"Why, can it be possible he knows her?" I said.

"He thinks not," said mother, "but this calling him Peter is singular enough."

"It seems very strange, and hardly possible she can have come so far," said father. Louis' eyes as well as my own had been covertly scanning Mr. Benton, and he was ill at ease. At the name of Peter his face grew pale and his hand trembled; no one else noticing it, he rallied, but made no remark whatever. Afterward Louis said to him:

"What a strange experience this is of the girl we found!—truths are queer things; I feel a real anxiety to find out about her. Do not you feel interested?" His eyes fell as he answered:

"Can't say that I do. You have more enthusiasm than myself. Having known more years, I am taught to let people look out for themselves very much. But that old Matthias I don't like. It may be all a put up job—something to bring credit or money to himself—you can't trust that darky."

"Why," said Louis, "I would trust him, and so far as this young lady is concerned, a different person from Matthias is at the root of the matter. I have a desire to know the truth and help the girl."

"She may be your fate, Louis."

"No," he replied, "Mr. Benton, that is not possible, my 'fate,' as you call it, is my Emily."

"Miss Minot?" said Benton, "great heavens! Has that girl played me false?"

"I think not," said Louis calmly, "and since the subject is broached, perhaps it will be best for me to tell you that Emily is to be my wife, her parents being willing."

"You are a gentleman, truly! I gave you my confidence and expected"—

"Do not say more," said Louis, raising his hand deprecatingly against the coming falsehood, "do not help me to despise you. I am too sorry that I am forced to know what you said to me was untrue, and also to realize what my Emily has suffered and kept in her own heart."

"Louis Desmonde," said Mr. Benton, "do you realize what you are saying?"

"Only too well, sir; do not force me to say more. I admire your art. I am willing to help you to be a man."

"Indeed!" replied Mr. Benton. "Philanthropic boy! who talks to a man of years and judgment!"

It was a bitter pill for him, and I believe it was the knowledge of Louis' money, and of his own great need of it, that forced him to retreat in silence, while Louis sought and told me of their interview.

"How could you help telling him of the letter, Louis?"

"I did not have to try to help it, for I want to be sure of all I say to him, and as far as I spoke I had perfect authority. He may at some time need my help, though he spurned the aid of his 'philanthropic boy.'"

"Boy," said I, "you are old enough to be his father in goodness, but here comes Aunt Hildy. The poor lamb must be better, else she would not come back so soon," and I opened the door for her entrance.

"I know what you're after," she said, "she's better; the poor thing will get well. Oh dear! land! I wonder, when'll the same old story end."

"Has she told it to you, Aunt Hildy?"

"Partly to me and partly to Mis' Goodwin." (Aunt Hildy never said Mrs. —— married or single, it was always Miss.) "She'll tell you all about it, I guess, for she wants to see you. She remembers your dark eyes, and Matthias she calls Peter—yes, she does, now she's come clean to her senses, and when she gets a little more strength, she says she must see him, and the dark eyes too; so you'll have to go over. Mis' Goodwin said mebbe you'd better wait till to-morrer, and so says Brother Davis. He come over and brought a few of his powders—he wanted to do something. I told him we could fetch her out straight—Mis' Goodwin and me—and I think he'd better tend to himself—says he's got a dreadful pain under his shoulder blades; acts as if he's goin' to be sick."

"Could the young lady eat anything, Mrs. Patten?" said Louis.

"Mercy! yes, I've made gruel twice for her and she's all right, only she'll be lame and sore-like for a good while, but I must go to work, I've been gone long enough. Where's your mother?" And the dear old soul hastened to her duties.

Our supper table was enlivened by the news that Aunt Hildy brought, all being interested with the exception of Mr. Benton, who was well covered with dignity. Part of that evening, Louis and I spent with Hal and Mary. I longed to tell them all about the letter and Mr. Benton's deceit, but as we entered, Louis whispered, "Let us be discreet," and I answered, "Emily will do it." He was so much wiser that our years told a story when they said "only a month's difference in their ages." Hal and Mary were much interested in the poor lamb, and like ourselves hoped to learn her history, and help her as she must need. Our visits here were always pleasant, and when we said "good night," a sincere "God bless you" rose from our hearts. We entered our sitting-room, to find Clara sitting between mother and father, and the three evidently enjoying a home talk. After we were seated, and a lull in the conversation came, Louis startled me by saying:

"Mr. and Mrs. Minot, I want to ask of you a favor—greater than the one granted my little mother; perhaps so great that you will fail to grant it; but it is worth the asking, worth the waiting for through years. May I call Emily my wife?"

My father looked strangely, and did not reply for a moment, while mother's face was covered with that pleasant smile, which from earliest years I had considered, "yes." Louis' eyes were bent on my father, who, when he answered, said:

"You are both young, Louis."

"Yes, sir, I know it, and I do not ask to make her my wife now. But I love her, Mr. Minot, and it is not right we should hold a position not sanctioned by you. I shall feel better if you are willing to consider us, as we feel, pledged to each other."

"I cannot say no, but I have thought—Mr. Benton has asked me the same question, and I hardly know what to say—I said to him, 'If Emily is willing, I will not oppose your suit.'"

"Oh!" I cried, "father, he has told such stories!"

Louis said: "We can explain that satisfactorily, Mr. Minot, but if there are other objections in your mind, let us know what they are."

My father was not a man who expressed himself freely, and Louis was so unlike other young men that he was embarrassed evidently, and there was, as it seemed to me, a long silence ere he said:

"I have no objections, Louis. I believe you mean what you say, and also have enough of your mother in you to treat our girl well. I cannot see why your plans may not be carried out so far as I am concerned."

He looked at mother, who smiled a consent, and Louis stepped toward them both, shook their hands heartily, and said:

"I thank you."

His way of manifesting feeling was purely French, and belonged to him—it was not ours, but we came to like it, and as my father often said, when Clara came she unlocked many a door that had been shut for years. Too many of our best ideas were kept under covering, I knew, and the hand of expressive thought was one which loosened the soil about their roots, giving impetus to their growth and sweetness to their blossoms. We knew more of each other daily, and is not this true through life? Do not fathers and mothers live and die without knowing their children truly, and all of them looking through the years for that which they sorely need, and find it not? Their confidence in each other lacking, lives have been blasted, hopes scattered almost ere they were born, and generations suffered in consequence. It was the blessed breaking of day to me, the freedom to tell my mother what I thought; and after Clara, became one of us, I could get much nearer to my father. The full tide of her feeling swept daily over the harbor bar of our lives, and we enjoyed together its great power. Her heart was beneficent, and her hand sealed it with the alms she gave freely. She was always unobtrusive, and anxious in every way to avoid notoriety.

Deacon Grover who had heard and known with others of her numerous charities, offered advice in that direction, and said to Aunt Hildy,

"If that rich lady would just walk up and give a few hundreds to the church fund it would help mightily."

Aunt Hildy had replied:

"Yes, yes, Deacon Grover, it would be nice for lazy folks to let the minister do all the saving, and somebody else all the paying. I believe faith without works is jest exactly like heavy bread, and will not be accepted at the table of the Lord."

"He never said another word to me," said she; "that man knows he has a right to be better."

This was a conceded fact, and it always seemed to me he ought not to be carrying his deaconship in one hand, and his miserably small deeds in the other. Hypocrites were in existence among all people, and while thoroughly despised by them, still held their places, and do yet, as far as my knowledge and experience go.

Early the morning of the next day, Matthias came over to tell us about that "poor gal," as he called her.

"She wants to see you, Miss Emily, and they say she wants to talk to me too. Mis' Goodwin said ''pears like you'd better come over thar 'bout three o'clock to-day, if you can.' She's right peart, an' by 'nuther mornin', 'spect she'll call loud for me."

"Do you think you know her, Matthias?"

"Can't say I do, Miss, but seems queer enough, she 'sists on callin' of me 'Peter'—um—gimme sich a feelin' when she spoke dat word," and Matthias looked as if his heart was turning back to his old home, and its never-to-be-forgotten scenes.

Mother sent a basket of delicacies over by him, and Aunt Hildy said:

"Tell Miss Goodwin I'm goin' to bake some of my sweet cookies and send over, and we can make some bread for her; 'twill help along—don't forget it Matthias."

"No, marm, I'll 'member sure," and off he started. As he passed along the path I thought of a word I wanted to say, and ran out of the door in time to see the shadow of a form which I knew must be waiting in the "angle" as we called it. It was where the east L ended, about ten feet from the main front. In the summer I had a bed of blue violets here, and named it "Violet Angle.' I stopped, for I heard a voice, and saw Matthias turn to this spot instead of passing on to the gate as usual. The first salutation I did not hear, but Matthias' reply was "yaas sah." The voice was Mr. Benton's, and I stood riveted to the spot.

"Who is that girl, Matt?" he said.

"Dunno, sah."

"Don't know? Yes, you do know; you can't play your odds on me. I'm not ready to swallow all I hear. I want you to tell me who that girl is, and how she came here."

"I dunno, sah, sartin."

"Matt, I don't believe a word you say; first tell me the truth."

"Massar Benton, you're a queer man. Dis niggah shan't tell you no lies, but de Lord's truf, I dunno noffin 'bout."

"You don't know me either, do you?" and he laughed ironically.

"Never thought I did," said Matthias; "'pears like long ways back I see some face like yours, but I dunno. Good many faces looks alike roun' yere."

"Yes, yes," says Benton, "you've said enough, you black rascal; and you mark my words, if you've raised the devil, as I think you have, I'll cowhide you. I'll give you something to remember me by, you old fool; and you a'nt a fool either; you're as cunning as Satan is wicked."

"De Lord forgive you," said Matthias, "you're done gone clar from your senses. I dunno who dat gal is, an I dunno who you is, an' what more kin I say?"

"I know who you are, and I know you were the slave of Sumner down in South Carolina."

"Yaas," said Matthias, "dat's so; but how does you know 'bout me? Did you come down thar? 'Haps dat's de reason you're face kinder makes me look back, an it mos' allus does; 'pears like you mout explain."

"Yes, s'pose I mout," said Benton, "and I reckon you will before we get through."

"Wal," said Matthias, "if you wait till you gits evidence fo' you gives dat hidin' you talks 'bout, I've got plenty ob time to go over to de groun' room," and he walked off at his old gait, slow but sure, while I, turning, ran into the house and told mother what I had heard.

She raised her hands in a sort of holy horror, but only said:

"What does it mean?"

"It means," said Aunt Hildy, "that man's a rascal; I told you, Mis' Minot, he was when I first set eyes on him, and I've kept good track of Emily, for when he see he couldn't get the 'rich widder,' that's what he calls our good little creetur Clara, then he tacked round and set sail for Emily, and he's been a torment to her, and I know it. Thank the Lord, he's shown his cloven foot; I wish Mr. Minot had heard it. He laughs at me, thinks I'm a fool, but I've seen through him if I do wear an old cloak. It's mine, and so is my wit, what little I've got."

Aunt Hildy stepped up lively and worked every moment, keeping time to her thoughts and giving great expression by her peculiar accenting of words. Clara heard us, and came in "to the rescue," she said, "for it sounded as if somebody was getting a scolding."

I repeated my story, and although she rarely used French expressions, this time she clasped her little hands together, sank into a chair, and said:

"Oh! Emelie, j'ai su depuis longtemps, qu'il nous ferait un grand tort. Le pauvre agneau! Le pauvre agneau!"

"What will father do?" I said to mother.

"I cannot think of anything to do except to help the poor girl; his own punishment is sure, Emily; we are not his masters. 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,'" she quoted calmly.

"Yes," said Aunt Hildy, "that's the spirit to have, but I believe if I had really heard it as Emily did, I'd have risked it to throw a pan of dish water on him."

I could not help laughing—we were having a real drama in the kitchen. Great tears had gathered in Clara's eyes, and I said to her:

"Now this will upset you. I'm sorry you heard it."

"No, no," she said, "but the poor lamb, I can hardly wait for the time when I may see her."

"Can you ever speak to Mr. Benton again?" I said to mother.

"I should hope so, Emily. I feel great pity for him; he might be a better man. We are taught toleration not of principles, but certainly of men, and I think if our Heavenly Father will forgive him, we can afford to, and then it would be very unwise to let him know we are cognizant of this."

My mother reminded me so many times of the light that burns steadily in a light-house on a ledge. The waves, washing the solid rock, and wearing even the stone at its base, have no power to disturb the lamp, which, well trimmed, burns silently on, throwing its beams far out to sea, and fanning hope in the heart of the sailor, who finds at last the shore and blesses the beacon light.

I admired her calm and steadfast trust in the truth, that bore her along in her daily doing right toward all with whom she mingled, but I well knew she would be righteously indignant toward Mr. Benton, and also that the whole truth, with the letter and the story of "the lamb," would soon be forthcoming. I could hardly wait for the recital which I expected to hear in the afternoon, and entered Mrs. Goodwin's door at three o'clock precisely.

She was glad to see me, and said cheerily:

"Take off your things, Emily, and I'll show you right in, for Miss Harris is waiting anxiously."

I thought she looked beautiful the night we found her, but to-day she was a marvellous picture, sitting among the white pillows. Her cheeks were touched here and there with pink, as if rose leaves had left their tender stain—her eyes beautifully bright, and such depths of blue, with arched brows above them, and long brown lashes for a shield. Her hair rippled over her shoulders in brown curls, and around her was thrown the light India shawl she had about her on that sad night. She smiled with pleasure as I entered, and beckoned me to her bedside, while Mrs. Goodwin said:

"Take the old splint rocker, Emily. I am going to let you stay two long hours."

How gratefully the poor lamb's eyes turned upon the good woman!

"This young lady's name is Harris."

"Yes," said Miss Harris "Mary Abigail Harris, after my mother."

I kissed her forehead, and then took the seat proffered, sitting so near her that I could lean on the side of the bed as I listened to the story.

Mrs. Goodwin left us alone, and the recital began:

"I remembered your eyes, Miss Minot, and I wanted to tell you all about it—how I came to be here, needing the help you so kindly gave. Oh, I shudder," she said, "as I think how it might have been that never again my mother could have seen me!"

Her face grew pale, but no tears came, and I could see a resolute look that gave signs of strong will, and for this I felt inwardly thankful.

"I came from my home," said she, "in search of my husband. Three years ago I was married in my father's house to Wilmur Bentley, who came South from his Northern home on an artist's tour, selling many pictures and painting more. He lived in our vicinity for some months with a friend, a wealthy planter by the name of Sumner." I started involuntarily. "There were two of these gentlemen—brothers—and they owned large plantations with many colored people. Mr. Bentley had every appearance of a gentleman of honor, and none of us ever doubted his worth. My father gave him a pleasant welcome and a home, and for three brief months we were happy. Suddenly a cloud fell upon him; he appeared troubled, and said 'Mary, I must go North—I have left some tangled business snarls there, which I must see to.' He left, promising an early return. The letters I received from him were frequent, and beautifully tender in their expressions of love for me. I was happy; but the days wore into weeks, and his return still delayed. I began to feel anxious and fearful, when I received a letter from Chicago, saying he had been obliged to go to that city on business, and would be unavoidably detained. He would like me to come to him, if it were not for fear of my being too delicate to bear the journey. My parents would have been quite unwilling also, for the promise of the days lay before me, and with this new hope that it would not be so very long ere he would come, I was again contentedly happy. The letters grew less frequent, and the days grew long, and when September came my little girl came too, and how I longed for her father to come.

"My parents telegraphed him of the event, saying also, 'Come, if possible—Mary is in a fever of anxiety,' but he did not come; the telegram was not replied to, and although dangerously ill, I lived. Now the letters came no more, and I, still believing in his goodness, felt sure that he was either sick or dead. My little Mabel lived one year. Oh, how sweet she was! and one month after her death I received a letter asking why I was so silent, telling me of great trouble and overwhelming me with sorrow. I answered kindly, but my father was convinced by this that he was a 'villain,' to use his own expression. The fact of his not writing for so long, and then writing a letter almost of accusation against me, made me feel fearful, and as I looked back on my suffering, determined, if it were possible to some day know the truth. My answer to the letter I speak of was received, and he again wrote, and this time told me a pitiful tale of the loss by fire of all his artist possessions, and his closing sentence was 'we may never meet again, for in the grave I hope to find refuge from want. If you desire to answer this, write 'without delay. It is hard to bear poverty and want.'

"I felt almost wild, and gave father the letter, hoping to receive a generous donation from him, but my father said, 'Molly, darling, (that is my name at home), the villain lies! no, no, pet, not a cent.' I cried myself ill, and sent him my wedding ring, a diamond, his gift, since which I have heard nothing.

"I told my father after it was gone, and if he had not loved me so much, I should have felt the power of angry words. He was angry, but he thought of all I had suffered, and he took me right up in his arms, and cried over me. 'Mollie, darling, it is too bad; you have a woman's heart. I would to God the man had never been born.

"I had a dear friend to whom I had confided all my sorrow—a Virginia lady, married and living in Boston. Her husband, Mr. Chadwick, is a merchant there, and every year she spends three or four months with her Southern friends. One brother lives in Charleston, my home. We have been attached to each other for years, and my father and mother love her dearly. Three weeks ago she arrived at her home in Boston, having been South four months, and at her earnest solicitation I came also. She knew my heart and how determined I was to find Mr. Bentley, and felt willing to aid me in any way possible. We went about the city, and I devoted myself especially to looking at paintings and statuary. I found at last by chance a picture with the name, not of 'Bentley,' but of 'Benton' on it. I traced it to Chicago, and proved it to be his, and there from his own friends gathered the facts which led me on his track."

"Oh!" I cried.

"Wait," said she, "More, Miss Minot; he has a wife, or at least there is a poor woman with two boys living in poverty in the suburbs of Boston, to whom he was married ten years ago. I have been to see her, but did not disclose my secret. Mrs. Chadwick has known of this for a long time, but dared not tell me until I got strong, and was in the North with her. I gave that woman money to help her buy bread, and Mrs. Chadwick will see to her now. She is a lovely character. Benton's home is near this place where she lives, and he goes there once in a great while. Now about my clothes—when I started for this place I was well clad, and the first of my journey quiet and calm, but I think my excitement grew intense, and I must have lost myself utterly. I know it was a week ago when I left Boston, and now as I look back, I remember looking at my baby's picture and everything growing dim in the cars. This India shawl was thrown about my neck, but it seems when you found me I had no other covering. I found the purse where I had sewed it in my dress, but my cloak and bonnet and furs, all are gone.

"I can remember how the name of this place kept ringing in my ears, and I must have asked for it and found it, even though I cannot remember one word. After the baby's picture your eyes came before me, and then old Peter."

Looking at the clock, she said:

"It is only half an hour since you came in, and will you ask Peter to come in and see me? I'm sure I hear him talking in the other room."

I stepped to the door, and there was Matthias.

I said to Mrs. Goodwin:

"Miss Harris wishes to see Peter, she says."

She looked at Matthias, and then said:

"Well, come in, and we'll find out what she means, if we can."

He walked solemnly along to her bedside, and stood as if amazed.

"Peter," said she, "you know me; I am Mary Harris, and you lived with Mr. Charles Sumner—do say you know me. You said you would deny your master, and you did it," and she held her hands to him.

He reached forth his own and took the jewelled fingers tenderly in his dark palm as if half afraid; then the tears came, forcing their way, and with an effort he said:

"Oh! oh! honey chile—can't be pos'ble—what's done happin to ye, and whar was ye gwine?"

"Never mind, Peter, but do you remember the man who painted beautiful pictures, and stopped awhile with your master's brother?"

"Sartin, I does."

"William Bentley he said was his name, but it was Benton; he told us a story."

"De great Lord, Molly chile, you's foun' him, sure—de debbil's got a hold on dat man, an'—"

But I looked a warning, and he waited.

"You remember him then, Peter; he had a light moustache, a pleasing mouth—a very nice young man we thought him to be."

"Yas, yas, dar's whar de mistake come in, wit dat 'ar mustaff," said Matthias dreamily.

"What mistake?" she said.

"Oh! de good Lord bress you, honey, what does you want of dis man?"

"I want to tell him something, and I heard he was here, and now will you find him for me?"

"I will, Miss Molly, 'ef I dies dead for it—de Lord help us."

"Do you think you can?"

"I knows dat ar to be a fack."

"Oh, Peter! I am glad; where is he?"

Poor Matthias looked at me, and I said, "Now, Miss Harris, you must not talk anymore, and I will help Matthias, for I think I know where this man is."

She shut her eyes and sank back among her pillows, looking tired and pale—the knowledge that this destroyer of her hopes was so near was, though looked for and expected, more than she could really bear.

Mrs. Goodwin left the room, motioning to Matthias to follow, and I sat quietly thinking of what to do, when she opened her eyes and said to me:

"I have written to Mrs. Chadwick, and also to mother, and she will send mother's letter from Boston. I cannot write to her of this; it would worry her so; and now, as I can see Wilmur and say to him what I desire, I shall leave you."

"It will kill you to see him."

"You are mistaken. I know I look frail, but I can endure much, and I do not love him any more though he was my Mabel's father. I want him to go to his poor wife and do right if he can. She loves him and is deluded into believing the strangest things. Robberies and fires and anything he thinks of are an excuse for not sending her money."

"Oh! he needs hanging," I said.

"No, no, Miss Minot; if he is unfit for our society he certainly would find nobody to love him there; I am not seeking revenge, though his punishment is sure enough. In two days more I shall be strong enough to see him. Oh, I do hope Peter will find him!"

She needed rest, and I said:

"Now it is best for me to go, and when I come again I would like to bring a beautiful friend."

"Oh, yes," she said, "and do come to-morrow!"

She bade me a reluctant "Good bye," and I told Matthias, I wanted him to walk home with me.

My walk homeward with Matthias gave me the needed opportunity to talk with him, where naught save the air wandering off to the hills could hear us. I told him of the conversation which I had overheard, and also that I proposed to take the burden on my own shoulders of revealing to Miss Harris the fact of Mr. Benton being with us. "For," I said, "Matthias, it will hardly be safe for you to bear all this. He believes, I think, that you have helped Miss Harris to find him, and has been looking out for trouble since you came to us, for he warned both Louis and myself, and told us not to trust you. He did not, of course, say he knew you; that would not have done at all. But I will do all she asks, then your poor old shoulders will be relieved a little."

"Jes as you say, Miss Emly, pears like its queer nuf an' all happin too, an' ef he had worn just dat mustaff, without de whiskers, I'd know him yere straight off. I said long nuf, he set me on de tinkin groun—um—um—here come Mas'r Louis lookin' arter his gal, I reckin, mighty wise he is; I'd tote a long ways ef 'twas to help him."

Louis went to the village early and had returned to hear from Clara's lips my morning discovery, and came to meet me, anxious to learn the story of the poor lamb, which I rehearsed, having time to tell it all during the rest of the walk, and ending with "it is strange enough to make a book," just as we entered our gate.

Louis said the cloud must break ere long; and when Matthias left I followed along the path behind him, feeling that Mr. Benton might again assail him, and I was not mistaken.

"Look here," came from the angle, and "yas, sah," from Matthias as he turned to answer.

"What did you come home with Miss Minot for?" said Benton.

"Kase she axed me too, sah."

"Whom has she been to see?"

"Dat poor gal."

"Who is that girl, do you know?

"Yas, sah," said the honest old man.

"You know more to-day than you did yesterday."

"Yas, sah."

"Why don't you tell me who she is."

"You did'nt ax me, you said did I know?"

"I don't want any of your nigger talk. I want her name, and by the great ——"

"Look yer, Mas'r Benton, if you's gwine to dip in an' swar, I'll tote long by myself."

"Well, tell me who she is."

"She tole me she was dat little Molly Harris dat lived down in Charleston, an—"

"How in thunder did she get here?"

"Dunno, sah."

"You do know, and I tell you you'll make money to tell me all about it."

"Dunno nothin' moah. I said dat same word, how you git yere, and she say never min 'bout dat."

"What else did she say, what does she want?"

"Wall, de res ob what she tell me, 'pears like she didn't 'spect me tell. I'll go over thar, an' tell her you wants to know, an—"

"The devil you will, you impudent rascal—all I want to know is if she wants to find me."

"De good Lord, dat's de berry secret I don't want to tell."

"Ah! ha! my fine fellow, caught at last."

"Well," said he, "ef de Lord was right yere in dis vilit angil he'd say Matt dunno nothin' 'bout how de poor lamb got roun' to dis town."

"I don't know how to believe this, but now look here, Matt, if you'll go over there and tell her I've gone to Chicago, I'll do something nice for you. I'll get you a suit of nicer clothes than you ever had, and a shiny hat—hey, what do you say?"

"Mas'r Benton," said Matthias slowly, "I'm never gwine to tell a lie an' set myself in de place whar Satan hisself can ketch a holt an me. No, sah, 'pears like I'm ready to do what's right, but dat ain't right nohow, an' 'pears, too, its mighty funny you's so scart of dat poor little milk-faced gal. Trus' in de Lord, Mas'r Benton, an' go right on over thar—she can't hurt you nohow."

"Don't talk your nonsense to me; you're on her side, she's bought you, but I'll be even with you; I'll slap your face now to make a good beginning."

"No, sah," said Matthias, "I'm done bein' a slave jes now, an' ef you want to make me hit you I shall jes do it; fur you no bizness in de law specially tryin' to put it on a poor ole nigger who can't go by ye 'thout your grabbin' at him jes ready to kill, an' all kase you's done suthin' you's shamed of an' tinks he knows it. I'm gwine over to the groun' room."

I feared Mr. Benton would strike him, and I ran to the gate, and stood there while Matthias passed out and along the road. Mr. Benton disappeared suddenly.

Supper-time was at hand, and there had been no time to tell mother what I had heard of Miss Harris' history. At the table Ben, as usual, had inquiries to make, and I said, "Oh! she is better, Ben; you shall see her, for she will stay a long time."

"Where did she come from, Emily?"

From Charleston, South Carolina.

"Well, ain't that funny?" said he; "that's the very place Matthias came from, and perhaps she does know him after all."

"Oh! yes, she does," I replied, and raising my eyes to meet Mr. Benton's gaze, I shot the truth at him with a dark glance; his own eyes fell, and he looked as if overwhelmed with confusing thoughts; and the consciousness of being foiled roused the demon within him. This, however, was not the time or place to unbottle his wrath, and it must swell silently within.

My father began to feel the shadows thickening round him, and he kindly forbore to say a word regarding the matter, as did also mother. Aunt Hildy moved a little uneasily in her chair, and I knew she could have said something as cutting as a knife, but did not. As for me, I could and did talk on other things, and congratulated myself on another victory. I afterward told mother all Miss Harris said, and she remarked quietly:

"I am very thankful she is his wife."

"Well, but she isn't," I said.

"Yes, I know, Emily, the previous marriage would be held as the only lawful tie, but it is much better than it might have been. She has a good home and parents, and is young. Years will restore her. I cannot see, however, why she should have taken the pains to find him here."

"For the reason that she desires to plead with him for the wife and boys that are in need, and is a strong noble woman too,—why, she will have the strength of a lion when she gets well, and there is a resolute determination on her part to place before Mr. Benton a plain picture of his duty."

"Hem!" said Aunt Hildy, "she can get her picture all ready and put on the prettiest paint in the market,—that man will be gone in less than twenty-four hours. Can't I see which way his sails are set?" Our back door-sill never was swept cleaner than where this sentence fell.

"That may be," said mother; "I hope he will, for it seems to me we have too great a duty to perform if he stays. I feel ill able to undertake the task."

Aunt Hildy turned to hang up her broom, saying as she did so:

"I'd like to have your sister Phebe give him a lecture—she'd tear him all to pieces jest as easy as shellin' an ear of corn. I like to hear her talk; she ain't afraid of all the lies that can be invented. What a good hit she give Deacon Grover that night when he come in with his ideas of nothin' spillin' over. She talked good common sense, and hew as the subject, for it was all about a hypocrite. He did'nt stay to see if he could get a mug of cider to save his own, but set mighty uneasy and was off for home before eight o'clock. That done me good."

That evening was spent by me in conversation with Louis. Next morning at the breakfast table the subject of the poor lamb was not broached, and directly after, when the stage came along, Mr. Benton took it to go to the village on business.

"There," said Aunt Hildy, "he never'll step on to this door-sill again—but I would'nt throw a horseshoe after him if I knew it would be good luck. He don't deserve any."

"Why, he hasn't taken as much as a carpet-bag," said my father, "of course, he will be back again."

"No, sir, Mr. Minot; that feller is up to snuff—he ain't going to stop now for any duty pictures," and she turned to her work as if satisfied with having made a true prophecy.

I spoke to Clara about going over to see Miss Harris, and she felt inclined to go that morning.

"Louis, too, may go," she said. "Come, dear boy."

We were very welcome, and found Miss Harris seated in the old rush-chair before the fire-place. Her dress was a most becoming wrapper of blue (she found it in Clara's bundle) her hair falling as on the previous day in natural curls, and the same India shawl thrown over her sloping shoulders. She was exactly Clara's size, and when the two came together, Clara said, "We are sisters surely." But afterward, as they sat side by side, I could see such a difference. Alike in form and complexion, also having regular features, yet the light in our Clara's eyes was incomparably purer, savored less of earth. Miss Harris' face was sweet, truthful, the lines of her mouth alone defining her powerful will and courage. She was very beautiful, but earthly, while over my own Clara's face there fell the unmistakable light of something beyond. Oh! my saving angel, how my heart beat as I sat there drawing the comparison, giving to Miss Harris a place in the sitting-room of my womanly feeling, and yielding to my beloved Clara the entire room where lay the purest thoughts which had been boon to my spirit, coming to life at the touch of her tender hand! She was a beacon light in the wilderness of thought.

"Tell me, Miss Minot," said Miss Harris, "tell me all you know, for I feel you do know much."

I explained Mr. Benton's coming to stay with us, and when I said he took the stage this morning for town, and will be back, I suppose—

"Never," she interrupted, "he has heard I am here."

"Yes," I said, and repeated his conversation with Matthias.

"I am then foiled, but he will not elude the truth that goes with him. He may have gone to his waiting wife. Mrs. Chadwick will write me, for she will not lose sight of her."

No tears came to her eyes, but the determined look deepened as it were into strength, and she said:

"It is too bad. I did hope to be able to make him do his duty. Now I must hasten to become strong, and go back to Boston. I will find him yet—I'm sure I will."

She talked freely of her Southern home, and expressed comfort at the hope of one day seeing us there.

"I need a little help to get there myself," she said; "I have no cloak—can you get one for me, Miss Minot? I am fortunate enough to be able to pay for it, my purse being with me."

Louis looked admiringly at the girl-woman (for such she seemed to be), and when our call ended said to her:

"When you are strong enough to leave, may you receive great help to do what seems to be your whole duty; and if little mother or myself can aid you, please command us."

"Thank you," she said, "you remind me much of my dark-eyed Southern friends." We took our departure. It was only one week after that the old stage carried her from our sight; but we did not forget her, nor the sad experience which had developed in her so great a strength.

Mr. Benton did not return, as Aunt Hildy predicted, and the stage brought a note for Hal, in which he said he was unavoidably detained, having found important letters at the village. He would write him a long letter, and the letter came after ten days' waiting, bearing the postmark of —— (he was with his wife). He wrote that he was with a friend, and some unexpected business relations would keep him there for a time. He desired his belongings sent to him, if it would not trouble Hal too much. He feared that it would be a long time ere he would be again situated amongst such pleasant surroundings, "and they are, as you well know, so much needed by an artist," he said. I do wonder what the man thought. Hal and Mary had not known Miss Harris' story, but Louis had read the letter to Hal, and his perfidy was apparent to all. No word had been said, however, and I presume he (not learning about the letters) thought Hal still a good friend, which was in fact the case. Hal said:

"I would not lose sight of him for the world. Emily, his hand was one of those which led me across the bridge of sighs when my art was coming to life, and I shall help him. He may yet need more than we know."

"We can afford to pity him, but what about his wife, Hal?"

"His wife I intend to see. Let us hope he will yet prove of some assistance to her."

"Good brother! blessed brother! I have felt so angry with him, Hal, but I will try to be good. Of course Mary will be with you."

"She thinks he needs a little punishment, but I tell her to be patient, and to let the days tell us their story."

"Amen," said the voice of our Clara, who was always in the right place, "and may we not hope for all the suffering ones. There are bruised hearts all around us. Let the precious nutriment of our love and care fall on them as the dew, calling forth tender blossoms, whose perfume may mingle with their lives. Wisdom and strength, my Emily, will help us to these things, and the prayer of England's church be not so sadly true."

It was a relief to us all, and we could take long breaths now that Mr. Benton had gone, and mysteries solved had opened before us a vista of quiet days, into which our feet would gladly turn. We had to talk him over thoroughly, and I was glad to be able to say at last:

"Peace to his memory; let him rest."

The letter we expected from the sweet girl-woman came, and we heard each week of her and her unrewarded search going on. At last, when out from the snows blue violets sprang, there came a letter, saying,

"It is done. I found him looking at a lovely picture, one of his own. It was a fancy sketch, but the face, eyes and hair, those of Mrs. Desmonde, I know. He had clothed her in exquisitely lovely apparel, and she was looking out over a waste of waters, but I cannot describe it justly. If her son were here, he would secure it at any price. I touched his shoulder; he turned, and with the strangest look in his eyes. He sought even then to avoid me, thinking probably I might prove a tempest in a teapot, and make a terrible scene. I said quietly, 'I am only desirious of two hours' conversation with you;' introduced Mrs. Chadwick to him as to a friend, and invited him to call; gave him my card and turned away, naming an hour the ensuing day; for I knew he would come. My manner disarming him, I really believe he felt relieved to know I was not on his track with weapons of law. He came, and I received him almost cordially. The parlor had been left for us, and my friend, at my request, sat outside the door where she could hear all that passed. Of course, I cannot tell you what I said, but my revelations were startlingly true, and he could not gainsay them, neither did he try to. He seemed rather astonished that I no longer desired his companionship and the great love which every true woman needs. I answered with spirit, and just as I felt, that while his love might be boundless, it could no longer be anything for me. I knew his soul was capable of maintaining the appearance of purity of thought long enough to delineate its outline on canvas, and while I admired his talent in verse, I had tasted the bitter dregs of his falseness, and was now thoroughly undeceived as to his character. Never again could I be misled by the semblance of a love which had no reality beneath its honeyed words. I told him also that our angel Mabel had been orphaned by his cruelty. And oh! how strong I felt when I said, 'Go to your own wife, whose burden I would not increase by revealing my own terrible secret. Live for her and those two boys. Redeem yourself in the eyes of your God as well as before those whom you have so foully wronged. If you will do this, I will say the peace of well-doing be with you.' He really felt the power of my words, and honored me for them, I know, and when he left my presence, he said:

"'If life should hold for me henceforth some different purposes, would you be my friend? and if in the great hereafter we shall meet, will Mabel be with me there? I wish I could have seen her. Forgive me, Mary; you are heaping coals of fire on my head. I thought you sought my utter destruction.'

"'My father would have appealed to you only through the law,' I said, 'but that would have been wrong, and would leave you no chance to grow better. Go, and do right, and there is yet time for redemption.'

"'But you—what of you?' he asked.

"'I rise from beneath the weight of sorrow that covered me so early in life, to find there is yet much worth living for. I shall live and be happy.' They were not false tears, the drops that fell on my hand at parting; and I said, after he had gone:

"'Thank God who giveth me the victory.' My friend expected me to faint or moan, or make some sign of distress. No, I felt a great joy within, and I believe he will do better. I inclose to you some verses he sent me at the time he wrote me the terrible letter of want and despair. They had their effect, as I told you. Monday I leave for the South; I shall write you immediately after my return. God bless you all.

Mary."

We read the letter together, Clara, Louis and I—and here is the poetry, which speaks for itself of the talent this man possessed, and tells us, as Clara said, how fruitful the soil would have proved if it had been properly tilled.

I was a poet nerved and strung Up to the singing pitch you know, And this since melody first was young Has evermore been the pitch of woe: She was a wistful, winsome thing, Guileless as Eve before her fall, And as I drew her 'neath my wing— Wilmur and Mary, that was all.

Oh! how I loved her as she crept Near and nearer my heart of fire! Oh! how she loved me as I swept The master strings of her spirit's lyre! Oh! with what brooding tenderness Our low words died in her father's hall, In the meeting clasp, and parting press— Wilmur and Mary, that was all!

I was a blinded fool, and worse, She was whiter than driven snow, And so one morning the universe Lost forever its sapphire glow; Across the land, and across the sea, I felt a horrible shadow crawl, A spasm of hell shot over me, Wilmur and darkness, that was all!

Leagues on leagues of solitude lie, Dun and dreary between us now, And in my heart is a terrible cry, With clamps of iron across my brow. Never again the olden light— Ever the sickly, dreadful pall; I am alone here in the night, Wilmur and misery, that is all!

For the solemn haze that soon will shine, For the beckoning hand I soon shall see, For the fitful glare of the mortal sign That bringeth surcease of agony, For the dreary glaze of the dying brain, For the mystic voice that soon will call, For the end of all this passion and pain, Wilmur is waiting—that is all.

The letter and poem finished, we talked long of our new friend, and the strange experiences brought into our quiet lives, and Clara said:

"Oh! how long must all the good in the world of thought wait for the hand of love to open the avenues of work for willing doers! Cannot strong men weep; and must not angels sorrow to realize the darkness and the errors where light should dawn, and in a morning of new life men and women stand as brothers and sisters in the grand work of helping each other to do all that lies on either hand! Fields whiten for the harvest, but the reapers are not many. These experiences come to us as teachers, and oh, Louis and Emily, let your hearts search to find these sorrowing ones! May your hands never be withheld from the needed alms, and may you work in quiet love and patience through the years! The mists will shroud the valley, and ere long, my dear ones, I shall leave you, for I cannot stay too long away from all that awaits me there. If I had more strength I could stay longer—but strength is what we need to hold the wings of our soul closely down, and when the physical chain grows weak, all that is waiting comes nearer. Spiritual strength grows greater, and the waiting soul plumes its wings for flight. It does not seem so far, and Louis, Emily, when my visible presence goes from you, your prayers will come to me. I shall hear, perhaps I shall answer you also, for I shall be your guardian angel. Then—is it not beautiful to think of the long, long years, and no death for evermore?"

She closed her eyes, and looked serenely happy, but I was weeping bitterly, and Louis' eyes swam in tears, as he said:

"Little mother, wait still longer, we cannot let you go."

"Oh! Louis, my dear boy, it is not now, it may be just a few years yet, but it is sure to come—and I love to talk with you of this change. It is natural for us to pass into the next room. If I go I must say all the things I need to first."

Aunt Hildy and mother entered, and we talked again of our new friend Mary. When God touched me that night with his magic wand, I dreamed of fairies, and saw wondrous changes at their hands, earth and heaven strangely mingling.



CHAPTER XVII.

PRECIOUS THOUGHTS.

I like to drift with the days, and scan them one by one, but as I recall all that I have written, I say to myself: "Emily must take some long step now, else the tale of her life will never be told, even though the changes came day by day, falling drop by drop into the lap of the waiting years."

Mother was feeling better, and when the rose-covered days of June came over us our hearts were singing. Clara seemed well (for her) and I forebore to grieve over her prophecy of leaving us, though for a few days after she had said those words, an icy feeling crept over me as I thought on what they foreboded. I could not see how we could bear to lose her presence; life without her would be an empty vial, not only for us, but for all. We loved her devotedly. In this beautiful June I felt younger than ever before, and believed that the constant saying to myself, "I will do right," was brightening all the world for me.

I was twenty-one years old the previous March, and it seemed to me I looked much younger than when two years ago we saw for the first time the face of our Clara Desmonde. March was a sort of wild month to find one's birthday in, and I never think of it without recalling the saying of one who had seen hard work and sorrow as well. It was a lady I met once at Aunt Phebe's, who came to bring a book for her to read, and in the course of conversation she said:

"Mrs. Hungerford, I was born in March, and have come to the delightful conclusion that all who dare to be born in this month must fight the beasts at Ephesus."

This year I had certainly fought Mr. Benton, and perhaps I should find another experience in the next March month that came.

Ben was seventeen years old in January, and this was a great year for him; he had sought and obtained father's consent to manage a farm for himself. Hal could not, of course, till the land he owned, and Ben had made arrangements to do it. He wanted the entire care, and Hal told him to go right ahead the same as if he owned it all and see what he could do. This was quite a step, and, as it proved, a successful one. He was at home in his old room at night, but ate at Hal's table, and Mary said he was so good they could never keep house without him. I rejoiced that he could fill a position for which he was fitted, albeit father and Hal were both disappointed that he could not have book knowledge enough to place him in some position in public life.

"That was mere ambition," mother said, and Aunt Phebe remarked concerning him, that he should be let alone, and to help him to be an honest man was the wisest course possible.

"So I think," said Aunt Hildy; "common sense has got power to last a good while, and high ideas sometimes kill everything."

Louis was enjoying the summer "hugely," as he expressed it, and Clara was very willing to aid him in everything he undertook, and he was not an idle dreamer, for though he did dream beautifully, and talked often of the fairy land, as he called the home of his pure, good thoughts, he was a worker in all ways. If a sudden shower threatened the meadow, he was there with the men, doing all he could to aid them, and not slow to learn the use of rake and pitchfork. If Aunt Peg needed attention he was soon over to see her, and when he went to the village, he was the errand boy for any and all. He became well known among us, and the dear old home among the hills gave him a hearty welcome. Even Deacon Grover came to the conclusion that the city chap didn't put on airs, and told me he should think I'd almost want to catch him, laughing heartily at his own words. I always disliked this; it is a mark of a small brain to tell a story or say something witty, and crown your own talk by laughing at yourself—that would spoil the best joke in the world for me.

One August afternoon I called Clara to the window to watch Louis and Matthias coming along slowly together in a close and evidently interesting conversation. They came in together, and the face of our dusky friend was covered with the light of a new thought.

"Why, how happy you look!" I said.

"He feels happy," answered Louis; "they are going to have a wedding over at Aunt Peg's, and I am first man."

"Yes," said Matthias, "'pears like I kin get married now. Miss Smith, she feels lonesome, and I bother her 'bout my vittles, an' we kin set by one fire jes' as well."

"I shall write Aunt Phebe to-morrow, and ask her," I said, laughing.

"Um—um," said he, "reckon she's 'gaged to make me two white shirts 'reddy."

"Why, when did she know it?"

"Oh! she dunno nothing definite, but she said long ago she'd make 'em for me when I git married, an' I done come over to see ef you'd sen' a word about it to her."

"I will most certainly, but how long before you will be married?"

"'Bout tree weeks, I guess; haint set on no day. Let Miss Smith do that."

"And you'll have a wedding?"

"No, Miss Em'ly. For de lan' sake, you don't 'spect we's gwine into dat yere meetin' 'ouse for de folks to call it a nigger show, duz ye? We's too ole to be gwine roun' to be laf at."

"I didn't mean to plague you, Matthias; please excuse me," for he looked the least bit provoked. "I'll make some cake, though, and you'll want witnesses, so Louis and I can come, anyway."

"'Spect you two need to get used to dat yere ceremony more'n de rest of de folks yere; yas, you kin come."

Oh! how Louis laughed at this, saying:

"There, Emily, Matthias knows too much; look out for breakers when you talk to him."

The old man laughed heartily also, and left us to talk over the coming event.

"Two shipwrecked lives trying to keep close to the shore of content for the rest of the journey, that's what they are," said Louis, "and we will help them, and do God's service by ministering to their small needs, for 'Inasmuch as ye do it unto the least of these, ye do it unto me.'"

He had so many Scriptural quotations at his tongue's end nowadays, I often told him he would be a minister, I knew. Many of his days were spent in the society of Mr. Davis, and they read the Bible through together. Louis said the New Testament had great charms for him, and Mr. Davis said to Clara and myself when we called upon him, that the Scriptures had never been so blessed to his heart as now.

"Your son," turning to Clara, "is not my student; he has the most lucid perception, and transfers his thoughts to my heart with wonderful strength, and yet he stirs the soil of years with tender hand, and never forgets I am growing old. Some day he will have a pulpit of his own."

"Do you think so?" I said.

"Oh, it must be! He is like his mother; chosen for the good work. I delight in his society, and hope never to miss it while I stay. I am not strong, and some day I fear I shall not be able to preach when the Sabbath dawns. If I do fail at any time, I shall secure his help." Clara only said:

"My dear boy shall do that which he can do well, for there will be no stumbling blocks laid in his path; if he starts right, and I believe he has, the way will be made plain, and as day unto day shall utter speech, so night unto night shall show its knowledge."

"He seems benevolent," said Mr. Davis, "and he will devote much of his time, and substance as well, to the uplifting of the degraded, and the exalting of mankind through daily practice."

"So be it," said Clara; "I shall be glad if he can uplift the lantern light of truth, that it may shine over all the dark and devious ways of ignorance, and when my feet shall walk beside his father's on the hills, may our souls call to him, and his heart receive from us the strength which our love can give—angels to minister to his wants. Oh! this is beautiful to think upon."

The eyes of our good minister filled with tears, and I thought how wisely and well Clara sows the seed. I felt ashamed to think how unmindful of this tolerance of ideas I had been when his fiery sermon aroused my spirit, and I have often since felt that we all possess too much intolerance each toward the other. Mr. Davis was original in thought, and had always regilded as it were the old texts in his sermon, until they could not fail to interest us; and when, yielding to pressure of conviction regarding eternal punishment, he warned his flock, Clara judged him rightly, and I was wrong; for while the idea was horrible to me, I had not wisdom or judgment to express myself, whereas Clara had opened wide the door of love to his heart, and he received and acknowledged the baptism of pure and elevating thought.

His absolute fire died away into the description of conscience torment, and through his later years the mellow ripeness of new thought took in large part the place of the old. Mr. Davis was very anxious concerning his health, and we did not wonder, for his cheeks grew pale and thin. He seemed much older than he really was, and in two years of time had gained ten in the defining face lines. These were, it seemed, ineffaceable, and as the months wore on grew deeper still.

Matthias' marriage came off in September, and our whole household were invited. Aunt Hildy said she'd send them something, "but no weddins for me," and she shook her head when I asked whether she was going.

Mother was busy and did not feel like sparing the time, so at last, Clara, Louis and I went over, and Mrs. Davis came with her husband, who performed the ceremony in a pleasant way. I think no couple ever had just such wedding presents. A blanket and some home-spun towels from Aunt Hildy; a large silk bandana handkerchief, a chintz dress pattern, and a little bead purse with some bits of gold from Clara (how much I never knew), and from Louis a load of shingles, and the services of a carpenter to re-shingle the little house, with some sensible gifts from Hal and our people. Aunt Peg was beside herself with joy which she could not express to suit her, and at last she said, "won't try to tell you nothin'—can't do it."

Mr. and Mrs. Davis stayed only a few minutes after the ceremony, but we three had a long chat with our good friends, and when we left them at the door, tears of gratitude fell from Aunt Peg's eyes. I looked back, after we had started toward home, to see them sitting on the door stone side by side, and their dark faces resting in the shadow of the Cyprus vine was a pleasant picture.

"Their cup runneth over," said Louis; "I am glad and 'we shall rejoice with those that rejoice, and mourn, with those that mourn.'"

"Another Bible quotation, Louis?"

"Yes," said he, "and why may we not have these truths, like blessed realities, walk side by side with us through life. Every day might let the sunshine into the room of our thought, through the bars of understanding that stand as defining lines between them.

"Mr. Davis says you are to be a preacher. I believe you are already," said I.

"Would my Emily object? I think not, for has not little mother said, 'Emily will do it, Emily will help you?'"

I did not answer with words, but my eyes spoke volumes, and he read them truly.

Letters came to us monthly from our Southern Mary, and Clara often said she had hope of seeing her again. Mrs. Chadwick had kept track of Mrs. Benton, and that strange compound of villainy and taste—her husband—had really been touched by Mary's plea and was living with his family. I could hardly believe it, and when Hal stepped in one evening with "love's fawn" at his side, and a letter from that veritable Benton, we had a grand surprise. I will not try to tell you of this well written epistle, but this interesting item I will relate; here are his words: "You will doubtless be surprised when I say I am married and keeping house. I found my wife here; she has two nice boys. If you come to this part of the globe, as I hope you will, call on us. You will be welcome."

"My soul!" said Aunt Hildy, "if the other world did have a fiery pit for liars, that man would have the best seat, and nearest the fire."

Mother smiled and said, "He does not know, of course, that we have heard of this wife, for how should he?"

"Why, certainly not," said Hal, "and I shall never tell him. Let him do right if he can, and we perhaps can hardly blame him if he does want to hold on to the few who have proven their friendship, for I think his friends do not number many. He needs them all."

"Judgment is mine saith the Lord," said Aunt Hildy.

"Well, that may be true, but I cannot feel that we are His direct agents for cursing the man."

"Neither are we," said Louis, "and if we obey the commandment, 'Love ye one another,' where can the curse come? No, no, Mrs. Patten, we must wait for the spirit of the man to grow good and true, and the weakness of the flesh by this will be overcome; he cannot forget all the wrong, and probably might recall the words, 'The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.'"

"Well," said Aunt Hildy, "I 'spose that's the Gospel good and true, but I do get riled at his cuttings up. I've seen 'em before, yes I've seen 'em before."

And she sat as if feeling her way back through the mist of years. I wondered what she had suffered, but she kept her own secrets close to her heart and held steadfastly to the truth doing much good. Her busy fingers through the long winter evenings kept adding to the store of stockings she was knitting for somebody who needed—and the needy would surely come in her path.

Aunt Peg and Matthias were quietly happy, and they came out of church every Sabbath and walked with a pleasant dignity homeward. Matthias had memorized the old hymns and he could pick many of them out, having learned to designate them by their first word or line, and this he called reading.

"'Pears like I kin read a few himes, Miss Emily," he said. This is the way with us through life. It seems to me we get the first word or line and then go blindly on making mistakes and grievously sinning in our ignorance, unknowing of the great beauty that awaits us in the perfect rendering of life's beautiful psalm.

Clara said we were like children running through a meadow, trampling the daisies and clovers under our feet, and with breathless impatience hurrying on through the long day to the fall of night, and when the sunset of our earthly life came on, pausing then at the corner of the meadow, we gathered the few tired blossoms at our feet and passed out into the unknown.

"Oh, my Emily!" she said, "if our steps could be even and slow we should pick our comfort-daisies and our love-clovers on either side, while our feet still kept the one small path of our greatest duty; and this to me is the straight and narrow path spoken of."

Her types of thought were so purely beautiful, and yet she drew them from the plainest facts. She was growing nearer heaven daily, or perhaps we were seeing her soul more clearly through the days. I thought and comforted myself that we should not lose her.

Louis and I talked sometimes of the coming time when we should receive the sacred seal of marriage, and when the year for which he asked had expired and the fall term opened in the seminary, he said:

"Little mother tells me she cannot let me go back, she is too tired to live without me. I knew it before she told me; her strength is very little without mine, and," he added, "even if we do all we can, that little mother must leave us before many years. You know, Emily, how I have wanted all my life to be an artist. Perhaps I shall, sometime, but now before me I can see a need that will bring me into different work, and it may be also (his eyes were far away) I can, after all, do better service by painting living faces."

"What do you mean, Louis?

"I mean, Emily, that when the tired hearts we find, feel comfort creeping over them, the work shines through the eyes and glows within the smiles that beam upon us. Did we not paint a pleasant picture at the wedding, and are not these works of art appreciated through endless time? Will they not repay us with something better than the gold which we may lose, the earthly things that perish? And again, I have seriously thought that it is not right for me to take the work that others who need might have. Side by side with our great love must walk these truths. I cannot see yet how our future plans are to be arranged, or where our home will be. What does your good heart say, Emily?"

"Oh! I cannot tell you, Louis. I sometimes imagine a little cosy home like Hal's, and then it dissolves beyond my reach and I say 'Time will tell it all.' Your mother taught me that one of the greatest lessons in life is to learn to wait, and move with the tide if we can instead of against it. These hills are very dear to me."

"May they never be less!" said Louis, gathering me to himself; while I reverently thought, "How glorious a manhood is his! how great the love he gives me!"

Time passed rapidly. Ben's first season as a real farmer had passed, and storehouse and barn were filled. His hands grew strong and his blows were telling. A handsome woodpile was one of the things he was truly proud of, and everything was done in good season and with perfect system. Hal said that he and Mary were living with Ben. Father was surprised at his success, and when, in the winter, he walked in with a dozen brooms of his own make, Aunt Hildy said:

"Industry and economy were two virtues that the Lord would see well rewarded. You'll be a rich man and a generous one too. Wish your Aunt Phebe'd come up to see us."

"She's coming," said Ben. "I've written to her to come to our house and stay a week. I want her to come and see my broom-corn room. I'll bet she'll be interested in it, and I'm going to give her six brooms to take home with her. But did you know Deacon Grover's very sick?"

"Why, no, indeed!" said I.

"Well, he is, and Mrs. Grover wants Louis to come over. He'd better go back with me. They expect he'll die; he is troubled to breathe."

I called Louis and he went over. He came back to supper and told us he was going to stay with him all night.

"Mr. Davis says he cannot save his life, and they are to have Dr. Brown from the village. The man is terribly frightened; he knows he must go. He says he's afraid he has been too mean to get into heaven, and he moans piteously. His poor wife is nearly distracted."

"Shall I go with you, Louis?" I said.

"You might go over but I hardly think I need you all night there. He has been ill more than a week. I should not be surprised if he left us before morning."

"Small loss to us," said Aunt Hildy, "but if the poor critter knows he's been mean, perhaps he'll see his way through better. I'll go over if it wont torment him."

"You are just the one," said Louis.

"Well, I hope I sha'nt set him to thinking about—never mind what I say. Let me get my herb bag and start along."

We found the poor man no better, and wise Dr. Brown shook his head ominously. He was a regular grave-yard doctor, and I thought it a pity to set up the deacon's tomb-stone while yet he breathed. His poor wife was taking on terribly (as Aunt Hildy expressed it). When Deacon Grover saw Louis he tried to speak. Louis went near and took his hand, and he whispered:

"Peace, you bring me peace."

"It is all right over there," said Louis; "do not fear."

"All right," said the sufferer, and then, looking at his wife, he said, "Be her friend." A smile passed over his face, his eyes closed, and Deacon Grover was dead.

Mr. Goodman and Matthias came over to help Louis lay him out, and his funeral took place from the church the following Sunday. Louis was a great help to Mrs. Grover and she needed all the aid he could give. Her spirits were broken in her early days, and she followed the deacon in a little less than a year, her brain failing rapidly, her body having been weak for years.

Many changes had occurred during this year of my life, and when the beads upon my rosary of years numbered twenty-two, it seemed hardly a day since I had counted twenty-one. How little time from one birthday to another, and in childhood how long the time between!

I was growing older, and the days challenged each other in their swiftness, but they were all pleasant to me, even though the church-bell often tolled the passing of souls, and the quiet of our hills was broken by the ringing of improvement's hammer as it fell on the anvil of our possessions. Long lines of streets passed through the meadow-lands, and where, in less level places, rocks and stones were in the path, the power of inventive genius was applied and the victory gained. Some of our people felt it keenly. To father it was an advantage, but to Aunt Hildy, the opposite.

"Goin' to pass right through my nest, Mr. Minot, and I tell you it aint so easy to think of that spot of ground as a grave-yard. 'Twont be nothin' else to me, never. Oh, the years I bury there!"

Father ventured to suggest remuneration.

"No, no, nothin' can't pay; they don't know it, Mr. Minot, but it's a bitter pill." And a shadow overspread her resolute features. She determined on making our house her home "forever and a day arter" she said, and bore it as patiently as she could; but I saw great drops fall from her eyes as she looked over to that little home and watched its demolition. She said she had prayed for a strong wind to do the work, but this was not granted. My own heart leaped to my throat in sympathy, but knowing her so well I said nothing.

Louis was more than busy. I wondered when my birthday came if he would remember it. He did, and all the evening of that day we sat together and talked of our future.

"Emily, I am feeling glad to-night; my heart sings loud for joy. You cannot think how beautiful you have grown in my eyes; even though you filled my heart long days ago, that heart-room does expand with growth, and your queenly beauty still fills it to completeness. Let your hair fall over your shoulders; look out over the future days with your speaking eyes as if you were a picture, my Emily." And as he said this my shell-comb was in his hand and my long and heavy hair lay about me like a mantle. He liked to see it so, and I sat as if receiving a blessed benediction.

"Can you see nothing before you?" he asked.

"Mists, like drapery curtains, shade the days," I said: "What is it you would have me find?"

"Find the month of June's dear roses, Find a trellis and a vine; Ask your heart, my queenly darling, If the sun will on us shine, And my heart, love's waiting trellis, Then receive its clinging vine. Have I spoken well and truly? Does your soul like mine decide? And, with June's dear wealth of roses, Shall I claim you for a bride? Do the old hills answer, darling? Unto me they seem to say: 'Two young hearts in truth have waited; Emily may name the day.'"

As the words of his impromptu verse died away, the moon, looking through the rifted clouds, beamed an affirmation, and I said:

"Let June be the month, Louis; the day shall name itself."

Clara called: "It is nine o'clock, my dear ones;" and we said "good night."



CHAPTER XVIII.

EMILY'S MARRIAGE.

Louis' birthday came on the 24th of June, and it seemed very appropriate to me that this should be the day of our wedding, and, as I said to him; the day named itself, and it also came on Sunday. I had no thought of being married in the old church, but Louis was positive that it would be best.

"You know," he said, "that all these good people around us feel an interest very natural to those who are acquainted with everybody in their own little town. They will enjoy our marriage in the church where all can come and none be slighted, and the evening after they can be invited to call on us at home."

"Oh, Louis!" I said, "I would much rather go quietly over to Mr. Davis'."

"Yes, Emily," he replied, "to take one of our pleasant walks over the hill and step in there; but after all I can see how it will be wiser for us not to be selfish in this matter. Never mind how we feel: these friends of ours are of much account, and the many new thoughts that brighten their existence as well as our own must fall, I believe, on us as a people as well as individually. A private wedding will cause unkind remarks, and perhaps unpleasant feelings, and idle conjectures may grow to be stern realities. Let us avoid all this, and as we have heretofore been among them, let us still keep our vessel close to the shore of their understanding, though we may often drift out into the ocean unseen by them, and gather to ourselves the pearls of new and strengthening thought 'Let him who would be chief among you be your servant.' Do you understand me?"

"I do, Louis, and 'Emily will do it,' for she knows you are right; but I should never have thought of it; and now another important consideration."

"The bridal robe?" said Louis.

"Yes," I said, "just that; the thought of being elaborately dressed is distasteful to me as well as unsuited to our desires, for a wedding display would certainly arouse the spirit of envy if nothing more."

"Trust that to little mother, Emily; she desires to have that privilege, I know."

"Let it be so."

And here we fixed the arrangement for the birthday and wedding day to be one; but it came on a Sunday, and hence the necessity of a talk with Mr. Davis, which resulted in the arranging for a short afternoon sermon, and after it the ceremony. We were not to enter the church until the proper moment, and Ben said he could manage it, for when the minister began his last prayer he would climb the rickety ladder into the old square box of a belfry and hang out a yard of white cloth on a stick.

"And then," he added, "you can jump right into the wagon and be there in three minutes."

He was the most perfect boy to plan at a moment's notice, but Louis told him not to hazard his life on the belfry ladder for we could manage it all without.

"And besides," he said, "you, Ben, must walk into church with us; we are not going unprotected. Hal and Mary, Ben and little mother, and Mr. Minot with his wife and Aunt Hildy. That is the programme as I have it."

You should have seen those eyes of the young farmer dilate with surprise as he gave a long and significant whistle and turned toward home, doubtless thinking to surprise Hal and Mary with this new chapter in his experience.

The 10th day of June brought us a letter from Aunt Phebe with news of her marriage.

"Weddins don't never go alone more'n funerals," said Aunt Hildy. "Here Miss Hungerford's been married since February, and we've just heard tell of it. Hope she's got a good, sensible man, but 'taint likely; no two very sensible folks get very near each other, that is, for life. She's a good woman. What does he do to git a livin'?"

"Teaches school," I replied.

"Hem!" said she, "school teachers don't generally know much else. Eddicated men aint great on homelife; they want a monstrous sight of waitin' on."

"Let us hope for the best in this case," said I. "Here comes Matthias; he knows Mr. Dayton, I believe."

"Yas, Miss Em'ly, I does," said Matthias, who heard my last remark.

"Is he a nice man?"

"Um, um! reckin that jes' hits dat man; why, de good Lord bress us ef dat man ha'nt done, like he was sent, fur de slaves, Miss Em'ly. He knows jes' whar dat track is,—de down-low track, I means, whar de 'scapin' from de debbil comes good to dese yere people when dey gits free. Mas'r Sumner an' a'heap mo' on 'em would jes' like fur to kill dat Mas'r Dayton ef dey could cotch him. Preaches like mad his ablishun doctrine, as he call it, an' down on rum, sure sartin. He works jes' all de time fur de leas' pay you never heard tell of. Is he comin' up yere?"

"I hope so, some time; but he is Aunt Phebe's husband now, and we want to know something about him."

"I reckin dat ye needn't be oneasy, honey, 'bout dat, fur Miss Hungerford is 'zackly de one fur to take ker ob dat man; he's got his head 'way up 'mong de stars, an' 'way down in de figgerin' mos' all de time."

"Do you mean that he is an astronomer, Matthias?"

"Dunno nothin' 'bout dat, but he looks into de stars straight through a shiny pipe, Miss Em'ly, dat he sticks up on tree leg; an' when dem peart fellers In dat college where dey lives, gits into figgerin whar dey's done stuck and can't do it no how, dey comes right down to dat man, an' he trabbles 'em right out ob all dese yere diffikilties. Um, um! dat man knows a heap ob dem tings. Miss Hungerford's all right. 'Pears like dere's good deal ob marryin' roun' de diggins."

"You set the example," I said, "and the rest must follow. Louis and I expect your hearty congratulations when our day comes to step out of the world."

"You kin 'pend on good arnest wishes for a heap o' comfort, Miss Em'ly, but 'stead o' leavin' the world you jes' gits into it; dunno nothin' 'bout livin' till ye hev to min' eberything yourself. But I 'spect you'll walk along purty happy-like, fur Mas'r Louis he's done got hevin right in his soul, an' you, Miss Em'ly, 'pears like you's good enough fur him."

And the old man stood before me like a picture, his eyes beaming with the thoughts which filled his soul, utterance to which he could not wholly give; and I thought they grew like a fire within him, and that some day, beyond the pale of human life, they would speak with force and power, and all the buds of beauty there burst into flowers of eternal loveliness. And I said to him, as he rose to go:

"Your good wishes are worth much to me; I want you always for my faithful friend."

"Dat's jes' what I'se gwine to be," he replied, and as he passed along the path, I thought I saw the corner of his coat sleeve near his eye.

The 24th of June was a royal day. The blue sky flecked with fleecy clouds sailing over us like promises; the air sweet with the mingling breath of flowers (we had multitudes of them about us). The south wind came up to us as pleasant breaths that sought our own, and the robins and blue-birds sang in the trees all day the song, "It is well." My heart echoed their music, and I moved in a dream, and when I felt Clara's fingers wandering over my hair I could not realize that her noble Louis was waiting to claim me as his wife—plain Emily Minot. But the blue-birds' "It is well" covered all these thoughts.

"Just a white dress, Emily, and violets to fasten your hair," said Clara, "which I will coax to curl for this one day."

And so, from under her hands, I came in a simple toilette of white mull, with my much-loved violets fastened at my throat and nestling among my black hair. Not a jewel save the ring that Louis had given me in the days before, and the chain, which was just one shining thread about my throat. I must have looked happy, but more than this I could not see, even though I hazarded a long, full look in Clara's mirror.

But Louis, ah! he should have stood beside a princess, I thought. It was contrast, not comparison, when I stopped to realize the difference. It was not his garb that made him regal, for he was clad in a suit of simple black with a vest and necktie of spotless white.

"A violet or two in your coat lappel?" said Clara.

"No, no, little mother; my royal rose begirt with violets will stand beside me. Put them in your own brown hair."

And he smiled, as taking them from her hand he placed them in her hair.

"Just a veil over your head, little mother; no bonnets among the wedding party."

Aunt Hildy insisted at first that she could not "parade around that church and stand up there before the minister. I'd feel like a reg'lar idiot, Louis."

At last she changed her mind, but preferred to walk with Ben, and he, who always loved her well, did not object.

So our entrance by one of the side aisles (the body of the church was filled with pews) was in the following order: Father, mother and Clara, Louis and Emily, Hal and Mary, and Ben and Aunt Hildy. The latter would walk to the church anyway, and when our old carryall reached the door, I felt like screaming to see her sitting there on the steps fanning herself with her turkey-feather fan and waiting for us to appear. We all entered with uncovered heads, and as our feet crossed the threshold the choir sang one verse of "Praise ye the Lord." Mr. Davis had descended from his pulpit and stood before it upon a little elevated platform arranged for special occasions. Mother, father and Clara passed him where he stood, leaving the place for Louis and myself before him, with Hal and Mary, Ben and Aunt Hildy at Louis' left. It was a short and beautifully-worded ceremony, and when my eyes, already moist, looked upward to the pulpit and noticed a drapery of rose and vine which encircled it, those same tears fell fast over my cheeks, and while Louis' "I will" fell as a clear and strong response upon the air, my own assent was given silently and with only a slight bowing of my head, my lips murmuring not a syllable. After pronouncing us man and wife, Mr. Davis, at Louis' request, gave an invitation to all our friends to call on us the following evening, and again the choir and the people sang sweetly and with great feeling, as, turning, we passed down the opposite aisle toward the door.

When about half way to the door I was conscious of seeing Aunt Peg and Matthias; a moment more, and she with her white apron, and he with his high hat full of roses, were walking before us and throwing them in our path.

When we reached the door they stepped to either side, and still throwing roses, Matthias said in a tone I shall never forget:

"May de days do for ye jes' what we's doin' now, scatter de roses right afore ye clear to de end ob de journey."

This touched our hearts, and when we got into the carryall all eyes were moist, and I of course was crying as if my best friend were dead. Aunt Hildy said:

"Lord-a-massy! wonder he hadn't hit us in the head; that's the queerest caper I ever did see."

We all laughed heartily, and Louis said:

"My Emily, you are a rainbow of promise; the sun shines through your tears."

We had made preparations to receive our friends Monday evening, and had huge loaves of cake awaiting with lemonade, and something warm for those who desired it. An ancient service of rare and unique design was brought out by Clara for the occasion. It belonged to her husband's family in France and came to him as an heirloom. The contrast between it and the mulberry set which mother gave me struck me as singular, but the flowers and figures of the mulberry ware did not fall into insignificance. They were to me the embodiment of beauty. Among my earliest disappointments was the giving of grandmother's china to Hal, and I cried for "just one saucer," and this was a fac-simile and met a hearty appreciation. I bedewed it with tears, and Aunt Hildy said it was dretful dangerous to give me anything, and she should'nt try it.

"You'll want two or three handkerchiefs to cry on to-night, for the folks'll bring over a lot o' things to you."

"I do not expect a single present, neither desire any if I have to make a speech," I said.

"Keep close to me, Emily," said Louis, "and I will make the speeches if it becomes a duty."

I feared Clara would get tired out, but she said:

"Oh, no, they will come early, you know, and go away early also, and with you and Louis to hold me up I shall be borne on wings!"

At six o'clock they began to appear. We had our supper at four, and were ready to receive them. Louis and I sat in Clara's sitting-room, and Aunt Hildy said:

"It's my business to 'tend to the comin' in. 'Better to be a door-keeper in the house of the Lord, than dwell in the tents of wickedness;' so that's settled." And with this she established herself in a chair before the open door. Mother was near to assist, and I smiled to hear Aunt Hildy repeat:

"Good arternoon; lay by your things," until I thought her lips must be parched with their constant use. I was not prepared for the demonstration of love and friendship coming from these people of our town; for, until Louis and Clara came to us, I had, as I told you in the beginning of my story, not longed for their society, and had found few for whom I really cared. It was only from learning my duty, when my eyes, with the years and the wisdom Clara brought, were opened, that I could see the advantage gained by considering with respect even those whom I had dominated as selfish. Miserly and mean Jane North had grown into a different woman, and Deacon Grover had left us, blessing the love and strength of this wisdom which brought peace to cover the last hour of struggle; and many hearts, in the quiet ministering of one angel, had been touched. Home friends were growing round us I knew, but I had no realization of things as they really were, and the events of this greeting gave me a substantial evidence which was to my soul a platform. On it I reared a temple of love, and in the windows of my temple every face and heart and gift were set, as pure crystal in the sash of delightful remembrance.

First came the Goodins, and their hands yielded to us thoroughly appreciated gifts: one dozen linen towels spun, woven and bleached by the hands of Mrs. Goodwin; her husband adding for Louis the solid silver knee and shoe buckles his grandfather wore when a revolutionary officer, the trusty sword that hung by his side, and his uniform coat with its huge brass buttons, with the trunk of red cedar where for years they have been kept.

"Thank you," we both said simultaneously, and they passed along for others to come near. Not one of all that country town forbore to come and bring also tokens of their kindly feeling. Among the early arrivals was Jane North. I heard Matthias say:

"Be ye goin' to tote it in there?" and, as Jane answered resolutely, "I certainly am," I looked toward the door to see what it was that was approaching. At my feet Matthias dropped his burden, and the donor said:

"There is a goose-feather bed and a pair of pillows, and I picked every feather of 'em off my geese; them two linen sheets and two pair of piller-cases done up with 'em I made myself. I want you to use that bed in your own room, Mis' De-Mond (I started to hear that name applied to myself), and for the sake of the good Lord who sent salvation to me through your blessed mother-in-law, in prayer for yourself don't never forget me. I've said all the hateful things I ever mean to."