fern World,” “Gilpin’s Forest
Scenery,” “Our Woodland Trees,” “Peasant Life,” “Sylvan Spring,”
“Trees and Ferns,” “Where to Find Ferns.”
.bn 301.png
.pn +1
.ti -4
<I>Heber’s (Bishop) Illustrated Edition of Hymns.</I> With upwards
of 100 beautiful Engravings. Small 4to, handsomely bound, 7<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
Morocco, 18<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I> and 21<I>s.</I> New and Cheaper Edition, cloth, 3<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Heir of Kilfinnan (The).</I> New Story by <sc>W. H. G. Kingston</sc>,
Author of “Snow Shoes and Canoes,” &c. With Illustrations. Cloth,
gilt edges, 7<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>; plainer binding, plain edges, 5<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>History of a Crime (The); Deposition of an Eye-witness. The</I>
Story of the Coup d’État. By <sc>Victor Hugo</sc>. Crown 8vo, 6<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
–– <I>Ancient Art.</I> Translated from the German of <sc>John
Winckelmann</sc>, by <sc>John Lodge</sc>, M.D. With very numerous
Plates and Illustrations. 2 vols., 8vo, 36<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
–– <I>England.</I> <I>See</I> <sc>Guizot</sc>.
.ti -4
–– <I>France.</I> <I>See</I> <sc>Guizot</sc>.
.ti -4
–– <I>of Russia.</I> <I>See</I> <sc>Rambaud</sc>.
.ti -4
–– <I>Merchant Shipping.</I> <I>See</I> <sc>Lindsay</sc>.
.ti -4
–– <I>United States.</I> <I>See</I> <sc>Bryant</sc>.
.ti -4
<I>History and Principles of Weaving by Hand and by Power.</I> With
several hundred Illustrations. By <sc>Alfred Barlow</sc>. Royal 8vo,
cloth extra, 1<I>l.</I> 5<I>s.</I> Second Edition.
.ti -4
<I>Holmes (O. W.) The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes.</I>
In 2 vols., 18mo, exquisitely printed, and chastely bound in limp
cloth, gilt tops, 10<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I>How I Crossed Africa: from the Atlantic to the Indian Ocean</I>,
Through Unknown Countries; Discovery of the Great Zambesi
Affluents, &c.—Vol I., The King’s Rifle. Vol. II., The Coillard
Family. By Major <sc>Serpa Pinto</sc>. With 24 full-page and 118 half-page
and smaller Illustrations, 13 small Maps, and 1 large one.
2 vols., demy 8vo, cloth extra, 42<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>How to Live Long.</I> <I>See</I> <sc>Hall</sc>.
.ti -4
<I>How to get Strong and how to Stay so.</I> By <sc>William Blaikie</sc>.
A Manual of Rational, Physical, Gymnastic, and other Exercises.
With Illustrations, small post 8vo, 5<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Hugo (Victor) “Ninety-Three.”</I> Illustrated. Crown 8vo, 6<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
–– <I>Toilers of the Sea.</I> Crown 8vo. Illustrated, 6<I>s.</I>; fancy
boards, 2<I>s.</I>; cloth, 2<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>; On large paper with all the original
Illustrations, 10<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
–– <I>and his Times.</I> Translated from the French of <sc>A.
Barbou</sc> by <sc>Ellen E. Frewer</sc>. 120 Illustrations, many of them
from designs by Victor Hugo himself. Super-royal 8vo, cloth extra,
24<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
—— <I>See</I> “History of a Crime,” “Victor Hugo and his Times.”
.bn 302.png
.pn +1
.ti -4
<I>Hundred Greatest Men (The).</I> 8 portfolios, 21<I>s.</I> each, or 4
vols., half morocco, gilt edges, 12 guineas, containing 15 to 20
Portraits each. See below.

.fs 80%
“Messrs. <sc>Sampson Low & Co.</sc> are about to issue an important ‘International’
work, entitled, ‘THE HUNDRED GREATEST MEN;’ being the Lives and
Portraits of the 100 Greatest Men of History, divided into Eight Classes, each Class
to form a Monthly Quarto Volume. The Introductions to the volumes are to be
written by recognized authorities on the different subjects, the English contributors
being <sc>Dean Stanley</sc>, Mr. <sc>Matthew Arnold</sc>, Mr. <sc>Froude</sc>, and Professor <sc>Max
Müller</sc>: in Germany, Professor <sc>Helmholtz</sc>; in France, MM. <sc>Taine</sc> and
<sc>Renan</sc>; and in America, Mr. <sc>Emerson</sc>. The Portraits are to be Reproductions
from fine and rare Steel Engravings.”—<I>Academy.</I>
.fs 100%
.ti -4
<I>Hygiene and Public Health (A Treatise on).</I> Edited by <sc>A. H.
Buck</sc>, M.D. Illustrated by numerous Wood Engravings. In 2
royal 8vo vols., cloth, one guinea each.
.ti -4
<I>Hymnal Companion to Book of Common Prayer.</I>  <I>See</I>
<sc>Bickersteth</sc>.
.ti -4
<I><xl>I</xl>LLUSTRATED Text-Books of Art-Education.</I> Edited by
<sc>Edward J. Poynter</sc>, R.A. Each Volume contains numerous Illustrations,
and is strongly bound for the use of Students, price 5<I>s.</I> The
Volumes now ready are:—
.in 0
.nf c
PAINTING.
.nf-
.in 2
.nf l
<B>Classic and Italian.</B> By <sc>Percy R. Head</sc>. With 50 Illustrations, 5<I>s.</I>
<B>German, Flemish, and Dutch.</B>
<B>French and Spanish.</B>
<B>English and American.</B>
.nf-
.in 0
.nf c
ARCHITECTURE.
.nf-
.in 2
.ti -2
<B>Classic and Early Christian.</B>
<B>Gothic and Renaissance.</B> By <sc>T. Roger Smith</sc>. With 50 Illustrations, 5<I>s.</I>
.in 0
.nf c
SCULPTURE.
.nf-
.in 2
.ti -2
<B>Antique: Egyptian and Greek.</B> & <B>Renaissance and Modern.</B>
.nf c
<B>Italian Sculptors of the 14th and 15th Centuries.</B>
.nf-
.nf c
ORNAMENT.
.nf-
<B>Decoration in Colour.</B> & <B>Architectural Ornament.</B>
.in 4
.ti -4
<I>Illustrations of China and its People.</I> By <sc>J. Thompson</sc>,
F.R.G.S. Four Volumes, imperial 4to, each 3<I>l.</I> 3<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Illustrated Dictionary (An) of Words used in Art and</I>
Archæology. Explaining Terms frequently used in Works on
Architecture, Arms, Bronzes, Christian Art, Colour, Costume, Decoration,
Devices, Emblems, Heraldry, Lace, Personal Ornaments,
Pottery, Painting, Sculpture, &c., with their Derivations. By <sc>J. W.
Mollett</sc>, B.A., Officier de l’Instruction Publique (France); Author
of “Life of Rembrandt,” &c. Illustrated with 600 Wood Engravings.
Small 4to, strongly bound in cloth, 12<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I>In my Indian Garden.</I> By <sc>Phil Robinson</sc>, Author of “Under
the Punkah.” With a Preface by <sc>Edwin Arnold</sc>, M.A., C.S.I., &c.
Crown 8vo, limp cloth, 3<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.bn 303.png
.pn +1
.ti -4
<I>Involuntary Voyage (An).</I> Showing how a Frenchman who
abhorred the Sea was most unwillingly and by a series of accidents
driven round the World. Numerous Illustrations. Square crown
8vo, cloth extra, 7<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>; plainer binding, plain edges, 5<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Irving (Washington).</I> Complete Library Edition of his Works
in 27 Vols., Copyright, Unabridged, and with the Author’s Latest
Revisions, called the “Geoffrey Crayon” Edition, handsomely printed
in large square 8vo, on superfine laid paper, and each volume, of
about 500 pages, will be fully Illustrated. 12<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I> per vol. <I>See also</I>
“Little Britain.”
.ti -4
<I><xl>J</xl>ack and Jill.</I> By Miss <sc>Alcott</sc>. Small post 8vo, cloth,
gilt edges, 5<I>s.</I> With numerous Illustrations.
.ti -4
<I>John Holdsworth, Chief Mate.</I> By <sc>W. Clarke Russell</sc>,
Author of “Wreck of the Grosvenor.” Crown 8vo, 6<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I><xl>K</xl>INGSTON (W. H. G.).</I> <I>See</I> “Snow-Shoes,” “Child of
the Cavern,” “Two Supercargoes,” “With Axe and Rifle,”
“Begum’s Fortune,” “Heir of Kilfinnan,” “Dick Cheveley.” Each
vol., with very numerous Illustrations, square crown 16mo, gilt edges,
7<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>; plainer binding, plain edges, 5<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I><xl>L</xl>ADY Silverdale’s Sweetheart.</I> 6<I>s.</I> <I>See</I> <sc>Black</sc>.
.ti -4
<I>Lectures on Architecture.</I> By <sc>E. Viollet-le-Duc</sc>. Translated
by <sc>Benjamin Bucknall</sc>, Architect. With 33 Steel Plates and 200
Wood Engravings. Super-royal 8vo, leather back, gilt top, with
complete Index, 2 vols., 3<I>l.</I> 3<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Lenten Meditations.</I> In Two Series, each complete in itself.
By the Rev. <sc>Claude Bosanquet</sc>, Author of “Blossoms from the
King’s Garden.” 16mo, cloth, First Series, 1<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>; Second Series, 2<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Library of Religious Poetry.</I> A Collection of the Best Poems
of all Ages and Tongues. With Biographical and Literary Notes.
Edited by <sc>Philip Schaff</sc>, D.D., LL.D., and <sc>Arthur Gilman</sc>,
M.A. Royal 8vo, pp. 1036, cloth extra, gilt edges, 21<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Lindsay (W. S.) History of Merchant Shipping and Ancient</I>
Commerce. Over 150 Illustrations, Maps, and Charts. In 4 vols.,
demy 8vo, cloth extra. Vols. 1 and 2, 21<I>s.</I>; vols. 3 and 4, 24<I>s.</I> each.
.ti -4
<I>Little Britain</I>; together with <I>The Spectre Bridegroom</I>, and <I>A</I>
Legend of Sleepy Hollow. By <sc>Washington Irving</sc>. An entirely
New <I>Edition de luxe</I>, specially suitable for Presentation. Illustrated
by 120 very fine Engravings on Wood, by Mr. <sc>J. D. Cooper</sc>.
Designed by Mr. <sc>Charles O. Murray</sc>. Square crown 8vo, cloth
extra, gilt edges, 10<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.bn 304.png
.pn +1
.ti -4
<I>Low’s Select Novelets.</I> Small post 8vo, cloth extra, 3<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
each.
.in 6
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<B>Friends: a Duet.</B> By <sc>E. S. Phelps</sc>, Author of “The Gates
Ajar.” “‘Friends’ is a graceful story ... it loses nothing in the telling.”—<I>Athenæum.</I>
.ti -4
<B>Baby Rue: Her Adventures and Misadventures, her Friends</B>
and her Enemies. By <sc>Charles M. Clay</sc>.
.ti -4
<B>The Story of Helen Troy.</B>
“A pleasant book.”—<I>Truth.</I>
.ti -4
<B>The Clients of Dr. Bernagius.</B> From the French of <sc>Lucien
Biart</sc>, by Mrs. <sc>Cashel Hoey</sc>.
.ti -4
<B>The Undiscovered Country.</B> By <sc>W. D. Howells</sc>.
.ti -4
<B>A Gentleman of Leisure.</B> By <sc>Edgar Fawcett</sc>.
“An amazingly clever book.”—<I>Boston Transcript.</I>
.in 4
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<I>Low’s Standard Library of Travel and Adventure.</I> Crown 8vo,
bound uniformly in cloth extra, price 7<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.nf l
 1. <B>The Great Lone Land.</B> By Major <sc>W. F. Butler</sc>, C.B.
 2. <B>The Wild North Land.</B> By Major <sc>W. F. Butler</sc>, C.B.
 3. <B>How I found Livingstone.</B> By <sc>H. M. Stanley</sc>.
 4. <B>The Threshold of the Unknown Region.</B> By <sc>C. R. Markham</sc>.\
(4th Edition, with Additional Chapters, 10<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>)
 5. <B>A Whaling Cruise to Baffin’s Bay and the Gulf of Boothia.</B> By\
 <sc>A. H. Markham</sc>.
 6. <B>Campaigning on the Oxus.</B> By <sc>J. A. MacGahan</sc>.
 7. <B>Akim-foo: the History of a Failure.</B> By <sc>Major W. F.\
Butler</sc>, C.B.
 8. <B>Ocean to Ocean.</B> By the Rev. <sc>George M. Grant</sc>. With\
Illustrations.
 9. <B>Cruise of the Challenger.</B> By <sc>W. J. J. Spry</sc>, R.N.
10. <B>Schweinfurth’s Heart of Africa.</B> 2 vols., 15<I>s.</I>
11. <B>Through the Dark Continent.</B> By <sc>H. M. Stanley</sc>, 1 vol.,\
12<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.nf-
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<I>Low’s Standard Novels.</I> Crown 8vo, 6<I>s.</I> each, cloth extra.
.nf l
<B>My Lady Greensleeves.</B> By <sc>Helen Mathers</sc>, Authoress of\
    “Comin’ through the Rye,” “Cherry Ripe,” &c.
<B>Three Feathers.</B> By <sc>William Black</sc>.
<B>A Daughter of Heth.</B> 13th Edition. By <sc>W. Black</sc>. With\
    Frontispiece by <sc>F. Walker</sc>, A.R.A.
<B>Kilmeny.</B> A Novel By <sc>W. Black</sc>.
<B>In Silk Attire.</B> By <sc>W. Black</sc>.
<B>Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart.</B> By <sc>W. Black</sc>.
<B>Sunrise.</B> By <sc>W. Black</sc>.
<B>The Trumpet Major.</B> By <sc>Thomas Hardy</sc>.
<B>An English Squire.</B> By Miss <sc>Coleridge</sc>.
.bn 305.png
.pn +1
<B>Mary Marston.</B> By <sc>George Macdonald</sc>.
<B>Guild Court.</B> By <sc>George Macdonald</sc>.
<B>The Vicar’s Daughter.</B> By <sc>George Macdonald</sc>.
<B>Adela Cathcart.</B> By <sc>George Macdonald</sc>.
<B>Out of Court.</B> By Mrs. <sc>Cashel Hoey</sc>.
<B>History of a Crime: The Story of the Coup d’État.</B> <sc>Victor Hugo.</sc>
<B>Alice Lorraine.</B> By <sc>R. D. Blackmore</sc>.
<B>Lorna Doone.</B> By <sc>R. D. Blackmore</sc>. 18th Edition.
<B>Cradock Nowell.</B> By <sc>R. D. Blackmore</sc>.
<B>Clara Vaughan.</B> By <sc>R. D. Blackmore</sc>.
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<B>Erema; or, My Father’s Sin.</B> By <sc>R. D. Blackmore</sc>.
<B>Mary Anerley.</B> By <sc>R. D. Blackmore</sc>.
<B>Christowell, a Dartmoor Tale.</B> By <sc>R. D. Blackmore</sc>.
<B>Innocent.</B> By Mrs. <sc>Oliphant</sc>. Eight Illustrations.
<B>Work.</B> A Story of Experience. By <sc>Louisa M. Alcott</sc>.
<B>The Afghan Knife.</B> By <sc>R. A. Sterndale</sc>, Author of “Seonee.”
<B>A French Heiress in her own Chateau.</B> By the Author of “One Only,”\
“Constantia,” &c. Six Illustrations.
<B>Ninety-Three.</B> By <sc>Victor Hugo</sc>. Numerous Illustrations.
<B>My Wife and I.</B> By Mrs. <sc>Beecher Stowe</sc>.
<B>Wreck of the Grosvenor.</B> By <sc>W. Clark Russell</sc>.
<B>John Holdsworth (Chief Mate).</B> By <sc>W. Clark Russell</sc>.
<B>A Sailor’s Sweetheart.</B> By <sc>W. Clark Russell</sc>.
<B>Far from the Madding Crowd.</B> By <sc>Thomas Hardy</sc>.
<B>Elinor Dryden.</B> By Mrs. <sc>Macquoid</sc>.
<B>Diane.</B> By Mrs. <sc>Macquoid</sc>.
<B>Poganuc People, Their Loves and Lives.</B> By Mrs. <sc>B. Stowe</sc>.
<B>A Golden Sorrow.</B> By Mrs. <sc>Cashel Hoey</sc>.
<B>Out of Court.</B> By Mrs. <sc>Cashel Hoey</sc>.
<B>A Story of the Dragonnades.</B> By the Rev. <sc>E. Gilliat</sc>, M.A.
.nf-
.ti -4
<I>Low’s Handbook to the Charities of London.</I> Edited and
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.ti -4
<I><xl>M</xl>ACGREGOR (John) “Rob Roy” on the Baltic.</I> 3rd
Edition, small post 8vo, 2<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>; cloth, gilt edges, 3<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
–– <I>A Thousand Miles in the “Rob Roy” Canoe.</I> 11th
Edition, small post 8vo, 2<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>; cloth, gilt edges, 3<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.bn 306.png
.pn +1
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<I>Macgregor (John) Description of the “Rob Roy” Canoe</I>, with
Plans, &c., 1<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
–– <I>The Voyage Alone in the Yawl “Rob Roy.”</I> New
Edition, thoroughly revised, with additions, small post 8vo, 5<I>s.</I>;
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.ti -4
<I>Macquoid (Mrs.) Elinor Dryden.</I> Crown 8vo, cloth, 6<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
–– <I>Diane.</I> Crown 8vo, 6<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Magazine.</I> <I>See</I> <sc>Harper</sc>, <sc>Union Jack</sc>, <sc>The Etcher</sc>, <sc>Men
of Mark</sc>.
.ti -4
<I>Magyarland. A Narrative of Travels through the Snowy Carpathians</I>,
and Great Alföld of the Magyar. By a Fellow of the Carpathian
Society (Diploma of 1881), and Author of “The Indian Alps.”
2 vols., 8vo, cloth extra, with about 120 Woodcuts from the Author’s
own sketches and drawings, 42<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Manitoba: its History, Growth, and Present Position.</I> By the
Rev. Professor <sc>Bryce</sc>, Principal of Manitoba College, Winnipeg.
Crown 8vo, with Illustrations and Maps, 7<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Markham (C. R.) The Threshold of the Unknown Region.</I>
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.ti -4
<I>Maury (Commander) Physical Geography of the Sea, and its</I>
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Work, with Charts and Diagrams. New Edition, crown 8vo, 6<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Memoirs of Count Miot de Melito, Minister, Ambassador</I>,
Councillor of State, and Member of the Institute of France, between
the years 1788 and 1815. Edited by General <sc>Fleischmann</sc>. From
the French by Mrs. <sc>Cashel Hoey</sc> and Mr. <sc>John Lillie</sc>. 2 vols.,
demy 8vo, cloth extra, 36<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Memoirs of Madame de Rémusat, 1802-1808</I>. By her Grandson,
M. <sc>Paul de Rémusat</sc>, Senator. Translated by Mrs. <sc>Cashel
Hoey</sc> and Mr. <sc>John Lillie</sc>. 4th Edition, cloth extra. This
work was written by Madame de Rémusat during the time she
was living on the most intimate terms with the Empress Josephine,
and is full of revelations respecting the private life of Bonaparte, and
of men and politics of the first years of the century. Revelations
which have already created a great sensation in Paris. 8vo, 2 vols., 32<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>——</I> <I>See also</I> “Selection.”
.ti -4
<I>Menus (366, one for each day of the year).</I> Translated from the
French of <sc>Count Brisse</sc>, by Mrs. <sc>Matthew Clarke</sc>. Crown
8vo, 10<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Men of Mark: a Gallery of Contemporary Portraits of the most</I>
Eminent Men of the Day taken from Life, especially for this publication,
price 1<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I> monthly. Vols. I. to VI., handsomely bound,
cloth, gilt edges, 25<I>s.</I> each.
.bn 307.png
.pn +1
.ti -4
<I>Mendelssohn Family (The), 1729-1847.</I> From Letters and
Journals. Translated from the German of <sc>Sebastian Hensel</sc>.
2 vols., demy 8vo, 30<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Michael Strogoff.</I> 10<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I> and 5<I>s.</I> <I>See</I> <sc>Verne</sc>.
.ti -4
<I>Mitford (Miss).</I> <I>See</I> “Our Village.”
.ti -4
<I>Music.</I> <I>See</I> “Great Musicians.”
.ti -4
<I>My Lady Greensleeves.</I> By <sc>Helen Mathers</sc>, Authoress of
“Comin’ through the Rye,” “Cherry Ripe,” &c. 1 vol. edition,
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.ti -4
<I>Mysterious Island.</I> By <sc>Jules Verne</sc>. 3 vols., imperial 16mo.
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.ti -4
<I><xl>N</xl>ARRATIVES of State Trials in the Nineteenth Century.</I>
First Period: From the Union with Ireland to the Death of
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Barrister-at-Law. 2 vols., crown 8vo, cloth, 24<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Nature and Functions of Art (The); and more especially of
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
<I>New Child’s Play (A).</I> Sixteen Drawings by E. V. B. Beautifully
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.ti -4
<I>New Guinea: What I did and what I saw.</I> By <sc>L. M.
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
<I>New Novels.</I> Crown 8vo, cloth, 10<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I> per vol.:—
.nf l
<B>Christowell: a Dartmoor Tale.</B> By <sc>R. D. Blackmore</sc>. 3 vols.
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<B>Waiting.</B> By Miss <sc>A. M. Hopkinson</sc>. 3 vols.
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<B>Cecily’s Debt.</B> By Mrs. <sc>A. B. Church</sc>. 3 vols.
.nf-
.ti -4
<I>Nice and Her Neighbours.</I> By the Rev. <sc>Canon Hole</sc>, Author
of “A Book about Roses,” “A Little Tour in Ireland,” &c. Small
4to, with numerous choice Illustrations, 12<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.bn 308.png
.pn +1
.ti -4
<I>Noah’s Ark. A Contribution to the Study of Unnatural History.</I>
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.ti -4
<I>Noble Words and Noble Deeds.</I> From the French of <sc>E. Muller</sc>.
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.ti -4
<I>Nordenskiöld’s Voyage around Asia and Europe. A Popular</I>
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.ti -4
<I>North American Review (The).</I> Monthly, price 2<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Nothing to Wear; and Two Millions.</I> By <sc>W. A. Butler</sc>.
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.ti -4
<I>Nursery Playmates (Prince of).</I> 217 Coloured Pictures for
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.ti -4
<I><xl>O</xl>FF to the Wilds: A Story for Boys.</I> By <sc>G. Manville
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extra, 7<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Old-Fashioned Girl.</I> <I>See</I> <sc>Alcott</sc>.
.ti -4
<I>On Horseback through Asia Minor.</I> By Capt. <sc>Fred Burnaby</sc>,
Royal Horse Guards, Author of “A Ride to Khiva.” 2 vols.,
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.ti -4
<I>Our Little Ones in Heaven.</I> Edited by the Rev. <sc>H. Robbins</sc>.
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
<I>Our Woodland Trees.</I> By <sc>F. G. Heath</sc>. Large post 8vo,
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Edition. About 600 pages.
.ti -4
<I>Outlines of Ornament in all Styles.</I> A Work of Reference for
the Architect, Art Manufacturer, Decorative Artist, and Practical
Painter. By W. and <sc>G. A. Audsley</sc>, Fellows of the Royal Institute
of British Architects. Only a limited number have been printed and
the stones destroyed. Small folio, 60 plates, with introductory text,
cloth gilt, 31<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.bn 309.png
.pn +1
.ti -4
<I><xl>P</xl>AINTERS of All Schools.</I> By <sc>Louis Viardot</sc>, and other
Writers. 500 pp., super-royal 8vo, 20 Full-page and 70 smaller
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.ti -4
<I>Painting (A Short History of the British School of).</I> By
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.ti -4
<I>Palliser (Mrs.) A History of Lace, from the Earliest Period.</I>
A New and Revised Edition, with additional cuts and text, upwards
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.ti -4
–– <I>Historic Devices, Badges, and War Cries.</I> 8vo, 1<I>l.</I> 1<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
–– <I>The China Collector’s Pocket Companion.</I> With upwards
of 1000 Illustrations of Marks and Monograms. 2nd Edition,
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.ti -4
<I>Parliamentary History of the Irish Land Question (The).</I> From
1829 to 1869, and the Origin and Results of the Ulster Custom. By
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Question and English Public Opinion.” 3rd Edition, corrected and
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.ti -4
<I>Pathways of Palestine: a Descriptive Tour through the Holy</I>
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.ti -4
<I>Peasant Life in the West of England.</I> By <sc>Francis George
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.ti -4
<I>Petites Leçons de Conversation et de Grammaire: Oral and</I>
Conversational Method; being Lessons introducing the most Useful
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<sc>F. Julien</sc>, French Master at King Edward the Sixth’s School,
Birmingham. Author of “The Student’s French Examiner,” “First
Steps in Conversational French Grammar,” which see.
.ti -4
<I>Photography (History and Handbook of).</I> <I>See</I> <sc>Tissandier</sc>.
.ti -4
<I>Physical Treatise on Electricity and Magnetism.</I> By <sc>J. E. H.
Gordon</sc>, B.A. With about 200 coloured, full-page, and other
Illustrations. In respect to the number and beauty of the Illustrations,
the work is quite unique. 2 vols., 8vo, 36<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Poems of the Inner Life.</I> A New Edition, Revised, with many
additional Poems. Small post 8vo, cloth, 5<I>s.</I>
.bn 310.png
.pn +1
.ti -4
<I>Poganuc People: their Loves and Lives.</I> By Mrs. <sc>Beecher
Stowe</sc>. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Polar Expeditions.</I> <I>See</I> <sc>Koldewey</sc>, <sc>Markham</sc>, <sc>MacGahan</sc>,
<sc>Nares</sc>, and <sc>Nordenskiöld</sc>.
.ti -4
<I>Poynter (Edward J., R.A.).</I> <I>See</I> “Illustrated Text-books.”
.ti -4
<I>Publishers’ Circular (The), and General Record of British and</I>
Foreign Literature. Published on the 1st and 15th of every Month, 3<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Pyrenees (The).</I> By <sc>Henry Blackburn</sc>. With 100 Illustrations
by <sc>Gustave Doré</sc>, a New Map of Routes, and Information for
Travellers, corrected to 1881. With a description of Lourdes in 1880.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I><xl>R</xxl>AMBAUD (Alfred). History of Russia, from its Origin</I>
to the Year 1877. With Six Maps. Translated by Mrs. <sc>L. B.
Lane</sc>. 2 vols., demy 8vo, cloth extra, 38<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Recollections of Writers.</I> By <sc>Charles</sc> and <sc>Mary Cowden
Clarke</sc>. Authors of “The Concordance to Shakespeare,” &c.;
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and <sc>Charles Dickens</sc>; and a Preface by <sc>Mary Cowden Clarke</sc>.
Crown 8vo, cloth, 10<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Rémusat (Madame de).</I> <I>See</I> “Memoirs of,” “Selection.”
.ti -4
<I>Richter (Jean Paul). The Literary Works of Leonardo da</I>
Vinci. Containing his Writings on Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture,
his Philosophical Maxims, Humorous Writings, and Miscellaneous
Notes on Personal Events, on his Contemporaries, on Literature,
&c.; for the first time published from Autograph Manuscripts.
By <sc>J. P. Richter</sc>, Ph.Dr., Hon. Member of the Royal and Imperial
Academy of Rome, &c. 2 vols., imperial 8vo, containing about 200
Drawings in Autotype Reproductions, and numerous other Illustrations.
Price Eight Guineas to Subscribers. After publication the price will
be Ten Guineas.
.ti -4
<I>Robinson (Phil).</I> <I>See</I> “In my Indian Garden,” “Under the
Punkah,” “Noah’s Ark.”
.ti -4
<I>Rochefoucauld’s Reflections.</I> Bayard Series, 2<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Rogers (S.) Pleasures of Memory.</I> <I>See</I> “Choice Editions of
Choice Books.” 2<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Rose in Bloom.</I> <I>See</I> <sc>Alcott</sc>.
.bn 311.png
.pn +1
.ti -4
<I>Rose Library (The).</I> Popular Literature of all Countries. Each
volume, 1<I>s.</I>; cloth, 2<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I> Many of the Volumes are Illustrated—
.nf l
 1. <B>Sea-Gull Rock.</B> By <sc>Jules Sandeau</sc>. Illustrated.
 2. <B>Little Women.</B> By <sc>Louisa M. Alcott</sc>.
 3. <B>Little Women Wedded.</B> Forming a Sequel to “Little Women.”
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11. <B>The Four Gold Pieces.</B> By Madame <sc>Gouraud</sc>. Illustrated.
12. <B>Work.</B> A Story of Experience. First Portion. By <sc>L. M. Alcott</sc>.
13. <B>Beginning Again.</B> Sequel to above. By <sc>L. M. Alcott</sc>.
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17. <B>Aunt Jo’s Scrap Bag.</B>
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19. —— <B>The Minister’s Wooing.</B>
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28. <B>Warner (C. D.) My Summer in a Garden.</B>
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30. <B>Helen’s Babies.</B> By their Latest Victim.
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34. <B>Six to One.</B> A Seaside Story.
35. <B>Nothing to Wear, and Two Millions.</B>
36. <B>Farm Ballads.</B> By <sc>Will Carleton</sc>.
37. <B>Farm Festivals.</B> By <sc>Will Carleton</sc>.
38. <B>Farm Legends.</B> By <sc>Will Carleton</sc>.
39 and 40. <B>The Clients of Dr. Bernagius.</B> <sc>Biart.</sc> Parts I. & II.
41. <B>Baby Rue; her Adventures and Misadventures.</B> <sc>C. M. Clay.</sc>
42. <B>The Undiscovered Country.</B> By <sc>W. D. Howells</sc>.
43. <B>Friends: a Duet.</B> By <sc>Elizabeth Stuart Phelps</sc>.
44. <B>A Gentleman of Leisure.</B> A Novel. By <sc>Edgar Fawcett</sc>.
45. <B>The Story of Helen Troy.</B>
.nf-
.bn 312.png
.pn +1
.ti -4
<I>Round the Yule Log: Norwegian Folk and Fairy Tales.</I>
Translated from the Norwegian of <sc>P. Chr. Asbjörnsen</sc>. with 100
Illustrations. Imperial 16mo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 7<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Russell (W. Clarke).</I> <I>See</I> “A Sailor’s Sweetheart,” 3 vols.,
31<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>; “Wreck of the Grosvenor”, 6<I>s.</I>; “John Holdsworth (Chief
Mate),” 6<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Russell (W. H., LL.D.) Hesperothen: Notes from the Western</I>
world. A record of a Ramble through part of the United States,
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<sc>W. H. Russell</sc>, LL.D. 2 vols., crown 8vo, cloth, 24<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
–– <I>The Tour of the Prince of Wales in India.</I> By
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.ti -4
<I><xl>S</xl>AINTS and their Symbols: A Companion in the Churches</I>
and Picture Galleries of Europe. With Illustrations. Royal 16mo,
cloth extra, 3<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Science Ladders.</I> Fcap. 8vo, stiff covers, 6<I>d.</I> each.
.nf c
<sc>Series I.</sc>
.nf-
.in 2
.nf l
<B>No. I. Forms of Land and Water.</B> With 15 Illustrations.
\_\_"\_\_<B>II. The Story of Early Exploration.</B>
.nf-
.nf c
<sc>Series II.</sc>
.nf-
.nf l
\_\_"\_\_<B>I. Vegetable Life.</B> With 35 Illustrations.
\_\_"\_\_<B>II. Flowerless Plants.</B>
.nf-
.nf c
<sc>Series III.</sc>
.nf-
.nf l
\_\_"\_\_<B>I. Lowest Forms of Water Animals.</B> With 22 Illustrations.
\_\_"\_\_<B>II. Lowly Mantle and Armour-wearers.</B>
.nf-
.in 4
.ti -4
<I>Schuyler (Eugène). The Life of Peter the Great.</I> By <sc>Eugène
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.ti -4
<I>Selection from the Letters of Madame de Rémusat to her Husband
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.ti -4
<I>Seonee: Sporting in the Satpura Range of Central India, and in
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.ti -4
<I>Seven Years in South Africa: Travels, Researches, and Hunting
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and 4 Maps. In 2 vols., demy 8vo, cloth extra, 42<I>s.</I>
.bn 313.png
.pn +1
.ti -4
<I>Serpent Charmer (The): a Tale of the Indian Mutiny.</I> From
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8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 7<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>; plainer binding, 5<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
<I>Shadbolt (S.) The Afghan Campaigns of 1878-1880.</I> By
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.ti -4
<I>Shooting: its Appliances, Practice, and Purpose.</I> By <sc>James
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“The book is admirable in every way.... We wish it every success.”—<I>Globe.</I>
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.ti -4
<I>Sikes (Wirt). Rambles and Studies in Old South Wales.</I> With
numerous Illustrations. Demy 8vo, cloth extra, 18<I>s.</I> By <sc>Wirt
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.ti -4
<I>Silent Hour (The).</I> <I>See</I> “Gentle Life Series.”
.ti -4
<I>Silver Sockets (The); and other Shadows of Redemption.</I>
Eighteen Sermons preached in Christ Church, Hampstead, by the
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.ti -4
<I>Smith (G.) Assyrian Explorations and Discoveries.</I> By the late
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8vo, 6th Edition, 18<I>s.</I>
.ti -4
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.ti -4
<I>Snow-Shoes and Canoes; or, the Adventures of a Fur-Hunter</I>
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.ti -4
<I>South African Campaign, 1879 (The).</I> Compiled by <sc>J. P.
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.ti -4
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.bn 314.png
.pn +1
.ti -4
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
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Small post 8vo, cloth extra, 6<I>s.</I>[1]
.ti -4
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
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.bn 315.png
.pn +1
.ti -4
<I>Stowe (Mrs. Beecher) Queer Little People.</I> 1<I>s.</I>; cloth, 2<I>s.</I>
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.ti -4
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.pm fn-start
<I>See also</I> Rose Library.
.pm fn-end
.ti -4
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
<I>Studies in the Theory of Descent.</I> By Dr. <sc>Aug. Weismann</sc>,
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.ti -4
<I><xl>T</xl>AINE (H. A.) “Les Origines de la France Contemporaine.”</I>
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.ti -4
.in 8
.nf l
Vol. 1. <B>The Ancient Regime.</B> Demy 8vo, cloth, 16<I>s.</I>
Vol. 2. <B>The French Revolution.</B> Vol. 1. cloth, 16<I>s.</I>
Vol. 3. <B>The French Revolution.</B> Vol. 2. cloth, 16<I>s.</I>
.nf-
.in 4
.ti -4
<I>Tauchnitz’s English Editions of German Authors.</I><br>
Each volume, cloth flexible, 2<I>s.</I>; or sewed, 1<I>s.</I>
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.ti -4
–– <I>(B.) German and English Dictionary.</I> Cloth, 1<I>s.</I>
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.bn 316.png
.pn +1
.ti -4
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
<I>Through America; or, Nine Months in the United States.</I> By
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
<I>Through Siberia.</I> By the Rev. <sc>Henry Lansdell</sc>. Illustrated
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.ti -4
<I>Tour of the Prince of Wales in India.</I> <I>See</I> <sc>Russell</sc>.
.ti -4
<I>Trees and Ferns.</I> By <sc>F. G. Heath</sc>. Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt
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.fs 80%
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.ti -4
<I>Tristram (Rev. Canon) Pathways of Palestine: A Descriptive</I> Tour
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
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.ti -4
<I><xl>U</xl>nder the Punkah.</I> By <I>Phil Robinson</I>, Author of “In my Indian
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.bn 317.png
.pn +1
.ti -4
<I>Union Jack (The). Every Boy’s Paper.</I> Edited by <sc>G. A. Henty</sc>.
One Penny Weekly, Monthly 6<I>d.</I> Vol. III. commences with the Part for
November, 1881, and contains the first Chapters of Three Serial Stories by
<sc>G. Manville Fenn</sc>, <I>Louis Rousselet</I>, and <sc>W. H. G.
Kingston</sc>, from the French of “Landelle.” Illustrated by the Best
Artists. With the first Part is presented a Photograph of Jules Verne, and
a Coloured Plate, “Rounding the Lightship,” a Yachting Incident; and this
Volume will also contain New Stories by Col. <sc>Butler</sc>, Author of
“The Great Lone Land,” <sc>Jules Verne</sc>, an Historical Story by the
Editor, &c., &c. Volume II. for 1881, beautifully bound in red cloth (royal
4to), 7<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>, gilt edges, 8<I>s.</I> Beautifully Illustrated
with over 400 Illustrations, including 52 full-page Engravings, 8 Steel
ditto, 7 Coloured Plates, and Photograph of the Editor.
.nf c
<I>The Contents comprise</I>:
.nf-
.in 4
.nf l
<B>The Cornet of Horse</B>: a Tale of Marlborough’s Wars. By the <sc>Editor</sc>.
<B>The Young-Franc-Tireurs</B>: a Tale of the Franco-German War.\
By the <sc>Editor</sc>.
<B>The Ensign and Middy</B>: a Tale of the Malay Peninsula. By <sc>G.\
Manville Fenn</sc>.
<B>The Steam House</B>: <sc>The Demon of Cawnpore</sc>. A Tale of India.\
By <sc>Jules Verne</sc>.
<B>Rawdon School</B>: a Tale of Schoolboy Life. By <sc>Bernard Heldmann</sc>.
<B>Dorrincourt</B>: a Story of a Term there. By <sc>Bernard Heldmann</sc>.
<B>Peyton Phelps</B>; or, Adventures among the Italian Carbonari. By\
<sc>G. Stebbing</sc>.
<B>Gerald Rattlin</B>: a Tale of Sea Life. By <sc>Geo. Elford</sc>.
<B>A Fight in Freedom’s Cause.</B>
<B>An Eventful Ride.</B>
<B>The Ghost of Leytonstone Manor.</B>
<B>An Editor’s Yarns.</B>
<B>True Tales of Brave Actions.</B>
And numerous other Articles of Interest and Instruction.
A few copies of Volume I., for 1880, still remain, price 6<I>s.</I>
.nf-
.in 4
.ti -4
<I>Upolu; or, A Paradise of the Gods</I>; being a Description of
the Antiquities of the chief Island of the Samoan Group, with Remarks
on the Topography, Ethnology, and <sc>Handley Bathurst Sterndale</sc>. Edited
and annotated by his brother, Author of “Seonee,” “The Afghan
Knife,” &c. 2 vols., demy 8vo.
.ti -4
<I><xl>V</xl>ICTOR Hugo and his Times.</I> Translated from the French
of <sc>A. Barbou</sc> by <sc>Ellen E. Frewer</sc>. 120 Illustrations, many of
them from designs by Victor Hugo himself. Super-royal 8vo, cloth
extra.
.ti -4
<I>Vincent (F.) Norsk, Lapp, and Finn.</I> By <sc>Frank Vincent</sc>,
Jun., Author of “The Land of the White Elephant,” “Through
and Through the Tropics,” &c. 8vo, cloth, with Frontispiece and
Map, 12<I>s.</I>
.bn 318.png
.sp 2
.pn +1
.dv class=font80
.ta  h:20 |c:6 |c:6 |c:6 |l:15
_
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.nf l
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.nf-
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.nf c
<i>London:</i>

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CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET, E.C.
.nf-
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.sp 2
.dv class=tnbox // TN box start
.ul
.it Transcriber’s Notes:
.ul indent=1
.it Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.
.it This book was written at a time when both American and English spelling\
of some words were acceptable. The author’s usages weren't changed.
.it Typographical errors were silently corrected.
.it Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a\
predominant form was found in this book.
.if t
.it Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
.if-
.ul-
.ul-
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