Ñåìåðî äî÷åðåé, 12 ãëàâà-îêîí÷àíèå

Amanda M. Douglas(Amanda Minnie Douglas (July 14, 1831 – July 18, 1916)

CHAPTER 12.


The next thing that happened to us was—though to be exact, it was two
events. In the morning papa had a long, lovely letter from Stephen
Duncan, enclosing a check for two hundred dollars on the boys’ account,
and one for fifty to mamma, to fill up the chinks made by the sickness,
he said. The Doctor’s bill he would settle when he came home. Papa read
most of it aloud, and I saw mamma’s sweet, dark eyes fill with tears.

We were beginning a new week, and alone by ourselves. That always
reminds me of the story papa used to tell of a traveler who passed a
house where there were seven children sitting on the stoop, and seven
on the fence, all crying as hard as they could cry, so he paused to ask
what dreadful thing had happened.

“Oh,” said they with one voice, “our mother has gone away and left us
all alone!”

It was pretty much the same with us, only we did not cry for any one
gone away. It was delightful to have our house by ourselves.—Though it
seemed so queer that we lounged around and amused each other making
wonderful plans.

In the afternoon Mrs. Whitcomb arrived with her large basket. We all
rushed out and kissed her, and almost distracted her with our avalanche
of news. Fan untied her bonnet, I took her shawl and mamma turned one
glove into the other after her own careful fashion.

“The wear seems to have told most upon you, Mrs. Endicott,” she said
with sweet solicitude. “First of all, girls, your mother must have a
holiday!”

We looked at each other blankly, then laughed.

“She shall have whatever is best;” returned Fan with much dignity.

“Then she must go away. Let me see—among the mountains somewhere, to
an old farm-house where she can have milk, and sweet corn, and sleep
eighteen hours out of the twenty-four. She must not take a stitch of
sewing.”

“Splendid!” I declared, clapping my hands.

“Oh,” exclaimed Nelly, “won’t you go to Auntie Vandevere’s, mamma?
They want you to come so much.”

“Now there is a place provided,” said Mrs. Whitcomb. “You know you were
going all last summer and did not get started. It is just the season to
enjoy yourself. The girls and I can keep house. We will have everything
bright as a new gilt button on your return.—And Edith is so good, or
you might take one of the children to mind her. Children come in so
handy.”

“O mamma, me!” and Tim jumped up and down as incoherently as her
sentence.

“The house cleaning—” protested mamma faintly, Tim’s arms being around
her neck in a strangling fashion by this time.

“We will clean house, mend the stockings, weed the flower beds, and
keep matters straight. You will hardly know the place when you return.”

“Here, Tim, look after your village! Baby has commenced to devour the
cows, and I think them a rather heavy article of diet for her just yet.”

“What is one little make-believe cow?” said Tim disdainfully.

“Well, pick up the fragments. And here is Miss Dolly looking tired and
sleepy. Then run out and play.”

“We don’t want to;” cried the younger ones in chorus.

“Well, have your own way;” and Fan sat down in mock despair. “I am
determined to be obeyed in some respect.”

After we had them all snugly tucked in bed that evening, the elders
discussed the plan again. Papa approved of it so strongly that he wrote
the letter immediately.

“But there is so much to do,” declared mamma. “I intended to change the
girls to the front chamber and put Nelly and Daisy in theirs. And we
want a new carpet for the study, and—oh, I don’t believe I can go!”

“There is always some path out of the woods;” said Mrs. Whitcomb when
our laugh had subsided. “You need the rest—that is the strongest
argument. And I have come to help. You cannot make me company if you
try.”

On the following day we had it all out straight. The three seniors were
to go to Westburg on Thursday and buy everything they could lay their
hands upon. Friday afternoon mamma was to take her journey. The next
week on Wednesday or Thursday papa was to go up after her, the two to
come home on Saturday. There it was all as plain and easy as “twice
two” in the multiplication table.

They started bright and early in the morning. Fan and I went at the
front chamber. There was not much to do, for the walls were papered.
Ann cleaned the paint, we washed windows and rubbed the paper with a
soft cloth, then she shook the carpet for us and we tacked it down.

“It seems odd to move over to this side of the house,” said Fan, “but I
shall like it ever so much. And Nell will be so pleased. She hates to
be packed like pins in a paper. But now comes the tug of war—clothes,
bureau drawers, odds and ends, and the plagues of Egypt.”

“O no;” I returned laughingly.

“Well—flies, anyhow. They are not all gone.”

There was a large old-fashioned chest of drawers in the room. We
brought in our dainty bureau with its pretty glass, and I gave up all
the drawers to Fan, taking the other. There was a nice wardrobe for
our dresses and boxes. When Nelly returned from school she helped with
our pictures and brackets, and we had ourselves as well as our room in
order before the travelers returned. Baby had been good as an angel all
day. I dressed her clean and put on one of the pretty bibs that Daisy
had crocheted, and Ann had the supper table in readiness.

They were all tired, enough, though we had bound them by solemn
promises not to do any of our fall shopping. They had made a few calls,
selected the carpet and made arrangements to have papa’s study chair
covered with Russia leather. So we kissed them and made them welcome,
both ladies being somewhat surprised by our day’s work.

It was beautiful on Friday, and there was not the least shadow of an
excuse for mamma to stay. Not that we were so very glad to have her go,
after all, but we knew it would bring forth good fruit in the end. Tim
was about half crazy and brought all her play-things to be packed up,
but mamma compromised by taking her large rag doll, as the baby could
play with that.

“Girls,” said Mrs. Whitcomb on Saturday morning, “suppose we begin
at the other rooms. Nelly and Daisy can do a good deal in the way
of helping. I want to get the house all in order before your mother
returns. And there will be the carpet to make the first of the week.”

“Agreed;” we all said, and went at it with a good will. Daisy declared
“that it was almost as splendid as moving, and she hoped sometime we
would move.” She was too young to remember the discomforts of our
coming to Wachusett.

This was a regular frolic. Mrs. Whitcomb was so charming with her ways
of quiet fun and odd bits of wisdom. Like mamma, she knew how to begin
at the right end, and make matters go on smoothly. There is such a
difference in that. She kept the children good-natured and we were all
as busy as bees.

Just as we were hurrying our utmost, about mid-afternoon a carriage
stopped. Daisy ran to the side window to reconnoitre.

“It is the Maynards,” she announced, “and a whole load of ladies.”

“Some one must go—Rose!”

“O, dear, no, not—”

“For Joe, to be slangy,” and Fan laughed. “But you have just finished
the carpet, and you are the eldest, and you can brush up your hair so
quickly. Here, wash your face and I’ll get out your dress.”

I washed and brushed, or rather just ran the comb through my hair
and twisted it in a great knot, put on some tidy slippers and a blue
cambric with ruffles at the wrist and throat. While I was fastening my
brooch Fan tied a pale blue ribbon in my hair.

“There, you look as sweet as a pink, only I never saw any blue pinks.
Don’t say you are just out of the soap-suds. Remember to uphold the
family credit.”

It was “all of the Maynards,” and a very elegant young gentleman. Mrs.
Silverthorne and the Misses Maynards were going West next week, and had
come to make a farewell call. They were very sorry to miss mamma—how
could we get along without her?

I said Mrs. Whitcomb was here taking charge of us.

“There;” began Mrs. Silverthorne, “Matilda, I don’t see why you can’t
get her to come and stay with grandma this winter, and you go to the
City for two months or so. I am sure if Mrs. Endicott feels it safe to
leave all of her children, you might leave just one person.”

“Mamma has the baby and my youngest sister with her,” I returned. “And
she only expects to stay a week.”

I could not see that the cases were at all parallel.

“Well, this Mrs. Whitcomb is a nice, trusty sort of person, is she not?
Doesn’t she take care of sick people?”

“Yes; she is very lovely.”

“_That_ is only for your equals, my child;” she returned patronizingly.

I flushed but made no answer.

“Whose crayon drawing?” asked Miss Maynard, making a tour of inspection
through the room.

“My sister Fanny’s.”

“O—the one with that lovely golden hair—is it not? Miss Lucy Churchill
raves about her. Why she has quite a talent. Does she think of
studying?”

“Not at present;” I replied.

“She is very young;” said Mrs. Maynard.

“If I were not going away I should be pleased to give her some lessons.
I think one ought to foster talent when one is in a position to do it.”

“Thank you;” I returned with a little pride. “Miss Churchill intends to
give her lessons.”

“Indeed! Well, I have some friends connected with the School of Design
in New York. I might do something for her there.”

I simply thanked her again.

They left regrets and kind messages, and swept through the hall in a
complacent fashion.

I ran up stairs and took off my dress in a hurry.

“It wasn’t worth the trouble;” I declared with some disgust. “I really
think I could find more intellectual enjoyment in tacking down carpets.
I am sure I could in hanging pictures.”

“What a depraved taste! And West Side people, too!”

“I can’t help it, Miss Churchill would have been charming.” Then I
repeated Miss Maynard’s offers.

“Very thoughtful of her;” said Fan dryly.—“People in her position can
do many nice things if they try. I would not have hung that picture in
the parlor if it had not been for papa.”

“Our parlor is our own,” replied I.

“No, it belongs in part to the parish.”

Mrs. Whitcomb laughed at that.

“Oh, won’t this room be lovely,” said Nelly. “Why, I could swing Tabby
around in it without hitting the children!”

“Let me catch you swinging Tabby! She has passed through purgatory.”

“And these book-shelves are just the thing. Daisy, they are mine, do
you understand? If I find one of your books here I shall put it in the
middle of the floor.”

“That will have one merit at least, I can see it there.”

We finished the two rooms by night, and then had callers all the
evening. But Sunday without mamma seemed quite out of the order of
things. I knew papa felt lost, though we all tried to do our best.
Once it came into my mind what the house would be without her forever,
and my eyes filled with tears. We sat together an hour after church,
talking about her.

We went to work again the first of the week. The carpet had come and
was very pretty. A mossy, fine figured vine in two shades of green,
with a dash of crimson here and there. The lounge had been covered the
year before with green reps and still looked bright.

“How pretty it will be!” I said, “I am all impatience to see it down
and the room in order. The carpet comes just like a present, doesn’t
it?”

“We have forgotten the work and the worry.”

“Perhaps it was a good thing for us. And somehow I do believe it will
prove good for Louis Duncan.”

“When will we go at the study, Mrs. Whitcomb?”

“Not until your father is out of the house.”

A ring at the bell startled us.

“West Side again;” said Mrs. Whitcomb;—“Miss Churchill.”

“O, please come in here;” exclaimed Fanny with a laugh. “It is only a
step from—dress-making to carpets.”

“Is it?” and she smiled. “Who is going to be so pretty?”

“Papa. Our study carpet was a thing of—shreds and patches, rather than
beauty. And we feel as if we had earned this money ourselves. When papa
goes to the mountains we shall have a thorough renovating.”

“I wish I could add something,” said Miss Churchill. “Let me take a
peep, perhaps I can discover a new need.”

She glanced around. Fanny explained about the chair.

“There is one thing girls, and I shall do it. This paper is soiled and
dingy, and a new one must be put on.”

“It is pretty nearly covered with the books and pictures,” returned
Fanny.

“But it is not nice. Wednesday, you said, Mr. Endicott was going. I
will send you over some help to get the furniture and the books out,
and on Thursday the man shall come to do it. It will not take long.”

“We can do the removing, please;” and Fan smiled archly.

“If you are saucy I will come myself. Here is a basket of pears. I
suppose I dare not ask you to visit me until you have all your fortune
spent, and are bankrupt.”

“You will be very good to take us in then,” I answered.

“I can make allowance for the pernicious influence of wealth;” she
returned gaily.

She was as good as her word. The coachman come over to help us lift, he
said. One end of the room and one side of the chimney had been put in
book-shelves. Mrs. Whitcomb thoughtfully made out a list so we could
tell where they belonged.

The paper and the man were according to promise. The first was a
delicate French gray with quite wide, rich bordering that gave the room
the effect of being frescoed. It was as pretty as a picture. When the
carpet was down, and the chair came home, which it did, Saturday noon,
we were happy as larks.

But the best of all was mamma and the baby. We kissed them and cried
over them a little out of pure joy. The old tired look had gone out of
mamma’s sweet face, and her voice was bright and cheery. And, oh, how
surprised and pleased they both were! Papa declared that it was as good
as a Christmas feast.

It was only a little after all. Some of the ladies in town spent as
much on one dress and then were dissatisfied. I begin to think it is
a rare art to get a good deal of happiness out of a small amount of
material. When you work for it yourself it does seem sweeter, if the
work is not too hard. Hunger is a good thing if one does not pass the
point of appetite, and faint.

Mamma thought we had accomplished wonders. Truly the pictures did
look better on the new paper, and the bright border gave a glow and
richness. The carpet proved just the thing. Papa called it his Castle
of Indolence, because it had such a dreamy, comfortable appearance.

“There is half of our fortune gone;” said Fanny, “but I don’t grudge a
penny of it. Indeed I feel like spending the rest on dear papa.”

“Papa has had his share, fully. Now I must do some shopping for you
girls. And I have a surprise in my mind for Mrs. Whitcomb.”

“A present, I know. O mamma, tell us at once.”

“She would not take any pay for her services in the summer, so I shall
spend part of my gift upon her. It is one of the chinks, and I think it
can best be filled with a new dress.”

“Just the thing. She has a nice black silk dress, so let this be a
poplin, a beautiful dark wine color. You know how pretty she looked in
the neck tie,” said Fan.

“I had been puzzling on a color. You and Rose and Nelly must have a new
winter dress apiece.”

“And mine shall be wine color. _Can_ we afford poplin, mamma, real
pretty, I mean?”

“Hardly, I think. You will want a walking suit and what with overskirt
and jacket—”

Fan made a mental calculation.

“No, mamma _mia_, it will never do. A dollar and a half a yard will
be our utmost limit. Well, there are lovely empress cloths. We will be
neat if we cannot be gorgeous. And if I could have velvet like it for a
hat, and a tiny real lace collar.”

“I will give you each thirty-five dollars. Will that answer?”

“We will make it, little mother;” I replied cheerfully.

We enjoyed shopping with our own money exceedingly. My dress was a dark
green with a bronze tint; and a felt hat to match, with trimmings a
shade lighter. Mamma gave us our gloves and some ribbons, and we felt
very grand. Nelly’s dress was a gold and black waterproof.

We bought Mrs. Whitcomb’s under her very eyes, and smiled over her
comments. But when she saw it the next morning with her name pinned
on it, and “her dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Endicott” as donors, her
surprise and delight were good to witness. Fan declared that it was the
most satisfactory of all.

Afterward we had a regular dress-making “bee.” Mamma cut, Mrs. Whitcomb
and I basted, and Fan sewed on the machine. Miss Oldways insisted upon
coming one day, and we had a bright, cheerful time. We made Mrs.
Whitcomb’s too, though she said at first that we should not.

By this time it was the middle of October. We felt as if we had gained
a march upon the season, shopping and sewing so early, and we were
quite proud not to have taken papa’s money. The salary was not very
large, and sometimes it required considerable planning to make it do.
Mamma used to say it was the five loaves and the two small fishes among
many, but we _did_ often find a few fragments.

Mrs. Whitcomb had to say good-bye to us again. We fell back into our
old routine. Fanny being at home regularly gave me much more leisure.
We took up a course of reading with papa, and practiced our music
daily. There were walks and calls and parish visiting, so we were not
likely to be idle. The Churchills were very kind to us. Mr. Churchill
took the office of church warden, left vacant by Mr. Fairlie’s death.
He came over now and then to discuss church matters, and he did get a
great deal interested in the children.

Miss Helen Ogden was married early in December and went abroad. Mrs.
Ogden tried to persuade Miss Lucy to go to Florida with her, but she
confessed that she had not the courage. Mrs. Fairlie and Kate found
their loneliness insupportable, and were quite elated when she asked
them to join her. They wanted Dick to accompany them, but he would not,
declaring that he could not leave everything at loose ends.

Oddly enough, we rarely heard a word about Winthrop Ogden. He was in
a Bank in New York. He had not made his second visit as proposed.
We never said anything to each other concerning the love episode,
mamma thought it best not to be talked about. And though through all
the trouble and grief it had been impossible not to see Dick Fairlie
frequently, he and Fan fell into pleasantly fraternal ways.—Mamma
managed that there should be no awkwardness and but little chance for a
repetition. She used to sit with us evenings and make Dick talk to her.
Presently he became quite confidential with her. He had missed this
peculiar mother love and interest in his own life, and it seemed as if
he was hungering for it.

He improved unconsciously. He grew more manly and self-reliant. People
began to call him Mr. Richard Fairlie, as they had called his father.
He made little visits to cousins and one or two school friends, though
he kept his house open with the aid of an excellent servant.

It is strange how the roots of things all get together after a while,
as they stretch out feelers hither and thither. I used to think if
there was one woman in the parish who resembled mamma in the sweet
family interest that she managed to create about those who came within
her circle it was Mrs. Ryder. Their house was just lovely. The parlor
opened into the sitting-room, that into the dining-room, at the end
of the hall, and from thence into the kitchen. They lived all the way
through, as we did. You commenced in the parlor but you found every
place just as good. Flowers were everywhere, pictures everywhere, even
in the kitchen where hung “The Gossips,” a laughable engraving of
“Moving Day,” a pretty rustic catch-all wall-pocket, and a shelf of
geraniums across one window. It wasn’t much larger than a hall bedroom,
but it was always neat and picturesque, the more so when Jennie was in
it with her sleeves tucked up, baking or washing dishes.

I believe Dick recognized the resemblance between mamma and Mrs. Ryder
in this peculiar motherliness. He took her to ride now and then, and
began to bring odd specimens of ferns and dried leaves to them, and
sent them some nice fruit and vegetables from the farm. We went with
him quite often to spend the evening, but mamma had cautioned us about
dragging Jennie injudiciously forward.

One day Fan and mamma were talking about him quite confidentially, when
the latter said—

“You do not feel inclined to repent your decision, my dear?”

“No, mamma;” she answered with a little fitful color.

“You have only to go on then in this manner, and remain very cordial
friends. I shall be glad to have you. But if you should wish to repent,
now would be the auspicious time. He is a very worthy young man.”

“Would you like me to, mamma?” Fan asked in a tremor of alarm.

“Not unless you wish it above all things, then you would be wrong to
let a little false pride stand in the way.”

“I do not wish it above all things.”

“My darling, we should be sorry to give you away so soon,” and mamma
kissed her fondly. “We are a trifle selfish, you see.”

“May be I shall never go away,” Fan made answer slowly. “Perhaps I
shall be the old maid sister instead of Rose.”

Mamma laughed and said she should not mind.

But we could all understand that Richard Fairlie was considered a
most eligible young man. Allie West and Sue Barstow were very cordial
with him. He was asked to tea as he could not join the gay little
neighborhood parties, and the mothers took a great interest in him.




CHAPTER XIII.


Merry Christmas had come and gone with its ordinary festivities and
gifts. Ours had been unusually bright, and we were all well and happy.
Only one thing troubled papa and that was the boys.

Louis had spent nearly two months traveling around and then going
straight to Wilburton. He was pleasantly situated he wrote, quite well,
and had taken up his studies. Papa answered, giving him some friendly
counsel, but we had heard nothing since. Stuart had sent two chatty
epistles. Stephen was expected home every week.

“I feel as if I ought to have gone to Wilburton and looked after him;”
papa would say anxiously.

“You have been so very busy all the time with your duties here;”
mamma would reply reassuringly. “And Louis is one of those quietly
persistent young men who take their own way and learn, if they ever do,
from experience.”

I doubt if it would have made any difference in what occurred. Fan used
to say that we had gentle showers of misfortune and rains of adversity,
and this must have been both combined. The letter came from Stuart with
the bad news, which shocked us beyond description.

I will tell it more briefly than in his rambling, commenting fashion.
He had little of the brotherly love that desires to cover up faults, or
hide the worst of any untoward incident.

Louis’ boarding place might have proved a judicious home, but a month
after his being settled with Mrs. Fuller, a young clerk came to
share his comforts, one of those selfish, astute persons as Stephen
afterwards learned, who with his pleasing address and flattering
deference soon won Louis’ regard and confidence, and introduced him to
some dangerous companions. This was followed by late hours and gaming.
To a nervous, excitable nature these games of chance with an occasional
victory, became a dangerous fascination. Louis was no match for his
adversaries. They looked upon him as a rich, hot-headed, ignorant
young fellow and drew him on until he found himself heavily in debt.
The money sent for his current expenses was swallowed up, and proved
but a drop in the whirlpool.

One evening he had begun with the luck in his favor and felt
wonderfully elated. At midnight he would fain have left them, but they
bantered him to stay, rather hinting that a defection would be from
basely selfish motives. He was not to be dared and took his seat again,
losing heavily on the first play. The others had been drinking and
grown a trifle careless. He was watching with eager, restless eyes and
detected to his surprise, a play so unusual that it brought an instant
conviction to his mind that even his trusted friend might be in league
against him.

He mastered his indignation and went steadily on, every sense alert
with suspicion. Presently the trick was repeated, his opponent winning
triumphantly. But his endurance came to an end with this, and he burst
forth in angry vehemence, accusing everybody, and hurling passionate
epithets that roused the wrath of the small circle, which they resented
as warmly. A bitter taunt cost Louis the last remnant of self-control,
and he flew at his adversary with a tiger’s strength and quickness. One
tremendous blow ended the contest.

“Good Heavens! Duncan, you have killed him!” cried one of the party.
“You’ll rue this night’s work!”

His youth and his impulsiveness led him astray again. Like a flash he
beheld the disgrace, the awful crime, the consternation of all who knew
him. Obeying his first unreasoning impulse he fled from the place.
Whither should he go? Death would be preferable to arrest and scandal.

He had a small amount of money with him and it was but a few steps to
the station. The train made a moment’s halt and he stepped on board
in the darkness. If he had waited until morning it would have proved
only a disgraceful gambling brawl. The injured youth was brought
to consciousness and through the physician’s efforts saved from
congestion. A few day’s illness would be the result to him, but the
story spread like wild-fire, exaggerated in every respect. This was the
account that came from Stuart.

Papa was horror stricken at the first moment. He buried his face in
his hands and gave the letter to mother.

“Poor boy!” she said tenderly. “His unfortunate temper, his distrust
of those who would have proved his best friends, and his credulity in
other respects, have made him an easy victim. But what has become of
him?”

“I must go immediately,” papa exclaimed. “I am in some sense his
keeper. I ought to have looked after him before. Poor lad. How we
prayed for him to be spared last summer! Perhaps—”

“Dear papa,” said Fan, “if God had not thought best to save his life,
he would have been taken. Please do not blame yourself. It was our duty
to try, and to pray. The end is with God.”

“You are right, my darling, and I must act instead of doubting. Let me
think—I can reach Wilburton at eight this evening. I will do all I can.
If Stephen were only here!”

Half an hour afterward we received a telegram from him. He was in New
York. After a flying visit to the boys he would be with us.

“I had better meet him there;” said papa. “We can consult about the
best steps to be taken. And indeed, Louis may have returned to
Wilburton.

“Everything always does happen to us at once,” said Fan. “But this
is such a sorry happening! We have to take our share of other’s
misfortunes, but joys do not always go round so far.”

“I am sure we have had a great many joys;” returned mamma in her sweet
tone. “And no—”

“Bad boys of our own;” put in Fan. “Or good ones either for that
matter. But there _is_ one thing to be very thankful for, and that is,
that Louis Duncan has not the sin of murder on his soul.”

“True, true, Fanny;” returned papa.

An hour later he put a few articles in a hand satchel and bade us
good-bye. That was Wednesday and he did not return until Friday eve,
when Mr. Duncan came with him.

Six months of foreign life had changed him considerably. He was
stouter, looked older, and wore a full beard. I _did_ feel afraid of
him. I wondered how Fan could talk so freely. He was grave to the verge
of sadness; yet very sweet to mamma with that kind of reverential
sweetness so touching.

The victim of the affray was out of danger. Stephen had been
investigating his brother’s affairs, but found no extravagances
beside the gambling debts. Otherwise his course of conduct had not
been blamable. But there were no tidings of him. Stephen had inserted
advertisements in one or two papers, begging him to return, which was
all that could be done for the present.

The pleasure of the meeting was a good deal dampened by this
unfortunate affair. Mr. Duncan had counted so much upon his visit
to us, it would seem. He brought mamma a lovely black silk dress
from Paris, Edith a necklace and armlets that would make her pretty
bracelets by and by. For Fan a choice set of engravings in a beautiful
port-folio. Nelly some beautiful handkerchiefs, and the children each a
ring.

“And this is for you;” he said, handing me a little box. “I have heard
how good you were to my poor brother, and though it is only a trifle, I
hope you will accept it and my grateful thanks as well.”

It was a beautiful pearl cross in the most delicate setting. So white
and pure that I felt half afraid of it.

“O,” I exclaimed confusedly, “I did not do very much! I—mamma—thank
you!” and I turned away from his peculiar look.

“I feel as if I had brought a great deal of trouble upon you all,
but I will have no blame attached to any one, least of all you, Mr.
Endicott. I know you have done your duty like a Christian gentleman,
like a father, indeed. It is the poor boy’s misfortune that he is so
self-willed and ungovernable, and I must try, if God spares me, to
reclaim him. I was wrong not to begin earlier.”

“If I can be of any assistance command me to the utmost;” and papa
wrung Stephen’s hand. “It is my duty to search for the lost souls and
point out the way of repentance. I do feel that I have been sadly
remiss.”

That evening at twilight I was standing at the study window glancing
dreamily over the snowy road, when I heard a step beside me. I _felt_
immediately who it was.

“I believe I owe you an apology,” he began in a low tone. “You were
disappointed in your gift, and I do not wonder. I ought not to have
bought you a cross. I had already laid one upon you unwittingly.
Forgive me.”

“It was too elegant,” I returned. “That was its only fault, if it had
one. I was—obliged for the kind remembrance.”

“But you will not like to wear it?”

I was silent, I could not tell why, but I should _not_ want to wear it.

“I never have had such a costly article;” I faltered.

“Well, put it away, out of sight. I seem to be unlucky—with you!”

His tone was almost impatient. He did not go away and I remained
awkwardly by his side.

Did some evil genius tempt me to say—

“I think you feel too hard and severe towards Louis. You don’t know
what it is to have such a temper—”

“Thank God, no!” he interrupted.

“And he has never had one good true friend in whom he could trust. He
is peculiar and sensitive.”

“I have made several attempts to win his confidence and failed. I
fancied perhaps, that coming here might have some effect upon him. It
is terrible to think of his being hardened in deceit and given over to
violence.”

“Oh, he is not;” I cried impulsively.

“Are you quite sure?”

Something in the tone offended me. I could not say what I wished.

“At least you will forgive him—if he comes back?”

“I can assure you he will not find me unbrotherly. But he must learn
that he is not quite his own master.”

Nelly ran in. I was glad to go away and leave him. And yet as we were
all singing together that evening, something in his voice touched me,
moved me to tears. How tender he could be, and yet how stern.

I told mamma afterward of the talks Louis and I had had. So far I had
held them in peculiar confidence. She was a little encouraged, and we
tried to hope for the best.

Stephen spent nearly a week with us. He and Fan and Nelly agreed
capitally. We went over to the Churchill’s, and the ladies were charmed
with him. But he seemed so much older to me than Dick Fairlie, and
several of the young villagers.

He took great pleasure in planning with mamma.

The estate owned a rather old-fashioned house in the upper part of the
city, which he meant to repair and furnish, and set up house-keeping.
If he could find some nice, cheerful, refined woman to take charge—did
we know of anybody?

“Oh!” exclaimed Fan, “Mrs. Whitcomb! It will be just magnificent! Only
she shall not come unless you promise her—let me see—three vacations a
year, to visit us.”

“A month at a time?”

“About that. We have the first claim. She can do everything and is a
lovely lady beside. And she is pretty too.”

“That is certainly in her favor,” and he laughed mischievously. “Could
we find this paragon?”

“She is at Oxford. If you were to invite me to go sleigh-riding, we
might;” said Fan demurely.

“Fanny!” in mamma’s gentle tone.

“Miss Fanny, will you be kind enough to accompany me to Oxford
to-morrow?”

“Thank you, Mr. Duncan, I shall be happy to;” and Fan made a sweeping
curtsey.

They went off merrily in Mr. Fairlie’s dainty cutter, saw Mrs.
Whitcomb, with whom Mr. Duncan was charmed. She promised to consider
the matter.

We missed him ever so much when he was gone. Fan seemed odd and
restless. Papa was much engrossed with parish work, there being a
number of sick people, and at this season of the year the wants of the
poor became much more numerous. Employment was duller in the winter and
after the poorer class had used up their own subsistence, they became
necessarily somewhat dependent upon their neighbors. So papa used to
try and interest the richer ones in their behalf. The season had been
a pretty severe one. Miss Churchill came over one morning and he asked
her assistance.

“I should be glad to do anything in my power, Mr. Endicott,” she said.
“Tell me how to begin. For though I have given money, I am learning to
understand that something else is needed.”

“Yes,” he answered. “Most of these people are honest and industrious
and would work if they could get it to do. Charity in its broad, bold
sense does mortify them.”

“I heard Kenton speaking of some woodland he wanted cleared. One of our
men went away in the fall and we have been rather short-handed. Now if
some one would undertake it—”

“Just the thing,” interposed papa. “And—I wanted to send the Widow
Maxwell a barrel of flour. She has nothing but potatoes in the house, I
know.”

“Make out a list and I will see what I can do. We borrow Miss Fanny so
often that I wish to make all the return in my power. Lucy enjoys her
society so much.”

“And she gives me so much in return,” said Fanny, warmly. “Why, I
am getting to be quite an artist. I may be tempted to accept Miss
Maynard’s offer after all.”

“What was that?”

Fanny and I explained.

“I suppose it _is_ a temptation for a young girl to wish to distinguish
herself. And yet—you are all so happy here that I should be sorry to
see a break.”

“There will be none yet awhile,” replied mamma. “I want my girls to
learn some useful home lessons first. I do not know but there is as
high and worthy an art in managing and saving and in making happiness
as in earning money.”

“I think you are right, Mrs. Endicott. While I admit the necessity
of every woman knowing something whereby she can support herself, I
sometimes wonder if the reformers are not carrying the matter too far.
Girls are painters and poets and shop-keepers and teachers. When they
marry, housework is distasteful to them. They do not know how to cook a
dinner or make a dress, they cannot carry on a household in a pleasant,
agreeable manner. They must board or depend upon servants. There is
nothing but complaint and discouragement. They may be valuable members
of society, but their time is too precious to be wasted upon real
living. Every year homes become more rare.”

“It is too sadly true,” said papa. “There is a wide difference between
a fashionable house and a pleasant home. And home used to mean
something besides a place in which one slept and took his meals.”

“But some women never marry and never have a home,” interposed Fanny.

“There are exceptions. Yet many prefer the other course. I know
families of girls who might have assisted and comforted their mothers,
but who went to neighboring towns or cities, earning barely enough to
keep themselves, sleeping in miserable close attics when they could
have clean airy rooms at home, and exposed to flippant injurious
companionship that destroys all the finer graces of a woman’s soul.
Their mother has to depend upon Irish help whose waste and wages would
doubtless dress two daughters. She has no society at home and is
worried out of her life. What is it all for? Why can they not make each
other happy?”

“An imaginary liberty,” answered mamma. “I want to make my home so
pleasant that my girls will be sorry to leave it. I hope to instruct
them in such a manner that they will be able to make other happy homes,
and then I shall have no fear for them.”

“And when seven daughters rise up and call you blessed, you will be
overwhelmed, little mother,” returned Fan clasping her arms around
mamma’s neck. “It is what we expect to do by and by, when Edith is old
enough to fill out the row gracefully. Yet I do sometimes feel appalled
at the host to take care of. Clergymen may abound in grace but they
seldom do in this world’s goods. We are not ravens, nor lilies of the
field.”

“I think you will find it coming out rightly in the end,” said Miss
Churchill with a smile. “Your mother’s theories may not be like the
modern ones, but very good women were reared under them, and they
are not quite out of date. I would like to see them put in practise
oftener.”

Fan blushed vividly at the beginning of Miss Churchill’s sentence. I
wondered a little why?

“And now I must go,” declared Miss Churchill rising. “I always get
fascinated when I come here, and stay beyond reasonable limits. When
your charming nest becomes over-crowded, Mrs. Endicott, I will be glad
to take one birdie. You won’t forget the list, Mr. Endicott?”

“No, indeed. I shall be thankful for so good a helper.”

“And now good-bye till I come again,” said she.

We awaited the first letter from Stephen Duncan anxiously. There were
no tidings of Louis, and he was feeling very much alarmed. He had
inspected the house and was to begin repairs immediately. It was his
intention to have a home for himself and his brothers, and to do his
duty by them, with God’s help, in-so-far as he could. “And wherein I do
succeed,” he wrote, “the work will be in a great measure due to your
Christian counsel and solicitude. I shall always esteem it one of the
fortunate steps of my life that I came to you, my dear friend, when I
needed fatherly advice.”

February was dull and dreary, though we had little time to think of it.
Not one busy bee could have been spared from the hive. Miss Churchill
called ours a co-operative home, and I think it was. News came to Mr.
Fairlie that his mother and sister had decided to go to Europe with a
pleasant party. They would return to New York in April and sail in May.

“So I can look out for myself,” said Dick.

“Why do you not go with them?” asked Fan.

“I shouldn’t enjoy it if I did—to travel round with a parcel of women.
Now if one could go with a man like Mr. Duncan!”

“That would be just perfection,” she returned eagerly.

He glanced at her in a peculiar manner. Something flashed across my
mind at that instant. They liked each other very much. He was hurrying
to get his house in order—Mrs. Whitcomb would be there—yes, it would
all come around right.

It came faster than any one expected. The first week in March we were
surprised by a visit from him. He had commenced furnishing and was in a
quandary.

“And so I have come to consult, and to ask a tremendous favor of you,
Mrs. Endicott,” he said. “I have gained Mrs. Whitcomb’s consent to
come in company with you and see how she would like it. I want you and
Miss Fanny and my little god-daughter to go back with me next week,
and we will have a kind of family party. I have my dining-room and two
guest-chambers furnished, though they want a woman’s graceful fingers
to add some final touches. And now like Benedick ‘I will hear of
nothing to the contrary.’”

Mamma said at first it was quite impossible. Fan I could see was
strongly in favor of the idea. I knew that I could keep house very
well, and it would be delightful to have them go. So we talked and
talked. Mrs. Whitcomb came over and the matter was actually settled.

Stephen had found some trace of Louis and lost it again, but he was
confident that he could follow up the clue. He had grown exceedingly
anxious. He and papa had long talks on the subject.

“I heard of his keeping books for a few weeks at a factory,” he
explained. “I think he must have gone away nearly destitute, but this
effort at independence gives me much hope. Perhaps it will be a good
lesson for him—if he does not fall among evil associates.”

It was nothing but Stephen and Mr. Duncan. I began to grow almost
jealous. Did he suspect it, I wonder? He used to watch me so curiously,
though somehow we never talked. He and Fan were absolutely jolly. I
wondered how she dared be so saucy with that great grave-eyed man.

“You won’t mind being left alone for a little while?” he said to me. “I
will promise to take excellent care of your mother. I only wish it were
a pleasanter season of the year, but Miss Fanny will keep us bright
anywhere.”

That was true enough.

“And if I can induce Mrs. Whitcomb to stay I shall be quite satisfied
with my lot.”

Indeed, I think any one might have been satisfied with the prospect
before him.

We said good-bye to them on Monday morning, as mamma decided that she
must be at home by Saturday. I could not realize that they had gone
for more than the day until evening set in. Then it seemed so strange
and quiet. There was a little drizzle of hail and rain, and for a
wonder no one dropped in. The children went to bed, Nelly was busy
with her studies, papa read, and I sewed some trifle. I believe I felt
nervous and almost low-spirited.

“Come,” I said to myself, “this will never do.”

But I did have a little quiet cry when I went to bed. The house would
never be the same without Fan. I should miss her so much.

I felt better the next day and went at my work cheerfully. About noon
it cleared away bright and crisp.

“Rose,” said papa, “could you go down to old Mrs. Aitkens’ this
afternoon? She is very poorly and may want something done.”

“Yes,” I answered quickly. I would give moping no place to settle
itself to-day.

Mrs. Elsden came in after dinner and staid quite awhile, to cheer me
up, she said. If I was lonesome Addie should come over and spend the
day with me.

“I would be glad to see Addie,” I said, “but I should be too busy to
get lonesome.”

Then as I was going right by Jennie Ryder’s I remembered a book she
wanted, so I decided to call. She and her mother sat in their cheerful
parlor, as cosy as you please. I took the chair beside hers and there
right in the edge of her pretty willow work-stand lay a gentleman’s
glove with her needle in it. Our eyes fell on it at the same moment.
She blushed and tucked it out of sight, and then the next instant drew
it forth with an odd deliberateness and went on mending the rips.

I laughed a little, so did she.

“Richard left his gloves here last evening;” she said. “He has no one
to look after such matters now.”

“He will have quite a trial of loneliness,” I answered. “Mrs. Fairlie
and Kate expect to be in Europe two years or more. Kate will have her
darling wish.”

“Yes. I don’t know what he would do if you were not so good to him at
the Rectory.”

“But we do not mend his gloves,” I said teasingly.

“Oh, that is—nothing;” but she blushed again.

There was a vase of choice flowers on one window-sill, and I went to
inspect it.

“Why, I did not know you had an azalea,” I exclaimed in surprise.

“I have not. They—”

“Mr. Fairlie brought them over,” said Mrs. Ryder gravely. “He comforts
himself with flowers and birds and kittens. Harmless dissipation for a
young man.”

I felt mischievous enough to add,—“And Jennie,” but delicacy forbade
me. But I _was_ pleased. If ever anybody deserved a good husband it was
Jennie Ryder.

Then I went on to Mrs. Aitkens’. She kept me until dusk. I was hurrying
home in the cold March twilight and had just passed the Church when
some one from across the street paused and eyed me sharply. It was not
a familiar face I thought, and went on. The person came over which made
me quicken my steps.

“Miss Rose,” a voice said huskily, “Miss Endicott!”

I turned and stood an instant, speechless with surprise. When I could
get my breath I held out both hands and said—“Oh, Louis Duncan!”

“Then you don’t quite—hate the sight of me?”

[Illustration: MEETING OF ROSE AND LOUIS DUNCAN. Page 272.]

“If you only knew,” I answered eagerly.—“If you _could_ know how
anxious every one has felt, and how thankful we all are that you are
alive! O, come home with me!”

“Thankful! I had better be dead! But I am not.”

He was very thin and pale, and had a worn, tired look. My heart ached
for him.

“No,” I said, “it is better that you are alive. Stephen has been
searching for you. He was here last week.”

Louis turned deadly pale at that.

“Come,” I urged.

“I have been haunting your house all the afternoon. I thought I should
have to go without seeing you. You have heard—of course.”

“Everything, I believe.”

“I know how Stephen feels. His life has been so perfect! His temper is
angelic! And yet Rose—I _did_ mean to do better. I resolved—”

“In your own strength;” I said softly. “God let you see how weak that
was. And yet you must not be cast down. Even Christians have to try
many times. But there _is_ the promise. And God saves to the uttermost,
to the fartherest weakness, the blackest sin.”

“I was _so_ angry. I just understood how they had been cheating me
all along, and what a fool I had been. They added taunts and insults.
I struck out blindly and madly, not caring. _Was_ it God who saved
me from the commission of an awful crime? I fled thinking myself a
murderer. I hid in lanes and byways for three miserable days, knowing
how Cain felt when he said his punishment was greater than he could
bear. If Kelsey had died I think I should have thrown myself into the
river. Then I saw in a paper that he had been only temporarily injured.
The affair was headed—‘A gambling brawl,’ and even though I felt
relieved, the disgrace stung me so keenly.”

“But it has been forgotten by this time. And Stephen means that you
shall stay with him for some months at least. You can redeem all the
past. Oh, try.” I pleaded earnestly.

“Tell me about Stephen?” he said tremulously.

I went briefly over the incidents of his return, but I did lay great
stress upon Stephen’s anxiety, his willingness to forgive the past, for
I knew he would be less severe now than a month ago. I pictured the
home, and the pleasure there might be for both in it.

“And your sister is there,” he replied in an odd tone of voice that was
more comment than inquiry.

“Yes.” Did he guess? “Oh,” I said, “it may be—perhaps it is wrong for
me to hint it—but he likes her very much.”

“Yes,” this time almost harshly. “I understand. She is pretty and
bright, and good—but I wish it were you instead. I thought you liked
him. You used to take his part. Oh, Rose, if you were to be there I
believe I should go. If you were my sister you might save me. You are
so sweet, so patient; you know so many tender ways.”

“Why, I should be your sister then,” I said, trembling in shame and
confusion, for what, I hardly knew.

“You are so different from most people. I think Stephen would be
gentler with you—”

“Hush, he knows best. Come home with me and talk to papa. What have you
been doing all this while?”

“Earning my living for a change,” and he laughed bitterly. “I _can_
go West. Not that I mean to relinquish my fortune, but since I have
disgraced them all—”

“No, no;” I rejoined firmly. “You must not go.”

“What then?”

“Return to Stephen directly. Redeem the past with a brave, true,
upright manhood. You _can_ do it. I do not believe you will ever be
tempted in that way again.”

“You are right there. If you could know how I _have_ governed myself
during the past two months. I feel as if half my temper was gone,—since
that awful night. But to go back—to humble myself to him—”

“Have you not hurt his pride cruelly?” I said.

Louis was silent.

“Oh, please _do_ go for my sake,” I entreated. “Let papa—”

“No,” hoarsely. “I couldn’t talk to any one but you. I was wild to see
you. I wanted to know what you thought—if I was past redemption—”

“No, you are not. You do not understand how some of these very faults
may be transformed into virtues. Is it not braver to struggle than to
give up like a coward in despair.”

“I never _was_ cowardly.”

“Prove your bravery by going to Stephen. Start anew. God will give you
strength and grace. I know you can succeed.”

He glanced at me long and earnestly. There was a strange wistfulness in
his face that touched me.

“Promise!” I took his cold hand in mine.

“No, I cannot—quite. I must think of it. And I must go, also, I have
kept you too long in the cold.”

“But where are you going?”

“I shall take the train at seven;” evasively.

I pleaded again, warmly, earnestly. I fancied that I saw tears in his
eyes, but he would not promise me positively.

We said a lingering good-bye in the starlight. I felt assured that he
must come to a better sense of the matter.

Then I hurried home. They were through supper. Papa was putting on his
overcoat.

“I was just coming for you. Why how—excited you look! Is Mrs. Aitken
worse?”

“No, I have been walking rapidly.”

“Let me pour your tea;” began Nelly. “I was head of the table, and felt
quite grand.”

I tried to be composed. I had promised not to say a word about the
meeting, but it seemed strange to have such an important secret in my
keeping.

Before I went to bed that night I wrote to Stephen. I never could
remember what I said, for I sealed the letter without reading it over,
and sent it when Nelly went to school. But I begged him to be patient
and merciful to Louis.

Nothing else of importance happened in my week of house-keeping.
Thursday evening we received a letter from Fan that was sketchy and
funny and incoherent. I felt that she must really be in love. How
strangely the links of life join, I said to myself.

We were glad enough to get them home on Saturday afternoon. Edith
had a slight cold, but Fan was bright and rosy and glowing in her
descriptions. She had never had such fun in her life. They had bought
carpets, furniture, pictures, ornaments; the Duncan family silver was
wonderful to behold, and the house delightful, just old fashioned
enough not to be grand. Mrs. Whitcomb was installed house-keeper and
was as much in love with Stephen as everybody else. We were all to make
visits as often as we could, and during vacation he meant to have the
whole family.

He sent papa a set of new books which were just what he had been
wishing for.

“Oh,” exclaimed Nelly, “it will be splendid to go to New York like
everybody else. Children, we must begin to save our money.”

“Are there any tidings of Louis?” I asked with my heart in my throat.

“No. Mr. Duncan intends to begin a search himself next week. He is
resolved to find him.”

After supper papa came round to Fanny and played with her golden hair
and watched her as she talked. How much he loved her! Did he feel that
there might be a rival ere long, a break in the chain of girls? Yet she
seemed so gladly, so unconsciously happy.

It was the children’s bed time at last. They kissed round and round as
if they were never to see anybody again. I had to hurry them finally,
their good night was so lingering.

“Fanny,” papa said, “will you come in my study a few moments.”

She put her hand over his shoulder, and his arm was around her waist.
I saw them cross the hall, making such a pretty picture that I smiled.
Then the door shut.

This was what happened.

They walked together to the library table. Papa took up a letter,
fingered it idly and studied Fan’s sweet young face.

“I did not mean to speak of this until Monday,” he began, “but I have a
feeling that it may be best finished at once. I received a letter a few
days ago,—in which there was an enclosure for you—this.”

He took out a folded paper and handed it to her. She opened it
wonderingly. Out fell a faded rose with two or three buds.

She gave a low cry and hid her face on papa’s shoulder. He smoothed the
golden hair and presently said in a tremulous tone—

“Will you read my letter? I should like to have you.”

She raised her scarlet face, still keeping her eyes averted. It was
some seconds before she could begin to distinguish the words.

A manly straight-forward appeal to papa from Winthrop Ogden. He
confessed to having spoken hastily in the summer, and promising to wait
long enough to convince Miss Endicott that he was in earnest. His mind
had not wavered from that hour, and now he asked papa’s permission to
visit her and try his fate, convinced that his love was loyal and
earnest. His family admired Miss Endicott, and such an engagement would
meet with their approval, he knew. Might he hope for an answer soon?

“My darling!”

“Oh papa!” and the fair head went down again.

“Shall I send this young interloper about his business?”

There was no answer except as the soft arms crept up round his neck.

“My dear child, what is it?” finding a little place in the forehead to
kiss.

“Can I—do—” and the faltering voice paused.

“Just as you like, my darling. While I should be sorry to give you—to
another,” and there was a pathetic little break in the voice; “still
the young man _is_ unexceptionable. I believe the Churchills would
welcome you warmly. And marrying and being given in marriage is the way
of the world.”

“Then—papa—” and the remainder of the answer was a long, tender kiss.

“I thought perhaps—Stephen Duncan—”

“Oh, papa, he doesn’t love me—in that way.

“But I know his secret, that is I once saw it gleam out like a tiny
snow-drop in the sun. I am not to be the only happy girl in the world.”

Papa looked a little puzzled, then he sighed.

“Why,” said he dolorously—“there will be only five left!”




CHAPTER XIV.


It seemed so strange the next day to look at Fan and think what had
happened to her. I was glad to have it Sunday. The very church bells
appeared to have caught a deeper tone, an awe and sacredness, a being
set apart as it were from the ordinary uses. It was sweet and beautiful
to me, and I was filled with a kind of quiet excitement, a great
throbbing and trembling in every nerve, as if I stood on the threshold
of a new life. Other girls had been engaged or had lovers, but it did
not enter into my soul like this.

She was sweet and dreamy, saying very little. When she sang in Church
her voice had a peculiar tremulousness in it, as if it swept through
great waves of feeling. Mamma was very tender to her. When their eyes
met it was with a mutual understanding made manifest in the simplest
glance. I did not feel jealous. She and papa surely had the first right
to the mystery and blessedness of the new relation. Papa watched her
with wistful eyes, as if he could hardly resolve to relinquish her.

Thus two or three days passed. We were up in our room, I dusting, and
Fan folding some clothes, and laying ribbons orderly in a pretty box.

“That is so lovely,” and she shook out a delicate blonde blue. “Mr.
Duncan chose it for me. We went shopping one day with Mrs. Whitcomb, to
buy some table linen. It was such fun! I told him he wasted his money
in riotous living, the fine linen being a sure sign.”

Just then our heads met, mine going down and hers coming up. We laughed
and looked at each other in great confusion.

“O Fan,” I said just under my breath.

“My dear old darling! I want to tell you—”

“I have guessed,” I said quickly with conscious color. “It is just
right, you and Stephen will be so happy.”

“Stephen!” and she looked at me in surprise. “And papa thought so too!”
at which she laughed gayly.

“Isn’t it Stephen?” in blank amazement.

“Why, no, and mamma has not even hinted?”

“It cannot be Dick Fairlie,” I said wonderingly. “I am sure Jennie—”

“O you little goose! Now as there is just one other man left in the
world you can surely guess.”

I looked at her with that peculiar mental blindness where one may see,
but the thought is shaped to nothing.

“It is not—Winthrop Ogden.”

A great rift of scarlet rushed over her face. Her eyes were luminous
with the dewiness of joy that misses tears, and her lips trembled.

“Oh Fanny!”

I could only take her in my arms and kiss her.

“He wrote to papa. He cared more than we thought. And there was—I did
not tell you about the rose then. I felt afraid that he _was_ trifling
with me. And somehow—”

I understood it all when she did tell me in her sweet halting way. A
faint glimmering of love, or what might be love if there was truth for
a foundation stone.

“Are you quite certain that Stephen—?”

“Oh you dear, tender heart! Yes, quite sure that he does not love me
only in a friendly fashion. We suit, and can talk of everything. He
will not be so with the woman he loves—at first.”

“But it is so—queer;” and I smiled reflectively.

“Yes. We are not engaged, you know. He only asked for the privilege of
coming honorably. I thought he would wait a year—but he has not.”

“He is earnest, if impatient.”

“Yes. I believe I like the imperiousness.”

We went down stairs presently, Papa came in with a letter.

“For you, little woman;” he said, looking curiously at me.

I did not wonder at that. It was in Mr. Duncan’s hand, and of course he
was surprised at Mr. Duncan writing to _me_. But I knew all about it
and broke open the seal hurriedly. It was very brief.

 “MY DEAR, DEAR FRIEND.

 Louis came to me on Sunday evening. I understand how much of the good
 work has been yours, and have no words to thank you as I ought. God
 bless you, always. Louis is quite ill. With love to you and yours.

  S. DUNCAN.”

I handed it to papa, saying—

“I shall have to tell you the story, first. I have had a secret since
last week, but I could not help it.”

“God be thanked for restoring this last son. Now what is it, Rose?”

I related the particulars of our meeting, and how I had urged Louis to
return, but that being bound by a promise of secrecy, I could only wait
the result.

“You were quite right;” replied papa. “The good seed has not been
utterly wasted. I have great hopes for this young man, after all.
Perhaps just this shock was needed to bring him to his senses. Peculiar
natures need peculiar discipline.”

“How brave and good you are in your quiet way Rose.” Fan said with her
arms around my neck.

I could not see what particular bravery there was in it. It had just
happened. The work had come to my hand, and I could not have turned
away.

“I am so glad Mrs. Whitcomb is there;” began mamma thoughtfully. “It
seems a special providence. She has so much wisdom and patience, she
can look beyond the little to-day, to the great end. She does not show
you how weak and miserable you are, but raises you up to her strength,
lends it to you, as it were, until you have some of your own.”

Then we went our ways again a shade more grave, perhaps, but with a
secret joy in our hearts over the “one sinner.” Just now we did not
need to remember the ninety and nine just ones.

The next event was a letter from Mr. Ogden to papa. He expected to
make a flying visit at the West Side, and would take great pleasure in
calling.

He reached the village late Saturday afternoon, and came over in the
evening. He and papa and Fan had a talk in the study, and then they
spent an hour by themselves. Fan looked bright and funny when she came
up stairs.

“Oh, you dear little grandmother;” she began, “how nice it is to have
some one to confess to, when you feel foolish and half sentimental. If
you want to laugh at me you can, there is no law in the Constitution to
forbid it. I am not very far gone in love yet, but I expect to be some
day. Meanwhile, let us be sensible.”

“I have not the slightest objection;” said I gayly.

“I will make my last will and testament while I am of sound mind, then.
Or rather part of this is papa’s. We are not to be really engaged
before Autumn, and in the meanwhile we are to find out on how many
points we agree. But Mr. Ogden is in desperate earnest.”

“You do not seem to be.”

“I really don’t know what I am. I have been tumbled up and down in my
mind and lost my mental equilibrium. But Rose, to think of Winthrop
that very evening telling his Aunt Lucy! And I have been there time and
again, never suspecting it. She has been very sweet to me.”

“Why not?”

“I cannot tell, only they are rich, and grand as people say, and I
feel quite small beside them. He doesn’t mean to tell his mother just
yet, but the rest of the family are—glad that it is so. But when his
Aunt Lucy wrote about Mr. Duncan being here he was in a flame at once.
He spoke last summer because he was jealous of Dick Fairlie, and now
because he was jealous of Mr. Duncan.”

“Do you like that?” I inquired gravely.

“Well—” reflectively, tying her hair ribbon around the pin-cushion,
and going off a step to view it, as if the becomingness of that was
the great point for consideration—“yes, I suppose it _is_ best. He
thinks so. I do believe I have a slight penchant for—flirting. It is
abominable in a clergyman’s daughter! Somehow I do not believe the old
Adam has been entirely eradicated in my case. I shall have to go on
fighting it awhile longer. And so—if I _know_ he is watching me and
will be made miserable over it, I _shall_ be more thoughtful.”

“But if you love him—?”

“It isn’t the love—it is the bits of fun that crop out now and then,
and when I laugh, somebody thinks it means something, when it does not.
I could not help about Dick, and I was very sorry. I am so glad he has
taken to Jennie Ryder. And I _know_ Mr. Duncan never had a thought
about marrying me. But it _is_ best to be careful, since there are men
in the world.”

“I think you had better come to bed,” I rejoined, much amused at her.

“I suppose I had. Good-bye, moralizing. ‘Be good and you will be
happy.’”

But she came and kissed me with rare tenderness.

Mr. Ogden walked home from church with us on Sunday, and came to tea in
the evening. He was very bright and gracious and made the children like
him.

After this they were to correspond until midsummer, when they would
meet again.

There was another embarrassment to be gone through with. A few days
afterward Miss Churchill came over. Obeying her first impulse, Fan ran
away with blushing cheeks. Mamma and Miss Churchill had a good long
talk to themselves. But after awhile Fan was compelled to make her
appearance.

“My dear child;” and Miss Churchill just took her in her arms and
kissed her. “We all think it very delightful to have a claim upon you.”

The tears sprang to Fan’s eyes. It was sweet indeed to be so warmly
welcomed. Mamma was a little touched by it, too.

“I was very much surprised, and I scolded Lucy roundly for keeping the
secret from me. But if we had chosen we could not have suited ourselves
better. And now, my dear, go get yourself ready, for I am going to take
you home with me and keep you all night. Lucy is wild to see you.”

Fanny looked at mamma who nodded assent, so she left us rather
lingeringly.

“My dear Mrs. Endicott,” and Miss Churchill came around, laying her
hand on mamma’s shoulder, “I think if I have ever envied any one in
the world, it is you, since I have come to know you thoroughly. These
charming girls growing up beside you should be a crown of content to
any woman.”

“I have been very happy with my husband and children;” and mamma’s eyes
glistened.

“Circumstances shut me out of such hopes. I suppose we all have our
little romances in youth. I too have had a pleasant life, and my sister
has needed my care, so that I do not feel wasted;” and she smiled. “But
I think I was in danger of making my life rather too narrow. We need
something fresh and different from ourselves. Even we who have the
strength to stand alone, like the sweet, tender sense of a trailing
vine reaching towards our hearts. A breath out of some other living
which enters into or demands our sympathy makes us so much more of kin
to the whole world.”

“Indeed it does,” replied mamma warmly. “When you learn to give and to
take out of each other’s sphere and experience, the actual richness and
breadth of existence is made manifest.”

“You have managed to get so much of real sympathy and heartiness
into your girls’ souls. They are natural. There is no aiming at any
superiority. They will always go into beautiful places because they fit
just like a statue in some niche. I cannot tell you what a pleasure
Fanny has been to us. I do not think Kenton is as fond of Helen, way
down in the depths of his heart, though we always had to coax her into
our lives, and alter the niches a little. So we are doubly glad to have
her.”

It was such a sweet, heart-felt welcome that the tears positively did
come to mamma’s eyes this time.

“Thank you a thousand times for your cordiality;” she murmured with a
great tremble in her voice.

“Winthrop is very young, but the Churchill blood is loyal to the last
drop. I think he will be true as steel through any probation. And since
they can have only one spring-time, one glad season of bright, eager,
joyous youth, we will all try to keep out the thorns and let them
ramble to the very mountain tops if they so elect. I dare say you fancy
me a foolish old woman!”

I thought her just splendid! Fan would be rich in love on every side.

“They are both young,” returned mamma. “Mr. Endicott considers it best
that there should be no formal engagement for the present, but I feel
as if it was quite a settled matter.”

“You must not become jealous if we should monopolize her a great deal.
She is such a comfort to Lucy, with her bright engaging ways. And I
seem to be almost sharing your bliss of motherhood.”

Fan returned just then fairly bewitching in her new timidity. We kissed
all round, and they drove away. I took up my sewing, but the house
seemed strangely still.

“Rose, dear,” mamma began presently, “this will bring a sense of
lonesomeness to you that may be depressing at first. I had hoped the
circle would not be broken quite so soon. But you must be a brave
little girl.”

“Oh,” I replied, “I am happy because she is. And then she will not
leave us for ever so long. But she is so bright and pretty that some
one would have fallen in love with her if it had not been Mr. Ogden.
You will not be robbed of me so soon—if that is any comfort.”

She smiled a little but did not answer.

The affection and honoring seemed to render Fan more humble than
before. She possessed a truly rich and noble nature which would not be
easily puffed up with pride.

Mrs. Fairlie and Kate returned, and a few days afterward we heard that
Mrs. Ogden was at her brother’s.

Kate came over to see us. She had changed indescribably. A languid
society air enveloped her as a garment. She talked with a slight drawl,
pronouncing her words in a very clear, delicate manner, as if she was
afraid of hurting them, Nelly said. All except the r’s, which she
rather ignored.

The months spent at the South had been just lovely. Such charming
people, (“cha_w_ming” she said,) so much cultivation, elegant, refined
manners, and oh, such dressing! How any one could exist in this dull
little town she did not see. And the stay in New York had been
splendid! They had become very intimate with Mrs. Ogden. We had seen
Winthrop, of course. Didn’t we think him a most entertaining young
man? She forgot though that we had but a _very_ slight opportunity of
judging. He had spent a number of evenings with her, and they had been
out together. He was quite an eligible “parti,” with a strong French
accent. The whole Churchill estate would have to be divided between
him and his sister presently, since there were only old maids and old
bachelors in the family. But she should not make up her mind about
marrying until after she had been abroad. American girls often married
very handsomely in foreign countries.

“French Counts for instance,” said Fan.

“O, but the _real_ article was to be had. And American gentlemen
traveled abroad now instead of going to native watering places. It was
so much more stylish. If Dick only would go with them! Mother had tried
to persuade him to hire the farm out.”

“He must be very lonesome;” said mamma.

“O, he is such an old hermit! He doesn’t care at all for society. Just
give him a book, or a dog, or a lot of kittens and he is perfectly
happy. He will end by being a bachelor like Mr. Churchill, yet I don’t
know as that is altogether to be deplored. Since mamma has a life right
there, it will be as well if there is no wife to interfere.”

She said this with the utmost complacency. I do not suppose she
imagined that it had a selfish sound.

Fan laughed a little afterward. “I shall tell Winthrop that he had
better wait. She _might_ come home from Europe and marry him.”

“I do not believe they will like Jennie Ryder;” I remarked.

“Kate snubbed her long ago. But Dick and she will have a chance to
get settled, I think, without any one’s interference. It is really
fortunate that they are going.”

We saw Mrs. Ogden twice during her stay. She was not as lovely as Miss
Esther, being more worldly-minded, but she had the Churchill breeding
and was a lady.

There was one little feast that we kept by ourselves—baby’s birthday.
She could walk and began to utter pretty words with one syllable left
off, and was the quaintest, cunningest baby in the wide world as we
knew—very well.

“What a short year;” said Fanny. “How many things have been crowded
into it.”

“And we are glad to have you, dear little Dot, if there are seven of
us,” exclaimed Nelly, kissing her extravagantly.

“But Mr. Duncan said he owned her and that he meant to take her away
some day;” declared tiny Tim, who was fast outgrowing her pet name. It
seemed to me that they were all a great deal taller than a year ago.

“We won’t let him have her just yet,” answered papa. “Or perhaps some
one might go in her place.”

The children glanced at each other in dismay; and papa laughed heartily.

The birds began to sing and the trees were coming out again. We went to
the woods for wild flowers and had our house fragrant with them. But in
the wake of spring came house-cleaning and gardening, and then—all the
sewing.

“The same thing year after year;” I said to mamma.

“And yet not quite the same either. There is a gradual outgrowing and
ingrowing. There should be a corresponding strength and sweetness and
patience and faith. By and by we come to the whole stature. But it is
the growth of a good many springs, the heat and toil and watching of
many summers, and the ripening of repeated autumns.”

“I did not take it as high as that.”

“But are we not to?” and mamma’s face was at its sweetest. “I often
think we work, in types. We clean our houses and dust finds lodgement
in them again, we purify our souls by prayer and good works, and we
find the rubbish of indolence and impatience and selfishness. So we go
at it and have another trial.”

“We ought to get strong;” I said thoughtfully.

“We _do_ grow stronger, I hope. And we become more watchful over our
work. You know when our house is first made nice and tidy how careful
we are of littering it again. And when God has helped us by his grace
to purify our souls how earnestly we should try to keep them so. For
they are His temples.”

I thought it over by myself. Yes, everything spoke. The true meanings
of life were not so hard to get at, after all. It was—believe and do.
They went hand in hand.

And yet it was a curious jumble. You had to come back from the grand
thoughts to the common every-day doings. Dresses and skirts and aprons,
sheets and towels, washing and ironing, and the inevitable eating. The
charm lay in making it as good and as pretty as possible, with the
outside harmony of taste and appropriateness, and the minor graces of
love and kindness.

Fan had taken upon herself some new, odd ways. She began to grow very
motherly with the children, she spent a part of every day in the
kitchen with Ann, and she had a box in one corner of the bureau-drawer
with which she held mysterious consultations. Wonderful were the
patterns of tatting that went into it, the bits of fine crocheting, the
puffs and rufflings gathered and stitched in dainty fashionings.

For her there could be no expensive trousseau ordered at some first
class city store. It would have to be a labor of love and necessity.

She was quite demure and precise for awhile, then Harry Denham came
home from the West, and she broke out into a regular frolic. Nothing
very bad or harmful, but her olden self that could not be altogether
repressed. Mamma came in with a guiding hand, and I think she
understood that she was being led over a dangerous place. Oh, wise and
tender mothers, what should we do without you?

I went to Mrs. Ryder’s one afternoon to tea, Jennie had asked me
specially on Sunday. “Come early,” she said, “so that we can have a
nice talk while mother is taking her rest.”

I could imagine what we were to talk about. Jennie kissed me with a
sweet, earnest tenderness, seated me in a low chair by the window and
began to take off my hat, and shawl.

“Your mother is not any worse?” I began by way of getting into the
common-places of talk before we should feel awkward.

“O no. Indeed I think she improves a little. She walks better than she
did.”

“I am so glad of that.”

“Not that she will ever regain the entire use of her limbs. That would
be too great a hope. But it is so nice to have her even this way. I
sometimes think how lonely and forlorn I should have been without one
dear friend of my very own.”

“I could not spare any one,” I returned, looking away.

“And you have so many.”

At that I smiled a little.

“A year or so ago mamma used to worry a great deal in her sweet way
that was not actual complaining, about being such a burthen. She
thought it was dreadful to have all my plans brought to nought, when
I loved teaching so much. And sometimes I could not see just why that
misfortune had to happen to me.”

“It is clearer now.”

“The way is clearer,—yes. But it is only lately that I have understood
the great truth.”

“I am sure you were always patient and good-tempered.”

“Isn’t there something still higher than that, or wider, maybe? We do
not live to ourselves, after all, or we ought not.”

“No;” I returned a little wonderingly, studying the bright thoughtful
face.

“The knowledge came—with something else. Every day there is a new
unfolding. And I wanted to tell you—”

Her voice trembled and the sweet eyes were downcast, while a soft flush
crept up to her temples.

“Oh, Jennie, we guessed—and we are all so glad. It is about Richard.”

“Yes.”

Here I was in the midst of another confidence.

“I wanted you to come alone to-day so that we might talk it over. It is
not that I love Fan any less.”

It was my turn to blush now. I did it with a sense of pain and shame.
As if she divined my distress, she said—

“Richard told me about the day last summer. He did love Fanny very
much—he loves her still in one way. But he understands how different
their natures are.”

“That is just it;” I exclaimed with a sense of relief.

“She wants some one to guide and strengthen her, to be tender, and yet
self-assertive. I do not believe she could ever have made the _best_
of Richard. And I love to teach. I like the unfolding, the evolving,
something to _do_, beside living straight along and enjoying one’s
self. And Richard needs to go to school. That is nothing derogatory to
him.”

“No. It is because he has had a rather repressed life. No one cared for
the things which pleased him, except his father.”

“And the woman who takes it ought to spend all her energy in making it
blossom, in bringing it to its best and richest fruitage.”

“As you will.”

“I hope to try. It is the kind of work that I like. But do you not
think—” with much hesitation in her tone, “that it is great good
fortune for me?”

“But you deserve it, every bit. I rejoice that God did send it to you.
Once in awhile some event comes out just right in this world.”

She smiled. “I want to tell you a few of our plans. I cannot help but
think it best that Mrs. Fairlie and Kate have gone abroad. I shall feel
more free, and he will have no opposition to encounter. Though I was
afraid at first that it was not quite fair nor honest.”

“It certainly was best. And if they consult their own fancies and leave
him alone they cannot blame him for marrying.”

“He wanted it to be very soon, though we have been engaged barely a
month. I put it off until Autumn. There are so many things to think
about. And he is _so_ good.”

“He is. There can be no doubt on that point.”

“You know I could never leave mother. I told him so when he first
spoke. I must have her with me, do for her while she lives, share part
of my interest with her, and take much of hers. A person who cannot go
out is so very dependant. He said that her home should be always with
us, there was plenty of room in the house, and he meant to be a son to
her; that he had never had a real mother like her. I am to make over
all right in this place to her, and she can sell it or rent it, and
have a little income of her own.”

“It is delightful. I shall be thankful to have you in _that_ house. You
will make a home of it, which it never has been.”

“We are going on in a quiet old fashioned way. I suppose people will
_think_,” and an arch light crossed her face.

“They have not thought very much about it yet.”

“I wanted to tell you first. And your mother and Fanny.”

“Yes;” I replied softly.

That seemed taking the matter too tamely. I ran to her and clasped my
arms around her neck, making an extravagant speech between my kisses.

Then we branched into relative topics, side issues that presented
themselves in a chance fashion. How wide her range of sight was! Some
way we touched upon position and station.

“That is part of the knowledge;” she said in her bright, sweet way. “I
have learned a lesson that I mean to put in practice if God does give
me the opportunity. It is—holding up, and not pushing down.”

I understood her inconsequent little speech.

“Rich people can do so many pleasant things. Their position keeps them
quite free. They are not misunderstood, at least no one can accuse them
of unworthy motives. It seems to me that they might sometimes hold out
their hands to the next best. It would not hurt them. I don’t want ever
to forget this.”

I knew she would not.

“It has been hard;” I said softly, thinking of the past.

“Why was I not as good and refined and lady-like? What difference was
it whether I worked for the mothers of children one way or another,
teaching them, or sewing for them? I was not likely to crowd in without
an invitation. And how much better shall I be as mistress of Mr.
Fairlie’s house than I am now?”

“It is one of the bitter and unjust ways of the world.”

“I feel as if I should not like to be taken into favor again solely
for the money. I know the setting usually displays the stone to a
better advantage, but why cannot people see it before the gold begins
to glitter? The only drawback to perfect happiness is that Richard’s
mother and sister would _not_ approve. Yet once Kate Fairlie and I were
very good friends.”

“Kate is not really a fair test. There are others—”

“I know it. I ought to be ashamed to find any fault. But I hope I never
shall forget how it feels to be crowded out of bright and pleasant
things.”

There was a little stir, and a soft voice called—“Jennie.” Presently
Mrs. Ryder made her appearance, and then the real visiting began. We
chatted about the village people, the sick and the well, the babies and
the old folks, mamma’s visit to New York which was not an old story
here. I could see they too, suspected Stephen Duncan of a penchant for
Fanny.

Jennie walked home with me part of the way for exercise, and we came
back to Richard in our talk. She _did_ love him very much. The money
had not tempted her.

I had a thought that afternoon too. As soon as I was alone with Fan
I put it into execution. First I told her of the engagement, and she
rejoiced as thoroughly as I.

“Fan,” I said, “there is one thing that it would be just lovely to do,
if you could manage it. If Miss Churchill and you could call on Jennie
Ryder, and have it look every-day-like and social.”

“What a bright idea, Rose! Miss Churchill will like her ever so much.
It is odd how many nice things you find in people when you come to know
them well. We will bring the West Side over here and make them admire
us.”




CHAPTER XV.


There was quite a lively time in the parish for a fortnight. Papa had
two marriages in Church, one of which was Annie Fellows and Mr. Hunter.
Then Miss Maynard was married at home in a very exclusive and elegant
manner. Fifty-five dollars for all of it. Wedding fees were mamma’s
money.

“I don’t know as we need spend it just now;” she said, “I think I will
lay it away against time of necessity;” smilingly.

I imagined what that meant. Days and weeks went on so fast.

Then papa’s sister came from Philadelphia to make us a visit; Aunt
Margaret for whom Daisy had been named. She brought with her a piece of
pretty Nainsook muslin and some laces for gifts. There were the three
younger children provided with new summer dresses.

She was sweet and gracious, with that indescribable lady-like charm,
and then she insisted upon helping everywhere. Altering dresses,
dusting rooms, talking to papa or tying up vines and flowers in the
garden—nothing came amiss to her. She petitioned that Daisy should be
lent to her for the remainder of the summer. She had one son at home,
but her two daughters were married and away.

Papa thought at first that it would not be possible to spare her. Mamma
said that she was not prepared for so long a visit.

“Never mind that, Frances,” returned Aunt Margaret, “I will attend to
what is needful. I don’t see how you get along with such a host of
little ones. If Edith had not come—”

“Oh, but Edith is the crown of all;” declared Fan. “She brought rare
good luck with her. So many lovely things have happened to us during
the year. And now we couldn’t spare her.”

Aunt Margaret smiled. “You have been very fortunate in your children,”
she said, glancing at mamma.

Miss Churchill came over with the barouche and took the elders riding.
It was a lovely afternoon late in May, and the whole world was abloom
with beauty and sweetness.

She and Fanny had dropped in one day at Mrs. Ryder’s and had a charming
call. Afterward Fan had whispered the secret.

“The young man is to be congratulated;” declared Miss Churchill. “She
will make a pretty, cheerful wife, and that will be much to a man like
Mr. Fairlie. I am glad he has been so sensible and I must see more of
her before she leaves her old station. My dear, I am afraid I shall
turn into a regular village gossip, I am so fond of young girls and
their affairs.”

It began to be guessed at elsewhere as well, for the two went out
driving now and then of an afternoon.

Allie West and Dora Hyde were over one evening and it happened to be
touched upon.

“I don’t believe there is anything in it;” exclaimed Dora. “Dick
Fairlie will not throw himself away in that style! Why, he could have
the best in the town with that handsome place of his.”

“I am sure Jennie is quite pretty;” said Fan, “and nicely educated.
She reads French and German, is well up in history and house-keeping,
sings beautifully and sews in the same fashion. What better can a man
want?”

“O, you know what I mean! And she is poor.”

“He has enough for both. And the Ryders are a respectable old family.”

“I know she is a favorite of yours,” returned Dora loftily, “but I
never discovered anything special about her. And I do not see how she
can leave her mother, I should think her duty would be there.”

Fan laughed at that.

“I shall not believe it until I hear it from a better source. Some
people make so much out of a trifle of ordinary politeness.”

“Indeed I would not,” Fan continued seriously.

“There, you see Fanny doesn’t believe it;” said Allie West triumphantly.

“As if any one in her senses could!” Dora added.

After they went away Fan sat glancing out of the window thoughtfully.

“I allowed them to think what was not quite true,” she said slowly,
“but I did not want the fact to leak out. Some very smart young woman
might write to Kate and alarm her. It had better go on quietly.”

We missed Daisy ever so much. You would hardly think it among so many.

Then came a letter from Mr. Duncan, stating that he intended to
follow it in time to keep the festival of baby’s christening. There
were some business matters on which he wished to consult papa, and
he was longing for a sight of the household, from least to greatest.
Louis was much better. Mrs. Whitcomb was well and had utterly refused
her first vacation. What did Fanny expect to do in such a case of
insubordination? He was sorry he had proved so attractive, but it was
more his misfortune than his fault, so she must not visit him too
heavily with her displeasure.

We all had a good laugh over it. I arranged the guest-chamber in the
morning, flowers and all, and in the afternoon went cantering round
the parish, as Fan often expressed it. She had been smitten with such
a passion for sewing, and the Churchills took up so much of her time
that I had to visit for both. I was beginning to feel quite grave and
staid with my eighteen and a half years. The fact of Fan’s having a
real lover affected me in a rather curious fashion. It seemed as if the
romance was to begin with her and go down. It shut me out as it were;
but never having counted myself in, I did not feel much disappointed. I
was to be the house-daughter. Already I could see that papa had begun
to depend more upon me. He brought his gloves to be mended, and used to
ask me now and then to find various little matters for him. True, mamma
was much occupied with Edith. I liked the growing nearer though, the
tender confidence and trust.

I could see how it would be. One by one the birdlings would fly out of
the home nest. I was an every-day useful body and would be needed to
help the others, make some ready to go and comfort those who staid.
I didn’t suppose the sweet grace and patience that glorified Miss
Oldway’s face would ever come in mine. It was such a round, funny
little face, and would get so sun-burned in summer. No one could ever
call me fair and dainty.

I laughed over it softly to myself, I was in such a merry mood. In
ten years I should be twenty-eight, getting on the “list” a wee
bit, visiting round the same as usual, carrying broths and jellies,
listening to sorrows and complaints, and by that time, perhaps, a
little better, a little nearer the Great ensample so that I could say
my say without faltering.

My basket was emptied at length. I leaned over the fence awhile and
talked with Mrs. Day, who “could not see why,” about something. Aunt
Letty Perkins came along, puffing and wheezing. She had been confined
to the house a good deal since Christmas, with the asthma, and if it
was not irreverent I should say—“Israel had had peace.”

“All well, I suppose?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I never see such folks. You don’t have a bit of sickness or trouble
like other people!”

“No,” said Mrs. Day, as if she felt personally aggrieved. “I never saw
the match to that baby, and my poor lamb in the church-yard!”

I wanted to reply that it was the care and watchfulness, the love and
tenderness that never tired. We did not suffer real heart-felt trouble,
but there were hard pinches and perplexities, many things given up that
we longed to have, hours of patient industry, self-denial and all that.
Do discontented people ever realize what steady courage and grace it
takes to make many lives look fair and sweet?

“Well, it’s out of its trouble,” pursued Aunt Letty. “You never can
tell what children are coming to. Goin’ to take boarders agen this
summer?”

That last to me. I started and colored at the impertinence. I wanted to
resent it, but I knew that would not help for an example.

“Mr. Duncan is at home and can take care of his brothers;” I replied
quietly.

“Well, they want much addition to the neighborhood. That young one was
a master-hand at mischief. I should have wanted a good deal of money to
pay me.”

“Good-night;” I said rather abruptly, “I must be going.”

“Why don’t you come in? I haven’t seen your ma in an age. Nobody drops
in when I am sick, though if I do say it myself, I’ve always been
neighborly. No one can say I ever went on the other side like the
publican.”

“Indeed they could not,” I thought to myself with a smile.

All this made me later than I expected to be. As I came up the road I
saw Fanny and Mr. Duncan walking slowly to meet me.

Something dreadful flashed into my mind at that moment and made my
face scarlet. I remembered that in my talk with Louis I had spoken of
the probability of Stephen’s marrying Fanny. What if he had repeated
that bit of idle gossip? Stuart would have done so from pure love of
teasing.

“Why, Rose, how you have hurried! You are as red as your reddest
namesake. Do stop and cool off a moment, child!”

That from Fanny did not make me any paler. I felt the contrast very
keenly. She tall and elegant, with her graceful self-possession, and I
such a little budget! I don’t know why I should have cared just at that
moment, but I felt mortified enough to cry.

Mr. Duncan put out his hand. I just touched the tips of his fingers.

“I am glad to see you.” Then he looked me all over with those strange
eyes of his that could be so dark and piercing.

“Isn’t it late?” I asked. “I am sure supper must be ready. Please
excuse me,” and I hurried on.

They turned as well. I rushed up-stairs, bathed my face and gave my
hair a brush. Then I went to the glass a moment to pull it out. No, I
was not a beauty. If Mr. Duncan had _not_ come to-day! He could spend
Sunday without starting as early as Friday afternoon!

When I went down they were all gathered around the table. He glanced up
sharply again, and I was foolish enough to blush.

Not an unnecessary word did I utter. I had a constricted feeling about
my throat and tongue and could not tell what was the matter with me, I
believe I felt cross. I was glad to go to the study afterward and give
papa the messages that had been sent for him.

Nelly called me to see about a skirt she was letting down. Tim and Lily
put themselves to bed now, and I had only to go in and pick up their
clothes. Fanny and Mr. Duncan were singing in the parlor, but I did
not go down until I heard mamma’s voice. They were talking about Mrs.
Whitcomb.

He had found her so admirable. Lady-like and refined, yet not weak;
clear-eyed and resolute, yet without any hardness.

“She is always in bloom, I believe. The winter, and the desert, and the
bare, bristling hill-tops may be a short distance off, but just around
her it is spring.”

    “There everlasting spring abides,
     And never withering flowers;”—

Fan murmured softly.

“That is just it. She has had some troubles, also.”

“Indeed she has,” returned mamma, “Losses, deaths and trials. But now
she has gone out of her own life. Her perceptions are so quick, tender
and unerring. She seems to discern from afar off the needs and wants of
human souls and ministers gently to your own thought, not hers.”

“What is it, Mrs. Endicott?”

Mamma answered with a smile and said it all. She often talked with the
expressions of her face in that sweet instantaneous manner, explaining
a subject better than many words would have done.

“I begin to believe that religion _has_ something in it. There is a
point beyond natural amiability.”

“Have you been doubting?”

He blushed and laughed in an embarrassed, school-boy fashion.

“I don’t know that I have exactly doubted, but I have not believed in
any vital way. Still I considered myself a Christian gentleman until
very recently.”

“And what then?”

“I found myself a proud and honorable gentleman instead, who abhorred
meanness, falsehood, dishonesty and the whole catalogue of those sins
because they were blots and stains, hideous in my sight. I had no
patience with them in that they never tempted me. I liked my life to
be pure and just, but it was for myself alone. I did not think of what
God might require; the higher aim. After all, it is _His_ relation with
every human soul, His holding out the faith and love and atonement to
us, made for us so long ago in His great wisdom, and which is for us
whether we take it or not. But we want to try _our_ wisdom first.”

“That leads to the trouble and the clashing. We so often set up our
own will and when we are buffeted about take it as a sort of direct
martyrdom, when it is only a natural result of an ordinary cause. We
sometimes cry out—‘Why has God sent this upon me?’ when we bring the
trials upon ourselves.”

“Yes. Then we have to go back. We find the plans and specifications and
the materials all right, left on the highway, while we used stones and
timber of our own, changed the plan according to our liking. We have
to take out a good deal of work in this life.”

“And we learn by degrees to be careful, to come to Him, to ask first of
all—‘Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?’”

“And learning to follow it, is the great lesson.”

He turned his head a trifle and lapsed into deep thought. Fan glanced
over at me in a peculiar manner as if she triumphed in what he said,
and it was only proving a well established point. She puzzled me.
Why, when she liked him so well herself, was there not the deeper and
farther-reaching sympathy of love? He was really nobler than Winthrop
Ogden.

We did not have any confidence until late Saturday afternoon. Fan was
writing a letter in her room and mamma had gone to visit some sick
people. I had Edith fenced off in a corner of the porch and was amusing
her while I sewed a little.

He came and studied me curiously. That was what I did not like. If I
had been as pretty as Fan, or if my hair were any other color!

“You have not asked me a word about your friend. Have you lost interest
in him now that he is delivered over to my keeping?”

I understood whom he meant.

“Why, we have all talked—I have heard—” and I paused in surprise, for a
tiny frown came in his brow.

“But the work was so much yours.”

“You exaggerate it, Mr. Duncan.”

I might have spoken coldly. Somehow I could not let myself be praised
in his words, and with his eyes upon me.

“Are you so used to good deeds that you consider this nothing?”

I flushed and felt a lump rising in my throat.

“I would have done it for any one.”

“I believe you, Miss Endicott. Louis is not so admirable that he should
be singled out.”

“He is—you don’t do him justice;” I said almost ready to cry.

“I did _not_ I will admit, but I am trying to now. Will you not accept
my penitence and my sincere desire to be tender as well as just?”

“I know you mean to do the very best. I think you will.”

“Thank you. I am afraid you consider us all rather heathenish. I have
only recently come to understand the full duty that I owe my brothers.
I had left them in my uncle’s hands, quite satisfied, and believing
that boys came up, somehow. _I_ had no great trouble.”

“Because you were stronger. And Louis’ health and temperament are so
different.”

“I have learned that I could not make him come to me, so I have gone to
him.”

“He did come—”

“Yes; that was not the point I referred to, however. It is in the
matter of confidence. He is so very reserved, so sensitive, so
_touchy_, to use a common phrase. At a word he draws into his shell and
keeps silence.”

“I found that out last summer,” I said with a smile.

“How did you manage?”

“I don’t know,” I answered looking over at the distant hills. “It just
came, I think. When he wouldn’t talk on any subject I let it drop.”

“Ah, wise little one, there may be a secret, in that. I fancy that I
have a failing in my desire to convince people. I want them to see the
right.”

“It is easier seen than confessed, sometimes.”

“True. And Louis has a giant of pride. If he is hurt he will not stop
to explain. If you misunderstand, he will not set you right. You have
to grope your way along in perplexity. Yet I think we are coming a
little nearer to each other, through you.”

“And Mrs. Whitcomb. She has a way of uniting people, of healing
differences.”

“I am doubly fortunate in having her. Otherwise I must have
borrowed—your mother.”

I smiled a little at this. It made me think of the Churchills borrowing
Fan. Isn’t it so the world over? The sweetness and brightness of other
lives comes into ours, sometimes the darkness and sorrow. We rarely
stand alone.

“I believe I like frank, open natures the best;” he went on. “And
cheerfulness. A great outgiving like the world and the sunshine.”

“But when one has been in a cave a long while the light dazzles. Some
people do not want to take in but a little at a time, and perhaps we
hurt them by thrusting so much into their very souls.”

“Yes,” he answered, “When a man is starving you do not feast him at
once. I must remember that.”

Edith began to worry. I took her up in my arms and hushed her softly.

Mr. Duncan was not looking at me, but a strange, tender light came
into his face, a half smile that brought the dawn to my mind by way of
comparison. He seemed to pay no attention to me for many minutes, but
just to be occupied with his own reflections. I rose to take Edith in,
as she evinced unmistakable symptoms of hunger.

He put his arm over her and partly over my shoulder.

“I cannot let you go without an acknowledgement,” he began hurriedly.
“I should like to tell you _just_ how Louis came back. There was a
manliness in his penitence that has given me a great deal of hope.
Yet I know that he did not come out of actual love for me. If we ever
_could_ reach that state, but I must wait patiently. I have thought
so little of him all these years, except to look after his personal
comfort, that I must not complain if I reap weeds instead of flowers.
You were brave and strong in your advice to him, and God above knows
how deeply and sincerely I thank you. Your note to me was wisdom
itself. Only—”

There was a peculiar wistfulness in his face that somehow gave him a
little look of Louis.

“Only what?” If there was any fault to find let us have it out now.

“If you _could_ have trusted me unreservedly. Do you think I am so very
stern and rigid and unforgiving?”

“I was afraid you might—I did not know—” and I stopped, distressed and
blushing.

“Will you have a little more faith in me?”

He uttered the words slowly.

“I know you desire to do what is best.”

He looked a trifle disappointed, I thought, but I went in with Edith
and left him standing there.

After all I had not done anything very wonderful that there should be
such a fuss and thanks and all that bother. It annoyed me. I could not
carry triumphs gracefully as Fan did, sit in the centre and have an
admiring audience around me.

One part of the visit proved an unalloyed delight, and that was papa’s
enjoyment of it. He and Mr. Duncan fitted, if you can understand the
term. It was almost like father and son. Plans were talked over, the
boys’ future discussed, and in Stephen’s newer experience there was
a great charm. Like the young man who came to Christ, he had kept
the commandments from his youth up, he had been truth and integrity
itself, but the one greater thing had come to him now. It crowned
his manliness. He did not speak of it in a shame-faced way, as if it
was something to be kept on one side of his life and rather in the
background, but he set it in the very midst. A rare, almost boyish
humility was discernable in his conversations with papa. I liked so
much better to listen than to have him talk to me.

“I am afraid I shall grow proud in my old days,” said papa a few
evenings afterward. “Such first fruits as Mr. Duncan and Miss Churchill
seem a whole harvest. I shall never be discouraged again.”

Indeed, Miss Churchill had become the Lady Bountiful of the parish. I
do not mean simply among the poor. The rich need the gospel of charity
and loving kindness as well. They were meeting together, being incited
to good works, losing the narrow feelings and prejudices.

Fan and I had a lovely episode this summer. Just at the beginning
of the hot weather Miss Lucy had a spell of feeling very weak and
miserable.

“She must have a change,” declared good old Doctor Hawley. “She has
been among the mountains so long that she has worn them out. Take her
away to the sea-side.”

“I can’t go,” said Miss Lucy in faint protest. “I do not like strange
faces nor places, and the worry and bustle will consume what little
strength I have.”

“You will wear out this old strength and get some new. You are tired
to death of this, though you are so set in your way that you will not
confess it. I know what is best for you! Miss Esther, if you want to
keep Christmas with her, take her away now.”

Then he thumped his cane resolutely on the floor, a way he had when he
was very much in earnest.

When it came to that something must be done.

They talked it over—Miss Churchill and her brother, then Miss Churchill
and mamma. And this came out of it all, as if we were to be in the
midst of everything.

They would go to Martha’s Vineyard. In earlier years they had spent
whole summers there. And she and Miss Lucy wanted us. We had seen so
little outside of our own home, that the change would do us good. There
was the great sea, the islands all about, and a new world, so to speak.

“I don’t know how to get both of them ready,” mamma exclaimed in a
hopeless puzzle.

“You are thinking of the dresses—but we are not going to be
fashionable. Some nice light worsted goods for traveling, and beyond
that there is nothing as pretty as white. We shall have a cottage to
ourselves and our meals sent in. Then I intend to take Martha, who is
an excellent laundress, so the dresses will be no trouble. Kenton is
counting on the pleasure, and you must not refuse.”

“It is a great—favor,” said mamma timidly.

“I don’t want you to think of it in that light. Kenton and I are
getting along in years, and Lucy will not last forever. We might as
well take and give a little pleasure. It is just as if a sister asked
you.”

And it actually came about. We had new gray dresses trimmed with bands
of pongee; Fan’s a shade lighter and mine two or three shades darker
than the material. When they were all finished they had cost but
twenty-three dollars. Our spring straw hats were retrimmed, our gloves
and ribbons and boots looked over.

“One trunk will hold our modest wardrobe,” declared Fan. “I often think
of the Vicar of Wakefield and the many devices the girls resorted to.
It is rather funny to be poor, after all! You are not so much worried
and fidgeted and dissatisfied. You take the best you can get, and
you _know_ you cannot do any better. So you enjoy the tour or the
journey or whatever it is, because you are altogether outside of your
troublesome self.”

“But you will be—very well off—some day,” I said with bashful
hesitation.

“I don’t think of that, any more. Until the very day of my marriage
my life is _here_. What papa can give me will always be infinitely
precious to me. We will have all the happiness out of our poverty that
we can.”

“Yes,” I answered.

“And I know just how Miss Churchill is giving us this. So far as
the money goes she will never feel it. We will afford her pleasure,
satisfaction and delight in return, which will make it quite an even
thing.”

We remained three weeks and it was enchanting. The great ocean with its
ceaseless surges and swells, its floods of molten gold at sunset, the
showers and one tremendous storm, the walks and rides on the sands, the
short sails hither and thither, the quaint cottages, the strange people
from almost everywhere, some of whom we soon became acquainted with,
the newness and the variety was splendid! We enjoyed every moment.
Sometimes I felt quite wild indeed, as if I could race along the sea
sands and shout with the wildest of the birds.

The last week was the crowning point. Winthrop came and Miss Churchill
took us to Newport for one night and two days. There was elegance and
fashion at the hotel to be sure, but Fan in her pretty white over-dress
and the bloom of her fresh, sweet youth, attracted many a glance of
admiration on the one side, and almost envy from some of the worn and
faded women. It was a bit of Arabian Nights’ Entertainment brought into
our own lives.

Miss Lucy did improve ever so much. She could not bathe to be sure, but
the pungent air revived and strengthened her. We were all so bright and
happy, so full of fun and whims and oddities. There is a fascinating
queerness about almost every person when the true self comes out and
you forget that any one is watching you.

It was so delightful that we came home with almost a sigh, until we
reached the familiar places. It was the first time that we had ever
been so long away from mamma, and when we thought of that our hearts
were full to overflowing.

There was Mrs. Whitcomb in the midst helping to keep house, filling up
our vacant places.

“You need not think you are the only ones who can have a holiday!” she
exclaimed laughingly.

Oh, the blessedness of being right among the accustomed faces, to be
kissed and kissed again, to be pulled about hither and yon, to be shown
this and that, “which was not so when you went away;” the atmosphere of
home-living and thinking, which is so different from railroad cars and
hotels, or even other people’s cottages.

“But the sea still sings in my ears,” I said to Fan as I laid my head
on my pillow.

“And to-morrow morning it will be robins or swallows ‘twittering’ under
the eaves. What a great, grand thing it is to live and be happy! Rose,
if people could realize the satisfying joy they put in the lives of
others when they share their pleasures I think the whole world would
go at it. It would be giving and receiving all round the wide earth.”

Are we thankful enough for happiness, I wonder? For that is something
a little apart from life, one of the things not surely promised, like
the peace of God. Should there not be a special thanksgiving for
every blessed day, for the breath of fragrance, the pleasantness of
sunshine, and the subtle essence of delight that wafts itself across
our sky—tender human love?




CHAPTER XVI.


Stephen Duncan had taken the boys West, and would be gone a month or
more. They had grown so much, Mrs. Whitcomb said, and were almost men.

“Which do _you_ like best?” asked Fan.

“I think Louis will make the nobler character. Stuart would rather
take life just as it is, picking out the best for himself, to be sure,
and not minding much what scraps fall to other people. He may feed the
hungry after he is satisfied, he never will before.”

“Everybody likes him,” I replied.

“Yes. He is fascinating.”

“And you don’t need real virtues to be fascinated with,” I said rather
blunderingly, the thought being more than the sentence.

“No, only outside pleasantnesses. That is, they answer. Sometimes
when you are down deep in the heart of things, you cannot take quite
so much pains with the finishing. Not but what I consider finishing
a great deal. Clean paths beautify a garden so much, but I have seen
people just hoe off the tops and sprinkle gravel or sand over them. The
weeds spring up after a rain.”

“Has not Louis the outside and inside faults as well?” asked Fan.

“Yes. Only his weeds are seldom covered up. Some folks never can cover
up anything. He cannot be good outside until he has killed the weeds
inside. Stuart may be fair all his life without any fighting.”

“He _is_ good-tempered;” I subjoined.

“He has a pleasant, sunny temper, perfect health, and no nerves to
speak of. It is no effort for him to be jolly. He is gentlemanly
by instinct, he likes to be in the centre, shooting rays in every
direction. Is it wonderful if somebody comes within their radius? The
somebody may think this particular brightness is meant for him, but in
an instant Stuart may wheel round and leave this very person in the
dark.”

“I am glad you have some hope of Louis;” I said.

She seemed to study Fan, the great column of wisteria and me, all at
the same moment.

“There are some special providences in this world, I do believe,” she
began. “Mr. Duncan’s coming here was one, and your taking the boys
another.”

“Which we should not have done if we had _not_ been very poor,” said
Fan with an odd pucker in her face.

“Well, we will give poverty the credit. Mr. Duncan’s visit here taught
him some new ideas of duty. Not but what he would have been a just,
even a kind brother in any event. But relationship counts for so little
now-a-days. Very few people expect to be their brothers’ keepers. They
are willing to do grand things for others, for the heathen, for some
great accident that stirs up the sympathy of the whole world, but the
common every day duties are tiresome.”

“They are,” said Fan. “It may be heterodox, but it is true all the
same.”

“That is just it,” and Mrs. Whitcomb gave her sweet, tender smile that
was worth a week of June sunshine. “God knew how tiresome they would
be, or he would not have given such continual lessons of patience and
love, of working and waiting. Think of the mustard seed and the corn,
and the candle; the piece of money and the one lost sheep. It is nearly
all little things. And when He saith—‘If a man love not his brother
whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath _not_ seen.’ It is
the home love that is going to save the world. Stephen saw it here, and
it roused his dormant affection.”

“You see it would not do for us to quarrel,” said Fan drolly. “We
are packed in like peas in a pod, or birds in a nest, or bricks in a
sidewalk. There isn’t any room.”

“I am glad you have learned that. I think too, it is the lesson you are
all to teach the world.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Fan with a blush of real humility.

“We must be poor and barren indeed, if we do not teach something.
And the influence last summer did a great deal for Louis. It was the
beginning of his salvation. It was the beginning of Stephen’s higher
life, also. Before that he would have saved his brothers for pride’s
sake, now he will endeavor to do it for God’s sake, because he has been
redeemed in the love, as well.”

“It is sermons in everything,” said Fanny.

“Mrs. Whitcomb,” I began presently, “do you know anything about—Louis
when he came home?” Somehow I could never have asked Stephen, much as I
wanted to know.

“It was late in the afternoon, just growing dusky. I did not know him
when he asked for Mr. Duncan, but before I had crossed the hall I
guessed, so I took him to the library, and summoned Stephen from his
room up stairs. They talked for a long while and then Stephen asked
that tea might be brought to them. Louis lay on the sofa while I spread
the little table. I could hear the sound of tears in Stephen’s voice
at every word he spoke. At nine, perhaps, he took Louis up to the
chamber that had been prepared for him. When he came down I was busy
putting the library in order. I just asked—‘Is it all right?’ and he
answered—‘It is the beginning of right.’ And then he added—shall I tell
you Rose?—‘I think Louis and I will owe something of what is best in
our lives to Rose Endicott!’”

“I wish they wouldn’t;” I cried in distress. “But it _is_ all made up
between them?”

“Yes, in a better manner than if the trouble had not happened. Out of
it all they have learned to love each other. Louis has a great, shy,
morbid, hungry heart, and a most unfortunate temper.”

“And we are as poor as church mice, and angelic;” said Fan in her
gayest mood. “After all, the gifts and graces are pretty fairly
distributed.”

We went into supper and had other topics of conversation. One of the
most important was sending papa away for a little vacation. When Mr.
Churchill heard of that he held up both hands, and they were not empty.
Papa must stay over one Sunday and he would see about a clergyman. It
was very odd to be without a head to our household that length of time.
He went to Long Island, to Cape May and Philadelphia, bringing Daisy
home with him.

In the meanwhile Fan and I were in the midst of a small excitement.
Jennie Ryder was to be married and wanted us both for bridesmaids,
“that is,” she said—“I want you, and Richard wants Fan. And I don’t
wish you to make a bit of fuss. I am going to be married in church at
eight in the morning, in white organdie, because Richard loves white so
much. Otherwise I should take my traveling dress. We do not intend to
send out any invitations, and you must be simple, so as not to outshine
me.”

“I am glad you have instructed us. We _might_ have rushed into some
extravagance. May we have our white gowns done up fresh, please?” asked
Fan comically.

Jennie laughed. She was very happy, one could see that. A connection
had come to stay with Mrs. Ryder while Jennie was away, for Richard had
insisted upon Niagara and the Canadas. Afterward they were to move into
the great house.

Papa came home on Saturday night, looking brown and bright and rested.
On Tuesday morning Jennie was married. Winthrop came to stand with Fan,
I think he would not have trusted any one else. He was troubled with an
insane belief that every body wanted Fan, “which is _werry_ flattering
on his part,” said Fan, “considering that the only other lover I ever
had has gone off and married some one else, never breaking his heart a
bit!”

“Would you have had him, Fanny?”

“No, little goosie! And he has the best wife that he could have found
in the wide world.”

The fact had been noised abroad, and the marriage was quite largely
attended. It provoked various comments. I think there were some who did
envy Jennie Ryder her good fortune, and many who rejoiced in it. Still
there was a feeling that Richard’s mother would not quite approve. He
had written to her and Kate, not giving them time to answer by the
marriage date.

I felt my own heart beat as I stood there so still and solemn. There
was a great awe in going out of the old life and putting on the new,
belonging to yourself one moment, and the next having the sense of
ownership irrevocably taken away. I shivered a little wondering how any
one could be glad to do it. Some day Fan would stand there, and I would
feel her gone out of my life.

Then Mrs. Whitcomb had to return to get the house in order. Louis
expected to enter Columbia College. Stephen thought it better on
account of his health, and the home influence. Stuart would be away
another year.

Enclosed in her letter was a note to mamma. Would it be agreeable for
Louis to spend a week or ten days with us? He was very anxious so to
do.

“Of course,” answered mamma.

Indeed we were pleased with the opportunity of seeing him. Somehow he
had become quite a hero in our eyes.

I really do not think I should have known him elsewhere. I was up in my
room sitting on the low window-sill in the breeze, reading a magazine.
The blinds were tied a little apart, bowed, and as I heard the gate
click I looked down. He was nearly as tall as Stephen, and though
slender had filled out to a certain manly roundness. He nodded to some
one, threw back his head and laughed, and he was positively handsome.
His complexion was dark but no longer sallow, it had the bronze tint of
exposure and a healthful red in the cheeks. His black hair was cropped
pretty close, but it showed his broad forehead, and there was a tiny
line of dark moustache that contrasted with the fresh scarlet of his
lips.

I ran down. Mamma and Edith were on the porch. I do really believe that
mamma had been kissing him, at all events his face was flushed and his
eyes had a soft, dewy look.

“You are the same, you haven’t altered a bit! It was so good of you to
let me come.”

“Why, we wanted to see you,” replied mamma.

He was still holding my hands, and I could not help blushing under his
steady gaze.

“But you have grown and changed out of all reason.”

“Minnesota did that! For the first time in my life I am not absolutely
scrawny! We had such a splendid tour! Stephen was just royal, as much
of a boy as either of us. We have climbed mountains, camped out, hunted
and fished and everything! I did not want to come back.”

“I am glad to see you so much improved,” and mamma glanced him over
with a sort of motherly pride.

He sat down on the step at her feet, and began to play with Edith who
affected baby shyness. We did not have him long to ourselves though,
for Nelly came and in a moment or two the children. They were all
surprised.

I watched him as he talked. He was so much more fluent and
self-possessed. It was not Stuart’s brightness, but more like Stephen’s
reliance, and a peculiar command of self, an earnestness that sat well
upon him.

“You cannot think how I wanted to see this place once more. How good
you were to me when I lay sick up-stairs. Miss Rose, do you remember
getting me some honeysuckle blooms one afternoon? I shall always
associate them with you. I shall be glad to the latest day of my life
that Stephen sent me here, though I made a desperate fight to go to
Lake George with some school-fellows.”

“It was fortunate that you did not, for you would have been ill in any
event,” answered mamma quietly.

“Yes. How is—everybody? And that Mr. Fairlie is married? Does Miss
Churchill come as she used?”

She was still among our best friends, we told him. Fanny was there
spending the day.

Presently papa returned and he was full of joy at the improvement. Why,
it was almost like having a boy of one’s very own! I would not have
believed that he could be so agreeable if I had not seen it, or else I
wondered if we had not made a mistake last summer.

There was supper and music after that, and Fan’s return, and the next
day papa invited him to go over the river with him, as he had a horse
and wagon. Consequently I saw nothing of him until evening. Mamma asked
me to take some grapes to a sick parishioner.

“Allow me to accompany you;” he said, getting his hat.

It was very foolish but I could not help the color coming into my face
as we walked down the path. He had such a grown-up, gentlemanly air; he
opened the gate and closed it again, and took the outside of the walk
and glanced at me in a kind of protecting fashion.

“Do you know that you are very little?” he began presently.

“Fully five feet.”

“But then I am getting to be such a great fellow!”

I looked at him and laughed.

“What now?” and he colored suddenly.

“I was thinking—of something so absurd! Fan used to accuse me of
preaching—”

“And very good sermons they were. I may want you to preach again.”

“I should be afraid,” glancing up at him.

He laughed then. After a moment or two another expression crossed his
face, and it grew more and more serious.

“I believe the sermons saved me. There was a time when I should have
hated to own such a thing—and from a woman, too; so you may know how I
have conquered myself.”

“The best of all victories.”

“Looking back at myself I wonder how you tolerated me last summer. I
was ill and nervous to the last degree, but I had a frightful temper. I
was proud and sullen, and—ungrateful.”

“Not always that.”

“I think I hated almost everybody. I did not want to be governed or
counseled. And Stephen was so—rigid and prompt. He treated me like a
little boy—”

“Oh, hush!” I interrupted.

“Some of it is true. He admits it. And when that awful affair happened
I expected he would disown me. He is so proud, then he never did
anything bad in all his life. So I felt that I had no mercy to expect
from him.”

“But you were mistaken,” I said eagerly.

“I couldn’t have gone there and in that way but for you. Perhaps he has
told you—” and his eyes questioned mine.

“No,” I answered, glad that we had not discussed it.

“I went to him. I believe it was the first manly step of my life. But,
oh, I felt so forlorn and miserable—I can’t tell you! If he had been
cold and cross I believe I should have gone and thrown myself in the
river.”

“He was not.”

“Oh, Rose, it was like the story of the prodigal son. ‘Fell upon his
neck and kissed him.’ I remember his kissing me the day father was
buried, and I do not believe any one ever did since till then. It
melted all my soul. Somehow I think he is wonderfully changed. His
goodness is so tender.”

“And you love him?”

“Love isn’t any word. I absolutely adore him! I did not think it was in
me, or in him. And all through the weeks that followed, for I was very
ill and miserable, he was so good. I never talked to any one before,
except you, somehow I could not. But he found his way to my heart and
said he would help me, that we would both try together, for he had many
faults to correct, that God had given us the tie of brotherhood for a
high and holy purpose, that we were to help and strengthen each other;
as if, Rose—as if I _could_ do anything for him!”

“Yes, you can,” I replied. “You can keep him tender and cordial and
brotherly.”

“So he said. We did not come to this all at once, and Mrs. Whitcomb’s
cheerfulness helped. I had to try hard to be patient. I was so used
to flying out at everything. You see, at uncle’s they all knew that I
had a bad temper, they expected me to explode or sulk on the slightest
provocation, and only laughed or tormented me. If I had been taught to
control myself, it would never have been so dreadful.”

“It is good to have the lesson learned now.”

“I never can forget it, never! I am not an angel yet, Rose, cherubim or
seraphim, I suppose Miss Fanny would say;” and he smiled oddly, “but
I _am_ trying. I do not disdain the helps as I used to. I do not feel
that patience and self-control are exclusively girlish virtues.”

“No,” I returned, “we girls will not rob you of them.”

“You are generous. But then you always were. I am beginning to learn
that the grand corner-stones for the human soul are truth and love, the
truth that leads us to be fair and just to others, and the love to our
neighbor.”

“Here we are,” I said. “Do you want to come in?”

He followed me and we did our errand.

“I could not understand last summer why you loved to do these things;”
he began when we were homeward-bound.

“You considered it an evidence of a depraved taste?”

He smiled rather sadly.

“I supposed people consulted their _own_ pleasure first. Doing any
rather distasteful deed and hunting around until you found a bright
side to it was like so much Sanscrit to me.”

“He came not to please—Himself;” I said solemnly.

“I understand a little now. Yet when He had redeemed the world there
must have been a great joy in His own mind, as well as in heaven.”

“We cannot do anything like that,” I said. “But as He loved us, so we
are to love the brethren, the whole world.”

“To be willing to do for them. To seek not our own pleasure altogether.
It is very hard, Rose, and sometimes I get discouraged. Then Stephen
tells me of his failures. It doesn’t go on continually. It is a little
doing all the time, work and healing, and he says it will have to be so
in this world.”

“Yes,” I answered. “We cannot hinder nor change. God sets the work
before us, and though the pleasant fields are all about us, we have no
right to choose our own paths. He knows best in what ways He wants us
to walk.”

“I talked to your father yesterday. I did not think I could talk to
anybody but you and Stephen. I was sorry for all the pain and anxiety I
had caused him—and—it was almost like having a father of one’s own. I
don’t wonder that you all have such sweet pleasant natures.”

We met Lily and Tim taking a walk, their hands full of grasses and wild
flowers, so we turned them about and all went home together.

The visit proved a very delightful one. We went to the Cascade one day,
taking a lunch with us, and on another day the Churchills sent their
family carriage over and we had a royal time, crowding it full, and
taking turns in driving.

We all noticed the great change in Louis. Not that he was perfect or
saintly. In fact I think he was more of a boy, when it came to that,
than the summer before. He still had a dangerous tendency to quickness
of temper, sometimes he would flush deeply when annoyed, but he always
spoke afterward in a low, even tone of voice, as if he had gained
the mastery within. His feelings were more healthy-toned, he had a
heartsomeness that was genuine. You never mistrusted it as you did
Stuart’s.

We ended the festivities with a croquet and tea-party on Saturday
afternoon, asking in a half dozen young people who all enjoyed
themselves amazingly. To the surprise of everybody, right in the midst
of the gayety who should drop down upon us but Stephen Duncan.

“I was homesick to see you all,” he began, with a comically lugubrious
face.

“If you think you are going to be purely ornamental you are much
mistaken;” declared Fanny. “Here is a mallet and here is a place.”

“If you will excuse me—”

“But I will not. No running away to the study to talk with papa, or to
play with Edith. If you will come uninvited to a party you must take
the consequences.”

“Can I not soften your heart, if like the old man I should ‘sit on the
stile and continue to smile?’”

“Not any smiles. I am obdurate.”

He pretended to be much aggrieved, but in reality he was very gay. I
had never seen him so amusing and entertaining.

“I don’t see how you get acquainted with such loads of nice people;”
said Allie West. “And you always have such good times here.”

The good times came without any trying. There are numberless gates
called Beautiful all along life, at which you give such as you have,
and find it more precious than silver or gold.

It was a lovely moonlight night, so after supper we walked part of the
way with the merry crowd. It did not seem to me that I had ever been
so happy in my life. I could not tell why but I felt as if I must have
wings somewhere that were lifting me off the ground at every step.

We rambled around under the trees and by the way side. Louis came back
to my vicinity and we fell into a rather grave talk about the future.

“I never thought I should _want_ to stay here so much,” he said. “I was
glad enough to get away last summer. I cannot forgive myself for being
such a boor! Now I shall want to come again and again.”

“Well why not?” I returned.

“I am afraid you will become tired of me.”

“Try us and see. We are not easily wearied.”

“You are all so generous with yourselves.”

I smiled a little. “Why not give of your best?”

“True.” Then there was a silence. We reached the gate presently. “Do
not go in just yet;” he pleaded, so we remained in the silvery light
that was flooding the whole earth. Moonlight always stirs the tender
and thoughtful side of one’s soul.

“I am glad that to-morrow will be Sunday. I can just think how I shall
enjoy going to church and hearing your father preach.”

This from him who had despised religion and sneered at sermons. It did
startle me.

“And to have Stephen here.”

“I am rejoiced that you feel so kindly toward one another,” I replied.
“You are getting to be brothers indeed.”

“And then will come weeks and weeks of study,” he went on in a musing
tone. “I like it. Books seem to me—well, better than some people.
Only—if you could all come down in the winter. Stephen and Mrs.
Whitcomb were planning for it, but there! it was a secret and I have
betrayed it.”

“I can keep secrets;” and I smiled up into his remorseful face.

“Yes; I have proved that. Rose”—after a pause—“I have half a mind to
tell you another, to ask some—advice; at least, I would like to know
how it appears to you.”

“Will it be of any real avail?” I asked, noting the perplexed lines
on his countenance. “I am not as wise as you think. Because I just
happened to stumble into one matter without making a mess of it—”

“This is only an idea. I cannot ask Stephen. I think it would please
him and he might judge wrongfully.”

“If I _can_ help you;” I replied encouragingly.

“It is about the future. It may never come to anything to be sure, and
perhaps I never _can_ be good enough. Stuart will go into business. He
does not love study and he needs an active life. He wanted Stephen to
put him in a store this Autumn. But I—”

I knew then what he meant. Somehow I could not help laying my hand on
his arm with a touch of confidence.

“Whether I ever _could_ so govern my temper and my impatient desires;”
bowing his head humbly. “But if I had some guard about me, if I felt
that I _must_ try continually—would it be wrong to think of it?”

“Surely not;” I returned warmly. “Nor to do it if God gives the
strength and the grace.”

“I like to think of that grand, earnest Saint Paul, with his ‘thorn in
the flesh.’ Perhaps it was some giant temper or desire. I fancy it must
have been, for you know how he persecuted the Christians unto death.
And though God would not take it away, there was the promise of His
grace being sufficient.”

“As it is, always.”

“There are some years to live before I decide positively. But if they
were spent in a worthy manner, and I mean them to be, with God’s help.”

“Oh, you could, surely. And papa would be your best friend;” I rejoined
eagerly.

“Keep my secret—I have your promise,” he said in a hurried manner, for
a step sounded on the walk.

“It is sacred to me until you wish to take others into your confidence.”

Stephen spoke and we turned, walking slowly up to the house. Louis
sat down on the step beside papa. I stood undecided whether to go in
or not, when Stephen took my arm and drew me around the corner of the
porch. There was a long grape arbor whose gloom was made a pleasant
twilight by the silver sifted through the openings between the leaves,
and we took a turn up and down.

“I want to tell you,” he began almost abruptly, and his voice had a
hard, strained sound, “that I heard—the last of what you said. I could
not help it. And I know your secret.”

I was a trifle annoyed, but I controlled myself.

“Oh,” I said, “then you will be tender and helpful and do all in your
power to strengthen Louis. He feels so humble. I would hardly have
thought it of him. And there are so few young men who have any desire
to take such a life upon them. With his means and his talents he can do
so much good.”

He stopped suddenly. “Rose, what are you talking about?” he asked. “Did
not Louis—”

“He confessed to me his desire—no, it was hardly that, as he is afraid
he can never be good enough for a clergyman. But you _will_ assist
him—you do not disapprove of it?”

“Louis! Ah, I understand. It would be the delight of my heart. But I
thought—I knew he liked you so much. Oh, my little darling!”

He turned and gathered me in his arms. My heart beat and my cheeks were
in a blaze as the whole story came to me, dazing me with its strange,
sweet suddenness. I believe I cried and then I laughed hysterically,
but somehow the cool, steady voice quieted me and made me feel the
truth and earnestness of what he was saying, so presently I grew still
with a great awe.

“You will come,” he was saying. “We both need you. We want just this
steady, cheerful, loving influence. I think I have a tendency to be
impatient when people cannot see my ways, perhaps requiring a little
too much, and your sweetness will temper this. Then we can both help
him.”

Could I? How strange that any one should care for me alone. Not for
mamma, or Fanny, but to want _me_!

“Mr. Duncan,” I began as we were going back to the porch—“have you
forgotten that my hair is—red?”

“Well, what of that?” in a gay tone.

“I do not believe you—like it.”

“You foolish little girl, set your heart at rest. Do you remember when
I came upon you suddenly last summer? You were standing on the porch
in a tiny glint of sunshine, and looked like some of the old pictures!
Why, I believe it _was_ your hair that I fell in love with first of
all.”

“I am glad it was, for I am not half as good as you imagine I am.”

“Children,” mamma said, standing on the porch step. “Do you realize how
late it is?”

I felt that she knew all, perhaps had known it long before, indeed. But
I was glad that the knowledge had come to me so suddenly, and not any
sooner. Even now I was half afraid of it. Her kiss and tender clasp
re-assured me.

“Mother!” Stephen Duncan said with reverent sweetness.




CHAPTER XVII.


I wished there could be no such thing as breakfast the next morning,
but there was, and I had to go through with it, feeling that I was
no longer I, that Rosalind Endicott was some dream-girl of the past.
Stephen was very good and did not notice me much, and Fan appeared
wonderfully pre-occupied. Mamma helped me over the trying places, and
papa just said with his tender morning kiss,—“And this little girl,
too.”

When I was all dressed for church I opened a little drawer to get my
gloves. There lay the box containing Stephen’s gift. I had never worn
it, but it seemed to me as if I ought to put it on now. He liked me and
the misunderstandings were at an end. I had accepted a share of his
burthens, his crosses, whatever they might be, so I clasped it around
my neck. It was so beautiful. I did not envy the queen her diadem.

We walked to church together. Louis glanced back now and then. I
believe he began to suspect.

It was quite different from the Sunday when I had gone to church with
that strange sense of Fan’s new love. I felt quiet and restful, yet it
was such a great thing to have another’s heart in one’s keeping, to
take in a new life beside the old.

They both left us on Monday. Stephen was to come up soon again. In the
meanwhile, letters.

“I have one of yours to begin with,” he whispered.

It was a silent day for us. No one appeared to care about talking, yet
we were not gloomy. Indeed, I think mother, Fan and I understood as we
never had before, how much we loved one another.

I went on wearing my cross. In the first letter there came a pearl
ring for me. Fan had a handsome diamond but she seldom wore it except
when she was going to the Churchills. I slipped mine on my finger with
a slight presentiment that I should turn the pearl inside if any one
looked at me.

Richard Fairlie and Jennie came home bright and happy as birds. They
took possession of the great house, altered a little, re-arranged to
their liking and had Mrs. Ryder in their midst. There was no grand
party, but some pleasant tea-drinkings and hosts of calls. No one could
afford to slight Mrs. Fairlie, and people began to realize what a noble
girl Jennie Ryder had always been.

I am almost ashamed to confess how much talking it took to settle our
affairs. Stephen wanted to be married in the Spring. That was too soon,
mamma and I thought. But there were so many good reasons.

Miss Churchill heard of it presently and came over to have a
consultation with mamma.

“It will have to be sometime,” she said. “It will make a little
confusion, a break, and no end of strangeness in adapting yourselves to
the new order. But here are Nellie and Daisy right behind.”

“I don’t want to lose all my girls in this fashion,” said mamma.

Miss Churchill smiled and then admitted that _she_ had a plan to
propose.

They wanted Fanny. The murder was out then.

“Kenton and I have discussed the matter a good while. Winthrop will
have the farm when we are done with it—he is the only nephew. Kenton
has been sorry for some years that we did not take him when his father
died. He is very fond of country life, and surely there are enough to
toil and moil in the cities. Then, although Lucy was improved by her
summer trip, we can understand that it is _not_ permanent. She wears
out slowly. I should like her to have a happy year or two with Fanny,
and I should like the marriage well out of the way of any sad memories.”

“You are very thoughtful,” returned mamma.

“And it will hardly be like parting with Fanny, for you—as you can see
her every day. One thing and another has brought us so near together.
Kenton and I are growing old and the presence of these young people
will keep us from getting too queer and whimsical.”

It was settled some time in January.

“We shall have to do the best we can,” said mamma. “The wardrobes must
be simple. It is _our_ station that they go out of, and we never have
been ashamed of our poverty.”

“What does a few clothes signify,” commented papa. “If the young men
are not satisfied we will give them a double portion of dry-goods and
keep our girls.”

Fan laughed over the idea.

So it was arranged that she and Fanny should go to New York. I did not
desire to accompany them, and I was sure they could choose as well for
me as if I hunted the whole town over. Besides, I wanted the nice quiet
time with papa, since I was the one who would have to go away.

“Isn’t it funny!” said Fan. “I feel like the heroine of some hundred
year old novel, going up to town to buy wedding clothes, instead of a
girl of the period of puffs, paniers, chignons, Grecian bends, and all
that! Why Rose, think of it! We have never had a silk dress in all our
lives, except that once we had one ruffled with an old one of mamma’s;
and we have been very tolerably happy.”

“Yes, just as happy as one need be. All that could be crowded into our
small lives.”

“I dare say we should be absolute curiosities to some people. Everybody
now-a-days has a silk walking-suit, and some handsome thread lace, and
I don’t believe there are any _poor_ people but just us. But then we
have had the love and comfort and enjoyment and no time to worry about
our rich neighbors. It has been a life full of pleasantness and peace.”

That was true enough. There were many, many things beside raiment, if
one could only get at the real completeness and harmony, the secret of
soul life.

Jennie Fairlie _would_ help us sew. With their good servant she
declared she had nothing to do. Miss Churchill sent us both an
elegant poplin suit, or at least the materials. It _was_ a simple
wardrobe to be sure. One pretty light silk dress, one dark silk with
a walking-jacket. We made morning robes and some inexpensive house
garments. Then it would be summer so soon, and there was nothing equal
to fresh, cool white. We were not used to crying for the moon, we had
found early in life that it was quite a useless proceeding.

Altogether we kept our secrets pretty well, and when the truth leaked
out at last, everybody was so surprised that they could only exclaim.
Aunt Letty Perkins was brave enough to come and see if it was really so.

“Well, I _am_ beat!” she declared. “And doing well, too! I always said
there never was anyone like Mis’ Endicott for luck. Girls often do hang
on so where there is a lot, and you’ve enough left. Fanny _is_ the
flower of the family to be sure, but she is making a big step to get in
with the Churchills. Ain’t afraid she’ll be puffed up with pride and
vanity, are you?”

“I think I can trust her,” replied mamma with a funny smile in the
corners of her mouth.

I remember the morning as one recalls a half dream, the misty
impression between sleeping and waking. The peculiar confusion
pervading the house, the strange mislaying of handkerchiefs and gloves,
the voices that were so full of tears and gay little laughs, the half
sentences, the clasp of hands as one went in or out of a room, the
long, loving glances as if each would fain garner all the past into
one sweet remembrance. Winthrop and Stephen, one rather grave but
very tender to mamma and the little ones, the other full of life and
vivacity, the happiest of the happy.

Fan had one little say though her eyes were bright with tears.

“I hope I can be as good and sweet in my life as mamma has been in
hers. And I will not ask any higher happiness.”

We walked up the church aisle. The children stood around, back of them
Louis, Nelly and mamma, and then a host of eager parish faces. Does any
one take it all in then, the solemn questions, the still more solemn
promises?

Mr. Churchill gave us both away. Papa’s voice had a little falter in
it, and I dared not look up. “For better, for worse,” “till death do us
part,” rang clearly in heart and brain. The forever of human love, when
it _is_ love and no base counterfeit.

A little kissing, a few tears, some tremulous whispers and sad, sad
good-byes. We whose farthest journey had been the brief sojourn at
Martha’s Vineyard, took up the great pilgrimage of a new life.

       *       *       *       *       *

I cannot tell you anything about it, or Stephen. It was a happy
confusion of strange places and watchful care, bits of affection
shining out of the tiniest rift. Honeymoons, I suppose, are much alike,
but it is right for each to think his and hers the best and most
delightful.

One afternoon the carriage set us down in so quiet a street that I
could hardly believe it was New York. And when I entered the house,
_my_ new house, I doubted more than ever, for everybody was there. One
kissed me until I thought the breath of life was surely gone, then
another took me up. I have a dim suspicion that my sleeves were worn
threadbare, and if my hair had not been all fast in my head, I am
afraid the difference would have been discoverable.

“Why you are rounder and rosier than ever!” declared Fan, inspecting me.

She was elegant as a princess, and had her light silk dress trimmed
with applique lace.

It seemed as if I never could get done looking at mamma, and papa
hovered around me as if I was indeed an unusual sight.

Somehow I managed to get up-stairs to my own pretty room, to wash my
face, what there was left of it, and straighten my gown. And there was
Beauty, my lovely half-grown kitten that some one had brought from the
old home.

I heard Stuart’s voice outside the door and called him in.

“Stuart,” I said with much dignity, “this is Miss Beauty Endicott,
a nice, orderly, well brought-up kitten, and _mine_. I want you to
respect her and treat her with the courtesy of a gentleman.”

“Oh, fudge!” he returned. “What are you doing with a kitten when you
are married? I thought it was only old maids who were death on cats.”

“It is boys who are death on cats,” I replied severely. “And then—I
never _did_ expect to be married. I always supposed—”

“Oh, you couldn’t have been an old maid! your nose never _can_ be
sharp, and your chin has that great dimple in it, and you are such
a funny little dumpling altogether! If you say much I’ll put you in
my pocket and carry you off. No doubt Stephen would feel immensely
relieved, but what _could_ the cat do?”

“You are an incorrigible boy!”

“But we will have jolly times for all that,” and he whistled to Tim,
who put her head within the door.

“Fan,” I exclaimed with remorseful tenderness as I was going down
stairs with her arm over my shoulder; “I have Mrs. Whitcomb. But you
know you half gave her to Stephen. And as you are not to keep house—”

“I will lend her to you a little while longer.”

We had such a merry, enjoyable supper, such a lovely long evening, and
were brimfull of happiness.

But the next morning papa gathered up his flock, “what there was left
of them,” he said with a certain comical grimace.

“I don’t know as you need lament,” answered Stephen. “I think the sons
are coming in pretty rapidly.”

“And if there should be seven! Mother what would we do with them all?”

Mamma smiled a little as Stephen went around and kissed her.

“Remember that I am the first one; I will never be crowded out of _my_
place.”

“No,” she answered softly.

They all went away that noon, and left us to begin our home life.
We had talked it over, what we were to do for the boys, what for
ourselves, and what for the world outside. For the true life is not
bounded with a narrow—thou and I. The world takes us in, and over and
above all, God takes us in. His vineyard, His day, and first and always
His everlasting love.




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reader than the conqueror of Peru. Not even King Arthur, or Thaddeus of
Warsaw, has the power to captivate the imagination of the growing boy.
Mr. Towle has handled his subject in a glowing but truthful manner;
and we venture the assertion, that, were our children led to read such
books as this, the taste for unwholesome, exciting, wrong-teaching
boys’ books—dime novels in books’ clothing—would be greatly diminished,
to the great gain of mental force and moral purpose in the rising
generation.”—_Chicago Alliance._


MAGELLAN;

OR, THE FIRST VOYAGE ROUND THE WORLD.

“What more of romantic and spirited adventures any bright boy could
want than is to be found in this series of historical biography, it
is difficult to imagine. This volume is written in a most sprightly
manner; and the life of its hero, Fernan Magellan, with its rapid
stride from the softness of a petted youth to the sturdy courage
and persevering fortitude of manhood, makes a tale of marvellous
fascination.”—_Christian Union._


MARCO POLO:

HIS TRAVELS AND ADVENTURES.

“The story of the adventurous Venetian, who six hundred years ago
penetrated into India and Cathay and Thibet and Abyssinia, is
pleasantly and clearly told; and nothing better can be put into the
hands of the school boy or girl than this series of the records of
noted travellers. The heroism displayed by these men was certainly as
great as that ever shown by conquering warrior; and it was exercised
in a far nobler cause,—the cause of knowledge and discovery, which has
made the nineteenth century what it is.”—_Graphic._


RALEGH:

HIS EXPLOITS AND VOYAGES.

“This belongs to the ‘Young Folks’ Heroes of History’ series, and deals
with a greater and more interesting man than any of its predecessors.
With all the black spots on his fame, there are few more brilliant and
striking figures in English history than the soldier, sailor, courtier,
author, and explorer, Sir Walter Ralegh. Even at this distance of
time, more than two hundred and fifty years after his head fell on the
scaffold, we cannot read his story without emotion. It is graphically
written, and is pleasant reading, not only for young folks, but for old
folks with young hearts.”—_Woman’s Journal._


DRAKE:THE SEA-LION OF DEVON.

Drake was the foremost sea-captain of his age, the first English
admiral to send a ship completely round the world, the hero of the
magnificent victory which the English won over the Invincible Armada.
His career was stirring, bold, and adventurous, from early youth to old
age.

_Sold by all Booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of
price._


  LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers      BOSTON.

  Transcriber’s Notes