Doctor Joe had a good deal of credit for the case. Dr. Fitch admitted that it had been very severe, and required the utmost watchfulness. Mrs. Underhill was very proud of her son's success "in his own country," as she termed it. And she said when Mrs. Reed was well enough to see visitors, she would go over and call. Indeed, it had created a good deal of interest in the neighbourhood, and Charles found himself treated with a peculiar deference among the children.

Mrs. Reed's recovery was very slow, however. Mrs. Bond went away when she could begin to go about the room and help herself. Cousin Jane was a good nurse, and she declared, "There wasn't work enough to keep her half busy." She did the mending and the ironing; Mr. Reed insisted they should have a washerwoman. Mrs. Reed sighed when she thought of the expense. It had been the pride of her life that she never had a fit of illness, and had never hired a day's work done except when Charles was born.

She was sure now that the house must be in an awful plight. She never found time to sit down in the morning and read a book or paper. Cousin Jane changed her gown every afternoon, and wore lace ruffles at the neck, just plain strips of what was called footing, that she pleated up herself. Then, too, she wore white muslin aprons,—a very old fashion that was coming back. And though Mrs. Reed couldn't find fault when she saw Charles and his father always as neat as a pin, still she was sure there must be a great need of thoroughness somewhere. She prided herself upon being "thorough."

Mrs. Underhill came over one day with the Doctor, and they had a really nice call. Of course Mrs. Reed couldn't understand how she ever managed with such a houseful of boys. Yet she was fresh and fair, and seemed to take life very comfortably. Then they were always having so much company at the Underhills.

"Yes," said Mrs. Underhill, with a mellow sort of laugh that agreed capitally with her ample person,—"yes, we have such a host of cousins,—not all own ones, but second and third. And since my daughter was married, the house seems lonesome at times. All the boys are away at work but Jim; and Hanny has so many places to go, that, what with lessons and all, I don't seem to get much good of her. But I've a nice kitchen-girl. She was a great trial when she first came, with her not knowing much English, and her German ways of cooking. But she's quite like folks now, and very trusty. How fortunate you found a relative to come in and do for you! And the Doctor says you must give up hard work for a long while to come."

Mrs. Reed sighed, and said she should be glad enough to get about again.

The Deans came over, and some of the other neighbours; and Mrs. Reed found it very pleasant. One afternoon late in March, Mr. Reed came home quite early, and carried his wife down into the dining-room. He had asked the Deans over to tea, and Doctor Joe. And there was the table, spick and span, the silver shining, the windows so clean you couldn't see there was any glass in them, the curtains fresh, the tablecloth ironed so that every flower and leaf in it stood out. There wasn't a speck of dust anywhere!

The kitchen was in nice order; the range black and speckless, the closets sweet with their fresh white paper. And Cousin Jane's bread and biscuit were as good as anybody's, her ham tender and a luscious pink, her two kinds of cake perfection.

Charles sat next to his mother, a tall, smiling boy with a clean collar and his best roundabout. It was the first tea-party he ever remembered, and he was delighted. He was so polite and watchful of his mother that it really went to her heart.

For seven weeks the house had gone on without her, and she couldn't see any change for the worse. Mr. Reed looked uncommonly well, and was a very agreeable host. The Doctor complimented her, and said next week he should come and take her out driving; and that, to do him real credit, she must get some flesh on her bones.

It was a very pleasant time; and Charles was so happy that his mother wondered if there wasn't something better in the world than work and care.



CHAPTER VI

THE LAND OF OPHIR

Spring came on apace, and spring in New York had many beautiful features then. The Battery, the Bowling Green, City Hall Park, with its fountain, the College grounds, Trinity and St. Paul's churchyards, and the squares coming into existence farther up-town. Trees and grass and flowers delighted the eye, and lilacs made the air fragrant. All up the country ways there were patches of wild honeysuckle,—pinxter flowers, as it was called.

The little girl had so many things to distract her attention that she wondered how grown-up people could be so tranquil with all their knowledges and their cares. She began to realise the great difference in tastes and characteristics, though she would not have quite comprehended that long word. Perhaps Ben, being in the midst of stories and books, and hearing so much talk about the great men of the day, roused the same train of thought in her, though I think hero-worship came natural to her. The Dean girls read the sweet pretty domestic stories with great relish. Miss Macintosh, Mary Howitt, and even Jane Austin were their delight. Hanny and Daisy were deeply interested in history. And during the last year some very spirited stories had been written on the Mexican war, and all the struggles of a few years before. The wealth and splendour of Montezuma and his sad ending, the wonders of that land of ancient romance, were rendered more real on account of the present struggle that Hanny and her father had followed closely. She kept in touch with all the generals. The hero of Monterey, General Worth, General Scott's entry into the city of Montezuma, General Watts Kearny, who led his men a thousand miles through the desert to seize Santa Fe, and hold New Mexico, and his brilliant young nephew, Philip, who was the first man to enter the gate of San Antonio, and who lost his left arm at the battle of Churubusco. Little did she dream, indeed, who could have dreamed then, that he was to be one of the heroes of another war, nearer and more dreadful to us!

Then there was a great celebration over the final victory. City Hall was crowded. There were some magnificent fireworks and much rejoicing. And though there were questions for diplomacy to adjust, we had gained California and New Mexico; and both were destined to have a great bearing on the future of the country.

When Hanny could spare time from this exciting topic and her lessons, there was little Stevie, who was the sweetest and most cunning baby alive, she was quite sure. He could run all over, and say ever so many words. The hard ones he had to shorten, so he called the little girl Nan, and Dolly and Stephen caught it up as well. When they came over to First Street, the neighbourhood paid him the highest honours. All the children wanted to see him, and walk up and down with him. He was so merry, laughing at the least little thing, and chattering away in his baby language, with a few words now and then in good English. And, oh, delight! his hair curled all over his head, and had a golden gleam to it. Certainly, as a baby, he was a tremendous success.

But the crowning point of this May was Hanny's birthday party. She was twelve years old. Dolly and Margaret came down to spend the day and help. Oddly enough, Hanny knew very few boys. First, she thought she would only have a girls' party. But there was Charlie, and some of her schoolmates had brothers; and Jim said he knew two splendid boys in school that he would like to ask; and when they counted them up, they found there were plenty enough.

They played games, of course,—pretty laughable things that had not gone out of fashion. And the supper-table was a feast to the eye as well as to the appetite. Toward the last, there were mottoes, and they had a good deal of fun in exchanging. Doctor Joe was as merry as any boy, in fact, he laid himself out, as people say, to make the party a success, for Hanny would have been a timid little hostess. Dolly and Margaret were not much behind.

After they went upstairs some one proposed the Virginia Reel. The older ones were not long in taking their places.

"Come," said Doctor Joe to Daisy Jasper. "It's very easy. You will have to learn some time."

"Will I surely have to?" and she gave an arch little smile.

"Yes. You are to learn all the things girls do, even if you can draw portraits, which every girl can't do."

"Oh, no," when she saw that he was in earnest; "I am afraid. And then, I—"

"You are not to be afraid." He put his arm about her and gently drew her out. "You are to be my partner."

Hanny stood second in the row, looking so bright and eager that she was absolutely pretty. And Jim's chum, the handsomest lad in the room, had chosen her. When she saw Daisy, she wanted to run down and kiss her, she was so delighted.

What with braces, and several appliances, Daisy now had only one shoulder that was a little high; and as she had grown stronger, she could get about without much of a limp. She was quite tall for her age, and every gesture and motion was very graceful, in spite of the misfortune. She sometimes danced at school.

Dolly struck up some merry music, and Stephen called off. How prettily they balanced and turned, and joined hands left and right, and marched down and up again, and then the first couple chassed down the middle! When it was Hanny's turn, she came down looking like a fairy, and smiled over to her friend.

Daisy was a good deal frightened at first, and would have run away but for Doctor Joe's encouraging eyes. However, when her turn came, she did very well. By this time they were all so intent upon their own pleasure no one really noticed her. Oh, how jolly it was!

After that some of the children tried the three-step polka, and found it very fascinating. A little after ten, the plates of cream came in, and at half-past, they began to disperse.

Stevie was asleep upstairs on Nan's bed. All the girls had to go and look at him; and when Dolly picked him up, and bundled his cloak about him, and put on his cap, he only stretched a little and settled himself, being as famous a sleeper as some of his Dutch ancestors. But the girls had to kiss him; and then he did wake up and laugh and rub his eyes with his fat fist. Before Stephen had him settled on his shoulder, he was asleep again.

"Oh!" cried Hanny, "it's his first party as well as mine. And when he gets old enough, I'll have to tell him all about it."

"Yes," laughed his father. "His memory can hardly he depended upon now."

Jim's friend came to wish Hanny good-night, and say that he had enjoyed himself first rate,—quite a boy's word then. And he added, "I think your doctor-brother is the nicest man I ever met. If my mother is ever ill, I mean she shall have him. He is so sweet and kindly. And that Miss Jasper is a beautiful girl!"

Hanny flushed with delight.

One day, not long afterwards, Mrs. Jasper took both little girls down to Stewart's beautiful store at the corner of Chambers Street and Broadway. When the ladies were out for a promenade, they used to drop in and see the pretty articles. It was the finest store in New York; kid-gloves and laces were specialties, but there were no end of elegant silks and India shawls, which were considered family heir-looms when you became the owner of one.

Some of the more careful business-men shook their heads doubtfully over the young merchant's extravagance, and predicted a collapse presently. But he went on prospering, and even built another marble palace, and a marble dwelling-place for himself.

Then the Reeds and the Underhills were full of interest in their boys who were to pass examinations for Columbia College. Charles stood high, but he was rather nervous about it; and Jim never studied so hard in all his life as the last three months. When there was any doubt, or even when there wasn't, he pressed Joe into service. However, they both came off with flying colours. Charles was the best scholar, undoubtedly; but Jim had a way of making everything tell in his favour.

Miss Lily Ludlow had quite given Jim the cold shoulder; but now she smiled upon him again. Her sister had married very well; but Lily had quite resolved upon a rich husband. Still it would be something to have the young and good-looking collegian in her train.

Mrs. Jasper pleaded to take Hanny with them to Saratoga for a little while; and Margaret said she and her husband would go up and spend a week and bring her home. The Jaspers were to stay at a quiet cottage; and, after much persuasion, Mrs. Underhill consented, though she had an idea a fashionable watering-place was hardly proper for little girls; and her father was very loath to give her up even for a few weeks.

To tell the truth, the little girl was rather homesick for a night or two. There was so much to see, so many drives and all; but she had never been away alone before. And she did so miss sitting in her father's lap, and kissing him good-night. She was too big a girl of course; and one time her mother asked her if she meant to keep up the habit when she was a woman grown!

She had not thought of being grown-up. And she wished she could stay a little girl forever. Josie Dean was quite womanly already, and didn't want to wear her hair in "pigtails" any more—indeed, quite fretted because her mother wouldn't let her put it up. But Tudie confessed to Hanny "that she should be awful sorry when she was too big to play with dolls."

"I put my beautiful doll away the Christmas Stevie was born," said Hanny.

"Oh, well, if we had a big brother married, and a lovely little baby like that, I wouldn't mind so much. But Josie is going to study and teach, and—oh, dear! Hanny Underhill, you're just the luckiest girl I know."

And the Deans thought it another piece of luck that she should go to Saratoga.

They went to Congress Hall, and drank some of the water that Hanny thought just horrid. Daisy didn't like it very much; but it had proved beneficial the summer before. And they used to watch the beautifully attired ladies promenade the long piazza. Such lovely lawns and organdies and embroidered white gowns; such laces and sashes and ribbons! Every afternoon they were out in force. They promenaded up and down the street too, with dainty parasols, and often times no bonnet, but a little square of lace with long lappets.

One evening after Margaret and the Doctor came, they all went in to the hop to look on. Hanny thought the dancing a bewitching sight, and could have stayed up until midnight watching it. There were a good many quite famous people whom Dr. Hoffman knew, and Hanny had seen on Broadway or up at Washington Square.

Daisy was almost in despair at the thought of Hanny's return. Dr. Hoffman had promised to take a brother physician's practice when he went away to recuperate, so he felt that he really could not extend his stay beyond the week.

"Oh, I do wish I had a sister!" groaned Daisy. "Auntie is very nice, and mamma is the sweetest mother in the world; but I like to have some one who thinks real young thoughts. I don't want to be grown up and sensible, and take an interest in tiresome things."

"Let's just stay little," laughed Hanny. "Twelve isn't so very old."

"But being in your 'teens' seems on the way to it. You may stay little; but see how tall I am getting. I grow like a weed."

Hanny gave a soft sigh. How curious to want to stay little, and feel sorry you were not getting big at the same time!

When they returned to the city, Hanny found that Charles and his mother had gone to the sea-side, out on Long Island. Mrs. Reed didn't seem to get strong. She had thought all along first she could soon do without Cousin Jane; and to give her the opportunity Cousin Jane went away on a little visit. But Mr. Reed sent for her ten days later.

"I'm never going to be good for anything again!" Mrs. Reed said fretfully.

"Oh, yes, there are a good many useful things in the world beside work," replied Mr. Reed. "You've done your share. Cousin Jane is splendid to have around. Anyhow, I think we will keep her for awhile."

"You just go down on Great South Bay, and eat fish and clams, and have the sea-breeze," advised Cousin Jane. "The Seamens will board you very reasonably. And Charles looks as if something of the kind wouldn't hurt him. He will have a pretty hard pull in college the first year, and he ought to have some good backbone to start on."

It was very extravagant to go away to board when they were paying house-rent. And there had been a doctor's bill, and a nurse for three weeks, and Cousin Jane—

"Never you mind," said Mr. Reed, "I'm not anywhere near the poor-house. I've only you and Charles. He is going to be a credit to us if he keeps his health; but he does look rather pale and thin. You ought to go for his sake."

The Reeds seemed insensibly to have changed places. It was Mr. Reed who gave the orders and suggested the plans, and Mrs. Reed who acquiesced.

"You've worked steadily all your life, harder than I ever wanted you to," continued her husband. "We had better take the good of what we have, and let Charles earn his own money when it comes his time to work. And if you could improve a little,—at least I think it is your duty to try for both our sakes. It will be a sad thing if, when Charles takes his degree, you are not here to congratulate him."

She was not anxious to die; very few people are. So she listened, and allowed herself to be over-ruled. She was really proud of her son's manliness, though she would not have admitted it. They went off to stay a fortnight, and both improved so much they remained a whole month.

Janey and Polly Odell and another cousin came to visit Hanny, and had a fine time seeing the city sights. Then Daisy came home, school began, and wonderful events were happening all the time.

The old story of Eldorado repeated itself. Strange rumours ran about like wildfire in meadow grass. A Captain Sutter was having his mill-race on one of the forks of the Sacramento River deepened and repaired, when a workman accidently discovered a shining nugget that proved to be gold. Crowds flocked to the spot: men who had been in the army, adventurers who had followed Fremont in his prospecting journeys; and they found gold on every hand.

When Congress opened, President Polk proudly announced the wealth of our new possessions. It was Mexico and Peru over again. The Spaniards had not despoiled the whole earth.

Men talked themselves up to fever-heat. Why plod along years making a fortune, when here you could dig it out of the ground in a few months! As if wealth was the great and only good to mankind.

Now, when one flies across the continent in a palace-car, it seems strange indeed to think of the long journey of these pilgrims to the land of Ophir, as it was called. The overland route, that across Mexico, or the isthmus, comprised the sail to Vera Cruz, and then up the Pacific coast, and was costly. That around Cape Horn took five months. Yet men were selling their property or business that they had been years in building up, leaving their families, and hurrying off, promising to be back in a few years, millionaires perhaps.

The Underhills were not seized with the mania. There were several other matters that occupied their attention. John was to be married in January, and to go in business with his employer, who would be his father-in-law. And in December, two granddaughters were added to the family.

Hanny was quite dazed with the conflicting claims. Margaret's little girl had large dark eyes like Dr. Hoffman, and dark, silky hair; while Dolly's daughter was fair. Margaret's baby was really beautiful.

But in her secret heart the little girl thought no baby in the world could ever be the sweet and joyful surprise that Stevie had been,—the Christmas gift to them all. Dr. Hoffman declared that he was really jealous that she should not transfer all her affections to his little daughter. "He should not call her Haneran now."

"I should hope you wouldn't," declared Hanny, mirthfully. "You ought to name her Margaret, and we could all call her Daisy. That's such a cheerful, pretty name!"

"But she won't be white and gold. She would have to be a Michaelmas daisy. And we couldn't call her Pearl, with her dark eyes and hair. Still, I think Margaret one of the noblest and sweetest of names."

"I don't suppose any one will think Hannah a sweet name," said the little girl, rather ruefully. "They all say—it's a good name. But I don't want to be just like Grandmother Van Kortlandt. When I am real old I would rather be like Grandmother Underhill."

"Luckily, the names do not endow us with the natures."

In the end, it was Margaret; and they called her Daisy, much to the little girl's delight. When Mrs. Jasper heard of the name, she sent her a beautiful pair of sleeve-pins. They were used to pin through the shoulders and sleeves of babies' dresses. It seemed then as if all babies had beautiful fat necks, and pretty dimpled arms.

Dolly's little girl was called Annette Dorothea; but her household name was Annie.

Little Stevie had come to grandmother's to stay a week or so. He cried a little the first night for mamma. Hanny begged to have him put in her bed; and she sat and told him Mother Goose Melodies until he dropped asleep. He was such a sweet, cunning roly-poly, that she couldn't help kissing him when she came to bed; and she longed to take him in her arms and hug him up; but she was afraid he might wake and cry.

The next night he was quite ready to go to Nan's bed, and didn't cry a bit.

Hanny had a delightful time taking him round among the girls. Her mother said, "You and your father will have that child spoiled." But Hanny might have turned the tables, if she had seen grandmother when she had to be in school.

As for Grandfather Underhill, he thought with Hanny there never had been such a smart and wonderful baby. Jim taught him some rather reprehensible tricks. He was still full of fun and mischief, and already had a crowd of admirers in college.

And, oh, how they missed the baby when he was gone! It didn't seem as if one little mite could fill the house; but it was big and empty now.

John's courtship had not been so engrossing as Stephen's. They had met Miss Bradley, to be sure; and Mr. Bradley was a well-to-do man with two sons and one daughter who had been named Cleanthe, after the heroine of a story Mrs. Bradley had read in her girlhood. Mr. Bradley had wanted his daughter called Priscilla, after his mother; and Mrs. Bradley's mother's name was Jemima.

"I did think Mimy and Silly two of the worst names in the world. And there isn't any nickname for Cleanthe," was Mrs. Bradley's explanation when any one wondered at the name.

Miss Cleanthe was a very nice, well-bred, rather conventional girl, with none of Dolly's dash and spirit. She was a good housekeeper, and could make all but her best dresses. They were to take the second floor of Mr. Bradley's house, and set up their own home, until they felt rich enough to indulge in a house owned by themselves.

George came down about this time to spend a month. He was decidedly tired of farming.

"Of course, if I wanted to marry and build on the old place, it wouldn't be so bad. Uncle Faid keeps in the same rut, and you can't shake him out of it. Barton Finch is the kind of man who begins with a great flourish, but flats out towards the end. I'm tired of them all!"

"It will be your turn to marry next," said his mother. "And then I'll seem quite a young woman with only three children. I do suppose we'll go up to Yonkers some time and spend our old age there; though I begin to think your father is weaned away."

George laughed. "Father seems about half Uncle Faid's age. And at eighty, you won't be as old as Aunt Crete. If I had lots of money, to do as I liked—but farming so near by doesn't amount to much."

The Germans and Swiss had to come in and show us about market-gardening and floriculture.

George went down-town with Stephen, and talked with Ben, and listened to the groups on every corner discussing the golden land. He was young and strong; why shouldn't he go and seek his fortune?

Miss Bradley had a very nice evening wedding, with dancing and a supper. She was very well looking, but not as handsome as Margaret, or as pretty and piquant as Dolly. She did not seem to come close to their hearts, as Dolly had; though Mrs. Underhill was very well satisfied, and knew she would make John happy. John was a sort of solid, sober-going fellow, quite different from Steve and Joe.



CHAPTER VII

THROUGH THE EYES OF YOUTH

Then George surprised everybody by his determination to go to California.

"There are chances to make fortunes here," declared Stephen. "With the crowds going out there, and no homes and no provision made for them, there must be a good deal of suffering. The stories of gold are too fabulous for belief."

"I want to see something of the world. And all the countries on the Pacific Coast are rich in gold and treasures. I wonder what the history of the world would have been if that side had been settled first?"

"The history of Mexico and Peru. Wealth and indolence and degeneration. And the East is nearer the commerce of the world. Oh, the old Pilgrim fathers didn't go so far out of the way!" laughingly.

"And they went in the face of almost everything. We have a little of their love of adventure. I don't know as my heart is so set upon a fortune. You wouldn't believe it; but I've wished myself that intrepid explorer Fremont dozens of times. There is such a splendid excuse for going now."

At first, they were all strongly opposed. John told him to come and join them, and keep turning his money over in up-town real estate. Mrs. Underhill pleaded. She was very fond of having her children about her. But when he went down-town, and heard the exciting talk, and saw the vessels of every kind fitting out, he came home more resolved than ever.

"And then we will build the house on that beautiful knoll,—a large, rambling, commodious place, big enough to take us all in, a refuge for our old age," laughed George.

They found he was not to be talked out of it. Ben was on his side, and not only gave him encouragement, but offered to lend him a little money he had saved up, and proposed to go shares with him.

Indeed, it was a time of great excitement. The ship-yards on the East River were veritable bee-hives; and morning, noon, and night the streets were thronged with workmen. The clipper-ships began to astonish the world, and the steamers to compete with those of England. The new treaty with China was opening possibilities of trade to that country.

George decided to go by water to Vera Cruz. Round the Horn seemed too long a journey for impatient youth. If he shouldn't like it, and should not see any special prospect, he could come back the richer by his experience, if nothing else. People went to China. They often stayed two years in Europe.

"Yes," said Ben; "there's Mr. Theodore Whitney. He has had no end of a good time, and is in much better health then when he went away."

"And Fremont has gone through a great many hardships, and been in some battles, and still lives," added George, laughingly. "And some of the people in Yonkers died who had never been more than ten miles away from home."

Mrs. Underhill gave in, as mothers of big sons are often forced to do. Mr. Underhill was rather pleased with the boy's spirit. Doctor Joe felt that it wasn't a bad thing altogether, and that it would be nice to have an authentic account of that wonderful country.

So the last of March, George said good-bye to everybody. His father, Stephen, and Joe went down to see him off. It looked as if half the sailing-craft in the world were gathered in New York harbour.

Right on the top of this, something happened that engrossed the attention of the younger members of the family. There had been a disturbance in Paris; the old Bonaparte faction coming to the fore, and Louis Philippe had fled from the throne to England. Napoleon Bonaparte had shattered the divine right of kings nearly forty years earlier.

But the most startling link in the chain of events, was that Louis Napoleon, the son of Hortense Beauharnais and the once King of Holland, who, for fomenting one revolution, had been confined in the Fortress of Ham for life. He had escaped, and, with the prestige of the family name, had roused the enthusiasm of France, and helped to form a Republic. He was elected as one of the Deputies. Everybody was saying then the French were too volatile, and too fond of grandeur, to accept the democratic tendencies of a republic for any length of time. And they wondered if he would not follow in the steps of his famous uncle, and one day aim at a throne and an empire. Others hailed the step as a great advancement in the rights of the people, and thought it prefigured that Europe would be republican rather than Cossack, recalling the elder Emperor's prediction.

And Hanny learned that this young man, who was before long to be Emperor of the French, had lived in New York, as well as Louis Philippe. Joe took her down-town to the old Delmonico Restaurant, which was considered quite elegant in its day, and had entertained many famous people. Here, the young fellow who had been the son of a king, and was now an exile, used to dine, and gather about him the flower of the fashionable world, as it was called. And Lorenzo Delmonico, who rarely went into his kitchen now, would go and cook a dinner for this guest, who had the high art of persuasion in an eminent degree, it would seem. Afterward the Prince would entertain the other guests with curious tricks with cards, and conversation. Now his life bid fair to be almost as eventful as his uncle's; and, like him, he was doomed to die an exile on English soil.

Joe and Hanny took their dinner in the old place, though now the Delmonicos were fitting up a hotel at the lower end of Broadway which was destined to become quite as famous, and to house many notable people.

She was so engrossed with reading and studying that sometimes she hardly found an hour for the babies. She and Daisy, like most very young girls, had a passion for poetry. Mrs. Sigourney they thought rather grave and dry; but Mrs. Hemans, with her soft flowing numbers and beautiful face, was a great favourite. Longfellow was beginning to be appreciated, and several other poets that one saw now and then on Broadway. There were some pathetic poems by a Western writer, Alice Cary, that used to go quite to the little girl's tender heart. She had a wonderful memory for any rhythmic production, and used to say them over to her father. If she didn't sit on his lap,—and her mother had almost laughed her out of it,—she leaned her arms on his knee, or rested her head against his shoulder, while her soft, sweet voice went purling along like,—

"A hidden brook In the leafly month of June."

The Dean girls did not care so much for poetry. They wanted stories; and stories and books were beginning to spring up on every hand. Miss Delia Whitney was writing a novel. She had accomplished some successful stories, and had one in "The Ladies' Book," the pretty fashion magazine of the day.

Poor deaf Aunt Clem had dropped out of life like a child going to sleep. Aunt Patty kept well and bright. Nora was growing up into a tall girl, and went to Rutger's Institute, though she confessed to Hanny, "She just hated all schools, and wouldn't go a day longer, only it was not quite the thing to grow up an ignoramus."

And there was Frederica Bremer, a Swedish novelist, whose "Home or Family Cares and Family Joys" was Hanny's delight. And Irving was ever new and bright. "Salmagundi" always amused her father so much. The recent and delightful stories were the talk of every one.

Daisy was not such a ravenous reader. She was quite taken up with painting, and had done some very nice work in water-colours. She had a decided gift for catching resemblances, and had sketched some excellent likenesses. She confided to Hanny that her ambition was to paint portraits on ivory.

This spring a plan was mooted that almost rendered Hanny speechless. Mr. Jasper had some business connections abroad that needed his personal supervision, and he proposed to take his family. Tours to Europe were not a common occurrence then, and one could hardly run over for a six weeks' trip. Daisy had improved so much that she was sure to enjoy it; and there were some German baths Doctor Joe thought he would like her to try.

Italy had been the children's land of romance. But the Deans never expected to go; and Hanny was quite sure she should feel awfully afraid on the ocean. But Joe said some time when he had grown quite rich, and needed a rest for his tired-out body and nerves, he and Hanny might go,—ten years hence, perhaps. It wasn't nearly so formidable when you looked at it through the telescope of ten years; and Hanny could be learning French and German, and may be Italian. She had picked up a good deal of German already from Barbara, who had proved an excellent servant after she had acquired American ways.

The Jaspers would give up their house and store their choicest furniture. Opposite, a great many foreigners were crowding in; and down below, Houston Street and Avenue A. were filling up with them. We felt so large and grand then, with our great stretches of unoccupied land, that we invited the oppressed from everywhere. It was our boast that,—

"Uncle Sam was rich enough to give us all a farm."

Very good thrifty citizens many of them made; but some of the early experiences were not so agreeable. And people were beginning to think "up-town" would be the choice for residences. Even Mr. Dean had a vague idea of buying up there while property was cheap. Stephen and Margaret were trying to persuade their parents to do the same thing.

It would be dreadful to have Daisy go away for a whole year. When Daisy considered the point, it didn't seem as if she could leave all her girl friends and her dear Doctor Joe. But the days passed on, and the passage was taken. Mrs. Jasper asked the children in to a supper, which would have been delightful, except for the thought that it was a farewell supper. The table was spread in most artistic array; and Sam waited upon the company. They tried very hard to be merry; but every little while they would all subside and glance at each other with apprehensive eyes.

The grown people came in the evening. The most wonderful thing was that Mr. and Mrs. Reed were among the parents. Cousin Jane was still at the Reeds'; and, as she was "handy" about sewing, she had altered Mrs. Reed's old-fashioned gowns, and made her some new ones.

Mrs. Reed did not get real strong, and was troubled somewhat with a cough when cold weather came on. But she lost her weather-beaten look, and did gain a little flesh. She was very presentable in her black-silk dress, with some lace at the throat and wrists that she had bought at her marriage. She wore a little black-lace head-dress with a few purple bows; and she admitted to Charles that the Jaspers were very fine people, and she was sorry they were going away; but it would take a mint of money for a whole family to travel around like that.

The Jaspers' house was then dismantled; but they were going to board for about ten days. Hanny and Josie Dean went down to see the state-room and wish them bon voyage. Doctor Joe had given Mrs. Jasper counsel about everything that might happen to Daisy.

Then the signal was given for all who were not going to return on shore. There were some tender kisses and tears; and Doctor Joe took both girls by the arm and steadied them down the gang-plank. What a huge thing the steamer looked! But it was nothing compared to the later ones.

It was very lonesome. The night was pleasant, and Hanny sat out on the stoop with her father; but, whenever she tried to talk, something swelled up in her throat and made her feel like crying. But her father hugged her up close. She would always have him.

It had not seemed so sad to have Nora go away; in fact they could see her any time. And she had not loved Nora quite so well. She didn't love any girl as she loved Daisy, and it seemed as if she could not live a whole year without her.

They talked about it at school, and most of the girls envied her the splendid journey. "I don't know as I would mind being a little lame, if I could have such a beautiful face, and be taken everywhere," said one of the girls.

But Hanny didn't want to be anybody else, if she had to give up her own mother and father, and dear Joe and Ben and, oh, little darling Stevie.

Just after this a black-bordered envelope came up from Hammersley Street. Grandfather Bounett, who had been very feeble of late, had died. Hanny had seen him a number of times since her memorable introductory visit. Luella had been sent to boarding-school, and was quite toned down, was indeed a young lady.

Doctor Joe had made frequent visits, and the old gentleman had told him many striking incidents of his life. Hanny used to think how queer the city must have been in seventeen hundred, when people had a black servant to carry the lantern so one could see to get about. She knew so much of the early history now,—the Dutch reign and the British reign and the close of the war.

Old Mr. Bounett looked like a picture in his handsome, old-fashioned attire; and he just seemed asleep. The large rooms and the hall were full, and men were standing out on the sidewalk. He had rounded out the century. A hundred years was a long while to live. There were a number of French people, and a chapter was read out of grandfather's well-worn French Bible.

Somehow it was not a sorrowful funeral. It was indeed bidding him a reverent God speed on his journey to the better land.

About ten days afterward, they were surprised by a visit from the eldest married daughter, Mrs. French, whom Hanny had taken such a fancy to years before.

"I've come of a queer errand," she explained, when they had talked over the ordinary matters. "I want a visit from little Miss Hanny. I have been away with my husband a good many times since we first met, and now he has gone to China, and will be absent still a year longer. I am keeping house alone, except as I have some nieces now and then staying with me. I want to take Hanny over on Friday, if I may, and she shall come back in time for school on Monday morning. I have a great many curiosities to show her. And perhaps some of her brothers will come over and take tea with us Sunday evening."

Hanny was a little shy and undecided. But her mother assented readily. She thought a change would do her good, as she had moped since Daisy's departure.

So it was arranged that Mrs. French should come on the ensuing Friday. Hanny almost gave out; but when the carriage drove up to the door, and Mrs. French looked so winsome and smiling, she said good-bye to her mother with a sudden accession of spirits.

They drove to Grand Street Ferry and crossed over on the boat. Williamsburg was a rather straggling place then. It was quite a distance from the ferry, not closely built up, though the street was long and straight. At the south side of the house was an extra lot in a flower and vegetable garden. The house was quite pretty, two stories with a peaked roof, and a wisteria going up to the top. There was a wide porch with a hammock hung already. All the air was sweet with a great bed of lilies of the valley,—quite a rarity then.

There was a long parlor, and then a music-room; in a sort of an ell, a dining-room and kitchen; upstairs, two beautiful sleeping chambers and a small sewing-room with a writing-desk and some book-shelves.

Hanny felt as if she were entering an Oriental palace. The doorways and windows were hung with glistening silk that had flecks of gold and silver in it; and there were such soft rugs on the floor your feet were buried in them. It was almost like a museum, with the queer tables and cabinets, and the curious fragrance pervading every corner.

They went upstairs and took off their hats and capes, which were one of this spring's fashions.

"This is my room," explained Mrs. French. "And with the door open you won't feel afraid in the guest-chamber."

"I have had to sleep alone since Margaret was married," returned the little girl. "No, I am not afraid."

"I thought I would not ask any one else. I wanted you all to myself," and Mrs. French smiled. "I have hosts of nieces and nephews. There was such a large family of us."

Hanny thought she would rather be the only guest now. She was quite fascinated with Mrs. French.

She bathed her face and brushed her hair. She had brought a pretty white ruffled apron. The little girls didn't wear black-silk aprons now; but they were taught to be careful of their clothes, and I think they were quite proud of their pretty aprons. Hanny's had dainty little pockets and a pink bow on each one.

The frocks were made shorter, and the pantalets kept them company. All that was really proper now, was a row of fine tucks and a ruffle, or an edge of needlework. There was some fine imported French needlework, much of it done in convents; but nearly every lady did it herself, and it was quite a great thing for a little girl to bring out her work and show it to aunts and cousins. No one dreamed then that there would be machines to make the finest and most exquisite work, and save time and eyesight.

Hanny looked very sweet and pretty in her pink lawn and white apron. Her hair was braided in the two tails that every little girl wore who had not curly hair. On grand occasions, Hanny's was put in curl-papers, and it made very nice ringlets, though it was still a sort of flaxen brown. But then she was fair, rather pale a good deal of the time. She flushed very easily though. There was an expression of trustful innocence that rendered her very attractive, without being beautiful like Margaret.

"Come and let us walk about the garden," said Mrs. French. "It is light enough to see the roses. They are my especial pride."

Hanny took the outstretched hand. She could not have explained it, but she did feel happy and at home with Mrs. French. There was a graciousness about her that set one at ease.

At the side was a long porch with curtains that rolled up when they were not needed for shade. At the front of the garden, there was considerable young shrubbery, then an arrangement of beds; the centre one, which was a circle, was filled with the most beautiful roses. The middle was raised somewhat, mound shape, with the dark red roses, then growing a little paler to pure rose-colour and pink, tea-rose with the salmon tint, and a border of white. And, oh, how fragrant!

Beside this bed there were others in clusters, and one clump in an exquisite yellow.

"Some of them have been great travellers," said Mrs. French. "There are roses from Spain, from France and Italy."

Hanny opened her eyes very wide, and then she looked at them again in surprise.

"Oh, how could you get them?" she asked.

"I brought them from their homes. You see I have been quite a traveller, also."

The child drew a long breath. "Did you go with Captain French?" she inquired.

"Yes. When we were first married, his vessel traded in the Levant, and brought back fruits and silks and shawls and nuts, and ever so many things. After that we went to India, Calcutta. We took one of my sisters, and she married an English merchant, and has been home only once since then."

"Oh, I shouldn't like Margaret to live in Calcutta," the little girl said, startled.

Mrs. French smiled. "Then we were away almost four years. We went to the Chinese ports as well, and to some of the curious islands. We took a cargo of tea to London."

"I know a little girl who has just gone to London, and who is to go on to Germany to take some special kind of baths. She is my very dear friend."

"Is she ill?"

"She is a great deal better now. When we first knew her, she couldn't walk but a few steps. She was in the hospital where my brother used to go when he was first a doctor. Then she came to live in our street."

"With her parents?"

"Oh, yes. She has one aunt, but no brothers or sisters. It must seem strange not to have any," and Hanny glanced up.

"It would be strange to me. I had ten in all, and there is only one dead. Eugene is the oldest of the second family. One married brother lives in Baltimore, one only a short distance from here. And you have six brothers,—a good supply for one little girl."

"I suppose some of them belong to Margaret," and she gave a soft, rippling laugh. "We haven't ever divided them up. But Joe belongs to me. When I get to be a woman, and he has a good big practice, I am going to keep house for him."

"But what will your father do?"

"Why—" Hanny had not considered that point. "Oh, it won't be in a long while! And then father will be old, and he will come and live with us, I think. Dolly says she is going to have mother."

Mrs. French thought the division rather amusing.

"Where is Captain French gone now?"

"To China again. He has been going back and forth to Liverpool; but he had an excellent offer for the long trip. I concluded not to go, grandpa was so old and feeble. And my sister is coming to England to live. Her husband is heir now to a fine estate and a title; and they have quite a family of children."

"Then you will want to go to England to see her," said Hanny.

"Indeed, I shall. I have not seen her in seven years; since the time she was here."

"We all liked Mr. Eugene so much," Hanny remarked. "And Luella has grown so, I hardly knew her."

"They have a trick of growing up. I hope you won't be in any hurry."

"I am small of my age," and Hanny gave a soft sigh.

"It will take you a long time to get as large as your mother."

Hanny wasn't sure that she wanted to be quite so large. Yet she didn't really want her mother changed. And, oh, she wouldn't have her as thin as Mrs. Reed for all the world!

They had been walking around the paths that were clean and solid as a floor. What beautiful plants and flowers there were! Strange things, too, that Hanny had never seen before. Then the tea-bell rang, and they came up to the rose garden, where Mrs. French broke off several partly opened buds and pinned them on the little girl's bodice.

The dining-room windows opened on the porch, and they walked in that way. It had a great beaufet with carved shelves and brackets going nearly up to the ceiling, and full of the most curious articles Hanny had ever seen. Then there was a cabinet in the corner containing rare and beautiful china. The table was small and dainty, oval, with a vase of flowers at the ends; and the two sat opposite each other, while a tidy young coloured girl waited upon them.

Hanny felt as if she was part of a story; and she tried to recall several of her heroines who went visiting in some curiously elegant house. It was different from the Jaspers, from anything she had ever seen, and there was a subtle fragrance about it that made her feel dreamy.



CHAPTER VIII

GOING VISITING

"Don't you want to tell me about your little friend?" Mrs. French said when she had put Hanny in the hammock, and hedged her about with silken cushions. She sat in a willow rocker that Hanny thought quite as fascinating as the hammock.

"Oh, yes," and Hanny smiled brightly, and, like a true biographer began at the beginning, the first time the children had seen Daisy, with her long golden curls and pallid face, like a snow-drift. And how Doctor Joe had been in the hospital when she had the operation performed.

"Poor little thing!" exclaimed Mrs. French. "And now there is something they can use that gives a blessed unconsciousness, and when you wake up the worst of the pain is over. I do not know how any one could endure such torture."

"Joe said she was very brave, though she fainted several times. And she's growing straight and tall, and her hair curls lovely again. I have always wished my hair curled naturally. It just twists a little at the ends, but won't make ringlets."

People in those days curled their hair a great deal; but they had to put it in papers. Patent curlers, like a great many other things, had not been invented. When you wanted to be very fine, you went to the hair-dresser's. The real society ladies had some one come to the house to "do" their hair; and sometimes it was very elaborate.

Mrs. French thought curly hair would not improve the little girl. There was something charming in her very simplicity, and her hair was like floss silk.

As she told about Daisy she detailed bits of neighbourhood life, and descriptions of the other children. Mrs. French heard about John Robert Charles and his mother.

"But she's so different now. She is not real strong any more; and then Charles is such a big boy, and goes out with his father. It's queer, but Jim and he are great friends, and Jim goes over there to study with Charles. Mrs. Reed did not use to like boys; and Jim is so full of fun and pranks, mother calls them, and he knows so many funny stories! Mother tries very hard not to laugh at them; but she can't always help it."

The evening passed so quickly that it was bed-time before either of them realised it. Mrs. French took the large square pillows off the bed, and laid one of the silken spreads over the footboard. How beautiful and soft they were, with great flowers so natural it seemed as if you could pick them up! And the fragrance was so delicate and puzzling: one moment you thought it violets, then it suggested roses and lilies and the smell of newly cut grass.

Mrs. French kissed her, and said if she felt strange in the night to call her; but she was asleep in five minutes, and never woke until quite in the morning, it was so much more quiet than in First Street.

When she did sit up in the bed and glance around, she had a queer feeling that she was a part of a fairy story, like the white cat in her enchanted palace, waiting for the Prince, or perhaps Psyche, blown from the hill-top to her beautiful place of refuge, where she found and lost Love, and had to do many hard tasks before she could regain him.

She was quite sure, an hour or two later, that she was in some enchanted realm. There were such queer things,—some beautiful, and some she thought very ugly, especially the grotesque idols.

"I couldn't believe a god like that had any power. And I am sure I couldn't worship him," Hanny said emphatically.

"They beat their gods sometimes and break them to pieces, and go off and get new ones. It seems very singular to us."

The little girl had been deeply interested in Judson, the missionary to Burmah. There had been a good deal of romance about his last marriage, to "Fanny Forester," who wrote tales and sketches and poems, and had made herself quite a name for brightness and gay humour, and then had surprised her friends by going to India as a missionary's wife. And she knew Bishop Heber's beautiful poem to his wife all by heart, and often sang "From Greenland's icy mountains." So she had a feeling that she did know something about India.

But Mrs. French had really been there, and spent two months at Bombay, and almost six months at Calcutta. There were so many gorgeous things,—silks, and bright stuffs with threads of gold, jackets all embroidery, and queer Eastern dresses, two made of pineapple cloth,—a sheer, beautiful fabric,—and one had delicate flowers embroidered in silk.

But the oddest of all, Hanny thought, was burning incense. Mrs. French had several curious incense bowls and jars. She lighted one, and in a little while the room was filled with an indescribable fragrance and a hazy purplish air.

"They burn incense in the Roman Catholic churches. Joe took us one Easter Sunday. It was very strange, I thought. And a little boy swung the—something—"

"Censer."

"Oh, yes, censer. And the singing was beautiful. But we couldn't understand the prayers; Joe said they were Latin. I suppose he could follow them."

"No doubt; I have attended some very grand services in churches abroad and in England."

The incense burned out presently, and they went downstairs to dinner. Afterward, a niece and nephew, her brother's children, came. The girl was not quite twelve, but most a head taller than Hanny, who felt rather shy with her. The boy was older still, and his name was Harold, which suggested to Hanny the last of the Saxon kings. But he was very dark, and didn't look like a Saxon, she thought.

Mrs. French sent to the livery and ordered a carriage, and they all went to drive. Hanny was quite conversant with upper New York and Westchester County; but she had only been once to Brooklyn. It had quite a country aspect then; but there were beautiful drives, and Greenwood Cemetery had already some extremely handsome monuments.

There was something about Eva Bounett that suggested Lily Ludlow, and kept Hanny from liking her cordially. She laughed at so many things, made fun of them; and Hanny wondered if she was criticising her, and would laugh at her when she returned home.

Now and then, Mrs. French would remark, "Don't, Eva, that is not a nice thing to say." Still she was bright, and at times Hanny had to laugh. She found so many Dickens' people along the streets; and really they did look like the pictures by Cruikshank. And one tall fierce old woman, with wisps of hair hanging about her neck, and an old torn shawl, who was brandishing her arms and talking wildly, she said was Meg Merrilies.

The children remained to tea, and Harold played and sang some very pretty songs afterward.

"But you ought to hear our sister Helen," declared Eva. "She sings in church, and sometimes at concerts; she's just magnificent. She's nineteen now. And Mary has a good voice; while I sing like a crow! Do you do any of the fine things,—draw or paint? I take music lessons; but I make my teacher's hour vexation of spirit, not vanity," and she gave a satisfied kind of laugh.

"I study music and French. I embroider and crochet—"

"I hate sewing; I'd like to be a man and a sea-captain. Uncle French is just magnificent; I hope he will take me to sea sometime; I'm not a bit sick; are you?"

"I have never been to sea," replied Hanny.

"Well, just a little ways; I've been down to the Fishing Banks; and it's awful rough. And last summer we were at Great South Bay, and went out in a yacht; and I learned to row. At all events, I mean to marry a sea-captain; and I'll just go with him every time."

One of the older brothers dropped in for the children. Eva was very effusive in her good-bye, and kissed Hanny, and said she must surely come to see her.

Hanny felt quite relieved when she was alone again with Mrs. French, who talked of Helen and Mary, and seemed to admire them very much. "But I don't know what they will do with Eva. My half-sister, Luella, was just such a noisy harum-scarum; but she had only boys to play with. Now, she is getting to be a nice lady-like girl."

Hanny recalled two visits in Hammersley Street when Luella had kept her in a fright all the time.

They went to church Sunday morning, and heard Helen Bounett sing. It was very fine and moving. Hanny wished Charles could hear her.

About mid-afternoon, as they were sitting on the front piazza, which was shady now, Hanny espied her two brothers. Why, Ben was quite as tall as Joe! He looked more like Stephen; but Joe was very good-looking.

She flew down to meet them, and gave one hand to each brother.

"Oh," she cried joyfully, "I've had a lovely time! I've been to India and China; and I've had incense and ginger preserve, and some beautiful silks to take home, and a pineapple handkerchief, and a ginger-jar; and I haven't been a bit homesick."

Mrs. French was watching the eager little face that looked so pretty in its enthusiasm of love. Doctor Joe stooped and kissed her; Ben waited until he was up on the porch.

They were very cordially welcomed. Mrs. French said she was afraid a patient would come to hand at an inopportune moment.

"The city is desperately healthy," returned Joe, laughingly. "That's a young doctor's experience. When I am wrinkled and grey-haired, I shall probably tell a different story."

"What do you think I have?" turning to Hanny. "A letter from Mr. Jasper. A steamer was just going out, so he sent a few lines."

He handed it to her while he resumed his conversation with Mrs. French.

Hanny devoured it with a thrill. A letter from across the ocean!

They had a very pleasant journey, with only one storm worth mentioning. Mrs. Jasper, who had dreaded sea-sickness, had only a slight attack. Aunt Ellen was ill four days, and Daisy a whole week. Once they were quite alarmed about her. But her recovery was more rapid than they had expected; and now they were all well, and the ladies would write more at length.

An ocean voyage was quite an undertaking then. Some people of leisure went by a packet, which took three weeks, occasionally longer.

It was very odd to think of Daisy Jasper in England. But how many times Mrs. French had come home safely.

Of course they must go out and see the flowers: the beautiful red rose whose mother, or grandmother, had come from the Escurial at Madrid; and a real English hawthorn, from Windermere, just out of bloom now; and several valuable and curious foreign plants, quite common at this day. At the southern end there was a conservatory for the housing of the more delicate ones.

Ben was wonderfully interested with the indoor curiosities, and a case of stuffed birds, the like of which he had never seen. They had a little more incense too, and opened jars of rare perfume that was nobody knew how many years old. There were some Chinese paintings on fine transparent silk, and ivory carvings that were enough to puzzle the most astute brain. Ben thought he would like to spend at least a month over them.

Supper-time came too soon. Mrs. French said she had enjoyed every moment of Hanny's visit, and hoped to have her a whole week in the summer vacation, and the young men must feel they would be welcome any time.

"I've just been crowded full of delight," exclaimed Hanny, with her good-bye kiss.

It was quite a walk down to the ferry; then they had their sail across. How still and tranquil everything seemed! When they reached the city, people were going to church, and a few last bells were ringing. They walked leisurely up Grand Street; and, at the junction of East Broadway, Joe said he would run up to the office to see if he was needed for anything. Then Ben and Hanny kept on. There were a good many private residences in Grand Street, but the stores were creeping along. Already they began to show foreign names, and on some stoops a whole Jewish family would be sitting with their black-eyed children. And so many of them had such beautiful curling hair that it made Hanny sigh.

Across Norfolk Street to Houston, and a turn in their own First Street. Mr. Underhill had walked down to the corner, and was sauntering about. He was very glad to get his little girl home and hear about the good time.

A fortnight later, the little girl had a letter from Daisy Jasper, all to herself. They had gone straight up to London on account of business, and were at a hotel; but it was all so queer and unlike New York. She certainly did like her own city best. But there would be so many things to see; not the least among them would be the Queen and Prince Albert, and the royal children, who were often out driving, and the Mall and the Row, and the palaces, and the Tower, and the great British Museum! Daisy thought, if she went everywhere, it would take a whole lifetime. She was beginning to feel very well; but she admitted that she was awfully seasick, and that it was "horrid." She wanted Hanny, and dear Doctor Joe. And Hanny must tell her about everybody in the street. She must get some thin foreign paper, so the postage wouldn't cost so much.

For then postage was regulated by the distance, and we had no international union. I think we were doing without a good many useful things; yet the older generation professed to believe there was so much luxury and ease that people would be soon demoralised.

Jim had rather fallen behind, with all his fun and nonsense, and was studying day and night. He wasn't going to have Charley Reed get so far ahead of him! Examinations were coming on, and he didn't want any one to be ashamed of him, neither did he want to be conditioned.

The little girl was studying very hard also, and reading a great deal. She had taken up the wonderful things of London that had been accumulating year by year. She had thought New York was getting quite ancient, but, oh, dear! England had been colonised by Julius Caesar, and was a country with a government even before that.

There was no one to go out with, and she was too old to play. Last summer, they had gone around with Daisy in her wheeling-chair, and found so many amusing incidents, beside being out of doors in the vivifying air and sunshine. Josie Dean was almost a young lady, so tall that she wore her hair in a French twist, with a pretty silver comb, which was as much a girl's ambition as the big shell comb had been her mother's. And Tudie was just crazy over worsted work. She was doing a pair of covers for large ottomans, and then meant to go at the back and seat for a daintily carved reception-chair. There were some nice schoolmates who lived up above Mrs. Craven's; but they seldom came down to First Street. And as the little girl never complained, no one seemed to notice that she grew pale and thin, until one day Mrs. Underhill exclaimed:—

"Mercy me! What is the matter with that child! She looks like a ghost."

"She never does have red cheeks except when she is excited," said her father. "But she has fallen away."

"Too hard study and too much staying in the house," said Doctor Joe.

"But I must study one week more," declared the little girl. "I'm going to have a beautiful French exercise,"—they didn't always adapt their adjectives to the fine shades of meaning,—"and I'm at the head in history. I want to get in the senior grade. I feel well, only tired, and my head aches sometimes."

Doctor Joe examined her pulse and nodded.

"I'll give you the week," he said; but her heart went up to her throat. What if he had not given her the week!

They all came off with flying colours. Charles's Latin was the finest; but he had been studying it several years. Jim's essay won him much praise. And the little girl achieved her heart's desire. She was in the second grade of the seniors, and would graduate in two years.

They had hardly decided what to do with her; but one day Mrs. Odell came down with Polly, who had cheeks like roses and was fat as a seal, her mother said.

"You just let her come up and stay awhile with us, and drink buttermilk, and run out of doors and play in the hay. She's lived in the city long enough for a country girl, and she wants a change to freshen up her blood. She's fairly blue, she's so white."

"That wouldn't be a bad idea," rejoined Mr. Underhill. "We could drive up every few days and see her."

Mrs. Underhill looked up much interested.

Margaret was engrossed with her baby, and then she went out driving every day, though they did talk of going away for a week the last of the summer. She was very fond of having her little sister visit her, and Hanny enjoyed the talks about books and the delightful people the Hoffmans were always meeting.

All the Beekman daughters were going to stay awhile at the farm and discuss the settlement of the estate. The city authorities were to cut two streets through it in the early autumn. They had a very fair offer for the house, from a second or third cousin who fancied he wanted a part of the old family estate. The ground, of course, was too valuable for farming purposes. Annette's husband, who was in a shipping firm then on Water Street, preferred living down-town. So Mrs. Beekman would keep the old city house, and they would live together.

Dolly proposed to take the little girl, for there would be a large out-of-doors.

"There are too many grown people," declared Doctor Joe. "She's too old herself, and too anxious for knowledge of all kinds. She wants to run and play with children. We must keep her a little girl as long as possible, and not bother her brains with the wisdom of the ages. Send her up to West Farms. As Father says, we can see her every few days."

That settled the matter. Father Underhill did not care to give her up anyhow, and he was best pleased with this plan. Mrs. Underhill imagined she had so many things to do, as mothers of households did in those days, and somehow she did not like to hurry Hanny about as she had Margaret. There really was not so much sewing. Joe insisted upon ordering his shirts made; and Margaret had sent Ben half-a-dozen for Christmas. Then Barbara was very efficient, and, with true German thrift, improved every moment. She insisted on darning the stockings and knitting the woollen ones for winter. She was also a very neat hand at sewing.

Mrs. Underhill had learned another lesson in her city life. There were a good many poor people who really needed work, and she found it a much wiser plan to give them employment and pay them for it, and advise them to lay in coal and various other matters for winter. She was not a stingy woman; but she did not believe in confirming people in indolent habits.

Martha came often to see them; and at times she felt almost jealous of Barbara. But she had a very pleasant home, and her stepchildren proved tractable. She did a good deal of church work, and through her Mrs. Underhill heard of really worthy poor people.

Hanny wasn't a bit enthusiastic about going to West Farms.

"Janey and Polly seem so childish," she said to her brother Joe.

"And you are getting to be a little old woman. We don't want you to turn old and grey before your time, and have to wear spectacles and all that."

"But I can see the least little thing," protested the child, earnestly. "And if I do go, can't I take my 'Queens of England' with me? I had so many lessons that I couldn't read them as I wanted to."

Margaret had sent the volumes to her for a birthday gift. She had just skimmed through them, and was saving them up for her leisure time. Everybody was talking about them, and recommending them to girls. Miss Strickland certainly knew how to interest readers.

Doctor Joe shook his head, with a sort of mirthful regret which couldn't help but soothe the disappointment a little.

"I don't want you to read or to study, but just run out in the sunshine and get fat. If we have such a poor pale little thing in our family, people will wonder if I really am a good physician."

He looked so grave, not a bit as if he was "making fun," that she gave a sort of sighing assent.

"If you get real homesick, you need not stay more than a fortnight. But there is a good deal to learn out of doors. There are trees and wild flowers and birds. I'll come up now and then and take you out driving."

"I shall like that. I suppose I may write to Daisy Jasper?" she returned with a flash of spirit. "You see I want to know about London, and Berlin, and ever so many places, so that I won't seem like an ignoramus when she comes back."

"You will have all winter to learn about them." Then he kissed her and went off about his own business.

She had to go and say good-bye to Stevie, who was just too sweet for anything, and Annie, and dark-eyed Daisy Hoffman.



CHAPTER IX

ANNABEL LEE

It was queer up at West Farms, delightful, too. The house was old, with a hall through the middle, and a Dutch door just as there was up at Yonkers. The top part was opened in the morning, sometimes the whole door. The front room was the parlour, and it had not been refurnished since Mrs. Odell came there as a bride; so it looked rather antiquated to modern eyes. The back room was the sleeping chamber; on the other side, a living room with rag carpet on the floor; then a kitchen and a great shed-kitchen, one side of which was piled up with wood. There was a big back stoop that looked on the vegetable garden; there was an orchard down below, and then cornfields and meadows.

The old house was what was called a story and a half. The pointed roof had windows in the end, but none in the front. There were two nice big chambers upstairs, and a garret. Mr. Odell began to talk about building a new house; and Mrs. Odell said the things—by which she meant the carpets and furniture—were good enough for the old place, but they'd have all new by the time the girls grew up, to fit the new house.

Mr. Odell had a peach-orchard and a quince-orchard, and two long rows of cherry-trees. Then he kept quite a herd of cows, and sold milk. He had a splendid new barn, with two finished rooms in that, where the hands slept in summer. The old barn was devoted to the hay and the horses. There were chickens and ducks and geese, and a pen of pigs. This summer, they were raising three pretty calves and one little colt, who was desperately shy. But the calves would come up to be patted, and eat out of your hand.

Both of the girls were what their mother called regular tomboys. Polly was a few months older than the little girl, and Janey two years her senior. They were smart too. They could wash dishes and make beds and sweep, weed in the garden, look after the poultry; and Janey could iron almost as well as her mother. But they did love to run and whoop, and tumble in the hay, and they laughed over almost everything. They were not great students, though they went to school regularly.

A second or third cousin lived with the Odells, and did a great deal of the housework. She was not "real bright," and had some queer ways. Her immediate relatives were dead; and the Odells had taken her from a feeling of pity, and a fear lest at last she would be sent to the poor-house. She had an odd way of talking incoherently to herself, and nodding her head at almost everything; yet she was good-tempered and always ready to do as she was told. But the worst was her lack of memory; you had to tell her the same things everyday,—"get her started in the traces," Mr. Odell said.

Mrs. Odell put a cot in the girls' room for Hanny, since there was plenty of space. And Polly seemed to find so many funny stories to tell over that Hanny fell asleep in the midst of them, and woke up in the morning without a bit of homesick feeling. Then Mr. Odell was going to the mill, and he took Polly and Hanny along, and they had a rather amusing time.

Hanny was very much interested in the process, and amazed when she found how they made the different things out of the same wheat. They used "middlings" for pancakes at home, when her mother was tired of buckwheat. Not to have had griddle-cakes for breakfast would have been one of the hardest trials of life for men and boys through the winter. It warmed them up of a cold morning, and they seemed to thrive on it.

Mr. Odell was very willing to explain the processes to Hanny. Polly wanted to know if she thought of going into the milling business, and suggested that she never would be big enough. Then they ran round to look at the water-wheel and the little pond where the stream was dammed so there would be no lack of water in a dry time.

They had a drawing pattern in school just like it, except that it lacked the broken rustic bridge a little higher up. She would take a new interest in drawing it now.

It was noon when they reached home, and Hanny felt real hungry, though Mrs. Odell declared she didn't eat more than a bird. She was glad her girls were not such delicate little things.

They went out on the shady back stoop afterward. Janey was sewing the over-seam in a sheet that her mother wanted turned. When she had finished, and picked out the old sewing, she was free. Then she said they would go down to the Bristows' and have a good game of hide and seek. They always had such fun at the Bristows'.

Polly brought out her basket of carpet-rags,—a peach basket nearly full.

"I just hate to sew carpet-rags!" she declared.

"Couldn't I help you?" asked Hanny.

"Why, to be sure you could, if you would, and knew how to sew."

"Of course I know how to sew," said Hanny, rather affronted.

"Oh, I was only in fun! I'll find you a thimble. It's in my work-box that was given me on Christmas. It's real silver, too. Mother's going to change it when she goes to New York, only she never remembers. My fingers are so fat. Oh, Hanny, what a little mite of a hand! It'll never be good for anything."

"I have made a whole shirt myself, and I have hemstitched, and done embroidery, and I wipe dishes when I haven't too many lessons," interposed the little girl.

"You can't make your own frocks," in a tone of triumph.

"No. Miss Cynthia Blackfan comes and does it. Can you?"

"No, she can't," said Janey, while Polly threw her head back and laughed, showing her strong white teeth. "And she could no more make a shirt than she could fly. You're real smart, Hanny. I'm two years older, and I've never made a whole one. I'm going to try though, and father's promised me a dollar when I do it all by myself."

Polly had found the thimble. It wasn't any prettier than Hanny's, though Polly begged her "to be real careful and not lose it."

"Now you can just sew hit or miss; and then you can put in a long strip of black, 'cause there's more black than anything else. Oh, dear, I do hate to sew rags!"

"What kind of sewing do you like?" asked Janey, in a tone that would have been sarcastic in an older person.

"I just don't like any kind. Hanny, do you know that some one has invented a sewing-machine?" and Polly looked up with the triumph of superior wisdom.

"Oh, yes, I saw it at the Institute Fair. And there's a place on Broadway where a woman sits in the window and sews. It's very queer; but we think it doesn't sew real nice."

Polly was for the moment nonplussed. Hanny did seem to know almost everything. Then curiosity overcame her.

"Does it do really and truly sewing?"

"Why, yes. When you come down, I'll ask Joe to take us over to see it."

"Carpet-rags?"

"Well—I don't know. Long straight seams, and hems and stitching."

"Well, I'm going to have one when I'm married. I wonder if they cost very much!"

"There'll be lots of things for you to do before you are married. And some girls don't have any chance. You'll want to know how to keep house—"

"I like housekeeping. You just go from one thing to another. I'll have some one to cook and peel potatoes and all that. And we'll keep a horse and waggon, and I shall go to ride every day."

Janey laughed. "Just now, you had better sew carpet-rags."

"And I'll never have any rag carpets. I will give away all the old clothes."

"I'm afraid you'll never have much of anything, nor a husband either, Polly Odell," said her mother. "You talk, and leave the rags for Hanny to sew."

Polly turned scarlet, and sewed very industriously.

"I'd like to see a sewing-machine," began Janey, presently. "How does it go?"

"There is a strap around a wheel that is fast to a frame. You put your feet on, so, and just make them go up and down after you have started the wheel with your hand. The needle goes through, and something catches the thread, then it goes through again, and that makes the stitch. It is very curious."

"You know a good many things, don't you, Hanny?" said Janey, admiringly.

Hanny coloured.

"I can beat her all out running, I know; and I'll bet a penny she can't jump over the creek."

"And don't you dare her to, Polly. Remember how you fell in. Oh, Hanny, she was a sight to behold!"

"Well—it had been raining, and the ground was soft, so I slipped a little on the start. But I've done it time and again."

"And you're a regular tomboy. Girls don't train around that way in the city."

Janey had begun to rip out the old seam. She sighed a little, and wished she was sewing carpet-rags. That was such easy work.

"Hanny sews a great deal faster than you," she said to Polly. "See what a pile she has. I will wind them up."

It made quite a ball, and was a little rest from the ripping, that sounded so easy and yet was tedious. But Janey persevered, and finally, after turning about a time or two, came to the middle with a sigh of relief. Polly had been working like a steam-engine for ten minutes, and picked out a good many long pieces, so she had a ball as large as Hanny's.

Then they put on their sun-bonnets, and ran down to the Bristows', which was in the turn of the road. There were three girls,—one of nine who was almost as big as Hanny, and the one of eleven, much taller.

They all had a good drink of buttermilk: Mrs. Bristow had just been churning. Then they went out to the barn and played "hide-and-seek," and had a noisy, jolly time. They sat down and fanned themselves with their aprons, and presently started out for some blackberries.

"There's a German settlement down below, and the children are up here every day picking berries. You can't have anything now, unless it is planted in your own garden. We have some lovely big blackberries, when they get ripe."

Then the girls ran a race. Hanny was out of breath presently, and stopped, so did little Kitty Bristow. But Julie Bristow beat in the race. Polly wanted to run again; but the others were tired.

Mrs. Bristow gave Janey a beautiful, big pot-cheese to take home; and it was just delicious.

One of the cousins from Fordham had been down. The children were all to come up and spend the day to-morrow, and Mrs. Odell was invited to supper.

Hanny felt a little lonely. If she could just see her father and Joe, and her mother and the boys. But she slept very soundly; and truly she wasn't homesick when they all came to breakfast in the morning. Janey hurried around and did her work, and they were soon ready to be off. A day meant all day, then.

It was a pretty country walk, with here and there a house, and one little nest of Irish emigrants. Some of the women had their wash-tubs out of doors, and were working and gossiping. Then there was St. John's College, with its pretty, shady grounds, and on the other side a hotel where the trains stopped as they went up and down. After that, you climbed a long hill that wound a little, and on one side there was a row of beautiful, stately cherry-trees that were a sight to behold in their early bloom and in the rich harvest of fruiting.

Just at the brow of the hill stood a rather quaint house, with the end to the street. It was built against the side of the hill. You ascended a row of stone steps, and reached the lower floor, which was a dining-room with a wide stone-paved area, then you went up several more steps to a cheerful sunny room, and this was the kitchen. When you went upstairs again, one side of the house was just even with the ground, and the other up a whole story. Here was a parlour, a sitting-room, several sleeping chambers; but what the little girl came to love most of all was a great piazza built over the area downstairs, with a row of wide steps. When you were up there, you were two stories above the street, and you could look down the long hill and all about. It was a beautiful prospect. Afterward, the little girl found some chalets in Switzerland that made her think of this odd house that had been added to since the first cottage was built.

There was always a host of people in the old house. Hospitality must have been written on its very gates, for relatives, unto the third and fourth generation, were continually made welcome: a sweet, placid grandmother who had seen her daughter, the housemother, laid away to her silent resting-place, and who had tried to supply her place to the children; the father; the aunt who took part of the care; the sons and daughters, some of whom had grown up and married, and whose children made glad the old home.

There was a houseful of them now; but there was a wide out-of-doors for them to play in. A few hundred feet farther up, where the road turned and ran off to Kingsbridge, as well as to the Harlem River, stood the village smithy; and the Major, who had been in the War of 1812, had relegated the business mostly to his sons. He enjoyed the coming and going, the bright young faces, and had a hearty welcome for the children, though he sometimes pretended to scold them.

A queer tract of land it was, with a great rift of rock running through it where the children played house, and had parties, and occasionally took their dinner out to eat in picnic fashion. Just beyond the strata of rock, on the good ground, stood two splendid apple-trees called "Jersey Sweetings," and for nearly two summer months their bounty was the delight of the children. Farther down, the ground sloped abruptly and settled into a pleasant orchard; then another sudden decline, and here a pretty stream came purling through, making a tiny cascade as it tumbled over the rocks.

The little girl was deeply touched by beauty; and as they ran around she stopped now and then to drink in the shady vistas and wild nooks that seemed fairy-haunted. She had been reading a little mythology, and she could believe in a great many things. There were places where she looked to see Pan piping on his reed, and dryads and nymphs coming out of the groves.

How they did run and play! The air was merry with shouts and laughter. Some of them took off their shoes and stockings, and waded in the brook. And one of the big boys proposed that on Saturday afternoon they should go down to the Harlem River and get some crabs and clams.

There were enough children for a second table, and that was laid in the upper kitchen. Auntie thought they must be starved; but instead they had been stuffed with sweet apples. Still most of them did justice to the bountiful dinner.

"This little girl looks tired out," said grandmother. "I think she had better stay in and rest a while."

Hanny was very glad to do this. While grandmother took her nap, she went upstairs where the grown-up people were talking and sewing. She wished she had brought her crocheting; but Polly had laughed her out of it. Then she took up a book, and was soon lost in that. It was an English novel, as most of our novels were then, "Time the Avenger."

"That is a rather sad book for a little girl," said Cousin Jennie. "I'll see if I can't find you something better. You look as if you were fond of reading. You are Vermilye Underbill's little girl. And your brother George has gone to California. I know him quite well, and the Yonkers family. I suppose he hasn't found his nugget of gold yet?"

The little girl smiled, and said she did not think he had yet. His letters had been full of the wonderful country; and it took so long to get a letter.

"Here are some magazines with pictures and verses. Are you fond of poetry? Maybe you are a poet. You have a delicate, ethereal look."

"Do poets have that?" asked Hanny. "I know a girl who writes verses and stories; but she isn't at all ethereal. I'm quite sure I couldn't write verses or anything," and she gave a soft laugh.

"Well, I think geniuses look quite like other people. I've seen a number of them lately. We have a genius living up the road, and ever so many people come to see him. Some quite famous ladies."

Hanny opened her eyes very wide.

"Let me see—I think I can find one of his poems." She took a pile of magazines from the top of the high old-fashioned bureau. "Oh, yes,—though, like 'Time the Avenger,' I think it's too old for you. I 'm not very fond of poetry. Here is 'Annabel Lee.'"

Then Cousin Jennie was called into the other room, where some one wanted to talk about the best way to ruffle a lawn skirt. Should the ruffles be on the straight or bias?

Hanny read the verses over and over, and saw the city by the sea where dwelt beautiful Annabel Lee, and how her high-born kinsman, who came in great state in a chariot, carried her away from the one who loved her so dearly. But when, later on, she came to know and understand the poem, and the high-born kinsman had come for some of those she held most dear, she could always go back to the vague mysterious awe that filled and thrilled her then. She sat as if in a trance until grandmother, who had taken her nap, came and took the arm-chair beside the open window.

"Well, are you rested?" said grandmother, cheerfully. "I should think Janey and Polly would wear you out. It isn't a good thing for little girls to run too much. But everything has changed since my day. Although I think they ran and played then; but they had to help work, there was so much out-of-doors work. Everything is easier now. There are so many improvements. And, oh, how much there is to read! I'm not sure that is so good for them."

"But it is very delightful," returned the little girl.

"If it only made people wiser!"

"But they are growing curiously wise," said Hanny. "There is the telegraph. It seemed so queer that you could make a bit of wire talk, that at first people didn't believe it. Uncle Faid did not when he saw it at the Fair."

"And people laughed about the steamboat, I remember, and the idea of railroad trains drawn by an engine. Yes, there are a good many strange things. And steamships crossing the ocean. There used to be sailing-vessels, and it took such a long while."

Hanny told grandmother about her friend who had gone abroad; and grandmother, in return, told her about some Welsh ancestors who had to fly for their lives on account of being mixed up with some insurrection about a young prince, and the stormy time they had coming over,—how they were driven up and down the coast, and their voyage consumed two months. They were almost out of provisions, and suffered many hardships. So the wisdom of the world had amounted to something.

The children came in. They were going up the road, and didn't Hanny want to join them? Mrs. Odell said they must not stay very long, she was going home before supper.

There was a protest about this; but Mrs. Odell said there were people and children enough without them, and she had told her husband they would be home to supper.

"Do we go by the poet's house?" Hanny asked as they passed the cross-road.

"The poet?" Two or three of the children stared blankly.

"Oh, Hanny means that Mr. Poe. Why, yes; it's the old Cromwell house. It isn't much to see. There, that little cottage."

No, it was not much to see,—a very bird's nest house with a great tree shading it, and a little porch at the side. A rather thin elderly woman sat sewing in a rocking-chair. She did not even look up at the children.

They were full of fun and nonsense, and presently were joined by two neighbouring girls. They went up by the old church, and then they wandered to the graveyard. It was a rather neglected place, as country graveyards were wont to be at that time. Some red clovers were in bloom, and a few belated buttercups. The trees were rather straggling, a few magnificent in their age. There were long-armed rose-trees that had done their best in the earlier season, a few wild roses, pale from growing in the shade, and the long slender blades of grass fell about in very weakness. There were some curious inscriptions; there were places where relatives of several of the children were buried.

"Oh, Hanny, come here," said Cousin Ann. "That Mr. Poe's wife is buried here. It's the Valentine plot. They're going to take her away sometime. They're all very poor, you know. She died in the winter. People said she was beautiful; but,"—Ann lowered her voice,—"they were awful poor, and it is said she didn't have comfortable things. I should hate to be so poor; shouldn't you?"

Hanny shuddered. She was glad to get out in the sunshine again with her few wild flowers in her hand.

Bessie Valentine made them come in and have a chunk of cake, and it was a chunk indeed. Those who liked had a glass of buttermilk.

Cousin Jennie had gone up to the corner to look for them. Hanny espied her, and ran forward.

"Oh," she cried, "I've seen the house where Mr. Poe lives. And we went in the graveyard. Who was the other lady sitting on the porch?"

"That was Mrs. Clemm. I go up there to borrow books; and I like Mr. Poe, only—well, he is rather unfortunate."

"Was she so beautiful?" asked the child, irrelevantly.

"Mrs. Poe? Yes; I think she must have been. She looked like a small white wraith—do you know what a wraith is?" smilingly.

"A kind of ghost. And were they very poor?"

"It's a sad story. I think they were proud as well, for any one would have come in and done any needed thing. They had friends in the city who used to visit them. Mrs. Clemm was Mrs. Poe's mother and the poet's aunt; and it is said Annabel Lee means his wife. It's a wild, musical thing. Every story or poem of his has a curious ghostly sound."

"But—the high-born kinsman—"

The little girl's eyes were vague and puzzled.

"You can't understand it. Poets say queer things. I'm not fond of poetry, only here and there. And the stories make you shiver. You wouldn't like them. He has all sorts of books, and he is very generous with them. We've planned that you are to come up and stay a week with us. Some of the folks are going away, and there will be plenty of room."

Hanny squeezed her hand. The throng of children ran over the grassy path from the shop; and they all began to clamour that Polly and Janey should come up Saturday and go crabbing with them.

Mrs. Odell said she'd see, if they could get their work done in time.

There was a hubbub of good-byes, and the small cavalcade started down the road.



CHAPTER X

WITH A POET

The city by the sea sung itself in Hanny's brain. The sweet, young, beautiful wife, ruthlessly torn away, was somewhere in space, among the stars perhaps, and not in the old graveyard. She was floating on and on amidst all lovely things and divine fragrances. She could never grow old; she would never want for anything. Ah, would she not want for the mother and the poet who loved her?

An incident that had moved her strongly only a few weeks before, was a strange bit of reminiscence that could hardly be called a story. Ben had brought home a volume of De Quincey, and "Suspiria de Profundis" was among the papers. The others were too intellectual to interest her; but the touching, tender, immeasurable longing for the little sister gone out of life, filled her inmost soul with an emotion so sacred she could not talk it over with any one. This was akin to it.

Yet Hanny did not live in the clouds or in vague memories all the time. Her father drove up the next day, and found she was not homesick; and her mother was coming up the next week to spend the day; and everybody was well. She had a great deal to tell him; and she seemed very merry. He wasn't quite sure about the crabbing expedition; but Mrs. Odell said there wasn't a mite of danger, for some of the big boys always went along; and that it was a regular frolic for the children.

So Saturday they put on their oldest clothes. Hanny wore an outgrown frock of Polly's. Mr. Odell said he would drive them down to the river, which would save half the walk. He had some business in that direction.

He had the farm-waggon, and put some hay in the bottom, though he insisted Hanny should sit on the seat with him. They stopped at Fordham, and took in another relay; and the children were wild with the unreasoning gladness of youth. Mr. Odell was in an uncommon good-humour, and took them down the river quite a distance, to High Bridge, and then up again, when they espied the boys and baskets and the net, which had a long handle and looked to Hanny like a butterfly-net, only larger.

A motley crew they were. The boys had their trousers rolled above their knees, and some of the girls took off their shoes and stockings and waded about in the wet, sedgy grass. There was a little dock where the boats were tied; and soon two of them were loosened and filled up with a jolly crew. Big, cheerful Cousin Ben took charge of the little girl, and would not allow the others to frighten her. Ann was quite a famous hand on these expeditions.

They rowed out a short distance, and then began business. Oh, the shrieks and laughter that came from the other boat, when some one dipped up two hands full of water and dashed it over the others. And it is strange how much you can make your hands hold at such a time. Hanny was glad she was not in that boat, when they rocked it up and down. But most of the children could swim, and they were not in the channel.

"Quick!" exclaimed Cousin Ann, and the net was held out in a twinkling, Ann drew up a great green fellow with a frightful lot of legs, and he dropped in the net. They dumped him into a basket, and covered him with a piece of old fish-net; and the more he struggled to get out, the more he entangled himself. Hanny felt rather glad he was not down her end of the boat.

They had brilliant luck for a little while. Then the other boat shifted about; they had not caught a single crab, and there were loud murmurs of discontent. The others had the best place.

"You make such a racket you frighten them away," said Ben.

"Can they hear?" asked Hanny.

"I think about everything in this world can see and hear in some fashion."

They certainly were dreadful looking. The laughter and the exclamations, the disappointment at losing one, the funny conundrums the children propounded to one another, and the limp appearance of the voyagers, partly made amends for the sudden fright every time the great sprawling things came up. Hanny would not even undertake the capture of one.

The crabs grew wise presently. Not one of them could be aroused to the faintest curiosity concerning bait. Ben's boat had nineteen, the other eleven. They rowed up to the little dock, and managed to get them all in one basket. Jack showed Hanny how you could take hold of a crab, and render him helpless. It certainly did look funny to see him struggling with all his might and main, and his numerous legs. The two front ones were very fierce.

"He could give you an awful pinch with them," said Jack; and he made believe fling him at a group of girls, who scattered pellmell.

"I suppose the legs are oars, and help him swim," said Hanny.

"And help him grab his prey. He's a sort of savage fellow, and lives on smaller folks."

Then Ben and Jack went to dig for clams. There were very nice clam and oyster beds along the river then. There were not many people to disturb them, and no sewage to starve them out.

Hanny thought planting oysters a very funny idea. They were put in their beds like other babies.

The boys, and some of the girls, picked up the clams, until they had a half-bushel basket full. Tony Creese, the black man who did odd jobs, was to drive down for the "freight;" but he seemed in no hurry. Some of the boys went in swimming; and Janey Odell did wish she had brought another frock along. She could swim very well. They waded instead. Ben walked up to a little bank that, having lain in the sun all day, was warm and dry, and stretched himself out. Ann was too big to go "larking" about with the girls, so she and Hanny, and one or two others, sat down on the soft, sunburned turf.

How beautiful it all was! The sun was going down behind the New Jersey hills. The little rise of ground between this and the Hudson shut out the river; but it could not shut out the amethystine splendour. Back of it all was heaven, to the child's faith. Miss Lois and her sister were there, and old Mr. Bounett, and the poet's young wife, and ever so many others. It was only the other side of the clouds, with their scarlet and gold and green battlements. She could see the ships sailing into port. She recalled "Pilgrim's Progress," and Christiana going across. In that moment of ecstasy she could have gone herself.

Tony came down the road singing "Oh, Susannah;" Ben answered "Hillo!" and shook himself like a great bear. The two baskets were put into the waggon.

"Now you girls who are too delicate for a long walk, or too much worn out by your day's toil, had better hop in. Ann, you go and keep an eye on Hanny. Now who else?"

They were all pretty tired with their racing about, and the three smallest ones were picked out, as there was but one horse. The others formed the rear-guard, and marched on behind, with their arms about each other. They were too tired for even the tempting game of "tag," or the ambition of running races.

Mr. Odell was waiting at the uncle's, having come around the other way. Supper was ready; but he thought they had better be "gettin' on," as mother would wait supper for them.