Ñåìåðî äî÷åðåé, 9-11 ãëàâà

CHAPTER IX.


Excitements and engagements multiplied with us. One and another had
visitors from the city and we were sent for to tea or to spend the
evening. Stuart was asked every where as well. Louis came down the next
day and sat in the hall with us, where we were sewing as usual. Then on
Thursday we went to the Churchills. They sent the carriage over early,
before we were ready, indeed. Louis eyed the soft cushions wistfully.

“Oh,” I spoke out before I thought, but I was glad an instant
after,—“if you would spare a few moments,—if you would take an invalid
a short drive—”

“With pleasure Miss. The sick young man, I suppose?”

“Yes,” and I ran to beg papa to help him out. Louis was delighted, I
could see.

They drove down the quiet street, where the trees met overhead. Quaint
and old fashioned, with great gardens, many of the houses being owned
by widows, or elderly people whose children were married and gone.
Less than a quarter of a mile away the road curved, and in this little
three-cornered space stood our pretty gray stone church, the shady side
covered with ivy.

“It was delightful;” said Louis on his return. “But I never thought of
the great liberty we were taking.”

“Do not fret about that,” I made answer gaily. “Be just as good as you
can, while I am gone.”

I was glad they had asked no one else at the Churchills. The Maynards
had been over the day before. Miss Churchill received us very
cordially. I explained what I had done, and made a small apology.

“My dear child, I am pleased that you thought of it,” returned Miss
Churchill. “Why, we might send over almost every day. I am glad he is
improving so nicely.”

“It would be a charitable work for me, Aunt Esther. Such a little
satisfies Aunt Lu that I do not keep half busy,” said Mr. Ogden.

“I never knew you to have such an industrious fit;” replied his aunt.

“But I have been in business for a year you see, and have ceased to be
an idler;” and he made a comical face.

Miss Lucy came down soon after. Then we had a nice cordial time talking
about books and looking over pictures.

Sometimes two or three voices sounded at once, not from any ill
breeding, but because we all had so much to say. Then we would laugh
and subside, and begin again. I almost wondered how we dared feel so
much at home, and utter our every day thoughts unreservedly.

Mr. Churchill joined us, and the conversation, asking about church
matters, and if we were going to take the Sunday School to the cascade
again? Were there many sick in the parish?

“Not very many for this season of the year,” I made answer.

“Our town is about as healthy as any location I know. Why people must
be running off to watering places and leaving comfortable houses, I can
not understand.”

“The grand thing is change. Most of us do get tired of running along in
one groove.”

“Why Esther! I thought you considered the doctrine of change a great
heresy!” and Mr. Churchill looked surprised.

“I have been thinking lately that we might make our lives too narrow,
too self-satisfying. So if we get outside we may have our ideas
broadened, and find something new to do, or if we are dissatisfied with
our surroundings, we may come back quite content.”

“Do you want to go any where?”

“Not just now.”

Fan and Lucy had been talking over the picnic.

“Can’t we drive there in the afternoon?” she asked of her brother, “I
should like to see a crowd of happy children.”

“Are you going, Winthrop?”

“I expect to be field marshal. Miss Endicott has engaged my services at
an enormous salary. You will be able to tell me by a blue ribbon around
my left arm, and a primrose in the lappel of my coat. I am to see that
the rear guard is prompt at dinner.”

He looked at me very soberly, and the others glanced in the same
direction. I could not help blushing to the roots of my hair, and
exclaiming:

“Why Mr. Ogden!”

“Aunt Lucy will tell you that I have a great deal of executive
ability.”

They all laughed.

The tea-table was exquisite as usual. Afterward we had music, Fan and
I singing duets, or Mr. Ogden joining us with a very promising tenor
voice.

“Can we not all sing?” asked Fanny presently. “Let me play some
familiar hymns.”

Mr. Churchill came and stood behind her watching the graceful fingers
that dropped such soft, sweet notes. As if he could not resist he added
his bass voice, and then we had quite a choir.

“Young ladies, you have given me an exceedingly pleasant evening;” he
said as we were preparing to leave. “I hope it may soon be repeated.”

Winthrop and Fanny laughed at each other all the way home. They were
not a bit sentimental, and I felt quite relieved. Since the Churchills
were so cordial about it, why should I worry?

He came over the next morning with the barouche and two horses to take
out Mr. Duncan.

“You didn’t ask such a favor for me?” and Louis’ eyes almost flashed.

“I did not ask anything, or even hint. Why can you not go and enjoy
it?”

“I don’t choose to be patronized.”

“I think this was Mr. Ogden’s own planning. You will like him I am
sure. Oh please go,” I entreated.

In the meanwhile Winthrop had been admiring the baby and bantering some
one else to fill up the carriage. Oddly enough mamma consented to take
Edith. When Louis heard that he made no further objection.

The result of this was that Winthrop came back and staid to dinner. We
were all going to the Fairlie’s to tea and croquet. And Fan absolutely
sent him home or I believe he would have staid until we started.

Mamma liked him. Stuart pronounced him jolly, but Louis withheld his
verdict. I must confess that I admired him ever so much. You could get
on with him so nicely.

I was very glad that Fan did not monopolize him during the evening.
Dick appeared quite elated with her notice of him. It was moonlight and
we walked home together, but somehow then Dick fell to my share.

The next week we hardly had a moment to breathe. What with our
engagements and getting everything in train for the picnic we were as
busy as bees. The aristocratic part seldom joined us, but papa always
obeyed the scriptural injunction. The lame, and the halt, and the blind
were hunted up, the whimsical old people who would not go without a
special invitation, the poor who were sure they had nothing to wear,
and the children who were always ready, but needed getting in order.

Mamma remained behind with baby and Louis. I was to act for her as well
as I could. The stronger portion of the community were to meet on the
church green and march in regular order. Fan had beguiled Dick Fairlie
into taking Jennie Ryder and her mother, who was quite disabled from
a stroke of paralysis two years before. All the others were to go in
wagons or stages or wheel-barrows, she said.

Winthrop came over and helped us manage the children. At nine we took
up our line of march under the shady trees. There was a shorter way
in the sun, but we had time enough. This road wound round the hilly
district, crossed the river once, and then seemed to lose itself in the
woods. At least there was the hill and the trees on one side. Here a
craggy declivity stood out bold and brown amid the waving green, ferns
and wild flowers grew in the clefts, or shrubs with precarious footing.
A spur of the creek ran along the height, and presently began to find
its way down through a sort of sloping river, purling over rocks and
stones and fallen trees, and in two places pouring down a precipitous
pathway, making very pretty falls, the larger one at least ten feet
high. Then it ran off and joined the river.

There was one lovely nook, though art had assisted nature here. A
clearing had been made years ago, and now the turf of clover and grass
was like velvet.

It was a small basin between the mountains. Down one side of it came
the cascade, wandering off through the woods in curves that made a
picturesque way. The place was used considerably for pleasure parties,
and kept in tolerable order. The committee had been down the day
before, put up swings, made some long tables and seats, and given the
place quite a homelike air.

The walk was beautiful with varied scenery, fresh, crisp air, and
clearest of skies. Mr. Ogden made acquaintance with Mr. Trafton, our
superintendent, in about five minutes, and they marshalled the children
in a jolly fashion. All heavy baskets and bundles were put in a great
farm wagon, and we had nothing to do but march along triumphantly to
the carol of the birds.

The youngsters were wild, of course. They shouted at a little gray
squirrel which ran along the path, they gave sundry shrill whistles
that exceeded the birds, they laughed and chattered, stepped out of
line to gather wild flowers or pick up some uncommon pebble, beginning
their day’s pleasure at the very outset. But papa did not care. Indeed
he was as merry as any of them.

I thought several times how Stephen Duncan would have liked it. I
wondered what should have brought him so plainly before my mind on this
particular day!

Through winding ways we trooped. Over beyond there were broad meadows
and waving corn-fields, scattered farm buildings and cottages, with a
bit of road, gleaming dusty white in the sunshine, the river broadening
into lakes or bending abruptly; and nearer, the changing glooms and
shadows, the points of the hills in blue and purple and bronze. All the
air was so clear and sweet, it sent the rushes of warm blood to heart
and brain, and then to very finger ends.

The infantry, as Winthrop called it, reached the ground a long while
first. We had to disband and the children ran around as if they had
never seen a bit of country before. Shawls and baskets were stowed in
out-of-the-way corners or suspended from trees. Some of the hardier
boys pulled off shoes and stockings, preparatory to having a good time.
As for us elders, we began to straighten out our affairs and set up
for house-keeping. There were so many lovely people. Miss Oldways,—who
taught the bible-class of larger girls,—in her soft, pearl gray dress,
and ribbon of the same shade on her bonnet, with a bit of pale blue
inside. She was always so sweet and lady-like. She and her widowed
sister, Mrs. Bromley, kept a little thread and needle store in the
village, and, though they were business women, I did not see that it
detracted in the least from their refinement.

Annie and Chris Fellows were with us, and Mrs. Elsden, though she had
four children in the Sunday School, but I think she would have enjoyed
herself any way. Mrs. Fairlie and Kate had gone to the sea-shore the
day before, with the Wests and some others. Then there were Mothers and
Aunts of the children, and several of the farmer families near by.

We had stowed our luggage in a cool, shady place and sent the wagon
home when the caravan arrived. Old ladies who could not have walked,
but were in holiday white apron and kerchief, or best gingham dress,
and some with their knitting. We placed shawls on the mossy rocks or
benches, and seated them.

“Here is your precious cargo,” said Dick to Fannie. “Come and welcome
them.”

“Oh, Mrs. Ryder, I am so glad you _could_ come.”

“I couldn’t if it had not been for you, dear. You are always thinking
of something pleasant. I was so surprised when Dick told me—”

He was Dick to almost everybody, for his father was a plain, sociable
farmer, and the son had grown up with the village boys. It was a great
mortification to Mrs. Fairlie that he did not want to go to college and
liked farming. But then Kate kindly took “cultivation” enough for two.

“What will you do with her?” asked Dick, lifting her out in his strong
arms.

“Right here. O Jennie!” and she went on making a soft corner.

Dick put Mrs. Ryder in it. The neighbors crowded round, glad to see
her out. A pale, sweet, motherly looking woman, who had been very
handsome in her day, and now her cordial thankfulness was good to
behold.

“You are just splendid;” Fan whispered to Dick.

We all liked Jennie Ryder ever so much, and felt a peculiar interest in
her, beside. Two years ago,—or it would be in September,—after Jennie
had graduated with honors she obtained a situation in an excellent
school some twenty miles away, where she could only come home every
Friday, but then the salary was too good to be declined. Just after she
had taught two months, the stroke had fallen upon her mother. A cousin
who had always lived with them was taken ill with a fever and died.
For weeks Mrs. Ryder lay between life and death. Jennie was compelled
to relinquish her school. It was a sore disappointment, for she loved
teaching. But by spring Mrs. Ryder had partially recovered her health,
yet her limbs were well nigh useless. She would hobble around a little
with crutches, but Jennie knew that it would never do to leave her
alone.

They owned a small cottage and garden, but the sickness had made sad
inroads in the little fortune. Jennie felt compelled to earn something
at home, so she bought a sewing machine and did fine work. I suppose
every town or village thinks it _must_ draw a line somewhere. There
were the exclusive West Side people, who only expected to exchange
calls with each other, there were the rich people who had been poor
thirty or forty years ago, and then there was the circle who wanted to
get on and up, by pushing others down and clinging to the skirts of
those just above them. Somehow Jennie Ryder was pushed down. The richer
girls who were at the Academy with her dropped her by degrees when she
sewed for their mothers. One and another left off inviting her out to
little sociables, or croquet. I think she felt it keenly, but she made
no complaint.

She had so many pretty refined ways and accomplishments. If she had
been in a city she could have made them useful, but here all the places
were filled. She painted in water colors, drew in crayons, that were
almost equal to chromos, made moss baskets and ferneries and picture
scrap-books, and had their house looking like a little fairy nest. And
she was so sunny and cheery, and really charming when her true self
had a chance to peep out from the fence that circumstances and ignorant
people built about her.

“Oh,” she said glancing around; “it is like a bit of heaven framed in,
isn’t it? just look at the sky over head and the tree tops and mountain
tops holding it up, as it were. And a whole long, lovely day! I did not
expect on Sunday that I _could_ come.”

“It’s the daily bread for this day;” said papa softly, as he was
shaking hands with her mother.

“And cake and cream and fruit off of the twelve trees. And the seventy
palms with their shade and beauty.”

“You have brought some sunshine,—you seldom go empty-handed, Jennie,”
said papa.

Dick turned and looked at her just then. She had such a clear, sweet,
tender expression, the nameless something better than beauty. A
slender, graceful figure, white and peachy-pink tints with brown hair
and eyes. Her dress was white and a marvel of workmanship, with its
bias tucking and straight tucking and bands of embroidery that she had
done herself. Fan once quoted her, but mamma reminded her that there
were seven of us, and that tucks must be divided by that number.

“And I am going to have a splendid time. Mother, here is your book. Are
you quite comfortable? If you don’t mind, I will take a ramble with the
girls. You and Mrs. Conklin can have a nice talk.”

“No dear, go on.”

Mrs. Conklin had taken out her knitting. She was from one of the farms
over the river, a healthy, happy, rosy-cheeked grandmother, her fingers
flying fondly in and out of the tiny red clouded stocking.

“Where will you go first?” asked Dick of the group of girls.

“To the Cascade,” replied Mr. Ogden.

“You are not girls,” said Fan saucily.

“But you know you wouldn’t that one of us were left behind;” he quoted
sentimentally.

“Don’t flatter yourself too much. Modesty is becoming to young people.”

“Do you expect to find the old ones sitting on the steps of time, with
faces grimly uncovered?”

They all laughed. Fan took Jennie Ryder’s arm, and Dick filled up the
path beside them, so Winthrop fell back with me. Stuart was right
behind with the prettiest girl he could find, as usual. On we started,
but ere we had reached the first ascent we saw numerous followers in
our wake.

“It is like a picture,” exclaimed Winthrop. “Or better still, a series
of pictures. Oh, look at this moss! and these tiny ferns!”

They all stopped. How beautiful it was in this wide, glowing, redundant
life, the trailing riotous vines, the long streamers of last year’s
Aaron’s beard, the rustling of the leaves and the rippling, tinkling
sound of the water.

“How curious;” said Jennie. “That is a walking fern.”

“Ah, you know it?” and Winthrop glanced up in a pleased fashion.

“I have a fern bed at home. I like them so much. And these grow in such
a peculiar manner.”

“And she has the cunningest winter ferneries that you ever saw, Mr.
Ogden,” declared Fan.

“I like them too. They always give me a peculiar sensation of the
quiet and shade in which they grew. They are like the Quakers, never
surprising you by any gaudy freaks of blossoming. Oh, were any of you
here a month ago?”

“I came for rhododendrons one day;” Jennie answered.

“That was what entered my mind. What crowds and crowds of trees! I am
generally here in August, so I miss that. How perfectly glorious they
must be. What colors?”

“Pure white and pale, blossomy pink.”

“Those are my favorites. I sometimes think I was meant for a country
life. I like the growing and blossoming, the ripening and the fruit.
Autumn rounds everything so perfectly.”

“Yes,” said Dick, “there is always a great richness in Autumn. The
smells of the drying fields, of the stacked corn, the apples and pears
and grapes. And the leaves all aglow, the chestnuts full of yellow
burrs. You ought to come then, Mr. Ogden!”

“I believe I will. Can we all go nutting? That is after the frosts,
though.”

“Yes, late in October.”

“Oh, look!”

We had been going on for a few moments, now we paused again. It was so
all the way up. Something to see and to feel, to pause and drink in
with all one’s soul. Here a rock sculptured and set as if by an artist
hand. Richest moss, great, feathery fronds, pellucid waters, breaks
of sunshine, and haunts of deep gloom. Now we were serious, then we
laughed gaily at some quick jest. It takes so little to amuse when one
is young and happy.

We passed the stream at length and went on to the mountain-top. What a
fair outlying prospect! There was the village below, the church spires,
some tall factory chimneys, and beyond it all mountains again. I
thought of the hills standing about Jerusalem, and the Lord everywhere,
standing about his people.

“O,” exclaimed Fan at length, “we must go back, who will get our
dinner?”

“Who will eat it? is a subject for our more serious consideration;”
said Winthrop.

“And if—

    ‘When we get there
     The cupboard is bare?’”

“That would be a dire misfortune. By the time we reach the bottom
again, we shall be as hungry as bears.”

“You might comfort yourself like the old man of Kilkenny.”

“How was that?” inquired Winthrop.

Stuart’s eyes twinkled with their fun-loving light as he began:

    “There was an old man of Kilkenny.
     Who never had more than a penny.
     He spent all that money in onions and honey,
     This wayward old man of Kilkenny.”

They all laughed heartily. We began our descent but were changed about
somehow. Every body helped the one who came to hand. Now it was Dick,
then Mr. Ogden or Stuart. We slipped and scrambled and uttered small
shrieks, making the way very lively.

“See here!” exclaimed Winthrop—“a wild rose and buds, I think them so
especially beautiful. Who is queen of the May to be crowned?”

“You are too late;” laughed Fan, “May has gone.”

“Queen of Midsummer, then. Miss Endicott accept this late treasure. Let
it blossom and wither on your heart—sweets to the sweet.”

This was to Fan. Her blue eyes laughed saucily.

“The sweet in both cases being about alike,” she made answer.

He gave it to her in a mock sentimental fashion just as his speech had
been. She fastened it in the bosom of her dress, making a sweeping
courtesy.

A strange flash glowed over Dick Fairlie’s face. I do not think any one
else observed it, but it sent my heart up to my throat in a moment.
I understood with a kind of secret sense that it was both love and
jealousy. Then I glanced at gay laughing Fan. Did she mistrust?

I felt strangely, sadly wise, as if in five minutes I had grown years
older. A thing like this coming into our very midst! Well, among so
many girls there would probably be one or two marriages, and who more
likely than winsome, beguiling Fanny.

In the valley they were at work. A fire had been kindled and a great
tea kettle was swinging in the blaze. Baskets were being unpacked.
Table cloths and dishes laid out, and everybody talked at once.

“Rose,” said papa, “I have been looking for you. Miss Oldways wants you
to help with the table. Where are Daisy, Lil and Tim?”

“Nelly promised to keep watch and ward to-day;” and with that I shook
out my large white kitchen apron which nearly covered the skirt of my
dress, and went to work in good earnest.

“I suppose we _do_ enjoy things better when we have to work for them,”
said old Mrs. Granby. “We rush round helter skelter, get our puddings
shaken up and our nice crisp pie-crust jammed and broken, and eat
biscuits that have been spread for three hours, and a bite of cold
meat, and after we have gone home to think it over it seems ever so
much better than a great dinner.”

“The good-fellowship adds. I never go on a picnic but I think of the
Apostles having all things in common;” returned Miss Oldways.

“Yes,” said papa, “they gave of their time and interest, and love,
as well. It was not merely a little money. They brought in the whole
family and bestowed with the open-handed tenderness that blesses the
giver as well.”

I heard snatches of their talk as I ran onward, and snatches of other
talk. Here were sandwiches dripping with jelly, that had somehow been
upturned in the basket.

“Jelly is fashionable with meats,” suggested some one.

“There! I haven’t put in a single spoon. And I took the trouble to tie
red threads around each handle, then left them on the dresser. That was
smart!”

“We will reverse the order of things and have two creams with one
spoon, the second to wait until the first is served.”

“Is every plate used? Let’s count. All the elders must come
first—thirty, thirty-one, and the young girls wait on the
table—thirty-eight—it is but fair that their mothers should have the
best once in a while. Sixty-one! Now ring the bell.”

They filled up the first table, putting a little child in here and
there. The tea and coffee steamed out their appetizing fragrance, and
as we had no vases, we placed mounds of fern, grasses and wild flowers
on the table. Every body ate and drank and had a good time. The dishes
were washed, wiped, and put on again, the children summoned, and after
a while all had been feasted. Then there was a general clearing away,
except at one end of the long table where the fragments were collected
for those who might get hungry by and by.

[Illustration: “SWEETS TO THE SWEET.” Page 181.]




CHAPTER X.


After the eating and drinking, the elders gathered for a sociable chat.
It was as good as old-fashioned country visiting. Modern calls seem
to have carried away the charm of social intercourse. After you have
staid five minutes you begin to think you must go. You cannot stop to
tell this or that bit of pleasantness, or get near to each other. But
there was no hurry here. Phases of religious experiences were compared
in a homely way, mixed up with the turning of a gown, or buying of a
new carpet. With others grace and gardening went hand in hand. Such
magnificent clove pinks, great double luscious blossoms!—blue salvias
that were quite a rarity—ivies, geraniums—sick neighbors who enjoyed
them—odd enough snatches where one couldn’t understand.

Well, is it not the true living after all? Is religion the sacred
Sunday thing that must be laid by and not profaned by common every-day
uses? Did anyone ever hear of it wearing out? When these people had
exchanged thoughts on trials and mercies, faith that could see, and
weak faith that stumbled, compared and comforted each other, who shall
say it was not as good as a sermon? Why should we not help to lift each
other up in our common needs?—Great things come to very few, only.

I lingered for quite a while, resting myself and answering questions
about mamma, baby and Mr. Duncan. It was so dreamily pleasant. The
sun high over head had found our little nook and was making it all
alight with quivering golden rays. Hill seemed to lapse into hill, tree
interlaced with tree, nook, corner and ravine added their suggestive
tender gloom. People came and went, groups of children rushed in and
devoured plates of fragments. They played various games, and at last
settled to a tremendous circle of Copenhagen.

“Where is your sister?” asked Winthrop, “I have been hunting everywhere
for her. Will you not take a walk with me?”

We had not gone very far before the bell rang.

“The children are to sing their carols now.”

“I suppose you have heard them fifty times?”

“Fifty-one will not surfeit me. Besides, I must look after my class.”

“O, bother! Look after me a little while. I am going back to the city
on Saturday, and I shall not see you for ever so long. I actually envy
that dolt of a Duncan who is sick at your house. I never met two girls
that I liked so well. I don’t see how there is any goodness left for
the parish.”

He uttered all this in a rather cross, aggrieved tone which made it
sound so comically I could not forbear laughing.

“O, you don’t know—I wonder if I might trust you with—a—secret?”

He flushed to the roots of his hair. An uncomfortable chill went over
me.

“There are your Aunts!” I said, glad to be relieved from the sudden
embarrassment.

The carriage came up through the opening. Miss Lucy dressed in white
and looking very sweet. Papa went to speak to them.

The children were gathering from “near and from far.” We teachers
“counted noses,” begged the groups not to disperse, ran hither and
thither, and at last settled to the business before us. I was so glad
that Miss Churchill and Miss Lucy had reached us in time for the
singing. What if dresses were a little limp and stained and soiled,
hats awry and curls blown in tangles, there were hosts of happy faces
and lightsome, ringing voices.

Papa generally wrote a childish hymn for special occasions and mamma
arranged the music. They sang that, then several Easter Carols.

Miss Lucy beckoned me toward her.

“How delightful it is!” she exclaimed. “And you’ve had a good time all
day long. I wish I was a little girl! Oh, they are not going to stop?
Please ask them to sing again. Would Christmas carols be out of place?”

I mentioned it to papa who smiled in his sweet fashion and acquiesced.
We had the “Kings of Orient,” “Wonderful Night,” and “Ring out merry
bells for Christmas.” How sweet those young voices sounded on the
summer air! I was really proud of the children.

“Now,” began papa after the last echoes had dropped from the
tree-tops, “we must form a line for our homeward march. We have had a
pleasant day and enjoyed ourselves to the uttermost. Let us thank God
for this great blessing.”

They stood reverently until he dismissed them with the benediction.

The wagons and carriages began to come in and were filled. Some chose
to walk home and let others ride. Mr. Trafford started to form the
ranks again. Fan came up and we paused to say a few words to the
Churchills, then to Mrs. Ryder who declared that everything had been
just delightful, and that she felt ten years younger. Dick was very
grave, I remarked, and scarcely spoke.

The very last of the line was Fan and Mr. Ogden. I gave them a quick
glance but was hurried on by the throng behind me, and occupied with
answering the childrens’ questions. Yet I wondered a little what she
had been about since dinner.

We heard it all afterward, but it is fresher just as it happened to
her. She and Jennie Ryder, and Annie and Chris Fellows went first to
gather ferns and mosses. Of course some of the young men followed in
their wake. When their basket had been filled they strolled off two and
two, presently losing sight of each other. The day gave its touch of
grace and romance to their lives. We all guessed that Mr. Hunter cared
for Annie Fellows, and were not much surprised when we heard a little
later, that they had “made up their minds” during the ramble.

Fan and Dick strolled onward as well. Dick was unusually silent.

“Shall we go back?” Fan asked softly by and by.

“Go back!” and Dick looked surprised. “Not unless you are tired of me.”

He seemed so down-hearted that Fan had not the courage to confess even
in her laughing way.

“I am afraid you have not enjoyed yourself very well. But you have
given a great pleasure to Mrs. Ryder—and Jennie could not have come
without her. She has to stay at home so much.”

“She is a splendid girl,” said Dick.

“Indeed she is. Dick, I have a bright idea! Why couldn’t we when the
evenings are a little cooler, get up a surprise party for her? It would
be jolly.”

“Yes.”

“But you do not seem very much interested.”

“I _am_ interested in anything you like. Only I was thinking;” and he
paused to study her face.

“How queer you are!” with an embarrassed laugh.

“Am I? And you don’t like queerness—you don’t like me?”

Fan began to pull a fern leaf to pieces. It was an odd personal
question, but it could not mean anything. Still her heart beat
strangely, and her breath seemed to tangle as it came up.

“You know I like you of course,” in a sharp, saucy way, flinging out
her curls. “And you are good and pleasant and clever. Don’t I ask
favors first of you?”

“You never ask—for yourself.”

“Why, yes, it is because it pleases me.”

“I wish I could do something for you, alone.”

He snapped off a dry twig and began to break it into bits. Then he
kicked a stone out of the path, keeping his face away from her.

She experienced a peculiar embarrassment. Where was the happy medium
between warmth and coolness? She liked the brotherly friendship they
had fallen into. Was it friendship really?

“If I did want anything,—I should not hesitate—to come to you.”

Then they walked on in uncomfortable silence. It was very awkward. In
the new light coming to Fan, she felt there _was_ something unsaid. Was
it best to get over it as rapidly as possible, leave it behind?

“I think we must return. Papa may want me.”

He turned reluctantly. She quickened her pace at first.

“Don’t hurry. The day will come to an end soon enough. I should like it
to last a week, at least.”

“What an odd idea. We only want pleasant days to last.”

“Isn’t this pleasant to you?”

“Why—yes. All my days are pleasant for that matter. But I thought it
was beginning to bore you.”

He did not answer for quite a while, then he seemed to go far away from
the subject.

“It’s been nice for you at the Churchills.”

“Well—yes. Though I don’t want you to think I was pleased with the
notice because they are rich.”

“I know that does not make any difference with you.”

“But then for that matter your father is rich, too. And there are only
two children.”

“Yet I wish the home—was like yours.”

“With seven girls? You would have no comfort of your life if you were
the only boy among them,” and Fan laughed merrily.

“I would not mind trying it. Or at least—”

“Be warned in time,” and Fan shook her fore-finger threateningly.

“I can’t,” he exclaimed, with a sudden vehemence in his tone. “Only—I’d
be contented with one. Fanny, couldn’t you?—I mean—I love you!”

It was all out then! Fan stood still and white while he was scarlet and
trembling. Both were surprised with a deep solemn awe, as if amazed to
have reached such a point.

“I didn’t mean to tell you so soon. I had hardly put it into shape
myself. But when I saw that Winthrop Ogden hanging round after you, I
knew it all then just like a flash. And why shouldn’t it be? They have
enough at home without you. And it would be so sweet! I should think
of nothing but your happiness. I dreamed it all out on the porch last
night, sitting alone with father.”

His eyes and voice were alike imploring, and he had spoken so rapidly
that it carried her right along. Now she put up her hand with a gesture
of pain.

“Oh, Dick, dear Dick, I am so sorry! I never thought of this!”

“Well!” with a kind of manly assurance, “think of it now. I will be
patient. We can ask your mother and see what she says.”

“Dick, I had better tell you just the truth. I am sorry there is any
need to say it. I like you very much in the pleasant, sisterly fashion
that has grown up between us. I do not believe it can ever be any
different. So it is best not to hope, not to plan—”

“Oh, Fanny, I cannot help it. How could I stop all at once?”

She was touched to the heart. What should she do? The tears came into
her eyes.

“I must have acted very wrongly to make you care so much for me in this
way. I can never, never forgive myself.”

He could not bear to hear the woman he loved blamed, and the tears
conquered him.

“It is nothing you have done, don’t think that,” he said earnestly.
“You can’t help being sweet and pretty, any more than that bird up
there can help singing. And you can’t help being just what I want. You
have treated me the same as you have others, that is, I mean you never
tried in any way to make me love you. It just came. And if you will
only try—”

“If I did try, Dick, I should be ashamed to confess that I could not
love so good, and tender, and true a man as you are. Then, perhaps I
might marry you, not loving you the best, which would be very, very
wicked, and ruin your happiness. Oh, Dick, forgive me and let me be
your sister or your friend, or else let me go quite away. I am so
sorry.”

They walked on until the sound of voices reached them. “Please leave me
here,” she entreated falteringly.

“I’m a great blundering chap, I know. I might have said it all better—”

“It isn’t the saying, it is the thing itself.—O, Dick, don’t you see
that if I had loved you, one word would have been enough. I should be
too honest to tease or make excuses.”

“Yes, I suppose it is so,” in a slow, pathetic way that made Fan think
she was a miserable wretch. “And you can’t help it, I know. I’ll try
to—leave matters as they were, to be a—brother.”

He swallowed over a great lump in his throat, and turned away without
another word. When she found herself quite alone she threw her
trembling figure on the mossy tree-roots and sobbed bitterly. The glad
unconsciousness of girlhood was over.

“If he were not so good,” she thought, “or so rich, or so kind! If I
_could_ find some fault. And that makes it appear all the worse in me.
Oh, papa, dear, what have I done? Why does every one want to—?”

And then she knew it was the old, old story, that had began way back in
Eden-days. People always _did_, and always would, and sometimes there
was a hitch and a snarl, and the thread broke.

She heard the bell calling the children together, so she rose, and went
to the tiny brook to bathe her face. But she felt so shame-faced and
cowardly that she did not dare join them until the singing was done.
Then Dick would be putting Mrs. Ryder in his wagon, and all the others
bustling about. No one would take much notice of her.

“O, here you are, run-away!” said a bright, rather imperious voice.
“Your sister has been worried to death about you. I thought I should
have to begin and search the mountains. Come along. I shall not give
you another chance to go astray.”

With that Winthrop Ogden took possession of her. The carriages began to
move on. The line was forming, and Mr. Endicott walked down its length.

“I have Miss Fannie here, safe;” Mr. Ogden said, with a confident nod.

Fan was so glad to escape observation that she uttered not a word.

“My Uncle and Aunts are here waiting to speak to you.”

She suffered herself to be led thither, listened to the chat and
answered again without understanding a word.

They fell in the rear of the procession. Indeed she hardly noticed how
they lagged behind, until the tramp of the feet had quite a distant
sound.

“Where were you all the afternoon?” Mr. Ogden asked. “Your sister and
I started once to find you.”

“Did you?” absently.

“Yes. We did not know but the bears might have come out and eaten you
up.”

“Hardly.”

“You were not alone?”

“No. We went for ferns. Jennie Ryder and the rest.”

“Miss Ryder has been back this hour. She and her mother went away with
the very first—with Mr. Fairlie.”

“Oh,” indifferently.

“Well, what were you doing?”

“I won’t be questioned, there!”

“You are sure you were not in mischief?”

No answer to this, and a long silence.

“Well, Miss Obstinacy,” he began at length, “I really am afraid
something has occurred to ruffle your temper.”

“I do not know as you are compelled to suffer from it!” she returned,
positively provoked.

“Ah, but I couldn’t leave you here in a howling wilderness, with the
others miles ahead.”

“You exaggerate. Suppose we walk on and overtake them?”

“We _are_ walking on.”

She was in no mood for badinage. Indeed, her heart smote her bitterly
for the pain she had unwittingly caused. She was upbraiding herself and
trying to think where the first false step had begun.

“Are you tired?” he asked presently in a gentler tone.

“Not much. But a day like this always finds one rather stupid at its
close.”

“Were your mental exertions in the woods very severe? Did you stop to
analyze and classify the ferns?”

“No.”

“You must have found some delightful employment.”

No answer again.

“Do you know that I am going back to the city on Saturday?”

“Are you?—indeed!”

“I dare say you will not miss me.”

“I do not know why I should, specially.”

“That is unfriendly.”

“Is it? Well,” rousing herself a trifle, “I suppose we _do_ miss any
one with whom we have had a bright, pleasant time. And your Aunt Lucy
will be very sorry to have you go.”

“And yet, she will have you.”

“I am only one of the incidentals, Mr. Ogden. People who don’t belong
truly, step into each others’ lives and when the time comes, step out
again. But one born in the household is different.”

“They all like you—so much. I am almost jealous of uncle Churchill’s
regard.”

“O, you need not be.”

“He is old-fashioned and strict in some of his notions, but he has a
splendid heart.”

“I believe that.”

“O, Miss Endicott, please look back at this sunset! It is still more
glorious than the one we saw the evening of our ride! Do you know, I
hate to return. Everything is so lovely here.”

Some of the wide fields lay in the shade, some in the bronze light
of the dying sun. All the tree-tops were burnished, and now it was
so still that not a leaf stirred. A distant Whip-poor-will began his
melancholy lay.

“Oh, we must hurry on;” said Fanny recollecting herself. “The others
have passed the curve of the road and are out of sight.”

They quickened their pace a trifle. Presently he inquired—

“What is to be done to-morrow?”

“Why—nothing.”

“No tea parties nor croquet?”

“I believe not. We shall all be tired. I have had two or three weeks of
dissipation and think it high time to rest up a little.”

“Suppose you take a drive with me? That will not be tiresome. About
four in the afternoon, say.”

Fan started again.

“I think I would rather not;” she replied, curtly.

“Why?”

“For various reasons that I cannot enumerate.”

“I am glad you have more than one, for that might be rather hard upon
me. Well, can I come over to tea then? that is if you are not to have
other company.”

“I dare say they will all be glad to entertain you.”

“I don’t wish any one but just _you_. I shall have to take the others
part of the time. But on my last day I deserve some indulgence.”

“I may not feel indulgent;” she answered carelessly.

“Miss Fanny—and I have so many things to ask!”

“Don’t ask them;” she said recklessly. Was she walking into another
fire?

“I must ask one.”

She expressed no curiosity or anxiety, but her heart beat so loudly
it seemed as if he must hear it. Dick Fairlie’s love-making had been
honest and true, but this young man?—So she walked on more rapidly.

“Yes; one question. How else should I know? And it is too great a risk
to leave you here with no word—”

“Mr. Ogden, I think you have lost your senses;” she interrupted sharply.

“I thought so myself to-day. When you went off with that Fairlie! I
know he was with you this afternoon, and I resolved then to have my
say. I do not mean to lose through being a laggard. My darling, can
you—do you—?”

Fan turned and faced him. She was cool and angry.

“Mr. Ogden,” she said decisively, “that is enough! It may be your habit
to make love to city girls on a fortnight’s acquaintance, but it is
not mine to receive it. I have been friendly because I thought you a
gentleman!”

“Fanny! Miss Endicott,” and he confronted her in so authoritative
a fashion, that she felt his strength at once. “You mistake me
altogether. I am _not_ in the habit of trifling. If I speak soon it is
because I must leave you, and I know another loves you. You have only
to say that you prefer him, and I will be silent.”

He waited several minutes for her to answer, but how could she? It was
a cruel strait. Her cheeks were crimson with shame.

“Then I think I have a right to be heard.”

She summoned all her reckless bravery.

“Mr. Ogden,” she began in an ironical tone; “how long do you suppose
you _could_ remember? It would be the wildest of folly to listen to
you.”

“You doubt me altogether! What shall I do to convince you? Let me have
that withered rose at your throat. I gave it to you this morning and it
will be precious to me. How long a probation will you set me—a year?
Well, when you receive this rose back some day you will know that I am
of the same mind.”

He took it and dropped it into his pocket memorandum. Then they walked
on in silence.

On the way the children were dispersed nearest their homes. By the
Church, Fanny and Mr. Ogden came up with the last. She did not dare
leave him or she would have joined her father. A kind of fascination
kept her under his influence.

They paused at the gate. The others had entered.

“Do you want me to come to-morrow?” His tone was almost peremptory.

“I—no—” Hers sounded as if tears were not far off, and the long
lashes shaded her eyes, but still he read the face, and read in it,
furthermore, something she did not know was there.

“Very well. If you love me, as I hope you will some day, I can wait.
You will learn how truly every word was meant. I think then you will be
noble enough to admit it. Good by, little darling.”

He gave her one kiss and was gone. She flew up the path and into the
wide hall, pale as a ghost.

We were all there, mamma with baby in her arms, tiny Tim hanging to
her skirt, Lily and Daisy talking like two chatter-boxes. There was a
promiscuous heap of hats and baskets on the floor.

“Children!” exclaimed papa, “don’t set your mother crazy! Take some of
these articles to the kitchen. There, I nearly stepped into some one’s
hat. Rose my dear—”

Fan entered at this moment. Papa stood first, so she put her arm around
his neck and gave a little sob.

“My dear girl, you are tired to death! How pale you look. Mamma would a
cup of tea do her any good? And isn’t our supper ready?”

I hung up the hats, and sent Daisy off with a cargo of baskets.

“No, I don’t want a mouthful,” Fan said. “It was a splendid day, but
I am tired to the uttermost and would like to drop into bed without a
word. Or if I was Edith and mamma could cuddle me in her arms. Oh dear!”

I think that mamma guessed something was amiss. She gave baby to me and
went straight to Fan.

“Oh, mamma, darling, what would the world be without you? I feel as if
I had been lost somewhere and just come to light. Do I really belong to
you?”

With that she gave a little hysterical laugh which ended with
passionate crying.

“I am a baby, there! I am ashamed of myself. Let me run and put away
my toggery, and maybe I shall come to my senses.”

The children were washed and brushed. Stuart had just come in, and we
sat down to the table. Fanny entered presently, but she neither ate nor
drank, and seemed to be quite unlike herself.

Indeed, I do not think she came to her senses until she and mamma had
a good long talk, she lying in her fresh, cool bed. The friendly dusk
hid her scarlet cheeks, but it could not keep her voice steady. All
the naughtiness was confessed except the little that could not be told
until long afterward, when events justified it.

“My dear girl, I am extremely sorry, and yet I do not know how you
could have avoided the trouble. You did quite right if you could not
love Mr. Fairlie, and Mr. Ogden’s haste was ungenerous and inexcusable.
I am glad you had the good sense to see this. And now go to sleep my
darling. If we have any better thoughts to-morrow we will comfort one
another with them.”

So she kissed her and left her alone.




CHAPTER XI.


We were all pretty tired the next morning. The children slept late, and
Fanny was unusually languid for her.—Stuart was the only one who did
not appear to feel the effects of dissipation, for he was off bright
and early on another excursion with the boys.

It seemed so strange to think of Fan having had two offers of marriage;
at least, one we knew was made in good faith. The other mamma was not
decided about.

“Poor little girl;” said papa kissing her. “Your troubles are beginning
early in life.”

“You think like the old lady in the couplet—

    ‘Wires and briars, needles and pins,
     When you are married your trouble begins.’”

and Fan laughed with a trifle of the old archness.

“Not exactly. Your mamma and I have been very happy.” Still there was
a perplexed expression on papa’s face as if he could not quite explain
the puzzle.

“But then no one ever could be as good or as splendid or as lovely as
you!”

“Any more adjectives, Fanny!” and he smiled.

“Yes, a host of them, but I am generous and spare your blushes. Mamma—”
in a sort of absent, thoughtful way, “there is one man who, I think,
would make a royal husband.”

“Are you quite sure you understand the requisite qualities?”

Fanny blushed.

“It is Stephen Duncan. I don’t know what put it in my mind. But he
seems so tender and thoughtful and patient.”

“He must have taken all the family virtues,” I made answer.

“He was different in his boyhood from the others;” said papa. “He is a
fine and noble man.”

“But what troubles me most now,” began Fanny with a certain funny
lugubriousness, “is how I am to meet all these people again. What will
the Churchills think? And oh, if Dick had not—”

“Such matters have to settle themselves,” returned mamma. “In all
probability the Churchills will know nothing about it. Try and be a
little careful in the future. You are no longer a child.”

“Must I wear a veil or enter a convent? Papa, suppose you lock me up in
the study? Then they will all flock to Rose, and it will be the same
trouble over again. What _are_ we to do?”

“Just now you had better find some employment. I cut out half a dozen
aprons for Daisy yesterday;” said mamma.

“Then I will open my beloved machine, so good-bye to romance. Work and
you are adversaries.”

I wondered how she could take events so coolly. She sang with her
sewing as if her heart was as light as thistle-down.

Nelly in the meanwhile was made ready and sent off to visit an old
parishioner, living on a farm thirty miles away. One of the children
went for awhile every summer.

Louis improved rapidly. He had fretted somewhat about accepting the
Churchills’ carriage, and begged papa to hire one for him, which had
been done. He went out nearly every morning now, or if it was too warm,
late in the afternoon. I think he was getting a little humanized, too.
Occasionally he joined our circle and would often play with baby Edith,
who laughed and talked her fashion if you looked at her. She was just
as good and sweet as she could be.

Mr. Ogden did _not_ come over, and went away on Saturday. That somehow
stamped the episode as pastime. With all her gayety Fan _did_ feel
badly over it—a trifle mortified, I think, that he should have ventured
upon such a freedom.

It was to make no change with the Churchills however. Indeed, we
received quite a handsome compliment from them the next week. Mr.
Churchill invited papa to go up in the mountains with him. He had some
business with a tract of woodland that the railroad company wanted
to purchase, and thought it would be a nice trip. They were to start
Tuesday night and return Saturday noon.

The house always appeared so strange without him. Not but what mamma
was quite capable of carrying it on, yet we missed him sadly. Ann
lamented Nelly’s absence, and declared “there wasn’t a childer too
many”. Fan and I sewed and had peculiar talks with Louis. I never could
tell what he thought or what he believed, or whether he advanced these
opinions for arguments’ sake. He had a great deal of morbid pride, and
a way of putting all the briary parts outside. Everybody was selfish,
he averred.

And he did have a fearful temper. Beside the quickness, it had in it
a brooding vindictiveness. He couldn’t seem to forgive injuries or
slights, and he was very jealous of Stuart, though he affected a lofty
indifference to those bright engaging qualities.

Stuart on the other hand did get into a good deal of mischief. He
headed raids on the farmers’ trees and melon-patches, and one night the
water was let out of the dam, which caused a great commotion. Of course
he was an immense favorite with the boys.

When papa came home there was a letter from Stephen, answering the one
announcing the illness. He had been very much perplexed in the business
and found it necessary to go to Paris. He would not be able to return
until late in the Fall. As school began the tenth of September it
would be best to send Stuart immediately. Would Mrs. Endicott see that
his clothes were in order? If Louis preferred, when he was well enough
to resume his studies, to board in some quiet family and take the
lessons he needed, Stephen considered it a better plan.

“Not that I mean this to be construed into a desire for you to keep
him, my dear friend,” he wrote. “You have too much on your hands
already, and I feel as if I had added a great burthen. But if he
decides upon this course will you make some inquiries for him, and help
him to find a suitable person? I do not think him strong enough to be
regularly in school.”

Louis made no comment for several days, then declared that he did not
mean to be buried alive in a country village through a dreary winter.
He would go back to Wilburton, but not enter the school. There were
plenty of families who would take him to board, and he liked it there.

Just at this juncture one of his cousins, a year or two older than
himself, invited him to go to Canada to recruit his health. He was to
start early in September and would call for him.

He accepted the invitation at once, without even consulting papa.

“I suppose it is as well, though,” papa said thoughtfully. “He does
need bracing up, and the change will be just the thing for him. We can
hear meanwhile from Stephen about this Wilburton arrangement.”

The boys both went to Westburg with papa to get some new clothes. Mamma
packed Stuart’s trunk, and then he was frantic to return to the boys.
Monday would be the tenth but he insisted upon starting on Friday. He
wanted to get a good room, to see old friends and feel settled before
school began. He had enjoyed himself splendidly, to be sure, and there
were lots of jolly fellows in Wachusett, to say nothing of the girls.
He meant to come back some time and have it all over. But since he
couldn’t go to Canada, which he thought rather rough, he might as well
march off at once. The sooner a thing was well over, the better.

He spent a day and evening saying good-bye to his friends in the
village. The stage was to come at eight Friday morn. He had his trunk
strapped and out on the porch; ate his breakfast in a hurry, kissed the
children and bade Ann a laughing farewell accompanied with a new calico
gown, which she thought an immense favor.

Papa gave him a little counsel in a low tone of voice, but I do not
think he listened very attentively. He was a boy without a bit of
sentiment or tender regard. He merely sang out—“Good-bye, old chap,” to
Louis, and though he thanked us for our kindness, it was only from a
gentlemanly instinct. Then he sprang into the stage and was off.

“I do not know whether I should like to have such a son or not,” mamma
said slowly, as we entered papa’s study. “He is bright and manly and
entertaining, but he leaves you with a feeling that out of sight is out
of mind.”

“I have tried to sow a little good seed;” yet papa shook his head
gravely.

“But you are afraid it is in sandy ground;” Fan added, with a touch of
comforting sweetness in her voice. “I haven’t much faith in its bearing
fruit, and yet I do believe he has come to have more consideration for
Louis. He has not tormented him half as much lately. That would be one
point gained.”

“Yes. After all, I have more hope of Louis. The struggle will be much
harder, for his temperament and his health are against him, but he will
be steadier in anything he undertakes. I have become deeply interested
in both of them, and I do not feel as if it was going to end here.”

It seemed as if the day was to be rendered memorable for us. In the
midst of the talk came a sudden hard ring. I answered it and found Mr.
Fairlie’s man with a frightened look in his face.

“If you please, Miss—is your father in?” he asked.

“Papa!”

He came at the summons.

“The master is—very bad, sir. They want to see you right away. Mister
Dick is taking it very hard.”

“Mr. Fairlie!” exclaimed papa in amaze.—“Why, I saw him yesterday, and
well.”

“He’s been rather queer in his head for two or three days. It was the
sun or something.—And about midnight he was taken. The Doctor has given
him up now.”

“Yes,” said papa, bewildered. “I’ll be there directly.”

“I’ve the wagon here for you, sir.”

He just kissed mamma and went without another word. Such calls left no
room for discussions.

“It cannot be possible!” ejaculated Fan.

“Mrs. Fairlie and Kate away!” said mamma. “How very sad.”

We had not the heart to talk about it and separated for our morning’s
employment. School had begun again, so I made the children ready. Nelly
had just entered the Seminary. Then I put my rooms in order while Fan
assisted in the kitchen. Tabby came up stairs followed by her small
gray and white kitten, who was a puffy ball of frolic. She glanced
around the room in a curious, complacent fashion.

“Yes, Tabby,” I said, “the plague of your life has departed. Mrs.
Whitcomb will be here next, and you know she is fond of you, so your
troubles are ending. I don’t believe we have learned to like boys so
_very_ much, after all.”

“No,” returned Tabby, with a grave whisk of the tail, while the kitten
made a vigorous attack on the bits of sunshine quivering through the
great sycamore leaves.

I went down stairs and sewed awhile in the nursery. Dinner came, but
no papa. Louis had returned from his drive and looked very cheerful.
We could not wait on account of the children, and unconsciously his
prolonged absence gave us a little hope.

It was dashed down presently. The church bell began to toll. We glanced
at each other in a startled way.

“Poor Dick!” said Fan, turning her head, and I knew her eyes were full
of tears. I could not help a curious thought. What if this sorrow
should bring them together?

Miss Churchill made us a nice long call in the afternoon, and before
she had gone papa returned. Dick had begged him to stay and go to
the station for Mrs. Fairlie who had just come, and do several other
special errands for him. The ladies had stopped on their homeward way
at the house of a cousin in Bridgeport, and were thus easily reached by
telegraph.

“What a terrible shock!” exclaimed Miss Churchill. “A man in almost
perfect health, too; though Dr. Hawley I believe mentioned his having
some trouble with his heart. Was that the cause?”

“I have no doubt it helped materially. He had complained of a dull,
heavy headache for two or three days, and yesterday he was out in the
sun which appeared to affect him a good deal. At midnight he was taken
with paralysis. But brief as the time was it found him ready. He
seemed to have gleams of consciousness and knew me at intervals. His
trust was staid upon God, and there was no fear, no shrinking.”

“He has been a good, upright man. Kenton always esteemed him highly.”

“He was more than that, Miss Churchill, he was an earnest Christian.
If the household had been of one mind, workers in the vineyard, he
would have lived a fuller and more joyous christian life. But we are to
work our way through hindrances. God gave him grace and strength and
perfected him in good deeds. I feel as if I had lost my mainstay in the
church. He was not a man of many words, but you could rely upon him to
the uttermost. And though I shall grieve for a true and staunch friend,
I shall also rejoice that he has gone to his reward, better far than
any earthly happiness.”

“You loved him very much,” said Miss Churchill, deeply moved.

“I did indeed.”

“The loss is dreadful to his family.”

“My heart ached for Richard. He and his father were tender friends,
and the watching through long hours, the not being able to give him
up, was agonizing in the extreme. Mrs. Fairlie was stunned by the
suddenness.”

“I wonder if I could be any—comfort to her?” Miss Churchill questioned
slowly.

“I wish you would call to-morrow,” said papa. “I don’t know but I shall
have to come to you and your brother now.”

“I am sure I should be glad to give you any assistance in my power. I
have been thinking lately that we live quite too much for ourselves.”

“For the night cometh in which no man can work,” said papa solemnly.

An awe fell over us all. One and another dropped in to wonder at the
occurrence. Sudden deaths always shock a community greatly. Even the
children did not want to play but sat on the porch steps and looked
into vacancy. Louis went up stairs directly after supper, but I heard
him pacing his room restlessly. I had put the little ones to bed and
was going down stairs when he called.

“Did you want anything?” I inquired.

“No—that is—are you busy?”

“Not especially.”

“I am going away so soon;” he said apologetically.

“And if I can do anything for you, I shall be glad to,” I made answer
cheerfully. “Shall I come in and read?”

“Thank you—I don’t care about that, I am in an odd, inconsequent mood
to night. Suppose you talk to me? I believe your voice has a soothing
effect.”

“Let us go down on the porch. It is cooler.”

“Where are the others?”

“Papa and Fanny have gone for a call. Mamma is in the nursery.”

“O, I wanted only you.”

“Come down then.”

I brought an easy chair out on the porch, and dropped into my own small
rocker. Tabby came along and crawled in my lap, turning round three
times and settling herself regardless of the welfare of her small
child, though I dare say she was asleep in some one’s slipper. The moon
was nearly at its full and made silvery shadows through the interstices
of the vines. The dewy air was fragrant and the night musical with
chirp and hum of countless insects.

“It is quite a relief to be rid of Stuart,” he began presently. “And
when I am gone you will doubtless feel still more comfortable.”

“I think you are quite comfortable to get on with now;” I said
cheerfully.

“Which implies—there was a time. Miss Endicott, do you think I have
improved _any_?”

“I do not know as it would be hardly fair to judge you by the first
week or two. You were on the eve of a severe illness, with your nervous
system completely disorganized.”

“But since then—be honest?”

“I think you have been pleasanter, more considerate, not so easily
ruffled;” I answered slowly.

“Please don’t fancy me fishing for compliments.”

“Compliments from me would not be so _very_ flattering to one’s vanity.
They do not carry weight enough.”

“You believe that one could overcome—any fault?” after a pause between
the words.

“With God’s help—yes.”

“Without God’s help—what then?”

I was always so afraid of going astray in these talks. I could feel
what I meant, but I could not explain it clearly.

“‘Every good and perfect gift cometh from God,’” I made answer. “And
the desire to be better or stronger, to overcome any fault, must
proceed from Him.”

“Then why doesn’t he make Christians perfect?”

“God gives us the work to do. He says, ‘My grace shall be sufficient
for thee.’ Therefore we are to strive ourselves. He shows us the right
way, but if we seek out other paths, or if we sink into indolence
waiting for an angel to come and move our idle hands or stir up our
languid wills, can we reasonably blame Him?”

“I had not thought of that, I must confess. I had a fancy that—religion
did all these things for you.”

“What then is the Christian warfare? You know that grand old St. Paul
had to fight to the last, that he might not be a cast-away. Yet I think
no one ever doubted the genuineness of his conversion.”

“But if a man of his own determination, resolved, he could do a great
deal.”

“I should be weak to deny it. People have achieved heroic victories,
suffered pain and shame and death bravely for pride, or some chosen
idea. Only when it is done for the sake of Him who saved us, it becomes
so much the more noble. It is obeying Him.”

“Is it an easy thing to be good, Miss Endicott?”

“Not for every one,” I said.

“You admit that natures are different?”

“I do, cheerfully. Some people have very little self-control, others a
great deal. But it is strengthened by use, like a limb.”

“I have very little?”

“I did not say that.”

“But you know I have.”

“Papa said your temperament and your health were against you!”

“Did he say that?” was the eager question. “Well there _are_ a hundred
things—I sometimes have such headaches that I can hardly tell where I
am, and if anything bothers me I feel as if I could stamp on it, crush
it out of existence. And if it is a person—”

“Oh,” I cried, “don’t please! That is murder in one’s heart.”

“And when any one annoys Stuart he laughs at him, flings, jeers and
exasperates. It is his way, yet every one thinks he has a lovely
temper. He makes others angry. I have seen him get half a class by the
ears, and in such a mess that no one knew what was the matter.—I do
not believe I ever in my life set about making another person angry.
But I cannot stand such things. They stir up all the bad blood in me.”

“So you need patience, first of all.”

“But I _can’t_ stop to think.”

“Ah, that is just it. Stopping to think saves us. And when we have our
great Captain to remember, and are endeavoring to walk in the path He
marked out for us, it makes it easier. We are trying for the sake of
one we love.”

“What else do I want?”

“Don’t ask me, please,” I entreated.

“Yes. I shall not let you evade me. Write me some copies to take with
me. Patience—what next?”

“Cheerfulness;” seeing that he compelled me to it. “Your nature is
morbid and melancholy. Just try to think that people will like you.

“But they do not.”

“Then you must give them something to like. Suppose we all hid away our
brightness?”

He laughed.

“It would be a rather blue world. But to try for admiration.”

“You don’t try for _admiration_. You give freely of the very best you
have. You remember about the little boy who hid his cake away until it
was mouldy and spoiled?”

“I believe you always give of the best here. And you never seem to have
any lack.”

“Did you ever break off a sprig of lemon verbena? Three new shoots
come in its place. When I was a little girl mamma explained it to me,
and said that if you nipped off one bit of pleasantness for a friend
or neighbor, something grew instantly for the next one. You never give
away all your joy and good feeling.”

He sighed a little, and said slowly—

“I believe I shall begin with my temper. I have always known that it
was bad, and expected to keep it all my life, but if it could be made a
little more reasonable!”

“I am sure it can, if you will try. It _is_ hard work to be fighting
continually, to be on your guard against surprises, and sometimes to
have your best efforts misunderstood, yet it seems to me a grand thing
to gain a victory over one’s self.”

“You make it so;” he replied in a half doubtful tone.

“I wish you could be good friends with papa. He is so much wiser, and
can explain the puzzles. When you came to know him well you would like
him, you couldn’t help it.”

“Sometime—when I want such a friend;” he answered a trifle coldly.

The voices sounded on the walk just then, and in a few moments they
came up. We had no special talk after that.

Mamma went over to Mrs. Fairlie’s the next day and met Miss Churchill
there. Kate had been in violent hysterics all night. They appeared so
utterly helpless. What should they do about black? There wasn’t any
thing decent in Wachusett! And could Mrs. Fairlie find a long widow’s
veil any where? There would not be time to send to the city.

“I am quite sure that Mrs. Silverthorne has one. Hers was very
beautiful and she never wore it but a little; and a plain bonnet will
do.”

“Thank you, Miss Churchill. How kind you are. But I cannot understand
_why_ this grief should come upon me.”

“God’s ways are not as our ways;” said mamma.

“But Mr. Fairlie was needed so much. I don’t know how I can live
without him!”

Mamma and Miss Churchill soothed and tried to comfort. Each took a few
orders on leaving.

“My objection to mourning is just this,” said Miss Churchill, when they
were seated in her basket phaeton. “In the midst of your grief you have
to stop and think wherewithal you shall be clothed. Dress-makers and
milliners are your constant care for the first month.”

“The fashion of this world;” mamma replied a little sadly.

That afternoon Louis received a telegram from his cousin. He would
meet him the next noon at the station in a through train, that there
might be no lost time. He only packed a valise, as his trunk would be
sent to Wilburton. We said our good-byes in quite a friendly fashion.
He appeared really grateful and sorry to leave us. Papa went to the
station with him and returned in an unusually grave mood.

We kept up to the tense point of excitement until after Mr. Fairlie’s
funeral. It was largely attended, and very solemn and affecting.
Indeed, nearly every heart ached for Kate and her mother.

“But I do believe Dick suffers the most;” Fanny said. “I never saw any
one so changed in a few days.”

Afterward the will was read. The farm was bequeathed to Richard.
Stocks, bonds and mortgages were divided between Mrs. Fairlie and Kate,
who were thus made quite rich women. They could go to Europe now.

I found myself wondering a little what Mr. Fairlie’s life would have
been with different surroundings. The Fairlies in their way were as
old and as good a family as the Churchills, only they did not happen
to settle at the West Side, and had gone a little more into active
business. But they did not lay claim to any special position or
grandeur. This had always seemed to mortify Mrs. Fairlie somewhat. “Mr.
Fairlie is so old-fashioned,” she would say complainingly. “There was
no getting him out of the one groove.” She wanted to make a show, to
have people admit that she was somebody.—She went to church regularly
and would have been much offended not to have been considered an
important member. She gave to the Christmas and Easter feasts and
adornings, but for the poor or the needy sick she rarely evinced any
sympathy. Her duty stopped at a certain point, the rest of her time,
money, and interest was distinctly her own. So the husband and wife
lived separate lives, as it were.

Would Richard’s fate repeat the same confused and tangled story? No
doubt his mother would desire him to marry well in worldly point of
view. She might even object to Fan on the score of money. Would he have
the courage to suit himself? For what he needed was a sweet, domestic
woman with the culture that did not disdain every day matters. His
tastes were simple and homelike, yet he was by no means dull. He wanted
a woman to honor him, to put him in his true position as head of the
family.

Would Providence bring him happiness, or discipline only?




CHAPTER XII.