"I have tried trowsers; but they fettered me. It is difficult to stow a large figure like mine away into trowsers. I felt as if my legs were in the stocks, and kicked them off in disdain—simply remarking—'what fools men are!' So, you don't like my short petticoats? and I hate your long ones. First, because they are slatternly and inconvenient; secondly, because they make your stockings dirty; and thirdly, because they give you the idea that they are intended to conceal crooked legs. So don't say one word in their favour."

"It is but a matter of taste and opinion," said Flora; "we will not quarrel about it. I think it wiser, however, in order to avoid singularity, to conform to existing fashions."

"Mrs. Lyndsay, I can prove to you in less than two minutes, that you transgress daily your own rules." Flora looked incredulous.

"You do not wear a bustle, which is now considered by all ladies an indispensable article of dress."

"You are right: it is a disgusting fashion, which destroys the grace and just proportions of the female form. A monstrous piece of absurdity, that I have never adopted, and never will."[A]

[A] During twenty years Flora kept her word.

"Bravo! Bravo!" shouted Miss Wilhelmina, clapping her hands in an ecstasy of delight. "I have conquered you with your own weapons. There is no slipping past the horns of that dilemma. You refuse to wear a hump on your back, and I decline the honour of the long petticoats. Let us hear how you can justify yourself?"

"You have gained an advantage by my own admission," said Flora; "but I can't consider myself beat."

"Fairly out of the field, my dear—fairly out of the field. Acknowledge the defeat with a good grace. Let us shake hands, and drink a glass of wine together in token of peace."

"I never keep wine in the house," said Flora, rather embarrassed, at the request, particularly at such an early hour of the day.

"Never keep wine in your house! Why, how do you contrive to keep up your spirits, without a glass of wine now and then?"

"We are young, and require no artificial stimulants, to render us cheerful and happy."

"Well, I require stimulants," said Miss Wilhelmina, "with the violent exercise I take. I do not object to a glass of brandy-and-water, or even of gin, when I feel exhausted."

"If you feel ill, Miss Carr, I will send out and get some."

"Ill! Lord bless you! I never was ill for an hour in my life. So, you cannot afford a little luxury like wine? My child, I pity you: I am sure you require it. I wish you were better off."

"I shall never quarrel with Providence, from whom we have received so many blessings, on that account," said Flora; "I am very grateful for the real comforts we enjoy."

"Poor comfort!" quoth Miss Wilhelmina. "My ideas of comfort are always associated with wealth. I maintain, that no one can really be comfortable without it. What should I be, without money? An antiquated, despised old maid—and with all my expensive habits, and queer notions, the very boys in the village would hold me in derision. For even boys know the importance of money, and let me pass unmolested through the midst of them."

"I perceive that you are very popular with the young folks," said Flora.

"All bribery and corruption, my dear. Boys are but men abridged and cramped down into skeleton jackets. When I come to a town, I throw a handful of small silver coin into the middle of the first group of boys I find in my path. The next time they see me coming they cry out lustily, 'Off with your hats, boys: here comes the rich lady!' Off go the tattered hats and caps, and my small coin pays for the compliment."

"Your plan is an expensive one," said Flora; "no wonder the boys regard you with such favour."

"I never found money fail but in one instance," said Miss Wilhelmina thoughtfully. "Mind, it is not to every one that I would communicate my experience. People like to talk of themselves—to tell portions of their history; it relieves their minds. There are very few to whom I have ever told mine; but I think it will amuse you. The follies of others are always entertaining.

"My father was Scotch—my mother Irish. The two nations don't amalgamate very well together. The children of such an union are apt to inherit the peculiar national failings of both. My father united to a love of science a great deal of mechanical genius. He was a clever, prudent, enterprising man, and amassed a large fortune. My mother I never knew—she died when I was an infant. My father hired a good-natured, easy kind of woman, to be nurse. She was a widow, without children, whom he afterwards promoted to the head of his table. She was his third wife. He had one son by his first marriage, who had been born in Scotland, and adopted by a rich uncle. He afterwards got an appointment in India; and I never saw him above half-a-dozen times in my life—and only when a child. He was a handsome, proud man, very Scotch in all his words and ways. We never took to one another. He thought me a spoilt, disagreeable, pert child; and I considered him a cross, stern man; and never could be induced to call him brother.

"I inherited a good property from my mother, which made me a very independent little lady, in my own conceit. I knew, that the moment I became of age, I was my own mistress. Perhaps it was this consciousness of power which made me the queer being I am.

"My step-mother was very fond of me. She spoilt me shockingly—more than most mothers indulge their brats. She always seemed to retain a sense of the inferior position she had held. Not a common failing, by-the-by: persons raised unexpectedly to wealth, from the lower class, generally measure their presumption by their ignorance. She always treated me as a superior. My father was very fond of her. These passive women are always great favourites with men. They have no decided character of their own, and become the mere echoes of superior minds. A vain man loves to see his own reflection in one of these domestic magnifying glasses: it is so gratifying to be the Alpha and Omega in his own house. His former wives were both handsome, conceited women, who thought so much of themselves that they could reflect no perfections but their own. In this respect I resembled my mother—from a baby I thought fit to have a will and opinions of my own.

"My step-mother always yielded to my masterly disposition when a child, generally ending the brief contest with the remark, 'What a pity Willie was not a boy! What a fine spirited boy she would have made!' When I grew a tall girl, I became more independent still, and virtually was mistress of the house. My father sent me to school. I learnt quickly enough; but I was expelled from half a dozen for striking my teacher whenever she dared to raise her hand to correct me. At length my education was finished, and I returned home for good, as wild and as fierce as an untamed colt.

"My step-mother had a nephew—a lad whom my father had befriended very much. He had paid for his education, had bound him to an eminent surgeon, and, when his term expired, had enabled him, from the same source, to walk the hospitals and attend the necessary lectures. Henry was attending the last course which was to fit him for entering upon his profession; and during that period he made our house his home.

"He was not handsome, but a well-grown, high-spirited, clever young fellow. Not at all a sentimental person, but abounding in frolic and fun, full of quaint, witty sayings, and the very incarnation of mischief. We took amazingly to each other; and he enjoyed all my odd freaks and fancies, and encouraged me in all my masculine propensities.

"I grew very fond of him: he was the only creature of his sex I ever loved;—but I did love him, and I thought that he loved me. I considered myself handsome and fascinating. All young people think so, if they are ever so ordinary. It belongs to the vanity of the age, which believes all things—hopes for all things, and entertains no fears for the result.

"The girls at school had told me, that 'I was a perfect fright;' but I did not believe them. They laughed at my snub nose and carrotty locks, and said 'that it would take all my money to buy me a husband.'

"Now, by way of digression, I'm a great talker, Mrs. Lyndsay, and love to ramble from one subject to another. Do just tell me, why a snub nose should be reckoned vulgar, and red hair disgraceful?"

This was an awkward question. It was, however, put point blank. Flora could not avoid giving something in the shape of an answer.

"It is impossible to account for these things," she said. "Any deviation from a recognised standard of taste and beauty is always open to objections. But there are a great many modifications of these rules. Elegance of form, grace of manner, charms of expression, and even sweetness of voice, will render plain persons not only agreeable, but highly so."

"You reconcile me to my snub nose and red hair," said the odd woman. "But few people possess a nice sense of discrimination; they are quick at finding out defects, slow at discovering graces. The world is full of unjust partialities. My snub nose would have been considered a beauty in Africa. My red hair would have been admired in Italy; but there is no struggling against national prejudices; and these bull-headed English are the most prejudiced animals under the sun—and I was remorselessly branded as a fright by a pack of sneering girls, half of whom had noses as bad as my own. I had my private opinion on the subject, in which I flattered myself my cousin (as I called Henry), would perfectly agree.

"He never told me he loved me. I felt certain that he did, and that it was gratitude to my father, for all that he had done for him, which kept him silent. This was a foolishly romantic notion of mine. But there was a touch of romance about me in those days. I was green—very green. I can laugh at myself now. But it has always been rather a sore subject.

"Henry did not speak himself. So I thought I would break the ice, and speak for him. You look surprised. Well, I know it is not exactly according to the general rules observed in such matters, which ties a woman's tongue, and obliges her to wait with all humility, until she is asked by some man, whom perhaps she does not care a fig for, to be his wife. I never lived within rules, and I thought I had as much right to please myself, and ask a man to marry me, as a man had to ask me to be his wife.

"I made Henry an offer of my hand, heart, and fortune—and—it is no use being ashamed at my time of life, of a thing which happened such a long time ago—I was refused!—without any softening of the matter—down right, positively refused.

"The ungrateful varlet did not even thank me for the honour. He briefly told me, 'That I was a very amusing girl, but the last woman on earth he should wish to make his wife; that as to money, it was certainly a great inducement, but not enough to compensate for the sacrifice of his principles. He had a good profession, and hoped to earn by it wealth and independence.'

"Ah! how I hated him while he told me all this. How I have hated all his sex from that hour, for his sake!

"However, my dear, it had this good effect,—it cured me of all such ridiculous weakness then and for ever. I shook off the love fit, and Wilhelmina was herself again.

"My step-mother died shortly after this, and I became the mistress of my father's house. He was old and very infirm, and completely wrapped up in his scientific studies. I only saw him occasionally, and then my nonsense amused him. He pined after my step-mother; and very shortly followed her to the grave. I had just attained my majority when he died, and I came into a fine property, and found myself at my own disposal.

"Nobody cared for me, and I cared for nobody. I wished to take a peep at the world, and determined to travel over as much of its surface as I possibly could; and please myself as to the method I employed to effect my object.

"I have been in a great many foreign countries, and seen a great many strange people; and been an actor in many extraordinary scenes; and I have come to the conclusion, that the world after all is not such a terrible bad world to live in, and that the very worst of its inhabitants are not entirely without some good."

As she finished this sentence, the church clock proclaimed to the whole town the hour of one. Miss Wilhelmina sprang from her chair, exclaiming, "Holloa! that's my dinner-hour. It will take me ten minutes to get home, and the fish will be quite spoilt. Excuse me, Mrs. Lyndsay, and come and take tea with me, like a good soul, to-morrow evening. I never take tea later than six."

Miss Wilhelmina vanished. Flora laughed over the interview until her husband came home, and then they had a good laugh together.



CHAPTER IX.

FLORA GOES TO TEA WITH MISS CARR.

The following evening, at the primitive hour of half-past five, Flora took her work, and went across the green to take tea with Miss Carr.

She found that eccentric lady seated by the window, looking out for her, and Muff standing on her shoulder, catching flies off the panes of glass. The evening was cold and raw, though the month was August, and threatened rain. Such changes are common on the coast. The dreary aspect of things without was relieved by a small but very cheerful fire, which was burning away merrily in the grate. A large easy chair, covered with snow-white dimity, was placed near it, expressly for Flora's accommodation, into which she was duly inducted by Miss Carr, the moment she had relieved herself of her bonnet and shawl. Everything looked so comfortable and cosy, in the neat lodging-house, and the tame mad woman received Mrs. Lyndsay with such hospitable warmth of manner, that the former regretted that her husband was not allowed to share her visit.

"You are late," said Wilhelmina, drawing a small sofa up to the fire, and placing it opposite to Flora's easy chair, so that a pretty work-table stood conveniently between them; "I told you to come early, and I have been waiting for you this hour."

"I am sorry for that. I thought I had come unfashionably early."

"Fashion! What have you or I to do with anything so absurd as fashion? You are too poor to attend to the whims and caprices which sway the mind of the multitude, from which I presume emanate the fashions of the world; and I am too independent to be swayed by any will but my own. We will therefore set the fashion for ourselves. This is liberty hall while I am mistress of it. I do as I please; I give you full permission to do the same. But what kept you so late?"

"A thousand little domestic duties, too numerous and too trifling to dwell upon," said Flora, drawing her work from her bag; "since you give me the privilege of doing as I please, I will resume my work, while I listen to your lively conversation."

"You will do no such thing," returned Wilhelmina, twitching a frill which Flora had commenced hemming, from her hand, "I will have no stitching and sewing here, but as much conversation as you please." Then ringing the bell, she handed over the frill to Mrs. Turner, "Give that to your daughter, Mrs. T., to hem for me, and tell her to do it in her very best style."

"Why, la, ma'am, 'tis a very small affair," said Mrs. Turner, with a meaning smile.

"A nightcap frill for Muff," said Miss Carr. "The cold weather is coming. I mean Muff to wear caps in the winter."

"You are a droll lady," said Mrs. Turner retreating; "it's a pity you had not something better to make an idol of, than a dog."

While Miss Carr was speaking to Mrs. Turner, Flora glanced round the room, and was not a little surprised to find a pianoforte making part of the furniture, an open drawing-box, of a very expensive kind, with card-board and other drawing materials, occupied a side-table. These were articles of refinement she had not expected from a man-like woman of Miss Carr's character.

"Are you fond of drawing?" she asked, when they were once more alone.

"Passionately, my dear: I am a self-taught genius. Other people drew, and I was determined that I would draw too. What should hinder me? I have eyes to see, and hands to copy what pleases me; and the school from which I derive instruction is the best in the world, and furnishes the most perfect models—that of Nature. I never bent my mind to anything that I wished to accomplish, and failed. But you shall judge for yourself."

Miss Wilhelmina sprang from her seat, and bouncing into a closet, soon returned with a large portfolio, which she placed on the table before Flora. "There are my treasures; you can examine them at your leisure."

Flora did not expect anything delicate or beautiful, but she was perfectly astonished, not at the skill and taste displayed in these drawings, but at the extraordinary want of it—nothing could be worse, or indeed so eccentrically bad. The first specimen of Miss Carr's talents as an artist which she drew from the splendid velvet-covered portfolio puzzled her not a little. What the picture was meant for, Flora, for the life of her, could not tell, until glancing down to the bottom of the sheet, she read with great difficulty the following explanation, written in a vile hand:—

"Portrait of the Incomparable Muff, taken while picking her bone at breakfast."

It was a good thing she had discovered a key to the hieroglyphic, for Miss Carr's keen eyes were fixed intently upon her, as if they were reading her inmost soul.

"Is it not beautiful?" she cried, anticipating Flora's admiration.

"Muff is a very pretty animal," said Flora evasively.

"Muff pretty!" exclaimed Miss Carr indignantly, "who ever thought of insulting Muff by calling her pretty! She is exquisite—the perfection of her species. I have, in that spirited picture, hit her off to the life. Look at the action of that tail—the life-like grasp of those paws. You might almost fancy you heard her growl over the delicious broiled mutton-bone."

Flora thought the picture would have suited the Ornithorhyncus paradoxus quite as well as the incomparable Muff. The drawing was too bad to praise; she could not flatter, and she abhorred quizzing.

Miss Carr waited for her answer. Flora was dumb-foundered; fortunately the offended vanity of the artist soon relieved her from the painful and embarrassing silence.

"I perceive that you are no judge of good paintings, Mrs. Lyndsay, or you must see some merit in the one before you. I showed that sketch to an Italian artist of celebrity when I was at Rome; he said, 'That it was worthy of the original,' which I considered no mean praise."

"Doubtless, he was right," said Flora. "His judgment must be more correct than mine. Muff is so unlike the generality of dogs, that it is difficult to recognise her as such."

"She's a fairy!" cried Wilhelmina, forgetting her anger, and hugging Muff to her breast.

"A Brownie," suggested Flora, delighted to find the conversation taking a turn.

"Brownies belong to an inferior order of immortals," quoth Wilhelmina, still caressing her dog. "My Muff is among the aristocrats of her species. But you have not seen the rest of my sketches. You will find a great many original pieces in the portfolio."

Flora wished them all behind the fire, and turning with a rueful seriousness to the sacred repository of genius, she drew forth several daubs that were meant for landscapes, the contemplation of which would have provoked the most indifferent person to mirth; but it was no laughing matter to examine them while a being so odd as Miss Carr was regarding you with a fixed gaze, hungry for applause and admiration.

Flora thought she had discovered the maddest point in Miss Carr's character. At length she stumbled upon a portrait. The figure was meant for that of a boy, but the head was as big as the head of a man, and covered with a forest of red curling hair, and he held in his hand a bunch of blue flowers as big as himself. "What an odd looking creature!" burst involuntarily from her lips.

"Ah, my beautiful Adolphe!" cried Wilhelmina. "He was odd like myself—he stood alone in the world in my estimation. I must tell you the history of that child while you have his charming face before you."

Flora quietly slipped the portrait back into the portfolio. Her inclination to laugh became almost irrepressible. Miss Wilhelmina laid her right foot over her left knee, and, patting it almost as complacently as she would have done the silky brown back of her pet dog, gave Mrs Lyndsay the following passage from her history:—

"That boy, with the education I meant to bestow upon him, would have become a great man—a second William Tell, or Andrew Hoffer—and I should have been the foster-mother of a man of genius. But it was not to be—there is a fate in these things."

"Did he die?" asked Flora.

"Die! that would have been nothing out of the common way; everybody must die, some time or other. Oh, no, he may be living yet for what I know—it was far worse than that."

Flora became interested.

"First—I like to begin at the beginning—I must tell you how I came by Adolphe. I passed the summer of '28 in a small village among the Alps. Every fine day I rambled among the mountains,—sometimes with a guide, sometimes alone. About half a mile from the village I daily encountered, upon the rocky road, a red-headed little boy of eight years of age, who never failed to present me with a bunch of the blue flowers which grow just below the regions of ice and snow. He presented his offering in such a pretty, simple manner, that I never accepted his flowers without giving him a kiss and a few small coins. We soon became great friends, and he often accompanied me on my exploring expeditions. Whether it was his red head—God bless the mark! or a likeness I fancied I saw between him and me, I cannot tell; but at last I grew so fond of the child that I determined to adopt him as my own. His father was one of the mountain guides, and resided in a small cabin among the hills. I followed Adolphe to his romantic home, and disclosed my wishes to his parents. They were very poor people, with a very large family, Adolphe being number twelve of the domestic group.

"For a long time they resisted all my entreaties to induce them to part with the child. The woman, like the mother of the Gracchi, thought fit to look upon her children as her jewels,—Adolphe, in particular, she considered the gem in the maternal crown. Her opposition only increased my desire to gain possession of the boy; indeed, I was so set upon having him that, had she remained obstinate, I determined to carry him off without asking her leave a second time. My gold, and the earnest request of the child himself, at last overcame her scruples; and after binding me by a solemn promise to let them see him at least once a-year, she gave him into my charge with many tears.

"Having accomplished this business, greatly to my own satisfaction, I set off with Adolphe, on a tour on foot through Germany. He was not only a great comfort to me, but useful withal. He was sturdy and strong, a real son of the hills, and he carried my small valise, and enlivened the length of the road with his agreeable prattle.

"When we put up for the night, the people always took him for my son; a fact I thought it useless to dispute in a foreign country. It would have had a more significant meaning in England. A red-headed, single lady could not have travelled alone, with a red-headed child, without disagreeable insinuations. Abroad I always passed myself off as a widow, and Adolphe of course was my orphan son.

"Matters went off very pleasantly, until we arrived at Vienna, and I hired a neat lodging in a quiet part of the city, where I determined to spend the winter. The next morning I went out, accompanied by Adolphe, to examine the lions of the place. By accident we got entangled in a crowd, which had collected in one of the principal thoroughfares, to witness a fire. While striving to stem my way through the heaving mass of human forms that hedged us in on every side, I suddenly missed my child. To find him among such a multitude, was, indeed, to look for a needle in a waggon of hay; yet I commenced the search in utter desperation.

"I ran hither and thither, wherever I could find an opening, frantically calling upon Adolphe. I asked every person whom I met—'If they had seen my boy?' Some pitied—some laughed; but the greater number bade me stand out of their way. I was mad with fear and excitement, and returned to my lodgings late in the evening, starving with hunger, and worn out with fatigue of mind and body. I hoped that the child might have found his way home, and was waiting me there. Alas! Adolphe had not been seen, and I went to bed too much vexed to eat my supper.

"Early the next morning I resumed my search. I hired the public cryer to proclaim my loss; I borrowed a large bell from my landlady, and went through all the streets crying him myself, hoping that he would recognise my voice. Alas! alas! I never saw my child again!"

"Never?" said Flora. "Was he irrevocably lost?"

"Lost, lost, lost!" said Wilhelmina, shaking her head. "This comes of adopting other people's brats. Had he been a worthless, spoilt imp of my own, I should have been more successful. I stayed in Vienna all the winter. I advertised him in the papers. I had placards, offering a large reward for his discovery, pasted on the walls of the principal streets; but I failed in recovering my poor Adolphe. To console myself for his loss, I painted that portrait of him from memory. 'Tis an admirable likeness. No one who had ever seen the original, could mistake it for another. It was just a week after I lost my child, that the mistress of the house, in compassion for my distress, presented me with my incomparable Muff. Fortune owed me a good turn, for the ill-natured trick she had played me. It would not have been difficult for me to have found another red-headed boy, as amiable as Adolphe; but such a prize as Muff is only to be met with once in a life."

"And the parents of the poor child,—how did they bear his loss?"

"To tell you the truth, my dear, I never knew. I never wish to know; for, without Adolphe, I never mean to venture into their neighbourhood again."

"Let us hope," said Flora, "that the child found his way back to his native mountains."

"Hurra!" cried Miss Wilhelmina, starting from her seat, and giving Flora such a hearty embrace that she nearly choked her. "I never thought of that possibility before. Yes—yes; he had money in his little purse. I have no doubt that, on missing me, he returned by the road we had travelled to his native place. That demon won't haunt my dreams again. But here comes the coffee, and Miss Turner's delicious cakes and home-made bread and butter. I hope you are fond of coffee, my dear? I detest tea;—it is a sort of nervous, maudlin, sick-chamber trash, only fit for old maids and milk-and-water matrons."

"I prefer coffee," said Flora. "I have quite an Asiatic taste in that respect."

"Don't talk of Asiatic coffee," said Wilhelmina: "wait till you have tasted it. The nauseous stuff! I have drank enough of it at Constantinople, but never could get it down without a grimace. I have it made in the French style."

The coffee and cakes were served on a small silver tray, which was placed on the table between them. The coffee was fragrant and exhilarating; the bread and butter and cakes richly deserved the praise Miss Wilhelmina had bestowed upon them. Flora had dined early, and did justice to them.

"I like to see a person enjoy their meals," said Miss Carr. "I hate affectation in eating, as much as I hate affectation in speech. Some mince with their food as if they were ashamed of putting a morsel into their mouths before people. They ask for the least piece of this, and for an imaginary crumb of that; and make their entertainers uncomfortable by their ridiculous fastidiousness; while, if we could see these very delicate masticators in their own homes, perhaps we should find them grumbling for Benjamin's share of the daily meal. For my own part, I always eat in public as if no eye was upon me, and do it in a hearty, natural way. You may be sure, when you see persons, whether male or female, give themselves great airs at table, that they have never been used to good society at home."

Flora thought there was a great deal of truth in some of Wilhelmina's remarks. But she felt that it would be dangerous to take the doings of such an odd mortal for precedents in any case; and she was justified in her opinion by Miss Carr, the moment the table was cleared, calling for hot water, brandy, and wine.

"Do you smoke?" she cried, producing a box of cigars from the closet, and a long Turkish pipe. Then, drawing down the window-curtains, she tucked her legs under her upon the sofa, and commenced filling, from a beautiful inlaid silver box, her hooker, with its finely-ornamented bowl and amber mouthpiece.

Flora looked her astonishment, as she said,—

"Miss Carr, do you really smoke?"

"Do I know what is good?" said Wilhelmina. "Did you never see a woman smoke before?"

"Yes, Irish barrow-women in London; and I thought it odd, even for them."

"They were wise women, my dear, and knew how to appreciate the merits of the weed. The Irish are a clever people—a very clever people. You remember, that I am Irish by the mother's side, and have retained one of the national tastes. But it was not in Ireland, nor in the streets of London, sitting upon a fruit-woman's barrow, that I learned the pleasures of smoking. It was in the East, with all its pretended romance, and real humbug, that I acquired what you consider an unfeminine accomplishment. I saw fat, turbaned men sitting cross-legged in every bazaar, dozing over their huge pipes, in a sort of dreamy helplessness; and I determined to fathom the mystery of their enjoyment, and find out the grand secret.

"The first few whiffs I took made me very sick and stupid. 'Courage,' said I, not in the least disheartened—

"'Pleasure cometh after pain, Sunshine cometh after rain— Wilhelmina, try again.'

And I did try, for I was determined not to be beaten by these long-bearded, long-petticoated men; and the next trial was crowned with complete success.

"Now, Mrs. Lyndsay, is it not a shame that these selfish men should be tamely allowed by us foolish women to monopolise all the good things of life, and make that criminal in a female which they cannot deny themselves? You don't know how much you lose, by being frightened by their blustering into passive obedience, and persuaded that what is good for a man is quite out of keeping with a woman. Do, just by way of illustration to my argument, try one of those fragrant cigars. They are of the best quality—real Havana—'pon honour."

"You must excuse me," said Flora, laughing—as Miss Wilhelmina's head dimly loomed through clouds of smoke—"I have no wish to acquire such a taste."

"You're a little fool," puffed forth Wilhelmina. "But I hope to make something out of you yet. Take a glass of wine."

"I never drink anything but water, excepting at breakfast and tea."

"Water! Fiddle-faddle. A tumbler of hot punch will do you no harm. I am going to mix some in the most scientific manner."

"Only think what Lyndsay would say," cried Flora, "if he should come in, and find me smoking a cigar, and drinking brandy punch? He would never forgive me—I could never forgive myself."

"All stuff and nonsense; I am certain he would neither refuse one of these cigars, nor a tumbler of this excellent punch. Does he never smoke?"

"Oh, yes; a cigar, sometimes."

"And takes a glass of toddy—or he's no Scot."

"Occasionally, with a friend."

"A male friend, of course. He takes snuff, for I have seen him do it; and this, between ourselves, is a far dirtier habit than smoking. I hate snuff; it always reminds me of a lecture I once heard upon that subject in America. The lecturer was a methodist; and he spoke very vehemently against the use of tobacco in any shape; but snuff-taking seemed to rouse him up, and inflame his indignation to a pitch of enthusiasm. 'If the Almighty,' he said, 'had intended a man's nose for a dust-hole, he would have turned up the nostrils the other way.' These were his very words; and to me they were so convincing, that I discarded from that moment all idea of becoming a snuff-taker."

Wilhelmina emptied her tumbler of brandy and water, which she as quickly replenished. These strong potations began to take effect—her eyes danced in her head, and she became so strangely excited, that Flora wished devoutly that she was safe at home. Presently her odd companion laid aside her pipe, pushed from before her the now empty tumbler, and, rising abruptly, exclaimed—

"I've had enough."

Flora thought that she might have come to that conclusion half an hour before.

"I'm not intoxicated," she said: "I only drink enough to raise my spirits, and drive away the blue devils. And now for a little music."

She sat down to the piano.

"I play entirely from ear, Mrs. Lyndsay; I leave you to judge if I have not an exquisite taste. Here is a march I composed this morning for Captain Lyndsay's black regiment—Hottentot of course. You say he plays well himself. He cannot fail to admire it. I will write it out for him to-morrow."

Of all Miss Carr's strange whims, the idea she entertained of her being a great musician, was the most absurd. She rattled over the keys at a tremendous rate, striking them with such force that she made the instrument shake. It was a mad revel—a hurricane of sound, yet, not without a certain degree of eccentric talent. In the midst of a tremendous passage there came a knock at the door.

"That's my husband," said Flora, rising, glad to get away.

It was only the maid.

"You are no prophet," said Miss Carr, rattling on; "you must stay till I give you Napoleon's Passage of the Alps. I wrote it on the spot. It is a grand thing. I mean to publish it one of these days."

Flora said, "that she should be happy to hear it some other time. It was late. She was anxious to get home."

"Be off with you then," said Wilhelmina, laughing, "and don't tell me any white lies, or try and convince your good man, that I have been endeavouring to corrupt your morals."

Lyndsay was amused, but not much pleased, with the account his wife gave him of her visit to Miss Carr.

"You must drop that woman's acquaintance, if possible," said he. "Whether insane, or only eccentric, any particular intimacy with her must be attended with unpleasant consequences."

Flora was willing enough to follow his advice; but to get rid of Miss Carr was sooner said than done. Flora did not go to that lady's house, but Wilhelmina chose to come to her; though she gave her neither pipes to smoke, nor brandy to drink, her odd guest never failed to step in once or twice a week.

"You are an ungrateful creature, Flora Lyndsay," said Wilhelmina, one day to her—"very ungrateful. You know I am fond of you; but you are such a mental coward, that you are ashamed of my acquaintance, because the world finds fault with me, for not living in accordance with its lying customs. You are afraid lest people should sneer at you for tolerating my eccentricities, as they please to term a person leading a true life—or say, that Mrs. Lyndsay smokes, and drinks, and swears, because Miss Carr does; and your sense of propriety is shocked at such an idea. I do drink and smoke; but like Poll, in the sailor's song, 'I seldom swear.' It gives me no pleasure; and I never do anything gratuitously bad."

Flora could not deny, that these were among the objections she had to an intimacy with Miss Carr; but she wisely held her tongue upon the subject.

"Ah, well," said Wilhelmina, after waiting a reasonable time for an answer, and getting none. "Your silence is very conclusive evidence of the accusation I have brought against you. I give you credit for being honest, at least. You are no sneak, though I am rich, and you are poor. I verily believe, that you are prouder of your poverty, than I am of my wealth. I know many persons who hate me, and would yet fawn to me before my face, while they abused me like pickpockets behind my back. You are not one of them, and I love you for that."

Flora had a kindness for Wilhelmina. She believed her to be mad, and not accountable for her actions, and she tried to persuade her to give over her rambling propensities, and accept the protection of her brother's roof. This advice greatly displeased Miss Carr. Flora might as well have striven to confine a hurricane within the bounds of a cambric pocket-handkerchief, as to lay the least embargo upon that lady's freedom of speech or action.

"Mind your own business! Mrs. Lyndsay," she said, angrily. "I suffer no one to interfere with me, or my matters."

For many months Wilhelmina never entered the house, though she walked past the window every day, to give Flora a hint that she was still in the land of the living.

In February Mrs. Lyndsay's little girl was born; and for a very long time she was too ill to stir abroad. Miss Carr sent Mrs. Turner every day to inquire after her health; and testified her regard in a more substantial form, by sending her two dozen of old Madeira wine, which she said would strengthen and do her good. Flora was very grateful for these little attentions, and felt ashamed of the repugnance she had shown for Wilhelmina's society. But they never met again, until Miss Carr came to bid her farewell.

"You are going to Canada," she said, shaking Flora heartily by the hand. "You are wise. In that wild country you will enjoy the glorious privilege of living as you please. I would go too, but I am afraid the cold winters would not agree with Muff, and her comfort has to be considered as well as my own. I spent a winter in New York; and I liked the Americans first-rate. But as to pure democracy, my dear, that's all a humbug. No well-educated, wealthy persons, ever consider themselves upon an equality with their servants. But they are pleasant, kind, intelligent people to live with, if you have plenty of money, and dress well. I know nothing of Canada; it was too insignificant to awaken either interest or curiosity. I shall regard it with more complacency for your sake."

Flora took the opportunity of thanking Miss Carr for her kindness during her illness.

"What a serious matter you make of a trifle!" said Wilhelmina, laughing. "Don't thank me. It was neither out of love nor charity I sent it, but just to make you confess that wine was a good thing after all, and much better to take than the doctor's stuff."

"The doctor had recommended wine, but we could not afford it. I never told Lyndsay a word about it, for fear he should lay out the money we wanted so much for our voyage, in such an expensive remedy. I am certain that it did me a great deal of good."

"Doubtless," said Wilhelmina. "I am glad to have rendered you a service, however trifling. You are a clear, prudent creature, but want spirit to live as you please. I leave this hum-drum place to-morrow. Perhaps some of these days we may meet again; if not, you may live to learn that you slighted the friendship of one of the greatest geniuses that has arisen in this age."

Miss Carr left the town on foot, as suddenly as she had entered it. Who or what she was remains a riddle to this day: we are almost inclined to believe that she was a myth.



CHAPTER X.

OLD JARVIS AND HIS DOG NEPTUNE.

"Ma'am, old Jarvis is in the kitchen. He has brought some fish, and wants to see you," said Flora's maid one morning, as her mistress had just finished washing and dressing the baby.

"The poor old man! I thought he was dead," said Flora. "I have not seen him for such a long time!" and, with baby in her arms, she followed the girl into the kitchen.

David Jarvis was a fisherman, well known upon that coast,—an active, energetic son of the sea, though somewhat time-worn and weather-beaten. The person of the old man had been familiar to Flora since she was a little child; and many a stolen trip had she taken with her brothers in his cockleshell of a boat, which, tough as its master, had stood the wear and tear of the winds and waves for many years.

Since she came to reside at ——, she had often watched that little boat dancing over the waves, carried onward by a stiff breeze,—now hiding in the green valleys of the sea, now mounting aloft, like a feather floating on the ridge of some toppling surge. The old man seemed to bear a charmed life; for at all seasons, and in almost all weather, the little wiry seaman, with his short pipe in his mouth, and his noble Newfoundland dog, Neptune, in the bow of his boat, might be seen coasting along the shore, following his adventurous calling.

That large, deep-chested, powerful dog, was the admiration of all the children in the town. It was considered a privilege by the young fry to pat Neptune's buff head, and call him the "dear, good, old dog!" and well did the fine animal deserve the title.

The good dog had, at different times, saved nine seamen from a watery grave, as the collar he wore round his neck recording the fact could testify.

Next to his two fine sons, Nep was the delight of the old man's heart. They were never seen apart. In storm or shine, Nep accompanied his master in the boat; or, if fishing on the beach, he sat up on his haunches, with a calm, sagacious air, watching the accumulating pile of fish entrusted to his care. Sociable, affable, and gentle, he submitted good-humouredly to the caresses of all the youngsters who passed that way; but if any one dared to lay a finger upon the fish, the lion-like nature of the animal was roused into instant action. His mild eye became red and fiery, and his deep voice bade defiance to the incautious intruder on his master's rights, to protect which Nep was ready to lay down his valuable life.

Jarvis and his dog enjoyed a great degree of popularity in an humble way; and were decidedly among the lions of the place. Gentlemen had offered large sums for the buff Newfoundland dog, which Jarvis had rejected without a second thought; declaring, that he would as soon sell a child for money, as his faithful Nep.

During the past year the old seaman had been severely tried. Misfortune had followed upon misfortune; until the hardy veteran looked like the spectre of his former self. His only daughter, a pretty girl of eighteen, was engaged to marry the ostler at the Crown Inn, a fine-looking young man, who had lately come from London. He saw Nancy Jarvis, became enamoured of the fisherman's daughter, told his tale of love, and was accepted. The old man was rather averse to the match; for, in his eyes, no man was worthy of his Nancy, who was not a genuine son of the sea. Robert Green at last succeeded in overcoming his nautical prejudices; and a day was fixed for the wedding. Nancy's rosy, artless face was all smiles and sunshine, as night after night she sauntered past Flora's windows, leaning upon the arm of her betrothed. Only two days previous to the one appointed for the wedding, the father learned from old captain P——, whose vessel had just returned from London, that Robert Green had a wife and two children in the great city; that the poor young woman, hearing that his vessel was from the Port of ——, had come on board, to make some inquiries respecting her faithless husband; and that she and her little ones were now on their way to join him.

This distressing intelligence was rashly communicated without any previous warning, to Nancy Jarvis. The unfortunate girl, seized with a sudden frenzy, rushed to the pier and flung herself into the sea, when the tide was running out; and her distracted parents never succeeded in recovering the body of the poor maniac. The worthless libertine, on whose account this desperate act was committed, decamped in the night; and so escaped the vengeance of the old fisherman and his sons.

Davy Jarvis, the old seaman's youngest son, a fine lad of sixteen, was drowned in the month of July, only a few weeks after the tragical death of his sister. Flora and Lyndsay had been eye-witnesses of this fresh calamity. Every fine afternoon the young Davy was in the habit of going off with another boy, of his own age, in his father's boat. When they had rowed a couple of miles from the shore, they lay to, stripped, and went into the water to swim, diving and sporting among the waves, like two sea-gulls taking their pastime in the summer ocean.

Lyndsay had often watched them, and admired the dexterity with which the younger Jarvis would tumble himself from the water into the boat, which was left rocking upon the billows, and steady it for his comrade to get in. They would then resume their garments, and row to the beach.

One afternoon they went off as usual. The day was bright and cloudless, with a stiff breeze. Lyndsay was reading aloud to Flora, as she sat at work at the open window which commanded a view of the whole bay.

"There's Davy Jarvis and his comrade, putting off their boat, for a swim. They must mind what they are about," said Lyndsay; "the wind is rather too blustering for their water frolic to-day."

He put down his book, and continued to watch the lads with some interest. The boys reached their accustomed track among the waves; and, leaving their boat as usual, seemed to enjoy their sport with more zest than ever. Whilst in the water, the breeze freshened, and it was with great difficulty, and not without hard swimming, that the lads regained their boat, which driven before the wind, seemed determined to reach the shore without them. They succeeded at last, dressed themselves, and stood in for the land. A long line of heavy surf was beating violently against the beach, and by some mismanagement, the boat got capsized among the breakers. One lad was thrown on shore, but Davy Jarvis got entangled in the surf, which beat continually over him, and rendered all the efforts of himself and his comrade fruitless; and the brave boy was drowned before the sailors who hurried to his assistance could rescue him from his perilous situation.

Flora had watched the scene with a degree of excitement so intense, that it almost deprived her of breath. She could not believe that the lad could perish within the reach of help, and so near the shore. The shrieks of the mother, and the mute despair of the old fisherman, who had been summoned to the spot, too clearly corroborated the report of Lyndsay, that the lad was indeed dead.

After this fresh calamity old Jarvis appeared an altered man. His sinewy frame became bent and attenuated, his step fell feebler, his hair was bleached to snowy whiteness, and his homely, tanned features assumed an expression of stern and patient endurance. It was evident to Flora that his heart was breaking for the loss of his children.

Neptune seemed to understand it all—to comprehend in the fullest sense his master's loss and his present sufferings. He would walk slowly by the fisherman's side, and whenever he paused in his unsteady aimless ramble along the beach, Nep would thrust his nose into his hard brown hand, or, rearing on his hind legs, embrace him with his shaggy fore-paws, fawning and whining to attract his notice, and divert him from his melancholy.

Day after day, during the long bright summer of 1831, Flora had watched the old man come to the spot on the beach where the dead body of his son first touched the shore, and stand there for hours, looking out over the broad sea, his eyes shaded from the rays of the sun by his bony red hand, as if he expected the return of the lost one. During these fits of abstraction Nep would stretch himself along the beach at the fisherman's feet, his head sunk between his fore-paws, as motionless as the statue of a dog cut out of stone. The moment the old man dropped the raised hand from his face, Nep would leap to his feet, look up wistfully into his master's eyes, and follow him home.

This touching scene had drawn tears from Flora more than once, and she loved the good dog for his devoted attachment to the grief-stricken desolate old man. When, however, the fishing season returned, Jarvis roused himself from the indulgence of hopeless grief. The little cockle-shell of a boat was once more launched upon the blue sea, and Jarvis might daily be seen spreading its tiny white sheet to the breeze, while the noble buff Newfoundland dog resumed his place in the bow.

Jarvis came regularly every day to the house to offer fish for sale—cod, whitings, herrings, whatever fish chance had given to his net. Flora was glad to observe something like cheerfulness once more illumine the old sailor's face. She always greeted him with kind words, and inquired affectionately after his welfare; and without alluding to his heavy family afflictions, made him sensible that she deeply sympathised in his grief.

Things went on smoothly, until one terrible night in October, Jarvis and his only remaining son, a strong powerful man of thirty, had been off with several experienced seamen in the pilot-boat, to put a pilot on board a large vessel which was toiling her way through the storm to London. Coming back, the wind rose to a gale, and the sailors, in trying to enter the harbour, ran the boat against one of the piers with such violence, that it upset, and the whole party were thrown into the water.

Old Jarvis was an admirable swimmer, and soon gained the beach, as did most of the others, two of their number being rescued from death by the exertions of the brave dog. One alone was missing—Harry Jarvis was the lost man.

From that hour Flora had never seen the old Jarvis or his dog. The boat lay high and dry upon the beach, and his net was still suspended between the poles where it had been left to dry, and she concluded that Jarvis had not survived this last terrible blow. It was a joyful surprise, therefore, to hear, that he was not only alive, but pursuing his old calling.

She found the fisherman leaning against the open kitchen-door, a basket of fish at his feet, and his clear grey eyes fixed vacantly upon the silver waves, which flashing and murmuring in the sunlight, came racing to the beach below. The old sailors' wrinkled face, once so ruddy and bronzed, was as white as his hair; his cheeks had fallen in, and deep hollows had gathered about his temples; it was painful to observe the great alteration in his appearance since they last met. The old man started from his abstraction, as Flora's foot sounded on the floor, and he tried to smile. It was a vain attempt, his shrunken features instantly contracted into their former melancholy expression.

"My good old friend" said Flora, "I am glad to see you; I was afraid you had been ill. What fish have you got for me?"

"Eels, Madam; I caught them in the river. They ar'n't for sale, but just a little present. I he'erd you wor goin' to cross the salt seas to Canady, an' I had a mind to see you agin."

"I will accept them with pleasure, Davy, and I am very much obliged to you for your kindness. I am very fond of eels,—we get them so seldom, they are quite a treat. I have not seen you out in the boat lately, Jarvis?"

"Maybe you'll never see me out in her agin," said the fisherman. "I'm thinking my fishing days are 'most over; boat, tackle and measter are all worn out together. I've parted with the boat; how'somever. An' as to the sea, I allers look'd upon its broad face with pleasure, but t'has been a cruel enemy to me and mine; my path, I'm thinking, will be over it no more."

Flora saw the tear glistening in the old man's eye, and she tried to divert his attention by asking him what he had done with his dog—"with dear, old 'Nep?'"

"I shot him." The seaman's thin lips quivered, and his whole frame trembled. "Ay, I shot my good dog—my brave, faithful dog,—the best, the truest friend man ever had; an' I've niver know'd a happy hour since."

The bright drops were now raining down the old man's cheeks.

Flora reached him a chair, and begged him to sit down. The fisherman mechanically obeyed, with his chin sunk between his hands, and his elbows resting on his knees. For some minutes both were silent, until the old man said, in a thick, husky voice—

"Yes, I shot 'Nep'—shot him with my own hand. It wor cruel and wicked of me to do the like, but I wor mad—stark staring mad, and who's to blame? You see, my lady, he wor with us that terrible Saturday night, when we went off to put the pilot on board the brig Sally, from Shields. Comin' back it wor pitch dark, an' the sea runnin' mountains high, Sam Masters ran the boat plump upon the pier, an' we wor upset on the bar. Nep saved Sam Masters and Ben Hardy, but he let my Harry drown. I never rebelled agin' the providence of God till then; but I trust He'll forgive what the old man said in his mortal distress. Instead of thanking Him, when I sor that so many wor safe, an' encouragin' Nep for having saved two on 'em, I cursed the dog for an ungrateful brute for saving strangers, an' letting my Harry be lost. I dashed him off whenever he'd come whining around, to lick my hands an' make friends, an' when I got home I took down the old gun—poor Harry's gun—and called Nep out upon the cliff an' shot him dead.

"I repented the moment I sor him drop. It wor too late then. I thought that both Davy and Harry would have blamed me for taking the poor brute's life—for they wor mortal fond of 'un. The next morning I wor up by daybreak, and down to the piers in the little boat to see if I might chance to light upon the dead body.

"The storm was over, an' in rowing 'atwixt the piers, I sor summut that looked like the thing I sought, hanging, as it wor, to the planking of the pier. I steered for the place, an', God o' heaven! it wor the body of my son! He wor just two feet below the water, hanging with his head downwards. The force of the waves had driven him upon an iron stauncheon, which extended some distance from the pier, the woodwork to which it belonged had been wrenched away in the storm. It had passed right through Harry's body, and held him fast. And the dog—the poor dog—had tried to get him off; he had dragged at his jacket and shirt-collar, till they wor all shred to bits, and had only given over when he found it of no use, an' then did what he could to save the rest! An' I killed him—I, that should have fed and cherished him to his dying day—I can never forgive myself for that."

"Do not distress yourself, Jarvis, in this way. No one will blame you for what you did in such a distracted state of mind," said Flora, though she was grieved to the heart for the death of the noble dog.

"You are right—you are just right; I was mad; and you must not think hard of a poor broken-hearted old man. My sorrow is 'most greater than I can bear. It will not be for long; I feel I'm goin' the way of all the earth, an' it matters little when we cast anchor in that port, whether our voyage wor short or long—rough or smooth, when the righteous Judge overhauls our vessel, an' lays bare the secrets of all hearts. I trust He'll have mercy on old Davy Jarvis, and forgive him for the death of his brave dog."

The fisherman took the eels from his basket, and grasping Flora's hand in his hard horny palm, said, "May the Lord grant you prosperity! an' bless you an' your husband an' the little 'un, an' bring you safe to the far land to which you are journeying! May it prove to you a haven of rest! God bless you! good bye!"

Flora looked after the drooping figure of the fisherman as he slowly descended the cliff, and she thought how intense must have been his agony in that dark hour of utter bereavement, which had tempted him to sacrifice his dog on the mere supposition that he had neglected to save the life of his son.

"God comfort you! poor Jarvis," she said, "and guide you in peace through the shadows of the dark valley that stretches its long night before you. The grief which has brought your grey locks in sorrow to the grave was enough to have broken a sterner heart."



CHAPTER XI.

FLORA IN SEARCH OF A SERVANT HEARS A REAL GHOST STORY.

Lyndsay had charged Flora, during his absence, to inquire for a female servant, to accompany them to Canada, and take care of the baby during the voyage. Flora was very reluctant to obey this command, though she knew that it was entirely on her account that the request was made. Her health was still very bad, and her kind husband was anxious to spare her any additional fatigue and trouble. She much doubted, however, whether another added to their party would not rather increase than diminish her anxiety, and she begged hard to be allowed to do without. To this proposition Lyndsay would not listen for a moment.

"The thing is impossible, Flora," said he, very impetuously, "you cannot do without; you are not able to nurse the child. I must insist upon your hiring a woman immediately."

Flora sighed. "There will be plenty of women in the steerage of any emigrant vessel, who for the sake of a few dollars would gladly render me all the assistance I require."

"You must not trust to such contingencies."

"But, husband dear, consider the great additional expense," she said, coaxingly.

"Nonsense!—that is my affair."

"I should like to have my own way in this matter," said Flora, leaning her hand upon his shoulder, and trying to win him into compliance by sundry little caresses. "I know, John, that I am in the right."

"And those who love you, Flora, and wish to spare you fatigue and discomfort, are in the wrong. Is it not so?"

This last speech silenced his wife, but did not convince her that she was wrong. Flora, as my readers must long ago have discovered, was no heroine of romance, but a veritable human creature, subject to all the faults and weaknesses incidental to her sex. She wished to have her own way, and was ready to cry that she could not get it. Yet, had her advice been acted upon, she would have been spared a great deal of sorrow and mortification, which greatly embittered the first months of her sojourn in a foreign land.

Persons emigrating to Canada cannot be guilty of a greater blunder than that of taking out servants with them, which is sure to end in loss and disappointment; for they no sooner set foot upon the North American shores, than they suddenly become possessed with an ultra republican spirit. The chrysalis has burst its dingy shell; they are no longer caterpillars, but gay butterflies, prepared to bask in the sun-blaze of popular rights. Ask such a domestic to blacken your shoes, clean a knife, or fetch a pail of water from the well at the door, and ten to one she will turn upon you as fierce as a lioness, and bid you do it yourself. If you are so imprudent as to insist on being obeyed, she will tell you to hire another in her place; she is sure of twenty situations as good as yours, to-morrow.

She is right in her assertion. Her insolent rejection of your commands would not stand at all in her way of procuring a new place. And although cleaning a lady's shoes, and bringing in a pail of water, or an armful of wood, is by no means such disgusting employment as scouring greasy pots and scrubbing the floors, she has been told that the former is degrading work not fit for a woman, and she is now in a free country, and will not submit to degradation.

The mistress, who in England was termed the dear lady, now degenerates into the woman, while persons in their own class, and even beggars seeking for alms are addressed as Ma'am and Sir. How particular they are in enforcing these titles from one another; how persevering in depriving their employers of any term of respect! One would imagine that they not only considered themselves on an equality, but that ignorance and vulgarity made them vastly superior. It is highly amusing to watch from a distance these self-made ladies and gentlemen sporting their borrowed plumes.

Some years after she had been settled in Canada, Flora picked up a note which had been thrown out as waste paper, and which was addressed to the father of a very dirty, dishonest girl, whom she had dismissed from her service for sundry petty frauds, a few weeks before. It was addressed to Edward Brady, Esqre., and ran as follows:—

"Honoured Sir,

"The company of self and lady, is respectfully solicited at a contribution ball, to be given next Thursday evening, at the Three King's Inn. Dancing to commence at eight o'clock precisely.

Stewards {Patrick Malone, Esq. {John Carroll, Esq."

All the parties herein named were persons of the very lowest class; and the titles thus pompously bestowed upon themselves, rendered the whole affair exquisitely ridiculous. At a contribution ball, each person brings a share of the entertainment. Flora's maid had stolen a large quantity of sugar for her part of the feast, and was discovered in the act.

In compliance with Lyndsay's request, Flora now set diligently to work to inquire for a girl willing to emigrate with them to Canada, in the capacity of nurse to her baby. She had scarcely made her wishes public, before the cottage was beset with matrons, widows and maids, both old and young, all anxious to take a trip across the water, and try their fortunes in Canada.

The first person who presented herself as a candidate for emigration, was a coarse, fat, she-clown, with huge red fists and cheeks, "as broad and as red as a pulpit cushion." On being shown into Flora's little parlour, she stood staring at her with her arms stuck in her sides, and her wide mouth distended from ear to ear, with a grin so truly uncouth and comic, that Mrs. Lyndsay could scarcely restrain her laughter; with a downward jerk of her broad shapeless person, meant for a curtsy, she burst out in a rude vulgar voice,

"He'eard, Marm, yah wanted a gurl to go with yah to Cannadah."

"I do. Who sent you up to me?"

"Whao sent oie up? Oie sent up moisel."

"What is your name?"

"Moi neame? Is't moi neame yah wants to knowah? Wall, moi neame is Sare Ann Pack; feather warks at Measter Turners."

"Have you ever worked out, or been used to take care of children?"

"Why yees, oie 'spect oie ha'. Moother has ten on 'em. Oie be the oldest on'em. Oi've had nursing enoof, an' wants to get quit on it."

"I am afraid, Sarah, you will not suit me."

"How dew yah noa, Marm, till yah tries?"

"You are very slatternly, and I wanted a clean, tidy, active girl to nurse my baby."

"Sure moi cloes is clane enoof, and good enoof, for to live amongst the sadvidges?"

"You'll be put to no such trial," said Flora laughing, in spite of herself, "without you reckon me and my husband sadvadges. Can you wash and iron?"

"Noa. But 'spose oie cud larn."

"What work can you do?"

"'Spect anything yah sets oie to. Oie can make doomplings, milk cows, and keep the pot a bilin'."

"And what wages do you expect for such services?"

"Is it to goor to Cannadah? Oh, oie 'spects tree punds o' month for the loike o' that."

"You must stay at home then, my good girl, and boil the dumplings," said Flora. "Indeed, I cannot imagine what induced you to come up here to offer me your services. You literally can do nothing, for which you expect exorbitant wages. Why do you wish to leave your friends, to go out with strangers to Canada?"

"That's moi consarn," said the girl, with one of her gigantic expansions of mouth. "Oie he'eard 'twas a mortal good place for maids getting married. Husbands are scearce here, so oise thought, oise might as well try moi chance as the rest o'un. Won't yah take oie?" Flora shook her head.

The girl twirled the strings of her checked apron, "Mayhap, yah won't get anoder so willin' to go, as I'se be."

"Perhaps not. But I want a person of some experience—one who has been used to service, and could bring a good character from her last employer."

"Karaktah! Karaktah!" said the girl contemptuously. "What need of a karaktah in such a place as Cannadah? Folk a' go there need na karaktah, or they might jeest as well bide to whome."

This last declaration settled the matter, and Flora, not without some difficulty, got rid of the promising candidate for matrimony and emigration. Her place was instantly supplied by a tall, hard-featured, middle-aged woman, who had been impatiently waiting for Miss Pack's dismissal, in the kitchen, and who now rushed upon the scene, followed by three rude children, from six to ten years of age, a girl, and two impudent-looking boys, who ranged themselves in front of Mrs. Lyndsay, with open mouths, and eyes distended with eager curiosity, in order to attract her observation, and indulge themselves in a downright stare.

"Well, my good woman, and what is your business with me?" said Flora, not at all prepossessed by any of the group.

"Are you the mistress?" asked the woman, dropping a curtsy.

Flora answered in the affirmative.

"My business is to go to Canady; but I have not the means. I am a poor widow; my husband died of the fever three years ago, and left me with these children to drag along the best way I could. We have had hard times, I can tell you, Ma'am, and I should be main glad to better my condition, which I think I might do, if I could get out to Canady. I heard that you wanted a nurse for your baby during the voyage, and I should be glad to engage with you, if we can agree as to the terms."

"What are your terms?"

"For you, Ma'am, to pay the passage of me and the three children over, and I to attend upon you and the child."

"But, my good woman, I have only one little child for you to take charge of, and you cannot expect me, for the trifling services that you could render, to pay your passage over, and that of your family?"

"Sure, you might be glad of the chance," said the sturdy dame. "It is not everybody that would take service with you to go there. I should not trouble you longer than the voyage. I have friends of my own at Montreal, who have written for me to come out to them; and so I would long ago, if I had had the means."

"If they want you, they may pay your passage," said Flora, disgusted with the selfishness of her new acquaintance. "It would be less trouble to me to nurse my own child, than incur the responsibility of three that did not belong to me."

The woman collected her young barbarians from the different quarters of the room, where they were reconnoitring the attractions of the place, and withdrew with a scowl; and Flora's nurse, Mrs. Clarke, shortly after entered the room, with little Josephine in her arms.

"Well, nurse," said Flora, giving way to a hearty laugh, "did you see those queer people, who want me to take them out as a venture to Canada?"

"A losing speculation that would be, if we may judge by looks and manners," said the old lady; "but, indeed, Mrs. Lyndsay, it will be no easy matter to find just what you want. It is not every one to whom I would trust the dear baby."

Then sitting down in the nursing chair, and hushing Josey on her knee, she continued, "I have been thinking of you and the child a great deal since I heard you were bent on going to Canada; and if you think that I could be of any service to you, I would go with you, myself. I ask no wages—nothing of you, beyond a home for my old age."

Mrs. Clarke was a kind, amiable, good woman, but very feeble, nervous, and sickly, and very little qualified for the arduous and fatiguing life she had chosen.

"My dear nurse," said Flora, clasping her hand in her own, "I should only be too happy to have you. But you are old, and in delicate health; the climate would kill you; I much doubt whether you could stand the voyage. I cannot be so selfish as to take you from your home and friends at your time of life. But take off your hat and shawl, and we will talk the matter over."

The old woman laid the now sleeping babe in the cradle, and resumed her seat with a sigh.

"It is this want of a home which makes me anxious to go with you. It is hard to be dependent upon the caprice of brothers, in one's old age. Thirty years ago and life wore for me a very different aspect."

"Nurse," said Flora, who was very fond of the good old body, who had attended her with the greatest care and tenderness, through a long and dangerous illness; "how comes it that such a pretty woman as you must have been did not marry in your youth? I can scarcely imagine that nature ever meant you for an old maid."

"Nature never made any woman to be an old maid," said Nurse; "God does nothing in vain. Women were sent into the world to be wives and mothers; and there are very few who don't entertain the hope of being so at some period of their lives. I should not be the forlorn, desolate creature I am to-day, if I had had a snug home, and a good husband to make the fireside cheery, and children together about my knees, and make me feel young again, while listening to their simple prattle.

"I thought to have been a happy wife once," continued Nurse, sadly; "a heavy calamity that broke another heart besides mine, laid all my hopes in the dust, and banished from my mind the idea of marriage for ever. Did I never tell you the story, Ma'am? A few words will often contain the history of events that embittered a whole life. Whilst I am hemming this little pinafore for Miss Josey, I will tell you the tale of my early grief.

"My father was a native of this town, and captain of a small vessel employed in the coal-trade, which plied constantly between this port and Newcastle and Shields. He owned most of the shares in her, was reckoned an excellent sailor, and was so fortunate as to have escaped the usual dangers attendant upon the coast trade, never having been wrecked in his life,—which circumstance had won for him the nickname of 'Lucky Billy,' by which he was generally known in all the seaport towns along the coast.

"I was the eldest of a large family, and the only girl. My mother died when I was fourteen years of age, and all the cares of the household early devolved upon me; my father was very fond of me, and so proud of my good looks, that his ship was christened the Pretty Betsy, in honour of me.

"Father not only earned a comfortable living, but saved enough to build those two neat stone cottages on the East-cliff. We lived in the one which my brother now occupies; the other, which is divided from it by a narrow alley, into which the back doors of both open, was rented for many years by the widow of a revenue officer and her two sons.

"Mrs. Arthur's husband had been killed in a fray with the smugglers, and she enjoyed a small Government pension, which enabled her to bring up her boys decently, and maintain a respectable appearance. My father tried his best to induce Mrs. Arthur to be his second wife, but she steadily refused his offer, though the family continued to live on terms of the strictest friendship.

"Mrs. Arthur's sons, John and David, were the handsomest and cleverest lads of their class, between this and the port of Y——. They both followed the sea, and after serving their apprenticeships with my father, John got the command of the Nancy, a new vessel that was employed in the merchant trade, and made short voyages between this and London. David, who was two years younger, sailed with his brother as mate of the Nancy.

"David and I had been sweethearts from our school-days,—from a child in frocks and trowsers, he had always called me 'his dear little wife.' Time only strengthened our attachment to each other, and my father and his mother were well-pleased with the match. It was settled by all parties, that we were to be married directly David could get captain of a ship.

"Mrs. Arthur was very proud of her sons; but David, who was by far the handsomest of the two, was her especial favourite. I never saw the young sailor leave the house without kissing his mother, or return from a voyage without bringing her a present. I used to tell him, 'There was only one person he loved better than me, and that was his mother;' and he would laugh, and say,—'Not better, Betsy,—but 'tis a different love altogether.'

"I must confess I was rather jealous of his mother. I did not wish him to love her less, but to love me more. Whenever he left us for sea, he used to tell me the very last thing—'Show your love to me, dear Betsy, by being kind to my dear old mother. When you are my wife, I will repay it with interest.'

"During his absence, I always went every day to see Mrs. Arthur, and to render her any little service in my power. She was very fond of me, always calling me 'her little daughter,—her own dear Betsy.' Her conversation was always about her sons, and David in particular, which rendered these visits very agreeable to me, who loved David better than anything else under heaven. He was never out of my thoughts, I worshipped him so completely.

"It was the latter end of February that the Arthurs made their last voyage together. David was to sail as captain, in a fine merchant-ship, the first of May; and everything had been arranged for our marriage, which was to take place the tenth of April; and I was to make a bridal tour to London with my husband in the new ship. I was wild with anticipation and delight, and would let my work drop from my hands twenty times a-day, while building castles for the future. No other girl's husband would be able to rival my husband; no home could be as happy as my home; no bride so well beloved as me.

"It was the twentieth of March, 18—; I recollect it as well as if it were only yesterday. The day was bright, clear, and cold, with high winds and a very stormy sea. The Nancy had been expected to make her port all that week, and Mrs. Arthur was very uneasy at her delay. She was never happy or contented when her sons were at sea, but in a constant fidget of anxiety and fear. She did not like both sailing in the same vessel. 'It is too much,' she would say—'the safety of two lives out of one family—to be trusted to one keel.' This morning she was more fretful and nervous than usual.

"'What can these foolish boys be thinking of, Betsy, to delay their voyage in this way? They will in all probability be caught in the equinoctial gales. David promised me faithfully to be back before the eighteenth. Dear me! how the wind blows! The very sound of it is enough to chill one's heart. What a stormy sea! I hope they will not sail till the day after to-morrow.'

"Now, I felt a certain conviction in my own mind that they had sailed, and were at that moment on the sea; but, I must confess, I apprehended no danger. It might be that her fears hindered me from indulging fears of my own.

"'Don't alarm yourself needlessly, dear Mother,' said I, kissing her cold, pale cheek. 'The Nancy is a new ship,—the lads brave, experienced sailors. There is not the least cause for uneasiness. They have weathered far worse gales before now. They have, father says, the wind and tide in their favour. It is moonlight now o' nights; and I hope we shall see them merry and well before morning.'

"'God grant you may be right, Betsy! A mother's heart is a hot-bed of anxiety. Mine feels as heavy as lead. My dreams, too, were none of the brightest. I thought I was tossing in an open boat, in just such a stormy sea all night; and was constantly calling on David to save me from drowning; and I awoke shrieking, and struggling with the great billows that were dragging me down.'

"'Who cares for dreams?' I said. Hers, I would have it, was one of good omen; for though she fought with the storm all night, she was not drowned. So it would be with the lads: they might encounter a gale, and get a severe buffeting, but would arrive safe at last.

"'I wish it may be so,' she said, with a sigh. 'But I felt just the same sinking at the heart the night my husband was killed, when there appeared no cause for uneasiness.'

"I remained all day with the old lady, trying to raise her spirits. She paid very little attention to all my lively chat; but would stand for hours at her back-window, that commanded a view of the bay, gazing at the sea. The huge breakers came rolling and toiling to the shore, filling the air with their hoarse din. A vessel hove in sight, running under close-reefed topsails, and made signals for a pilot.

"'Ah!' I exclaimed joyfully; 'that is Captain Penny's old ship, Molly. If she has rode out the gale, you may dismiss your fears about the Nancy. They have launched the pilot-boat. See how she dances like a feather on the waves! Why, Mother dear,' I cried, turning to Mrs. Arthur, who was watching the boat, with the large tears trickling down her cheeks, 'is it not weak, almost wicked of you, to doubt God's providence in this way?'

"'Ah! how I wish it were their vessel,' she sobbed.

"'Captain Penny's wife and children would not thank you for that wish,' said I. 'How glad I am that the good old man is safe!'

"The day wore away. A long day for us both. The gale did not increase, and Mrs. Arthur at last began to listen to reason. The moon rose high and bright; and after seeing the old lady to her bed, I went home to give my father and the boys their supper.

"I found father very cross for having waited so long. 'What the devil, Betsy!' cried he, 'kept you so late? The lads and I have been starving for the last hour. When girls get sweethearts they can think of nothing else.'

"'Mrs. Arthur felt anxious about her sons, and I stayed with her.'

"'What's the old fool afraid of? This cupful of wind, Penny's old Molly rode it out bravely. He told me he left the Arthurs in the river. He thought they would be in by daybreak. Come, be quick, girl. As I am to lose you so soon, I would make the most of you while you belong to me.'

"His cheerful, hearty manner helped to raise my spirits, which had been depressed by Mrs. Arthur's fretful anticipations of evil. I bustled hither and thither, laughed and sung, and cooked father's mess of fresh fish so much to his satisfaction, that he declared I should make a jewel of a wife, and that he had not made up his mind whether he would part with such a good cook. Without he married again, he was afraid he would not get such another.

"'You must be quick then,' said I, 'or you will not have me for your bridesmaid. I give you just three weeks for the courtship, for I shan't remain single one day longer to cook the wedding dinner for you.'

"'You are saucy,' said he, filling his pipe. 'Davy will have to take the helm himself, if he would keep you on the right tack. Clear the decks now, and be off to your bed. If the gale lulls, I shall sail early in the morning.'

"I removed the supper-things, and before I lighted my candle, lingered for a few minutes at the back window, to take a last view of the sea. It was a stormy but very beautiful night. The heavens were without a cloud. The full moon cast broken gleams of silver upon the restless, tossing waters, which scattered them into a thousand fragments of dazzling brightness, as the heavy surf rolled in thunder against the beach.

"'Has the gale freshened, father?' said I, anxiously.

"'Not a bit of it. Say your prayers, Betsy, and trust in Providence. Your lover is as safe in his good ship to-night, as in his bed at home.'

"He pulled me on to his knee, and kissed me, and I went up to bed with a lighter heart.

"A few minutes later I was fast asleep. I don't know how long this sleep lasted, but I awoke with hearing David Arthur calling beneath my window. His mother's window and mine both fronted the cliff, and were in a line with each other. 'Thank God! David is safe!' I cried, as I sprang joyfully from my bed, and threw open the casement.

"There he was sure enough, standing in the moonlight, directly beneath the window. His norwester flung far back on his head, his yellow curls hanging in wet masses on his shoulders, and his clothes dripping with the salt spray. The moon shone forth on his upturned face. He looked very pale and cold, and his eyes were fixed intently upon his mother's chamber-window. Before I could speak, he cried out in his rich, manly tones—

"'Mother, dearest mother, I am come home to you. Open the door, and let me in!'

"'Stay, Davy, darling—stay one moment, and I will let you in. Your mother's asleep; but I can open the back-door with my key. Oh! I'm so happy, so thankful, that you are safe.'

"I threw my clothes on as fast as I could, but my hands trembled so from excitement, that I could scarcely fasten a string. A cold chill was creeping through my whole frame, and, in spite of the joy I felt, I involuntarily burst into tears. Dashing away the unwelcome drops with the back of my hand, I bounded down the stairs, unlocked the back-door that led into the alley, and in another moment stood alone on the cliff.

"'David, where are you?' I cried. But no David was there. I glanced all round the wide, open space: not an object was moving over its surface. A deep stillness reigned all around, only interrupted by the solemn thunder of the waters, whose hollow surging against the shore rendered the solitude of the midnight hour more profound.

"Again I felt those cold chills steal through me—again the unbidden tears streamed down my cheeks.

"'What can have become of him?' said I, quite bewildered with surprise and fear; 'he must have got in at the back window!—I will go to his mother—I shall find him with her!'

"The key I held in my hand fitted both locks: I went into Mrs. Arthur's, lighted the candle that I had left on her kitchen dresser, and went up to her chamber. She started up in the bed as I opened the door.

"'Good God! Betsy,' she cried, 'is that you? I thought I heard David call me.'

"'And so he did,' I said; 'he came under the window just now, and called to you to let him in. I told him to wait till I could dress myself, and I would come down and open the door. Is he not here?'

"'No,' said his mother, her face turning as white as her cap; 'you must have been dreaming.'

"'Dreaming!' said I, rather indignantly; 'you need not try to persuade me out of my senses—I saw him with my own eyes!—heard him with my own ears! and spoke to him! What else will convince you? He has gone back to the ship for John—I will breeze up the fire, put on the kettle, and get something cooked for their supper. After buffeting about in this storm, they will be cold and hungry.'

"Mrs. Arthur soon joined me. She could not believe that I had spoken to David, though she fancied that she had heard him herself, and was in a fever of anxiety, pacing to and fro the kitchen floor, and opening the door every minute to look out. I felt almost provoked by her want of faith.

"'If the ship were in,' she muttered, 'he would have been in long ago, to tell me that all was safe. He knows how uneasy I always am when he and his brother are away. Betsy must have been deceived!'

"'Mother, dear—indeed, what I tell you is true!'

"And I repeated to her for the twentieth time, perhaps, what David had said, and described his appearance.

"Hour after hour passed away, but no well-known footstep, or dearly loved voice, disturbed our lonely vigil. The kettle simmered drowsily on the hob; Mrs. Arthur, tired out with impatient fretting at her son's delay, had thrown her apron over her head, and was sobbing bitterly. I began to feel alarmed; a strange fear seemed growing upon my heart, which almost led me to doubt the evidence of my senses—to fancy, in fact, that what I had seen might have been a dream. But, was I not there, wide awake? Had not his mother heard him speak as well as me? though her half-waking state had rendered the matter less distinct than it had been to me? I was not going to be reasoned out of my sanity in that way, because he did not choose to wait until I came down to open the door—which I thought rather unkind, when he must be well aware, that my anxiety for his safety must quite equal that of his mother.

"The red beams of the rising sun were tinging the white foam of the billows with a flush of crimson. The gale had lulled; and I knew that my father's vessel sailed with the tide. I started from my seat, Mrs. Arthur languidly raised her head—

"'My dear Betsy, will you just run across the cliff to the look-out house, and ask the sailors there if the Nancy came in last night? I cannot bear this suspense much longer.'

"'I might have thought of that before,' I said; and, without waiting for hat or shawl, I ran with breathless speed to the nearest station.

"I found one old sailor kneeling upon the bench, looking intently through his telescope at some object at sea. My eyes followed the direction of the glass, and I saw distinctly, about two miles beyond the east cliff, a vessel lying dismasted upon the reef, with the sea breaking continually over her.

"'What vessel is that, Ned Jones?' said I.

"'It's the Nancy,' he replied, without taking his eye from the glass. 'I know her by the white stripe along her black hull. She's a perfect wreck, and both the brave lads are drowned.'

"'When did this happen?' I shrieked, shaking him frantically by the arm.

"'She struck upon the reef at half-past one this morning. Our lads got the boat off, but too late to save the crew.'

"'Good God!' I cried, reeling back, as if struck with a bolt of ice; and the same deadly cold shiver ran through me. 'It was his ghost, then, I saw.'[B]

[B] I have told this story exactly as it was told to me by Flora's nurse. The reader must judge how far the young girl's imagination may have deceived her. Whether as a dream, or a reality, I have no doubt of the truth of her tale.

"I don't know how I got back to Mrs. Arthur. I never knew. Or, whether it was from me she learned the terrible tidings of the death of her sons. I fell into a brain fever, and when I recovered my senses, Mrs. Arthur had been in her grave for some weeks.

"In thinking over the events of that fearful night, the recollection which pained me most was, that David's last thought had been for his mother,—that during his death-struggle, she was dearer to him than me. It haunted me for years. At times it haunts me still. Whenever the wind blows a gale, and the moon shines clear and cold, I fancy I can see him standing below my window, in his dripping garments, and that sad pale face turned towards his mother's casement; and I hear him call out, in the rich, mellow voice I loved so well,—'Mother, dearest mother, I have come home to you. Open the door and let me in!'"

"It was a dream, Nurse," said Flora.

"But supposing, Mrs. Lyndsay, that it was a dream. Is it less strange that such a dream should occur at the very moment, perhaps, that he was drowned; and that his mother should fancy she heard him speak as well as I?"

"True," said Flora, "the mystery remains the same, and, for my own part, I never could get rid of a startling reality; because some people choose to call it a mere coincidence. My faith embraces the spirit of the fact, and disclaims the coincidence, though after all, the coincidence is the best proof of the fact."

"This event," continued Nurse, "cast a shadow over my life, which no after sunshine ever dispelled. I never loved again, and gave up all thoughts of getting married from that hour. Perhaps I was wrong, for I refused several worthy men, who would have given me a comfortable home; and I should not now, at my time of life, have to go out nursing, or be dependent upon a cross brother, for the shelter of a roof. If you will take me to Canada with you, I only ask in return a home in my old age."

Flora was delighted with the project, but on writing about it to her husband, she found him unwilling to take out a feeble old woman, who was very likely to die on the voyage; and Flora, with reluctance, declined the good woman's offer.

It happened very unfortunately for Flora, that her mother had in her employment a girl, whose pretty feminine face and easy pliable manners, had rendered her a great favourite in the family. Whenever Flora visited the Hall, Hannah had taken charge of the baby, on whom she lavished the most endearing epithets and caresses.

This girl had formed an imprudent intimacy with a farm servant in the neighbourhood, which had ended in her seduction. Her situation rendered marriage a matter of necessity. In this arrangement of the matter, it required both parties should agree; and the man, who doubtless knew more of the girl's real character than her benevolent mistress, flatly refused to make her his wife. Hannah, in an agony of rage and contrition, had confided her situation to her mistress; and implored her not to turn her from her doors, or she would end her misery in self-destruction.

"She had no home," she said, "in the wide world—and she dared not return to her aunt, who was the only friend she had; and who, under existing circumstances, she well knew, would never afford her the shelter of her roof."

Simple as this girl appeared, she knew well how to act her part; and so won upon the compassion of Mrs. W——, that she was determined, if possible, to save her from ruin. Finding that Mrs. Lyndsay had failed in obtaining a servant, she applied to her on Hannah's behalf, and requested, as a favour, that she would take the forlorn creature with her to Canada.

Flora at first rejected the proposal in disgust: in spite of Mrs. W——'s high recommendation, there was something about the woman she did not like; and much as she was inclined to pity her, she could not reconcile herself to the idea of making her the companion of her voyage. She could not convince herself that Hannah was worthy of the sympathy manifested on her behalf. A certain fawning, servility of manner, led her to imagine that she was deceitful; and she was reluctant to entail upon herself the trouble and responsibility which must arise from her situation, and the scandal it might involve. But her objections were borne down by Mrs. W——'s earnest entreaties, to save, if possible, a fellow creature from ruin.

The false notions formed by most persons in England of the state of society in Canada, made Mrs. W—— reject, as mere bugbears, all Flora's fears as to the future consequences which might arise from her taking such a hazardous step. What had she to fear from ill-natured gossip in a barbarous country, so thinly peopled, that settlers seldom resided within a day's journey of each other. If the girl was wise enough to keep her own secret, who would take the trouble to find it out? Children were a blessing in such a wilderness; and Hannah's child, brought up in the family, would be very little additional expense and trouble, and might prove a most attached and grateful servant, forming a lasting tie of mutual benefit between the mother and her benefactress. The mother was an excellent worker, and, until this misfortune happened, a good and faithful girl. She was weak, to be sure; but then (what a fatal mistake) the more easily managed. Mrs. W——was certain that Flora would find her a perfect treasure.

All this sounded very plausible in theory, and savoured of romance. Flora found it in the end a dismal reality. She consented to receive the girl as her servant, who was overjoyed at the change in her prospects; declaring that she never could do enough for Mrs. Lyndsay, for snatching her from a life of disgrace and infamy. And so little Josey was provided with a nurse, and Flora with a servant.



CHAPTER XII.

THE LAST HOURS AT HOME.

To bid farewell to her mother and sisters, and the dear home of her childhood, Flora regarded as her greatest trial. As each succeeding day brought nearer the hour of separation, the prospect became more intensely painful, and fraught with a thousand melancholy anticipations, which haunted her even in sleep; and she often awoke sick and faint at heart with the tears she had shed in a dream.

"Oh that this dreadful parting were over!" she said to her friend Mary Parnell. "I can contemplate, with fortitude, the trials of the future; but there is something so dreary, so utterly hopeless, in this breaking up of kindred ties and home associations, that it paralyses exertion."

Mrs. W——, Flora's mother, was in the decline of life, and it was more than probable that the separation would be for ever. This Flora felt very grievously;—she loved her mother tenderly, and she could not bear to leave her. Mrs. W—— was greatly attached to her little grandchild; and, to mention the departure of the child, brought on a paroxysm of grief.

"Let Josey stay with me, Flora," said she, as she covered its dimpled hands with kisses. "Let me not lose you both in one day."

"What! part with my child—my only child! Dearest mother, it is impossible to grant your request. Whatever our future fortunes may be, she must share them with us. I could not bear up against the trials which await me with a divided heart."