Alice Murray
page: 0 (TitlePage) [View Page 0 (TitlePage) ] ALICE MURRAY. A TALE MARY I. HOFFMAN, AUTHORESS OF AGNES fit' . NEW YORK: P. O'SHEA, PUBLISHER 45 WARREN STREET. page: 0[View Page 0] Entered according to P. O'RHEA, in the Clerk's Office of the Sof the Uuit',d States for the S ALICE MURRAY. CHAPTER I IT was a cold damp day in early spring. Great masses of leaden clouds drifted slowly over the sky, and now and then heavy drops fell. The wind sighed mournfully through the trees in the yard, and stirred rudely the little tender shoots springing up in the garden. Alice Murray stood at the window of her room looking listlessly out upon the scene, when the servant came in with a letter. She eagerly seized it, and tore open the envelope; it was in answer to an application for a situation as teacher in a school in R---, and very politely informed her that before the receipt of her note a teacher had been engaged. She stood still, quiet, stunned; not a feature moved, not a muscle stirred, but a grey pallor crept over her face, and a wild frightened look gleamed from her eyes. What should she do? This question was constantly sounding in her ears. It came Iow so sharp and stinging that it roused her from her stupor, and forced her to gather up her scattered thoughts. For a few moments she stood irresolute, then slipping the letter into her pocket, she put on her bonnet and shawl and left the house. Several friends met her on the street and bowed to her, but ab- sorbed in her wild sad thoughts she passed them by with-. out a glance of recognition. Turning a little to the right she passed down the street leading to the church, paused page: 6-7[View Page 6-7] 6 ALICE MURRAY. before the priest's house, opened the gate, and walking ap the gravelled path stood at his door. "I don't kuow whether I am doing right or wrong," she said to herself as she raised her hand and rung the bell. "Is Father Lawrence in?" she asked of the girl who answered her summons. "Yes, Miss Murray, he has just come in." "Well, then, Kittie, tell him I would like to see him." She entered the parlor and waited his appearance. She heard Kittie's steps in the kitchen, not far distant, and almost envied her the peace and security of her humble lot. If she had never been taken to her uncle Elbray's, -. hers might have been as humble and secure. Like Kittie, she would have been able to turn her hand to most any- i,:; thing, and not now have been so unprepared to do for g herself. Then her thoughts insensibly wandered back to the days when she first became a member of her uncle's family, the loneliness that oppressed her childish heart, the soothing kindness of friends, the happy years that fol- lowed, the evening lessons and morning recitations, the patience, love, and tenderness of her aunt, her lingering.1-y sickness, its fatal termination, the funeral, with its impos- ing grandeur mocking the misery of the living, the long sad days after it, the silence that filled the house for months-then a change-laughter and music and festivity and marriage, where Death had held his court. "And so, my child, you wished to see me?" She started, and raising her eyes beheld Father Law- rence. He was an elderly man, short in statutre, thick set : but not corpulent, with high broad forehead, deep blue eyes, and firm set mouth. "Yes, Father, I do wish to see you." "Well, then, sit down and let me hear the business." He seated himself, and Alce, who had risen when she ALICE MURIAY. 7 perceived his entrance, sank back upon her chair. Her fingers worked nervously with the fringe of her shawl, her cheek flushed and paled; it was hard to open the doors of her heart and let the dry bones be seen. "Father," she exclaimed, in a thick, hurried voice, "I am very wretched, and I have come to tell you all about it." If the door was to be opened, it had better be opened wide at the very first. "You are not happy," he kindly answered. "I have seen that for some time past; but why did you not come to me before?" "I thought it was no use to trouble you, Father, but--" an embarrassing silence suddenly chaine r tongue, lier hands worked more nervously than everth the fringe of her shawl, her breath came quick and I ied, a large tear rolled down her cheek and fell upon a t of the fringe she was winding round and round her fin ers. She wiped it away with her handkerchief, and looking up, in a hard, abrupt, tone, added, "I must leave my uncle's; I am not wanted there; and I don't know what to do or where to go. I have tried in several places to get a situation as teacher, but I cannot, and I don't see what is to become of me. Uncle no longer cares for me; Mr. Elbray thinks I have been long enough dependent on him, and I think so too; I want to go to work; I want to support myself." I have heard something of this," said Father Law- rence, thoughtfully. "You tried here for the school?" Yes, Father; not qnly here, but in Virgil and Hartville and Arlton. Failing in these places, and seeing an adver- tisement in the papers for a teacher in a public school in R-, I answered it, but with no better success." "But does your uncle know you are intending to leave him, Alice? Tell me that." It seemed fromn his voice and mauaner that he thought page: 8-9[View Page 8-9] 8 ALICE XMURAY. she had actec precipitately. Alice felt it, but unheeding the pain it occasioned her, she calmly answered: "No, Fat ther, I have as yet said nothing to him about it. But I know he would be glad to have me gone." "Are you sure?" "Yes, Father Lawrence, I am. My presence creates confusion in the family. Till I am gone, there will be no peace or quiet. Mrs. Elbray does not want me there, and plainly tells me so. I have not acted before it was full time to act. Do you understand me? Have I made my case plain to you?" She had. He saw it all; and ow, too, the effort it cost her to speak of her troubles even to him. An infinite com- passion beamed from his eye; he thought how hard it would be for one so young and inexperienced as she was to be thrown upon the world, without a single claim on any human creature other than common humanity gives, for sympathy or counsel-no retreat to go to when wearied and exhausted-no place where she could ever feel around her the sacred influence of home. "Have you any other relative, Alice, than your Uncle Elbray?" he asked. "No, Father," she answered; "none that I know of. Several years ago an aunt and uncle, of the name of Brad- ley, came to visit me at Uncle Elbray's; but I was in school at the time, and did not see them. On my return home in vacation, I wrote to them, directing my letter to Lucan, about seventy miles from here; there was where they told Aunt Elizabeth they lived ; but I received no answer to my letter. In the course of a few months I again wrote, but heard nothing from them. I wondered greatly at it, and so did aunt; they regretted so much not seeing me, and expressed so much affection for me." "How were they related to you, Alice?" H AIJCE MIURRAY. 9 "Mrs. Bradley was my mother's sister.' "Did your Aunt Elizabeth know them?" "No: they were utter strangers to her. Aunt Elizabeth never saw my mother. She died before father moved to Antoria, and, father dying soon after, she knew little or nothing of my mother's family. But she liked Mrs. Brad- ley's appearance much, and was anxious I should get ac- quainted with them." "Were they in easy circumstances?" "No; Mr. Bradley worked land on the shares. They always had enough to eat and wear, but always had to work hard for it, so they told aunt." "In Lucan, you say, they lived?" "Yes, Father." "And they worked land on shares?" "Yes, Father. They were then working the land on the shares, but they told aunt they had laid up a little towards making a payment on a farm, and hoped in a year or two to be able to buy a farm of their own." "Did you learn Mr. Bradley's Christian name?" "Yes, Father. It was Terence, and Mrs. Bradley's name was Nora." A bright look beamed from Father Lawrence's eyes. In an animated voice he exclaimed: "Terence Bradley? and you say they worked land on shares, and lived in Lucan? 'Why, it must be the same family I knew when I was there- 'the very same." Alice did not know from what place he had been re- moved when he came to Antoria, and therefore did not Iknw he had ever been in Lucan, but without expressing any astonishment, she quietly asked: "How long ago is that, Father?" "Ten years." "You were the parish priest of Lucan?" page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] 10 ALICE MURRAY. "Yes; and in the place was a family of the name of Brad- ley. Mr. Bradley worked land on shares, but his ambition was to have a farm of his own. He labored assiduously for this object. At last he had enough to make a respect. able payment, and then bought a farm; not in Lucan, how- ever, but in the town of Stapleton, a few miles from Lu- can." A "And did he succeed in paying for it?" "Yes. I left Lucan before he bought it, but I heard of it, and heard, too, after that, in the course of a few years, he paid all up for it; and that he, Terence Bradley, worked his own land, and reaped the benefit of his own labor." Father Lawrence looked out of the window, not as if he saw anything there to claim his attention, but as if through that window he was looking back upon the scenes of his past life. He well remembered when there were but two or three churches in the whole State; when priest and peo- ple struggled with toil and poverty, and lo from toil, from that poverty-or rather in spite of that poverty--churches were built,the standard of the cross planted. On a thousand altars throughout the length and breadth of this beau- tiful and favored land, the unbloody sacrifice of propitia- tion is daily offered up-the grateful prayers of priest and people ascend. A placid smile rested on his face ; through the dust and heat of the conflict, sharp and severe as it at times was, he recognized the countenances of-several who, by their untiring energy and unflagging zeal, had shamed the apathy of some and nerved the faltering weakness of others. His affections went out to them; he felt they were champions in a noble cause; that, although the meed of this world's praise was not accorded them, in the archives of the recording angel their deeds were carefully and lov- ingly noted down. Terence Bradley-the name struck pleasantly on his ear. It brought to mind the building of BALICE MURRAY. " the church in Lucan. It was a dark, rainy da3, the day the foundation was laid, but, unmindful of the clouds above, and the wet, splashy roads to be traversed, his hard-handed, bronzed-cheeked congregation, joyfully gath- ered round him, and generously gave in their subscriptions. It was not their first, neither was it their last; many times during the erection of the temple did he have to appeal to them for aid. It came. Never was it withheld-never refused. Priest and people, under the galling load of pov- erty, toiled cheerfully together; one object moved their every pulse; that object was at last attained; their temple was finished. On its gable end glittered a cross, and not more glorious was the star leading the wise men to the manger of the infant Saviour, than was this symbol of man's redemption to that simple toil-worn congregation. Gazing upon it, they felt in their souls the thrill of that divine melody that eighteen hundred years ago, in the hushed and solemn watches of the night,fell on the won- dering ears of Bethlehem's shepherds. With the light of these memories in his eyes, he turned to Alice and said: "This Bradley family, I am almost sure, is the one I knew when in Lucan. Mr. Bradley is a good man, Mrs. Bradley truly a kind woman. I will give you their address, and I advise you to write to them." A shadow crept over Alice's face and her lips became firmly compressed. Father Lawrence was surprised; he thought, in her lonely state the prospect of finding rela- tives would be pleasing to her. But on leaving her Uncle Elbray's she did not wish to throw herself a burden on any one else. She was able to support herself if she could only find something to do; she knew how bitter is the bread of dependence, and not as a dependent could she or would she go among them. Once in some regular employ. page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] 12 ALICE -MXURAY. ment she would write to the family and be rejoiced to find them relatives. "But," rejoined Father Lawrence in answer to this "they might be able to get you a school." "That," she replied, "hardly seems probable. Simple armers, learning is not in their line. Neither is their in- fluence like to be such as to command a situation as teacher. When here, where I am lmown, my own influence, and the influence of Uncle Elbray's wealth-you know as well as I such things have weight-have not been able to effect it." Father Lawrence was of a different opinion. It was just possible, though he did not mention it, that the influ- ence of another, and that other. Mrs. Elbray, had been brought to bear against hers. She did not want her in the village after leaving her uncle's ; he would see her toil- ing for her daily bread, his heart would relent, and in spite of all her art she would again be restored to his home. The same might happen if, leaving Antoria, she got a situ- ation in any of the neighboring villages. To avoid conse- quences so disagreeable to her she might use, indeed he knew she had used, her influence against her. "My child," he said, in answer to some further objection she advanced, " you came to me for my advice?" "Yes, Father, I did." "But what good will it do you if you do not take it?" "True, Father; but you do not understand my feelings. "I do, Alice, I understand them well. I know how they have been crushed and trampled upon till, not hardened and rendered insensible, they have become over-sensitive. But now take my advice, write to that family, give them all the particulars you know of your mother, and wait patiently till you hear from them before making any other application for employment." X AALICE MURRAY. 13 There seemed no reasonable objection to this, but still Alice was not satisfied; they must know from the very first that she was not hunting up the connection, in order to fasten herself a burden on them. "But if they should not, after all, prove relatives, all that would be quite unnecessary. You would be ashamed that you had gone so far out of your way to hint your affairs to utter strangers." He paused, for a deep flush had spread over Alice's fea- tures, and her hand, again working with the fringe of her shawl, trembled violently. He rose and walked up and down the room, giving her time to regain her composure. Seeing her ere long calm and collected, he seated himself and said. "It seems this writing to the Bradleys is a difficult un- dertaking for you?" "It is, Father, and with reason?"This reason he did not ask and she did not tell. She thought it was no use. Father Lawrence did not and could not understand her feelings about it; driven out from the home of one uncle how could she thrust herself into the home of another? Would she be welcome if she did? Yes, for a little while they might be pleased to have her among them, then they would weary of her and wish her away; again she would find herself homeless and friendless, again an intruder, an abject of aversion, hatred and ill-will. Oh no, no , she must not think of it. She sat with her eyes fixed on the carpet and her lips firmly compressed. "You cannot bring yourself to write to that family." Father Lawrence asked, or rather remarked after a few moments' silence. "I don't see any good that it would do; I don't want to throw myself a burden on them; I don'tpaee any neces. , page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] " ALICE MURRAY. sity there is for me to be a burden to any one; I have health and strength, and ought to support myself." "Certainly, Alice, but while with the health and strength the good God has given you you are supporting yourself, you will want a home that you can occasionally turn to." "True, Father true." The quick tears rushed to her eyes; forcing them back to their source, she added, "I know how lonely I will be, a stranger at every board, stranger eyes-: forever upon me, what a Cain-like isolation will be mine. But better, far better that, than the humiliation of de- pendence. Blame me not, Father, situated as I am you would feel the same." "I might," he thoughtfully answered, "I might. But," he added, after a little reflection, " as you find it so diffi- cult to write to that family, let me write for you. I will say all that will be necessary for them to know, and add, that in case they are your relatives I would like them to try and get you a school in their section of the country." "How soon will you write?"There was about her that calmness which betrays strong emotions. "Let me see, I am going to Virgil this afternoon, but I will write the letter before I start, and mail it so that it wilt go out this evening." Alice had all confidence in his discretion ; she knew he would write nothing that could in the least compromise her dignity or self-respect; in her troubled state of mind she was not sure she could do this herself. ' But, Alice." said Fathel Lawrence with the eager tone of one whose soul delights in a good deed, "now there are a few particulars of your parents you will have to give me, in order that I may mention them in my letter." Her parents' age, the place they came from, and her father's trade were told him, and it seemed her business with her pastor was concluded. But no, there was another K,2 . ALICE MURRAY. point she must not forget. A shade of irresolution passed over her countenance,'and for a moment she hesitated, but now was the time to mention it; she was a coward if she put it off to some future day. "Father," she said, bending forward and looking ear- nestly 'at him, "You may think me over nice and trouble- some, but there is one thing more I wish to say." "What is it?" "If this family should be my relatives and still be una- ble to get me a school in their section of the country in that case I do not want to go to them. God helping me, I am determined henceforth to do for myself and be a burden to no one. If they are my relatives and succeed in getting me a school near them it will be a comfort, a consolation-how great I dare not say, dare not think. As you remarked, I would not like to be utterly alone ; and if I might have it I would like some place that I could occasionally turn to." Her voice grew tremulous and her eyes filled. "Poor child," Father Lawrence mentally ex- claimed, and as he looked at her he could not help con- trasting her former and her present state-the favorite niece of a wealthy uncle, the joy and light of his home; the poor orphan, friendless and homeless, coming to him i for advice and aid! Could it be possible they were one and the same person? Yes, there was not a, doubt of it; Alice was there just as he had always known her, perhaps a trifle graver, trifle sterner, but in the main the same. "Alice, my child," h6 said, "if they are your relatives I and still fail in getting you a school, I promise you I will use my best endeavors to get you one somewhere else." The troubled look left her face. "Father, she ex- claimed, rising, "this is truly a great kindness, now J can go back to uncle's feeling more contented." page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] 1 16 ALICE MURRAY. As soon," he returned, rising and following her to the door, " as I hear from them I will let you know it." "Do, Father, for I shall be anxious to hear." She drew her shawl closely around her as she entered the street. The great masses of clouds moved slowly on, but back of them she knew was the blue sky, and back of the sorrows that shrouded her the light of a father's love. In the village, in the fields stretching on to the dark-rimmed woods, on all sides of her were the fruits of man's labor. Those stores, factories and mills, whose very air seemed tremulous with never-ceasing action, those stately resi- dences so still and quiet, and yet in their stillness and quietness so suggestive of life's restless aim and endeavor, those poor little cottages confessing straitened circum- stances and constant striving to make means and expenses meet, those fields over which the ploughshare had passed, and in whose bosom was reposing the seed of another harvest-all spoke to her of labor, patient, unremitting labor. No spell of magic was about them, no genii of the Lamp ready with mere word to call them into existence. Toilfully they attained their present state, toilfully they maintained it Labor, with iron signet, is inscribed upon the brow of man: labor is his portion; it was hers. Somewhere in the world, remote or near, her appointed task awaited her, the warp was in, the woof ready, only her hand was needed to put the shuttle in motion. That evening the letter to the Bradleys went out. ;Mi i AtICE MURRAY. 17 CHAPTER IL MRS. DENMORE was no sooner installed mistress of the : Elbrav mansion than she showed a decided aversion to Alice. She was 'the skeleton at her feast, and having no Egyptian tastes her presence was a daily aggravation to her. What business had she there? That is, what right? No right en earth. She was no more to John Elbray than any stranger, and it was an outrage on her, his wife, to see her there petted and pampered as if she were really his child and the heir or heiress of his property. Lucette, her daughter, was nearer to him than Alice; she was only the niece of his first wife, and Lucette the daughter of his second. The transfer of his affections, and what wa, more, infinitely more, the prospective transfer of his wealth, might occasion some talk, a kind of a nine day wonder in the village, but in the end every one would take the same view she did, and settle down comfortably to it. Alice Murray had no claim to that home, and her presence there was a cruel infringement on her own and her daughter's rights. John Elbray started when she broached the sub- ject to him. Alice nothing to him! What did Mrs. Elbray mean? He tried to be calm and collected, even dignified; he began to have some faint idea that his frequent out- bursts of temper were not exactly the distinguishing marks of a gentleman-but he would like very much to know what Mrs. Elbray meant. His face, red and swollen, and his voice, unsteady and rasping in its tones, showed that self-restraint was to him a mighty effort. It was so mighty that the answer Mrs. Elbray returned routed all his forces; his dignity and decorum were swept to the winds. He had been used to having his way, and he should have it. Alice Murray was his child by the strongest ties of affection; page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] 18 ALICE 'MURRAY. Madam might say what she liked, Alice should remain where she was, his home shotld be her home, and waxing warm in his wrath, he said what would have sunk any other woman to the earth with shame; but Mrs. Elbray only sneered, hoped Alice would return such disinterested affec- tions, and prove herself grateful for all he had done for her. From sneers she passed to commendations; she had been hasty, and, by conciliation, must regain the ground she saw she had lost. He had been generous to Alice; no one could deny that. He had been like a father to her, and she sincerely hoped Alice would not prove ungrateful, but ingratitude is so frequently the only return one meets with in this world that it almost seemed a mockery to her to expect any thing else. She might have urged her right as mistress of his home to have no one in it whose presence was obnoxious to her; might have made pathetic allusions to her injured feelings, and the impossibility of the two re- maining under the same roof; might, in fine, throwing off all disguise, have declared if Alice remained there'she would not; but she knew well this would not have the slightest effect on him. No, she must take another course; she must appeal to his horror of ingratitude. John Elbray was weak on this point; if he did a kindness he wanted it fully known and duly appreciated. Not to be sensible of his favors, not to feel a deep, thrilling and abiding grati- tude for them was, to him, a crime startling in its very enormity. Large drops actually stood on his forehead. Alice ungrateful! The thought was too appalling; he reached forth his hand, as it were, forcibly to thrust it away, out of sight, where he should not see it in all its hideous deformity. It could not possibly be; he had done every thing for Alice, and Alice knew it, and she was grate- ful. She looked upon him as a father, and he loved her as a child. Mrs. Elbray sighed. What did that heavy breath IS AALICE MURRAY. 19 mean? Who dared to say he did not love her as his owIn She h ad soothed and quieted him, but there was bow dan- ger of another storm. If storms and tempestsha accom- plished her object she would have allowed hum the full -ii benefit of them, but she saw they would not, and hastened to calm him. No one doubted his truth or generosity, none the sincerity of his feelings. It was not for that she ighed. Alice ought to be grateful for all he had done for - her. "And she is grateful," he hastily interrupted. Mrs. C Elbray smiled incredulously; she did not wish to say any thing, but she begged him to observe and judge for him- N self. This setting an exacting; jealous and fractious old gentleman, with one at his elbow to put an evil construc- tion on every little thing, to watch another, proved Mrs. Elbray a dexterous manager, one that understood how to carry out a purpose undeterred by a single pang of re- morse, or a single throb of tenderness. The season had not passed over their heads before John Elbray refused to speak to Alice. She hardly knew what it meant; when angry with her, and he had had many an outhurst with her in her aunt's time, he had always been ready for a re- conciliation, had even sometimes gone half way to meet it. But now he looked on her with hard, suspicious eyes, eyes that, although the tongue was mute, seemed forever watch- ing, forever bitterly and reproachfully questioning her. He breathed heavily, as if thepent storm took away all his strength, kept constantly finding fault with the servants in and around the house, and sometimes fell into ungov- ernable fits of passion with them for little or nothing at Hall. He had felt so secure in Alice's gratitude that never a doubt had risen in his mind; but all that was now changed; doubts had risen and he wanted these doubts confirmed into certainties or cleared away. Left to him- self, following out thie impulses of his own pasionate page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] 20 -ALICE MURRAY. nature, he would soon have known; he would have taken Alice aside, and after pouring upon her a torrent of angry words, would have asked her all about it. But Mrs. Elbray was there, ever at his side, and in her presence he could do nothing. That woman threw a strange spell over him; one moment away from her, her eye not upon him, he felt strong to ferret out the whole affair and know for himself; she near, with her smile so mocking, her voice, eyes, whole countenance so taunting-taunting him with his easy credulity, his want of self-reliance and power to command his feelings, his inability to observe and weigh the motives of those around him, that he experienced a sensation to him altogether new and singular, a timid, shrinking fear of ridicule, and what was more galling still, a consciousness that he deserved it. A fortnight passed, and yet Father Lawrence heard nothing from his letter to the Bradleys; it might be they were waiting to get Alice a situation before writing; but if they failed him, he must look around him and get her a situation him- self. Daily her life at her uncle's was becoming more and more intolerable. With coarse, vulgar pride, Mrs. Elbray hourly reminded her of her dependent state; it was evident, if the matter had rested with her, she would soon have rid the house of so obnoxious a person, situation or no situation, but she still stood somewhat in awe of Mr. Elbray. That gentleman's affections might be alienated from the niece of her who had helped him to make his wealth; she in the grave might be forgotten, but to no proposal for sending Alice from his home would he for a moment listen. She was nothing to him-this had been dinned in his ears so much that he began to think it might be so, though it would never seem so to him-but that, in his estimation, afforded no reason, not the shadow of a reason, why he should unprovided cast her off. Her base ingratitude, that above all else exasperated him; that shb was ungrateful he now did not doubt. Her grave de- meanor under Mrs. Elbray's persecution was by that lady construed into contempt and disdain for him and that home he so much prided himself on. Enjoying his bounty with a cold, heartless pride, she despised him. He had read somewhere of a Christiah soldier, parching with thirst, holding to the lips of a dying Mussiulman a cup of water, and in return receiving from the stiffening arms of his fallen foe a thrust from his dagger that nearly deprived him of life. With pathetic force he applied this to his own case, forgetting, or in his confusion not seeing, that it was not altogether applicable. In the first place, when he took Alice to his home she was not a helpless enemy, but a little helpless. child; in the next place, he had not in the mere impulse of the moment given her a cup of water, but for years had watched over her with a father's love and a father's care. But the distinction was immaterial, a use- l less splitting of "straws, she was his enemy now, and through her ingratitude had given him a stab that cut to his very soul. Mrs. Elbray, with perhaps more correct- ness, but certainly less delicacy of feeling, compared this ingratitude he was made to believe he suffered, to the viper the countryman took to his hearth, and that when warmed and revived turned on his protector and stung him. This comparison rankled venomously in his mind. Alice was the viper he had warmed and cherished; she had stung him, cruelly, wantonly stung him. He looked. at her with this thought in his eye, he spoke with the bit- terness of it on'his tongue; he slept, he woke, he ate, he i walked his grounds with this one absorbing idea. It made him haggard and wild, and soured his temper to an intole- rable degree; every one in the house felt its effects, and madam herself in a way she little expected On the sub- page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] 22 ALICE MURRAY. ject of sending Alice away he was inexorable; she had no where to go, and where should he send he:r. Madam had better take care; he had lavished all kindness on that child, and what was the return? Cruel, heartless ingrati- tude. He had planted figs and gathered thorns; he would plant no more figs; he would gather no more thorns. Alice Murray was nothing to him; true. Neither was Lifcette Denmore. The day Alice went, other than of her own accord, that day should Lucette pack up and go after her. This was said with an emphasis that left no room for doubt. All the old obstinacy of his nature was roused; no word, no argument of Mrs. Elbray could on this point stir him an inch. Lucette was not in the least like Alice; ! the very essence of that clild's character was gratitude. From the earliest dawn of her life it had been the govern- ing principle of all her actions; and, to illustrate -it, she related several little incidents, which told well for her in- ventive faculties; but had no effedt on his inflexible will. Alice had been grateful too, but she had changed; she saw it, she could not deny it, and in like manner might Lucette change. He could place no confidence in her; he wanted nothing to do with her. To him, and he very frankly, and with altogether too much vehemence to com- port with the dignity he wished to assume, informed i madam that in his opinion she was a vain, conceited, empty-headed nonentity, whose good or ill will was not worth a farthing, and who was incapable of ingratitude, simply because she did not know enough to know when she had received a favor; no fool did. Mrs. Elbray was indignant, but had discretion not to show it. It was no use to argue that Alice, in her supreme contempt for him, seemed not to realize the many favors she had received from his hands. Alice might be proud and basely un- grateful, but she was no fool. No one that had a particle ALICE MBRAr. 23 of sense could say it. Look at the two and judge. Ugh I there was no comparison between them, and he tossed back his head and curled his lip in the most exasperating manner. Thoroughly irritated, Mrs. Elbray left him, and, with increased bitterness, revenged on Alice the prejudice which her own injustice to her had excited in the bosom of Mr. Elbray against her daughter. But forcing her, driving her away, place or no place, she did not dare, and, having no alternative, Alice was obliged to wait and bear patiently; but leaden-winged the days passed wearily on. At last, when her soul grew faint with the hope long de- ferred, when, like the prisoner, whose prison walls daily contracted till they crushed him on all sides, she felt suffo- cated, entombed, buried alive, the letter from the Bradleys came. She was at once gladly and joyfully recognized as their relative. They would have answered sooner, but as her coming to them depended on their getting her a situa- tion in their section of the country, they thought it best to wait and try and get her a school before writing. They were happy to state that their efforts had been crowned with success. The village district school of Lucan, seven miles from them, now awaited her acceptance or rejection. ; The terms were mentioned, and a week allowed her to de- cide; they sincerely hoped she would accept them, and they thereby have the great happiness of seeing her; and with many kind words, showing their hearts and home were open to receive her, the letter concluded. Father A Lawrence, on receiving it, had immediately sent it to her; j she was in her own room when she read it; no mortal eye i was upon her; no one near to witness what, in her Spartan- like sternness; would have seemed weak. The tears, long restrained, rolled over her cheeks; the' sobs; long pent, burst forth. That letter, simple in tone, almost business- like in style, was her manna in the wilderness, the rock page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] 24 AICE MURRPY. struck and the sweet waters gushing forth. Pressing it to her lips, she fell on her knees and thanked God for the timely succor. When she rose she sat down to her desk and answered it, gratefully accepting the situation they had so kindly got her. She had but few preparations to make in leaving her uncle Elbray's, and therefore named an early day in the following week, when Mr. Bradley might meet her in Lucan. The letter written, she took it to the post- office, and, returning, went into the library to inform her uncle of her intended departure. She found him at his desk writing ; he looked up as she entered, but dipping his pen into the inkstand, he lowered his eyes, and went on with his writing as if totally oblivious of her presence. * She stood for awhile silent before him, hoping he would pause and give her a chance to speak; she did not wish to interrupt him in his labor; she might put it off to another day, there was no need of her being too hasty; but she was there, and hated to go away with- out saying something; she did not know, either, as she would dare again to intrude upon him. The letter had given her courage this time to venture unbidden into his presence, but to-morrow, the next day, and the next, and so to the very last, would she be able to do it again? She feared she might not; she would tell him then and * there all about it; there was another thing helped her to this resolution. As she stood watching him, she shrewdly suspected his abstraction was in part assumed. As his hand moved over tht. paper, she noticed he now and then, without raising his eyes, gave a side-long glance at her, Rnd now and then hitched his chair and gave his paper an impatient shove. All at once he stopped, looked up, and in no gentle tone inquired: "What brought you here? What do you want?" She wheeled up a chair and sat down beside himn ' AII[CE MURRAY, 25i "Uncle," she answered, "you have been kind to me. You have done much for me; I know it and feel grateful. No one in the wide world seems so near to me as you; but it -would be ungenerous in me to burden you any longer with my support. I am able to do for myself; I have got a situation as teacher, and next Tuesday I am going away." "Where, where are you going?" he asked, in a eurt, abrupt tone. "To- Lucan, about seventy miles from here" '"Do you know any one there?" "I have lately ascertained that I have an aunt and uncle living within seven miles of the place. You may recollect a family of the name of Bradley coming to visit me once when I was in school. Well, it is this family. Mrs. Brad- ley is my mother's sister; they have got me a school, and I am going to them; when my school is out, and while waiting for the next term to commence, I am to make my home with them." The rising color on his face foretold a coming storm. He threw down the pen which till now he had retained in At his hand ; he sat up stern and erect in his chair : "And so you are going away," he exclaimed, " without telling me a word about it, or saying anything at all to me, you go and get a place and arrange the whole affair, and when it's all over and done you come and say, 'Uncle, I am going.' I suppose it wasn't worth your while to come to me before. Not a bit of it: not a bit of it. Your old fool of an uncle wasn't worth your consulting." "Uncle, it was not that. I thought it was no use to trouble you. It was time I was acting and doing for my- "Yes, yes, I uaderstand." His features were red and swollen, and an angry frown contracted his brows. "I am page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] 26- ALICE MURRAT. a mere nobody; too ignorant and vulgar for one so ver, refined and wise to have anything to do with." "Uncle, uncle, stop. Don't go on so. You know beth ter ; you-- " "I don't know better," he savagely exclaimed, interrupt- ing her. "Stop I won't, and go on I will. Here you have been reared, and everything done for you ; and now, when you take it into your precious head, you go off without so much as ' I thank you,' and get yourself a place and go to teaching; and when your school's out and your place gone, then, forsooth, you get yourself a home without so much as ever looking at the old fool that brought you up. This is gratitude with a vengeance; this is what I have got for all my pains." Alice wjiced under these remarks; she felt they were in part just. She should have told him of her intention to leave him as soon as she got herself a situation; but she feared, if she did, he would only quarrel with her, insist on her staying and, as he could not be ignorant of Mrs. Elbray's aversion to her, and her extreme dislike to having her in the house at all, probably heartily despise her for so doing. She had carefully thought it over, and con- cluded it was best to say nothing to him about her going, but quietly get herself a situation, and just before leaving ac- quaint him with her intended departure. But he seemed so moved now by her sudden announcement, that she re- gretted exceedingly she had not from the first let him know her intentions. No objection or remonstrance would she meet with from Mrs. Elbray; that she well knew; but her poor old uncle, alienated, as his affections were, his past kindness and devotion merited more confidence. "Uncle," she said, "I have done wrong, and I am sorry for it." "Alice Murray," he answered, " you have done wrong; ALICE MRBAT. :1 and you may well be sorry. To turn from me-leave me- go from my home! It is wrong, wrong, wrong!" he ex- claimed, his voice every moment growing more and more v excited. "No, uncle," she firmly rejoined, "I have burdened you long enough. You do not understand me. For going away from here, and using the powers which God has given m6 in gaining my own support, I am doing no wrong, and I am not sorry. But that I did not tell you, and that my going should now come so unexpectedly upon you, this is -what I do most sincerely regret." "Unexpectedly--tut!" he retorted. "It's not unex- pected. It's just what I have all along been expecting." "Then you did know it?" "To be sure I did. I haven't been watching you, Miss, for nothing. I have known your comings in and your go- ings out, and how., despising me, you were preparing to leave me. I have known all about it," he passionately added ;," I have seen your pride, your scorn, your contempt. I was-a fit subject, with my ignoran-ce and vulgarity, to call it forth; and now all I have to sav to you is, since you have got a place where your fastidiousness will not be an- noyed by my ignorance and vulgarity, the sooner you go to it the better." Pained and grieved, Alice sat before him. That the ac- cusation hurled against her was utterly false, did not in the least tend to lessen its crushing force. Had she really entertained for him the scorn and contempt he alleged, his words would have fallen heedless on her ears. But with his rough, abrupt ways, had he not been her hero in home- spun-one that, by his strong, indomitable force of charac- ter, had wrestled with fortune, and torn from her unwilling hands the prize he coveted? Time and again had she lis- Xtened to the tale of his early struggles till in regular orderi page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] 28 6ALICE MURRAY. sharp, piercing, and soul sickening, they had passed in re- view before her. Penniless and friendless, she saw him leave his child- hood's home; penniless and friendless seek a foreign land; no door was open to receive him-no face to smile a wel- come upon him. A stranger he camne among strangers, and, like the Israelites of old, tasks grievous and sore to bear were laid upon his shoulders. His strong arm built up the wealth of those that, in his toil and humiliation, looked down upon him with scorn. He bore it all; the summer heat and the winter storm were alike unheeded; no pause, no rest did they afford him. Did he have feel- ings? Could he suffer? Could he enjoy? The hard, glazing eye of the task-master said no; and, with con- tracted brow and compressed lip, he went on and on, and still on, till 3! his bonds broke, his shackles fell-he was free! Riches grew up around him; the world saw, acknowl- edged his wealth, and paid him homage. He accepted it, not with a glad, grateful spirit-not in a kindly, genial mood, but as one laboring for an object and obtaining it, as his right. To have withheld it would have been with- holding what was his just due; it came with his wealth, and to his wealth belonged. It was, in fact, as much a part of it as the broad acres and stately buildings owning him as master, the bank stock rejoicing in his signature. Why, then, should he not have it? Why hesitate in accepting it? He did not hesitate, not in the least, but in a grim, stern way received it. That he was not smooth and equable in his bearing, was not to be wondered at. Remembrance of the past scorn heaped upon his lowly lot, made him at times, s delight in trampling under foot the usages of that society he was now a member of; and not an insignificant, cring- ing, hanging-on member, but a well-established, solid, pro- , lmIinent one--one who felt his position safe, and trembled ALICE MURRAY. at no man's nod. There was something glorious in this, and that, after his own fashion, he should glory in it, was no way surprising. This was the view she had always taken of him; a high, heroic place had he held in her esti- mation; but for the few past months the statue had tot- tered in its niche. The glaring contrast between the pre- sent and former mistress of his home, the one a meek, humble, and pious woman, the other a vain, arrogant, and selfish worldling, thoroughly aroused her to his neglect ot his religious duties. It was strange that, naturally sterr and severe to the failings of others, as well as to her own she had not looked upon this remissness with more marked disapprobation; but, in the first, place, he was with her a privileged character; next, so far as regarded herself, this sternness and severity were considered just and necessary, and in no way restrained; as concerned others, it was daily combatted: "Let these that stand take heed lest they fall;" "judge not and be not judged ;" "man seeth the outward, God alone knoweth the heart." These sentences constantly came between her and any condemnation of hei neighbors. They were God's creatures; He had bought them with His blood. In His eyes they were precious--in hers should they be nothing worth? No, no; like. the poor publican standing afar off, their cry of "God be mer- ciful to me, a sinner," might be more powerful than all hei prayers and goodness, or attempts at goodness. Deep earnest, and sincere, her pity lacked not its distinguishing mark of charity. But without any breach of this charity in dwelling on her uncle's character, it gradually opened tc her that others, as well as he, had commenced life as poor and, over paths as rugged and thorny, had climbed t( wealth and importance. If not right there in Antoria many sucn were in the land. She could hardly take up i newspaper without reading their names; her companionm page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] 301 ALICE MURRAY. in schlool had introduced her to the homes of several. And these, in the days of their prosperity, instead of growing lukewarm, like John Elbray, in their religion, ever re- tained their early love and veneration for it. It had been their solace in many a dark hour, and now was their joy and pride. The strict performance of their religious duties they considered in no way derogatory to their dignity, and, in their elevated positions in life, their piety fell around them like the graceful togas of the old Romans. Alice saw with pain the contrast between these and her anle, and a change came over her feelings towards him, but it was not a change from admiration to contempt. She remembered all his past kindness and affection, and that one that had shown her, and in showing her had proved himself capable of such generous and disinterested devo- tion, should be so unjust to himself, so negligent of his own best interests, filled her with grief, amazement, and indignation, but not with contempt. How long, at best, could he enjoy the riches he had labored so hard for? She looked at his wrinkled face and bleached head, more wrin- kled, more bleached than ever since his second marriage, and thought a few more years at most and he would have to leave them, and, poor and naked, go down to the grave. Her amazement and indignation gave place- to profound pitv and commiseration. All this time he was silent and cold to her, and passionate and imperious to the rest of the household. She felt, through Mrs. Elbray's influence, her presence in his home had become hateful to him; that he wanted her away, and in striving for a situation, she had instinctively shrank from coming -too much in contact with him. This shyness and reserve he attributed to disdain, contempt, dislike, and now, hearing she was going to leave his home, had, even without acquainting him with her intentions, got herself a XI ALICE MURRAY. 3: situation, was proof convincing in his eyes that he wa right. She that owed him so much--that he had don everything for-that he had loved as his own child, sh despised him, and scorned to take him into her confidence In his wrath, an unusual thing with him, there was more bitterness than fury. "Yes, Alice Murray," he exclaimed, "you want to leav me. After all, you want to go away, and I say go, go and the sooner the better." She looked at him, pale, immovable, and stern. "Uncle," she entreated, "listen to me one moment." "I will not!'" he fiercely replied; " not for a single me ment. Your. words would pass as the wind before me Smooth as they might be, they could not deceive me What I know I do know. There is no detestable gues work or uncertainty about it." "Bitter and unrelenting to the last," she said, more a if speaking to herself than addressing him. "No, Miss," he replied, "I am neither bitter nor unre lenting. I am simply not the blind old fool you took me for." "Uncle," she exclaimed, while her eyes flashed, "yoX are blind-miserably blind." "Stop!*" he retorted; "no more of that. I may be at ignorant, mud-be-spattered fool, but with all my folly : have eyes in my head, and I use them. I see what is be fore my face to see. With all your fine speeches you can not deceive me.' "You would believe nothing I could say?" "Not the first word." "Oh, uncle, it was not always so ;" a tear was in hey eye when she said it. "You once loved me; you once be. lieved everything I said. But it is changed-all changed.' "Alice Murray, it is changed You are not what you were.' page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] 32 AICE MUKRRAY. "I am. I am just the same I always was. It is you who are changed." "I changed-and that to my face? She dares to tell me that?" He snatched up his pen, dipped it impetuously into the ink-stand, and seemed intent on resuming his writing. But her presence held a benumbing influence over him; 'the pen stood still in his hand, a heavy black drop fell on the white paper; he nervouesly hitched nearer the desk; he wanted to assume a cold, lofty indifference-nay, more, he wanted to feel what he assumed. Impossible. She was there, the child that had been so dear to him, that his dead wife, sleeping over there in the cemetery, just in sight of his library window, had loved so much, and he could not do it. He looked at her, pointed to the door, and in a voice that, had it not been stern, would have been tremulous with sobs, exclaimed: ' Go. I say go," Alice rose. A scarlet wave of anger rushed to her cheek She felt he was unjust and cruel. She had grieved at the estrangement at that moment when all his past and present life rose up before him, a Gehenna of crushed and withered hopes; she indignantly flung her griefs and regrets away as something hateful and degrading. She did not know how under his stern and vindictive exterior his old heart shrank and shuddered at the cold, dark night of loneliness setting in upon him. She only saw him grim and implaca- ble in his ill-will against her, and, hurling the memory of his past kindness from her, she bowed to the storm that swept over her passionate soul. Entering her room, she walked to the low mantel-piece, crossed her arms, and rested her head upon them. Her slight form quivered, and now and then choking sobs burst forth from her lips. There was so much she had wished to say, so much she 1-:*X ALICE MURRAY. had wished to near ; but she was going away, and not one kind word or kind look was going with her; to the last only ill-will and unconcealed aversion. An hour passed; lifting a tear-stained face, she glanced round the room; it was filled with mementoes of dead and gone affection ; but a little while before not an engraving or a landscape on the wall, not an article of furniture in the room, but was dear to her. Now she turned loathingly from them all Lucette Denmore, she knew, would appropriate them when she was gone. Let her. She was welcome to them. She was done with them. She cared no more for them. The mold of the grave was over them all, and gladly and will ingly she resigned them. Leaving the mantel-piece, sh( walked to her desk, sat down, and tried to calm herself by thinking of her coming duties. CHAPTER II. THE dawn of morning thlat Alice was to leave her uncle'r was breaking when, with a bewildbred sensation, she startei up. The last night under John Elbray's roof was passed she was going away; she had no time to lose. These were the first thoughts that filled her mind on awakening. Witl nervous haste she rose, dressed herself and said her prayers Rising from her knees, she opened the door and summone( a couple of the servants to carry her trunk to the hal below. "Upon my word, you are in a hurry to'be off," said he: uncle, laying his great hand heavily on her shoulder. There was something of the old tenderness in his tones./ Alice': cheek paled, but with unquivering lips she replied: page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] ;3'* ALICE MURRAY. ' The train for Whitetown will be in at half-past six o'clock, and I am afraid I will be too late if-" "If you are not," he exclaimed, interrupting her," at the station-house an hour waiting. You needn't look so rueful; it is only half-past five. I will see that your trunk is at the depot in time. And now come in here, I want to see you." He opened the library door and led her to his arm chair, before the grate. "Sit down, child, sit down; your hands are very cold," he said, Alice felt her uncle's affection was not all dead. Oh! if her aunt had lived, how happy she might have been. "Alice," he slowly, and it seemed with difficulty, said, "you will not stay with me; you must needs go away." After a lengthened pause, with a sigh he added: "Perhaps, for the welfare of all concerned, it is just as well; but I didn't think when I brought you here a little girl, it would thus end." "Uncle, don't refer 'to those days-don't. I know how kind you were and how happy I was. But aunt Elizabeth is dead, and it is all past. All past." She bowed her face upon her hands; her composure was gone, and like a child she wept. Tears, too, suffused her uncle's eyes. "Alice," he said, in an unsteady voice, " it is not all past. If you fail in what you are about to undertake, come back to me." "I should think, Mr. Elbray, she had about long enough subsisted on charity. 'Tis time she began to make some exertion for her own support." Mrs. Elbray had hastened in in her morning gown and slippers, and now stood before them. Alice's face seemed 'turned to stone, her limbs became rigid, and once or twice that she attempted to speak, her words died away in her throat. She rose and leaned heavily against the back of the chair, and, with a voice husky with passion, exclaimed: ALICE MURRAY. "Madam, I have long enough subsisted on charity, you say. Mark me, I will not rest till, with God's help, every penny expended on me be returned. In health, in sick- ness, to the grave will I toil but it shall be done." "A very good resolution, and one I trust you will not forget," said Mrs. Elbray, opening with a cool, unconcerned air, the library window and fastening back the blind. "Alice, let me hear no more of that," exclaimed her uncle. Edward Murray's child is welcome to all I have ever done for her." Fuming and vigorously wiping the perspiration, from his face, he walked up and down the room, while Mrs. Elbray busied herselS in arranging the books and picking up stray bits of paper. Alice had turned to leave the library, when her uncle abruptly addressed her: "Where are you going?" "To get my bonnet and shawl.'" "Stay; you don't wAnt them till after breakfast, and Rose can get them then. 'Tis wrong to let you go. Ma- dam, will you hold your tongue?" he imperiously asked, as Mrs. Elbray was about to interrupt him. "But"-again addressing Alice-"I am an old fool;' I am not master in my own house; I was turned against you; I was told you were ungrateful; that you scorned me and anything I could do for you; and they said 'let her earn her own sup- port-; she is nothing to you,' and I said, 'yea, let her,' fool I idiot that I was! But if you don't like the work, or get tired of it, come back to me, and see if you'll be turned off for parasites or idlers." Mrs. Elbray offered no comment, but a glance fell on Alice so scathing in its expression, so full of implacable hate, tha t she quailed beneath it; an ashen hue spread over her face, and a dull, aching pain filled her heart. In that woman's malignancy she felt the foreboding of coming evil page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] 386 ALICE MUIRAt. I What it would be, she did not have time to ask herselt; the breakfast bell rung, and, seizing her arm, her uncle hurried her to the dining-room. How she got over the meal, she never knew; she only remembered that hei uncle piled her plate with toast, poured out and seasoned her tea, and in a passionate, stolny way, urged her to eat, while Mrs. Elbray sat, grim and silent, at the head of the table, watching with sneering lips his every movement. The meal over, Alice put on her bonnet and shawl, which Rose had brought down, and stepping into the hall, looked for her trunk. "It has been sent down to the station; and here is the carriage," exclaimed Mr. Elbray. She followed him to it and was entering it, when Lu-. cette Denmore made her appearance. She was eighteen or twenty years old, rather below the middle stature, with firm, compact form, brunette complexion, brown hair and eyes, features small and regular, with a characteristic ex- pression of vanity, insignificance and affectation., "Wait a moment," she said, tripping up to the carriage, "I am going too, Alice; I must see you off." "I mph 1" exclaimed Mr. Elbray in no gentle tone, "I think you might have been up time enough for breakfast." "Ah, yes ; but you recollect you ordered breakfast an hour before its usual time, and getting up too early would have quite destroyed my appetite." She moved on and took her seat beside Alice, in the car- riage. It was evident Alice was not to be allowed a moment with her uncle, and she did not regret it; unconsciously mother and daughter were doing her a favor. With com- mendable sang froid Lucette drew her shawl around her and glanced out of the carriage window. The air was redolent with the freshness of the morning, the village had awakened to another day of bustling activ- ity, men were hfrrying to their daily toil, stores were ALICE DMURRMA e opened, and clerks were busy laying goods upon the cou' Lers, hanging them out under awnings, and placing every thing in the best possible light-; halls were being swept and maids in neat morning trim were Lurrying in and oul with duster, broom and pan in hand. For Lucette, the morning scene before her awakened no thought, aroused no memory, stirred no feeling. It was pleasant, the night was passecd pleasant the sun shone, pleasant to see peopl( fluttering about, while she was at her ease-that was all But for Alice it had a far deeper Ineaning. It was a renewal of the tasks of yesterday and the day before, of all the agev past; one more going forth of the decree+: "By the sweat of the brow shall man eat his bread." The next day would awaken to hear it, and never till the great wheel itself should stop, stand still, no more roll on, would its tones be hushed. They were alighting at the station house when the train for Whitetown came shrieking in. "No time to lose," exclaimed Mr. Elbray. He attended to her baggage, got her ticket and hurried her into the cars. "At Whitetown," he said, "you are to take the stage foi Lucan, nineteen miles distant;, there your uncle Bradley will meet you. And now, remember, if you fail you are to come back to me. Write to your old uncle; he will be anxious to hear from you." A tear stood on her cheek; with bowed head she gave the promise. He caught her hand, convulsively squeezed it, and was gone. The bell rang, the cars began to stir a distracted hurrying in of passengers, and hurrying out of little boys with peanuts, parched corn and candy, and tey were off. Antoria was left behind. Alice's heart was heavy, and turning from the throngs around her, her eye, sought the window. The spirit of motion seemed to hav( taken possession of all animate and inanimate nature Farm-houses with children playing about the doors, treea fO0 page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] fences, fields-all seemed swiftly darting past her. God's promise was not forgotten ; the spring-time had come. A fragrance filled the air as if unseen angels were wafting their censers. From field'and forest, hill and valley, crys- tal streams and dusty paths the song of rejoicing went up. Alice felt her burthen grow lighter and lighter till a holy calmness filled her heart. She knew she was going amlong strangers, that henceforth a life of labor was before her, but she shrank not from it; her lines might not fall in p'le'ls- ant places ; what mattered it? If she was brave and strong and faithfully performed her part, she had nothing to fear. The words of a hymn dear to her in childhood, came back "I have called Thee Abba Father- I have set my heart on Thee; Storms may howl and clouds'may gather, All must work for good to me." Yes, with the bow of God's promise arching her sky, all would work for her good. The talents which had been given her would not nowno rust in inactivity ; she would take her place with other laborers, and, toiling with them patiently to the end, would be able when demanded, to re- turn them with interest. Youth is apt to be sanguine, and as Alice sat with her cheek resting on her palm, her eyes taking in the changing scenery, and her thoughts going out to meet her coming duties, she felt like the soldier buckling on his armor and rushing on to battle, sure of victory. If Alps were to be climbed, with unfaltering heart she would clilqb them; if deserts were to be crossed, unminidful of the scorching sun and burning sands, of the bleaching bones scattered along the way, of the deceitful mirages lifted on high, without turning to the right or to the left she would keep on, right on, sure that in the end her steps would lead to cool waters and green pastures. Thank God for the buoyant spirit given to the young; they do not in their ardor ignore the cares and sorrows which may crowd ALICE MURRAY. 3O dound the coming years, but with their unwasted strength and energy look them almost defiantly in the face. 'Tif well; time enough for them to know the pain of strained muscles and overtaxed nerves, of weary, dragging days ane feverish, restless nights. The knowledge will come sooi enough, and when it does come let not the faint heart trem. ble; God's loving mercy presides over all the periods ol life ; then it is, when hope pales and the way becomes dark, "That sorrow, touched by Him, grows bright With more than rapture's ray : As darkness shows us worlds of light We never saw by day."' At Whitetown, Alice left the cars and entered the ladies' sitting-room at the station. She had some hours to await the stage for Lucan, and taking a little volume from her pocket, "Spiritual Combat," tried to while away the time in reading; but heedlessly her eyes ran over the pages. Never before did she find it so hard to fix her attention; from the wholesome teachings of the book, her mind kept wandering to the relatives she 4was soon to meet. Would she like them? would they like her? would there be any- thing congenial about them? or would they, on both sides, notwithstanding the tie of consanguinity betkveen them, be like strangers? She carefully revolved what her aunt and Father Lawrence had told her about them: They might be all they declared them to be-honest, hard-working and intelligent-and yet, in the nice little points of character --their tastes, preference, likes and dislikes-be so dissimi- lar as to render close companionship disagreeable, and warm friendship impossible. She had met such in her life --worthy, irreproachable people, whom, while she truly and sincerely respected, she could not take into her confi- dence or make friends of. But she would not trouble her- self too much about it; she had now a situation where every day would be occupied, and she would not forget to IV. a page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] {IV ALICE MURRAY. whose kindness she owed it. Slight differences she wou!l not mind; and if they were not congenial to her it was per- haps of little consequence. She did not go to them merely to find companionships, and however irksome their society might prove, there were general grounds on which they could meet. Their religion was the same, and so, too, was their love of labor and desire to get along in the world. And their getting along did not mean the Simply amassing of wealth wherewith they might, at some future time, live at their ease, but to have enough to support themselves and be burthens to no one. Agreeing on these general points, the rest might be easily passed over. She had never found any one but her aunt in whom she could wholly confide, and she need not expect br hope to find another like her. From her aunt her thoughts naturally turned to her uncle, the poor, white maired old man that, in the midst of all his wealth, was so wretched. He still cared for her and loved her. In the agony of parting, all his suspicions had melted away and the old love had shone out. Thank God for that! The memory of his last kind words would be a joy and a comfort to her; they would nestle around her heart, keeping out harsh, resentful feel- ings. She rose from her seat, looked out of the window at the clock in the hall, glanced timidly at the group of ladies in the room waiting, like herself, for the stage, and again resumed her seat and her thoughts. Write to him? Yes, just so soon as she got settled in her school, she would write and tell him how many pupils she had, how she gov- erned them, how they were progressing, and, in fine, give him all the particulars. She could see him with her letters in his hand, the pleased, surprised expression on his old face, the uplifting of the great sorrow on his wrinkled brow, the light in his faded eye. He thought she would fail, and 'she would only write to him of success. For she would ALICE MURRAY. 41 succeed ; there was not a doubt of it. And his answers in return! Oh! they would be like a bit of happy childhood comirg back to her. She remembered with what pleasure she used to receive his letters when in school, but now they would be dearer-a thousand times dearer. Then she re- collected her solemn promise to pay him all he had ex- pended on her, for all the years she had been under his roof. She counted up what her salary, with board, washing and clothes deducted, would amount to. It was a pitiful sum, and for the first time that morning, her heart failed her. Economize as she would, it would take many years of her life--the best, too ; but that she did not mind. Would her uncle, on whom age had? lately laid so heavy a hand-would he live to see them? The question was startling; she would have turned away from it, but could not; like two fiery eyeballs it stared her in the face. Would he live to see them? Could she hope it? Under even the fairest circumstances, could she expect it? She coanted the years slowly on her fingers, as if the mechanical process of using finger and thumb would tend to a solution of the problem, and added them to those John Elbray's life had already numbered. The sum total sickened and bewildered her. What should she do? Her sacred promise had been given, and it must at all sacrifices be redeemed. At that moment, one looking at the young, thoughtful face would have seen stamped upon it an expression of wild despair; but her back was turned to the other occupants of the room, her veil down ; none but God saw the struggles through which she was passing. She had been ready, nay, in her youthful ardor, almost eager, to climb Alps, and now one rose up before her impossible to climb-not a tuft of grass, not a twig to cling to, not a crag or projecting rock on which to place her foot; all smooth, unbroken, inaccessible. She closed her eyes ; thought could not go on ; but at the sam (.i page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] 4'L&5 AALICE MURRAY. time her mind could not be idle, and while thought stood still, memory went back; back to her childhood's days; back to the time when, sitting at her uncle's side, or on his knee, he used to tell her, with a firm belief that she could understand every word he said and had as good an eye to business as himself, how and in what manner he had made his money. Round one particular incident, in a sort of a dull, stupefied way, she lingered. She did not care for it ; it possessed no interest for her ; on the contrary, from the glaring contrast of her past and present, and his, too, it was painful in the extreme. But there it was before her, plain as if only yesterday she had listened to it. The places in which it had been told her, the sitting room with its comfortable, home-like look, the library with its few books, its scattered newspapers, and desk on which lay pen, ink and paper; the fountain with its musical splash, the arbor with its cool, fragrant shade-each loomed up as a background to that one solitary picture. She smiled, it was so intensely practical. But then all his stories were practical, and generally ended with some little moral for her future guidance. The haunting incident was simply this: On a certain occasion he had bought a house lot in Antoria for two hundred dollars, and, with the advance of property, in less than two years sold it for as many thous- and. Shorn of its numerous embellishments this was all, and yet what a strange hold it kept on her. Over and over again it was repeated, till her whole brain seemed to ring with it. She pressed her hand over her eyes, as if to shut it out. Impossible. She would have got up and walked the room, but did not dare to stir. It seemed if she moved or changed her position in the least, the others would hear it, too, with all its monstrous repetitions. Suddenly she started-a ray struck through the dark- uess of her soul. The concluding words of her uncle when. ALICE MURRAY. 4' telling the incident came fraught with meaning to her "So you see, Alice, child, by a fortunate stroke how yoi can make your two pennies four, your four eight, youi eight sixteen, and so on. Remember it, and it may do you a great deal of good." Good? Yes, indeed it might do her a great deal of good more than he dreamed of when telling her. The Alps wer unapproachable from the side she viewed them; from an- other she might with care be able to climb them. Witt the joy of a new hope infused in her, she shook off the chilling load of despondency, and again looked ahead. Yes, with careful investments of her narrow means she might in a few years be able to pay the debt that a little while before had seemed so impossible. With the precipi- tancy of youth she was gravely considering whether land or houses would bring in the quickest returns, when the stage for Lucan coming in cut short her meditations. There was a great confusion, every one locking valises, hurrying on shawls and bonnets, and breathlessly making comments or asking questions. Calmly seeing that her trunk was placed on top of it, Alice shrank back in one corner and drew her veil over her face. In a short time she would see these strange relatives-every revolution of the wheel was bringing her nearer and nearer them. Her cheek flushed and her heart fluttered, but she sternly repressed every outward symptom of emotion. Her hands were kept firmly clasped, her head erect, and quiet as a statue she remained in her seat. To the other passengers she must have appeared the very personification of calmness, an object almost of envy to the uneasy, restless world of travel- lers. It was past the middle of the afternoon when the stage stopped before the stage house in Lucan. Standing on the porch was a gentleman of forty-five or fifty years, shading his eyes -with one hand, and looking earnestly at page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] " AJACl MURlAY. the passengers as they alighted. I have called him a gen- tleman, for although his appearance was that of a laboring man, on his countenance were stamped all the characteris- tics of a gentleman-candor, honor, intelligence, and a courtesy not learned in the school of Chesterfield, but springing from the impulses of a kind, generous heart. As Alice was directing the driver where to place her trunk, he approached, and, bending down, glanced at the name on it. "Alice Murray," he read. "Is that your name?" he asked, addressing Alice. "Yes, sir," she replied, and the next instant he had caught her hand and was warmly shaking it. "Alice Murray," he repeated. "Then I am your uncle. I am Terence Bradley." Tears rushed to Alice's eyes, and when she attempted to speak only a great sob burst from her full heart. "Oh, won't your aunt be glad to see you?" he said. "She has talked of no one else since we got your letter. It was as if her dead sister had come back to life. Oh, we were in such sorrow for having lost trace of her. We did all we could to hear from her-wrote, advertised, and all that. But never a word did we hear till news came of her death, and that your father had moved with his child to Antoria. Then we heard of his death, too, and that your Aunt El- bray had taken you; and as soon as we could we, your -Aunt Nora and myself, went to see you." "And I was so unfortunate as to be in school at the time, and did not see you?" "No; our visit seemed almost for nothing. But your Aunt Elbray was very kind to us, and did everything to make us feel at home while there. For you see we went one day and came back the next, and so staid over night at yoir uncle's. Many's the time that Nora has told me, j1 - ALICE MURRAY. 45 from what she saw of her then, that she was a good wo. man." He did not add that John Elbray was a good man. He had no reason to do it. The insolence with which he had treated himself and wife on that signal visit had left a sore spot in his memory. It was also the cause of their not going to see Alice again. With quite an unnecessary blunt- ness and a flourish of vast superiority he told them he did not regret Alice's absence--that he thought it was just as well she was not at home. Her father and mother, it was true, were dead, but she had an uncle that was able and willing to support her, and he therefore saw no necessity there was for her mother's family to be hanging around her. This was enough. They never again went to see her-never again annoyed John Elbray with their plebeian presence. But with the delicacy of a kind heart he said nothing of this to Alice. Her Aunt Elbray was a good wo- man, and he was thankful that bh- was able with truth to tell her so. He thought in her trouble she would be pleased to hear it. And she was; a smile played round her lips as she replied: "Uncle Terence, I am glad Aunt Nora liked her, for she too liked Aunt Nora." "I don't doubt you, Alice; she couldn't help it. It was two good women met, and their hearts naturally went out to each other. But I see they have left your trunk on the porch, and in a minute I'll have it in the wagon." His honest countenance beamed with parental kindness. Alice wiped away the tears that had sprung to her eyes again, and regaining her self-command followed him as she would have followed a father. A child of twelve or thir- teen, to judge from her appearance, crossed over the street and handed Mr. Bradley a basket she carried on her arm. page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] ALICE MURRAY. T' Here, Margaret," he said, taking it, " is your Cousin Alice." Alice started. Margaret! Her uncle must have made a mistake. Margaret was the one that had answered Father Lawrence's letter, and she was nineteen, one year older than Alice, and wrote that she had been teaching for two years. But as the little one turned to greet her, she saw that though her form was that of a child, her face was the face of a woman, and pale and worn even beyond her years. A broaA,-smooth forehead threw in shade all the othey features of her face, all but the large, eloquent, dark grey eyes. Her hair, black as a raven's wing, was plainly drawn over her temples, and her long, curling lashes as she raised her eyes touched her brow. Her small, sensitive. mouth quivered as she encountered Alice's searching glance. "I am little," she said, "but I am as God made me;" what a strange, thrilling sweetness was in that voice. It seemed a fit vehicle for the utterances of one strong to suffer and endure, and, under all, feel in heart of hearts an unshaken trust in the Father. Alice stopped, caught her in her arms and repeatedly kissed her pale cheek. "Yes, Margaret, as God made you, and His works are always good." The large eyes looked up gratefully and lovingly into Alice's. "At home," she gently said, " they do not mind my littleness; but strangers do, and it's only natural they should. They cannot blind themselves to what's before their eyes." "And do you regret your littleness, Margaret?"Alice could not help asking. "No, Alice, I do not; at least I try not to," she added, after an almost imperceptible pause, and with a conscien- tious desire to speak only the pure, simple and unvarnished truth. AUCE MratRAY. 47 "That is," said Alice, unconsciously assuming an air of elder sisterly kindness and forbearance, "you sometin;cs feel sorry that you are so undersized, and again you don't mind it. At present I don't suppose you can help these contradictory feelings, but when you get older you will not be troubled with them." Her little sister stood in her presence confessing her weakness, and she would not be hard or crushing to the poor trembler. She would tenderly bear witlh her and love her all the more, and if she could not hide that, pitiful weakness from others, she would at all events make them fear her strength too much to take any advantage of it. A pleased, amused smile passed over Margaret's face. The role of elder sister that Alice, one year younger than herself, so unconsciously played was, to say the least, amus- ing to one who, as indeed elder sister, had all her life, little as she was, enjoyed that dignity herself. "Yes, Alice," she answered, "you have just hit it. Some- times I do mind it and sometimes I don't. But as you very justly and very wisely remark, as I get older I suppose I will get over the puerile weakness of regretting my little- ness and care nothing. for it. . But here comes father; he has got your trunk in the wagon." Mr. Bradley assisted the cousins into the light, spring wagon, and seating himself on the front seat, turned the lhorses' heads homeward. Margaret talked of the different members of her family; of Elizabeth, two years younger than herself, who was such a great help to her mother when she was out teaching; of Richard, who was fifteen and as steady and wise as some boys of twenty; of Terence, who was fourteen and the life of the whole family; and Rose, dear little Rose, only five and the best child in the world. Alice, as she listened, could not help thinking that Marga- ret's geese were all swans in her estimation, and as she got page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] 85 AIOCE MUCItA-Y. acquainted with them they might prdve anything but swans in hers; but without allowing any incredulity to rise up from her heart and shadow her face, she let her run on. "Father Lawrence," she at length remarked, "told me one day I called to see him after he had written to you, that he believed you had a sister named Alice and another Mary." "Yes," Margaret answered, " so we had but they are both dead. Alice, if she were living, would be twelve and Mary ten. He baptised them both. And so he did not forget them?" "No, he spoke of Alice being a sweet looking child when he left Lucan." "She was, Alice; she looked just like Rosie." LMargaret sighed heavily, and her large eyes moistened as she con- tinued, "she was Rosie's age, too, when she died." "What did she die of, Margaret?" "Of the scarlet fever, and Mary died of the croup." They were now ascending the hill west of Lucan, and a beautiful scenery spread out before them. There lay the broad valley with its large irregular patches of woods, its fields, some green with winter wheat, and meadows and pastures; others brown, having just been ploughed, and others again dotted with orchards. Red, brown and white farm-houses and out-buildings were thickly scattered along the many roads intersecting the valley, and the gently rising hills back of it, while here and there were other little nestling villages, with their glittering spires and mar- bled studded grave-yards, " cities of the dead." As upon a map, Alice gazed down on the peaceful, quiet landscape, and a feeling like that she had experienced when listening to the "Gloria in excelsis" came over her. Beauty of landscape always awoke a devotional feeling in her heart; from the grand harmony of creation it is a silent but elo "CE MURn AY. 49 qdent homiage nature offers up to Gol. Descending the hill the valley was hid from their view, but another, similar in every respect to the first, wasbefore them; riding along it for some distance they began to ascend another and a steeper hill. About half way up was a cream-colored house, with a few shrubs and a grass plot in front. Mar- garet pointed to it, and quietly asked: "Alice, how do you like the appearance of that place?" Alice looked and answered : "I like it. It is not so fine as many back of it, but there is still something interesting about it." "What is it? Try to make it out, please." A peculiar smile flitted over Margaret's face. Alice more carefully examined it. "It has an old-fash- ioned look," she said. "The windows are small, the roof low, the paint more than half worn off, and the doors wea- ther-beaten. But for all that there is something about it I like. The yard is neat and the windows glisten. I should not wonder, Margaret, if inside that house, with all its outside shabbiness, there was a great deal of cczy com- fort to be found. How much further on do you live?" Mr. Bradley suddenly stopped. He had been driving along very slowly for the last few rods. "I declare, Mar- garet, you did that well," he exclaimed. "What! is this your house?"Alice asked, with surprise. "Yes," Margaret answered; " and I had some fears you might not like our surroundings." They alighted. Margaret opened the gate, and thev both walked up to the house. The door opened into a small, narrow hall, with a stairs in front and a door on each side, one leading into the parlor, the other into the kitchen. The two girls entered the former; it was a small room with a low ceiling; the walls were papered with light colored paper, having a delicate running vine of green; the doors and page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] 50 ALICE MURRAY. wainscot were painted a light green, and the stiff paper curtains were of the same color. A table, stand, and seven or eight cane-bottome'd chairs formed the furniture of the room. Over the table hung a snall mirror, and on the walls were several cheap pictures in poor fiames. A glance at them showed they were of a religious character-the "Crucifixion," "Sacred Heart of Jesus," "The Virgin and Child," "Saint Patrick," and "Saint Liguori." On the mantel-piece were several little ornaments and a couple of vases of paper flowers. - A rag carpet covered the floor, and in one corner was a small, higlly-polished parlor stove. Besides the door leading into the hall there was another, opening into a bed-room, the "spare bed-room." It was not the one intended for Alice; the very thought of appro- priating to her use the stranger's room, the guest's room, suggested the fear that she would look upon herself as only a guest, a stranger among them, not as one of their own family; that instead of a home she would feel she had only found a stopping-place, a mere temporary shelter. Maybe they themselves would also experience a constraint in her presence ; and again they might have some friend come to stay over night, and then Alice would feel she was in the way, and be pained and humiliated at the thought. This must not be; she must be as one of themselves-one more added to the home circle. The second floor was divided into four small rooms-one the boys occupied, one the girls; another was used to dry clothes in'winter and as a store- room in summer; the other was a receptacle for all the odds and ends of the house. The room for the drying of clothes in winter and for bed-clothes in summer was ad- joining the girl's room. This must be fitted up for Alice's use. The wood work had never been painted or the walls papered, but they cleared it out, painted the door and wainscot a light cream color, the floor a bright, lively yeld ALECE MURRAY 51 low, and papered the walls. The paper, 'tis true, was of the cheapest quality, but it gave the room a cleanly, neat appearance; a bed was put up, white curtains around it, white curtains also at the window, a stand and wash-basin, a small mirror and a chair, and the room was ready for her use. But no, not yet; they were not satisfied. Alice was coming from an elegant home, and they must have things a little in style. Their ambition was to have a book-case filled with books. For people in their circumstances they had quite a number in various stages of wear, from those nearly new to the time-stained, dog-eared and well thumbed, but book-case they had none. This had been a source of great annoyance to the girls, and Richard and Terence- or Terry, as he was familiarly called--falling in with them, exceedingly regretted the want of one. Left to themselves the boys would not have thought of it, and consequently would not have missed it; we have no desire for that we know nothing about. The mother and father thought it all nonsense; a book-case was well enough in its way, but what was the use of their wanting one when they had so many more needful things to get, and not an abundant supply of means to get them with. The children must not be foolish; they must wait till they got better off and then they should have one of the very finest. This was hard, but there was no other way than to submit; that is, submit till they could get it themselves. The first year Margaret taught she saved from her wages-I suppose I ought to say salary; I believe the money a teacher receives for her ser- vices is thus dignified--twenty shillings; a book-case such as they wanted would cost eight dollars, and twenty shil- lings was a little over one-fourth ; but in the fall, her father buying some new kind of wheat for seed, lacked just that much to pay and Margaret's twenty shillings went. The next term-she could not wait the end of the year-- page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] 52 - ALICE MUnnAY. in order not again to be drained of her last penny for the cherished object, and at the same time to have a little, if any call came, she laid aside five dollars. Dressing herself and Elizabeth and in part contributing to Rosie's clothes, it was sacrificing several little indispensables in the way of gloves, remodeling of bonnets and giving new turns to old dresses. Old bonnets and old dresses in undergoing re- pairs always cost a few pennies out; these pennies, before one is hardly aware of it, count up to dollars, and five dol- lars is then found not to be an inexhaustible sum. Desire for the book-case, however, gave fashion the cold shoulder, and although an unmistakable air of antiquity was stamped upon their bonnets, dresses, cloaks, etc., they heroically clung to them. Three dollars more, which Margaret could easily vpare from her store another term, and they would have one that would do their eyes good to look at. It should have mahogany veneered sides and shelves, the door should be glass-rounded at the top, the drawer, with its many com- partments, should have a silver-washed knob, and the velvet on the leaf should be, if not silk, at least as fine an irmita- tion of silk as it was possible to find--altogether, it was to be a very elegant affair. They certainly enjoyed it in- an- ticipation; and anticipation, somebody has said, is the better part of enjoyment. They were in a fair way to know this better part. Rosie was taken suddenly sick. Mr. Bradley was a kind, affectionate father, the last one to grudge anything to his children in sickness or real need, and generously his means went for doctors, medicines, and, when she began to recover, for delicacies to tempt her feeble appetite. Nothing was asked of Margaret, but by the time little Rosie was well again her purse was empty, the five dollars gone. She did not regret it, not in the least; she only considered herself fortunate that in their great strait she had that reserve to fall back on. But the book-case ALICE MURRAY. 53 was not given up; on the contrary, it was still talked ol and exceedingly enjoyed in anticipation. The next term she could not put by anything for the cherished object. She, Elizabeth and Rosie mudt have some new clothes and some refitting of old ones; it was absolutely necessary not to attract notice. She sighed as she parted with her last penny, but she was by no means disheartened; patient, long-enduring, she labored and hoped on; gentle, kind and loving, there seemed no such word asfail in her vocabulary. She might have to wait one, two, three years, and even then be as far off from her object as now, but she would yet get, have and possess it, and in her having and possess- ing, the others would have and possess too. She did not think of monopolizing the coveted treasure; she had been the one to plant the desire in their hearts, and she had nurtured and kept it alive ;, it should be for all. In the meantime, as Alice was coming among them, they must put up some shelves in her room whereon they could place their choicest and cleanest volumes. The boys, Richard and Terry, got some boards, sawed, planed, and hammered away at them all one day, and at night, after several con- sultations with their sisters, securely fastened them to the wall. The next day they painted them the same color as the door and panels of the room ; as soon as the paint was dry, with no little ceremony they carried their best looking books and solemnly installed them in their extemporized book-case. lMargaret hung a white curtain b5efore it, and looped it back with a straw-colored ribbon. The effect was not bad. The back of the books peering out from their little curtained alcove had a comfortable, cozy, home look as if they enjoyed as much as the children the dignity of their new position. Terry considered it a rare success in the cabinet line, and took great credit to himself as being the one to originate the plan. He was not by any means page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] 54 AlICE MURRAY. the one, but in the exultation of the monaent he forgot it was Margaret and Richard, and made the very natural mis- take of supposing it to be himself. Richard was too wise and stately to contradict him, and Margaret too busy and Elizabeth too elated to notice him; so Terry, undisturbed by any scruple of conscience, hugged the innocent delusion to his heart, and looked upon himself as the masterpiece of ingenuity. Elizabeth was sure Alice would like it and think it wonderfully fine, and the whole room a neat, tidy little plaoe. Neat and tidy it certainly was, but Margaret was not so sanguine. $he had seen a little of the world, had some slight experience of life, and she feared, fine and even grand as it looked to Elizabeth and Terry, it would appear mean and shabby to their cousin. Coming as she was from a rich and elegant home, she might only see the low ceiling and narrow dimensions, and look upon herself as the veriest martyr in creation because she had to accept that little lole of a room. She might be supremely wretched in that place where buoyant, youthful faces at that moment looked supremely happy. But now that she had seen her she thought different; she was strong, somewhat stern, but not proud. She would not despise them and look with contempt on their poor surroundings. When she told her the house was shabby and the paint most washed off, there was no hardness in her eye, no scorn on her lip ; she simply stated the fact and did it in a manner that could not pos- sibly offend ; and when she found the house was theirs, she did not stammer or blush, or try in any way to soften the bluntness of her former remarks; she only looked surprised and pleased, and having spoken the truth, let it stand just as it was. Margaret liked this trait, and as if a weight had been lifted off her heart, lightly and fearlessly led her into that mean, shabby, and nearly paint-obliterated house. There are moments when we feel utterly unable to grasp ALICE MURRAY. 55 the realities around us, when the pulses of our hearts pause, and we are almost submerged beneath an over- whelming tide of joy or sorrow; for whether it be joy or sorrow, the effect at first is the same; our faculties are benumbed, a statue-like rigidity chains us to the spot. Mrs. Bradley hait bitterly mourned'the death of her sister, and now to Eayvhat dead sister's child, orphaned, friend- less and alone, came to her, overpowered her warm, affec- tionate heart. She stood for a few moments, pale and almcst breathless, gazing at Alice, then, springing forward, she folded her in her arms and sobbed. "Alice! Alice! my own Alice, come back to me after all the years! No, no! what do I mean?"She held her back and gazed earnestly in her face-"'Tis Edward Murray's features, but Alice Ryan's hair and eyes and soft, fair skin," she said, again drawing her to her heart. Then, laughing and crying and talking all at once, she took ofl her bonnet and shawl. Alice was equally excited; the ad- mirable composure she was going to assume was swept away with her doubts and fears. Had they received her coldly, she would have hid her chagrin under an easy and dignified demeanor; but the warm reception subdued her and left her weak as a child. We ill find kindness more trying to philosophy than coldness or neglect. Her trunk was brought in and placed behind the door. "We will let it stay there till after dinner," said Mrs. Bradley, taking up, with trembling fingers, Alice's bonnet and shawl and carrying them into the parlor bed-room. Margaret hastened to the kitchen to give a few finishing touches to the meal in preparation, and Elizabetlh eame in. She was tall, slender and graceful in every movement. Hastily approaching Alice, she shook hands with her and kissed her. "I am so glad to see you, Alice," she said; "I do not page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] 56 ALICE MUURAY. call you cousin, for you are going to be more like a sister to us." "I hope so, Elizabeth," Alice could not but answer. ' Oh! I know it; I don't hope it at all. I just know it will be so. And I really am so glad you are here! Father had hardly started before I began to look for his return; and I looked and looked, and kept a looking all the after- noon, and after all I didn't see you when you came." "That was too bad," Alice laughingly replied. "To be sure it was. I was in the cellar, putting down some butter, when I heard the front door open, and then I knew you had got here, and I hurried up as quick as 1 could." "And I suppose, as much as you hurried," remarked her mother, "that you felt fluttered about coming in." t "Not in the least." "Then it was not like coming in to greet a stranger and welcome her to your home?" "No, indeed, Alice; I didn't, and I don't feel a bit aftaid of you. You are not a stranger to us ; you are only just one of ourselves coming home to us after being a great while gone." "God bless you, Elizabeth, your words comfort me more than I can say." "I am glad to hear it. But come, let us sit down ; I am tired of standing." She drew up a couple of chairs and, still holding her cousin's hand, seated herself beside her. Bending her clear, earnest grey eyes upon her, she ob- served: "And so you are going to teach?" "Yes, Elizabeth, thanks to your father, I have got a school, and I am going to teach." "Well, I think you'll like it. Margaret teaches, too, and she says there'is ho more agreeable work in the world." ALICE MURRAY. 57 "I suppose then, you, too, would like to teach?" "I don't think I have the learning," she frankly an- swered, " and even if I had, mother would not be able to spare me ; we have a great deal of work to do, and mother could not possibly do it alone." 1ichard and Tel ry, having put out the horses, now made their appearance. The former was a tall, manly boy for his age ; the latter short and thick-set. With a few warm words they bid her welcome, and turning to the door, for the first time she saw Rosie. - She was a sweet looking child, with large blue eyes, delicate features, complexion like the rose petal, and yellow, curly hair. Her brothers were yery proud of her and thought her little less beautiful than the "Guardian Angel" hanging on the wall in their room. She now stood leaning against the doorway, too shy tc come in and too curious to see the strange cousin that had come, to stay away. ' "That's Rosie," said Elizabcth, looking kindly at her "she, at al events, seems a little afraid of you. But, Rosie you have no need to; come right in and shake hands witl Alice." The child lingered, and Mra Bradley spoke: "Rosie don't be rude." She looked at her mother, and drawing her little hand from behind her, stepped in and offered ii to Alice. Her eyes had a frightened expression in them and her cheek paled as she did it. Alice took the delicatE little hand, and stooping, kissed the fair cheek. "After a little while," she said, " she will know me, anc then we'll get along famously." "Not a doubt of that," exclaimed Mrs Bradley; " once the little one knows you, you two will be great friends And you'll find she has a tongue and knows right well hom to use it." There was a mother's love and a mother' pride in the tones in which this was said. page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] jb8 ALICE MURRAY. \ ith a face somewhat red from being over the fire, Mar- garet appeared and announced dinner. It was late, but it had been delayed for Alice. Mrs. Bradley, with many kind, hospitable words, led the way to the large, old-fashioned kitchen. "Here, Alice, you will sit between Margaret and Eliza- beth; you are just between them in years," good naturedly said Mr. Bradley. She moved on and took her place between them. Eliza- beth was about to make some laughing reply, when Mrs. Bradley said: "Children, in the joy of having Alice with us, you must not forget to say grace." She reverently blessed herself, and they followed her example. "We have cooked the chicken just as your poor mother used to like it," said Mrs. Bradley, as Mr. Bradley handed her a full plate. It was boiled, with a rich butter gravy. "I like it so, too. It is very good," she replied, finding it hard to keep back the tears under all the kindness shown her. "There, now," exclaimed Elizabeth, gathering the best of everything on the table round her plate, " do try to eat; I know you must be faint after your long ride. Taste yout tea and tell us has mother seasoned it to your liking?" Only those that have felt bereft of every tie tophuman sympathy can fully realize how this affected Alice. A feel- ing of joy, but from its very intensity strangely akin to pain, thrilled her heart; her lips trembled, and in spite of her, large tears rolled over her cheeks. With a rare deli- cacy, no one except Rosie pretended to see them ; but she, with child-like wonder, fixed her eyes on her, then, in a i dumb, questioning manner, turned them on her parents, and finally, after again eyeing her carefully, with a hushed, abstracted air, resumed her meal. t n nty ttraaneen hrcteulwt lcd ALICE MURRAY. 69 Alice," suid Margaret, " tell us how you come to know about us." She wanted her to talk; she knew talking would restore her composure and- enable her to feel more at ease. Alice took a swallow of tea and, in an unsteady voice, replied," It Was from Father Lawrence."' "Father Lawrence!" exclaimed Mr. Bradley, refilling one of the boys' plates, "Yes, yes; so he himself wrote us And he used to be in Lucan, and from Lucan went to An. toria. We felt bad enough when he went." "Indeed we did," said Mrs. Bradley, "but little did we think it would be the means of sending Alice Ryan's chili to us. And he told us you wouldn't come unless we got i school for you. Ah, if I didn't keep Terence stirring abou till the school was got." "Faith, and that's true ehough. Your aunt Nora, Alice (that woman sitting there at the head of the table,) gavy me no rest day or night, but kept me on the chase, till a last I brought home the news that the school in Lucan wa at your command. And then Margaret here wrote forth with to Father Lawrence, and Richard posted off to th village with the letter. Then, and not till then was I a] lowed a moment's peace."' "Yes," said Elizabeth, "and conscious of having don right, he went to bed and slept the sleep of the just." "Well, well; I was as glad as Nora or the children tho you had the school. But why wouldn't you come to u unless you could get one?" "Because I did not want to burden you with my support. "Little fear of that. I'd be sorry to think we hadn enough for one mouth more." "It was not that, uncle Terence, but, I did not want I be dependent-the only drone in the hive. I ;.Loight could teach, and I wanted to support myself." page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] 60 ALICE MURRAY. "Well, Alice, I'll not find fault with that feeling. It's just such a one as I would like every child of mine to have. It gives one strength and courage, this desire to do for one's self and not lean on others." He was slowly cutting his bread as he said this-; suddenly looking up, he added, 'but, because I say so, you must not thing I have a mean or grudging spirit. Not one of my own children is more welcome here." Alice could not doubt him. There was that in his sun- burnt face that spoke the candid. generous-hearted man. How different he seemed from her uncle Elbray; the one passionate, proud, walking the world with a lordly air, and yet, with all his loftiness, unable to maintain his own dig- nity-master of thousands, and yet not master in his own house; the other, patient, meek, with gentle, unassuming manners, yet bearing on his countenance the impress of a mind quick to act and slow to change, on whom authority might easily devolve, and who, under a calm, unruffled ex- terior, possessed a firm, unbending will, tempered by piety and the humility which should ever distinguish a Christian from a worldling. "But, Alice dear, did you ever hear your aunt Elbray speak of your mother?" asked Mrs. Bradley, She could not keep her sister out of her mind. "Yes, aunt Nora, she frequently spoke of her, but she never saw her; mother died before father moved to Anto- ria, but father told her that I ad eyes and hair like my mother." "And so you have, Alice; the Lord rest her soul, the very same." "Take another cup of tea,' said Margaret, pouring it out and seasoning it for her. There was something sootling and comforting in the deep, thrilling tones of Margaret's ALICE MURRAY. 61 voice. Alice felt their influence as one feels the influence of a genial spring day. For a long timefafter the meal they still sat at the table and talked, but at length they arose and Alice was shown her room. It was small, and in striking contrast to the elegant apartment that had been assigned her at her uncle Elbray's, but the bare floor, the wash-stand with its little mirror, the couple of cane-bottomed chairs, the plain cur- tains, the patch-work quilt on the bed, were rich and grand beyond comparison. Kneeling at the side of the bed, she wept like a child that had long been separated from its mother, and when the dark night was gathering around her, had suddenly and unexpected found her. CHAPTER IV. FouR weeks passed, and Alice was in her school. Her duties were not light; the children were troublesome, some of them lacked that home-culture which makes easier the teacher's task, and some were so petted and spoiled by in- dulgent parents that she could hardly, without giving seri- ous offence, conscientiously discharge her duties to them. Then, as in every other school, there were different degrees of intelligence among them; those that were emulous, anxious to improve, and though at every ascending step they found new Alps arise, steadily kept their eyes fixed on the summit before them; and those that seemed to have no other business on earth than to kill time-idle, giddy, care- less, only studying how to get over their lessons without knowing them, how to cheat their teacher, and slip through her fingers without receiving a single new idea page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] 62 ALICE MURRAY. It was in the afternoon; Alice had dismissed her school, and now seating herself at her desk, she took up a slate and worked out a problem she had not found time to look up before; writing a few directions to enrable the pupil the next morning to work it out for herself, she stepped to a counter a little on her right, and laid the slate upon it. Thoughtfully she raised her head and gazed out on the peaceful landscape. White, fleecy clouds hung like a veil over the earth, and back of them the sky, intensely blue, smiled serenely down. In the foreground nestled the vil-] lage, and further on rose hills wooded and verdure-crowned. On the right of the window, partially breaking the view, stood dark cedars, trembling poplars and majestic elms, singing their undying anthems, and on the left was the playground where the little proprietorships were to the teacher's eye plainly marked out. There the great trans- actions of life were aptly dramatized; there was the busy merchant distracted over his ledgers, the doctor intent on his errand of mercy, the clergyman speaking words of warning and comfort, the lady with her gracious air of pa- tronage, the milliner with her flowers and bonnets, the teacher with her authority and wisdom, the pupil with her books, the servant, laborer-all there were gravely acted. Year after year had rolled by ; seasons had come and gone; one generation of children after another had, in that room, conned their text-books, and on that ground played the mimic battles of life, and bravely and hopefully gone out to the real ones; teacher after teacher had occupied the pedagogic chair, and as Alice now stood in the deserted school-room and gazed through the window, unconsciously she repeated the lines: "And what is life? An hour-glass on the run, A mist retreating from the morning sun; A busy, bustling, still repeated dream, Its length? A minute's pause, a moment's thought." ALICE MURRAY. Walking to her desk, she seated herself and opened Aolume. It was Fenelon's admirable "Treatise on the Edi cation of Daughters," a work Margaret presented to hE the morning she left her uncle Bradley's. The principle it unfolds are by no means so limited in their applicatic as its humble title might lead one to suppose, and its dai perusal was an incalculable benefit to her. When she fir, thought of teaching she knew very well it was no child play; that a heavy responsibility rested on the teache] that every day, every hour must be a remove, greater i less, according to the capacity of the child intrusted to h1 care, from the ignorance of the day and the hour befor On the potential must she had depended ; she would poil out their lessons clearly and distinctly, and when learne would with pleasure hear them recite them. But they mu study, they must not whisper, and they must obey he This powerful auxiliary, repeated three times, was to car] her triumphantly through every difficulty. But there wi something more than this, and the dear book, without ar noise, in a kind, candid way, told her what it was. A Mentor it spoke, and as Telemachus she listened. Not S a petty tyrant, clothed with brief, despotic- authority, w; she to move among them, but as a guide, director. up tl steepy paths of knowledge; their advancement must 1 close at heart, the motive power that governed all her a tions. She must spare no pains to make them learn, ar yet she must not be too severe. There would be thof whom it would be almost second nature to love; othe that she would have to exercise great self command not show an aversion for. But she must exercise it, she mu try to be the same to all; 'tis true, with some she wou have to hold the reins a little tighter than with others, b she must endeavor to do it without their knowing it. first view of all this she felt almost discouraged, still sl page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] Vt AL1.CJ MURRLAY. \ did not want, like Lot's wife, to look behind her; she had come out from her inertia to be a worker in the great field where God's 'laborers were toiling. One had one duty assigned them, another another-each was busy, none idle, ! and should she with folded hands look on? If she did, what at the close of the day would be her reward? The unprofitable servant hid his talent and was cast out into exterior darkness. She shuddered, and tried to turn from the subject, but could not; she never could ; any new idea that came into her mind had to be carefully studied before i it could be dismissed. She could teach, she knew that-- but could she govern? first, herself, next the children? This was the way, after reveiwing it on all sides, that the new idea resolved itself into a question. It was a trouble- some and vexatious one. Children were to her very an- noying ; the good wearied her, by their claims to her atten- tion ; the bad by their carelessness and disregard for order. The painful fact must be told, she did not like children; she chose teaching because she found herself suddenly thrown on her own resources, and that was the first thing that presented itself to her as a means of support. She knew children were troublesome, but as their teacher she felt she could make them learn, and not have the monev expended on their education thrown away; she had been a studious pupil, and now felt capable of imparting to others the knowledge she had herself gained. The tread- mill existence of a teacher's life she knew would be wear- ing, but then it would insure her an honorable independent support, and with her youthful strength she heeded not its irksomeness. But now, on the very threshold of her new existence another view was opened to her. No mere rou- tine, no plodding round of labor, no machine work, soul must be breathed into her task, and she must learn tofeei for her pupils as well as for herself If teaching was tire- ALICE MURRAY. 65 some to her, learning was tiresome to them. If she was their mistress in learning, she must be their model in pa- tience. Patience was the grand word, the talisman that would win their love and confidence, and winning them, secure their ready obedience. But she was naturally im- perious, and it would be hard for Ler to be patient. Do this, and she wanted it done. With her cousin Margaret it was different; patience was a part of her very being, she was slow to anger and unable to contend; her nature was essentially gentle, and by gentleness she governed. That Alice possessed a greater degree of temper than Margaret could be easily seen by the quick flash, and for a while after it, the cold severity of her eye. She could not dissemble, could not attune her voice to a liquid soft- ness with a sharp feeling of anger corroding her heart; she almost looked with contempt upon those that could, and considered it little else than meanness and hypocrisy. Her face might not be beautiful, but a mask would not im- prove it. Sincerity and candor, what admixble words were these; they formed an entrenchment behind which she could hide herself whenever she fell into a passion, and be thus shielded from disagreeable self-reproaches. "I only said what I thought," or, "I only acted as I felt." What a wonderful ccmfort there Was in this consideration! -Truth was the base of it, and the love of truth the cause of its consoling power; and yet, after all, could she per- suade herself that it was in defense of truth, or out of re- gard for this sublime virtue that she forgot the language of meekness and allowed the fire of anger to burn in her heart? In the midst of her warmest self-congratulations this question often arose and gave her a secret annoyance she could not get rid of. The four weeks dragged heavily on, but Fenelon's "Treatise" was always near at hand, and with its wondrous knowledge of the human heart, she page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] '66 ALICE MURRAY. felt it understood her wants and sympathized with her in her troubles. It did not seem to her mere printed paper bound in muslin; it was a living, speaking friend, always ready with a kind word of encouragement to help her along. The western sun shone in on her thoughtful face, lighting it up with a clear radiance; slowly she turned the pages, and now and then, with a finger on a paragraph, raised her eyes and gazed intently on the desk before her. She was carefully weighingi every word and ascertaining its minutest meaning. A low quick rap, the door opened, and a bright, joyous- looking girl of seventeen or eighteen entered, "Upon my word," she exclaimed, "in a brown study again. Why I should think, bothered all day with books, you would not want to be poring over them all night" "It is not night," answered Alice, pointing to the sun. "Positively, Alice Murray, one would think you never could get tired." "And make therein, Julia, a very grievous mistake." "Then you really do admit, that you occasionally, mind I say occasionally, not often, feel a little wearied?" "I feel tired very often. I am tired now." "Then why, in the name of wonder, have you a book in your hand?" "Because this one does not tire me-it rests me. I cannot close the day without a kind word from the saintly Fenelon." "Fenelon, el! Oh he is Paul's great favorite. Day after day I have known him to pore over his Telemachus ; but such a little book as that, why I should suppose you would read it through and then be done with it, and here you have been reading it, and reading it, dear knows how long." She had seated herself beside Alice, and was impatiently druma- ming with her fingers on the desk. AoICE MURRAY. 67 "It is a book," said Alice, a scarce perceptible feish man- tling her cheek, "that is to be studied, not read." "For my part I don't like such books-never did; but still you may study it to your heart's content, and grow as stupid over it as you please, if you will just put it by now and come to tea." "Is it ready?" "Ready, yes; and was when I left the house and ran over here for you." "Then why did you not tell me at once?"Alice asked, rising and slipping the book into her pocket. "Because it was necessary first to bring you down from the clouds. When I came in, what did you know of break- fast, dinner, Rupper, or any such miserable, mundane affair?" Alice stepped into the closet where the children kept their dinner-baskets and out-door wrappings; Julia followed and with those great, restless eyes of hers, watched her every movement. Without regularity of feature or any pretensions to beau- ty whatever, there was something in Julia Armstrong's countenance that left a pleasing impression. In character, one would think, on first seeing her, that she resembled Elizabeth Bradley, because both had a joyousness about them and both were very frank; but a further acquaintance would show a difference. In Elizabeth's joyousness was a sunshine that dispelled the clouds in the heart, and lit up all its dark places ; her frankness always pleased, she spoke her thoughts just as they came to her, or, to use her mother's expression, she always seemed to think out loud, and these thoughts, guileless as a child's and sometimes deep as a philosopher's, were replete with love to God and peace and good will to man. In Julia's joyousness was a sun- shine too, but it sometimes failed to reach the heart, and then cast a deeper shade upon it. And then her frank- page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] X0 ALJCE MBttl^r. ness, instead of pleasing, not unfrequently gave offence, for she spoke not so much what came into her mind as what never found entrance there; in other words, she seldom took the pains to think at all, and the consequence was, she often hurt the feelings of those around her without seem- ing to know it. But Julia's faults were all on the surface; there was no treachery, no guile, no despicable cunning about her. What she was she stood before you-a gay, careless, thoughtless girl, full of noble impulses, and incapable of meanness. Her father was a retired farmer; that is, he rented a farm of one hundred acres, sold one of seventy- five, bought a house and eighteen acres inll Lucan, moved to the village, and in a small way still continued his old business; where he formerly raised hundreds of bushels, he now raised ten. He had his two or three acres of wheat, a patch of corn, a small meadow, and an excellent garden, kept a span of horses, a cow, a pig, and a few hens. It would have been impossible for him to give up entirely his old way of living; he must have his spring crops to see to, his harvest to watch and get in, in workmanlike style, and his threshing in the fall. It was an absolute necessity of his being, and so he went on in the village as intently en- gaged in farming as when he lived out on the farm. In this way he escaped all those harrowing fears of poverty which farmers, leaving their farms, generally suffer. It is such a hardship for them to pay out money for that for which they have always received money. They begin to find, too, when they have to buy everythilng they want, that it takes a great deal more to support a family than they had any idea of, and the knowledge settles gloomily on their spirits. They lose their cheerfulness and become haggard and desponding. Look where they will, and there is no field of their sewing growing its rich grain for them; no pasture-lands with their sleek-coated occupants sending to A LICE UREBAY. 69 the dairy foaming pails of milk; there is no more going to mill with full loads, and while they are grinding, holding pleasant chats with the miller and other farmers present on the price and quality of grain; no more going to the blacksmith shop on rainy days, and gathering up all the news of the country for miles around, and alas, alas, no more carrying great loads of grain, of butter and cheese to market and putting money in the pocket for them. Nothing of all this; nothing that the soul of the farmer holds dear. He must now pay out for everything he eats, for everything he wears, and no crops, no dairy to fall back upon. That he has money in bank, or lent out on good security, that he has a farm which rented, brings him in respectable returns, gives him but little relief. The pain- ful, gnawing fact that he is taking money out of his pocket for what he used to raise himself-his bread, his meat, his butter, his vegetables-eats into his very heart. By the most penurious system of economy, he manages not to draw on his principle, and very probably adds to it; but he constantly looks forward to the time when he may possibly have to intrench on it, and it will melt away like a vision of the morning, leaving him in the evening of life with no stay or support. Mr. Armstrong was not this sort of a retired farmer; he had seen such, and they had taught him a useful lesson. By buying himself a little spot where he could still see his crops growing, and of which he could still feel himself an active proprietor, in leaving his farm he was saved all this misery. In the village he was just as happy and contented as when on the farm, and if he did not work so hard, he still had just as much business on hand. His wife died when Julia was six, and from that time a widowed sister had presided over his house. Olirs. Meade was a determined, energetic, plain-spoken, well- meaning woman. She loved Julia as well as if she had page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] 70 ATICE MUlrAY. been her own child, freely told her her faults, taught her to work, and made her do her regular tasks. When she passed beyond the period of childhood, she raised her to the dig- nity of companion, but still reserved the privilege of scold- ing her if necessary, and commending her when she did well: She had two sons; Paul, the elder, Mr. Armstrong, using a part of the money left in his care for the children, set up in the mercantile business in Rathbun, a neighbor- ing village ; Ambrose, the younger, choosing to be a farmer, his uncle, with the remainder of their money, bought him a farm a few miles from Lucan. Mr. Armstrong's residence was a large handsome build- ing, situated on a corner and facing two sides to the street. On one side were scattering evergreens and clumps of hardy perennial plants; on the other, a fine grove of maple, beech, poplar and walnut. Everything around the premises had a neat, orderly and substantial look, and a glance inside showed the same features there. It was about a quarter of a mile from Alice's school, and as the tea was ready when Julia ran over for Alice, the two girls walked very fast not to keep the family waiting too long for them. Alice felt provoked with herself that she had not at once when her school closed returned to her boarding-house. Then she would have been able to join them at the meal, and not put them to the trouble of delaying it for her; for she knew they would do so; and Mr. Armstrong perhaps would say what he had before said to her on a similar occasion, for she had found out that he was fond of repeating what he considered a good thing: "I declare, Miss Murray, you and Paul, that Indian haired nephew of mine, are wonder- fully alike. Neither of you seems to care about eating or drinking; if you only have your noses behind a book that's enough, you are satisfied and want no more. But I tell you, as I have told him many and nany a time, its not by I ' If . ALICE MURRAY. 71 reading and swallowing down books a man liTes. He's got to have something a little more substantial than empty words stuck on to paper." And Mrs. Meade had sharply retorted : "Let Paul alone. He's no fool, and you know it. He likes to read, and for that matter so does Miss Murray, and let them; they'd better be doing that than picking somebody to pieces that's better than themselves." She did not want to be the occasion of any more such re- marks. Mr. Armstrong was well enough, in fact was an easy, good natured man, that would put up with a delay in his meal better than some men she knew-her uncle Elbray, for instance-but then he would have his remark, or comment to make, and a cross or an angry word would not annoy her half so much. She did not want any sup- per, and they need not have delayed it for her. They did not know what made her loiter in the school room, and dread to go back to her boarding-house; they little dreamed that every return to it brought with it a sharp stinging disappointment. On the first week of her school she had written a long letter to her uncle Elbray, and had yet received no reply. For the first eight or ten days after writing she had hastened home every night with the cer- tainty that there would be a letter awaiting her. The last kind words at parting lingered lovingly in her mind: "Write to your old uncle, Alice, he will be anxious to hear from you," and of course his anxiety to hear implied a promise that he would write to her in return. What else did it mean? Would he ask her to write and not think of answering her letter? No, certainly not. He still loved her and cared for her; he was still her father, and she was still his child, his poor orphaned child, for whom his heart would now throb more tenderly than ever. She was so glad that her letter -had been kind and affectionate in its tone; it was just such a letter as he liked, just such a one t page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] ALICE MUBRAY. as would do his heart good to get. Answer it? There was not a doubt of it. She would get the plain, brown envelope containing the hearty expression of his good will and fond remembrance; she would hold it in her hand and feast her eyes with the loving words. Her poor, white- haired old uncle, how lonely he must be, how much he must miss her, and with all his roughness, all the stormy outhursts of his temper how good and kind he had been to her. She did not nor could not forget it. And his let- ter, oh! why did it not come, why did she have to wait day after day for it, and night after night find herself doomed to a bitter disappointment! One, two, three weeks passed, and still no answer. What did it mean? Was she too sanguine? Could he really have forgotten her? She looked at the past, at the present, and her heart sickened. As much as she had cherished the memory of those few kind words at parting they were after all nothing more than the spasmodic. expression of a dead affection galvanized for the moment into seeming life, and now again sunk back into all the cold, stiff rigidity of death. She must no longer look for an answer; this she very emphatically told herself, and tried to act upon it; but day after day found her with a feverish restlessness, look- ing forward to the night -with the vague hope that as she entered her room on her return from school the envelope that had so strangely imaged itself on her waking and sleeping fancies, would be lying on the table awaiting her. She felt there was an insane folly in the miserable hope that kept her all day stretched on the rack of expectation and doomed her every night to the collapse of a cruel dis- appointment, and she tried to shut it out and bolt and bar against it. She began to loiter in the school, to dread coming home, to hate the very sight of the graveled path leading from the little gate to the house, and yet, strange 1o BDALICE MURRAY. 73 cotradirtion of feeling, no sooner had she crossed the threshold than she experienced an intense desire to go to her room, to give one peep in, to look at the table, and see if it might not possibly be there. Mrs. Meade was waiting on the porch with an expectant air as Alice and Julia made their appearance. "I am very sorry," said Alice, "that I have kept you waiting, Mrs. Meade." "Oh, it's no -matter," she replied, rolling up her knitting and leading the way in, "I suppose we'll have all the better appetite for being a little later." "Where is father?" .Julia asked, as she saw he was not at his accustomed place, and for the first time noticed that the table had not been set for him. "He is gone to Rathbun, to see Paul about some busi- ness." I h e"Why, when did he go? and why didn't he let me know J he was going? I had a message to send to Paul." "I He woent this afternoon, about a couple of hours ago. And as for his not telling you, you will iave to ask him the reason yourself. I know nothing about it, only he came in in a great hurry, had to be right off, and couldn't wait for tea." The remembrance of the crumbs he left on the buttery shelves when he helped himself to a generous collation disagreeably intruded itself on the lady's mind. "But when did he say he would be back?"Julia asked, placing the chairs round the table, "Sometime in the evening. But, Miss Murray, where are you going? don't you see I have set the tea drawing?' "Yes, Mrs. Meade, but I thought I would take my shawl and bonnet to my room." She had reached the door open- ing into the hall, when Mrs. Meade's imperative voice called her back. "Lay them on the sofa," she said, " till after tea I be. page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] 74 ALICE MURRAY. lieve in having a place for everything and everything in its place, but then I don't see any use there is in being too particular." "Neither does father, aunt," Julia remarked, while her eyes sparkled. They had seated themselves at the table, and "Graceo interrupted the reply her aunt might have made. "Miss Murray, why don't you eat;" asked Mrs. Meade, as she noticed Alice scarcely tasted the light biscuit on her plate. "I am doing full justice to--" but her reply was uncere- moniously interrupted by Julia: "Full justice! I should think so, and very complimentary beside. I suppose you were going to say 'full justice to our excellent viands,' and then nibbling away at them and leaving them on your plate as if they were not fit to eat." "Well, I declare, Julia Armstong, I should think you would be ashamed of yourself," exclaimed her aunt. Way down in the depths of Alice's eyes were unshed tears. The rattling, care'ess Julia did not see them, but her aunt did, and the tender spot in her heart was touched. "Here, dear," she exclaimed, her voice strangely softened, "Iet me warm your cup,"-she poured more tea into it- "and don't mind Julia. She is too thoughtless to know half the time what she is saying." Alice was provoked at herself for her want of self-com- mand, and the scarlet that dfed her cheek was not in anger at Julia's words, but in shane'at her own weakness. "What would I not give," she mentally exclaimed, "if I could be as calm and collected as little, puny Margaret Bradley. Frail-looking as she is, how much stronger than I." She tried to be more cheerful during the meal, and to shake off the oppressive feelings th;t weigh d her down. "We have have had a fine, elou4dess day," sho qbserved - anxious to say something. * WE 1\ ALICE MUiBMA. 76 "Yes, "Julia answered, "and I should have enjoyed a ride right well. I am provoked father did not let me know he was going to Rathbun." "How was he to let you know it when he didn't know it half an hour before starting himself, and you off at the time to Hallock's. Ambrose came in in a great hurry and your father, without waiting to harness Dolly, took a mouth- faul and was off with him." "So Ambrose was here. I wonder what's to pay. Some crop gone wrong, I'll warrant. "I believe his corn has failed ; the wire worms have been at it." i "Yes, and he might have known they would be at it-to go and put it on green sward. Why, I should think he would have known better. I heard Paul with my own ears tell him not to do it-to put beans there." X{ "Last year he turned over the sward on the south pas- ture and put in corn, and it did well, and he had a good crop in the fall." "More chance than anything else. But give me another cup of tea;" she reached forth her cup. "And, Alice, have another cup too, and take another buscuit." 'Thank you, Julia, but I don't care for more." "Nonsense; you don't eat enough to keep a chicken alive." She caught her cup and handed it to her aunt. "Do not fill it, Mrs. Meade," Alice entreated, "I posi- tively can take no more." "If that's the case," Julia answered, handing her back the empty cup, " we will have to raise your board; for not seeing you eat will have an injurious effect on my appetite ; I won't be able to take my customary rations, strength will fail me, and the doctor will have to be called in." "And my board must be raised to pay the doctor's bill?" "Exactly so. But-," again referring to her cousin's page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] 76 ALICE MiURAY. business-" what is Ambrose going to put in on that corn ground?"She was not a farmer's daughter without know. ing something of farm affairs. "It is too late in the season to put in beans, so he is going to sow it with buckwheat." "But who's got buckwheat to sell in Rathbun?"She was helping herself to a few more shavings of the cold ham as she asked the question. Alice's inability to eat had not yet told very heavily on her appetite. "Clarkson has some left, Paul says; at least he had eight or ten days ago." "Yes," Alice said, glad that she could join in the conver- sation, and not sit a silent blank at the table, "he has, or did have some to dispose of, for it was of MRr. Clarkson that uncle Terence bought his." "What, did his corn fail too? "I believe it did." "Was it on green sward?" "I cannot tell you, Julia, whether it was or not. But Margaret was saying last year her father had a good crop of wheat on the same ground." Julia laughed uproariously, that laugh which has so much joy in it and so little mercy. "Why, Alice," she ex- claimed, as soon as she could speak, "don't you know what a green sward is? You look so wise, I surely thought you knew that." Alice blushed again, deeper than when she first sat down at the table. "It is grass land, is it not?" she timidly asked. "To be sure it is. Land whose sod is just as full of roots, and, bugs, and worms, as it can be." And happy in the very lucid explanation she had given of the properties of green sward, she leaned back in her chair and surveyed Alice with a kind, patronizing air, in which was mingled a I4 $ , a \ ALICE MURRAY. " pity for her ignorance, and a consciousness that from that ignorantl a great deal of good, wholesome amusement might be gleaned. "Are you through your supper," her aunt asked. "I believe I am," she answered; "to use Alice's words, aunt Sarah, I cannot possibly take more." "Well, then, I want you to set the buttons on your father's vest, and if you have not finished the button-holes to finish them." "I'll do it," she replied with good-natured alacrity. They rose from the table. Alice couldl now, without comment, take her bonnet and shawl and go to her room. As she opened the door leading to it, her eye fell on some- thing lying on the table; her hands grew cold and tremu- lous, her breath came quick and hurried; hastening forward she seized it, and her heart turned sick and faint. It was only her paper-her newspaper-the wrapper had deceived her. "No letter! no letter!" she bitterly cried, while tears filled her eyes. Twenty-four hours longer she must wait. Twenty-four hours! It seemed they stretched on into eternity; that they would never end. She sat down and with the determination to do something to take or teal her mind from that one sad, chilling, sun-clouding subject she hardly cared what, removed the wrapper from the papel and tried to read. Vain attempt. She could not chain hei attention to a single article. All passed lifeless and blank before her. She felt strongly tempted to write again ; per- haps her letter had miscarried, been lost, or in some way had failed to reach him; that he had never received it, and in all the loneliness of desolation was now upbraiding her for disregard of his feelings, and the non-fulfillment of her promise. The more she thought of it, the more probable it appeared. She stepped to a bureau a little on her right, and opening a drawer, took out pen, ink and paper, return page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] 78 ALICE MURIAY. ed to the table, seated herself, and commenced a letter to him. It was wonderful, the pleasure she took in noting down her thoughts. She was once more conversing with ; her uncle ; her words he would not hear, but he would see them; distance intervened, miles stretched between them, and to the eye, not the ear, must she speak. What mattered it? While line after line was rapidly filled out, and page after page was turned, the happy, peaceful past came up before her. She was no longer an orphan among strangers, gaining her bread; she was in a loved home, whose walls shut out the sorrow, and grief, and wretchedness of the great world. That home! it rose up before her as the vesti- bule of heaven; birds sang, flowers bloomed, and perfumes filled the air; a hundred echoes dwelt around it, each breathing harmony and love; her gentle aunt presided over it as mistress, and her heart bowed down to do her homage. Her cheek flushed, her eye sparkled; she was talking to her uncle, recalling by-gones that would be as pleasing to him as to her. Not one word did she write referring to the painful change that had come over this paradise of her youth. Lucette Denmore and her mother had come between her and her earthly happiness, but a good God guided her destiny, and leaving the reins in His hands, she would not indulge in unavailing regrets, and embitter her uncle with foolish repinings. Of her present prospects she spoke hopefully, dwelt on her uncle Bradley's kindness, the excellence of her boarding-house, and the rapid improvement her pupils were making under her care, but not one word did she say about her trials. Her letter finished, she folded the sheets and placed them in an en- velope. Again her heart felt strong, and with a smile curv- ing her beautiful mouth, she turned again to her paper; this time it possessed interest for her. She read till the shades ,f evening forced her to lay it aside. ALCE MURRAY. 79 "To-morrow morning," she said, rising and glancing at the letter on the table, "it will go out, and I wonder if he will this time get it; and if getting it he will answer it; or will I be doomed to another term of waiting, and hoping, and struggling with lone feelings, and battling with sour. grim disappointments?" CHAPTER V. EARLY the next morning Alice descended from her room habited for a walk. She heard Julia's voice in an animated conversation with her aunt and father in the kitchen, and not wishing to encounter her numerous questions, ques- tions which she knew would be put with the zest and pry- ing earnestness of a lawyer sifting the testimony of an unfortunate witness on the stand, she quietly opened the front door and passed out. She was going to the post- office with her letter, and the thought that she was send- ing a morsel of comfort in that little white envelope to her poor, old uncle, gave a flush to her cheek and a buoyancy to her step. An unconscious smile played round her lips, and a light beamed from her eyes. She listened with pleasure to the morning hymn of the birds trilling their melody in the trees over her head; she looked up at the deep blue sky and the few light clouds rolling back of the horizon, and thought of the mornings she used to be hastening with her aunt to early Mass. The streets were comparatively deserted, but the sounds and stirrings :' life were around her; the little village, buried among thc high hills like a great city, was waking up to; another day. She reached the post-office, slipped her letter into the box, iried back, and had her bed made and her room tidied-- page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] 80 ATLICE MURRAY. i this she always did herself-as the bell rang for breakfast Paul and Ambrose were both at the table, they had re- turned with their uncle the night before, and Julia, as Alice came in, was congratulating herself that although she had missed her ride the day before by being to Hal- lock's, that morning she would have it. She was going after breakfast with Ambrose out to the farm; it was ne- cessary, absolutely necessary, she alleged, to see how his crops were growing, and how he was managing. Ambrose highly enjoyed her remarks, but Paul hardly seemed to hear them. Though warmly attached, the two brothers but slightly resembled each other eVther in person or dis- position. Ambrose was sandy complexioned, with sunny blue eyes and laughing face; he was of medium height, with broad square shoulders, and athletic form. In every way he looked the good natured, resolute, go-a-head young farmer. Paul was of an entirely different mould; his complexion was a pale sallow, not a sallow indicative of ill health, but the clear waxen hue that sometimes goes with dark grey eyes and rich brown hair; his face was grave and thoughtful in its expression, his form tall and slender. While Ambrose laughed and talked with Julia, and then an occasional word over to Alice, Paul sat silent and ob- servant, only now and then, by a smile or an inclination of the head, agreeing to what was said. Mr. Armstrong was dolorous about the failure of Ambrose's corn; he told I what should have been done to the seed before it was put t into the ground. Tar water, he said, was good to soak the corn over night in; it gave it a flavor the worms did not relish, and helped to bring it up quicker. But Ambr'ose, the one that was to benefit by his remarks, and fcr whose especial benefit they were made, was the one at the table that paid the least attention to them; he preferred Julia'n badinage to the prosy wisdom of her father. Mr. Arm- ALICE MURRAY. 81 strong had been a successful farmer, had always excellent crops and well filled barns, good pastures, and as a conse- quence, profitable dairies; and this want of respect to his words, this indifference to what he said, irritated him. Determined to gain his attention he turned to him, and in a sharp, querulous voice remarked: "That lower pasture of yours, Ambrose, is in a misera- ble condition." "How so, uncle?"Ambrose asked. "Why it is as bare as the road. You had better fall plow it." "Fall plow it! I couldn't think of it. I have turned over so much pasture ground since I have been on the farm that I've none too much left." "Nonsense ; turn one of your meadows into a pasture, and don't have your stock half starved on such a one as that. Why I would have been ashamed when I was your age, Ambrose, to have one cross a lot of mine looking like that." Ambrose's face reddened. The fact was, that pasture land was in a very good state, with a thick turf of grass and white clover, but old farmers like occasionally to show their sons, or in lack of them, their nephews, how much superior their way in early life was to theirs, and as wise as they consider themselves, how an old father or uncle, dim sighted as they are, can see loop holes in their wisdom and point them out. His eyes twinkled with satisfaction as he watched the angry flush on Ambrose's face. He had gained his attention, and made him listen to what he was saying. "But, uncle," Ambrose exclaimed, "you never in your life had a better pasture than that. Look at the cows; their coats shine like satin." , "That's because they've got their new coats on. New dothes always look better than old ones." page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] 82 ALICE MURRAY. "Well, they wouldn't have them on to look better in if it was the bare spot you'd make out." "Well, well, boy," he returned, now through his meal and pushing back from the table," you needn't look so savage; it's not so bad, I own, as it might be, though it's far from being what mine were. But I musn't be too par- ticular; I must allow you some length of rope, so you can turn round and look at your short-comings yourself. But take your uncle's advice, and because he's old, don't think he's forgot all he ever knew. Now, let me tell you, if you expect that farm to pay you for your labor, :never keep a field under the plough over three years. Then seed it down and let it rest." "That's what I intend to do. I have only been on it two years, and you know yourself how much more grass land there is on it than when I went there." "Yes, yes, I know, for I had to pay a pretty penny for the timothy and clover. But that's the way, boy, that's the way." The Sunday before Paul had told them Clarkson had buckwheat to sell, and Ambrose had requested him to step over and engage a couple or three bushels for him; but it seemed he had sold it all out before Paul called, for they returned without any. As they rose from the table, Am- brose was wondering where he could find any. "How much do you want?"Alice asked. "Two bushels would do, but I would like two and a half." "I would not be surprised if umcle Terence had that much left." "Indeed?" "Yes. He was thinking of ploughing up all his corn when he got it, but changed his mind and only ploughed half of it. He thought the rest would yield him about half a crop.' ALICE MURRAY. 83 "So you think, Miss Murray, he might possibly have it?" "I do ; he may not have as much as you want, but he has some." "Do you know how many acres of corn he had?" "No, I do not." "It was eight acres." Paul spoke for the first time, and there was a deep musical ring in the tones of his voice. "Eight acres," Ambrose repeated; " and he sowed half and left half, and that would leave just two bushels of buckwheat on his hands-only half a bushel less than I want, and I could get along with that. -1 go up and see him. I wish, Miss Murray, you could go with me and see them, too; it would be a pleasant ride for you" "Thank you, but I cannot leave my school." "I suppose not; but is there any message you wish to send?" "No, not any; I will probably see some of them to- morrow or the next day, myself." She was going to leave the room, when Paul, reaching for a volume lying on the stand, approached her. "You were speaking, Miss Murray," he said, "of Dick's 'Celestial Scenery'; I am happy now to be able to loan it to you." "But, Mr. Mead, you want it yourself." She could not help a rising warmth to her face. Julia's quick and ter. ribly sharp eyes were upon her. "No, Miss Murray; I have read it." "And you like it?" "Very much; and you, too, 1 think, will like it." "No doubt of that," Julia exclaimed ; "if you like it, she will be sure to like it; both your tastes run in the same channel. I used to think," she said, addressing Alice, "that Paul was the stupidest book worm in the world, but since I have seen you, I have concluded there is another page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] 84 ALICE MURRAY. just as stupid. And did you come over, Paul, just to bring that book to her?" she asked, turning from Alice to him "I came over on business and brought it along with me, knowing Miss Murray would like to see it." There was a severity in his voice that checked further questions, at least to him. "Aunt Sarah," she said, "do you want me to clear the table?" "No; if you are going with Ambrose, you've no time to lose; he'll have his horse harnessed before you know it." She ran up stairs and got her bonnet and scarf just as Ambrose drove up to the door. "Good-bye," she said to Alice, who had staid to see her off; "I wish you could go, too." Alice smiled, and hastened to her room while they drove down the shady avenue. Ambrose could not help pitying her, shut up on that glorious day in a dull school-room, with fifty buzzing pupils round her ; and Paul, too, he was to be pitied behind Lis counter, playing the gracious to his customers. He could not have endured such confinement. He wanted the broad fields around him and the great sky to canopy him; then he could move, and breathe, and feel all the joyousness of life; he loved to see the crops grow- ing, to watch the little tender shoots first coming up, giv- ing the brown bosom of old mother earth a delicate sprin- kle of green, then covering her as with a velvet carpet, next rolling and billowy like the waves of the sea, then golden-hued and heavy-headed, ready for the garner's hand. And it was not as an idle spectator, a mere looker-on, that he loved the sight. It was as one conscious of having turned the sod and put in the seed, and when it should come to maturity would reap and harvest it. It was watch- ing the result of his own labor, and looking upon it as sort of creative power that had been entrusted to his hands ALICE MURRAY. 85 But besides the grain fields a farm possessed other charms for him. He liked to see the sleek, stupid cows, that would scarcely stir out of his way when he crossed the pasture, and the gentle, timid-eyed sheep, that with all their shyness seemed to know and not fear him, and the heavy, staid old horses, that came up and laid their heads so lovingly on his shoulders, and sniffed round and peered anxiously for the salt or the nubbins of corn he always had stored away in some pocket for them; and the frisky colts, that seemed ':, to delight in showing off their agility before him in their keen races over the pasture, and the playful kicking up of their heels; and they were hisd-he was master of them all, the good-natured, stupid cows, the gentle, timid sheep, the faithful, knowing old horses, the frisky, playful colts-all were his-all fed at his hands, all knowing and acknowl- edging, in their dumb, simple way, their gratitude and de- votion to him. Ah, there was nothing on a farm that did not delight and interest him. He wondered that his bro- ther could turn indifferently from it all; that instead of going over the fields, or straying into the pastures, or walk- :Ii J ing through the woods where there was an ever-endless variety of sights and sounds to tempt him to loiter, he should stay in his room and pore over some musty old volume. How could he sit so still, shut out from all the beauty of God's world, and find delight in the old-fashioned notions of dead and gone men. It was a mystery to him. Allured once by Paul's glowing description he had looked into a volume of Johnson's "Rambler," and Addison's "Guardian," but he soon threw them down in disgust. That Paul liked them, and found pleasure in their perusal, was a greater trial to his good nature than his uncle's fre- quent and unjust reproaches about the way he managed. Against the latter he could defend himself; against the former he was powerless. He was not much givew to ab. page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] 86 AICE MURRAI. stract theories-he did not care to have deep thought, f intrude themselves upon him; the labor of handling such heavy mental lumber exhausted, if not his strength, at least his patience. Where he could put his broad shoulders to the wheel, or use his strong, muscular hands to help him- self, he stood stiff and independent, scorning all assistance; but there was in these invisible labors a something before which he felt weak and nerveless. That Paul's tastes should be so different from his, exercised his mind as much as it would possibly bear, and yet he could find no solution to the baffling mystery. It was not because he lacked in good sense, good, sound common sense, for-the best standard for good, sound common sense with Ambrose- he could make as good a bargain as himself, and had as keen and sharp an eye to loss and gain. He knew several little affairs where Paul's sagacity had even overmatched his own. It was not because he had no love of the beau- tiful in his soul, for he had known him unable to tear him- self from a sunset scene, and had seen his eye kindle and his cheek flush when watching the moon, "like a rick on fire rising over the dale." It was not because he had not a kind, loving heart for the poor dumb creatures that are so dependent on man's bounty, for there was not one of them on the farm that did not know and love him. They seemed to feel by instinct that he was one whose approach they need not dread-that there was nothing brutal in that grave, thoughtful young face, looking at them with such deep, far-off, distant eyes. What was it, then? Ah! what was it? Could it be that he shrank from the rough labor of farm life, and preferred soft hands and fine clothes and gentlemanly ease? There was not a particle of laziness in Paal Meatle's na- ture; when out on their uncle's farm, he never knew him to shirk or hang back; and he remembered many a time 4I ALICE MURRAY. 87 rhen the chatter of a squirrel or the marks of a wood- chuck's hole had tempted him from his labor, and when, after a fruitless and foolish chase for the one, and a useless and wearying digging for the other, he returned to the field, Paul, to shield him from a scolding from his uncle, had done the tasks for both. And as for soft hands and fine clothes, Paul never seemed to know anything about them-not half as much as he did, for he often looked at his hard, cracked, sun-burnt hands, and wondered how it was that a man couldn't work and use the limbs God gave them, without disfiguring all their beauty; and his fine clothes he liked amazingly well on Sundays and holidays; as for other days-that is, work days-he didn't care for them either. He rather liked, then, the freedom of blue jeai and homespun. But what was it then? What made Paul so different from him? Impossible to say. He might puzzle his brain to all eternity, and never be able to find out. He was a good, faithful, and affectionate brother to him, and though only two years his senior, had always had a kind, protective watch kover him. It never seemed to Ambrose that Paul was but two years older than himself. He was five, ten, nay, twenty years older in gravity and decorum; but then Paul was one of those few who are never children; that when their bodies are small and their strength slight, look and act as if the wisdom and experi- ence of years are on them. Such children may play with others, but in their playfulness is an awkwardness and apathy that makes it seem as if they but half entered into the spirit of the thing, and did it more to please their com- panions than themselves; just as a wise, thoughtful man may join in the sports of the little ones around him, more to amuse them than from any personal or individual enjoyment. His good nature may be rewarded by a momentary return of the glad, bright joyousness of his early days, but it does page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] 88 ATICE MURRAY. not bring him back to childhood; it does not make a child of him. With the children he is a man, and a man's stat ure and a man's wisdom are conspicuous through it all. Just so with those grave, thoughtful little children; the man's stature may be wanting, but the man's wisdom and the man's experience are there--or at least, appear to our imperfect vision to be there. Then Paul, that was so discreet, never getting into boyish scrapes, or running headlong into mischief, had so much charity for him that he now and then found himself up to the ears in trouble brought upon him by his brother's folly. That time, seven or eight years before, when lie went one night with a parcel of boys to old Upham's, and stole all his pears, what should he have done if it had not been for Paul? Upham, by some means or other, found out the names of all the boys, his among the rest, and what a fuss he made about it. He was going to have them all prosecuted, fined, and sent to jail; he would not settle with a single one of them. How fiightened he was ; he fairly quaked in his shoes; his uncle happened to be sick-confined "to the house at the time- and fortunately did not hear anything about it; but Paul did, and what did he do? Did he go and tell his mother or his uncle? Not at iall. But he took Ambrose aside, and talked to him as wisely and kindly as Father Edwarlds himself could have talked, and then he went over to U1p- ham's, and as angry as the old fellow was, got him callned down to agree to settle with him for three dollars, and finally to settle with all the boys if each would pay him the like sum. But where was he to get three dollars? His uncle, to be sure, had given him and Paul three dollars a piece for Independence. Independence came and the money went; at least, his did. As to Paul, he now in his trouble found he had not spent a cent of it; that he had it all by him. He was keeping it till he could add auotlhe AICE MURRAY s89' dollar to it, and then send and get a oook; he believed it was Rollins' "Ancient History," for even then, Paul was never more delighted than when, as his uncle said, he had his nose behind a book or newspaper. But he gave it up; without a word he went to his drawer, took out the three dollars, and carried them over and gave them to old Up- ham; and Upham aferwards had the meanness to boast that he never in his life disposed of his pears to better ad- vantage. May be he didn't, but he never had a chance to dispose of them in the same way again; it taughtAmbrose a lesson he never forgot, and proved to him what a good, faithful brother he had. And being so different from him was all right, just as it should be. If they both had been alike-that is, if Paul had been like him--however it might be his being like Paul, he would, after all, have been a loser by it. He needed one like Paul to watch over him and keep him straight in those days; now, using the sense which the good God had given him, he could be his own master. As they mounted the hill leading to Mr. Bradley's, Am- brose looked sharply at the crops along the way, and occa- sionally addressed a remark to Julia concerning them, but from some cause or other, he was unusually silent. She kept up an incessant chatter, and, without paying much attention to her, he let her run on. "I declare," he said, at last, when they came in sight of the Bradley farm, "Mr. Bradley has put in that whole North lot in beans; he will have some hoeing to do." "How many acres are there?" "I should say there were as many as seven; and then he was going to have eight acres of corn. I'll warrant you it didn't grieve Richard and Terry much, that the worms fin- ished up part of it for them." "Why, couldn't they have done it if they hadn't?' page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] 90 AIACE MUERAY. "I suppose they could, but then with the rest of their crops to see to, it would have been no easy matter." "But Bradley and his boys are hard-working." "Yes, I know it; there's not in the whole State a harder working man than Terence Bradley, and his boys are brought up to work, too. And they have done well for a few years back. That Westcott farm added to his own just doubles it, and he's paid all-up for it." "How large was his farm first?" "Only forty-five acres. Now it's ninety. I shouldn't wonder if he yet bought out Griscom; I hear he wants to sell and go West." "What! the Griscoms sell and go West? "I have heard so." "Oh! it can't be. Jenny was at our house last -week, and you don't know how she praised up the Hill. She said Stapleton was the finest place in the world to live, you had such an extensive view on all sides; then the air was so clear and bracing, and the ground was so rich and productive. In the winter you might be snowed up a part of the time, but you got well paid for it in the summer." "Yes, I suppose she told you all that. Jenny Griscom is a sharp little woman-some of the shrewdness of old Griscom about her." "Well, you know everybody else says pretty much the same of it; Stapleton is considered a rich farming place." "Yes, a rich farming place ; but the fun of the thing is, her saintly resignation to the snow banks in winter. I have heard Jenny Griscom say quite a different thing about them. But if they want to sell out, of course the snow banks will be found to be the most lovely and desi- rable things on earth. But here we are at the Bradley's." He stopped the horse, and with a light, agile step, Julia sprang from the wagon, opened the little gate aud ran up I AUEc MUIBRRbY. 91. to the house. Elizabeth was in the kitchen ironing when she came in. She paused in her work and looked up, a pleased, surprised expression on her face. "Julia Arm- strong!" she exclaimed, extending her hand, "I did not expect to see you, but I am glad you have come"--slie put the flat-iron on the stove. "Step into the parlor; it's too warm here," she said. "No, Elizabeth, your doors are open and your windows up; I'll stay here, then you can keep right on with youar work." "But I am most through." "That makes no difference; I'll just stay where I am." "Well, then, let me take your scarf and bonnet." "No, you need not take them; I will throw them back on the chair while I stay." "You will surely stay the day with us?" Julia threw up her little brown hands and, despairingly shaking her head, exclaimed: "Impossible; they won't let me!" "Who?" "The Fates-which in the present case means Ambrose and his circumstances." "But you will stay to dinner?" "Alas, no." Her eyes were twinkling with mirth, while her face was gravity itself. "You look puzzled; let me explain: This morning, when we were rising from the breakfast table, Ambrose happened to speak of some buclk- wheat he was wanting, and Alice told him she thought her uncle Bradley had some he could spare, and so he came up to see him about it; and I came partly to see you, and partly to guard Ambrose from danger on the way. "Alice was right, father has some he can spare. How much does Ambrose want?' page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] 92 ALICE MURRAY. "Only two bushels; or two and a half if he can get it. How much has your father on hands?" "A little over two bushels. How much over I can't say." Ambrose had fastened the horses and now appeared at the door. "Good morning, Elizabeth," he said, in his clear, cheery tones. "Good morning, Ambrose ;" no mister to him when she had known him from the time she could remember, and it only seemed as yesterday when they were going to school together. "Will you walk in?" she asked, setting a chair for him. "No, thank you, I'm in something of a hurry. Where is your father?" "Down in the lower lots with the boys fixing fence." "I believe I will go down and see him." With a long striding walk he passed round the house, down through the orchard, behind the barns and was lost to sight. "Where is your mother?"Julia glanced restlessly round the room. "In the cellar packing butter. She'll be up in a few minutes." i "How many cows do you milk this summer?" "Ten." "It makes some work for you and your mother?" "Yes, churning and packing down butter every day ex- cept Sunday, and of course Monday double churnings, or rather two churnings." "But you don't pack the butter out of the churn, do you?" "No, indeed. We pack down to day what we churned and salted yesterday, and tomorrow we pack down what we churned and salted to-day." "That's the way we always did it when on the farm." Elizabeth's ironing w as finished, and she was folding up AIGCE MURRAY. 93 the ironing sheet when Mrs. Bradley, with an empty butter bowl and ladle in her hands, came in from the cellar; after warm greetings and earnest entreaties for Julia to stay to dinner, she asked her how Alice was getting along. "First rate," Julia answered; "no one finds any fault with her, and her pupils are learning fast. I was over to Hallock's yesterday, and Mrs. Hallock said James and Lizzie never went ahead so in their studies." "I am glad to hear it; but do you know whether she has heard from her uncle Elbray yet?" "No, I don't. I brought her home a paper from the office yesterday, but no letter. I don't see it; but aunt Sarah fancies she's getting down-hearted and homesick." "Homesick to go back to her uncle Elbray's?"Mrs. Bradley asked. She had taken up her knitting and seated herself at one of the windows. "Yes, Mrs. Bradley, that is what aunt Sarah fears. She says she knows the signs of homesickness, and if ever anybody had it she has it." Mrs. Bradley could easily have quieted those fears, but she thought it best to say nothing of the change that had come over that home for Alice. Homesick to go back to it! Impossible. She was only too glad to be away from it and all its grandeur. She could not, after all the indig- nity that had been put upon her by its second mistress, want ever again to see it. She knew how she would feel under such circumstances, and Alice probably felt the same. She cherished the' memory of her aunt, she might enter- tain an affection for her uncle; brought up by him, his curt, abrupt ways would not strike so harshly on her feelinge or leave so bitter a sting on her memory ; but that woman and her daughter that had shown such cruelty to her, surely she could not want to go to them, and going to that home was virtually going to them, virtually again placing page: 94-95[View Page 94-95] 9*4 AITCE UBRRAY. herself under their power. No, the poor child did not sigh to go back to the Elbrss. Her down-heartedness did not arise from that; everything was strange around her, she had not yet got used to them or their ways, her school, its duties, or anything about her ; the best way was not to notice it, and by and by she would get accustomed to her new life and enjoy it as much as she had enjoyed her old. Elizabeth had washed and scalded the butter bowl and ladle and put them away, and now she ran out to the front yard, to get Julia a handful of June roses and a bunch of lilacs. She thought she would also get some for Alice. It would cheer her up and show her, if her uncle Elbray had forgotten her, that they sincerely loved / her. How natural it seemed to have her coming home i every Friday evening with Margaret; and the second time her father went for them, when she had been in her school two weeks, how heartful it made her to see her run in and throw her arms around her mother's neck, and sob and cry like a child. She felt so glad to be with them she couldn't help it. Their home wasn't like her uncle Elbray's, but it was a home and she felt it. God bless her! she loved her as a sister, and would do anything in the wide world to banish that lonely look that every little while Lt- tled on her poor face. She brought the flowers iu, and after dipping the stems in water and wrapping a paper round them, handed them to Julia. "Thank you, Elizabeth," Julia said, taking them; "what a generous armfull you have given me." "But they are not all for you. You see two bunches of lilacs and two of roses; one of each is for you, and one of each for Alice. Tell her I sent them to her, and shell be glad to get them." "I will I suppose these are what you call Rosie's lilacs? I think they smell even sweeter than the roses" ALICE MURRAY. 95 "Yes, they are Rosie's lilacs. Father set them out when Rosie was a baby, and we've always called them by her name. But I like the smell of the roses best, and so does Rosie." "Where is she now?" In school." "This is her first summer of going to school?" "Yes." "How does she like it?" "She likes it well, and learns fast. "Yes, I should suppose so. Rosie has too bright an eye to be a dunce." "Rosie is a good child," Elizabeth, with sisterly fondness, rejoined. "I really don't know how we should get along without her." Ambrose had now returned from the field. Mr. Bradley did not come with him; he thought it was hardly worth while to come up and go back before dinner, so he con- tinued at his work, and told Ambrose where he would find the buckwheat. Ambrose got it, and put it in the wagon, and with many pressing invitations to come and see them on both sides, Julia kissed them and bade them good-bye. But in the confusion of parting, with her usual heedless- ness, she forgot the flowers, and Elizabeth ran out to the wagon with them. "Be sure and tell Alice to keep up her courage," she said; " that if one friend falls off God will raise up an- other and a better in his place. You won't forget?" "No ways probable that I'll remember. I have my way of cheering up people and you have yours." "But yours, Julia, is so thorny. You ought to love the roses, for your sweetness is like theirs, many a sharp prick goes with it." "But according to your own showing mine is the best. page: 96-97[View Page 96-97] 96 ALICE MURRXY. If you recollect, you preferred the roses to the lilacs, and so did Rosie; and I have no doubt, as Alice is one of you, that she will too. At all events, I'll give her the benefit of a trial." And happy that she had had the last word, she gaily settled herself on the seat. Ambrose, during the brief colloquy, was busy round the horse's head, and did not catch its import, otherwise he might have said some- thing that would have sent Elizabeth to the house with a less grave and anxious face. CHAPTER VI. MR. ELBRAY Sat alone in" his library. Mrs. Elbray and her daughter were at the springs, and he had the house to himself; but the sitting-room, parlors, chambers, all seem- ed haunted by an immense loneliness, not for those that had gone to return in a few weeks, but for those whose memories, like the pale moonlight on the graves of the loved, lingered on the walls and windows of each. To the library he principally confined himself; here he took his meals, and here he received the few that chose to break in upon his seclusion. He was lonely, and had experienced a painful feeling of desolation, yet it was a relief to him that he was free, if only for a short time, from the surveillance of his wife and her daughter. Like another Alexander Selkirk, he was now, in his own house, "monarch of all he surveyed," and a feeling of satisfaction mingled with his sorrowful retrospections. Alice, on not receiving an an- swer to her letter, had come to the conclusion that her uncle had not received it. A very just, a very correct con- lubion ; he had not received it, and for a very good reason- zt had never reached him. Mrs. Elbray, fearing the effect ALICE MURRAY. 97 it might have, had judiciously kept it out of his sight. George, the errand boy, was instructed to hand any letter bearing the post-mark of Lucan or Stapleton to her, and that letter, laden with kind memories and assurances of undiminished affection, was ruthlessly destroyed. No news of Alice reached him, and for theirst time in his life his great wealth ceased to afford him satisfaction, and actually palled upon him. He turned from the splendor it sur- rounded him with, and the respect it brought him, with loathing and contempt. He was lonely and sad, and, in the midst of his wealth, poor and abject. A cup of water on the burning sands of Sahara would not be more wel- come to the parched throat of the traveller than a word, a line, from Alice. Why did she not write-why did she for- get him? He wrung his poor old hands. She should have what was his; no one else should ever enjoy it; he had labored hard for it, and it should be hers. She knew it- knew the old man, with all his harshness, looked upon his one little lamb with an unutterable affection; then why did she not respond to it-why did she not write to him? In vain he asked these questions-there was no one to an- swer them. Alice was gone I The little girl that had been the sunshine of his life was away-driven out from his home. He felt it-bitterly felt it. He missed her sweet voice, her thoughtful care, the many silent manifestations of her lotve-missed it all, with a loneliness that only the aged can feel. The past was a bright dream, all the more painful for having been so bright; the present an incubus weighing upon him; the future-he was not thinking of the future beyond the grave-a dull, dreary, sunless blank. He knew very well his repinings were useless, that Alice 3ould never again be to him what she had been, that an insurmountable barrier had arisen between them; but the page: 98-99[View Page 98-99] 98 ALICE MURRAY. knowledge of this did not lessen his anguish, and he vio- lently rang the bell. George made his appearance. "Have you been to the post-office?" he angrily asked. "No, sir; the mail has not yet come in." "Very well, then; I will go myself." Not probable that lie heard the answer in full. He had not gone, that was all he cared to know, and going himself was intended as a withering reproach to the boy, at the same time that it was an excellent escape-valve for the passion into which he had worked himself. This unusual condescension on his part-this doing his own errand, was expressing as much anger as it was possible to express. "Very well, I will go myself." The boy actually quailed under it. The fierce tone and terrible eye showed it was from no gentle or kindly spirit. Undoubtedly he would get a letter from Mrs. Elbray, which would by no means tend to soothe his excited feelings. It would be a weak rehearsal of the fri- volities of the place, and how could that be pleasing or in- teresting to him? That he would get a letter from Alice he did not own to himself, but the bare possibility that he might was like a glimmer of sunshine to his old heart. He soon reached the post-office, and, looking the postmaster sternly in the face, exclaimed: "John Elbray's mail?" "Not any, Mr. Elbray," was replied, "but the mail will be in in half an hour." Mr. Elbray turned to the door and looked up and down the street; a quick change came over his moody countenance. A gentleman was pass- ing; he raised his eyes, paused, and the nexst instant the two were warmly shaking hands. . It was an old friend that he had not seen for several years. From Antoria he had moved to R - , thence West, and this was his first return to the village since leaving it. Hurried inquiries were made after the members of his family, and then, rev g (ALICE MURRAY. 99 ferring to his first wife, Mr. Elbray said: "She is gone, Keith." On seeing the face of an old friend, his thoughts :ig! at once had flown back to her and to the days when she was living. "Yes, I have heard it," his friend rejoined, " and believe me, Elbray, I deeply sympathize with you in your loss. You would be quite alone now only for Alice." He had not heard of the second marriage or its results. In his imagination Alice was in her uncle's home, filling the place of an affectionate daughter to him in his bereavement. She was capable of doing it, he knew. "I suppose," he added, Mr. Elbray making no reply to his remark, " that she is now grown up, quite a young lady. These little boys and girls spring up into men and women before we hardly know it. We leave them chil- dren, and remember them only as children; we come back, and lo! they are children no longer; they are men and women. "Yes," Mr. Elbrav absently replied, "Alice is a young lady; she is no longer a child." Then, as if it pained him to tell it, he said: "But you are mistaken; she is not with me." "Not with you, Elbray?" There was a look of surprise on his friend's face. "No, Keith, she is with another uncle." He could not for his life tell she was teaching; that would be letting out too much. "Ah! then indeed you are alone," his friend responded, with a tone of real pity in his voice, and a puzzled expres- sion in his eye as to why Alice had left him in his trouble. He had thought better of her than that. "You have not heard, Keith, it seems, that I am married again?" "Why, no, Elbray, I hd not heard it." Light was dawn- page: 100-101[View Page 100-101] 100 ALICE MURRY. ing on his mind about Alice's absence from his home. "And so you are married?" "Yes." Mr. Elbray looked grave, too grave entirely to allow any hilarious remark upon it, and his friend confined himself simply to asking: "Whom did you marry, Elbray?" "A widow by the name of Denmore." It was evident he did not like the turn the conversation had taken; the moody expression had returned to his face, and his voice had lost its first warm, genial tones. His friend did not seem to notice this, and on hearing the former name of his wife, in an excited manner exclaimed: "What! Russel Denmore's widow?" "Yes; did you know her?" "I have seen her. She used to live in R ,I be- lieve." There was something in his voice not exactly pleasing, something peculiar. You could not say it was contempt, but it was far from being respect. Inow Mrs. Denmore? Yes, he had known her well; known her first husband, Russel Denmore, and his blighted life. And she, that woman, had stepped into John Elbray's home! Could it be possible! What had become of his boasted shrewd- ness, of his excellent judgment? The mail had come in, and getting his papers and letters, Mr. Elbray invited his friend home with him. He said nothing about his wife and her daughter being at the springs, and not caring to meet them, his friend declined. There are people who do not like to go back in a story; who always want to go on, right straight ahead, to the last page. Let such skip the rest of this chapter, for it is to be devoted to the history of Mrs. Elbray prior to her first husband's death, and follow- ing on to the time when she became John Elbray's wife. Like John Elbray, Russel Denmore had commenced poor, but unlike him, hemhad never been able to got -:%:ii: ALICE MURRAY. o10 or amas n property. Instead of being the light and com- fort of his humble home, aiding him by her advice, soothing and encouraging him when his heart was heavy with care, by her ready sympathy, his wife was a dark cloud, casting a shadow on his daily path: a weight and a drag keeping him down, when she should have helped him up. She ;^ continually contrasted her life with that of others far abov a her in wealth and station. Other men's wives fared better than she ; they had larger houses, finer furniture and richer dresses; they went; they entertained; they patronized concerts and lectures; they visited watering-places and other fashionable resorts. Their supposed happiness was her misery, their splendor, a prodigious wrong inflicted on herself. As to the poor, they were her utter aversion; their wretchedness was a crime; their presence an abomi- nation. Her own grade was only a few steps above them, but these steps, in her estimation, stretched out to an infi- nite distance. Her husband was not a laborer, he was a mechanic; and she felt all the importance of being a me- chanic's instead of a laborer's wife. Still, this did not hinder her making those invidious comparisons, and her eyes, turned coldly from the poor, was forever fixed en- viously on the rich. She could not cope with them, or lay at the shrine of her idol the same rich offerings, and she became sullen and morose. She felt she was unjustly used, and she set about righting herself as well as she could. She assumed rich dress, talked on fashionable topics, cut her doubtful friends-doubtful meant such as might be tending downward-and, if she could not ride in her car- riage, swept, with a royal air, the streets. At the same time she tried to edge herself into a higher circle, and in this, partially succeeded; certain ones forming it were good- I natured, and, she was bold; the attempt did not prove so difficult as one might imagined She laughed, she talked, page: 102-103[View Page 102-103] 102 ALICE MURRAY. she fluttered, she tried in a thousand ways to render her- self agreeable to them, and because they at times conde- scended to notice her and speak graciously to her, she fancied she had achieved a great triumph. But all this while, her home grew more and more hateful to her; a prison-a tomb-and her husband the terrible keeper, the ghoul that haunted it. She looked on him with hard, glaring eyes, and a hate sprang up in her heart towards him. He was of different clay; his instincts were low and groveling, but still she had to endure him, for low and groveling as he was, from the labor of his toil-worn hands she drew the means to make her splendid street displays, and catch glimpses of that life for which alone she was born. Mr. Denmore worked hard, went shabby; and on the streets, in the shops and stores spending his money, his elegant wife would have been ashamed to own him as an acquaintance, much less a husband. Laying out her time in the adornment of her person, and in seeking her own pleasure, she had no leisure to attend to her household duties, and, although illy able with her ex- travagance to afford it, a servant had to be employed. Her husband must eat, and in order to eat food must be cooked, and somebody got to cook it. Mrs. Denmore was above it-no Zobeide was she. But this was another feather in her -ap-she had now a servant, She became fond of talking of her, relating any little incident where her name could be possibly brought in, and if she had ever before lacked a subject for conversation, she had now, thanks to her neglect of her duties, an inexhaustible one. Her ser- vant was so stupid, so careless, and such a trial to her, that at times her patience was almost worn out. There was one thing her servant did that exasperated her beyond all endurance, and if the fear that she would have to do her own work, if she discharged her, had not operated on her, ::A, IAICE MURRAY. at , she would most assuredly have turned her off, or, to use her own words, dismissed her. The girl actually had the audacity to subscribe for and take a paper-a newspaper! "Did she neglect her work to read it?" the lady to whom -she unburthened her sorrow asked. Mrs. Denmore drew herself proudly up; that was not the question. What right had a servant to take a paper, or have one coming to the house of her employer? It was most offensive-a rank presumption which she could by no means countenance. For her part she liked servants to know their place, and, what is more, to keep it. The fact was, the girl only read it on Sunday evenings, and the sermon, which was almost sure to be in it, or some letter from some correspondent. telling of the dedication of some church, or of the bishop's visit, and confirmation being administered in some parish, compensated her for the sermon she was obliged, in get- ting the Sunday dinner, to lose. She attended Low Mass *!J on Sunday morning, and her paper, her beloved paper, afforded her the satisfaction of the sermon at High Mass and the Vesper lecture. She could not, would not give it up-she would resign her place first. Mrs. Denmore had to submit, but it was a terrible annoyance. At one time, going a short journey on the cars, she en- tered the lady's sitting-room at the station-house; her ticket was bought, and while waiting for the train to come in, she had nothing to do but to observe the respectability or non-respectability of the travellers around her. As usual, she was dressed-richly, and as her eyes in wandering round fell on the poor and illy-clad they shrank back from her cold, withering glance. On the rich she beamed approvingly, but still back of the approving beam on them was a littla bitterness, a little hardness, a glitter of frost, she could not wholly conceal. Disagreeable memories of an obscure home intruded themselves upon her, and made her under page: 104-105[View Page 104-105] 104 ALICE MU RAY. her splendid attire supremely wretched. She went through the world cold, cruel and hard, seeing no beauty, feeling no warmth; for her the sky had no stars, the earth no flowers, the sun no vivifying power. She was as much a statue as it is possible for one living and moving about to be. It seemed as if she should stop breathing, stop mov- ing, she would be transformed into a rigid piece of marble. But while she was looking and scanning, a girl in a gray travelling dress and plain straw bonnet entered the room, and seated herself opposite Mrs. Denmore. Soon that lady's eyes were upon her. There was something in the girl's appearance that left her undecided whether she be- longed to the despised or the envied class. Her dress was not rich, it was only simply well made. She might be a dressmaker, she might-there was something in the indig- nant manner in which she returned Mrs. Denmore's scru- tinizing glance, that argued not a dependant state-be able to choose her own style, and, regardless of cheap or costly material, follow the fashions as she liked, or even dictate what they should be. Mrs. Denmore could not tell-she was not certain which it was. Her dress had several in- congruities about it, while her cloak was of stout, thick stuff; her hands were sheltered only by thin Lisle thread gloves; her collar, instead of being plain linen, to corres- pond with her travelling dress, was embroidered lace; the ribbon on her bonnet-Mrs. Denmore studied details, and in her investigations paused not before a trifle-was not by a quarter of an inch as wide as the prevailing mode de- manded, and then, to make up for this glaring deficiency, it was no richer. Still, something in the girl's manner left her undecided. She patiently waited further developments, and did not have long to wait. An elderly gentleman, with the unmistakable appear- ance of a farmer entered, walked to the girl, and, stooping, ^J-ALt3y. I;AICE MURRAY. 105 ' said something to her in a low voice. The gill replied in a voice equally low, but considerably clearer, and Mrs. Denmore was able to catch a part of her words. The man was her father, and after all, she was only a farmer's daugh- ter. She had seen farmers in their rough, every-day dress, bringing their produce to market, and looking at their coarse, heavy boots, not unfrequently splashed with mud, their homespun clothes, made only for comfort and not for show, their sunburnt faces and horny hands, their stiff gait devoid of all grace, and-their manner of all elegance, and she considered them the quintescence of ignorance and stupidity, and, of course, excessively low in the social scale. Their supposed wealth, what was it? A mere chimera. JI- No one would live in the country, and drudge under rain, heat and cold, that was able to live in town and at their ease. Wealth signifies ease and the enjoyment of good society. What did they know of either? Nothing, abso- hltely nothing. The gentleman turned and left the room, Iie and Mrs. Denmore, offended that she had not been able at once to determine the grade and station of the girl, re- venged herself by concentrating upon her a most malig- nant gaze- a gaze in which anger and contempt were alike risible. Anger gives a flash to the eye, but with Mrs. Den- more it was only a glitter, cold as an icicle and piercing as the north wind. The girl, in turning her eyes from tho door, encountered that dreadful gaze, fxed full upon her. A surprised, startled expression passed over her counte- nance, but in a moment it was replaced by one of indig- nant interest. Her curiosity was in turn excited, and, as Mrs. Denmore had studied her appearance, so now she S calmly proceeded to study that lady's. Tie tout ensemble had passed before her; she now took in the details-the purse-proud mouth, the insolent eyes, the nostrils dilated a Ih with scorn, the f atheshe false bloom, the thick neck, scorn, page: 106-107[View Page 106-107] O6 ALICE MURRAY. the square shoulders, the hands bursting their kid covering -and the lips of the girl curled with an ironical smile. The eyes said, as plainly as if the tongue had given it utter- ance, " that woman is vulgar, vulgar in soul and body." If Mrs. Denmore observed others, it was no reason others should observe hier. She was indignant, and rising in all the majesty of her wrath, swept over to the opposite side of the room, the same side with the girl, but further down, and where, several sitting between them, she would not be offended by her boldness and audacity. Afterwards, she was heard to remark, she much preferred the European mode of travelling; there one could take a journey without being annoyed by the odious rudeness of the lower classes. In the meantime her husband toiled, and drudged, and stretched every nerve to make the year come round. His trade was quite lucrative; he had two or three apprentices, his own, and their labor thrown into his gains, he was able to meet his expenses till his daughter grew up. As the mother was selfish and heartless, so she was vain and frivo- lous, and the father's burden was increased. Labor as he would, economize his own personal expenses as much as he could, he could not possibly keep up. He toiled harder, went shabbier than ever, and, as the mother had been ashamed to recognize him on the street, so now the daugh- ter, when she met him, turned aside her head, and passed him by as an utter stranger. Dark clouds began to gather around him; he could no longer meet his payments, his creditors began to urge their claims; he mortgaged his house and lot to raise means, and for awhile breathed easier. The mortgage expired and to save the house he sold his shop. In this way he dragged on a year or two, Mrs, Denmor6 daily growing more and more dissatisfied with her lot, and more and more disgusted with her husband. He was wo rough and uncultivated, and his tastes were so low and :? ALICE MURRAY. 107 grovelling, that never was a woman more to be pitied. She was elegant and refined, able to grace the highest station, and to be chained down to such a life! Her aversion to him deepened into malignity, and, without ever lifting a finger to lighten his burden, she grew more and more ex- acting. She went out more, dressed richer, became sterner, reserving her smiles and graciousness for her friends, keep- ing only frowns and sullenness for home. In vain her : husband contended with her; he was not eloquent, and it is doubtful, if he had been, if his eloquence would have :i; availed him much. All he could do was to drudge on; debts pressed heavily on him, again his creditors became urgent, and, again to meet their demands, he mortgaged his little house and lot. This time, when the mortgage ex- pired, he had nothing to redeem them, and house and lot were sold. Soon after, his father died and left him three :ti: thousand dollars. With this he might have extended his business, so as to regain what he had lost, but his spirits were broken, his strength gone; a rapid decline set in and he died in a few weeks after the sum came into his posses- sion. Mrs. Denmore and daughter at once left R. and moved to Antoria. This was about a year after Mrs. Elbray's death. tMrs. Denmore had been slightly acquainted with her, and now, attired in an elegant suit of mourning she called on Alice and her uncle to condole with them in their bereavement She could sympathize with Mr. Elbray in his great loss; she knew what it was to weep the severed ties of early love, to mourn the death of a life-companion. She related sev- eral little incidents of the late lamented Mr. Denmore's sickness and death, and these incidents proved her tli' kindest of nurses, and the most devoted of wives. He wae a saint, and she a martyr-martyr to her affections. Mosi appropriate were the becoming and elegant weeds They page: 108-109[View Page 108-109] 108 AICE MURRAY. told of buried love and widowed hopes, of broken ties and lonely hearts, of vacant chairs, and desolate hearthstones. Yes, they told of all this; and eloquently Mrs. Deitmore descanted on-the mournful subject. From her own sorrow and bereavement to Mr. Elbray's, was only a slight transi- tion, hardly any transition at all; it was so natural in thinking of her loss she should think of his; in thinking of his, she should think of hers. The heart is peculiarly formed for sympathy; while bruised with its own afflic- tions, it is lacerated with the afflictions of others. Mrs. Denmore left her dear departed to rest in peace, and spoke feelingly of Mrs. Elbray. She possessed for that lady's memory the most profound respect. Her acquaintance, (she referred to it as if it had been long and intimate, and in this made a slight mistake; I will not say she told an untruth, for it would be shocking to dash a woman in the full tide of sympathy, by doubting her veracity.) But her acquaintance with the deceased had been a comfort and a benefit to her. No one could know her many virtues with- out being benefited thereby; her example was eminently worthy to be followed. She did not say all this at the first call, but she made the saying of it an excuse for several calls. Mr. Elbray, harsh and irritable as he was, began to be moved by her affection and esteem for his wife. He knew her worth, and was pleased to find one who could appreciate it so well; and capable of appreciating excel- lence in others, bespoke excellence in herself. Knowing but little of his wife's friends, he found it necessary to make some inquiries concerning her. She put up at the most fashionable hotel of the place, had an income of some two or three thousand dollars, so report, helped by her casual remarks, had industriously circulated, and was in every respect a worthy and inestimable person; her dress was irreproachable, her shopping extensive, consequently ALICE MURRAV 10O : her patonage at the different mercantile establishments :;i: was highly desirable. Her manner to the well-dressed was :3ondescending, to the poorly-clad, freezing. She had never cared anything for religion; had, in fact, sneered at piety as something quite degrading to the hu- man mind, depriving it ot: ts liberty and binding it down to a grovelling idiotism. But this was when she happened to crowd herself into the society of those that pride them- selves on their skepticism, and look on this corroding ulcer of the soul as the badge of intellect, the symbol of a supe- rior and sagacious mind. Mrs. Denmore possessed a supe- rior and sagacious mind, Mrs. Denmore, consequently, was very skeptical, and talked pompously of the progressive spirit of the age breaking from the superstition of the past, and opening a way where all could see what they believed, and none be enthralled by insolvable mysteries. She had a few pet philosophical phrases which she lugged into hex conversation on all possible occasions. Her servant, with all her peculiarities, was forgotten; she had now anothel claim to distinction. What mattered it whether she under- stood their meaning or not? Did they who listened to her s :. understand them better than she? When with oracular gravity she declared nature the vesture of God, and talked of the I and the Me, and the everlasting Yes and the ever : :? lasting No, of matter, mind, the soul ascending by jus i::: gradations higher and higher, till she reached the Divinity , of creation wrapped up in that One Being, God the uni verse and the universe God, what mattered it if she con founded systems of philosophy and entangled herself in ra i inexplicable confusion? What better did the philosopher themselves? But now, moving to Antoria, she found, in its benighte. state, infidelity was not the popular form of "belief." Sea eral of the first families were members of the Presbyteria page: 110-111[View Page 110-111] "O AIICE XtIJRAX. church, and, forthwith dropping her skepticism, she regi- larly attended that place of worship. Mr. Elbray was a Catholic, albeit a nominal one; but Mrs. Denmore was liberal in her views, and his belief did not in the least tend to lessen her commiseration for his lonely and bereaved state. Hers was a mind that could not be narrowed by sectarian prejudice; she knew there were many just and excellent Catholics, and with pleasure she admitted she felt for them a Christian fellowship. She thought the mind of man was such that all could not believe alike; one would take one view; another, another; and far be it from her to condemn any. And glancing upward, with matchless grace she repeated Pope's inimitable lines: "Let not this weak, unknowing hand Presume Thy bolts to throw, And deal damnation round the land, On each I judge Thy foe." Mr. Elbray was charmed. Her excessive charity won his warmest admiration. There was something kind and gentle in the spirit she displayed that reminded him of his kind and gentle wife. Strictly following the precepts of her faith, not only believing but practicing its holy tenets, she was kind and charitable, patient and forbearing. And now he had found one that, although not believing like her, in acting out the kind instincts of her nature, was un- conciously following in her very footsteps. He missed in- expressibly the tender, gentle care of his wife. Alice was a good girl, and did all she could to cheer his loneliness ; but she was not, could not be, a companion. Mrs. Denmore could. There was, 'tis true, a little difference in their ages -twenty years-but what was that? He did not feel within twenty years as old as he really was, and he doubted if he looked it. He proposed, was accepted, and in due time the poor Mrs. Denmore dissppeared in the rich Mrs. ALICE MURRAY. 1" Elbray. The summit of her ambition was gained, she was now a wealthy man's wife, and the mistress of an elegant home. Her scheming powers might have been allowed to rest; but no, she had now another object to attain; it apl- peared to her as important as the first, and she labored as assiduously to gain it, Alice was away from that home, still, still she was not satisfied, something more she wanted, something more she labored to obtain. CHAPTER VII. IN his library Mr. Elbray hurriedly looked at his letters. The first he tossed upon his desk with an explosive " tut," but the next riveted his attention. It was in Alice's hand. He impatiently tore open the envelope, and feasted his eyes on the loving words. After all he was noL forgotten, and, leaning back in his arm-chair, he resigned himself to the pleasing reflection. By and by his thoughts wandered on and on, till, like Tennyson's "Brook," they .made a very respectable circuit of Antoria and the surrounding coun- try--in fine, wandered over all his property. He had not labored and hoarded for nothing, and it was to him an intense satisfaction that, although driven out for a time from the sanctuary of his home, she would not, could not, be deprived of her rightful inheritance. He would see to ' it all, and madam might fume to her heart's content. He would be in his grave, where the voice of her indignation could not reach him. How quiet he should be with all the storm and tumult over his head! He fairly chuckled in his chair at the thought of it. She had her day now, and he would have his day then; and Alice, his niece-no, his child-his child by the strongest ties of fatherly affection, page: 112-113[View Page 112-113] "2 ALICE MUBRRAY. would have her day too. He ran his fingers through his white hair and swept it from off his brow, moved uneasily in his chair, pushed it back, turned to his desk; an idea had struck him ; he grasped a pen, and wrote furiously for a few moments, then drew out a drawer, looked over some papers, and, dashing them aside, with an an gry frown re- sumed his pen. One sheet he filled out, and partly filled another, when the door opened, and a servant asked: "Will you have your tea now?"In fact, the hour of tea was long passed. "Tea!" thundered the old man. "What do I want with tea?" "When shall I bring it in?" "When I ring for it--not before. Do you hear?-not before." Still the servant lingered. "What do you want, gaping there like a fool?"He felt ill at ease with a pair of large, sleepy eyes fixed full upon him. "I thought-I thought," stammered the boy, "that is, I wish-I wish to speak-to speak about Miss Alioe." "What is it you'd be saying?" "That-that-" "That what?" angrily asked his employer. "Thay maybe H-I don't know-but--" "Begone," he roared; and rising, pushed him out of the room, turned the key, and in a towering passion again sat down to his letter. He wrote on till the second sheet was, filled, and then an unpleasant thought occurred to him. That boy had something to say, and it might be it was something quite important for him to know. He had a great mind to call him back, but if he did, he would only stand and blush, and stammer, till his patience would be completely exhausted. But then, if it was something really --a 3ALICE MURRAY. 113 '" important for him to know, would it not be better to bear X:a little? He paused to reflect. On one side was a quiet evening, thinking of his darling child, on the other, a drag- ginal lengthening time listening to the cramped, disjointed, ?: 'broken sentences of a blundering, staring somnambulist. That boy always reminded him of one walking in his sleep, there was such a way-off, vacant look in his eyes. Self-ease --S ^ is apt to step in and decide in any such question. Pshaw! ;?ii he was almost as great a fool as the boy, to think he could possibly have anything of importance to tell. And all fur- ther doubt on the subject was dismissed, and thus, through his impatience and love of ease, an opportunity of serving Alice, and averting an impending danger from her, was swept away. The clock ticked on, and minutes passed; before he closed the letter, he took from a little drawer two one hundred dollar bills, and carefully placed them in the sheets; then he sealed the envelope and leaned back in his chair with an expression of great satisfaction. In the morning-it was too late to-night-the letter would be mailed, and in the evening Alice would get it. Wouldn't it be a surprise to her? He could see just how she would look; the opening eyes, the parted lips, the flushed cheek, and the little hand trembling as she took up the notes, and with a confused and bewildered air, carefully examined them; not that she for a moment suspected their genuine- ness, but because she could hardly believe in their reality. Yes, yes, he could see it all; and he wiped his forehead that did not need wiping, and his eyes that did, and taking off his spectacles, deliberately folded and laid them on the ta- ble. Through the darkness, a broad ray of sunshine played upon his heart, revivifying dead feeling, and bringing back the past. He was once more a little boy, kneeling at his mother's knee; she folded his hands, bowed her head, and opened her lips in prayer. With the thick, hurried utter- page: 114-115[View Page 114-115] "4 ALICE MURRAY. ances of childhood, he followed her; his littleness feli from him; dust was addressing Divine Majesty, and a sub- limity encircled him. His poor, uneducated mother became exalted, her humble dress was glorified, and the little, low room, with its smoky ceiling and cracked windows assumed a cathedral-like grandeur. That he had forgotten that mother's teachings, and looked back With loathing on that early home, did not now seem possible. But too much prosperity had hardened his heart; the flesh-pots of Egypt had claimed his attention, and, grasping for them, the faith, the glorious faith of his childhood, was forgotten, or, more properly speaking, contemned. For years he had not felt as he felt to-night ; it seemed as if a chrysalis had fallen from him, that he had suddenly emerged from the moth state; and what did he see? A new existence spread out before him? No, an old exist- ence dead, opportunities of doing good neglected, the kind word in season not spoken, a rush over forgotten aspira- tions, broken hearts, and all the soul holds dear to a goal he now stood panting at the base of. He looked back, dead hopes were strewn across the way, and mountain high the goal arose to crush him with its weight. Alone with his agony he felt weak and powerless, he raised his old hands, the vigor of middle age had flown and the palsy of years had settled upon them. Could he rouse up and drive the brooding thoughts away? He rose and walked up and down the room ; at first his step was firm and steady, but his thoughts were tenacious, they would not be driven back, and heavier and heavier his step be- came. At last it was more than he could bear, he tottered to his chair, fell upon his knees, and bowing his face upon his hands, the proud man wept and prayed. A calmness came over his troubled spirit, the vision of his life floated back, and haunting memories no longer enveloped him ui "ij AICE MURRAY. their shroud-like folds. As he arose, and once more seated himself in his chair, his eye rested on the unopened letter on the desk. He must read it, he must know what-was in it; and with the feeling of one going about a disagreea- ble job, he took it up. The fore part was, as he expected, filled with nothing but the vapid inanities of a fashionable watering place ; the latter part a self-congratulatory affair, egotistical in the extreme, and informing Mr. Elbray of a splendid match she was about making for Lucette. Mrs. Elbray was not apt to make a mistake; she would rather the poor child should remain on her hands her whole 'life than throw herself away on an adventurer; but the fortunate individual in question was no adventurer, no pretender, but one that Mr. Elbray well knew. His pa- rents were former residents of Antoria, the Bartoll family. Mr. Elbray must surely remember them, they only left Antoria a couple of years before They were very respecta- ble people, moved in the best society, and were considered immensely wealthy. When they left Antoria they bought a fine situation on the Hudson, and there lived in splendid style. Of course John Elbray remembered them, it would never do to forget such friends. Like angels' visits they are few and far between on the highways of life; to let them pass from the mind would be like going through Egypt and forgetting the pyramids. No, no; Mr. Elbray was not so foolish as not to retain a very lively remem- brance of them; so lively, that now, as he sat pondering over the letter in his hand, he had a very distinct recollec- tion that Lewis Bartoll had been very intimate at his house, and that Lucette Denmore-for she was not there at the time--had not been the attraction that drew him. No, the face of Alice rose before him, her clear intellectual countenance, beaming with conscious strength and innate purity and nobility of soul. How insignificant was Lnettet's page: 116-117[View Page 116-117] W6 LL LFJLJJ AAL .AU 1 .LLL 1L pretty doll face and assumed childishness beside her. It : was plain to the old man that Lewis Bartoll had once re- garded Alice with no indifference; but, had Alice's affec- x tions been enlisted in return? If so, what a precious game Mrs. Elbray, Madam, was playing. He turned the matter over in his mind: Lewis Bartoll, there was no contradicting Madam was no adventurer, on the contrary, he was a very desirable candidate for a husband-but not for Lucette-Join Elbray could not think of that animated piece of stupidity stepping between his child and her establishment in life. Madam would bring her engines to bear and so would he. He knew a little something of human nature, especially the human nature of the Bartoll family. They were excellent people amiable in manners, bright and sparkling in conversation, and leaders in society. But they had a "realizing" sense of the importance of wealth, a Jeroboam inclination to set up the golden calf in the high places of their affection, and bow down with all homage to this their favorite idol, and, working on this propensity of theirs, he would be able to counteract Madam's wiles. Lucette was portionless, Alice his prospective heir. Their respective merits never for a moment entered his mind; he knew very well, vain and stupid as Lucette was, if she was the heiress and Alice portionless she would be the chosen one. St. Bernard says, "The man on whom the weight of a bad habit presses rises with difficulty ;" the pure, holy influence of John Elbray's early home was swept away, and again he became the sordid moneyed man of the world. So many years de- voted to one absorbing idea it was now almost impossible to break from it. He had been scheming all his life for himself, he was now ready to scheme for Alice. In the morning, with other letters, Alice's was sent out, but it never reached her, and a week after found Mrs. Elbray and ALICE MURRAY. 117 Lucette at home. The gay season was only at its height, but Mrs. Elbray tore herself from the brilliant scenes, and accompanied by Lucette hastened back to Antoria. Friends were surprised, but the waters did not agree with Lucette, and the constant bustle and excitement were more than the poor child's nerves could bear, and with this explana- tion they had to be content. In a few days after, Mr. Bar- toll came to the village and took rooms in the Washington Hotel, the St. Nicholas of the place. Curiosity was at its height, what could induce him to forego the pleasures of a gay watering place and bury himself in the sombre shades of a country ,village? He was seen several times at NMr. Elbray's, and occasionally rode out with Lucette. The mystery was unfolded, and as from time immemorial a prospective wedding has been a fine subject on which to expend any amount of stale wit, many were the small jokes put in circulation, and infinite was Lucette's enjoy ment of their salient points. One day a friend was in Mr. Elbray's library, and after a desultory conversation, Lucette's approaching marriage was broached. "Yes," Mr. Elbray esponded, "Lucette will soon be set- tled in life; and as she has no fortune, nothing of her own, I am glad she is to be married to one so wealthy. She needs it all the. more, you see." "Yes, yes; but no fortune--nothing of her own!"His friend looked slightly puzzled. Mrs. Elbray had indus- triously reported that, disgusted with Alice's ingratitude, and having no near relative of his own, Mr. Elbray had chosen Lucette for his heir. From the estrangement that had sprung up between Alice and her uncle, and in conse- quence thereof her leaving his home, it did not seem im- probable. Besides, as Mrs. Elbray had predicted, from the niece of the first wife to the daughter of the second, did page: 118-119[View Page 118-119] "8 ALICE MJRRAY. not strike them as a very singular or violent change. It was, in fact, exceedingly natural and very right. Alice i: was to be pitied-that is, if she submitted with a graceful :i resignation; if not, she was to be severely blamed for not ? taking the common course of human events in a cool and :: philosophical manner. The world does not want its synm- : pathy too heavily taxed; a light tribute it can pay-a heavy one is more than it can bear. Mr. Elbray, on perceiving his friend's surprise, slowly !? and emphatically repeated his words. "Lucette has no fortune-nothing of her own; and I : am gliLd she is going to marry a man so wealthy as Lewis Bartoll."' "Nothing of her own?" his friend replied. "Of course, she has nothing of her own; but, Mr. Elbray, as it has been generally understood that she is the fortunate one whom you have selected as heir-to your property, Mr. Bar. toll can afford to wait awhile." Now this telling a man to his face that another can afford to wait for his property, is, to say the least, not 'altogether pleasing or agreeable. Mr. Elbray's eyes snapped, and his color rose. Wait for his property!-his death! And he could afford to do it? Verily, Lewis Bartoll was a paragon of patience. But, then, he musn't play the fool, and allow his ungovernable temper to get the better of his judgment. There was no denying it, Lewis Bartoll was a keen, shrewd young man-one that would not let property run through his fingers. He might be gay, and, to all appearance, light and frivolous, but he had a sharp eye, and knew all the time what he was about. How did he dispose of the seven thousand dollars old Bartoll gave him a few years ago? v Did he chase through Europe, and scatter it to the four winds? No; he bought a flour-mill in Antoria, and in less than three years sold it for for fifteen thousand dollars. ALICE MURRAY. 119 John Elbray remembered that, and one or two other transac- tions, proving Lewis Bartoll one after his own heart. Nc, he would build up no imaginary evils and dash his head against them. Wait for his property? Yes, he might afford to wait for it, but when he got it he would know how to keep it; and his heart gave a bound of delight- make it grow and increase tenfold on his hands. In a manner exceedingly bland for him he remarked: "As to Lucette's heirship, there has only been a slight mistake made. For Lucette Denmore substitute Alice Murray, and it will all be right." "Alice Murray!' Why, Elbray, is that so?" "It is so. Most assuredly so. Who should know it bet- ter than myself? And I saying it, who dare contradict it?" "No one, certainly. But, then-" "But what?"There was the quick breath and swelled face of coming wrath. "Who, I ask, has the right to dis- pose of what is mine but myself? Who dare question the manner in which I see fit to dispose of it? There was no answer expected to these questions, and none was given. His friend contented himself with remarking "that Alice was a truly worthy person, and he was delighted to see uncle and niece again reconciled." This was touching on matters entirely too personal, too private, to be borne with in John Elbray's present mood. The difference between him and his darling to be bandied about from tongue to tongue. He rose, and commenced walking rapi4l1y up and down the room. "I tell you, sir," he said, when he got cool enough to speak, "difference or no difference between Alice Murray and her uncle, Lucette Denmore never gets so much as she can wrap round her finger of what's mine. That is settled, sir-that is settled." The tone and bitter emphasis showed that it was. See- page: 120-121[View Page 120-121] 120 ALICE MURRAY. ing how it irritated him, his friend hastened to change the conversation, and soon after left. And Lewis Bartoll could afford to wait for his property? Yes, as Alice Murray's i husband he might; as Lucette Denmore's he might wait to his heart's content, and in the end take his labor for his pains. This he told himself several times, and it com. - forted and assured him so much that he was able to turn ;: with renewed zest to his morning paper. A week passed, and all Antoria buzzed with the import- : ant decision. If Lewis Bartoll heard it, he had discretion enough not to make any violent demonstration of his know- I ledge. He called as usual on Lucette, but there might have I . been seen a slight, a very slight falling off of his old desire to please. His subjects for conversation were not so ready at hand, his compliments seemed quite to have forsaken him. It might be the sun of the July days was telling on ; his buoyancy, and making him, under its fervid beams, i: weak and languid; it might be the novelty of coming back to his native place-bustling, busy, go-a-head Antoria-was J wearing off, and he was sinking back into the quietude of every-day feelings; and it might just possibly be, that lhe was surfeited with too much attention. There was more than one managing mamma in the village, and more than one Lucette sighing for a wealthy husband. But whetevcr it was, Lewis was certainly changed, and Lewis himself could not, or would not, give any cause for it. It was the afternoon of a pleasant, cloudless day. Mr. and Mrs. Elbray, Lucette, and Mr. Bartoll were seated in the parlor; through the open windows came in the breath ! of rose and jasmin, the birds in their silver cages under the trees in the yard, caroled their most joyous notes with an abandonment that seemed to argue they fancied them- selves at home in the leafy arbors of their own tropical clime. Mr. Elbray sat at a window where, through the ini ALICE MURIlAY. 121 I tervening boughs of locust, elm, and oak, he could catch a glimpse of the play of the crystal waters of the fountain. I Books and periodicals lay scattered on the table, fine pic- tures hung on the walls, and pieces of music littered the open piano. But with all the suggestive surroundings the conversation would have flagged, for Mr. Elbray was ab- stracted, Lucette ill at ease, and Mr. Bartoll busy studying the interstices of the matting, to judge from the frequency iwith which his eyes sought it, had not Mrs. Elbray, with un- tiring energy, sustained it. She introduced one subject after another; the chit-chat of the village, flowers, literature, birds, and poodles-all were mixed up in admirable confu- siol. Having exhausted all she had to say on these, she brought up the fashions, spoke enthusiastically of the new styles, and asked Mr. Bartoll how he liked the improvement in the shape of the bonnets. Mr. Bartoll did not know !' that the shape was different from the season before, only some change in the bows and ribbons ; that was all he had been able to see. Mrs. Elbray laughed-gentlemen were so stupid about such things. But didn't he think the little lace and straw affairs, with their flowers and gay streamers, the prettiest things in the world? Of course Mr. Bartoll did-the prettiest things in the world, except the pretty faces that went with them. John Elbray suddenly rose and walked out of the room, he made straight for the garden, and passing down the graveled walks, viciously struck off with his cane the heads of beautiful and fragrant flowers. "What detestable fools some women can make of themselves," he exclaimed, com- ing to a full stop, and looking back angrily at the house. Lucette, at her mother's orders, seated herself at the piano and played several airs. Lewis Bartoll professed himself greatly pleased with her performance, and perhaps he was. It might be he had no ear for music, and if there page: 122-123[View Page 122-123] 122 ALICE MURRAY. was noise enough, was satisfied that all was right. Aftei Lucette rose from the instrument he remarked: "I suppose Miss Murray will soon weary of her strange fancy and be glad to return home." "Her strange fancy, Mr. Bartoll, I do not understand you." Mrs. Elbray's countenance expressed as much astonish. ment as it was possible to express. "It was certainly a fancy I should say," Mr. Bartoll smilingly returned. "In what respect. Please explain." There was a little of the old hardness round the mouth, and the old glitter in the eye. "So long, Mrs. Elbray, as there was no pecuniary neces- sity urging her to the step, I cannot for the life of me. imagine what else you could call it." "No pecuniary necessity, Mr. Bartoll, why I should ; think there was great pecuniary necessity. She was noth- : :? ing to Mr. Elbray, and how could she expect him to do for her. He had in all conscience done for her long enough. It was full time she tried to do for herself." Mrs. Elbray vigorously fanned herself, while Lucette toyed with the lace curtains and looked childishly unconscious of the im- port of her mother's words. "But, Mrs. Elbray, it strikes me that Mr. Elbray does not look on Miss Murray as one having no claims on him. He brought her up, and looks upon her as a child." Mr . Bartoll was full as unconscious as Lucette herself of hav- ,:' ing said anything that could possibly be disagreeable to hear. He flirted his perfumed hankerchief over his face, run his white fingers through his curly hair, and changed his position to one still more graceful. "Mr. Elbray look on Alice as a child, after all the base I ingratitude she has shown him? Impossible! Mr. Bar- tol, you do not understand Mr. Elbray' nature.' ALICE MURRBAY. 123 "If, my dear Mrs. Elbray, Mr. Elbray has a father's feel- ings for her, it will take considerable wear and tear to root those feelings out. I perfectly understand these matters; I know the old gentleman-I refer to mv own revered father-has often and often expressed himself in the severest terms against me, the pride and hope of his house, and yet afterwards relented, and felt with all the force of self-reproach, his rank injustice to me." Mr. Bar- toll was blandly smiling all the time, and Mrs. Elbray could not but smile too; but in her smile was the bitter- ness of hatred. "Mr. Bartoll, so far as I can learn, the transgressions against your father have never been of a very serious char- acter. You may have momentarily offended him, and at such times he may have strongly expressed himself. But you have never stabbed him to the heart with the display of a thankless and ungrateful disposition?" "I believe not, ma'am. But nevertheless he has some. times had the injustice to accuse me of it." "But not having any justice in his accusations, they have died out of themselves. If his accusations had been founded in truth, it would even have been with him, a fa- ther, a different thing. Mr. Elbray did not accuse Alice of ingratitude to him till he had the strongest proof of it. She left his home without, till the very last, acquainting him with the fact of her- intended departure, and, I assure S you, this total indifference to his wishes, this going directly against them, cut to his very heart." "Mamma, I could never have done so." "i No, my dear, I don't think you could. I did my best to comfort him, but for days after he acted like one beside him- self. Lucette was the only one in the house that could do anything with him. He would listen to her, and be soothed and governed by her, when I could do nothing for him." page: 124-125[View Page 124-125] 124 AUCE MURRAY. "Singular, how his affections were wrapt up in her." "Yes, he was devoted to her, and it was a great shock to his feeling to wake up from his delusion, and find how unworthy she was." Mr. Bartoll looked grave. It was certainly a great mis- take in Alice to leave his home. Under the circumstances, : she should by all means have staid. Mrs. Elbray-with his Chesterfieldian blandness he understood her perfectly-- would have been less powerful, and John Elbray less under her malign influence. Alice certainly made a foolish blunder there, and yet he was not certain; maybe, after all, she had done the wisest thing. Her uncle would miss her, and feel so lonely without her that, happily recovering from his shock at her ingratitude, his affections would go out to her stronger than ever. As to Lucette's comforting the old gentleman in his stormy fits of ill-humor, he rather doubted it. He knew a little of him, and considered it an extremely difficult and not altogether agreeable under- : taking-one from which a timid child-like creature like Lucette would naturally shrink. Why it would be as much as he would care to do to approach and quiet him in his fierce and growling moods. All that was probably an amiable delusion on the mother's part. Lucette, with her infantile grace, could comfort her in her most down-hearted : moments-supposing she was ever down-hearted; and she : fancied her little acts comforted him--him, though, was not the word he used in his mind, it was something more expressive of aversion to the sour, grim old man-some- -: thing less reverent. Mr. Bartoll, making no reply to her :- last remark, Mrs. Elbray resumed: "As to her return to Mr. Elbray's home, I hardly think!f it probable. She may possibly wish to return, but Mr. El- ; bray, now that she is away, would prefer to have her stay away. He does not want to go through the miserable pain a I. ALICE MURRAY. 125 of another separation." Mrs. Elbray did not refer to her i own feelings on the subject-hers were not to be thought of, it was only Mr. Elbray's she was considering. Mr. Bartoll again whisked his perfumed handkerchief ver his face, ran his fingers through his hair, and allowed convinced and satisfied expression to rest on his amiable and refined countenance. No one would have supposed that he had noticed the cold, dull fire in Mrs. Elbray's eyes, or the heightened color on her cheeks, or that he had seen the significant glance that had passed between mother and daughter when he spoke of Alice's return. But he had seen and noted it all, and drew from it his own conclusions. He took up a periodical, and leisurely turned the leaves. Lucette spoke of a magazine she was taking, and what de- lightful stories were in it. As to the dull things on the table, she never cared for them. They were all, every one i of them, stupid affairs. "Mine are not there," she said. "I wouldn't let them be in such company. I keep the dear things in my own room." "But I believe Miss Murray was quite partial to this one?" "Yes, she liked it. She was just stupid enough to think it wonderful fine. Why, if you believe it, she told me once the silly love stories I read was enough to ruin me." The brown eyes opened wide with affected earnestness, and the red lips contracted into a would-be aggrieved pout. "Indeed "Mr. Bartoll's eye happened to light on some- thing that interested him, and he paid but little attention to her words. "Yes, she actually told me so," Lucette continued ; "and would never look at one of them, although I offei'id them to her time and again." "That was too bad," he abstractedly answered, noting t e page, and thinking, as soon as he returned to his hotel, page: 126-127[View Page 126-127] 126 AICE MURRAY. he would take the review out of his trunk, and read the i! article over attentively. It seemed to be well worth a care- ful perusal. He now rose to go, and, with a kind pressure : of the hand of each lady, he drew on his gloves. Mrs. El- bray and Lucette followed him to the door, and with a graceful bow and a promise to call again, he bade them l "good afternoon.' "Mamma, isn't it too bad, Alice thinking of coming back here?"Lucette asked, or rather remarked, when they were again in the parlor. ! "But, my dear, she will never come back. Trust your I mamma for that." Mrs. Elbray had seated herself in her -: luxurious chair, but, rising, she walked to the door. "Where are you going, mamma?" "I am going to my room. I have something to see to." : She ascended the broad stairs, and, entering her apart- IX ment, stepped to her desk, selected a key, unlocked a : drawer, and took out a little box. It opened with a spring, id and for a moment she feasted her eyes with the glittering i things. This seemed to assure her, and putting it back ; and relocking the drawer, with a gleaming and triumphant i:; expression she exclaimed: "The denouement will come sooner than I expected, but i perhaps it's just as well." ? CHAPTER VII. NOT a cloud flecked the deep blue sky, and scarce a breeze lifted the heavy foliage of the trees, the hum of the insect world filled the dreamy air, the green fields I stretched lazily on, while the houses, still and quiet, seemed eeping under the noonday sun. Alice walked up and g' . - ALICE MURRAY. 127 : down the school-room, pausing now and then before a i window to watch the children playing under the trees, and again letting her eyes rest on an open volume she held in her hand. Her school duties had become lighter ; a more intimate acquaintance with children had drawn out many a beautiful trait in their character and dispelled many a prejudice. They were troublesome, but not more so than grown people; their ceaseless questions nine cases out of ten were just as sensible, and the passions they displayed, if they were the passions of their seniors, were still like themselves little and undeveloped. On the other hand, all the finer qualities of the heart were in richer bloom. Af- fection among them was never simulated, sympathy was real, kindness quite general, and affectation almost un- known. Their gay laughter and merry voices had now a meaning for her; they spoke of the morning period of life when the dew hangs in diamond drops upon each tiny leaf, and a heavenly freshness clothes the world. A little while, before even the sun would reach its meridian, the freshness would be gone, the flowers faded, and only a dusty travel-worn path would stretch on before them. She pitied them; pitied the joyous, merry-hearted children so red cheeked and healthy ; and her bearing to them became singularly kind and gentle. Fenelon was still her friend and adviser, and insensibly the pupil was imbibing the sentiments of the master. She had received no answer to her second letter and she felt that she was completely cast off. No more on reaching her boarding-house did she hasten to her room with the expectation of finding a letter lying on the table for her. No, that hope, the hope of her uncle writing, was dead ; she tried to resign herself to the thought that he had ceased to care for her, and more and more anxious sne became to pay him all he had expended )n her. Under her care and instruction the children were i. page: 128-129[View Page 128-129] 128 ALICE MURRAY A rapidly improving. She must love something, and her! i. fections went out to them. During school hours her whole attention was given to the different classes, and nodistract- ing thought took her mind from the lessons of the day, and at recess she watched them at their play, sometimes smiling and sometimes laughing outright at any little : pleasing incident. Great convulsions in nature are generally preceded by ^ certain physical phenomena-low, hollow murmurings, strange noises, trembling, oppressive heat, and a calmness that is no more like real calmness than a corpse is like a living body. It seems the veil of the future is partly rent, and through the aperture we catch. glimpses of coming events. For several days, Alice had felt an indefinable gloom settling upon her. It was not the old sorrow haunt- i ing her, that had something tangible about it; she could grasp it, look at it, and know what it was; but this was spirit-like, without substance and without shadow. She did not feel any way agitated; on the contrary, her pulses seemed to stand still with a dead, heavy calm. In the - school-room she conversed with her pupils, listened to their questions and quietly answered them, at the same time that her soul was hushed and awe-stricken with a great and unknown dread. She did not attempt to rouse herself from this apathy; as well might the palsied try to use their limbs. Waiting, trembling, fearing, she was borne along, counting the days as they fled, and wondering they were so heavy-winged and slow. Every moment was employed; i, after school-hours she read or sewed, staying most of the time in her own room, as she found it difficult to maintain a conversation out of her school. There it was her business to talk, and she had subjects ready to her hand. At her boarding-house she must enter into the general topics of the day, and this was impossible in her present state f fi ;IiW itALICE MURRAY. 129 mind. Her own room offered what she most craved, quiet : and seclusion; for Julia, seeing how annoyed she looked I when, with her usual bustling manner, she intruded upon her, either from pique or delicacy of feeling, stayed away from it. Here, therefore, she could sew, and pause, and listen; here, like a poor, spent child, kneel and pray when the great dread pressed too heavily upon her. History she had always been partial to, but now it ceased to interest. Man warring with his-fellow man, the strong taking advantage of the weak, rapine and murder immor- talized-such it appeared to her; light literature failed to amuse. A fervent and religious tone of mind formed the under stratum of her character, and to the incomparable works of Thomas a Kempis she turned, eager as a child, for some soothing and strengthening word. Walking up and down the school-room, she had just finished the chapter in "The Following of Christ," in which the Disciple expresses his love and confidence in the Divine protection. As she closed the volume, a placid smile rested on her face. Years had passed since first she looked on its pages; the faces of friends had changed, change was writ- ten on all her early hopes, but unchanged, unchangeable, e was the loved volume. The same lessons she studied there in childhood, she again conned, and the voice that had charmed before, charmed again. The hour of recess had passed, and ringing her little bell, the children left their important affairs under the trees, and thronged into the school-room. The first class took their place to read, and the afternoon exercises commenced. The second, third and fourth class successively followed, and then came the recitations in geography, arithmetic and grammar. History and philosophy lessons had been at- tended to in the morning. Other teachers generally got through by four o'clock in the afternoon, but she was for page: 130-131[View Page 130-131] 130 AI CE MURnRY. tunate if she could dismiss her pupils at half-past four.- And this she could only do by commencing half an hour earlier than the usual time; so that from half-past eight in the morning till half-past four in the afternoon, with the : exception of an hour at noon, was a continual drive that left no room for painful thought. Half the afternoon had passed when Mr. Bradley and Miargaret called for her. It, was Friday, the next day there was to be no school, and Margaret and she were to ride home that evening. Alice was surprised that they had come so soon; they had always before called for her at her boarding-house after school hours. "I wanted to see you at your work," Margaret remarked in a low voice. "And so you let out your school to visit mine," Alice an- - swered smiling. "Yes, I dismissed my pupils at noon. I told father last Sunday I was going to do so, and if he possibly could to come for us, or more properly speaking, to come for mei directly after dinner." "You see, Alice," Mr. Bradley with his kind, fatherly way added, "we wanted to come and pay you a kind of a friendly visit." "Thank you, thank you, uncle Terence, come right in, Margaret too." She led them in, seated them, and took Margaret's things. "Go on the same as if we were not here," Mr. Bradley kindly whispered. She nodded assent and called up another class. Margaret was anxious to know from personal observa- tion how she was getting along. She had taught the pre- vious Saturday so as to have a holiday at her command, a but she would not call on her in the morning, as she knew Alice would insist on her staying with her the whole day, AL AICE MURRAY. 131 and all day having a visitor in her school would be weary- ing to the last degree ; neither would she call too soon in the afternoon. She would know from an hour or so of ob- servation whether she was going to be successful or not. With Margaret teaching was a rest, a pastime, a delightful occupation, and she was surprised anhd disappointed when she heard it was not all that for Alice. But they had been reared so differently. Margaret's life had been one of severest toil. How then, it may be asked, did she get learning enough to teach? Every winter till she was four- teen, and every summer till she was eleven she attended the district school, working hard night and morning; that is, before and after school hours, helping her mother. After that she staid at home till she was sixteen, improv- ing every spare moment. In making beds, sweeping, dust- ing, churning, cooking, spinning, in fact, while doing every- thing and anything, an open book was always near, and sentence by sentence she unweariedly plodded through it. It was finished, she had mastered it, and she hardly knew bow or when; one thing was certain, no work had been neglected. Undersized and frail of form her parent's heart ached for her. Poor thing, hard work would soon break her down, and then she was so fond of books, pity they couldn't give her a chance by sending her a year to the Sister's school; it would be the making of her. She would then be a great scholar, and, little as she was, able to get her own living; she would be independent. The poor and uneducated are apt to take, exaggerated views of the amount one can learn by having a few months' chance. It is so much more than they ever had that they look upon it as the " open, open Sesame" of all knowledge. To give their children the golden opportunity that had been denied them, they will work harder, retrench the little comforts they have allowed themselves, and consider no personal . Irsnl page: 132-133[View Page 132-133] 1.32 ALICE MURRA. hardship, or inconvenience too great. The Bradley family talked it over for some time; Margaret's help was almost t indispensable; her mother did not know how she could do without her; her father, how he could raise the means. ? He had not yet paid up for the last land he had bought. Ihe yearly payments together with the interest, and the expenses of his large family, took every cent he could get. It looked dark, but he thought, and pondered, and turned it over in his mind, and finally talked to Father Edward about it. He and Mrs. Bradley went on purpose one after- noon to Lucan to lay the matter before him, ask his advice, and learn from him how much it would take, and how near to them the nearest and best Sister's school was. It was a mighty undertaking. The earnestness of their voices, and the gravity of their manner told how mighty, and the kind priest thoroughly understanding the nature of the difficulties they had to contend with, and knowing, too, that urged on by strong parental affection they would bravely battle and rise above them, advised them by all means, if it were possible, to give Margaret the advantage of a year at the Sister's school; that the nearest was St. --- Academy, the board and tuition in the English branches about one hundred and sixty dollars a year, in short gave ' them all the particulars. They went home, and at the end i of a week, to Margaret's extreme joy, concluded it could ; be done. Her clothes, the journey there and back, ^' entrance tee and all, would bring it up to some over two hundred dollars; but they would not mind a dollar more or less if Margaret only got able to support herself. I: Thank God, she wans't blind, or deaf, or dumb, only little. i Well, she went. It was a hard year with the Bradleys, no no new clothes got round for the children, there was a great deal of mending and repairing, Margaret's help was gone too, and sometimes Mrs. Bradley thought she would Xi XALIRE MUBRAY. 133 sink under her burden. Elizabeth took Margaret's place, but she did not have her faculty to get along. Poor child I she did as well as she could, and nobody did or could find X fault with her. Every month brought a letter from Mar- garet, telling of her rare chance, and how she was trying I to improve it. These letters were the sunshine of their warm faithful hearts. They read them over and over again, and prophesied great things for her. Little as she was she was to be the joy of them; all were to be proud 1 that Margaret Bradley was their sister; wouldn't she be the grand scholar and great teacher? Alas for poor Margaret! no one knew better than she the great home sacrifices that had been made, and all that would be expected in return, and never was a more indus- trious, thorough-going pupil. Early and late, in school : hours and out of them, she pored over her books. The I kind Sisters were afraid she would injure her health by her X severe application; but she had now got to the fountain, and if she could not drink deep of the Pierian waters, she must at least have a full, overflowing goblet; the Sisters must not cross her, and, almost sternly, she turned a deaf ear to their gentle solicitude, and pursued her own way. They were astonished at the progress she made, while to herself she seemed to stand still. There was so much to be learned, and the year was passing so quickly away, that she felt a feverish anxiety to urge on. The examinations drew near, passed, the distribution of premiums followed, and Margaret's year was up. She would dearly have liked to stay another, but could not bear to ask her parents, the one had been such a burden to theml in their straiten. ed circumstances. She returned home wearied and ex- hausted, but deeming it selfish to think of resting when they all had to work so hard, at once applied for and got a page: 134-135[View Page 134-135] 184 ALICE MURRAY. school. The bright dream of her childhood was realized :' : she was a teacher. How different had been Alice's life. Adopted when a 1 child by wealthy relatives, she knew nothing of the soul- thirst, the eager, restless desire for knowledge, and tihe hedging in of poverty-its binding, cording, lashing power i She had nothing to do but to learn, all was smooth before her, the expenses of her education she knew little about. She was to be educated and accomplished, and calmly and without hurry she walked the path marked out for her, ac- quiring knowledge and cultivating her mind almost without effort. When her aunt died, the loneliness of her uncle made her presence and soothing kindness almost indis- pensable. Sorrow drew their hearts more closely together, and never before did he seem so much her father, or she his child. The season of mourning passed, marriage again came, and she awoke to find herself doubly orphaned, poor and almost friendless. From self-ease to exertion was a great change, and any regular course of labor would seem hard to her. Dependence was still harder, and she bravely went to work. She knew but little of sewing, and still less of manual labor; she resolved to teach, and in teaching became to her a synonym of drudgery. Margaret and Alice could not but have different views on the subject, and after a while Margaret got to the bot- g tom of the question, and did not wonder. Alice could not help it; hers had been a life of ease and affluence, and she must have been sorely tried when she awoke to the fact that she was a poor, lone orphan. But, would she succeed as a teacher? This Margaret asked herself, and with the most intense anxiety waited to see. Julia Arm- strong had given glowing accounts of her popularity among her pupils, and the favorable light in which she was re i ALICE MURRAY. 135 garded by the parents, but Julia was one of those warm- hearted enthusiastic people who, entertaining a high regard for a person, are blind to the fact that everybody else does not entertain one equally high. They do not intend to exaggerate or deceive; they simply fancy every one sees with their eyes. Margaret knew this peculiarity of Julia's, and did not feel altogether at ease from her reports. She must see and know for herself; her quick eye would soon discover how the teacher stood with the pupils, and the pupils with the teacher. At one end of the school room was a platform a foot high, on this was the teacher's desk, and a form command- ing a fine view of the whole school. Here Margaret and her father were seated. Alice, as I said before, called up a class. With calm earnestness she went through the reci- tations, when the children blundered mildly setting them right, where they missed patiently bearing with them, but at the same time firmly insisting on the lesson being learned before the pupil could go on. A remarkably ugly boy was called to recite; he seemed to be alone, no one else in his class; he arose, shook his reddish, sunburnt hair from his brows, and in a bold, confident, and almost defiant manner gave out the first two or three answers. Presently came a question, followed by another and another, for which he was not prepared. He stammered, blushed, struggled fiercely with his irresolution, looked angrily at Alice, as if she was to blame for his not knowing, and then sullenly hung his -head. For a moment Alice was silent; harshly to reprove him in his present mood would do no good; he rather wanted encouragement. He had studied hard, was generally ready with his lessons, and always deeply mortified when he missed. It seemed to Alice, conscious of his ugliness, he was trying to make up for it by being the best scholar in sclooL In fact, she had heard the page: 136-137[View Page 136-137] IOJV ALICE MURRAY. children taunting him on his ill-set featares, and severely reprimanded them for it, and she had seen in his eye a cold, proud determination to excel them in something. "George," she at length said, and her voice was low and musical, "you did not mean to miss ; I am aware of that; 'tis through no neglect on your part, only your memory has proved a little treacherous-that is all. Monday you will look the lesson over again, and take for your next the usual number of pages." She handed him his book back, and as she did so, lightly rested her hand for a moment on his head. The sullen expression left his face, a radiant glow lit it up, almost dispelling its ugliness, and with a grateful glance at his teacher, he returned to his seat. A couple of large girls in a corner were whispering and laugh- ing. Alice went up to them and spoke a few grave, earnest words. The laugh, the whispering, ceased, and for the re- mainder of the afternoon there were not two more orderly or industrious pupils in the school. Margaret's pale cheek flushed with gladness. She saw Alice with gentle dignity : E bearing the reins of government. She was the teacher- - the presiding spirit of that room; every pupil knew they . had in her a mistress, not hard and inexorable, but one that . was nevertheless to be respected and obeyed. But did she like her labor? Was the work consonant to her feelings, H or was it a monotonous drag on her patience and power of A endurance? Silent, observant, Margaret sat on that form, noting every change of Alice's countenance. Her father X looked at the little girls and boys, snapped all his fingers 1 once and his thumbs twice, changed his position several i times, wondered how the children could keep so quiet, and finally forgot his restlessness and weariness in letting his : thoughts drift away to his fields and crops. At last the classes were all through, the afternoon exercises concluded, and Alice dismissed her pupils. The result of Margaret's a !11ji X ACE MURRAY. 137 observations was that Alice was more interested in her oc- cupation than at first, but some unaccountable gloom had settled upon her spirits. Immersed in his crops her father did not notice it, and she did not mention it to him. As to her uncle Elbray, his silence and neglect had passed over her like a storm strengthening and bracing in its effects, not weakening. This was different, the long lashes drooped weariedly, and an unwonted sadness rested around her mouth. Much Margaret wondered, not from idle curi- osity, but a kind pitying concern, what new trouble had settled upon her. But she would not ask her, would not force her confidence. While to some it is a relief to un- bosom their grief to sympathizing friends, to others it is tearing them, bleeding and throbbing from the heart only to place them back, all the more aggravated for the expo- sure. When the struggle is past, and the grief dead and buried, then they can refer to it, not before; not, at least, with any degree of calmness. As Mr. Bradley assisted them into the wagon, and started the horses that had been tied to the post before the door, Margaret asked, "Are you glad, Alice, the week for you is past?" "I do not know, Margaret," she answered, "I hardly realized it till you spoke ; but I do not dislike my labor It seems to make my life more real?" "That is Alice," said Mr. Bradley, "because evcery one is born to labor at something; and if he don't do it he fares worse." "Yes, father," rejoined Margaret, "labor at something, either with the hand or the brain." "And faith. Maraaret. I think they that have the brain work to do. have the hardest part; I remember how hard it used to be to me to write home. I would a great deal rather chop my two cords or two and a half cords a day, or page: 138-139[View Page 138-139] 138 ALICE MURBAY. mow my three acres, or cradle or rake and bind from six to six than to sit and nibble my pen and blot mnay paper, and put down what would be easy enough to say but was mighty hard to write ; and after all my worry and trouble the answer let me me know they couldn't at home make out half what I had written, and only guessed the rest. Oh, I never was meant for anything but fist work-that's i plain." Mr. Bradley sighed as he looked at his hard jointy hands. He had a profound respect for learning, and hav- ing never been able to obtain it, sometimes looked with regret upon his lot. Perhaps it was this very respect, this soul-longing that made him so gentle and courteous in his manners. The desire for learning threw around him, in his humble state, much of the refinement and gentleness which learning brings. "But, father," said Margaret kindly, " the letters you used to write to me the year I was in school were easy enough to read; and never did I, and never can I receive letters so dear." "No, no, I suppose not. You are my child, H argaret; they were from your father, that was the reason. But they - cost me many a hard day's work-days I couldn't be out, you know. Ah, little do the learned ones realize what a! tough job a mere nothing to them is to such as me." "But," again interrupted Margaret, " what is easy enough for you would be next to impossible for them. Do - you suppose they can fell a tree, or put in crops, or reap [ij and harvest them like you." "Well, no, Margaret, I don't suppose they could." t "Then, father, just console yourself, you are even with them. God apportions our tasks, and we must not be e dissatisfied with those He haith assigned us. You may be oi sure it is for some wise purpose this is given, or that with- held." Mr. Bradley looked with fondness on her thought- ALICE MURRAY. 139 ful face. In their great respect for learning, Margaret was the oracle of the family. "I do declare," he said, a father's pride beaming in his eyes, "I believe, Margaret, what you lack in size the good God has given you in brain." Margaret smiled a glad, grateful smile glad because she knew she had comforted her father, grateful because she had been able to do it. They had now reached Mr. A'rmstrong's, and Mr. Bradley stopped. "Alice, is there anything you want?" he asked. "Yes, uncle Terence, I would like my satchel." "Are your things in it?" "Yes, I placed them in it this morning." "Very well, Margaret, hold the lines. Don't stir, Alice, just go up to the house and get them myself. Julia will know where the satchel is." He got out of the wagon and went up to the house. In a few moments he returned followed by Julia. She in- sisted on their getting out and coming in to tea. "You must," she said, " come right in. The table is all set, and aunt Sarah is expecting you." "We cannot, Julia, to-day. We thank you, but we posi- tively cannot." "Why, in the name of goodness, can't you? Mr. Brad- ley, did you ever in your life hear such folly as that Mar- garet of yours will get off?" "Faith, Julia, I don't think her very foolish." "All your mistake, Mr. Bradley--all your mistake. But you must come in; aunt is expecting you, and she'll be dreadfully disappointed,"--accenting the word dread- fully in a manner that went, accompanied as it was with a little energetic stamp of the foot and a terrible contrac- tion of the brows, to prove that not only disappointment page: 140-141[View Page 140-141] J 1V Al UJUJ i .LU.1UAI. but anger would disturb the serenity of that good lady's temper. "Ah no, Julia," said Margaret, laughing. "But I tell you it is so," she exclaimed. "You know :- aunt Sarah well enough to know that she occasionally likes i to have her own way. She has said you must come in, and when I go back and tell her your highness would not con- descend to obey her, you may be sure she will not take it very graciously." "I am in a hurry to-night to get home," Mr. Bradley said. "I should not have been off of the farm this after- i noon at all, but Margaret here wanted me to come for her after dinner. My barley is all out, and I am anxious to see how the boys are getting along. But listen to me. After we get the barley in, we are going right into the oats; when they are in, Mrs. Bradley is coming to the village to do a little trading, and then we'll stop and take tea with you." "What day will that be?" "I don't know, Julia, for certain. To-morrow we want ,'@ to get in the barley. Monday we go into the oats. Tues ;! day we'll be in them, and get them in in the afternoon and :3 Wednesday forenoon. Well, I think maybe we will be? down to the village on Wednesday afternoon." L: "I suppose, then, I'll have to let you go this time, but : remember it is on condition of seeing you and Mrs. Brad- M ley on Wednesday." "Yes, Julia," Mr. Bradley answered, starting the horses. I "Stop!" she peremptorily exclaimed, "I must get Rosie a bunch of flowers." She flew to the garden and soon re- turned with a large handful. "There," she said, handing them to Margaret, " tell her I sent them." "I will, Julia," she answered, taking them; " and in her name I thank you." ' I want none of your thanks," she returned, in a petu- i ALICE MURRAY. 141 lant tone. "When I see the blue-eyed fairy, 'll take her thanks from herself. And now, as you are in so great a hurry, you can go. I will no longer detain you." She turned to the house, and again Mr. Bradley started his horses. Between the retired farmer and the farmer not retired, no shade of caste existed. Mr. Bradley's house and surroundings were mean and poor compared to theirs, and Julia knew it, but it made no difference. Her father once lived in just as poor a one; she had even heard him tell that he commenced life in a log-house. She had not forgotten it, and even were she so disposed, which she was not, her father's frequent allusions to the time would have made it extremely difficult. Old farmers living at their ease love to go back to the days in which they felled the proud -forest trees, cleared the land, built log-houses, and drove ox teams. Hercules' labors would sink into utter insignificance beside theirs. The cords of wood they have chopped, the acres they have cleared, the moonlit nights they have remained in the fields, loth to leave their work, the hours before dawn they have torn themselves from their rest and rushed again to it, the harvests they have had, and the crops they have reaped, the carrying of grain to distant markets, all the difficulties of the way, the price obtained, the gradually getting a little beforehand, the building a new house, how fine it was considered, the glorious house- warming following, the enlarging of farms, paying for them, building again and again, meantime the family grow- ing more and more expensive as means flow in, finer furni- ture got, the old huddled away, artificiality of life insensibly creeping in, nothing natural, nothing as it used to be-all this old farmers love to speak of, glorying in the first and bemoaning the last. Let no irreverent ear listening to their tales doubt them. They may exaggerate their labors and trials a little--'tis our nature so to do; but in the main page: 142-143[View Page 142-143] "2 ALICE MURRAY A they are no romance, no fiction, but real, solid truthsa - Look upon them, upon the wilderness redeemed, the teem, i: ing plenty, and incredulity will vanish. Brave old menl i No monument will be needed to record thy deeds; marble mwill crumble into dust before the fruits of thy labor will- perish from the earth. : "Fine girl, Julia," said Mr. Bradley, after they had pro- I:? ceeded in silence a couple of miles "Yes, father, and thoughtful to remember Rosie -so kindly." "O, Julia's not the one to forget her. And it's wonder- - ful how the little thing loves flowers. Never does she go :: into the lots with me that she does not gather her apron : full of them. The dandelions and charlocks and daisies are her delight. But, faith, it's not much delight the abomi .i} nable charlocks and daisies are to me." He was a careful farmer, and no wonder the noxious weeds drew his mind from his darling. "And did you succeed in getting the daisies out of the meadows?"Margaret asked. ; "I got them out of the new one, and in another year I : hope to get them out of the old one. If I don't get a chance to go over them with Richard and Terry in the spring, I will just plough it up in the fall. A deep fall A ploughing, I think, will give them a start." And from Rosie j and her flowers he went on to tell Margaret all about his calculations for another year, what crops he intended for i his fields above the woods, below the woods, and under the hills. Margaret listened like one well acquainted with the subject. And she was; she knew, as well as her father or brothers, how much each would yield to the acre if well tilled and the season was favorable; what grain was best adapted to each, which pasture was best for the cows, and which for the horses and sheep. In short, there was nothing .ALICE MUBRRAY 143 on a farm she did not thoroughly understand. Alice lis- tened abstractedly to the conversation. Now and then. when Margaret addressed a question to her, she answered without hardly seeming to know what she said. The sun was setting behind the hills when they reached home. Mrs. Bradley was sitting by a window, with one of the boys' pants in her lap. As soon as she saw Vthem alight she made the tea, and went to the door ', jnaoet them. "Thank God, Margaret and Alice, you are again home Come in to your tea, it is all ready. The rest of us eat at five o'clock." She took their bonnets and shawls, and has- tened with them into the parlor. Rosie was delighted with her flowers, and when Margcaret got a pitcher half filled with water and placed them in it, she stood gazing rap- turously upon them, the bright flusles in her cheeks com- ing and going like the shadows of clouds over a meadow. Mrs. Bradley poured out the tea, and sent Rosie to the barn for her father. "Tell him," she said, "not to bother about the horses. As soon as Terry and Richard are done milking, they will unharness and take them to the pasture. And, Rosie," she called after her, "be sure and tell him his tea is poured out and will be cooling." "Yes, mother, I'll tell him," chimed back the little sil- very voice. "And, Margaret and Alice, you have been well and pros- perous, I hope?" "Yes, mother-never more so. And father tells me he got the wheat in just in time." "Yes, never a drop on it, and the very night after it was in the barn there was such a heavy shower! We were thankful enough it was safe under shelter." "So father was telling me ; and the barley will be ready to draw in to-morrow, he says." "Yes; Richard and Terry have been all the afternoon I I I page: 144-145[View Page 144-145] "4 ALCE MURIr AY. raking it up; they went over it in the morning with the horse-rake. But come, I'll not wait another minute longer for Terence. It's provoking why he don't cofte in. He : can never stir till the last strap is unbuckled." At that moment Mr. Bradley made his appearance, carry- ' ing Rosie in his arms. "Well, Nora," he said, setting Rosie down, "it seems the last strap is unbuckled, for -: here I am." "And now sit by, and don't keep the girls waiting any - longer." Alice had not spoken; she tried to think of something to say, but as frequently happens, the more she sought for words the more they wafted themselves from her. Noth- ing she could think of seemed appropriate, or to the point, L as if it would have made the least difference with the Bradleys if what she said did not fit in like a bit of mosaic to their conversation. The tea was refreshing, and Alice enjoyed it, enjoyed the delicious butter, the light cakes and!' clear honey, and felt a rest and home-like feeling creeping over her as she rose from the table. She lifted Rosie to i her lap and warmly kissed her. The child threw her arms up round her neck and said, "I am glad, very glad you , are back home. I watched for you and Margaret all the k afternoon." "Did you? did you, indeed?"And the idea that some- body, even a little child, watched for her coming and going ' sent a warm thrill to her heart. "Dear, yes," said Mrs. Bradley, shaking out the boy's pants she had just finished mending; "Rosie is the greatest tease in the world when she sets herself about it. Mother, do you think they have started by this time, and, 'mother, do you think they are half way here,' and, 'mother, do you think they will be here by tea time,' and answering one of her questions was only paving the way for another." ' X1) . - ALICE MURRAY. 145 Rosie turned her face on Alice's shoulder to hide a smile that flitted over it at her mother's words. In a little while she slipped from Alice's lap, and going up to her father stood at his side. He placed his hand caressingly on her head, while he talked with her brothers about the oats they were to go into next. "But, father, there's coming up a rain," said Richard, "Monday will be a wet day, and we don't know when we will go in them." "Monday a wet day," exclaimed Terry; "you must be crazy, Richard," "you must be blind, didn't you see the veils on the grass this morning." "To be sure I did. But wasn't there a heavy dew last night. And who ever knew it to rain right away after that?" "I didn't say right away, to day, or to-morrow, or the next day, I said Monday." "You had better said next month, and done with it.'@ Terry was of a hopeful turn, and the cloudy view Richard was apt to take of the farm affairs provoked him." Mrs. Bradley and the girls, gathered in a little knot, were talking of the tubs of butter in the cellar, and tho heavy churnings, and the salting, working and packing after. While they conversed the room grew dusky. In harvest, by early candle light, night prayers were said, and the family ready for bed. "Well, boys," Mr. Bradley observed, "to-morrov, God helping us, we'll have the barley in." "And a tight job it will be, father." "Yes, Richard, but early and late I think it can be done And now we'll say our prayers. Terry, it is your turn to- night." They all knelt, and Terry said them aloud, the rest fol- lowing and making the responses. After prayers a candle page: 146-147[View Page 146-147] was handed to Alice, and the rest without a light hastened to their respective rooms. Alone in her room Alice again experienced a loneliness and desolation of spirit. She blew out her candle and walked to the window. The meadow stretching east of the house and the fields beyond, the orchard and outhuildings seemed bathed in a profound repose. The stars from their high places looked calmly down; from the morning of! time they have kept their guardian watch; change hath : followed change, from innocence and paradise to sin and I wretchedness, but there grand, solemn, throned in infinite space, they still have shone "The burning blazonry of God." A silent worshipper in the great temple of night, the fear and dread that oppressed her died out, peace folded her white wings around her, and she prayed, prayed i with the fervor and confidence. of childhood. God knew the coming sorrow, and would He strengthen her to bear i it? In that dark little room, with the stars above her, and i God's presence around her, she did not doubt it. He tempers the storm to the shorn lamb; thh sorrow, what- ! ever it was would not be greater than she could bear. a Confidence begets love, and love begets strength. Alice i had felt weak and spiritless, but now a great strength was ' infused into her. Not strength to rejoice in gladness, but n strength to bear in suffering. The clock struck eleven; in k that silent house every stroke told with painful distinct- n ness. It roused her from her thoughts, yet strange, when C] twice before it tolled the fleeting hours, she did not healt it. Now she drew her curtain and with a light step ap h preached her bed. fe 1it ar ArICE MURRAY. 147 CHAPTEhR IX. SAmRDAY was a busy day on the Bradley farm. All the forenoon, without a moment's pause, the business of load. ing, driving into the farm and unloading, went on. In the afternoon, after a short hour's " nooning," it was the same drive, and by early dusk the last golden sheaf was under shelter. In the house it was also a busy day; clurn- ing, salting and packing down butter, skimming the milk, emptying, washing and soalding the pans, baking bread, pies and cake, cooking and the Saturday's cleaning were to be done. Terry was hard on his clothes, and during the I ,rvest his shirts basely threatened to desert him. TlargaaIt had i shirt to make for him that day; it was of blue jean. If he put on his only white one his mother was afraid he would have none for Sunday; a rip or a tear would soon put it past making a respectable appearance. Alice offered her services, and in the little airy parlor the two girls sat and sewed. They were both silent; Margaret had a delicate sense of perception, she saw Alice wished to be undisturbed in her thoughts, and respected her wishes too much to annoy her with ill-timed words. A thoughtful, ving face was Margaret's ;Alice's far more beautiful, was not marked with that peace and serenity which generally characterized hers, but as her hand with needle and thread moved quickly up and down, there was an expression in her eyes that told of a restful quiet spirit within. She It the influence of the day, calm, peaceful and serene; light fleecy clouds floated over the deep blue of the sky, and shadows flitted over the fields, birds sang in the trees and fluttered joyously among the leaves, bees hovered among the flowers and filled the air with their monotonous page: 148-149[View Page 148-149] a48 ALICiEa MU1A. v hum. Memories sad and sorrowful, soothing and com- forting are sure to visit one on such a day. Not a cloud in the heavens, not a shadow on earth, not a ray of sun- shine that does not speak of the past. Either we have wrestled with some great agony, or held to our lips a draught of deep, quiet joy, and now through the vistas of departed years, the sorrow, the joy comes back, but soft- ened and subdued; the sharp pain is now bearable, the cup of happiness is mingled somewhat with bitterness, but over all is a fascination which we would not break from if we could. It makes us sensible of the spiritual part of our being, this past, which, dead and buried, still haunts us with its shadowy forms. Alice sewed on, and in the silence of the room they could hear Mrs. Bradley's and Elizabeth's steps in the kitchen- the one quick and hurried, the other light and tripping- and now and then an order given or a question asked. At stated intervals came the sound of the horses' heavy tread and the rumbling of the wheels of the loaded wagon going into the barn. She had finished one of the sleeves of Ter. ry's shirt, and handing it to Margaret, asked: "Shall I now put on the shoulder-pieces?" "No, Alice, I will put them on myself. If you please, i you may sew on the wrist-band on the other. I believe you like to do it." "Yes, I do. The sleeve gathered and well stroked, I ; like to see the wrist-band, growing, as it were, stitch by stitch, to it." Margaret handed the cloth to her, and as she did so, ob- served: "There was something I was going to tell you, Alice, and till this minute, with the hurry and drive of the harvest, I quite forgot it." "What is it?' ALICE MUBRAY. 149 "Why, I have had a visitor in my school this week." "Who was it?"Alice looked up from her sewing as if she had no great desire to know-that she asked the ques- tion merely because Margaret expected her to do it. "It was one who used to know you well," he said. "Know, me!"Alice exclaimed; there was an interest in her voice. now. "Yes, it was a Mr. Bartoll. On my return one afternoon to Mr. Carolan's, I found him, there. He had come to see Mr. Meade on some business. You know Mr. Meadt, Paul I mean, boards at the same place I do." "Yes." "Well, he introduced him to me, and as soon as he heard my name, he asked me if I was one of the Bradleys that were relatives of Miss Alice Murray. I told him I was; that Miss Murray was my cousin. And forthwith, he had a great many questions to ask me about you, how you liked teaching, and how long you were going to continue it." "Yes, that sounds like him; but go on; did he say he had been to Antoria lately?" "He said he was just from there and was going to return there for a few weeks longer. He spoke of your uncle El- bray, and how much he missed you, and how lone he was without you." A quick flush came into her cheek, and her lipg curled a little. "Miss me! yes, he must miss me. And you told himn that I had repeatedly written, that my letters had remained unanswered, and that-" but she laughed; a laugh that sounded worse than a cry. It spoke deeper pain, a mock- ing, too of that pain, because she despised herself for ,3- ing it. If her uncle cast her off, so be it; she would not say one word against it; but she would yet pay him, pay him every cent he had expended on her; she would be page: 150-151[View Page 150-151] 150 ALICE MURRAY. under no obligation to him; it was not his wealth she had ever cared for, and she would let him see it. Unheeding the bitterness of her words, Margaret an- swered: "No, Alice, I told him nothing of that. That you had -written, and that your letters remained unanswered, was not for me to tell or publish. I merely mentioned that you seemed to entertain for your uncle Elbray the affection of a child. He appeared pleased to hear it, and spoke of your leaving him and coming out here to teach, as an unaccout able act-a strange caprice." "And what did you say to that?" ; "I knew better, but said nothing." Yes, yes, I understand; you smiled a smile which nei- ,- ther confirmed nor contradicted his words. A very non- compromising answer, truly." And one which you do not find fault with?" "No, no, Margaret, don't misunderstand me. I approve :' your prudence and admire it. I wish I could at ail times :n be as calm and wise as you. But it is not in me. I have a fiery temper." "You have had much, dear Alice, to try you." The deep tones of Margaret's voice were touchingly kind and sooth- ing. "That may be, Margaret; but do you know I sometimes think that's but a poor excuse, this having things to try one; for a quick, passionate temper will fret and fume even when there is nothing to try it. They will even go so far as to make causes when no causes present themselves. I knw just how u it is," she added, with a smile. She wished to change the conversation; it was becoming painful. Mr. Elbray, in his library, on reading Mrs. Elbray's let- i ter, recollected that Lewis Bartoll had been a frequent visitor at his house, and argued from that simple fact th1t BUiSj! MURRAY. 15 he had looked upon Alice with no indifference, and put tc himself the profound question, "Was Alice's affections en- listed in return?"Yes, Lewis Bartoll had been a frequent visitor at his house, and Alice had been greatly interested in him; but not in the tender and romantic way in which the extremely matter-of-fact old gentleman, her uncle, sas- pected. On Alice's leaving school it was not by any means surprising that Mr. Bartoll, the son of an old friend of the family, should call to welcome her return; and having called once was no reason, with abundant leisure at his command, he should not call again. He did so; and Alice found under a light and trifling exterior he possessed a deep, earnest, and inquiring mind. Mr. Bartoll was not a Catholic; he knew there was a church in the village built by the members of that denomination; he was on bowing acquaintance with the pastor, and had even a warm friend- ship for several of his congregation, but still he knew nothing, absolutely nothing, of the dogmas and tenets of that peculiar faith; for peculiar, he was free to confess, it seemed to him. He wished Alice to enlighten his mind on several points, and Alice, with the enthusiasm of her age and temperament, set about doing it. Numberless were the questions asked, numberless the answers given. Alice was in raptures. She was-or rather she was going to be, for it was not yet accomplished-the humble instrument chosen by Providence to bring a strayed soul to the True Fold. That her theological discussions would be sneered at by the wise and learned as milk and watery, that the ready words she brought to bear upon the subject would be heartlessly styled the bread and buttery effusions of a vain, conceited school girl, never entered her mind. Why hould it? She was not doing it to show off her learning, or to dazzle an admirer. She was only doing her best to dispel the darkness which had gathered like a thick veil page: 152-153[View Page 152-153] i52 AfTCE MURRIAY. sver the brain and heart of an earnest searcher after truth. How her cheeks glowed and her heart throbbed. Sincere X herself, she never dreamed of insincerity in others, and when morning after morning she entered with spirit into the polemical discourse Lewis Bartoll was sure to open, j she felt somewhat of the zeal and energy of the old Apos- tles when they went to preach the Gospel, to the Gentiles. There was somewhat, too, of their elation and gladness of heart, their sublime abnegation of self. For, with all her charity, all her ardent desire to lead home to God one that knew Him not, she did not exactly like him. Notwith- standing his profound respect for her views, and the defer- ential way he had of showing it-notwithstanding the seemingly favorable impressions her teachings were making upon him, and notwithstanding the strength and force of - character he displayed in shaking off old prejudices, tram- pling them under foot, and going directly against them, there was something about him, she could not make out . what it was, and in her zeal to convert she hardly cared to know, that made her recoil with a chilling reserve when- ever the conversation took, or was likely to take, a tenderer or more personal tone. But Lewis Bartoll did not seem to heed it. He became a regular attendant at St. Mary's Church; he always chose a seat in some pew where Alice would be sure to see him. He listened attentively to the sermon, following after the reading of the first Gospel, and if it was not equal in eloquence to a Bossuet's or Fenelon's, it was, to judge from his pleased and edified countenance, highly instructive and interesting. Alice bore with his frequent visits, bore with the really hard and tiresome work of preparing for her daily polemical encounter, bore with the secret aversion she could not help feeling-all for the one grand and crowning hope, that by her patience, her forbearance, her thrusting herself out of sight, tnd labor- ALIOCE MURRAY. 153 ing for another, would be the means of bringing upon that other a great and inexpressible blessing. But- though no word of love ever passed between them, from the fact of his frequent visits to the house, and, what to the really earnest seeker after truth may seem strange, his regular attendance at the Catholic church, certain ones in Antoria, who prided themselves on being able to trace out cause and effect, pronounced Lewis Bartoll and Alice Murray a "match," and forthwith they began to prophecy the amount of happiness likely to result therefrom. Had these pro- phecies reached the ears of the parties most interested, they would not have proved very soothing to Alice or very flattering to Mr. Bartoll. Although wealthy, brilliant, and fascinating, he was not generally liked. In the transacting of several little affairs he had displayed a great want of principle, and from that was looked upon with distrust. Wealth may cover to the eyes of the world a multitude of faults, but a flagrant act of injustice, a double-distilled meanness, is apt to expose rends in the golden armor, and give glimpses of real character beneath; what was consid- ered perfect is found imperfect, and the surprise, wonder and astonishment are more intense than if the truth had not before been concealed. The excitement attendant vpon the discovery may subside, but the fact becomes none the less prominent. His bland and courteous bearing could no longer deceive; yet they still enjoyed his society, and although they bandied hard words behind his back, to his face they spoke him fair. But Alice lived too secluded a life to know how hle was generally regarded, and had too stern a reserve about her to allow any one to make com- ments in her presence on her fancied partiality for him, and so she remained ignorant of the fact that her name was in any way connected with his. About the time of her aunt's death the Bartolls left Antoria, and Lewis, suddenly page: 154-155[View Page 154-155] 154 AIC E MUARJRY. relieved of his anxiety for his spiritual welfare, no longer on his visits to the village, troubled Alice with his doubts and perplexities. And perhaps if he had, a little older and better able to judge the motives of those around her, she would not so readily have listened to them. She smiled now as she looked back on the glowing hopes that I once filled her heart-hopes that, in spite of their absur- dity, had nothing to do with earth, that soared above it and all its selfishness. Terry's shirt was finished, and Margaret left the room for more sewing; she soon returned with a dress to mend for her mother, and a little apron to fix over for Rosie. The band round the neck of Rosie's apron was to be taken off, the gathers let out, and a longer band sewed on; the arm holes were to be enlarged, the hem let down and a simple binding put on, and then Rosie's apron would be as good as new. Two large holes in the sleeves of the mother's dress were to be covered by new pieces, of which the dress was made, so faded that it would hardly show when once patched that it had ever been broken. An economical family was the Bradleys. No wonder Mr. Bradley, with only a stout heart and willing hands to com- mence life, had been able to buy, and what is more, pay for a farm. Many a farm is bought that is never paid for. Alice entered with spirit on her new task, she had the band tipped off when Elizabeth cams in to inform them dinner was ready. "How fine and cool you are here," she said, her cheeks glowing with her morning's work, and her eyes clearer and brighter than ever. "Will you be able to share our fineness and coolness this afternoon?"Margaret asked. "Yes, just as soon as I wash the dinner dishes. The cleaning is all done and the bread is baked; and mother says she'll do the pies aud cake." Xl H, ALAE MURBAY. 15M R "And the butter?" X "Oh, that's all packed. Mother's filled the new firkin, l:, and after dinner you and Alice imust step into the cellar and see how beautifully it looks. But come, don't wait another minute. Father Richard and Terry have come il and they are in a great hurry." Margaret and Alice rose and followed her into the kitchen where, the windows all up, and the doors all open, they sat down to a comfortable and bountiful meal. Little was said during it; Mr. Bradley and the boys were too absorbed in the getting in of the barley to have a thought or a word for anything else. Terry told how many loads they had carried in, and how many more were in the field ; and related some marvelous feats of his in the way of raking up and pitching on; but a smile from his father, and a protest from Richard suddenly brought his glowing accounts to a close. After dinner he took his hat, or rather his remains of a hat, for it was minus half its rim, and had a fine opening in its crown, and walked to the door. "Come, Richard," he said, "it's time to give the horses their oats; don't you want to see them munch them?" "Yes, Terry, but wait a minute." "Well, hurry then, for I can't wait all day." Richard leisurely got his hat, in a better state of pre- servation than Terry's, and followed him to the door. Mr. Bradley laid down the pipe he had been enjoying and hastily rose. "I must go too," he said, "I can't trust them, they'll give them too much." "Why, no, Terence, sit down and rest yourself Richard is there and you need not fear." Mrs. Bradley was very sincere in what she said. Richard was so much more thoughtful than Terry that she reposed the utmost con-. fidence in his judgment. page: 156-157[View Page 156-157] 156 ALICE MURRAY. Not so the father. He knew, to use his own expression, that boys will be boys, and Richard with all his gravity and seeming wisdom was just as good or bad in overfeed- ing the horses as Terry, and just then he declared he couldn't afford to have them foundered, "Nora," he called from the back porch, "you and the girls will get up the cows and milk them to-night?" "Yes, yes, Terence, we will do it, set your mind at ease on that head." "And you needn't wait tea for us, we won't stop till all the barley's in." While Elizabeth cleared away the table, Mrs. Bradley took Alice and Margaret into the cellar, What a clean, cool, fragrant spot it was. There, on shelves, in the centre of the room, were long rows of pans of milk, whose tops were covered with a rich, delicate cream; on a bench by the wall, was a row of tubs or firkins of butter, holding each fifty pounds. Mrs. Bradley raised the lids, and lift- ing off the cloths lightly sprinkled with salt, displayed their golden treasures. Alice, as she came in, observed the place smelt like a violet bank. "Here," said Mrs. Bradley, "and there," pointing to the pans of milk, " are my violets. They cost me a great deal of work, but then they bring in their pay in the fall. When Terence was paying for the farm, my butter-money gave him many a good lift." This was no vain boast; from that cellar had come full one-third the yearly payments, besides several little indispensables for the family. The farm was sadly out of repair when Mr. Bradley bought it, and, aside from the payments, they had to expend considerable on its improvement. Old, worn-out fields were converted into pasture and meadow land, cows were bought, and a dairy commenced. The proceeds of the dairy met, in time, these additional expenses, and from that brought i an aauual ;nJf bALICE MURRAY. 157 income. Mrs. Bradley discoursed eloquently on her cows; she didn't know much about breeds, but had a decided preference for straight backs, good size, and dark reds. There might be, now and then, a white or black one that payed their way, but generally speaking, she had always found them poor things. It was evident Mrs. Bradley thoroughly understood the points of a good cow. Farmers' wives who make theirfdairies sources of profit to their hus- bands, ought to know something about them. By the time they left the celler, Elizabethl's dishes were washed, and the kitchen tidied up, but still she was not ready to join them in the parlor. Her mother was too tired to do the pies and cake; she wodld do them herself; it would not take her a great while. "No, no, Elizabeth," Mrs. Bradley remonstrated; " go in with the girls; you have done enough." "Indeed I will not, mother, I know better. Do you just go in yourself. Alice Murray, did you ever see such a mother as I have got? She will not mind me, or do a thing I tell her to." "You have a terrible hard mother, Elizabeth." "To be sure I have. Now, mother," she entreated, "do be reasonable for once. Your face is just as red as it can be, and your breath is hurried. Go in and sit down, and let me do the rest. It won't hurt me at all." "Well, well, Elizabeth, I suppose I will have to do it. You see, Alice, how I am not allowed to have any will of my own." Her eyes were beaming with love and gratitude as she spoke. "Yes, aunt Nora, I see it all." Mrs. Bradley got her knitting and followed Margaret and Alice to the parlor. In the progress of fixing the little apron, Alice thought its appearance would be improved by bows- of blue ribbon page: 158-159[View Page 158-159] 158 ALI3 MUBRAY. on the shoulders, and went up to her room to get some rib- bon she had in her trunk. CHAPTER X. SHE soon returned, visibly excited, carrying something beside the ribbon in her hand. "The Lord save us!"Mrs. Bradley exclaimed; "you look, Alice, as if you had seen a ghost." "No, aunt Nora," she said, trying to smile, "but some- thing that startled me almost as much. Here, Margaret, is the ribbon." She reacled it to her, and sank on a chair. Mother and daughter suspended their work, and gazed wonderingly at her. She wiped the damp that had gath- ered on her brow, and slowly opening her hand, showed a heavy gold chain, attached to a miniature set in pearl. It was the face of a woman considerably past middle age The forehead was broad and low, the eye-brows long and almost straight, the nose short and blunt, the mouth some- what large, the cheeks thin and sunken. Only the bust was there, but from the slender throat and narrow shoul- ders one would have known the form was slight and fragile. In youth she could not have been beautiful, but the large, earnest eyes would have redeemed a much home- lier face from ugliness, and now in years they cast over those irregular features an ineffable goodness. It was, as Mrs. Bradley after carefully examining it remarked, a sweet motherly face. "It is the likeness of your aunt Elbray," she said. "Yes, aunt Nora, and a very true one." "How long before she died was it taken?" "Four years." ALICE MURRAY, 159 "And she has been dead two." "Yes, aunt Nora, two years. Two long years to me, the longest I ever knew. But," she added, after a moment's pause, "I did not know I had it with me. It is singular uncle did not mention putting it in my trunk. He is not the one to do such a thing secretly or silently." "And you did not know it was there before?" "No, Margaret, I did not. It was in a little box in which I keep my souvenirs, a lock of Aunt Elizabeth's hair, the letters she used to write me when I was in school, several keepsakes she gave me, and other things valueless to others, but painfully dear to me-so painful indeed that I can never bear to look them over. I thought of the blue ribbon I happened one day to put in with them, and went to get it for Rosie's apron and found it." Her eyes moistened as she gazed on that gentle face, and strange to say, much as she loved the memory of her whose semblance it was, the dark presentment of coming evil that had haunted her the whole week, again rose phantom-like before her. "Aunt Nora," she said, suddenly turning to Mrs. Bradley, "if sorrows had gathered thick around me, she would have clung the closer to me." "And so would I, Alice dear; your aunt -Elbray is gone-let me take her place. Let me be a mother to my dead sister's child." She tried to control her voice, but her lips quivered. "My heart has ached for you, Alice, I knew how insignificant we must appear to you leaving your grand home. But none in that home could feel kinder to you than we." Alice looked at the humble woman before her with her flushed face and labor-swelled hands, with a genuine feeling of re- spect and love. "Aunt Nora," she exclaimed warmly, "say no more to me of your insignificance. My first in- troduction to you all was begging a favor; you granted it, generously granted it. You exerted yourselves, and got page: 160-161[View Page 160-161] 160 ALICE MURIAY. me a school; yon opened your door to me ; you took ma in when others cast me out. Your home has been, and is a haven to me." She laid the picture she held in her hands on the table with its face down, and hastily dashed away the tears on her cheeks. "You said," she hurriedly went on," 'let me be a mother to you.' Yes, aunt Nora, be a mother to me, and let me as a child speak, my heart is heavy." She bowed her head and wept. Mrs. Bradley took her hand. "Alice," she said, "be not afraid, speak. Tell us what troubles you?" Several minutes passed. Margaret glided from the room, instinctively feeling she would be more free to un- burden her mind if alone with her mother. "I am not superstitious," she remarked, raising her head, "I am aware it is not given us to know the future, to tear aside its veil and view the path stretching on before us; but sometimes I have felt that a. great trouble or sorrow was just ahead of me. It comes upon me, this feeling, with chilling effect, darkening my sunshine, and casting a gloom over me. Before aunt Elizabeth died it caie upon me with irresistible force. I tiied to shake it off but could not; there it was, just over my head like a fixed, immova- ble cloud enveloping me in its murky shadows. I men- tioned it to no one but aunt; I could not speak of it to uncle; he would only have pooh-poohed me, called me foolish, and thought no more of it. But dear aunt Eliza- beth, it was not in her nature to make light of anything that caused another pain or uneasiness. She tried to reason the dread away, and instead of laughing at me for my folly, was, if possible, kinder and gentler than ever. Like a sick child clinging to its mother, I could not bear her out of sight; there was something re-assuring in her presence; I felt- her love would stand between me and ALICE MURRAY 161 harm. She was not beautiful, you can see that by he' picture; but to me no face was ever so fair, no voice so sweet. Not to pain and grieve her-for I could see my gloom was wearing upon her-I smiled and talked as of old. And she smiled and talked too, for she believed the hallucination, as she now called it, had passed away." "Was she at this time ailing, Alice?" "She was suffering some from debility; but with all my dread I did not think she was going to leave me. That there was a great sorrow hanging over me, I knew; but what that sorrow would prove to be I had not the remot- est idea. As to aunt Elizabeth's death, strange as it may seem, it never entered my mind. There appeared nothing dangerous in her case; her physician was not in the least alarmed. When the warm, settled weather of summer came, she would, he said, recruit up; she often in the spring felt as weak, and we did not doubt him." She paused, as if laboring for breath; her eye had the wild, strained look of one suffering agony. Never before had she given the details of her aunt's death, never spoken of it but in a general way; and the Bradleys had delicately avoided a subject which they saw was to her painful in the extreme. But a change had come over her ; the sight of that miniature. the forebodings it recalled, the gloom that hung over her, brought up memories she could not force back unspoken. It pained her to spread them out in words before her, but it would have pained her more to have turned silently from them. She had been reticent, but she must now speak; the time had come when her reserve to her relatives must wear away; unswerving is their kind- ness, they had won her confidence and respect. "The summer came," she resumed, after a slight pause, "but aunt Elizabeth did not get stronger; neither dids he seem to get weaker. She was never confined to the beil page: 162-163[View Page 162-163] 162 UALICE MURRAY. went every Sunday to \ass, and every fine day walked in the garden. T'was the Assumption of our Blessed Lady, the day was warm and sultry, in the afternoon aunt thought she would go down into the garden; I went with her, and we seated ourselves on a rustic chair under the spreading branches of a tamarack. She was somewhat tired, for she had attended High Mass in the forenoon, and the lengthened service had made her feel more than usually weary. We talked awhile, and then I rose and gathered flowers which she arranged, and told me after tea, before the Rosary in the evening, I must take them over to the church. The evening before she had all the vases on the altar and before the statue of our Blessed Lady, filled from the garden, but shesaid she must send these to make her offering complete. She smiled and seemed happy as her fingers passed rapidly over and among the flowers. All at once a shiver ran through her frame, her countenance changed, a deathly pallor came over it, and large drops stood on her brow. In terror I called uncle and a couple of servants; we succeeded in getting her to the house, and in all haste sent for the doctor, but before he came aunt was gone. The sword that had been suspended over my head fell; the sorrow that had been waiting me in the way rose up and clasped me in its arms." She shuddered and covered her face with her hands. "Alt Nora," she said, slowly raising her head, "I feel again a shadow obscuring my path. I cannot see ahead of me ; I grope in the dark ; I fear I am standing on the brink of a precipice ; I cannot pause, but must move on, and my steps seem leading me nearer and nearer some terrible calamity." "God forbid! Don't say that, Alice. Arn't you in the bhands of a merciful Father who has a particular care over the fatherless and motherless?" ALICE MURRAY. 163 "But, aunt Nora, may not this warning dread be in mercy, that the shock by being somewhat expected may not prove altogether too great to bear?" Mrs. Bradley hurriedly blessed herself, and in a fluttered manner exclaimed, "I don't, know, I don't know. It's not myself that feels able to solve so nice a question. But, dear Alice, take my advice. Don't be troubling y mrself about what is to be, but throw your burden on the Lord, and pray with all fervor." Mrs. Bradley was knitting, and coming to the raising of the heel, Lad to pause to count off the stitches. "One thing is certain," she said, resuming the conver- sation, after righting her work, "when we used to have so much on us, Terence and Hthe heavy mortgage on the farn, the increasing expenses of the family, the occasional failures of the crops, their lowering in price, the loss of cattle, the breaking of tools-for when we commenced we were not able to get new, and the old ones soon wore out, and the thousand and one things that came to take our labor, I used to feel at times almost discouraged, and wonder where in the name of God would come the means to meet all the demands upon us. Oh, I tell you, Alice, the way was as dark to us then as it is to you now; but we felt it would be a great sin to look only on the clouds and not on the bright sky beyond, to think only of dismal futures and not of present duties; and so we strove to keep cheerful and hope for the best, and you see the best came, by-and-by; one farm was paid for, and then the great load was lifted off of us. I don't tell you this in any spirit of boasting, but to encourage you, and to let you see that down-hearted feelings, if you struggle against them, are not the forerunners of evil." It was plain, with all her kindness and sympathy, Mrs. Bradley did not understand Alice. Alice saw it, and it page: 164-165[View Page 164-165] 164 ALICE MURRAY. pained her; the comparison she had drawn did not apply to her. Her fear was tangible; she knew what she dreaded ; the present held the future in its arms ; the con- sequence of the hour included the day, and, seeing clearly, she could go on. But she must not be unreasonable; she did not understand her, and it was not to be expected that she would. Others less kind and thoughtful might have felt a contempt for her apprehensions, and considered them, because intangible, without form, as only the off- spring of a weak disordered mind. She was at first almost ashamed to own to herself that an unknown druad and fear had power to cast down and oppress her. A burning flush suffused her cheek as she thought of the sneers and taunts with which Lucette Denmore and her mother would have received the communication, and the pleasure with which they would have served it up to their friends, seasoned with their delicate and charitable com- ments. Thank God! she was away from them and their malign influence. The apron was nearly finished, and dropping her work in her lap, she sat with folded hands, looking at the deeply lined face, and listening with interest to tale after tale of trial and suffering, heroically met and patiently endured. She longed inexpressibly for Mrs. Bradley's calmness and general serenity of temper. It was certainly from her Margaret inherited her strong equable mind; and yet her father was not wanting in the same. Perhaps it was from both, or had they by repeated conflicts gained the priceless boon? Her aunt Nora had the features and eyes of one to whom cares and trials must have proved at first a fiery ordeal; but like the Three Children, she had passed through them unscathed. The cool winds of paradise had blown on her all the while, and white-robed spirits had walked by her side. She, a simple, hard-working woman, did not ALICE MURBtA. 15 understand how it was; she only crushed the fierce, rebels lious feelings in her heart, bowed herself to her cross, and bore it as patiently as she could; though, God help her she had many times winced under it, and often felt she could not go on. But, instead of standing still to con- sider where she should pause, she had gone on and done as well as she could. She merely mentioned these incidents to Alice, to strengthen and comfort her in her trial How little spiritual pride-as Catholics, or self-righteousness as Protestants would say--there was in the simple history of her humble, unpretending life; and yet there was enough of strength and fortitude, of enduring persistency in right and bravely contending with wrong, to have made a hero or a saint. Totally oblivious of this she talked on, and with reverence and respect Alice listened to her words; she knew the motive that prompted them. In sickness, remedies are prescribed, we take them, health follows; afterwards we see others ailing, we tell of our former pains, and the means that led to a happy recovery; we are sanguine, we cannot be mistaken, what cured us will cure or at least help them ; we are anxious they should try the remedies; we want to see roses on the pallid cheek, strength in the trembling limbs, and fulness in the wasted form. The cynic may sneer, the superficially wise laugh, but the thoughtful will recognize in this that kindred spirit which proclaims us all children of the One parent. We cannot see pain or suffering in others without in some measure experiencing it ourselves. The knife that lacerates one brother's flesh makes ours cringe; the blow that crushes him paralyzes us; unmoved we cannot see him bleed; in vain may we attempt to shut out the spectacle, close our eyes to it, and turn a deaf ear to every groan. We cannot do it, we needs must see and hear, and seeing and hearing, feel, and feeling, endeavor to relieve. It is a : = ^^^^ page: 166-167[View Page 166-167] 166 ALICE MURRAY. part of our weary being, a link that binds us in one great brotherhood, and makes us feel in spite of the selfishness of the human heart, and the clashing interests that divide mankind, that we are indeed members of one family, chil- dren of one Father. Little Rosie came in from school; her teacher, like Mar- garet, the Saturday before, had taught that day, the last of the week, in order to lay up for herself a future holiday. She hung up her sun-bonnet, put away her dinner-basket and drawing up a stool, seated herself at her mother's knee. For a while she watched the movement of her hands going round after ronnd of the stocking, but turning to the flowers she suddenly exclaimed : "O, mother, they droop. When did you last give them water?" "Not since morning, Rosie." "Not since morning? No wonder they look pale and weak, but they shall have some now, poor little flowers." She pushed a chair to the mantel-piece, climbed upon it, and took the great heavy pitcher in her tiny hands. It was as much as she could do to get down from the chair without spilling the water, but with her under-lip drawn in, and her little pearly teeth pressed tightly against it, her large blue eyes fixed intently on the pitcher, and gradually lowering her body, and measuring the distance with her foot, she accomplished it. I "There, now, you shan't be starved any longer." She always spoke as if flowers had a sensible being. That they felt pain, hunger and cold, just as she would feel them, she did not doubt; and yet, strange inconsis- tency of childhood, she freely plucked them, unconscious the real life of a flower is destroyed when once removed firom the bosom of its mother earth. That they bloomed awhile in water blinded her to the fact. They still smiled upon her, still looked back her glances of love, still dis- tilled from the air this delicate perfume, and generously supplying them with water, paying them the tribute of her warm-hearted admiration, the child deemed no harm done to themn. A moral might be drawn from this. Returning from the kitchen with the pitcher filled with water, she again essayed to lift it to the mantel-piece. She could not climb on the chair with the pitcher in her hands, so she placed it on the floor and clambered up, but now she found she could not stoop and reach it, as she had evidently supposed she could. She got down and placed the pitcher on the chair, and again attempted to mount it, but now she saw there was danger of her tipping up pitcher, chair and all. She was puzzled. Alice offered to help her, but with an impatient gesture of her little hand, she waved her back. Rosie was a child that liked to wait on herself, and, knowing her to be very careful, her mother and sisters seldom annoyed her with ill-timed offers of as- sistance. She glanced round the room, a bright thought struck her, she drew up another chair, placed the pitcher upon it, and again clambered up the first; now she could stoop, reach the pitcher and raise it to the mantel-piece. She accomplished what she had undertaken to do, and ac- complished it, too, without suggestion or assistance. This little trait showed a determination of character, a patience and perseverance that would win success in life. Without in the least comprehending this, or rather without in the least being aware that she did, Mrs. Bradley was pleased, and when Rosie again seated herself on the stool at her feet, she gently and caressingly placed her hands on her head. Away back in the child's eyes, as she sat leaning against her mother, was an expression of profound peace. The lessons of the day were over, her flowers were tended, she was sitting at her mother's side, there was nothing in page: 168-169[View Page 168-169] 168 ALICE MURIRAY. the wide world she sighed for ; she was happy. Happiness was written in the restful calm of her brow, in the ease and unconscious grace of her attitude, in her deep and quiet breathing. Alice had finished the apron, and hanging it on the back of a chair, she sat looking at Rosie. Why could she not have the peace and serenity of that child? She asked. herself the question, and without waiting for an answer, she rose and impatiently brushed the shreds from her dress. -Rosie as yet had no past, she had no future, the present was all she knew. She had once been as blissfully ignorant; had watched the dancing shadows, and listened to the echoes of strangely happy songs. They must have been sung over her cradle, perhaps in another sphere she had heard them full-toned and worded. She could not tell for certain, but there was a period in her life, there is in the life of every child, when she used to sit listening, she hardly knew to what, but to something, some far off melody, so distant that her bodily sense could not catch it, and only to the ears of the soul was it faintly audible. Again would she hear it clearer and clearer, till it would burst full choired upon her; but not now, not till she would be found worthy. Well, she must patiently wait and labor on. "Rosie, your apron is done. Would you like to try it on?" "Yes, Alice." She jumped up, took off her long-sleeved, apron, and tried the dainty white one on. "Oh, it is so pretty 1" she said, glancing down approv- ingly upon it. "Aunt Nora, how do you like it?" she asked, turning Rosie round with the grace of a practiced dressmaker. i"It sits well, and is full large enough. I thought, with a little fixing, Rosie could take another summer out of it. ALICE MURRAY. 169 After tea I will iron it, and to-morrow Rosie can wear it to church." The blue ribbons particularly struck Rosie; she had to ask a great many questions about them. Where did Alice get them?'-how did she come to think of putting them on her apron?--how could she do without them?--did she have them on an apron of her own?-and was it white, and did it have little dots on it like hers? Rosie's ques- tioning faculties were all roused. She had to run out into the kitchen to let the girls see how beautifully her apron with the blue ribbons looked; and then she came back with a whole stock of new questions. Would the ribbons wash?-would they fade?-did Alice have any more just like them?-who gave them to her? "There, there, Rosie," said Mrs. Bradley, "that will do." "Who would think," Alice remarked, "that one natu- rally so quiet could be so voluble?" "Oh, Rosie has a limber tongue, once set it agoing." The sweet, earnest simplicity of the little one's face could not but touch a warm place in Alice's heart. She stooped, caught her in her arms, and kissed her. '"You love to give me things?" she said. "Yes, Rosie." "I don't know why," she said, casting a thoughtful look on the ribbons; " but I think it's because you're, good, and like to do kind things. Bime-by, when I get to be a big girl, I'll try to be just like you." "Try to be better, Rosie. You can easily do it. Poor cousin Alice is only a blundering person, full of faults and far firom good." Rosie looked up astonished, and as if she were trying to make out what Alice meant. She did not want to doubt her, and she did not know how to believe her. In her per- plexity she sighed heavily, took off the little apron silently page: 170-171[View Page 170-171] 170 ALICE MURRAiY. and carefully laid it on the chair beside her. In the midst of her contending emotions they were called out to tea. The meal over, Alice went with the girls for the cows. Elizabeth was all animation, and pointed out several of the many-to her and for her there were indeed many-- interesting spots in the fields and woods through which they had to go. There was the one with a little creek run- ning through it, and along whose banks in spring they used to get their sweet flag, and there was the one that had on the west side of it, close by the fence, a patch of e thoroughwort that was so good for head-ache and bad sto- mach, and below it was the one that in the far end had a great rough rock, with a split in it wide enongh to put in a rail, and deep, so very, very deep, that the longest pole, and another longest pole on top of it, had not been able to reach the bottom-had, in fact, dropped from their hands, and sunk and disappeared out of sight. But now they had entered the woods, the cool, fragrant, shady woods, and there was the stump of the tree that had, the summer before, been struck by lightning; and yonder, in the little hollow on the right side, was the spot where the handsome but disagreeable smelling beths grew, and far- ther on, all growing near together, were the smooth, silver- dotted beach trees, and near them the great-leaved bass and the tall, graceful elms; and, farther on, passing with difficulty through a thick, dense undergrowth, where with every step you were lost to sight, was the glorious maple grove, or sugar bush. There were still the great stakes drove down, and the stones on which the large kettles for boiling the sap used to rest; and there, even now, were several of the troughs turned bottom side up by the trees. Did Alice see them? Yes, she saw them, saw all the things Elizabeth and Margaret pointed out; the little hillocks oovered with such-strange and needlymoss, the stones ALICE UnRRAY. 171 here and there that looked as if covered with a petrifaction of moss; little stems, and curious bits of things, they could not make out what; and the fairy seats, as they called them; low down on the trunks of some of the trees; the strange dance of light and shadow at their feet; the singular interlacing of some of the branches overhead, and the way they seemed to lean over a spot where a great tree had once risen in all majesty, but which now was laid low, torn up by a fierce storm of the year before. There the giant roots, higher than their heads, and branching out like an enormous Gorgon, frowned down ominously upon them. It was a vicinity neither Margaret nor Eliza- beth liked, and they hurried from it. The field next be- low the woods was the pasture, half veiled by the lengthen- ing shadow of the grand old forest trees; and next to it were other fields, gradually descending till they reached the rich, well-cultivated farms of the valley; and there the farm buildings and orchards, and woods and fields, lay spread out before them, and the hills, steep enough when you came to the base of them and had to climb them, but looking in the distance like gently-rising terraces, rose back of them, carrying out the same features of landscape-- farm buildings, fields, orchards, and patches of woods, reaching farther and farther, till in the dim blue distance, where earth and sky seem to meet, you could not tell whether it was still hill and field and wood, or only undu- lating clouds floating round the horizon. No question was now asked, no word spoken. Silently Margaret, Elizabeth and Alice stood-silently they enjoyed the thoughts which the quiet, peaceful scene suggested. But at length the deepening shadows roused them, and gathering the gentle cows together, they drove them up to the enclosure or yard back of the barn. While Elizabeth and her mother milked tem, Alice took Rosie to her room. page: 172-173[View Page 172-173] 172 ALICE MURRAY. "Have you had a pleasant walk?" the child asked. "Yes, Rosie, very pleasant." "I thought so," she remarked, with her deep, unfath omed eyes fixed full upon her. "What made you think so?"Alice could not help asking. "Because you looked brighter and happier; and when you took my hand to lead me up here, you pressed it just like Elizabeth and Margaret when they are glad." Alice kissed her fair cheek, smoothed the wavy folds of her hair, and seated her on a chair beside her. : She was growing to love the child's presence. In her innocence and trusting faith she found a never-wearying interest. Rosie leaned over and laid her head on her lap; in the stillness of the room her eyelids drooped and she soon slept. Alice had begun by not liking children, and ended by having a tender devotion for this one and a patient, endur- ing kindness for all. They were so weak and helpless, so trusting and confiding, that they claimed her pity and sympathy. They tried and sometimes vexed her with their redundancy of spirits, but the time would soon enough come when these spirits would be clouded and chilled, and no use to forestall it by undue harshness. In childhood, earth wears a livery of gorgeous coloring; but as we progress on our journey, the buds of hope and flowers of promise fade and wither away, and ere we know it, the fairy gar- den of childhood is left far behind. Travel-sore and weary, we are on the dreary desert of life, with scarcely an oasis to rest our drooping spirits. Many a mirage may arise and lure us on for awhile, but as we advance, it shifts far- ther and farther away till, something attracting our atten- tion, we turn for a moment, and when we again look, the deceitful vision hath vanished and only vacuity mocks our weary sight. Let childhood enjoy its brief hour of happia ness. Guide, govern and restrain, but do it as ond having a strict account to render. Of a thoughtful turn of miud, and placed among children, these thoughts constantly recurred to her. Adversity, instead of hardening her na- ture, was throwing around her an air of touching gentle- ness. It softened the natural severity of her temper, but did not thereby render her weak or vacillating. On the contrary, with trials she grew stronger and better able to battle with the storms of life. As shadows filled the room, she undressed Rosie, had her kneel at her; side and say her prayers. Then she carried her into the girl's room and laid her in her little bed. Murmuring another prayer to her good angel to guard her through the watches of the night, she again sunk into slumber, and with a light step Alice stole from the room, went clown stairs and joined the family in their evening devotions. CHAPTER XI. A sunny Sunday in the country-how calm, how peace- ful and serene. Silence is on the hills, the fields are de- serted, the toil of the week is over, the solemn rest of the Sabbath enfolds all nature as with a celestial garment, the sky, like a vast cathedral dome, bends over the earth. Far from the pride, and pomp, and vanity of life, with the hills, and woods, and fields around, goading ambition is for the time forgotten, and sorrows that sting with scorpion power are soothed into temporary oblivion. In the great temple, not made by hands, we commune with God; the hills speak his name, the woods proclaim His presence; the breeze, the crystal streams, the feathery choirs sound His praise - With a divine harmony pervading our souls, pai page: 174-175[View Page 174-175] 174 ATICE MURRAT. sion is hushed ; we are contented, pleasing memories are upon us, and the holy rest of the Sabbath settles upon our weary spirits. from the calmness and serenity around her, Alice dranhl in a quietude and steadiness of nerve that dispelled the vague dread and. sickening fear that had oppressed her. With a placid expression on her thoughtful face, she assisted the family in their morning's work. There were the pans to be skimmed, emptied, washed and scalded, the break- fast dishes to be cleared away, beds made and rooms swept before getting ready for church. Although no noisy de- monstration of speed was noticeable, Mrs. Bradley kept up in an under-tone an incessant battery of running orders. "Hepe, Terry, take the feed to the chickens, and don't loiter on the way. Richard, carry off those pails of sour milk. Elizabeth, gather up the dishes and wash them as quick as you can. Margaret, see that the water in the boiler is kept scalding hot for the pans." Alice had no order given her, but she helped Margaret make the beds and sweep, assisted Elizabeth with her large table of dishes, ank kept an eye on the fire that the water might not fail. Not a moment was she, or any of them idle, and in all the hurry and work going on, not a discordant sound broke in upon the holy stillness of the day. In a low tone the orders were given, and in silence were they obeyed. - Mr. Bradley sat in his shirt sleeves by the open window reading a newspaper. He had not the whole week more than glanced in it; now the week's work was over, and while waiting for the children to get ready for church, he sat himself down to its quiet enjoyment. The patient, steady old horses were in the orchard back of the barn, industriously cropping the soft, tender grass under the trees, taking their dinner in advance. For sometime Mr. Bradley had pored over his paper, but at length the ramp? ALICE MURRAY. 1i ing's work was finished; a long row of pans glistened in the sun, the fire was out, the house in perfect readiness. "Well, is it time to dress?" he asked, looking up, and laying down the paper. "Yes, father," said Margaret; "Richard and Terry, you will find your clothes spread out on your bed in your room." Rosie was in the front yard gathering a handful of sweet- williams for Julia Armstrong. "Come, Rosie," Margaret called her, " it's time to dress." Rosie came in and followed her sisters to their room. Alice retired to hers. Pausing before the window she glanced at the dark wood bordering the sweeping fields, and rising up in bold relief against an intensely blue sky, and she thought of other Sundays when storm clouds can- opied over her head, and desolating winds swept through the silent chambers of her soul. She was young in years, but it seemed the rolling wheels of time had whirled her on to the experience of middle age. Life no longer ap- peared to her as it once did, a fair pellucid stream flowing on smoothly to the end, but rather a rough tempestuous sea, fwith only now and then a calm. She unbound her hair, which fell in rippling folds below her waist, hastily brushed it out, and again gathering it in her hands wound it in a circular knot, covering the back of her head and reaching low on her neck. It was certainly a fair face that looked back to her from, the little mirror, but she regarded it with an almost utter indifference. An ardent admirer for whatever was beautiful in nature or art-the many changes of earth and sky, a glowing sunset, the grand panorama of moving clouds, waving forests and green fields, awoke in her a feeling almost of worshipping rever ence. A fine picture in which the canvas seemed to breathe, or a statue in which the marble seemed only to page: 176-177[View Page 176-177] lu ALICE MURRAY. lack the power to move, called forth her warmest admira- tion-but beauty of form or person she prized as nothing, or worse than nothing, unless accompanied by worth. To the miserable weakness of vanity, so far as self was con- cerned, she was a stranger. Its frivolity, petty jealousies, mean rivalry and low ambition, the malignancy, hatred and corroding envy it engenders, she had seen exemplified in Lucette Denmore and her mother, and a vain and beau- tiful person was to her like the apples of Sodom, fair with- out, but ashes and bitterness within. It took her but a short time to dress, and she had already packed away in a satchel, she was to take' with her, a few things, and was drawing on her gloves, when a light breeze coming through the open window stirred a paper lying on the stand; it rustled, slid to the floor, and revealed the miniature just as she had left it the night before. She reached forth her hand, took it up, gazed for a moment on the loved features, j then touched the spring, placed the chain round her neck, under her shawl, and let the case rest over her heart. There she determined it should ever remain. As her fingers passed over the heavy links, she thlought they seemed richer and heavier than of old, but her eye wan- dered to the low ceiling, narrow dimensions and simple furniture of her room, and she smiled. It was only the contrast between her former and present surroundings that made the seeming difference. She took up her satchel, prayer-book and parasol, and hastened out. In the little passage she met Rosie. She had on a blue lawn dress over it the white apron with the blue ribbons, and again over that a white lace sack. A straw hat with blue streamers completed her attire. It was simple and neat, and with her sweet face and light, agile movements, had a peculiarly graceful effect. Fluttering down the stairs, and into the parlor for her tiny prayer-book, getting her buncD - ^. "ALICE MURRAY. 1 of sweet-williams for Julia Armstrong, and wrapping a paper about the stems, that the heat of her hand might not wilt them, she looked like some delicate flower that had suddenly taken wing. To say that she resembled a butterfly flitting about from place to place, would be giving a wrong idea of her appearance. She might be compared to a lamb, a dove, a flower, to a butterfly never. Between her and that gaudy flaunting thing, there was not the slightest analogy. In the timidity of a lamb, the gentleness of a dove, the sweetness of a flower, there was something that resembled her timidity, gentleness and innocence. "Smell," she said, reaching up the little hand holding the sweet-williams. Alice inclined her head. "They are very sweet, Rosie." "But will Julia like them, do you think?" "No," teasingly answered Terry, " she has a garden full of the finest flowers, and what will she care for them little withered things?"Terry had a way of his own of showing his love. The child looked pained and grieved, and withal quite undecided whether to believe him or not. She turned appealingly to Alice. "Yes, Rosie, she will like them-like them very much." Terry shook his head negatively, and with a comfortable consciousness of having undone the effect of his cousin's kind words, stepped to the mirror, and essayed a difficult knot to his cravat. Presently, having accomplished it, he walked from the mirror, and Alice's back being turned, wmade a motion as if throwing something out of the wir. dow. "Will she do that?"Rosie, understanding him faintly, asked. A very emphatic and flourishing bow answered her. Graver still grew the grave little face; her eyes rested ws- page: 178-179[View Page 178-179] 178 ALICE MURRAY. rowfully on the despised flowers, and then wandered to the splendid bunch on the mantel-piece. Water had been freely given them, and they repaid it by looking fiesh and blooming still; several buds had expanded into all the glory of full-leaved blossoms. Rosie sighed, the contrast between the gift she had received and that she was about to bestow in return was very marked. "Ily lilacs and roses are all gone," she at length said, "and these are the best I have. And when I give her the best what more can I do?" "NNothing," answered Richard, who, already dressed, was seeking refuge from impatience in a book. But in- stead of reading with his usual observant ways, he had noted the whole affair. "Terry, arn't you ashamed to tease your little sister so?" he asked, with a patiArchal dignity that made Terry laugh. Catching Rosie in his arms, he explosively kissed her, then rushed into the yard for a finer and larger bunch. As he brought it in, Mrs. Bradley, Margaret and Elizabeth made their appearance. A glance at their dress showed it extremely plain, but scrupulously clean and neat. "Well, are you all ready now?" said Mr. Bradley, laying down for the second time his newspaper. "Yes, father," Terry answered, speaking for the rest. "But have you all your prayer-books, children?" "Yes, mother." "And your clean pocket-handkerchiefs, and the pennies for the plate?" "Yes, yes, mother, we've them all. We're all ready," said the self-appointed spokesman. With his mercurial temperament it was well for Terry that he had not been kept waiting. He now manifested the utmost impatience, declared Mass would be over be- fore they got there if they did not hurry up, grasped Mar- ALICfE MURRAY. ] garet's and Alice's satchels, and was at the wagon before the rest of the family had hardly left the house. Mr Brad- ley smiled but said nothing, as he quietly locked the door and slipped the key in his pocket. He rather enjoyed Terry's healthful, breezy disposition; it seemed to clear the atmosphere around him, and make him feel younger and stronger. Mr. and Mrs. Bradley took the front seat, Rosie sat with Margaret and Alice, and Elizabeth back with the boys. Little was said during the ride; the boys glanced at the orchards they passed and thought of the splendid rare ripes in their own,; the girls and Mrs. Brad- ley were glad they had been able to make so early a start that, even at a slow pace, they would be in time ; they did not like to be going into church at the First Gospel, or perhaps after it, disturbing the whole congregation; they wanted to be in and have a little prayer said before Mass commenced, and then they felt they had really assisted at the Holy Sacrifice. Mr. Bradley kept a sharp look-out on the crops they passed, and with thoughts of Mass and Sunday duties could not help calculating how much they would realize to their owners. There was one field, a meadow, that had been to him a sore annoyance the whole season. It had been mowed and the hay gathered in, but the memory of the obnoxious daisies that had sprinkled it as white as snow, disagreeably lingered in his mind. He wondered how any farmer would allow such a pest to get so strong a foothold. How was he now to get rid of it? He had a few in his south meadow, and purposed that fall, with his boys, to go over it, and dig up every root. He had gone over it that very spring, and congratulated himself that there was not a single one left, that he had extermi- nated them root and branch. But it seemed some evil influ- ence had wafted the seed there, and again they had sprung up; it was just possible they had not made the thorough work page: 180-181[View Page 180-181] vv ALICUiE 21UIIAI. they supposed; any way, he would try it again. As to Gould's meadow of fifteen acres, the thought of going over that and digging up the roots of the daisies was out of the question. The cleansing of the Augean stable was child's play compared to such an undertaking. He had noticed them every year growing thicker and thicker, but that year they had passed all bounds, and flourished with a defiance that was actually appalling. There was danger, great dan- ger, of their spreading firom field to field, and what would a farm be worth that was daisy-poisoned like that? Some- thing must be done, and done at once, to check them. Mr. Bradley never passed the place that he did not rack his brain to devise some way to get rid of them. One plan after another had suggested itself, till after a great deal of aggravating reflection, he had come to the conclusion there was nothing better than to turn it into a sheep pasture, and be sure and have a flock large enough to eat it down close, close to the very roots ; nip it, gnaw it, dig it, and keep at it every day, from early in the spring till late in the fall, and if anything would kill them, he thought that would. He was relieved when he got to this conclusion, and still he was not satisfied. The fact was, that meadow always made him uneasy; plucking the mote from his neighbor's eye disagreeably reminded him of a beam in his own. His grain fields were in good condition; so were his meadows, with the exception of a few daisies in one of them; his pastures--the one for his cows was rich, and in consequence, yielded him good returns, but the one for his sheep could hardly be said the same of. Tall, luxu- riant burdocks festooned the fences and stretched their long arms in every direction, stiff-necked stickwort, or sticktights, dotted the field, and spiked-thistles bristled their red heads defiantly. In spite of these the turf or award was heavy with tender grass and white clover, so ACU MURRAY. the sheep in it were by no means in a starving condition, but their torn and matted fleeces were horrible to behold. Every spring and fall Mr. Bradley purposed going over the field and destroying every vestige of the terrible pests, and as repeatedly neglected doing it. There was so much just then to see to ; the crops to put in in time, and once in, to take care of and harvest, fences to repair, wood to chop, and a thousand little things to do, that from spring to fall he had hardly a moment's leisure. Once or twice, 'tis true, he had sent R ichard and Terry to pull up the stickworts anrid cut the burdocks and thistles, but they had left abun- dant seed, which, falling on good soil, had sprung up and borne a hundred-fold, so no diminution was perceived. The sheep were only kept for family use, no profit was ex- pected from them, and leaving his grain fields to attend to their pasture seemed to him a losing business, a kind of picking up of straws and a scattering of bundles. He could not afford it; he would have to wait till his boys got a lit- tle older and better able to help him, and then he could reach all. At shearing time, when the torn and matted fleeces were brought in to Mrs. Bradley, her patience was stretched to its utmost power of endurance-what woman's would not have been? But to her remonstrance Mr. Brad- ley philosophically turned a deaf ear. What was the use of contending with her? Women couldn't understand these things. They can see the beginning of a cause, and perhaps extend their vision to the middle of it, but are never able to reach the end. He knew what he was about, and by and by, when all came round right, she would4 know, too; not before. In the meantime he must be pa-' tient and not mind her fretting; and he actually hugged the delusion to his heart that he was laying up any amount of glory for himself by his Christian patience and forbear- ance. It never occurred to him that Mrs. Bradley had page: 182-183[View Page 182-183] 182 ALICE MURRAY. more to try her in the matter than he. The wool was brought into the house, manufactured into garments for himself and sons, and comfortable as they were in the cold winter and damp springs and falls, he forgot the increased labor which his negligence occasioned her might very se- riously interfere with that reward for patience and forbear- ance which he had so good-naturedly laid up for himself. He was not hard or exacting; everything round the house was as convenient as his humble means would admit; he was generous in doing little chores, and when he had not time, or was too tired, making his boys do them in his place; he never found fault with his wife's domestic ar- rangements. "Nora knew better than he how to get along with her work. Let her do it how and when she liked ; it was none of his business; he had no right to meddle with her affairs ; he wanted no one to meddle with his. No one did; he would not allow it. To Mrs. Bradley, when she strenuously insisted on the improvement, amendment or reforming of that field, he turned a deaf, apathetic and un- mindful ear. To all others, without the slightest hesita- tion, with very little courtesy and no lack of temper, he gave them distinctly to understand that his ,own ideas were as good as theirs; that he had not worked on a farm from his youth up without knowing how to make his acres yield, and by and by they would see. In the spring the seed is put in the ground, in the summer and fall the grain is gathered into the barn; the world was not made in a day; the infant must creep before it walks; we cannc t forestall Time, he goes fast enough ; we must regulate our paces to his, and not try to fly before him. He knew what he was about; he knew it, and did not care the snap of his finger whether others agreed in their views with him or not. Assured of his own integrity, and respecting the Wisdom derived from his own experience and observations A ACE MURRAY. 183 through life, he could go on, heedless of approval or dis- approval of any one around him. That pasture should re- main just as it was till he got ready to attend to it. He had said that a hundred times, and said it in a manner that silenced remarks-silenced them at least in his press ence; it is not so sure he silenced them behind his back, for people will talk, and all the more readily and more bitr terly for having at times to restrain themselves. But the contemplation of that daisy meadow, Sunday after Sunday, and every time he happened week days to go to the village, was beginning to affect him in a most disagreeable manner. It was touching self. He could not condemn Gould without condemning himself; his equan- imity was disturbed. It was a shame that field was there staring everybody in the face. Thank God his was back, away back, the rear one on his farm, joining the rear ones of other farms coming out on the lower road; conse- quently it could not be an eye sore to every passer by.- But hidden sins, are they the less gnawing in their remorse because hidden? because not seen? It was a question he did not like to answer, although in a kind of a dim, unde- fined way it frequently came up. How could he help it? He began to think his wife had some cause to complain, that he was not altogether blameless. His dignity and self-respect were deserting him under the condemnation he, in his mind, pronounced upon his neighbor; it was, in fact, a condemnation against himself. Out of his own mouth came his judgment. He could not be easy, and fidgeted about on his seat in a most restless manner; his calm Sunday thoughts were scattered as before a mighty wind. The daisy field was long passed, and other fields stretched on before him, but he could not shut out from his mental vision that ill-fated one. lf he could have spoken his extreme disapprobation of Gould's slovenly page: 184-185[View Page 184-185] 184 ALICE MURRAY. ways, he might, in the multiplicity of his words, hbve buried his righteous indignation against himself, and in the listener's sympathetic remarks have found a solace for the remorseful pangs he suffered. But he knew, he was obliged to know, that if he but opened his mouth on the subject, somebody else would open theirs, and on that sub- ject he cared least to hear about, which in his present state of mind would be absolutely unendurable. Necessity enforced silence. There was no relief for him. He let the long lash of his whip trail on the ground; he suddenly raised it and cracked it above the horses' ears, careful, however, not to touch them, only using it as a brush to whisk away the flies, and, at the same time, as a gentle re- minder to quicken their pace. He lifted his hat and allowed the cool breeze to play around his head. It was absolutely necessary to come to some conclusion. He could not go on thinking and thinking, and finding every thought a probe reaching the core of his brain without ex- periencing a kind of torture. He had intrenched himself behind the utter impossibility, with his present cares and his present help, to bring that field under a proper state of cultivation. This intrenchment must be forced, taken by storm; it must no longer be suffered to exist. He must have peace of mind, and in order to secure it he must see to that field. That was plain, there was no alternative; he had tried to shun this conclusion, to get away from it, but it would follow, and he was now obliged to bow to its irre- vocable decrees. That pasture should no more be a dis- grace to himself, and a vexation to his wife. The very first rainy day he and the boys would go over it with an un- sparing hand. Every burdock, every thistle, every stick- tight should be destroyed. He said it, and no light thing should cause him to change. It was an eloquent sermon that silent meadow preached to him. It took down the ALICE MURRAY. 185 pride which had exalted him above his just deserts; 'his many excellent traits of character had become too ap- parent to himself; he knew too well his own good qual- ities, and although he made no outward demonstration of them, in his heart was growing up a stiff, proud, dogged self-sufficiency, as unlike what he was when he commenced life, as it is possible to conceive. "Terence is getting very set in his own way," Mrs. Brad- ley would occasionally remark, but thinking of his kindly care for the welfare of his family, his hard labor and good- natured bearing, she hardly minded it. It was only the unfortunate wool business that fully awakened her to the fact; but the wool once picked, the trouble over, she sunk back into her old apathy. However, mention to her a ne- glected field, and the remembrance of the frequent stabs from the spiked thistles, and the tedious hours spent in extracting the burs flashed before her, and called forth a sharp retort. At all other times she pursued the even tenor of, her way, scarcely conscious, and little heeding whether Terence was getting more set in his ways or not. He now felt as all feel when making a good resolution, backed by a determination that it shall not prove one of those bricks paving a certain place we have heard of, and the relief he experienced banished the frown from his brows and imparted a benign expression to his face. "I am thankful, Nora," he said, and his voice sounded like one that has been troubled but is now comforted, "that we got the barley in yesterday." "Yes, Terence, and so am I. To-morrow you can go into the oats." "But I am thinking we won't go into them." "Won't you go into them? Why not " "Because it will be rainy." "Why, Terence, you are as bad as Richard. The sky is page: 186-187[View Page 186-187] 186 ALICE MURRAY. blue, the snn shines, and everything seems to speak a long spell of dry weather." "You see them little fish-like looking clouds?" He pointed with the stalk of his whip over his head. "Yes, I see them; but what of them? We've had little feathery clouds several days; I never fear them. It's the big black clouds that makes me look for rain." "You are right, Nora. The little feathery clouds are not the ones to look for rain from. But the clouds up there are not feathery-they are &olid little bodies ; by and by they'll all go into one, and either form the black clouds you speak of or call them up. I have noticed it this many a year, that when they spread themselves over the sky, rain soon comes. And don't you see the wind has shifted round to the south?" "Well, so it has." "And if it rains, as I am pretty sure it will, do you know what I am going to do?" "You don't need to go to mill, and I shouldn't think getting the horses shod just before you went into the wheat, that you'd have to go to the blacksmith's." "No, Nora, neither milling nor blacksmithing is needed, but still something needs to be done, and God helping me, the first rainy day, and to-morrow I think will be it, I am going to do it. You can't make it out?" he asked, as his wife seemed not very curious to know. "Something, I suppose, Terence, that you ought to do, whatever it is," she answered, with the ease and unruffled serenity of one whose mind is not burthened with the memory of unfulfilled duties. "Well now, Nora, what will you say when I tell you it's nothing less than going with the boys over the sheep pas- ture and destroying all the burdocks, thistles, and stick- tights." ALICE MURRAY. 187 A rapid change passed over her countenance. "Is that o, Terence?" "Have I ever said it before, Nora?" "No, I can't say you have. But I thought you was going to wait a dozen or so years, till Richard and Terry would be so ashamed of you they'd go and do it themselves." "Ashamed of me, Nora?" "Yes, ashamed of you. For I tell you, Terence, it's enough to make the very crows that fly over it ashamed to see such a field as that. How would I feel if I left the cellar, with the milk and butter in it, looking like that?" "But, Nora, you're unjust. Look at the other fields. There are not cleaner, better cared-for fields in the whole town, or the State, for that matter." "And more shame for you, Terence, when you know how to do it, that you'll have such a one on your farm. I shouldn't think you could rest day or night with the dis- grace of it on your mind." "But, Nora, God helping me, the disgrace shall be re- moved." - He spoke with an earnestness that arrested her attention. She looked at his sun-burnt face, over it was the meekness and humility of a little child that is harshly reproved and takes it submissively. She placed her hand gently on his, holding the lines; that he resented not the caustic words she had spoken, touched her. "You've had a hard time of it, Terence," she said, "and it's no wonder you couldn't get round it before. One pair of hands can't reach everything. But I am thankful you can get at it now." "It has been a sore trial to you, Nora, the wool all full of thistles and burs?" "Well, yes ; but I might have had greater." There was a moisture in her eye as she thought how kind, and gene- rous and whole-hearted he had always been, and how pat page: 188-189[View Page 188-189] 188 ALICE MURRAY. tiently he had borne her sharp reproofs. At that moment, when he depreciated himself, when his patience and for. bearance dwindled away to an infinitesimal point, when he felt in all its force how careless and negligent he had been, at that moment he became exalted in her eyes; at that moment, forgetting all the trouble occasioned by that one field, she only remembered how good, and true, and faith- ful he had been, and how industrious, sober and frugal he was, and a fervent "Thanks be to God that Terence is what he is," went up from the inmost recess of her grate- ful heart. CHAPTER XII.' THEY had now reached the village and drove up before St.. Michael's church. It was a large brick building, with a handsome yard around it, thickly planted with trees. On the gable-end fronting the street arose a plain gilt cross; it sparkled and shone in the warm sunshine, and with its outstretched arms seemed to keep kindly guardian watch over the sacred edifice and its humble congregation. Beau- tiful symbol of man's redemption! the sunshine of heaven rests upon thee, and Hope, Faith and Love throw around thee their garlands of everlasting peace. Many were en- tering the church, and the Bradleys, leaving Mr. Bradley to fasten the horses to one of the numerous posts on the opposite side of the street, where several teams were already standing, hastily followed them in. The lights on the altar were not lighted, Mass had not yet commenced Near the sacristy door a number, mostly from the coun' try, were kneeling, waiting their turn to go to confession Fresh flowers bloomed on the altar, and back of it, directl ALICE MURRAY. 189 over the Tabernacle, wherein reposed the Sacred Host, hung the crucifixion. On the right was a Madonna and St. Michael, on the left an Ecce Homo. These pictures were not remarkable for any artistic skill, and in an ob- scure country church one would not expect to find works ffrom the great masters, or even very faithful copies from them. But can a Christian look on even an ordinary rep- resentation of any scene relating to the adorable Sacrifice offered on Calvary's height with other feelings than those of reverence and respect? They remind him of his obliga- tions, they speak to him of his religious duties. On the walls he sees the stations of Christ's sufferings; on the altar, the Gospel, the chalice, the crucifix. He is sur- rounded by the symbols of Christianity; he is in a temple consecrated to the worship of Almighty God. The pride of criticism leaves his heart; rules of art are forgotten; with bowed head and bended knee, sublime truths rush to his mind, the voice of passion within him is hushed, and humble, contrite and adoring, he is prepared to assist at the Unbloody Sacrifice there offered up. Let the unbelieving sneer at pictures in the house of God, they have a purpose, and they serve that purpose weU. Many a time had Alice Murray entered the church, and glided to her pew, when to the casual observer her countenance, everything about her, would have indicated a calm and tranquil state of mind. To another, one who likes to probe the outward seeming, the downcast eyes would have seemed a little too hard in their expression, the lips a trifle too compressed, the cheeks of too snowy a pallor, the movements too severely and rigidly still to denote the Sabbath-like feelings of reverence and repose. The storm that gives no warning of its approach, that gathers its force in silence, is the most destructive ; eternal ice may cover the breast of a burning crater, and fierce page: 190-191[View Page 190-191] 190 ALICE MURRAY. fires wither and blast the soul with a passionless face. She seldom referred to the dark pages of her life, but there was a painful luxury in allowing her own mind to dwell upon them. She thought over every little circumstance, she paused upon every scathing word, she carefully exam- ined motive after motive, till the scenes of past aggrava- tions rising up before her, all the worst feelings of her passionate nature would be fully roused. Anger, hatred, and desire for revenge. Revenge! what good did it do her to desire revenge. They--those that had injured her- were beyond her reach ; they had thrust her down ; they had trampled over her; they had humbled and oppressed her; Isaac had been cast out for Ismael; the desert was around her, but no tree to shade her from the noon-day sun, no draught to cool her parched throat. It was wrong, exceedingly wrong to allow her thoughts to dwell on these painful subjects, and this she well knew ; but it is hard to keep a constant watch on one's self, hard to be forever doing violence to one's natLral disposition. How could she help thinking of the past? She had been endowed with memory; should she, despising the gift, pluck it from. her brain and cast it forth as nothing worth? could she, if she would? With such thoughts, such feelings had she, Sunday after Sunday, knelt in her pew, blessed herself, and raising her head, beheld the sad, searching eyes of the Ecce Honzo bent sorrowfully and reproachfully upon her. Under the full sway of passion, books weary and grow dis- tasteful; we read, but it is a mechanical effort; the char- acters pass before the eyes, but the sense fails to reach the understanding, like the somnambulist we see without see- ing, and move on without knowing that we stir. Words annoy, irritate, but seldom convince. Hurried on with an impetuosity that brooks no delay, they lag behind, and before the conclusion is reached, the exordium, statement I - ALICE MURRAY 1l1 and reasoning are forgotten. A picture is different; it presents the whole argument at a glance, and, silencing the siren voice of sophistry, forces conviction upon us. Histories, dim in their distances, are brought home to the present time, and scenes that we have only read of are re-enacted before our eyes, The incredulous Thomas be- lieved when he saw and touched the wounds of the Blessed Saviour. Seeing with him was believing, his doubts vanished before the might of such resistless eloquence, and his stout heart yielded submissively to faith. Books for Home, spoken words for others, pictures for others, and each for the same in different moods; for dif- ferent moods require different treatment, or rather different forms of eloquence. The Church, with a divine wisdom, pro- vides for the wants of all, and eloquent in book, word or picture, she draws all, as to a common centre, to the love of God and the observance of His holy laws. Alice felt those eyes read her very soul; she could not bear it, and lowered her head to escape the sorrowful reproach they seemed to express. He, the Innocent, had suffered, and suffered silently; and His dying prayer was for His enemies : "Fa- ther, forgive them, for they know not what they do." Fromr t the dead ages that prayer came back, painfully contrasting with the unhallowed passions that had taken possession of her heart. In its divine tenderness and compassion she felt her own condemnation. Christ prayed for His ene- mies-she cherished ill-will against hers; in agony His soul was filled with loving and pitying thoughts; in peace, hers with bitter and resentful feelings; His life was her model-the model of all Christians. How was she follow- ing her model? In the terror of this question individual wrongs were forgotten, or only dimly-remembered; from unuttered reproaches against others came silent reproaches agawins self. She felt all her unworthhines, and. with the page: 192-193[View Page 192-193] nLoja u. U;KUAY. . publican's cry of "God be merciful to me, a sinner," she again timidly raised her head. Those eyes were still upon her, but now she fancied she read a different mueaing in their glance, sad and sorrowful still, but no longer re- proachful. No, now in their extreme sadness and sorrow seemed a pity and commiseration for the affliction of His suffering children. As of old iIe wept over Jerusalem, so now He wept over them. Alice loved that picture. The lessons she learned from it sunk deep in her heart, and were never forgotten. "Alice, show me the place." Little Rosie held up her tiny prayer-book. With the big bunch of sweet-williams in one hand she folud it quite impossible to manage. Alice bent her head. "Let me take the flowers," she said. "But where will you put them? There's no room on the seat." "I will put them where they'll not be troubling you and taking your mind from your prayers." "Where is that?" Alice moved a little, so as to leave a slight space in the corner of the pew. "There," she said, "I will put them there. Give them to me." Rosie handed them to her, and sighed, relieved that the burden was removed. Now she could attend to her prayers. A boy came in from the sacristy and lighted the candles on the altar; many of the men who gathered in knots in the yard, were talking, hurried in ; the church filled, Father Edwards, robed in his vestments, entered the sanctua ry, and Mass commenced . After the Gospel, removing the chasuble, Father Ed - wards proceeded to address the con gregation, To say that AUICE MURRAY. 193 his remarks wo:-e learned would not be conveying a right idea of them ; to say they were marked by a lofty and daz- zling eloquence would be equally false. They were neither ; and yet there was something about them that won the ear and riveted the attention. He was a slight, nervous little man, perhaps thirty or thirty-five years of age, with large, speaking grey eyes, and light sallow complexion. His fea- tures you hardly noticed, br if noticed, in after years you could not clearly recall them; you only remembered his face ras thin and spiritual, and that when he spoke it lighbtd up with an intense earnestness, and when he was silent a pure, refined expression rested on it. He was zealous and indefatigable, feeble in looks, yet never idle, always busy, and wonderfully sustained through all his labors. As a friend he was kind, faithful, and candid; if he saw anything wrong about you he would frankly tell you of it, and do it in a way that could not possibly offend; if there was anything about you to commend he would commend, but do it in a manner that could not feed your vanity. A little word on the nothingness of life, or the certainty of death, or the happiness of the soul basking in the sunshine of God's approving smile, went with his praise, and raised you above any foolish self-complacency it might otherwise have inspired. He was revered by his whole congregation; the young, strong and well-to-do re- joiced in his friendship ; the old, feeble and poor felt their hearts warmed and comforted by his esteem. He fami- liarly visited them in their homes, and entered freely into all their plans. He knew all their struggles, and the many straits they were put to to make the year come round; he knew all their joys, and shared their triumphs when by extra labor and sacrificing many of the little comforts of life they succeeded in paying up for a small house, or a bit of land whereon to build one. The rich, too, confided i'n page: 194-195[View Page 194-195] 194 ALICE MURRAY. him their troubles, for they too have troubles, and their triumphs, for they too have their triumphs. The ease with which he conformed himself to all reminded one of Fenor Ion, and yet in this trait alone was he like him. In his impetuosity of action and earnestness of manner he far V more resembled St. Bernard. In the austerity of his fasts, the rigor of his devotions, his contempt of ease and luxury, the powerful influence he held over all around him, his emaciation of body, clearness of voice and brightness of eye, he, a country priest, hid away among the hills, forcibly brought to mind the great Abbot of Clairvaux. I have said his remarks at the altar (I suppose I should r say his sermons,) were not learned, nor marked by a lofty eloquence, and yet they won the ear and riveted the attention. This was true; and the secret of their power was the simplicity with which his subjects were brought forward, and the intense earnestness with which they were treated. I do not assert that such an eloquence is the best adapted to enlighten the mind and open the eyes to the beauties of the one true faith; I will only say that since his coming to Lucan several families in and around the village had been received into the church, and among them the Meads and Armstrongs. To-day, as usual, he was breathlessly listened to; no nodding of the old farmers, no fidgeting on the seats of the young ones; one ar two infants, wearied with the heat and confinement, cried, and their mothers quietly walked out of the church with them. But, the sermon ended, the chasuble was again resumed; and till the close of the ser- vices all were attentive, and many wrapt in their devotions. Out in the yard the women took the opportunity to ex- change kindly greetings, the men to continue their inter- rupted remarks. Julia Armstrong approached the Brad- beye ALICE MURiAt. 195 "Bless me!" she exclaimed, "Rosie has a bunch of flow. ers for me and won't give them to me." Rosie's 'sweet-williams were so wilted and looked so shabby that she blushed and shrunk from offering them. Terry's eyes twinkled with glee. "Such poor little things!" he whispered. A tear rolled over Rosie's cheek. "Iake them Julia," she said, " they are the best I have." "I will, Rosie, and right beautiful they are." "Beautiful!"The child looked up surprised. "Yes, Rosie, dear, beautiful and sweet, too." "She was so ashamed of them," innocently broke in Terry, " that she hardly knew whether you would like them or not." "Ashamed of them!--of the beautiful old-fashioned sweet-williams! Why, Rosie, I thought you had more sense; it's only the weak and foolish that despise the dear little flowers that are common and old-fashioned." "But Terry was sure you wouldn't like them." "Terry, eh?" "Yes." Margaret and Elizabeth laughed. Terry blushed. "Terry, you were teasing Rosie." "To be sure he was. He loves to tease her." "For shame! Tease little Rosie." But Terry just then recollected that he wanted to see Ambrose Meade about a new kind of horse-rake he had heard him speak of. "Come," Julia said, " you'll step over and take a cup of tea with us?" "Impossible," Margaret answered; "father will soon have the team round, and then drive to Rathbun with me." "But Paul's at our house with his horse and wagon, and he could just as well take you as not." "Thank you, Julia, but I would not like to put him- to that trouble" page: 196-197[View Page 196-197] 196 ALICE MURRAY. "Pshaw! great trouble it would be to him! Why he's got to go there to-night any way, whether you are with him or not." "I know, but still---"Margaret hesitated and Alice looked pained. "Yes, I understand. Still you would not want to go with him. I will tell Paul of it; you may be sure he will feel complimented." "I would if I were in his place," Elizabeth remarked. "Why?" "Because, Julia, it would imply that she had, or has, a little more regard for him than just to put up with his fine company as a matter of accommodation to your views or her own." "And not for any value she sees in it herself." "Yes." "Upon my word, Elizabeth, you are most as sharp- sighted as the philosophers with your nice distinctions. I ! suppose, when you favor Ambrose with your priceless presence in his wagon, it's not for the ride, or the beautiful country, or the friends you may chance to see; it's only that you may enjoy his society and listen to his profoundly wise remarks." "Nonsense, Julia, how you do run on," but she blushed and wound, and unwound the little band on her para- . soL t "But you'll come." "Impossible." The team by this time was drove round to the gate of tile yard, Mrs. Bradley cut short her remarks to a knot of matrons that had gathered around her, Richard and Terry were already in, and with a kiss to Alice and Julia, Rosie, Elizabeth and Margaret followed her to the wagon. "Mr. Bradley." Julia had hastened forward to have a a ALICE MaURiS. t 197 word with him, "remember we will expect you on Wed- nesday to drink tea with us." "' Expect us on Wednesday."---- "Yes, Mrs. Bradley; Friday he told me that after the oats were in you were coming to Lucan to do some shop- ping, and then you would stop at our house and take tea. And Wednesday was the day he named." "Why, this is the first I have heard of it." X "Well, it's so, Mrs. Bradley, isn't it, Margaret and Alice? K You both heard him." "You needn't appeal to them, for I don't deny it. But I am afraid the oats won't be in by Wednesday." "Why not?" "Because we are going to have a rain. It will rain by to-morrow, afid then, of course, we can't go in them." Richard heard the remark, and looked triumphantly at Terry. "Didn't I tell you so?" he asked in an under- tone. "And because you told me so, I suppose you are de- lighted to hear it. Now, if the wheat was out and a shower would shake out one-half the grains and spoil the other half, because forsooth you had prophecied rain, you'd be glad to see it come." "No, but because the wheat was out would be no reason why I should shut my eyes and not see the signs of coming rain." "Well, then, I suppose we needn't expect you on Wed- nesday," Julia remarked. "No, Julia," Mrs. Bradley answered; " as soon as the oats are in we will be down to the village and call and see you and your aunt, but it may not be till the latter part of the week. And now, God bless you, Alice, keep your heart up and don't fear. Our dear Lord will have you in His keeping." page: 198-199[View Page 198-199] 198 ALICE MURRAY. Alice warmly pressed the hard hand extended to her, I and turned silently away. "I declare," said Julia, on their way home, "it's a shame i for Terry to tease Rosie so. If he was my brother I'd box I his ears for him." "Oh, Terry loves Rosie, and would do anything for I her." "Loves her! He has a queer way of showing it. Why if he hated her he couldn't act worse. What a sorrowful little face she had when she handed me the flowers. I am provoked when I think of it. She was so stomach-full she I did not even thank me for those I sent her." "Did you want her thanks?" "No. I know they pleased her, and that was enough. But she would have been happier in thanking me than she was in shrinking back ashamed with the little wilted things she had to offer me in return. Rosie is a sweet child, and I love her. If I were in Elizabeth's or Mar- garet's place, I believe I would teach him a lesson or two that would do him good." "Did you notice Rosie's little blue shoes?" "Yes, and they have a cunning rosette with a steel button in the middle of it." "Well, Terry bought them." "Terry?" ? "Yes ; after they got through with their spring's work and before harvest commenced, he worked a couple or three days for Griscom." "Griscom's having the fever in the spring, put him back with his work." "I suppose so. At all events, he sent over to uncle Terence and begged him, as he was through, to let Richard and Terry help his boys for a few days, and he did so. Richard and Terry were to have what they earnedfor their i ALICE MULRAY. 199 own use. And Rosie's little blue shoes with the little blue rosette, was the use Terry put his to. You don't know how he strutted, and how important he felt when he brought them home; and how delightful Rosie was. You see that was the first money he ever earned, the first he could really call his own." "And he spent it for Rosie?" "Yes, freely spent it. He may tease her now and then, but she is as dear to him as his very life." i( And does his teasing have any lasting effect on her?" "Oh, no. If with his rough, boyish ways he brings a tear to her eye, he knows right well how to dry it." "But Richard, what did he do with what he earned?" "I hardly know." "I suppose speit it without knowing where it went." "Would you judge him to be such a one?" "I don't know. I am sure you can't tell what boys will do with their money. Terry put his to a use I should never have dreamed of, and on the same principle I should be tempted to think Richard had heedlessly spent his." "Not at all. I heard something about his adding it to the fund. It seems he and Margaret are going to lay by enough for something, I know not what." "Know not what! Did you ever ask them?" "No, if they wished me to know they would tell me without asking." "May be they would, and may be they wouldn't. They may think you don't care enough about their affairs to ask." O, Julia." "But I tell you it's so. You have such a-what shall I call it;" she paused as if to consider. "Well," she resumed after a moment's silence, "I can't find any term for it-but such a way-let it go at that-that I would be the last page: 200-201[View Page 200-201] 200 ALICE MURBAt. . one to trouble you with my calculations, or any little secret I might have." "Would you be afraid to trust me? afraid I would tell?" "I would be more afraid you wouldn't hear me ; that with your lofty reserve you would look with contempt on 3 me and my mighty communications." "Have I ever given you cause to feel so?" "Yes, a hundred times." "A hundred times! Julia! Julia!" "Well, if not a hundred times, somewhere in the neigh. borhood of it. Mercy! I that never know fear, that had as lief meet a hobgoblin as not, just for the pleasure of knowing for myself how it really does look, I, I have really felt shriveled as before the breath of a furnace when on quietly entering your room I have encountered your terrible glance fixed full upon me." "I did not know, Julia, that I was gifted with so amiable an expression of countenance." "I didn't know it at first either; but I have found it out; and if you don't like my fine company, say so, but don't look it. Your looks are worse than your words." "Is that why you kept from my room the past week?" "To be sure it was. I didn't and I don't want to be turned into a stone. But to go back to the Bradleys -." "Wait a minute, Julia, wait." "What is it?" "If you want to come to my room for the future, come. You will be welcome." "Welcome, Alice, is that a true word?" "I will try to make it true, Julia. You are truthful, and I like you for it; but you must not expect to find me always cheerful and entertaining. I have my moods, and some of them are not the most agreeable to a merry, laghh ter-loving girl like you." 8 .i? - AICE MURRAY. ZU1 "You mean you sometimes get down-hearted, discour- aged and all that." "I don't know, Julia, as you can call it down-hearted or discouraged; but I sometimes like to be alone, to think my own thoughts and live my own life. At such times, in such moods, a voice, a face, a presence jars terribly upon me; but, God helping me, I will try to get over this; I will try at all times and anytime to be pleased to see you." She sighed heavily and a wearied look settled round her mouth. There was one whose voice, whose face, whose presence had never been distasteful, whose coming had always brought a deep, quiet happiness to her heart. Sometimes in dreams that beloved presence still hovered round her, the liquid tones of that dear voice still sounded in her ears; but the dream past, the illusion faded, she awoke to greater loneliness, greater desolation than ever. A tear coursed down her cleek and fell on her praver- book; she quickly wiped it off, but not before Julia saw it. Why, Alice," she exclaimed, "you are crying!" "No, no, Julia ; I was only thinking." "Then your thoughts were not pleasing. Was it at what I said?" she asked, in a softened voice. "No, Julia; but now and then aunt Elbray comes up before me, and I miss her. Oh! how I do miss her." She spoke with the energy of deep feeling, and her lips trem- bled as the waves of sorrow washed over her face. "But, Alice, all the grieving in the world won't call her back." "I know it, Julia; I know it," she brokenly replied. Julia, in her warm-hearted and impulsive manner, seized her hand and held it firmly in both h3rs. "Listen to me, Alice," she said; "I won't be selfish; I. won't go near you when you don't want me. You get tired and want to be left alone sometimes, and you shall I vW page: 202-203[View Page 202-203] aVid ALICE MURRAY. will not break in upon you, only just when you ask lme; and I won't feel hurt or angry with you if you don't often i ask. I know, little as you may think it, how I should mise aunt Sarah, and if she was gone, how I would like, once in I awhile, to be alone to think of her. They say company cheers; that the sound of strange voices and the sight of strangu faces lift the heart out of its sorrow and renew its wasted strength. But I don't believe it. Father was sick one time, and every one thought he would die; he required watchers night and day; the doctor called two or three times a day to see him, and friends called, I might say, every hoar in the day. And maybe it was wrong, but I can't tell you, I haven't words strong enough at my com- mand, how tired I got of them all. Father was sick and needed quiet; I was in great dread and terror, and wanted to be left alone to wait on him, and every spare moment to kneel and pray. Why did they besiege us so? why did they rush upon us in such force? At last it was more than I could bear, and with, I am afraid, more bluntness than politeness, I requested them to stay away." "But not the doctor, Julia?" "Certainly not. It seemed father was receivingo benefit from his medicines; therefore, as you say about me, I tried to feel a welcome for him; but if he had not been helping father, I should soon have sent him packing with the rest, and got another. If a doctor don't help at once, I haven't the patience to keep him on hand with the hope that he is going, by and by, at some indefinite time in the i future, to help. Well, father soon got better, and I, too; that fretted, worn, frightened feeling left me; in the soli- tude of the sick chamber I grew strong and hopeful and cheerful. No, Alice, as I said before, when we are sad or down-hearted, it's not in the power of strange faces and ! ntrange voices to lift us up again to gladness. We must i struggle on alone and, God's blessing resting on our exer- tions, we need not fear ; we will be carried safely through." They now had reached the gate, and passing up the grav- eled path leading to the house, Alice remarked: "Julia, you were going to say something about the Brad. ley's. What was it?" "I have almost forgotten. Let me see-ah! yes, now I recollect; it was that they may think you can't enter into their affairs-that you feel above it?" "No, no, Julia; not at all. They are dear to me-doarer 2 than I can express. The more I know of them, the more deeply I revere them." "Well, then, just ask them about their fund and its mys- terious object; I wouldn't hesitate a moment." "I don't believe you would," Alice laughingly answered. "Well, if I wouldn't, why should you?"Alice looked into her good-natured face, and thought how little peace she would have given the Bradleys till she found out the whole secret. But she could not do it; rather than pry into their affairs, or, presuming on their kindness, intrude herself in their little family conclaves, she would submit to any uncharitable construction Julia might be pleased to put upon her. They knew her well, and from them she had nothing to fear; they looked upon her with loving eyes; they felt for her lonely and orphaned state; in their faithful hearts they kept a warm place for her; a dread and a terror hung over her, but in the darkness of that dread and terror, their silent affection, their enduring friendship, their unspoken confidence, was her ladder reaching unto heaven, by which angels ascended and dlo- scended in the thoughts holy, calm and comforting that were borne in upon her troubled souL X - ,:.! page: 204-205[View Page 204-205] 204 XTALICE MURRAY. CHAPTER XITI SEVERAL times dm'ing the summer Ambrose Nteade had occasion to ride out to the Bradleys. It seermedl ASI. Brad- ley's opinion on farmring matters was absolutely necessary for him to know. He found, too, that r. Bradley's expe- rience in the using of two or three kinds of new farming machines was invaluable, and as he had bought a mowing machine of a late patent, it was wise in him to learn how to work it. The machine his uncle used out on his farm was a heavy, clumsy, horse-lkillinr affair. It had irreor- erably lamed two of his horses, and he wanted nothing to do with it. He could not afford to offer up his fine spirited span to such a Moloch; he wouldn't if he could. Mr. Brad- S ley's was no such; it was light, easily managed, and did its business in a neat, workmanlike style. le would just i see how Bradley made it go, and, having seen it i te field, it was necessary to step into the house and inform Mrs. Bradley and Elizabeth how he liked it. Having witnessed his skill in working the mowing ma- S chine, he must know what; he thought of the different K kinds of grain best adapted for the soil in and around Rathbun; having learned this, which was the best for Stapleton; for although but a few miles apart, the soil of the two places was quite different, that of Stapleton was clay and loam, with plenty of limestone, that of Rathbun a gravelly loam, with a mixed subsoil of sand and clay, with little or no limestone. It was incumbelnt on him to learn all he could on the subject, and learn it too from some practical farmer. Book farming might do for some, it would never do for him. He wanted to see with his own eyes, and hear with his own ears how the whole thing was done. You see nothing was simpler than his going :there. 't X. bATLICE MURRAY. 205 T lia need not be attributing it to this or that motive ; she must not be insisting that it was to see the daughter and not the father he went. Though for that matter, he could not see what fault any one could find if that really were the case. Elizabeth Bradley would be a blessing in any man's house; she would know how to save, lay up and help her husband along. She was a good industrious girl, a girl to make her father and mother glad, a girl to make X i home happy. When Julia bantered him on his sudden awakening to Mr. Bradley's wisdom in farm matters, his mother always took his part, and Paul, grave, thoughtful, prudent Paul, smiled approval. Even his old uncle, that loved him as a son, and for that reason, if he could, would soon enough have pointed out defects, only encouraged him to go on, and win if he could; and on one occasion, for his especial benefit, took down the family Bible, and seat- ing himself beside him, with one hand on his knee to secure attention and keep him in his chair, read aloud to him the last chapter of Proverbs, in which the inspired pen-man sings the praises of a wise woman. But just as lie finished it, he declared it all at once flashed upon him that he had been putting himself to unnecessary trouble, that Elizabeth Bradley, reared by a wise mother, had so 'much the promise of the valiant woman therein described; that he had no doubt, unknown to them all, that that chapter had been Ambrose's especial study, and that he had looked about him and made his choice in accordance with it. No one found fault, no one seemed displeased, and he did not know why they should. She was a good girl, there was no denying it; a good, gentle pious girl, that would feel kindly to all his friends. He occasionally rode out with her; to be sure he did; and whose business was it? Several, however, seemed to think it their business to make laughing allusions to it; and, although these allu- page: 206-207[View Page 206-207] 2t6 ALICE MURRAY. sions brought a flush to the fair cheek of Elizabeth, he did 1 not allow them to annoy him in the least. On the con- ! trary, as they were not in any way disrespectful to Eliza- beth or himself, only the usual remarks with which friends amuse themselves when they think two young people are i about to join their lots for life, one would judge by the light of his eye, and the smile, that in spite of his desire to look grave and mystified, hovered round his lips, that he rather enjoyed them. He was now on a farm of his own, it was well stocked, he knew how to carry it on with profit, and what harm if he did marry? It was a troublesome thing for him to be boarding; he wanted a home, and he wanted in that home a competent housekeeper. I He took another view of the subject. He did not want to be selfish, to think only of himself-although in an af- fair so serious as choosing a companion for life, he felt one ought to study their own tastes and dispositions a little, in order to know whether they clashed too violently with the tastes and dispositions of the one that happened to in. I terest them. If they did, it would be better for the after- peace and happiness of both parties to look farther and wait longer. But their tastes and dispositions-his and Elizabeth's, did not clash in the least; in fact, they were very similar. Both loved the country, with its freshness and beauty, its winter and summer glory ; both loved farm life, with its hard labor, and a farm home, with its homely but solid comforts; both were willing to work, were sav- ing and careful, and at -the same time neither mean nor sordid; both were naturally cheerful, and cared little' for the prosy dulness of too much learning; yet both liked a good book or paper, and in the long winter evenings could heartily enjoy it. Yes, in a great many points they were much alike, and it pleased Ambrose to know it. But there were other traits in which they did not so ALICE MURRAY.- 207 closely resemble. She was much better than he; more deeply pious, more patient, kind and gentle; more thought- ful for others, more forgetful of self; in fine, in every way more sincerely good. As happily as their tastes and dis- positions coincided in some things, in others she was in-: finitely his superior. He told himself this, and he firmly believed it. He who looked, or had looked, only to his own convenience, who in wanting a housekeeper had turned to her as the most competent to fill that station in I his home, who had congratulated himself in searching for a wife, had found one that would save and lay up with him, that would make his house bright and his heart glad -in short, he who had only been studying his own inter- ests, now, reflecting on her many excellencies, felt how pre- sumptuous, how selfish he had been. With a crushed sense of his own nothingness, he repeated to himself that he was not worthy of her. Presently he asked himself who was? He could find no answer to his question, and went on to another. Who would make her happy? Here was one that brought the bright, hopeful look back to his face. Who make her happy? who feel himself proud to labor for her, to make her home pleasant, her lot in life as easy as an honorable, loving heart could make it? Yes, God help- ing him, he could do all that. And how delightful it would be, after a hard day's work, to come home and meet her sweet face waiting him at the door, to see her light form moving gracefully round the house, to hear the clear tones of her voice as she told him all the little incidents of the day. And then, when the harvest was over, the summer past, the winter come, how charming it would be to gather round the warm fire, and conscious that the horses, sheep and cows were carefully sheltered, read aloud to her while she sewed or knit, from some of their few Iut well-loved books, heedless of the wild storm withcou Bright hopes page: 208-209[View Page 208-209] A& UI I I A lJ AALJ U. M&* A e these, playing on the imagination of a young farmer ; glorik ously tinted pictures hanging on the walls of the inner I temple of his heart. Hopes and pictures at present, that was all; for with the ardent feelings of twenty-three, he had jumped beyond the real, had got ahead of himself; he was reaping the grain before he had turned the sod or put in the seed. As yet, though he had frequently called at the house, had several times rode out with her, and his whole family smiled approval of his choice, he had spoken no word of love. Brave and fearless as he was, he shrunk back with an overpowering timidity from declaring with his usual frankness, his sentiments, or the motive of his attentions. But without his declaring the one or boldly coming out with the other, Bradley seemed to know them and take them in good part. He saw this, and it pleased him. But of late he began to feel uneasy ; Elizabeth was a good girl, and had, if not a beautiful, at least a very in- teresting face, and others were beginning to find it out as well as himself. Bob Griscom, their neighbor Griscom's oldest son, was getting very generous with his garden seeds, and bringing over his agricultural paper to the Bradleys, and Hugh Donnovan, the tailor in Lucan, was becoming too fond of the bracing air of Stapleton, of the tine views seen from its lofty elevation, of the order, neat- ness and productiveness of its hilly farms-in other words, I to bring it down to plain language, was riding out quite too often to the Bradleys. He must see to it, and not i through any foolish hesitancy on his part let the prize he coveted be snatched from him. As Mr. Bradley said, Monday was a rainy day ; no going into the fields, and as it rained almost without cessation the whole day, but little out-door work could be done. Ambrose Meade looked over his harnesses to see they were all right, examined, industriously whistling all the while, aJAVJlB UJ InJfLL I. vu the make of his new horse-rake and mowing machine, greased the wheels of his lumber-wagon that did not need greasing at all, and in one way or another kept himself busy in the barns and out-houses all the forenoon. After dinner he staid in the house, and, as it was washing-day and there was a great deal of cleaning going on in the kitchen, he took his paper and went up stairs to his room. ll He read over all the leading articles, agreed with some of X them, and disagreed with others, looked out at the leaden sky, wondered when the rain would hold up, thought over his homeless state, let his eyes rest on his house over the way, pondered how long before he would be occupying it, pronounced himselfa fool for being under a strange roof 1 and at a strange board, when he might have a roof and a board of his own, and, finally, by the time supper was a ready, and he had eaten, and had milked his cows, he got in so decided an ill-humor with himself that he found it abso- lutely necessary, wet as it still was, to walk over to Paul's. He put on his coat, took his hat and umbrella and sallied out. "I shall not come back to-night, Mrs. Pierce," he said, closing the door behind him. He walked with a quick, striding step, and reached Paul's store just as he was closing it for the night. "You are early, Paul," he said. "It's no use to keep it longer open," Paul answ red, "it's so wet no one will be in to-night." "Have you had many in to-day?" he asked, walking beside him to his boarding-house. No, in the morning a couple from your neighborhood came in and got some things. And the rest of the day there's been nothing going on but smoking, and chewing, and spitting, and politics. I am sick and tired of ii all The whole village seems to think a store is for nothing else than lounging in of a rainy day." page: 210-211[View Page 210-211] 210 ALICE MURRAY. "I suppose their families would rather have the old codgers at the store than at tne tavern." "I suppose so. But they manage to make themselves perfect nuisances, let them be where they will." "You don't seem to be in a particularly amiable mood, Paul." "I feel better than I have for the whole day; for now I can go to my room and have a pleasant chat with you.' "You won't stop to have a word with Margaret." "I will, if you wish it." Ill Ambrose did wish it, for was she not the sister of Eliza. beth, but he was ashamed to let his brother see it, ashamed a to have him know how much the thought of Elizabeth filled his mind, and everything in the most remote manner connected with her, how dear it was to him. Paul would surely think him a fool; a man may be over-head and ears in love, and yet not act or speak as if he had lost all the sense he ever had. No, he would not say he wanted to see her, he would put a restraint on himself; it was not more than he did every Sunday after Mass. Instead of rushing up to her in the yard, and making a display of himself before the whole congregation, he allowed her quietly to ride home with her parents, and then rode out to Stapleton afterwards and had a good enjoyable call on them." "We will go right to your room, Paul," he said, as the latter had his hand on the door knob, "get your lamp and don't wait." Paul took him at his word, and stepping into the sitting- room, walked to the mantel-piece, got his lamp, lit it and was turning away when Margaret looked up from her sew w g, and in her clear and singularly sweet voice said: "That is Ambrose in the hall." "Yes, Margaret, that is Ambrose" ALICE MURRAY. 2" Ambrose came forward and shook hands with her." "I am glad to see you, Margaret," he said, and seldom is that conventional expression more truthfully uttered. "And I am glad to see you," she as truthfully returned. "We have had a dull, gloomy day, he said, releasing her poor little hand. "I don't know; it has not seemed gloomy to me." "I. suppose it's because rainy or sunny, you women always have something to do." "It may be that, but I always like to see the rain colme down, everything looks so fresh after it." "Well, yes, so it does. And as we've had a long spell of dry weather we must put up with a day or two's wet. The roads will be enough better to pay for it; the dust for a week back has been almost choking." Paul was standing with the lighted lamp in his hand, and feeling she might be detaining them, she again resumed her sewing. Paul and Ambrose, with a quiet "good night" to her, passed out, and ascended to the room of the former. Without exposing his folly, or leaving himself open to ridicule, he had seen Margaret and spoken to her. A smile of satisfaction rested on his frank countenance. Hle leaned back in the chair her brother had seated him in, and rested his eyes so complacently upon him, that Paul said: "I think, Ambrose, like Margaret, you highly enjoy a wet comfortless day." "Anything but that, Paul; it dragged on me so I didn't know what to do with myself, and that's why I'm here." He raised his arms and clasped his hands back of his head. "Do you know," he said, "I'm thinking of that Bartoll I saw here the last time I staid with you. I don't like him," he added, suddenly straightening himself, "he's a hawk, Paul, you'd better look out for him." page: 212-213[View Page 212-213] 212 AIOE MURRAY. 'I think there is no danger, none in the least." Paul gently turned the leaves of his ledger, now and then paus. ing to look more sharply at the figures. "But I tell you, Paul, you musn't be too sure. I don't lke the glitter of his eye or the false ring of his laugh. There's something about him not right." "You don't look upon him as a counterfeiter, coiner, ad- venturer, or any such romantic rascal, do you?" "I look upon him, Paul, as one you should be careful in your dealings with, one you should keep a sharp look-out for. He's not one to be trusted, I tell you that." "Ambrose," (Paul gravely closed the ledger and slipped K it into the drawer,) "to tell you the truth, I was no more favorably impressed with Bartoll than you were?" "But has he written to you that he would take the building in White Town on the terms that you had men- tioned?" "No, and what's more, he won't write. He never meant to take it, and the terms were the very terms he named himself." "Is that so?" "It is. I don't like Rathbun, you know it as well as I 1 do. It's not a place large or popular for a merchant to thrive in. It may do to learn his trade in, but if he wants i to push himself ahead in the world, his trade learned, he had better leave it. White Town is a large, flourishing village, wide awake, and up to all the improvements of the day, and I bought that building, because it was for sale and I couldn't lease it at a reasonable price, intending, as soon as I sold out my present stock of goods here, to re- move there. Bartoll learning some way or other that I was the purchaser, came out, he said, to see me about it. He spoke something of setting up a young friend of his in White Town." ALICE MURRAY. 213 "Then it was not himself that was going into business there?" "No; White Town is as much too small for him as Rath- bun is for me. And for that matter I don't know as anyJ place would be hardly large enough for him." A smilte flitted over Paul's grave countenance. "Large enough! he looks to me, Paul, a small affair. One of those that are mighty big where they are not known, ar d small enough where they are." "But his family, Ambrose, are really wealthy." "That will not hinder him being a scoundrel."x "No, not at all, if a scoundrel is the part he means to play through life. But what I mean by saying his family are wealthy is, that his manners and words do not misre- present his station; he is really the son of a very wealthy gentleman. If he goes into business himself it will be on a large scale, and in some of the great cities." "But what makes you think he never meant to take your White Town building?" "Simply this : when he first broached the subject he was very earnest, and I thought anxious to get it. Before he left me he offered me more than as much again as I paid for it, and when I seemed willing to close with the offer-for I had concluded in my own mind that before I should have all sold out here, I could buy another building in the place -he informed me he would wait till the next day. The nest day he called again, and, as I supposed, to renew the conversation of the evening before. Not at all. When I in- troduced it he whisked away from it as gracefully as could be. Yes, he had thought something of buying it; White Town was an excellent location for a young country merch- ant, he knew of none more promising, and actually congra- tulated me on the prospect of mybeing soon settled there." "May be," said Ambrose, laughing, "he felt he had i 119; page: 214-215[View Page 214-215] 214 ALICE MUBRAY. X shown too much eagerness to get it, and had made you too : generous an offer." "I thought so too, at first, and expected to hear him- after he fancied he had sufficiently humbled my expecta. tions-end by offering me, if I would let him take it off my hands, about, one half of what he had offered me the day g before. And I was prepared for him if he had, but instead S of that, he declared it worth even more than he had of. fered, and then amiably dismissing the subject, as if it was one he had long enough trifled with, he wandered on to others, and finally spoke of Lucan-asked what kind of a place it was, if I was any acquainted there, and co n! eluded by informing me a former friend of his was then a jI : resident of that village. In my turn I asked him who? S He replied, Miss Murray." ' "You were surprise(d to hear that?" "Not in the least. Knowing he was from Antoria it was i; just where I expected his meanderings would lead. I told? him Miss Murray's cousin was in the house, and in a mo- i! ment I regretted it. He insisted on being introduced to dt her, and when she returned from her school I introduced iX him.'" "And Elizabeth told me the next day he visited her X school, and talked a great deal of Alice." "Yes, he visited her school, and I suppose Alice was ;d the theme of his conversation. But it seemed with Mar- garet's usual reserve he did not gather much from her. He still lingered round till that evening you came, and the next day he left, promising if he concluded to take the White Town building-at the last he fortunately recollected the ostensible object of his visit-he would write and let me know it. And that's the last I Leave heard from him You see I am right in thinking there's no danger, none iu the least, in all I will have to do with him." ALICE iM'URRAY. 215 "Well, Paul, it's odd, the whole affair seems' odd. And he never after all went to see Alice,." "No, never went near her, and Rathbun and Lucan only three miles apart." "( Strange ; what do you suppose he really came out for?" It would be hard to tell. One thing is evident, he did not come to buy my White Town store; and it's equally certain he did not come to see Miss Murray." i "No, I shouldn't think so, when he never went near her. D But why, when he seemed so anxious about her, didn't he go to see her? He could have learned all he wanted to learn by going direct to her instead of going in this round- : about way. Elizabeth says he spoke to Margaret as if her teaching was a mere caprice. "Yes, he spoke of it in the same way to me. But then ! that may only be his lofty way of referring to it. Some people live so in the clouds, they can never come down to plain terms of plain things. He may be one of them." Paul rose and took one or two turns up and down the room. "I don't know, Ambrose," he said, coming back to his chair, " as I am right, but it appears to me, however much he might formerly have been Miss Murray's friend. it was not as a friend he sought knowledge of her no-w. The second Mrs. Elbray has a daughter by her first 1 husband, and it seems she is about Miss Murray's age ; he ' may be interested in this young lady, and anxious; on that ] account to know if there is any probability of AMiss Mur- i ray returning to her uncle's home." "But what would Miss Murray's return home- have to ! do with that?" '"Don't you see?" "No, Paul, I can't see how Miss Murray's movements can affect him on that head. What is old Elbray to him? or what is -Elbray-to thfat, lady r" page: 216-217[View Page 216-217] 216 dLICE MURRAY. 'He may be nothing; he may be everything. YoU know he has no children of his own." t "I have heard so. "That he is very wealthy." ] "Yes, rich as an old Jew." "Having no children of his own, to whom will his wealth go when he leaves it?" "To the lucky one, or ones, the old codger wills it to." "And who stands the best chance of being this lucky 1 one?" Without a moment's hesitation, Ambrose answered: ; "Why, Miss Murray, to be. sure. He brought her up, and notwithstanding she is now earning her own living by teaching, he looks upon her as his child, and to his child he will leave his wealth." "You think so?"On Paul's thoughtful face rested an incredulous smile. "Why who else could he leave it to?" "Ambrose, that is a question that very slightly affects you or me. Not so with others. To certain personsI, believe it to be a profoundly agitating one. Miss Murray ; is away from her uncle, and in the loneliness of his old age her absence may wear him, his affections revive, and a the father in his heart call out for her return. If she, on! her part, is anxious to go back to him, the difference! between them may be healed, the old connection renewed.? If, on the contrary, she can no more look upon him as her father, and prefers to gain by her own exertions her own support; if, in other words, she cannot forget the harsh- ness he showed her while under his roof, and, regardless of his wealth, cares no more for him, and is determined to remain independent of him, or any aid she might derive from him, why then they may go on fearless as to whom he may leave his wealth; it will not surely be to her. ALCE uBRRBAY. 217 Working on his excited feelings, the alienation between H hem will be complete. Bartoll's visit here may have been in indirect way to ascertain how matters stood with Miss i dlurray." "Then you think he's been acting in the services of Mrs. j Elbray the part of a spy-." "Either in her service, or more probably in his own." "Well, do you suppose he got enough to pay him for his JJ ;ronble?" "I have my thoughts about that." He looked up smil- ingly at his brother, and laid his hand affectiomtately on his arm, "Amby, we often say what we are afterwards sorry for, what may possibly d o harm, and again in an unguarded moment we may utter what may do good. Let us hope for the best." ! "You think I spoke too free to him that time I met him a here--that I let out too much. I remember, though I've cautioned you agaainst him, that my tongue ran on like a span of colts that have got beyond control. I hardly knew where I'd stop, or over what tremendous precipice I might be hurled before I got through. You never feel so, Paul ; do you never feel ready to bite your tongue for its con- founded folly?" "Ambrose," said Paul, resting his elbow on the table and leaning his cheek on his open palm, " it would be insuffer- g ably vain in me to pretend that I have never said anything ' that I have afterwards wished unsaid ; besides, it would be a far from true." . . "Well, Paul, there's one that I believe might sav it?" I "Who?" "Margaret Bradley. What a wise, truthful little body a she is?" "Margaret is a good, conscientious girl I never look at those dark grey eyes of hers, but I think frail and feeble page: 218-219[View Page 218-219] 1a0 AICE MUtiLAY. as she seems, a strong soul dwells back of them. Little as they resemble, she always reminds me of her cousin, Miss Murray, and when I see Miss Murray at uncle's, Mar. garet Bradley is brought right before me. Does this re- semblance strike you?" "I can't say that it does. And yet, now that you have mentioned it, I think they are something alike. They aare both reserved in their manners, and some of the tones of their voices are very similar, but Margaret's is much the sweetest; so low, so clear, so thrilling; I never heard any- thing like it." "Yes, she has a singularly sweet voice." Paul knew while Ambrose was speaking of Margaret he was thinking of Elizabeth. It was so pleasant to have him there, his honoet, frank, warm-hearted brother, to listen to his words, to pour out his own, to feel the restraint of the day re- moved, to talk of what they both wanted to talk about, and to feel that each delighted in the presence of tht; other. And yet unbounded as was their confidence in each other, he could see in the uneasy movements of Ambrose, the restlessness of his eye, and now and then the faltering tones of his voice, that there was something he wished to say, and still had not the courage to bring it forward. It would not do rudely to tear away the mantle of reserve thrown around his feelings. Those feelings were sacred, and must be delicately approached. "Ambrose," he said, looking kindly at him, "it was so good in you to come here to-night. You don't know how my patience was tried the whole day. When in closing the store I saw through the gloom you and your umbrella, I said to myself, now I shall have something to pay me for my dreary day. I shall go right to my room and have a good resting chat. We will open our minds to each other Without fear, we will say just what we like. It will make I ALICE MUMRAY. 219 us boys again to talk over our calculations and view the future opening upon us; to lay out our plans for each other's inspection." "Yes, Paul, so it will," Ambrose absractedly answered. "How still and quiet it is; I think ehe family must be all in bed," Paul remarked. "Yes, it is still and quiet. I like it so. It seems no jarring sound is abroad. Let me tell you, Paul," he drew his chair nearer him, and looked earnestly at him, " there is something I wish to tell you, but you'll think me a fool, I know you will." "No, I won't Ambrose, go on. What is it?" "You don't know my feelings." No, but I may before I die. Am'by, dont fear me. Ite- member I am your brother." There was the old protective kindness in his bearing. "You like Elizabeth Bradley, and you need not be ashamed to say it. She is a good girl, a truly good girl; one in every respect worthy of you." "She is, Paul; she is more than worthy. It's I that am not worthy." Paul would not contradict him. But as he looked at his anxious and troubled countenance, a new thought struck him. "Ambrose," he said, can't she return your affection? Is it that what worries you?" "I don't know, Paul, I have never asked her. And the mischief is, I don't know how to go to work to do it?" "I should fancy that not at all difficult." "You think so now, Paul, but you don't know how my tongue fails me every time I set myself about it." "Strange that it should be so." "No, not at all strange, Paul; I often feel that I have been presumptuous. Elizabeth is so good and I am such A great, rough fellow." ' page: 220-221[View Page 220-221] "Nonsense, Ambrose. Do you suppose that young Griscom or Dopovan is more worthy of her than you?" "They worthy where I am not I What do you mean Paul?" "Simply what I say. Or to word it more plainly, do you think that either of them is better suited to become the husband of a girl like Elizabeth Bradley than yourself. Look at it in that light Ambrose." Paul had touched the right cord. A new feeling vibrated through Ambrose's soul. He laid the thoughts that had been agitating him before his brother, he opened his whole heart to him. Paul listened and advised, and -on that acl- vice Ambrose was determined to act. Paul took out his watch, it was after twelve; he wound it up and laid it on the table. "And now, Amby," he said, " as it is all arranged, and as it is getting late we'll say our prayers and go to bed." CHAPTER XIV. ALICE went on quietly with her school. The children every morning gathered around her, and their happy beaming faces formed a striking contrast to her pale, grave countenance. But fortunately for her, in their gay thoughtlessness, they dic] not seem to see it, and notwith- standing the extreme weariness, the mental languor and bodily lassitude with which, night after night, she returned to her boarding-house, she felt a still greater interest in her occupation, and liked still better the little things that looked up to her for guidance, and wore her so with their ceaseless questions. She had once been a child herself, and doubtless wore others just as much; she must at forget it; she must keep it in mind, and when impatience crossed her heart, and anger stung her tongue to bitter words, she must not let them drop from her lips." A mild answer turneth away wrath ; but harsh words stirreth up strife." She must remember that and act upon it. On receiving no answer to her letter to her uncle Elbray, she tried to get over grieving for the separation. He cared nothing for her, and it was better she was away from him, from his rich home, from Mrs. Elbray, Lucette, and all of them. She would labor and economize to the utmost, in order some time or other to be able to pay him all he had expended on her. It stung her to the quick to remain un- der obligations to one that had so ruthlessly shown her how little he remembered the past and all its endearing ties. She did not believe her uncle Bradley, a simple, un- pretending, sun-burnt, weather-beaten man, would or could so heartlessly cast out from his affections one whom he had once looked upon as a child, or who had looked up to him as a father. There was a something monstrous in such an alienation. And Lewis Bartoll had told Margaret that he missed her and was lone without her. This was adding insult to injury; it was proving John Elbray, even in his old age, an apt scholar; she had thought him truthful as he was blunt; it seemed he had learned to play the hypo- crite. Miss her and feel lone without her! Yes, he must miss her, the answer to her letter proved it; and feel lone without her, the kind, affectionate and fatherly tone of that answer placed it beyond a doubt. She dashed the tears o vexation from her eyes, and, conscious that allowing her mind to dwell on the subject would only be bringing up bitter and resentful feelings, staining her soul with sin, she resolute. lybolted and barred her heart against every thought pf John Elbray. She never allowed his name to fall front her lips, and when others mentioned it in her presence, page: 222-223[View Page 222-223] 222 ALICE M[RRAY. turned a deaf ear, or if called upon to answer, answered in as few words as possible, and in a manner that checked further reference and comment. And while she thus felt-thus acted, how was it with the poor old deceived and sorrow-stricken man, wretched in his splendid home, poor in the midst of all his riches? When no answer came acknowledging the receipt of his letter, and the two bills enclosed in it, a deep lethargy set- tfled on his mind; the disappointment was too stunning to rouse the tumultuous passions in his breast; it fell upon him with paralyzing force. When day after day he went or sent to the post-office, and found not a line-a word from his little girl, his sunny-haired child, his old heart shrank and trembled within him. But in the midst of his sorrowful apathy was an under-current of intense bittterness. She was gone, and notwithstanding all he had done for her, notwithstanding the many assurances of undiminished affection she had sent him in her letter, she had forgotten him-forgotten the old man that, with all his roughness, loved her so tenderly. New scenes and new faces were around her, and having made for herself new friends, she had forgotten the old. He might have known how it would be when she went away. The old cannot forget; it is hard for the young to remember. Their hearts are like the fields over which the shadows come and go and leave no impression; like the pool into which a stone is thrown-- the stone makes concentric circles which play for a while around their common centre, then die away, and the bosoln of the pool is as unruffled a- before. People began to say, "John Elbray is breaking," and before long they began to give a cause for it. "Alice is away and the old Czar misses her." They had never thought him capable of deep or tender feeling; they had only looked upon him as a proud, passionate, overbearing man. As might be expected, lhe AIUCE MURRAY. 228 was not generally liked; when his first wife died, they said, " she was not the one to teach him; may be he would now learn." What she was not the one to teach, or what he was now to learn, they did not trouble themselves to specify; they satisfied themselves in thinking that a lesson he had long needed to know, he now stood a chance of be- ing taught. When he married Mrs. Denmore, although she was a stranger in Antoria and they knew nothing of her, there were those in the place sharp-sighted enough to say he would live to rue it, and ill-natured enough to hope it; others intimated something about that mysterious les- son he would be set to directly, and whether it gave them a thrill of pleasure to think of him turning pupil in his old age or not, it is impossible to say. Some people's faces are like masks ; they may look very grave, while back the soul is wreathed in smiles. Now, when they saw in his bleached hair and bowed form the unexpected results of a part of the lesson-for they did not look upon it as all learned yet-they again had their say, and their prophecy, really, the old Czar has a heart under his leather lungs- we did not think it ; well, the lesson will be all the harder to learn, and do him all the more good. And Alice, she'll co ne back again. He feels her loss, and always used to having his own way, he will have it in this. Alice shall be reinstated in his home." Having uttered their prediction, they patiently waited to see it verified. It was a Thursday afternoon. Mr. Elbray was seated in his library, and with him was Lewis Bartoll. As usual of late, Mr, Elbray had little to say, till in a careless and in- different tone, Mr. Bartoll remarked : "I was out to Rathbun last week, and" (with a yawn,) "had the pleasure of being introduced to a little rustic of a village teacher." Teacher, village teacher? Mr. Elbray thought of Alice page: 224-225[View Page 224-225] 224 ALICE MTRBAY. She, too, was a village teacher; a something like interest in the speaker's words beamed in his eyes. '3But still he said nothing. Little, rustic village teacher-what had that to do with his child. "And," continued Mr. Bartoll, when he thought a suffi- cient time had intervened between his first and second remark, ' what do you think, Mr. Elbray, she turned out to be cousin to our friend Miss Murray; Alice, you know I mean." "Alice! Alice! and you saw her!" he exclaimed. In his abstraction he had not clearly heard him. "No, my dear sir," he replied, "I regret to say I did not see her. Business called me to Rathbun, and my business transacted, I returned without the pleasure of seeing her. It struck me, under her present circumstances, she would not care to see me, and I sacrificed my wishes to her feel- ings." He smiled, the grateful, humble smile of a man who has achieved a signal victory over himself. "Under her present circumstances; What do you mean by that?" exclaimed Mr. Elbray. There was a spark of the old fire in his eye, a dash of the old asperity in his voice. "Simply this, my dear sir, that she is tiring of her ca- price, and will be glad-" He was hastily interrupted. "Glad to leave teaching, and her new friends, and her new home, and come back to me?" "Exactly so, my dear sir." "Lewis Bartoll, have you any authority for what you say, or is it only a brainless conjecture of your own?" Mr. Bartoll slightly colored; he disliked excessively the brusque ways and the rough, unpolished voice of his friend; but then he was old, and one should bear with the old, es- pecially when tLeir years are backed by well-filled coffers. "You may judge for yourself, my dear sir," he blandly replied, "I said I did not see her That is very true; I I ALIdCE MURRAY. 226 did not see her, but I saw her cousin, and shb told me that Alice entertained for her uncle Elbray the warmest affec- tion, and was truly grateful for all he had done for her." "Yes, yes, she told you all that; but did she say Alice was tired of teaching school and wanted to come home That is what I want to hear, and without any more palaver tell me at once." Certainly he had a most disagreeable way of putting a question; only it was necessary to keep on the right side of him, he would not care to answer it. Tapping his boots with his elegant little cane, he went on as leisurely as if he were relating some pleasing incident of his last trip to Niagara, Long Branch or Saratoga; some gay trifle for which the old man could not possibly have any interest, which the one told to while away an idle moment, and the other listened to because, without absolute rudeness, he could not do otherwise. The bland have ways that can sting as well as the rough. "My dear Mr. Elbray," he said, you will please listen. Mr. Paul Meade, a young merchant of Rathbun, was the gentleman with whom I was doing some business. One afternoon I had called on him at his boarding-house, and in the midst of our conversation his brother, a freckled- faced, stalwart young farmer, broke in upon us. I say broke, sir, but if I had used the word rushed or shot, I think I would be giving you a clearer idea of his sudden and most unexpeeted appearance on the scene. There was a noise, a tumult; the door bounded back, flew open or gave way, I could not tell which, and there in the middle of the floor he stood. How he got there I could not pos- sibly tell. It did not seem at all out of the way to think he was shot there. Mr. Meade introduced him to me as his brother, and reaching out an enormous hand, he grasp- ed mine and gave it a squeeze that I actually thought would page: 226-227[View Page 226-227] 226 ALICE MURRAY. break every bone in it. Any thing like that vice-like pres- sure/I assure you, my dear sir, I never before encountered. It was absolute torture; and long after the young savage had dropped my poor hand, it pained and thrilled from the finger-tips to the shoulder." "But to the point, Bartoll, to the point. What has the s nashing of your fingers by that bear to do with Alice's coming home?" Mr. Bartoll laid his cane on the table, and gracefully leaned back in his chair; ;then he took out his watch and compared it with the clock on the mantel. "I see," he said, with a patient and forbearing smile, "that my time is five minutes ahead of yours." "Yes, yes, but never mind the time; go on and tell me what I want to hear, and don't be beating round the bush in that tiresome way." A light gleamed from Mr. Bartoll's eye ; had John El- bray happened to see, it would not have tended much to soothe his irritated feelings." "Mr. Elbray," he said; and his voice took a soft, per- suasive tone, "I pray you to do me the favor not to inter- rupt me again, and I will endeavor to gratify your very laudable curiosity as soon as-as soon as practicable," he added, with an impressive inclination of his head. "As I was about to say," he continued, "I thought Mr. Meade's brother a very uncouth person; but after all it was from him I heard what gave me the impression that Miss Murray was getting tired of teaching and would be glad to return home. It seems she is boarding with his mother; whether his mother keeps a boarding-house or not I can- not say, as I did not inquire. All I know is that it is with her Miss Murray boards, and if she is any like her second son, I should not think it was a very agreeable or conso- nant place to her." ALTICE MURRAY. 27 John Elbray winced under this round-about way of com- ing to the point, and Lewis 'Bartoll intended he should. Had he not, in the most insulting manner, spoken of his brainless conjectures? and had he not shown a most unfeel- ing want of sympathy in the matter of his poor, smashed fingers? The old gentleman certainly deserved a slight chastisement for his rudeness, and it was not at all disa- greeable to him to administer it. "No," he slowly and thoughtfully repeated, "I should ot think it a place suited to one of Miss Murray's exqui- site tastes." He passed his white, jeweled fingers through his hair, g looked admiringly at a landscape on the wall, and seem- ingly waited another explosive remonstrance from Mr. El. bray. But Mr. Elbray only hitched in his chair, and ex- tending his hand impatiently, brushed some papers lying on the table on to the carpet, then stooped, and with an im- precation against his carelessness, picked them up, and re- placed them. "I hardly know how it was," Mr. Bartoll, after a slight pause, resumed; "but in my conversation with his brother the word Antoria dropped from my lips, and he immedi- ately exclaimed, 'Why, that 's where Miss Murray came from.' I bowed my head affirmatively to his remark, and was continuing my talk with his brother when he asked me if I knew her uncle Elbray. I told him I did, I knew him well. Then he put several questions to me concerningyou. I answered them to the best of my abilities; but I regret to say, he had formed a very indifferent opinion of you. He expressed great surprise that you should be willing to let such a girl as Alice go away from your home; after bringing her up as your own child it was a mystery to him, he said, how you could cast her unprotected upon the wide World -I am using, dear sir, the fellows own wrda -and page: 228-229[View Page 228-229] 228 AOIE MURRAY. he farther informed me that Miss Murray was looking pale and thin, and seemed very low spirited ; and if ever any- body was homesick he declared it was she. You have now, Mr. Elbray, my authority for saying she was tired of her caprice of teaching, and would be glad to come back, and I leave it for you to judge whether it was a brainless con- jecture or not." He bowed his head and smiled, a smile which had in it something disdainful and bitter, but in a moment it was replaced by a calm, benign expression. Mr. Bartoll had too strong a mind to allow his equanimity to be long disturbed by a trifle. Mr. Elbray excitedly rose. "Was looking pale and thin?" he exclaimed. "That was what the fellow said," Mr. Bartoll responded, "I will send for her. I will tell her to come home, and leave that abominable teaching-to come right home to her old uncle." He walked to his desk, took out pen, ink and paper, and was about to seat himself, when another thought struck him. "No, I will not write to her," he ex- claimed, sweeping the white hair from his forehead. "I will go out for her, and bring her right back with me." The door of the library was open, and Mrs. Elbray entered; after a courteous greeting to Mr. Bartoll, she turned to Mr. Elbray, and said: "I think I heard something about your going out to where Alice is?" "Yes," Mr, Elbray gruffly answered. "I am glad to hear it," she replied, "for I want to go too.' John Elbray looked astonished. He could not attribute Mrs. Elbray's desire to see Alice to any affection she enter- tained for her. Mr. Elbray quietly took a seat. "Mr. Elbray," she s'aid, "you are surprised that I wish to accompany you; and I do not wonder; H" she hesi- tated as if loth to Axo on with what she had to say before AIICE MURRAY. 229 one not a member of the family. Mr. Bartoll at once arose, and had taken out his gloves, when Mrs. Elbray, with the air of one who had nerved herself for the strict and con- scientlous performance of a disagreeable duty, addressed him. "Mr. Bartoll," she said, "you need not go. It is perhaps just as well you should hear it under this roof as second-handed from others. Mr. Elbray is very unreason- able; and I feel," she added, a wan smile breaking over the wierd solemnity of her face, "as if I needed the pre- sence of an unbiassed person to strengthen me to go through it." Mr. Bartoll, as I have before intimated, looked upon John Elbray as one not easy to manage in his fierce and angry moods. He could venture, as we have seen, in his bland and gracious way to annoy and vex him, but he did not care to see him fully roused--did not care to witness a scene. And a scene, from his knowledge of John El. bray's temper and the bearing of Mrs. Elbray, was what he apprehended. But then he was curious to know what Mrs Elbray had to say; from her prologue he judged it was something quite startling-something, therefore, that it would be worth his while to hear. Curiosity got the bet- ter of his dread, and as he had been requested to stay, he chivalrously concluded to remain. He laid his gloves on the table beside his dainty little cane, sank back in his chair, lightly crossed his arms on his chest, and patiently waited further developments. "Mr. Elbray," Mrs. Elbray commenced, "soon after Alice went I missed an article, not only valuable in itself, but. from its associations of inestimable value to me. Thiinking it might be mislaid, I instituted a thorough search for it, but without finding it. In that search, how- ever, I found what forced upon me the painful conviction that Alice had taken it with her when she left." page: 230-231[View Page 230-231] 230 ALICE MURRAY. "Woman, what do you mean? What have yon lost?" M r. Elbray's face was livid with passion. Madam had lost something, and she had the audacity to say Alice had taken it-had stolen it. In a hard, determined voice, she replied-" 5hat I have lost is a heavy gold chain that was attached to a locket, both of which were given me by M5r. Denmore. The locket I still have; the chain is gone." "And you dare to say Alice has the bauble?" "I do dare to say it, and I firmly believe it." The veins on Mr. Elbray's temples were like rigid cords, yet when he spoke it was not in a loud or excited voice. When anger sweeps the soul of a passionate man the voice readily enough obeys the behests of the impetuous will, and rattling volleys of harsh, reproachful words follow each other in rapid succession; but when with a mighty force it shakes the soul to its very centre, filling the heart with wild, mad impulses of destruction, then the voice fails, grows weak, and sinks to tones low, hushed, and singularly vibrating. It seems in the rush and conflict of contending emotions, the withering rage, the annihilating wrath, it loses its power, and suffers all the agony of a cramped and coffined weakness. For there is an agony, deep and unut- terable, in the repressed tones that strike with such an un- natural calmness on our ears. "Your reason, woman-give me your reason." It was with effort John Elbray spoke, and with the stiff motion of a corpse he leaned forward for the answer. Mrs. Elbray reached forth her hand. "Do you know that chain?" she asked. It was one that bad belonged to his first wife, and which, before he got so rich, he had pre- sented her. He knew it well. "Yes; but what of it?" Sinply this-- that this light, flimsy thing was what J ALICE MURRAY. 231 found attached to my locket, instead of the rich, heavy one belonging to itf' "But whare is her locket? Elizabeth's, I mean-her miniature?" "It is not in the house; has not been in it since Alice went. Where it is, I leave you to judge." There was the gleam of a wicked woman in her eye; but she sighed, and conscious the gleam was there, and fearful it might be seen, she let her eye-lids fall, and with a sorrowful air leaned her forehead on her hand. John Elbray was wonderfully calm. He loosened his neck-tie, and rising slowly and with difficulty, walked to the mantel-piece and leaned against it. It seemed he had intended walking up and down the room, but found his strength insufficient. For some time he stood there, pale, weak and speechless. Then rousing himself, shaking off,. as it were, the benumbing influence of his wrath, he went up to the window where she sat, and heavily laying his hand upon her shoulder, in a low, thrilling voice said: "To-morrow I am going for Alice, and she shall throw back in your face the vile slander you have tried to fasten on her." With an impatient movement, Mrs. Elbray shook his band off, and looking him steadily in the face, exclaimed: "Mr. Elbray, I never in my life saw so idiotic an infatu- ation! You have every proof of the base ingratitude of that girl, and yet you cling to her with a fondness abso- lutely degrading. A few weeks ago you sent her, you told me, a letter containing two one hundred dollar bills, and she never wrote to you to thank you." "Woman, I never told you that!" Mrs. Elbray for a moment seemed slightly embarrassed, but regaining her composure, replied: "If you didn:t tell ue, I at leaat heard you muttering it to yourself as T one page: 232-233[View Page 232-233] t32 AIICE MURRAY. day entered your library. You don't deny that you sent it, and you can't deny that you waited, and waited in vain, for an acknowledgment of its receipt. Mr. Bartoll, it is painful to me to speak of these things before a stranger; but, as I said before, it is just as well you should hear them-just as well the world should know what she is. She has not only treated Mr. Elbray with the blackest in- gratitude, but she has taken from me what above every- thing on earth I prize, the last gift of my late husband." She raised her handkerchief to her eyes, and paused as if unable to proceed. "It is false! she has not got it!" in the low, smothered voice of rage, Mr. Elbray exclaimed. "But if it is found with her?" she asked, looking up and carefully, so as not to disturb the rouge, wiping her cheeks. "I deny that it will be found with her." And I, Mr. Elbray, as confidently affirm that it will." "If so, she shall never come back to my home-never darken my door." Mr. Elbray smote the table with his fist. "But it will not be found with her!" he exclaimed, sinking into a chair and dashing the bead-like drops of perspiration from his brow. "To-morrow we shall know," Mrs. Elbray responded, rising; "and remember," she added, as she reached the door and turned to look back, "that I am to go with you." CHAPTER XV. MR. BRADIEY rose from the breakfast table : "Boys," he said, "if we are to get the rest of the oats in by eleven o'clock, we must be stiring." He put on his hat and ALICE MURRAY. 233 walked to the door, the boys following him. "We, too, Elizabeth," said Mrs. Bradley, "must be stirring. If Ter- ence and I go to Lucan this afternoon, we have got our hands full before we start." The boys had churned before breakfast, and Mrs. Brad- ley proceeded to take out the butter and salt it; Elizabeth gathered up the dishes and washed them. They were to have an early dinner, so Mr. and Mrs. Bradley could start by or before twelve. Julia Armstrong expected them, and they would not on any account disappoint her. Mrs. Bradley had to call on the milliner about the making of a cap, and step into the dress-maker's to get a dress cut, for the girls insisted that she must get herself one that day; then she had groceries to buy, and if she didn't start early, she would have no time to visit with Julia and her aunt. She did not want to go in just before the meal, eat and be off again; it would look as if she had called to get her tea and nothing else. No; unless she got round to have a little talk and a sit down, she did not care to call at all. But she must hurry; there was everything to do, besides the regular morning's work-the pans of sour milk to carry off, the dishes washed, the pans washed and scalded, the beds made, rooms swept and dusted, butter salted, and an early dinner got; there was bread to make and, if she could possibly reach it, pies to bake. She wanted to help Eliza- beth all she could before starting in the afternoon; the dinner cleared away, she would have the butter of the day before to work and pack down, and after that she wanted to fix her pink lawn dress; it was getting frayed round the bottom, and she thought of ripping off the skirt, letting it down and taking up the wide hem or facing. All was hurry, hurry, drive, drive, till, at eleven o'clock, the dinnei was smoking on the table. But still Mrs. Bradley was not satisfied.; breathless and tired as she was. she had not % page: 234-235[View Page 234-235] 234 AIUCE MURRAY. reached all she intended- who ever does?-the pies were not made. Elizabeth would have to do them after they got started. "Well, Nora, are you most ready?" said Mr. Bradley, coming in from the field. "Yes, Terence," she answered, taking the bread from the oven, " but I've not done all I wanted to do." "What is it that lacks now?" he asked, weariedly sitting down. The pies, Terence, the pies." "And do you mean to do them before you start?" Elizabeth just came up from the cellar with a roll of but- ter, and hearing the question promptly answered it. "Of course not, father, I can do them myself. I don't see what is the use of mother worrying about theim. "But you have so much on you, Elizabeth." "Nonsense; but where are the boys that they don't come in?" "They are unharnessing the horses and feeding them." "You have the oats all in?" "Yes, thank God, the last of them are safe under shelter. Hand me a glass of water, Elizabeth, I am warm and thirsty; and open the north window and the front door; it's enough to suffocate you and your mother, keeping everything so close." "Why, father, we had to have the front door closed when the bread was rising." She threw it wide open and raised the window. "There, that's more like it," he said, handing her back the glass. "I don't see," he added, " how you women can bear to work with every air-hole stopped up." "Terence, why will you talk-I was going to say like a fool-God forgive me," Mrs. Bradley exclaimed; "but why will you be talking of what you know nothing about ALICE MURRAY. 235 Haven't I told you often enough that you needn't be mak- ing a wonder of it that you can't raise the bread with a gale blowing on it, and that if you'd have good, light bread you must put up with the heat while it is rising? You'd know it soon enough," she added in a worried, fretful tone "if I minded all your says and had it sour and heavy for O. you. "Well, well, Nora, I don't want to be fnding fault. Do it as you can, and don't mind me." "And, indeed, it's but little I do or will mind you when I know I am in the right. But why, when you wanted the dinner so early, don't you sit down to it? Don't you see it's ready?" "Yes, Nora, I see it; but I am waiting for the boys." "Never mind the boys, father; you and mother sit right down. We can eat after." "But why can't you eat with us, Elizabeth," said Mrs. Bradley, as she and Mr. Bradley seated themselves at the table. "Because I want to get your's and father's things out and leave them on the bed for you. I am anxious to get you off as soon as I can." She left the kitchen, and Mr. Bradley in a low tone said: "You'll miss her, Nora, if she leaves us this fall!" "You mean if she marries 9" "I do." God knows I'll miss her, let her leave us when she will; for a more thoughtful, better girl never blest a mother's heart. But then I don't see as there's much danger. Am. brose Meade seems to have taken quite a fancy to her, but how do we know that it's more than a fancy?" Ah, I'm thinking it's got beyond a fancy, Nora." You are looking very wise, Terence, what do you mean?" Mr. Bradley very deliberately helped himself to a second page: 236-237[View Page 236-237] Y-.3 U AT"EUi MURWRAY. peace of the 1oiled meat; "Nora," he answered, "I have seen Amlbrosw to-day. He rode over on purpose to see me.") "Bode over to see you! Why, he's not been near the house. "No, we were working near the road, and he stopped the horse and beckoned me to come to him. I told the boys to load up and be careful about driving in, and went over to where he was. Well, he talked round about its being time for him to think of settling in life, and asked my opinion about his new wagon and harness, told me how much he paid for them-he maide a good bargain there, I tell you-and then went back to his settling; from thl t again, to his wagon and his crops, a nd from one thing to another, all the time, some way or other, harplig on tile settling point. At last I said to him, Ambrose, what is it you'd be driving at? I had some idea, Nora, but it wouldn't have done to let him see it, for if, after all, I had happened to make a blunder, you know how cheap I would have felt."' "True for you, Terence, but what did he say?' "Well, he wandered on awhile longer, and then rigiht out with it. He wanted to know if I or you would have any objection to his marrying our Elizabeth if she would have him. He said he hadn't yet spoken to her about it, for he thought the straight way to go work was to come and ask us first." "Yes, Terence, so it was. But what did you say?' "Well, Nora, I told him I had no objection and I didn't believe you had; that we both looked upon him as an hon- orable, industrious young man." "So he is, Terence, and I am glad you told him so. And I don't object, not in the least; but it will be a sore loss to me. Elizabeth is the greatest help to me, and I don'i know how I shall get along without her ; but I'll not stand ALICE MUIBT. 23' between her and a good settlement in life. Ambrose Meade, will make her a good husband, and I know she'll make him a good wife." "He spoke of getting married this fall," said Mr. Bradley. "This fll! But that's soon. I am afraid we can't get her ready so quick as that." "Why, what's to hinder?" "Every thing. Elizabeth is young and I didn't think of her marrying yet for half a dozen years, and so with all the work that's been on me I've not been laying by for her It's true I made a good bed for her, and another for Mar- garet; but as for sheets and pillow cases and bed quilts and comforters, and all that, I've not yet got the first thins made." "But what's the use of worrying about them? Didn't I have to get all these things after I was married to you?" "To be sure you did, Terence; but that's not the way here. Mrs. Meade and the Armstrongs would think strange of us if we didn't have her a good fit out of all these, and I'd be sorry to be back of them in doing what we could for her. She's a good girl, Elizabeth is, and I don't want her to hang her head in shame at any neglect of ours." "No, no, Nora, God forbid. I am as willing as you to get her what she wants ; and when I sell my grain in the fall you can tell me what she ought to have, and she 4hall have it." "As to what we are to buy for her, Terence, in the way f chairs, tables, bedsteads, crockery, and all that, it does iot worry me at all. It's the sewing I am thinking of, for with our hands full of work, every minute busy from Mon- lay morning till' Saturday night, I don't see how we are o do it." page: 238-239[View Page 238-239] 238 ALICE MURRAY. "But couldn't I hire in a girl to help you?" ' I suppose you could, Terence. But by waiting a little we might save ourselves the expense. In the winter we won't have the butter-making on us, and then we might, with the help of Margaret and Alice on Saturdays, and their taking sewing with them, and working on it night and morning of the other days, manage to do it ourselves. It will take considerable to get her all the things shell need, and we must try to be as saving as we can." "Yes, Nora, I know; but-then I don't want you to kill yourself trying to do too much." "God helping me, I won't, Terence. But when will you see Ambrose again?" "He said he would be in Rathbun this afternoon to get some work done at the blacksmith's, and when I ride over for Margaret, may be I'll see him." "Well, then, if you do, just tell him to make up his mind to wait till spring, that with a long life before him a few months sooner or later married won't signify. But here come the boys. We'll say no more about it now. And do you," she added, in a whisper, " be careful how you speak before them. They might be making too free with their tongues before others." "c Never fear for me." Mr. and Mrs. Bradley rose from the table as Richard, Terry and Elizabeth sat down to it. "Father and mother," the latter said, "your things are already ; all you've got to do now is to get dressed as quick as you can." She hurriedly blessed herself and commenced her meal. Neither she nor the boys spoke during it, and as soon as it was over Richard went to the barn to harness the horses, and Terry to the wagon-house to back out the wagon. The horses were harnessed and drove round to the little gate front of the house as Mr. and Mrs. Bradley came out. ALICE MURRAY. 239 "Now, Elizabeth," said Mrs. Biadley, giving her lait order, " if you can't get round to the pies, never mind them. Be sure and fix your dress; you know you'll want it to-morrow." Yes, mother. But don't worry yourself ; "I'll do that and the pies too. If I go to-morrow you know youll want them done." "I know no such a thing. But I do know that I don't want you, child, to over-do yourself." And a very unusual thing for her--for unless her feelings were greatly moved, she was not given to any outward demonstration of them- she threw her arms around her, pressed her to her heart and kissed her. "God bless you!" she exclaimed--"God in Heaven bless you, Elizabeth; a joy and a comfort you have ever been to your mother." She released her, and X hurriedly turned away. Elizabeth felt two warm tears from her mother's eyes had fallen on her cheeks, and de- termined to lighten as much as she could that loved mo- ther's burden, she cleared away the dinner, tidied up the house, baked the pies, and was in the cellar, working and packing down the butter, when ier thoughts insensibly wandered from the goodness and tenderness of her mother to Ambrose Meade. He had visited, she would not say herself, but the family, the Sunday before. He came in just as they, after their ride from church, were sitting down to dinner, and how fluttered she felt when, laughingly ac- cepting her father's and mother's pressing invitation, he drew up a chair and seated himself beside her. She couldn't keep her hands from trembling, and she was afraid he would see it, and think her awkward and silly; and she couldn't utter a word, although she tried and tried to think of something to say. But maybe, in the conver- sation her father and mother and Richard and Terry kept up, he did not notice how dull and stupid she was. After page: 240-241[View Page 240-241] 240 ALICtE MIIITRA. ' the meal, when he rode with her to Clayton's Pond, she was glad she could speak, but what she said then she hardly thought came up to the point, or was as good as it might have been. It was only about the rare ripes in the orchard, and what fine preserves the sweet russets and the honey sweets with a few lemons made, and from that to the sorrel and the star-faced colts, and the old spavined grey, that her father kept in the far pasture, and would not part with because of the work she had done for him in the days of her strength and usefulness. She did not know what Ambrose would think of her to make such a fuss over the colts and the old horse. He would certainly set her down as a rough, boyish girl, that cared more for the fields than the house. How foolish she was to let her tongue run on so. She might have talked about the flowers in Julia Armstrong's garden, or the lovely pictures-lovely they were to Elizabeth-hanging on the walls of the Armstrong parlor, or the beautiful and fashionable songs Julia had learned to sing and play; or, still better, she might have pointed to the sky, and said something about its blueness, and the clouds that hung like a curtain over it, or the still, hushed voice of the wind, that seemed to linger like an echo in the green, waving woods. But no, nothing could she talk of but apples and preserves, and the colts and the stiff old horse. It was provoking to think of; she was sure he would look upon her as one devoid of every particle of sentiment. She was going out with him again to-morrow, to see the petrifying spring, about five miles from Staple- ton, down in the valley between the Stapleton hill on the one side and the hill rising east of it on the other, and she hoped she could think of something more interesting to talk about. But she knew she wouldn't; she felt sure, if she did not speak of apples, preserves, colts, and old horses, it would be nothing more elevated or refined. She AITCE 3FRBAY. 241- remembered, on one occasion, when he was taking her to visit Margaret's school, of telling him of a brind:le cow her father had bought that spring, and which was so unruly that her father had to keep her heavily poked to prevent her going just where she liked. And how she dilated ol the perversity of the stupid, sleepy-looking thing, leaving the rich pasture to go into the woods, where the feed couldi not possibly be as good, or jumping over into the wheat hi and barley fields, only just to jump back again, with her father and the boys at her heels, making her go in double- il quick time. Her cheeks burned when she thought of it i; afterwards; but it did not imend her; the very next time j he took her out she ran on in the same strain, and she had every reason to fear she would again. It was not till after- : wards that she could think of something fine she might have said; at the time nothing fine came to her, only some intensely common-place, every-day topic. But what made her care for Ambrose's good or bad opinion? She patted and squeezed the butter in the bowl, and having extracted all the buttermilk from it, carefully and lightly lifted it into the firkin, and took up a fresh supply from the stone jar beside her, and worked and squeezed and patted it, but still found no answer to her question. She certainly did care a great deal about it, and it was no use to deny it. She was always glad to see him, and the sound of his voice lin- gered lovingly in her ears. She wondered if he thought as much of her as she did of him. She was afraid he did not ; and yet why was she afraid? Was it anything to her k if he did not think of her at all? He came out quite often to see the family, aad of late had always managed to get I E near her, and direct the most of his conversation to her. But that was because she and Julia were such friends, and he generally had some message from Julia, or some little remark of hers to tell, and he would naturally tell it to the I,: page: 242-243[View Page 242-243] one that would feel the most interest in it. And he rode out with her, but that was because he was good-natured, and going to these several places, was willing to take her with him. People laughed at her, and teased her about it, but that was all it meant. She bent over and pressed smoothly down the butter she had put in the firkin, and transferred the last that was in the jar to her bowl; she was glad she had it almost finished. She could soon go to her dress, and have the skirt ripped off, let down, ironed out, re-gathered, and sewed on by the time she was to get the supper for herself and the boys, and after supper she could arrange the bottom and put up the facing. But her thoughts recurred to Ambrose. Her father and mother had once said in her hearing that Ambrose Meade was an honest, hard-working young man, that would make some girl a good husband, and they were right, he would. The girl that married him would never have to hang her head in shame for the name she bore, he would never bring a blush to her cheek or a pang to her heart. It did her good of a Sunday to steal her eyes from her prayer-book and just glance over to the Armstrong pew--it was two above theirs, and on the side where the occupants were in plain view-and see him come in, kneel down, bless himself, and reverently look up to the altar. He didn't profess to be very pious, but she had noticed that, though he did not speak much of religion, he acted it out in everything. He was strictly temperate, industrious, and honest; he had a kind, generous, and feeling heart, was always respectful to the poor and the aged, and, and-well, he was good, and she knew it, and liked him for it. She was very much his friend, and she did not care if people knew it, for she did not think it any harm to feel an esteem for one every way worthy of it. The last of the butter was worked over and packed down; the white cloth, with salt lightly sprinkled J4LtJ aUlArAY. 2430 over it, was lying on the top, and she was putting on the firkin lid, when a loud rap at the front door startled her. Who could it be? It was not Ambrose; although his rap was loud, it did not sound like that. She peeped through the cellar-window, and saw a carriage and a span of bays standing at the little gate. "A livery concern fi'om Bas- set's," she exclaimed. "I wonder who it is." A second rap, louder and more energetic than the first, struck on her ear, and seizing the ladle and empty butter-bowl, she hastened out of the cellar. The front door was open, and as she entered the kitchen she saw a short, thick old gen- fleman, and a stout lady, much younger, standing in the narrow hall. "Does Mr. Bradley live here?" the gentleman, in a quiclk, harsh, abrupt voice, asked. "Yes, sir," she replied, feeling her cheeks glow at the scornful looks of the lady. "Is this the place one Alice 51irray makes her home?" the lady, in a hard, severe tone, asked. "Yes, madam, Alice Murray makes her home with us My father and mother are her uncle and aunt." If the lady thought to crush and awe Elizabeth with her grand, supercilious airs, she was mistaken. The little coun- t ry maiden stood calm, collected and dignified before her. It occurred to her that the old gentleman was Alice's uncle E]bray, and the hard, proud-looking lady his second wife. Is Alice Murrav here?" the lady asked , giving her head "No, madam, she is in Lucan." "Her things are here?" "The m ost of them are ," Elizabeth answered, wonder. laug what could come next. "Will you walk into the parlor?" she inquired, slipping behind them and throwing open the parlor door. And page: 244-245[View Page 244-245] 244 ALICE MURRAY. then she thought she ought not to have put the question If they came to see Alice, as she was away, they would not want to loiter. But they had asked if her things were there. Could it be possible they were come to take her back with them? Would she go if they had? They had all got so attached to her, and she seemed to like them so much-oh, would she, would she go and leave them? The quick tears started to her eyes, but she forced them back ; they must not see them. They sank into the chairs she placed for them, and the old gentleman's face was pale. and troubled. "How long since .alice was here?" he asked, in a thick, hurried voice. "Not since last Sunday." "' When will she be here again?" "To-night, sir. Father and mother are gone to Lucan, and she will return with them. She comes home every Friday evening." Comes home I John Elbray's heart sickened. Alice had a home and it was not his. She had found a home away from him, and in his old age and feebleness he was left alone. A settled gloom spread over his stern features. Mrs. Elbray, opening the subject of their visit in a freez- ingly haughty tone, said, "Perhaps, miss, you can tell us if Alice Murray has a miniature with a heavy chain attached to it, among her things." "Yes, Madam, she has a miniature of her aunt Elbray, and there is a rich chain to it." "Is it here?" "I do not know." She looked at Mr. Elbray ; a sudden change had come over his countenance, it was paler than before, and heavy drops stood on his brow. "Will you have a glass of water?" she hurriedly exv claimed, thinking he was going to faint. s"Yes," he hoarsely answered. She left the room, and the next instant returned with a glass and pitcher. She handed the glass to him; he took it and lifted it to his white lips. "The room is insufferably close," Mrs. Elbray remarked, glancing round on its narrow dimensions as if it was that closeness and that narrowness that caused John Elbray's sudden weakness. Elizabeth raised the stiff paper curtain, and threw up a window., The door being open, a fine breeze now swept through the little parlor. "You say," Mrs. Elbray observed, " that you don't know whether the chain is with her things or not? Will you look them over and let us know?" "Yes, madam." She at once left them, ascended the stairs, and went into Alice's room. She opened her trunk -Alice never kept it locked-and was carefully removing the articles from it when she heard a step. She turned and saw Mrs. Elbray had actually followed her. It-seemed she must view for herself the whole meanness of Alice's surroundings. "So this is Miss Murray's room," she said, with a light, scornful laugh. A scarlet wave washed over Elizabeth's cheeks, even reaching to her blue-veined temples. She did not know what reply to make, and made none. But what business had that woman to follow her, and what did she mean by her sneering remark? The room was neat and clean, and good enough for anybody. She knew they were all glad they had it to offer to Alice; and then she had heard Alice more than once call it a blessed little room her shelter from darkness, rough winds, and cold rains; her sanctuary, where, as before an altar, her heart was lifted in grateful prayer. She took out all the things, and opened two or three little boxes. The chain and miniature were not to be found. i page: 246-247[View Page 246-247] 246 dICE MLRRAY. "She must have them with her," she said, proceeding to ieplace the articles. So it seems," Mrs. Elbray haughtily answered; and gathering her skirts in her hands, she daintily picked her way out of the room and descended the stairs. Elizabeth thought she ought to go, too, and leaving the arranging of the trunk to another time, she followed her to the parlor. "You are Mr. Elbray?" she said turning to the old gen- tleman. "Yes," he vacantly answered, without taking his eyeas from the window. "If you have a message for Alice- "She stopped, unable to go on. "I have no message for her," he returned, slowly rising. "We will see her ourselves," Mrs. Elbray said, sweeping to the door. Without waiting to consider if they were going for her to take her back with them, they would have givengorders to have her trunk brought down and placed in the car riage, or at least said something about her leaving, she hastily remarked: "If she is going home with you-if you have come for her, do, oh! do let her come here first. I cannot bear to have her go from us without so much as a good-bye." "I beg you not to worry yourself about so mere a trifle," Mrs. Elbray replied, seating herself in the carriage and drawing her rich lace cloak around her. Elizabeth, in her fear and anxiety, had unconsciously followed them to the gate. "Set your mind at ease on that point," she added, lulxu- riously sinking back on the cushions: "Mr. Elbray has too much self-respect to have one in the house whose presence would be a disgrace to him." The driver slackened the reins and the carriage rolled ALICE MURRAY. 247 off. Elizabeth stood as if spell bound. 'Alice a disgrace to him!" she murmured; "poor, poor Alice, what new sorrow is this coming upon you!"The large tears rolled l over her cheeks; wiping them away with a corner of her apron, she turned and walked into the house; and for the first time that afternoon, she felt wearied and exhausted; I her hands were cold and damp, her heart sad and heavy. She went up stairs and put Alice's trunk in order. Wrhen; she came down, she found the boys in the kitchen. From : the barn where they were working, they had seen the car- 'i riage drive away, and were all curiosity to know who it " was. "It was Mr. and Mrs. Elbray," she said, in answer to X their eager questions. . "Why, what did they come for?-what did they want?"' "You may well ask that," she replied, and then she told them all that had been said. "I fear it's for no good they are out," Richard remarked, in his slow, meditative way. "No good!" exclaimed Terry ; "why, what harm can they make of it, Alice having her aunt's chain and like- ness?" ;' I don't know," Elizabeth answered, sitting down at last to her dress. She had been hindered in her work, and would now have to use the greater dispatch to get through : with it. ' "Well, what do you think of it?" he asked, turning to 4 Richard. - "Like Elizabeth, I will have to say I don't know what harm they can make of it; but I am afraid they'll try to. make some harm of it." "Why, if her aunt gave it to her, who else has a right to it?" ' i "There it is, Terry--f her aunt gave it to her." page: 248-249[View Page 248-249] 248 AICE MURRAY., "You don't suppose she'd have it if she didn't give it to her?" "I am afraid"-a shade of pallor crept over his snn. burnt face-"that they'll try to make out that she didn't give it to her, and that she took it without leave or lib-. erty." "But that's not so, Richard; that's not so," Elizabeth excitedly replied; "she never knew she had it with her till a week or two ago, and then she found it in one of the little boxes in her trunk, one day that she went to get something out of them for Rosie. She couldn't think how it came there, and concluded her uncle placed it there, himself." "Did you tell this to them?" "No, Richard, I didn't." "But you should have told them." "I thought of it two or three times, but then as they said nothing in reproach of her having it, I was afraid they would look upon my words as a sort of admission of her guilt." How under the sun could they do that?" said Terry. "I hardly know, but still I thought it. You remember the old proverb: 'Never deny a thing till you are accused of it."' "Yes, yes ; but then that wouldn't have been denying it." "They might have construed it into that." "Yes, and they might have construed the day into the night," Terry impatiently exclaimed. "But, Terry," said Richard, " you don't know what you are talking about. Elizabeth couldn't do any thing but be silent. It wasn't the time nor the place to tell the history of her having it." "But you said she should have told them." "Yes, I know; but on second thought I feel she did ALICE MURRAY. 249 I better not to. Alice can tell them all that herself. But Elizabeth, your hands are trembling. You can hardly use the scissors, I see." "I feel fluttered and my heart beats so," she said, "I do not wonder I can't keep my hands steady." ' "Put away your sewing," he kindly advised, "and rest H yourself." "No, I can't; you know I'll want the dress to wear to- morrow." "Well, then, if you must be at it, take your time and don't hurry so. Terry can stay in and get the supper for us. I can finish the job father gave us without him." ' She looked up gratefully at him, and Terry joyfully acquiesced in the arrangement. It was something he ex- ceedingly liked. When greatly hurried, he had more than once helped them in the house before. He would, kindle the fire that, since the baking of the pies, had been suffered to die out; he would put the tea-kettle over, and make a good cup of tea for Elizabeth. It would settle her nerves, which he could see were greatly shaken. As a general thing, he and Rosie, and even Richard, were not allowed the beloved beverage " that cheers but not inebriates," and neither Richard nor Rosie seemed to care any thing about it. But as for himself, with its adjuncts of cream and sugar, he had a tender appreciation of its excellence; and while i he got it for Elizabeth, he thought they all might as welll have it. He did not know how Richard felt, but he knew a cup would do him good, for his nerves were considerably shaken, too. While he was about it, he would cut one of the pies-Elizabeth looked as if she needed a spur to her appetite, and it would not, by any means, come amiss to him. He always liked pies, especially when he didn't feel exactly right; and when they were well sweetened and flavored, and had a fine, flaky appearance, as at presenth page: 250-251[View Page 250-251] He would just reach down the canister with the green tea, and take a generous drawing from it; Elizabeth was so absorbed in her work and the wonder of Mr. and Mrs. El- bray's unexpected call, that she would not notice it, and he would get cream instead of milk, and white sugar in. stead of brown. He could detect a great difference between their every-day way of using it, and the way his mother trimmed it for visitors or for any of them when they were sick. He was not sick, but then if it didn't harm them when sick, it surely wouldn't when well. And he would boil some eggs; he didn't care for the cold meat and pota- toes they had left at dinner, and he didn't believe the rest would; a dish of honey or a bowl of maple molasses-he hardly had a choice between them--would make a desira- ble addition to the meal. He would get it; for really Elizabeth would not be able to eat, he could see that, un- less she had somethingu to coax her victuals down. With an important air, and a look of the kindest consideration for others, a feeling that he was catering for their tastes and not his own, he lightly stepped round the kitchen, darted into the cellar, the buttery, the preserve closet, and had the table set, the meal ready, as Rosie came in. "Why, Rosie," he exclaimed, "what has kept you so late? School's been out this hour and a half." "I went home with Nettie Crocker to get a Maltese kit- ten. Mother said I might." "Well, where is it?" "I haven't got it yet. Mrs. Crocker says it is too little to leave the old cat. In a fortnight I may have it." They sat down to the table. Richard said nothing of the extras Terry had added to the meal, and Elizabeth did not seem to see them. After they had eaten, Terry thought, before going for the cows, he would wash the dishes; he was afraid Elizabeth was so engaged with her sewing she would not do it till their mother got back, and he did not care for her seeing that he had used the green tea and white sugar. It was no use to worry her with it. le would just clear away the things, sweep up the crumbs, and go after the cows then. CHAPTER XVI. "COME, children, it's time to go in." Alice rung the bell in her hand, and walking into the school-room, laid it on the desk. She had been out under the trees with her pu- pils watching their play, and with an unusual lightness of heart enjoying it almost as much as they. Perhaps the secret of her unwonted buoyancy was the fact that it was Friday, and her week of labor was drawing to a close, and she would be with the Bradleys that night, and the whole of the next 'day and night; perhaps it was because she knew Mrs. Bradley would be in-the village that afternoon, and she would have the pleasure of taking tea with her, Margaret and her uncle, at the Armstrongs. She knew how heartily welcome they would be, and how joyously Julia would do the honors of the table, and how generously Mrs. Meade would respond to all Julia's overflowing hospi- tality. She liked Julia ; liked her a great deal better than she at first thought she would. With all her bluntness, under all her exceeding carelessness, there was a genu- ine worth she did not expect to find. She possessed what she had never, in the truly thoughtless, seen: a really kind heart. But was she so thoughtless as she seemed? so thoughtless as she had fancied? had she made a mis- take? She watched her carefully, she weighed the words. that fell from her lips, she noted the changes of her chang- ing countenance, and ended by pronouncing-she hardly page: 252-253[View Page 252-253] 252 ICE MUTRAY. knew what. Julia in a great many things was certainly thoughtless, and in a great many more was certainly thoughtful. She knew just when to get her father's meal when he happened not to be in at the regular hour, she s kept his clothes and the clothes of her cousins in excellent order; no stray buttons, no unseemly rips or rends were permitted; she watched Paul and Ambrose's coming, and was alwas glad to see them, although she was far from show- ing her gladness in kind or gentle words. On the con- trary, while her cheek flushed, and her eye sparkled, while she held their hands in a firm, warm grasp, perhaps it was light railery or downright scolding regaled their ears, or perhaps it was a laugh in which was more caustic mirth than mellow music. But let sorrow come upon them, let sickness lay her benumbing hand upon them, and all that was changed. The jeering' word was gone, the mocking laugh silent. She did not become smooth or soft in her manners even then; that was simply impossible; but a wild, impulsive, earnest and impetuous kindness at once shone out. Ah, Alice had it now, Julia was thoughtless, there was no denying it; but she was not heartless. Under her gay, careless exterior was a warm, affectionate and generous nature. Alice liked lier. She remembered one evening, when her head ached and she felt so sick and tired that she left the supper table, unable to eat a nor- sal, that after she had said her prayers and was just going to bed, the door of her room opened and Julia came in carrying a salver in her hands, on which was a plate with a slice of toast, a cup of tea and a small dish of marmalade. "You are about used up ;" she said, " at tea time you could not taste a thing, but now you are little rested, and must eat this." "Impossible," Alice answered; but; in the most peremap tory manner, Julia informed her she must. * ALICE MGnBBAw. 25t3 "I know what is good for you," she said ; " it's not medi- cine you want, it's rest and nourishment. Take the nour- islrmient. and the rest will follow; go without it, and you sleep none tJo-night"Alice persisted and Julia stormed. r The end was, Alice ate, slept and awoke the next morning, i clear-headed and refreshed. Julia asked her: "How's your head?" "Better." I thought it would be so ;" and made no further reference to it. At another time, Alice inadvertently spoke of a pain in her side, and that night Julia brought her in a bowl of thoroughwort, and, nolens i volens, poor Alice had to take it. Like her other prescrip- tion, it helped her. Her father called her his nurse, cook, seamstress, medical adviser and spiritual director; for another trait as surprising was, she was very exact in all , religious observances, attending Mass, approaching the ir Sacraments, and scrupulously minding the days of fast, i abstinence and obligation, and, backed and aided by her iant, she saw that her father and cousins did the same. Woe to them, if they showed a lukewarm or pusillanimous spirit! Her caustic tongue rained down censures and ani- madversions upon them. Their future state was located / in a very warm clinmate; their present overcast with clouds and rent with thunder-bolts of vengeance. A stormy elo- i quence marked her denunciations; and while they listened, ! laughed and seemed highly to enjoy them, she had the o s:atisfaction of seeing them effect what she wanted; their torpidity was shaken off, their fervor revived. And it was not, she insisted, to please her they were now acting more il like Christians than heathens. No, not at all; it was be- I cause she had jtrst hinted to them what they might expect i if they didn't mend their ways. It was the truth, and the truth always did good if you did not utter it in too low and mealy-mouthed a way. She made quite a bustle- of preparation for Mr. and MAs1 iX -, page: 254-255[View Page 254-255] Bradley's and Margaret's visit, and by early noon every. E thing was in the finest order. The Armstrongs were for. mer residents of Stapleton, and from childhood she had the warmest friendship for Mrs. Bradley, Margaret and Elizabeth, and since Ambrose's unconcealed partiality for the latter, she was more open than ever in her expression of it. She sat in the porch, watching for them, when the clock struck two ; unable longer to passively wait, she took her bonnet and parasol and went out. Mrs. Bradley had some shopping to do, and she would probably meet her in the streets, or in one of the stores-Lucan boasted three. Alice's afternoon wore away; the last class had recited, her pupils were dismissed; with the feeling of a little child going to its mother, she hastened to her boarding-house. Mrs. Bradley was there, seated in the great arm-chair; Mrs. Meade was seated near her, and Julia was fluttering in and out of the dining-room and parlor, all eager and glad. Before laying aside her bonnet, Alice went up to Mrs. Bradley and, bending over her, kissed her cheek. "Aunt Nora, the thought I should find you here when I got back, has made the afternoon pass pleasantly away." "And have you been well, Alice, dear?"Mrs. Bradley asked, looking sharply in her face and fancying it a shade paler and thinner. "Yes, aunt Nora, quite well," she answered, taking off her bonnet and laying it on the table, "Julia is a great M. D." "But, Mrs. Bradley," said Julia, at last sitting down, "she is anything but a good or obedient patient. I want you to talk to her; she tries me terribly." "I should think," said Mrs. Meade, smiling, "you could do that yourself." "Indeed, aunt Sarah, you are mistaken. My words all fail me when trying to overcome and break down her dread- ALICE MURRAY. 255 hil obstinacy. Would you believe it," she said, turning to I Mrs. Bradley, "the other night, when I brought her in a bowl of thoroughwort, she would not touch it with all I could say?" "But I did take it, Julia; you know I did," Alice laugh- ingly exclaimed. "Yes, you took it; but not till I threatened to shake you, and stamped my foot at you several times. Mrs. Brad- it ley, you must certainly speak to her." "Then you have not been well, Alice?"Mrs. Bradley re- marked. "I thought you were looking pale." "Oh, it's nothing, aunt Nora. My side felt a little un- l! easy, but Julia's panacea removed the uneasiness, and now I am all right." "I am glad to hear it. Thoroughwort is good." "Yes, Mrs. Bradley, it is good-good for most anything, and tell her, next time, not to make so many faces about tak- ing it. If she does, I shall charge double fees for my ser- vices, or, better still, prepare her a dose she will not like." "What will it be?"Mrs. Bradley asked, amused at Ju- lia's earnestness. "I've not exactly made up my mind whether it will be rhubarb, senna and epsom, or Glauber's salt, or raw castor oil with a garlic gurgle after. But come, Alice," she said, suddenly, and to Alice's great delight, changing the sub- ject, "let me show you your aunt Nora's new dress." She took up a bundle from the table and opened it. "What do you think of that?" she asked, displaying a I summer mering of a dark rich green. "Oh, it's beautiful ' j "But I'm afraid it's too light colored," ars. Bradley re- sponded. Io "Not at all, aunt Nora You could not well have got it darker.' 7 page: 256-257[View Page 256-257] ATICE MTTRRAY. 257 "Yes, she could. She could have got it olive, or that very appropriately named shade, invisible green-because there's no green to be seen about it, and had it as sombre as a funeral pall. And she would, too, only I chanced upon her just in time to save her." "What do you think of it, Mrs. Meade?"Mrs. Bradley would rather have the opinion of one near her own age. That lady polished her spectacles, and placed them across her nose. "It's not too light, Mrs. Bradley," she said, after carefully viewing it; "and is, besides, a firm piece of goods. How much did you pay for it?" This characteristic question was answered, and the an- swer seemed to please her still better than the shade. The dressmaker that cut it, and the slight trimmings she was to have on it, were duly gone over, and Julia, after again folding it up, and laying it on the table, bustled from the parlor. She had the tea already as Mr. Bradley and Mar- garet came in. "Well, Mrs. Meade," said Mr. Bradley, as Mrs. Meade rose to shake hands with him, " you see I have kept my word." "Yes, Mr. Bradley, and I am glad you did. It seems an age since Mrs. Bradley was here before. Margaret, let me take your things." "No, Mrs. Meade, I will just put them here in one cor- ner of the sofa, where they'll not be in the way. Mother, I am glad to see you looking so welL" "Yes, thank God, I am well. And you?" "Ohl I am well, too." "It is fortunate you are," said Alice; " if you were not, Julia would dose you till you were." "Yes, I know. Julia is rather given to dosing, I believe But where is she?" "Here I am. And you are just in time; tea if all ready Oome-come all of you." : But where is your father?" "Te has just come in, and is already seated." They followed her into the dining-room, where they found Mr. Armstrong. After a cordial greeting, they seated themselves at the well-filled table. "Well, Bradley," asked Mr. Armstrong, after grace was said, and the tea poured out, "how are you getting along with your harvest?" "I have got the last of my oats in. Got them in to-day, too." "How do you like your new mowing machine? Does it continue to do its work well?"He was spreading a huge biscuit as he put the question. "Yes," Mr. Bradley answered, slowly and meditatively, stirring the sugar in his cup, "it holds out right well." There was the look of a tired, exhausted man about him. He was so thankful the last of his grain was safe under shelter. He would now, before the threshing and fall work, have a breathing time, and he felt he needed it. Richard and Terry were good, industrious boys; but they were too young to take the brunt of the work, and it came on him, and with his increasing years he was beginning to feel it. How much stiffer and lamer he was now, after a few weeks drive, than he used to be. Then he didn't mind it at all; a good meal and a good night's rest and he was all right. Now it took a great many good meals and a great many good nights' rest to bring him round. Well, in a few years more Richard and Terry could take the burden off him and let him have it a little easier. "Bradley, you are unusually silent. Has your horse- rake gone up?" 'No, Armstrong, it is just as good now as it was the first day I got it." "Ambrose thinks there's nothing like it" page: 258-259[View Page 258-259] *"I think so too It sweeps the field as clean as a broom." - "Have you seen the new pitchfork that pitches the load off for you?" "No, I haven't seen it yet. Ambrose was speaking of it the last time he was up to our house. He says Pierce has one, and it don't work as well as they expected." "Well, no, but now that they have got the idea of such a machine, they'll not stop till they've made a pretty thing of it." "I think so myself; but I don't care to buy one till the idea is worked out. You know what the first mowing ma- chines were." "I know, at least, what the first were that were sold round here, clumsy, horse-killing affairs. I lost the best span I ever owned by them. You remember my bays with a star in their foreheads?" "Yes, and large, handsome, fleck-looking horses they were." "And as true as steel, Bradley, and kind and clever as old sheep. I raised them myself, and broke them when they were three. They didn't have a mean trick about them, and when I went into the pasture would follow me like dogs. Well, the spring they were seven, Cranson came round selling the machines, and like a fool, I bought one. I had a big harvest before me, and I thought it would help me more than a hired man, and for that matte, if it was half as good as it was represented, it would do the work of half a dozen. I went to cutting with it, and before the harvest was over, before all my grain was down, both horses were so lame I could hardly get them out of the stable. I did not know what to think of it." "Did you think it was the machine?" ' Well, yes, after awhile I thought so ; but at first, as I ALICE MURRAY. 259 B tell you, I hardly knew what to think of it. I was afraid i Paul or Ambrose had fed them grain when over-heated, or i thought they had catched a cold and-Julia--" he ex- i claimed, interrupting himself-"My tea is out, and so is ! Bradley's. You are talking so at that end of the table youi can't tend to your business." "Hand me your cup, father; hand it directly. Quick,i quick, the man is perishing with thirst." She filled it, put cream in it, handed it back, sugar Mr. Armstrong ignored' in tea, and poured out and seasoned Mr. Bradley's. Bis- cuits, butter, cheese and dried beef, were again handed round, and she resumed her broken remarks to Mrs. Brad- ley, Alice and Margaret, while Mr. Armstrong, with his i favorite beverage before him, went back to his subject. "I thought the lameness," he observed, "would wear off, but it didn't; it never wore off, Bradley." "What did you do for them?" "Do! I did everything-blistered, bathed, roweled and salved them; but I might as well have worked on wooden images, for all the good I got by it. The next spring I sold them for what I could get-it wasn't much-and hus- tied the detested machine out of sight. I never used it again." "I should have thought you'd got enough of machines- r. that you would never have bought another." il "Well, Bradley, I came within one of registering a vow" I never would." "But he did," said Julia, joining in the conversation li "I didn't till I knew something what they were. They didn't deceive me again." "Oh! no; you waited till you saw whether they rained ,j your neighbors' horses or not, like old Mrs. Clowes." ii "How was that, Julia?" i "Why, ste came over to our house one day, whea we ! *!I i page: 260-261[View Page 260-261] 260 ATICE MURRAY. lived out on the farm, and aunt Sarah here was complain. ing of not feeling well, and she gave her the recipe of a syrup. There was a little of everything in it, and from this fact she argued it must be good. I asked her if she had ever taken it, and she answered no ; one of her neigh. bors where she used to live-it was soon after the Clowes moved to Stapleton--had given her the recipe, but she had never used it; she would rather, she said, see whether it would hurt or help somebody else before she tried it her. self. She firmly believed it would help instead of hurt, but she wasn't quite sure." "Your aunt used it, of course?" "No, Alice; she was so heartless she wouldn't touch it -so heartless as to leave the poor old woman in doubt as to its killing or curing properties, and I don't know to this day as she has had the courage to make the trial on her- self. In regard to the mowing and other machines, our neighbors were more accommodating; they got them, tried them, and when they didn't lame or kill their horses or drivers, why then father, like the wise man he is, got them too. Will you have another cup of tea, Mrs. Bradley?" "No, thank you; I think I've had enough." "Half a cup, to moisten your cake?" Well, I don't care if you do." She handed her cup to her. "Your cake is excellent, Julia." "I think so, too, Mrs. Bradley; Julia is far ahead of me in the cake line." "Oh! that's nothing, aunt Sarah; it's only because I use more eggs, sugar and cream than you. Aunt Sarah, Mrs. Bradley, can't bring herself to do it; it hurts her tight and griping spirit too much." "Not so much but I enjoy it after you have done it." "Well, yes, and I am glad you are sensible enough to do it." ALIte MUIRtA. 261 The meal was over; a short grace, and all rose from the table. "Nora," said Mr. Bradley, as the women were about moving to the parlor, "I'm just going to step into the barn to see Armstrong's new horse-rake; it is different from mine ; and then I'll bring the horses round and hitch them on to the wagon, and do you and the girls be ready."i "Yes, yes, they'll be ready, Mr. Bradley; but you needn't hurry yourself out there. Take your time and examine it well; it's a curious affair, and will well repayii your study.": "Did you ever study it yourself, Julia?" "Bless you, no! what was the use of my studying it when father studied it enough for himself and me too?" "And then, without studying it, I suppose you know as much about it as he does?" "I dare say I do; perhaps even more." There was the I old ironical look in her eye. "Mr. Bradley!" she called after him. . "What?" "Don't go over the lesson hurriedly, or you may have I one more disagreeable to learn in the house after it." "What do you mean?" F1 "Nothing; only you may have to turn over a few pages on the chapter headed patience. I have no idea, let me tell you, of Mrs. Bradley, Margaret and Alice starting off till their supper is a little settled. It's not so often they come, that you need be hurrying them off so." i "And now, Julia," said Mrs. Meade, as they entered tho parlor, "you must play something for Mrs. Bradley." 1 "What shall it be?" she asked, r eadily seting herself at the piano; e some of my new pieces?" "No, no, Julia-none of them," answered her aunt. "They are mostly poor jingling things," she said, turning to Mrs. Bradley, "nothing that either you or I like. You I !' ' page: 262-263[View Page 262-263] 262 ALICE MURRAY. know Mrs. Bradley's favorite, and let that be the one There's nothing I like better myself." "c Well, then, Margaret, you must help me sing it." "I will, Julia." She stood beside her ready to turn the leaves. Mrs. Bradley seated herself near her, and rested her elbow on the instrument. On her worn and deeply. lined face was a pleased, expectant air. A short prelude. and the two girls sang those lines so exquisitely touching in their deep and tender pathos, "The Exile of Erin." As they were concluding the second stanza, a quick and vio. lent ringing of the door-bell startled them all. The hall door was open, and turning her eyes, Alice became deathly pale.. There, right before her, standing in the door, were Mr. and Mrs. Elbray. She instantly rose from the otto- man on which she was sitting. "Uncle!" she exclaimed, reaching out her hand, but un- able to move an inch forward. She stood as if rooted to the spot. Mrs. Elbray quickly advanced, and without say- ing a word, took the chain from Alice's neck. There was an exceeding rudeness in her manner of doing it. Her face was red and swollen, her movements energetic enough to show the greatest anger; her whole bearing insolent to the last degree. Once in her possession, she turned to Mr. Elbray, and exclaimed: "Whose chain is that?" His countenance, which before had been gloomy, now became terrible. "How came you by this?" he asked, in a fierce, angry tone. Alice's lips were white, and when she opened them to speak, her voice sounded as if issuing from a tomb. "How came I by it?" she slowly repeated, as if the scene coming upon her so suddenly and unexpectedly oppressed and be- wildered her; but a triumphant glance from lMrs. Elbray'f ALICE MURRAY. 263 eye roased her. "How came I by it?" she again repeated, and this time in the low and thrillingly distinct voice was a ring of anger, scorn, contempt; "you had better ask those that maliciously placed it in nay trunk. Stop!" she I imperiously exclaimed, as Mrs. Elbray seemed about to in- terrupt her, "listen-I will tell you all I know about it." Her heart beat so violently against her side that she had ; to place her hand upon it to still, if possible, its throb- bings. "I did not know"-she added, when Mrs. Elbray insolently broke in : "It distresses you too much-you need not go on. Your powers of invention, fortunately, are limited. The when and the where, miss, are of no consequence. It suffices us I to know in your possession, notwithstanding your hypo- critical professions of sanctity, it was found." She detached the chain from the locket, saying while she did so: "' The miniature does not belong to me, and I am not so unprin- cipled as to covet it; but the chain, the precious chain, the last gift of my dear husband, must never leave me again." j Mrs. aieade, Mrs. Bradley, Julia and Alice stood as if spell-bound, unable to utter a word. But Margaret, see- ing her place the chain around her neck, spoke: "Mother, Mrs. Meade, Julia, you see it all-the farce by K which a most foul slander is to be attached to a poor or- phan. You see her standing there like a crushed and broken lily, and will none of you speak-none say any- I thing to comfort her!"i Alice was leaning against the table, large drops stood on i: her brow, and her breathing was quick and hurried. With- out waiting an answer, Margaret went up to her and took her cold hand. "She found that chain in a box in her trunk one Satur- day, she said. Unheeding Mrs. Elbray's sneering smile I ',' i'i page: 264-265[View Page 264-265] 264 AI4CE MURBRAY. and taunting words she added, " and she thought, Mr. El bray, that desiring she should have her aunt's minia, ture, that you yourself had placed it there." "What proofs, miss, have you for what you say?" "Her own words, madam, and I believe them as much as I believe in my own existence. She was at our house some weeks before she knew she had it with her, and when she first discovered it among her things she almost fainted with surprise and astonishment." John Elbray's counte. nance relaxed something of its black sternness, but Mr& Elbray only sneered. "A most probable story," she haughtily exclaimed. Margaret's pale face flushed, "Say what you will, madam, it is true." "It is," Mrs. Bradley for the first time spoke, " the poor girl was as white as a sheet when she found it among her things, and she thought her uncle had put it there." Her eyes were directed to Mrs. Meade and Julia, and she seemed rather speaking to them than to either Mr. or Mrs. Elbray. But Mrs. Elbray replied as if her remark was especially addressed to her, and therefore she was particu- larly called upon to answer it. "Any one," she said, "who knows Mr. Elbray would never suppose him capable of going stealthily to another's trunk either to put in or take out from it. Mr. Elbray, why do you loiter, are you not convinced?" "Oh, uncle, can you believe it possible that I would take it?" "He must believe what he sees. He saw it on your neck, and he saw me taking it from you." "But, uncle, stay; listen, I solemnly declare I did not place it in my trunk and for weeks after leaving you I did not know I had it with me." "The faot that it was found with you," Mrs. Elbray ALCE MU1rBAY. Ra5Y coolly replied, "would in any court of justice crush such a foolish subterfuge. Where is the thief, caught in the act, that would not, if he could, plead himself innocent! He did no-t take the purse found upon him. Ah! no; it I was, forsooth, forced unknown to him, into some of his nu- . i merous pockets."' These envenomed words, like a Damascus cimiter, struck ; to Alice's heart, rousing every dormant feeling of anger within her; grief, sorrow and amazement were swept away. :i They seemed, too, to rouse John Elbray; his face grew purple. "Alice Murray!" he exclaimed, in the unearthly calm- ness of deep and overpowering passion, "I took you to my home a little girl, I cherished you as my own, I flattered myself your presence would cheer and comfort my old age, I loved you with each passing year more and more; but I when you grew up, you scorned the one that had fed you, you turned upon me with the blackest ingratitude; you left me, and that was not enough, but you have fastened upon yourself an indelible disgrace, and if you could, you would throw that disgrace back upon me. You would say that I went to your trunk, that I helped you to rob that woman of her dead husband's last gift. The gift was found upon you, and that is what you would say. I am done with you; I wash my hands of you forever." In a voice equally calm from passion, Alice replied: "You took me to your home and done for me, and most :i deeply do I regret it. You wash your hands of me for- 1 ever, and it is well; I would rather starve than ask a favor of you. It humiliates me to the dust to think I owe you anything, and if I live, I will yet pay you for all you have i ever done for me. I cannot, and God helping me, I will not, bear the withering shame of owing John Elbray one i penny." Her hand was raised, and it seemed more like i] i i page: 266-267[View Page 266-267] UD 'AJLAUid M3Ult lIAIU l. vow she was registering than a simple promise she was making. "Perhaps," said Mrs. Elbray, with a cold, sarcastic laugh, "that two hundred dollars you lately received fromn him will go towards your first payment?" "What do you mean?" she demanded. "I sent you," John Elbray answered, "a letter contain. ing two hundred dollars, and you never acknowledged it." "I never received it. I have received no letter from you. I wrote you two, but you did not answer them." "That's of a piece with your putting the chain and locket in : her trunk. What is the use of longer staying? We will go." c Alice was too indignant to speak; not so John Elbray. 8 He had brought up that girl; he had been as a father to her; base, wicked and unworthy as she was, he could not leave her without one warning word, one parting advice. "Alice," he said, and there was an intense bitterness in his tone; "you are cast off; never will you be any more than a stranger to me; but in memory of the past, I will give you one word before I go. Never take from others as you have taken from me. You have taken from me and mine, and for the sake of your dead aunt, you are spared; but follow the same course with others, and the jail, and back of that, the penitentiary, awaits you." His voice ceased; a silence followed; Alice looked up; they were gone. This was the meeting, this the parting with the uncle that had once loved and cherished her, and who in return had h been so dear to her! She dashed the tears from her eyes, and glanced wildly around her. "Don't mind them," Julia sobbed, coming up to her and taking her hand, "don't mind them. They don't and they it can't make us believe any such wicked story; neither aunt i Sarah, nor I, nor father, nor any of us, will believe a word t of iutm 8! Zajce WXUMtAYX. s267 "Aice looked at her but did not speak. She did not dare to. In the tempest of her wrath she was afraid she would utter wild, fierce words that would startle them all. In the violence of passion one may not be able to reason, to lay out facts, arrange them, and draw conclusions there. from; but memory even then h]olds her sway. Other storms, and other fiery trials come up, and the soul quails at the havoc they made upon the teachings and resolves of years, the after shame and agony, the after tears, and prayers, and groans sent up for peace and pardon. Peace and pardon descended, for the God who made us is a God of mercy ; the contrite heart finds favor in His sight. But again the storm lowers, again the dark clouds roll over the head of the afflicted, and lightnings play around him; but no word of rebellion against a beneficent Creator must fall from his lips. That others triumph in their wicked machi- nations against him; that they, mocking God in their hearts and conterining Him in their lives, prosper and flourish like the green bay tree, while he is humbled, and crushed and trampled upon by them, is no reason why he should fly into the face of his Father, his All. No, no; rather let the tongue be chained to eternal silence. Let the bitter Waves wash over him; let the tempest beat against him ; they cannot tear him from his allegiance, they cannot hurl him from his foundation. That a better day will come, that the sun will again shine out, that a cloudless day will again smile down upon him, he does not pause to think or hope; in the blackness of his sorrow, he only sees the present darkness, he only hears the relentless roar of the winds around him, and wildly, with all the powers of his eoul, cling to thisone thought, this one absorbing idea. And it is this determination not to rebel against God, to say nothing offensive to His holy name, that strengthens and sustains him; without his knowing it or being at all con. page: 268-269[View Page 268-269] 268 ALtc MRaY. scious of the fact, it throws a dignity around him in his sorrow, and raises him above the folly of loud-mouthed and useless complainings. He suffers in silence, and the world knows nothing of the inward struggles and the inward weakness. To the lookers on he is calm, unruffled and un- moved, and the stern gravity that marks his bearing holds him aloof from idle sympathy and gossiping condolement. Paul Meade considered little Margaret Bradley, with her puny figure and pale face, strong. He saw back of her great, dark grey eyes, a spirit full of bravery and fortitude, and he was right; his vision clear and correct. She was brave and strong. When in the suddenness of the foul accusation brought against her, Alice stood stunned, amazed, unable to tell the how and the when the chain was found in her possession; she came forward with the plain, simple statement, and by the force of her voice and man- ner obliged them to listen to it. At that moment, when a dark pall was thrown over Alice's character, she showed the depth and earnestness of her affections, and in the face of her accusers boldly proclaimed her belief in her inno- cence. She was sneered at for her pains, but that did not render the act less noble. It was, 'tis true, the one whose interest it was to make light of her words that sneered; but had all the world, had every friend turned coldly from her, she would have done the same, would have clung to her and been faithful to the last. Dear, precious little Margaret, fragrant flowers grow on thy lowly bed, and birds sing their sweetest songs above thy resting place; but the memory of thy brave and gentle spirit warms my heart; and when I write of the weak and the strong, the small and the great, the true and the faithful, I needs must write of thee. Blest was the spring-time of my life by thy friendship, and when no more in the flesh I may behold thee, no more listen to the thrilling cadence of i;? ATGCT M ICUbT. 269 thy voice, why may I not gaze on thy pictured semblance? : why may I not recall it to my mind? Knowing her father would soon be in and wonder at not ; seeing them ready to start, she gathered up her mother's 4everal little packages, and got their shawls and bonnets. "Alice," she said, "let me help you on with your shawl." "Thank you, Margaret, I do not need your assistance," Alice mechanically answered. She then turned to her mother, but Mrs. Meade said, "I will help her, Margaret." She had not before spoken, but in the tone of her voice, and glance of her eye, was an earnest sympathy. Mrs. Bradley did not see it; she thought from her silence that she believed the horrid slan- der that had been cast on her poor, dead sister's child. She had intended, before leaving, to refer to the object of Ambrose'cride to their place that morning, but she changed her mind. "She may not care now to hear it," she said to herself, "and I will say nothing about it. Perhaps af- ter this Ambrose, too, will not care to hear any more about j it. He may think it a disgrace to ally himself to one whose cousin, living in the family, has such a stain upon her character. If so, let him. If he was like that, it was I better they knew it. Alice was innocent, and she did not care if all the Meades and Armstrongs in the world thought her guilty." "Alice, darling," it was the first time in her life she had ever called her by that endearing name, "you are forget- ting your satchel." "Sure enough, Aunt Nora." "I will get it, Alice," Julia exclaimed, quickly leaving the room and ascending the stairs. In a moment she re- turned with it. As Alice was taking it from her, Mr. Arm- 3trong and Mr. Bradley entered the parlor. W . I page: 270-271[View Page 270-271] ALICE MURRAY. 27 270 ALICE MURRAY. "The horses are harnessed and standing at the gate, and now are you all ready?" the latter asked. "Yes, father," Margaret answered, "we are ready." Julia and Mrs. Meade followed them to the gate. "Mrs. Bradley," said Mrs. Meade, "your visit has been spoiled this time ; but you must come again. Promise me you will." "There was a trembling tenderness in her voice that brought a flush to Mrs. Bradley's cheeks. She felt she had been hasty in her conclusions, and as is generally the case with hastily formed conclusions, unjust. "My work is so driving," she answered, in a fluttered manner, " that it is not often I can leave it." "But you must leave it, and come again." "' Well, well, I'll try," and without returning the invita- tion-an omission that her hospitable heart would after- wards look back upon with exceeding shame-she com- menced giving orders. "Margaret, get in. Alice take your seat beside her. Terence, why are you loitering when you were in such a hurry?"She climbed in herself, and took the packages as Julia handed them to her. Alice silently obeyed her, but Margaret, stepping to Mrs. Meade, took her hand and said: "Mother is worried and you must not mind her. That our visit did not end so pleasantly as we might wish, is none of yours or Julia's fault; both of you did everything to make it agreeable; we are sensible of this, and feel grateful for it. Come and see us as soon as you can; we shall be glad to see you-you and Julia, I mean, both of you?" "We will, Margaret ;" and in her matter of fact way, she added, but in a voice so low that none but Margaret heard it, "and tell your mother not to make a fool of herself We see plainly through the wickedness of that terrible woman Alice is innocent of her charge, and her slander a will fall to the ground." She thought as she said, and per- haps it was just as well. Margaret kissed Julia, shook hands with Mr. Armstrong, and sprung into the wagon. Mr. Bradley and Mr. Armstrong looked amazed. In the barn at the time of Mr. and Mrs. Elbray's call, they knew nothing of it. A strange spirit seemed to have fallen on the women; strange words dropped from their lips. Alice looked pale and stern, Mrs. Bradley flushed and fretted, Mrs. Meade kind, with her kindness, or rather in spite of it, annoyed and irritated, and Julia, for once in her life, was silent. Margaret was the most like herself, gentle, calm, collected; but her pale countenance was paler than ever, and away back in the great, earnest, thoughtful eyes, were unshed tears. What did it all mean? what had hap- pened? They turned from one to the other with these questions in their surprised and bewildered faces, but in their dull, prosy way, said nothing. Perhaps they thought it better coolly and philosophically to wait and they would know, without the trouble of asking. Something had hap- pened-something neither pleasing nor agreeable, that was evident; and whatever that something was, they would probably hear it soon enough. CHAPTER XVIL WITH the interruption occasioned by Mr. and Mrs. El- bray's call and the consequent confusion of her faculties, Elizabeth had not been able to get her dress finished on Friday, and Saturday morning Margaret was busy at it, She wanted it done by the time Ambrose called. He had page: 272-273[View Page 272-273] i1AL AUUKj UJUIt * told them he would be there by ten, but she was afraid lhe would come sooner. He always seemed in a hurry to be off, and she could not bear to keep him waiting a minute. Elizabeth had helped her mother in the morning's work, and was now up stairs getting ready; the skirt was on, but there was something still to be done to the facing, and then it would have to be ironed. The clock struck nine, and faster and faster her little fingers flew. "Margaret, can I do anything to help you?"Alice asked, laying down the waist of Mrs. Bradley's new dress, on which she had been sewing. "Yes," Margaret answered, in a hurried, trembling voice, "I think I hear the wheels; just finish the facing-- there's a couple of breadths-while I put the flat-irons on the stove and get out the ironing sheet." "Is it then done?" "No; there's a hook and a loop to be put at the bot- tom of the waist and another on the right sleeve, I see." Alice took up the dress and Margaret left the parlor just as Ambrose drove up to the little gate. How sleek, well-fed and stately his horse looked, how spotless and glistening his new wagon, how neat and tasty and rich his new harness with its silver-plated buckles, rings and mountings. No wonder he felt a little proud of his turnout, and thought quite contemptuously of Bob Griscom's rusty old vehicle, and Hugh Donovan's flashy livery stable concern. Elizabeth must see the difference; he knew she must; she was a sensible girl, and knew all about these things, and knew, too, that he had not only bought, but what, in her estimation and the estimation of every honest person, was infinitely more, he had paid for it; and he added, with a flourishing movement of his hand in fastening his horse to the post in front of the gate, that he had not got it till he was able to get it. This thought ALICE MURRAY. 273 gave him an extra degree of good humor with himself and all the world, as he turned and walked into the house. Margaret met him in th;e little hall "Elizabeth is not quite ready," she said, "but step into the parlor; she'll be down in a few minutes. I am sorry 1 you have to wait." "It's of no consequence," he gaily replied, stepping in and seating himself in the parlor. "Good morning, Miss Murray," he exclaimed, "have you ; no word for me '. His cheery voice struck drearily on her ear; she won- dered if he would speak so pleasantly when he had heard the frightful story against her. That she was innocent of the crime laid to her charge hardly occurred to her, or if it did it was only to add to the bitterness of her thoughts. That she who had striven so hard to do her duty, had been so' afraid in all her sorrow to do or say anything that could stain her soul with sin, to be accused of so heinous an of- fence, to have every circumstance so black against her. What did it mean? What could it mean? She had asked for bread and it seemed a stone, against which to break her teeth and upon which to starve, had been given her. She could have wrung her hands and cried in very agony of spirit ; but she must not give way to her feelings, she I must be calm, must restrain herself. "You don't speak," Ambrose said, and in a changed tone added, "Your heart is heavy; I had forgotten, but now I remember." "You know, then," she said, in a hoarse whisper. She meant to speak out loud, and she thought she did. "Yes, I know," he answered, "I was to uncle's last night and Julia told me the whole affair. She and mother say. Mrs. Elbray is a terrible woman, and your uncle is an old fool, completely under her thumb." t[! page: 274-275[View Page 274-275] 27/4? ALIC]E MUtRiAX. Alice looked up gratefully, but she did not say, "Yoi don't believe it," for at that moment she thought of cer- tain passages she had read in the Lives of the Saints, in which they are represented as rejoicing under persecution and calumny, and the comfort she experienced in knowing the Meades and Armstrongs believed her innocent, pain- fully contrasted in her mind with their resigned and pa- tient suffering. They never asked themselves the fierce questions that were forever knocking against the walls of her brain; they never felt so fiery and passionate, so for- saken and so abandoned when disgrace attached itself to their names. No, no ; they twere brave and strong, and she was pitifully weak. If she knew before God that she was innocent, should not that fact console her under the whole world s belief in her guilt? She could not say yes, and she would not say no. St. Lawrence, roasting on the gridiron, could calmly request his persecutors to turn him on the other side; St. Cyril, a mere child, did not quail, though bound and was shown the pyre set in flames to consume him; St. Agatha's fortitude was unshaken in the midst of the most frightful torments-and she, she that was looked upon as stern and strong and full of courage, she hung her head at the false accusation of a wicked woman, she trembled lest her words should be believed, and she felt a load lifted from her heart when she found they were not. Was this right? She did not know. Was it wron? She could not tell. There was this difference between her and these glorious martyrs. They suffered for Christ, she for the miserable dross of this world. Had John Elbray been poor, had there been no fear that she would be restored to his home, that a part of his wealth might revert to her, no such slander would have been started against her. She would have been allowed to go on in the path she had marked out for herself unmolested and unharmed It was AbUIC MAURRRIY. 275 gltnrrot - suffer for Christ; it was humiliating to suffer for the world, the fleeting, perishing and sinful world She writhed under it, and envied the martyr at his stake. Could she but exchange places with him, how gladly would she have done it. What were the chain, the pyre, the burn- ing pincers, the wild beasts, the block, the rack, the knife, when they were encountered in the defence of Faith, and in love and fidelity to the adorable name of Christ. Happy, happy martyrs, having even in their greatest agonies a foretaste of heavea's own joys! Their torments were crowns of glory; their degradations eternal honor. Not so with her. She suffered, not that Christ's name might be glorified, but that a hard, selfish worldling might tri- umph in her wickedness. St. Athanasius, when accused of the terrible crime of murder, and a withered hand, pur- porting to be the hand of the murdered man, was shown in proof of the charge against him, exonerated himself and triumphed over his enemies, by presenting the man he was accused of murdering, before them, well, whole and un- A maimed. Afterwards, in the council assembled in Sardica, A. D. 347, he "presented himself furnished with all the doc- uments necessary to prove his innocence and the bad faith of his enemies." St. Ephrem's humility was great, and through that humility, when accused of a crime committed by another, he submitted a long- time to the public con- tumely without a murmur, and only through fear of giv- ing occasion for scandal did he consent to justify himself. But he did justify himself, and in this justification pro" claimed his innocence. No, it could not possibly be wrong in her to rejoice that the Meades and Armstrongs did not i believe the vile'slander against her. A proof that it was not, w'is that her gratitude at once lifted her thoughts from them up to the good God who, in her sore need, had gath- ered faithful friends around her. In the bitter cup presented I page: 276-277[View Page 276-277] to her lips were mingled sweet drops of mercy; harsh fed1" ings had throbbed in her heart the whole of the preced4 ing night; sleep had not visited her, and in her wretched wakefulness she had been tossed about from one wild, fren.- zied agony to another, all over-shadowed by a miserable and unholy spirit of discontent. No, not discontent, that was not the word; she must not deceive herself, she must not soothe and flatter her conscience by smooth-sounding terms. She must not call black white and white black; she must come out with it, and force the ears of her soul to listen to what it was, that the enormity of the name might impress upon her the enormity of the sin. It-was rebellion against God, that was it, and she must hear it and know it. If in words she must put a restraint upon herself, so she must in thought. What did she not owe to the dear Lord? Driven out from one home the doors of another were opened to her; friends deserted her and heaped opprobrium upon her, and other and better friends I were raised up to fill their place. What a protecting hand had been over her, a poor orphan, leading, guiding and di- recting her. Tears filled her eyes, and before she could force them back, fell in great drops on her work. She hastily rose; the dress was finished, and she carried it out to the kitchen. "Margaret, let me iron it," she said, "and do you go back to the parlor. I cannot speak this morning to Am- brose, but you go in and say something to him." Margaret was afraid her unpractised hand could not do it as neatly or quickly as herself, and stepping into the buttery, where her mother was at work, she laid the mat- ter before her. "Alice," Mrs. Bradley called. Alice went to her. "Will you just wash and scald this ladle and butter-bowl ' "Yms, aunt orxa.' 'Ane v Acv&& V C S * 1 "And after that, you may cut up that bread on the plate, and put it to soak in that pan of milk. It's for the pud- ding for dinner." "But the dress, aunt Nora?" "I will do it myself, child." She hurriedly washed her hands, and went to it. Margaret entertained Ambrose with pleasant talk till it was ironed, carried up stairs, and Eliza- beth came down all ready to start. "-It's a shame" were her first words, "that I have kept you waiting so long." "Has it seemed long to you?" he laughingly asked. "Yes, monstrous long." "That was because you were so anxious to see me." "No, no," she blushingly replied; "but you see I was hindered in my work yesterday, and that was the cause of my delay this morning." "Make no apologies, Elizabeth. I think there was a slight anxiety on my part to see you, although you deny there was any on yours to see me; for I believe I was here an hour sooner than I named, and now, as I have only been kept waiting thirty minutes, I have gained half an hour by my early start." He gaily led her to the wagon, helped her in, seated himself beside her, the little green parasol was opened, the reins slackened. "God bless you both, and a safe and pleasant ride," Margaret, who had followed them to the gate, exclaimed, as the wheels rolled away.1 "God bless you," Elizabeth called back, and Ambrose bowed. All the forenoon Margaret was busy in the kitchen help- i ing her mother; after dinner, the Saturday's work done, j! the dishes cleared away, the house in perfect order, Mrs. F Bradley and she took their sewing and repaired to the par- 1oo, Rosie was out in the fields with ker father ad the l, .......... 'I :' "i page: 278-279[View Page 278-279] 278 A ICE MURRAY. boys. It was a glorious- h]oliday to her, gathering berries and flowers, listening to the birds, and watching her father and brothers as they worked at the fences. It was just such a day as she liked-just such a day as in after years would be treasured in her memory as one of the happiest of her childhood's days. When Mrs. Bradley and Marga- ret had sewed in silence for an hour or more, she came in with a large bunch of wild flowers in her hand. Her sun- bonnet, tied loosely under her chin, was hanging on her back, her short golden curls were blown about in wild con- fusion, her blue eyes looked bluer and larger than ever. Placing the flowers in a pitcher of water, and setting the pitcher on the table before Alice, she took off her bonnet, seated herself on the stool at her mother's feet, and laying her head on her lap, she was soon asleep. Carefully taking her up, Mrs. Bradley carried her into the bed-room adjoining the kitchen, and laid her on the bed. "Poor little thing, she said, coming back, "she's tired with all her play; a nap will do her good." She resumed her sewing, and nothing more was said for a couple of hours. The thoughts that occupied Alice's mind were the same that had engaged her attention in the, morning. The night before she could only dwell with an intense horror and bitter questioning on the meeting and parting with her uncle. To-day she was able to weigh motives, and reason and lay out the matter before her, and give herself lessons, and set herself to learning them. They stung into her heart, and more than once she passed her hand over her forehead as if forcibly to drive them away out of her mind. She wanted rest, she wanted quiet, and above all she wanted to be at peace with herself. This rest, this quiet, this peace she sighed for, could not be hers till, inch by inch, she had fought for and gained it. As Mrs. Bradley watched the Changes that passed over her AdCE MURRAY. 279 gountenance, at one moment stern, at another softened, and again reverent and uplifted, she felt she was doing better not to speak. She recollected what Margaret had once told her-whether she had read it in some book at the Sisters, or it was simply her own thought, she did not know; but Margaret had said that often the good and the bad angel seemed to be combating in the struggle between the pure, holy and resigned suggestions, and the dark, fierce, tumultuous ones, that at times agitated the soul. She felt Alice was going through an encounter, and she would not disturb her by idle talk--she would say nothing to distract her attention. But she would pray; a voiceless appeal sent up would do more good than a thousand com- forting words. By and by, when the conflict was over, and she stood panting at the foot of the Cross, then the silence could be broken, and perhaps with profit. She dropped her needle, and quietly blessed herself. Margaret, raising her eyes from her sewing, saw the movement, and did the same. The clock in the kitchen struck four. "Aunt Nora," Alice said, looking up, 'your waist is done. Did you have the sleeves cut?" "No, Alice, I have a pattern I like, and I thought I would have them cut by it. Margaret, will you get it?" "Yes, mother." She stepped into the bed-room, opened a drawer of the bureau, and came out with it in her hands. "I will cut it, Alice," she said, " and do you rest awhile; you look tired." "And I am, but it is not with sewing." "What is it then, Alice, darling?" "Of my own thoughts, aunt Nora; I am tired of them; oh! so tired." A new idea struck Margaret. "Alice," she asked, " have mother and I been too silent-would you be less weary had we said more?" i page: 280-281[View Page 280-281] "No, Margaret, no; words this afternoon would have been intolerable to me. You and aunt Nora have the ad. mirable gift to know when to speak and when to be silent." After Margaret had cut the sleeves, she folded them up and laid them aside. "Will you not give them to me?"Alice said, reaching out her hand. "No, child, you have sewed enough," Mrs. Bradley answered. "Margaret," she said, " get your bonnets, and you and Alice go out; I will have tea ready when you come in." Margaret got the bonnets and Alice reluctantly arose. "Where shall we go?" she listlessly asked. "To the orchard. Terry tells me the golden pippins are getting ripe." They passed out and went below the barns, crossed a fence, and were in the orchard. Margaret led the way to the tree on which the golden pippins grew. "Here, Alice," she said, " we will sit down under this one." She gathered some of the apples, and the fairest and mellowest she put in Alice's lap. "No, Margaret, I do not care for them." "Do you never eat apples, Alice?" "Yes, sometimes. Why do you ask?" "Because, when the honey-sweets and rare-ripes were brought in, I never saw you taste them." "Well, Margaret, as a general thing, I do not care for fruit, and I care as little for confections. Plain food is all I ever craved, and that, thank God, I have always had, and pray God I always may have." "I pray so, too, Alice; but you speak in a desponding tone." "Do I?" "Yes; and you don't know what a wild, sad look you have at this minute." -^o bI MYRW a* 28} I "Margaret, yel are standing beside me, but 1 want you to sit down. lMy heart is full; there are things I wish to tell you." Margaret seated herself on the soft turf. "How blue and cloudless the sky," Alice remarked. "Do you know, when I see the great dome over us and glance round on the open fields and far off hills, T fee freer to speak. It seems I am in my Father's house and the arms of his love encloses me around. You say I have a wild, sad look; I may have, for strange thoughts and ;l strange fears have harassed me to-day."' She ceased, and after a few moments' silence, Margaret asked : "These thoughts and fears-do you hesitate to tell me them?" "No, Margaret; out to name them may startle you." "Are they anyways connected with Mr. and Mrs. Eo- bray's call?" "Yes, Margaret, they are." "Then don't fear; they won't startle me." "You think so, Margaret, but would it frighten you to know before I again make my appearance in the little I brown school-house in Lucan, that my stealing the v al- uable gold chain belonging to Mrs. Elbray, and two hun- i} dred dollars belonging to Mr. Elbray-I cannot say uncle --will be the thrilling event of the village?" "But, Alice, don't trouble yourself about that; only we and the Meades and the Armstrongs know anything about it. Julia is gay and, to a certain extent, thoughtless, but she would not for her life breathe a word of it to a soul in Lucan. To her own family she may, and probably will, !I speak of it, and speak of it freely, and express her opinions i in the most unmeasured terms, but outside the family she 'will be silent." "No, Margaret, I don't think Jiria will tell." ,j "Then you a-rely can't fearw r Atc t, father or ro . 9 j" page: 282-283[View Page 282-283] '28L AICE MUJRILAX. "No, Margaret, and much less any of you; nevertheless it will be public property by Monday." "How, Alice?" "It is evident you don't know Mrs. Elbray. Do you think she would leave Lucan without securing the publica. tion of her terrible slander against me?" "But, Alice, what motive could she have? She has ef- fected an utter estrangement between you and your uncle; she has secured herself against the possibility of your re- turn to his home, and triumphant in this, what more can she want?" "A great deal, Margaret. There is a hatred in that woman that would crush me out of existence if it could. She will not be satisfied that I am effectually cut off from John Elbray's home, she will want to see me despised and scorned by the world. I am now earning my bread by my own labor; if she could snatch this bread from me and leave me famishing with want, she would do it." "Alice, excuse my saying it, but you are bitter, and your bitterness carries you beyond the pale of probability. With whom is she acquainted in Lucan? to whom could she tell her tale?" "I have thought of that too, Margaret, and concluded it would be to Mrs. Basset, the landlady, to whom she would unburthen herself. They staid there to tea last night, and during it, I have no doubt in a lofty and indignant way, she told the whole affair. If her girls were present, and listening too, as they most assuredly would be if they were present, so much the better; she would feel surer her evil designs would be carried out." "It would be so beneath her dignity-I say dignity, for as to conscience, I don't think, Alice, she has any-that I hardly think she'd do it." "Dignityl Margaret, what you call dignity and what ALICE MURRAY. 283 Mrs. Elbray looks upon as dignity, are two things as far apart as the poles. To gain her point she can stoop to any meanness." "Well, supposing she does tell, what then?" In a low earnest voice, and with the wild, sad expression in her face that Margaret had noticed, she answered, "first, the dislike and contempt of the parents, next the disrespect and insubordination of the pupils, and lastly, my dismissal from the school." "No, Alice, no. You are greatly liked, and they will not believe her." "All may not, Margaret, but some will; and these, with- out either party knowing it, will govern." "No, no, they will not. They cannot. I am older and more experienced than you, Alice, and I tell you they ,will not." "You are not so much older than I, Margaret, and then as to experience, although somewhat younger, I think I have had more, and deeper and more stinging, than you ever dreamed of." "You mean you have had more experience of the changes I and reverses of life, and that is true. But I mean experi- ence as to teaching and the light in which a good teacher is regarded." "And that experience, Margaret, has nothing to do in this case." ; "Alice " "I tell you it is so; or if it has, it is not to prove the truth of your words but mine. The light, you say in which a good teacher is regarded-a good teacher, is one who not only governs her pupils discreetly, and carefully tends to their advancement in learning, but one whose character outside the school-room is irreproachable. If the teacher is base and unworthy, what signifies her power to govern, or her capability to instruct?" A page: 284-285[View Page 284-285] AIUE MTORAY. "But, Alice-'- "Listen, do not interrupt me; I will leave generals and come down to particulars. If from the contempt and dis- like which several of the parents may entertain for me, their children-for children are quick to catch impressions and act upon them-become disorderly and refractory, their advancement in their studies, as a natural sequence, will cease, and their parents seeing it will be loud-mouthed against me. In their noise and fury, they will bear down the milder and more sensible, and in the end will come my ignominious dismissal." "Oh, no, Alice, I cannot bear to think it. Wrong will not so triumph." "Margaret, wrong often does seem to triumph, and for what wise purpose it is permitted, we, with our limited faculties, cannot understand. Out of the evil of sinful mortals the good God is uble to draw good to those that love, fear and serve Him. Margaret warmly pressed her hand. "I am so thankful," she said, "to see you, under the trouble you apprehend, so well aware that over and above the wickedness of man is the mercy and goodness of God. I spoke thoughtlessly when I said wrong could not tri- umph so. It can and often does triumph A:t a season, but on that account one should not distrust thbe )rovidence of God. From the pain and humiliation which it occa- sions, may come our greatest good. Thank GoA you feel about it as you do." "Margaret, at first I did not feel so. A furn e of re- oellion burnt in my heart. Suddenly, and in the midst of the fierce tormenting questions that consumed every bet- ter feeling within me, came the recollection of how much the good God had done for me and through what dan- ria TIe had led nme. What shlu'. I now do unicer that AiC XMURRAY. 28$ woman's malice had He not raised up your fanily for me? You opened your doors to me, you took me in. I cane a stranger to you and you received me as one of yourselves. Maigaret, your kindness-I mean the kindness of you all -b-us been the white-winged messenger of Peace to my troiubled soul. God has been so good, so merciful, that I cannot but in the face of my gloomiest fears be grateful to Him Do you know, Margaret, your mother, aunt Nora, never called me darling till this stain came on my name d Her voice was tremulous and tears rolled down her cheeks. "Alice, you are dearer to us in your sorrow than ever before." "And that feeling, Margaret, is the visible proof of God's great love for me." "He loves, Alice, all His creatures; but for none has lie a fonder love or tenderer care than for the poor or- phan." "Yes, I am an orphan," Alice, looking up at the great dome, thoughtfully replied. Then turning again to Mar- garet she added, "but till Aunt Elizabeth's death I hardly sensed my orphanage. Since then I have been painfully roused to the fact." "Poor, poor Alice," there was a tremor in Margaret's voice. She felt how hard must have been this awakening. To have every rugged path smoothed, every wnnt removed, every wish gratified, friends loving her, caring for her, surrounding her with everything fair and beautiful, and suddenly to find herself shut out from all that wealth of love, stranded on the cold world, the spot that had been her home, her sanctuary, swept from her forever, poor, friendless and alone. No wonder a hardness at times gleamed from her eye, no wonder at times a wild, sad look I settled on her face. Margaret, in her great sympathy \gr Ipt O ,' page: 286-287[View Page 286-287] 286 ALICE MUBRAY. could have taken her to her heart and wept over her; tilt she only quietly said: "Alice, consider yourself no longer an orphan. Mother and father love you as if you were their own child, and to us you are a sister." "But, Margaret, tell me truly, do you never feel when I am with you a little of the restraint which a stranger's presence always inspires? Do you feel and speak and act as if I was not in your midst?" "We do, Alice ; your presence does not embarrass us in the least. But I will candidly own to you that when we first received Father Lawrence's letter, I was greatly alarmed; the rest were not. They were sure they would like you. Father and mother said you could not be Alice Ryan's and Edward Murray's child, and be proud and scornful. I thought they might be right, and yet consid- dering the ease and elegance in which you had been reared, and the fine home you were coming from I feared you would be painfully struck with the meanness of ours, and that our plain, simple ways would be disagreeable to you, that you could feel no real companionship in our society, and would in consequence be wretched and unhappy with us. Elizabeth was wild with the prospect of seeing you, declaring it was a sister that had been a long time off that was coming home ; but my heart was heavy with dread, I was so afraid all her loving expectations would meet with a chilling disappointment." There were tears in Alice's eyes. "Do my words grieve you?"Margaret asked. "No." She remembered her own feelings had been something similar. "Margaret," she said, " do you know what Ambrose Ueade told me one day this week?' "No." ALICE MURRAY. 287 "That Paiu thinks you and I are alike." "And does Ambrose think the same?" "Yes; though till Paul mentioned it, he says he had never noticed it; after that, he could see it, too." ' In what respect do they think we resemble?" "I asked him, and he said we were both reserved, both fond of books, both very quiet, and he summed up by de- claring us both very much alike in our general bearing. I was surprised to hear it." - "I am not, for little as I am, and tall and finely formed as you are, father and mother think the same." "Do they, indeed?" "Yes; we are different, they say, in some things; in others much alike." "Well, Margaret, since you have told me your feelings about my coming among you, I think they are right; in some things we are alike. You shrank from meeting me through fear you would not like, and H--" "And you felt the same?" "Yes, Margaret, I did; but when uncle Terence came up to me after I left the stage, and spoke, I knew I should like him. My heart opened to him as a child to its father ; and that night, when I had seen and talked swith you all, I went up to my room feeling, as Elizabeth touchingly said, as if I was a sister that had been a great while off, but had at last got home." "Ared our poor house and your little room-they did a not strike disagreeably upon you?" "No, Margaret, no ; I saw, 'tis true, a great difference between them and my old one, but in that one I had been so wretched and unhappy that it seemed to me but gilded misery." "And our ways?" "They pleased me. It is not, Margaret, a rich home o0 page: 288-289[View Page 288-289] 288 ALICE MURRAY. fine dress that makes one refined; they must have some. thing else. They must have a kind heart. Real, genuine kindness goes further in making one gentle and obliging in their bearing, than all the wealth and learning in the world." "Yes, Alice, that is true, but all do not see it; the rich are apt to think these accessories very necessary to real refinement." "Margaret, the poor are as apt to think it as the rich. A generous and kind appreciation of others, irrespective of outside advantages, no more belongs to the latter than the former class. You have seen Mrs. Elbray?" "Yes." "You have not seen her daughter?" No." "Well, she is what you might suppose the daughter of such a mother would be; and do you think they could recognize worth, or talent, or refinement in a poor person, shabbily dressed and with mean surroundings?" "Alice, I verily believe they could not. Elizabeth told me she cast very disdainful glances round when here yes- terday; but then she knows nothing of poverty or strait- ened means." "There you are mistaken, Margaret." "Mistaken! why, she seems as if born to the manor. She certainly has a very grand, imposing air." "Too grand, too imposing by far, Margaret. Listen. after I had answered your letter and accepted the situa- tion you had kindly got me, I called on a few of my friends to bid them good-by. Among them was one who had lately returned from a visit to a married sister residing in R---- , where Mrs. Elbray and her daughter lived pre- vious to coming to Antoria, and she told me her sister knew tham well, that Mr. Denmore was very poor and ALICE MUBsAY. 89 always had been poor, and had not his father left him some means before his death, he would have suffered in his last sickness, when he became too feeble to work. She said Mrs. Denmore had been a very hard, exacting woman, and by her extravagance had, to use my friend's words, kept hiis nose to the grindstone his whole life." "( Was this friend a confidant of yours, Alice?" "No, Margaret; I had no confidant in all Antoria. I cannot, I never could, bear to make my affairs the property of the public, therefore I kept them to myself. Of course you will understand that Father Lawrence, without being at all a confidant, was informed of as much of them as it was necessary for him to know when I went to him to get me. a school, and he wrote to you for me. He did me a good service, and may God bless him. But when I told this lady I was going, she at once jumped to the conclusion that it was because Mrs. Elbray with her crushing ways had made it too uncomfortable for me to stay at John El- bray's, and forthwith told me her whole history. "You never mentioned it before." "No, I did not think it worth my while. Whether she was rich or poor before marrying Mr. Elbray was nothing to me. I was away from her, and I hoped never more to see her. "But, Alice, if her husband was so poor how could he give her so rich a chain before his death?" "Perhaps she wheedled it out of him when those means Uki father left him came in his possession." "It may be so, but I doubt it." "What do you mean, Margaret?" "I should think it more probable that she bought it her- self, with his means but without his knowing it, and may be before or may be after his death." "I am sure I can't tell." Alice heavily sighed page: 290-291[View Page 290-291] 290 ALICE MTRBAY. ; "a What painful thought now?' Margaret asked. "Speaking of the chain," Alice answered, "brings me back to her vile slander and its impending consequences." "I think Alice, your apprehensions are groundless." "I should be rejoiced if they were, but I dare not hope it. And, Margaret, if they are not, what then?" "If through it you lose the school in Lucan father will try his best to get you one somewhere else." "If he should fail?" "Then you have a home with us." "There comes the sting." "How, Alice, will it not please you to be with us?" "In one way yes, in another no. I want to do for my. self and not be a burden to aunt, uncle or any one. If I cannot get a situation it will be a blessing to have some home to turn to and no home on earth could be so pleas- ing to me as yours. But it will be a bitter grief to think my coming to you has been the means of throwing my support upon you. lMay be the whole winter I may be with you doing nothing." "Alice, don't say so. You are and will be no burden. If you are with us for the winter it will be all for the best. If it was not that we don't want to be selfish, father and mother and all of us would prefer it. Till spring will be a busy time with us. There is something I must tell you You know Ambrose Meade has been quite attentive to Elizabeth of late?" "Yes." ' Well, he has had a talk with father and mother about marrying her, if they would have any objection to him as a son-in-law, or to his proposing in due form to Elizabeth, amd they told him no. To-day he puts to her the impor- taut question, and I know how it will be answered; Eliza both has the deepest affection for him. In case EliaAbot ALICE MURRAY. 291 accepted him he was anxious to be married this fall, but as Elizabeth has nothing prepared for housekeeping, in the way of sheets, pillow cases, quilts, comforters and all that, mother thought it would be better to put the marriage off till spring. Father saw Ambrose and told him this, and he consented to it. So you see it will be a busy winter with us." "Do you intend to go on with your teaching?" "Yes ; but Saturdays and the mornings and evenings of the other days I shall be sewing for her, and in my fall va- cation." "And so will I, if I get a schooL" "And if you do not?" "Then I can sew for her the whole time." "Just so, Alice; and so you see you will be no burden, but a real blessing." "But when she leaves home will you give up teaching?" "No; mother and father think I am too little and feeble to do hard work, and father intends to hire a stout girl to help mother-but here comes Rosie to call us to tea." "Yes, come right in," Rosie exclaimed," tea is all ready Father and Richard and Terry are in, and Elizabeth is back." "Is Ambrose there, too?" "No, Margaret; mother asked him to tea, but he had to go." The two girls rose, and followed the child to the house. One thought came as a cloud between Alice and the kind arrangement Margaret had set forth, but she resolutely turned her back upon it. As they entered the kitchen, they found Elizabeth at the door waiting for them. Her eye-lids were red, as if she had been weeping, but ajoyouu smile wreathed her lips. "Kiss me," she said, presenting a cheek to each. They page: 292-293[View Page 292-293] 292 IACE MURiAt. kissedl her. "After supper," she whispered, "I have some. thing to tell you." As a sister they loved Alice-as a sister confided in her. In the midst of her sorrow this was a comfort, and she blessed God for it. CHAPTER XVII MARGARET thought Mrs. Elbray would be satisfied with the utter estrangement of Mr. Elbray's affections from Alice, and the impossibility of her ever returning to his home, bit she was not. When she saw the poor surroundings of the Bradleys, and the mean little room allotted to her, a glow of triumph warmed her soul. She felt that lowness a seal to Alice's unworthiness ; for, with the monstrous per- version of hatred, she had succeeded in half-way persuad- ing herself she was all her malignancy desired her to be. That she had not stolen the chain, that she had herself placed it in her trunk, that she had caused the letters be- tween the uncle and niece to be intercepted, and had then in her possession the two hundred dollars, the receipt of which Alice was accused of not acknowledging, she knew perfectly well, and yet she looked upon her with scath- ing scorn as one guilty of the crimes laid to her charge. She did not pause to reflect that she was innocent; she did not give one glance at the rottenness within her own heart; she only glared on the poor orphan and felt no punishment could be too severe for turpitude like hers. Back of this feeling was another, glimmering at the present faintly, bat by and by to burst full-orbed upon her. It was not re- morse, pity or commiseration; it was not dread or fear of pnnishment in this world, or reprobation in the next. He? lICE MLIrAY 293 mind soared above such puerilities-old women's stories to frighten grown-up children-raw heads and bloody bones to make the weak and superstitious tremble, and keep them still in bondage to a groveling tyranny. Seated in an at- mosphere of serene self-complacency, she looked down with supreme contempt on all such. No, it was not any feeling or dread that persons haunted by an evil conscience might be supposed to have ; it was the success that had at- tended her plottings. Returned home with Lucette at her elbow, asking in her sweet, childish tones, "Mamma, how- ever did you manage?" "Mamma, you must be invincible. How did you do it so cleverly?"Then would come the enjoyment; the real, keen, living enjoyment of the triumph. At present she must draw a curtain between her and its radiant beams ; they would spread too visible a satisfiction over her swollen features. She must think of other things; Alice was unworthy and she deserved to suffer; she was a base, ungrateful girl; the Bradley home was good enough for her; she was incapable of appreciating better. When she saw the neat, tasty, and to a certain extent, elegant borne of the Armstrongs--when walking up the graveled path leading to it, she heard Julia's musical performance and hers and Margaret's clear, melodious voices bearing aloft the touching words of that plaintive song, and un- consciously contrasted it in her mind with the affected and insipid manner of her daughter, the full spirit of envy was at once roused within her. That girl had actually crowded herself into refined society! This should not be; sho should be exposed; they should know just what she was; to open people's hearts, and, away from John Elbray and his wealth, make for herself friends and associates among the intelligent and well-to-do in spite of her poverty and the meanness of that Bradley family! Monstrous! She walked up the steps, stood at the open door and glanced , , 8 page: 294-295[View Page 294-295] 29P4 A LICE MURRAY. in. The easy, graceful attitude of Alice on the ottoman about in the certre of the room, the serene and happy ex- pressi-on on her face, the books and engravings on the table, the lace curtains sweeping to the soft carpet, the fragraanc of the lately-filled vases on the mantel-piece, the velvet. cushioned chairs and sofa, the large and richly-framed pictures on the walls, the perfect equality that seemed to reign throughout the group, filled her heart with the gall of bitterness. "This must not be," she emphatically re- peated to herself; and with an arrogant assumption of power, she added, "I must change all this." It was this flashing envy, this unjust and cruel hatred, that made her movements so prompt and rude, and gave to her face and eyes so wrathful a look. To John Elbray it only seemed a natural, and therefore righteous indignation, when she saw her precious chain in Alice's possession. It was no ways singular that under such provocation she should be some- what violent. It was not only stealing from the living, it was invading the sanctity of the tomb, and taking from the skeleton fingers of the loved dead their parting gift. He had firmly believed it would not be found with her, and when Elizabeth Bradley told them she had a chain and locket, he still hoped against hope, that it would not be the one they were in search of But when he saw Mrs. El- bray tear it from her neck, the hope died within him, a shudder passed through his frame, and bead-like drops stood on his brow. In a moment he rallied, and in place of the old tender, fatherly feeling, in his heart came a wild, fierce, destructive anger. He could have exterminated her on the spot-he could have hurled her name and being intok an eternal oblivion. He attempted to speak, and his words seemed so feint an expression of his feelings that he paused breathless and indignant at the weakness of language. Again he attempted to speak, and the echo of his words ALICE MURRAY. 29 "How came you by this!" smote him with its nothing- ness. How came she by it was, as madam said, of no con- sequence. She had it; the crushing, paralyzing proof was before his eyes ; she stood there, a pale, trembling crimi- nal, branded in soul and body. All the past, with its love, its music, its sunshine, its bright days and peaceful nights, its hopes, its joys, its thousand fond, endearing memories, was swept ruthlessly from him. A broad, impassable gulf lay between him and the olden time; his gentle wife sleeping in the cemetery was not more dead to him. When Margaret told when and how Alice found the chain in her possession, he listened with an amazed, bewildered feeling ; this feeling he had not time to analyze before it faded away, leaving in its place a greater darkness than ever. What he said to her he hardly knew; only one thing was certain, he washed his hands of her forever; and this lie gave her to distinctly understand. But even in doing this he could not leave her without one warning word ; he gave it, looked on her face for the last time, and with, in the midst of his fierce and wrathful emotions, the consciousness that he had faithfully done his duty, turned away, walked to the carriage, entered it, and ordered to be drove to Bassett's. There Mrs. Elbray ordered supper. A good substantial meal was served up, of which she partook heartily; the ride and fresh air, she observed, had given her a fine appetite; they failed with John Elbray. He merely tasted the tea, swallowed a morsel of bread, and left the table. He could not sit-he could not stand; constant and hurried motion seemed absolutely necessary to his well-being. He walked his room, walked it till every soul in the house was asleep-till the whole vil- lage was hushed and still, and yet he paused not, but with bowea head and bent form, and hands crossed on his back, continued hiR nnwoarv ,n-l R.^^ una T., .. i - page: 296-297[View Page 296-297] O96 ALICE MUBRAY. retired for the night, rested and refreshed by her nourish. ing meal, she was able to converse. She was gracious to the landlady, and showed in her manner that she did not consider it beneath her dignity to put a few questions to so humble an individual. She asked her how many chil. dren she had, were they attending school, what school, who was their teacher, how she was liked, and then she paused and sighed. She had three children, three little girls, and they all went to school. Alice Murray was their teacher. Indeed, Miiss Murray their teacher?-yes; and an excel- lent teacher she was, too. Did she know her?-well, no, she couldn't exactly say she did; she knew her by sight, but had never spoken to her. The children, however, were loud in her praise, and she thought they had never made greater progress in their studies. Mrs. Elbray was uneasy, a cloud obscured the liquid light in her eye-her voice, before so gracious, and her manner, so patronizing, at once became cold and severe. Certainly it was singular, very singular, that intelligent and worthy mothers could coun. tenance one of her questionable character. Questionable? Mrs. Basset was astonished. Miss Murray was very much respected in the village, and the Armstrongs--important personages in the little, grand circles of Lucan-looked upon her as one of great worth. Indeed, of great worth? Mrs. Elbray sneered. She did not wish to say anything to hurt the feelings of the honest, simple people of the place but it was her painful duty to inform Mrs. Basset that Miss Murray was one totally unfit to have the guidance and in- struction of children; and then, in a kind, confidential, and at the same time injured and somewhat indignant tone, she enlightened Mrs. Basset as to the object of her visit to Lucan-to recover a valuable gold chain; and to prove the truth of her words, she showed the chain, that Miss Murray, in leaving Mr. Elbray's, had stolen. And she JLrICH MURAYT. 297 spoke of the two hundred dollars; she did not say Mr. El- bray had sent them to Alice, and Alice had ungratefully refused or neglected to acknowledge their receipt, but she merely told of his missing that amount, and possessing undeniable proofs that Miss Murray had it. Mrs. Basset had heard something from the Armstrongs that led her to believe that Mr. Elbray was Alice's uncle, and that he had brought her up. Yes, he had brought her up, Mrs. Elbray admitted, but he was nothing to her. Was he not her uncle?-certainly not. She did not explain that the first Mrs. Elbray was Alice's aunt. She only mentioned that Alice's parents dying very poor, out of charity he had taken her in and brought her up. Mrs. Basset was amazed and bewildered; she was a weak, timid little woman, inca- pable of wishing harm to any one, she staid closely at home, and found therein enough to keep her busy ; but the next morning, after the departure of Mr. and Mrs Elbray, she felt an irresistible desire to go out. She tlought she ought to step over to Mrs. Jones, her nearest neighbor, and lay the matter before her. She, too, had little girlr, attending Alice's school, and it was necessary she should know what Alice was. In fact, now that she knew herself, it was her duty to tell her. It was terrible they had been so imposed upon. In advancing the children in their stu- dies, she might at the same time be instilling a most deadly poison in their tender minds. Mrs. Jones, after a spasm of intense astonishment on hearing Mrs. Basset's tale, express. ed the same opinion, and thought it incumbent on her to speak to others. In company with Mrs. Basset, she called on Mrs. Harvey; and before the close of the day there were more calls mnade, and more intense excitement roused than quiet, sleepy Lucan ever before knew. Many readily, andi without trouble, swallowed the whole story, and expe- rienced in consequence an intense horror for Alice. Otherr page: 298-299[View Page 298-299] ZU ALICE MURRAY. stood undecided. Alice seemed so good and exemnplatry and was held in such high repute by Father Edwards, that it was hard to believe so serious a charge against her. Several of the latter went direct to Julia Armstrong. She would be able to give them all the particulars, and seeing the affair had got out, she gave them, and in a manner that did not redound much to Mrs. Elbray's credit, ox reflect disagreeably on Alice. These particulars were re. peated, and painfully divided the opinion of the villagers, and by the time Alice made her appearance in the school- room on Monday morning there were two parties formed, takincg high ground for and against her. She saw at once a change in her pupils; none were as yet kept out, but those whose parents believed her guilty looked at her with hard, questioning eyes, and frequently interrupted their studies to indulge in a little whispered consultation. Others seemed readier than ever to obey her, and to show their loyalty to her, cast angry, scornful glances at the rest. It had been her habit to go at noon to her boarding-house, eat her dinner, and at once return to her school; but find- ing on two or three occasions the children wrangling under the trees on her return, she took a lunch with her, and staid in the school-room till she dismissed them for the night. A week passed, a spirit of insubordination was breaking out. The pupils had, so far, been kept in check by the wise policy Alice pursued, but one day that she was obliged to return at noon to her boarding-house, she found on coming back to the school-room the angry little disputants under the trees had taken advantage of her absence, and from hard words had proceeded to harder blows; there were eyes blackened and noses bleeding. She rung the bell; she paused; should she ask the meaniwn of tue diL- graceful scene? Alas! she knew it too well, ana at ALICE MURRAY. 29 knew, too, that the first word from her lips and all re. strains would be thrown aside, and bitter and violent recriminations would follow. But there had been a fla- grant violation of her rules, an open and nseelmly quarrel had taken place, and what could she do but inquire into the cause of it? What other course was left to her? How could she punish those that in her absence had bravely stood up in' her defence? how comnport herself to those that had heaped abuse upon her? Pale and irresolute she looked from the one to the other; from the latter she met hard, scornful, and contemptuous glances, from the former warm, passionate, and angry ones, their anger not directed against her but to their fierce, unrelenting adversaries. A thought struck her, if she went on with thbc afternoon exer- cises as if nothing had occurred, the clique against her would construe it into an admission of guilt. She dared not ask, she was only too afraid of hearing, the innocent are not such cowards ; and it would seem so much they were right that her little champions would be covered with confusion. And she had tried so hard to fulfil with kind- ness and impartiality her duty to all, and had been so un- wearied in her devotion, and this was her reward! The quick tears came to her eyes. "Children," she at last said, and her voice was tremu- lous, "I am sorry, I am deeply pained that you should so far forget yourselves as to do as you have done. I did not think when I left you for a little while you would conduct yourselves in this shameful way." She paused, thankful for what she had said. It seemed the words had been put in her mouth. She had thought she must inquire into the cause of their quarrel, in order to give the necessary re- proof, and she had not; and may be after all she would not have to. In three weeks her term would expire, and if she could only get through them without an open rup. page: 300-301[View Page 300-301] O ALUCE MURAY. Lure or ignominious dismissal, she might get another school in some of the neighboring villages. "I cannot," she went on, "express how this affair grieves and shocks me. You all-I do not except one-have done wrong, very wrong to act in the way you have done, and I beg you not to let mo see a repetition of it. You deserve punishment"-she paused, pale and almost breathless. A profound silence reigned in the room; from some were kind and pitying loks, from others sneering and mocking glances. She passed her hand over her brow and thought of the Cruci- fied. He was slandered and maligned, and, with the ex- ception of the faithful John and the tearful Maries, he was alone with His enemies in the fearful hour of His agony. She was the disciple of a crucified God; He walked before her a thorny path, and following after Him in His foot- steps, could she expect hers to be smooth and velvety? Perhaps at no other moment of her life did she so fully realize the infinite goodness and mercy of the Blessed Saviour in choosing a lowly state, and in expiating man's sin, doing it in a way that might comfort and strengthen His afflicted children. In suffering and ignominy they could look up to Him scourged, crowned with thorns, bending under His cross and breathing out His life upon it. A glorious and radiant spectacle would crush them with its glaring contrast, an overcast and suffering one comfort them with its near or remote resemblance to their own. She pressed her hand upon her heart, again her white lips opened. "Children," she said, "for your punishment you will have no recess this afternoon. Turn to your desks and open your books." In her extreme pallor, in the huskiness of her voice, in the comparative lightness of the punishment, the dignity of authority, which in her agitation did not for:ake her ALICE MURKRAY. S3( hMire was something that awed even the refractory into bedience. "Do you mean to go on with your school?"Mr. Arm- ;trong asked her one evening she entered the sitting-room i week later. "I don't know, sir," she answered. "Sometimes I think I ought to give it up." "How much longer before your term is out?" "Two weeks." "Um1ph, is t at all? Go on, by all means go on." "But several of the parents have withdrawn their chil- dren." ' "Who?" "The Browns and Bassets and Joneses and' Mitfords, and one or two others." "Let them. What business is it to you whether they keep them at home or not?" "But, sir-" "No buts, Miss Murray; if they are fools enough to keep their children out, it's nothing to you. You are paid by the week and not by the number; go on and do your duty as you have been doing it, and never mind them." Paul Meade was present, and she found it difficult to answer. She wanted to tell him that if the parents really believed Mts. Elbray's slander, they could not, in con- science, send' their children to her, and in keeping them out might be considered as doing their duty too. They could not be too careful of the influence used on the sus- ceptible minds of the precious charge intrusted to them, but she could find no words to say it in. Paul, sitting in the shade, was studying her pure, pale face. "Miss Murray," he said, "I am of uncle's opinion that you had better go on with the school." "But, Mr. Meade," she answered, whie a quick fluh page: 302-303[View Page 302-303] 302 ALICE MURRAY. mantled her cheek, "have you reflected on the probable consequences?" "I have, Miss Murray." "And how torturing they might be to me?" Yes." "And still you, she unconsciously laid a stress on the you, advise me to go on?" "I do." "And be dismissed or turned out?" "Miss Murray, I assure you there is no danger of that.' "You forget, sir, the decided stand that's been taken against me in the withdrawing of these children from the school." "No, Miss Murray, I do not. The very withdrawing of them proves their parents powerless to act in the way you fear." He would not say your dismissal or expulsion; for he felt, although she might herself use the words, cominig from another they would cut to her heart. When Julia once thoughtlessly uttered them, he saw her wince as if a blow had been given her. "But, Mr. Meade," she said, "I must say one thing; justice demands it." "What is it?" "It is simply this, that the very act of their withdraw- ing their children, shows that I am wrong in retaining the place. Believing the stories against me "-a tremor passed over her features-" they could hardly," she added, after a moment's pause, "do otherwise. If I left, they might get some one to fill out the term, and their children kept in school would not then be losing their time." "As long," exclaimed Mr. Armstrong, "as you have done nothing to forfeit the situation, keep it. If through a qualmish stupidity you give it up, and hugging your in- jured dignity to your heart, went sulking back to the Brad- ALICE MURRAY. 303 iy's, they wouldn't be obliged to pay you the first cent. You would lose your whole summer's wages, and Bradley there in Stapleton would have to pay me for your board.' Alice's face flushed, and this time deeper than before "( He would not," she exclaimed. '"Who would, then?" he asked, pleased that he had got what in his mind he called a clincher. "I would myself." ' How? I would like you to tell me. I have always enjoyed the reputation of having a keen eye to business, and I don't like to lose a debt." Poor Alice! She felt she was surrounded on all sides. Turn which way she would, and humiliation and sorrow were there. If she remained in the school, she seemed by so doing to exhibit a great want of principle, or, at the best, a reprehensible indifference to the good or bad opinion of her employers, and a total disregard of the stain upon her character. A foul crime had been laid to her charge- they had not concealed the fact that they believed it, and she to show no resentment at their ready faith in her de- pravity! Would not her silence and forbearance appear to them clear proofs of her guilt? But wait-look at it in another light. If she left the school, would they not be as willing to ascribe it to conscious guilt, and the cowardice arising from it. They knew her unworthiness-they had found it out, and now she could not face them. She shrunk away from their righteous indignation, and hid herself and her shame in the home of her uncle Bradley. He was to be pitied he had such a niece, and to be blamed that he showed her the least countenance. "Rattle his bones over the stones, It's only a beggar whom nobody owns." That was the air she should learn and know by heart, alid have sung in jubilation over her. She sewed very fast, page: 304-305[View Page 304-305] 804 ALUE MU1RAY. and hard lines settled round her mouth. A heavy debt was on her; if she went back to her uncle Bradley's, they would have enough for her to do, and she would not be eating the bread of idleness-she would not be a burden to them, that was one consolation ; but then she could not and would not receive from them any wages for her labor, and there was her uncle Elbray to pay for all the years she had been under his care. She had solemnly promised to refund him every cent he had ever expended on her. Cut off from labor outside her uncle Bradley's home, where or how could she get the means? Could she accept them from that struggling, toiling family? No, a thousand times no. Where, too-for she must not forget it-was she to get the means to pay the Armstrongs what she owed them? Mr. Armstrong said her uncle Terence would have to pay him, and though by no means obliged to do it, she knew he would rather than the debt should remain against her. Should she go on with the school in the face of all the aversion and dislike which a part of the parents openly expressed for her? Pride answered no; conscience as sternly answered yes. She had from the first tried her best to advance them, and why should she hesitate? "Well," said Mr. Armstrong, a humorous twinkle in his eye, " you have been thinking it over some time. Have you made out how you are to pay me?" "I will continue the school, if they don't turn me out," she calmly replied. "That's it!" he exclaimed, heartily striking with his broad palm the arm of his chair; "that's it, if they don't turn you out. And they won't-they won't dare to." "Will not dare?"She looked up surprised. "No," Mrs. Meade answered, coming in from the kitchen, where she and Julia had been cleaning the tea things and preparing the breakfast for the next morning, "Nathau is UIOE MURRB Y. 830 one of the trustees, and he's had a talk with the other two, and they think it's of precious little consequence whether the Joneses and Browns and Bassets send their children to school or not." "Yes, I've seen them," said Mr. Armstrong, "and you've nothing to fear. You have done your duty, they can't deny it, and let them show their pharisaical-thanking-God- they-are-not-as-bad-as-their-neighbor-spirit; that's all they can do," "For my part," said Julia, who had followed her aunt in, "I should just consider it a good riddance of bad rub- bish, and only regret Mrs. Elbray hadn't come on the scene a little earlier; you might have been spared three months, at the very least, of their hopeless stupidity. I was telling Mrs. Jones that to-day." She was hooking her wristhand as she' said this. Raising her eyes, Alice saw them dancing with mirth. She was thinking with what an offended majesty the amiable lady listened to her sooth- ing and flattering remarks. Of the trustees to whom Mr. Armstrong referred, one was a blacksmith, the other a shoemaker. The former had a profound respect for the retired farmer, who still kept horses to be shod, and had farming implements to be seen to and kept in repair, and he could not for his life see how he was to lose his patronage by a foolish display of over- * scrupulousness. It quickened his reasoning faculties amaz- ingly, the significant words Mr. Armstrong dropped about the skillfulness of his Rathbun rival, and in order to get a horse well shod, or a plough, drag or wagon mended as they ought to be, that he never minded going a couple or three miles further. The thing was to get your work well done, by one who knew how to do it, and besides that, could show something of a friendly spirit, and would now ad then, if only for variety's 8ake, coinaide with his prathr page: 306-307[View Page 306-307] 806 ATLICE MURRAY. And then the subject of Alice and her school was opportuneB introduced. Of course Mr. Osborn agreed with Mr. Arm. strong; he was only too happy to be able to do it. They had hired Miss Murray to teach the children geogra. phy, grammar, arithmetic and all that?-yes. And sho was doing it?-yes. And had done it?-yes. And would do it?-yes. Well, then let her do it; that was all he had to say about it. On Miles, the shoemaker, Mr. Armstrong next called Here there was no need of significant words. Miles him. self broached the subject, and in a very decided manner pronounced that Alice should continue the school. As to Armstrong's patronage, Miles didn't care the snap of a fin- ger for it, for hadn't he the inexpressible meanness to buy shop-made shoes and boots? No wonder his one daughter trod out more shoe leather than all the Bradley women together. He knew what he was saying, for hadn't he made shoes for the Bradleys ever since he came to Lucan? and while one, or at the most two pair apiece, was all they got a year, Julia regularly kicked out a pair every month. To be sure his cost a little more at first, but what of that? No honest man could make them cheaper, and in the end they cost less. Armstrong had the name of being a good manager, close-fisted, and making his money, knowing the value of it; but he didn't show it in the matter of those paper-soled, damaged leather, pasted together Eastern shoes. But then, if he wanted to throw away his money on them, let him; he didn't want his patronage. He didn't care if he never entered his shop; there were enough that were glad to do it A shoemaker like him had no cause to fear lack of custom; he had all he could manage. As to Miss Murray keeping her situation, in the face of twenty Armstrong's he'd say keep it. He didn't believe the first word of that two hundred dollar story, and as to the gold ALICE MURRAY. 307 chain affair, it was all a get-up. Having four children at- tending her school, he had made it his especial business to see Mrs. Basset and Mrs. Meade, and hear from them the whole matter. In his investigations he had discovered that the amiaible and accomplished Mrs. Elbray had told two falsehoods, and colored the truth in another instance so as to make it no better than a falsehood. She said John El- bray was no uncle to Miss Murray, and that he had )rought her up through charity. In the first place, when he took her he was her uncle, and having no children of his own and her parents dying, because he was her uncle and she his niece, he had taken her. Little would she have known of his charity if she had been nothing to him. To all intents and purposes, here were two direct false- hoods. Then she said he had missed two hundred dol- lars, and he was sure Miss Murray had it. This at most could only amount to a suspicion, as long as it was not found with her. Here was something worse than a false- hood; it was a seeming endeavor to keep in the neighbor- hood of the truth, and wildly enough straying from it. He had sent her two hundred dollars, and she had not ac- knowledged its receipt. This was a very different affair from his missing it and being sure she had it. No one could innocently make such a blunder. There was evil in- tended in it, and he [Miles] was not so blind as not to see it. As Osborn said, they had hired Miss Murray to teach geography, grammar, arithmetic, etc., but as a father, it was his duty to know while teaching these, if there was any danger she might be teaching other and worse things. If there was, he would leave no stone unturned to have her dismissed; if there wasn't, he didn't want to wrong her by saying a word against her. Having honestly investigated the matter, he was now prepared to pro- acunce upon it without fe.&r of doing an injustice to page: 308-309[View Page 308-309] oU'o &L4W$i U AllVU I *A I any one. Miss Murray must by all meais continue the school. Alice listened silently as Mr. Armstrong told her the success attending his calls on the trustees and several of the other residents, and when he had finished, in a low, earnest voice and in few words, thanked him for his kindly interest. Pleased at her appreciation of his kindness-- who is not?-he complacently leaned back in his chair, and regarding her with the same fatherly looks he cast on Julia, allowed the conversation to pass into the hands of PauL He could see the boy wanted to speak, and why not let him? He was generally sensible in his remarks, and if he did say it, or rather think it, no fool. It would not surprise him if he yet made his mark in the world. He had read of people of Paul's turn, and he always noticed that before they got to the end of the chapter they came out important personages, high in regard of all, and in in every way worthy of that regard. He loved him as his own son, and by and by, when he had left his country home far behind him, he would look back to it and remember from his old uncle he had learned many a lesson that had done him good in his onward career. "I believe, Miss Murray," said Paul, taking a newspaper from his pocket, "that Ihave heard you say you like poetry?" "Vhen it is good I like it," she answered. "You mean," exclaimed Julia, "that you like it when it's not rant and fustian?" "Yes, when it's sensible and touches the heart and raises the soul, then I like it." "Well, Paul, if you've got any of that kind about you, let's have it; I have a liking for such myself." Paul smiled at the patronizing tone of his cousin, and looking up from her sewing, she caught the amused ex-J ,wssion playing round his grave features. ALAJUS aH U UIAX. . AVl "What are you laughing ,at?" she tartly asked. "I am not laughing," he answered. "; Well then, smiling at?" "Nothing, only I was thinking how honored the lucky wight whose glowing stanzas had won your approbation, would be, did he but know it. The sentence of one of your profound judgment and mature years is not to be des- pised." "But Paul, am I in the habit of going off into ecstacies over every ricketty piece of verse I see?" "By no means." "Well, then, if I express a liking for sensible stuff in rhyme, am I to be sneered at?" "Not at all. You are as free to express likes as dislikes; and I'm sure that's free enough." "Where, then, was your boasted justice in grinning at me just because I happened to say that now and then, out of all the chaff, I could detect some pure kernels of grain?" "I believe you did not exactly word it in that way?" "It makes no difference. It means what I said. I know," she added, turning to Alice, and lightly touching her on the elbow, "what makes Paul so sensitive when I i speak of rant and fustian. Would you believe it, that i grave, wise cousin of mine has committed, or more pro- Il perly speaking, has attempted to commit poetry several times in his life; and had it not been for my friendly stric- tures, would now have been a confirmed and hopeless '{ poetaster. Fortunately for him, I singed his wings, and brouilght him down to the regions of common sense. You I, can't deny it, Paul, you know you can't," she said, turning her bright, restless eyes on him. "Certainly not. I am not so rude as to contradict a lady; and now, with your gracious permission, I will read these lines I found them to-day in my paper, and I think !"; page: 310-311[View Page 310-311] 310 ALICE MURIAAY. even your Fadladeen spirit will find nothing in them to carp at." He had opened the paper, and now drawing nearer the table, and resting his elbow on it, in a clear and remarkably well modulated voice, read: "' Strive; yet do I not promise The prize you dream of to-day Will not fade when you think to grasp it, And melt in your hands away; But another and holier treasure You would now perchance disdain; Will come when your toil is over, And pay you for all your pain. "Wait; yet do I not tell you The hour you long for now,. " Will not come with its radiance valnishdL, And a shadow upon its brow; Yet far through the misty future, i With a crown of starry light, An hour of joy you know not Is winging her silent flight. "Pray; though the gift you ask for May never comifort your fears, W May never repay your pleadings, Yet pray, and with hopeful tears. An answer, not that you long for, But diviner will come one day; Your eyes are too dim to see it, Yet strive, and wait, and pray.' " ! As hisvoice ceased, Alice looked up fron her sewing. Tears were in her violet eyes : "Yet strive, and hope, and pray," she slowly repeated, as if speaking to herself. "I like them," Julia sententiously remarked; "there's sense in them." "Yes," exclaimed Mrs. Meade, " sense ; and as always in good sense, truth. Paul read them again; one or two of the verses I thought particularly applicable to Alice, and I want her to hear them again." "If it's not too much trouble," Alice timidly interposed. "No trouble at all, Miss Murray-a pleasure, rather," he answered, again turning to them. Her work dropped from her hands, her eyes were riveted on his face, When ALICE MURRBA. 3" a second time he paused, raising his head, he encountered ber fixed gaze. , ! "They comfort you," he gently and quietly observed. ( Yes, there is almost an unearthly sweetness in them," she answered, taking up her sewing. "They speak to the troubled heart; and in beautiful words utter a prophecy strengthening and consoling." He i extended his hand. "Give me your scissors, Julia," he said. She reached them to him, and he cut out the slip. "You would like to read them occasionally?" he said, offering them to Alioe. i She looked surprised and pleased. "Yes, I would," she : exclaimed; "bit you want them yourself," No, I have copied them in my common-place book, and can turn to them when I wish." "Take them," said Mrs. Meade; "and remember that, ; 'though the gift you ask!for may never comfort your fears,' il 'a diviner' may come some day. Yes," she solemnly -.ddcd, "'a diviner.' 'Your eyes are too blind to see it' now, and it is as well. If they did, they might disdain it." "Mother!" exclaimed Paul, in a low, entreating voice. "I tell you it's so, Paul; that gift might now be dis- , dained, but in the future when it comes, and is gladly and joyfully accepted, she will find it crowned with a starry light, and in its possession will forget these days of triali and sorrow. "I hope it may be so," he reverently replied. "It will be so," she emphatically repeated. "The mo tD ther's heart within me tells me it will." She cast on them both a look of beaming and tender love ij Alice felt a warm glow spreading over her face; she did not raise her head, but taking the verses lying on the table beside her, she rolled them up and slipped them into her ii ocket "I will read them," she softlysaid. "Whether page: 312-313[View Page 312-313] 312 ALICE MURAY M they speak a true prophecy to me or not, they tell me to 'wait, and hope, and pray,' and that, at all events, is good and wholesome advice." An hour later family prayers had been said, and Alice was in her room. An unusual heaviness weighed down her spirit. The conversation in the sitting-room had been to her peculiarly trying; her affairs, her humiliations, her sor- rows, had been the moving principle of it all. There had oeen kindness shown, and real, genuine sympathy express- ed; but she that had always shrunk from opening her thoughts or cares or trials to prying eyes, that felt her soul shrivel if the cold reserve drawn around it was but slightly lifted to find herself, her character, her labors, her past and present history, the talk of the whole village, weighed like a mill-stone around her neck. Her lamp was out, and she stood at the window looking up into the starless slky. Presently a cry burst from her lips; clasping her hanJs she fell upon her knees and lifted her soul in prayer. it is natural for the child in sorrow to go to its Father-it knows its weakness, it feels its helplessness; it turns in love and confidence to its only refuge-it flies to its only shei- ter. "Naked, poor, despised, forsaken," it fears no re- pulse; through the murky atmosphere of sin and sorrow its wailing cry ascends : "Father, help me-help thy poor child! Send me strength; open a way for me; I cannot go on ; give me the light of thy countenance ; speak to my soul, lest it faint and die." Tlhus the child addresses the Father. The dread and terror, born of the anguish of the hour, remind her of her birthright. The King of Ter- rors, the Lord God Omnipotent, is her Father--hers the wretched, the miserable, the desolate. Prayer in affliction is truly a sublime and touching spectacle ; it speaks of the wretchedness and nothingness of life linked to the glory mnd immortality of Heaven. AL3E MUftBA1. 313 CHAPTER XIX. "GOOD afternoon, Miss Alice. I thought as this is your last day of school,' as the children say, I must call and ee you. Father Edwards was seated in the Armstrengs' parlor.' "Thank you, Father," Alice returned, entering, and drawing up a chair to the window. "I am glad to see you." "I dare say you are not sorry," Mrs. Meade remarked, "that the last day is over." "I don't know," she thoughtfully answered; "the little things cried very bitterly when I came to bid them good. bye. Where is Julia? I don't see her." "No; she is not here. Your Uncle Bradley called; he was on his way to Rathbun for Margaret, and she rode over with him to visit her school. She's not been there the whole summer, and she thought it a shame to let the opportunity slip." "I suppose it's her last day too?" "Yes, Father, we both commenced the same day, and ! on the same day we both are free." I "Has she engaged the Rathbun school for the winter?" "I don't know. They are very anxious she should take it." "Her family?" "No, Father; the residents of Rathbun. She has given great satisfaction." t i e "Yes; she has now taught it three seaons. They 1t know her well and her system; I am not surprised they wish to make sure of her again." "C4, neither am I," exclaimed Mrs. Meade; "it would li be hard to get another like her. When I look at her, no i page: 314-315[View Page 314-315] 314 ALICE MURRAY. larger herself than a child, I wonder how the children mind her as they do." "She does not govern through fear, but love. The cdil / dren love her too much to grieve her by disobedience." "Nonsense, Alice; that might do to put in a book, but it's not to be swallowed in real life." "How, then, does she govern, Mrs. Meade?" "Why, there's some that might obey her through a feel- ing of affection, but the greater part have to be kept in re- straint, and taught to know if they don't walk straight they'll find an old house about their ears. I know several little urchins in Rathbun that I would as lief try to tame a wild Indian as to govern by touching their affections. Affection! why, it's a word they know nothing about, and if they did, it would only be to ridicule it. Affections, indeed." And she laughed a low rich laugh all to herself. "But, Mrs. Meade, weak and feeble as she is, how can she govern through fear?" "I hardly know myself, Alice. But I don't look upon her as weak or feeble, although little." "She certainly has but little physical strength. And yet, as you say, Mrs. Meade, she does not strike me as weak. She has a strong heart, a strong brain, and great courage." "And yet with all these you think it's through love she governs?" "I do. She is so good, and gentle, and patient, her pupils cannot see herdaily without knowing it, and know- ing it loving her, and loving her obeying her." "You seem to take such a pleasure in the thought, I will not again contradict it. Margaret has an authority about her that does not exactly belong to inches or muscle. But "--glancing at the clock-" it's time I was preparing the supper." She rolled up her knitting and left the rooWL / AGICE MURRAY. 31 Father Edwards laid down a book of engravings he had been looking at. ' Miss Alice," he said, "do you intend to stay all winter at your Uncle Bradley's?" She was so glad he had put the question. Father Law- rence had, under God, been the means of sending her to her relatives, and if her Uncle Terence failed in gettingi her a situation, Father Edwards might use his influence in her behalf. She, knew he was widely known and greatly loved. "I don't know," she answered. "I am afraid I will have to remain with them." "Would you take the school again in Lucan, if you could get it?" "I should be glad to take it but for one thing." "That is the unjust dislike a part of the parents have; for you?" t "Yes, Father; and from that dislike I think it would be useless for me to apply for it. They bore with me to finish out my term, but they would not want me to corn- mence another." "They bore with you because they could not help them- selves; they were powerless to do anything else." "But they might not prove powerless in the way of my getting it again." fi "That may be," Father Edwards responded. "And for that reason I do not wish to apply for it, Uncle Terence is going to try to get me the school in El. lotsville; and if he fails there, in Cla rkville; and failing alo there, on Wheat Hill." "But why not in Stapleton, his own district?" "That is already engaged; the lady that teaches there this summer is to have it in the winter. But if he has no success in any of these places, then I am to remain with thaa till spriang. will not, thnk God, be hele - , ,i page: 316-317[View Page 316-317] 316 ALICE MURRAY. Tears welled up to her eyes, but she forced them back -he did not attempt to speak, for she felt in words the sobs would come in spite of her. Father Edwards saw hei emotion, and was silent. In a few moments he knew she would become calm and self-possessed again. Yes, she would go home to her uncle Terence and stay the winter; and God was merciful to her, a poor, homeless orphan, chat she had that shelter. But could she remain there another summer with that debt of John Elbray on her? No, no; if she could not get a situation as teacher, she must try to do something else that would bring her in means. What, what would it be? Cooking, washing, iron- ing, making beds, sweeping, dusting-what? She hardly knew. As to cooking, washing and ironing, she knew no more of them than when she left John Elbray's. She could sew faster, and make beds and sweep and dust as expe- ditiously as any farmer's daughter in the land, but she was afraid cooking, washing and ironing would never be easy for her to do. Easy! what a detestable word. Was she to study ease? Did she come into the world for that? Had the past summer been easy or pleasant for her?-no. And yet had it not been better than dependence? Yes, better, much better. That debt kept steadily in her mind; she must look upon no labor by which. it might be paid as degrading. Cooking, washing and ironing-what was there lowering in them? Such as Mrs. Elbray and her daughter might raise their dainty hands in horror at the very thought of them, but as refined and over-sensitive as they were, what would they do if all felt like them, and in consequence there was none to do these very necessary and useful works? They could not live on pretty little conceits and airy nothings; they did not. On the contrary, she knew it took substantial viands, well cooked, and a very great deal of them, to keep them in fine condition. No kind of -*,-lI ALICE MURRAY 817 useful labor is to be despised, and she now thanked God that in the fairest hour of her prosperity she had never looked on the hard-handed children of toil with other feel- ings than those of respect. Sometimes, 'tis true, a pity mingled with that respect, but it was when the pale, wrin- kled face and bent form spoke of needful rest, which could not be gained till life and its burdens were both laid down together, and in little, narrow beds and under green sods, the poor, worn frames awaited the archangel's trumpet. But for the young, the strong, the brave, the resolute, she felt no pitv, and none was needed; their labors ennobled and gave a conscious dignity to their every movement. Whatever way opened to her, she would try to walk it worthily, feeling no disgrace, allowing no foolish fancy to make her wretched or miserable in it. "You will stay, you say," Father Edwards at length re- marked, " at your uncle's till spring?" "If I can't do better I will." "But next summer?" "That's what I am worrying about, Father; if uncle can get me no place now, how will he be able to get one then?" "You could not content yourself to stay with them all the time?" "I feel I ought not to think of it. I have solemnly promised to pay John Elbray for all the years he took care of me, and I must do something to do it." "How many years were you with him?" "I was between five and six when he, or more correctly speaking, my aunt, took me, and eighteen when I left." "A dozen or so years; and do you think you will be able to earn enough to pay him?" "I hope to." "Hope! How? What doing?" he exclaimed, in hii earnest wag. page: 318-319[View Page 318-319] 318CE B . "By teaching, if I can get schools; by hard manual labor if I can't. "Teaching such schocls as this in Lucan, and in the places you name?" "Teaching them if I can get no higher to teach." "How much, with your board deducted, will you rece've for this summer?" "Board deducted, fifty-nine dollars and a half. I am paid six dollars and a half per week for seventeen weeks, and out of it I pay Mr. Armstrong three dollars a week for my board, leaving me three dollars and a half for myself." "The wages are somewhat higher for the winter term?" "Yes, Father; for the same time I would recive one hundred and seventy dollars. Paying out of it fifty-one dollars for my board, would leave me a profit of one hun- dred and nineteen dollars, making in the year one hundred and seventy-eight dollars and a half." "But your clothes, and other incidental expenses?" "As to clothes, with careful management, changing, re- pairing, etc., I have enough to last me three or four years, and by that time I hope to be able to earn them by what I do mornings and nights, that is, before and after school hours." "But, my child, with at the best but one hundred and seventy eight and a half dollars a year, how can you hope to pay for all the years you were at your uncle Elbrays, the expenses of your education and all the other expenses besides? Your uncle is an old man, I hear, and according to the natural term of man's life has not many years bo- fore him." "I know that, Father. I must try to do it as soon as I can. I said teaching. Yes, it is teaching, and yet it is not wholly from the profits of teaching I hope to do it. It is from teaching I will be able to do what I've proposed ALICE MUURRAY. 319 thaf is, when I have earned three or four hundred dollars, to buy either here or in some of the villages round a house and lot, and may be in that way I might be able to double my income." "But where and what kind of a house could you get for tiat sum?" "As to the kind of a house, let it be where it will it will be but a poor one if it cost only the sum I named, Father. But I thought if it cost one thousand dollars, and I had three or four hundred dollars I would buy it, and the rent I would receive for it and my wages would pay for it, and by the time it was paid for I might be able to sell it for as much again as I gave for it. Property, they tell me, is steadily rising in these parts; and if, as Mr. Armstrong thinks, the railroad will in a few years come through Lucan, the place might even do better than double itself." There was not the faintest approach to a smile on Father Edward's face. He knew many a poor man, with a family to support out of his day's wages, to do the same--buy a little home, and in time pay for it. Why should she not do it? and what was there absurd in her, a faiir, delicate- handed young lady talking of money matters, buying and selling, and rise of property and all that? She might be too sanguine, and look forward to too rapid accumulation of means. But what if she did? What young man with life all untasted before him, if there were purpose and- energy in him, but would do the same? Was it not bet- ter than to be frittering away her life in a lackadaisical sense destroying, repining over the bitterness of her lot, or in weaving for herself pretty little romantic webs, that light and softly tinted might yet wrap round her with all the blackness of a funeral pall. "But, Miss Alice," he said, entering fully, as was hia I Wont, into the spirit of, the thing, "if you were able tr I,' page: 320-321[View Page 320-321] 320 ATCE MURRAY. teach in a more advanced school than any round here, you would get a higher salary, and your gains would come in faster?" "Yes, Father, that is true, and I wish I could get a more advauced school." "Are you acquainted with French?" "I can read it, but still I do not think I could give less. sons in it." "And the higher English branches?" "Oh! I could get along with them." "Well, Miss Alice, I think you ought to try for a situa. tion in some academy, or in some of the public schools in the cities." "But, Father, unacquainted as I am, how am I to do it? How am I to know when there is a vacancy in one of them? and even if I did know, without influence how am I to get it?" "True, but let me tell you: in the White Town academy is a place that I happen to know will be vacant at the close of another year, I mean academical year; and now I ad- vise you to go home to your uncle Bradley's, and if he can- not get you a school in these parts for the winter, to stay contented with them till next September, and I will see that you fill the vacant place." "What is the station in the school?" "Head teacher in the female department, and the salary is five hundred dollars a year. Your board there need cost no more than it does here." "Thank you, Father, thank you; I cannot tell you how truly I am obliged to you." Her cheek was flushed, her eye radiant. "You need not try to," he answered, rubbing his hands and as pleased as herself at the better prospect opening before her. ALICE MURRAY. 321 "Bnt there is one thing," she said, after a moment's hesitation. "What is it?" he inquired, the glad tones of his voice changed to those of concern, for a cloud rested on Alice's face. "But it will be a long time for me to be doing nothing. This fall and winter I shall have enough to do, but from spring till September I do not know how I shall make myself useful." : "But you can be helping your aunt. As to wages for your labor there, I know you do not think of it." "Certainly not, Father; they look upon me as one of themselves, and receiving, like a stranger, pay for my work would clash on this sacred feeling." "Yes, but then if they get you anything in the way of apparel, shoes and such like-whatever, in fact, they may see you need-do not, through false delicacy, refuse to ac- ceplf it. It would pain and grieve them inexpressibly." ! "But then if I do not need it, and see in their over- scrupulousness they take this way to pay me?" "Accept it all the same As to the money you have earned this summer, you can put it to interest; little as it ! is, it will increase some." ; "Yes, four dollars and sixteen and a half cents, and that added to the principal will make sixty-three' dollars and. sixty-six cents." Some listeners might have smiled at this, others sighed. Father Edwards did neither; in his hearty, cordial way he only said, "Yes, sixty-three dollars and sixty-six cents." Mrhs. Meade came in and announced supper, and he rose to go. "Stay to tea, Father, do," she entreated. "No, Mrs. Meade," he answered, "I cannot; I have several calls yet to make. I hear Crowly's rheumatism ia page: 322-323[View Page 322-323] 322 ALICE MUIRAY. very bad; I must drop in and see him. Aud now good-by, Miss Alice," he said, reaching out his hand ; "trust in God and do not despond." "No, Father, God helping me, I will not; and don't for- get to say a little prayer for me?" "No, my child, I will not; and pray for me, too." "I will, Father." She shook hands with him and fol- lowed him to the door. He turned, raised his hand, and Alice bowed her head. Without saying it, she felt that hand was raised in benediction over her. "I wonder uncle don't come," she said, at the table, passing a plate of warm biscuits to Mr. Armstrong. "I am afraid," said Mrs. Meade, "that Mrs. Carolan has kept them to tea." During the meal, Alice took the opportunity to request Mr. Armstrong, when he collected her wages not to send them to her. "Why not?" he exclaimed; "are you afraid you'll spend it too soon?" No, sir ; but I want you to do me tne kindness to lend it to some safe person." That's it, eh? that's it," he said, looking particularly pleased. He drank off his tea, handed his empty cup to his sister to be refilled, and thought what a treasure that girl would be for some man-a real Bradley to the core of the heart; industrious, saving, managing, and able to have money without its burning her fingers. He would like to know how Paul felt towards her. Paul was a sharp, clear- headed man about business; he wondered how he would be about-well, he supposed he'd have to call it love. He had in his youth marrie d a good gil, one he thought every way worthy of him, (?) but he didn't make a fool of hima- self about sentiment, soft-heartiness and all that. He tooked to see if she would make his home pleasant, ,aIJC [URbUAY. 323 wouldn't spend faster than he could earn, if he could sup- port her, would they agree; and finding himself each time answered in the affirmative, he married her: that was all about it. He had always been an honorable, just and up.. rilght man, he took correct views of things, he was willing to put up with a groat deal of verdancy in the young, re membering he had once been young himself; he could for. give a great deal of extravagance in the way of feeling, or rather extravagance in the way of expressing it, but it couldn't endure the folly of rushing into marriage without knowing what one was about. It was a bargain that was to last for life, and one ought to have a sharp look-out that they didn't get taken in. Paul, he hoped, would be sen- sible in this as he was in most other affairs ;-and if he was, why Alice stood a chance of getting as good a husband as could be found in the whole land; he knew the boy, and was not afraid to say it. Alice was a good girl, and if Paul was not blind, he'd see it. If he didn't, he must give him a hint; he would do it quietly, anonymously as it were, for there was danger in an affair so delicate of over- doing the theing; but he believed he could do it with tact, and bring it all round in the happiest manner. Throughout the meal he was most kind and fatherly to Alice, advised her what to do while at her uncle's; remark- ed how much she and Paul were alike in their tastes; how necessary congeniality of tastes was for home happiness; what a home character Paul was, and how exemplary, and pious, and excellent, how thriving and prosperous, how energetic and determined; and in fine, before they rose from the table, run on so in praise of him that Alice won- dered what it all meant ; and in the charitable construc- tion of her heart, concluded with all his strpng practical sense the old -man was weak on one point, and as long as she had been in his house she had never before dis- page: 324-325[View Page 324-325] 324 ALICE MURRAY. covered it. It was an hour after the meal before Julia came in. "They are waiting for you, Alice," she breathlessly ex- claimed. "I tried to make them call a few minutes, but vith his usual perversity your uncle wouldn't." She got dice's shawl and bonnet, helped them on her, and catch E ing up her satchel went with her to the gate. Mrs. Meade followed. The leave-taking was got over as it usually is between friends, regrets at parting, congratulations that they shall meet again, and invitations and promises innu- merable. But at last the "good-bye's" were said, and Mr. Bradley started his team. "I declare," he exclaimed, when well out of hearing "I always dread to see two or three women that are not mortal enemies part. It's worse than a siege of the toothache. They talk of their weak X nerves; upon my word, I think they are as strong as cast : iron to stand it, and enjoy it as they do." "Why, father, do you suppose they can part with only a word?" "No, Margaret, I've had too much experience to suppose any such thing. In fact I know they can't without enough words to make the very tongues in their heads tired; and a woman's tongue to get tired is saying a great deal." "If aunt Nora heard you," said Alice, laughing, "she would have an answer for you." "Faith she would ; I've not a doubt of it" "I know what she would say." "What, Margaret?" "Why that God knew best when He gave women the limberest tongue and plenty of words with it. It was be- cause she would know how to make the best use of the gift." "It's not the best use of it to stand saying nothing over and over again". ALICE MURRAT. 325 "Well, well, father, I will not mind you; you are tired and fretted, and it is the greatest folly in the world to ar- gue or reason with a man or woman in that state. But tell me, when are the thrashers coming on?" "I was thinking, Margaret," he answered, his voice growing more tranquil in its tones, and the vexed, worried looks leaving his eyes and brows, now that a favorite sub- ject was introduced, " that it would be better not to have them come Monday." "Why not?" "I think we are going to have rain, and I shouldn't wonder if quite a spell of wet weather. After that it will be clear and dry and then let them come." "Which are you going to have, the treader or the eight- horse power?" "Well, I've concluded to have the eight-horse machine. They'll do it quicker and if it costs a little more in the way of feeding the horses, doing it quicker in the end, it will be about the same." i "But you thought the treader left the grain cleaner and did its work neater and with less waste." "Well, yes, I thought so, but I don't know after all as there's much difference." During the remainder of the ride home the farm and farm topics formed the theme of conversation, and by the time they stopped at the little gate, and the boys came out to take charge of the horses, Mr. Bradley had forgotten all his irritation at the prolonged leave-takings-he hed gone through two that afternoon--and was his own patient fatherly self again. Rosie, with her bright eyes and glo- rious curls, was there to meet them. - "I am so glad you've come home to stay awhile," sle said ; " now I shall get up and go to bed knowing you are i the house" H nI page: 326-327[View Page 326-327] 326 ALICE MTRAt. A cordial welcome from all, and Alice settled down as one of the family. Every day found her busy helping Mrs Bradley and the girls in their household labors, or sewing for Elizabeth. The Tuesday following her return was a dull, gloomy day. The ilornina's work was done, and taking some sewing she went up to her room. Soon she heard the pattering of small feet, and next a little rap on her door. "May I come in?" asked a sweet silvery voice. "Yes, Rosie." The door opened, and with a bunch of wild flowers in her hand, and a stool under her arm she entered. Setting down the stool at Alice's feet, she placed the flowers in a glass on the stand, and poured some water from the pitcher into it; then seated herself on the stool at Alice's side. "Terry gave them to me," she said, " and I thought you would like them." "And so you brought them up?" "Yes ; I told mother you looked lonely and the flowers would cheer you with their company." "Not half so much as you do, Rosie. You cheer and comfort me more than all the flowers in the world." "Do I?" she asked, looking up surprised. "Yes, Rosie, dear-a great deal more." "I am glad to hear it," she said, sweeping the short thick curls from her forehead. Then resting one delicate little arm on Alice's lap and the other on the window-sill, she raised her beautiful eyes to the threatening sky. "Look," she said, pointing to the south, " how big and black the clouds are. We are going to have a grand storm." She spoke as if it was something she highly en- joyed. Presently a dark shadow was cast over the little room, there was a lull in the wind, a stillness in the air, and then came a bright flash of lightning and the resound- ing crash of thunder. Alice drew back in alarm from thla indow, taking Rosie with her. ALIM .MMtAT. e "Are you afraid?" the child asked, fixing her large, ear- nest eyes wonderingly upon her. No fear did she know. She loved to watch the red bolts darting athwart the black sky, and listen to the rattling volleys following, If the glare for a moment dazzled her bright young eyes, it sent no thrill of terror to her heart. Alice blessed herself and bowed her head as the deep, heavy peals of thunder broke over the house. "Let us go back to the window," Rosie entreated. "No, child, there's danger; stay here." A blinding flash irradiated the room, and Alice, shuddering, clasped her hands. Seeing her agitation, Rosie dropped on her knees and repeated aloud, and in a fearless tone, an "-Our Fa- ther" and "Hail Mary." Rising, with touching simpli- city, she said, "Now, Alice, you needn't be any more afraid; I have said two prayers for you." Yes, innocence had raised its voice in her behalf. She felt it, and her heart grew brave. What harm could come to one shielded by such faith and love? She resumed her sewing, and although flash after flash lighted the room, and peal after peal rent the air, with Rosie's prayer and in Rosie's presence she felt no fear. Dear little Rosie, in you from that humble home went forth, in after years, one-- strong, firm, resistless, doing the work of the Lord with unfaltering will; slight, and ethereal, and beautiful as the dreams of childhood, you were strong as a soldier clad in mail. With damp cellars and arid garrets you were fami- liar. Angel of the sick room, the hospital wards knew you; your coming brought balm, roses of Sharon sprung up in your footsteps; dews of Hebron descended on fever- ed brows; sin recoiled in your presence; the convalescent laved themselves in the baptism of a new life; the parting soul went winged with your prayers before its God. Dear, dear little Rosie, well might your childhood be hallowed page: 328-329[View Page 328-329] with a grace and loveliness that won all hearts coming within the influence of your gentle ways. That afternoon Richard rode to the post-office, a dis- tance of three miles, and on his return brought a letter and a paper to Alice. The first was from Julia Armstrong, informing her her father had already collected her money, and let it out to Pierce, the farmer, with whom Ambrose boarded. The last was one of the papers of Antoria, and had in it two marked notices. The one referred to John Elbray selling out and moving to New York; the other announced Lucette I)enmore's and Lewis Bartoll's mar- riage. By whom was the paper sent to her? Certainly not by John Elbray. Was it by Mr. Bartoll?-or in a spirit of malicious triumph did Mrs. Elbray send it?-or did Lucette, in the exuberance of gratified vanity? She did not know, and what is more, did not care. The tie between her and that home was forever severed; they might go where they would, or do what they liked, it was nothing to her; the debt once paid, that load once off her, they would never again cross the disc of her memory. They would be as persons she had never seen, and of whom she had never heard. CHAPTER XX. FARMNG from one view may have the quiet, contempla- tive charms that the old poets loved to throw around it- from another it may have the rough, easy, jovial air, the rustic plenty, the immemorial apples, cider, and nuts, the noisy gatherings and merry-makings that annalists f'rom a certain point of the compass delight to dwell upon; but it has, too, its very homely and serious one, bare of every AIA lCE MURRAY. 22 scrap of romance and terribly real-one on which is stamped, scrawled and written in every imaginable charac- ter the word Toil. "By the sweat of the brow shall man eat his bread." You see it in the ploughing, the dragging, the sowing and cradling, the spring's hurry and drive, the harvests early and late, the fall's careful preparation for the winter. That may, indeed, be a blessed time of rest, when the long evenings can be devoted to reading, to plea- sant talks, and social gatherings; but labor is before it; and ere it can be enjoyed, the labor must be done. Clear, dry weather, followed the storm, the thrashers with the eight-horse power came, and a busy time it was in both house and barns; as to the former, eight men added to the family for the time being made a great deal more cooking, stewing, and baking necessary. The deep, heavy rumbling of the mighty machine at the barn, with its un- der-toned quivering and rattling; the occasional cracking of the whip over the heads of the horses as they traced their weary round; the short, clear, chirping-like whistle of the driver could be heard from early in the morning till dusk of evening, with an hour's intermission at noon for dinner and to feed and rest the horses. Mr. Bradley, or one of the boys, when a band got loose or some part of the machine needed greasing, took the opportunity to dart to the house and report progress. The wheat over the loft in the big barn was gone through, next going to the wheat in the bay, was turning out well, would have twenty bush- els to the acre; had just got to the barley, not so good as expected, more straw than grain, small heads not well filled. On a second report, barley better, turning out more generously than at first promised. The oats first-rate; clean, heavy and golden, would do one's heart good to look at, especially if he had the heart of a horse. Old Gray, Peg aud Doll would fare sumptuously that winter; this page: 330-331[View Page 330-331] last was Terry's report. Richard came next, late in the afternoon. "Oats good?"-" yes, but not clean." "Terry said they were." "Terry won't think so when they are put through the fanning-mill." "How much longer before you'll get all through?"Mrs. Bradley anxiously asked. I think she had asked that ques- tion about a dozen times before. "By to-morrow noon we'll be done. Four days and a half-not a bad job." "No, Richard, no. But are you now going back?" "No, mother. Father told me he and Griscom could get along in clearing the straw away, and I was to get up the cows, milk them, and do the other chores." He took a drink of water, got the milk-pails, put on his cap, and hur- ried off. "Elizabeth and Alice, you can set the table," said Mrs. Bradley, stooping and taking some pies from n the oven. She was beginning to give orders to Alice as to her own daughters. "Margaret," she added, "you can put the apples over; they will be stewed and cooled by the tilme the biscuits are baked." She put in the oven two or three tins as she spoke. The rumbling, quivering, and rattling, the cracking of the whip, the chirrupingc whistle at the barn ceased, the heavy machine stood still. "Motlher, they are taking off the horses," Rosie, stand- ing in the back door, exclaimed. "Yes, child; I know it. Margaret, you can set the tea a drawing." Elizabeth got towels, wash-basins, soap, and a bucket of water, and placed them on the back porch. The men came up, all dust and chaff, some wheezing, coughing, and clealing their throats, others making delicate pointings with thea chaffy, dusty hands to their ohaffy, dust-blinded i ISACE MURRAY. 331 eyes, and others again pulling off their loose, jean fiocks, but all with alacrity rushed to the wash-basins, and with bucket after bucket of water, laved hands and face and neck. After a vigorous application of the towels, anrl a rough smoothing down of the hair, they filed into the kitchen; large as it was with the eleven men--the eight thrashers, Mr. Bradley, and his sons-Richard and Terry felt to-night as important as men-gathering in, the great table set in the middle of the floor, and almost groaning under its load of eatables, the women fluttering in and out of the buttery to the stove, placing lighted candles on the table, filling tea-cups, seasoning them, and putting them round by the plates, it had a small, crowded look. Soon they were seated, and by the way the viands disappeared one would think Mrs. Bradley and her daughters excellent cooks, and thrashing hungry work. With the exception of the two who went round with the machine, they were all their neighbors, and without an exception as to their calling in life, all farmers like themselves. During the meal a few occasional words were said about politics, but they seemed to take no great interest in the subject. They mentioned the different papers they subscribed for, thought their respective editors knew the whole story, and if they didn't, sneeringly wondered who did. The names of these gentlemen, and not the heroes whose party they advo- cated, were the ones most frequently mentioned. But then this was not always the case; there were times when these quiet, solid-looking farmers could get very excited on this most excitable subject, but not to-night. They were tired, and rested contented that there were wide-awake sentinels who watched the interests of the country, and what was the use of their troubling themselves about it. And really after all, what were politics to men who were to feed the world; the fruits of whose labors reaohed to the farthest page: 332-333[View Page 332-333] 332 ALICE MURRAY. end of the earth, wherever man was lifted from the savage state, or commerce held its sway? Nothing, or next to nothing; of slight importance, indeed. Politics were well enough in their way, but with Bradley's barns full of grain all, or nearly all, thrashed, and their own thrashed, or still to be thrashed, it was evidently not the subject to engage their attention; it was foreign, away off, and as none of them wished or expected office, something that didn't pay. But the state of the markets was different; the price of wheat, barley, oats, corn, beans, butter, cheese, apples, etc., enlisted their warmest sympathies. Market reports and commission merchants in the great cities were freely dis- cussed, or, more properly speaking, dissected. Several round the table thought the one reliable, the other hon- est; others were of a very different opinion. Among the former was one that had the year before sent down a large quantity of beans and a number of firkins of butter, and in due time had received in just returns; among the lat- ter was one that had sent down a number of cheeses and several barrels of apples, and in one aggravating way after another, had been cheated out of about the whole of them. A square-shouldered, thick-set man, with small, keen black eyes, and very shaggy eyebrows, thought an honest com- mission "fellow" ought to be handed over to Barnum, and shown for so much a sight, and he would make more by him than he ever did by his woolly horse or Feejee mer- maid. The market reports fared no better. Some be- lieved them ; others shook their heads and wondered what the consequential reporters, with pens stuck behind their ears and slips of paper in their hands, knew of grain and such like things. What quantity of dust could be thrown in their eyes without their knowing it, supposing they wanted to get at the truth, by interested parties. When there was no prospect of grain or butter or cheese going a ICE rMUnA. 833 up, how easily could they be cajoled into telling the farm- ers to hold on, thinking, by and by, to get their things cheaper; and when there was a probability that if they got all the produce in their hands they could then raise the figures as high as they liked, could they not instruct the .amiable reporters to have the farmers send in their things as soon as possible, as there was great danger of a glut in the market, and consequent reduction of prices. They took the papers, and read the reports. To be sure they did. And they did them good. Yes. By following their counsel? No; by going right against it. It will be expected the free expression of these contradictory opin- ions called forth a long discussion. Not at all. The stur- dy farmers looked up from their plates, paused a moment in their hurried occupation, gave forth with energy their views on the subject, and satisfied with them themselves, did not care who in the world disagreed. As to change them with lengthened argument, it was out of the ques- tion; whichever side they took, they took it with the un- yielding solidity of a rock, as became men of their sound sense and mature judgment. That they were not agreed with was no loss to them, only the misfortune of the disa- greeing one. Mrs. Bradley's pie was slightly scorched, and as she handed it round she made an apology for it. "Never mind, Mrs. Bradley," exclaimed one of the younger, "we'll put it out of sight all the same," atnd out of sight it was put. After the thrashing came the cleaning up of the grain and carrying it to market, the digging of potatoes, the cut- ting, stooking and husking of corn, the fall ploughing, the gathering of apples, and the cutting and getting up of the winter's wood. Father and sons worked with hearty good will In the house was a busy time, too; the heavy win- page: 334-335[View Page 334-335] ter clothes to be made, house-cleaning, coloring and pre. serve-making. In view of Elizabeth's approaching mar. riage and the consequent increase of sewing, Mrs. Bradley had consented to let the wool be taken to the woollen fac. tory in Lucan and exchanged for good, stout cassimere full-cloth and flannel. But she had intended, when Mar- garet's school was out, to have it worked up at home ; that was the way, since Margaret commenced teaching, she had managed. Poor little Margaret! with all that was put aside to be done when she got home, little rest did she ever know. But then should she think of it, when her mother and sister were so overburdened? She often asked herself this question, and with it silenced every murmur. Mrs. Bradley was not a hard, exacting or selfish mother; Margaret fromi childhood had been her help and depend- ence, and she hardly knew how she could get along without her. Margaret's opinion was choice gold to her, M3arga ret's presence her joy, Margaret's voice the echo of her most peaceful and holy thoughts; Margaret's face, with its pale, thin complexion, its heavy brow, framed in darkest hair, its clear, grey eyes, its irregular nose, its small, sensi- tive mouth, the most loving and lovely face on earth. Rosie was beautiful, but her beauty did not touch the niother's heart like Margaret's-we cannot truthfully say beauty, and looking back upon that spiritual face, we cannot, will not say, plainness. Margaret could remember when her father was working land on shares; she knew her pa- rents' struggles better than the other children; she had been their light and comfort in those days, always cheer- ing them by her ready sympathy and clear understanding of their troubles, always prompt to do any and every little chore she could, and by degrees making up in her great love and thoughtfulness, for lack of size and want of strength, she lightened the burden of her father and ALICE MURRAY. 335 became a necessity to her mother. It was the vine sup- porting the stout oak, the violet making a pleasant shade for the tall lily. What Margaret said became a law in that house; father and mother listened and approved, rothers and sisters listened and did not dissent. That S he was the favorite of the parents, in no way jarred on the feelings of the other children; they would as soon have thought of being jealous of their right hands, as of that kind, gentle, indispensable sister. If her parents liked hei the best, what wonder? didn't each and every one of them, from Elizabeth down to Rosie, love her the best, too? What would they do without her? how could they get along? who was thinking and managing, and making and mending, and getting for them? Who was happy only in proportion as she succeeded in making them comfortable? who warded off scoldings from their heads, and got up many a night after the parents were in bed, that she might repair some torn garment so father and mother would not know it? who, if any of them, through the thoughtlessness and impetuosity of youth got in disgrace at home, never rested till the disgrace was removed and a reconciliation effected? They jealous of Margaret-jealous of the good earth angel! Impossible! The honor of the whole world laid at her feet would not be enough for her. She was worthy of a crown, of white robes and dazzling wings, of days that would never know nights, and joys that would never end. They said this in the fervency of their affee- tion, and afterwards in very bitterness wept when they thought of it. When the house was lone, and Friday nights did not bring her home, when the one they had loved and been so proud of was gone, never, never to come back. The coloring, house-cleaning and preserving was done, and the pile of sewimg was vigor ously .ta Ak4 w is page: 336-337[View Page 336-337] 336 ALICE MURRAY. happy in the consciousness of being useful; every day she was growing more and more expert with her needle; she would willingly, gladly have staid with them the whole winter and sewed, and washed dishes, and learned of them how to cook, and bake, and stew, but for that debt; that must be paid, and if her uncle could get her a school she must go to it. Every day, night and morning, and on the Saturdays she could sew for Elizabeth, and that would be some help. Mr. Bradley stopped in his work on Wednes- day to ride to Clarkville, to make an application for the village school for her, and she patiently awaited his return in the evening. She was sitting at the window when he drove up, and giving the lines to the boys, who were wait- ing at the gate, she saw him carefully move something that was in the back of the wagon. A brown cloth was wrapped around it and it loomed up high above the seat. What could it be? the girls standing in the front doorway asked. Probably it was something towards Elizabeth's setting-out -a bureau, or press, or toilet-table. Terry took the horses and Richard staid to help his father out with the strange article. It seemed heavy, for they could see it took all their strength to get it out of the wagon. It was now on the ground, now through the gate, now up to the house, and now in the little parlor. Alice thought of her school, but in the curiosity about the new piece of furniture, had not the heart to ask his success. He seemed to read the anxious question in her face, for turning from Elizabeth's eager inquiries, he said: "I am sorry, Alice, I did not get it; it is already spoke for." "Then I regret you went, for you had your long ride all for nothing." "No, Alice, not for nothing; I saw the trustees, and when I found I could do nothing for you in the school ALICE MURRAY. 33? line, I thought there was something I could do for another young lady in another line, and so I went and did it." "And you got me this, father?"Elizabeth exclaimed, trvy ing her best to remove the covering. "No indeed, miss, it's not for you. Let it be; I'll take the stuff off." He took out his pocket-knife and cut the stout cord and a few stitches; the wrapper fell, and a beautiful rosewood book-case stood before them. "Oh father, father," was the glad, joyous exclamation of the children. "Thank you, thank you a thousand times," Margaret said, taking his rough, hard hand lovingly in her little palm. "Why, it's real silk velvet on the leaf, and pearl knobs, and ever so many nooks and crannies in the drawer, and the shelves will hold double the books we've got," Eliza- beth remarked, as she busily examined it. Mrs. Bradley had not said a word, but she looked at Mr. Bradley and smiled. In running over all they must get for Elizabeth te parents remembered the book-case the children had been so anxious to have, and for which Mar- garet had several times laid by her pennies, and then gen- eously called them forth when some other want came. Why not get it now? In all they were to get, a few dol- lars more or less would not signify. All but Margaret had repeatedly entreated them for one; she never had; had even pacified their impatience into calmness by promising as soon as she could lay by enough she would get one her- self without putting them to any trouble or expense; they had as much on them as they could bear and the children must not be too exacting. God bless her! that was al- ways the way with her; gentle, conciliating and unselfish. What an example she had been to the rest, and how much good her influence had wrought. Get it?--yes, they would page: 338-339[View Page 338-339] 338 ALICE MURRAY. get it and it should be hers, and her name should be on it. A fortnight before he had ordered it, giving directions I how it was to be made, and that day in going to get the school for Alice, he had two objects instead of one in view, to get the situation for the niece and bring home the book- case for the daughter. "But, father," said Richard, "what is this bit of paper fastened on here for?" Mr. Bradley stepped up and tore it off. Under it was a silver plate inscribed with letters. Tlhey stooped and read :-"To Margaret, from her parents." Margaret Was the first to speak, and her words had a tone of sorrow in them : "You are good and kind, father, and you too, mother, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your beautiful gift, but if you only had put' to the children frorm the parents' I think," she hesitatingly added, "it wouldl have been just as well, and may be better." "Not at all, Margaret, not at all," her father answered "It is for you, and you alone. With all I'll have to get for Elizabeth there it's the least I can get for you." "That's so, father, that's so," they each and all ex- claimed ; "it's Margaret's and nobody else's." "Well, let it be mine then," she said, looking up grate fully into their beaming faces; "but you can all have the use of it just the same as if it did not belong particularly to me." Her father laid his broad palm on her head softly and reverently, as if touching some holy and consecrated thing. Her mother listened to her words, and thought was ever voice so sweet. Its melody pained her-it made her heart thrill with an unaccountable fear. She looked sharply at her and said, gently: v Now that -we bavei seen a hd Api the W ooC-*^ W XICE MURRAY. 339 will go back to the kitchen, and let it stay here to-night; and Margaret, dear, you must not sew any more, you look tired." Not sew any more, mother?" j "Not to-night, I mean. You have done enough for to- day; you munst rest." I i "But, really, I can't sit with nothing in my hands." !"You must. I say it, and surely you won't go against me?" "No, mother, certainly not. But Alice must rest, too." s "Of course she must," Mrs. Bradley exclaimed, unwilling the orphan under their care should feel any difference be- tween her kindness to herself and her own daughters. j "Alice must not think of sewing any more this evening." OX "But, Aunt Nora, don't, I beg you, ask me to stop. I a want to finish these button-holes, and with a few more I stitches, then uncle's pants will be done." "But, Alice, darling, you could do that to-morrow." "Yes, I know; but I want to do it to-night. You need not think because Margaret is tired and needs rest that I am tired, and must put away my work. I am not. Poor little Margaret," she tenderly added, looking at her with X the beaming love of a sister in her eye, "see her and see me, and what a difference-she, worn and thin and pale, and I, fiesh, hale, and hearty. Yes, she must rest and do less, and take it easier than she has, or we--" she suddenly paused, and a frightened expression settled on her face. "Or what, Alice?"Mr. Bradley asked, while Mrs. Brad- ley, with a sinking at her heart, leaned forward to hear. Alice found it hard to answer. She knew well enough what she meant, and what only for fear of giving them un- necessary pain, she was going to say, but she did not want to say it, and what else could she, in truth, or in justice to ler feelings, say? Her cheek flushed, she turned, pwzzled page: 340-341[View Page 340-341] ALICE MURRAY. and perplexed, from her aunt and uncle to Margaret, and Margaret it was, with her usual kindness, that came to her assistance. "Oh, nothing father," she said; "Alice meant nothing only that I might get sick, and you'd have me, with all the rest you have to do, to wait on." "Wait on you!"Mrs. Bradley exclaimed, with a sigh of relief; "little trouble it would be to us, Margaret-little, indeed. But, little as it would be, I don't want you to get sick, and you must not drive so; you must, as Alice says, take it easier. Never you fear but, God helping us, we'll get through with what we have to do." "And if you are like to fail, you know, Nora, I can hire a girl to help you?" "True, Terence; and so, Margaret, you needn't strain every nerve, and try to reach after impossibilities." Margaret laughingly sank into the cushioned rocking- chair Terry brought from the parlor, and put her feet on the stool Richard placed just before it. "I see," she said, "that you are all determined I shall play the idler, and so I suppose I'll have to play it." "And nothing better in the world," said Terry, "than a rocking-chair well padded to play it in." "You speak," observed Alice, smiling, "as if you knew from experience what it was." "So I do. I was sick last winter; had a sore throat; took to my bed, and suffered miserably; by and by got able to take to my chair, this same old chair, and enjoyed myself gloriously. Had nothing to do but to eat the best tit-bits in the house, rock, and be waited on. I tested all its properties, and have had a tender regard for the dear old thing ever since. I was sorry when I had to leave it." "How long were you sick?" "I was sick a whole week, and then was only two weeks ALICE MURRAY. 341 getting well. I shouldn't have cared if I had been two months, or as long as mother's quince and grape preserves had lasted. I tell you, Alice, it's something to pay one for being sick, just to have a free fling at them. I ate of them three times a day, and could have eaten them six times." "Then why didn't you?" she laughingly asked. "I was afraid I would get well too soon, and find all my good things gone." A loud knock at the door interrupted any further remark he might have made on a subject highly interesting to him. A flash spread over Elizabeth's face; lshe knew whose was the loud, hearty rap. even before Richard opened the door and admitted Ambrose Meade. All rose and cordially shook hands with him. Seating himself, accidentally, as it were, next to Elizabeth, he took Rosie on his knee. Looking at Margaret, with a kind con- cern in his eye, he observed: "You are not well?" "You think so because I am in this great chair." "Partly from that," he answered, "and partly because you are paler and thinner than usual." "She's tired out," Mrs. Bradley said; "and we are de- termined she shall rest and recruit up." "That's right; make her rest. Keep her at doing nothing for awhile, and she'll be all right, Mrs. Bradley." There was something so buoyant and hopeful in his voice, something so cheering and happy in his bearing, that the dull, aching fear in her heart left her. Yes, Margaret, with a few day's rest, would be herself again, and she must see that she took it; and in her hurry and distraction of mind she must not again let her over-do herself. Poor little thing, in her great care and affection for the rest, how she forgot her own feebleness and want of strength. What a stand by she had always been to them all. How wise above her years. As Terence often said, it did really seem as if page: 342-343[View Page 342-343] 312 ALICE MURRAY. the good God had given her in brain what she lacked in size, and He had given her, too, a great, generous, and noble heart in that little bit of a body. "I was up to Griscom's," said Ambrose, addressing Mr. Bradley, "to see if he had any white wheat left." "You are rather late putting it in," Mr. Bradley thought- fully observed, shaking the ashes from his pipe, and care. fully laying it on the mantel-piece. He had partaken of his supper while the children were seating Margaret in her chair of state, and now, after his one temperate pipe, felt that after supper peace and quietness of a farmer whose crops have turned well, and whose wisdom in agricultural affairs is undoubted. "Yes, rather late, I should say," he repeated, bending forward and resting his elbows on his knees, and bringing his hard-knuckled hands together. His voice was mild, without a shadow of reproof in it, for the young farmer beside him was to be his son-in-law, and he could not find it his heart to utter a severe or reproachful word to him. But if it had been Bob Griscom, or George Brown, or Wash. Gould, or any of the neighbors' sons, he would soon enough have asked them what kind of crops they expected putting in the seed at that time of the year. The first week of October-a pretty time indeed! Why didn't they wait till December, and then plough up the snow-banks and put it in, hoping next spring it would shoot up and bear a hundred-fold. He had seen such fools in his life, always lagging last, and wondering they didn't get in first; always building on sand, and amazed that their flimsy structures were swept away; running their heads against posts, and then surprised that they got sore- headed and bruised. Yes, he had seen just such, and it made him sick to hear them grumble and lay at the door of Providence what they'd been much wiser to have laid at their own. But doubtless Ambrose had some very good a:I ALICE MURRAY. 343 reason for being late; he would hear it, and as a father he would advise him. "Yes, late," he again slowly, and with a comforting assurance that the lateness could be sensibly accounted for, repeated. B "But I couldn't help it," Ambrose responded. "You couldn't get round to it before?"This, in his estimation, was a very poor reason-next to none. In fact, the very identical reason that the sluggard generally gave. But he must not be too hard. "No, Mr. Bradley, that was not it. I could get round to it, but I didn't want to. I would rather have it late." "Late, Ambrose? I thought it was one's desire to be early. I always have my wheat in by the twentieth of Sep- tember; and if I can't get round to it before, I let it go, and put it in in some spring crop. Late winter wheat is apt to get froze out, and if it does not, it has such a poor start in the fall that it makes but a weak, sickly crop the next year." "Yes, I know; but the Hessian fly has been at mine this year, and I have been told that if I sowed late another year I might hope to escape it." "Who told you so?" "Reuben Randall. A year ago he hadn't half a crop; the fly got in it and left the heads erect and empty. He always put in early, but his brother-in-law, Dewey, from Tioga, told him to change his time of sowing from Septem- ber to the first week of October, and he'd find he'd have as good a crop as ever. He did so, and this year he has harvested over three hundred bushels of wheat from twelve acres." "A fine yield, certainly. Randall is a good farmer and ought to know, but then that might have been more chaaoe than anything else." page: 344-345[View Page 344-345] 344 AICE MURRAY. "No, Mr. Bradley, no chance at all; there's good, sound principle for it, or to use a word you and I like better, good, sound common sense. You see the fly comes early; if your wheat is not headed out, it can't harm it; it flies over it and leaves it; it can't wait for it; and by the time the wheat heads, the terrible pest has had its day and is gone, the heads ripen full and heavy, and you have a good yield to pay you for your waiting." Richard and Terry listened, much edified with Ambrose's elucidation. What could be plainer or more to the point? And their father was always in such a hurry. But then he always had as good crops as any one round there. Staple- ton might be different from Rathbun. Richard said some- thing to that effect, and received for answer: "No, Richard, there's not so much difference in the two places as that would argue; but you have not yet had Hes- sian fly, and I hope it will be long before you will." "I hope so, too, Ambrose ; but let me tell you we have had as great an enemy to contend against." "You mean the weevil?" "Yes, and the only way to escape its ravages is to sow early." "Yes, I know. Uncle, when out on the farm, used to do pretty well in the wheat line following that same plan; but the fly is another thing, and you've got to go to work another way to head it." Mr. Bradley was satisfied. Ambrose was late, but then he had a good reason for it, and was able like a man to tell his reason; he didn't throw his head back and swag- ger and let out a few oaths to show he was no longer a boy, and after all be unable to sit down and hold a sen- sible talk on farming or anything else. He could treat elderly people and their opinions with respect, and giving a reason for his actions, teach them that he too was worthy ALICE MURRAY. 340 I of regard. As for oaths, he didn't believe he ever thought of them; aside from the terrible sin against the good God, he had too much sense, every time he fell into a passion, I or whenever anything went wrong with him, to tear out the name of his Maker and rave round like a maniac, think- ing that made a man of him. No; when he called on that blessed and adorable name, it was on bended knee, with clasped hands and uplifted eyes, or maybe it was at his work, when he saw all things around him, the rich fields, the shady woods, the far off bending sky, with its light tracery of floating clouds, the marks of an omniscient, all- powerful, all-merciful God, that his soul was lifted up in prayer and praise. He did not know it, he did not sense it; but the glad, exultant feeling that thrilled his whole being, the glow that rested on his cheek, the light that dwelt in his eye, proclaimed it. He made no wordy pro- fessions of piety, but his industrious, sober, frugal and ex- emplary life spoke louder than words. It was perfectly natural for a strict, conscientious father like Mr. Bradley to turn to these points in the character of his future son- in-law; a careful, prudent farmer, it was comforting to him to know that he was also a consistent Christian. Eliza- beth was very silent, her hand flew swiftly up and down with her neAle, a quiet smile played round her mouth, an. expression elate with youthful joyousness, subdued and re- strained, rested on her face. She drank in the music of a voice whose every tone was inexpressibly dear to her, she basked in the sunshine of a presence that was to go out with her into the unknown years, down the valley of life, past the shadow of the grave, away into the broad fields of eternity. How strange, how mysterious it all was! She could hardly realize it, could hardly believe so much hap- piness was in store for her. She wondered what she had ever done to deserve it, what she could do to show her page: 346-347[View Page 346-347] 346 ALICE MURRAY. gratitude to our dear Lord for His care over her; and then her thoughts drifted away to future duties in the house- keeping line, and the delightful surprises she Would get up to please the palate of her husband, and the ease and dig- nity with which she would receive his friends and her own, and what a warm welcome she would feel for them, and how proud she would be to show them her house, and in its neatness and order, and the excellent management noticeable throughout, prove to them that Ambrose had not made a bad choice, but was blessed with a good, tidy, industrious and economical wife. She waxed and knotted a new thread and was about inserting her needle, when her mother said: "The apples, Elizabeth; you are forgetting them." "Sure enough!" she exclaimed, while a blush stole over her cheek-she thinking of hospitality in her own house and forgetting it in her father's! She rose, took a candle and pan, and went down stairs. Returning, she stepped into the buttery, got plates and knives, and handed them round; then she passed the pan of blue parmions and golden pippins to every one. Ambrose reached out his great hands and laughingly took six of the former, and forthwith commenced to pare them. Soon he had the rich dark skin stripped from them, and with a dexterous move- ment, he slipped one on Alice's, Margaret's, Mrs. Bradley's, and Elizabeth's plate. "Thank you!-thank you!" they exclaimed, "but we could have done it ourselves." "Of course, I know it; but I thought I could do it, too, I chose the right kind for you." "Yes; the parmions are our favorites," Margaret an- swered. Rosie was sharing the stool at Margaret's feet. Some time before, fearing her enormous weight would tire their AIICE MURRAY. 347 visitor, she had left his knee and found another seat for herself. "Rosie, come ;" he called her to him. She rose and walked to his side. He motioned to Terry to set a chair for her. Terry obeyed his sign. Rosie was seated beside him while he quartered and cored the extra apple on his plate aiad gave it in pieces to her. He felt so much at home, and all seemed so glad of his presence, that he might permit himself the treat of doing as he liked. He would pare Mrs. Bradley's and the girl's apples as well as his own; he would quarter and core Rosie's, and give her the pieces on the point of his knife, and watch her little pearl-like teeth go into them. It seemed to him apples were expressly made for children, they have such an ex- cellent apparatus for grinding them, and never look bet- ter, or more interesting, than when that tiny apparatus is in full action. While the apples were being disposed of, fruit-trees and their grafting and proper culture was the subject of conversation. After it, Margaret thought, was the time to speak of her present. She would have men- tioned it before, but could not, without interrupting other remarks. "Ambrose," she said, taking a candle from the table, "come and see what father and mother have been giving me." She led the way to the parlor, followed by all the family. "Why, a book-case; and a beautiful one, too!" he ex- claimed, standing in admiration before it. "Look," she said, pointing to the plate. He stooped and read: "To Margaret; from her pa- 5 nts." "You see," she said, in an explanatory tone, "they meant it for all the children, but, as the eldest: they had my name put on it." page: 348-349[View Page 348-349] 348 ALICE MURRSY. "No such thing!" exclaimed Mr. Bradley, " we meant it for Margaret, and nobody else. The rest of the children will enjoy it while they stay with us, but it's Margaret's for all that, and when they leave it will be here, and will ,e hers." Her father seemed to think she never would go, never would leave them. He little knew, and it was as well. "Margaret," Ambrose, in his good-natured way, re- sponded, "your father did right to have your name on it. It belongs to you, and in belonging to you, belongs to all of us. But have you books enough to fill it?" "No; but the little Richard and I have laid aside for the book-case-if father had not got this, we intended this fall to have one ourselves, not so fine, to be sure, but one that would have answered our purpose very well-we will now devote to getting a few more volumes." "Have you any thought or choice what they'll be?" "Certainly; we know the books we want if we could only get them. We will have the 'Life and Times of St. Bernard,' by Abbe Ratisbonne; Chateaubriand's 'Holy Land' (we have his ' Genius of Christianity);' and Butler's "ives of the Saints,' and Gerald Griffin's works, and"- she suddenly paused, looked confused, and joined in the laugh against her. "How many more with that little you and Richard have laid aside? Go on, tell us-no use of stopping." "I should think," she replied, "there was use of stop- ping. But when you asked if we had a choice of books, I knew we had, and I knew the ones we would have if we could only get them. It's not probable that we will buy all I mentioned, but we will take our choice of these, and before you know it, you will see them gracing our-I mean mine, father and mother-my beautiful book-case." There was the brave, hopeful, patient and contented look Il ZALICE MURRAY. 349 on her pale face that made her so beautiful in her mother's I: eyes, so wise in her father's. They thought it but did not say it, that as they had bought the book-case for her they could go a little further. His crops were good, they had brought a good price. they were getting everything foi Elizabeth, and she asked for nothing; she never did, she was always so afraid of adding to their burthen. Some of these days it would not surprise Mr. Bradley if he found the whole package awaiting him at the post-office. He had sent for books he had seen advertised in his paper to Bos- ton, New York, and Baltimore, and far off as those places were, he had always received them safe. "Where did you get this?"Ambrose asked. t "I got it in Clarkville." "I thought it could not be in Lucan. I never saw any- ; thing like it there." "No, I never did. I saw Hunt one day, some weeks ago,-in Lucan, and I told him to make me this, and gave him all the directions how to make it. It's like one I saw many years ago in a place I was working. I went to Clarkville to-day to get Alice the village school, called at Hunt's ; it was done, and I brought it home. That's the history of it, Ambrose." "But the school, Mr. Bradley, you don't tell me whether you got it or not?" "No, he did not get it," Alice herself answered. "It was engaged," Mr. Bradley added. "But the one in Ellotsville is not engaged." "Are you sure?" "Yes, Alice, I am. I saw one of the trustees to-day, and asked him. I would at once have engaged it for you, but I did not know what success your uncle might have in Clarkville, and I thought I would wait. As to the one on Wheat Hill, that's up. j A chap from the academy in El- lotsville is going to have it. Rankins told me so." page: 350-351[View Page 350-351] 350 ALICE MURRAY. " rell, to-morrow, I will see about the Ellotsville one," Mr. Bradley said. "If it don't rain," Margaret interposed. "It looked very threatening all the afternoon, and to-nilght there is not a star to be seen in the sky." "Rain or shine, Iarlgaret, God helping me, I shall go. It would harm me more to find I had come a day or two too late than all the rain between now and Christlmas.') They had left the parlor, and Ambrose was buttoning up his coat and putting on his comforter. "It's not late," Mr. Bradley good naturedly remarled. He did not know what else to say, and to let his young friend go without some little remonstrance did not look to him exactly right. "But it's not early," Ambrose returned. "It's past nine, and seven miles to ride." "Which horse have you got with you?"Terry asked. "Prairie Bird; we'll fly over the space between here and Pierce's in no time." He shook hands with them all. Coming to Elizabeth, he paused a moment, looked ear- nestly at her as if he would carry her sweet face with him out into the darkness, stooped, impressed a kiss upon the trembling lips, and was gone. Putting away their sewing they at once knelt to even- ing prayers, Alice saying them aloud ; it was her turn. As they rose from their knees Mr. Bradley gently said: "To-morrow, Alice dear, God helping me, we will know whether you will have the school in Ellotsville or not." She bowed her thanks and bade him " good night." Rosie, with heavy drooping lids, followed Alice and her sisters up stairs. ALICE nURRAY. 351 CHAPTER XXI. THE next day was dark and rainy, but Mr. Bradley had the boys harness up the horses and hitch them on to the light wagon. He did not care for the rain; he would cer- tainly go to Ellotsville that very day. He did not like the still white look of that poor girl. It went to his heart to see her try so hard to do something in return for the little they did for her. She was so afraid she would be a bur- den, so afraid they would think she did not care to put forth an effort to support herself. He could see these feel- ings in her timid bearing, her shrinking back of his chil- dren, and taking up as little room as possible. Good God!. and she but a couple of years before the prospective heir- ess of the greatest fortune in that part of the country, with every wish gratified, and ease and elegance all around her, with no care for the present and no thought for the future. What a change! 'what a reverse! and how well she bore it. Many a strong nman would have sunk under it, and yet she, a mere child-she was only eighteen, and but the other day was in high aprons and short dresses--she bore it with a fortitude and dignity that astonished him. God bless her! he never looked at her that he did not thank God he had a home for her. It was poor to what her other was ; but then it was a home, and she was sensible enough to know it. How he, a tanned, weather-beaten man, and one not much given to tears, felt himself choked, and the great drops rolling over his cheeks that night after her interview with -the- Elbrays, when Nora told him the whole affair and she raised her face, that had a wild, strained look in it, and said : "Uncle Terence, little Rosie there is not more innocent of the crime laid to my charge than I am ;" and when lie, stunned by the strangeness of page: 352-353[View Page 352-353] --e 1 ra^:AiCE MURRAY. it all, stood still and made no answer, with a great shudder that shook her whole frame, and in a changed, husky voice, asked; " don't you believe me, uncle? Do you, too, think I would lie?"Well, well, well; it wasn't often his feelings got the better of him so. He hardly remembered what he did say to her; but he knew in the sight of such misery his whole heart wenl out to her, that his soul yearned to her as to on e of his own children,that he took her cold hands in his, bent down and kissed her on her pure white forehead, and told her she was as his and Nora's little ones, and if John Elbray had washed his hands of her forever-he, Ter- ence Bradley, blessed the day she came to his home, and the day that God had given her to them to shield, love and protect. It was a drizzling, soaking rain, but what of it? he would have the buffalo-robe wrapped snugly round him, and his great coat and oiled cap on, Lnd take his umbrella, and what harm would the rain do him? He wanted to get the school for her, and not this time be told he came too late. Before going he went up to the table where she sat sewing. "Uncle," she said, "it's a bad day for you to be out. Don't go ; wait until it is more settled." "No, Alice, I'll not wait. I'll go to-day; it wont hurt me, for I'll be dry and comfortable; I'll be back by noon, or a little after it, and I hope I will have better news for you." "But if you don't, father," Margaret added, " she must consider it all for the best, and not feel bad or down- hearted." " No, no, Alice," he responded, lightly placing his great hand on her head, "if I don't get it, you musn't worry about it. I'd be thankful, and so would Nora and all of us, to have you with us all the'time." ALICE MURRAY 353 ! ^"But you don't have Margaret all the time?" "If Margaret couldn't get a place, we'd have her and tonsider it no loss; so don't say anything like that again. Whatever news I bring home, remember you are one of ourselves. If I get you the school and you go out for awhile from us, you are to come back to us; and if I don't get it, and of course you don't go, you are still one of us; remember that, and don't be letting those lone feelings crowd out the life and peace of your heart." He turned, took his umbrella and went out. The boys had the team by the little gate. She saw him get into the wagon, draw the buffalo-robe around him, open his umbrella, take the lines from the boys and start; then her eyes went down to her sewing. Elizabeth and Mrs. Bradley were busy at the morning's work, Margaret had knitting in her hands Lnd an open book in her lap; she was resting. Richard and Terry, instead of coming into the house, went to the 1 am, where there was plenty of husking to do. Rosie wa t ar- ranging her play-house in one corner of the kitchen, now and then pausing in her laborious occupation to give the playful Maltese kitten a hearty caress. Mr. Bradley's pants were finished, and Alice was now sewing on a thick stuff dress for Mrs. Bradley; she would have the skirt done by noon, and if hex aunt could get time she would cut the waist in the afternoon, Margaret raised her eyes from her book and watched the rapid movement of her hands. "It seems so wrong," she at length said, " that I should be doing nothing and you should be so busy." "Doing nothing, Margaret!" she answered, smiling and pointing to the knitting. "But knitting is next to nothing, Alice, and I meant to make that dress myself. I have made all mother's dresses so long, that it seems strange for me to sit quietly by and We another make them" page: 354-355[View Page 354-355] 354 ALICE M t7RAY. "But, Margaret you need rest, and you should willingly take it. I don't know how it is, but"--she lowered her voice that Elizabeth and Mrs. Bradley, in the butter might not hear her-" the thought constantly haunts me that you are growing more and more shadowy every day; and sometimes I fancy I see a contraction of your brows, as if some pain was wearing you out." A wan smile flitted over Margaret's face. "You watch me closely," she said, " closer than I imagined ; I must be more careful." Alice looked up surprised. "If you are not well, Mar- garet," she asked, "why do you hesitate to tell it? why do you strive to hide it?" "Alice, speak lower, I beg you; don't let mother hear you." 'She ought to hear me, Margaret; she ought to know that there are just grounds for her apprehensions." "I don't know, Alice; it may pass away, and if so, what is the use of worrying her?" Alice dropped her sewing. "What do you mean, Mar- garet? tell me; don't be afraid," she entreated. Margaret leaned forward and whispered in her ear: "A strange, sudden and breath-choking pain at times takes me in the heart, and I don't know what to make of it; again my heart flutters like a bird, as if it would escape from my body, and all strength leaves me, and I am weak and faint as a child." "How long have you been so?" "Every little while for several years past, I have had these feelings; but they have staid by me longer this time than ever before. About the middle of my school they came on me again; sometimes I fear they'll never leave me, that they've come for good this time." "Margaret, it is wrong, decidedly wrong in you not to tell your father and mother." ALICE MURRAY. 355 ' Maybe so, but I can't; I think their grief and anguish would kill me outright. You don't know what a choking, bursting sensation comes over me when I think of it; and now more than ever, with Elizabeth's marriage coming on, I don't want them to know it. -Let the dear child be set- tled in life, if possible, before the painful knowledge bursts Upon them." "You fear it is heart-disease?" "I do." "And you think of taking a school this winter and teach- ing it. Margaret! Margaret!" "But, Alice, it may pass away, these bad feelings, and then I could easily do it." "But if they do not pass away?" A tear coursed down Margaret's cheek. "I should have to give it up," she answered, after a pause. "But," she added, "I will not despair ; mother is going to make me a syrup of bone-set, valerian and some other things, I hardly know what, and it may brace me up and make me all right again." "Did she ever make it for you before?" "Yes, a year ago, and it helped me wonderfully." "Then why in the name of common sense did you not have her make you another before now? Why have you waited so long?" "Alice, ask why the winds blow-why the clouds chase each other over the sky-why the sere leaves fall to the ground-why the fresh ones spring forth; ask, ask after impossibilities. Tell mother! Did I ever tell her? Could I ever tell her? Didn't she always find it out for herself? Isn't she now, without my telling it, going to make it, and am I not going to take it?" "But, Margaret, if it is really heart-disease, you surely can't think your mother's simple syrup will cure you?" page: 356-357[View Page 356-357] 356 ALICE MURRAY. "No; but it may help me, and that's as much as the best doctor in the land, perhaps, could do. I don't believe real heart disease is ever cured by medicine. If I get better, and am able to go to my school, that will do me more good than anything else." "I fear it, Margaret-greatly-fear it. You should have no care on you; you should take it easy, and live as quiet and restful a life as possible." "And sit in the rocking-chair, Alice, and be waited on, and do nothing!" "Yes, sit in the rocking-chair and be waited on, and do nothing to over-do and fatigue you." "O, Alice, that would be the death of me. If I sat here nursing my bad feelings, and petting myself, and afraid that everything was going to kill me, I don't believe I would live a month. I must be up and doing something; my mind is then pleasantly occupied, and notwithstanding I occasionally feel the presence of disease in my system, I am stronger, and enjoy a greater degree of health than if I was rusting away in inactivity. Teaching to me is not so wearing as to some: I like the children and they like me; I love to watch their mincd expanding; I love to think I may be planting seed that may spring up and bear a bountiful harvest when I am, or rather when my poor body, my outside covering, is moldering in the grave." Mrs. Bradley came out from the buttery, and the con- versation ceased. Drearily the forenoon wore away; Alice sewed busily, thought of what poor Margaret told her, and of the kind, fatherly words of her uncle. More tlan once he glanced at the clock on the mantel-piece, and more than once her eyes furtively sought the window. She did not want her aunt or cousins to know how leaden-winged the hours sped to her, how anxiously she was watching, how impatiently she was waiting. As to her debt to John ALICE MURRAY. 357 l1bray, she said nothing to them about it. Her uncle Te- rence would only look upon it as something that was not for a moment to be thought of. Did not her aunt, by her labor and toil for years, while he was struggling and Imaking his wealth pay, and doubly pay him, for all he had ever done for her orphan niece? What kind of an affec- tion did he have for her to take her when a little child, and after rearing her with all his means, without a single pro- vision for her support, cast her out upon the wide world? He did not cast her out. She went of her own free will. It made no difference. He had reared her as a child; eir- I cumnstances forced her to leave him, and he let her go homeless, and for all of him, friendless, from his door. What could he or what did he expect? What did she owe imn? Nothing-nothing at all, unless it was bitter memo- ries, which as a Christian she must try to forget, try to bury in eternal oblivion. This was the stern view her good, kind, fatherly uncle Terence would take of it. As to her aunt and cousins, knowing how bitterly she had been j taunted for her dependent state by the present Mrs. El- bray, they would not wonder that she wanted to pay John Elbray every cent he had expended on her, and seeing but little prospect of her ever being able to do it, they would feel in their kindly sympathy for her a heaviness and gloom weighing on their spirits. In their generosity they might distress themselves to help her do it, and it being deci- dedly against her uncle's will or desire, it might, with all his forbearance and good nature, all his gentleness and pa- tience, be the cause of family dissensions and the casting a dark shadow over their hitherto peaceful home. No, she would say nothing to them about it; she would keep it to herself, and struggle on as best she could. Father Ed- wards knew it, and that was enough-yes, enough for all purposes, for already he had proposed a plan, or rather page: 358-359[View Page 358-359] 358 ALICE MUP RAY. pointed out a way, by which the debt might be paid. He did not disprove of her desire to pay it; he only thought it would be something, extremely difficult for her to do, and forthwith, with his ever ready and active charity, had set himself to work how it might be done. He knew of a coming vacancy in the Whitetown academy, and he would see that she was the one to fill it. There was in his pro- mise a bubstantial hope to lean on, but still she did not want to be earning nothing all these months, and she trusted, when her uncle Terence returned, he would bring her the news that he had got her the Ellotsville school. The din-. ner was ready, and the boys came in from the barn. "Father has not cone?"Terry said. "No," Mrs. Bradley answered, "he said he would be home by noon or a little after it. I'll put his dinner where it will be warm and comfortable, and we will not wait. Alice, lay aside your sewing." Alice obeyed her, and with the mother and children gathered round the table. It was an hour after the meal; the dishes had been washed, the table newly set for the father when he drove up. Richard was at the gate to take charge of the horses. He came in, took off his cap, shook the rain from it, hung it on its ac- customed hook, removed his great coat and hung that up and then sat down. He did not say a word, but his usually placid countenance looked sour and grim. Alice raised her eyes from her sewing, but did not speak; her lips were white, her hands cold; Mrs. Bradley was much puzzled and cast on him a penetrating and inquiring glance. She wanted to ask him what it meant, but she was afraid it was something relating to Alice's affair that would pain and grieve the poor girl to hear, and she thought it bet- ter to wait till she could see him alone. Elizabeth and Mar- garet through the same tho-ightful kindness restrained their curiosity. Mrs. Bradley lifted two or three covered L ,}ALICE MURRAY. 359 dishes from the stove, poured out his tea and seasoned it. "'Terence," she said," now sit over to the table ; I know you must be faint and cold, and a good meal will strengthen and warm you up the best of anything." Returning some almost indistinct answer that he was i not cold and did not feel much like eating, he however complied with her request. "How did you find the roads?" she asked, wishing to say something and to appear at her ease. "Not very good; the fall rains are telling on them." "Did you go through Lucan?" "Yes." "You didn't see any of the Armstrongs or Meades?' She was trying desperately to make talk. Her cheek flushed, and taking up her knitting in the pauses of wait- ing on him, she attacked it as if her life depended on racing over the rounds as soon as possible. i "Yes, I did; I saw Paul." He reached out his cup to have it refilled, and without giving any of the particulars of his chance meeting with him went on with his meal. "He didn't say anything of his mother and Julia coming up on the hill?"She was determined to ply him well with questions, and if he didn't give his information readily, to I drag it out of him piecemeal, as it were. What was the use of their all sitting dumb like statues. Her poor dead sister's child felt bad enough, she could see that, without a funeral silence pressing upon her. "No," Mr. Bradley slowly answered, " he didn't say any- thing about it." "Did he say anything about his moving to White- town?" "Yes; he has sold all out in Rathbun and is going to New York next week for a fresh supply of goods to fill up his new store." He leaned back in his chair, and with an page: 360-361[View Page 360-361] impatient movement of his hand, swept the hair fronm hi i forehead. He didn't know why Nora should tease him so with questions when she couldn't help seeing he was in no humor to answer them. He had told her now all he had heard Paul say and he hoped she'd be satisfied; he was not one that while talking to one could hide very well what ne did not want another to hear; he did not want Alice, with her white listening face there sewing so carefully and looking so wistfully, to know what he had gone through that day. It was no use, the knowledge would pain her t too much. 'Well, Alice," Mrs. Bradley remarked, turning cheer. fully to her, "I see you are getting along famously with that dress; the skirt made, and now at one of the sleeves? I suppose you'll want to cut the waist before long?" "Whenever you can spare the time to let me fit it," Alice with difficulty answered. "I don't know what's to hinder me this afternoon, . Elizabeth, you may put some fire in the parlor stove. I'll I go in there to have it cut. You know where the pattern is, Alice?" "I believe it is in the third bureau drawer in the parlor I bed-room." "Yes," Margaret, raising her eyes from her book, added, "on the right hand, near the outside corner." In a few minutes Elizabeth informed them the room was warm and pleasant. "Well, then," said Mrs. Bradley, "girls, you can taka your sewing and go in; I will be in presently." Gathering up the skirt and pieces of the dress, Alice went in; Elizabeth and Margaret followed her, the for- mer carrying the latter's chair. The coast was clear, and turning to Mr. Bradley, in a low, earnest voice, Mrs. Bradley asked, "Terence, what bah ALICE MURIAT. 361 happened? Tell me. I know you've met with something disagreeable to-day." ! "'I have, Nora," he answered; " something that Las cut i1 me to the heart." "The Lord save us, Terence, what is it?" "Nora, as long as I live, I'll never sell another kernel of groin to that Ellotsville miller. Only just to think, two years ago I sold him all my wheat, and waited three months on him, or till my last payment on the Westcott place was due, and never charged him a cent interest. I had to pay interest up to the very last day on what I owed, but I did not ask it of him. He palavered a great deal about his not being able to forget an injury, and always remembering a favor, and to-day, when I applied to him for the school for Alice-he's one of the trustees, Nora-- what did he say? Why he didn't know; he couldn't tell; wasn't sure what the others would think; didn't believe they'd like it; hated to go against the wishes of the pa- rents; would like to accommodate me, but really it was against his principles to engage one ththat hd such a name as my niece; was sorry to tell me so, but it was his duty ! to employ one whose name was spotless. I asked him what did he mean, and he said he had heard how she had ; served Mr. and Mrs. Elbray, and it would never do to hire . her to teach in Ellotsville. She might give lessons to the children they wouldn't care for them to learn. I don't ' know, Nora, how it was that I didn't knock him down. I felt my brain burn and my arm stiffen." 1; "But why didn't you tell him, Terence, that it was all a 1 vile slander against her, got up by Elbray's second wife, to keep her away from his home?" ' "Sure, I told him that, Nora, and he said he didn't won-. der we didn't believe it; as our niece, it was natural would credit her version of the story, but we must i page: 362-363[View Page 362-363] 3tj$ ALICE MURRAI. pect others to do it. They were not so blind or easily de. Ocived. "What did you say to that?" "Say to it? I just told him what I thought of him, and with all his principle and regard for duty, if he had a par- ticle of honesty or manhood about him, he wouldn't be so ready to believe a bad instead of a good story against an. other. That it was as natural for a blanched hypocrite, a vile, corrupt, and rotten-hearted rascal to believe a slan- derous get-up, as it was, for a decent man to doubt it; for, like a buzzaxrd, the one gloried in filth, the other turned disgusted from it. "But did you see the other trustees?" "I did." "Well, what did they say?" "Swanton said he had no objection to hiring her." "What did Colby say?" "He asked me what Swanton and Dwight had agreed to pay her, for he seemed to think they had already engaged her. I told him they had not said anything about the wages, that Swanton had no objection against her, but Dwight didn't want her. He answered, he knew why Dwight didn't want her; but he didn't care, and he knew Swanton didn't; that if we did the best we could, that was enough ; we were not to be held responsible for what every-. body said; holding our own tongues, we couldn't hold the tongues of others ; that they would be wagging, and people that had a grain of sense in them wouldn't mind the stories they wagg;d out; and then he began to talk about the wages, said the times were bad and teachers couldn't ex- pect to get as much for their services as they had got awhile back ; that we'd have to begin to retrench a little, or we'd find ourselves in the middle of the stream with no means of gettting to the shore; that he had no objection AUICE MURRAY. 363 in the world to hiring Hiss Murray, that he would hire her, notwithstanding the stories against her, and pay her ! four dollars a week. ' Four dollars a week and board?' I asked. 'Four dollars a week and board herself,' he answered. With that I just got up and put on my cap, and walking to the door, I turned and said, 'Mr. Colby, when Alice Murray gets ready to teach and board herself for four XI dollars a week, I'll let you know it. At present ycu'll have } to hunt up somebody else to do it; Alice wont;' and with that I left him. Four dollars a week, Nora, and pay out three dollars or three and a half for board." i "He wouldn't have insulted you, Terence, with such an offer, if it hadn't been for that vile slander against her, I much as he pretended not to mind it." ;i: ("To be sure he wouldn't, and didn't I know it? It stung me to the heart; I don't know when I have felt such a sour j dislike to the whole world as I have felt to-day, or had, as Griscom would say, such a realizing sense of its hard- heartedness and meanness. Of course you'll say nothing X of this to Alice?" "No, indeed; I'll tell her you didn't engage the school for her, for the wages offered were too low, and that will be I enough for her to hear." "Yes, Nora, you can tell her that, for it's the truth, and is, as you say, as much as she need know." He put away the pipe he had been smoking, and rose calm and collected again. "Where are you going?"Mrs. Bradley asked, seeing him put on his cap. "To the lower barn, Nora, to see how the boys are get- ting along with the corn." Elizabeth and Margaret tried to entertain Alice with pleasant and cheerful conversation, but the hard look in her eyes never softened, the firm expression round hex page: 364-365[View Page 364-365] o0o ALICE MURRAY. mouth never relaxed. She was certain her uncle Terence had not only not got her the school, but that something had happened in his application for the situation to pain and grieve him. He had been so kind and fatherly leaving home, and had returned so grim and silent. What was it? Probably some insult about the depravity of his unfortu. nate niece. What else could it be! She cut out the waist lining, basted it, and sewed on the hooks and eyes. The girls talked, but she did not hear them, and of course did not answer the questions they now and then put to her. She was thinking how easily she could have got a school had it not been for the malice of Mrs. Elbray, and how her evil influence still worked against her. From the bitter- ness of these reflections she gradually passed to others not so bitter, rather comforting and soothing. Yes, owing to the malignity of that woman she would now indeed be homeless, without a shelter, the little she had been able to earn the past summer, economize it as she would, would not support her till the next September came round, were it not for the Bradley family. She looked through the window at the wet and cold without; she thought of the frost and sleet and snow, of the coming winter and her snug little room up stairs, and the cozy little parlor down, and the great old kitchen and its many corforts, and the warm hearts that in it loved and cared for her, and her lips trembled, her face flushed, and great tears rolled over her cheeks. Father Lawrence did her such a real kindness in sending her to them. What would she know of them, or they of her, if it had not been for him? And yet, was it to him that all her gratitude was due? Over his goodness and kindness of heart was not the providence of God to be seen? "The winds blow, the blossoms fall, But a good God reigns over all." The uplifted expression of this thought was on her coun- ALICE MURRAY. 365 ftenance, the love and gratitude it brought with it were in her eyes, when Mrs. Bradley entered the room. "Well, Alice, dear," she said; and there was a greater tenderness in her voice than ever, " have you got the waist ready for me to try on?" "Yes, Aunt Nora; I put away the sleeves and went ight to it. I don't know whether it will fit or not. It's l the first dress I ever cut." "Well, if it don't fit, all you'll have to do is to take up or let out some of the seams, and as they are only basted that won't be much." "No, Aunt Nora; nothing to speak of." It was on the hooks, and the seams Mrs. Bradley referred to had to be ripped, let out, and taken up. Well, I will know better next time," Alice observed, as she set herself to do it. The second trial proved it all right, "a real fit, a model," as Elizabeth good-naturedly remarked. Margaret leaned back in her chair, and weariedly closed her eyes, her little thin hands lay listless in ler lap. Mrs. Bradley watched her countenance with a concerned and puzzled air. Certainly she was paler and more sunken- eyed than she had been in .the early summer. "I trust in God, Margaret," she said, "that sirup will help you again!" "Yes, mother, I know it will. How long before it will be ready for me to take?" "To-morrow morning you can begin taking it, and may Goi's blessing rest on it for your recovery. But go now and lie down, you look tired?" "' I believe I will, mother, and I will not go up stairs I will just lie down on your bed. It's near the breath of the fire." "Yes, darling, go to my bed, and be sure to throw some- thing over you, so you won't get chilled." page: 366-367[View Page 366-367] 306 AICE MXUBAY. I will, mother, but where is Rosie?" "She woke up just after your father left the house, and nothing would do but she must go to the barn too, so I put her hood and blanket on her, and made her put on her mittens, and let her go ; she does enjoy being with her father so much." Margaret left the room, satisfied. "Yes, and father enjoys having her with him," Elizabeth said; "cold and wet as it is, he will make her comfortable; he will pile the dry stalks around her, have her a little scat on some of the spare horse-blankets, and while he and the boys husk, tell her fairy stories the whole afternoon. "Ah! I don't wonder Rosie likes to be with him." Eliza- beth's sweet countenance showed how sincere were her words. She remembered the same period in her own life, and some of her father's stories, told her then, still lingered pleasantly in her memory. A smile played round her lips, and while she diligently sewed, she rattled off three or four of them for Alice's benefit. At length she dropped her work. "It's time to get supper," she exclaimed, "I can't tell you any more now of dances on the green, and strange little gentlemen and ladies tripping up to the unwary and asking for partners; I'll have'to do a little tripping my- self in the kitchen or you'll find the last meal of the day coming late." She left the room with a light step. Alice was alone with her aunt; the question that had been haunting her since her uncle's return could now be asked. "Uncle did not get me the school?" she timidly said. "The wages offered, Alice, were entirely too low." "Then he could have got me the situation if they had been willing to pay enough?" "Yes, Alice, but they were not. At least it seems Mr. Colby was not." ALICE MURRAY. 367 "How much did they offer? Mrs. Bradley's face flushed. "Not enough, Alice, to have Terence engage it for you," she answered. "But how much was it, aunt Nora, or didn't uncle tell you?" ' "Yes, he told me." She knit very fast, and in a kind of spasmodic way jerked out, "Four dollars a week." "Four dollars a week and board, aunt Nora? Mrs. Bradley was puzzled what to answer. One thing was certain she could not stain her soul with a falsehood, and yet what could she tell the poor girL She reflected a moment. To give her an evasive answer and thus deceive her, would it not be virtually telling a lie? What is a lie? Is it not a deceiving? twisting our words so as not to have them utter what is an untruth, and yet leaving an impression on the hearer's mind as remote as possible from the real state of the thing they inquire after. Is it not in the sight of God a rank, offensive and hypocritical lie? A lie acted, a lie premeditated, a lie under the guise of truth. No such shuffling meanness would do for her ; she was not a whited sepulchre, fair without and full of rot- tenness and dead men's bones within; she could not say one thing and mean another, and then hug the delusion to her heart that she was a model of veracity. She was fair and open in her dealings with all, and if at any time it was necessary to withhold the truth she did not substitute a lie in its place. It was not obligatory on any one to toll all they knew; they might tell as much as they liked, or as much as it would be well to tell, and then let it be known that they would go no farther. When she informed MAr. Bradley that she would only say to Alice that the trustees had not offered high wages enough she did not think Alice would ask the sum they named; yet when she not only asked, but in repeating the question, and in following it page: 368-369[View Page 368-369] 368 ALICE MURRAY. up, seemed determined to know, she was afraid if she tolV her she would instinctively divine the rest and feel crushed to the earth with a withering shame. Should she mention the pitiful sum and let the blow fall direct upon her, or should she tell her point blank that it was better for her not to know? But by pursuing the latter course would she be sparing her feelings? Would not her sudden and abrupt silence on the subject prove the insulting smallness of the sum as strongly as if she came right out with it? She looked up into Alice's face and to her question, "Four dollars a week and board, aunt Nora?" she firmly an^ swered: "No, Alice, four dollars a week and board yourself.' Alice's work dropped from her hands; bowing her hea upon the table, she wept bitterly. At a glance she saw how the case stood; she felt the iron enter her soul, in the contumely heaped upon her she looked upon herself as a despised and hated thing. lrs. Bradley tried to comfort her by telling her of their own early struggles and sorrows. At first she turned a deaf ear to all she said; ere long she raised her head and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Seeing her words arrest her attention, Mrs. Bradley went on from the farm labors and trials, to tell of the old troubles at home, and her voice, with its rich Milesian ac- cent became low and painfully distinct. She only spoke of her own neighborhood, of suffering that had come under her personal observation, of houseless, homeless wanderers she had seen and known; but in speaking of these she spoke of all; one neighborhood included another; the cruelty, injustice and tyranny, the barbarous system of ex- termination carried on against a warm-hearted, impulsive people, extended to every hamlet, and as the Israelites of old might have referred to the Egyptian bondage or Baby- lonish captivity, she told the tale of her country's wrongs ALICE MURRAY. 369 A huge colossal statue of suffering arose before lice, over- powering in its magnitude, oppressive in its details. Her individualism faded away, she no longer experienced shame and mortification ; the groans of a down-trodden, tortured people rung in her ears, and from the mightm ness of their sufferings she forgot her own. Deep, troubled thoughts w ere stirred, and burning questions fell from her lips. Why did God permit such injustice and cruelty? why were people who had always loved and revered Him, who had never in their direst afflictions fbrgotten His holy name, i, why were they driven out from their homes and sent wan- derers over all the world? Man in his littleness dares I thus to impugn his Creator, to arraign Him before the tribunal of his puny judgment. He cannot understand the causes of things around hin, and the finite rashly takes the Infinite to account. In all the suaffering she had seen in others or experienced herself, Mrs. Bradley had never felt this heart-scald of rebellion against the Deity rise up within her. A beautiful and child-like trust in God, a holy and sublime humility, a pure, earnest and sin- cere love for her religion and its heaven-born teachings had kept at- bay everything like murmuring or bitter re- proaches against a kind and beneficent Creator. Her people had been sorely afflicted, their enemies had heaped every contumely upon them, they had been systematically plundered, crushed, persecuted and slandered, but the Faith had been kept alive in their hearts, and wherever they flew for refuge and shelter they carried it with them, and in their sufferings the Church grew. In the words of Thomas a Kempis, "they felt that for this reason they came into this hour, that God might be glorified when they should be exceedingly humbled." Through the dark- ness of their tribulation, light dawned on many a one; in their banishment from their earthly home, many were page: 370-371[View Page 370-371] 370 ALICE MURRAY. called into the home of the True Church. This was an in. effable joy to them; humbled, cast down and despised, they were chosen for a great and glorious work ; in a par- ticular manner they were the apostles of the True Church. When Mrs. Bradley referred to the sorrows that she and others had seen, it was never in a hard or vindictive spirit, On the face of a corpse is the calm, profound peace, the majesty and grandeur of the tomb. Gazing upon it, we may experience a great sadness, but it is a sadness hal- lowed by tender and subdued feelings; a tear may be on the cheek, but a prayer is in the heart. No bitterness mars the sanctity of such grief; we know that Death is the real beginning of Life, so is sorrow in this transitory state, if rightly borne, that is with Christian patience and fortitude, the darkness ushering in a brighter day, the promise of a benediction. She was grieved, not to say shocked, at Alice's want of submission; with a frightened feeling she cast about her .in her mind for some apology that would cover its enormity. To ask why God permitted this, or allowed that, and ask it, too, in so stern and wrath- ful a manner! It was worse than blasphemy; it was ar- rogating a power above the Creator; it did not speak His holy name with disrespect, it did more ; it took His divine person to task, and evinced a spirit that would even lay down laws for Him. It was Lucifer striving for the sov- ereignty of heaven, and finding a yawning abyss ready to receive him for his impious daring. She shuddered and her flushed face grew pale; her eyes were fixed on her work, for she did not want Alice to read their meaning; she knew they must be full of reproof, and there are moods when reproach or harsh words only harden one in sin, when even reasoning will not do ; the former maddens to frenzy, the latter leads into intricate paths and unknown depths. Rigorous in her piety, she was also truly charitable AUCE vMURRAY. 871 I mean to say she possessed that charity which covers in others a multitude of faults. She reflected that she must not be harsh or severe in her judgment; Alice was young, inexperienced and naturally impetuous; she did not know how her words sounded, did not realize their full meaning. KT Her own adversities she had borne bravely, without a mlr* mur ; she labored at everything and anything to make ier- self useful; she did not weary them with long descriptions of her former way of living, and draw painful contrasts between her past and her present; she was gentle and re- spectful to all, and treated every one as an equal; she as- sumed nothing grand or magnificent, which would have frightened them and made them feel ill at ease in her presence; neither did she put on affected and languishing airs, which with their plain common sense, would have rendered her simply disgusting; she was now and then a little passionate or impatient, she hardly knew which to call it, but conscious she was so, striving to make up for it by being at times touchingly kind. She placed these as it were in a scale on one side, her enormity-for however worldlings might regard it, such it appeared to her-on the other; she did not herself dare to pronounce which side weighed down, but left itWin the hands of God, remem- bering if He is a God of justice, He is also a God of mercy. Light travels at the rate of nearly two hundred thousand miles a second, and immense as this velocity is, it is noth- ing compared to the swiftness of thought. It ranges over all times and places, takes up subjects, cons, studies and discusses them with an inconceivable rapidity. But an almost imperceptible pause had followed from Alice's fierce (c estions till Mrs. Bradley kindly and gently remarked * "Alice dear, in those days, dark as they were, we some- how or other always felt the good God had a loving eye upon us, and according to our affliction so would be our page: 372-373[View Page 372-373] J72 ALICE MURAT. reward. We never thought why He permitted or allowed it, we only grew to love Him more and more in our sonr >w, for then we remembered how much He had suffered for us. It is never, Alice, when all is light and sunshiny are und ou that you can plainly bring to mind the dark nitght in the garden, and all the agony that followed. It is when the blackness of Death, in the shape of sorrow and afflic- tion, is tugging at your heartstrings that you can clearly catch the tones of that prayer, ' Oh my Father, if it be possible, let this chalice pass from me, nevertheless not as I will but as thou wilt.' You follow Him through all the stages of agony up to the consummation. You see it all, the betrayal, the buffetings, the scourging, the crowning of thorns, the heavy burden of the cross, the cruel death, all, all! He, the Man God, fought our battle, He gained our victory, He bled, He died for us. In the desolation around you, folding you in its arms, shrouding you in darkness, you see it, you know it, and you do not ask why He permits this, or allows that; you only feel that He loved you unto death, the painfilll and bitter death on the cross, and all you suffer, or can suffer, is nothing compared to what He suffered and endured. You learn to love Him, as I said, more and more, and in your affliction draw nearer and nearer to Him. The distance between you grows less; He is near you ; He is not far off; you are under His protection, and his loving eye is upon-you." She ceased speaking, and a beautiful radiance lit up her worn face. Not one word had she said that could irritate, not one word that could lead to an argument. Wh3at she stated she set down as an incontrovertible fact, based on that kistory which is alike sacred to every Christian, andl depth of feeliPa. t vo. fervencv to hbr la1nrlae. She crroppe:l her ball, and in stooping to pick it up, brushed away a large rolling tear. Alice bowed her head over her AUCE MURRAY". 375 sewing and was silent. She did not dare to speak lest her words might end in a sob. What she had listened to was nothing strange or unknown ; for eighteen hundred vears the cross had been the support and comfort of the down- trodden and afflicted; for eighteen hundred years the ex- piation on Calvary's Height, the Divine Sacrifice there of- ferred up has been a subject grand, beautiful and sublime, never old, always new, thrilling us with its superhuman love, subduing us with its immensity. It is the point where all the centuries meet, where the triology of man is perfected, his creation, his fall, his restoration. As well might we weary of the sun, because for nearly six thou- sand years he has given light to the system of worlds around him, as look upon the Cross as an old or exhausted subject. Alice took her crucifix from her pocket, gazed at it intently, and fervently raised it to her lips. "Aunt Nora," she said, in a low, tremulous voice, "will you pray for me that God may forgive me ?" "I will, Alice, I will.", The door opened, and Elizabetn announced tea. That evening, after the regular evening prayers, Mrs Bradley said: " Children, we will say one more. The ' Remlember' to our Blessed Lady, and say it for your mother's in tention." Alice'bowed her head upon her hands. That mother's intention she knew was the promised prayer sent up for her forgiveness. From father and mother down to little Rosic, the youngest of their flock, the fervent appeal as- cended, and joined to the humble contrite feelings of tho poor offender, through the infinite mercy of God, who dare say it was not effectual ? page: 374-375[View Page 374-375] 574 ALICE MURRAY.[ CHAPTER XXIL THE fall months passed; Margaret's health improved, !I the winter months came, and she was able to go to he : school. Alice staid at her uncle's sewing for Elizabeth. In the early spring, just before lent, she and Ambrose were married. They had no wedding party at first. They went to the church, were married by Father Edwards, and imme- diately after the ceremony started on a visit to an uncle of Ambrose's living in Rochester. On their return they had a great feast to which all their neighbors were invited, and then the young husband took his bride to her new home and they quietly settled down to the regular routine of life. Margaret's school by this time was out, and her mothler and father had the pleasure of her society every dlay. Julia Armstrong frequently rode out to see them, and w:ts a weekly visitor at Elizabeth's. "I mnust run up as often as that," she said, " to see how they are getting along. Am- brose needs a great deal of scolding to keep him straighlt; Elizabeth won't give it to him and I will hagve to," and she gave it to him, and he enjoyed it, and laughed at her pun- H gent words as of old. Elizabeth saw under them a sisterly ! love, and a tenderness and gentleness to herself she had not expected. She had always entertained for her a warml g affection, but this affection ripened into almost a devotional feeling of reverence as she found under her giddy exterior . how sincerely good and kind she was. Shle had always ! known she was good and kind, but she had never dreamed ' of the depth of that goodness or the extent of that kind- ness. Julia helped her to arrange her house, add;led seve- ral little things of her own in the way of giving finishing touches to the appearance of the parlor, the sparn hel roo4 ALICE MURRAY 375t and her own N'Tari31b ii and her own, 1Margaret's and Alice's room ap-st irs, i)r tue i: nad a large handsome room set aside for either or them when they chose to occupy it. She also assisted her in her : flower-garden, gave her seeds and plants, and laid out the beds for her. Elizabeth needed few lesscns in thoe plain, i: every-day cooking ; her mother, in this respect, had taught, her well; but Julia showedl her how to make several deli- cate kinds of cake, and preserves. and1 to seal cans and bot- tie fruit, and then when she had dulyv instructed her, and got all going in regular clock-like order, instead of taking ,; the least praise to herself for the part she had played, ex- pressed the greatest admiration and the greatest astonish- Ii;:? ment to Mr. and Mrs. Bradley, her father and aunt, Paul ' and Ambrose, and in fine, to all her friends for the excel- I i leln way Elizabeth manaaed, and her skill and neatness in i the house-keeping line. Elizabeth tried to explain, to say .1 something, but she shut her up by politely requesting her to hold her tongue, and to let those talk that knew how to talk. Mr. Armstrong was in raptures; Amlbrose had done well; he was also in an agony of doubt--would Paul do ! the same? He wanted to settle the question a t once. It was provoking Alice was so dull of comprehension when he;!! sung to her the praises of Pautl, it, was exasperating in the ;it highest degree that a boy of Pa l's sagacity couldn't take a hint, especially when that hint was given in the broadest H Sj style. He did not know what it all meant. Alice was just '!j as much the one for Paul as Elizabeth was the one for Am-i!;I brose. Ambrose had never put himself np to be as wise as Paul; he had always been content to r]main in the back- li ground, and let his brother's superior wisdom shine forth ! undimmed by any lustre from his own, and now to see him S chose so well, and so cleverly, and Paul like a great stupid :i not to know when a good chance stood before Mhin, and to iHl, Iel it slip from him without a single effort to grasp it waa1 i,; c' page: 376-377[View Page 376-377] 876 ALICE MURRAY. enough to upset the patience of any one who had the least care for his future welfare. When Paul went to White. town, he did not expect to see him in Lucan over once in three months, but he generally made it his business to light upon them every fortnight; for the first six or eight weeks he said nothing, he only watched and bided his time, feel- ing sure it was no wondrous devotion to his home, or mawk- ish sentimental affection for the little pragmatical fussy vil- lage that led him so punctually back to them. Hle waited to see if he found his way to Stapleton. He did. He mount- ed its rugged sides, he braved its Alpine storms, he called on the Bradleys; and he brought to Alice Bossuet's and Fenelon's and Rollins' works, and he talked to her-he had gathered this interesting fact from the other members of the family-of their respective merits, and danced over the up hill periods of Chauteaubriand, and all was going on, he flattered himself, as prosperously as could be, when one X morning on his delicately pointing out the many excellent traits in Alice's character, her industry, economy. and lay- ing up habits, he turned on him in the strangest way and told him he needn't busy himself so much about his affairs; that Miss Murray was an excellent person, he knew it as well as any one, but it would be more agreeable to him not to hear quite so much about her many perfections; that if he wos obliged to marry every industrious, economical and saving young lady his uncle could hunt up, he might, hope- less as it seemed, and extravagant as the ladies were ac- cused of being, be able to have a harem as well filled as the Grand Sultan himself, and that, as a Christian, he did not exactly care for ; and with that, he abruptly dismissed the subject, and began in his kindest and most winning way an account of an interesting article in his paper. He didn't know what it all meant. Was Alice the one to blame? Did she, with all the good sense he had imputed to her, cast hi ALICE MURRAY. 3" affections aside as nothing worth; and, was he with his isual calmness and serenity of mind, trying to get over his I disappointment, and anxious, as any sensible man would i o, to hide the mortifying fact from even his nearest fiiends? 1 i Tie couldn't tell, it was hard to say. Paul kept coming to Lucan, and going up that terrible hill to Stapleton. That certainly did not look as if he was a rejected and de- Bpairing lover. Could it be possible that he did not par- ticularly care for her? What brought him thlere so often? What attraction did he find in the mountainous road lead- ing to the Bradley's, or in the bleak winter aspect of the place? Bradleys were an amiable pleasant family to call ! upon; there was no denying it, but there were other fami- lies more convenient to him just as amiable and pleasant.! Did he go through all that travel and toil just to hear old Bradley expatiate on farm matters and to taste Mrs. Brad- ley's mince pies and listen to the account of all her firkins of butter, and the home-made suits she had made up for the boys and their father, and the length of time they must last them? Nonsense. Not a bit of it. He knew better. As to farm matters, what more did old Bradley know of .il them than his own uncle, nd a merchant, not a farmer, what; did he particularly care for them. What better were Mrs. f Bradley's pies than his mother's, and how more interesting her butter accounts and coat and pant-making duties than E'i going back to the days they lived on the farm, his own: t mother could tell him? But Alice could talk on those sub- jects that were so dear to him. She loved the same au- thors he did, she knew all about them and their works, she could take a lively pleasure in his remarks concerning them while he in return could thoroughly enjoy listening ;l, to hers. She after all then must be the magnet that drew X him from Whitetown to Lucan, and from Lucan up the i! cold, bleak hill of Stapleton. Then why so annoyed, ewi U1 page: 378-379[View Page 378-379] 278 ALICE MURRAY. offended in fact when his old uncle gave him a few gentle hints about securing for life the companionship of one so worthy of him, of one in whose similarity of tastes to his I own he could be so happy. She was as learned as himself, i she had all those little outside accomplishments, all those refined lady-ways that Paul liked so much, and then be. sides, she possessed what was above it all, good, sound common sense. Her book-loving propensities did not make r a simpleton of her; she loved books and could talk about them, but she loved work and could do it; she alkvays was neat in her appearance, but it did not take a small fortune to dress her; and it never would, Paul might depend cn that. She was one of the few that would keep a sharp look out on the cents, knowing thereby the dollars would take care of themselves. What perversity had come over Paul? Why was he so stupid? Was he so sure of the prize that he did A not think it worth his while to show too great an eagerness for it? Did he flatter himself that hid away on the mountain nobody for whom she could possibly care, would find out her worth? He had better take care. He had seen many a one in his life just as sure of some object, and taking in their lofty conceit as little pains to gain it, and he had afterwards enjoyed the sight of their wry faces as they ! drained the cup of disappointment to its very dregs. Mr. Armstrong was worried about Paul. He never went to Ambrose's and witnessed the light and happiness that Elizabeth's sweet presence threw around his home that he did not feel more vexed and irritated than ever with his brother. The spring passed, the summer came, and Paul's visits grew more like angels', few and far between. Mr. Armstrong was severely tried. It really did seem to him that that wise Solomon-like nephew of his did it all to tor- ment him. "Did what?"It was a question very pertnently put *ALICE MURRAY. 379 to him by Mrs. Meade, when not daring to annoy Paul on the subject he growled forth his complaints to her. "Why stopped going to the Bradleys?' he answered. looking up, amazed that she did not know without asking. i "But what good would it do him to be going up there, I should like to know?"Mrs. Meade was sewing and her i eyes were fixed upon her work. She did not see the flushed, angry face of her brothor, but she heard the short, panting breath, the heavy rap given with his cane to the great grey and white cat lying so peacebly on the carpet, at his feet, and she smiled the calm, provoking smile of a woman who, in the sighltof a very impatient irritable old gentleman, can keep her temper, and feel in the natural i kindness of her heart a pity and gentle forbearance for one that cannot. I "What good did it do, Ambrose?" he asked in reply, i "Iook at the housekeeper he has got by it; look at his home, his little wife, his life companion, and you'll see, Sarah, the good it did him. I always thought Paul knew something, but he don't; he's a fool, a conceited block-i head, a great, big, swaggering nobody. With all his fine notions, and desires to be somebody, and climb up and ; make his mark in world, to let such a chance as that slip from him, I tell you, Sarah, he's not what I took him to ii! be." . "But be reasonable, Nathan ; if Alice does not want him , what can he do?" i "Not want him, Sarah; why she'd be only too glad to get him. She knows, for she's a sensible girl, that it's not every day such a one as Paul can be found." "But you said not a minute ago that he was a fool, a blockhead, a big, swaggering nobody. I shouldn't think I i if she had a particle of sense she would want even to look I at him if he was all that." 1 1jji page: 380-381[View Page 380-381] OLJU ALICE MURRAY. I wish, Sarah, you wouldn't be coming over what I say in that way. It's not agreeable to me. You know as well as I do how I came to say it; and you know too that if I was their own father I could not have a greater anxiety to see the boys well settled in life." "Yes, Nathan, I know it. You have been like a father to them, but you mustn't worry too much about Paul now ; he'll do well, never fear it." "Never fear it, Sarah ; why I think there's great canuso to fear it. Alice is a good girl, where will he find another like her?" "True; but if, as I said before, she don't want him, what can he do?" "She not want him! Impossible. It can't be. It's Paul that's to blame. She's a good, modest girl, and can't i speak till he does, and he, with his brainless pride, is look. ing for a richer one, with grand connections, great expec- tations, and all that; and he won't get such a one, or if he does it will be all the worse for him. "But you mustn't be too hard on him." "I am not hard on him. I have been proud of that boy. I have pictured him to myself a great, good and useful man, and I tell you it would break my heart, tough as you think it, to see him throw away all his fair pros- pects in life on a bad match. I would rather, Sarah, much as I love him, follow him to the grave." "I don't doubt you, Nathan," there was a warm, grateful tone in her voice; "their own father, were he living, could not feel for them more than you, or could not have done better for them. You have brought them up and formed them to habits of industry and frugality; you have kept them from bad company, and while holding a firm hand over them you have not been too harsh or severe. Your have been a kind brother to me and a good uncle to them.' [ r ALICE MURRAY. 381s Mr. Armstrong pushed back uneasily in his chair; all Mrs. Meade said discomposed him more than he cared to show; he had done for those boys as if they had been his own, but then hadn't she done for his daughter? and had'nt she been a faithful sister to him? But what was the use of going over what each had done for the other? Why not stick to the subject of Paul's miserable shortsight- edness? He was far from being an unreasonable uncle ; because the girl was poor, had no setting out, or any of the fixings that women think so much about and fancy of such consequence, he did not scorn her, or close his eyes to her sterling qualities. If he was a yong man settling in life he would much rather marry the girl that could and ii would help him to make a fortune, than one that had al-J i ready what somebody else had made, and only knew how i to spend it. He would speak to Sarah about that. He would not let her throw dust in his eyes with her smooth , words, and by tender references to the past, drag him from the subject in hand. He would keep close to it and make her do the same. He believed in his soul she knew more of the affair than he was willing to own; but he would find out, he would sift her well with questions. He VI got up very deliberately from his chair, walked to the open jiA door, looked attentively at the graveled walk leading to*; the gate, bowed to a man he saw passing by, thought he knew him, that it was Griscom from Stapleton, but was j not sure, his eyes were getting so dim, went back to his chair and sat down. l "Why, yes, I've done for the boys," he said, emphatic cally, laying his two hands on the arms of his chair, " and i you've done for Julia. I don't know what she'd have been ii without you. I know what she is now; sometimes the comfort, and sometimes the plague of my life-but that's {li neither here nor there; the thing is, Sarah, is your oldest :i l *. rj ii page: 382-383[View Page 382-383] 382 AIJCE MURRAY. son, that Paul with all his promise, going to make a foil of himself by letting a good chance, the best he'll ever get, I slip through his fingers?" 4 "I'm sure I can't tell. If it does slip through his fin- gers it will be through no fault of his." . "You speak as if you knew." "I know that much, Nathan." "If you know that much, Sarah, you know more. Do you know--you need not be afraid to tell me, I'll say noth. ing to the boy about it-whether or not he has spoken to Alice on the subject." Mrs. Meade paused a moment, looked sharply at her brother, and bluntly answered : "Yes, Nathan, I do." "He has spoken then to her?" "Yes." "And she rejected him?" he asked, with widely extended eyes. "She did not accept him." "Why, Sarah, why not accept him? what reason did she give? what did she say? Tell me that, woman, tell me. I that thought her so wise and good and worthy, to refuse Paul." His eyes had a wrathful spark in them, and his voice the clear, sharp ring of anger. "Nathan, be calm." "I am calm, Sarah ; I was never ealmer or cooler in my life. And she would not have him, she expects to do bet- ter," he added, in a tone that forcibly contradicted his as- sertion of calmness and coolness ; " she turned up her nose at him and his offer. That was the way she treated him, I that was what he got when, with all the blackness hanging on her name, he laid his honorable affections at her feet, and offered to exchange it for his own unsullied, untar. nished one." ALICE MURRA. 383. ![ ,s Nathan, what's the use of running on so ; listen to me. Alice has a reason for rejecting him," e"A reason, woman, what reason is there, what reason can there be?") I will tell you, if you'll be calm enough to hear it. It's t: not because she loves another better, or that she hopes to , gain the affections of another and a better than Paul." [ "That would be impossible, Sarah. She'll never, as i. long as she lives, let her live to be a hundred, find another jl like him." A faint smile played around Mrs. Meade's face as she rejoined : i "No, Nathan, certainly not. But it's not that. The i: !ast time Paul was there I noticed how haggard and sor- i rowful he looked when he came back. I was alone in the X " sitting-room. Julia as now was out to Ambrose's, and as i! he sat down I asked him what was the matter; he an- swered nothing. I told him I knew better. He had been up to the Bradley's? Yes. Was Margaret worse-for 1[ you know, Nathan, she is sick, and it is feared will not re- 1 cover." I "Yes, yes, I know, but what did he say?" i] "He replied that she was as well as she'd ever be in this iii world, that the doctor said she had heart disease, that she might linger till fall, but was liable to drop away any mo- ment. ' And it takes away all your strength to hear this,' ! I said. 'No, mother,' he answered, 'I've known for some time past that Margaret would not live to see her twenty- j first birth-day. Mrs. Carolan told me over a year ago that she was far from well, and she thought she had some trouble I} i about the heart. From the symptoms she mentioned I I thought so too. I did not speak of it to anyone, because Mrs Carolan said Margaret did not want her father and mother il to know it, It would aUly grieve aud worry them withoutj I,1 { a; in page: 384-385[View Page 384-385] 384 ALICE MURRAY. in the least changing the case with her.' ' Then not corn ing suddenly upon you it still casts you down to know that she must soon leave us,' I said. 'It is certainly a great grief to me, mother,' he answered, ' to any one who has i enjoyed the pleasure of her acquaintance to know that she'll soon be called away.' There was a restraint in his manner and a chilling tone in his voice. I felt I had asked him as many questions as he wished to answer; I but as I looked at his grave face and deep eye filled with i a consuming sorrow, I went up to him, laid my hand on his forehead and smoothed back the dark locks straying It over it. 'Paul,' I said to him, ' when you were a little boy I you always used to come to me with your troubles. Re- l served as you were to all the world, you never refused to i confide in your mother. Whlly won't you confide in me now?' A quick change passed over his countenance, a a frown at first contracted his brow, but in a moment it was gone, and looking up with the old frankness in his eyes, I saw something like a tear in their clear depths. ' Mother,' he answered, ' it may seem unmanly in me to go f to you now. I know those that would laugh to scorn ithe : thought of going to the 'old lady,' as they have learned to style their mothers, with any tender subject. But I don't feel so; I don't think it mean or unmanly to go to my mother with the most poignant sorrow I have ever known;' and, Nathan, he leaned his head on his hand, and I knew by his heavy breathing, by the shudder that shook his M stout young frame, all thrilling with life, that a mortal agony was passing over him. 'Mother,' he said, looking up and smiling that smile which is so heart-breaking, 'I had hoped so much, and laid out such a pleasant future for me, for you, for us all, for you liked her. You liked Alice Murray and could have been happy with her, and now to find that I have been building on sand, that my I AlCE MURRAY. 385 atry castle is swept away, and that I have been a blind, dreaming idiot, is bitter, mother, bitter.' And, Nathan, I felt it was ; the tone, the emphasis told plainer than his words how bitter. 'But Paul,' I said, drawing up my chair and seating myself beside him, 'you must not allow this disappointment to weigh you down too hleavily. For loving Alice Murray you need not be ashamed, your own I mother tells you that; it showed your capability to love ; virtue and worth. You thought her good and worthy, and to that worth and goodness your affections went out.' 'But, mother,' he excitedly exclaimed, ' she is good, she is worthy, I made no mistake there.' And, Nathan, he de- clared that never did she appear so pure, so kind, so truly and sincerely good as when she told him she could notI, accept his hand. He asked her did another stand between i him and her affections; and then he felt in his mortifica- : tion he had asked a question he had no rigrht to ask, and , said something to that effect; but she told him no; no, he had done nothing of the kind, that it was no more than just for him to ask that question, and for her to answer it, i that he had laid open his heart to her and she did not consider it a lowering of her dignity, or a departure from !, the modest reserve which should ever belong to woman, to 1i be frank and open to him in return ; that no one did stand 1 between himn and her affections, but honored as she was .3 by his generous and noble offer, she could not accept it. ; He begged to know the reason, and she told him she could not think of marrying and giving up teaching because a great duty rested on her, and she must not shirk or try to 1 get away from it. She must do it if it took all her life, i her strength, and her happiness in this world to do it with. " At once I told Paul I knew what this duty was. It was to I pny old Elbray for her bringing up." l "But she don't think of that, Sarah"' , ii page: 386-387[View Page 386-387] 386 ALICE MURRAY. "She just thinks of nothing else, Nathan. Didn't 1 heat her declare in the most solemn manner that day he and his wife were here that she would do it. And she'll do it too," "Do it, Sarah?" "Yes, Nathan, do it." "With her two,rre or three or four dollars a week during ; the winter and summer months, clothing herself and meet- ing little incidental expenses?" "No, Nathan, not exactly in that way. Paul informed me that Father Edwards has bespoke a place for her in the : Whitetown Academy with a five hundred dollar a year sal-. ary, and I once heard her say something about buying a c house and house-lot and paying for it by degrees, and of that in her estimation being a good way to invest money, and I believe when she gets enough that's what she means to do." "Not a doubt of it. Sarah, not a doubt of it. And so she said that?" "Yes, Nathan, the day she and Margaret visited Julia when Ambrose and Elizabeth were in Rochester." "Well, it would be a good way to invest her wages. She said true, she is one with a keen eye to loss and gain. Paul must certainly wait for her; it will well pay him. Let her lay up and save as much as she likes, it will do her no harm, it will do her good, and by the time she has something in the neighborhood of paying old Elbray, why, then she and Paul can marry." "But, Nathan, I know she'll not feel free to marry till she has paid up the last cent." "Paid up the last cent! How long does she expect that old fellow is going to live? You have said that his hair is as white as snow, and that he looks to be eighty." "He looks older, Nathan, than he is. Alice says the last year has told fearfully on hiw" ALICE MUIRRAY. 387 "And according to that a year or two more may close I up his concerns in this world. For if every year stands for a ten, age comes quick, you know that." "Yes, but sometimes, Nathan, the outside seems battered enough to fall to pieces any moment, and yet it holds to- . gether, and the spirit lingers in it a long time. You re- member old Deacon Webster?" "Yes, yes, I remember him. Lived past all accounts; was hobbling round on his crutches when he should have been in his grave ; only lived on seemingly to make people i split their thtroats trying to make him hear ; had the voice of a hoarse November wind, and the form of a skeleton. I ; don't see how he came to stay so long in that old shell of his." 1 "It was because it was the will of God, Nathan." "Of course it was," he hastily answered, rapping the car- pet with his cane ; of course it was, and I know it, and I don't want to hear a sermon on the head of it," he added, seeing by Mrs. Meade's long face, a severe expression in her eye, and an unusual compression of her thin lips that a reproof, or a sermon, as he termed it, was what he was in i imminent danger of hearing, "and I won't either," he con- tinued, "I won't hear the first word of it. I knew old Web- i ster in his best days, before time had laid his hand so I heavily on him, and he was a canting, growling, snarling, hypocritical nuisance. He was a mean man from the first, i A and living long didn't tend to better him. I don't want to i! be censorious, or uncharitable, I never did, and so far as ! in me lay, I never was, but I never heard him praying and throwing the Psalms through his nose in one breath, cheat- ing his neighbor and taking every possible advantage of him in the next, cruel, hard and remorseless on the poor i and the helpless, and all the time so self-righteous, tyranni-c i cal and overbearing at home, and so crushing and brow. ; page: 388-389[View Page 388-389] 388 ALICE MURRAY. beating on any one abroad who happened to disagree with him in politics or religion, that I wondered, as his sonsa grew up, they should make a scoff of the Bible, and look l upon honor and principle as something to sneer at and laugh about, but not to practice-and-and-Sarah, you i know what they were; it's no use for me to go over it. , They both fill dishonored graves, and when their rotten bodies were consigned to the earth, it was no loss to society and a real blessing to their families. But old John Elbray, with all his faults, or to hit the nail more precisely on the head, with all his folly, is not so deep and double-dyed a villain. He's only a passionate; dim-eyed old fool that, hap- pening to scrape together some wealth, contrasts his pre. sent with his past, the pompous monied man of to-day with the little, ragged, snuffling, knocked-about boy of yesterday, and feels mightily lifted up. He needs to be let down a little, and with that second wife of his I think there's every I prospect that sooner or later he Will be. Alice with her school-wages is going to try to lay up enough to pay him i for bringing her up, and let her. May:-be he'll want all she can return him; he most assuredly will if he lives long enough; if not, why, it will be all the more laid up for her- self, and Paul in getting her, will get with a good, saving , industrious and pious wife a snug little sum beside. Olih Paul can afford to wait for such a one; he can afford to wait. Tell him so, Sarah, the next time he comes out; I would myself, but somehow or other he don't like to have me touch the subject. I don't know why, for I'm sure I am as delicate as any one could be; but boys will be boys, shy and bashful with their fathers, or with those that stand in their place, never thinking they were once fluttering and thrilling with uncertainties, and hopes and heart-burns, and all that." "But, Nathan, I don't think it would do any good, to tell AIIcCE AMUnRA. 389 him to wait. If he wants to wait he'll wait without my telling him; and if he don't -want to wait, all my telling him would not make him." -"Is that your opinion of Paul? Is that what you think of him?" , "I think, Nathan, that if he is your nephew he has a little common sense." There Was a flash in Mrs. Meade's eye. She was provoked that her brother should be so med- dlesome about Paul's affairs. She was afraid his precipi- tancy would spoil all. Why couldn't he be quiet and let i things work round in their own good time? What would i he think of a farmer, that before the grain headed would id begin to harvest it? What-but her questions silently put to herself were suddenly cut short. "And so you think if he is a nephew of mine, or in i spite of being my nephew, that he has some sense?" "Yes, Nathan, I do." "In other words, that I am a fool? Is that what youf mean?" "No, Nathan, but be patient and wait, and don't ask or expect me to do what I know would be foolish." "Have I asked, or have I expected you to do a foolish i thing?"i Mrs Meade waived a direct answer. In his present mood she felt it was the better way. J "Well, well, Nathan," she replied," you know you mustn't i' be unreasonable." "You told ine that before, Sarah." i "I know I did, and I might tell you every hour of the day, only," " "Only that I won't bear it." "No; only that it would do no good. It would be so much breath wasted." The stitches were taken off the i? needles with a great deal of unnecessary energy. She did i X page: 390-391[View Page 390-391] 390 AT-TOE MUERRAY. not wonder Paul, with all his forbearance, got irritated with him; she would have been surprised if he hadn't. But then she supposed he meant no harm; that in his great love for him and his anxiety to see him well settled in life he forgot his usual excellent way of managing an affair. He was delicate in approaching this most delicate of all subjects. Yes, she knew just how he approached it. He began by outrageously praising Alice, and next went on to tell Paul if he wanted to make a good bargain for life he knew how he could do it. Alice was the one for him, she would be one to help a husband along, and not be a drag on him, and if he wanted to go ahead in the world and not stand stuck in the mire, he must see to it, and not let such a golden chance slip by; and, in fine, made marriage such a pocket-book affair, such a money-making or money-losing speculation that he disgusted him and made him turn sour and grim upon him. Not a tender sentiment, not a feeling throb, not a soul-fla sh of pure and generous emotions. Nothing elevated, refined or ennobling-all loss and gain, I and making good bargains and rejoicing over them, or poor ones and bewailing them. But then Paul knew him, and what else could he expect of him? He had always been an intensely matter-of-fact man, and it would be impossible for him to take a fine, broad, exalted view of the subject. He looked upon it as a very serious affair and so it was, but to feel about it as Paul did was simply out of the question. All the romance in his nature had long since died out, leia- ing scarce a memory behind of its former existence. It only seemed to her as yesterday when looking cross-wise on the past, skipping the long, tedious round-about years, he brought home his gentle, timid bride. She was a little girl at the time, but she well remembered his proud, flushed face when their mother met her at the door, took her in her arms and kissed her, and their father laid his old hand ALICE MURRAY. 891 jn her head, blessed her, and called her the Rebecca his son had brought home to them-mother and him. He was always a kind, indulgent husband, conforming himself to i her tastes, and because she liked the beautiful, gathering it around his home. The log house they commenced house-keeping in disappeared in time, and he had the prettiest frame house in all the place, with a hundred handy little things in and around it. When the children gi God gave them, one by one were called home, how he bore up against his sorrow to comfort and sustain her in hers. He never let his eager hoarding-up disposition harden his heart or close it to the dictates of humanity. He might set his face against many of the extravagancies of the day, but he never grudged the real comforts and necessaries of life ::i to his family. He liked a good bargain, in buying or sell- ing, to get the full worth of his money, but he never took a mean advantage of any one. With all his desire to get along he was strictly honest; and notwithstanding his de- plorable want of sentiment, and total ignorance of the fine exalted feelings of the young, could be truly kind, and prove himself a patient, faithful and forbearing friend. He once held a heavy mortgage on a shiftless neighbor's farm; i the neighbor might have made his acres yield so as to have i paid him, but he didn't.; The pay day came, and no money came with it. Did Nathan Armstrong close the mortgage, and sweep the pro- fits complacently into his own coffers? No. With all his : abhorrence of loss, and admiration of gain, did he can- cel the mortgage, and through a spirit of philanthropy for- give the debt, hoping his weak helpless friend might next i tinme do better? Not at all. He got his pay, every cent L of it, and yet he did not distress him. But he made him go to work, put in crops, see to them, harvest them, and, When they were ready for market, bought them, giving him ,i l page: 392-393[View Page 392-393] 892 ALICE MURRAY. the full, regular price for them, putting the price, that is the money, back into his own pocket. Thus taking the grain at its full valuation, he paid himself in the course of ' few years, saved the man his farm, and got him into in- lustrious habits. More than once his wife had told her her husband's debt to Armstrong was the making of him, and so it was. But it wouldn't have been if he had had the hard, grasp- ing, unrelenting heart of old Webster. But he didn't; un- der all his bluntness, all his matter-of-fact ways, he had a good, honest, feeling heart. He couldn't have slept, or eat or rested, or enjoyed a moment's peace if he thought his, prosperity was bought with the groans and wretchedness of a others. She could not forget how faithfully he had stood by her in her trouble. When Mr. Meade was on his death- bed the knowledge that he was soon to leave his wife and little boys alone in the world, was embittered a thousand times by the fact that he was not only to leave them alone, but with a debt of twelve hundred dollars on their farm. He had been making improvements in his buildings, buy- ing stock and seeding down fields. Had he lived all would have gone on well, for he was industrious, careful and a good manager. But in the midst of his busy calcu- lations for life, Death came, and with it came all the horror of leaving his family in debt. Nathan's kindness of heart showed then; he hastened to his bedside, promised to take charge of the farm, with its load of debt, to see that it paid for itself without letting it be run down, to give a home to his wife and children till the last cent was paid, and in fine be as a father to his fatherless children. Reu- ben had all confidence in him, his fears were quieted, his mind at ease, and with Nathan's hand in his, peacefully he died. Mrs. Meade's eyes were suffused with tears as this page in her life presented itself before her. Mr. Arm- ALICE MURRAY. 393 strong had left the room. Had she glanced out of the window she would have seen him, with his cane stuck un- der his left arm, his right on the fence separating the yard from the highway, looking intently down the street. For a while he stood there as if buried in deep thought, then i with his cane still under his arm he walked down to the lower end of the yard on the east side, paused there a few moments, and then passed into the garden. Soon he re- turned to the house. r "Yes," he exclaimed in his usual abrupt manner,it Ci will surely go that way." Mrs. Meade started. To be so suddenly roused from her train of sweet, sad thoughts, f was not pleasant. Her brother had figured as hero in those thoughts, and yet now, as his voice fell upon her ear, an irritated and annoyed feeling sprung up in her heart. i In as quiet a tone as she could assume she asked: "What will go?" "The railroad to be sure. They were all so certain when they came to survey the route that it would go through Iathbun; and now, after all their wise prophe- cies, it is coming through Lucan, and the eastern side of it 1' too ; just where I all along said it would come." "Well, what of it?" "What of it, Sarah? a pretty question surely. Wait ; for a year or two, and you'll see. Lucan will wake up, busines will flow in, property will rise, and my eighteen acres will grow up into consequence." He rubbed his hands with delight, and listened to any response she might ! be pleased to make. She made none, and after a suitable pause he continued: "An acre or two bought now, or in a few months, would psly well." i "But, Nathan, with your eighteen acres what more do you want?" page: 394-395[View Page 394-395] 394 ATLCE MURRAY. "I want no more, Sarah. I have enough for myself; : as much, with seeing after the farim in Stapleton, as I can attend to. When I spoke of buying I was not thinking of ! myself, but of Alice Murray and her house lots. If she wants to get them, to lay her money out in that sensible t way, now is the time to do it."' "How much has she at interest?" "Fifty-nine dollars and a half." "And pray how much would that buy?" "You needn't sneer so, Sarah, I was not thinking of that, but of the two or three hundred she'll be able to save fromt her salary in another year." "But wouldn't it be just as well to wait till she has earned i:"/ Mr. Armstrong moved uneasily in his chair, and forcibly : polished the arms of it. "Sarah," he impatiently exclaimed, "I wish you would not put me out in my calculations with your foolish, ill- i! timed questions. TWait till she has earned it? to be sure :} I will, but because she hasn't yet earned it, am I to play the coward and be afraid to look forward to what will be done with it when she has?" "Certainly not, Nathan, certainly not." He had been j so good to her in the past he needed a little soothing. She would shut her eyes to his absurd eagerness to dis- pose of Alice's money. In his great anxiety for her wel- fare was shown his exceeding love for Paul. "But, Nathan," she asked, trying to show an interest in the subject, and knowing that, better than anything else, would please him, " how much would you have to give per acre now?" "Why now, Sarah," he answered, with the joyousness of one who feels his words are at last appreciated, "I would have to pay seventy or seventy-five dollars. Another year, ALICE MURRAY. 395 if all goes on as I have every reason to know it will, I may have to pay more, may be as high as a hundred, and there for awhile it will stand. But buy her three or four acres, fence it in, put in a crop of wheat, and in the fall the grain will bring her more than the interest." "But the paying for the ploughing, sowing, harvesting and thrashing?" "I would, see to that, and she could pay you and Julia in I any little sewing or fancy work you might want done. In the course of a few years they could be cut up into house- lots, and they would then bring her a handsome sum." ; "Without buildings on thelm?" "Why she could sell off two or three of the lots, and with the price obtained for them, together with what from her school money she will have saved, she might put up houses on the others." nMrs. Meade listened with attention to him while he ran on, buying land for Alice, tending to its proper cul- [ tivation, portioning it off into house-lots, selling a part of them, building on the others, renting her houses, seeing to the increase of her property, doubling it over and over again, till the grand, towering finale was reached, -the get- ting enough to pay John Elbray, his being where he could j not possibly take or accept it, and in the end, with a respect- able fortune of her own, being married to Paul. Mrs. i! Meade offered not a dissenting word, but she could not help saying to herself: "What a bitter disappointment, it would be to Nathan, after all his trouble and anxiety, it Paul and Alice were never married." i page: 396-397[View Page 396-397] IF IF ^P A LLtJLA fIlUJZmIBAY* CHAPTER XXIII. ALICE did not apply for a school, for she was certain a school in that section would have been refused her. In September she would take the place Father Edwards had so kindly got her in the Whitetown Academy; till then she could find enough to do in her uncle Bradley's family. More than ever they now needed her. From file close of her winter's term Margaret's health visibly declined; day by day her strength failed, and at last with all her bravery she had to give up. Her mother's syrup this time did not relieve, and a physician was called in. He pronounced her case heart disease, and candidly informed her parents she could not recover. It was a terrible blow to them. Mrs. Bradley's face blanched deadly pale, and her hands grew cold as she listened to his words, his sentence rather it seemed. Mr. Bradley bowed his head upon his hand and was silent. The ticking of the clock in the great kitchen lever sounded so loud, or struck so gratingly on the ear. [t tolled out the passing minutes so unconscious of the pent up agony around it; Mrs. Bradley raised her eyes mpatiently to it, and was the first to speak. "It's hard to give her up," she said, drawing a long leavy breath.* 'It is, Nora," Mr. Bradley answered. ' I did not think t. And yet we might have known it." There was the twed and hushed tones of a deep unutterable anguish in LiS voice. "No, no, we did not think it," Mrs. Bradley hurriedly eplied; then she rose and busied herself about the house. :t was impossible in her sorrow to sit passive, doing lothing. She must be up and stirring, she must shake the tunnaing influence off Margaret going to die? Impossi- ALICE M- UtRAY. 3897 ble. She would get better again and be spared to them. God knew how they loved her and clung to her, and He would not take her from them. He would leave her to be the joy and comfort of their hearts. The doctor said He would nct, but how did he know! Was he the end of the law? Was his word omnipotent? Why did Terence sit there so crushed and stupid, and looking for all the world like one asleep, staring with wide open eyes. She wished she could just get near him and whisper unknown to the doctor a word in his ears. She put wood in the stove, and brushed off some imaginary dust from its polished surface; she stepped into the buttery, giving Mr. Bradley a mean- ing glance. He was not asleep, for he saw the glance, and slowly and stiffly rising, followed her in. "Terence," she whispered, "why in God's name don't you pay the doctor, and let him go? What good is he do- ing by staying?" "But Margaret, Nora, you forget, he may help her." "I don't forget, Terence, I know very well what I say. Pay him and let him go, and get another that will help her, and do something for her. He says he can't, and that's enough. What more do you want of him?" "Send for another, Nora?"This was a new idea with Mr. Bradley. Not that he grudged any trouble or expense to save Margaret; but when the doctor said he could do i nothing for her he sank down unable to turn his mind from the one black whelming thought-Margaret must die- - the doctor had said it-it was irrevocable as fate itself. Not so Mrs. Bradley. After the first shock she quickly rallied. Terence should go for another 'doctor, Margaret should not be let die for the 'say' of one; did it not often happen that they disagreed in their opinion? and should , they allow themselves to be crushed by his words? iA No; before the week was over they would know what page: 398-399[View Page 398-399] 898 AInCE M[URRAY., another would say. They did. Mr. Bradley paid the first his fee and at once went for a skilful physician residing in Whitetown. He came, and agreed with the former in pro. nouncing her case heart disease, but toned down the bitter. ness of his words by saying she might live several months, even years; and then renewed all their fears and anguish by declaring she was liable to drop away any moment. Poor Mrs. Bradley! again the life current seemed frozen in her veins. She looked wildly around as if for help; the hope she had clung to had drifted away; she might sit with her hands idly folded now ; there was nothing for her to do, nothing to lift the mountain-like load from her chest. But stop; so far as this world was concerned it might be so, but was it so in regard to the next? As a Christian mother was there nothing for her to do? Wasi her poor child to be left in ignorance as to her real state? Would it be just, would it be kind in her to hide the fact from her? Should she not tell her, and have Father Ed- wards sent for, and the last sacraments administered to her? These were poignant questions; but she asked l them ; and what is more, forced herself to answer them. "Doctor," she said, addressing him, "you think she can never be cured?" "I fear it, madam ; she may be spared to you several months," he added, seeing how pale the poor mother grew. "But she may die any moment?" He gravely bowed his head. He was an honest, upright physician; he knew it was his duty candidly to tell them the real truth, however painful for them to hear it, and putting aside his own feelings in the case, ho told it. Another, taking advantage of their ignorance, and their great and very natural desire for her recovery might have held out false hopes to the very last-and as a sequencee woald ever after ha-'e been despised and contemned by the ALICE MURRAY. 399 hlole family. Knowing by the saddest experience how r little confidence could be placed on his word, they would fear ever again to employ him. Physicians in this way often make mistakes. ! "But doctor," said Mrs. Bradley, her voice sounding ; hoarse and strained, "can nothing, nothing at all be done for her?" - "I will leave," he answered, taking several packages from his side pocket, "some powders. They will relieve her when one of her paroxisms comes on; when she is threatened with one it may tend to ward it off. Here too is a vial; you are to give her ten drops three times a day, an hour or half an hour before eating." He reflected awhile and then gave farther and more careful directions. Mrs. Bradley listened as if her whole life depended ox hearing. Several times she interrupted him to ask a ques- tion, and then repeated what he had said to see she made no mistake in understanding him. His orders all given, she went into Margaret's room. She said nothing, but busied herself in arranging the medicines on the mantle- piece, now and then casting a furtive and troubled glance on the poor invalid in the great arm-chair. Alice got the dinner, the physician accepting Mr. Bradley's earnest invi- tation, staid to it; after the meal Mr. Bradley paid him 1 his fee, and with as kind, hopeful words as he dared con- scientiously to use, he left. Then Mrs. Bradley opened ' the case to Margaret. Alice was washing the dishes and giving the kitchen its afternoon air of tidiness, when Mr. and Mrs. Bradley again went to her room. They drew up their chairs and seated themselves beside her. Mr. Brad- ; ley's face had the dull, vacant look of one stupified by great affliction ; Mrs. Bradley's a restless, startled and frightened expression. She could not indulge in the pain- { ful luxury of grief; it would be selfish in her to think of page: 400-401[View Page 400-401] wV AILUJUA MUItRAYX. it; she had a solemn duty resting on her; it was to open to her child her critical state, and do it in a manner that would not bring a violent shock to her. A little thing I might suddenly snap the frail thread of her existence; and she must be very careful in what she said. Terence must: say nothing; he would be sure to blunder the first thing, and in correcting his blunder foolishly tell all at once. In letting her eyes abstractedly wander round the room, they rested on the book-case. It was well filled now. While getting Elizabeth's "setting out," she had sent to New York and Boston and got all the works Margaret, that night when showing it to Ambrose Meade, had mentioned, and several others which they knew she wanted. They were all glad and joyous then, and little they thought Death was so soon to overshadow their home. Margaret was to all appearance well, and so happy, and to one of her grave manners, even gay. How they laughed at her pleasant jokes, and how strange they sounded coming from her lips. But they were so innocent and pure and good that no one could be displeased with them ; and they were not. They felt her manner of accepting their present, and her sweet, playful words on the occasion more, a great deal more than paid them-and now, oh, now what a change! There was Margaret's book-case, there her books, and she would soon be away from them all. But she must not allow herself to think, it would unnerve her, and ren- der her unfit for the strict performance of her sacred duty. "Well, Margaret," she said, making an effort to speak, "do you feel any effect of the powder you took before dinner?" "Yes, mother, I think I am stronger-more braced up. I was beginning to have those terrible throbs and catches ALICE MURRAY. 401 again when I took it, but they passed off, and now I am t better." "Thank God for it. And you are to take ten drops from that vial," she pointed to it, "before supper." "The doctor ordered it?" "Yes, Margaret." What should she say? how could she tell her? Sue must know it, and yet she shrank, firm and resolute as she was, from the painful task of revealing her true state to her. She wiped the large drops of pers- piration from her forehead; she let fall the stitches from the knitting she had taken in her hands, and had to pick them up again. She looked puzzled at Mr. Bradley and again she spoke : "We have beautiful weather," she observed, "and I wish, Margaret, you were only able to go out." "But I don't think going out, mother, would help me." "But I was thinking of the church, Margaret dear; if you were strong enough to ride to it." "Yes if I were," she sadly replied, "but I feel I am not." "No, darling, I don't suppose you are. But it's hard because you are sick that you are shut out from the sacra- ments. I don't really see why you need be. We can send for Father Edwards, and you can go to confession, and re- ceive Holy Communion here just as well as in the church." Margaret's pale face brightened. "Oh, yes," she ex- claimed, "so I could. I have thought of it before, but didn't mention it for fear of putting you all to too much trouble." i "No trouble at all, child. It's what we should do. Letil me see, you have not been to confession or received Holy Communion since Easter?" "No, mother. I have not been to the church since then, " " you remember." "Yes, I remember, and how sick you were after froju the i : iI S,^ II page: 402-403[View Page 402-403] O2 AICE MMU1BARRY. song ride. I don't know how you would have got home if you had not had a long rest and comfortable meal at Mr. Armstrong's. Julia was very kind to you that day." "Yes, mother, truly kind. I shall never forget it. What j a severe turn I had; I was afraid I was going to die." "So was I, child. I thought then, and 1 think now, how necessary it is for one to be always prepared; for we know not at what moment death may come." "No, mother, we do not; every time I have my bad turns I think it's surely death." Mrs. Bradley knit very fast, and yet her hands trembled so violently that Margaret noticed it. "Mother," she said, "You are tired, lay by your knitting and rest." "I am not tired, darling, and besides I could not sit still without something in my hands. Never mind their un-s steadiness, it's nothing. But the uncertainty of life; that's what I am thinking of. And you fear it's death every time you have your bad turns." "Yes, mother, I do." "W'ell, then, when Father Edwards comes would it not he as well to be anointed and receive the last Sacrament?" Margaret leaned forward and laid her hand impressively on her mother's arm. "The doctor thinks I will not re- cover," she said, in her clear, sweet voice. "The doctor, darling, knows that you, that I, that hilr self, that everybody is liable to die any moment." "But, mother, tell me, don't hide it from me, the doctor thinks that I am particularly liable to this death, this sud- len, unexpected death." "Yes, Margaret dear, he does," Mr. Bradley answered. "Terence!"Mrs. Bradley sharply exclaimed. "Mother, don't reprove him. He did right to tell me.' "But the shock, Margaret, the terrible shock." "It's no shock, mother, none at alL I have long expect- ALICE MURPAY. 403 ed it. It does not frighten me. It once did,but that time is passed." She sighed heavily, and a tear stood in her eye ; but it was not for herself. She gazed on her pa- rents and thought how their love was centered in her, and how lone and desolate they would be when she was gone. 1 She wished she could say something to comfort them. Her poor father looked as if years had been suddenly added to his age ; her mother more worn and haggard than she hadl I ever seen her. ( "Mother and father," she said, lovingly taking a hand of each, "you mustn't feel too bad, It is God's will, remem- ber that."' "We will, Margaret," her mother answered; she tried Al to look brave and strong. She felt it would oppress and t cast down her poor child to see their grief; she must not, they must hide it from her ; she had enough to bear, enough to suffer, without their adding to it. She raised her eyes, and fixed them on Margaret's face. It had a holy, tranquil expression; for her the grave had no blackness, death no terror. She knew this probationary state is only the ves- tibule of Life. Here we linger, toil, and wait, here we grasp, and clutch, and gather, and find only dust and emptiness in our pile; here we hope, and dream, and days pass, and friends disappear; wait, wait, wait, we still wait--fearing, 'i hoping, trembling, and when our name is called, when the summons comes, glad, exultant, joyous, reach forth our hands to the " severe angel," that, dropping his " harsh dis- guise," smilingly ushers us into the Father's presence. The grave, what have we to do with it? its stifling closeness, its worms and corruption? We are away from it all. We taste i it, we see it, we know it not. Myriads of miles off, with the strong vision of eternity, we may look back on the moment of time, overshadowed with earth's pains and sorrows allot- ted to us here. There was Life, thought we. and the end !l page: 404-405[View Page 404-405] 404 ALICE MURRAY. Death. No, a thousand times, no. There, there in that darkened and contracted sphere, there was Death. Here in the Father's house with its many mansions, its days knowing no nights, its unfading brightness, its fullness of bliss, its eternity of duration-here is Life, soul-quivering and intense. Mocking visions are past, illusions are gone, sorrows forgotten in the thrilling joy of real existence. Margaret's large, luminous eyes were fixed on her pa- rents; they read in her countenance the peaceful tenor of her thoughts and the wild anguish of their own hearts seemed quieted by it. "Margaret dear," said Mr. Bradley, " would you like to see Father Edwards to-morrow?" "On any other occasion, for any other purpose, father I would answer any time when it would be most conve- ; nient for you to leave your work and go for him; but now," -she paused "But now you would like to Fee him as soon as may be?" "Yes, mother, I would." "Your father, darling, will go to-morrow." "Yes, Margaret, to-morrow, in (God's name, I will go. And, Nora," he partly started up, "I will1 o to-day if you think best." "No, Terence, Margaret will be better prepared aad more collected to see him to-morrow." He sank bacia with a heart-broken submissiveness. The dinner cleared away, the kitchen again in readiness, Alice entered the parlor leading Rosie by the hand. The child quietly seated herself, and to Alice's inquiring glance Margaret answered: "Yes, they have told me. I know." "And it does not shock or grieve you?" "No, Alice, for I have long thought it. It is not sud. den. You remember what I told you last fall?" "Yes, Margaret, I do." She seated herself and buttoned ALICE MVURAY. 405 : ? the band of her sleeve. She was so thankful it did not fearfully startle her. But then her calmness and resigna- ! tion were no more than she might have expected. Her ji : whole life might be said to have been one continual prayer, a constant desire to do good, to shun evil, to set an ex- 4 ample for the rest of the children, to serve God, and in all things, even the smallest, to bow to His holy will. Death J could not find such a one unprepared, or crush them with his unlooked-for presence. 4 Mr. Bradley got up and left the room. He must see what the boys were doiiig ; it was too bad to leave all the work on them; he must help them, and be a good father i to them-if sickness and death should come on them, and they too be taken from him! It was a sickening thought, and he groaned aloud. Alice went up to him and took his hand just as he reached the kit!chen; softly closing the door, she spoke to him in a low voice. "Uncle Teronce," she said, partly mistaking the cause of his burst of anguish, "it's God's will. Margaret is ripe for heaven, and He calls her to enjoy it." I "True, Alice, true," he replied, "I can't see it clearly now; but by and by it will be plainer." He took his hat from the hook and went down to the boys in the lot. i Alice watched his steps till the barns hid him from her sight. : "Poor aunt and uncle," she sighed, "what a terrible i blow it is to them." The next day Father Edwards came and administerd the last sacraments to Margaret. For a while after it she i Feemed to revive up and get back a portion of her old strength, but as the weeks passed the paroxysms returned with greater violence, each one leaving her lower and lower, and with anguish the family felt the cloing scene was drawing near. i page: 406-407[View Page 406-407] tO' AJlaUKE MUIrULA CHAPTER XXIV FOR the first few weeks of Margaret's sickness no girl was got to help Mrs. Bradley. Alice would not hear of it. , "I am young and strong," she argued; " you have kindly and patiently taught me how to work, and now let me do it. I will assist aunt Nora in washing, ironing, baking, and whatever else is to be done. I may be awkward a little, as I am yet but a novice, but try me and see if I a don't come on." But it will hurt you, child. You are not used to such I hard work, and you don't know what it is-don't know how it will tire and wear you." "That is nothing, aunt Nora. You have all been so kind to me, let me do something in return-let me show my gratitude." "But your health, Alice." "Don't worry about it. The thought that I am a help to you and lighten your burden, will, under God, keep me strong and healthy." Mr. and Mrs. Bradley had to submit; and faithfully and well she performed her part. A couple of stout calico dresses were got for her to save her others, and with one of these on, a large check apron of her aunt's before her, her sleeves rolled up above her elbows, bending over the tub, or over the kneading tray, rolling out pie crust and making pies, or salting butter, or packing it down, or doing any of the many things in a house to be done-wash- ing dishes, making beds, sweeping, dusting, mending- - Mrs. Elbray, seeing her doing all this, would have felt her triumph complete. All this, in that lady's estimation, was extremely low and vulgar. Alice was degraded to the last degree, and she deserved it. Deserved 1 For what? ALICE MU/RAY. 407 What had she done? Mrs. Elbray would have found it difficult to answer. As to the charges against her, she knew them to be false, utterly false. She might go over them to others, in fact did ; to herself she could not. Not that this would, or did, occasion her the least remorse. . On the contrary, she took all the more pride in her heart X for her skilful diplomacy. Alice was a low-lived creature, I and let her be with low-lived people like herself. She ; found her presiding with easy grace over her uncle's ele- . gant home; but when she became mistress of it she soon sent her adrift; and now see where she was, a drudge in a rude, ignorant farmer's family. What taste, what am- bition, what noble or elevating ideas had she? None. None whatever. As water she had sought and found her level. Her instincts were low and groveling, let her with the low and groveling remain. It was her just place, where she should always have been, and for her part she rejoiced that she had thrust her out of that home, where she had no right, and left her to her own resourses. The world' could now see what she was. And that Alice was poor, was humbled, was crushed, added a keener zest to her enjoyment of that home which Alice's aunt had done so much by her economy and industry in John Elbray s first setting out in life, to make what it was. Had he been shackled by such an elegant wife as Iussel Denmore's he might have lived and died as poor a man. But while Mrs. Elbray gloried with all the venom of a wicked woman over Alice's humiliation, Alice herself felt no ways humbled or debased. She found her mother's relatives hard-working, honest intelligent people. Their surroundings were by no means rich or elegant-what Mrs. Elbray in her brainless scorn would have termed mean and ; poor-but in that meanness and poverty was nothing de- grading or repulsive. Her uncle Terence's family in real - Antint page: 408-409[View Page 408-409] 408 ALICE MURRAY. information, true refinement, generous impulses, and L iMd tender thoughtfulness for others, were as high above Mrs. Elbray and her simpering and affected daughter as the heavens above the earth. What mattered it that their home was humble, that no splendid pictures adorned its walls, no gilded chandelier hung from its ceiling, no costly furniture crowded its rooms ; that they did not deck them. selves out like birds of paradise, to ruin the giddy round of . brain, and heart, and soul-destroying pleasure. They both led lives of toil, but the toil of one was the flNtterings of the moth around the candle, bringing only singed wings as its reward; that of the other the honestly carrying out of the decree pronounced against Adam and his descendents "By the sweat of the brow shall man eat his bread." The i first had for its object the senseless killing of time in a con. tinued whirl of excitement; the second shelter, food and raiment, and back of this, underscoring it as it were, an earnest desire conscientiously to fulfil the duties belonging to the station in which it had pleased God to place them. And had they been lifted to a higher, they would have car- ried the same desire with them and been just as exact and faithful in the discharge of the duties belonging to it as now. What was there necessarily lowering in the work she did to help her aunt, and pay her own way? Would it not be far more degrading to her in her circumstances to sit with folded hands and allow herself to be waited on through fear of compromising her dignity? What was such dignity worth? Was it dignity? Was it not rather a selfish idleness? They were poor and had to work; she was poor too, and what better was she than they? Did not their honest strivings to do and support themselves express a thousand times more independence and self-respect than a useless bewailing of their hard fate, and a horror and dis. gust of the labors it involved? While her hands were busy ALICE MURiBAY. 409 need her mind be idle? Could it not be occupied with the A books she had read, and the thoughts they inspired, and the old lessons she had learned, and the new ones she was daily learning? Her dress was coarse and cheap ; but it was more suitable to her employment than a finer and richer. It was kind and thoughtful in her aunt and uncle to provide her with it, and with her stout thick shoes. It i wonld save her the expense, before going to her school in T the fall, of getting a new fit out. Mrs. Elbray once told her of reverses that had come upon herself, and how bravely she had toiled under them. She had afterwards learned that this toil of hers was only a bit of fiction, got up for the occasion. But hers must not be a fiction, a despicable falsehood, it must be a real substantial fact. Margaret was passing away, and let her live till the palsy of age struck her, her time would come too. It now depended on herself what her record would be; whether - it would be filled out with the fair characters of a well- spent Christian's life, or the miserable blottings of a world- ling's career. Mr. Bradley and the boys were in the field hoeing, Rosie was in school, Mrs. Bradley in the cellar packing down butter; the breakfast dishes cleared away, a long row of i pans glistening in the sun, the kitchen in order; Alice went into the parlor where Margaret was sitting. 'he bed- room adjoining it was now appointed to her use, as she was too feeble to climb the steep stairs, and in a little cot bed beside it Alice slept so as to be near her if she wanted anything in the night. "How long can you stay with me?" she asked, her coun- tenance brightening as Alice entered. "An hour or more, Margaret dear. Then I will have to put the vegetables into the pot for dinner ; they are cleaned t aUd ready." !li page: 410-411[View Page 410-411] "O ALICE MURRAY. "( You got through your morning's work early." "Yes, I hurried so as to have as long a sit down with j you as possible." "And mother?" X "She is in the cellar busy with the butter. You get lonesome in here, Margaret?" "No, Alice, but sometimes a curiosity to know what is being done and who is doing it comes over me. Old habits, I find, are hard to break. I used to keep my eye on the work when at home. It seemed so necessary I should; I fancied I was able to help more and better if I knew ex. actly where to place my shoulder. Now I cannot flatter myself my knowing does any good, still I want to know." "It is such a grief to your mother, Margaret, that you persevered so with your school, and did not sooner give up." . "It should not be, Alice. Had I given up a year or two years ago I should not have been alive to day. In my case inactivity would have been death. You will see in the Life of Kane, the Arctic Explorer, how hard and laborious a life he led. His existence depended on it; he too was a suf- ferer from heart disease and althoughhe died young, there is no doubt, his biographer * writes, 'that his constant ac tivity prolonged his existence for some years, and had not the peculiar nature of his pursuits entailed upon him other diseases in addition to his permanent one, his journeyings by land and sea, his explorations, conflicts, and convulsive ' enterprises, would have effectually contributed to the pre servation of his life.' I read this several years ago, and when I began to fear I was afflicted in the same way I de termined, God helping me, to pursue, so far as my circum- stances would warrant, the same course. I could not iui : dertake an exploring expedition, or any such out of the *& M. Smuoker, p. 141. ALICE MURRAY. 41.1 way thing, but I could keep myself actively busy; and I i did." "Was that the cause of your teaching?" #"No, Alice, I thought of that long before, ever since I was a child, but I felt my sickness would not hinder my carrying out my plan, and I rejoiced at it, for teaching was to me delightful; I love children; they do not wear me; their presence is always pleasing; I look upon them as little men and women in whom there is as yet no guile. They are fresh from their spirit home, and the fragrance of paradise still lingers around them. Earth has not blight- ed them with its cares or its selfishness. I loved them, I say again, and seeing that I did, their pure young souls beamed back an affection upon me. When I saw myself getting feeble I said I will go on with my teaching; it is just the thing for me; it will keep me engaged with- out much exhausting my strength. Now and then I had sharp pangs, and heart-throbbings, and difficult respira- tion-in fact, many of the symptoms, in a milder form, that I now have; but heeding them as little as I could, I went on, and a few weeks' stay at home, one of mother's syrups, and they would, for the time, be laid, and I could for another time go on with my work." "Aunt Nora says in your vacations you never took any rest, but kept just as busy as if you had a certain amount to do, and was anxious to get it done as soon as possible. if I suppose the secret of this was to keep yourself all the time employed." F; "No, Alice, I cannot truthfully say it was. I saw mother and Elizabeth overburdened, and I could not sit with my hands folded; I must help them; I must try to do my share." "And you feel your exertions in their behalf did not hurt you." i!] page: 412-413[View Page 412-413] "2 AUCE xMUnUA. t "Not in the least, Alice, they helped me and made me stronger. Itachnge woas a hechange of work; and the change I used to feel was beneficial." "Margaret, I will some day repeat these words to your mother, to aunt Nora." "You mean when I am not here-when I am gone?" "When, Margaret dear, she will need to hear them, and their tender truthfulness will comfort her most.' Do, Alice. I know when you mean, and may God bless you for the promise. You will all feel crushed and .broken- hearted then, but they, father and mother, will suffer most." "We all will miss you, Margaret." "Yes, I know, but none like them. Elizabeth is in her new home, and the cares of it, and doing for her husband, will often lift her mind from the one sad theme; you will soon be in your school, and its duties will mercifully come between you and your grief; Richard, Terry and Rosie will at first be greatly cast down, but with the blessed elasticity of childhood-with all his gravity Richard is still only a child in years-they will rise up from their wild sorrow, and shake its depressing influence off. Not so father and mother. Every thing around them will con- stantly remind them of me; they will speak of Margaret; they will mourn her loss; they will, in their tender love, exaggerate her virtues and ignore her faults, not forgetting at the same time, daily and almost hourly, to send up fer- vent prayers for her poor soul, long after every particle of her body has been turned to dust. As long as they live, Alice, let them live to the extreme of old age, Margaret's early death will be a grief to them." "But Margaret, did it never occur to you that sorrow such as theirs is better than some people's joy? They will not mourn with an unhallowed feeling of rebellion in their hearts. They will bow themselves to the will of the good ALICE MURAY. 418 God, knowing He doeth all things well, and in removing their cherished one from their sight, He did it in mercy and love. Their grief will have something holy about it; a tender, pleasing sadness will take the place of the first wild anguish, and as the years pass, Margaret's name and Margaret's memory will become as dear to them as her living presence. To them she will not be dead, only gone before, and toiling down the journey of life they will feel they are following after. Margaret's shadowy hand from the other shore will be reached out to them, and theirs from this will be lovingly extended to her." i A radiant glow lit up Margaret's pale, earnest face. Alice," she said, "your words fall soothingly on my ear. Death has been no stranger to my thoughts; to quote those favorite lines of mine: 'It has come to me o'er and o'er-. I am nearer home to-day Than I've ever been before. Nearer my Father's home, Where the many mansions be; Nearer the great white throne, Nearer the Jasper sea. Nearer the bounds of life, Where we lay our burdens down; Nearer leaving the cross, i Nearer gaining the crown. But lying darkly between, Winding down through the night, Is the dim and unknown stream That leads me at last to light. 1 Closer, closer my steps i Come to the dark abysm, Oloser death to my lips i kresses the awful chrism. 1 Father, perfect my trust, i Strengthen the might of my fAith Let me feel as I would when I stand d On the rock of the shore of Death, i Feel as I would when my feet 1 Are slipping on the brink, I For it may be I am nearer home, ]Nearer now than I think.' tiii i page: 414-415[View Page 414-415] "4 ALICE MURRAY. Such, Alice, has been my prayer. Fearing a sudden death, I have tried to keep death before me. At first it filled me with a wild terror, a shuddering dread, but I begged for strength, and in the cross strength came. Leaning against the sacred tree, pointing to the wounds of my Blessed Saviour, my own unworthiness is forgotten ; 'the might of my faith ' grows strong, fear is cast out, and love takes possession of my trembling heart. But, dear father and mother, how lone, how desolate they will be; but their loneliness, their desolation, you say, will be softened down, will be comforted." "Yes, Margaret, the God who strengthens and comforts you will strengthen and comfort them. The separation will not be forever, only for a little while, and leaning like you on the cross they will be carried through it." The clock in the kitchen struck; Alice rose. "I will have to go," she said, "but first I will give you your medicine." She stepped to the mantel-piece, poured several drops from a vial into a teaspoon, filled the spoon with water and gave it to her. "Are they bitter?" she asked, as Margaret handed her back the spoon. "Yes, bitter and hot." "And they help you?" "The doctor left them and ordered them to be taken, and I take them. Sometimes they help, and again they are powerless as water." The weeks passed and with them came the expected change. It was a clear, beautiful day; the windows were all up, the doors all open, through the house the cool re- freshing breeze had full play. The Bradley family, Eliza beth and Ambrose, Julia and Mrs. Meade, were gathered in the parlor. Margaret, the gentle, loving Margaret, was aying. For several days past she had not been able to ALICE MURRAY. 41f lie down, and was now seated in her rocking chair, the death dews stood on her brow, now and then her chest feebly heaved, and they knew by it she still breathed. Mrs. Bradley's face was flushed and swollen but no tear dimmed her eye. Her darling was going to her God, and she dared not wish to keep her back. His holy will, not mine, be done she kept silently repeating. She was a mother that had looked on the face of dead children be- fore. She had tenderly loved them, and wept bitterly their i i loss; but the pale, worn form there in the chair, passing away, gasping its last breath, speechless, helpless, was ! more than child, was counselor, friend, guide, the visible representation of her good angel: as the apple of her eye she was dear, as her life's life her being was wrapped up in her, and she was going, going from her. Henceforth j she would see her no more, no more listen to her voice, nc more watch her coming home, no more bask in the sun- i shine of her presence. But it was God that called her; He that was taking her to himself; she must not murmur; t she must not rebel; she must bow to His decree; it was . in love and mercy. In the agony of her bereavement she 1 could not feel; but it was so, and because she could ii not feel it, it was no reason for her doubting it. This she told herself with a sternness that hushed every mur- - muring cry. She read aloud the prayers for the dying; and when Margaret ceased to breathe, without a pause, turned to those for a soul just departed. As she finished them the family rose from their knees, and Mrs. Meade and Julia, coming forward, kindly led them from the room. Terry was crying bitterly; Richard and Rosie, sunk back in one corner of the kitchen, were hushed into silence by a great awe; Mr. Bradley looked and moved about like one in a dream, or one stupified by affliction; he spoke- in a whisper through a vague fear of disturbing her; he l page: 416-417[View Page 416-417] "6 AUE MXU AX BS stepped round on tip-toe lest any grating sound should mar the solemn stillness of her repose. Death!-was it death? Could it be that Margaret was really dead? that she was gone? the little girl that he had been so proud of, that was such a great scholar, and so good, and patient, and kind to them all Oh, was she really, truly gone? After giving a few orders to Ambrose about the arrange- ment of the funeral, he sat down by the kitchen table, and leaned his head wearily on his hand. He heeded nothing more around him; he did not hear Elizabeth's violent sobs, cr the kind, comforting words Alice spoke to her, he did not see the red, swollen eyes of poor Terry, or the pale awe-struck looks of Richard and Rosie; he only felt a great I weight pressing heavily on his chest, and raising his sad, questioning eyes, he seemed to be asking of the stricken ones around him what it meant. Mrs. Bradley waited on Julia and her aunt, getting them things they needed to lay Margaret out. As she belonged to the order of the Scapular, her robe was brown instead of white. An hour passed, and the family were called in to see her still shrouded form. On the table in the centre of the room it lay, calm, peaceful and serene. A smile seemed to linger round the pale lips; a light to rest on the heavy, massive brow; in her thin hands, folded on her breast, was a cru- cifix; her little prayer-book, that she had loved so much, and that had been such a comfort to her, placed on her neck, and resting on her collar-bone, held up her fa'llen chin. And there in the solemn grandeur, the sublime tran- quility of death lay Margaret, the gentle, saintly Maigaret Mr. Bradley gazed down on the hushed face, and large drops stood on his forehead. Mrs. Bradley's eye grew wild in its sorrow, and her form trembled like an aspen leaf; Terry and Elizabeth cried more bitterly than ever, while Richard and Rosie, clinging to each other, shud- AICi MURRAYt 417 X dered, and turning from the corpse, raised their eyes to heaven. "Aunt Nora, uncle Terence, children, we will kneel. We will offer up another prayer for Margaret." Alice knelt, i and they followed her example. In a slow, faltering voice she repeated the Litany for the Dead, they made the re- sponses, faint and feeble at first, but growing more firm and collected towards the last. As they rose from their knees, the neighbors came crowding in, generously offering j every assistance, and showing in their countenances the sincerest sympathy for their bereavement. Mrs. Bradley hastened out; she could not listen to their words of coln- dolence, kind and soothing as they were. "'Margaret was too good for earth." Who knew that better than she? "This loss was her gain." Didn't she know that too? And a hundred other things they told her? Hadn't she heard them over and over again? What was the use of repeat- ing them? What the use of coming to her with them? i They meant it in all kindness. Of course they did, and she knew it; but, but-oh, they didn't, they couldn't lighten ! the great weight on her heart. Margaret was gone, and the will of the good God be done-that was all she could think of, all she could say in her dire affliction-and that was enough. More were idle, vain, and empty: mere mock- a ery, turning to bitterness her every thought. She sank down on a chair, and let her hands fall nerveless in her lap. Her eye was dry, her cheek hot. Richard and Rosie' went and seated themselves near her. All at once obeying some sudden impulse, Rosie sprung up and threw her arms around her neck. -. "Mother," she softly murmured, "can't you, oh! can't you love us a bit, too?"Oh, the depth of children! The poignant words that sometimes fall from their innocent lips; the stinging reproofs they sometimes unconsciously 1,1 page: 418-419[View Page 418-419] "8 ALICE MURRAY. utter! Mrs. Bradley started, and the flush faded from het cheek, 'Couldn't she love the rest of her children a bit, too!' What did it mean? She looked in Rosie's face. It was pale and worn, the large eyes, larger than ever, with a sad, lone, beseeching expression in them, the sweet mouth trembling with grief. Stooping she clasped her in her arms, great sobs burst from her full heart, and tears rained over her cheeks. Love them? Love the rest of her children? God knew she did, better than her own life, better than all the happiness in the world. How could Rosie, her little Rosie, doubt it? How could Richard? She could see he did; though his tongue was silent, his eye had asked the same question. Richard," she said, turning to him, "I have loved, and do love you all. You are all as dear to me as my own life- dearer too. You believe me?"She reached her hand to him. He took it and gently pressed it. "Yes, mother," he an- swered, "I do." The tears trickled down his cheeks ; cross- ing his arms on the window-sill, he bowed his head upon them. Mrs. Bradley was going to speak to him again, but E Alice laid her hand on her shoulder. "Don't, aunt Nora," she said, "let him cry. His tears will do him good. I thanked God when I saw yours." Mrs. Bradley obeyed her passively like a little child. Two days after, St. Michael's church in Lucan was greatly crowded. All the children from Rathbun, her former pu- pils and their parents were present, besides their neighbors in Stapleton, and friends and acquaintances in Lucan, Cath- olic and non-Catholic. In her little world, Margaret was widely known and well loved. A solemn Mass was offered up for her soul, a short impressive sermon from Father Edwards followed, and then her remains were consigned to the tomb, there to await the Archangel's trump. ALICE MURRAY. 41.9 A girl was hired to help Alice, and before the close of the week she had the house again in perfect order, and the work going on in its old clock-like regularity. This she knew, better than anything else, would tend to restore calm and quiet to her aunt and uncle. They would never, as long i! as they lived, get over Margaret's death, but they could be brought to look more tranquilly on their loss. She took every care on herself, saw to everything, anticipated their every want, and in all things was so patient, thoughtful, and kind that her pious object was attained-the keen edge was taken from their anguish. When they repeated "God's i holy will, not ours be done," it did not thrill them with such agony; it was not in so violent contradiction to their i every feeling. "God's holy will, not ours be done," they could now reverently exclaim with the sun-shine of a holy and subdued affection resting on their souls. Before going I t to her school they got her a full mourning suit throughout. i ; She gratefully accepted it from them, and the first Monday in September, with their blessing resting on her head, she went to fill the station of head female teacher in the White- town Academy. Once a fortnight she wrote, and with :l much of the spirit with which they used to hear from Mar- garet when in school, they received and answered her let- 1 ters i : CHAPTER XXV. IT was five years since Mr. Elbray's removal to New York. It has been mentioned that on going there he en- tered the mercantile business. His property had not been " made in that line ; he had no knowledge of its details, and. j uo desire for its cares; but he coveted its gains, and, bow-, , I1 page: 420-421[View Page 420-421] 420 ALICE MURRAY. ing to his ruling passion, he entered into a partnership with Mr. Bartoll, Sen., and his son Lewis, known by the title of Elbray, Bartoll & Co. The Co. meant Lewis, and while the two old gentlemen advanced the funds, he was the acting member of the firm. Mrs. Elbray and her daughter's time was completely occupied with parties, operas, theatres and calls in winter, and the fashionable watering places and resorts in summer. Mrs. Elbray car- ried herself with a regal air, if regality consists in an in- supportable arrogance to those she considered her inferiors, and a grand patronizing way with those she looked upon as her equals (there was none she now thought her super. iors), and blazing in costly jewels and velvet, brocade, and rich and splendid laces. Thanks to a good constitution, she bore her life of dissipation without undermining her health in the least. Her rotund form bloomed out into vaster proportions; her face, which might have been called pretty in youth-beautiful she never was-from the ex- ceeding fulness of a few years back, had now grown so puffy and flushed with good living, that her small, inso- lent features were lost, as it were, in the mass of fat around them. She reminded one of Gibbon, whose mountain-like cheeks so hid his diminutive nose, that the artist, who succeeded in giving him a nose at all, and somewhat soften- ing the course lines of his face in his picture, was looked upon as a wonder, and the flattering representation as an admirable instance of the power of genius. Mrs. Elbray would now have afforded the same opportunity for fame to any aspiring artist. With Lucette it was different; the constant round of pleasure exhausted her strength, and left her haggard and worn. That she was a vain, frivolous woman of fashion, very slightly affected her husband ; that she was never ready to receive him, after the confinement of his office, with glad words and bright smiles of welcome, AIOCE MURRAY. 421 i was matter of small consequence to him. She sought the ! amusements most consonant to her tastes, and he did the ,j same. When they came in contact, as they occasionally I did, she was fretful and ill-natured, he cool and contemp- tuous. When she became feeble he showed himself totally wanting in kindness. He would listen, with the utmost 1 indifference to accounts of her pains and aches. What was it to him? what did he care? Women were inge- nious; hardly did they tire of one ache before another was j hunted up to supply its place. Yesterday it was a pain in the head and shoulders, the day before one in the side, i and now it was an all-gone sensation, whatever that was, and superciliously wondering what it would be next, he generally left the room whistling or humming some fash- ionable air. Her mother, in her lofty wisdom, treated her complaining as only the fretful ebullitions of a spoiled, will- ful child. She called on her one afternoon, and found her i crying on the sofa in her room. In answer to what her tears meant, Lucette said she was sick. "Sick," she scornfully repeated; "nonsense. I will take you to the opera to-night, and Maretzek's delightful i music will rouse you up, and make you shake off these idle fancies." "But, mamma, I don't want to go. I am tired of so much glitter and noise. I want to stay here and be quiet, and rest if I can." "You must, Lucette; it is perfectly ridiculous to give i way to one's feelings so. I was thoroughly ashamed of j you at Vaughn's last night. Instead of being the star of 'i the evening, as you might easily have been, you sulked be- hind the heavy curtains of the bay window, and was not to be seen. The Gastons, Collins and Knox's were inquire u ing for you, and what could I say?" "What did you say, mamma?" page: 422-423[View Page 422-423] "Why I told them you were somewhere in the rooms, I did not know where. What else could I say?" "Well, what was there so terrible in having to tell that?" "That is not the question," Mrs. Elbray sternly and ma- jestically returned, "if you continue to hide yourself in this way you will sink down to a mere cipher in society." "But, mamma, when I am not well?" "You are well enough if you only thought so." "How can you say so when I have such a constant pain in my side, and more than half the time am so deadly pale?" "As to the pain in the side, I don't think there's much chance of your getting over it by moping at home, and as to the pallor, a little rouge delicately applied will do away with that." Mrs. Elbray looked admiringly at the diamond bracelet on her arm, and the ring to match it on her fin- ger. Then a frown darkened the immensity of her face. "That man's infatuation is little better than downright in- sanity," she exclaimed. "Who's, mamma?"Lucette asked. "Mr. Elbray's." "What about?" "About that miserable Alice Murray." "Hasn't he got over thinking of her yet?" "No, indeed. I flattered myself he had quite forgotten her, but to-day he shocked me by going over some none sense about its being her birthday, and a party he once made for her on the occasion, a year before the first Mrs. Elbray died." "How did it come about?"Lucette sat upright now on the sofa, and her tears were forgotten. "I hardly know. He had been in the library all the morning, and when he came down to lunch I handed him fLJLvJLJ A .1J1 J a Ail in the bills from Stewart's. They were for the lace dress and silk robe I wore to Vaughn's last night, and the er- mined opera cloak and moireantique I intended to wear to-night. He looked at them and with a groan put them i into his pocket. The old miser, he thinks money to be en- joyed must be hoarded up." "Did he say nothing?" "No, he didn't dare to. He knows well I wouldn't bear it. To think I don't know what I want, and must have; an old dotard, like him, dictating what I shall or shall not get. No, he knows better by this time. I get what I like, and he pays for it; whether it is a few hundreds or a few thousands is of small consequence if I want it-but enough 3 of that-I was raising a glass of wine to my lips when he suddenly exclaimed, 'Alice, Alice.' I suppose he intended : the tones to be heart-breaking-they were simply whining. I set down my glass and looked at him. 'To-day is her, birth-day,' he said; 'she is twenty-three years old to-day i On this day seven years ago I gave her a party.' 'It's of small moment,' I replied, 'whether she is twenty-three or fifty-three. I should think you would blush to mention her name in my presence.' " "What did he say to that?"Lucette's languid air was replaced by one of pleased interest. To use her own lan- guage, she knew her mamma was enough for her step-papa every time; but she did so enjoy their amiable little tete- a-totes that it put new life in her just to hear of them. She would rather have been present, but she was not, and the next best thing was to hear her mamma rehearse them. "Why, he said he had not done right by that girl; that in letting her go from his home, he should have made some provision for her, and not left temptation to fall in her way; that when he thought of all I squandered in my I ' f! page: 424-425[View Page 424-425] selfish extravagance he was incensed against himself that he had not done it." "Well, mamma?" "What did I say to that, you mean?" "Yes, mamma." "I told him what I spent or did not spend in no wav proved her a worthy or deserving person, that I would re- peat what I had already told him over a hundred times, that he had done enough for her, and it was high time she was doing for herself; that as his wife, the mistress of his home, if he had a particle of manhood in him, a particle of honor or self-respect, he would never mention the name of that brazen-faced girl in my presence, knowing as he did how thoroughly I detested her, and what good reason I had for so doing." A light, tinkling laugh from Lucette greeted this burst of righteous indignation. "That put an effectual stop to his twaddle about her, didn't it mamma?" she asked, highly amused. "I thought, my dear, it would; but it didn't." "Didn't?" "No, indeed." "Why, what on earth could he say after that?" "Say! I've no patience with him. He needs looking after, and he must be, too. I must speak to Lewis about him." I "Lewis, mamma; you needn't go to him." "Why not?" "Because he wouldn't believe any thing you would tell him." "How can you talk like that? How do you know he wouldn't?" "I know it from the fact that he dislikes you excessively as well as me." AUCEI MU RAY. 425 i "Ah, my dear," and Mrs. Elbray smiled complacently, "that is nothing more than a childish fancy." "No, mamma, it is not. He is greatly changed ;he don't feel for me as he once did." "But, my dear, you must not expect him always to act i the devoted lover. As your husband he may occasionally i weary of paying those delicate attentions so grateful and pleasing to you, but you must not mind it. He loves you all the same. He is always most respectful, I may say deferential to me." "But, mamma, don't let his sweet words, his bows and his smiles deceive you as they did me. He does not re 1 spect you, and he has no confidence in me." "Did he ever say so, Lucette?" "If he never said it in so many words, he has, one time t and another, dropped enough to let me know it." I Mrs. Elbray's face assumed its stern, imperious expres- sion. ! "You will tell me," she loftily exclaimed, "what those1 droppings were, that I may be able to judge for myself."i Lucette smoothed the folds of her robe de chambre of 'i black velvet, toyed with the heavy cord and tassel, and ini a fretful tone replied, "I can't keep track of his exact words, but he has often told me that I am perfectly spoiled, and he may thank you for it. Once he told me that papa Elbray was an old fool, and that you-and he suddenly stopped and begun, in his hateful way, humming a tune. I asked him if he meant you was another, for I thought that was what he was going to say when he stopped; but without deigning me an answer, he lighted his cigar, and went to puffing away for dear life. Then again, the last j party you gave, he laughed out and out at me when I said something about your diamond turban, and the crimson velvet studded with brilliants you wore on the occasion." page: 426-427[View Page 426-427] 2 - &U A M . ljC L I HJiU LAJL,.. "But what did his laugh mean ?" Lucette paused. She wanted--she scarcely knew what, As to arranging, classifying, or giving correct utterances to her thoughts, impossible. Her whole life had been spent in an empty, vacant, mind-benumbing pursuit after pleasure, and now when she tried to reflect, tried to ar- range into something like order the chaos of her brain, she found the task beyond her power. She knew perfectly well that Lewis held herself and mother in contempt, This contempt had not been so much expressed in direct words-Lewis was too careful for this-as in tone and manner. On giving his words they sounded harmless, and of no great importance; and yet when he uttered them she knew they stung like scorpions, and made her writhe as in mortal pain. With all her frivolity, all her inanity, he had made the discovery that she could feel, could suffer. Wound her vanity, and the weak, soulless woman of fashion drooped and pined. Another, equally soulless, but stronger and more energetic, would have risen up a very Medusa in her wrath. The idol she wor- shipped was scorned, the shrine she bowed at was con- temned, the peace-offering of flattery was withheld--and blazing with hate, towering in vengeance, the fell hounds of malignancy would have been let lose on the recreant one. If the one could sting, the other could bite, and tear too. Smiling in society, covering, as with a mask, her every pang, she could serenely meet him, pass him, speak to him, and all the time carry on the war of extermination against him. With such Lucette could not cope. She might pos- sess the will, the strength was wanting. She could only languish, and in anl irritable, querulous manner, annoy her friends, or rather her associates-the word friend is too sacred to be used in alluding to the hollow professions and interested companionship of the pleasure-seeking clique- with unmeaning complaints of her misery and wretched, ness. "Well, Lucette," said Mrs. Elbray, after a short silence, "You have not told me what Louis' laugh meant." "Of course I haven't," she fretfully exclaimed, " how could I? I said he laughed, and he did, and I didn't like it, and cried ever so long after he went out. It seems to me just as if he hated me and you ; and for that matter, everybody else." She raised her embroidered handker- chief to her eyes, and a sniffling sound followed the act. Mrs. Elbray's face lost its sternness, and the old, grand, pa- tronlizing expression settled benignly upon it. Leaning back luxuriously in her chair, she condescendingly rejoined : " My dear, you manage to make a great ado about noth- ing. Lewis smiled " "No, mamma, he laughed," came sobbed from behind the handkerchief. "Well, then, laughed; and what did that mean? Why that he was pleased. People don't laugh when they are displeased, my dear. The very next day after that party I remember he warmly congratulated me on my appear- ance, and assured me, faultless as my taste is, and well as I always look, he never before saw me so really grand. He said I created quite a sensation, and he heard several call me a second Cleopatra." "Cleopatra, mamma, who was she?" "She was a great woman, my dear, famed in history for the gorgeousness of her beauty and the magnificence of her dress." And Mrs. Elbray smiled at the childish question. After her very correct and lucid answer she resigned her- self to the pleasing memory of Lewis's words. They were always so charming, so well-timed and judicious. Lucette was fretful and unreasonable to find fault with him. What would she do if she was cursed with such a husband as page: 428-429[View Page 428-429] 428 ALICE MURRAY. Russel Denmore, keeping her down, and binding her to the bondage of his own low state? She looked around on the elegantly furnished apartment, she thought of her hand. some residence on Washington Square, and shuddered aa she contrasted them with the little crowded building she had smothered in when Russel Denmore's wife. Lucette was old enough when her father died to know the differ- ence, but she was unpardonably stupid. What if she did fancy Lewis had ceased to love her? and what if it was no fancy, but the truth? Was she not the mistress of his splen- did home? and could she not enjoy herself, and be per- fectly happy whether he loved her or not? Love! What is it? A. word found in romances, in real life not known, Wealth, and by it power-that was the talisman to touch the hidden springs of the heart-the lever that moves the world, the axis on whi'.h it turns, and shows its sunny or its darkened side. And had she not often and often enough told Lucette so? had she not tried to instill good sound principles in her? But her labor was in vain. There was too much of the clownish stupidity of her father about her, too much of his ingrained rusticity. "Lucette," she tartly exclaimed, "you try me sorely with your folly. I have no patience with you." "No, mamma, you havn't. No one has any sympathy for me." Again the dainty handkerchief was applied to the eyes, and again a sniffling sound came from behind it. "Lucette," Mrs. Elbray with cold severity remarked, "this will never do. What if Lewis should come in and find you in this plight?" "I shouldn't care if he did," she sobbed. "When after coming home from some of the parties you keep dragging me to, I sink down ready to die with exhaustion, he-he only sneers, and-and--calls me a fooL" ALICE MUBRAY. 429 1 "Indeed,' Mrs. Elbray sternly retorted, "I don't blame him. I would do it myself." "But-but if it was death, mmama?" "Death! I verily believe, Lucette, you are losing the lit- te sense you ever had. I certainly do." A shooting pain through the poor, weak worldling's chesti hindered any reply she might have made, and she only quietly sobbed on feeling how wretched and miserable in the midst of riches one could be. Because her strength was failing, because disease had settled upon her, and feebleness was taking the place of former strength, she il was despised and oontemned by husband and mother. I Both in their own way were hard and cruel as the grave. ! If she was a poor man's wife she might hope for sympathy; 4 if a poor woman's child, for kindness. Now she got neither. Rising, she walked to her toilet-table and bathed her i temples with rose-water. "That is right," Mrs. Elbray, approvingly said, lifting her eyes from the fashion-plate she had been studying. "I think, my dear," she added, calmly ignoring Lucette's worn and pallid face, "that your violet silk robe with the tulle skirt over it will be the most becoming for you to wear to- night." ! "Mamma, what's the use of my going? I don't want to l hear the thundering crash of the music, and have my eyes dazzled with the glare, and my breath choked out of me with the crowd. My head aches, and I want quiet." 'i "Nonsense, Lucette; I promised the Vaughns you l' w)uld be present, and you must. They would miss your petit figure, and your spiritual face so much. Do you know, you foolish child, you are growing more beautiful every day. Your eyes are getting so bright, and your complexion is losing much of its former thickness." 1 Mamma, I didn't know it was ever thick." jI 1 5 page: 430-431[View Page 430-431] 430 AULCE MURRAY. "Thick, my dear, in comparison to what it is now. Now it is so clear and transparent that really I aln getting quite proud of you. Your style is much admired." "It is different from yours, mamma," said the poor, sick woman of pleasure, delighted in spite of her weakness, and I the shortness of her breath, with her mother's flattering words. In answer to her remark, Mrs. Elbray leaned her head against the velvet lining of her chair, and pompously and complacently rejoined: "Yours, my dear, is the fair and fragile, mine the grand and stately. Each has its admirers." I "Yes, mamma, I know," Lucette abstractedly answered. She was revolving in her mind whether to go or not. The Vaughns expected her, and would be disappointed if she staid away ; they liked to look at her, and called her a playful little sprite sometimes, and again a dear little fairy, Yes, she would try to be there; it wouldn't harm her much, and she did still so love to feel her power. Yes, she would go, and dazzle and shine once more. "Mamma," she said, rising to a sitting posture on the sofa, and with more animation in voice and manner than, she had yet shown, "I will go. I think I will enjoy it." "To be sure you will; there's not a doubt of it. To- morrow," she indolently added, closing her eyes, " you will tell Lewis to call and see me after dinner." "What for, mamma?" "About Mr. Elbray's affairs. He needs seeing after, il ever man did." "Oh, I forgot, mamma," Lucette said, seating herself on an ottoman near the window, and laying her arm on the heavy sill, " to ask what it was papa Elbray said." "' It was if that Alice Murray did have that chain Mrs. Denmore gave me, it was possible that she took it by mIis- take. I told him it was impossible, that she could not *j; i!j ALXCE MUnRAY. 431l have been blind to the difference between the two, mine i rich and heavy, and her aunt's light and flimsy, that it j was nothing short of downright dishonesty. Why did she not acknowledge getting the money? or was there a mis- take about that too? Did he send it? Was he sure of {! it? He laid down his knife and fork, folded his napkin, 'i and placed it in the ring, and rising from the table leaned i his hands on the back of his chair; 'madam,' he said, 'I sent the money, but I don't believe she ever got it. " !;' "Why, mamma, he must have heard something." il "It certainly seems so, for he farther said, that when next he sent her money, or put it aside for her, it should be done in a way that no mistake could be made about it; that he knew me better now than he did then, that I wasji an artful woman, but I would not be able a second time to throw dust in his eyes, and a great deal more fudge of A the same sort." "Mamma, did he say nothing about your extravagance? ji You know that forms the key-note of all his grumblings." "Yes, I know, and of course he duly went over it, and J ended by saying, the niece of the wife who had helped him to make his property should have a portion of it set aside jtl for her before his second had entirely squandered it by her j senseless extravagance." j:r "The bills you handed him must have been rather heavy .jg to have made him so abominably in earnest." i "It makes no difference whether they were heavy or j not. I am enlightened to the fact that he needs seeing to,' and to-morrow you tell Lewis I want to see him.; "I will, mamma." With that Lucette left her seat near the window, and again threw herself on the sofa, and Mrs Elbray rose to go. page: 432-433[View Page 432-433] X%#- AU4IS ,JLWmkAX, CHAPTER XXVI. Tun next afternoon, Mrs. ElLray, in her elegantly fur. nished room received Mr. Bartoll. He came in, gracious and smiling. "Lucette told me," he said, sinking into the cushioned chair Mrs. Elbray officiously wheeled up to within a few feet of her own, " that you wanted to see m6, and I flew to obey your wishes." "Yes, I do want to see you. Did Lucette mention for what?" "She did, madam. It was in relation to something Mr. Elbray in his unjust indignation said when you handed him certain little bills. But, my dear madam, you must not allow anything he in his anger uttered to discompose you. He accuses you of extravagance?" "He does. He heartlessly says my extravagance is enough to ruin any man." "Ah, indeed?"Mr. Bartoll lifted his brows in amaze- ment; then relapsed into a smiling silence. With his left hand on one knee, he leaned his right elbow on the other, and proceeded with laudable industry to the important bu- siness of giving to his moustache a fierce upward curl. What his barber's skill had failed to effect, his perseverance was bound to accomplish. He listened with profound atten- tion while Mrs. Elbray laid her trouble before him. Mr. Elbray in his infatuation was determined to lay aside a part of his wealth for that miserable and unprincipled Alice Murray; she knew, as his wife, she could not be deprived of her third; but a third in her case was not to be thought of; she wanted and ought to have the whole; the whole was none too much for one of her fastidious tastes. "Certainly not, madam," Mr. Bartoll blandly responded. ATo1E MURRAY. 433 His glittering eyes were fixed keenly upon her as if to read what it seemed she shrank from uttering. "You want," he at length said in a winning, confidential tone, "to manage so that he will not be able to make any foolifsh disposal of his property?" j "I do, Lewis," she answered, "and I think if we went wisely to work we might do it."! "How, madam?" "That is what puzzles me. Several plans have suggested themselves to me, but the trouble is, I don't know which to choose." "Exactly so, mv dear madam." He had succeeded in giving the upward curl to his moustache, and spoke with the animation which the successful performance of so diffi- cult ai undertaking would naturally call forth. a "But, Lewis, what have you to say? What plan have you to suggest?" ' "I, madam? I have nothing to suggest. Nothing to say. Before such powers as yours my own sink into utter insignificance. If I were an Emperor or King, I would cer- tainly choose you, or appoint you my Prime-Minister. Maz-l arin's talents would fade before yours; Tallyrand's be lost to sight."1 "I am afraid," Mrs. Elbray, returned with a faint smile,1 "that you over-rate my poor abilities." ! "Not at all, madam," waving his hand gracefully and objectively to her disparaging remark. "Not at all. I have lately heard that which raises those ' abilities' to the highest point in my humble estimation." There was a light in his eye Mrs, Elbray did not exactly like. "To what do you refer? What do vou mean?" she haughtily asked. "My dear madam," he replied, "let there be no secrete between us. Let us be frank and open with each other." page: 434-435[View Page 434-435] (34 ALICE MURRAY. "Mr. Bartoll, I assure you I wish for frankness and openness as much as you. But I really do not know what it is you have lately heard." She recollected Mr. Elbray had in his mouthings the day before said something about what he too had lately heard, and it seemed to have refer. ence to the money he had sent Alice. In going over his remarks to her daughter, and in laying her troubles before Mr. Bartoll she had omitted the trifling fact that his deter- mination to lay aside a portion of his wealth for her arose as much from the something he had heard as from his in- dignation at her extravagance. She was conscious of a dull, heavy throbbing of her heart while waiting Mr. Bar- toll's answer. He raised himself upright in his chair, and lifting his arms leaned the back of his head on his clasped hands. With a peculiar smile wreathing his thin lips he remarked : "We have had a young man employed in the store who was formerly an errand boy for Mr. Elbray. One day, not long ago, he came into the inner office when Mr. Elbray happened to be in. Suddenly and most unexpectedly he inquired for Miss Murray. Mr. Elbray, of course, knew nothing about her where-abouts or what-abouts, and so he told him. I thought the manner in which he did it would have effectually silenced him. It did, so long as Mr. Elbray was in, but no sooner was he gone than he turned to me as one more approachable, one he stood less in awe of-my dear madam," Mr. Barpll smilingly interrupting himself observed : " you know I never allow any one around me to feel the least afraid of me." "Nevertheless," she replied, " you have a way about you, Lewis, that represses any undue familiarity or unbecoming freedom." She was trying to look at ease and unembar- rossed. "Alas, madam, I fear not. Whatever else I may have, ALICE MURRAY. 435 I totally lack the air noble which you so happily possess, and possess in so eminent a degree-but, to quit digression and go back to where I left off, the young man turned to me, and told me of a little piece of business you had entrusted him with when he was living with Mr. Elbray. It was to :; keep back from Mr. Elbray any letter coming to him post- marked Stapleton, or Lucan, and give it to you; and also to hand to you any letter directed to Miss Murray. In this way the letters between Mr. Elbray and Miss Murray were 1 cunningly intercepted; and the money he sent her, and which he was incensed against her for not acknowledging, probably came into your possession." { Mrs. Elbray's cheek paled under its rouge, as with an air of ineffable scorn she asked: "And did you believe his ! vile tale? his audacious words?" i "Softly, my dear madam, softly. Do not, I beg you, I allow yourself to get excited. Believe him? to be sure I did." "Is it possible?" she exclaimed, taking a snowy camelia from her girdle, and spitefully picking it to pieces. "It is," he calmly and slowly replied. "When in rap- tnre at your cleverness I repeated his words to Lucette on my return home, she proudly confirmed the truth of them. She asserted her mamma was so deep and shrewd she could manage twenty like papa Elbray, and I declare, madam, I thought the same. You are confused, and a crimson glow settles on your fair brow. Let it not, I entreat you, be the ; glow of shame, rather let it be the beam of pride, that glo- it ries in the power derived from the possession of a deep, subtle and penetrating mind." It was the first time that Lewis's smooth insinuating words had failed to please. i She looked at him sharply to see if he really meant what he said. Over his countenance reposed a bland, serene ex- pression; his lips were gently parted in a smile, but no 4k page: 436-437[View Page 436-437] 436 ATICE MURAY. sneer, or anything in the most remote manner relating to. one disfigured their tranquil beauty. His eye-but just at that moment Mrs. Elbray was unable to catch its glance, for his white and jeweled hand was meditatively placed over his brow, and moving lower down on his physiognomy, rested carelessly on his organs of vision. Had it not been for this accident, she might have read something in their light that would not have tended much to quiet her feel. ings. When the hand was removed, he had succeeded in throwing in them an open, candid and admiring expression. Mrs. Elbray's fears were dissipated. But how had Mr. Elbray heard it? Lewis said it was not till he had left the room that the young man told him the affair. In answer to her question, he merely asked another. "So Mr. Elbray knows it, does he?" "Yes; at least he mumbled out something that led me to suppose he did. But as George, you say, seemed afraid to open the subject to him, I now wonder who it was that told him." "You certainly have not so little confidence in my dis. crration as to think I would go to him with it?" "Why no, Lewis. I look upon you as a friend, and it would not be very kind or friendly in you to do it. I need not repeat how tired I got of that. girl's presence before she left, and how necessary her continued absence was for the peace and tranquility of home. All that is useless; suffice it to say she was away, and I was determined to keep her away. To accomplish this I was obliged to do something, and this was the expedient; I tried. It happily proved successful" "It did, my dear madam ; and perhaps your late hus band's chain, or, not to make a blunder, the chain your late husband presented you before his death, being found. in Miss Murray's possession was but- another subtle. stroke A IC9E MURRA.. 437 of your policy. Yon were too shrewd to depend ononone expedient alone. Like a wise, far-seeing politician, you had more than one to turn to in case of need. And then,; to make your point stronger, you joined the, two together and drew out a perfect and delightful whole. I certainly, madam, adnire your Machiavelian genius." Mr. Bartolll' bowed, and impressively folded his hands. Language was but faint to express his keen appreciation of the astute- ness of the woman before him. He could only be silent, and favor her with the eloquence of one of his soul thrill- i ing glances. Mrs. Elbray moved uneasily in her chair; never before had Mr. Bartoll's sweet words fallen so dull on her ears, never had his deferential manner something in it so an- noying. She looked at the brilliant on her finger, a trifle presented by him when Mr. Elbray, disatisfied with his management, was about to withdraw from the firm. How charming, how delightful were his words and bearing then. What if he paid court to her, in order to propitiate her husband, and not from any profound. veneration he entertained for her?: It proved her power, and power to , her aspiring mind was joy, was happiness, bliss-whatever I, one was pleased to term it. As a sovereign receiving, homage from a subject, she accepted it. As a sovereign heaping favors on a loyal subject, she repaid it. Thanks to her influence, John Elbray remained in the firm. And that it was through her influence he did. so, Lewis Bartoll well knew. But what did he want now? Was he really earnest in his enthusiastic approval of the money and chain - affair? As to the latter, was it merely an inference drawn from the former, as his words seemed to imply, or had that fool, Lucette, told' him? She did, not dare to ask. If Lucette had not let him into the secret of it, his inquiries I' might tempt him to use hiis- persuaaive powers in eliciting 'k'll page: 438-439[View Page 438-439] Y3 ALICE MURRAY. it from her. If she had, it was just as well to say as little about it as possible, to ignore it, as it were, by her indif ference. Words so futile at times, again are powerful, and magnify many a trifle into momentary importance. "You cannot make out," Mr. Bartoll thoughtfully ob1 served, " how Mr. Elbray heard of the interception of the letters?" "No, Lewis ; and I don't know as I care to." "A change, my dear madam," he blandly rejoined, "seems to have come over your feelings. A moment ago you were all anxiety to know, now you do not care." "I certainly do not. If he knows it, he knows it; if I made a mistake, and he does not, he soon may. The one that breathed it to you, may breathe it to others, and those others breathe it to him." "Spoken like a philosopher, my dear madam. Your calmness under trying circumstances is only equalled by the depth of your understanding and the sagacity of youi judgment." "Mrs. Elbray's brow darkened into a frown. She had informed him why she had sent for him, and why did he not show some interest in the matter? why did he seem so totally oblivious of her wishes? why so forgetful of the object of his call? Compliments were well enough in their way, but just then she did not care for them. She would much rather he would, for once, lay aside his courtliness, and betake himself to the business in hand. "You have not decided," she remarked, in a tone which she meant to be open and candid, but which was only hard and reproving, " which is the best plan to follow in securing Mr. Elbray's property so that he will not be able to make any foolish disposal of it?"Mr. Bartoll, for a moment, was startled out of his Chesterfieldian calmness by so direct a question. Quickly regaining his composure, he replied: ALICEI MURRAY. 489 "Decided? I did not know it was left for me to decide Besides, I am not aware any plan has been laid before me to choose." "Very true, Lewis. But I am willing to listen to any you may propose." "And I, madam, notwithstanding your gracious condes- cension, shrink from such an unpardonable rudeness, such an unheard-of assumption. I to lay plans before you, in- stead of respectfully listening to yours." He leaned for- ward in his chair, and supporting his chin on his palm, looked her intently in the face. Perhaps there was some- thing not exacly reassuring in the glitter of his eyes, per- haps in the smile that played about his lips was an uncon- scious and delicate approach to a sneer; certain it is, the more Mrs. Elbray tried to feel confidence in him, the more a distrust of him sprung up in her heart, and the more her tongue was chained to silence. She moved restlessly in 1i her seat; she rose, and walked to the window, and sweep- ing aside the lace and damask curtains, gazed out into the street. She turned, and glancing at the silver-tongued i pendule on the marble mantel, sank into a large arm chair, and closed her eyes, as if to shut out the impaling gaze that followed her every movement. "My dear madam," at length Mr. Bartoll said, "I never before saw you so unnerved. May I be permitted to ask, are your plans-- " "Are my plans what?" she exclaimed, angrily interrupt- ing his question. ,i "Are they so dark and complex that you fear to mention them?" . "Dark and complex," she contemptuously returned. "no indeed ; they are far from that. There's no deep mystery i: or fearful plotting in them. They simply point a way free i from intricacies, and easy of travel, by which Mr. Elbra i ill page: 440-441[View Page 440-441] "O AICE MU1RAY. may be prevented from suffering, in his old age, from the effects of his own folly." "Then why, my dear madam, do you hesitate to la3 them before me?" "I don't know, Lewis, as I do. But for all I've said, you may not think any of them practicable. You know I have the most profound respect for your shrewd business tact, and that I repose the greatest confidence in your judgment. As to Mr. Elbray, if he ever had tact or judg- ment, he has long since got over it. In fact, I consider him wholly unable to manage his affairs, and dare say, were it not for you, they would now be in a crazy con- dition. For several years you have had the whole care of them, and why should you not continue to take charge of them?" "I agree with you perfectly there. Mr. Elbray is too old and feeble to be burdened by them." "Then, as long as that is the case, Lewis, why should there not be some legal proceedings gone through with, by which he might not only be relieved of the burden of them, but also of the responsibility of disposing of them?" "I do not exactly understand you, madam." "I mean, could there not be guardians chosen to take the charge of his property, and hinder him from making any foolish use of it?" "On what grounds?" "On the grounds of his age and feebleness." "It would not do. Neither his' age nor his feebleness renders him a cipher in the eyes of the law." "Then his imbecility." "That would be extremely dificult to prove; in fact, 1 think quite impossible"The smile round Mr. Bartoll's lips slightly deepened. "But--but-Lewis, something must be done. Mr El ALICE MUPrfAY. 441 bray, I find, clings idiotically to the memory of that girl , he continually broods over the days she was with him. Last night, before going to the opera, I went into the library for my bouquet holder, which I recollected I had left there, and there found him actually shedding tears over some nonsense she had once scribbled in an old book. Of course that book this morning went into the fire, so he'll sniffile no more over it-but you see how demented he is on the subject. Nothing I can say or do weans him from ! it." She paused; a bright thought struck her. "All, i now I have it," she exclaimed, "I have said he was de- mented, and he certainly is. His mind is not sound; l dwelling on one subject to the exclusion of all others has utterly destroyed its equilibrium. In this condition he is j not fit to be his own master; some person or persons should be chosen to see to him." "You mean, the disposal of his property should be taken from him, and guardians placed over him on the plea of insanity?" "I do, Lewis." "But, my dear madam, that-his insanity-would also be extremely difficult to prove." "Why, Lewis? on what grounds?" "It is not necessary, madanm, to go over them. There1 are people in the world who take a very different view of things from you or I, and the little stratagems you have used in order to draw him from a foolish attach- ment for an unworthy object, might reflect too darkly on you." "You complimented me, Lewis," Mrs. Elbray somewhat tartly rejoined, " on my sagacity a few moments since, and was anxious to know my plans, and now when I lay one of; them before you, you show its impracticability without pro posing a better." :II I page: 442-443[View Page 442-443] -442 ALICE MURRAY. "But your others, madam? You speak as if you had more than one." "Well, yes, I did have." "Did?" "Yes, Lewis, did." "Do you mean you have no more now?" "I do. If this one is impracticable, they are Joubly so." "You mean the others are not only impracticable in themselves but it would be impracticable, rash, hazardous in you to tell them?" Mrs. Elbray's brow flushed, in a moment it paled, and cold drops stood on it, "Lewis," she said, and there was an unusual hesitation in her voice, "you question strangely. If I did not know better I would think you an enemy in disguise that was trying to probe into my secrets in order to use them against me." MLr. Bartoll's countenance wore the expression of one deeply wronged. "My dear madam," he exclaimed in a grieved and injur- ed tone, "have I ever in any way given you cause for so unjust and cruel a suspicion?" "I can't say that you have. But why you should ask if my other plans might not be dangerous and hazardous, even to mention, if you were not a friend, I cannot see. As a friend it would make no difference what they were; you would not turn them against me; as an enemy you might, probably would." "My dear madam, if such be your feelings, I beg you not to mention them. Nay, I insist that you must not; that I will not hear them." "Very well, Lewis, as I have told you they are impracti- cable, perhaps it's just as well not to waste one's breath in going over them. But, now with all my sagacity, mine failing, have you none to bring forward?" "CE MURRAY. 443 Mr. Bartoll for several minutes was buried in deep thought. His elbow rested on the arm of his chair, his hand supporting his bent brow. "Have you none?" she asked, as he at length raised his l head. i "Madam, on calm reflection, I think it better to let things remain as they are. Mr. Elbray may remember Miss Mur- i ray with feelings of affection, and bringing her up; stand- ing in the place of father to her for so many years, it is not surprising that he should; but he will never leave any of his property to her. Set your mind perfectly at ease on i that score. She is now supporting herself, and he knows it. She is independent of him, and probably prefers to remain so; and he will let her. She may hug her inde- ! pendence to her heart, and make much of it; for, take my II word for it, not one penny that's John Elbray's will she ever get."' There was an agreeable earnestness in his voice that had not been in it before during their interview, a triumphant ring in it that wonderfully soothed Mrs. Elbray's fears. "Can I rely on you?" she asked, the old sweet look of condescension again beaming on her countenance. "Trust me, dear madam, most assuredly in this matter you may." He took out his watch, glanced at it, and rose; she followed him to the door. With his hat and cane in one gloved hand, he placed the other impressively on his I heart, and bowed himself out. Going down the street he remarked to himself: "The old lady is getting desperate ; she is capable of anything; I read it in her fat and bloated countenance. John Elbray will have reason to thank me that his days are not cut short. I am merciful; I relieve him of that which would be dan-e gerous for him to have, and release madam from the tempt- ation of mysterious plottings and the sinfully carrying of , page: 444-445[View Page 444-445] "4 ATICE MURSAT. them out. Although I blush to own it, I really did have some scruples before ; I have none now. The indulgence of her fastidious tastes will not permit her to do with her thirds, she must have the whole. Ha! ha! she may bless her stars if--let me see-will it be safe-I must be careful- feel my steps along, and at the proper time, apply the match, and let the explosion take place. It will raise a dust and commotion at first, but that will pass; and I can live through it"Arriving at his place of business he was soon in his inner office with journals and ledgers spread out before him. Mrs. Elbray returned to her room, and her mind, relieved I of its late fears, was soon absorbed in the perplexing doubt whether to wear a stiff brocade with rich lace and flower I trimmings, or a black velvet, set with brilliants to the eve ning party to the Knoxes. Lucette, decked in all the gew- gaws of wealth and fashion, attended it. Soon after her entrance her mamma managed to draw her aside long enough to whisper in her ear how charming she was look-. ing, how dazzling the brilliancy of her eyes, how delightful the natural glow on her cheek, how clear and transparent : her complexion; and Lucette, with quick, panting chest, murmured back her thanks, and felt in her sinking frame a thrill of pleasure at her mamma's flattering words. But I in the mazy dance she suddenly faltered, glanced anxiously around her, and fell heavily against her partner; a slender stream of blood oozed over her blanched lips, staining her costly festal robes; room was made in the throng; and she- was hastily carried to an open window, where the cool air might revive her; as soon as possible styptics were admin- istered and the hemorrhage checked; her carriage was ordered, and she was taken home. It was her last appear- ance out. A physician and nurse were employed, and Mrs. Elbray, with scarce a thought for the lone, prisoned invalid, ALICE MUBRAY. 445 ! and only an occasional look-in-upon-her, continued her gayj round of pleasure. The winter season passed, the genial springtime followed, and then came the sultry days of summer. Mrs. Elbray : had her route mapped out; in company with the dear Vaughn's and Knoxes, she was going to Long Branch, Saratoga, Niagara, and Lake George. She had repeatedly l' visited these several places, but she must hie away to them : again, have one more delightful time among the grand old beauties of nature-for which she had so keen an appreci- !I tion--before she went abroad. Another summer she would spend among the glorious mountain-scenery of Switzerland; and her heart swelled with rapture in anticipation of the eclat with which, on her return, she could sit down, and make dashing allusions to her European tour, and the warm friendship she had formed for my Lord This andtl Lady That. But before she could get out of the city, 'I Lucette was suddenly taken worse. Mr. Elbray was im- mediately sent for. Mrs. Elbray was dining out, but that made slight difference; she was seldom annnoyed by I summonses " to come and see her sick child," for the sim- l pie reason that she either did not obey them, or if she did, it was only to upbraid her for her folly in clinging so to her foolish notions, and interrupting her enjoyments merely to witness her languishing airs, and listen to her tiresome vaporings. As to papa and mamma Bartoll they had lately taken umbrage at some of Mrs. Elbray's supers eiliousness, and entirely withdrawn themselves from her. Indignant with the mother, they could feel no interest for the daughter. The physician, when referring to her case, Phook his head and looked grave; but- that was only to ellI enhance his skill when, wearying of her sick whim, she roused up and again appeared in society. Papa Elbray was the only one that seemed to have any feeling for her, "! "I;i page: 446-447[View Page 446-447] or thought it possible she could die; and accordingly papa Elbray it was that was always sent for whenever she was worse; and to his credit, be it added, he always went. Now, as he hastened to Lewis' residence, his mind insensi- bly wandered back to the day when his first wife was so suddenly called from him ; and all the after poignant events of his life. If he could only blot out the last six or seven years, and go back to the days of Alice being in his home, and that home in dear, peaceful Antoria. Oh if he only could. What a hollow, heartless set his fatal mar- riage had thrown him among. How little kindness he saw; how little worth. What an immense, towering sel- fishness overshadowed him on all sides. That poor Lu- cette, one of their own clique, was dying, and with an in- difference that would have shamed savages, and been a disgrace to the very beasts of the fields, they left her to her fate. Shutting out the vision of her sick room, lest it might teach them a wholesome lesson, they continued their mad chase after vapid pleasures. Introduced into Lucette's room, she reached out a little skeleton-like hand to him. "I am so glad to see you," she hoarsely said. "Bend down, papa." He leaned his ear to her mouth. "Tell nurse," she whispered, "to leave the room. I have some- thing to tell you." He at once sent the girl down stairs on some errand. "What is it, Lucette?" he asked, tenderly lifting her upon the pillows, so her position might be easier, and ad- ministering a stimulant to her. "Oh, papa, it has haunted me so in the long, dreary hours of my sickness, that I cannot die with it on my soul I have dreaded to tell you, mamma will be so angry, but 1 must, 1 must," she sobbed. "But, child, if it distresses you so much," he consider. ately remarked, " whatever it is, you need not,." 6*J x vjm Ju.^AU XKJj.. LX'X .L But I must, papa, I feel I mast. You remember the gold chain mamma said Alice had taken and attached to ti the miniature of her aunt, in place of the one that belonged i to it?" Yes, Lucette, I remember it."i "And mamma said it was one my own papa had given her?" "Yes, I believe she did." "Well, it was not so. Papa never saw it; mamma bought it after he died, and just before we went to An- I toria ; and Alice did not change it, it was mamma that did it. And then she took chain and miniature and put them into a little box in Alice's trunk, one afternoon she hap- pened to be out, visiting, I think, her aunt's grave." Mr. Elbray bowed his head and groaned. Oh, how dreadful was that woman, how fearfully had she deceived him. Alice innocent of the charges against her, and he to so cruelly upbraid her, and so heartlessly to cast her off. He put his hand on his heart to stop its wild throbbings; he threw his head back and gasped for breath. ! "And you knew this at the time?" he almost fiercely asked. "I did," she cried, " and I thought mamma so smart to' think of it and do it." i "And now?" , !. "Oh now I feel different. I see'how wrong and cruel it was. In the long, dark nights her pale, sorrowful face has , hung over my pillow, taunting me with the horrid injustice mamma and myself heaped upon her. I was not," she added, after a severe paroxysm of coughing, "the one to plan or do it, but I was glad it was done, and rejoiced in it. But her words have come true." Mr. Elbray sat shading his brow and eyes with his hand. He knew the weak woman before him was nearing her page: 448-449[View Page 448-449] course, that in a few days, perhaps hours, it would be gained, and only her cold, inanimate clay be left behind. In the presence of Death 'he experienced an awe that re. strained his anger. Whatever the poor, dying woman re. vealed, he would hear it with calmness, and if he could not command himself so far as to speak mildly to her, he would be silent. "What were the words Alice spoke to you?" he gently asked. "I can't exactly tell you what they were ; but one day that mamma had been sneering at her for being at your house, I laughed. She got up, walked to the door, and turning her large eyes on me, said something to the effect that I might laugh then at mamma's trying to turn her, a poor orphan, homeless on the world, but the time would come when I would bitterly rue it. I mockingly asked her would she state the time, so I might be prepared for it. She answered, it would be when time would be pre- cious little to me, when it would be slipping from me, and Death and Eternity were opening before me. Oh papa, what a wild, sorrowful face she had when she said it, and how true, how true it was. I do rue it; I am frightened." Mr. Elbray kindly wiped the moisture on her brow. "Lucette," he said, "you are talking too much. You must stop and rest. You are paler than when I came in, and your hands are like ice." "That is nothing, papa; I must say what I have to say; I have only a little time to say it in. Give me one of those powders on the salver, put it in a teaspoon of water, and hand it to me-quick-be quick." With as much haste as his aged, trembling fingers could use, he prepared and handed it to her. She swallowed it, and weariedly closed her eyes. Soon she opened them. "Papa," she said, "Lewis is abting strange of late" ALICE MURRAY. 41 He is not kind to you, I know." "That's not it; that in him is nothing strange; his kindness would be stranger. But last night, when for a i few minutes he came in, he raved terribly at me, and let i out some things I think you ought to know. How long since you looked over the books of the firm?" "It is several weeks; no, it's longer; it's three or four months." "How long since you made a settlement of them?" "You mean a dividend was made?" "Yes." In a few days it will be six months. But why do you put these questions? What have they to do with a poor sick woman?"He began to fear her mind was wandering. "Because-because-" she gasped, speaking with increa- ing difficulty, "Lewis said last night that everything was going to rack and ruin, and it was-it was-give me some of that medicine in the vial." He hastily put several drops in a glass and reached it to her ; she took it, and handed back the glass. "Hold me up." He raised her in his arms-he said " the firm was on the eve of bankruptcy, and -and-oh! I can't breathe-where are you?" "I am here, Lucette." He touched the tassel suspended i over the bed; the girl made her appearance. A shudder, a relaxing of the limbs, a convulsive sob, and John Elbray and the nurse were alone with the dead. The imposing funeral was over, and a week had passed and the morning papers were filled with the startling news of the failure of the firm of Elbray, Bartoll & Co. . Mrs. Elbray had another interview with Mr. Bartoll, in which he took the opportunity to remind her that in the wreck and desolation that had come upon them, one con- solation, at least, was left her. She need have no fear that I * X i page: 450-451[View Page 450-451] any of Mr. Elbray's property would be left to Miss Murray; that was now past a doubt; and though he and his father by the unavoidable mishaps of business were utterly ruined too, he could not help congratulating her on this interest. ing fact, believing, as he did, that in the mild and christian- like feelings she had ever evinced for the late Mrs. Elbray's niece, it would fully compensate her for any little trouble or inconvenience she might herself experience from it. Writhing under the bitter mockery of his words, she tried to retort. But declaring the eloquence of angry woman was more than his nerves could bear, he took a hasty leave. It was the last time they ever met. The Bartolls leaving their elegant mansion on Fifth Avenue, returned to their old home on the Hudson. This was in Mrs. Bartoll's name, and the failure of the firm could not touch it. Lewis could not be idle ; he sought and found a situation as clerk in a prominent broker's office; in six months he was in an office of his own, and in less than a year one of the most influential men on 'change. A second marriage obliterated the first from his mind, and if he ever thought of Mrs. Elbray, it was only to congratulate himself on having by a dextrous stroke or two removed the fearful temptation of disposing of John Elbray's property from her. The Elbrays also left their splendid residence in Washington Square, and moved to obscure quarters, no one knew, or cared where. Mrs. Elbray dropped from the circle in which it had been her delight to move, and was not missed. In the midst of her triumphs her cup of happiness was dashed to the ground. Her hour of retribution had come. ALICE MURRAY. 451 CHAPTER XXVII. i Ir was six years and a half since Alice left John Elbray's I and five years since she went to the Whitetown Academy. Great changes, in that time, had come over the quiet little village of Lucan. Daily now were heard in its shady streets the shriek of the whistle and the rush of the cars; Lucan ! had waked up; and large stores, hotels and banks had sprung up in its midst. Farmers coming in with their produce pro- ! nounced it a great place, and from the rapid changes of a i few years back were sure that in a few years more it would be i one of the most thriving cities in the central part of the State. Some of the villagers even went further, but then they were of the very sanguine turn--they were certain the Cap-. itol would yet be changed to it, and gravely pointed out the most suitable and convenient site for the future erec- tion of the State buildings. Property, as Mr. Armstrong prophesied it would, had risen, and wisely investing the money Alice was able yearly to save from her salary, there was now quite a sum in the bank towards liquidating her debt to John Elbray. On her first going to the school, Paul had come for- ward, like an old friend, to welcome her, and wish her sue- cess in her new field of labor. She received his advances i coldly, shyly, and he withdrew, feeling his mother, with all her sagacity, had been mistaken. Alice respected him, but she did not, could not love him. No other stood be- tween him and her affections; this she had herself franklyj told him, but it did not argue her affections were placed ! on him, or were ever likely to be. His uncle would havel been pleased at the match ; he was sure it was her debt to John Elbray that hindered it from going on right, and - he was doing his best, in the careful management of her 1 1I page: 452-453[View Page 452-453] 452 AICE MURRAY. property, to remove the objection. Alice, seemingly c3n. scious on what grounds his active sympathies were enlisted in her behalf, sternly insisted on his receiving a certain percentage for his trouble. With a sour, grim smile wreathing his rugged features he accepted it, thinking she was very stiff and independent; but then that sort always wore the best; she was off now, but when that milestone of a debt was lifted from her, then she'd be all right, and Paul needn't fear or mind it. But he did mind it; he read in this a greater confirmation of his fears, and while Alice was cold and constrained to him, shrank back from making any further display of his feelings, and betaking himself, with all diligence to his business, was slowly and surely climbing up to the rank of the first merchants of the place. Many a fair one began to smile encouragingly upon him ; many a papa and mamma to look upon him as a most desirable son-in-law, and to wonder why he was so insensible of his own worth, and the favorable light in which he was regarded. At last rumor had it blamed abroad that he was about to marry a bright, sparklng young lady, the reigning belle, and daughter of the wealthiest gentleman in Whitetown. Mr. Armstrong, when he called on Alice to give in his returns, spoke of Paul's approaching marriage as a settled affair, and Julia, who accompanied him-to see, as she averred, how Alice was getting along in her school, and was as great a favor- ite as ever with her pupils, but who, with all her curiosity, never went near the imposing brick structure, known as the academy, and confined herself to the little parlor of the boarding house where Alice received them-spoke in raptures of the flattering prospects opening tc Paul These were days of trial to Alice She had become ac- quainted with Paul in his own home ; she knew him to be a kind son, an affectionate brother, a true friend. Mis re- ALICE MO[UKIAt. 453 i Ugion was no theoretical affair; it was real, practical, and entered into the minutest details of his daily life. It was the guide of all his actions, and, without being at all loud- mouthed about it, it made itself known and felt by every one that approached him. He had, from the first, treated her with an almost brotherly kindness, and when the dark l shadow settled on her name, was so much more respectful, so much more attentive, as if he were trying to comfort her in her trouble, and assure her of his still faithful friendship. And when she returned to her uncle Brad- ley's he did not forget her; he rode out frequently to see her; and in the books he brought her, and the conversa- tion they very naturally called forth, her deep respect for him deepened into a profound veneration for his goodness, his kindness, his talents, his worth. She knew the sound of his wagon wheels rolling up to the gate, and later in the season, the jingle of his sleigh-bells greeted pleasantly on her ear; that the sight of his tall, manly form, sent a thrill of joy to her heart, that the gentle pressure of his hand, and the truthful beam of his eye, the deep, musical ring of his voice, possessed the greatest charm for her she knew; but she did not dream she loved him. He was only a very, very dear friend, who enjoyed her thoughts the most of anybody in the world. But when he offered her his hand ' and heart, and besought her to be his life companion, thefi the mask fell from her eyes, and she knew she loved, loved with a deep, unutterable love. But with this conviction ; came another, that blanched her cheek and sent a deadly chill to her heart. On one side of her stood the brave, manly, pious Paul and happiness, on the other John 3El- bray and the debt she owed him. Paul was willing to take her, a portoinless bride, and willingly, gladly, as a por- li tionless bride, would she have gone to him; but her sacred promise had been given that she would pay, up to the last i ti page: 454-455[View Page 454-455] 45i4 ALICE MURRAT. cent, what she owed for her bringing up ; and could she go to him, not only portionless, poor, but burthened by a heavy debt? No; dear as he was, she could not think of it. She must not throw on his shoulders the load that be- longed to her own. He was only commencing life ; a fair field stretched on before him, and, unshackled, he must be permitted to walk it. Not an impediment must she throw in his way to success. By and by, in years to come, the debt might be lifted from her, and she be free; and then -then-but stop. Would he wait? Could she, or ought she to hope, to expect it? She sorrowfully shook her head, and burying her face in her hands, wept long and bitterly. When at last she raised her head, in a gentle, firm tone she gave him a final and decisive answer. He took his leave, and from that time his horse no longer turned to the road leading up the steep hill of Stapleton, every time his master went out a riding. When she went to Whitetown, Paul met her as a friend, and not again to flatter his hopes, and put him to the hu- miliation of a second refusal, she shrank from showing too warm a feeling for him, and, unconsciously going to the other extreme, treated him with a severe and marked cold- ness. lMr. Armstrong kindly offered to take charge of what she would be able to save from her salary, and invest it in the best possible way for her, and from some words he dropped, the hope sprung up in her heart that Paul knew why she had refused him, and would be willing to wait. But Paul, hurt by her cold repellant bearing, had with- drawn, and showed no desire again to come forward, and Alice, grieved and offended at his continued indifference, sternly insisted on paying Mr. Armstrong for his trouble. In laboring for her he should be left under no delusion that he was virtually laboring for his beloved Paul; he should know from the very first that Paul was not to be compro- ALICE MURRAY. '455 mised by anything he chose to do for her. And thus far- ther and farther the waves swept them asunder. Occasion- ally they met, and coldly and reservedly greeted each other. Julia and Mrs. Meade were always kind, and the former, especially, extremely cordial in the expression of her good will to her. She entertained no hope that Paul could be ever more than a friend, if even that, at least she assured herself time and again that she did not; and yet when the gossips of the place published that he was soon to marry Emma Reynolds, her heart sank within her, and her cheek grew pale, but no cry escaped her lips. Hushed and silent i the inward storm swept over her, and crushed, humbled, and stronger than ever she went on with her work. No ^ one but the All-Father knew how long were her days, how dreary and desolate her nights. Her lips became a trifle i thinner, her cheeks a shade paler, her eyes more set in their gaze-that was all the outward change ; and too busy with their own affairs to be very curious about other's, her com- panions did not notice it. As for the joyous, light-hearted girl on whom his affections had centered, she harbored no ill-will against her. She only hoped she would prove wor- thy of Paul and make his life happy. She thought she ' would; and her father being wealthy, he would be able to ! help him, and perhaps it was the best he could ever do. But she must learn to cast his image out from her heart, she must not let her thoughts dwell so constantly upon him, ji she must be able to see him without feeling her hands grow ; cold and her heart flutter. It was her duty, her strong, im- i perative duty, and faithfully and conscientiously she strove to do it. But keenly, bitterly did she suffer. When at times the bitterness seemed too great to bear, unseen hands held t a cup of consolation to her lips. Darkness trailed around her but angel eyes pierced the gloom, and angel voices t spoke comfort in her ears. The All-Father hears the cry * I' t # '{.y' page: 456-457[View Page 456-457] 56O ALICE M ULAT. of His suffering children, and white-winged messengers are dispatched to each afflicted one. In the hollow of His hand He holds all days and seasons: life ebbs and flows, generation succeeds generation, the atom of time allowed to each, is marked out, and the light and shade thrown around it is such as not to dazzle by too great brightness, nor oppress by too great darkness. It was drawing to the spring holidays, there was to be a fortnight's fieedom from school, and she was going home to the Bradleys. lir. Bradley generally came for her, sometimes, the Christmas before for instance, Mrs. Bradley came too. It seemed they could not wait till she got to Lucan, they must see and feast their eyes with her before. She was a second Margaret, and as they loved the memory of the first, so was she dear to them. They saw in her countenance many an expression, they heard in her voice many a tone that reminded them of their lost darling. She had her thoughtfulness for others, her deep, abiding affection, her love of home, her endearing gentleness, her patience. Every year she seemed more and more like her. They hoped she would not be taken from them too, they wanted to know with their own eyes how she was looking, and if she was well, happy and contented, Her going to them was always. a season of joy to all Elizabeth and Ambrose with their children-they now had two--were sure to be there to welcome her, and. helping her aunt in her sewing, listening to her kind motherly words, feeling they all loved and cherished her, and she was really and indeed as one of: themselves, and their home was hers the weeks of vacation happily passed. It was a pleasant afternoon, her pupils were dismissed, and hastening to her boarding-house, and hurrying to her room, she sat down, and wrote to her uncle Bradley that he might come for next Saturday,.that. then. she would have FALAZ MUBRRAY. 457 two weeks again to be with them in their ideas home. After j tea she took her letter to the post-office. In the elation of the momant she did not see that heavy clouds had gathered t in the wnst, and were rolling up rapidly to the zenith,. She had no umbrella with her, and as she turned from the office, she looked up anxiously at the dark sky. A few large drops fell. Should she step back and wait till the shower passed? No, for already several men had gathered in, and were standing in the: door; she drew her shawl around her and quickened her pace. Faster and faster came the heavy drops, she bowed her head and resignedj herself to a thorough drenching. Suddenly an umbrella l was raised above her, and she was conscious somebody was walking at her side. Without looking up, she knew who it was. "These spring showers sometimes come up very unex- pectedly." "Yes, Mr. Meade," she briefly answered. i "I was just going over to see you," he continued. "To see me," she exclaimed. "Yes, is it displeasing to you to hear it?" ' She did not know what to say. As the betrothed of ' EmmaReynolds what business had he to be paying friendly visits to her? If he had'leisure, and wanted to make a call, why did he not call on Miss Reynolds. No doubt sheJ would be pleased to see him, and would, welcome. him with one of her most joyous smiles. i "You are silent," he remarked, with a sigh, "-am I to in- fer from it that my presence is annoying to you?" She thought of his faithful friendshiip in her trouble, of I the strict integrity of his: life. I! "Mr. Meade," she said, "I think it; strange that under present circumstances you should: cam to come and ee BEi page: 458-459[View Page 458-459] A ICE MUIRRAY. "Strange'--' under present circumstances,"' he repeated, ' I do not know what you mean." "It is singular. I should not think it hard to find oit my meaning." "I am stupid," he replied, "I own it, and I beg you to explain the meaning of your words." She tried to speak, to refer to his approaching marriage, but found it impossible. "What in God's name is it? Explain yourself. Do not let us be ever estranged. I once flattered myself with the hope that, if nothing more, we might, at least, be friends. It seems even this is to be denied me. An errand to you from my mother brings me into your presence, and you re- coil from me as from a tainted thing. What does it mean? What terrible falsehood have you heard?"He spoke with an impassioned voice which showed, for one so unusually calm, that he was powerfully moved. "I have heard nothing," she answered. "And," she sor- rowfully continued, " when you are married I will be your friend, and your wife's, and you and she will be friends to me." "When I am married?" "Yes, when you are married. Married to Emma Rey- nolds. She is a good girl, and will make you a worthy wife." "And on condition that I marry Miss Reynolds you promise to be my friend?"There was an intense bitter- ness in his tones. Unheeding it, Alice answered: "I do ; and I wish you joy in your marriage." "Alice, what mockery is in this? I to marry Bliss Rey- nolds? I do not know what it means. She is an excel- lent girl; one that is sincerely good, but as to marryhig her, I never thought of it." "Paul 1" ALICE MURRAY. 459 "It is so, Alice. Ask Miss Reynolds herself; she will I tell you the same. I have called several times to see her father on business ; such being the case, my stay with him has been mostly in his library; occasionally I have passed from it into the parlor, and chatted awhile with her and her mother, but no thought of love ever crossed nmy mind, no word of love ever passed between us." But how did the report get out? Your uncle spoke of it as a settled thing; Julia was exultant about the fair a prospects opening before you." L "I am sure I can't tell. As to uncle Armstrong and i Julia, jubilent over it to you, I wonder they never men j tioned it to me." i "And they did not?" No, they never in the slightest way referred to it. One I day, though, I recollect Julia spoke of Emma: she said she was a good, amiable little girl; and then she spoke of you, drew a comparison between you-I need not tell you it was altogether in your favor-and ended by declaring, like her father, she infinitely preferred a woman of sense to a woman of wealth." They had now reached the little cottage where Alice board. ed. Without waiting an invitation to call, he remarked: "I have an errand from mother, as I told you ; I will just id step in." Alice did not, could not object. He opened the door, and they both passed in ; placing his umbrella on the stand and his hat on the rack, he walked into the parlor. "I will be down directly," she said, ascending to her room. Once there, she removed her bonnet and shawl, and sinking on her knees she sent up a fervent prayer for help and guidance. Her heart fluttered, and thrilled. She would lay the matter before her Father ; she had always, in trouble and perplexity, gone to Him ; why not in joy? For she was joyful; Piul was not going to marry auother; I90-g %r page: 460-461[View Page 460-461] 160 ALICE MURRAY. he still had s friendly feeling for her; and it comforted he to know it. Paul was walking the floor when she descended to the parlor ; a servant had been in, for a lighted lamp stood on the table. As she seated herself, Paul paused in his walk and sat down. You have been teaching here for most five years," he said, " and during that time we have seldom met." "You said you had an errand from your mother." Her lips were white, her hands cold and trembling. She knew what he was coming to, what in a moment, if she did not check him, he would say. Her reason for rejecting his proposal did not stand so gigantic and threatening, in the way as it did five years before, but it was still there. She did not yet have enough to pay John Elbray. Perhaps she never would have. But no, she would not say that. She would, and that too at the close of another year ; but would he wait, or consent to let her wait till the terrible load was wholly lifted from her shoulders? "My mother's errand," he answered, in a grave tone, "It was that you stop in Lucan and stay with her for a few days, instead of going direct to your uncle's in Staple- ton. She has another attack of rheumatic fever. Julia is a good, kind girl, and does all she can, but mother wants you. She says no presence will soothe her like yours. Since the time you were with her, two years ago, when she had the typhoid fever, she longs for you if anything ails her. Will you go to her?" "I will. Uncle Terrence, and perhaps aunt Nora, will be here an Saturday; I will tell them how the matter stands, and I know they will not object." "Then in my answer to her note, which I will mail in the morning, I will tell her you will be with her by Saturn day night." ALICE MURRAY. 461 "Yes, Paul; I will be in Lucan on the seven o'clock train." "And that now disposed of, let me, I beg you, speak of what has long been on my mind." He drew his chair nearer to hers. "Yes, Alice," he continued, "this long time on my mind; but your manner, so distant and chilling, has restrained me. The report that I am about to marry Miss Reynolds, which, strange as it may appear, I have for the first time heard from your lips, emboldens me to say it. Five- years ago you rejected my suit, and crushed and humbled, I left your presence. It seemed I should never again feel the light joyousness of youth, that age had come on me suddenly. The world looked so vain and empty, and its affairs, its rush, hurry and drive, so mocking. I wondered if I would ever be able to go back to the store, stand behind the counter, sit at my desk, look over rmy ledger, or open a letter. What were stores, counters, desks, ledgers and letters to me? Business! What was it? What did it mean? It was unreadable as the writing on the wall. I needed another Daniel to decipher it. He came-came in the form of my mother. She saw the change that had come over me, and with a mother's love, and a mother's art, she drew the secret of my suffering from me. In return, Alice, she spoke words that cornm- forted me in my desolation, old things once more took on their old meaning, and I woke once more to work and labor, with will and purpose." He ceased, and after a 'ew moment's silence, Alice timidly asked: "What were your mother's words, Paul? or don't yog care to tell me?" "I do, Alice ; I care very much. It is to tell you them j that I go back to that time. Like a fond mother, she was at first surprised to hear you had refused me; but soon 5 allying from her surprise she seemed to catch the reason , I page: 462-463[View Page 462-463] "2 ALICE MUItAY. for your so doing. She had, on the occasion of Mr. Elbray's call upon you, heard you solemnly promise to pay him for your bringing up, and she was certain that debt to him was the cause of your rejecting me. You did not, she argued, want to burden me with it, you wanted to pay it yourself. A new hope was infused in me, I felt my heart grow light, and I meant the first time I should see you to beg of you to let me join my labors to yours, and with our united efforts to pay him." Alice had covered her face with her hands, and though no sobs convulsed her form, he could see tears trickling through her fingers. "The next time I saw you," he continued, "was when Margaret lay a corpse in the house, the day before the funeral. Then of course was no time to broach the subject, and I deferred it till I should see you here. But when you came you froze me with your coldness; you made me feel in bitterness of heart my mother was mistaken, her conjec- ture all wrong; she had seen what she wanted to see, not what was before her, and plain as the noon-day sun. No one stood between me and your affections-so you had can- didly and generously owned ; but, O Alice, I saw, or fancied I saw, that those affections, free as they were, could never be placed upon me; that some antipathy, strong as death, and as powerless to resist, turned them with loathing against me. I bore the humiliating fact forced home upon ne as well as I could, but there were times when it was hard-Alice, hard." After a slight pause he went on, his voice slightly tremulous: "To-night, again a change has come over me, the old hope has sprung up, phoenix-like, from the cold ashes in which it has lain buried for the last years, and with the joy of it thrilling every nerve, I hare the courage to ask you, was my mottier right? was it your ALIE MBVRRAY. 463 debt to John Elbray that stood between you and me? Tell me, Alice, tell me." Alice raised her head. Tears shone in her eyes, but back of them was a deep unutterable peace. "Yes, Paul," she said, "that was all." "But why did you not tell me?" "I could not. I wanted to, but it seemed I must not." "Why, Alice, dearest?" ! "Because I alone was the one to bear the burden of it, not you." ii "But would you not let me take my share?" "Your share, Paul. There was none of it belonging to you. None of it should be put upon you." : "But my shoulders are broader, much broader than yours. On me it would not have been, and would not now be so galling." "That was nothing, you should not be burdened by it. i I felt so, and I am sure my feelings were right. Now, thanks, under God, to your kind uncle investing my money : so wisely for me, and thanks too, under God, to Father Edwards for getting me a situation where I could honestly earn it, I can see ahead of me. Another year, and I think I shall have enough to pay for every year I was with him." "And you did love me? Loved me all the time back." i "Yes, Paul," she calmly answered,--she felt now there was no sin in her love, that it was pure and just before Grod-" all the years till a few months back. Then I tried to cast the love of you out of my heart." "Since you heard I was going to marry Miss Reynolds?" "Yes, since then. Before, however humiliating and unreturned my affection, it did not strike me, as long i as I kept it to myself and preserved a good conscience t before God, as very wrong. I could hardly help it; you were so worthy, so upright that I could not but see, and i? page: 464-465[View Page 464-465] 464 ACE MUBfAY. akcnowledge it with the most profound veneration and respect. Your unfaltering kindness at a time when kind- ness was sorely needed, the great honor you showed me in confessilg your love for me, and offering me your hand and heart when a dark stain had settled on my name, made my love seem almost obligatory. But when I heard you were to be married to another, then I felt I must tear the love of you out of my heart, and bolt and bar against it; that it would be wrong, horribly wrong, longer to give it shelter." * And you suffered in the struggle?" "I did, but still I did not resign myself to an impetu- ous agony. I remembered that others had their sufferings too, that I was not the only one afflicted. The world is full of hidden sorrow, Paul, and yet it does not pause, does not stand still, but obedient to the power that crea. ted and swung it in the glowing firmament, it still rolls on i in its appointed course. The halcyon days of life are few, not many ; here are our storm and labor; hereafter, our sunshine and repose; and, bearing this in mind, I went on with my school, as if nothing had occurred to ruffle my tranquility. Some sharp pangs now and then assailed me, but they passed, and I breathed freer and easier after them." Paul's eyes were rivited on her. Both had suf- fered, but in their suffering, neither had, as Alice said, re- signed themselves to an impetuous agony. Truly humble, pious and God-fearing, theirs was the so far and no farther of religion, the boundary lines it marked out, and over which the waves of passion could not go. Paul spoke: i"Alice," he said, " now that I know this, will you not let me help you to pay the debt at once. God has blessed my means, and it would be no burden to me, but the great- est pleasure." i "I don't doubt you, Paul, but it cannot be." I tall you, Alice, I repeat it to you, that it would be no ! AICE MURRAY. 465 burden, that I am able, easily, and without a struggle to do it." - "Still it cannot be." "Explain whlly, Alice." His voice had a sorrowful, al- jiel most reproachful tone in it. V "Because, Paul, I have solemnly promised to pay it my- . self, and if the good God spare my life, I myself must do it. Do not be offended, Paul." "I am not, Alice; but I am grieved. To know that i[; you love me, that in your pure, spotless heart, all unworthy i[j as I am, is kept a bright, holy flame lit up for me, does not suffice. I am greedy ; happiness makes me grasping; ijil I want you in my home ; I wait to see you, speak to you, ti 7 every day of my life, to feel that your presence is ever!1 around me, purifying and sanctifying my every movement. Oh Alice, awhile back and the knowledge of your priceless 1? love would have been the greatest happiness, and now that t I have gained that knowledge, I find myself reaching out ji for' still greater, with an eagerness I cannot quell." "Yes you can, Paul. You are stronger than you think. \ Listen: another year, and, let me be as prosperous as I have been for the last years, I will have enough to pay John Elbray. Then, although I will have nothing of my :; own-will be ,poor and portionless-I will go to you; I will be your wife, happy and proud, in all my poverty, to be the chosen companion of such a one as you. Will you i wait? This is the question that haunted me so terribly in i tile old time, and which I would, have given worlds to have heard answered." She did not know what a glow Ij rested on her cheeks, what a light beamed from her eyes. Paul arose, and walked tip and down the room. Paus-[I ing before her, he took both her hands in his, and stoop-i ing, in a low, earnest voice, said : i "As Jacob waited and served for Rachel, so would I {X page: 466-467[View Page 466-467] "6 ALICE MURRAY. wait and serve for thee; but I don't see the necessity; if John Elbray is paid in part-by far the greater part too-- and the rest comes from your husband's means, it will be just the same as if it came from your own, for husband and wife are one; his means will be your means, and your means will be his. Can't you see it in this light?"Alice was painfully embarrassed. She could not think of bur- dening Paul with it. He had told her it would be no trouble, that he was fully able to meet it without incom- moding him in the least; but that was only because of his exceeding love. She must not take advantage of it; she must be careful for him, and, whatever it might cost herself, pay that debt without entangling him. "Paul," she said, at length, "you can't understand my feelings. The light before me shines steady and bright, and by it I see my duty. You have bravely and patiently waited, without any certainty of my love being returned measure for measure, full and overflowing; and now that you do know it, can you not, will you not wait still a little longer? It will make my whole after-life happier." The tears had been slowly gathering in her eyes, now they fell, and with them came a sobbing she could not restrain. Paul seated himself beside her. Hardly conscious of the act, his arm glided round her, and he pressed her to his heart. "I will wait, Alice," he said, "I will. Not for the world would I occasion you a pang of remorse, a single regret. When the debt is fully paid, when the barrier is removed then we will be married." "Yes, Paul," she tremblingly answered, "then I will be your wife, your happy and devoted wife, and you will be my strong, noble worthy husband." Tears sprung to Paul's eyes, so little used to them, and once more he folded her to his heart. Gently releasing her, he ose. ALICE MURRAY. 467 I You are going," she said. "Yes, it is after nine," he pointed to the clock, " and they might think strange in the house if I detained you later; but we will see each other again. I take a happy heart out with me into the dark; happier far than I brought in." "Anl, Paul, we must not forget to be grateful to a good God, who ha's wonderfully brought us through much sor- row and affliction. To-morrow morning let us go to the, church fasting, and go to confession and Holy Communion that our love may be blessed in His sight." "We will, Alice; I am glad you proposed it.' She fol- lowed him to the door. The rain had ceased, and it was a bright star-lit evening. 'i "Good night, Alice, dearest, and God bless you," and he kissed her. She returned his greeting, and with a wildly throbbing heart took her lamp and ascended to her room. Closing the door, she walked to her bed, and fell upon her knees. As in sorrow so in joy, it is natural for the child to go to its Father, to pour out its grateful thanks, to lay the whole matter before Him, and in its eager trembling i] happiness to beseech still His guiding hand, His loving ' care. As she had been carried through sorrow and adver- I sity, so now she prayed to be supported in joy and pros- perity, and that never, in the sun-shine stretching on before her, might she forget the God who had been her refuge I and protector when dark days gathered around her, and ! enemies rose up about her. Twice the clock struck, and, with her elbows on the bed, her face buried in her hands, she still knelt, still sent up her blissful, tearful prayer. At length, fervently pressing her little silver crucifix to her lips, i she rose. The wild, tumultuous emotions were gone ; peace i rested on her tranquil face. page: 468-469[View Page 468-469] "8 ALICE MUBRAY. CHAPTER XXVIII. TiE recess ended, she was back again to her school. The weeks and months passed and the annual vacations were drawing near. She would be away from Paul for a few weeks, but then she would return, and during the year would have the pleasure of seeing him almost daily. But may-be she would not be the whole vacation without see- ing him. He would be home to his uncle's, and then would ride up to Stapleton, and how glad the Bradleys'would be to see him. They now knew how matters stood between them; as a child she had gone to them with it, and they heard it, well pleased that she was going, like Elizabeth, to do so well. Mr. Armstrong's triumph hardly knew any bounds; he congratulated Paul over and over again that he was not "going to throw himself away," and Alice, " that she was going to have a husband worthy of her." He con- fidentially told Mrs. Meade it was all owing to his superior sagacity in pointing her out to Paul, and his excellent management of her property that she was soon to be re- leased from that debt, so she could feel free to marry. Alice and Paul were happy, but Mr. Armstrong was truly jubi- lant. He himself actually rode out to the Bradley's to tell Mr. Bradley all about it, and congratulate him on the fact that Paul was soon to be his nephew as well as his own, nud Alice was soon to be his-Armstrong's niece as well as Bradley's. It was in truth a great acquisition to both families. A great load was lifted from him ; he could now look forward to Paul's future without a shuddering dread of seeing him shipwrecked at the most momentous period of his life. Paul and Alice might not sigh or look so lack- adaisical after it, but he didn't know as that was to be re- gretted. He always felt for distressed lovers; he had pro ALICE MURRAY 469 cious little sympathy for a happy young husband and wife! He really didn't know as they needed it. If old Elbray lived i he might want it and be glad to get -it; if he didn't, why, as X he had observed before, Alice and Paul would have it for themselves, and enjoy it. And well they might, for though he had been wide-awake in the lively turn he made of ! the money she was able to give him from her salary, he had been strictly honest and conscientiously exact down to the last penny. No man, woman or child could accuse him of taking the least advantage of them in any way. He had ti bought and sold, and watching his time, and knowing just when to strike, had made a pretty good job of it, and proved to the world that it was not absolutely necessary to be a 1 rascal, in order to be a successful man of business. It was a bright sunshiny morning. Alice stood at the window of her room watching the shadow of the trees in the yard below without seeing them, as listening to the song of the robin's fluttering among their branches without hearing them. Both of her hands were on the sash, and with the fingers of one she was counting the expenses of ' each year she was at John Elbray's, and with the others setting off the means she had to meet them. She had care- 1 fully and thoughtfully passed over them once, marking thereby the flight of five years, and was just commencing another round of five years more when the door opened and a servant announced Mr. Meade as in the parlor, and wish- J ing to see her. A bright happy glow suffused her cheeks, : and a soft light beamed from her eyes as she descended to meet him. As she entered the parlor she saw he held an open letter in his hand. "From Father Edwards," he said in answer to her in- quiring glance, "You know," he continued, "when he was called from Lucan he was given charge of a church in New York." page: 470-471[View Page 470-471] 470 ALICE MURRAY. "Yes, I know." She wondered what he could write to Paul that Paul would feel it necessary to bring his letter to her. But perhaps Paul had told him, when he was in the city getting his summer stock of goods, of his approachng marriaoe--that is, approaching so near now that he could look forward to it with certainty. Paul drew up a couple of chairs. "We will sit down," he said, taking her hand and lead- ing her to one of them, and seating himself in the other. There was something in his manner that sent an ice-chill to her heart. What could it be he had to tell her? He looked pale, and as if deeply moved; and then he was not so ready with words as usual. She tried to ask, but the words only rose to her throat. "I have heard from John Elbray," he at length said. A wild fear took possession of her. Could it be he was dead? that the grave lay between her and him; that he would never know how she had toiled and saved for him. She leaned forward in her chair, but did not speak; her voice was gone. Reading her fears in her pale face, Paul said: "Do not be alarmed, he is not dead, but he has lost all his property, and is reduced to the deepest poverty." She drew a long breath of relief. "He is," Paul continued, " in great want, and Father Ed- wards writes me he needs all you can do for him. He would have written to you about it, but did not know whether you were in Whitetown yet or had already gone home to the Bradley's to spend the vacations, or was at Ambrose's in Rathbun, and therefore he wrote to me, as he wanted the news to reach you without any unnecessary delay. He deems his case urgent. Where do you suppose he found him?" " "I cannot tell, Paul, where was it?"There was a hoarse, ALICE MU RRAY. 471 hallow sound in her voice. Paul tried to render his own steady as he answered, "In the alms-house." "In the alms-house- O Paul, Paul, is it possible? Has - it come to that?" "Yes, Alice," he sorrowfully replied. With the rapidity of thought her mind reverted to her uncle Terence, and Mr. Armstrong. They were both friends to her, but to neither could she turn for the poor old suf- fering man. In the alms-house! and he was there--there in poverty and sorrow--and he had been as a father to her i -he had loved her, and done for her as his own child. She had enjoyed his bounty, and shared his prosperity, and he was now crushed, humbled and afflicted. That he had ' cast her off, had washed his hands of her forever, did not occur to her, or if it did it seemed of small moment, of no consequence; he was suffering; he needed her; he had been as a father to her; the child's love, devotion and rev- erence was again roused in her heart-John Elbray, that cold abstraction of dislike and aversion disappeared, and her white-haired, decrepit, forsaken uncle came up in its place. He was once more her uncle, her poor, dear old uncle, around whom all her filial affections centered. She was looking fixedly on the carpet, while a hard, strained expression settled gradually on her face. Paul ! took her hand. "Alice," he said, "you are thinking you have no home to take him to? ' She did not answer, but tears sprang to her eyes, and her lips trembled. "Listen to me," he said, " our marriage has been put off because you had not yet quite enough to pay him, but now he wants, more than any thing else, a home. If we were married we would have a home for him." i1l page: 472-473[View Page 472-473] 472 ALICE MURRAY. "Yes," she abstractedly answered. She was thinking of the time when she leaned against his knee and, looking up into his rugged face, listened to his stories, laughing at some of them, and feeling fretted and worried at others ; and when he used to lay his great hand caressingly on her head, and call her his little blue- eyed fairy, her little torment that he could not manage to get along without. Ah, it was far off now; way back in the dim past, but a halo lingered round it yet, and tender memories carefully and-lovingly guarded it. "Alice," Paul again said, noticing her absent look, " did you hear me? Do you know what I said?" She started, and a flush mantled her pale cheek. She had heard him as she heard the birds singing in the trees, as she saw the shadows dancing over the floor; the words had struck meaningless on her ear. It had come upon her so suddenly-John Elbray poor,. John Elbray in the alms- house-that she hardly knew where she was, or who was 1 sitting beside her, or how she had heard the terrible news. It was like the first awakening in a strange room; it takes some moments to know where we are, and what the strangeness of every thing around us means. But when Paul gently pressed her hand, and in his earnest, pleading tones, asked if she had heard him, if she knew what he said; then his words took their own proper meaning, and ne knew by the downcast eye and crimson cheek he was understood. "Why Alice," he urged, " if you love me, do you hesi- tate now?" "I don't know, Paul," she sobbed, bowing her head upon her hands, " but it is so sudden, so strange." "I know it, Alice," he soothingly answered, "I know it and I do not wonder. But you have not inquired for Mra Elbray." ALICE MURAT . 473a "No, Paul, I had quite forgotten her. I only remem- bered my poor white-haired old uncle. She, too, I suppose,!t is there; she is with him." And now awoke within her a curiosity to know more of the details--how he had lost his property, and by what gradations of misery he had de- "i scended to his present wretchedness. Paul gave her all the particulars Father Edwards had mentioned in his letter. How Mr. Elbray had failed, owing, as Mr. Elbray t had informed him, partly to Mrs. Elbray's extravagance, i;1 and pertly to Lewis Bartoll's dishonesty. He tried at first ;i to get back something, but found Lewis had managed so he i1 could not. Mrs. Elbray took sick, and he was not able to ldo anything; the little the law left them was soon gone, and i from depth to depth they descended, till at last the alms- ; house opened its doors to them. This was what was in the letter concerning John Elbray's failure. Had Fathel Edwards known, or had not charity closed his lips, he i might have told that Mrs. Elbray-never accustoming her- self to patient labor, to thinking for others, to doing any thing useful, buried alive in rank selfishness-hurried the catastrophe to the utmost, and rendered the dark days 1: gathering around them so wretched and horrible by her cruel and unjust reproaches, that John Elbray was fain glad, in the almshouse, to find a refuge from her ill nature I; and daily abuse. Father Edwards had been called to see we another poor, stricken one, and this one had told him of I John Elbray and his great need of spiritual consolation. He had gone to him, introduced himself to him, drawn from him his history, and found he was the uncle that I reared Miss Murray. As to Ars. Elbray, he had never seen her; she died a few days before his visit, and now her remains lay in the Potter's Field. And that was the end of one who, all her life, despised the poor and looked i upon theme:with such crushing..hatred! As to Mrs. El- ; lI page: 474-475[View Page 474-475] 174 ALICE MUUpAY. bray's daughter, she died just before the failure, two years before, and Mr. Bartoll soon after married again. Alice was surprised, amazed and shocked at the termi- nation of their splendid career. She felt no inclination to go to other subjects, or treat of other matters just then. There were a thousand questions she wanted to ask, a thousand things she wanted to ponder over, as was her wont, but there was no time for the one or the other. Now she must act. There was her brave Paul before her, urg- ing, with all his eloquence, all the endearing persistency of his faithful love, that she would consent to an imme- diate marriage, and going after her poor old uncle. In an- swer to one of his questions she said : "Yes, Paul, I do love you-love you next to my God; and I know my love is not displeasing to him, for it raises my heart in gratitude to Him. I never think of your tenderness and devotion, that presently my mind is not uplifted to Him who vouchsafed me, with all my imperfections, the exceeding gift of Paul's love. And from that, I feel the great necessity of praying for you, that you may always continue what you are now, irre- proachable before God and man. For, Paul, unless God keeps us, we are not kept. Of ourselves we are weak and miserably prone to evil You, Paul, as well as others." Paul laid his hand reverently on her head, and thought what an exceeding gift had also been vouchsafed to him. "Uncle Terence and aunt Nora," she continued, " will be here to-day or to-morrow, and I will tell them of the ne- cessity of our marriage taking place sooner than we thought. The news will surprise them." She rose up ; all at once it became clear to her what she must do. "Paul," she said, " we must. have a home to take uncle to. Our going to see him would be but small comfort to ALICE MtRBAY. 475 him, unless we had some place to take him to. Mere lodgings will not do; an old man like him would never feel at home in them." "That is so, Alice ; you are right. We must have some home to take him to. But sit down, and I will tell you what I've been thinking of." She again seated herself, and he went on. "Grover is going to sell out and go west. He was telling me yesterday, if he could only find some I one to take his house off his hands, he would be ready to start any moment. He has been out, you know, to see his brother?" "Yes." "Well, he's bewitched about the western land, and won't rest till he's there farming it again." 'l But is Mrs. Grover willing to leave here?" "Yes, she is just as anxious to go as he is. He has a farm, with improvements, already picked out, and as soon as he can dispose of his property here, he is to write to his brother to buy it for him. Randall has bought his shop, and all in it, and now he is more than ever eager to find a purchaser for his house." "How much does he ask for it?" "Two thousand dollars. He says it is worth three, but any man may have it for that. I was almost tempted to take him at his word, and give him the money in hand; for, as he says, it is a good bargain, and now I will do it. I will see him to-day, and tell him I will take it." "And my salary the present year, or more properly the i past, will furnish it. Furnish it, at least, as well as we will need to have it." "No, Alice ; I will take furniture and all off Grover's hands. He would prefer it and so would I." i "But not all?" "Yes, all. There may be some things Mrs Grover will i i! page: 476-477[View Page 476-477] 4'4 ATICE MURRAY. want, such as they can easily move, but the principle part they will want disposed of here; and I will take them." "But you will have to pay more." "Of course ; but that is of no consequence. It will save us the trouble of hunting up the things ourselves, and Mrs. Grover is such a careful woman, that they are, to all intents and purposes, as good as new. There may be some things besides what they have that you will want, and if so, you must give me the list; and when we go for your uncle, we will get them in the city. In the mean- time, I will write to Father Edwards, so it will go out in this evening's mail, and enclose him a check, and request him to have Mr. Elbray at once removed to other quarters, his own house, if possible, and I will, on my return back, just stop in and speak to Father Anthony about our mar- riage. By the time the bans are duly published, Grover will have left his house, and we can take possession." "Do you think Mr. Grover will be able to leave so soon?" "Yes, nothing now keeps him here but the want of some one to take his house and furniture off his hands. If he sells his house without his furniture he intends to sell the latter off at auction. So our taking it will save him the trouble and expense, and also the delay of having to wait to see it bid off." Paul's countenance had the look of one who had patiently waited long, but was now about to reach forth and receive his reward. Calm he still was, but in his eye was the light of a deep, quick joy; in the full rich tones of his voice the ring of a glad grateful heart. "I will also write to Father Edwards, and inclose him in the envelope one for my poor old uncle." "Do you remember," she presently added, "the sweet verses you once gave me?" "Yes, Alice." ALICE MURRAY. 4" "And the lines: Pray, though the gift you ask for May never comfort your fears, May never repay your pleadings; Yet pray, and with hopeful tears, An answer, not that you long for, But diviner, will come one day, Your eyes are too dim to see it, Yet strive, and wait, and pray?'" He bowed his head. "Those verses," she said "have been a great comfort to me. I have often found them run- ning through my mind almos-Awwhout knowing it, and ' wondered what it was that, in the midst of my school du- ' ties, in the stillness of my own room, or when walking out, has made me feel so glad and exultant. Presently the words take a meaning; I know the joyous air that has silently been beguiling me into a strange peace and hope- fulness belongs to those sweet verses. I repeat them again ii and find myself smiling: ' Athough the gift I ask for May never comfort my fears, May never repay my pleadings, I am still bid to pray, 'and with hopeful tears,' with the assurance j That an answer, not that I long for, But diviner, will come one day.'- , I used to wonder what it would be, for 'my eyes were too dim to see it,' but the dimness has left them, my vision is now clear; I see it and know it." "And it is 'greater and diviner' than you prayed for?" i; "Yes, Paul, greater than I dreamed of. I thought of i paying uncle Elbray in dollars and cents for all he had I done for me. Now I can pay him in another and better way. As he gave me a home and did for me in the help. lessness of my childhood, I can give him a home, and do for him in the helplessness of his old days; and this ie diviner, PauL" page: 478-479[View Page 478-479] 478 ACE MUBRAY. "Yes, Alice, diviner. Mother, if you recollect, laid great stress on those words. She in her dimness of vision thought this diviner gift would be something different." "She thought"- but Alice suddenly paused, and Paul finished the sentence for her: "That it was my love that was nothing to you then, but which in after years would be prized as a gift divine." Paul's words were very blunt, but the open, cordial smile that accompanied them took away any bitterness that might otherwise have tinged them. "I thought," Alice answered, "that she went over them with peculiar emphasis." ^ And you did not know what it meant?" 'I half suspected it," she truthfully rejoined. "Mother only made a very natural mistake, Alice. Well, as she fancied she knew you, I had a clearer insight of your heart and read its meaning more correctly. But I hardly realized it at the time, and more than once was afraid that she, after all, and not I, was in the right." He rose. "I Vill go now," he said, "but I will see you again in the evening." "Yes, do. To-morrow I will go with uncle Terence and aunt Nora to Stapleton, and stay with them till you have settled all about the house." "And then we will be married." "Yes, Paul." She had risen from her seat, and stoop- ing, he folded his arms around her, and pressed her to his heart! "May God make me worthy of you," he exclaimed. "And may we, Paul, hand in hand go down the stream af life together. May one not be called and the other left." And thus they parted. ALICE MURRAY. 479 CHAPTER XXIX. IT was a busy time at the Bradleys and Armstrongs. Mrs. Bradley, Elizabeth, Julia and Mrs. Meade had each their useful presents to make. From bureaus, closets, chests and trunks were brought forth sheets, pillow-cases, bed-quilts, spreads, table-cloths, napkins, "idies, lamp-mats, rugs, etc., etc. Alice was bewildered, and hardly knew what to make of it. She knew she wanted things to go to house-keeping, but they were to get the house furnished. "Of course they were, but didn't she know, poor foolish child, that these very necessary articles would not be in- eluded in the simple furniture?" il It was Mrs. Meade, in a happy patronizing way put the question. She was so rejoiced that Paul, after all his wait- ing, was to marry the one that would, of all the world, be i the most acceptable daughter to her, the one that her affec- tions went out to as a child, that was so worthy of him, I and would make him such an excellent wife. She could take her in hand, and see that she had everything she needed, and not let her suffer through any foolish ignor- ance or inexperience on her part. Mrs. Bradley also had her store to go :o. It would be a shame for her not to do something for her dead sister's child; especially when she was as a child to her too. . Wasn't she now going to be Elizabeth's sister indeed, and more than ever one of themselves?"God bless her! They never forgot what a kind daughter she was to them in their trouble, and what a love and gratitude she had for the lit- tie they had done for her. She was their joy and pride, jn t as Margaret had been, and pity they couldn't prove their love now in the great important step she was about to take. Ther e wre several visits to the village. Mrs page: 480-481[View Page 480-481] 480 ATLCE MURRAY. Bradley's countenance wore a busied, pre-occupied expres. sion; nothing mus be forgotten, nothing neglected, and in their thoughtfulness for her, Alice's mind was in a conflict of tumultuous joy, amazement and confusion. What did they all mean, making her such presents? Did they think she could not get what she needed herself? or did they take this way to show their love? how full her heart was in its tremulous joy-how afraid she would not, in the midst of such happiness keep her record clear and well written before God! Going to the altar was not going to -the grave. Another life spread out before her, and she must try to do her duty in it. There was now more necessity than ever for her to pray to be strengthened and supported, for another's life was to be joined to hers, and she would prove a blessing or a curse to it, just as she preferred or neglected to perform her part. It would not always be bright and sunshiny. Clouds would occasionally overcast their sky, and may be, fair and propitious as it now seemed, storms and tempests beat around them. She must remember how necessary patience and fortitude would be, and how much she must restrain the natural impetuosity of her temper. Paul, she felt sure, would do his part, would be brave, and strong and resolute, and never forget the God to whom he owed all. But even, with all her confidence in him, if he should change too for the worse, she must, like her saintly aunt Elizabeth, preserve her own integrity and walk pure and upright before God and man. It was not, perhaps, pleasant, in the earnest, busy joy- ousness around her, to turn to thoughts like these, but they wolvld come, and she had to listen to them. The three weeks sped quickly, and the important morn- ing came. Mr. Armstrong, Mrs. Meade and Julia, Mr. and Mrs. Bradley, Elizabeth and Ambrose, were in the church with her and Paul; and with her and Paul, in the early ALICE MURRsAY. 4.81 freshness of the morning, ranged themselves round the , altar railing lo receive Holy Communion. After Mass ! Paul and Alice were married. The nuptial benediction be- stowed, with hushed and reverent steps they left the church, and hastened to Paul's house, where a breakfast awaited them. Hurriedly partaking of it, they all accompa- nied them to the cars to see them off. Mr. Armstrong had been wonderfully quiet througn it \ all. When he first received the news that Paul and Alice were to be married right away, without any delay, he only 1i looked up with blank amazement, and asked, "Is that so?" and then rising, hastened to his room. Julia, peeping in half an hour afterwards, said he was on his knees. This morning he went with them into the cars, took their two hands in his, stood for a few moments in silence, as if 1 breathing an unspoken prayer for them, and then with a i hearty, "God bless you both, and bring you safe back to us," turned and walked out. As they moved off they saw i him standing on the side-walk gazing after them. . "Uncle is very still," Paul remarked; "he seems like. one who is afraid of waking up, lest the bright realization of his hopes might prove a mocking dream." "He seems," Alice answered, (" filled with a deep, quiet , joy that leaves no room for words. I have observed, Paul, A when the heart is very full, either of joy or sorrow, the j tongue is heavy to move." "Yes," Paul said, and then they were silent. Neither hardly spoke during the ride, but the minds of both were n teeming with thought. Again and again to Alice came that parting with her uncle in Antoria, and the last poig- { nant parting with him in the Armstrong parlor, several months later. She did not think then she would ever see him again. When she had enough to pay him, she in- tended to have her uncle Terence go with it to him-she page: 482-483[View Page 482-483] 482 ALICE MURRAY. would not run the risk of another miscarriage of letters; she would be sure he got it, and would demand a receipt in full for her indebtedness to him, and then All connec- tion with him and his should cease, and she should indeed be as nothing to them. She would not stain her soul by hating him, but she would cast them entirely out of her mind. And now how different it was. She was hastening to him, to take him to her home, and do for him, and be to him a loved and cherished child the rest of his days. Oh, how much better it was; how much happier she felt. Thn ones that had come between them, that had done their best to ruin her, and make him wretched, were gone. She would not allow herself to say she was glad, but neither could she say she was sorry. They were gone; and, as the wife of Lewis Bartoll, she well knew Lucette could not, with all her splendor, have led a happy life. And Mrs. Elbray, with all her love of grandeur, her insuf- ferable pride, her scorn and contempt of the poor, what a fearful ending had hers been. A pauper's death-bed, and a Potter-field's burial, and the scene closed--her career was run! The thoughts that occupied Paul's mind, although not the same, were somewhat similar. Johii Elbray had gen- erously done for Alice when a little girl, and now, his wealth swept away, rid, too, of her who had put a variance be- tween them, they were going after him, to do for him in his old age. Alice thought it a " diviner " way to pay him, and so did he. What would cold dollars and cents be to her untiring love and tenderness? Blessed, blessed old man; with all his poverty, how rich to have such a one as Alice to love and care for him. As they stepped from the cars in New York, Father Ed- wards, with carriage, was there to meet them. I am so glad to see you," he said, shang ands with ALICE MURRAY. 483 Alice and Paul; "your uncle has been in a tremble of ex- pectation all day." i "But will our meeting be too much for him, do you think?" "No, Alice, I don't think it will. But if I went back ani told him you had not come, I hardly know how he eould bear it, his heart is so set on seeing you." Paul left them a few moments to see to their baggage, and soon returning, they all entered the carriage, and were driven to Father Edward's residence in street. "Wait here," he said, leading them into his parlor, "and I will go up and tell him you have come.' Alice's heart beat violently, and a deathly weakness came over her. Taking out her crucifix, she pressed it to her lips, and sank upon her knees. "Paul," she whispered, wiping the cold drops from her brow, "pray for me to be strengthened." Paul knelt beside, and in a low, reverent voice, repeated the Litany of our Blessed Lady, while she made the responses. As they were finishing it, Father Edwards came in. "You can both go up," he said, "he is ready to see Untassisted by Paul, Alice could never have ascended the stairs; but his strong arm was round her, his brave heart whispeled words of courage in her ear. The door was open; tom the passage she looked in and saw, in the centre of the room, a white haired old man, with thin, bent form, tottering towards her. "Uncle, my own uncle!" she cried, and springing for. - ward, the two were locked in each other's arms. Paul stood in the shadow of the door, but did not go in. The thought the poor old man would feel less embarrassed not to see him till the first joyful surprise of meeting was over. page: 484-485[View Page 484-485] 484 LICE MURPRAY. "Oh, Alice, my little Alice, that used to watch for mly coming, and sit on my knee, and listen to my stories, I see her again, I see her again." "Yes, uncle, yes," she sobbed. "And she will never leav e me. She will stay with me to the last-till I go down to the grave." Alice could only sob and cling closer to him. Suddenly loosing her arms, he stepped back, and stood looking mournfully at her. "And I cast you off-I washed my hands of you forever," he bitterly said. "Uncle, don't think of it. It's all past, and we are again together. And we will be so happy. I have a dear little room for you; the vines cover the windows, and form lovely blinds to them; and birds sing in the trees just before them; and you have a desk looking like your old one, and books and papers, and every thing a s near as possible like what you used to have in the old home." He listened as if he would never weary of her voice, but at the same time as if he did not understand a word she was saying. The long lost, but never forgotten melody, that had been so dear to him, was once more filling his ears. "Talk," he said, as Alice for a moment paused. "And we will," she continued, " go every morning to the church which is right by us, and assist at the Holy Sacrifice. When we come home we will have so much to say to each other, and so many things to tell." "Things to tell!" he exclaimed, looking wildly at her, "oh, I have things to tell. I found it all out. I know it all now. You never got the money I sent you. George told me all about it. She-she who is gone," he could not pronounce her name--" made him give all the letters pass- ing between as to her, and she got it; and then threw it If AILICE MURRAY. 485 in my face because' you did not acknowledge its receipt. And she put her chain on your locket, and placed it in your trunk herself. Lucette told me so, and she dying. And believing her, I cast you off; I washed my hands of you forever! O- Alice!"He wrung his trembling hands and mournfully shook his head. Alice wiped the tears from her eyes, and tried to speak, but only a choking sob burst from her lips. Her poor old uncle knew her innocence; she was exonerated of the foul charges against her, and he loved her with the old deep fatherly love. She tried to be calh, to be collected, to act the comforter, and with her usual firmness and self-possession to carry herself as well i as him through the trying moments of the first meeting after their long est rangement. But the explanation of the missing letters, and the chain found in her trunk, tihe un- raveling of the plot against her came so suddenly upon her, and with it, the glad consciousness that her innocence was fully vindicated in the presence of the two most dear to her on earth; her husband; and he who stood in place of her father, that her composure was gone, and like Joseph, when he made himself known to his brethren, she lifted up her voice and wept. Paul came in, and took her hand; he did not speak ; he knew words at such a time would be vain. At length the paroxysm over, she turned to her uncle and i said: "You know now what I told you was the truth."' "I do, the simple and unvarnished trut,h." "And that I was not ungrateful for all you done for me?" "Child, your questions stab me to the heart. I was a blind stupid fool not to see and know it; but I didn't." Paul drew up a couple of chairs for them, for in their agitation neither had thought of sitting down. Be seated," he gently and kindly said; "you will both be tired standing so long." They sank into the chairs so page: 486-487[View Page 486-487] 486 ALICE IMURRAY. thoughtfully provided, and drawing up another he seated himself. Mr. Elbray looked earnestly at him with the sharp, peering gaze of dim eyes. "That is your husband, Alice?" he said turning to her. "Yes, uncle, Paul Meade, my husband. We were mar. ried this morning." "Then you are my child, too," he said, reach:ng out his hand to him. "Yes, uncle," Paul answered, taking it, and trying to master his emotions so as to speak in his usual calm tone. "And I have nothing to leave you. It's all gone. I was called a self-made man, and I hugged the title to my heart. I forgot the God from whose hand I had received every- thing; I looked upon myself as keen and far-seeing, and fancied it was all owing to my own sagacity, and returned no thanks, and felt none. And I was left to my keenness, to my clear-sightedness, to my wisdom, and you see where I am, and how it all ended." He wrung his old hands, and fixing his eyes on the carpet, slowly shook his head. Alice did not know what to say. She felt these com- punctions to be good, and she feared by ill-advised condo- lence to weaken their force. He had only spoken the truth; and it was well for him, a great blessing from God, that he knew and realized it. She must be very careful, and while she comforted him, do it in a manner that would not lessen his contrition, and at the same time not add unneces- sary torture to his remorse by a cold indifference, or a self- righteous pharisaical hardness. "O my uncle, my poor old uncle," she feelingly said, "God in mercy took your idol from you, to lead you back like a little child to Him. The prayers of dear aunt Elizabeth have been heard. She always prayed that before you died you might return to the piety and fervency of your child- hood. And you have; the love and fear of the good God ALICE MURRAY. 487 lights up your heart, and you look up to Him as of old You have nothing to leave us, and we do not need it. We are blest with an abundance, and want for nothing." i "She is a woman," he said, again turning to Paul, "do you feel the same?" "I do," Paul answered, "we have enough." He thoughll the poor old man was talking round to find out would he be an incumbrance in their home, or would he be welcome to Alice's husband as to herself. Like a docile child that has been punished by a loving Father, he was subdued-- the old stiff pride was gone. But still he wanted to knovI it, and it was natural he should; he could not blame him for it. "Uncle Elbray," he said; and there was a vibrating tenderness in the deep tones of his voice, "you were a good, kind father to Alice--to my wife--in her childhood, and we will be loving, grateful children to you in your age." "This is more than I dared hope for," he exclaimed. "When they told me Alice was to be married, and she and her husband to come for me, I said to myself, Alice may find in her harsh old uncle's misery, the dead love in her heart revive; but her husband, knowing how i used her, will despise me and look upon me in his home with ill-grudging eyes. But he don't; he, too, tells me I will be welcome. Oh, Alice, you have married a noble man." "A true Christian, uncle ; one that loves and fears God in all things." There was not the shadow of a reproof in her voice, or in the bright, happy eyes turned to him; and her words did not strike on his sensitive ear, as they might have if uttered in a different manner. A little smart rap at the door, and Father Edwards, r- diant and eager, came in. page: 488-489[View Page 488-489] 488 AICE MURRAY. "I have had a long talk with my children," Mr. Elbray said, directing his glance to him, " and they are going to take me home with them ; and I am going to be so happy; 1 shall see them every day, and hear their voices, and know they are loving me, and feeling kindly towards me, till I go down to the grave." "Yes, sir; you will always have them round you. And have you told them the news that will do them good to hear?" "No, Father, not yet." "Well then I must tell it myself. Alice and Paul, your uncle has made a general confession while with me; and this blessed morning, the morning of your marriage, with between one and two hundred miles between you, he re- ceived Holy Communion. He was so weak before it-for with the thought of seeing you to-day he slept none the whole night-and after it was so strong. He trembled a little when he looked out of the window, and thought you might be coming up the sidewalk-r-for he has been waiting and expecting you every hour of the day-and he might catch a glimpse of you ; and towards the real time for the train to come, got a little nervous-but; on the whole, has been so much better, so much stronger. And he told me when they brought him word that Mrs. Elbray was dead he felt so crushed and broken-hearted. He was so afraid he would go next, and they would put him into a coffin, and carry him to the grave, and pile the earth over him, and he would never again see his loved child, and hear he speak and tell him she forgave all his hardness and cruelty. He wanted me not to let him forget to tell you all this, and I promised him I wouldn't, and now I have done more, I have told it for him." An almost boyish joy shone on his thin spiritual face. Some way more than ever, just at that moment he reminded one of St. Bernard. AHLCE MUBRAY. 4tJ "And now," he added, turning to Mr. Elbray, "they know all, and yon must rest awhile, and then I will have supper brought in here. It will be pleasanter to him," he said, addressing Paul. They took their meal in his room and listened to his joyous, eager trembling voice, telling them all the poignant events of the past few years. In a week he was able to go home with them, and in a few weeks after, when he was fully rested from the short journey, the wedding-feast was made, and the Bradleys, Armstrongs, Elizabeth and Ambrose and their children, and Mrs. Meade, were called to it. Then followed the quiet every-day-duties of her new life. Under hers and Paul's tender care Mr. Elbray wonderfully recrtuited, and got back a portion of his old strength and vigor. The years passed, and as children came and filled the house with the music of their glad voices, John Elbray, grew happier and more contented than ever. But one day after carefully watching the play of their first born, he turned to Alice and Paul, and said, "He is a sweet, innocent, child. By and by you will see he is more than commonly gifted. Be careful of him, watch over him well: and when he io old enough to understand it, tell him my history, the history of the self-made man. He may learn a lesson from it that will do him good." And bowing their heads they gave the promise. I have but a few more words t-?. aidlJ A couple of years after Alice's marriage, Julia Armstrong married the young and enterprising proprietor of the woolen mills in Lucan. That it was a good match, and he, every- way worthy of her, might be known from the fact that her father was delighted with it, and congratulated himself that now all his children were well settled, and he might ro,ot contented the remainder of his life. In time, Richard and Terry Bradley married, and settled, the one on the home farm; the other, Richard, on 'tle Griseom farm adjoining page: 490-491[View Page 490-491] h90 ATICE MURRAY. their father's. When Mr. Griscom sold his farm to go WeaT Mr. Bradley bought it, and was able to make a very respect- able payment on it. After that, Richard finished paying for it himself. Ambrose Meade proved an excellent farmer; his farm was the most productive and the best improved of any in that section of the country. When Julia married Mrs. Meade went to Paul's, and from that time made her home with him, but she staid a few weeks every year with Ambrose and Elizabeth. Mr. and Mrs. Bradley annualy visited Paul and Alice for a few weeks, to see how they were getting along. It was so necessary for them to have a care over them. They got along well; Paul was prosper- ous, and in his prosperity never forgot God. Rosie, the darling at home, the youngest and fairest of her house, be- came a religious, and in religion is known as Sister Man Amuge My story is tcl Wt
