The tell-tale, or, Home secrets told by old travellers
page: 0Illustration (TitlePage) [View Page 0Illustration (TitlePage) ]THE TELL-TALE: OR, HOME SECRETS TOLD BY OLD TRAVELLERS. BY H. TRUSTA, AUTHOR OF "SUNNY-SIDE"PEEP AT NUMBER nvJB, "KITTY BROWN," ETC. ETC. ETC. a ST. . N: PHLLTPS, S^MO: AND COMPANY. page: 0[View Page 0] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by AUSTIN PHELPS, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. r STEREOTYED BI HOBART f ROBBINS, New England Type & Stereotype Foundery, BOSTON. NOTE. THE following Sketches were nearly all of them origi- nally written for the Boston Traveller, in which they have appeared, at intervals, during the last two or three years. "' Old Travellers," it is presumed, may claim a share of the privilege of old sailors in the matter of twice-told tales; but the secret of the repetition of these must be found in the interest awakened by them among the per- sonal friends of the author. The author of this little volume had thus given her sal- utation to its readers, and it was just about to be placed in their hands, when she was called into another world. In her last hours she expressed a desire that its publica- tion should not be prevented by her departure. Her friends, in obeying her wishes, experience a mournful pleasure, which is enhanced by the assurance that those at whose suggestion the re-publication of these sketches was designed will now feel a new interest in them, as a specimen of the recreations which have occupied her hours of leisure for many years. page: 0 (Table of Contents) [View Page 0 (Table of Contents) ] I I CONTENTS. WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND TO CALIFORNIA . .. . THE FIRST CROSS WORD .. ............. THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO; OR, A HOUSE-CLENING THE MAY-QUEENS ................... THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. . ............. THE WIFE OF A STUDENT .............. OLD WTTCH MOLL, AND HER BROWN -PITCHER. , THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON ....... . - FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN ....... page: 0[View Page 0] WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND TO CALIFORNIA. Mr. WARREN left his counting-room at the hotel of one, to go home to dinner. He saunteed leisurely along, for he knew by long experience that di ner never waited for him. As he turned the corner, he ran into the arms of a man who was ad- vancing at a rapid pace. Each stopping to adjust hat, after such a collision, instantly recognized t other as an old acquaintance. "Why, Harry, is it you?" "'Pon my word, Charley.! where did you d down from?" "From the clouds, as I always do," said Charley Morton. "You, Warren, are creeping along as usual. It's an age since I met you. How goes the world with you?" "After a fashion," said Warren; "sometimes well and sometimes ill. I am quite a family n now, you know, - wife and four children." "Ah, indeed! No, I did not know that; I hc page: 8-9[View Page 8-9] 8 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND quite lost track of you, since we were in Virginia together." "Come, it is just our dinner hour," said Mr. War- ren; ' come home with me, and let us have a talk about old times." "With all my heart," said Morton; "I want to see the wife, and children, too. Has the wife the laughing black eyes and silken ringlets you married in imagination long ago, Harry?" "Not exactly," said Warren, without returning very hearoly his friend's smile. "My wife was pretty, once, though; she was very pretty when I married her, but she is a feeble woman; she has seen a great deal of illness since then, and it has changed her somewhat." By this time Mr. Warren reached his own door, and, with some secret misgivings, turned the key, and invited his friend into his small, but comfortably fur- nished house. Glad he was, indeed, to meet him; but, if the truth must be told, he would have been quite as well pleased if it had been after dinner. He would have felt easier could he have prepared the lady of the house to receive his guest. For his part, he would hav& killed the fatted calf, with great rejoicing; but to set wife, children, house and table, in a hospitable tune, required more time than he could now command. "Sit down," said he, ushering Morton into the TO CALIFORNIA. best parlor. "Take the rocking-chair, Charley; you have not forgotten your old tricks, of always claim- ing the rocking-chair, have you? Stop, - a little dust on it." Out came his pocket-handkerchief, and wiped off, not a little, but a great deal of dust. "Never mind," said he; "make yourself quite at home, while I go and hunt up the folks, will you?" Mr. Warren thought it prudent to close the parlor doors after him, that all unnecessary communication with the rest of the house might be cut off. His first visit was to the kitchen, to ascertain which way the wind blew there. If Betty, the old family ser- vant and maid-of-all-work, was in good humor, he had little to fear. No one could better meet an exigency, when she had a mind to the work. He opened the door gently. "Well, Betty," said he, in a conciliatory tone, " what have you got nice for us to-day?" She seemed to understand, as if by instinct, her importance, and was just cross enough-to make a bad use of it. "Got! why the veal-steaks, to be sure, you sent home; I don't see what else we coud have." "Have you anything for dessert?" was asked, in the same gentle tone. "I s'pos, there is a pie somewhere." Well, Betty, I wish you would get up a dish of page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] * 10 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND ham and eggs, if you can. We are to have a gen- tleman to dine with us, and the dinner is rather small." Betty looked like a thunder-cloud. "You 'll have ,to want a good while, I guess, then; the fire is all out." Put on some charcoal," said Mr. Warren; " here, I 'll get it, while you cut the ham. Now, do give us one of your nice dishes, Betty; nobody can cook ham and eggs quite like you, when you have a mind to. Where is Mrs. Warren?" "In her chamber, I s'pose," said Betty, sulkily, adding, in an under tone, not exactly intended to reach her master's ear,-- "where she always is." He did hear it, however, and with a foreboding heart he went to his wife's chamber. The room was partially darkened, and on the bed, in lpose sick gown, with dishevelled hair, lay Mrs. Warren. Her hand rested on a bottle of camphor, and on the stand at her side was an ominous bowl of water, with wet cloths in it. I:; "Juliette, my love, are you ill?" "Ill? what a question to ask! I told you half a dozen times, this morning, I had one of my head- aches; that's just all you mind about me!" "I am sorry, but I really thought, Juliette, it would pass off. Shall not you feel at e to come down to dinner?" - / - '\TP TO CALIFORNIA. " "No I am sure I never shall want anything to eal again ; it seems as if these head-aches would kill me." 'I:vt "Where are the children?" "I don't know, I am sure; I can't look after them when I am sick! If Betty can't do that, she had better not try to do anything." "I wish you would make an effort, Juliette, and come down to dinner; I have an old friend to dine with us,-Charles Morton, of whom you have so often heard me speak. He has come on purpose to see my wife and children." "Dear me! how could you bring company home to-day, when you knew I was sick? I don't believe I could hold my head up, if I were to try!" and, clos- ing her eyes, she pressed both hands on her temples. Mr. Warren said no more; he would not urge the matter. He made up his mind to dine without her; and, with a sigh, he slowly returned to the parlor. Had he spoken out his honest feelings, he would have said, "What a misfortune it is for a young man to have an ailing wife! My servants rule, my children are neglected, my house is in disorder, my wife does not like it because I do not make a fuss over her all the time, and something is the matter continually; if it is not one thing, it is another, - and I am weary of it!" He found his friend still in the arm-chair, busily reading a scrap-book which was on the table. Fun page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] 12 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND danced in his eyes and twitched at the corners of his mouth; and as soon as he caught sight of Warren, he burst into a merry peal of laughter. Warren could not resist it, and he laughed full five minutes before he knew what the joke was. It was only something in the scrap-book which brought to remembrance an old scrape they- had together, -but the laugh worked like a charm with him. His family troubles seemed to vanish before it, like mists in the morning. A more manly courage was aroused in him; he was a better and a stronger man. "By George, Charley," said he, something like , the Harry Warren of other days, "it does one good to hear your old horse-laugh again!" An animated conversation ensued, and it was some time before Mr. Warren remembered that they had not yet dined. "We are not going to starve you out, Charley," said he, "but my wife is not able to be about to-day, and our cook, I see, is taking her own time. Excuse me a moment, and I will go and stir her up, by way of remembrance." Much to his delight, the bell rang. He was saved the trial of bearding the lion twice in his den. As he was going to the dining-room with his friend, a troop of ill-dressed and noisy children pushed by them, and hurried in great disorder to their seats. Mr. Morton spoke to them, but they hung their heads. He was somewhat embarrassed. -ie felt Ac 1 , TO CALIFORNIA. : that he ought to take some notice of them, and yet it seemed as if it would spare his friend's feelings not to notice them. He took hold of the wrong horn of the dilemma. "Which of them looks like the mother, Harry?" "The boy nearest you, I think," was the short reply; then, as if obliged to add, by way of apol- ogy, "I am very sorry that Mrs. Warren cannot come down to-day, but she has one of her bad head- aches." "She is a-coming," said one of the children; "she says she s'poses she must." Morton pretended not to hear this speech. He saw that something was wrong in his friend's domes- tic life. Had he, then, married unfortunately? "I shall be sorry for him, if he has," thought Morton; "he deserves a good wife; a better-hearted fellow never breathed." O Warren's sunshine was fast vanishing, though his dinner, it is but justice to Betty we shouldday, was well cooked; yet his table needed the lady. No clean napkins were there; no nice salters and shili- ing spoons graced it; no order and elegance of serving madV it attractive. Betty had no eye for the fancy-work. But the food was good, and there was an abundance of it; and the gentlemen would have enjoyed it, if the children had not been so trou- blesome. 2 page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] " WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND When dinner was about half over, Mrs. Warren made her appearance. Walking in languidly, she took her seat at the head of the table. She still wore her loose gown, over which she had thrown a shawl. Her hair was still uncombed. Her eyes were dull and heavy in their expression,.and her eyebrows were elevated. She looked as if she felt miserable. "Ah, Juliette," said Mr. Warren, slightly coloring, "I did not know that you would feel able to come down. Let me introduce you to my old friend, Mr. Morton." Mrs. Warren bowed. "You have been suffering with a head-ache to- day, my friend tells me," said Mr. Morton. "Yes, I suffer nearly all the time," was the re- ply; "if it is not one thing, it is another. I am almost discouraged." "O, no, Juliette, it is some time since you have had a bad turn," said her husband. "Onl last week," was her short reply. "Your memory is not very good on this point. I believe ygu think I can help being sick." Mr. Warren tried to laugh off this thrust; but there was no heart in it. All sociality vanished' with Mrs. Warren's presence, and all peace, too; for the children acted worse than ever. Mr. Mor- ton suffered for his Friend, and was much relieved when they were again by themselves in the parlor. n TO CALIFORNIA. 1 He could have forgiven the want of glossy ringlets and laughing eyes, but he could not forgive the want of good humor, in Harry Warren's wife. He felt as if his friend had been taken in; he pitied him; and firmer than ever was his determination to run no such hazards himself. So much of Mr. Warren's day had been occupied with his friend, that it was quite late before he was able to leave his store. He went home weary in body and mind. How much he needed to have things comfortable and cheerful around him there! But, much as he loved his family, he found neither rest nor pleasure at home. Work for them he would, like a dog, from morning to-night; but, when the day's toil was over, there were no home attractions for him. This night, it would have been a comfort to him, could he have just thrown himself down on the sofa and taken his book; but he knew well enough this would not answer. Hle knew that his wife had been watching to hear his steps, and would feel hurt if he did not go up to her at once. So, with a sigh, he went into the dusky chamber. As he expected, his wife was on the bed. "Do you feel any better, Juliette?" "Better? - no! It seems as if I should go crazy. Those children will kill me. Do, pray, Mr. Warren, send them off to bed, or hold my head, or do some- thing. I thought you never would come home." page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] 16 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND The air of the sick-room, perfumed as it was with camphor and ammonia, oppressed the weary man. He said he would go and send the children to bed. This was more easily said than done; the children were tired and cross, and full of wants, and Betty would not help him in the least. Patience and per- severance, however,got the last little urchin into his nest. "Now go to sleep, boys," said he; "your mother is sick to-night, and I must not hear a word from you." -"Seems to me, mother is always sick," said Henry. "Then, Master Henry, it is your duty always to keep still; - remember that, will you!" It was after eight o'clock before Mr. Warren had a chance to eat any supper. He went to the dining- room. His tea had stood until it was quite cold; his toast was cold, and a dim lamp cast a jaundiced light over his uninviting repast. He, however, was used to such things; indeed, he hardly expected anything different. The meal over, he drew his evening paper from his pocket and read it, feeling all the time like a culprit. He knew that he was expected in that oppressive chamber, and that the minutes of his delay were counted. After nine-it was, the clock was on the point of striking ten, when he reentered it. Camphor and ammonia were as strong as ever, and the head-ache, too, to all appearance. TO CALIFORNIA. "Can I do anything for you, Juliette?" "Do anything! I might die, for all anybody would do for me. What made you come up at all?" "You know very well, Juliette, I had to put the children to bed, to get them out of your way; and, tired as I was, I never got a mouthful of supper until almost nine o'clock. I have done the best I could." He said this in a tone which showed that he was both irritated and hurt. Once, Mrs. Warren would have been much grieved, and would have sought earnestly to heal the wound which she made; but being sick so much was fast making her selfish. It was only of self she thought. "I wish you would not complain of me," said she, bursting into tears; I have as much as I can bear, without being found fault with." I was not finding fault with you, Juliette; but a man can't do more than he can do." Juliette continued to sob; her husband was silent. When, at length, they slept, it was with chilled affec- tions and heavy hearts, and their slumbers were neither sweet nor refreshing. Several years passed, and Mrs. Warren's health did not improve. She seemed to have made up her mind that she must suffer, and that people ought to pity her, and not expect her to do anything. The 2* page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] }18 IWHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND sunshine that had once been about her vanished; she spoke at all times in a distressed tone of voice; a doleful expression became habitual with her. She made no exertion which she could avoid; she shirked every care which could be avoided. Mr. Warren and Betty must see to things. Now, Betty was no housekeeper; she could do hard work, but not head work. She did not understand economy. She used up what she had, without thinking of to-morrow. It was not her business to be bothering as to how the two ends should meet. Such management at home, together with the increasing wants of a family, re- quired a good income. Mr. Warren's business gave him a comfortable living, but it was not quite equal to filling up flour-barrels which had a hole in the bottom. He began to run behind, and to become discouraged. He got into debt, and then, going on from bad to worse, he became completely disheart- ened. His family was a drag on him. He could not tell his wife of his troubles, - if he did, she only cried, and said, "she was sure she could not help it; she did all she could, when her health was so poor. She thought he might have more feeling for her than to complain." He, therefore, formed his own plans in silence, One October morning, Mrs. Warren awoke with one of her sick head-aches. Finding this to be the case, she went to sleep again, and it was very late TO CALIFORNIA. before she awoke the second time. Dressing her- self at her leisure, she went to the dining-room. Some cold breakfast stood waiting for her, which she partook of alone, -neither husband nor children were there. At dinner she met her children, but not her husband; he had not returned. This provoked her a little. "He stays," thought she, "just on purpose because I am ill. I 'll keep out of his way, I guess, for one while." With this generous re- solve, she took to her darkened chamber, her cam- phor and ammonia (which she knew to be particu- larly unpleasant to him), and her bandages and ice- water. Tea-time came, but not Mr. Warren. The children had their supper, and went to bed. Eight, nine, ten o'clock struck. Mrs. Warren sprang from her bed and called Betty. "Betty, where can Mr. Warren be? Here it is ten o'clock, and he has not come yet." ' I declare, Miss Warren, I don't know what can have become of him. There, now, I do remember. 'Twan't but yesterday he paid me up all my wages, and paid a quarter in advance, because, he said, he had the money by him, and might not have it by and by. Then, says he, Betty,' says he,' if I should not be at home one of these nights, you need not be frightened. I have got to go off on some business, and may not get back. You need not keep the doors open after ten for me. I won't tell Miss page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] 20 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND Warren,' says he; 'she 'll worry.' Them 's the very words he said. Now, I 'll bet that's where he has gone; and we may as well lock up and go to bed. He won't be here to-night," More in anger than sorrow, Mrs. Warren con- sented to this arrangement, and went back to her solitary chamber. Seldom thinking of any one but herself, she settled it in her mind that Mr. Warren had chosen this particular time to attend to his busi- ness for no other reason than to get rid of one of her headaches. She lay awake until midnight, brooding over his supposed unkindness. She really hoped that he would come, try his door, and find it fast, that she might have the satisfaction of hearing him go elsewhere to seek lodgings; for she had fully -determined not to let him in. Twelve o'clock struck in the old church steeple; no sound but the heavy tread of the watchman was heard. She then gave him up, and " nursing her wrath to keep it warm," at length fell asleep. It seemed as if she had but just fallen asleep, when Betty very unceremoniously burst open her door, and slamming back the shutters to let in the gray light of morning,-"Miss Warren," said she, "do, for gracious, see what this means. Here was the market-boy a-thumping me up a full hour before time, and he set down his basket and run like shot; and I opened it, and what should I see TO CALIFORNIA./ right on top but this letter for you, from Mr. War- ren! Something or other is wrong, you mag depend upon it." Mrs. Warren, trembling with impatience, broke the seal, and read as follows: "DEAREST JULIETTE: "' Don't be frightened, now, into one of your poor turns. Nothing very dreadful has happened, or is going to hap- pen, that I know of. Read my letter quietly, and take what cannot be helped as easy as you can. "My business has been running behindhand for a good while. Every year I have found myself deeper and deeper, in debt. It wore upon me dreadfully, and I made up my mind at last that I could not stand it so for a great while. I never liked to talk to you about it; you always seemed to have 'troubles enough of your own. The other day, when I was looking over my accounts, a friend came in to ask me if I would sell out. He wanted fo buy, and offered me a fair price. ' But what shall I do?' said I. ' Go to California,' says he; ' there is a splendid chance for you,- a ship sails next week.' He said so much that I took up with his advice. I sold out, paid up all my debts, paid your house-rent for two years in advance, And Betty one quarter ahead. After this was all done, I had but just enough to fit me out, and fifty dollars over, which I enclose for you. It will answer for the present. You can by and by let your house, and go home to your mother, if you think it best. I have no time to think or plan for you now. I will write as soon as I can. When you read this, I shall be far on my way, if we are prospered. ' I love you, Juliette, and my children, and it is for page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] 22 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND your sakes, mainly, that I have taken this step. You could none of you bear poverty. I go in the ship Emily. I will write you all the particulars by the first opportu- nity. Keep up a good heart, now; depend upon it I shall come home a rich man. Golt is plenty as blackberries in California, and I am not ashamed to dig. I have a strong arm and a stout heart. Kiss the children for me, and tell Betty I won't forget her, if she will do well by you while I am gone. Believe me that I am still yours, affection- ately, Cc HARRY WARREN." The reading of this letter, as might be imagined, was followed, by a fit of hysterics, and shrieks, and floods of tears, and wringing of hands. At one time, Mrs. 1Warren would call her husband the greatest savage living. Then, again, she would soften down into grief, like that of the children, who mourned over him as over one dead. Between them all and her own sorrow, Betty had a hard time of it that day. However, she stood at her post bravely; with coaxing and scolding, she managed the children, succeeded in quieting them, and before night Mrs. Warren was more calm. Betty had such wonderful stories laid up in some little corner of her brain about the gold in California, how many people she had heard of who had come back rich as Croesus, that Mrs. Warren could not but listen. Then Betty was so sure that Mr. Warren would make his fortune, - he was just the man for it,- o TO CALIFORNIA. 2: that the hysterics finally had to yield to the golden visions. Still, Mrs. Warren passed from this state into one of settled melancholy, and continued so for many weeks. She took no interest either in her house or-children. She gave money to Betty, and let her do as she pleaded with it. If they had anything to eat, it was all very well; and if they had nothing, it was just the same. She neither went out nor saw any one at home. Her time was spent between the sofa and bed. If she triled to divert herself with anything, it was with very light reading, but generally even that required more -effort than-she chose to make. The children learned to keep out of her way; she could bear no noise, she said, and they did not like to be with her. Still she had been so long inefficient in her family, that she was not much missed; they were accustomed to do without her. One day Betty came in as usual for money. Mrs. Warren went to her purse, and, to her utter amaze- ment, found that she had but one ten-dollar bill left. She handed it to Betty, and, with the empty purse in her hand, she sunk down into a seat. For the first time it flashed over her that there was a bot- tom to her purse; and, who was to refill it? She had been so absorbed by her own selfish sorrows, that she really had not before given the subject a thought. She was overwhelmed at this discovery. page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] 24 WHAT SENT ON HURSBAND What was now to be done? What should she do? Where should she go? Roused by this stirring necessity, her mind began to work with vigor. Plan succeeded plan, and thought thought, in wild confu- sion. She would go home to her mother. --She would not go home to her mother. The Children would kill the old folks. But she must go home to her mother.-- No, she would n't go home to her mother. A poor, deserted wife, with four children on her hands, - the shame of it would kill her; she would beg first. But, what could she do? Here gaped before her an empty purse. "What can I do? I 'll keep school.-O! I should die, shut up in a hot room, with a parcel of children. I could not live one month and keep school. Then I must fill up my house with boarders. - What could I do with boarders, sick as I am all the while? I hate house-keeping; I cannot bear care!" 'Wide gaped the empty purse still. She flung it down, and her- self, too, on the carpet, and wept like a child. "My children must have bread, and I must get it for them." Ah! now those tears fall for them; the first tears which had fallen for any one but self. They softened her parching heart, and refreshed it as summer rain the thirsty earth. "I will not go home!" said she, rousing herself with a sudden energy. "I believe that I can, and I will, support my family myself. I know it is in TO CALIFORNIA. 21 me. I win fill my-house with boarders. I will get' a living, and I will set about it before my last dol- lar is gone." Back went the clasp of the empty purse, and its gaping mouth was silenced. Juliette Harwood had not been like Mrs. Warren. She had both energy and sweetness of character when Henry Warren wooed her. The seeds of her future misery, however, had been carefully sown by her over-indulgent mother. If anything ailed Juli- ette, it was a great affair. She was nursed, and tended, and babied, and never allowed to exert her- self at all. She was brought up to feel that every- thing must yield to hier poor feelings; so that when, after her marriage, her health really became some" what delicate, she had no resolution to meet it. As we have seen, she became selfish and indifferent. Another day had now dawned, and the latent energy of Juliette Harwood must come forth to Juliette Warren. That kind heart and strong arm, which had so long supported her, had been taken aw't Now she had no one but herself to depend upon. "I will take boarders." This she settled, and with promptness went immediately about it. For the first time since her husband's departure, she went out on a week-day. She went to her husband's friend, Charles- Morton. Mr. - Morton could scarcely refrain from expressing his astonishment, when he heard her proposal. Sad misgivings he had as- to tn page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] 26 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND its success; nevertheless, he promised to aid her. Indeed, he knew then of two young men who were looking for just such a place. As they were near by, he offered to go at once and see them. Mrs. Warren sat down and awaited his return. The young men accepted the offer, and wished to come the next day. This was pressing matters hard. Mrs. Warren 'calculated on some weeks, at least, for pre- paration,- she knew she must get used to effort; but here it was, - she must take the boarders at their time, or lose them. She decided to take them. Betty as yet knew not a word about the matter. "Would she consent to remain," anxiously thought Mrs. Warren, to remain and work so much harder? Then she had had her own way so long, would she bear a mistress? If she should go, how was her place to be supplied? She had been so long in the family, she knew everything they had, and where it was kept." Mrs. Warren felt her ignorance. She Aw1ld have to go to Betty to ask about everything. Indeed, she did not know what she had. It seemed as if she could not stir hand or foot without Betty. Yet, if she would go, she must make up her mind to it; for here she was, -- her boarders were engaged. More than anything else she dreaded breaking the subject to Betty. This was her first trial; it was a severe one, and we must not blame her too much be-' cause, woman-like, she sat down first and had a good TO CALIFORNIA. 2 cry over it. But crying did not help it any; and time pressed. So she wound up her resolution once more, and called Betty. "4 Marm?" said she. I want to see you a few minutes, Betty." "I am busy now; I 'll come by atd by." "I cannot wait, Betty. I want to see you now." The very unusual tone of decision in which this was uttered surprised Betty into instant obedience. "What do you want of me?" said she, rather pettishy, as she entered the parlor. Mrs. Warren's heart sunk. "I want to talk with you, Betty, a little about my plans. I 've got to do something to get a living. My money is all gone. I gave you the last dollar, this morning." "The land! Well, I 've been expecting it, this some time. I s'pose now you will go home to your mother." ' No, I have decided not to go hone. I am go- ing to fill my house up with boarders, and two rte coming to-morrow," said she, making a desperate effort to get the worst out. "Well, if that an't a pretty piece of work!" said Betty, her face turning all manner of colors; " and you think I am going to take care of you and the children, and a house-full of boarders into the bar- gain, do you? I tell you, Miss Warren, I won't slave myself to death so, for nobody!" page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] 28 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND . "I did not think you would," said Mrs. Warrel slowly and sadly. "I had about made up my min that you would leave me, and I should have to g another girl. I will go to the officenow. You wi stay, Betty, long enough to teach her the way round won't you?" ' Betty looked thunderstruck; she could not in mediately speak. "And you sick all the time!" said she, at las "You can't do nothing. How will you look goii down and seeing to dinner, with one of your hel aches, I should like to know -" "I expect it will come hard on me, Betty; but cannot help it,--it must be done. I have made u my mind to it. You will stay with me a fortnigh won't you? I don't expect to get any one to fi your place. you have been with us so long ; - let m see, now, eve, since Henry was born;-you seem lik one of us. Still, I must do the best I can. D( for my sake, Betty, try and make it easy for me t break in a new hand. I will go right out now, an see what I can do." Mrs. Warren began to tie on her bonnet. "Well, if this an't pretty times!" said Bettj her face becoming redder and redder, while her voic grew husky. "Do you think, Miss Warren, that am really a-going off to leave you in such a pickle I guess I can work as hard as you, any day; and i TO CALIFORNIA. we can't both of us together get victuals and drink for the children, why, we 'll give it up. When I am gone, you can get another gal, if you are a mind to." So Betty remained, and tookhold of her new la- bors courageously. This was an inexpressible relief to Mrs. Warren. Indeed, it is somewhat doubtful whether she could have gone on without her. Her house filled up rapidly, and unwearied exer- tions and care were necessary to keep it in order. After some severe struggles with her old habits of in- dolence and indulgence, she came off conqueror. She found out there was such a thing as keeping illness confined within its proper sphere,-that is, to the bodyt while the mind might go free. She found out that throbbing temples and disordered nerves could be made to obey, as well asrule. At those times when, if left to the dictates of her own poor feelings, she would scarcely have dragged one foot after another, she found out that she could step about her day's work, and briskly, too. Every victory gained made her stronger. Then, in addition to this moral reno- vation, her health really improved. She found out there was no doctor for her like Dr. "Have-to." Her cheeks became ruddy and her eyes bright, and her mind awoke to cheerfulness and activity, in the pleasant society which was now about her. Juliette Warren, in a few months, was very much changed, as all would have seen, could they have gone with ,9f page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] 30 WHAT ENT -ONE HUSBAND Betty- to her chamber, when, for the first time since the day the boarders came, she carried up a meal to her, and found her on the bed with her mending- basket by her, thimble on, work in hand, trying between the paroxysms of pain to set a few stitches. "The land, Miss Warren!" said old Betty, " if I was as sick as to go to bed, I am sure I would n't sew." "O, I must; I cannot afford time to be sick." "Well, now, if I shall not give it all up! Wha do you think Mr. Warren would say, to see you now? I 'll bet he would n't believe his own eyes." Mrs. Warren made no reply; but this remark of Betty's went like an arrow to her heart. In an instant a gleam of light shot %cross the past. As if by a sudden revelation, she saw at a glance all its mistakes. Days, months, nay, years, were mar- shalled before her; through all of which she had been the sick, complaining, inefficient wife and moth- er. She was almost overwhelmed; she had never seen it so before. Scene after scene crowded upon her mind, in which she had taxed her husband's pa- tience to the utmost. And what had she given him in return for all his kindness? Nothing. His home had been uncomfortable, and his money had been wasted. Now she could see plainly enough why he left her. Now she felt how deeply she had wronged him. She longed to throw herself at his feet, and TO CkALIFORNIA. ' t my penitence and love! !, implore his forgiveness. All her early love for him revived in its innsity . "my God!" she ex- claimed, in a burst of grief, " spare him , O, spare him to return, that I may make some amends for the injury I have done him, and that he may know of m y penitence and love ! ' For many days after this, Mrs. Warren carried with her an aching heart. It required a prodigious effort for her to make exertion, in this state of feel- ing; but it must be done. Even sorrow could not e indulgea in selfishy She sought some comfort by writing to her hus- band, stealing time for this from her sl eep. These letters, by the way, never reached him; neither did his reach her. At this time, also, she formed another plan, which ,e cs mell manalso, she ,o was a comfort to her. She determined to lay by every cent which she could possibly spare from her earning, hoping to collect at least a small sum tow- ards assisting her husband in setting up in busi- ness, should he come home as poor as he went.' This gave her a new motive for exertion. She gave her whole mind-to her business. Her house was popu- lar; her table was filled to overflowing; her affairs were well managed. She was, as she deserved to be, -for there were not ten ladies in the city who made- more effort,-- she was successful. Her children were put out to the best schools. They improved page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] 32 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND rapidly in mind and manners. Ilenr was a great help to her; he was a manly little fellow, with his father's kind heart. Betty continued to rule in the kitchen, though a stout girl was brought in to serve under her. The boarders always knew Betty's cooking, - no one else made things taste quite so well; so she kept on her way, doing her full share of the fretting and scold. ing, and her full share of the work, too. She never let her mistress go ahead of her; on her feet she would stand it as long as Miss Warren, she knew," if she was tired enough to drop. One morning Mrs. Warren was presiding, as usual, at her cheerful breakfast-table. She looked the per- sonification ofhealth and neatness. Her soft, glossy hair was brushed back under an embroidered cap, which was tied with rose-colored strings, deepening a little the shade of the peach-blossom on her cheek. A neat morning dress, fitting her trim figure, was finished off at top by a white collar, which encircled her white throat. She was handing a cup of coffee, when she heard the front door open. As her table was full, she set-down the cup to listen. Steps were heard on the stairs. lVr. Morton entered the dining- room, and a gentleman followed.- A stranger, was he? His sun-burnt face was almost concealed by immense mustaches and whiskers. He was stout and short, and singularly dressed,---A stranger, was TO CALIFORNIA. 33 he? Eye met eye and heart leaped to heart, and with a scream of joy she sprang to meet her hus- band. Yes, it was he. There he was, safe and sound, toils and dangers notwithstanding, - safe in his own home; the wife of his early love restored to him; his children, boys of whom any man might be proud, shouting -around him; and there, in the rear, faith- ful old Betty, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, and crying, because " she did not know what on airth else to do." As we are strangers, it would be polite for us to withdraw, with the boarders, and leave the family to their well-earned joy; but we cannot refrain from stealing, by and by, away from the children, up stairs with Harry Warren and his wife, into the old chamber. No camphor and ammonia are there now, I promise you. They sat down in the old arm-chair together, and Juliette told over her story, showing the purse, which, when empty, with gaping mouth, preached to her so loudly and fearfully one day, and what effort and toil it cost her to fill it, and how much good the toil had done her. Then, with trem- bling voice and bowed head, she lingered on that night of bitterest sorrow, when Betty gave her the key of the past, and she saw how, through excessive selfishness, she had sinned. She told, too, how her 'heart had asked for her husband's forgiveness. Then came the plan she had found comfort in. With page: 34 (Illustration) [View Page 34 (Illustration) ] 34 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND TO CALIFORNIA. glistening eye and trembling fingers, she snapped open the purse before him, and showed to him her little treasure of hoarded gold, hoarded for him alone; she poured it all out into his hard, brown hand, while the tears, big tears, rolling down his swarthy cheeks, dropped upon it. He, weeping over a little heap of yellow dust, who, in California's mines, had gathered it by the spade-full! Yet not California, with all her golden treasures, could have purchased for the grateful man what this had given him. We must not linger over the opening of the old chest, which was so well freighted with native ore; * F enough for all, Betty included, and enough, we pre- } sume, to have set Mr. Warren up in that very hand- ! some store where last we saw him. Juliette Warren is still in comfortable health, an energetic woman, and a first-rate housekeeper. If ever she finds herself " running down," as they say, she takes to her old DoCtor Have-to; and if no necessity is laid upon her for exertion, she lays it upon herself. Long life and happiness to them and their children! Should there be any wives who have not yet been able to find out what sent their husbands to Califor- nia, Juliette's history may give them a little light on the matter. page: -35[View Page -35] 4 TIIE, FIRST CROSS WORD. "You seen happy, Annette, always. I have never been in a family where the husband and wife seemed more so." r "Well done, Kate," said Mrs. Huntington, laugh- ing; "you have used the word seem only twice in that short sentence. And now you have a begging way about you, as if you were really in earnest to hear somnething about married life, before taking the fatal step. It is well Henry is not here, to see the look of sadness in the eye of his bride-elect. He might fancy her heart was full of misgivings, instead of wedding finery." "Don't laugh at me, Annette; talk with me as you used to do. I love Henry, you know, and yet I have many misgivings about married life. I see so few who are really happy in this relation,- I mean happy as I should wish to be. You seem to come nearer to it than any one else. Don't you ever ( Quarrel?-no, not often, now. We had our breaking in. I believe it must come- to all, sooner or later." r in page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] THE FIRST CROSS WORD. "Do tell me about it, will you, Annette?" "Yes, if you are very desirous of it. You may learn somethiqg from it. "I was a romantic girl, as you well know, Kate. Some few friends I had, whom I loved dearly; but these friendships did not quite satisfy my heart Something more it craved. I hardly knew what, until I loved my husband. When we were first married, I used sometimes to ask myself, 'Now, do I find in this life all which I expected to find? Am I as happy as I thought I should be?' My heart always responded, 'Yes, and more so.' With us the romance of married life --if I may call it so- held on a long time. For my part, I was conscious of a pleasurable excitement of feeling, when we were together. I enjoyed riding and walking alone with him. The brightest hours of the day were those in which we sat down alone together, to talk or read. For a long time I felt a gentle restraint in his pres- ence. I liked to be becomingly dressed, and to feel in tune. When dull, I made an effort to be social and cheerful, if he was present. I had a great fear of getting into the way of sitting down stupidly with my husband, or of having nothing to talk about but the children and the butcher's bill. I made a busi- ness of remembering every pleasant thing which I read, or heard, or thought, to tell him; and when all these subjects were exhausted, we had each of us THE FIRST CROSS WORD, 37 a hobby we could ride, so that we were never silent for want of something to say. Thus we lived for a year or two. I was very happy. I think people were often surprised to see us continue to enjoy each other's society with so much zest. "But there was this about it. As yet I had no- thing to try me. We were boarding, I had no care, and his tenderness and interest were a sovereign panacea for the little ails and roughnesses which must fall to us in our best estate. But this could not last forever. He became more and more occupied in his business, and I at length had a house and a baby to look after. Then, for the first time, our mutual forbearance was put to the test. Hitherto we had been devoted to each other; now the real cares of life pressed upon us so as often really to absorb our energies. I was the first to feel the change. It seemed to me as if something were overshadowing us. Sometimes I would get sentimental, and think he did not love me as he once did. As I look back now, I am convinced that here was my first wrong step. Indulgence in these moods weakened my resolution. It was an injustice to him of which I ought not to have been guilty. It left me, too, with a wounded feeling, as if I had been wronged, which began to affect my spirits. "Once, I had for some time carried about this page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] 38 THE FIRST CROSS WORD. little sore spot in my heart. I kept the matter all to myself, for I was in part ashamed and in part too proud to speak of it. Here was another wrong step. There is no security of happiness in married life but in the most perfect confidence. "There came a season of damp, chilly weather. One morning I got up feeling very irritable. I had taken cold, ny head ached, and my baby had been troublesome during the night. Pn my kitchen I had a cross, ignorant servant-girl; and on this particular morning she had done her very worst for breakfast. The beef-steak was burned to a cinder, the eggs were like bullets, the bread was half-baked, and the coffee, which was our main sty, was execrable. My husband was very patient with all this, until it came to the coffee; and this upset him. He put his cup down, and said, in a half-vexed tone, I I do wish we could ever have any good coffee! Annette, why can- not you have it made as my mother does? ' "This was the drop too much for me, and I boiled over. ' You never think anything on our table fit to be eaten! ' said I, and I almost started at the sound of my own voice. 'You had better live at home, if you are not satisfied, or else provide me with de- cent servants. I cannot do everything, - take care of my baby all night, and get the breakfast too.' "'I did not know before that I was so very unreasonable,' said he, in a tone of injured feeling. THE FIRST CROSS WORD. 9 He sat a few minutes, then rose left his untasted breakfast, put on his hat, and went off. "When I heard the door shut behind him, all my temper left me. I went into my room, locked my- self in, sat down, and cried like a child. This was thefirst cross word I had ever spoken to my hus- band. It seemed to me as if some sudden calamity had befallen us. I worked myself up t ouich a pitch of feeling, that I walked about the room wringing my hands. "'0, it is all over with us,' thought I; 'we shall never be happy together again in this world.' This thought made me unspeakably miserable. I felt as if a black pall ltad fallen around me, and in the future there was only blank - darkness. In my misery I sought to comfort myself by blaming him. He need not have spoken so to me, at any rate,' said I, out loud. 'He might have seen how I felt; it was too much for any one to bear. It really was not one bit kind in him. It is plain enough that he does not care for my comfort as he once did. Then to be always telling me what nice things his mother cooks, when he knows I am trying to do my very best to learn to please him! It is too bad.' "Don't look so dreadfully sober, Kate. My baby cried just here, and I had to run before I was through with my catalogue of grievances; yet I had gone far enough to get well on the wrong track page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] 40 THE FIRST CROSS WORD. again. I began to calm myself with the reflection that if there had been a great wrong done I was not the only one to blame for it. I was dreadfully sorry that I had spoken cross to him, but I thought he ought to be sorry too. Before my baby had finished crying, I came to the conclusion that I would not exhibit signs of penitence until I saw some in him. "So I bathed my face, that no traces of tears might remain, dressed myself with unusual care, and went down to old Bridget, to give some very particular directions about the dinner. I did this with a martyr-like spirit. I meant to try my best to make him sorry for his injustice. I resolved to reproach him with a first-rate dinner, good as his mother could cook. To whet the edge of my delicate re- proof, I made, with my own hands, a most excellent cup of coffee. "One o'clock came at last, though I thought it never would; the door opened, and I heard his quick step in the hall. Of all things in this world, he was whistling! He came to the table with a bright face, from which every trace of the morning's cloud had disappeared, and, as he sat down, looked around with a pleased expression. "Why, Annette,' said he, ' what a nice dinner! ' ' I am glad you are pleased,' said I, in a sub- dued tone. A THE FIRST CROSS WORD. 41 "' Capital! said he; 'the best roast we have had this season!' ( He was so much taken up with my delicate re- proofs as not to notice that I was out of spirits. I was half pleased and half provoked; but I kept rather still, making little conversation, excepting in reply to him. iAfter dessert, I handed him his cup of coffee. He was quite astonished. 'Why, Annette,' said he, I do believe you went to work to-day to see what you could do.' "He had hit the truth, though without the least suspicion of the cause. My first impulse was, to be honest, and out with it, by replying, 'Is it as good as your mother makes?' This would have given him the key to the whole story,- he would have ferreted it all out, and we should have settled it there; but I felt ashamed to. I sipped my coffee I in silence. The golden moment passed, and my good angel took his flight. Pride had the day.. I I even began to be vexed at his enjoying a good dinner so much, and so easily forgetting what had caused me so much suffering. He was very busy on that day, I and did not stay with me as long as usual to chat, i but went off whistling even more cheerily than I when he came. "I went up into the nursery, and sat down to think I it over. Baby was asleep, the rain was pattering 4* i N \ is page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] -x THE FIRST CROSS WORD.1 against the windows, the wind was rising, and to me the world looked dreary enough. I had tired myself all out getting up such a dinner; and now the excitement was over, and I felt the reaction, I began to ask myself what I had got for it. Just nothing at all. My husband either did not or would not see that there was anything to be reconciled about. I blamed him for his insensibility. 'Once,' thought I, ' he would have noticed any change in my voice, or any shadow which came over my spirits; i now, I can really be cross to him, and he does not mind it at all.' ' I had a doleful afternoon of it. I was restless 1 enough ; trying first one employment and then an- other, but finding nothing that would suit. I went down to tea, further, if anything, from the right point than I had been at noon. I sat dejected and silent. iMy husband tried once or twice to engage me in conversation, without success. "' Annette,' said he, at length, in a kind tone, 'do not you feel well to-day?' "'Not very,' said I, with a sigh. , "' What is the matter?' "' My head aches; the baby kept me awake al- most all tight.' This was the truth, but only in' part, and I felt guilty as I said it. Then he begged me to go and lie down on the sofa in the par- te* -'H THE FIRST CROSS WORD. 43 lor, and said he would read to me anything that I would like to hear.' " felt that this was kind in him. It was like old times; the new times, you see, had been but a day, but to me it seemed very long; yet it was not what I wanted. I wished to have the trouble cleared away, not bridged over; and I determined to hold out until it should come to this, and he should see and feel that I could not be made happy, after a cross word, without a scene of mutual contrition and forgiveness; so I would not stay and be read to, but told him I must go to bed. I left him in his- easy-chair, with his study-lamp and book and bright fire, in regular old-bachelor style, and went off into my nursery, and then to bed, and cried my- self to sleep. You laugh, Kate, as if you thought I was a fool. I think so myself now." "How did it all end, Annette?" "I held out a week, becoming every day more and more sad, and sulky, I may as well call it. When I was left alone, I used to take my baby up and cry over him, as if my husband were dead, and the child were all I had. left in the world. Dear me! how unhappy I was, and every day added to it. I would find something in his conduct to pain me, every time we met. Either he was too attentive or 4 not attentive enough; talked too much or too little "He bore my moody ill-humnor most patiently, E' page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] " THE FIRST CROSS WORD. - thinking I was ill. One day he came home, and ,;i. told me he had obtained a week's leave of absence, - and had engaged a buggy, and I must pack up my- ;? self and baby, and be ready to start off in an hour. ' He was going to take me home to my mother's. , 'We may as well have a journey as pay doctors' bills, Annette,' -said he; ' and as to having you drooping about in this style any longer, I am not going to. We Will send off old Bridget, lock up our house, run away from all care, and have some fun.' "He looked up so kindly I could have fallen upon his neck and wept my heart out, to think how ugly I had been; but there was no time then to talk it over. I hurried away to pack, but before I was half through with the packing, I resolved that I would tell him the whole story, from beginning to end. The moment I came to this determinamtion, the load was gone; my heart seemed light as a feather; the expression of my countenance, the tones of my voice, changed. I was conscious of it, and he noticed it as soon as I joined him at the appointed hour. "' Why, Annette,' said he, 'getting ready has cured you. We may as well stay at home, now.' "That will do, Kate. The rest of the story will sound sentimental to a third party." "No, no, Annette! that would be leaving out the very cream of it. Tell me how you settled it." N **OD '45 u xT cBEoss VORV. , Well, we rode on, enjoying the change, uetil ^rcs dark oabe then fell asleep. It was a ,NvarB ak was beauti a , .,hing about u was cry quiet hour,-- -- t " I longed to have al and eren. 1[felt deeply, and oe in myheart pure and peaceful.. Teas Ofrea I in lily, rto Pure s and before I kneV it penitence cameinto Wy hus- they ere droppn:g down upon the baby. and turne and saw t the utost m.- , Why, Annette,' said he, ith the utmost sr p what is the matter ' prie,.,tot*on a^ , O,I am so sorry said . S orry for wh, lesaidhe Areyou not happy . Does allything trouble you .' , Iap m so sorry,' saia I,' that I have been so Mam so,^^; ugly, this week!'he, , What do you mean nn;Puzzled ig?gdi ThenI ana moore auzel ",,W can you help kno'wing? 1. saidi e began at the beonning, an& told the whole story. How I rose feeling irritable, ald was prolokea to Howlwr to e" nat; hO' he to"ld e "ay' speak the first cross Word; h ow he t nd me ry things were not as ice as his mother's, n goent off vexed; then how he got over it, forgot all about it, and wouda not help mefee I go o nature aby syin hewassor y .How I had brooded over rinnalnc he war; sorry HO it all the week, - he w it ,ad festerea away in my heart, and poisoneall myenjoyment- Whatto- rents of tears I hada shed When alone, as I tought rents of te'. page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] " THE FIRST CROSS WORD. * it was all over with us, and we never shoulda love again as we had once loved. ? "He heard me through without making a single ? remark, and then he burst into a loud laugh. 'I I1- want to know, Annette,' said he, 'if this is what has ailed you, all this week?' "' Yes,' said I. Upon this, he checked our Dob- bin, and began to turn round. "'What are you going to do?' said I. "Going back,' said he, "if this is all that is the matter with you." "I laughed as heartily as he did; for, now my sin was confessed, I felt very happy; but I pulled the other rein and drew the whip-lash over Dobbin's ears, and away he went like a bird towards my mother's home. "But we made a resolution, then, Kate, that if 1 either had aught against the other, it should be set- tled before the sun went down; that we might go to sleep, if not at ' peace with all the world, at least at peace with each other, forgiving and for- given. This resolution we have faithfully kept, and I have never seen another week of such misery as I have been telling you about, and I trust I never shall. I hope you will find in your new relations, Kate, all the enjoyment we now do. This is the best wish I can offer you,--and that your first cross word may also be your last." THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO: Olt , A HOUSFECLEANING. Don't sew any longer, Mrs. St. John; it is too dark." "I can see very well, Mr. St. John, and I must finish my stint." "Why, what is the hurry n " "Myswn uth done this wfeek, for nest "Mysewn - it isThursday week is housecleaing; and here it is Thursday ight, and I am not half through.,- Where is my spool There, now, it is lost That is too bad. It is always the wrey when I am in a hurry. Jdward do help mefin the spool." his Edward, the eldest child, came realy to ns mother's assistance. Chairs were moved, cushions shaken, crickets upset, but no spool could he n eThe light was fast fading away, and rs. St Jon was getting nervous. howunfortunate See Dear me," sighedshe, o unfortunate See if the baby has not got it. here' a minute ago. '/ page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] O Cu THE OLD LEATIIER PORTFOLIO. No one could tell. "Do look," said Mrs. St. John, in alarm; perhaps he has crept into the entry; he will fall down stairs." There was a general rush for the entry, but there was no baby there. "I 've found him!" shouted Mary, the eldest girl, with a loud, merry laugh, which was strangely out - of harmony with Mrs. St. John's tune. "Come I here, mother, come quick!" I There was a rush to the parlor again, and there, behind the sofa, sat the baby, in a corner, entangled in a very large net of his own spinning-head, neck, arms, hands and feet, tied up again and again, I crossed and recrossed by thread from the missing spool. He seemed to be just about completing his X novel design to his own satisfaction, and a hearty laugh from all the family, the mother alone excepted, announced his victory. Beginning, however, to find himself uncomfortably imprisoned, he looked up with a half-fiightened expression on his baby face, which was very comical. Mrs. St. John had no time to smile at it, for the light was still fading, and her stint was undone. She broke off a needleful of the thread, and returned to the window. Her, facc was about as glum as the twilight. Stitch--stitch- stitc - went her fingers, now somewhat nervously Edward and Mary tried to unwind the babty, but ::IX OR, A IIOUSE-CLEANING. 49 found it no easy task. They pulled the threads too tightly over his tender flesh; he did not like the operation, and cried lustily. "Do, Mr. St. John, get that baby out!-the children hurt him." Mr. St. John took hold, but with no better suc- cess. "I cannot do it, wife; you must come." "Then ring for Hannah." So Hannah came and tried, but the baby screamed louder than ever. The joke was becoming rather a serious one, and both father and children were a trifle nervous; but still Mrs. St. John stitched away at the window. "Do, Mrs. St. John, put that work down,'" said her husband; "; it is too dark to'sew." He spoke, now, quite in earnest. "Only a few stitches more," replied his lady. Mr. St. John was a very decided man. He put the baby down, walked across the room, took the work out of his wife's hands, and tossed it into a sideboard drawer. "You shall not be so foolish," said he; "your eyes will feel it for a week, and there is no manner of need of such a hurry.." Mrs. St. John's dark eye kindled for a moment, and her cheek flushed; but her children were by, and she remained silent. page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] 50 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO: "Come and help us to get the baby out,- do Mrs. St. John," said her husband, in a pleasant, per suasive tone. She complied, still silent. Baby was released, anc dismissed, with Hannah, for the night. Edward and Mary hung about listlessly a short time longer, and then, after receiving from Mrs. St. John a doleful "good-night," retired, and she remained looking into the fire, silent still: Mr. St. John read the Traveller, laughed at its jokes by way of winding off, then laying it by, was quite ready for a social chat with his wife.- There she still sat -glum - mum looking into the fire. "Come wife," said he, " don 't be so disconsolate; what is the matter?" "Nothing," said she, with a sigh. "Nothing! well, I would not look so blue about nothing." "I do not like it very well that you took my work away from me." "You are so careless about your eyes, wife, that I have to look after you. You drive yourself almost to death, when you have anything to do. I cannot teach you moderation in any other way. Come, cheer up. You shall have your work, now there are lights; I will get it for you." "No, I do not wish it." "Well, what is the matter, then?" :.n} .OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 51 "Why, I have so much to do to get ready for house-cleaning, that it seems as if I never should I live through it." "Now, I will tell you what it is," said Mr. St. John, "I am going to have my way about house- cleaning this year. I am determined not to have you worried by it as you generally are. I intend to hire it all done in three days." "Dear me!" said Mrs. St. John, "nothing would worry me more." "Why so?" "For two reasons; because we cannot afford it, and because I hate new servants." "Well," said Mr. St. John, "I am convinced that it is the least of two evils; and, furthermore, I mean to send in a sewing-woman to-morrow, to relieve your present burden." "Pray do not," said Mrs. St. Joh ; " we ought not to be at the expense of such an arrangement. If we hire two great girls the year round, I feel as if we ought to meet these extras among ourselves. I shall get along, if you will only let me take my own course." "I will agree to it, on one condition only," said Mr. St. John. "If you will take it easy and keep happy, you shall manage it your own way; but if you cannot, I shall try my way. Come, now! Cheer up, -- do, wife. Let me see you smile." page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] 52 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO- "I do not feel like it," said Mrs. St. John, at the same time smiling, in spite of herself. "tolWt funny Bub looked, all tied up in your thread!" said Mr. St. John, laughing again heartily. "The little rogue!" replied the mother, laugh ing now. in her turn. She had emerged firom her cloud; for over the huoe mountain of house-clean ing, still before her, easy paths were opening, and cheerful, quiet spirit, a trusty guide, beckoned her thither. Ring the up-stairs bell, husband, will you?" said Mrs. St. John. "It is morning, and we must all be up bright and early; we begin house-cleaning to- day. "It seems to me," said Mr.- St. John, whose morning dreams were thus unceremoniously put to flight, " it seems to me there is no need of being in such a hurry." One hour in the morning is worth two at night," replied she; I will call Hannah myself." She stepped softly into the nursery, roused the sleepy girl, cautioning her not to wake the children. Then came hurrying here and bustling there; the rattling' of coal and the clatter of dishes. The early breakfast was getting on as well as could be expected. In the midst of this, a corps of young volunteers, fresh fron the nursery, all in bed-gown OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 53 uniform, came down over stairs and balustrades, to witness the muster. Hannah, then, must be dis- missed to make them presentable, and Mrs. St. John must take her place. In an incredibly short time, the breakfast-bell rang, and the family assembled at this unusual hour. Mrs. St. John looked very reso- lute. She was an energetic woman; she always meant to carry an enterprise through, when she un- dertook it. They had got an early start, as Mr. St. John could testify,- quite too early for his appetite. He ate nothing, and looked sleepy. "I mean to make thorough work, this spring," said the lady, breaking the silence; " the house has not been cleaned to my mind since we moved into'it." "But why do you drive all before you so, Mrs. St. John?" "O, there's no other way to accomplish any. thing." "Just remember our agreement, will you?" said he. "If I find you getting worried over it, I will ha-v in cleaners, if they are to be found in the city." "Yes, I will remember," said she. The family had breakfasted. "(I think we will let the girls come in here and eat," said Mrs. St. John; " it will save time." "Where shall we have prayers, then?" "O, yes, prayers, -well, in the parlor." page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO: "There is no fire there," said Edward'. "Never mind-it is not cold," replied his mother. I The family adjourned to the parlor. "It is too cold here for the children," said Mr. St. John; "Jane will take cold." "You had better omit reading, then," said his wife. The reading was omitted. Mrs. St. John tried to listen to the prayer; but no, she was wondering whether the water was getting hot, and where she could have put away that piece of wash-leather. She rose from her knees. The golden opportunity of prayer had fled. To her restless and care-laden spirit no strength and comfort had been imparted, for none had been asked. "Come, Mary," said Edward, e' t us go to X play." You cannot go out, this morning, until school. time," said their mother. "I want you to stay in, X this morning, and look after Jane and George." Mary began to cry at this. Bridget, with pail in i hand, entered at one door, as Hannah, with the baby, opened the other. Mr. St. John seized his hat, and hastily beat a retreat. When the nursery arrangements were completed, ' house-cleaning commenced in earnest. In the attic, Bridget worked here, Hannah there, and Mrs. St. John set herself down before a pile of rubbish. :-i,'J OR, A HOUSE-CLEANLNG. 55 Here was any quantity of cast-off clothing; "she would have it no longer breeding moths; it should be given to whoever would take it." There were broken chairs and rickety tables, waiting for a mending-day, which never had and never would come; they should be split up for kindlings. Old crockery wearing away a useless existence in vain hopes of aid front a little cement; old boots and shoes, ends of stove-pipes, useless fire-boards, boxes, looking-glass frames, what a medley! Vigorous Mrs. St. John determined that she- would tolerate it" no longer. 'Her aides-de-camp, Bridget and Hannah, were summoned, and a vigorous assault- was commenced. In the midst of the melee, pleasant young voices were heard calling from the nursery-door, "Mother, mother, it is time for us to go to school now." "Could it be 'nine o'clock? was it possible? where had the morning gone .? But it had gone. Mrs. St. John must now take her turn in the nursery; so, giving line upon line to the girls, she at length went down. To sit there quietly building block-houses for her baby, when her attic was in such a state, was a trial which Mrs. St. John's patience would not bear; so she wrapped him ina shawl, and made frequent ex- cursions, with him in her arms, up two flights of stairs, to see how matters were advancing. This page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] hi 56 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO: was hard work for her, and she was rejoiced when the time came for his nap. She sung away to him but he was not used to her tunes; it was Hannah's music which lulled him every day, and he did not fancy this change in his arrangements. He had none but waking associations with his mother; so he cried. This wearied and worried her, but still she sung heroically, for Hannah could not be called down from her work, and then she told the boy firmly that he must go to sleep. Finally, when he could cry no longer, he obeyed her. She felt as if it were a great victory. Fearing to arouse him if she moved his crib nearer the bed, she contented herself with gently tucking him in, and then stole out, and returned to the attic. Great improvement had taken place there; the rubbish had nearly disappeared. Mrs. St. John, elated by success, went cheerfully to work, with tobacco and camphor, on what remained. All was going on swimmingly, when suddenly a loud cry came up from the nursery, - no common cry, it was the cry of suffering. To drop everything and run, was but the work of an instant. The mother was first there, and found the baby lying on the floor. He had fallen out of his crib, cut his lip, which was bleeding, and bruised his forehead. This was sad enough to Mrs. St. John; for, if there was any one class of accidents which she dreaded more OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 57 than another for children, it was injuries to the head. She reproached herself for having left the child; she wished she had no house to clean; she almost determined not to try to do any more, for she was both agitated and alarmed. The baby was soothed and quieted before she was, and lie soon fell asleep again. The mother's agitation subsided, but not her fears; for she was in doubt whether she ought to let him sleep or not. She laid him, this time, in his cradle, and sat by him, gently bathing his forehead in cold water. Gloomy fancies crowded upon her excited mind. She wept over the child, as over one dead. In a moment of time, life had turned its serious side towards her; she felt humbled and ashamed as she remembered what insignificant things had been fretting her spirit. What was her house. cleaning, that it should absorb her quite, to the neg- lect of her family? But it must be done, and she must do it. How Could she, then, keep a quiet : spirit in the midst of such contending cares? She began to reproach herself for her neglect of prayer, this busy morning. Had she prayed, she might have felt calmer, when called to meet untoward events. But then, again, she might not. 1ier house-cleaning now must be done; so she resolved to prosecute it vigorously, finish it as quickly as pos- sible, and to set a seal upon her lips, through the whole operation, that no impatient expression should 4 page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] 58 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO: ;! escape. She hoped this would compose her spirit; : and, if more composed, she could go better through what was before her. But, come what might, the I baby was not to be again neglected, and she resolved ; to keep Edward and Mary at home, alternately, to Xl: look after him. When she joined her family at dinner, her coun- tenance betrayed the harassed state of her mind. j:': Mr. St. John instantly observed it. , "What is the matter?" he asked. "Why, the baby has tumbled out of his crib, and almost killed himself." Mr. St. John only laughed. "The blow fell on the right place," he said; " for the skull was thick in front, and the child, very likely, would have forty more just such tumbles before the house was cleaned; so she had better make up her mind not to be trou- bled about that." Mr. St. John had a pleasant way of helping his wife over her troubles. He gave her cheerful and encouraging words ; paid her kind'and considerate attentions; and, above all, was patient with her. Was she depressed, worried, overburdened with care, there was Mr. St. John never in finer spirits, mak- ing her laugh in spite of herself, turning out the "silver lining " of all her clouds, parrying off inmpa. tient shots, and never getting wounded. Thus assisted, the wife soon found her way into stiller waters. 59 oR, A A OUSEs-CL taxsNG. Then perchance it camethehusbands turn. Busi- ,s ent -wrong; his p artner wa unfaithful ; he net with losses, and his brow was oe What ; comfort the n was his w ife, wh o, grateful for what he had received, hastene to let don her pitcher into the well of hope, and bade him drink the cheer ful draught! Husband and wife thus helped each other over life's rougher places, and made their jour- ney leasicer, -h aroht down the b, y. After dinner, Hannah brought down the baby. A piece of brown paper disfigured his fair brow, but he was bright as a new dollar. Mr. St. John con- cluded that it was not best to send for the physician this tinme; they would keep that in reserve for the more serious bumps yet to come. His wis spirits revive, d she arranged her nursery tactics, for the last part of the day, more to her satisfaction. Edward was to remain at home. "Where shall we work this afternoon" said Bridget. "Finish the attic," said Mrs. St. John. "We are all done there, ma'am, but the eaves." e ave will go toe th caves, then; for I intend to mnake thorough work, now I am about it. You take a lantern, and I will go up with you, while Hannah cThe aves of Mrs. St. John's house had been partitioned off expressly, it would seem to atch rubbish. Snall doors opened into these dark holes. page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] 6O THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO: "Take your light, Bridget, and creep in; let us see what there is there." Bridget hesitated. "Why, the land, Mrs. St. Joh, there 'il be mouses there, and no cretur livin' is so 'fraid of mouses as I am." "Nonsense! there are no mice there; there is nothing for them to eat." Bridget advanced timidly. There seemed to be nothing but boards and shingles there, until, quite at the extremity, the light of her lantern fell upon an old box. "Anything in it?" said Mrs. St., John. "Yes, ma'am; it is full of something." "Push it along, then." It was pushed out into the attic, and left there until the eaves had been put in order, according to Mrs. St. John's notions. This accomplished, she proceeded to examine it. The board cover was easily forced off, and the box appeared full of old pamphlets and papers, stained and mouldy; dating back to a period previous to the Revolution, and running on for almost half a century. There were sermons, almanacs, dictionaries, dog-eared spelling- books, and finally, at the bottom of all, an old leather portfolio. To all appearance, it had once been handsome, for dim traces of crimson and gold were yet visible, though it was now mouldy and worm-eaten. OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 61 It was fastened, but a little pull tore the lock from the rotten leather. Mrs. St. John opened it eagerly. What treasure was there hidden here? No treasure, apparently; some common engravings, old writing-books, and sheets of paper covered with a child's drawings. A little inner pocket now arrested her attention. This was found to contain musty letters, seeming to be merely family letters. There still remained a drawer, at the bottom of the portfolio, to be exam- ined. This required some prying before it was forced out. It had been intended, originally, to hold a writing apparatus, but all its compartments were now stuffed with MSS. The name of Brad- ford,-Samuel, John, or Eliza, or Sarah,-had been found thus far on almost everything; but the contents of the drawer seemed to belong exclusively to one, a Mrs. Nancy Bradford, and appeared to be her private journal. Mrs. St. John wished very much to look oyer these papers, but Bridget and Hannah, both waiting for work, forbade it; so she replaced the papers in the portfolio, and sent it to her dressing-room, meaning to read them at her leisure. This discovery tended to strengthen her resolution to make thorough work, for once; and, as the baby was good and Edward faithful, she had the after- noon quite undisturbed. Still, the western light 6 page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] 62 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO: had almost died out from that attic window before her work was done; then, weary enough, but with her sky-parlor in fine order, she went to tea. She told Mr. St. John of her discovery, and the interest which this excited tended to divert his attention from her; so he did not observe that already, on this, her first day of house-cleaning, she had so over-worked herself that she could not eat. Had he seen it, Hale and Putt would have made their appearance the next morning. But he thought it was curious about that box. It must have been left by some one who had pre- viously occupied the house. Could they discover the owner? Mrs.: St. John thought not, as it had been for so many years used as a boarding-house. A "Some one will be sorry to lose it. It is proba. bly all that remains of some old family, who, for aught we know, were an influential family in Revo- lutionary times. Perhaps it is all their present descendant have to show that they had a grand- mother." "If the y ized it much, they would have taken better care of it," said Mrs. St. John. "I dare say they are glad to get rid of it, for there is nothing in of any value, it seems." "Nothing, unless Mrs. Nancy Bradford's journal proves to be valuable," said Mr. St. John. ! s Ig OR, A HOUSE-CLEANNG-. 63 His wife did not seem to think this a very proba- ble hypothesis. , Again an early summons roused the sleepy in- mates of Mrs. St. John's, dwelling; and again Mr. St. John, two-thirds asleep, came down uncomplain- ingly to an early breakfast; he meant to do the best he could to help his wife along. Again came the hour of morning prayer, axd Mrs. St. John, as she knelt, remembered now with gratitude that no midnight cry of danger and distress had alarmed them, that they had lain down and slept in peace. She. recalled, also, those serious moments, on the preceding day, when life had seemed so frail a thing, the concerns of time so trivial, and she really felt that the spirit with which she was undertaking her work needed purifying; yet where and how she could not determine, for she had an indefinite and unformed impression that her duty to God and her duty to her family could not tally exactly, at least, until house-cleaning was over, - that what she had now to do could not be done -" to His glory." Such Christian effort must be reserved until her house\ was put " decently in order." So she quieted her half-satisfied conscience with a fresh resolution to- guard her lips. This added care gave a serious expression to her face, which the children observed, for they will detect every change in a mother's countenance. page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] " THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO "What makes you look so sober to-day, mother?" said Mary. "I have so much before me, my child." "Shall not I send for Hale and Putt?" said Mr. St. John, standing with the door half open. "By no means," said Mrs. St. John; " they would be a great deal more plague than profit. I shall keep Mary at home this morning to help me, and Edward this afternoon." "I doubt whether this is the best way," replied the husband. "Will they not run behind their classes?" "Not if they study their lessons at home, which I mean they shall do," said his wife. "I can hear them recite." Mr. St. John drew down his face with a comical expression, and took his leave. This day's work proved to be a very tedious one. The two aids were to commence on beds and bed- ding, and the lady of the house was to precede their cleaning by putting closets and drawers in order. This, to her, was the most perplexing part of house- cleaning. After a winter's campaign, so much would accumulate; and now, as summer was advancing, there was such a medley of summer and winter clothing! What could be put away, and what must be retained? So many things, too, there were, too good to throw away, and yet not quite good enough OR, THE HOUSE-CLEANING. 65 to keep; much that might be worn, and yet looked hardly well enough; much that might be made over for the little ones, and yet, were they worth the time? Once she thought, in her perplexity, she would make one bundle of all the doubtful articles, and send Hannah out to give them to the first poor per- son she met; then she remembered that their income was by no means such as to exempt her from econo- my. She must make what she had go as far as it would respectably; then, how far was that? Her mind became weary, and her head began to ache. She sat down for a moment on a trunk, sighing and wishing the job was done; then, summoning her resolution, went once more heroically to work. Now she opened the under drawer; brimful it was of perplexity. Here were half-worn shoes, leaky rubbers, old stockings, the nursery refuse of a sea- son. This was, indeed, discouraging, and Mrs. St. John was irritated. Hannah ought never to have stowed away things in that style; she had half a mind to dismiss her, and try a new hand, and see if she could not get a more tidy one. She sat down again on the old black trunk, more discouraged than ever. At this very auspicious moment, Bridget burst into the room. "The land! Mrs. St. John, you never see sich a sight!" 6* page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] " THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO: "What is the matter now?" said Mrs. St. John, - trembling with vague apprehensions. O, the beds! - such a sight to behold!" X "What of them " 2I "All alive, Mrs. St. John," said Hannah, who now appeared in the background, looking as if she X had met the cholera. It required all of even resolute Mrs. St. John's X resolution to rise and follow her girls with the seal :i still upon her lips. She found they had brought a i true report of the land. Now, of all the conditions . of a five years' rented house, none could have been more annoying to our lady than this. With such partners she would not have accepted of one in Beacon-street or Broadway. Was it not a little singular that when she had so much to do, and was trying to do it in the best way she could, just those things should come upon her which would trouble her the most? She did not understand it; it was pressing her without mercy, and her ill-temper rose, with a sense of injustice. "This is enough to kill anybody!" said she, with flashing eyes. "I will not live so! I 'll move off. Take those down into the yard, and set fire to them!" "No, Mrs. St. John," said Hannah, "that 'll never do. We should have all the engines here, in less than no time." 4 , O1, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 67 "Carry them down, then, and leave them there until Mr. St. John comes home," said she, impera- ively; " and do you bring up water boiling hot and our in every crack. I'll have all the paper off the valls." "Take hold there, Hannah," said Bridget; "don't be so afraid of lifting a finger!" The aids were catching the commander's tone. Mrs. St. John thought it prudent to retreat. She went to her own room, locked herself in, sat down, and cried like a child. Two opposing currents of feeling set in, whirling her round. Her troubles were worrying, irritating, and making her indig- nant ;- conscience was making her ashamed, and humbling her. She shed bitter tears in view of her own character; now and then it seemed to her as if life did not pay for the struggle it cost. But now her tears must cease to flow, for there is Mary's gentle voice. "Mother, George is so cross, I cannot stay with him any longer." Mother, then, must go to him. Her eyes were still red from weeping, and her heart was heavy, when Mr. St. John came in to tea. These were symptoms which he had been expecting; so he could not refrain from smiling, as he inquired, "What has turned up now?" Mrs. St. John told him of Bridget's discovery. As she went on to relate it, her temper warmed page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] 68 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO: again. "It is just what I expected, coming into such an old boarding-house!" said she; "I told you so, then." "No, wife, you forget. It was your choice to come here; do not you remember? I wished to take that new house in Suffolk-street; I 'll take it now, -i if you say so." ; Mrs. St. John knew that the rent of that desira- :I ble house exceeded their means. She knew, also, that her husband was always for going the whole length of his string; and that, if prudence and econ- omy were ever practised, and both were neces- sary,-she must practise them, for he never would; it was n't in him. She, therefore, was always the one to hold back, and it was this which kept them up so comfortably. "No, we cannot afford to do it," said she; "and I am sure I do not know what to do. We cannot live so." "I'll burn up the bedsteads, if you say so, or sell off and get new ones," said her husband. - "No, we ought not to incur even that expense."' Mr. St. John sat down, and related, in a most humorous way, his college experience in this line. 2 Mrs. St. John had to laugh, and finally their plan of operation in attacking this new enemy was agreed upon. Offensive war was proclaimed; no quarter OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 69 was to be given; the hatchet was never to be buried until the old settlers were exterminated. On the fourth day of this memorable house-clean- ing Master George began to assert his rights. He would not stay any longer either with Edward or Mary, and Jane could scarcely come within sight of him. Mrs. St. John had to give up to him. With him in her arms she now attempted to do the lighter work, - washing dishes, cooking, etc. Tying him into a high chair, she began to prepare a- simple dinner. She set the table in the kitchen, without cloth or napkins, to save herself trouble. While so doing, the door-bell rang. Edward brought her word that Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were in the parlor. Mr. and Mrs WTilson were friends from out of town, who came to the city frequently in the spring to shop, always making their home with her. "I cannot have company," said she, when Edward announced them'; "there is nothing to eat in the house; and, besides, I am not dressed. What shall I do? It does seem to me as if everything came together. I .shall die before we are through with it! To whom are you talking, Mrs. St. John? Not to those children, surely. Mary had just entered. See, there are four beaming hazel eyes fixed upon your worried face. They are carrying impressions to those young hearts; impressions which you can page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] 70 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO: more easily make than erase; impressions which will be found there long after your house is in order; so, be careful. "Well, shall I tell them to go, mother?" said Edward. "No," said Mrs. St. John, struggling to be calm. "No, that will not do. Ask them to take their things off and sit down. Tell them I am house- cleaning, and engaged, just now, but will be up in a short time." Mrs. St. John went on mechanically with her simple dinner, for she did not know what else to do. Her husband's welcome step was now heard on the stairs; he came directly to her. O, Mr. St. John," said she, "I am so glad to see you! What shall I do? - We have company, and here we are, and this is all the dinner we have in the house; George is cross, and it seems as if I should give up!" "Never mind, wife," said he. "The darkest day, live till to-morrow, will have passed away. We will ask them down to dine just as we are. Here is meat enough for half a dozen more. They know all about house-cleaning. Now, don't take an extra step. I will put on a couple more plates. Here, Master George, come with papa. Edward, if you will keep him happy in the nursery until after dinner, you shall go out to Roxbury with me this evening. OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 71 "Wife, slick up your hair a little, and send Mary up to call me when you are ready, and I will bring them down." "How considerate he is, when I am in a worry! said Mrs. St. John to herself. "I wonder how he can be so patient. I ,will try now to do my best." She smoothed her hair, put on a clean collar, added a luxury or two to her table, in the shape of a castor and salters, etc.; and then, making a hearty effort to appear cheerful, met her friends, and wel- corned them to the best she had. And they had a I pleasant time of it at dinner. Mr. St. John was in fine spirits; he did the honors from stove, dresser and pantry, gracefully; and-Mrs. St. John felt con- scious that she was doing her best to show hospital- ity; and the friends felt that they were adding no trouble; so that all enjoyed the dinner. After the company had left, however, there was a reaction in Mrs. St. John's spirits. Jane begain to cry with the toothache, and George was ready with his chorus. Bridget was getting cross, and Hannah becoming ominously silent. Mrs. St. John again took her room; she began to feel desperate; she had half a mind to let things go. What was - the use of trying any longer, when everything opposed her? She might as well give up first as page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] 72 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO': last. In this mood her husband found her at night. "Now," said he, in his peremptory manner (and we have seen that he could be peremptory), "I have set my foot down, that I will not have things go on so any longer. You have had your way,- now I shall have my way. Hale and Putt shall come to. morrow." Mrs. St. John knew that arguing the matter would now be of no further use. "You gentlemen," said she, "have such odd ideas of house-cleaning! You imagine you can do it up just as you buy and sell, -so much labor for so much money. Now, the fact is, the simple labor is the easiest part of it. It is the getting ready for labor, - contriving, planning, arranging,- that is so wea- risome. Putting this carpet here, and turning that there; deciding where this thing had better go,!'and what must be done with that;- this is what makes house-cleaning such a trial, and it is work which you cannot hire." "Just so," said Mr. St. John; "and if you do this part of it, you do your share; but now you are attempting to do, not only the head work, but the hand work also. Division of labor is as proper here as in my store. You do not understand business, you see." "And you do not understand house-cleaning." Oil, A hIOUSE-CLEANIN.. 73 "Well, we will see," said Mr. St. John, laugh- ing. With the morrow came Hale and Putt, stout Irish women, whom Mr. St. John frequently em- ployed about his store; and there they stood, await- ing Mrs. St. John's orders. With a sigh she ushered them into the dining-room. They might clean there. In the early part of the morning she went once or twice to see what progress they made. "Do not put sand upon the paint," said she; "you will scour it all off." "O yes, indeed, na'am, we knows it," said Putt. "Be careful not to let your wet cloth touch this light paper." "Indeed, and I will be very careful, ma'am," said Hale. From the nursery to the dining-room was a long journey, and Mrs. St. John, having taken cold, found herself too stiff and lame to make the effort more than once or twice. Jane also had taken cold, and was now in bed, feverish and restless. George remained indisposed. Mrs. St, John had about reached that state of feeling in which she did not care whether the house were cleaned or not. She no longer had any mind about it, - she was heartily sick of it. Yet still, with contradictory impulse, she urged on the work, so that as little as possible need. be hired. page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] 74 TIlE OLD LEATIlER POUTPFOLO : It was a sorry dinner which Mr. St. John found waiting for him that day. The children murmured, and he, after partaking, omitted altogether returning thanks. "Are not you most through, wife?" said he. "I do not know that there is any end," replied she. il "How do my cleaners work?" "I have not been in, since morning.. I must go and look." Mrs. St. John entered' the dining-room. All up and downl by the windows, and under the moulding, I were wide, black stains of dirty suds. How it looked on that light paper! Around the door-handles the paint was all off, and the polished and shining boards attested to the strength of the scouring. - She looked on in dismay. "Only see there!" said she; " ten dollars will not repair the mischief your cleaners have done. I told you so, to begin with. Now, Mr. St. John, you ought to let me nmanage these things. What shall I do?" "Do? hy, it looks nicely, I think," said he; "it smells as clean as a whistle. As to the paper, I meant to have a new one on at any rate, and it is as well now as any timle." "What shall I do with them, this afternoon?" . "Who, Hale and Putt? Put them into the kitchen and cellar; they will work well there." ^! OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 75 When once more alone, with four cleaners await- ing her orders, Mrs. St. John felt that the time had come when she must either sink or swim. Summon- ing all her resolution, she once more breasted the waves. Much progress of a certain kind was made this day, and the poor, ransacked tenement began to settle down a little. "Mrs. St. John," said Bridget, opening the door at tea-time; "the cleaners, ma'am, wants to know as how if you want them to come to-morrow." "No," said the lady, in a tone not remarkable for its gentleness. "Had not they better, Mrs. St. John?" "No, unless you have a particular fancy for pa- pering more rooms." Mr. St. John laughed, paid Hale and Putt, and dismissed them. There was no early-breakfast on the following morning. Mr. St. John had his nap out, and Mrs. St. John, at a late hour, dragged herself down stairs. She felt miserably ; she was more than half ill; she did not know as she could hold her head up. The breakfast was uninviting. Bridget was getting out of sorts. The children came in, fretting; Hannah was cross, and " scrubbed their noses off" when she was washing them. No one in the house seemed to feel just right, but Mr. St. John. All undisturbed as ever, bright side up, he came among them, singing. page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] 76 TIIE OLD LEATI1ER PORTFOLIO: "Mother," said Mary, "( what makes you look so, this morning? You don't look happy." "I don't feel well." "But you have looked so all along, mother," said Edward. "Well, I have had a great deal to worry me, Edward." "But father says," continued Mary, " that wor. rying does not help us any." Mrs. St. John was silent. She did not wish to argue the point with her children. "Father," said Edward, "I do not want to go to school to-day. I have not got my lessons, and I shall get marked." "I thought you were going to study at home." "So I was; but Georgy was so cross, and mother so busy, I could not." Mr. St. John made the best of it. He was far too considerate to say "I told you so." Mrs. St. John felt his kindness. She wished she could have got through this house-cleatning without causing so much discomfort to her family. Was there no golden road to a tidy house? Could she not find some path over the mountain easier than the one she had trodden? Surely glimpses of such an one had once cheered her. True, but she had not followed the -trusty guide, and so she had lost her way. OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. " Now she was really ill; and, as the day wore on, it required the courage of a martyr to keep about and attend to the finishing of her work. But it must be done, and she must do it. And she did do it. The mdon rose that night, and through Mrs. St. John's clear windows poured a flood of silver light in upon her zwell-cleaned house. Yes, it was at last all in order. She had a good opportunity to congratulate herself, for slumber did not visit her eyelids that night. She was tossing to and fro, and in the crib by her side Jane moaned in her feverish sleep. Both had taken cold, were seriously ill, and the next morning the doctor was called. "It costs more than it comes to," Mr. St. John might have said; but he did not, he was considerate. He knew, also, that his wife was abundantly able to draw her own moral inferences, and he left her to do so. For the first forty-eight hours in which she lay there, the consciousness that her house was all done was very comforting; but, as other days passed, and found her still confined there, she also began to put the question, ( Has n't it cost more than it has come to?" This query- was silenced again and again by the stern reply--"Blut it must be done, and I must do it." "Well, then," asked conscience, "is there no better way? Cannot I accomplish iit with- sc page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] J8 oTIE OLD LEA TIIEl 1PORrE io:IO: out its proving such a sore trial to my temper?" Weary at length with thinking about it, she deter. mined to divert her thoughts. The old portfolio was remembered, and shesent for it. She first looked over the letters; they were cu. I rious as matters of family history. Mrs. Bradford I was the mother of several children; many of the : letters were from them, and some e wee from her husband, who it appeared held some office in the 3 army. The drawings were the work of one son, who seemed eventually to have become a painter. Mrs. St. John could understand tlat love which pre. served all these memorials of a childhood long since passed away, and she became interested in Mrs. Nancy Bradford. She was now quite eager to read the manuscript in the drawer. She found it, as she expected, a private journal. It was written on coarse paper, now yellow, stained, worm-eaten, the writing almost illegible, yet she managed to de. cipher niuch of it. We make a few brief extracts: "No letter now, fronm Mr. Bradford, in five months; I am afraid that he, too, has been taken prisoner. My boys are out of shoes, and my chil- dren want frocks. I can't buy clothing, for there is none to be had. My money is .most out, and hereis a cold winter coming. There is no schooling to be 1 got for the children; and I can't get anybody to haul wood for us. We must have some, -I shall i OR,. A HOUSE-CLEANING. 79 have to take the team and the boys, and go myself; we must get what we can. No flour in this region. If it was n't for our stock of potatoes, we should go hungry. We can't get along so all winter. If I don't hear from Mr. Bradford pretty soon, I must decide on something; for live we must. I am sorely tried." "Dear me!" thought Mrs. St. John," that was worse than house-cleaning! What should I do with my four children, even with so many comforts around me, if Mr. St. John were away, I knew not where, -perhaps dead, perhaps in prison? Why, I cannot very well spare him for a few hours, as it is. What wives and mothers there were in those days!" She read on. Mrs. Nancy Bradford came at length to a decision about her plans. She wrote: "I have determined to keep tav- ern; for I think I can turn a penny or two in- this way to help along. Daniel is painting the sign. I thought and prayed about this a good while,.before I made up my mind. At last I came to the conclusion that there was no use in asking God to help us, unless we tried to help ourselves. le would n't do it. If I want His aid, I must do the best I can for myself." "There!" said Mrs. St. John, dropping the musty paper on her white quilt; ' there is good sense in that. I 'll remember it. If I want His page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] 80 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO: aid, I must do the best I can for myself. I don't believe I have been doing this. I should not wonder if I had been demanding the gift of a peaceful spirit, as but fair pay for the bother I've had. Then, as to doing the best. I have done,-but have I done the best? ' This was opening the vexed question again, and conscience was all ready for the debate. Of this, as we have seen, Mrs. St. John was weary, and returned to the papers. "Not a word about Mr. Bradfqrd yet. All I can do is to hope for the best. I am getting ready to open tavern. The sign is almost done. I mean to begin in a small way, and use what I have; for I will not run in debt on uncertainties. We don't know in these times what a day may bring forth. I shan't buy new beds. If I have more lodgers than beds, the boys must go into the barn-chamber to sleep; and if we are running over then, I can take the girls and go too. The barn is dry, and the hay sweet. I 'll count my timber, and not lay out a broader foundation than I can build upon. That is good sound doctrine, about sitting down to count the cost. The Bible is as good to live by as to die by. I won't kill myself nor the children with work. I won't undertake more than I can go through with. I 'll know what the cist will be; then I shan't be disappointed. OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 81 "I just hear Mr. Bradford is in prison, sick. Perhaps he will never see his home again. Many a neighbor has rotted in those York jails." "I won't undertake more than I can go through with. I 'I count the cost! l' "That is the right policy," thought Mrs, St. John. "I always make a mistake at this point. I see it now. I undertake too much. I lay too much foundation for my tim- ber. This is one reason why we all get so over- worked. Mrs. Nancy Bradford manages matters better. I can learn a lesson from her, which I will remember the next time I have a house to clean. I will first count the cost. If I cannot command money, I will give myself more time. If I cannot have either, I will undertake the less work. I feel sure I should get along better to start on this principle. I do push matters too hard, when I have great things to do." Mrs. St. John began-already to feel stronger; she sat up in bed, and resumed her reading. "Daniel has finished his sign to-day and I think it is a beauty. I only wish his father could see it. He has painted the rising sun on one side, and the American eagle on the other, which I think looks very natural. He is varnishing it now, and will have it up to-morrow. I have already had some company, but they were not very clever folks; they found some fault with everything that was set before Ant # page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] 82 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO: them, and took more liquor than they needed. I felt a good deal tried when they said, in my hearing, 'that my doughnuts were hard as bullets;' but I got over it again; for I have made up my mind that if I keep tavern I must take what a tavern brings. I know 1 shall be sorely tempted to anger often. I can say, with good Mr. Contrite, "T is hard keeping our hearts and spirits in good order, when we are in a cumbered condition.' But I must take the lot that's given me, and I find there is no comfort like believing that God plans it all out for us, great and little. 'Keep near to God,' as our good minister said. This is the right way; this keeps your mind easy ; and when your mind is easy, the rest soon comes right." Tears began to fill Mrs. St. John's eyes. "Dear old Mrs. Nancy, did you write those comforting thoughts so long ago, to help me over some of life's rough places? 'If your mind is easy, all the rest will soon come right. Make it easy, by keeping near to God.'" I Mrs. St. John pondered long over this before she resumed her leading. When I have such company come," continued Mrs. Bradford," I have to make a point of speak- ing in a low, slow tone. If I don't, I find my voice sometimes 'runs away with me, and I get scolding the children before I know it. I don't want to have their young tempers fretted." f OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 83 "Have-not I been thoughtless about the com- fort of my children, through house-cleaning?" said Mrs. St. John, with a sigh. "Part of a regiment," continued the journal, "quarter here next week. I don't know hardly which way to turn. Isaac is sick, and he is my right-hund man. I must provide beds and food, and there is so much to do I hardly know which end to begin at. But begin I will; for, when my business gets into a tangle, there is no way for me to work but to take right hold and straighten it out. If I can only see my way clear, I can get along, if there is ever so much to do." "I understand this," thought Mrs. St. John. "My work lies in a tangle before me, much of the time, particularly if it is any great work. It wculd help me, as much as it did her, to take right hold of it and straighten it out. If I could see my way. clear, it would help me keep an easy mind." She read on. "I have now kept tavern a year; perhaps I shall have to keep it another year, before I see Mr. Bradford at home; but the boys are bigger, and can help me more than they did when I began, and I have got more used to it. I can have a system about it, which I could not at first; and this is the beauty of doing work. I have got along wonder- fully. The greatest trouble I have is the fear, lest w page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] 84 TILE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO. when I am so worried\ and hurried, I should bring reproach upon the name of Christ. I think a good deal of what Mr. Holyman said, - 'Thero are two things which they have need to be possessed With, who go on a pilgrimage: courage, and an unspotted life.' If I can only have these, I shall never mind these hard times." What a life of faith and energy!" said Mrs. St. John. Yes, faith and energy; and if it would carry a woman safely through those dark and perilous times, is it not abundantly able to carry her through the lighter troubles of these prosperous days, when we all sit unmolested beneath our own vine and our fig-tree? Will it not at least carry her safely through the modern perils of a "House-cleaning "? We leave Mrs. St. John to make her own moral reflections, believing, with Mr. St. John, that she is abundantly able so to do. THE MAY-QUEENS. WE all welcome May. March shakes his fist roughly at us, showing that he is a regular "chip of the old block," inheriting the surly temper of his father. April is capricious, all smiles and tears; there is no dependence to be placed upon her; but May comes in with her love-tokens of crocuses and daffodils, and wins us over to the faith that Spring is far advanced, and Summer is at hand. Now, in the morning, with the children, we loiter before the southern grass-plats, and peep through the dusty fences, to see and enjoy the young flowers, and at noon-time we are found on the shady walks.' We are quite ready for a stroll to the Common, on May- day; though we' loiter still before cages which are hung out here and there, that we may listen to the' canary-birds. They delight in the balmy air and in the blue sky. unconscious apparently of their cage- wires; for they sing away as if they would sing their little hearts out. Nor are they the only ones who delight in May-day. On such a morning as is here described, when we entered the mall and took our seat under the budding elms, we found that a 8 page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] 86 THE MAY-QUEENS. May-pole had sprung up in the night, and was in full bloom with roses. Around it young girls, dressed in white, danced hand in hand; and one with flowing golden curls wore gracefully a crown of roses. She was the May-day Queen, chosen, as one could see at a glance, for her great beauty, She was tall for her years, which could not have numbered more than fifteen; she had a figure light and fairy-like, and a countenance cast in the Grecian mould, almost faultless in its profile. With cheeks flushed by excitement, eyes sparkling, her broad forehead subdued in the mellow shadow of the rose- crown, she was exceedingly lovely. Round and round her, hand in hand, merrily singing, danced her white-robed friends, stopping every now and then, in the evolutions of the figure, to pay their obeisance to the queen, and cast flowers at her feet. This homage she received and acknowledged with much grace and an innocent pride. It was a beau- tiful sight,--in full harmony with the beautiful May morning. The old apple-woman under the trees forgot alike her knitting and her customers; even the .man of business paused in his hurried work, and expended several golden minutes on such a pretty sight. After a time, a somewhat singular spectator appeared. A gentleman, apparently a young gen- tleman, wrapped in a Highland shawl, with which THE MAY-QUEENS. 87 he concealed his face, and wearing a little jockey cap, began to pace back and forth in the mall, not far from the May-pole. It soon became evident that he was attracted by the May-queen. Once, when she was singing to her court, he almost stopped oppo- site her; then he recommenced his slow pacing, back and forth. His manoeuvres at length attracted the attention of the party. The young girls smiled significantly one to another, and besought the queen to. look upon her admirer; and she, though with becoming dignity resenting his homage, yet followed him with side-way glances. The color deepened a little in her cheeks, and there was now and then an added grace, which showed that she was conscious of being observed. Still, while the dance continued, back and forth passed the Highland plaid. At length the little dancers were weary, warm and thirsty, and the May-queen proposed rest and re- freshment, and cooling ices at Vinton's. Thither her party, still in rose-wreaths, followed her. Room was given them on the side-walks, and also an hon- orable place at Vinton's. When merrily seated at their ices, the May-queen, who had laid aside her crown in order to cool her brow, looked up and caught a glimpse of the Highland plaid at the door. It fluttered there a few seconds; its wearer, care- fully concealing his face, reconnoitred the premises, and then disappeared. The young girls broke out . page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] 88 THE M4Y-QUEENS. into a merry laugh, while the queen, with burning cheeks, tried in vain to look dignified. I "Perhaps the Highland chief intends to wait and follow you home, Rosa," said Nannette, her sister, who was also her maid-of-honor; ( how father will laugh!" "Don't tell him, Nannette," said Rosa; " he will think we were foolish to take any notice of him." Nannette, however, did not obey this injunction, for, as soon as they were seated at the dinner-table, she told her father the story; how Rosa had been phosen Queen of the May, andi had been closely watched, through the morning, by a gentleman in a Highland plaid. "Indeed!" said her father, with much surprise; "who was he? With your majesty's permission, I must look into this a little. ,Did you encourage him, may I inquire?" "Indeed, papa, I did not," said Rosa; "I only looked, once in a while, to see if he was still there; aid at last, when we found he would not go off, we left the Common, and went to Vinton's." "Yes, and don't you think, papa," said Nannette, "he came there and looked in at the door; but he kept his face so wrapped up in his shawl, we could not even see his eyes. Hle pulled his cap down, too. We concluded he was discouraged by the sight of Rosa's great glass of cream, and would not wait for her to finish it." THE' MAY-QUEENS. 89 "This is a marvellous story! Who was he, I wonder? Did he remind you of any one in par- ticular?" "Yes, papa, he was just your height." "Indeed!" "Yes, and he walked like you; and his hair in his neck looked just like yours; I noticed it." You must have noticed him a great deal, then, my little May-queen." "Indeed, I could not help it, papa, it was so very singular." "Father," said Nannette, " how roguish you look! I do believe you know something about it. Look at him, Rosa,- his eyes are full of fun; and now mother is laughing too." "I! how should I know anything about it?" "Ah, but I know you do. And now I do really believe it was you, yourself, papa, in a borrowed, shawl and cap. Wasn't it? There," said Nan- nette, clapping her hands, "you laugh; now I know I've found you out." "Yes, you are right, Nanny," said her father. "O, Rosa! only think, - it was father! What will the girls say?" Rosa tried to laugh, too, but she felt more like crying; tears really came into her eyes. She felt a little ashamed of herself; she would not willingly 8* ' * page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] -90 THE MAY-QUEENS. have exhibited so much vanity before her father. He understood her feelings, at once. "My dear daughter," said he, drawing her to him, and placing her head on his shoulder, " are you not as much 'pleased with the admiration of your father as you would be with that of any other gentleman?" "Yes, papa," said Rosa, "but I am so afraid that I was silly!" "And if you were, my child, would any other gentleman be as ready to make allowances for it as your father would?" Rosa nestled nearer him. "I wished to enjoy the day with you, my child. It gave me a great deal of pleasure to watch you and Nannette, unknown to you. It made me happy to see you bear your honors so gently, and. also to see that you were considerate of the comfort of your young friends." He pushed aside her ringlets, and kissed her fair brow. "My little Nanny, here, also made her father glad, by her generous devotion to the queen." His young daughters looked up, smiling; they returned his caresses affectionately, and laid their soft, blooming cheeks to his, and felt happy, and satisfied, and secure in his love. He, with a full heart, wished they might always thus confide in him, and that he might ever thus THE MAY-QUEENS. 91 encircle them in his protecting arms. The affection of such a father for his daughters is tender and beautiful; it does us good to contemplate it, and to keep our hearts sensitive to its value. In its charge we cheerfully leave our May-day queen and amiable maid of honor, for the May-day sun shines brightly on other spots than Boston Common, and another May-day party claims our attention. This party belonged in one of the country towns adjacent to Boston. They had left their homes early, and were now straggling through dewy leaves and wet fern, climbing stone walls and slippery locks, wading through meadow lands intersected by running brooks, that they might hold their festival in a distant grove. They reached it, but, of course, with wet feet and draggled dresses, and then found the grove so chilly and damp, they were glad to adjourn to a dry, flat rock, in an open field. Having taken possession of the sunny side, they deposited their baskets, and proceeded first to gather wild-flowers, with which to crown a queen. They could find only a few violets, and butter-cups,-and dandelions; but with these they wove fox-berries and evergreens, and made a pretty wreath. -They then chose their queen; and their choice fell upon one who, like our Rosa, was about fifteen, tall also, and delicate. Her face, with its regular features and pure complexion, ought to have been handsome, and would have been page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] 92 THE MAY-QUEENS. so, but for a certain sad and mature expression which it generally wore; an expression which indicated that, young as she was, she had known trouble. Her name was Susan Price. She was a kind- hearted, generous girl, and a general favorite among her companions. She was much pleased at being chosen queen; an unusual light danced in her blue eyes, and a hidden spring of gayety came bubbling up for the occasion. She entered into the sport as she did not often do, and sang and danced on the rock with the rest. She seemed to receive with intense satisfaction the courtesy and consideration which was paid her. She seemed to enjoy her brief season of power with her whole soul; she almost felt as if she were really a queen, and for the time forgot she was only a child of sorrow. The dance over, the weary girls threw themselves down on the rock, and prepared their breakfast, serving it on fern-leaves and flag-root rushes. It was a merry breakfasting; and when it was over, the sun had mounted somewhat high, blue-birds were singing, and it was time for a homeward start, for all the party, young as they were, had yet a day's work to do. The May-queen now picked her way carefully through the meadows and over the fences, for she feared to disturb her crown, and dispel the bright illusion which was born with it. She wore it quite THE MAY-QUEENS. 93 through the village, home to her own door. Here she took her leave of her young friends, and when they were out of sight, she stopped and listened. All was still; so she gently raised the latch of the door, and went softly into the kitchen. As she. hoped, she found her mother there alone. "Mother, mother!" said she, with unusual eager- ness, " look at me. I am Queen of the May. See my crown, - is it not pretty?" "Yes," said her mother, turning round a pale, worried face, and looking up with a heavy eye; "yes, I see," and then she returned to her work. Susan began to tell her, in an earnest tone, the adventures of the morning; she could think of noth- ing else, for the May-crown was yet on her fair brow, and she was yet a queen. "Hush!" said her mother, significantly, pointing to the bed-room. Susan hushed in an instant, for she now heard a loud and angry voice. Her fatheg was scolding one of his boys. "What - again, mother?" Yes." "Bad as ever?" "Just as bad." "O dear ' O dear!" A heavy step,-- her father was approaching. Susan Price turned, slipped out the back way, and softly closed the door after her. She sat down on page: 94 (Illustration) [View Page 94 (Illustration) ] "' THE MAY-QUEENS. the stone step. The May sun still shone brightly, and the blue-birds sung, and seemed to wish to cheer her. She took off her crown, rearranged its rubies and diamonds, and then put it on again. She then took off her shoes, and held out her chilled feet into the friendly sunshine, and spread her draggled dress to dry. She was still a queen, for the illusion would not so soon vanish; and she hummed softly the May- day songs, which had been sung that morning. Sud- denly she received a hard blow on her head, - her crown fell into the mud, her song ceased. She sprung up with a bitter cry, for her angry father stood behind her. "You lazy slut," said he, "why an't you in help- ing your mother get breakfast? Up, and along with you, I say!" Susan obeyed insfantly. She did not stop even to look for her crown, -she no longer had subjects, --alas, poor girl! she no longer had a father. Drinking had turned him into a brute! That hidden spring of gayety which had bubbled up so freshy at early dawn was sealed as if with seven seals. The past vanished; she lived only in the dreary present; and,-with a countenance fully reflecting her mother's worried expression, and with the same heavy eye, she went about her day's toil. Once there had been no need of toil, for this fam- ily were in easy circumstances; the father was a page: -95[View Page -95] THE MAY-QUEENS. 95 sober man, and they were a happy family. But times were sadly changed; for he had engaged in business in Boston, and then, in respectable places, - yes, in dazzling saloons and " first-class " hotels, frequented by the rich and the honored,- he had been tempted, and had fallen. The result was the scene in that desolate home, on May morning. Thus, even to-day, all around us, young hearts are breaking, and gentle spirits are crushed and bleeding, because he on whom they leaned- has sold his soul for strong drink. Yet we must not save them! O, no! for are we not told that we must not interfere with the trade of our goodly city? The tempter who pockets the gain builds his palace on the ruins of many such desolate homes; and young May-queens hush their songs, and weep around it, and grow old in very childhood. But we must not cheer them! O, no! for the interests of a great trade would suffer, and then how could we compete with rival cities? So they that are in authority tell us, and .their voice is echoed from high places, - and surely "Brutus is an honorable man; So are they all, all honorable men." page: 96-97[View Page 96-97] THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. MARION GRAY'S room was all in disorder. The table and chairs were covered with her clothing; books and pamphlets, writing-desks and port-folios, lay scattered here and there on the floor. Marion was packing, aind those huge trunks were to be sent in the afternoon by the express train to a distant home. She was to be married on the mor- row, and after a wedding tour follow them thither. Marion was nearly in the same state of confusion as her room. She told, by flushed cheeks, and bright eyes, and a hurried speech and nmanlier, that she was becoming very nervous. She could have written a scientific tract with less effort and mlore self-possession than she exhibited in packing her trunks and settling the little practical questions which were continually coming up. Her friends, who were helping her, seemed also much hurried,.- all but Aunt Clara, who sat at a favorite window, quietly drawing the heels to several new pairs of Angola stockings., "There is one pair ready to pack," said she, roll- ing them up and tossing them into the midst of a heap of papers. THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 97 "You are very kind, Aunt Clara," said Marion; "but you would help me more if you would stitch these papers together." "I know it," said Aunt Clara, in her blunt, good- natured way, "H know what you want; but I shall not do it. I 'e lost my reckoning, if you don't find a new meaning in what I've so often told you, that you'd a deal better be running stocking-heels than scribbling up so much paper." Marion smiled, - not in reply to her aunt's re- mark, however. She found at that moment among her loose papers a missing article, for which she had long searched in vain. O, I am so glad!" exclaimed she. "And well you may be," said Aunt Clara, "as long as you have some one to run them for you." "Marion! Marion!" was called from the foot of the stairs.- She started up at the well-known voice, and gave a hasty glance at herself in the glass. "Do not I look too bad to go down?" said she appealingly to Aunt Clara. Her morning dress was certainly the worse for, wear; she was without a collar, and her soft, black hair had partially disengaged itself from the braids and fallen down. But there was a light in her hazel eyes which her spectacles even did not dim, and a blush on her still youthful cheeks; and not- 9 page: 98-99[View Page 98-99] 98 TIE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. withstanding her dishabille, she had not often looked better. "No, run along," said her aunt; "he will see you looking worse than this, some morning, if he sees you as long as I have, I reckon." Marion hasted; she was much in love. "To-morrow was the wedding day, And she was going.' She sat down with her friend Ashton, to talk a few minutes, and soon quite forgot her half-packed trunks. The bell rang one, and the express was to leave at four. She started up, recalled to life's practical duties, and hurried to her disordered cham- ber; but Aunt Clara's strong arm and good will had done the work for her, and her trunks stood there, all ready to lock. She gratefully acknowl- edged a kindness which she appreciated better than she had done the needle-work. Marion was up with the first timid blush of the bridal morning. Indeed, she had slept but little through the night,--she could not. She felt that she was about to cut adrift from her old moorings, and sail into untried seas. Again and again con- science questioned her closely. Ought she to venture there, with her ignorance and dislike of all domestic duty? What was she fit for but study? Nothing, and she knew it. Ought she, then, to take charge THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 99 of a honfe of her own? This question vexed her,- she was glad when night vanished. She sat in the dim light by the window, and recalled all which Mr. Ashton had said to comfort her when she had conversed with him on the subject. She had told him fiankly, with look and voice, which spoke more even than her words, "that she loved him, but she hated house-keeping, and that next to his society she cared for little but her books." But Mr. Ash- ton was in love, and what does a man in love care for domestic accomplishments? L A house-keeper he could hire, but where could he find another wo- man like Marion Gray?" This in the pride of his heart he told her, and thus sought to remove her difficulties and put her mind at rest; and he suc- ceeded then, but she was too sensible to remain long satisfied with conclusions from such premises. Yet what good would anxiety do hUr now? The sun is rising higher and higher; before he starts on his journey again she will be a wife, --the wife of him she loves. Once then for all, she flings her fears to the winds; she resolves to be true to herself,- to follow the bent of her tastes, and, whatever else she neglects, she resolves not to neglect her studies; and, as the sun shines out brighter and brighter on this resolution, she is more fully convinced that such a course will best insure their mutual happiness. Now there is no more time to think. The fam- page: 100-101[View Page 100-101] 100 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. ily are astir, - there is running hither 'and thither, bells ring, bouquets arrive,--it is like Flora's gala-day. Quickly it passes; - the sun, all undis- turbed, jogs on and finishes his task on the second; he will work no longer, even for Marion's bridal. Company arrives; the bride is dressed and veiled, and blushingly places her gloved hand within that of the bridegroom. Her broad, intellectual fore- head is softened by the shadows of the orange-buds, and about her mouth plays that expression which makes even the face of a homely woman fair to look upon. The groom was not the only one who thought Marion Gray handsome on her weddilg eve. In his admiration there was much pride mingled, and in an impulse of generous devotion he determined that he would so adjust the cares of his new home that his wife's studies should not be broken in upon. On the morrow there were tears at parting; but such tears are like those April showers which fall sparkling in the sunshine. The bridal pair whirled away towards a distant city, and Aunt Clara re-' turned to the deserted room. She also could have shed tears; for Marion, with all her faults, was a favorite niece, whom she had almost brought up. She knew that she should miss her, but shedding tears was not quite in her line; so she comforted THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 101 herself by setting the room to rights, and thinking of the time when Marion should revisit it. Much more time passed than she had anticipated before Marion came to her old home again. The wedding-wreaths had long since faded, and Flora had thrown out many fresh flowers for other brides. The sunshine and music, all the glad beauty of that happy time, had mellowed down into the quiet light and tones of every-day life. Marion did not come back to her room a bride; she had become a wife and a house-keeper. How she sustained herself in these new relations Aunt Clara was curious to observe, and she could not avoid narking some changes. Mr. Ashton had become grave, and Marion "fidgety." When more at home in her old quar- ters, she also exhibited other traits which pained her friend. She spent the best part of the day at her own study-table, apparently forgetful of her hus- band's comfort. It being his vacation, he had pur- posely left his books behind him, as he needed recre- ation. He tried to persuade Marion to do the same, but in vain. She was an indefatiable student, working even at unseasonable times, regardless of any complaint from her over-taxed nerves. He was therefore compelled to amuse himself in the best way he could devise. Sometimes he would lounge into his wife's study; but he found that she was too little accustomed to such\ interruptions to make them 9* page: 102-103[View Page 102-103] 102 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. altogether agreeable to her. Now, Aunt Clara thought this selfish. With her strong common sense, and her benevolent heart, she appreciated much more readily those qualities which make one's friends happy, rather than those which make them proud. One day she spoke to Marion: "It seems to me," said she, " that I would not study the whole time. Why did you not go out to ride with Mr. Ashton? He has gone alone." "I told him I would-go after tea," was her reply. "But that is too late for the ride to benefit either of you." Marion did not think so. From this time her aunt quietly took it upon herself to ride with Mr. Ashton when he seemed so disposed, and the more she became acquainted with him the better she liked hiln. She thought he had but one fault, and this was an over-indulgence of his wife. As she viewed the matter, he humored her in her tastes and no- tions far too much for her best good, or his own comfort. She saw plainly enough that his kindness made Marion's selfish heart the more exacting in its demands. She seemed to feel it her right to call upon Mr. Ashton to accommodate himself to her hours and plans; for had she not married hin? If he failed to do so, she was sufficiently offended to be moody. Did he urge her leaving her study at an THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 1.03 inconvenient time, to receive and entertain callers, her brow was clouded; in short, whenever his wishes crossed hers, and he did not readily yield them, she fell into what must, even in a learned latdy, be called the sulks. She was unsociable and reserved; she read almost constantly, and there w;as an indescribable chill and constraint about her, which sensibly affected one's spirits like going into a damp cellar. Aunt Clara saw that Marion was never genial, excepting when she had her own way. This she felt was all wrong, and she became anxious to have any error which the husband might have fallen into corrected early, lest the whole of their days of married life should be passed in shadow. This was one of her ways of doing good, and she determined to go and visit them in their own home. One who hd seen less of the world than Aunt Clara would have been surprised at such a development of Marion's character as a wife, for she used to dis- course most beautifully on the self-sacrificing devo- tion which a wife should cherish for her husband. This, however, was before she had tried it, - it was when she was in love. But, beautifully as she talked, her old aunt knew that it was one thing to preach, and quite another to practise; that sentiment would not sugar selfishness long; and that Greek and Hebrew 4 page: 104-105[View Page 104-105] 104 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. were but cold comforts to a man who must buy them with a moody and exacting wife. The more she saw into the state of things, the more bold she became in her exposure of them. "What is the matter with you to-day?" said she once'to Marion. "Matter? Nothing, - why? .' "I see, the moment your husband comes il, you take up your book and go to reading; and the more gently he speaks to you, the more offish you are." Marion colored deeply, - she was both offended and ashamed. She " offish," - and to her husband, - and others seeing it! This was a picture with- out varnish, but she saw its truthfulness at once. With a sudden and strong impulse of right feeling, she determined to make amends for the wrong she fad done, and retrieve her character. When next her husband entered, he saw that a change had come over her mood; her glance was full of affection, and her looks and words were kind and genial. She seemed willing to beg that the past might all be forgotten. He gladly met this feeling with a sympathizing kindness, and a generous for- getfulness. This unusual sunshine, seeming like the light of the bridal times, lasted many days. Aunt Clara wished- she began even to hope-that a new day-star had arisen on their path, and that Marion, TIlE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 105 having caught a glimpse of her faults, had deter- mined to mend them. But, alas! that new day-star set, to rise no more, on that unfortunate morning, - the morning after ironing-day. Marion, her husband, aunt and father, happened to be together in her chamber, when the clean clothes came up fromn the wash. Aunt Clarabegan to look them over, carefully selecting such as needed, mending. In a few minutes she had taken up every one belonging to Mr. Ashton. She ran her hand first into one and another and another stocking; they seemed equally full of holes. "You would have done well had you taken my advice,i' said she to Marion, " and learned to draw stocking, heels before you were married." "-Ie wears them out so fast," said Marion, try- ing to laugh it off, i there 's no use in it." She looked over tp Mr. Ashton, but he did not appear to notice her laugh. But look at this!" said Aunt Clara, holding up a shirt which was literally in rags. "My child," said the father, "i u ought not to let your husband wear such linen as that." "Why., father, I cannot help it, unless I spend all my time mending for him, - and I am no sewer; and, besides, I think the washerwoman tears them." "It is your business to attend to it, Marion." \ page: 106-107[View Page 106-107] 106 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. "Well, father, I did tell him he must order a new set, but he forgets it. I do not know what he needs." Again she looked imploringly at her husband; he said not one word to excuse her. She felt his silence, and, much offended by it, she resumed her cold, proud look, and a book. ,The chilliness which now pervaded her room soon scattered her friends, and when left alone she put the tattered linen out of sight in\ her trunk, sat down, and burst into tears. "How foolish she had been to marry!" was now the burden of her thoughts. "How utterly unfitted did she find herself for domestic life; how unfortunate that her passion for literary pursuits should have been so strong! But, then, ought she to be blamed for the domestic discomfort which re- sulted from it? Did she not give her husband full warning of what he might expect? Certainly; and was it not therefore unjust in him to imply by his manner such a censure of her? Was it not a poor return for all that affection which she cherished for him?" Marin had wrought herself up to a high state of excite ent. Indeed, her abused nerves had become so sensitive as to be irritated by the most trivial causes. In this state Mr. Ashton found her. She did not raise her head as he entered. He approached her table, sat down, and coolly went to reading. Ma- TIIE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 107 rion's color went and came like stormy clouds in March; and as the rain stopped the wind rose, - in other, words, her tears ceased, and her temper was up. Still she kept silent, and the silence became rather awkward. Mr. Ashton was watching every change in her varying countenance. He could not imnmediately conquer all the pride in his own heart, which was urging him also to keep silence; but soon his more generous love for Marion got the victory, and he spoke. "I am sorry to see you so unhappy, Marion ; you are distressing yourself needlessly." "I presume I am able to judge of that," was her short reply, uttered in a tone which she immediately regretted. Mr. Ashton bit his lip. "If anything has gone wrong which I can rem- edy, I shall be glad to do so," said he. "It is too late to hope for a remedy," said she. "What do you mean by that remark, Marion? Are you already hopelessly wretched?" "Yes, at times" (she was in a better mood); "I am suffering daily from just those tropbles which I most feared. I am wholly unfitte rfor domestic employments; and you are unhappy because-I do not give them my thoughts and time. You do ex- pect from me a degree of attention to them which you gave me to understand that you should not expect. You have deceived me in this matter." page: 108-109[View Page 108-109] 108 THE IIUSBAND OF A BLUE. "Marion," said Mr. Ashton, rising, and speaki hastily, "a I have not deceived you in this matter, any other. I tell you now, as I told you then, th I am ready to make any sacrifices to promote yo happiness. Butwill it promote your happiness be exempted firomn all domestic care? Is there ai woman, married or unmarried, who can get throul life without it? And, if she could, would she be ai the better woman for it?" He left the room hastily. He had never befc spoken reprovingly to his wife; she felt it, a again burst into tears.!When she went to the t( table her eyes were red and swollen, and Au Clara had no faith in the " headache " which V offered as an apology for their appearance; besid had it been only that, Marion would not have treat her husband with such marked politeness, or retii so early alone. That something had gone wrong she was the um convinced from Mr. Ashton's appearance. frequently sighed, as he silently paced the par back and forth. Aunt Clara took up the pap that she might not appear to notice his abstracti He was thinking of his wife; and he shrank fr acknowledging, even to 'himself, that he could ' please her, excepting by letting her have her o way. He tried the rather to excuse her irritabili on the ground that she-confined herself so closely TIIl: HUSBAND OF A- BLUE. 109 her studies that her health was poor. He wished that she would study with more moderation,it would be so much better for her. he was very un- happy" while her faults only were present in his heart, for he loved her. He sought to direct hi4 attention from them. He recalled the days of their early acquaintance. He remembered noble sentiments which she had then enthusiastically ex- pressed, and which had seemed almost to awaken new powers in him. He remembered how she had excited his ambition, and stimulated him to effort, and sympathized with him in his plans, and urged forward his great pursuits. She was a remarkable woman. Why should he, then, repine because she was not everything? Ought he to ask her to -lay aside her books to attend to him, if he was out at the elbow and shirtless . Ah! he was getting into the dream-land; he was seeing her as she was in the bright days of wooing, when people are all soul and no body; and he found it no longer difficult to shut out her faults, particularly as she was away. Her presence, alas! dispelled the bright illusion of her, as hope vanishes before reality. fMr. Ashton found her wrapped majestically in clouds; she con- tinued so on the next day, and the next, and the next.' She scarcely broke through them' even' when the visit had closed, and they -ook their departure. 10 * page: 110-111[View Page 110-111] "O THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. Aunt Clara was more dissatisfied than ever with the course things were taking. She made up her mind not to let matters rest as they were, unless they should be proved quite hopeless. "I am coming to make you a visit, one of these days," said she to them. They both urged it, and she repeated the promise. Unforeseen events prevented its fulfilment for three or four years, and at that late date we must now follow her on her first visit to Marion's home. She reached their house about four o'clock, one chilly afternoon in November. She rang the bell , eeral times; but, as no one answered it, she opened Athe door, and had her trunk placed in the entry. j,oking round for a mat, shp at length espied a ,p epiece of one in a corner, lying in a sea of mud. She entered a sitting-room; it was cold, cheerless,'un- swept and undusted; books, maps, pamphlets and papers, were scattered here, there and everywhere; broken toys strewed the floor, and, from several chairs being tipped up and tied together, it was evi- dent that,a stable was kept there by some little one, who liked to have his horses ready harnessed. Aunt Clara made her way to the kitchen; a ragged Irish girl ws just preparing to answer the door-bell. "Mrs. Ashton ." she said, as soon as she could collect her wits. THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. ail "nMrs. Ashton was in her study, ma'am, if you would plase to walk up there." Aunt Clara thought it would have been quite as well had Mrs. Ashton been out of it-; but she went up stairs as directed. She found Marion bent over a table, which was laden with books. Her hair wai unbrushed, and she was still in her morning dress; but she threw down her pen, and gaye her aunt a cordial greeting. "' Why did you not let me know that yoi were coming?" said she. "I certainly would have dressed up. Do sit down and get warm. I am afraid the fire is all out down stairs; but be very quick about it, Aunt Clara, for I have something to show you iti the next room." "I will see it now," said Aunt Clara. Marion, with great delight, exhibited the owner of the harnessed horses, and his little baby sister, who was in the arms of a chalky-faced yourg girl Marion's children made so odd an appearance, Aunt Clara could scarcely keep from laughing. The boy had outgrown his clothes in every direction, and looked pretty much as a half-bushel bag would with a bushel of neal in it; while the baby was quite lost in the quaint, old-fashioned, faded gear, which her brother had put off. Yet Marion was proud 6f them - it made no difference to her how they looked if they were comfortable. Aunt, Clara knew, at a page: 112-113[View Page 112-113] "2 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. glance, that whatever Marion might have learned in the last few years, she had not learned to attend to oommon things. Under Mr. Ashton's direction, a fire was kindled below, the sitting-room cleared up, and Aunt Clara was welcomed with the best he had to offer. She was soon quite domesticated with them, and, as usual, began to make herself useful. There was no danger of her not finding enough to do in Marion's house, where everything was at loose ends. But Mr. Ashton became at length uneasy. It seemed to him Aunt Clara was always righting his disorderly rooms, or sewing for his shabby children. ie 'was painfully observant of the fact, that Marion, in her carelessness and ignorance, taxed her female visitors almost unmercifully. She was always so much behind-hand, and there was so much which must be done, she wanted to make everybody sew for her. Her husband frequently left the room to avoid the mortification of seeing these wants pressed in such a manner upon her friends that they could not refuse to meet them. He was anxious lest Aunt Clara's kindness should be abused, and, without ap- pearing to censure Marion, he wished to preyent it. One day, when alone with her, he expressed the wish that she would not devote so much of her time to his family. Marion, he hoped, would be THE HUSBAND Of A BLUE. 118 less busy by and by, and would attend to those things. t Do not give yourself the least trouble about me," said Aunt Clara; "I have known Marion longer than you have. I shall work just as much for her as I have a mind to, and no more." Mr. Ashton saw that she understood it, and would manage properly, and his mind was at rest. Aunt Clara spoke more plainly than she might have done, had it not happened that on that very morning, when she was present, Marion had placed some sewing-work in a friend's hands before she had time to take her things off. A slit must be mended before the boy could go into the street. Aunt Clara tried to apologize for Marion to the s lady, and she was displeased by it. So, after this# she silently took her own course, and gradually ,managed all the domestic concerns in her own way, hoping that Marion would look on and learn: The ,house became orderly; the parlor was always warm and cheerful, with a welcoming look for a caller. The children were well dressed. Mr. Ashton began to take them out with him frequently, when he found they could be made ready at a short notice. The table, also, became neater, and the food more wholesome. Mr. Ashton began to realize, as he had never yet done, how much comfort there can be in a home. Even the servant-girl became more tidy 10 page: 114-115[View Page 114-115] "4 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. and industrious, when there was some one to look after her. Marion looked on, but did not learn, though in fact she observed these changes. less than her husband did; she had become indifferent to dis. comforts which were of her own choosing. But, after a time, she began to observe some other things, to which she was not wholly indifferent. She could not but see that Mr. Ashton talked much more with Aunt Clara than she herself did; and she could not understand what he found so agreeable in her conversation. It was never on those literary topics which interested her. Yet, somehow or other, Mr. Ashton came oftener, and remained longer in his cheerful parlor, engaged in cheerful chat witih Aunt Clara, than he had ever done before. Marion began at length to feel a little hurt at this, and her manner gradually became cold and distant towards her hus- band. She indulged in this foolish and unamiable mood so long, that it finally terminated in a serious attack of jealousy, not precisely understood even by herself. She became somewhat cold and distant to Aunt Clara. Marion Ashton jealous of her old aunt! Yes, it must be confessed; for, had not her husband been unjust enough to bestow upon her, smiles and attention, which she, his wife, had some- times demanded in vain And was not his too evident comfort in her management a continual reproof to her? Did it not say in plain terms that, THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 115 after all, he did value domestic accomplishments more than much learning? If,- therefore, she could not be appreciated, she chose to keep out of the way. She shut herself up still more closely in her study; but her husband was now so accustomed to manifest- ations-which he could find no cause for, that he became somewhat regardless of them. So far as he was concerned in this matter, the truth was that he did enjoy a great deal in Aunt Clara's society. He found in it, what he seldom found in that of his wife, recreation. He also had his studies, and his great pursuits, and he frequently came weary from his labor to find Marion also wea- ried or excited from the same causes. When she was excited, she expected from him an equal degree of interest in her studies. He must snap asunder at once the thread of his own meditations, that he might take up hers. Often this was wearisome to him; it required a degree of effort which he was indisposed to make, for unfortunately his literary tastes and pursuits lay in a different line from hers. This she knew, and when in a,genial mood she would sometimes discourse honeyed words on the propriety of her dropping her own studies, and-tak- ing up his ;-pleasant words these to hear, but, like that choice perfume .breathed only when the dew lies on the flower, their sweetness perished early. page: 116-117[View Page 116-117] "6 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUB. Somehow and somewhere, no one could say where, exactly, a rivet had been loosened from a link in that chain which bound Marion's sayings and doings together; they fell apart as soon as drawn upon. Ier husband profited more by the great truths and sentiments to which she frequently gave expres- sion than she herself did. Often they rekindled the fires of enthusiasm for him, invigorated his ambitiori, purified his motives, and gave him courage for a ne* start. In thinking of her, he acknowledged this with gratitude; but, alas for poor Marion! she derived no such benefit from her own aspirations. It seemed as if, just in the ratio in which her intellect was cul- tivated, her heart was neglected. Selfishness 'took complete possession of it, and ruled and reigned there. To subdue this, she needed precisely the discipline which domestic life urged upon her every hour in the day. It called loudly upon her to for. get herself, and live for others; but, she would not heed the call. Her husband, the more he saw of life, and of the proper sphere of woman, became the more convinced * of Marion's errors. Sometimes he would try and make her view it in the light in which he did, but he never could succeed. "What!" she would reply, "spend her time on those trivial affairs which engross most women? It THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 117 would kill her; life would not be worth the having, if she must hold it on such terms. Pray, what was her intellect given her for?" Did he venture to suggest "that the tone of the intellect is elevated by that of the heart, and that no duty is to be despised which cultivates a virtue there," Marion fell into tears or melancholy, or, what was worse, struck upon her sentimental vein. This her husband much dreaded; for, when she was in-this mood, she tormented herself and him with her perfectly visionary ideal of married life and love. He had never reached it, and when charged with undue cultivation of her intellect she would retort upon him his very imperfect cultivation of the affec. tions. "Itad he loved her as once he professed to do, he would not be so ready to discover faults in her. The difficulty was not in her, but in some inexplicable change in his love for her." This topic was a frequent source of unhappiness between Marion and her husband. At length she did not hesitate to tell him "he had fallen so far below the true standard of conjugal affection, that it was best for them both to make up their minds that they could have but a very moderate share of enjoy- ment in each other's society." Marion would arrive I at this conclusion very heroically, and yet never seem to make up her mind "to be contented." Many an expression of wounded feeling was uttered, page: 118-119[View Page 118-119] "8 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. to make her husband unhappy. She knew they were undeserved, and he suffered much in silence; "the heart knoweth its own bitterness." It is therefore accounted for why Aunt Clara, on her visit there, found Mr. Ashton a grave, hard. working, still man. It had been brought about, not by affliction or poverty, but by the continual want of sunshine in his home and in his heart. He had but few gleams of it, and these came only when everybody and everything bent to Marion's reigning mood and whim. Yet he loved her, with all her faults, and his affection for her exposed him to another source of suffering. He wished to screen her from the wold's censure, and he could not always do it. Marion required her husband to stand with shield and buck. ler on, and to stand at his post, and to parry even scattering and almost aimless shots. She thought that not a breath of censure should pass unreproved in his presence. This duty he was faithful in, but it made a stern man of him; for Marion did merit censure, and this he knew. So did Aunt Clara, and she (dbar, kind soul! lay awake many nights, think. ing what could be done. That Marion, with all her learning and talents, should make her home so cheer. less, and contribute so little to the comfort of, her nearest and dearest, seemed to Aunt Clara a sin and a shame. But, let herlie awake as she would, s found no way of mending the matter; so again and again she fixed upon the time for her return to her friends, but yet did not go. Mr. Ashton and the children had become so dependent upon her, she did not see how they could get along without her. This was the position of affairs one blustering day in March. The wind, blowing up under the carpet, !made the sitting-room so cold it bad to be aban- doned. Aunt Clara retired with the children to the nursery; Marion and Mr. Ashton, as usual, were each in their study. A ring at the door announced unexpected company, and a clergyman and his lady were announced. Mr. Ashton, when in England, had spent some time in the family of this lady, and he had been most hospitably entertained. He wished much to return their kindness. He came up to his wife's study. "Marion," said he, hurriedly, "Mr. and Mrs. Graves, of whom you have heard me speak so often, are here. They will spend the night with us." "Dear me!" said Marion, "what is to, be done? We have not a mouthful of cake in the house." She threw down her pen, and looked much disturbed. "Never mind the cake," said her husband; "do let us give them a cordial welcome. They are anx- ious to see you.' "But we must have some cake," said Marion, reluctantly pushing by her books. It was charac- page: 120-121[View Page 120-121] 120 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. teristic of her, that if ever she did give her mind to domestic concerns, she became very tenacious of little things. "Where is Aunt Clara?" "I will go and see," said Mr. Ashton. No; I 'll tell you," said she; "you must just run down to Mr. Parker's, and borrow a plateful of cake, while Bridget starts the fire." "Do what?" said Aunt Clara, now entering. Marion reported the direction. He shall do no such thing," said Aunt Clara, almost vexed with her. "How you would look sending your husband out to borrow cake! I should be ashamed of it, if you were not." ( There is not the least impropriety in his going to Mrs. Parker," said Marion, coolly, "and I wish him to go." She was evidently irritated by Aunt Clara's interference. Mr. Ashton looked troubled. He seemed to be between the horns of a dilemma. Should he leave sis friends and go out to a neighbor's to borrow cake? 'he impropriety was too glaring, But Marion wished him to go, and, should he oppose her, she would probably be silent, moody, and appear exceed- ngly uninteresting; for her sake, therefore, as usual, he sacrificed his own feelings. "Don't be anxious about it, Marion," said he; "I will attend to the tea-cake. I will go as soon as you can oome down." She looked at Aunt Clara, as much as to say, "You will learn that I am the one who is to be pleased, and not you." "It will take me some time to dress," said she to her husband, in a resigned tone. Under Aunt Clara's directions the fire in the par- lor was soon kindled, and she herself went in to bid the guests welcome, long before Marion was ready. Mr. Ashton slipped out to execute his wife's disa- greeable commission. If he accomplished the ob- ject, however, he felt at liberty to choose his own way of doing it. He huinted up a boy, and de- spatched him off about a mile to a bakery, to buy the best tea-cake which could be obtained. On his return he found an encouraging fire crack- ling in the kitchen stove, and busy preparations for cooking being mnade. Quite assured that Aunt Clara was at the helm, and that between her and the baker there would be comfort and abundance at his table, he joined his friends. He found Marion in the parlor, well dressed. The clouds had all vanished from her brow, - van- ished immediately, before the cordial and affection- ate greeting with which her husband's friends met her. The consciousness, also, that she had carried her point with regard, to the tea-cake, made it easy for her to be amiable. But, having thus asserted her first claim to be pleased, she was now quite willing to throw the eare of all further domestic " page: 122-123[View Page 122-123] 122 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. arrangements on Aunt Clara, which she. did very quietly, devoting herself wholly to the entertainment of her guests in the parl6r. She found them remarkably intelligent and agreeable. She was par- ticularly pleased with Mrs. Graves. There was a quiet dignity and self-possession in her manner, strikingly the reverse of Marion's, who was so vari- able and excitable. The one shone with a meteoric, the other with a calm and steady light; and Mari. on's discerning eye soon discovered a degree of finish to the English lady's character which she thought very remarkable. Involuntarily she paid it the homage of a respect which was seldom offered by her to a woman, - not even a literary one. She no longer wondered why Mrs. Graves had so much excited Mr. Ashton's admiration. During the short visit which these friends made, Marion saw plainly enough that sone principles had been at work in the finishing of this truly admir- able character which thus far had not had a feather's weight in the formation of her own. At the tea- table (where, by the way, no cake was visible, but some of Aunt Clara's make, - that from the bakery 'not being presentable), the conversation turned acci- dentally upon housekeeping in America, and from thence branched off upon the necessity of domestic knowledge for a woman everywhere. "Well," said Mrs. Graves, in her quiet and WUE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 123 beautiful manner, "I love my books; but I think my husband can answer for me, that I never open my writing-desk until every domestic duty is per- formed. I do not neglect him, or his house, for my studies. I think a woman loses more than she gains by such a course." This remark, casually dropped, made a great im- pression upon Marion. She blushed painfully, as if it had been intended for her. Could it be possible that Mrs. GCraves devoted any considerable portion of her time to simple domestic duties? Mrs. Graves, who was a proficient in almost as many languages as Marion herself; who wrote with even more effect; who seemed at home on every literary topic which was introduced; whose scientific information, even, was not defective;-- how had she accomplished it?. Marion felt reproved and humbled. Might it not, after all, prove true, that there was some such mys- terious connection between a woman's intellect and d her heart- that the one could never develop its full vigor unless the heart grew strong with it; and that in the charmed duties of a home must it exer- cise its best affection? A glimpse, through a narrow vista, to a distant but glorious land, worth possess- ing, opened before Marion. She might have kept her eye fixed upon it and travelled thither; but, alas for the poor-heart which has been left to the rule of page: 124-125[View Page 124-125] 124, THE HUSBAND 0F A BLUE. selfishness! it is a slave, and " the good which it would do it does not, for evil is present with it." Marion quickly turned away her thoughts from this reproving view of things, and devoted herself with new zest to the entertainment of their guests. When Mrs. Graves was talking, she had involun- tarily glanced at her husband; and she read in his countenance his most hearty approval of her senti- ments. Yet he had delicately forborne even to raise his eyes to Marion, lest he also should seem to imply a reproof. Marion was not insensible to this kind- ness, and, secretly desirous to convince him that she had not sacrificed so much to her studies in vain, a determination to make him proud of her seized her. She became exceedingly animated,-she became very brilliant in conversation. She brought forth from her store-house treasures new and old. Her mind struck out light on every subject. Even her husband was surprised; he had never witnessed such a display; he did look upon her with pride He basked in the glory with which she seemed so suddenly to be illuminated, and forgot his sorrow. "Yes, a house-keeper he could hire, but where could be found another woman like Marion Gray?" What a pity, indeed, that Mr. and Mrs. Graves remained but one day! or, rather, what a pity that Marion could not sustain that heavenward flight which made her husband at once so proud and so happy! But they left, and the wing of genii flagged, drooped, and heavily came Marion backl to earth. Her nerves had long ago been worn out, by the too constant and exclusive exercise of the brain; she could not therefore bear a season of great excitement, without a corresponding one of great depression. It was well for her reputation with Mr. Ashton's friends that they did not see her on the week following their visit. She was so irritable and inervous, it was almost impossible to live with her. Even her husband found his patience too much tried, and he kept most of the time in his study. Aunt Clara also avoided her. She thought such irritability perfectly inex- cusable, particularly in a young mother. She felt inclined to scold her, as she would have done a cross child; but she had now learned that Marion would receive no reproof from her, and refrained. But this led her to the conclusion that, as no great good would be accomplished by her longer stay, she had better return home on th3 following Monday. Be- fore Monday came, Marion was ill in bed with a low nervous fever, and Aunt Clara would not leave the family in such a condition. This illness proved a very trying one. Marion was just ill enougll to be unable to do anything, and not sufficiently ill to be quiet about it. She fretted a great deal; mere trifles worried her. She became, "* page: 126-127[View Page 126-127] 126 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. also, most exacting and unreasonable in her demands upon her husband's attentions. Not a cup of tea would she take, unless Mr. Ashton had sugared it; not an article of food was thought palatable, unless he had seen to its preparation. At length her nerv. ousness increased to such an extent, she declared it was impossible for her to live, unless her husband read almost constantly to her. This he did pa- tiently, leaving his own work, frequently by the hour. She would not let Aunt Clara relieve him. It was melancholy to see how selfish and nervous a life exclusively devoted to books had made her. The fever at length turned, though it seemed as if it never would, and Marion was pronounced convalescent. Days passed, and, though the disease had apparently left her, yet she did not get up. She was still in her room, being read to, and abat. ing not an iota of her demand upon her husband's time and sympathy. The physician at length hinted to her that it would expedite her recovery if she would exert herself more. Marion was not much pleased with this advice, and was still less so when, on the following morning, he took his leave, assuring her " that she might now get about again.' Soon after, her husband came in to excuse himself from reading to her. He was preparing an article for the forthcoming number of the "North American," and he had already given up so much of his time to her, THE HUSBAND OF A BLUR. 127 that if he should devote any more he would be obliged to work nights to make up for it. It was curious to see how selfishness and pride struggled together with Marion. She wished the article to appear, - it was a good one, and would do credit to her husband,- but she did not know how to deny herself the pleas- ure of being read to. So she continued to call upon him when she became nervous; then, as soon as reading had somewhat soothed her, she would take the book into her own hand, and say to him. "( Come, now, run into your study and write while you can." What could be accomplished, with such broken time? Still he patiently endured it without complaint, trusting,that each day of interruption would be the last, and that Marion would be quite restored on the morrow. But days and days passed, and there was she still in the same notch. She was able to be about the house, and even to go out of doors, but still required just the same attention to her personal comfort, and still left the whole charge of her fam- ily on Aunt Clara. Aunt Clara became uneasy, at length. She told Mr. Ashton that something must be done to make Marion exert herself, or she would be miserable' all winter. Mr. Ashton decided that it was best to talk reasonably with her, and try to per- suade her, for her own sake, to rouse herself to effort, if not in her study, at least about her house. page: 128-129[View Page 128-129] 128 TIE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. But Marion would not listen to reason. She only burst into tears. "No one would believe there was anything the matter with her!" she said; " even the doctor called it all nervousness. The time was coming when they would find out their error, to repent of it too late. She certainly had not expected her husband to enter into the league against her. She thought he knew how much effort it required for her to live at all; but, if she was such a burden to every one, she would find some way of relieving them of it." MAa. rion, after delivering herself of this heroic speech, retired to her chamber, and locked herself in. lIr. Ashton looked pale and agitated; he was much troubled. His first impulse was to follow her, and seek to soothe her; he feared such a state of excite. ment might again throw her into a fever. Aunt Clara prevented him. "Now, do not go to her, Mr. Ashton," said she; "you will undo all you have done. Let it work a while. Marion is too sensible not to see its truth. If she is ever to get out of this state, it must be done by her own self-control." This was true, and Mr. Ashton felt it to be so. He' therefore went into his own study. When there, he found it required the strength of an iron will to keep his mind on his work. lHe was unhappy and perplexed. He scarcely knew what to do next for Marion. It seemed as if, in one way or another, THlE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 129 1' she had been an obstacle to his advancement ever since their marriage. At first he had been obliged tosupply many of her deficiencies in the domestic line, which had used his time,-- obliged to in order to keep his family together; and of late her shat- tered nervous system had made still heavier drafts upon him. But, with an energy which few can ap- preciate excepting those who have conquered just such difficulties, Marion's husband toiled on, and fought the battle of life bravely in the ranks where he had been called; and already, though still but in the prime of life, was receiving his reward. His talents and virtues were acknowledged with grate- ful respect by the. world, though they sometimes remarked that he was a grave man, and of stern manners. What wonder was it? While he was then toiling at his study-table, Marion was pacing her room in great excitement. Her mind fastened upon the idea that she was a burden to her husband. Suddenly the thought struck her that she would quietly run off for a day or two, and visit a friend of hers. This would relieve her husland from his burden for a short time, and, if he should chance to be anxious about her, it would perhaps be only a just punishment for having allowed himself to get weary of her. Marion soon showed how much strength she could command, for she dressed hurriedly, and, stealing softly out, walked page: 130-131[View Page 130-131] 130 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. rapidly a distance of two miles, to her friend's house. No one knew that she had gone. The dinner a hour arrived, but she did not make her appearance. Mr. Ashton was disturbed; he rose, at length, togo to her room. "Do not trouble yourself, Mr. Ash. ton," said Aunt Clara, very coolly; ( I will send up Marion's dinner, shall not I?" Mr. Ashton saw the wisdom of this arrangement, and he sat down again. It was true she ought not to be longer indulged in mere whim. The dinner was sent up by Bridget, who, however, soon returned with it. "She had knocked and knocked, arnd no one answered; so finally she opened the door and went in, and Mrs. Ashton was n't to be found, high nor low." Mr. Ashton looked at Aunt Clara, and Aunt Clara at Mr. Ashton. What did this mean? Both started at the same instant. The house was searched but in vain. The idea flashed into Mr. Ashton's mind, and haunted him, "She may be insane." He was seriously anxious. Where could Marion have gone, and why had she gone so stealthily? Aunt Clara looked very sober. She thought it noth- ing more than one of Marion's fieaiks, but a very I blamable one. Mr. Ashton went out; he walked up and down the street; he inquired of the neigh- bors; he could get no trace of her. He became still more alarmed. Aunt Clara, seeing his distress, THE IIUSBAND OF A BLUE. 131 H!. refrained from saying what she wished to,--"Let her alone; she will comle homne by and by." At last she rememlbered that Marion, only the day before, had spoken of this friend, and expressed a wish to see her. She mentioned this at once to Mr. Ashton. "But she cannot have gone there," said he; " it is more than two miles off, and there is no way for her to get there." "She has walked," said Aunt Clara; "she is stronger than you think for." Mr. Ashton went immediately out,- obtained a buggy, and drove rapidly to the friend's house. There, sure enough, he found her. Slhe met him with a forced glee. "Ah! did you get frightened about me?" she asked. "I thought you were all so worn out with me, I would run away a while." Her hus- band looked at her, but returned no answering smile. He had but little to say. Marion's conscience did all the talking. She made some hurried inquiries about the children, to which he briefly replied. She got herself ready speedily, and stepped into the bug- gy; but that was a silent ride home. Marion first tried the agreeable; her husband replied kindly, but without interest, and was silent when she ceased. Then she tried to excuse what she had done; but a poor excuse she made of it, for she took the course which she did designedly to make him suffer, and she knew it. He received her apologies with- page: 132-133[View Page 132-133] 132 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. out comment. As a last resort, Marion tried tears; but they fell on stony ground. Her husband brought her to her own door, helped her out, and drove home with the horse. Marion was ashamed when she saw Aunt Clara, and did not know what to say for herself. She had, in truth, lost her own self-respect; and she fell into a moody silence, which lasted through that day and evening. After breakfast on the following morning, Aunt Clara announced that, being all packed, she intend. ed to take her departure in about an hour for her own home. "And now, before I go, Marion," said she, "4 Ihave one thing which I wish to say to you; apd you must not give it the go-by,-you must think of it. If you don't set about in earnest con- trolling yourself a little better than this, and don't live for something else besides yourself and your books, your husband will be wretched, your children will go to destruction, and you will end your days in a mad-house." Marion tried to excuse herself to her good old aunt, who had been a mother to her; and she tried to make her forget the past, and promise to come to them very soon again. Aunt Clara would make no such promise. "I shall come no more," said she, " until you have learned to take care of your own family. It is your business, and not mine; and you never will do it, if there is anybody can be made to do it for you." Aunt Clara left, and gradually the household returned to its old elements of dirt and confusion. The difficulty in bringing about a reform lay in Marion's will. She had energy enough, and good sense enough, but she had no will for any work but head-worrk. Mr. Ashton struggled many years, still toiling up with his double load. At length, as might have been anticipated, his health gave way; for, of all men in the world, a student most needs the comforts of a cheerful, orderly home. Physicians advised Mr. Ashton to go abroad again; indeed, they deenmed it absolutely necessary. He went, therethre, and this contributed towards separating him still further from 3lariun. He could not move in her eccentric orbit. From year to year, with shattered nerves and fret- ted temper, she studied on, and would do little else; and thus earned, by a criminal neglect of the great duties of her life, the reputation of a " deep Blue.'? This was what she gained; - who can estimate her loss? Her husband, made strong by nobly endur- ing suffering, became, at length, one of the great men of his day. Little did Marion think, on the day when she placed her white-gloved hand in his, that, in the final summing up of the results of her life, its most import- 12 page: 134-135[View Page 134-135] 134 T'IWE IUSBAND OF A BLUE. ant item would be the effect which her character as an affliction had had upon the work and influence of her husband. Could she have had a glimpse of this, it is not certain that she would not, evn on that her wedding-day, have taken her first lesson in run- ning stocking-heels, inasmuch as this should have stood representative of a long line of similar efforts for the comfort of others, to whom she pledged her. self, and which would have resulted in making her the less a Blue, but the more a true woman, thoroughly?wise and learned in many things. She might have ascended the meridian with her husband;* and who can tell how much their united light, " shin- ing more and more unto the perfect day," might have done towards illuminating the dark places of a wicked world? But she sought out other inventions, which broke up that' union which would otherwise have been the source of great power to two so highly educated minds. ij I t THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. MRS. DUNLAP was sitting in her parlor, one after- noon, alone, sewing, when her servant entered, and handed her a letter. She saw instantly that it was from her son Prescott. She allowed it to remain a few moments on her knee unopened; for she knew the boy would not have written so soon again, had he not been in trouble, and she was in no haste to prove her forebodings true. It was with a heavy heart that she at length brokle the seal, and read it. Her fears were more than realized. Prescott was in great trouble, and he wrote beseeching his mother to persulade his father to consent to his leaving Am- 'herst College, for Yale. "He did not like Am- herst," he said; " he had never- wished to go there. He went only because his father insisted upon it; and now he had made the trial, le was more dis- satisfied than ever. Nothing had gone right with him from the first; arid if his father did not let him leave, he would not answer for the consequences!" Mrs. Dunlap sighed heavily; her work dropped unheeded upon the floor, and she sat, leaning her page: 136-137[View Page 136-137] 136 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. saddened face upon her hand, lost in thought. What should she do? Go to his father? Certainly she must, but not now; he was in his study now, and would not like to be disturbed. After tea, should no one call, he would have a half-hour's leisure; she must speak to him then. But perhaps he might not be in the mood to hear anything which would trou- ble him. Often, after a day of study, he was quite exhausted, and seemed to endure nothing which would ruffle him ; he needed soothing. Should this be the case when Prescott's request was made known, it would receive an irritated refusal. Pres- cott had been at college about six months, and thus far his complaints had been mlade only to his mlother; and she had kept them to herself, for she saw that it would answer no good purpose to tell them to his father. Having once decided to send his son to Amherst, he would insist upon his staying there. Mrs. Dunlap never thought of questioning the soundness of his judgment, in the selection which he had made of a college; but, admitting it to be the best, she did, from the first, question the policy of forcing the boy to go there, against his will. She felt almost convinced that Prescott would not remain there, and thought it would be wise to yield to his wishes, and remove him. But how should she'make Mr. Dunlap think so? This was one of those import- ant matters, in relation to his children, which he made a business of regulating; and his .wife had learned, by long experience, that when he undertook to accomplish any particular thing, it was almost impossible to change, or even modify, his plans. She dared not hope that she would succeed in the present instance; and yet it seemed very important that she should, for she was convinced that, if Prescott was not taken away, he would be sent away; and such a commencement of college experience in her family of boys was an event very much to be dreaded. The afternoon slipped away, as she sat, lost in thought, trying to arrange in her own mind her arguments in her plea for her boy. The children came in, noisy fromn school. It was a windy day, and, as they ran tramping through the house, they left here and there a door on the latch. A strong gust blew open the outer door, the wind sucked through the hall, and slam-bang, bang, went one and another, here, there and everywhere. It was like a small discharge of artillery. Mrs. Dunlap started; she knew the noise would jar on the nerves of her student-husband, and she was very anxious that he should be undisturbed. "Softly, softly," she said to the boys and girls, fol- lowing quickly after them, to fasten doors; " softly; you will disturb your father. How the wind blows! Maurice, do lock that front door." Maurice did as he was bidden, and then, full of 12 page: 138-139[View Page 138-139] 188 THlE WIFE OF A STUDENT. life and spirits, came romping with the children into the parlor, making as much noise as a young hurricane. "Not quite so much noise in the house, children!" said she. "Go out of doors, if you wish to romp; your father has not left his study yet." This was an old story, and it made no great im. pression; the children, of course, were ignorant of those circumnstances which nmade it particularly desirable that their father should be kept quiet just now. They softened down, therefore, only at inter. vals, when their mother's voice was heard, and for. got it a moment after. When the tea-bell rang, she was wearied out by her efforts to keep the peace. As Mr. Dunlap entered the tea-room, his wife looked up anxiously, to see what were the signs of the times. As usual, he appeared serious and weary, and her observing eye detected a slight contraction of the eyebrow, which said something had disturbed him. "What has been thq occasion of so much noise?" he asked. "It is a very windy day," replied Mris. Dunlap, "and I could not prevent the doors from slamming when the children came home from school." "I should think they were old enough to know how to shut doors after them!" was the reply. - THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 139! 1 Mrs. Dunlap did not wish to continue this con- versation. She poured a cup of tea hastily for the student, and passed it. She was agitated; her color was deepened, and her movements were rapid. She was very watchful, that no petty annoyances should irritate him. She helped the children before they had time to request it, and introduced cheerful topics of conversation. She wished to divert the student's mind, compose his nerves, and raise his spirits. He had been all day in his study, hard at work, and was quite exhausted by his labor; and yet, in truth, in no one hour had he made so much effort as his wife was now making, with a saddened heart, to quiet the children and comfort him. But such was her life, - one of effort, which no one knew and appreciated, but herself and God. The children were excused fromn the table as soon as possible, and Mr. Dunlap sipped his last cup of tea in silence. Evidently his thoughts were still at the study-table. He was preparing an address, ;to be delivered before a literary society, and was unu- sually absorbed in it. Now, the only half-hour which could ever be depended upon for his family was the one immediately after tea, and Mrs. Dunlap felt that she must speak then, if ever.- "I have had a letter from Prescott, this after- noon," said she, timidly. "What-- again? He writes often,- any news?" page: 140-141[View Page 140-141] "O THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. "Yes, he is very anxious I should beg you to let him go to Yale." "Nonsense! how can he ask such a thing, after what I have said to him about it? Does the boy think I shall consent to his running away from col. lege every time he takes a fancy to do so? Tell him that I say he is to go through at Amherst, and I expect him to go through honorably. I will write to him as soon as this address is off my hands." "But, Mr. Dunlap, I am afraid you do not appre- ciate the boy's feelings in the matter. From the very first he was unwilling to go to Amherst. At one time I was afraid he would give up trying to get a profession, simply on this account. For some reason or other; his heart was fixed on going to Yale. I have feared he would not do well, and I am still afraid that he is not doing well. Every letter brings some new trouble, and some new complaint." "There is nothing' in that worth minding," said Mr. Dunlap; "he talked very reasonably with me about it; at least, he made no great opposition to it, - not as much as I expected." Mrs. Dhnlap sighed. She knew Prescott better than his father did; but she could not say this. Prescott respected his father, and loved him; but he was not intimate with him, and he was intimate with his mother. His father had been too busy to seek 9 his friendship. Mr. Dunlap was devoted to great pursuits, which occupied his tinle and absorbed his energy; and when he came among his children, he was generally weary, and he did not care to have them with hin, unless they could amuse him. He had no strength to bestow upon them, and for their training no space was left in his busy days. He did not intend to neglect theim, but somehow they slipped along from childhood to youth, and before he knew it the spring-time was on the wane, the summer even passing. Now and then some great occasion was important' enough to arrest his thoughts and attention, and then he took hold of it in earnest; but, as he must act without a very thorough acquaint- ance with his children, it was as often miss as hit. It proved so with regard to his choice of a college. Had he understood Prescott as well as he did the great educational interests of the state, he would not have opposed his wishes by such absolute commands. Those wishes were unreasonable. True; but a gentler authority from the father might have been an argument to prbve this to the quick feelings of the boy. They were obstinate wishes. True; but a more genial persuasion from the father might have con- vinced the boy even of this, and made him ashamed of it. No boy could have been led more easily than Prescott by a wise parental tact, and of this quality few fathers have had less than Mr. Dunlap. page: 142-143[View Page 142-143] "2 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. No wonder Mrs. Dunlap sighed; it was, as she anticipated, of no avail to talk to him. "Well," said she, and her voice trembled as she spoke; "I cannot help fearing that he will get sent away." "Sent away!" said the student; "trust me,- he knows better than all that. You are too anxious about him, my dear; you distress yourself needless. ly. This is your first experience of college life, and you imagine danger where there is none. I know all about it. The boy must stay where he is, and behave himself. He must have no freaks. If he does not come up to the mark, I 'll bind him out to a blacksmith, - you may tell him so." Mrs. Dunlap did not tell him so; she spoke en. couragingly to him; ventured to hold out a little hope; suggested the reasonableness of his remaining where he was for the year, at least; if he did well, at the expiration of that time they might think of the matter again. Yet she administered this com- fort in very much the same state of mind with which the boy received it, - doubtfully, - and it was not powerful enough to operate as a check. In a few days Prescott wrote again. Now he had a falling out with his tutor, whom he much .disliked, and he threatened to take some desperate measure if his father would not consent to his leaving. His mother's heart became more and more heavy. She f felt obliged, not only to conceal this, but, in order to meet the exigencies of the case, she felt called upon to make promises for which she had not the sanction of her husband. This course came too near the line of double-dealing for her to pursue without causing great pain to her truth;loving spirit. It was one of her hardest trials, as a student's wife, that she must sometimes deceive her husband, or sacrifice what seemed to her the best in- terests of her children. He was so intent upon his work, ever hammering away at great blocks of truth, that he entirely overlooked that nice mosaic of juvenile character which was forming itself from the every-day concerns of "home life. The wife, to save the children, had sometimes to wound her sensitive conscience, and to bear the suffering in silence; for this is one of the trials of a student's wife, of which she cannot speak. A wearisome load is a heavy heart. There it hangs,-just there, at the centre of all comfort, and never shifts its weight. It saddens the voice, and makes the eyelids heavy,- and pales the cheek; the circulation becomes languid, the appetite wavers, and the health fails. 5Mrs. Dunlap found it so during those weeks when Prescott was balancing between good and evil. She longed for, and yet trembled to receive, his letters. To add to her anx- iety, her husband's health began to decline. le was page: 144-145[View Page 144-145] 1-f: THJS WIi'E OF A STUDENT. overworking himself, and the results were wakeful. ness, exhaustion, depression and nervousness. One evening he came down, and threw himself wearily on the sofa. "I am sorry," said his wife to him, " that you undertook this address. It is too much, in addition to all your other labors." He sighed in reply, and closed his eyes. "I am almost afraid," continued she, "that you will not be able to go and deliver it." "I certainly shall not," said he, "unless I get some sleep to-night." He looked so haggard, as he spoke, that she felt alarmed. She was always anxious when he was in this state; she feared disease of the brain; and in her anxiety for him Prescott was forgotten. "Do not you think," said she, " it would make you a little drowsy if I should brush your hair?" Mr. Dunlap making no objection, she brought the brush, and sat leaning over the arm of the sofa, in a very uneasy position, brushing his hair. This seemed to quiet him, and she continued it long after she felt utterly exhausted. Indeed, she needed nursing, even then, almost as much as he. But, com. paratively speaking, of what consequence was this? The public had no claim upon her; no literaiy society would be disappointed by her illness; she did not think of herself, but continued her labor of love, until the student slept; then, quite worn out THE WIFE QF A STUDENT. 145 she slipped from her chair, and fell asleep on the carpet at his feet. Several hours passed before she awoke, and when she did so she found by her stiff. ened limbs that she had taken cold. The student still slept heavily, and she therefore softly threw a cloak over him, and went out. He slept on, soundly, until. about two in the morning. She went to bed, but could sleep no more. Every noise startled her; she was afraid somethingmight happen to him,--he might perhaps be taken ill. But she could sleep at any other time; it was only for the student, whose brain was taxed that sleep was of vital importance. This wakeful night, and the cold which she took in addition to her anxiety for her husband and Pres. cott, made Mrs. Dunlap feel too ill to wish to ac- company her husband when he went to deliver his address. She would have excused herself, but Mr. Dunlap urged the matter. He thought his wife did not look quite well, and hoped a change would bene- fit her; and she was so accustomed to yield to his wishes, that, without objecting, she made the effort. Contrary to her expectatiogs, she enjoyed the jour- ney. Mr. Dunlap's address beingfinished, his mind 'was at ease; and, his body being refreshed by sleep, he was ready to give himself up to the enjoyment of the hour:, He became very sociable with his wife,- he talked all the time, and, .more than 13 page: 146-147[View Page 146-147] "6 TIE WIFE OF A STUDENT. that, he was attentive to her. She was con. scious of a deep sense of enjoyment in his society, which of late years she had rarely felt. Heart met heart, as in the days of early love. She sat near him, --she looked up into his face with an un. checked expression of pride and affection; she gave way to enthusiastic admiration of his great mind and noble principles; and the trials of the student's wife were forgotten. The heavy heart became lighter and lighter; Prescott's troubles now weighed but as a feather. Sometimes she was on the point of speaking of them, so intimate had she becomewith her student-husband on this short journey; force of habit, more than anything else; restrained her. Sometimes joy works miracles; in an instant the sad voice changes its tune, the eye brightens, and the blood runs dancing about in the veins again; the appetite returns, and the ailing one recovers. So it was with Mrs. Dunlap. The change produced in her by the real enjoyment of life for a few hours was wonderful. When she left home, she thought it quite certain that she should not be able to go and hear her husband; but when they reached the place of their destination, she felt abundantly able, and began to look forward to it with pleasure. During the journey, Mr. Dunlap had noticed the brightening countenance of his wife; and an awaken- iqg consciousness of its cause disturbed him a little, and kept him watchful of her comfort, when they were among their friends. Much to her gratifica- tion, and somewhat to her surprise, he came to walk with her up to the church, on the afternoon when he was to speak. As they made their way through the crowded aisle, she could not but observe the re. spect with which they were treated; that a path was opened for them; that several young gentlemen contended for the honor of handing her to a choice seat. She sat down with a beating heart; her deepened color, her beaming eyes, plainly expressed the pleasure which she felt. As she cast her eye around, she saw the house was crowded to overflowing; and when her husband rose to speak, she felt anxious that he should Ineet the expectation of that great throng. She scarcely breathed, as he, in a slow, unimpassioned manner, announced his subject. " O wait, -only wait," she was eager to say to that listening crowd; ", wait, you will hear something by and by." Calmly the student began to develop his plan; but, as he ad- vanced, one wave of thought succeeded another with increasing power, - dashed higher, and more and more brilliant became its sparkling spray. "Now, now," she wished to say, " listen, you will have it, -hark!" She stole sideway glances at the au- dience; she saw them listening, bowed as one man. Now they were breathless,--now they aimost page: 148-149[View Page 148-149] "8 ,THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. sprang to their feet, - now a smile, like an electric shock, ran from lip to lip, - now they were stirred to laughter, and now melted to tears. The wife was carried away by this eloquence; she was almost intoxicated with delight, - and she also enjoyed the proud consciousness of herself possessing such great power, for she was at once both hearer and speaker. In a silence most profound he closed. His last wdrd, spoken almost in a whisper, was heard dis. tinctly in the most remote corner of the room. When he ceased, the silence for a moment continued un. broken, and then one universal burst of applause announced the student's victory. This was a mo- ment of triumph, and Mrs. Dunlap, on whom many eyes were fixed, as she stood with glowing cheeks, modestly waiting .in the corner of the slip for her husband, realized that the life of a student's wife was not all one of trial. How amply had she been repaid for her night of wearisome nursing! She watched the retiring crowd, observing with deep interest the expression with which one friend would meet another. All said, "Well done-well done." Suddenly she started, and her face flushed crimson; for, as a large party near the door moved off, she saw, leaning against a pillar, Prescott! He looked as if he did not know what he was about. His damp hair lay matted down in thick x ? % THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 149 curls on his broad forehead; his collar was open, his clothes were covered with dust, and he was hur- riedly looking at those who passed. Mrs. Dunlap waved 'her handkerchief once - twice; he saw it, and, springing over settees and benches, he reached her side. "Why, mother!" was all he could, say. He was so excited, he was ready either to laugh or to cry. "Why, my son!" said his mother, "what made you come?" "Because I wished to hear father. Where is he? Was n't it glorious? O, there!" The boy was so completely. carried away, he lost all sense of fear. He forgot himself; he sprang up the pulpit stairs; it seemed as if nothing would sat- isfy him but to grasp his father's hand, which he did with a force that nearly overset him. "Why, Prescott!" said his father, in a tone of utter amazement. "Yes," said Prescott. "O, father! wasn't it grand? I would not have lost it for all the world! I am so glad I came!" A gentleman standing by Mr. Dunlap burst into a hearty laugh at the enthusiastic boy. "You are your father's child, I -see," said he; and Prescott, with his manly and speaking face, certainly did him no discredit. His father felt proud of him; 13* page: 150-151[View Page 150-151] 15( THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. he could not help it; it was a miserable time to scold him. "Prescott," said he, smiling pleasantly, "I ought to scold you." His mother saw the smile, and answered it in an instant, though the tears were fast rolling down her cheeks. It was such an infinite relief to her to find that Prescott was forgiven. Prescott saw his advantage, and followed it up that evening, when he plead like a beggar with his father to let him come to Yale. His mother also plead for him, but it was of no use. Mr. Dunlap's mind was made up on that point, and Prescott must go back to Amherst and behave himself; so that he took his leave the next morning quite dispirited. He was more in love with Yale than ever, now he had been there. "I do not believe I shall stay in Amherst the year out," he said to his mother. "For my sake, Prescott," said she, "do as well as you can. I feel as if it would almost kill me to have you sent away from college. It would have a very bad influence over Maurice, and it would also make your father unhappy.", Prescott would make no promises, and his rather unhappy expression at parting beganl to settle heav- ily on his mother's heart again. The journey home, also, was the journey after the fair. The student THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 151 suffered from the reaction of excitement; he could not sleep after speaking, and this unhinged him. Mrs. Dunlap was too much used to these variations of mood tobe surprised; yet she felt them, - the demand which they made upon her sympathy and forbear- ance was wearing. When she reached home she did not feel as well as when she reached New Haven. Not long after this, Mr. Dunlap was called upon to republish some of his works. This, in addition to his daily labor, was a heavy draft upon him, and absorbed all his time and energy. He had even less than usuAl to do with his family; if he had passed those months in Egypt, his wife would have missed only the care of him. She occupied herself with her domestic duties, and by writing to Prescott. Not a week passed in which she did not send him a long letter to encourage him in well-doing. But, notwithstanding her constant employment, she was often oppressed by loneliness. Her children were too young to be sufficient society for her, and she seldom went out, for Mr. Dunlap was averse to going. Among her female acquaint- ances she had no intimate friends; for when a lady marries she frequently bids farewell to such friend- ships. The married she finds too busy to seek them, and the unmarried are chary of admitting a third party to their confidence. She who finds no com- panion in her husband is often all alone. He has page: 152-153[View Page 152-153] 152 THE WMk OF A STUDENT. taken her from social groups, and placed her within a charmed circle, where, if he do not bear her com- pany, she must be solitary. Solitary our student's wife often felt. Many a dusky hour, after her children were asleep, would she sit by the parlor-window, thinking anxiously of Prescott. Weary with her day's labor she was too, for mind and body were not unfrequently overtaxed, as must be the case where the care of a large family falls upon one, and that one the weaker half. Such was not God's design in the family institution; but "man has sought 4out many inventions,"* and "of making books there is no end." At such times what a cordial to her burdened spirit would a little cheerful conversation, a word of timely advice, a whisper of affectionate and encouraging sympathy, have been ' What a relief to her, could she, in an impulse of womanly weakness not to be chided, sometimes have laid her head upon her husband's shoulder, and wept away her idle fears! She believed that he loved her, and yet how inexpressibly grateful to the yearnings of her saddened heart would it have been, had this affection sometimes found a voice! The student-bus- band did not realize how vital to the life of joy in her soul was this music of expressed love. He would have spent his last dollar on her comfort; he would have sent to India for a palanquin and bear- THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 153 ers, had she needed them; but, to leave his great work, to quit his study-table before his day's task was quite done, in order to 'give his wife a little of his society, or to make an effort to rise above his own languor and depression, that sometimes he might cheer a dull hour for her, required a kind of sacrifice which he never thought it possible to make. Neither did his wife expect it, nor feel hurt that she did not receive it. She did not think of question- ing the necessity of his being wholly given to his work; yet she suffered from it, notwithstanding. Those many dull and lonely hours, when her mind dwelt perpetually on trouble; her anxiety for Pres- cott, and for Mr. Dunlap also; her anxiety to keep her house still, and the children from troubling their father, -wore much upon her. Her health was seri- ously undermined, and with ill health her spirits failed still more. She wished sometimes to divert herself by reading; but here she experienced other trials. She found that she had in a great measure lost her taste for that reading which required thought. Since her marriage it had never been encouraged, and she very soon became so conscious of her hus- band's intellectual superiority that it damped her ardor for self-culture. She saw plainly enough that he had no great idea of her knowing much. She was but a womtan, and if she was intelligent enough to converse on ordinary topics, it seemed to be all page: 154-155[View Page 154-155] 154 THE WlEi OF A STUDENT. which he expected. It never occurred to him that he was to a great extent responsible for the progress of that being which had been, at his request, so wholly. surrendered to his keeping. Often she felt painfully the distance which separated them ; for she was a woman of quick perception, but she could not, unaided, rise to him. Occasions were constant- ly occurring in which she was made to feel this dis- tance. For instance, at one time several gentlemen came in to dine, and the conversation took an exclu- sively literary turn. She could not join in it; she was quite ignorant of the subjects on which they conversed. Her husband had neither taught her nor encouraged her teaching herself. She did not wish to betray her ignorance, though it was an igno- rance for which, if there was any one to blame, it was not she; she was therefore obliged to be sirent. This mortified 'and humbled her; she was glad to withdraw to her own room. She fastened her door, threw herself into a chair, and burst into tears. She was unusually dispirited and disturbed by it. It was not often that she yielded to such feelings, but now she wept. Before her tears had ceased to flow, Mr. Dunlap came to her door for something; she let him in, and turned hastily away to conceal her face. She did not dare to speak, for she could have given no account of those tears; she was not free enough with him. He would have thought her fool- - THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 155 ish, and that she could not then bear. Mr. Dunlap found what he came for, and went out. He never knew of those tears, nor of many others which his exclusive devotion-to his books caused. As Mrs. Dunlap became more depressed, she had recourse to religious reading to relieve her of the burden of sad thoughts. Unfortunately, this reading was not judiciously selected. It was of a cast which tended still more to discourage her, and increase her morbid feelinggs of self-reproach. She felt as if, com- pared with that of her husband, her life's work was of little value. "What," she asked herself, " did she do, but just live, day by day? What action had she ever performed, the memory of which would live after her?" In this questioning she was very un- just to herself. She did not place a right estimate upon her untiring efforts for the good of her family, without which it seemed to others they would all have been shipwrecked. It would have comforted her, could some one have whispered or conjectured of the possibility, nay, probability, that in that day of final account when all things are righted, it might turn out that the humbler life-work of the two- should be ,found at least equal in value to the greater. But she had no such consoling hope for. the future, and she could not -feel as if she had done anything worth living for. She mourned over her page: 156-157[View Page 156-157] 156 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. faults of character, and with this sorrow she strug- gled alone. In this time of depression, an official letter from Amherst requested Mr. Dunlap to recall his son immediately, or he would inevitably be expelled. This letter was followed in a few hours by Prescott himself. Much to his relief, his father was not at home when he arrived; this gave him the opportu- nity he much wished to talk over matters a little with his mother, and explain them. "But, Prescott," said she, "your father will not see it so." "I cannot help it, if he does n't," said Prescott; "I should do just so again. How soon will he be in?"Prescott wished the interview over. "I do not know," said his mother, looking anx- iously out of the window. ' O, there he is, coming now! Had not you better go out and meet him?" Prescott turned several colors; still he thought his mother's suggestion a wise one. Iis father would be under some restraint meeting him in public. He put on his hat, and went out. Mrs. Dunlap watched him from the window, trembling. They approached. Prescott held uphis head bravely, and offered his hand. His father drew back; he offered no hand, -his manner was stern; the two seemed to walk almost in silence to the house. This reception made Prescott angry, and, as soon as they THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 157 came in he left his father, and went directly to his room. Mr. Dunlap appeared agitated and nervous, - he looked pale. Not a word had he to say to comfort his wife, and not a word had she to say to comfort him. She made haste to order his tea, for she saw by his impatient motions that he was in need of it. She could scarcely stand; she was glad to sit at the table. The tea-bell rang, and the children, all but Prescott and Maurice, came in. "Where is Maurice?" asked Mr. Dunlap. "In brother Prescott's room," said John. "Pres- cott has come, father." "Did they hear the bell?" inquired the mother. "Yes," said John; " but they. said they were not hungry." Mr. Dunlap took his tea; his wife could eat noth- ing. She did not know exactly whether to send for the boys or not; she was relieved when her husband, having finished his supper, rose. "Send Prescott to me when he does come," said he, and withdrew. The boys came down when they heard the study- door close. Prescott was still angry; he had been telling Maurice how his father had received him, and had stirred Maurice to indignation. "You will have to take it now," said he, when he heard his father's message; "I am glad I am not in your shoes." " page: 158-159[View Page 158-159] 158 THE WIFE OF A STUIENT. "Well," said Prescott, . I think I can stand it. If he would only listen to me, I could soon convince him that I have done no great wrong. He had better be careful how he does push matters, for I shall not bear a great deal more." His mother sighed heavily; she felt that this was true, but it was in vain to attempt to make her hus- band believe it. Prescott went to the study, and she to her room to weep and pray for him. It was late when she heard him come out; he then went directly to his chamber. She followed him, and found him stand- ing by the window, looking out. She laid her hand on his shouldler. "Prescott, what did your father say?" "Just what I thought he would, mother. Father does not understand me. He does not understand men nor life,- only books, books, books. He has certain rules of his own, and if we do not come up to them, we may go whistle, that's all; he will have no more to do with us." "( No, no, Prescott; you are doing your father in- justice now. He means to do the best he can for his boys. He has their best interests near at heart." "I know that, mother; and yet, for all that, he does just those things which are for our worst inter- ests. His sending me to Amherst is anexample. I should have done well, if I had gone to Yale." TIlE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 159 "Ah! Prescott, you want your own way; you are headstrong, and that is the trouble with you." "A boy ought sometimes to have his way, when his way is a reasonable one; but father has no idea of yielding one iota to us. We must think and act just as he does. He will find we will not do it. I am man enough to have my own opinions, and have a right to express them." "What does he say now, Prescott?" "Says that I may stay at .home three months, and study with a tutor, and then he will enter me at Union. If I do not accede to this, I may go and shift for myself." "I was afraid he would not try to send you to college again anywhere," said his mother. Much relieved on this point, she sat down by her boy, and talked to him with great cheerfulness of his pros- pects. She sought to excite his ambition; and, to dispel his anger towards his father, she roused his pride for him. She repeated some highly compli- mentary offers which had recently been made to him, the flattering attentions which he had received, and the honors which had been paid him. Pres- cott's enthusiasm was excited; he was proud that he bore his father's name, he determined that he would never disgrace it, and he quite forgave him that he understood books so well. Union Col- lege began to look more inviting, and for the first page: 160-161[View Page 160-161] 160 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. time he relinquished the idea of going to Yale. This enthusiasm lasted several days. Mrs. Dun- lap's spirits began to revive, for Prescott settled down resolutely at his books. Had his father taken the trouble to learn his state of mind, and followed up the advantage he had gained wisely, he would have saved Prescott and himself a world of suffer- ing; but, alas! he was too busy. He was pressed on all sides, and now, when he came down with his boys, he was either nervous or exhausted; and in either state he was not able to bear with them. Unfortunately, too, he was suspicious of Prescott; he did not understand him; he was convinced that the boy did not mean to study, and was constantly on the watch to press him. This galled Prescott; he was easily irritated by his father, and frequently spoke to him disrespectfully. Such a state of things wore upon Mrs. Dunlap very much. She frequently sat trembling when the father and son were together; she was on the alert that she might ward off her husband's reproofs, or explain away Prescott's re- plies. She kept on the watch, that one should not interfere with the comfort of the other. She tried to cheer the over-worked student when he was de- sponding about his son; and she endeavored to strengthen the resolution of the son when he wished to do credit to his father. Between them both she had " a hard row to hoe," and there was no chance THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 161 for her to recruit her wasting strength. Still she suffered in silence; there was no one for her to com- -plain to but God; He heard her, and often com- forted her, but from her student-husband she re- ceived no comfort. At one time the boys went out fishing, and the younger children were playing in the parlor. Mrs. Dunlap felt too weary to sew, and she thought she would drop her work and go into the study and read a while. There she should be undisturbed, and could rest, while Mr. Dunlap was out for a walk. She went up, drew the inviting arm-chair near the win- dow, and looked about on the table and floor and shelves for something to read. Up in one corner, almost out of sight, she espied "Doddridge's Rise and Progress." This was a book quite to her mind; so she took it down, seated- erself, and read. She enjoyed it, -she became more tranquil and happy, --and she was reading a prayer with devout feel- ings when the study-door opened, and her husband entered. He looked surprised at finding her there. Her first impulse was to get up and go out, but on second thought she sat still. Mr. Dunlap walked about the room, somewhat embarrassed; he did not know exactly how to go to work with her there, and besides she had his chair. She also was em- barrassed, yet she felt that it was proper she should come there, and that she ought not to be afraid to "* ' 1 i page: 162-163[View Page 162-163] 162 TIlE WIFE OF A STUDENT. sit a moment in her husband's study. She waited for a good opportunity to leave; she did not wish to do so abruptly; so she kept on reading, and he, after tumbling about his pqpers, began to pace the room back and forth. Once, as he passed her, he stopped and looked over her shoulder, to see what she was reading. A smile, spiced a little, a very little, with an expression of contempt, curled his lip. From his hoards of literary wealth she had selected ", Rise and Progress." She did not exactly see this expression, excepting with the eyes of her mind;- she felt it, though. When she had finished the prayer, she rose, replaced the book, and with a pleasant remark left the study. Mr. Dunlap had occasion long to remember this incident. Prescott and his father now began to disagree more aad more. Just in proportion as the father became more strict, the son became more wilful. Mr. Dunlap laid great stress upon obedience to cer- tain little rules, which Prescott felt were not only arbitrary, but foolish. For instance, he insisted upon it that at just such an hour Prescott should go to his room, and stay there alone till dinner, and study. Prescott thought he was old enough to choose his own hours. For several days in succes- sion he at one time vexed his father by going off every morning on some excursion, and making up for it by studying in the evening. His father was THE WIPE OF A STUDENT. 163 then suffering from ague in the face, which made him unusually irritable. He was in great pain, hav- ing hot poultices applied, when the tutor entered, with a flushed and angry countenance. "Mr. Dunlap," said he, "I cannot any longer attend to your son; he has insulted me, and refused to apologize." "What has he done now?" said his father, hastily. The tutor went on to state his grievances; Pres- cott had been playing off some joke upon him, and he considered it quite an impeachment of his dig- nity. "He shall make you an apology which will sat- isfy you," said his father; "you may rest easy on that point." Mr. Dunlap spoke in that calm, deter- mined tone, which his wife well understood. She trembled so violently that the dish fell from her hand to the floor. She turned pale,-her heart was filled with anxious forebodings. Mr. Dunlap did not observe her; he threw himself on the sofa, and closed his eyes. Now and then he groaned; once or twice he asked, ( Has Prescott come?" "No, he has not come yet." The mother tried to excuse the boyish fault; her husband- heard her in silence. The outer door at length opened; there were the boys. "Send him to me," said Mr. Dunlap. Mrs. Dunlap went quickly into the entry. There page: 164-165[View Page 164-165] 164 THE WIFE 6F A STUDENT. stood Prescott and Maurice, all in a glow; with eyes bright and shining faces, they held up their long string of fish. "What is the matter, mother?" said Prescott, almost immediately. "You look as pale as death!" "O Prescott!" said she, "what have you been doing? You nust go right in to your father." "Doing!" said Prescott, "nothing; and I will go to him, if he has made you look like that." His anger passed all bounds. Down went his fish, and with flashing beyes he walked directly into the par- lor. "' What have you said now, sir?" said the boy, neither knowing nor caring what language his burn- ing indignation found,- " what have you been say- ing to make my mother so unhappy?" The door closed, and Mrs. Dunlap could hear no more. She motioned to Maurice to go into the next room, and managed to drag herself up stairs. She sat down in the upper entry. Now she could hear Prescott's angry voice, and now her hus- band's stern reply. At length the parlor-door again opened. "Understand me, my son!" said Mr. Dunlap; you are to -make that apology, or you are hence- forward to take care of yourself." "I will never make it while I breathe!" said Prescott, shutting the door violently. His mother THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 165 tried to rise and come down to him; in the effort, she fainted and fell. Fortunately a servant heard her, and came to her; but it was more than an hour before she was sufficiently restored to return to her suffering husband. He did not know that she had fainted, but lay still with his eyes closed, quite exhausted by pain and excitement. He looked so haggard and unhappy, that she tried to comfort him.. She, poor woman! who so much needed comfort herself. The tea-hour arrived, but no Prescott. Six- seven -eight - nine o'clock;- no Prescott. Mr. and Mrs. Dunlap were alarmed. Maurice went out again to find him, and brought back word that he had-been seen at the depot, with a valise in his hand, at the half-past six train. His mother hurried to his room. Yes, his valise and a change of clothes were gone. She went back to her own private sec- retary drawer, -her pocket-book was missing. It was now all plain; Prescott had taken his father at his word, and had gone out into the wide, wide world, alone, to take care of himself. His mother knew that he would never return. That was a dreadful night to those parents; their feelings it would be in vain to attempt to describe. Mr. Dunlap walked his study until morning. When the mother rose from her sleepless bed, and dragged herself down to meet her children at breakfast, they page: 166-167[View Page 166-167] 166 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. saw, with amazement, that in that one night of sor. row her black hair had turned to gray! She never recovered from this shock, though Prescott soon wrote her, and relieved her from some of her most distressing fears; yet she felt that he was ruined for life. She mourned without hope. She ceased even to speak a word of comfort to her student-husband. She failed daily, and soon took her bed. Disease then seized upon her, and found her an easy prey. She became very ill. Mr. Dun- lap was not alarmed; he had become accustomed to her fits of sickness; he thought she would soon get up again; he was, therefore, astonished when the doctor, following him into his study one evening, began to say, in his professional tone, "Mr. Dunlap, I think it my duty to inform you -- "Is she in any danger?" asked Mr. Dunlap, so hastily that the physician started, and hesitated. Mr. Dunlap understood it, "C(all in counsel, immediately," said he. "Why did you not tell of this before? Let Maurice take this train, and bring up two physicians from the city." Arrangements were hurriedly made, and Mr. Dunlap then went to his wife's room. The nurse stole out when he entered, and left him alone with THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 167 her. She lay as if already dead. Why had he not known this before? Now, as in the days of their early love, did she completely fill his heart and mind. He realized, as 'he had not for a long time done, how precious she was, - how dependent he was upon her. He paced softly back and forth by her bed. Recollections aroused came thronging in upon him. He recalled all her gentle pleading for Prescott,-why had he not heeded it more? In his distress, it seemed to him as if he had done nothing to make her happy with him, -and now she might die. Had he not been so much absorbed by his literary pursuits that he had neglected her and his children? The thought was torture to him ; but it would haunt him. What had he dorfe to lighten her cares, - to cheer and com- fort and strengthen her? Now she might be taken away. Was she prepared for death? What was her religious hope? What had been her Christian experience? Alas! alas! here he was utterly in the dark. How he wished he had encouraged more freedom of religious conversation. He stopped and looked at her. He would have given worlds to have known her state of mind, but he was ignorant of it; he felt that he had not cherished religious intimacy between them. The latest manifestation of her feel- ings which he could recall was that visit to the study. He remembered the devout and placid ex- / * page: 168-169[View Page 168-169] 1VO '.L'TR i Wi EJIi UOF A ;1iU J VENT. pression of countenance which she had when reading that prayer. He clung to this remembrance for comfort; indeed, he felt no disposition to smile at her selection of "Rise and Progress" then. How he wished he had made more of that golden oppor- tunity! If God would but spare her life, he resolved to profit by his present view of things, and change his course. The city physicians arrived. They travelled on the wings of the wind, but death was there before them. There was no Strength in her to wrestle with disease. Without recognizing her husband even by a glance, without a sign of her hope in Jesus, without a whisper telling that "His rod" and "'His staff" did comfort her, she passed away. When those last sad duties (which brought back the penitent boy) were over, Mr. Dunlap sat down by his desolate hearth, among his motherless chil- dren; he felt that alf interest and object in life had fled; there seemed nothing left worth living for. The student now was wholly lost in the husband; but this change came too late to benefit the Stu- dent's Wife. -ly-l- .&LIUII IC-C *)yi LIB^L6 CYltLI Lt 1--! OLD WITCH MOLL AND EIER BROWN PITCHER. IN the red school-house in the town of R many little hearts beat high, and eyes sparkled, and aces beamed, when the school was one day dis- nissed early. They were to have a holiday, for it vas training-day, the greatest day in all the year, By twelve o'clock at noon, the cannon was planted 1 the middle of the Common, and thl boys swarmed round it. Soon the t"Mi^liia" gathered, with knap. Lcks on their backs, and guns over their shoulders, Id dressed in their Sunday's best, of every variety. hen came the ight Infantry, in uniform; white tnts and blue coats trimmed with gold lace, and d and white plumes nodding in their caps; they me, too, with fife and drum, and lighted up the mne wonderfully. At length were heard bugle d horn, and the clattering of hoofs. Little boys I for the stone walls, for the cavalry were coming. e prancing horses dashed into the crowd on the 15 page: 170-171[View Page 170-171] 1U0 OLD WITCH MOLL ' Common, and Militia and Light Infantry retreated before them. Curveting and rearing, the horses were at last brought up into a line before the cannon. This was Capt. Tim's entree, and this his moment of glory. With martial tread and glittering epau- let, he mounted the cannon, and, taking out his long paper, called out in a stentorian voice: ( Abel Abbott!" "Here!"- "John Abbott!" "Here!" "John Bigelow!- John Bigelow!" All still. "James Bigelow!" "Here!" and so on to the end of the alphabet. To the children there was something mysterious in this call and reply in odd tones ; and particularly so in the silence which succeeded to some names. Captain Tim was looked upon as a man of great authority and renown. While this was going on, people were coming in from all parts of the town; wagon-loads of women and children in holiday attire. Unmanageable colts, too, were brought by strong riders for a breaking in, at whose pranks the women would scream and the children cry. Then last, though far from least, were old black Cato and his wife Rose. For many and many a year did they put up their booth on the Common, on training-day, as punctual as Captain Tim, and almost as important. They sold 'lection- cakes with sweet molasses crust, and first-rate spruce beer. Rose, with her clean white apron and shin. ing face, her smile and courtesy, and "thank ye ANUD HER BROWN PITCHER. 171 kindly," dealt the cake and received the coppers. Little folks peered with eager curiosity into that hand, to see if there were no signs of the black being washed off. Cato, also in a white apron, bowed and smirked, and cracked his jokes, and laughed heartily at them, as he passed the beer-glass. Training-day was a great occasion for these honest old folks; it bought their wood for the next winter. When the order, i"Forward march!" was heard with drum beating, banner flying, and fife playing, the soldiers followed the gold epaulet of Captain Tim to the Three-mile Tavern. At sundown they returned to the Common. The Common then had a word to say; and when it had thundered its good- night, the soldiers were dismissed. Those were good old times; we don't have them now in R . Our training-days are all done away with. Old Rose and Cato died long ago. No one makes such cake and beer now-a-days. Our old cannon is speechless. How Capt. Tim would mourn over it! On this particular day which we have had in mind Captain Tim went home tired. No wonder, for he had a long walk over the hill and down into the valley where his farm-house nestled. No laugh- ing children came running out to welcome him at his own door, no smiling wife relieved him of his O, page: 172-173[View Page 172-173] 172 OLD WITCH MOLL armor, for he had neither. Capt. Tim, well along as he was in life, was still an old bachelor. Old Peg, his housekeeper, shook the dust from his "trainer's gear," as she called it, and went to work to get his supper. Bowsen stretched himself out under the table, and these two were all the liv- ing beings Capt. Tim had about him. Somehow, on this particular night, his company did not quite suit him; after the bustle of the day, his home seemed dull. He had distinct thoughts in his mind that "after all he should not much care if he had some.. body younger and prettier than old Peg to sit at table and talk to him. Peg was getting deaf, too, and it made her cross not to hear." "I guess ye'll go to bed to-night early," said she; "you.'ve been tramping all day, I take it, captain. Seems to me this training costs; more than it comes to." "Yes, I am tired enough," was the reply; " and I am going to bed and to sleep till ten o'clock, and at ten o'clock you must wake me up,- d'ye hear?" "Bless ye, yes! You need n't halloo so, - I a'nt deaf; and what upon airth do you want to be waked up at nine o'clock for?" "Yes, you are deaf, - ten o'clock, I said. I am going to Salem.'" "Going to Salem!" 'said Peg; and the knife AND HER BROWN PITCHER. 17$ dropped from her hand. "Going to Salem at this time o' night, arter training all day? Are ye crazy, Captain Tim " "I 've got a load which must be on the wharf by to-morrow morning at six o'clock." "Well, mercy on us, you 'll never live to get back; you 'll get asleep and tumble off the cart, to be run over; and, besides, the night is dark and the roads muddy. For pity's sake, why can't you get some one else to go?" "It's my own job, and I must do it; so call me up at ten." Capt. Tim got his nap. Peg sat in the chimney- corner, dozing and scolding at Bowsen, until the old clock struck ten. "It's ten now, if you will be such a fool," said she, opening his bed-room door. Capt. Tim allowed himself no yawning time. His way was, if a thing must be done, to do it. He rose, put on his farmer's frock, huge cow-hide boots and Qvercoat, in the pocket of which was stowed away a tinder and tobacco box. Thus equipped, he lighted his lantern and went out to the barn. His team was already loaded; he put the horses to it, and then being ready to start, he went into the house once more for a bite of cold victuals. He asked Peg, but she was deafer than ever. 15* k. page: 174-175[View Page 174-175] 174 OLD WITCH MOLL "No," said she, "they a'nt flung down, either; I hung them up myself." You are a fool!" he grumbled, and helped him- self to bread and cheese. "Look up, Peg, now, and go to bed. I shall be back by to-morrow noon. Comne, Bowsen." The night was chilly and uncomfortable. There was no moon, but the sky was clear, and the stats shone; at least, they gave light enough to serve Capt. Tim's horses. Bowsen jumped up upon the load, and went to sleep. His master would have been glad to have done likewise, but that was out of the question. He kept himself awake thinking and whistling. He was tired of Peg, and he was turning it over in his mind, '"Whether or no it would cost more than it would come to for him to get married." His horses being fresh, trotted briskly on, notwith- standing their load. When he had gone a good piece on his way, a sudden turn-in the road brought him in sight of a hovel which stood a little off towards the right. All alone it stood.; no tree nor shrub in sight. An intrenchment of logs guarded one side, and an old brick chimney the other. This chimney was blackened and crumbling. Rumor said it was blackened by diabolical cookery; that there witches made their broth; and that after the death of any- body in the neighborhood curious little bones were AND HER BROWN PITCHER. 175 found thrown about this ominous chimney. In this hovel, much feared and much hated, lived Old Witch Moll. Captain Tim scowled as he caught sight of her hovel. "The old hag!" thought he to himself; "she deserves to be hung for the mischief she makes. If I belonged to her district, I 'd have her taken up." Scarcely had the thought passed through his mind, when his horses stopped, as if spell bound. Bowsen srung up, howling. Capt. Tim struck the horses a heavy blow; they reared and plunged, but did not advance one inch. He struck again; he lost his temper, and swore at them, and struck again and. again. He could see by the star-light tfe whales he made in their flesh, but all to no purpose. The wheels did not move a hair's breadth. He dis- mounted, took his lantern and examined his team; nothing was out of order, and the road was smooth and hard. Again he put on the lash; the fright- ened and goaded animals, foaming and rearing, still made no headway. Bowsen, howling, ran toand fro. Capt. Tim now set down his lantern, and put his shoulder to the Wheel. He might as well have moved the everlasting hills. He looked over to the hovel,- he was just in a line with it. There could be no doubt Moll had bewitched his i team, and she must be propitiated, or he might stay where he was ,' page: 176-177[View Page 176-177] 176 OLD WITCH MOLL until doomsday. If a thing must be done, as I said before, Captain Tim knew of no way but to do it; so, whistling to Bowsen, to keep his courage up, he started for the hovel. It was now dead of night. Nine chances to one, Moll would be cross, and would not stir hand or foot to help him. He felt in his pocket to see what he had to buy her over with. Intent upon this, he stumbled over something, and nearly fell. Turning his lantern to see what was in his way, he found himself stumbling over that pile of mysterious bones! Just at that moment Captain Tim did not feel much like laughing at "old wives' fables." When he reached Moll's door, he pounded on it with the handle of his whip. "What's wanted, this time of night?" said a gruff voice. "A - a - poor teamster wants help," said Cap- tain Tim, not very much in the tone in which a few hours before he had called out, "Forward march!" "Do you belong to this dee-strict?" said Moll, with a coarse laugh. In spite of himself, Captain Tim shook all over. "The devil certainly helps her," thought he. "The devil helps me," said the same voice, "does he? Well, ask him, and perhaps he will help you; so be off with yourself, and don't be waking honest folks up at this time o' night." AND H1ER BROWN PITCHER. 1" Captain Tim did not stir. Bowsen had crouched, silenced, at his feet. Now another voice, soft and pleasant, the sweetest voice the captain thought he had ever heard, said, "Let's just open the door, and see what the matter is. He may be an honest man in distress. Don't turn him away; how do you know but he has silver?" Captain Tim could understand this, and the life- blood came back to his heart. "Silver, yes, plenty of it, so you 'll only start my team along,- that's all I want; then I 'll be off." "I 'll open the door," said the same pleasant voice, "and Aunt Moll will help you, if you can pay her well for it." The hasp was lifted, and the door opened. A young girl, with rosy cheeks, bright eyes, and a smile like sunshine, stood before Captain Tim.' Old bachelor as he was, he could have fallen on his knees before her. "My team," he stammered out, , is stuck." "In with you, Luce!" was growled out, and old Moll, the witch, dressed in a red cloak, stepped be- fore her. "What's your business?" "To get along to Salem," said Tim; "and here's four silver quarters for you, if you will help me." "You a'nt in a hurry to have me hung to-night, then, are ye?" said the hag, with a croaking laugh. "Luce, hand me my club, and then be off to bed." page: 178-179[View Page 178-179] 178 OLD WITCH MOLL Luce did as she was bidden; but first she looked in Captain Tim's face, and he in hers. "Good-night to ye," said the captain, "and thank- ye kindly, too. Can I do anything for you in Salem?" "In with you, Luce, I say; and you, Mr., come along, if you want any help from me!" roared out Moll. With rapid strides she made her way down to the team, and Captain Tim after her. There it stood stock still, just where he left it. Old Moll muttered off a few words, and striking the wheels a smart blow with the club, she chirruped to the horses. They started on the full gallop, and Bow- sen after them. Run like the devil, or you won't catch them!" said she, with a loud laugh. Captain Tim dropped the silver into her withered hand and ran; he needed no second bidding. A good race he had of it, before he overtook them. They went, indeed, as if the evil one were after them. Captain Tim and Bowsen panted about alike when they did catch up. Bow- seu, like a sensible dog, curled down and napped it after his adventure; but not so his master. Mr. Timothy Brown's heart had not been in such a flut- ter since the day when he first put on his captain's uniform. It was not beating with fear either; for he was not a coward, and now he was away from that pile of bones he could think quite coolly of Moll and her club. It was Luce with her sweet AND HER BROWN PITCHER. 179 face and her sweeter smile, who had mastered him. What on earth she lived with that old hag for, he could not make out. "What a life she must have of it," thought he, '( poor cretur! I dare say she has n't a relation in this wide world. If it had n't been for her, I might have been sticking to the middle. of the road till this time. I'm sorry for her, I declare. My farm- house is enough better than Moll's hovel, and she is enough prettier than Peg for a housekeeper. I'll marry her, and I dare say she 'll be glad on 't." By the time he had arrived at this conclusion, the spires of Salem were just discernible in the gray light of morning. He was on the wharf wlth his load at the appointed hour, received his pay, and then went to refresh man and beast at the Farmer's Home. Captain Tim sat over the fire in the bar- room, with his pipe in his mouth, and cogitated. He had decided to marry Luce, and, as has been re- marked, if a thing must be done, he knew of no way but to do it. Now he was already in Salem, - it might not be so easy to get down again,- if he could manage it so as to get his certificate of publishment now, he could stop and tell Luce of it on his way home. This certainly was the best way of doing the busi- ness; but here was a 'difficulty. His own name he knew, but what was her own?"Luce - Luce, page: 180-181[View Page 180-181] 180 OLD WITCH MOLL that must mean Lucy. 'Miss Lucy would be right, then, so far. Then she said Auznt Moll; and it would n't be any wonder if she was a niece, and had the same name." Captain Tim was a Yankee, and set to work to find out. "How old has ioll got to be?z said he to the bar-tender. "Nobody can tell you that ere. I'm thinking my father used to know her, - she can't be far from a hundred, - sich folks lives forever." "Did your father know her? AWhat did her name use to be?" "Buswell, - Mary Buswell, I 've heard him tell; and a pretty gal and a smart gal she was, too." "They call her Old Moll now, don't they?" ' Yes." "Does she live alone there?" "Not she; she has a pretty gal living with her, --some relation, folks say. She keeps her shut up, and learns her to deal with Old Nick, - and she knows now more than honest folks wish she did." Captain Tim, having made up his mind, was not at all discouraged by this recommendation. He finished his pipe. Salem people were now astir, shops and offices were open.' He went out into Main-street, and entered a large tobacco store.. He bought a bladder of snuff, and some very extra to- bacco, for a present to Moll. He then went toi the AND HERt BROWN PITCHER. 181 town clerk's office, and entered his name for publish- ment of "intention of marriage" with Miss Lucy Buswell. He then persuaded the clerk to give him the certificate of publishment, which, to save the forms of law, was dated two weeks or more in ad- vance, - the clerk consenting to a liberal, and, it must be confessed, an original interpretation to the law, out of regard for Captain Tim's ingenuity and honest face. The sun by this time was getting pretty well up, and Captain Tim's horses were rested; so, with his license safe in his pocket, he turned his face home- ward. "It can't do no harm," said he to himself, "if it don't do no good. I can burn it up, if I change my mind; it han't cost me much." The sun made a glorious morning of it, bathing wagon and driver, dog and horses, in a cheerful light, drying up the roads, and bringing out many singers on the still leafless branches by the way-side. Since the same hour on the day before, how much had happened to the commander-in-chief of the mili- tary forces of R ! Event had succeeded event, thought followed thought, and plan trod hard upon plan. His heart beat with unwonted excitement,- faster and still faster, as Aunt Moll's hovel came in sight. A cheerful smoke now curled gracefully up from the huge throat of the old chimney, and the bleached 16 '/ page: 182-183[View Page 182-183] 182 OLD WITCH MOLL pile of bones which lay around it looked far less formidable with the sun shining on them. To soften the sombre look of the pile of logs, a young girl stood by them, dressed in short gown and petticoat, with a blue handkerchief bound over her head. It was Luce,- Captain Tim knew her in an instant. Now, he had been trying all the morning to arrange his thoughts a little, to make out what he should say first, but he had not been able to satisfy him- self. He had never been courting in his younger days. Somehow it did not seem to him as if it would be exactly the right beginning to show the license first, and he was all in confusion as to what he'ought to do. He looked down on his dirty frock and boots, -how much Captain Tim would have given, just then, for his gold epaulets! Good-morning, Miss Lucy; I hope you're well this morning." Lucy lifted up the same laughing face which'had bewitched our hero at dead of night. "So you got along, did you?" said she, snapping a pair of black eyes. Yes, and I suppose I ought to thank you for it." Now came a dead pause. Captain Tim fumbled in his frock pockets,-he grasped his license; in isa extremity, he was just about handing it. out to hers when his fingers encountered the tobacco, AND HER BROWN PITCHER. 188 "O I forgot," said he; "I brought Aunt Moll a present; it's in the wagon. I 'll get it in a mm.- ute." Down he ran after it, and, with snuff and tobacco, propitiatory offerings to the goddess within, he approached the hovel. By this time Lucy had vanished, but the door stood wide open. "Good-morning," said Captain Timi to the old crone, who was smoking in the chimney-corner; "I thought, as I was going by, I'd just drop in and leave you a little present, for helping me along last night." "You lie!" said Moll; "it 's Luce ye're arter, and you know it is." "Well, so it is, granny. You do know everything, don't ye I 've got the license safe in my pocket. I want to marry her, and take her home with me. I've got a nice farm, I 'm well to do in the world, and I s'pose I 've sowed my wild oats. I can give her a good home, and take good care on her. Try your snuff and 'baccy, will ye?" Moll re-filled her pipe, and, looking straight into the ashes, rocked to and fro a long time in silence. Captain Tim grew very impatient. "I know all about ye," said she, at last; "you may as well have her as anybody, far's I know. She will marry some day, - more fool she, - she 's ot it in her. Luce,- Luce!" Lucy came at the call. "Captain Tim, here, page: 184-185[View Page 184-185] 184 OLD WITCI MOLL wants you to marry him. You may do as'you 're a mind to about it. What say, eh Speak out- don't act like a simpleton!" Lucy, with her sparkling eyes, looked in Captain Tim's good-natured face. Smile met smile, and heart met heart. "What do ye say?" roared Moll; "he don't want to keep his team waiting all day." "Yes, I will marry him," said Lucy. "Well, then, be off with ye now, Mr. Captain. Don't waste time a courting. You 'll have enough of her arter you're married. Off with ye, and be back here two weeks from to-day. Ye a'nt such a fool as to suppose your license will do ye any good yet. See to it, now, ye don't make any talk about it, or it will go hard with ye. The gal will have nothing but the clothes on her back; I tell ye that beforehand. Mind ye, too, ye 're to bring no parson to darken these doors." "We can go down town to get married," said the captain. "Suit yourself about that; it's all one to me," said Moll, "since she will go. Ye're a pair of fools, both of ye!" "I 've had her name put down on this paper as Miss Lucy Buswell. Is that right, granny?" "Good as any name," said Moll, with a grunting kind of chuckle. A! AND HER BROWN PITCHER. 185 "All reg'lar, then?" Reg'lar," said Moll, with a huge puff. "I 'll be here, then, two weeks from to-day," says Captain Tim. "See that you don't come afore then, that's all; so off with you, now!" Captain Tim could think of nothing further to remark. He moved towards the door. Lucy fol- lowed him. He looked once more in her eyes; they were swimming in tears. He stopped on the outer step; he wanted to say something. "Don't cry," said he, in a whisper; "(I 'll be good to ye." Her head drooped a little, and Captain Tim somehow-- he never could tell exactly how himself-- found his lips on her cheek. Twenty-five years had it been A since his lip had touched so soft a cheek; - then he kissed his last farewell to his mother. "Luce!" growled out old Moll. Captain Tim started as if shot; he ran to his team, he whistled to Bowsen, he put on the lash, and was soon among his own familiar hills. For the next fortnight Peg was in a great quan- dary. What had bewitched her master neither she nor any one else could divine. She was sure she had cleaned the house once that spring from garret to cellar, and yet nothing would do but Dodge must come and clean after her. Then came painters. and white-washers, and, last of all, she was quite dumb- - page: 186-187[View Page 186-187] 186 OLD WITCH MOLL founded by the sight of a bran new paper for the parlor walls, - a paper full of pretty pictures of men and women sitting under trees with angels flying over their heads. Thinking it proved that her master had either " gone stark staring mad," or had some secret plan in view, which he would reveal to no one, she besieged him again with ques- tions. "I bought it because 1 wanted to," was all she could get out of him. She fretted and fumed, and sulked and cried, at having the house turned upside down, but all to no purpose. Captain Tim went straight on, having everything done in his own way and own time. At last he seemed satisfied. He walked from one room to another, looked into his cupboards,' smiled and whistled. "Peg," said he, "I want you to brush -up my uniform." "The Lard a' massa, captain! to-morrow a'nt trainin'-day." "No matter; I want it ready to-night; and, hark ye, Peg, here's your wages, and a dollar over, to buy you a new gown. To-morrow I 'in going away, and to-morrow night, at six o'clock, I shall be back here, with company. I want ye to cook your best tea, and set the table in the parlor, and put on the best cups." Spite of himself, Captain Tim looked rather fool AND HER BROWN PITCHER. 187 ish, and Peg instantly mistrusted the truth. She did not dare, however, to say a word. She fixed up the uniform, and went to bed. When she awoke, her master had gone, and she had lost the pleasure of seeing him start off in a handsome covered-wagon. On the morning of the appointed day, Lucy, dressed in her " span-clean " clothes, sat on the log by Moll's door. All which she owned in the world was tied up in a red cotton handkerchief, and the bundle was by her side. She was putting a root or two of a favorite herb into it, when she heard steps, and, looking up, saw her gallant captain standing before her,--blue coat and yellow buttons, gold epaulets and white pants, shining boots and waving plume. A very fine-looking captain he was, in truth. Lucy's eyes danced with pleasure, and she gave him such a welcome, as soon brought his lips to her cheeks again. "You 're all ready 2" said Captain, Tim. "All ready," said Lucy, " but digging up a root or two." Let me do it," said Captain Tim. She laugKed, and handed him her spade. "I would n't put these ere in your bundle," said he; I 'll put them in the wagon-box. How is Aunt Moll?" "She is well, - there she is." "So ye 're here, bright and early, in your rigi- page: 188-189[View Page 188-189] 188 OLD WIV CH MOLL mentals, are ye, Mr. Captain You 'll have all the boys in town arter ye, to pay for it, if ye don't look out. You 've broke your fast, I s'pose " "Yes," said the captain, "and I am all ready now, as soon as Lucy is." "Luce has been ready this week," said Moll, in a gruff tone. "You 've got a hard day's work afore ye, and the sooner you're off the better. I don't want any leave-takings. Off with ye, both! I wish ye well. Here, this is all I have to give ye. Noew, mark my words. Luck be to ye while this abides under your roof, and woe be to ye should ill befall it!"She handed them a brown erockery pitcher, of a most unearthly look. It was shaped like a barrel, with a human head, and a distorted, fiend-like face. A gaping mouth it had, the under lip protruding, and huge ears, which were fastlend back to make a handle, and a skull, which lifte4 up, for a oover. Captain Tim,.nothing daunted, since he was in regi- mentals, lifted the skull, and found in the bowels of the pitcher a few odd, well-crossed pieces of silver. "Spend the siller and ye will, Luce, on wedding finery; but keep the pitcher, I tell ye, for your children and your children's children." Thess were Aunt Moll'sl-farewell words. She went back into her hovel, and shut her dc)r and hasped it. She would be disturbed no more. AND HER BROWN PITCHER. 189 Captain Tim packed the pitcher carefully away in the straw in the box, stowed in the roots and the bundle also, handed in the bride elect, and trotted off towards Salem. He and Lucy now made good use of their tongues, as you may imagine, and in an hour or two they knew each other's history. Lucy could not tell him exactly what relation she was to Moll; she did not know; she had always called her aunt, and she reckoned she was a niece, - at any rate, she had not always lived with her. She did not know very much about her; she had a dim remembrance of having heard, when a very little girl, that Moll was married unhappily; that her husband deserted her; that she was left with one child, who died quite young; that then Moll went to that hut to live, and buried the child there; and she, Lucy, had always thought it was buried under that heap of bones. Moll took great pains that the heap should never grow less. "She knows a deal," said Lucy; "I used to be afraid of her. I made up my mind, a year or two ago, I would not live there always, and I told her so. Since then she has been careful what she did afore me." "How came she to let you come off so easy with me?" asked Captain Tim. "I can't tell,' said Lucy. "That night you got stuck, I knew something was going on.?Aunt Moll page: 190-191[View Page 190-191] 190 -OLP WITCH MOLL had n't shut her eyes. She was so fidgety it kept me awake. I heard you whip your horses, and try to start your team." Did n't though, did ye " said the captain. "Yes, and I heard you whistle to Bowsen and come walking up the lane, and I heard you stumble over the bones. Aunt Moll laughed then. I was mad at her, and I determined to help you, if I could." "I remember jest how ye looked when ye opened the door," said Captain Tim, "and I guess I always shall. I liked ye then." "And so did I you," said Lucy; "and I would have gone with ye that night, if ye had asked me." "You would n't though, would ye?" said Captain Tim, and he laughed heatily. Now they were in Salem. Their license served them, and they were married. A few bridal knick- knacks were bought, and the happy pair turned thbir faces homeward. As they repassed old Moll's hovel, they peered out up the lane, and drove slowly by. No signs of life appeared. "Shall we stop?" said Captain Tim. "'T would be of no use," was the reply; "the door is fast, and she would n't let us in, I know." So they drove on. Soon Captain Tim's farm-house came in view. It faced the west, and the front windows shene like gold ia the light of the setting AND HER BROWN PITCHER. 191 sun. The yards were swept clean as a penny, and at the door stood Peg, in her Sunday's best. What a home this was for the poor, homeless girl! The tears rolled down her cheeks,--they fell like rain; she dropped her head on her hus- band's epaulet, and cried like a child for joy. Captain Tim laughed and cried too, as he handed her out. "Here, Peggy," said he, "' is young Mrs. Tim Brown." This is my great Aunt Tim's history, as I heard it when a boy, many and many a year after it hap- pened. In addition to it, I must say that Aunt Tim made my uncle a most excellent wife. She was handsome and good, loved and respected, outlived him by about three years, and died at the ripe old age of eighty-five. Her children, and her chil- dren's children, cherish her memory. , Those bright pictures on that new paper have long since faded out; the farm-house itself has gone to decay; but that UNEARTHLY PITCHER is in the family yet. In the old house, it stood in the parlor, in a corner cupboard. We children used to creep into the half-darkened room, and gaze at it with awe and terror. I can distinctly remember seeing it brought into the dairy or brewery, or set over sick cattle, to bring good luck; and I have been told it never failed. Somuchfor Old Witch Moll's pitcher. Old Moll page: 192-193[View Page 192-193] 192 OLD WITCII MOLL. herself never came to see my uncle and aunt, but they used to go and see her once a year. She died as she had lived, alone in her hovel, and, by her own particular request, my Uncle Tim had her buried near that heap of bones. The bones bleached and mouldered away, undisturbed; for the very dogs seemed to avoid the mysterious spot. @ P. THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. I HOPE we shall finish here, this week," said Mr. Morton, to his workman, Ben Jones. "Finish easy enough, if 't weren't for the Fourth," replied Ben; "I always calculate to take the Fourth." "What do you intend doing this year?' I under- stand they are to have no celebration in town." "No, they a'nt to have no celebration, and the more fools they; it's like pulling out their eye- teeth, to have to spend a dollar! It don't worry me none, though, for wife and I have agreed to go to Boston, and see the fireworks." "What will you do with your family?" "O, ta:ke 'ein along; there a'nt but two of 'em, you know, and the boy is pretty considerable big now, and runs about quite smart. I only hope it won't be as hot as blazes. Did you ever see them fireworks, Mr. Morton?" Yes, many times." "I want to know! Well, are they as curious as folks tell for?" " Yes, they. are well worth seeing." "That's the idee I had about it; and wife and I 17 page: 194-195[View Page 194-195] 194 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. thought we would go, for once in our lives, and see 'em. I suppose it will cost us a power of money; but we can work a little harder for it, when we come back." The "Glorious Fourth " dawned beautifully. The red sun came up over the distant hills like a bride- groom from his chamber, and started on his journey through a cloudless sky. Daisy and buttercup, drunk with the dews of the night, lifted their heavy heads to greet him; and a flood of song was poured from the leafy coverts of the trees, to welcome him. Young eyes were opening, and young hearts, as well as old ones, were rejoicing in this auspicious dawn. "We shall have a beautiful day on't," said Ben Jones. "So we shall," said his wife; "and the sooner we are off the better, I suppose." "Yes," said Ben, " the cars, they tell me, never wait for nobody, and we must be pretty early to get a seat." Ben immediately dressed himself in his Sunday's best. This suit was of thick blue cloth, the coat being rather short-waisted, and trimmed with yellow buttons. In this Ben's wife took a particular pride, on account of both its color and its quality; and she had a secret idea that her husband looked like a real gentleman in it. What was her astonishment, when she saw him, on this day of all days, toss the 8S THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 195 Sunday coat over a chair, take down a nankeen jacket, and put it on! "What in the world are you doing that for?" she inquired. "'Cause I don't want to roast," said Ben; "it will be as hot as 'Lection, afore night." "I won't go with you in that jacket," said Mrs. Ben. "How you would look, in Boston! Folks would think you were a sailor." "'T won't hurt me none, what folks think, as I knows on," said Ben. "Well, it will me," remarked his wife. "Dear me, then, if you are going to feel bad about it, I won't wear it." Ben was famously good-natured; he put on the thick blue coat. The children were next taken up, and dressed by the mother; Tim, the boy, harnessed the horse into the wagon, while Ben prepared the breakfast. It was served on the round table, in the little back-kitchen. A good breakfast it was, con- sisting of coffee and cream, eggs and butter, cold pork and potatoes, doughnuts and apple-pie; and that was a happy party which sat down to partake of it. The rising sun looked upon none happier, through all that glad, bright morning. Our friends ate their meal rather hurriedly, for they thought all the time they heard the cars whiz- page: 196-197[View Page 196-197] 196. THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. zing by,.and they concluded it was best to be "get- ting along." Tim was packing in the babies, and Ben Jones turning the lock in the door, when suddenly a new thought struck him. "Now, I 'll be beat," said he, "if I ha'nt a good notion to take grandsir's old turnip along." "What good will it do you?" asked his wife; "you can't make it go." "Yes, I guess I can," said Ben; "I can coax it so it 'll hitch along a little, by shakin' it up once in a while." Ben went in for the old silver watch, wound it up, set it by guess, and deposited it in his fob. As he came out, his wife thought the rusty ribbon, with the steel key attached, quite an addition to his Sunday suit. Her eyes were so full of him and his good looks, that they had gone above half a mile from home before she observed that Ben, when he took the watch, left the bag. "As true as I am alive, Ben," said she, "you 've left the bag; and there is no manner of use in trying to go without it. All the children'S things are in it." "So I have," said Ben; "that's a good 'un. Whoa! Tim, run back, - no, we shall get late, - you drive on, and I 'll run back, and catch up to you." THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 197 Ben was wise enough to take off his blue coat before he started on this race. Tim drove leisurely on. Old Dob, whose check-rein was down, snatched, now and then, a mouthful of clover and daisies from the road-side, much to the children's delight. It was a great exploit for them to start Dob along, after these liberties. The little girl brandished the huge whip, and Ben junior rattled the reins, which his tiny hands could not wholly grasp. Tim and Mrs. Jones laughed heartily at these performances; the butterflies, also, seemed to enjoy it, for they flew around and around on their yellow wings, never going far away; and the birds, too, followed them from tree to tree, singing loud and merrily. A most remarkable feat of the little Ben brought out a great chorus of laughter, in the midst of which Ben senior caught up. He puffed like a race-horse, and the " beady sweat" stood on his forehead; but he had found the bag, and had overtaken the party, and he felt quite content. Seeing that all were laughing, he laughed too, without knowing what the joke was; so they had a merry wagon-load of it. Perhaps during the whole of that eventful day this party saw no moments of purer enjoyment. ' What time is it " inquired Mrs. Jones. "Arter seven," said Ben, pulling out the old watch and shaking it. "Jingo! we shall be late. Tim, drive like mad, while I cool off." 17* page: 198-199[View Page 198-199] 198 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. Old Dob did his best, considering it was the "Glorious Fourth," and when he reached the depot by the railroad time it was precisely fifteen minutes after seven. According to grandsir's chronometer, he had come three miles in about five minutes; he was therefore entitled to both rest and clover. Early as it was, - for the cars were never along before eight, and would on this day probably be much later, - the dept was already crowded, and there was no room within doors for Dob's load even to stand. Mrs. Jones said "she would sit right down on the bank." The children, however, did not like this arrangement; and it was about as diffi- cult to keep them still as it would have been a young calf, and their little feet were always straying towards those dangerous rails, of which their mother was as much-afraid, she said, "as of a loaded gun, and more too, for aught she knew.", Ben the little, after having been brought up suddenly, by a grasp on his sack-belt behind, began to show a proper resentment of this impeachment of his liberty on the Fourth. He cried hard as he could, and there was no pacifying him, but by a " compromise," by which he should be allowed to roll in the sand. This, his mother declared, "could never be done, with his span-clean clothes on." The only way, then, left to keep the peace was, that his father should carry him about, which he did, pacing back THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 199 and forth, back and forth, by the track, for more than an hour. As the sun rode on in his unclouded path, his chariot-wheels seemed to be of fire. Ben began to find his blue coat decidedly uncomfortable. "If it had not been for his wife, he really should have wished he had worn his jacket; but, as it was, there was no help for it; it would be cooler riding, if the cars ever did get along." As he walked, he tried to talk with his neighbors around him, and heard such glowing descriptions of the fireworks. that his enthusiasm was re-kindled, and the edge of present toil blunted by the hopes of future pleasure. In the mean time, his wife sat on the sand-bank,'in the hot sun. Her gloves were fast losing their original color; her bonnet-strings were loosened, to save them from the same fate; she spread her little sun-shade, but it afforded but a meagre protection for herself and her little girl. Of all the party, Dob, who stood in the shade of a neighboring house, eating sorel and spearmint, thus far had had the easiest time of it, notwithstanding his extraordinary exertion. At length the grateful sound of the far-off whistle was heard by the waiting crowd. There was a general rush to the track, all eager to get in first. Ben, in his hurry, took up both children; and the bag into the bargain, so that his wife had nothing to do but to keep them all from going under the car- page: 200-201[View Page 200-201] 200 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. wlieels. There was pushing and scrambling, and ordering hither and thither, and much confusion, before the new party could find room in the already crowded cars. There was but one seat for Ben's family of four. This his wife took. "You hold the girl and the bag," said Ben, "and I 'll stand close by you, and hold on to the boy and the tickets." Now, after a good mile race, and an hour's prom- enade in the sun, to stand and carry a child all the way to Boston, was something of a draft, even on Ben's strength. He bore it, however, good-hu- moredly, and to those who tried to pass him, in the vain hope of a seat further on, he distributed com- fort in the following small doses: "Plenty of room on there, if you ha'nt got no corns. Hold on to your hat, neighbor, and I guess you 'll make it out. Yes, ma'am, room a .,lnty; they can pile up there. 'Ta'nt but once a 'year," said he to a grumbler; " give 'em all a chance; we can afford to He neighborly." "Never mind," said he to a feeble old man, "lean on me a bit; if you can stand it a little while, we shall soon be down there; they go like shot when they get at it." The cars, however, went by no means as fast as Ben haid calculated. They stopped at all the way- stations, where they found great crowds awaitifig theni. At every fresh supply, Ben burst into THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 201 such an uncontrollable fit of laughter, and unbur- dened himself of so many odd, out-of-the-way ejaculations, that he kept all around him laughing. A lady who occupied the seat - by his wife seemed very much amused. "You must be tired," said she, pleasantly, to him. "Shall not I hold your boy a while?" "I am much obleeged," said Ben, "but the little fellow is kind o' shy of strangers, and I reckon he would n't come. - Bub, go sit with the lady?"Bub signified his displeasure. "No? well! it's no mat- ter. I thought he would n't. Children are so 'fraid o' nothin'! It's no matter; we shall soon be there, now." "O no," replied the lady; "we are not quite half way, and at this rate it will take us more than an hour longer." "Golly! we shall have a time on't, shan't we?" said Ben, laughing again loudly. "Perhaps," said the lady, " the little girl will sit with me, and the mother can take the boy." She was. bent on doing Ben a kindness, The girl came to her readily, and Ben, relieved of his burden, stretched out his arm as far as he could find room for it. "Wife," said he, "that boy is pretty solid; I mean to have him weighed when we get home." At the next %ation several cars were added, and ,. page: 202 (Illustration) [View Page 202 (Illustration) ] 202 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. all were now accommodated. Ben took a seat at an open window, in front of his wife. Having no longer any discomforts upon which to crack his jokes, he began to let off his spirits a little on his boy. He pulled off the straw hat from the little curly head, played "peep bo" behind it, and finally held it out the window, pretending to throw it. On a sudden, a gust of wind took it, and away it went, in sober earnest. "Jingoes! hallo-o there! I never did see the beat on 't! It 's gone, clean as a whistle!" " Stop it" screamed his wife, putting her head out of the window; " stop it, can't you . " "It is of no use to try now," said the lady; 'we are half a mile from it." "Who would have thought on 't?" said Ben, laughing with his neighbors. "Well, little fellow must go bare-headed." "It was bran new," said his wife; "so much for fooling!" and she began to cry. "La! " said Ben, "what is the use of crying for spilt milk ? There is plenty more where that came from. We'll buy him another, as soon as we get to Boston. 'Ta'nt much matter; 't was always kind o' too small for him. Here, Bub, I '11 tie on ny hand- kerchief." Ben took out a red cotton pocket-bandkerchief, and tied it over the little white cuflf. page: -203[View Page -203] THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. ZV4) "See, wife," said he, "he looks real pretty in it; it is a sight better than his hat." "Yes, it is quite becoming to him," remarked the lady ; "you ought to have his picture taken!" This well-timed compliment soothed the mother, and her tears ceased to flow. The locomotive gets over the ground rapidly, even on its slowest walk, so that in due time, *hich was in reality good time, our Fourth-of-July parties reached the Boston depot, and were soon scattered and lost amid the crowds of the city. Ben expe- rienced some difficulty in getting past the hackmen. There seemed to be something in his good-natured countenance which attracted them; they besieged him on every side. "Take a hack? take a carriage? Carry you right there, sir." At first Ben laughed, and explained quite po- litely the reasons why he preferred walking. "No, thank ye; 'ta'nt but a step, and we ruther walk; we are only going up a piece to our cousin's." But when he saw a gentleman before him deign no other reply than some hearty raps with his umbrella- handle on the pates of the officious hackmen, he took his cue from it, and, cutting short his words, con- tented himself, for- the most part, with expressive shakes. One persevering applicant followed him quite out upon the sidewalk. "Walk this way, if you please, sir; here is my hack." page: 204-205[View Page 204-205] 204 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. "I tell you I a'nt going to ride!" said Ben. Take you right there, -- jump in, -any bag- gage " "Live baggage, that 's all." "Where do you go, sir??' "To my cousin's, in T-- street." "Yes, sir; know just where it is, - carry you right there. It's to the South End a long way." "Much obleeged to ye, then, for your kindness," said Ben. "We'll get in, if you are so perticular- like about it. You won't charge us nothin', of course?" "Only one dollar." "One dollar! Jimminetti! I guess I shan't pay that till I find out where dollars grow," said Ben. ( You didn't expect to ride for nothing, you fool, did you?" said the hackman. "'Twas your own job," said Ben. "I told you, in the first on 't, I wan't going to ride, and you stuck to me like a leech." The hackman muttered something to himself, as he put up his steps; Ben and his family walked away, without knowing exactly whither to direct their uncertain steps. As they turned the corner of the depot, they met the lady who had spoken to them in the cars. Her veil was now lifted, and Ben thought he never saw a handsomer lady. THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 205 "Where are you going?- to get your boy a hat?" said she, with a sweet smile. "I calculate to," said Ben; " but I thought we would go to cousin's first, and kind o' settle down, and then come out. They live in T street." "T street?" said the lady; " that is almost out to Roxbury. Your best way is to walk right up into Washington-street to some of the hat-stores first, and then take an omnibus out to T-- street. It will cost you only ten cents to get there." "I swany!" said Ben, " and that chap was going to get a dollar out of me! Blast him!" The lady smiled, and- taking the little handker- chiefed boy by the hand,-for he was no longer afraid, - she said, pleasantly," I am going that way; "I'll go along with you." Ben's wife was much pleased, and she grew quite communicative. Telling the lady the exact state of her wardrobe, she asked advice as to what kind of a summer frock for hot Sundays she had better buy. The lady seemed interested in her plans, advised her as to what she had better get, and also where she had better go for it. The distance to the hat-store seemed very short, they were so busily talking. The lady entered here with them. The shopman bowed politely to her. She requested him "to show some cheap hats, which would suit that little head." 18 page: 206-207[View Page 206-207] 200 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. :But no easy task was it for the shop-man to judge of the size of that head; for the little fellow, now completely won over, hid himself behind the lady. "Why, Benny," said his mother, " come here." Benny only peeped out, showing one blue eye be- tween the red handkerchief and the lady's dress. "He is smitten with the lady," said Ben; " don't bother him!" The lady took out her watch. "I find I must go," said she; "I am now behind my time. This man, I presume, will stop the Roxbury omnibus for you. I have some tickets with me; here are two, if you will-accept them." "I don't want to take your tickets for nothing," said Ben; " had n't you better keep 'em?" "I have plenty more," said the lady. "I 'll pay you what they are worth, then," said Ben, pulling out his old leather purse. "No, indeed," said the lady, laughing. "Good. morning!"- and she left the store. Ben forgot all about the hat, as he looked after her. One would have thought a star had disap- peared from .the brow of evening. Ben thought so. "By the powers,' said he, " she is the realest lady I ever see, and no mistake." :His wife wiped her eyes. She felt as if she had lost a friend, and was now alone in the great city. "What kind of a hat do you wish ' said the THE GLORTUUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 20'T man behind the counter. He had no time to spend on sentiment. " Something cheap, just to cover the boy's head," said the father. After considerable chaffering, the, man talked them into buying a coarse Leghorn, for which he charged them one dollar. Not much more than half satisfied, they left his store when the next omnibus made its appearance, each wishing they might meet the lady again; for it seemed as if light had disappeared from their path with her. Mrs. Jones looked for her on the thronged sidewalk, and so did Ben for a while; but soon he ral- lied, and began his original remarks on the people and the city. More than one individual in the om- nibus smiled at their homely drollery. One gen- tleman entered into conversation with him. Ben frankly told him what he had come for, and where he was going. If you are going to T--- street," said the genr tleman, " you must get out pretty soon." "I reckon I must," said Ben; "but how do you stop these fellers ? I an't much used to riding in these concerns. I don't know as I was ever il one afore." "I'll stop him for you," said the gentleman. He did so, and Ben and his family were safely deposited at thehead of T--- street. It was nodifficult matter to find the desired house. Ben rang the door-bell. "Is Simon Jones to home ?" he asked. The Irish page: 208-209[View Page 208-209] 208 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. girl stared stupidly, and said, "No such man lived there." "But he does," said Ben, "and I am his cousin, and I 've come to see him." The servant girl declared "he didn't," and talked so fast Ben could n't understand a word she said. He was about forcing his way in, in spite of her, when another woman came to the door, and told him "Simon Jones had moved to A - street." "How far may that be?" "Not far from half a mile, or three-quarters," was the reply. "The Dickens!" said Ben; "that's onlucky. I reckoned on finding 'em here; the little folks is most beat out, and I don't know how we shall get 'em there." The woman said nothing. She did n't want to be pestered with the troubles of country folks on the Fourth of July. She would not unasked even do so much as to offer the cup of cold water to the weary ones. She shut the door slowly, and returned to her room. "I don't care, anyhow. I'll sit down here and rest, as long as it used to be Sim's house," said Ben. "It 's kind of shady, and we can cool off. I'd give a good deal 'for our old bucket, right up from the bottom of the well." "So would I," said his wife; " it seems as if I should melt." "I reckon I should have been warm enough with THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 209 my jacket on," said Ben. "I think it's a chance if I ever get this ere coat off; it sticks tight as a lob- ster." "Mother, I 'm choked!" said the little girl, begin- ning to cry. Benny expressed his appreciation of the heat, by pulling off his new Leghorn, and tum- bling it down the steps. His white curls seemed to have been just taken from a basin of water. "I think we had better be getting along," said Mrs. Ben; "it 's growing hotter all the while, and folks stare at us as if we were a party of thieves." Ben agreed to this, and they started for A-- street. The old watch, after a shake or two, told the hour of eleven. The sun, riding on, abated not a whit of his burning speed, but poured his fiery beams on the red walls near which our party walked, seeming to burn the air they breathed, and heating the bricks below almost to the scorching of those tender feet which pressed them. The little ones cried, and could walk no further. There was no help for it; Ben must carry the boy and the bag, and Mrs. Ben the girl. Jingoes!" said Ben, as the sweat poured down his cheeks in streams, " if this don't beat anything I ever seed! I 'd rather by half be in 'the Peak,' a hayin, and that is the deucedest hottest place I was ever in, till now!" Mrs. Ben suffered in crimson; she was not one 18* page: 210-211[View Page 210-211] 210 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. of the dissolving kind. Fortunately they were both sturdy walkers, and they soon reached A- street with their loads, though they reckoned it at much nearer a good mile than one-half. Once in the street, they easily found the house, and again rung the door-bell. "Does Mr. Simon Jones live here?" inquired Ben. "Yes, he does; but he a'nt to home." "A'nt his wife to home, neither?" "No, they have both gone away, and won't be back till night." "I never see nothing beat it," said Ben, "how misfortunate! Now, I am his cousin, Ben Jones, and we have come clean down to see him and the fireworks. We must come in and rest us, and cool off, or there won't be nothing left of us to carry back." "Walk in," said the girl, laughing. She opened the door of a cool, dark, pleasant little parlor. "Won't you take nothing?" said she. "The children would be glad of some water," said Mrs. Ben. The good-natured servant-girl brought in a pitcher of ice-water. "You must be careful," said she, " and not drink much when you are hot. Folks die so, pretty often, ' down here.'" TIE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 2" This was a seasonable caution, and the ice-water, fortunately, was drunk with moderation. "I wish," said the girl, "I could get you up a dinner; it 's a thousand pities the folks an't to home. Do you think you could eat a bit of cracker' and cheese? It's every sign of a thing we've got in the house." "Yes, La me! yes, indeed," said Ben; "there's nothing better." After this lunch, Ben tipped back in his chair and dozed; the weary children forgot their play, and fell fast asleep on the carpet. The mother, seeing all comfortable, followed their example, and took her nap. All awoke refreshed but Ben, who began to feel the want of substantial food, after his day's exertion. "I guess," said he," we'd better be getting along, and go into some eating-house and have a dinner. I feel as hollow as a drum." This plan was decided upon. The watch, well shaken, showed that time was somewhere in the neighborhood of figure 3; and if so, it was none too early to make a move. The kind servant-girl lent a helping hand, showing every little attention which she could think of. She ran up to Washington- street bare-headed, beckoned the omnibus, helped the children in, and told Ben " he must come again and bring them all, when the folks were at home." page: 212-213[View Page 212-213] 212 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. Ben said, "'T was their turn to come to his house, and she must come too ;" and, mutually pleased, they parted. "Where shall we get out?" said Mrs. Jones. "The land! I don't know; I ant particular; you can let us out anywhere along down there," said Bcn to the ticket-man. The man smiled, balanced himself on one foot, and asked, "Where you going to?" "To get some dinner, if I can find any," said Ben. "Maybe you know of some eating-houses, along on the road?" "Maybe I do," said the man, nodding. "Put us out to any of 'em," said Ben. "Only as near the Common as we can get," said Mrs. Ben; " thechildren cannot walk much further." The man stopped at a large confectioner's. Straw, berries, ice-cream, cakes, candies, sugars of all de- scriptions, lined the windows. They entered, and in amazement walked through into the saloon. Here a fountain, playing musically info a marble basin, which was filled with gold-fishes, instantly attracted their attention. The children fairly screamed with de- light, and Ben was scarcely less noisy. "Now," said he, emphatically, " if that don't beat all creation! I never did see the like on 't, in my life. What pretty creturs! and here is this water a bustin right up through the floor!" THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 213 "There must be a well in the cellar," remarked his wife, quietly. "Yes, I s'pose so," responded Ben. "What will you have?" asked a pretty girl, with long curls. Well, I don't know, - what you got?" "Vanilla, lemon, strawherry, pine-apple, -any- thing you choose." "I don't know nothin' about them stuffs. Han't you got no pork and beans? I want some dinner. I am e'en-a-most starved." "We don't keep them," said the girl. "O, you don't?" Ben did not know exactly what to call for next. He observed, now, that the saloon was filled with elegantly dressed people, and he was rather glad, to tell the truth, that he had his Sunday coat on. The girl with the long curls awaited his order. "Well?" said Ben, feeling that he must say something. Ah, here is the little boy again," said a sweet voice behind him. He recognized it instantly, and turned. There was the lady. "How do you do?" said Ben, coming up, and offering her his great red hand. It would have held a half-dozen more like the little white-gloved one which was now put within it. "How do you do?" Ben laughed- so did his wife - so did his chil- page: 214-215[View Page 214-215] 2l4 THUE GLORIOUBO FOURTH IN BOSTON. dren; all were pleased. Their hearts had been fairly won by the tones of kind sympathy. "I did not think of meeting you here," said the lady. "Nor I neither," said Ben. "I come in here to see if we could n't get some dinner. We han't had none to-day. We found our folks gone." "Ah, I am sorry. You have a dining-saloon, have you not?" inquired the lady, of long-curls. Long-curls said, "Yes, in the back shop," and retired. The lady led the way into another apartment. Here were many tables, each neatly laid for two. The lady gave Ben and his wife a seat, and then placed a third chair for the little girl. A -white- aproned waiter stood by. "Here's a bill of fare," said the lady to Ben; "read it over, and see what you would like." Ben read it slowly aloud, pronouncing it after his own fashion. When he came to a French dish, he gave it such an outlandish name, the waiter roared. Ben looked up, and joined him heartily. "That's some fandango I don't know nothin' about," said Ben; " gjve me some pork and taters." His wife chose chicken. The lady advised them to keep the bill of fare by them, and they would know then all the prices of the different dishes beforehand. TBE OLOBIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 215 After seeing them comfortably provided for, she left them. Ben wanted some water. He saw nothing to pour it in, for the two goblets were filled with the napkins, which blossomed out like white peonies. "Halloo, Mister," said he, "would n't you please to give us some mugs to take a drink in?" The waiter laughingly removed the blossoming napkins, and filled the goblets. "It's most too bad to spile them pretty things," said Ben. Ben and his wife forgot the lady's ad- vice, to keep the bill of fare by them, and look at the prices beforehand. Eating seemed to whet their appetites. One thing after another they "reckoned would taste good." They could n't get them every day. Pigeon-pie, lobster, pastry, a cup of tea for the wife, and, last of all, they thought it would be a good plan to have a pitcher of milk for the children. The waiter was very attentive. No order was neg- lected. At length the important dinner was fin- ished; even the children were satisfied. Ben drew out his old purse, and called for his bill. "Two dollars, sir." Two dollars " said Ben. Two dollars!" echoed his wife. "Yes, sir." " Why, that's enough to-keep us il to home a week," said Ben, -( with Tin and Dob into the bargain." page: 216-217[View Page 216-217] '216 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. "The prices are all marked," said the waiter, laughing in spite of himself. "Fact, so they be," said Ben, taking up the bill of fare. "The lady told us so, and I forgot every breath about it. Let's see how you reckon." Greatly to the amusement of many present, he enumerated the various items, with a running com- ment on the attendant price. "A cup of tea, six and a quarter cents.' Golly! I should think you'd get rich on that. 'A cup of milk, six-and-a-quarter cents;' - one cup of milk! Jimminetti! What, did you ask for that ar little pitcher-full?" "There were four cups, sir; it will be a quarter of a dollar." Ben and his wife sat for a minute silent, the per- feet picture of astonishment. Ben recovered his speech slowly. "That - are - leetle pitcher-full - if I a'nt beat! Why, if you 'll bring along your tubs, I 'll give you a tub-full on 't at that price, and make money, too. That are leetie pitcher-full, wife!" Ben by this time had run the comial girdle around the milky subject; he appreciated its fun; he threw himself back in the chair with a hearty ha, ha, which made the saloon ring. He then paid his two dollars without further remark than " that it was well the Fourth did n't come every day." THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 217 " There is no use in paying for things we don't eat," said his wife. "We may as well take them crackers along for the children; they 'll want them before night." The waiter made no objection, and the crackers were deposited in the bag. Strengthened in body, but weaker in pocket, our friends left the confectioner's, and sallied forth once more into the thronged streets. To Mrs. Ben it ap- peared every moment as if they must be run over. Ben carried the boy, and she was so afraid of losing the girl that she carried her more than half way. Thanks to that stranger lady, the all-important pur- chase of the summer dress was made very reason- ably, but it was the only purchase which was umade to advantage. Our country friends were cheated in everything else, paying large prices for poor articles, believing, in the simplicity of their hearts, every word which the shopmen told them. What did Ben know about shopping in Boston? What did he know about prices? He was used to paying for his purchases in butter and eggs. The sun at length grew weary of his hot journey, and his spirits began to flag. Slowly he sought his western home. All in crimson and gold came out the lords of the bed-chamber, to welcome him to his rest. He retired in glory, and lovely evening, with her gentle dews, succeeded him, to minister to the parched earth. She was hailed with joy by 19 page: 218-219[View Page 218-219] fiB TiE GLOJTOU OS UFOVRT IN BOSTON. *ousands. And among those who earliest sought the scene of the approaching display were Ben and hie family. In the course of theirshopping, t1hey had wandered to a remote part of the city, and were obliged to travel a. long distance again to reach the Common. The tired children hung their heavy heads, and it seemed to both father and mother as if nothing in the world hut fireworks could keep them on their feet longer. As it was, they went with weary steps and slow. When they reached Park-street, Ben pulled out his watch. It had kept up within half an hour. Ben ^ reckoned that was smart for the old 'un;" so, shak- ing it again, by way of encouragement, he replaced it, carefully adjusting the chain, in order to have it 4ow to the best advantage. This he had afterwards occasion to remember. Early as it was, the Common was already crowd- -ed. Our party could not get near enough to the pond to investigate the wherefore of the mysterious fountain; so they contented themselves with watch- ing its sparkling jet, above that sea of heads. "Can't we sit down?" said Mrs. Ben f can't stand any longer, for all the fireworks in Boston." "Yes, we must find a seat, somehow; there are ame empty ones 'tother end of the Common; let's iake 'em while we can. The fire things will look , THE GLORIOUS FOUXTRTf IN 3OSTOS. 219 better furder of, and we shan't be so likely to get hit" This salutary fear expedited Mrs. Bends move- ments somewhat, and of all the remote seats ve chose the remotest. Thus accommodated, with their attention divided between the strange and busy scene before them aind the tired children with them, time passed rapidly. The babies cried, - were stuffed with cake and can- dy, anything to keep them still; cried again, fell asleep -woke - cried again, and begged to go home. What pleasure could it give to their weary little eyes to see fireworks? A sweet nap in their own little beds was far better than any display the whole world could get up. "I shall be glad when it is over with," said Mrs. Ben; " the children are getting cross as pipers." "They 'II begin now pretty soon," said -Ben; "here, give me the boy, and I 'll walk about with him." "' I don't see how you can stand it," said his wife; ' my feet are as big as two, now, a walking on these hard stones." As Ben passed back and forth, lulling the heir in his arms, a man near by, who was whistling, looked up and remarked, "I reckon we shall have it, afore long," "Have what?" said Ben. / page: 220-221[View Page 220-221] 220 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. "That ar shower, out yonder." "Whe-w-w," said Ben, standing stock still, and surveying, for the first time, the black and muster. ing clouds. "Them looks plaguy like it; but it may all blow round 't other way; there is no tellin', and I kind o' reckon it will, as long as it is the Fourth." "It won't scatter till we have a taste of it," said the man. As if to verify his words, the wind rose suddenly, bowed the heads of the proud elms, and rushed on. Another and another gust. The low .thunder growled in the distance - the clock struck eight. Amid great shouting, which drowned the wind and the thunder, a rocket went up, and another. Faster and faster came the storm. The great elms bent before it; the lightning flashed; the thunder gath- ered, peal upon peal; it burst in one tremendous -crash over the heads of the wondering crowd. In- stantly, as if this were the signal for the opening of heaven's flood-gates, the rain poured down in tor- rents. One moment of breathless consternation was succeeded by one of indescribable confusion. The immense crowd scattered as if by magic; they ran over each other; men shbuted; women screamed; children cried. Another flash -another crash. THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 221 Can that struggling throng escape alive?- What will become of those little children? 4 That beats all nater!" said Ben, after the see- ond peal; "none of these gimcracks can go ahead o' that!" Up to this moment he had been looking on with intense interest, as he was remote from the crowd; but now the living tide was sweeping by him, and he found he must fight manfully, if he would keep his flock together. He took a child on each shoul- der, his wife clung to his arm, and, thus breasting the living waves, he kept his own, and brought them safely to the shelter of a corner. Here he stopped a moment to recover breath aind think. Mrs. Ben was crying; the children were crying. "We never shall get home alive," said she; I am Wet to my skin." "La, yes, we shall, too," said Ben; "it woi't rain so long, and, besides, it 's nothing but summer rain, - 't wont hurt nobody." "Why, I 'm all of a shiver," said his wife. Well, you cooled off too quick," said Ben; ' sit down under this tree, and I '1I put my coat over you and the children." "I think I can stand here safely a momentj" said a gentle voice quite near. Ben started; he thought he recognized the voioe, and the next flash of lightning told him he was 19* page: 222-223[View Page 222-223] 222 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. right. It was the voice of the stranger lady. A gentleman was with her. "I want to know," said Ben, '" if that 's you?" "O, here are my friends, of whom I told you," said the lady. "Now I shall be quite safe by them, while you call a carriage." "Safe! I guess you will! You need n't be a mite afraid to leave her," said Ben to the gentleman. "There shan't nothin' touch her while I am within gunshot, I 'll promise you that." "He will take good care of me," said the lady. Do bring an empty carriage,. for these good people must not try to walk to the depot in this plight. They must ride with us." "I reckon we must ride, at some rate," said Ben, "for my wife is clean beat out." The gentleman left hastily. Ben moved the little girl gently, and made a seat for the lady. "I do wish I had something or other to put over you," said he. "I'd brought a 'brilla, if I had thought of its rainin' so; but I don't think it rains quite as fast as it did. Bless me! ha'nt you got nothing on but that lace shawl? You will get wet enough." Now, Ben's coat was already appropri- ated; so wa his handkerchief, and his cravat. He took a survey of himself, wondering if there were not something about him still which he could dis- pense with. But no, he could think of nothing until THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 223 he remembered his vest. Off it came, and was wrapped around the soft lace collar of the lady. "There," said Ben, " that 'll keep you from a sore throat, I reckon. It 'll keep you dry a little, any- how. You needn't be afraid on't. 'T was span clean this morning." It was somewhat questionable whether the lady would not have preferred the summer rain to the Sunday vest which Ben had worn through such a hot day, and under his blue coat, too; but, if she did, she had too much regard for his feelings to say so, though it must be acknowledged that, in the dark- ness, she managed to tuck her own pocket-handker- chief under it. With the necessity of quieting the children and attending to the storm, the waiting party were so wholly absorbed as to forget entirely the fireworks; they were not once spoken of, though it was some time before the gentleman returned with a carriage. Glad enough were they of its friendly shelter. They bade adieu to Boston Common and its great- preparations without regret. The lady was to be left first, and, as they rode on, Ben gave her a graphic description of their dinner at the confectioner's, and how he had "got taken in with that pitcher of milk, and the lobster-bauce, and the cup of tea, and all that." It seemed as if page: 224-225[View Page 224-225] 224 THE GLORItos FOtRTH IN BOSTOx. nothing could tire out Ben's spirits. The gentle. man and lady laughed, almost to exhaustion. "We get out here," aid the lady, when the car- riage stopped. "Do you?" said Ben; "I'm dreadful sorry. I wish you'd come to see us. We 'll give you plenty of milk and green grass." "Yes, do come!" said Mrs. Ben; "why at't you?" "4 I certainly shall call, if I ever go through your town," shid the lady. "Good-night. O, here is your vest," said she, laughing; "I came very near running off with it. I am very much obliged to yOUa "You 're welcome to fifty on 'em," said Ben. "Good-night, again." As the gentleman stepped Up to Ben, and. bade himi goodilight, he said, ", Yoi fOte is all paid, remembher," You need n't do that," said-Ben bdt the dobr was closed, the gentleman almost out of sight, and the dripping hackman was mounting his box. Rap- idly, now, through the muddy streets drove he, aid the dep6t was soon reached. He helped Ben and his party out, and then, with the bag in his hand, said, "Fifty cents to pay, sir."' "No sich thing," said Ben; "I see the gentle- man pay you, with my own eyes." "He only paid me for two; there are four of yot, sir." THE GLORIOUS FOU1rTH IN BOSTON. 225 "Them are only babies, and, they rid in our laps." (Can't help it; that's our rule." lT won't gin it to ye," said Ben; "you're a regular shaver." ",You may get your bag as you can, then," said the driyer, coolly mounting. "; 'i new frock, and all!" screamed Mrs. Ben; "do pay him, and let him go,- we are getting drenched here." "I guess you 're first cousin to the feller I saw here this morning, a'nt you?" said Ben, handing him the half-dollar. No reply was vouchsafed, and Ben parted com- pany with city hackmen without tears. It was rather a silent party which the late train took up on the night of the Glorious Fourth. All were wet, weary, and disappointed. Ben made an effort to let off a squib or two, but they fell to the ground. The children slept, and the mother all but dreamed. Her thoughts flitted hither and thither, and her head followed with uncertain motion. Time and space seemed annihilated. Most in the cars were of precisely her mind. Suddenly a shrill whistle started them to their feet. It was repeated, -the conductor slammed open the door,--he gave the signal,- the de6pt was reached. The storm had all passed like the dream, the wind was heard no page: 226-227[View Page 226-227] Q !tIEB GLOGIOV - FOUTH I I* OSBON. more, and the silvery moon was now riding like a triumphant queen through the light-artillery of flying clouds. And there, jott under the shed, as if he had not stirred sinae morning, was Dob, still eating sorel and spearmint. Tim was on the wagon-seat, fst asleep, and a sound shaking com. pleted what the whistle had only begun. Ben thought he would look at the "old un," and see if it took Dob as long to go home as it did to come. He felt in this pocket,-he felt in the other,--he went back to the first one, and felt them all over again; - no watch was there,- it was gone, clean gone, forever,--and it was grandsir's, too! "You are rather late, this morning," said Mr. Morton, to Ben Jones. "What is the matter? did you go on your carouse yesterday?" Yes, sir, I did," said Ben, digging away indus- triously. "Hfave you lamed your arms, that you move them so stiffly? "Got the rheiinatiz." Ben dug away; he was in the very unusual mood of silence. Mr. Mborto left him until a few hours' labor had limbered him a little. On his return, he found him more sociable. "Did you g to Boston, yesterday?" asked he, again. THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 227 ( Go? I guess I did," said Ben, looking up. "Well, did you have a good time of it?" A good time? If 't wan't the tarnalest toughest job. I ever did in my life, then I 'll give up beat!" "Why, what was the matter? Did your wife go?" "Yes, wife and I and the babies; and 'twas hotter here than seven blazes. If we could ha' stood still long enough, we should ha' baked any- where. The children, they cried, and we had to keep a feedin' 'em, -and they are all of 'em, all three, sick a-bed to-day, with the dysentery." "Why, you did have a hard time, sure enough," said Mr. Morton. "A hard time?" said Ben, fairly dropping his hoe, and looking up, --"I guess you'd think so! Why, Bub lost his hat, to set out with, and that cost me a whole dollar; then we got left to the wrong house, for Simon had moved, and had to walk on them ere biling-hot bricks a mile or so, and found Simn wan't to home, nother; then we come back, and got a dinner, and they axed me two dol- lars for a leetle pitcher of milk, and one thing and another; and then we shopped and carried the young uns till we ached like a blister; and we jest got sot down on the Common, kind o' comfortable, a little, when all that happened." Ben broke off, and begat -to dig furiously. page: 228-229[View Page 228-229] 228 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. "I suppose you did not see the fireworks, then, after all?" *"See 'em!" said Ben; "I guess we did n't. There was nothing but a little siz- siz - sizzle, and down came the blackest thunder-storm, I guess, you ever seed, right on top of 'en, and put 'em all out. And it never rained so, I 'll be bound, since Noah's cousins got a duckin'. We were as wet as a batch of drowned kittens, in less than no time, every one of "You did have a rough time of it, I think," said Mr. Morton, smiling. "That a'nt the half on't, either," said Ben, growing communicative with sympathy. "The rain spiled all the Sunday rigging, and a bran new frock, in the bag, wife had just bought; and, what's more nor all that, some of them Boston gen'lmen hauled out old grandsir's watch, clean as a whistle, and off with it, and that's the last I shall see hide nor hair on't. 'Twan't worth much to go; but wife, she had sot her heart on melting it down into a spoon; but I'd gin it to 'em, gladly, if they 'd only show me how they got it." Mr. Morton laughed so heartily that Ben had to join him. "It will prove rather an expensive trip, Ben," said he. - ' "Expensive!"said Ben, "all I can earn in one THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 229 month won't make it up, to say nothing of doctors' bills. Everything seemed to go agin us, somehow; everything except a real lady we met. She was kind as could be. We should have fared worse still, without her, I reckon. I wonder if you don't know her? She looks most 'zackly like Anna Ship- man, only she is sorne taller." "I do not think I do," replied Mr. Morton. "She was a pretty cretur, I can tell you," said Ben. "I suppose you will not care much, then, to go to Boston again to keep the Fourth?" "I s'pose I shan't," said Ben, digging away, "till I 'm some older. I've cut my eye-teeth!" "It is not always the costly pleasures which we enjoy the most," remarked Mr. Morton. "That's a fact," said Ben. "I 've been down to the Crossing arter a skein of yarn, some pleasant evening, and the work all done, wife and babies and all, and had a great deal better time on t."' Ben dug away, apparently so determined to make up for time to him worse than lost, that Saturday night found the job done, for which he received a large week's wages. This was generously given, in consideration of his mis-adventures on the Glorious Fourth. 20 page: 230-231[View Page 230-231] FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. A YELLOW chaise, drawn by a stout black horse, was seen advancing towards the setting sun; within it were Dr. Harris and his young bride. The doctor was looking over his horse's ears in silence, and with a sad and abstracted look. A sudden turn in the road brought to view a village, which nestled under the protecting wing of one of the western purple clouds. Mrs. Harris, whom for dear old acquaintance sake we will call Mary, looked up at her husband, surprised. That's not it " "Thlat is it, Mary." "It is quite a city; from your description, I ex- pected to find only log huts, with a white- house scattered here and there. Why, Charles! what more could a young physician ask for " "Nothing, if he could have it all to himself; but when he must pull with twenty .other doctors, it does not seem quite so;attractive." "But you told me," said Mary, with a laugh, that but one of them had been liberally educated. I do not think you have any occasion to fear them." "That is so." FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 231 "You have been so well educated, Charles, and have a yearns experience of practice besides. I think your chances of success are good, if yfu will not get discouraged by your first trials." "You have very little idea, Mary, what an un- dertaking it is for a young physician to start as a stranger in a strange place." "You are getting better of your youth every doyv; look here! gray hairs already. You will be rspected!" And the young wife playfully wound her fingers around a pet curl. "I know one thing," said the doctor, in a more cheerful tone. "What is that?" "We will not, at any rate, trouble about the future, until the honeymoon is over." "Nor then either," replied she; " if we keep up brave hearts, and live within our means, we shall certainly succeed sin time. But where are you driving me to?" "This is Mrs. Bailey's, our boarding-house; and there she is at the window, looking for us. Now for a Western welcome!" This Mary certainly received, as she entered their new and unpretending home. The doctor had selected the cheapest boarding-house which was -omfortable, or would be considered respectable; for he had nothing to depend upon but his ownexer- ,er page: 232-233[View Page 232-233] 5ZM FIRST TRIA S OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. tions. Yet he felt embarrassed by the necessity of making a good appearance in the selection of his office, which, being in a public square, did exceed in rent what he felt able to pay. There was, however, no help for it; and he contented himself with the reflection that his expenses, though serious for him, were yet as small as they could, with propriety, be made. His wife kept a journal of his first efforts to establish himself at the West, and from this we make our story. "At first," she writes, " matters went on swim- mingly. A little furniture was purchased for the office, and I bought a set of cheap curtains, which I chose to make up in a most elegant and fashionable style, and the making interested me much. When they were hung, we felt that they well paid for the labor bestowed upon them, for they gave our room an air of taste and refinement which it had not before. The library was then arranged; a small one, it is true, but a valuable one it was, and in a conspicuous part of it was placed the doctor's more valuable box of instruments; the parting preseht from his father. Alas, as yet they had seen no service; but I comforted myself for this with the reflection that the cases were very elegant, and added much to the looks of our library-shelves. Thus occupied, a few happy days glided swiftly by, FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 283, and then our pleasant work was all finished. We had found a place for everything, and everything was in its place; and there was not even the shadow of an. excuse for again disturbing them. The doctor could lay his hand on anything in the dark; even the green cloth on the little centre-table had been smoothed to the last extremity of smoothness, and the negligent ease with which 'the smaller profes- sional works lay mixed up with odd numbers of Johnson's Chirurgical Review, could not be im- proved. A handsome pocket-case, in bright red morocco, and a bright tooth-extracter, were mingled in with the books, to give a practical expression to the table. To complete the whole, a sign had been swung out from the office-window, and the name of 'Dr. Harris' shone in golden letters from a blue ground. A handsome sign that was, too, and it cost us the dollars-more than we'could affird to pay; but, then, Dr. Harris was just commencing, and it was of vital importance that his name should take the passers-by. This being done, and the chairs reirranged for the twentieth time, perhaps, we were obliged to sit down, and wait for profes- sional calls. "' For a few days we managed very well; I took a y sewing to the office, and Charles read aloud to amee; and, as it was too soon to expect business, we had no occasion to be disappointed that it did not 20* tFQ He a", page: 234-235[View Page 234-235] 234 FIRST -TCIALS OF A YOUY PHYSICIAN. come. Thus passed many, to me, very pleasant days. I took ' no note of time,' and was, therefore, astonished, when the doctor said, one morning, 'Mary, did you know that my sign has been out three weeks, and I have not been called upon even to extract a tooth?' "' Three weeks! it cannot be possible?' said I, dropping my work. "' Yes, it is three weeks, and I have done no- thing, either, in the way of study. This is your fault, you steal-time! it is as much as 1 can do to entertain you.' And he gave me what might be called a strong expression of displeasure; whether it was or not, is another thing. "' Perhaps you will not have a call in three months,' said I, by way of comforting him; 'in- deed, I have, from the first, scarcely expected that you would. The people have hardly learned your name; still, it is true, your time is too precious to be thrown away on me, after this fashion. You must commence, at once, that famous course of study you planned for yourself; and, during study hours, I will stay in our room, at Mrs. Bailey's.' "I did this, though it cost an effort; it was lonely for me, yet I felt repaid when I perceived that the doctor was happier for returning to his pro- fessional studies; but, alas! time passed, and brought FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 235 no business, and the doctor's spirits fell again to zero. "'Mary,' said he to me, one day,' let us pull up stakes, and go to the West. If you say so, I 'll start to-morrow; I'know 1 can find something to do out there, and Hsee, plainly enough, that here I have no chance at all.' "I will go, if you wish it,' replied I, 'but it is not a plan which recommends itself to my judg- ment. You will leave behind you the reputation of a man who is easily discouraged, and this would be a professional injury to you; I do not think we have occasion to feel very anxious about the future; we are sure of a support for six months. Let us remain that time, and then, if you have not had a single call, we will begin to talk about Westward ho!' "The doctor threw down a sharp instrument, with which he was punching holes in his fore-finger, took up a book, but answered never a word. The cloud was settling, indeed had settled, over him. With a sigh, I drew my chair near the window, and began to look out upon the busy multitude, as they passed and re-passed; and (may I be forgiven!) I could not repress the wish that some accident, or sme sudden fit of illness, would be the occasion of a timely call upon Dr. Harris. But no accident, or fit of apoplexy, answered to my selfish demand. * . . ,' page: 236-237[View Page 236-237] -236 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUts OMCIAN. 'The busy multitude poured along their beaten track, and to all appearance health kept them company. At length my attention wab attracted by an old wagon, to which was harnessed a ikeleton of a horse. He, at least, poor beast! might have been benefited by Dr. Harris' professional services. This wagon was filled with children, and upon the front seat was a pale-looking woman, apparently the mother of them, with a crying baby in her arms. These were hopeful signs, which became exceedingly encourag- ing when the driver reined in, and the old skeleton and load of children and the pale woman all stopped before or office-door. She looked up to our gold and blue sign, now swinging musically in the south wind, and my heart leaped to my mouth. I thought We had such a load of patients! but only the driver dismounted, and he went into a tobacco-shop, and the paoe woman sat still, tossing the sickly child until he returned; and then they all drove away, and thus ended - or first alarm! "I can assure you I troubled myself to watch no mare wagons that day, but on the next it so chanced that we were both standing at the same window, silently looking down the street, and sighing now and then over 'hope long deferred.' As we stoo there, we saw a young girl on the opposite side wal, looking very earnestly at us. When she eaugt fight of the new sign, she immediately cromsed oevr. FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 237. "The doctor negligently threw open his window, and stood drumming on the sill. The girl looked into his face, and seemed to say, 'Yes, you are the one;' and she also quickened her speed. We lis- tened breathlessly to hear her foot-fall on the stairs, but all was still. She had turned in another direc- tion, and I saw the flutter of her faded calico as she disappeared around the corner. "I caught Dr. Harris' eye, and we both laughed merrily at our disappointment. "'Why! did n't you think she was coming here ' "'Most certainly; and I believe she did intend to,.' "' So do I; so there goes my first case.' "We speculated longer on the probable cause of this girl's changing her mind than any one would believe possible who had not been placed in similar circumstances; but we never satisfied ourselves with regard to it, further than to settle it in our own minds that she had almost made us a call. Thus were we laughing and comforting ourselves, when the tea-bell called us home. We could hear it from Mrs. Bailey's distinctly, especially when the office- window was open. Time passed, but we had not even another alarm. to hear of the far West again, and we had Cl'etiwalks back and forth from our boarding-house. One day the doctor seemed so exceedingly down- page: 238-239[View Page 238-239] :238 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. hearted that to cheer him I ventured to propose we -should take a ride out to an Indian settlement which I had long wished to visit. He gladly fell in with the proposal;- it gave him something to do. Long did I remember that afternoon. The autumn sun shone brightly and hopefully, and the scenery was beautiful about us, and the huge forest-trees were like burnished crimson and gold. I enjoyed every. thing as we rode along, and even the doctor looked nearly as happy as if he were charging his fifteen dollars a day. It was quite dusk when we returned, and, more for ceremony than anything else, we made our first stop at the office. I held the horse, while Charles ran up. In a few minutes he returned, :looking quite disturbed. "' What do you think hap happened, Mary?' said lhe. "'What? inquired I, alarmed; 'have you had a call?' "Yes; and lost the job of extracting three teeth! So much for going out riding, instead of staying in my office!' "I could not say a word. Three teeth! And how many other odd jobs might that have brought in &rain! Drawing three teeth! an operation, Dr. Harris performed better than any p the country! Was it not a sore disa It would have made such a ood commenc FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 239 him! I could only reply, with a forced calmness, 'It is the last job you shall ever lose because you are out riding with me.' I could not eat my sup- per. Mrs. Bailey kindly inquired if I was ill. Charles laughed, and told her I was ill of three old teeth. "No young wife wholly escapes being homesick when she first leaves her home. The fit will come, earlier or later. Most frequently it is at dusk that she recalls the distant ones, and remembers that she has voluntarily separated herself from them; and. sometimes she mourns for the moment. "At such an hour as this, I was sitting alone at the office-window. Thoughts of my mother had opened the flood-gates, and I was weeping. Just- then Charles came quickly up stairs, singing, in a deep, rich, melodious voice, 'Begone, dull care. By the lingering light, I saw his fine face was ex- ceedingly animated, and he looked altogether so very attractive, as he approached me, that I realized that, if I had left much, I had found much. "'Mary,' said he, I 've had a call! I've thad ai call!' "'You are joking, Charles.' "'Pon honor I am not. You remember Slayton . an you thought so polite? He has:a; ,and just asked me to send him some- page: 240-241[View Page 240-241] 240 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. "A light was instantly struck. If a stranger had happened in then, he might have thought a fortune ]ad suddenly fallen to us. Never was a dose of medicine prepared with greater care, or enveloped in neater style. Saving the perfumery, it would compare w6ll with a love-note, according to the best of my recollection. Dr. Harris danced away to his own music to deliver it. I lighted a lamp, and tak- ing down a huge blank-book, placed it on the centre. table, and put a pen nicely mended on its cover, that everything might be convenient for Dr. Harris to make his first charge, which he did, whistling the while. This entry was a blessing to us. It fur- nished a little peg, on which we hung as many hopes as it would bear, and rather more, for the prescrip- tion worked like a charm, and Mr. Slayton did not come again for professional advice. "For some time nothing .more was said about the West. Study hours gradually became regular, and seemed to be the business of the day,- the only business, judging from the first page in that blank- book, where Mr. Slayton's name still stood alone, in its glory.' "One day I was sitting at the office-window, en- gaged in my old employment, musing. Iwas over- turning carriages, and making old gentleme tep opai, orange-peel and break limbs, that Dr. Harr t ightL have employment. A very spirited horse FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 241 came prancing down the street. A lady was driv- ing him, and she looked much frightened. However, the horse did well enough until he encountered a set of quarrelling dogs, when he became frightened, and reared. The ladies screamed; a man sprang to their assistance; but the horse bounded around the corner, and was out of sight in an instant. O0, Charles!' said I; but he was already half across the square. I remained at the window, watching the crowd, with contending emotions. I did hope no one was hurt, and yet if any one should be, I did hope Dr. Harris would be there in season; he was so famous as a sur- geon, and had such a fine box of instruments - there was not another like it in the state. 'Perhaps,' thought I, 'I had better take it down, and have it all ready, in case of need.' I climbed up into a chair, and was just turning the key of the book-case, when I heard the doctor coming up, laughing. With a blush, I sprang down from the chair. : "' What is the matter?' said I, half inclined to be vexed. "'Would you believe it, Mary?- there were eight doctors around the carriage before I could reach it; and four were drawing one of the ladies off!' "' Well,' said I heartily, 'I do hope she was not: -hurt!" :"!'I-- eurped to my work, and Charles to his page: 242-243[View Page 242-243] 6di JIctJI' 'l'KilALULi Ur A XuUAW J r1Xi5ULOaw. books, but it was qome time before I could sympa- thize fully with his occasional bursts of laughter. i"Some time after this, he asked me, gravely, if I should not like to go home and make a visit. "' And take you away from your business?' "' Business! I have not even used my lancet since we have been out here.' "' But I thought you had come to the decision that your business, for six months, was, to remain in this office and study, if you had no professional calls,-- had not you?' "' Yes,--but-- "' Hark! some one comes; they have knocked at our door.' ' Come in,' called out the doctor, in a grave tone. "A pleasant-looking young girl obeyed the invita- tion, and I felt my face flush with pleasure. I could have thanked her for her timely call. I rose to give her a seat. She looked about, with a bewil- dered air. '0, I thought-is this a mantua- maker's room? ' she asked, timidly. "No; it is a doctor's office.' "' Indeed! I have made a mistake,' and she van- ished. I enjoyed a laugh then as well as the doctor, and in very good spirits we resumed our employ- meats. He was reading aloud, and he continued: "4Is she dead," gasped the colonel, withorut ioving FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 243 from where he stood or relaxing his hold of Ogilvie's arm. "No," replied the general, turning as pale as his companion. "Then what, tell me?" whispered Colonel St. Helen, his eyes almost starting out of their sockets, while the drops of perspiration stood on his forehead. At a word spoken by Gen. Ogilvie in a low tone- "There, Charles, some one knocks,' said I, start- ing. '0, dear. Co-me in.' Now a woman en- tered. I had learned by experience not to be in an un- becoming haste to offer our visitor a chair; so I rose slowly, for my mind was full of the poor colonel. The woman, to my surprise, sat down. I was silent. "' Do you wish to see the doctor?' said Charles, at length, recovering from a sort of stupor. "'Yes,' said she, and was silent again. The doc- tor gave me a significant look, which I interpreted You had better retire into our ante-room,'-which place, reader, between ourselves, was no more nor less than our wood-closet. Realizing our good for- tune, I was hastily obeying, when my progress was arrested by a sharp, shrill voice saying, I called to see if you did n't want no washing done.' "After this, for a long time, the young physician was left to pursue his studies, undisturbed. He was growing older, and wiser, and poorer, daily. "Once he seriously proposed the plan of throw- page: 244-245[View Page 244-245] 244 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. ing up his profession and going into business. I laughed him out of it. Then he proposed entering the army. "Yes, to be ordered to New Orleans, and die there of yellow fever.' "' Why not turn editor, then?' "'And starve in a garret?' "What will you have me do, Mary? Live we must.' "'Why, our six months are not much more than half out,' said I. 'We are sure of a support for that length'of time. Is it not best to abide by our original plan until they have expired? Then, if there is no prospect of business here, we will look fur- ther.' 4 What a fool I was, Mary,' said he, in reply, 'to take you from all the comforts of your home, and bring you out here to starve! ' "' And how foppish you are becoming out here in ja the woods!' said I. 'Only look in the glass! What a cant you give your curls to one side! Is that the latest style? You are quite an exquisite. O, look! there is another woman, spelling out your golden name; and hark! I do believe, - yes, she is coming up!' "I was glad when she opened the door. It was agreeable to see any one, particularly at that cloudy moment. FIRST TRIALS OP A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 245 "' Is this a doctor's office?' she inquired. "'Yes,' said I, hastily.-. There is the doctor. Do you wish to see him?' (' That I do,' said she. "Again the doctor gave me an intelligent look; but this time I lingered long enough to be sure it was not washing she was after, and then, with a happy heart, I stepped lightly into our ante-chamber, and closed the door. I made room for myself quietly on a logj of wood, and sat down. A little light, which came through a solitary pane of glass, af- forded me some company, and I busied myself build- ing airy castles on the corner-stone of this, the doctor's first call. Broad and high and beautiful they were, and we were dwelling in them, respected and happy. 'And all this,' said I to myself, 'for persevering through the first difficulties. How glad I am we did so! I wonder how this woman heard of him! - "It seemed to me as if she never would go. Pleas- ant as my thoughts were, I began to weary of them, as dim impressions of their very visionary nature forced themselves upon me. I was glad when I heard her leave, and I was released from my confinement. I entered the office, and I am sure my countenance expressed both pride and pleasure. I found Dr. Harris leaning on his table, arranging his books, but in a brown study. 21* page: 246-247[View Page 246-247] 246 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG ,pHYSICIAN. "Well,' said I, my enthusiasm cooling down sud- denly, ' what is it? ' 4 Why, she thought I was an old sweating doctor who used to keep here, and made me listen to a long catalogue of her aches and ails; and when I asked her if I should prescribe for her, sh9 replied, '4 Why, to be plain and honest, she was 'fraid of these ere young doctors, with their 'pot'ecary stuffs. She had a mind they killed about as many as they cured; but, as I did n't look as desateful as some of them, if she could make up her mind to take my stuff, she would come back and let me know."' "We never saw her again, though many an hour I watched for her, as for an absent friend, "a One very delightful day, very' late in the fall, Dr. Harris insisted hupon it that I should have a ride, as I had been suffering from head-ache for several hours. I remembered the three teeth, and made every suitable objection; but they were of no avail. He went for a horse, and I sat down to fin-? ish off a letter home. Pretty soon I heard a clumsy step over the stairs, and then some one fretted away at the door-latch. It yielded, and an old man, ragged and dirty, made his appearance. He was nearly blind, and felt his way along with a stick to the table at which I was sitting. I thought of re- treating, when he touched his hat with much native FIRST TRIALS OF' A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 247 grace, and, with a thick voice and foreign accent, inquired if Dr. Harris was in. "' Ah, here is a patient at last!' thought I. ' Now how shall I contrive to detain him until the doctor returns? I must show him something to interest him.' "' He will be in in one minute, sir,' said I. ' Sit down. This is a delightful day. You look weary; have you walked far? Pray sit down.' "' Bless your swate heart, you're the doctor's wife, are n't you? ' "' Yes.' "' Well, I bid ye welcome to this country!' "' Thank you,- thank you. Pray be seated. Have you long been ill?' (' Blessings on ye, my lady, I an't sick! You don't wish I was, do you V' "What could I say? Certainly I did not wish ill to the old man, but I should have been so glad to : have presented a patient to the doctor on his return! I made some pleasant reply, and resumed my pen. "' I knew Dr. Harris, once, I did,' said my, vis- itor, seating himself. ' He cured my old woman of rheumatiz when he was out here before, and it's my opinion that there isn't a doctor in the country knows as much as he does, and so I tells every- bo0dy.' "I looked up from my writing, and listened with page: 248-249[View Page 248-249] A)48 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. much complacency; and from my heart I forgave the old man for not being a patient. "' I hearn,' continued he,' that he brought his young wife to these parts, and I haye been onasy ever since; and so to-day I walked four miles, with the help of my old stick here, that I might bring her a present. It is n't much, but it is all I had in the world to bring.' "From a somewhat greased basket he then took out a paper bag, which he presented to me. I found it filled with the inest plums which I had ever seen. I thanked him for them so heartily that his old face brightened up. "' I am sorry I shan't see the doctor,' said he, 'Won't you tell him never to forget Jerry? for Jerry never will forget him. My best wishes for you, my lady, are, that you may be as happy as he is good. Don't rise, don't rise; I must be going. When you are a-riding, don't pass our door. Good- orning ;' and Jerry left me. It would have taken a very fine professional call to have given me as much pleasure as his had done; that I can truly say. "( In this pleasure the doctor fully shared, and we had a most delightful ride that afternoon; for we had something very interesting to talk about, - but what it was is a secret. "'Why, how bright you both look!' said Mrs. FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 249 Bailey, as we entered her tea-room. 'What has happened?' "Our six months of trial were drawing to a alose, and still Dr. Harris had received no calls worth mentioning. I had for some time ceased to expect them, and we were seriously thinking over the next step to be taken. "'After all,' said the doctor, in reply to some re- mark of mine about our position, 4 these six months have not been lost to me. I have read a great deal of medicine, and I have learned many things which will be an advantage to me in starting again.' "'That is true,' said I; 'there is a bright side to everything; and if We will "look for it, we can find it. You have proved one thing,- that you are neither fickle nor easily disheartened, Charles; and in some way or other this reputation will certainly prove an advantage to you. How many doctors have put out signs, and taken down, and moved away from this square, even since we have been here?' "'Four,' said the doctor, laughing; 'but I really wish I could have one good case before I follow suit. Ah! here is Mr. Gould. I am happy to see you, sir. Sit down.' "' The doctor was just wishing a patient,' said I, extending my hand to our friend, as he entered; page: 250-251[View Page 250-251] 250 FIlST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 'but I am happy to see you looking so well. How are you all at home ' "' Harris, my boy is ill,' said he, with a troubled look. "' What's the matter? ' "'I do not know; but I do not like his looks. He had what I should call a high fever, all night.' "' It is rather sickly among children, just now,' said the doctor, whittling away at a pine chip; ' but children will be feverish, often, from slight causes. Perhaps your boy has taken a little cold. He has been vaccinated, has n't he?' "No; his mother never would consent to it.' "'That's a pity. tou ought to have it done.' "I tried to converse with our guest, but he was evidently absent-minded and uneasy, and made but a short call. "' I wish you would step over with me, Harris,' said he, 'and look at the boy. I don't like this small-pox business.' "' O, I've no fear of small-pox,' said Charles, laughing, and putting his long-disused medicine-case in his pocket; 'but I will go and see what is the matter with the child, if you wish it.- Mary,' said he, as he closed the office-door, giving me a very ex- pressive look, ' if any one calls, say I shall be in soon.' "The doctor found Willy Gould already very ill. FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 251 Disease had fairly taken hold of him, and the became rapidly worse. It was no longer possible to stem the tide;-all the physician could hope for was to lend a helping hand to the frail vessel, in passing the billows. As his danger became more and more apparent, his parents lost their self-control. Many a time, even in the passing of one short hour, the mother came, with quivering lip, grasping the doctor's arm, whispering, ' O, save him! save him! Take all we have on earth, but save our boy!' "One morning I went over with Charles. This was his first case, and of course I was intensely interested in its success. We heard the moanings of the child as soon as we opened the outer door. Stepping into the little nursery, we found him in his crib, looking as if he were very near death. His parents were hanging over him in agony. I felt much for them, but I felt also for one dearer to me than they. The doctor was almost as pale as the child. He had scarcely left the sick-room, day or night, since he was summoned to it. He was in- tensely interested in saving the little patient, both for his friends' sake and his own. "There were many things, I soon perceived, which tried his feelings unnecessarily. The old nurse not unfrequently looked up contemptuously to his young face, and told him, in a tone peculiarly her own, 'that she had seen death before.' page: 252-253[View Page 252-253] 252 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. "' Harris,' sometimes said the father, in his dis tress, 'are you sure this powder is the best thing? You know you are young yet.' "A That is a very powerful dose,' said the mother, at length. Now, if Dr. Harris has no objection, I should prefer to consult with Dr. Smith, before giv- ing it. He is an older man, you know, and has had much experience with children.' "Dr. Harris was perfectly cordial in aceedinig to this plan, and Dr. Smith was immediately sent for. His head was gray enough, but I fancied-though may be it was all a fancy - that he looked with-a jeal. ous eye upon my young doctor, and that he was not inclined to approve of his course, if he could help it. Indeed, he did object to administering the powder. The boy lay apparently dying. There was no time to be lost. It was a very exciting moment. "'Shall I give it, or not ' said the agitated mother, hanging over her idol, as if she feared his last breath would escape before they answered her. "' I think it must be given,' said Charles, firmly. 'I must administer-it, if I retain the ease; but if you wish, Mrs. Gould, I will at once place the case in Dr. Smith's hands.' "Mrs. Gould held a hurried consultation with her husband, and then he proposed that. Dr. Holmes, an old and valued family physician, should b: sent for, and the case submitted to him. This was agreed FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 253 upon, and Dr. Holmes was soon brought to what, by this time, seemed surely the chamber of death. When he entered the parents had turned, weeping, to the window, that they might hot see the last struggle. "'The child is not dying yet,' said Dr. Holmes, in his rough, kind voice. Mother, what you cry- ing for? I don't know but he may die, but I hope not. Wipe up! we shall want you to nurse him pretty soon, I dare say; and if you fret it will'hurt him.' "Dr. Harris looked exceedingly pleased. 'I told you, all the time, he was not dying,' said he to its father. "Well, I know it, Harris; but I could n't believe you,' said Mr. Gould, laughing and crying together. "The old nurse was silent. She had committed herself to the opinion that the child must soon die, and she meant to wait and see what came of it. "A statement of the case was made to Dr. Holmes, and the powder submitted to his judgment. "'Now, Dr. Harris,' said he, in his same rough way,' Dr. Smith's medicine is very good; but if I had charge of the boy, the dose I should give him is the one you hold in your hand.' "So it was given. Willie swallowed with diffi- culty. Charles never left him; ;-he stood with his finger on the flickering pulse. It is rising, rising. The child had merely swooned. He soon 22 page: 254-255[View Page 254-255] 254 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. came out of the fainting-fit. 'Don't crowd about him,' said Charles; * give him air. There, he has opened his eyes. Now call his mother;-let her see him.' "From this moment the parents hoped. Dr. Smith and Dr. Holmes went away, and the case was left quietly in Dr. Harris' hands. He re- nained day and night in that nursery, until all dan- ger was over; then, with a proud and happy look, placed the little white sufferer in its mother's arms. 'All he needs now,' said he, ' is good nursing; and that you must give him.' "' I 'll tell you what,' said Mr. Gould to me, one day; when I called there, Mrs. Harris, your hus- band is a first-rate physician; and if he does not get the best practice in this place, after this, it won't be my fault.' Mr. Gould was a leading- man-- a man of great influence - in the town, and he made his word good. "From this time Dr. Harris' practice steadily iR- creased, until, at length, he had his hands full of business. True, many of his calls. brought in no pay; but he did not despise them on this account. He attended to all he could get, for he valued the practice. A few paid, and a little money came in. This was all given into my keeping. A-t length I began to mourn that I had to pay so much of it to Mrs. Bailey for boarding. ' It would go so far in a FIRST TRIALS OP A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 255 little house of our own,' thought I; and the thought, once admitted, would not be expelled. My mother had a neat fit-out for me whenever I should need it, and I knew I could send for this at any time; and the more I thought of the plan, the more delightful and feasible it seemed. I mentioned it to Charles, and he fell in with it at once. Gentlemen are always ready to go to house-keeping. They like' to provide for their families in their own homes. So much in earnest was the doctor about it that he made me go out with him, every leisure moment he had, house-hunting. This we found a difficult task. To suit our means, and yet obtain a central position, seemed impossible. I began to despair, when, one afternoon, we stumbled upon a little box of a house, hidden behind' some fine old maple-trees. It looked very well externally; - it was painted white, and had green blinds at its few windows, and a varnished front-door. There was a little yard before it, and garden in the rear, and, what pleased me much, a nice barn. I was so delighted with it, and we found the rent so very low, that the doctor hired it, and I sent to my mother for our furniture. We found, however, to our disturbance, that the inside of the house was sadly out of repair. Our landlord re- fused to put one dollar into repairs. He said he could not afford to, if he rented it so low. Neither could I consent to put my new furniture into it, in page: 256-257[View Page 256-257] 256 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. the state in which it was; so I proposed to the doe- tor that we should paper and paint it ourselves. I found him quite ready to undertake it, and we drove out of town, one day, and bought our paint in the raw material, because it came cheaper. We ground it down, and mixed it ourselves, and we painted and papered our little box from garret to cellar; and we sung over our work; and when all was done it was wonderful to see how nice it looked. My furniture was pretty, and in good taste; and everything was so neat and snug that I think we looked better than many of our richer neighbors. Here we settled down, in the fall;-Dr. Harris and his wife, Eleanor the baby, and Ann, the fat Dutch girl who took care of her. I thought I had all I wanted. Ann and I were to do the work together. This I thought I should find an easy matter; but I soon learned that there is just such a round of ceremony to be gone through, at house-keeping, if there are but two of you; and, further than that, a baby will have its full share of attention, and consumes much of one's time. I found myself, therefore, more closely confined at home than was good either for my health or spirits; so I put on my thinking-cap, one day, to see what could be done about it. It struck me that if we could take a couple of pleasant table-boarders, it would pay the wages of a good strong servant, who could do all the work, and bring us in FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 257 a little over every week besides, if I -managed it well. I proposed it to the doctor; at first he hesi- tated. He was enjoying the new dignity of a householder, and it was not agreeable to him to think of keeping boarders; but after a time his judgment fell in with mine about it, and two pleas- ant young gentlemen, and a stout serving-girl, were added to our establishment. "I did find this arrangement gave me more liberty, and also added to our income a pretty little sum weekly. Under the privacy of one's own roof, one can cut and contrive and economize, and make things do which never would answer at boarding. I soon found that my savings were just as good as the doctor's earnings; and that, without them, it would have been quite impossible for him to have brought the two ends together so finely, and to have had a little penny oven for a wet day, and this, too, in the first year of housekeeping. How glad I was that we went to housekeeping! "Calls, calls, calls! Dr. Harris was in great demand; and, at length, was out from morning until night, and used to come in looking so weary, that it troubled me. We had added one more gen- tleman to the number of our table boarders, -aa indeed, I found the arrangement a very profitabl one, - but still I was not satisfied. One November noon, I' wandered out into our little garden, and 22 ' page: 258-259[View Page 258-259] 258 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. opened the door of our barn. I stood, as I had fre- quently done before, looking in, and thinking, until I saw a pony standing before me in the stall, and neighing in a. most friendly manner, and the loft well filled with hay, and a sulky standing there, with a neat harness. I then closed the door upon these imaginary treasures, and, sitting down on a stone in the sunshine, I again put on my thinking- cap. What could be done to help the doctor 2 He was wearing himself out. Now I remembered that, when purchasing my wedding finery, I had saved a little portion of my dowry, and tucked it away in the corner of an old red pocket-book. There is no knowing, thought I, what may happen, and I can do without more ribbon. It occurred to me that this sum would just about purchase a second-hand sulky, which I had seen in the village, chalked ' for sale,' ever sinde Dr. Simmons' abrupt departure. I knew, also, that the doctor had a small sum put away; and this, I concluded, would purchase a cheap pony and harness. The plan pleased me so much, I became very impatient for the doctor's return, that I might tell him of it; but the short November afternoon was spent, and he did $ot come, and at length I went down into the kitchen, to talk it over with Nannie. She was as much pleased with the prospect as I was. 'And now I will tell you what it is, Mrs. Harris,' said FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 259 she; ' if you do get a pony, let us begin with him to make him eat everything, and then we can give him half his living from the house.' This sugges- tion of Nannie's I afterwards found very valuable. "Our gentlemen boarders had been gone from tea some time, and Eleanor was sound asleep, before the doctor came home that night. As soon as I heard him open the front door, I ran to meet him. ' Charles,' said I,' I have such a grand plan to tell you! Come down to your supper as quick as you can, and hear it.' "' What a lady you are for plans!' said he, laugh- ing; 'do you ever leta day go by without making them?' "'This is the best you ever heard,' persisted I, and I soon made it known to him. He approved it highly, and wondered he had not thought of it be- fore; and the very next day he set about making his purchases. Before the week was out, I again opened our little stable-door, and there stood the sulky and the harness, and there, too, was the loft filled with hay; and, more than all that, Letty, the new pony, stood pawing in the stall with her white feet, and these were not imaginary treasures. How rich we felt! There was but one drawhack to my pleas- ure; and that was, that the sulky was not a buggy. There was no way for me to ride with Dr. Harris, unless I rode as Eleanor did, on his'knee, and this page: 260-261[View Page 260-261] 260 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. could only be done .after dark. To compensate for this, he borrowed Mrs. Bailey's old side-saddle, and spent much time re-fitting it for me and Nannie. I learned to saddle the pony, and many a splendid ride did Letty give me through those grand old forests. We became great friends; and, when it chanced that the doctor did not get home in season to feed her, Nannie and I used to give her her supper, and she would rub her head on our shoul- ders, and do everything but speak to us. Many horses have we owned since Letty's day; I became famous for those I used under the saddle, and our carriage-horses were pronounced the finest in the state; but, After all, never have we had any which I loved as I did little Letty, with her-white feet. We purchased her in our poverty, and she did her part well towards aiding us in our success. Peace to her memory! She served her generation faith- fully, and that is more than many of us do. "' It strikes me, in reading over this, that some- thing new has come in fashion for young wives at the present day; that now they think a man must not marry unless he is all ready to support his wife, and support her, too, in a suitable style; and, if he cannot furnish a house-according to her ideas, they must board. I wonder what we should have done, had I insisted upon boarding at the Sun Tavern, &c.? Charles could not take me to a fine house FIRST TRIALS OP A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 261 when first we went West. We might have gone there, and had 'Captain Dodge's best parlor and chamber; and, likely enough, had he still been keeping the Sun Tavern, we might have been there to this day, instead of being in this fine house of our own. No--look at it from what point you will, boarding is not the right way for young people to begin living who have their own fortune to make; they cannot, in this, economize rightly. They must be in a home of their own, be it ever so small, and regulate its policy Just according to their means, and be content to do so. "My friend, if you are thinking of marrying a poor physician, let me give you one word of advice: Make common cause with the doctor, to start with. Do not think it to be his first business to support you, and, above all, to support you in a certain style, and provide you with a New York hat twice a season. If the doctor hires you a small house, and it needs painting sadly, and your landlord will not do a thing to it, do not shrink from painting your own fingers, if by so doing you can make it re- spectable. "Do not be ashamed to have a pleasant table boarder, if you find, by experience, that this will aid your husband in paying his butcher's bills. Put in your oar, and share the sweat of the brow with which page: 262-263[View Page 262-263] 262 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. you must both start up the stream. You will richly enjoy the rest, when you reach the harbor. "I am grateful that these genteel notions about the proper position of the wife were. not discovered when Dr. Harris first swung out his pretty blue and gold sign in the Western sunshine; for, had I fallen a victim to them, then I think Eleanor never would have had what will fall to her to-morrow, on her eighteenth birthday. "But I do not know that I ought to :tell of this. Eleanor is. pretty, and an heiress, and some young Dr. Harris will be for looking her up; and, if he once sees her, he will be more captivated with her sunny smiles and golden curls even than with her golden dower. Then, if Eleanor should like him, the gold might be a disadvantage; for, after all, it is the making of the young physician to force his own way, patiently and perseveringly, through the first trials of his profession."
