"Stop, sir!" said Fanny, in tones so imperative that the man could not help obeying her.

"What would I stop for?" asked Mr. O'Shane, rather vacantly.

"You shall not do this cruel thing."

"The saints know how it breaks me heart to do it, but I can't help it."

"Now you put all these things back into the house just as you found them."

"Faix, I'd like to do it, miss," said the man, taking off his hat and rubbing his tangled hair.

"You must do it."

"And not git me rint?"

"You shall have your money—every cent of it. Put the furniture back, and you shall have your due just as soon as you have done it," said Fanny, as haughtily as though she had been a millionaire.

Mr. O'Shane looked at her, and seemed to be petrified with astonishment. The deed he was doing, harsh and cruel as it was, he regarded as a work of necessity. Though he owned the house occupied by Mrs. Kent, and another in which he lived himself with two other families, both of them were mortgaged for half their value, and he was obliged to pay interest on the money he owed for them. He certainly could not afford to lose his rent, to which he was justly entitled. He had indulged his tenant for a year, and nothing but the apparent hopelessness of obtaining what was due had tempted him to this cruel proceeding. Nothing but starvation in his own family could justify a landlord in turning a mother with a dying child out of the house. He looked at Fanny with astonishment when she promised to pay him, but he was sceptical.

"Why don't you put back the furniture?" demanded Fanny, impatiently.

"It's meself that would be glad to do that same," replied he. "Would you let me see the color of your money, miss?"

"Put the things back, and you shall have your money as soon as you have done it," added Fanny, moving down the street. "I will be back in a few moments."

The landlord looked at her, as she walked away. He was in doubt, but there was something about the girl so different from what he had been accustomed to see in young ladies of her age, that he was strongly impressed by her words. Fanny sat down on a rock in the shade of a lone tree. Mr. O'Shane looked at her for a moment, and then decided to obey the haughty command he had received. He went to work with more energy than he had before displayed, and began to move the furniture back into the house, greatly to the surprise and delight, no doubt, of the grief-stricken mother.

Fanny counted out a hundred dollars from the stolen bills in her pocket, and returned to the house. Mr. O'Shane had by this time completed his work, and was awaiting the result.

"They be all put back, miss," said he, doubtfully.

"There is your money," replied Fanny, proudly.

Mr. O'Shane's eyes opened, and he fixed them with a gloating stare upon the bills. He counted them; there was a hundred dollars.

"God bless you, miss, for a saint as ye are!" ejaculated he, as he put the money in his pocket. "Ye saved me from doing the worst thing I ever did in me life. I'll send the receipt to Mrs. Kent to-day;" and he walked away towards his own house.



CHAPTER VIII.

THE SICK GIRL.

The last part of the interview between Fanny and Mr. O'Shane had been witnessed by Mrs. Kent, who came out of the house when she had attended to the wants of her sick child. The dark cloud which menaced her a few moments before had rolled away, and, if the sunshine did not beam upon her, she was comparatively happy in having one trouble less to weigh her down. She was calm now, but the tears—they were tears of relief—still rolled down her wan and furrowed cheek.

"I have prayed for help, and help has come," said she to her deliverer, as the harsh landlord walked away.

Fanny could not make any reply to a statement of this kind. She was a fugitive and a wanderer; she was a thief, shunning the gaze of men, and she could not conceive of such a thing as that she had been sent as an angel of relief to the poor woman in answer to her prayers. As she thought what she was and what she had been doing, a blush of shame suffused her cheek. She was silent; there was nothing which she could say at such a moment.

"Heaven will bless you for your good, kind heart. You are an angel," continued Mrs. Kent.

Fanny knew how far she was from being an angel, and she had no heart for deceiving the poor woman. It might be fun and excitement to deceive the people at Woodville, but Mrs. Kent seemed to be sanctified by her sorrows.

"I hope you haven't robbed yourself by your good deed, miss," added the poor woman, wondering why Fanny did not speak.

"O, no! I have some more money."

Perhaps Mrs. Kent thought it singular that a young girl, like Fanny, should happen to have so much money about her, but she did not ask any questions; and perhaps she did not think that one who had been so kind to her could do anything wrong.

"Now, you will come into the house and see poor Jenny. She will want to thank you for what you have done," said Mrs. Kent, leading the way to the door.

Fanny could not refuse this reasonable request, but she felt very strangely. She found herself commended and reverenced for what she had done, and she could not help feeling how unworthy she was. Conscious that she had performed a really good deed, she could not reconcile it with her past conduct. It was utterly inconsistent with the base act she had done in the morning; and in the light of one deed the other seemed so monstrous that she almost loathed herself.

She followed Mrs. Kent into the room where the sick girl was reclining upon the bed. There was no carpet on the floor, and the apartment was very meagerly furnished with the rudest and coarsest articles. Jenny was pale and emaciated; the hand of death seemed to be already upon her; but in spite of her paleness and her emaciation, there was something beautiful in her face; something in the expression of her languid eyes which riveted the attention and challenged the interest of the visitor.

"Jenny, this is the young lady whom God has sent to be our friend," said Mrs. Kent, as they approached the bedside.

Fanny shuddered. "Whom God had sent"—she, a thief! She wanted to cry; she wanted to shrink back into herself.

"May I take your hand?" asked Jenny, in feeble tones.

Fanny complied with the request in silence, and with her eyes fixed on the floor. The sick girl took the offered hand in her own, which was almost as cold as marble.

"Mother has prayed to Our Good Father, and I have prayed to Him all the time for help," said Jenny, whose accents were hardly above a whisper. "He has sent you to us, and you have saved us. Will you tell me your name?"

"Fanny Grant."

"Fanny, I am going to heaven soon, and I will bear your name in my heart when I go. I will bless you for your good deed while I have breath, and I will bless you when I get to heaven. You are a good girl, and I know that God will bless you too."

Poor Fanny! How mean she felt! As she stood in the presence of that pure-minded child, already an angel in simple trust and confiding hope, she realized her own wickedness. The burden of her sins seemed to be settling down upon her with a weight that would crush her.

"I love you, Fanny," continued the invalid, "and I will pray for you to the last moment of my life. Won't you speak to me?"

"I was very glad to do what I did," stammered Fanny, almost suffocated by the weight which pressed down upon her.

"I know you are; for it is more blessed to give than to receive."

"I am very sorry you are so sick. Can I do anything to help you?"

"You have done all that could be done, Fanny. I like to speak your name. It sounds like music to me. After what you have done, Fanny will always mean goodness to me. You cannot do anything more; you have already done enough."

"Don't you want anything?"

"No; I am happy now. I shall soon pass away, and go to my Saviour."

Mrs. Kent sobbed.

"Don't cry, mother," continued Jenny. "God will take care of you, and we shall meet again."

"Can't I get anything for you, Jenny? Isn't there anything you want?" asked Fanny, who felt that she must do something, or she would soon be overwhelmed by the emotions which agitated her soul.

"Nothing, Fanny. I don't think much of the things around me now. I feel just as though I didn't belong here. This is not my home. Can you sing, Fanny?"

"I do sing, sometimes," replied she.

"Will you sing to me?"

"I will; what shall I sing?"

"Something about heaven?" answered Jenny, as she sank back upon the pillow, and fixed her gaze upon the ceiling, as though beyond it she could see the happy home which, was ever in her thoughts.

Fanny, as we have said before, was a remarkable singer, not in the artistic sense, though, with proper cultivation of her talent, she might have been all this also. She had a fine voice, and sang as naturally as the birds sing. But this was not an occasion for artistic effects. Never before had the soul of the wayward girl been so stirred. She was a Sunday-school scholar, and familiar with most of the beautiful and touching melodies contained in children's song-books.

She was asked to sing "something about heaven;" and she began at once, as though it had been selected by some invisible agency and impressed upon her mind, with the beautiful hymn:—

"There's a home for the poor on that beautiful shore When life and its sorrows are ended; And sweetly they'll rest in that home of the blest, By the presence of angels attended. There's a home for the sad, and their hearts will be glad When they've crossed over Jordan so dreary; For bright is the dome of that radiant home Where so softly repose all the weary."

The "home for the poor on that beautiful shore" seemed to be almost in sight of the singer, for the pale, dying girl spread heaven around her; and Fanny sang as she had never sung before. She could hardly keep down the tears which struggled for birth in her dim eyes, and her sweet voice was attuned to the sentiment of the words she sang, which were wedded to a melody so touching as to suggest the heaven it spoke of.

There was a seraphic smile on the wan face of Jenny as the singer finished the first verse, and she clasped her thin white hands above her breast in the ecstasy of her bliss. Fanny sang the four verses of the hymn, and every moment of the time seemed to be a moment of rapture to the dying girl.

"How beautiful!" cried Jenny, after a period of silence at the conclusion of the hymn. "I have never been so happy, Fanny. Let me take your hand in mine again."

"Can I do anything more for you?" asked Fanny, as she gave her hand to the invalid.

"No, nothing. It will make you tired to sing any more now."

"O, no! I could sing all day."

"But the sweet strains you have just sung still linger in my soul. Let me hold your hand a moment, and then I will go to sleep if I can. I like to hold your hand—you are so good."

Fanny despised herself. She wanted to tell Jenny what a monster of wickedness she felt herself to be, and she would have done so if it had not been for giving pain to the gentle sufferer.

"I would like to go to heaven now, holding your hand, and mother's, and Eddy's; for it seems to me I could carry you up to the Saviour with me then, and give you all to him; and he would love you for my sake, and because you are so good. But I shall never forget you; I shall bear your name to heaven with me, Fanny."

The wicked girl shuddered. "Depart from me," seemed to be the only message the Saviour had for her.

"Let me do something more for you," said Fanny, who could not endure to be called good by one who was so near heaven that there could be no hypocrisy or shadow of deceit in her heart.

"You may sing me one more hymn, if you are not too tired," replied Jenny.

"O, no! I am never tired of singing;" and she sang the song containing the refrain, "There is sweet rest in heaven," with exquisite taste and feeling.

Mrs. Kent whispered that Jenny must be weary now, and Fanny took the hand of the sick girl, to bid her good by.

"Good by, Fanny. I shall never see you again; but we shall meet in heaven," said Jenny, with her sweetest smile.

"I will come and see you again, if I can."

"How happy it would make me!"

"Perhaps I will come again to-day."

"I'm afraid if you don't, I shall never see you in this world again."

"I will come to-day."

"Good by," added Jenny, languidly, as Fanny followed Mrs. Kent out of the room.

"Isn't there anything I can bring to her?" asked Fanny, when they had passed into the other room.

"I don't know. Poor child! she knows how little I can do for her, and she never says she wants anything. She is very fond of flowers, and Eddy used to bring her dandelion blossoms, but these are all gone now."

"I will bring her some flowers," replied Fanny, who could not help wishing for some of the beautiful flowers which grew in such profusion at Woodville.

But to her Woodville now seemed as far off as the heaven of which she had been singing to the dying girl; but she thought she could obtain some flowers in the city; and she felt as though she would give all the rest of her ill-gotten treasure for a single bouquet.

Fanny begged Mrs. Kent to tell her if there was anything she could do for the sick daughter, or for the family; and the poor woman confessed that she had nothing in the house to eat except half a loaf of bread, which was to be their dinner. Lest her visitor should think her destitution was caused by her own fault, she related the story of hardships she had undergone since her husband departed with his regiment.

Mr. Kent was a mechanic, and having been thrown out of employment by the dull times at the commencement of the war, he had enlisted in one of the regiments that departed earliest for the scene of hostilities. He had left his family with only a small sum of money, and had promised to send all his pay to his wife, as soon as it was received. Mr. Kent's regiment had been engaged in the disastrous battle of Bull Run, since which he had not been heard from. It was known that he had been taken prisoner, but when exchanges were made he did not appear. His wife was unwilling to believe that he was dead, and still hoped for tidings of him.

Jenny was sick when her father departed, but it was not supposed to be a dangerous illness; perhaps it would not have been if she had been supplied with the comforts of life. The family had been driven from the more comfortable abode, in which Mr. Kent had left them, to Mr. O'Shane's miserable hovel. The poor woman had gone out to work until Jenny's condition demanded her constant attention. She had then obtained what sewing she could; but with all her exertions she was hardly able to obtain food for her family, to say nothing of procuring clothes, and paying the rent.

Mrs. Kent lived by herself, having little or no communication with the world around her. She had heard of the provision for soldiers' families, and had made an effort to obtain this aid; but she was unable to prove that she was a soldier's wife, and being delicate and sensitive, she had not the courage to face the rebuffs of the officials a second time.

Fanny listened to this story with but little interest. She was thinking of Jenny, whose sweet smile of holy rapture still lingered in her mind. Promising to do something for the family, she took leave of Mrs. Kent, who had no words to express the gratitude she felt towards her benefactor. Fanny went to the nearest store, and purchased a liberal supply of provisions and groceries, which she sent back to the house. She felt better then, and walked down the street till she came to a horse car, in which she rode down to the Park.



CHAPTER IX.

HOPE AND HAVE.

Fanny got out of the horse car at the Park. She was in the midst of the great city, but she felt no interest in the moving, driving scene around her, for the thought of poor Jenny still engrossed her. She had even forgotten Mr. Long, and the dreaded policemen who might be on the watch for her. This was the good time for which she had stolen the money and run away from her happy home at Woodville. It was a mockery, and she even wished she had been caught before she left Pennville.

It was now two o'clock in the afternoon, though hours enough seemed to have elapsed since she left Woodville to make a week. She had eaten nothing but an ice-cream since breakfast, and she was faint from the excitement and the exertion of the day. She found a saloon for ladies, and entered; but the nice things of which she had dreamed in the morning no longer existed for her. She ate a simple dinner, and walked down Broadway till she came to the Museum, which she had regarded as an important element in the enjoyment of her week in the city.

She paid the admission fee, and went in. She wandered from room to room among the curiosities, hardly caring for anything she saw, till she came to the exhibition-room, where plays were acted. She had never seen a play performed, and she had looked forward with brilliant anticipations to the pleasure of seeing one. She was disappointed, for it had not entered into her calculation that a clean conscience is necessary for the full enjoyment of anything. The actors and the actresses strutted their brief hour before her; but to her the play was incomprehensible and silly. It had no meaning, and even the funny things which the low comedian said and did could not make her laugh. Before the performance was half finished, she had enough of it, and left the place in disgust.

Jenny Kent was rapturously happy, dying in a hovel, in the midst of poverty and want, while she was miserable with health and strength, with plenty to eat, drink, and wear. Fanny tried to shake off the strange depression which had so suddenly come over her. She had never been troubled with any such thoughts and feelings before. If she had occasionally been sorry for her wrong acts, it was only a momentary twinge, which hardly damped her spirits. She was weighed down to the earth, and she could not rid herself of the burden that oppressed her. She wanted to go into some dark corner and cry. She felt that it would do her good to weep, and to suffer even more than she had yet been called upon to endure.

"I'll bear your name to heaven with me," had been the words of the dying girl to Fanny; but what a reproach her name would be to the pure and good of the happy land! In some manner, not evident to our human sight, or understood by our human minds, the words of Jenny had given the wayward girl a full view of herself—had turned her thoughts in upon the barrenness of her own heart. Her wrong acts, so trivial to her before, were now magnified into mountains, and the crime she had committed that morning was so monstrous and abominable that she abhorred herself for it.

In spite of the reproaches which every loving word of the dying girl hurled into the conscience of Fanny, there was a strange and unaccountable fascination in the languid look of the sweet sufferer. Wherever she turned, Jenny seemed to be looking at her with a glance full of heaven, while the black waters of her own soul rose up to choke her.

Fanny struggled to get rid of these strange thoughts, but she could not; and she was compelled to give herself wholly up to them. Something, she knew not what, drew her irresistibly towards the dying girl, and she started up Broadway to find the flowers she had promised to carry to her. In a shop window she saw what she wanted. The flowers were of the rarest and most costly kinds; but nothing was too good for Jenny, and she paid four dollars for a bouquet. In another store she purchased some jelly and other delicacies such as she had seen the ladies at Woodville send to sick people. Thus prepared to meet the dying girl, she took a horse car, and by six o'clock reached the humble abode of Mrs. Kent.

"How is Jenny?" asked she, as she entered the house, without the ceremony of knocking.

"She don't seem so well this afternoon," replied Mrs. Kent.

"Does she have a doctor?"

"Not now; we had one a while ago, but he said he could do nothing for her."

"Don't you think we had better have one?"

"He might do something to make her easy, but Jenny don't complain. She never speaks of her pains."

"I have come to stay all night with Jenny, if you are willing I should," continued Fanny, doubtfully.

"You are very kind."

"I will only sit by her; I won't talk to her."

"I should be very glad to have you stay; and Jenny thinks ever so much of you."

"If you please, I will go after a doctor."

Mrs. Kent consented, and Fanny, after sending in her bouquet, went for a physician whose name she had seen on a fine house near Central Park, judging from the style in which he lived that he must be a great man. She found him at home, and he consented to return with her to Mrs. Kent's house. He examined Jenny very carefully, and prescribed some medicine which might make her more comfortable. He did not pretend that he could do anything more for her, and he told Fanny that the sufferer could not live many days, and might pass away in a few hours. Fanny offered him his fee; he blushed, and peremptorily refused it. Physicians who live in fine houses are often kinder to the poor than the charlatans who prey upon the lowest strata of society.

Fanny procured the medicine which the kind-hearted doctor had prescribed, and administered it with her own hands. Jenny gave her such a sweet smile of grateful encouragement, that she was sorry there was nothing else to be done for her.

"Now sit down, Fanny, and let me take your hand. I feel better to-night than I have felt for a long time."

"I am glad you do," replied Fanny.

"You have made me so happy!"

"I wish I was as good as you are, Jenny," said Fanny, struggling with the emotions which surged through her soul.

"You are better than I am."

"O, no!"

"You are an angel! You have been as good as you could be. Fanny, we shall meet in heaven, for I feel just as though I could not live many days. We shall be friends there, if we cannot long be here."

"I hope you will get better," added Fanny, because she could think of nothing else to say.

"No, I may die before morning, Fanny; but I am ready. You are so good——"

"O, Jenny! I am not good! I cannot deceive you any longer!" exclaimed Fanny, bursting into tears.

"Now I know that you are good. The blessed Bible says, 'He that humbleth himself shall be exalted.' I'm glad you don't think you are good."

"But I am not good, indeed I am not," sobbed Fanny.

"Don't weep, dear Fanny. I know how you feel; I have felt just so myself, when it seemed to me I was so wicked I couldn't live."

"You don't know how wicked I have been; what monstrous things I have done," added Fanny, covering her face with her hands. "If you knew, you would despise me."

"You wrong yourself, Fanny. Such a good, kind heart as you have would not let you do anything very bad."

"I have done what was very bad, Jenny; I have been the worst girl in the whole world; but I am so sorry!"

"I know you are. If you have done anything wrong,—we all do wrong sometimes,—you could not help being sorry. Your heart is good."

"Shall I tell you what I did?" asked Fanny, in a low and doubtful tone.

"O, no! Don't tell me; tell it to God. He will pity and forgive you because you are really sorry."

"You would despise me if you knew how wicked I have been. It was seeing you, and thinking how good you are, which made me feel that I had done wrong."

"I'm sure, after all you have done for mother and for me, I can't help believing that you are an angel. I love you, and I know that you are good."

"I mean to be good, Jenny. From this time I shall try to do better than I ever did before."

"Then you will be, Fanny."

"I don't think I ever tried to be good, but I shall now," replied the penitent girl, as she wiped away her tears.

Jenny seemed to be weary, and Fanny sat by the bedside gazing in silence at her beautiful and tranquil expression. The sufferer was looking at the rich flowers of the bouquet, which had been placed on a stand at the side of the bed. They were a joy to her, a connecting link between the beautiful of heaven and the beautiful of earth.

"Will you sing me a hymn, Fanny?" asked the sick girl, without removing her gaze from the flowers.

Without any other reply to the question, Fanny immediately sang this verse:—

"If God hath made this world so fair, Where sin and death abound, How beautiful, beyond compare, Will Paradise be found!"

"How beautiful!" murmured Jenny, her eyes still fixed upon the flowers. "Will you take out that moss-rose, Fanny, and let me hold it in my hand?"

Fanny gave her the flower, and then sang another hymn. For an hour she continued to sing, and Jenny listened to the sweet melodies, entranced and enraptured by the visions of heaven which filled her soul. Then she asked Fanny to read to her from the Bible, indicating the book and chapter, which was the eighth chapter of Romans.

"'For we are saved by hope,'" Fanny read.

"Now, stop a moment: 'For we are saved by hope,'" said the sufferer. "Do you know what the emblem of Hope is, Fanny?"

"An anchor."

"Will you hand me that little box on the table?"

Fanny passed the box to her, and she took from it a little gold breastpin, in the form of an anchor.

"This was given to me by my father when I was a little girl. My Sunday-school teacher told me years ago what an anchor was the emblem of, and told me at the same time to remember the verse you have just read—'For we are saved by hope.' That anchor has often reminded me what was to save me from sin. Fanny, I will give you this breastpin to remember me by."

"I shall never forget you, Jenny, as long as I live!" said Fanny, earnestly.

"But when you remember me, I want you to think what the anchor means. You say you are not good, but I know you are. You mean to be good, you hope to be good; and that will make you good. Do you know we can always have what we hope for, if it is right that we should have it? What we desire most we labor the hardest for. If you really and truly wish to be good, you will be good."

Fanny took the breastpin. If it had been worth thousands of dollars, it would not have been more precious to her. It was the gift of the loving and gentle being who was soon to be transplanted from earth to heaven; of the beautiful girl who had influenced her as she had never been influenced before; who had lifted her soul into a new atmosphere. She placed it upon her bosom, and resolved never to part with it as long as she lived.

"Hope and have, Fanny," said Jenny, when she had rested for a time. "Hope for what is good and true, and you shall have it; for if you really desire it, you will be sure to labor and to struggle for it."

"Hope and have," repeated Fanny. "Your anchor shall mean this to me. Jenny, I feel happier already, for I really and truly mean to be good. But I think I ought to tell you how wicked I am."

"No, don't tell me; tell your mother."

"I have no mother."

"Then you are poorer than I am."

"And no father."

"Poor Fanny! Then you have had no one to tell you how to be good."

"Yes, I have the kindest and best of friends; but I have been very ungrateful."

"They will forgive you, for you are truly sorry."

"Perhaps they will."

"I know they will."

Jenny was weary again, and Fanny sang in her softest and sweetest tones once more. It was now the twilight of a long summer day, and Mrs. Kent, having finished her household duties, came into the room. Soon after, the sufferer was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which seemed to weaken and reduce her beyond the possibility of recovery. When it left her, she could not speak aloud.

"I am going, mother," said she, a little later. "Fanny!"

"I am here," replied Fanny, almost choked with emotion.

"We shall meet in heaven," said the dying one. "Have you been very naughty?"

"I have," sobbed Fanny.

Jenny asked for paper and pencil, and when her mother had raised her on the bed, she wrote, with trembling hand, these words:—

"Please to forgive Fanny, for the sake of her dying friend, Jenny Kent."

"Take this, Fanny: God will forgive you."

It was evident to the experienced eye of Mrs. Kent that Jenny was going from earth. The sufferer lay with her gaze fixed upon the ceiling, and her hands clasped, as in silent prayer. She seemed to be communing with the angels. She struggled for breath, and her mother watched her in the most painful anxiety.

"Good by, mother," said she, at last. "Good by, Eddy: I'm going home."

Mrs. Kent took her offered hand, and kissed her, struggling all the time to be calm. Little Eddy was raised up to the bed, and kissed his departing sister.

"Fanny," gasped she, extending her trembling hand.

Fanny took the hand.

"Good by."

"Good by, Jenny," she answered, awed and trembling with agitation at the impressive scene.

The dying girl closed her eyes. But a moment after she pressed the hand of Fanny, and murmured,—

"HOPE AND HAVE."

She was silent then; her bosom soon ceased to heave; the ransomed spirit rose from the pain-encumbered body, and soared away to its angel-home!



CHAPTER X.

GOOD OUT OF EVIL.

Peacefully, on what had been her couch of pain, lay the silent form of Jenny. The room resounded with the sobs of the mother and the brother, and hardly less with the wailings of the stranger, who, in a few brief hours had found and lost the truest and best of earthly friends. The darkness gathered, and still they wept—the darkness from which Jenny had fled to the brightness of the eternal world, where there is no night or sorrow. There was woe in that humble abode, while heaven's high arches rang with paeans of rejoicing that a ransomed soul had joined the happy bands above.

There were no kind and sympathizing friends to go into that hovel and deck the marble form in the vestments of the grave. Fanny was the first to realize that there was something to be done: she was a stranger to such a scene; she knew not what to do; but she told Mrs. Kent that she would go out and obtain assistance. With hurried step she walked down to the residence of the physician who had so gently and feelingly ministered to the sufferer. She found the doctor at home, and informed him of the sad event. Since his return he had told his wife and daughter of the beautiful girl who was dying in the cottage up the street. He called them into his library, and Fanny, with tearful eyes and broken voice, repeated her narrative of the passing away of poor Jenny.

The ladies promptly expressed their intention to visit the bereaved mother, and discharge the duties the occasion required. A carriage was called, in which the benevolent physician, his wife and daughter, and Fanny, proceeded to the house of Mrs. Kent. They were the kindest and tenderest of friends, and the sorrowing mother, grateful to them for their good offices, and grateful to God for sending them to her, was relieved of a great load of pain and anxiety. At a late hour they departed, with the promise to come again on the following day.

Hour after hour Mrs. Kent and Fanny sat in the chamber of death, talking about the gentle one who had passed away, and was at rest. It was nearly morning before Fanny, worn out by excitement and fatigue, could be prevailed upon to take the rest she needed. Mrs. Kent made a bed for her on the kitchen floor, and she slept for a few hours. When she awoke, her first thought was of Jenny; and all the events of the previous day and evening passed in review before her. Her soul had been sanctified by communion with the sainted spirit of her departed friend. On the day before, her current of being seemed suddenly to have stopped in its course, and then to have taken a new direction. Her thoughts, her hopes, her aspirations had all been changed. She had resolved to be good—so solemnly and truly resolved to be good, that she felt like a new creature.

She prayed to the good Father, who had been revealed to her by the dying girl; and from her prayers came a strength which was a new life to her soul. From her strong desire to be good—to be what Jenny had been—had grown up a new faith.

In the forenoon came the wife and daughter of the good physician again upon the mission of mercy. They had requested the attendance of an undertaker, and assumed the whole charge of the funeral of Jenny, which was to take place on the third day after her death.

Fanny had hardly thought of herself since the angel of death entered the house, though she had been weighed down by a burden of guilt that did not embody itself in particular thoughts. In her sincere penitence, and in her firm and sacred resolve to be good and true, she had found only a partial peace of mind. She had not a doubt in regard to her future course: she must return to Woodville, and submit to any punishment which her kind friends might impose upon her. She was willing to suffer for what she had done; she was even willing to be sent to her uncle's in Minnesota; and this feeling of submission was the best evidence to herself of the reality of her repentance.

She was not willing to return to Woodville till she had seen the mortal part of Jenny laid away in its final resting-place. But Mr. Grant, who was at Hudson with his daughters, might already have been informed of her wicked conduct; and Mr. Long was probably still engaged in the search for her. There was a duty she owed to her friends which her awakened conscience would not permit her to neglect. The family would be very anxious about her, for wayward and wilful as she had been, she felt that they still loved her. Procuring pen and paper, she wrote a letter to Mrs. Green, informing her that she should return home on Friday; that she would submit to any punishment, and endeavor to be good in the future. She sealed the note, and put it in the post-office, with a feeling that it was all she could do at present as an atonement for her faults. If it was not all she could do, it was an error of judgment, not of the heart.

On Thursday the form of Jenny was placed in the coffin. It was not a pauper's coffin; it was a black-walnut casket—plain, but rich—selected by Mrs. Porter, the physician's lady, who could not permit the form of one so beautiful to be enclosed in a less appropriate receptacle. The choicest flowers lay upon her breast, and a beautiful wreath and cross were placed upon the casket before the funeral services commenced.

The clergyman was a friend of Dr. Porter, and he was worthy to be the friend of so true a man. The service was solemn and touching; no word of hope and consolation was omitted because they stood in the humble abode of poverty and want. He spoke of the beautiful life and the happy death of Jenny, and prayed that her parents might be comforted; that the little brother might be blessed by her short life, and that "the devoted young friend, who had so tenderly watched over the last hours of the departed," might be sanctified by her holy ministrations. The father, living or dead, wherever suffering, or wherever battling against the foes of his country, was remembered.

Fanny wept, as all in the house wept, when the good man feelingly delineated the lovely character of her who was still so beautiful in her marble silence; when he recalled those tender scenes on the evening of her death, which had been faithfully described to him by Fanny. The casket was placed in the funeral car, and followed by two carriages,—one of which contained Mrs. Kent, Eddy, and Fanny, and the other the family of Dr. Porter,—to Greenwood Cemetery. Sadly the poor mother turned away from the resting-place of her earthly treasure, and the little cortege returned to the house from which the light had gone out. The last solemn, sacred duty had been performed; Jenny had gone, but her pure influence was still to live on, and bless those who had never even known her.

When the little party reached the house, Dr. Porter, after some remarks about the solemn scenes through which they had just passed, inquired more particularly than he had been permitted to do before into the circumstances of the family. He promised to procure for her the money due to her as a soldier's wife, and to obtain some light employment for her. Mrs. Kent was very grateful to him for his kind interest in herself, and in her lost one, assuring him that she did not ask for charity, and was willing to work hard for a support.

"You have been a blessing to me, Fanny," said Mrs. Kent, when the physician and his family had departed. "I am sure that God sent you here to save me from misery and despair. What should I have done if you had not come?"

"I think I was sent for my own sake, rather than for yours, for I know that it has been a greater blessing to me than to you," replied Fanny.

"That can't be."

"It is so. When I told Jenny that I had been a very wicked girl, I meant so."

"I'm sure that one who has been so kind can't be very bad," added Mrs. Kent, rather bewildered by the confession of her benefactor. "Where did you say you lived, Fanny?"

The wanderer had been obliged to invent a story in the beginning to account for her absence from home, and the poor woman's heart had been too full of gratitude to permit any doubt to enter there.

"I have deceived you, Mrs. Kent," replied Fanny, bursting into tears. "I do not live in the city; my home is twenty-five miles up the river. But I did not mean to deceive poor Jenny. I wanted to tell her what a wicked deed I had done, but she would not let me."

"She was too good to think evil of any one, and especially of you, who have been so generous to us."

"You know the paper she wrote and gave to me?"

"Yes."

"I know from that she believed I had done something very bad."

"Perhaps she did."

"She told me how to be good. The very sight of her made me feel how wicked I was. I mean to be good."

"Then I am sure you will be."

"I shall always think of Jenny, and the anchor she gave me, when I am tempted to do wrong. I feel that Jenny has saved me, and made me a new being."

"I'm sure I hope so; and I am glad you came here for your own sake, as well as for mine. But I can't believe that one who has been good to my dear lost one can be very bad," replied Mrs. Kent, gloomily.

"I am—at least, I was; for I know I am ever so much better than I was when I came here. I ran away from home!"

"Ran away!" exclaimed Mrs. Kent, appalled at the words.

"Yes; and I did even worse than that."

"Dear me! I hope not. I thought it was strange that a young lady like you should have so much money; but my heart was so full that I didn't think much about it."

"Mrs. Kent, I stole that money!" added Fanny, her face crimson with the blush of shame.

"Mercy on me! I can't believe it."

"It is true."

"It was wrong of me to take the money," added Mrs. Kent, actually trembling with apprehension at the thought. "I will pay it all back some time, Fanny. I can work now. I'm sure I wouldn't have taken the money if I had thought you did not come rightly by it."

Fanny then told the whole story, and described her feelings from the time she had first seen Mrs. Kent in front of the house.

"I am so sorry!" said the poor woman, wringing her hands as she thought of her own participation in the use of the stolen property. "I would rather have been turned out of the house than be saved by such money."

"Don't cry, Mrs. Kent. I am almost sorry I told you anything about it."

"I'm glad poor Jenny didn't know it."

"So am I; but I am sure she knew how guilty I had been, though she didn't know exactly what I had done."

"I think there is hope for you, Fanny. You must have a kind heart, or you couldn't have done what you did for Jenny. I'm sure I feel very grateful to you."

"Now you know me as I am, Mrs. Kent; but I tell you most solemnly, that I mean to be good always after this. I am sorry for my wicked deeds, and I am willing to be punished for what I have done. I shall always bless poor Jenny for saving me from error and sin—if I am saved."

"What are you going to do, Fanny?"

"I am going back to Woodville to-morrow morning. I will give up all the money I have, confess my fault, and let them do with me as they think best."

"You can tell them I will pay back all the money you spent for me, just as soon as I can."

"Mr. Grant is very rich, and he will not ask you to do that. He is very kind, too."

"But I must do it, and I shall have no peace till it is done," protested the poor woman. "I'll tell you what I will do. I will give you a note for the money."

Mrs. Kent was in earnest. She was sorely troubled by the fact that she had even innocently received any of the stolen money. In the evening she wrote the note, which was made payable to Mr. Grant, and insisted that Fanny should take it. They talked of nothing but the guilt of the runaway, though rather of the means of making reparation for the wrong, than of the consequences of the wrong acts. Mrs. Kent was fully convinced that Fanny was sincerely penitent; that her intercourse with Jenny had ushered her into a new life. She was even willing to believe, before they retired that night, that it was all for the best; that He who brings good out of evil, would bring a blessing out of the wrong which Fanny had done.

The next morning the wanderer bade farewell to Mrs. Kent, and took the train for Woodville.



CHAPTER XI.

PENITENCE AND PARDON.

Fanny arrived at the station near Woodville by the early train from the city. On the way, she had been thinking of her own guilt, and considering what she should do and say when she stood in the presence of her injured friends. She was not studying how to conceal or palliate her offence, but how she could best tell the whole truth. She gave herself no credit for any good deed she had done during her absence; she did not flatter herself that she had been benevolent and kind in using the stolen money as she had used it; she did not believe that her tender vigil at the bedside of the dying girl made her less guilty.

She felt that she deserved a severe punishment, and that it would do her good to suffer for what she had done. She was even willing to be sent to prison, to be disgraced, and banished from the happy home at Woodville, whose hospitality she had abused. She felt that the penalty of her errors, whatever it might be, would do her good. She was filled with contrition and shame as she left the station; she hung her head, and did not dare to look the people she met in the face. The Fanny who went from Woodville a few days before had returned an entirely different being.

Slowly and gloomily she walked down the road that led to the residence of Mr. Grant. It seemed as though she had been absent a year, and everything looked strange to her, though the change was all in herself. All the currents of her former life had ceased to flow; the movements of the wheel of events had been abruptly suspended. What gladdened her before did not gladden her now, and what had once been a joy was now a sorrow. She felt as though she had been transferred from the old world, in which she had rejoiced in mischief and wrong, to a new world, whose hopes and joys had not yet been revealed to her.

She approached the cottage of Mr. Long, the constable, who had probably been engaged in the search for her since her departure. She went up to the door and knocked. Mr. Long had just finished his breakfast, and she was shown into the little parlor.

"So you have got back, Fanny Grant," said he, very coldly and sternly, as he entered the room where she stood waiting for him.

"I have," she replied, just raising her eyes from the floor.

"Where have you been?"

"In New York city."

"Where did you stay?"

"At the house of a poor woman in the upper part of the city."

"I thought so; or I should have found you. You have been a very bad girl, Fanny."

"I know it, sir. You may send me to prison now, for I deserve the worst you can do to me," replied Fanny, choking with her emotions.

"You ought to be sent there. What did you come here for?"

"I stole the money, and I suppose you were sent to catch me. I am willing to be sent to prison."

"You are very obliging," sneered the constable. "We don't generally ask people whether they are willing or not when we send them to prison."

"I give myself up to you; and you can do with me what you think best."

"I know I can."

"You didn't catch me. I come here of myself; that is what I meant by saying that I was willing to be sent to prison."

"What have you done with the money you stole?" asked the constable, who was very much astonished at the singular conduct of Fanny.

"I have spent most of it."

"I suppose so," replied Mr. Long, who deemed it his duty to be stern and unsympathizing. "How did you spend it?"

"I will tell Mr. Grant all about it," answered Fanny, who did not care to repeat her story to such a person as the constable; and she felt that he would be fully justified in disbelieving her statements.

"Perhaps you will tell me, if I wish you to do so."

"I will, but I would rather tell Mr. Grant first, for it is a long story, and you will think it is a very strange one."

"No doubt it is," said the constable, perplexed by the replies of the culprit, and doubtful what course he should pursue.

"I suppose Mr. Grant has not got home yet," added Fanny. "You can put me in prison till he gets back; or I will solemnly promise you I will not run away."

"Your promises are not worth much. Mr. Grant has got home. He came home just as soon as he heard that you had gone off. You have given him a heap of trouble, and you must settle the case with him. I will take you over to the house, and I promise you I won't lose sight of you again."

"I will not attempt to get away," replied Fanny, meekly.

"I won't trust you," said Mr. Long, putting on his hat.

"I don't ask you to trust me."

"Come with me," he added, taking her by the arm.

"You need not hold me; I will not run away," said Fanny, as she left the house with the constable, who seemed determined to hold on to her as though she were some desperate ruffian, instead of a weak and self-convicted girl.

"You won't get away from me, you may depend upon it," continued Mr. Long, as they walked towards the mansion of Mr. Grant.

The constable seemed to be actuated by the vanity to make people believe that he had made a capture, and he did not release his grasp upon his prisoner till they reached their destination. They met several people, who stopped and stared at them, and evidently thought the constable had done a great thing. Mr. Long rang the bell at the front door. The man-servant, who admitted them, started with astonishment when he saw Fanny. They were shown to the library, and informed that Mr. Grant was at breakfast.

"You can sit down in that chair," said the constable, pointing to a seat. "If you attempt to get away, I shall put the handcuffs on you."

"I don't want to get away. I came back of my own accord," replied Fanny, astonished rather than indignant at the absurd behavior of the constable.

"You are bad enough to do almost anything."

"I hope I am not so bad as I was."

"Perhaps you do hope so; but we shall see."

"Can you tell me where Kate Magner is now?" asked Fanny, as Mr. Long relapsed into silence and pompous dignity.

"She is at home, I suppose. She wasn't quite bad enough for you, it seems."

"I hope she was not punished for what she did, for it was all my fault."

"That's a fact. You have told the truth for once."

"I mean always to tell the truth now, Mr. Long," said Fanny.

"When you have done it a while, perhaps we can believe you. The Magner girl told the whole story, and delivered up the money you gave her; that saved her."

"I am glad she was not punished."

"She was punished."

"Then I am sorry, for it was I who led her away."

"We all know that. Now, be still; Mr. Grant is coming," said the constable.

Mr. Grant entered the library, and walked towards the chair where Fanny sat, taking no notice of the constable. He paused before her, looking very sad, but very stern. Fanny's bosom was bounding with emotion. She trembled; her heart was rising up into her throat, and choking her. She raised her eyes from the floor and glanced at him,—only one glance at that sad, stern face,—and then burst into tears. She did not mean to weep; did not mean to do anything which could appeal to the sympathy of her kind friend and benefactor, but she could not help it.

"I have brought her up to you, Mr. Grant," said the constable.

"Where did you find her?"

Mr. Long would have preferred to let Mr. Grant believe that he had caught her himself; but the question was so direct that he could only give a direct answer.

"She came to my house this morning."

"Very well, Mr. Long; I will not trouble you to remain any longer," added Mr. Grant.

"I hope you will not let her get away from you, sir," said the constable, who thought his official position was slighted by this intimation; and he was curious to hear what the culprit had to say for herself.

"I will not try to get away, Mr. Grant," interposed Fanny.

"There is no fear of her getting away, even if she is disposed to do so."

Mr. Long found himself obliged to leave, his office ignored, and his curiosity ungratified.

"Where have you been, Fanny Jane?" asked Mr. Grant, when the constable had gone, his tones being the counterpart of his stern, sad face.

"In New York," replied Fanny, still sobbing.

"What have you done with the money you took from the drawer in the closet?"

"I spent most of it."

"For what did you spend it?"

"I have come back to tell the whole truth, Mr. Grant. I have been very wicked and ungrateful to you. I am very sorry for what I have done; I don't ask you to forgive me, for I know you can't. I am willing to be punished as you think best, for I deserve the worst you can do to me."

Mr. Grant was a tender-hearted man. Perhaps his own children had suffered from the gentleness of his nature; if they had, the injury had been more than compensated for in the blessings imparted by his tenderness. He was more than astonished at the attitude of the returned wanderer. Fanny had never before been known to be in such a frame of mind. The sternness of his expression passed away; there was nothing but the sadness left. Probably he doubted the sincerity of the culprit's contrition; at least he did not realize the depth and earnestness of it.

"I will hear whatever you wish to say," replied he, seating himself in his easy chair.

"I have been so wicked that I know you will find it hard to believe me; but I mean to tell the whole truth," sobbed Fanny.

"I hope you do. You may wait till you are better able to speak. The letter you sent to Mrs. Green informed us where you were, but we were unable to find you."

"I came home as soon as I could; and I did not wish you to find me till I had done what I had to do," answered Fanny, drying her tears.

She then commenced the narrative of her adventures from the time she had parted with Miss Fanny. She told how she had let the cat out of the drawer, and how she had found where the money was actually concealed; she related very minutely every incident that had occurred up to the time she had seen Mr. O'Shane and Mrs. Kent in front of the house in New York. At this point Mr. Grant became intensely interested in the story, and when Fanny said that she had paid the poor woman's rent with one hundred dollars of the stolen money, a slight smile gathered upon his sad face.

Then she related the particulars of her interview with the sick girl, mentioning even the hymns she had sung to her. She described as well as she could the impression made upon her by the beautiful and patient sufferer; the sense of her own guilt and wickedness, which had then and there dawned upon her; and the oppressive burden she had borne in her soul when she went down into the city, which did not permit her to enjoy the pleasures of the great metropolis for which she had stolen the money, and run away from her home. Fanny was eloquent, but the simple truth was her only inspiration.

Mr. Grant evidently understood the frame of mind which she described, and when she came to her final interview with the dying girl, he could hardly repress a tear in his own eyes. Fanny omitted nothing, but told every incident, and repeated all she could remember of the conversation of poor Jenny,—and hardly a word of it was forgotten,—confirming her statement by exhibiting the anchor on her bosom, and the paper given her by the dying saint.

Mr. Grant read the paper, and the tears came to his eyes in spite of his efforts to suppress them.

"For her sake, Fanny, I forgive you," said he.

"I do not deserve to be forgiven, sir," sobbed Fanny.

"I could not resist such an appeal as this," answered Mr. Grant, glancing at the paper again.

"I would have come home then, when poor Jenny was gone, but I thought I ought to stay and do what I could for the poor woman;" and Fanny continued her narrative, describing everything that took place at Mrs. Kent's till her departure, including her visit to Dr. Porter's, the funeral, and her confession to the bereaved mother.

"Mrs. Kent felt very bad when I told her that I had stolen the money; and she promised to pay you all I had spent for her. She gave me this note for you," continued Fanny, handing him the paper.

Mr. Grant glanced at it, and put it in his pocket.

"Fanny, if your penitence is sincere, as I hope and believe it is, I shall be thankful that this event has happened," said he. "I should have been glad of an opportunity to do what you have done with my money. It would have been wrong for you to steal it, even to relieve the distress of so needy and deserving a person as the soldier's wife; but you have put it to a good use. It is impossible for me to doubt your story, but I wish to confirm it. When you have had your breakfast, you may go to the city with me, and we will visit Mrs. Kent."

"I have told the whole truth, Mr. Grant; and I am willing to do anything you say. I did not ask or expect to be forgiven."

"I could have forgiven you, even without the request of the dying girl."

"I do not deserve it. I expected to be sent to prison," sobbed the penitent.

"I never thought of sending you to prison, or to any such place. I say I forgive you, but I shall be compelled to send you to your uncle's in Minnesota."

"I am willing to go," replied Fanny, who, a week before, would have deemed this a greater hardship than being sent to prison.

Fanny went to her breakfast. Mrs. Green and the servants were surprised, not to say disgusted, to see Mr. Grant treat her with so much tenderness.



CHAPTER XII.

THE NEW HOME.

When Fanny had finished her breakfast, she put on her best clothes, and started for New York with Mr. Grant, who, perhaps, was more desirous of assisting the mother of Jenny than of confirming the story to which he had just listened with so much interest and sympathy. We need not say that the narrative of the returned wanderer was found to be true in every respect, or that Mr. Grant destroyed the poor woman's note of hand, by which she promised to pay the sums Fanny had expended in her behalf.

Mrs. Kent, while she condemned and regretted the misdeeds of Fanny, was enthusiastic in the praise she bestowed upon her kindness to the dying girl, and of her tenderness and devotion in those last trying hours. Mr. Grant could not doubt that a great change had come over Fanny; that she earnestly intended to lead a true and good life. Whether she would persevere, and in any degree realize her present high aspirations, remained yet to be demonstrated; but he was hopeful. The solemn and impressive scene through which she had passed had left deep impressions upon her mind and heart, which he hoped would prove as lasting as they were strong.

Mr. Grant called with Fanny to see Dr. Porter; and the benevolent physician gladdened his heart by the warm commendations he lavished upon Fanny; and, without knowing of her misdeeds, he declared she was a treasure in whom her friends ought continually to rejoice. It was not necessary that he should know what evil she had done, for he might never see her again, and Mr. Grant's business with him related solely to the future comfort of the soldier's family. The doctor had done everything that could be done for Mrs. Kent, and his family were so deeply interested in the poor woman that she was not likely to suffer in the future. Mr. Grant promised to see him again, and cooeperate with him in doing what might be needed for her comfort and happiness.

Mr. Grant and Fanny returned to Woodville by the noon train. The penitent girl felt that she had been forgiven, and the kindness of her friend made her all the more determined to be faithful to the resolutions she had made. She had not hoped to escape the punishment she merited, and had not been prepared for the tender words which had been addressed to her when it was evident that her penitence was real.

"Fanny," said Mr. Grant, as they entered the library, on her return, "I shall, as I said before, be obliged to send you to your uncle in Minnesota."

"I am willing to go, sir," replied she, humbly.

"I understand you have frequently declared that you would not go."

"I have, but I am sorry I said anything of the kind."

"But I do not intend to send you there as a punishment for what you have done. I freely forgive you."

"You are very kind to me, Mr. Grant, and I will do anything you wish without complaining."

"I am glad to see so excellent a spirit in you, which makes me sorry to send you away at this time. If your conduct had warranted it before, I might have made different arrangements; but it is too late now. I have written to your uncle, informing him that you would be with him next week. I promised him and your aunt, when I brought you here, that you should be returned to them in two years; and that time has now expired. We shall be absent in Europe about six months; when we return, if your uncle is willing, I should be very glad to have you come back to Woodville. I hope you will like your aunt better than you used to like her."

"I shall, sir."

Mr. Grant did not think it necessary to indulge in any long lectures. He had forgiven Fanny, and he hoped her future conduct would justify his clemency. Mrs. Green and the servants saw that she was a different being. She was no longer rough, disobedient, and impertinent, for she entered at once upon her effort to be kind and obliging to all in the house. In the afternoon Mr. Grant went up to Hudson, where he had left Bertha and Fanny. When he had gone, the reformed girl paid a visit to Ben the boatman, still confined to his bed with the rheumatism. She surprised him by offering to read to him from the Bible—an offer which he gladly accepted.

The next day she went to school, carrying a note to the teacher, which Mr. Grant had written for her. She expected to be reproached and reproved here, but the teacher did not allude to her past conduct, prompted in this course by the note; her companions were astonished and awed by her quiet dignity, and even Kate Magner said less than might have been expected. Fanny told her what had happened after the separation at Pennville, and solemnly assured her that she intended always to be a good girl in the future.

Fanny spent Saturday afternoon with Ben, seated by his bedside till dark, reading and singing to him, giving him his medicine, and supplying all his wants. She told him the story of her wanderings in New York, of the death and the funeral of Jenny, all of which the kindness and tenderness of Fanny to himself made real. He commended her good resolutions, and hoped that, in her new home in the West, she would be able to carry them out.

On Monday the family returned from Hudson, and Fanny repeated her story to Bertha and her sister. They were moved to tears by her narrative. It had seemed to them that nothing short of a miracle could reform the wayward girl; but the miracle had been wrought, as was fully proved during the remainder of Fanny's stay at Woodville. It did not seem possible that the gentle and obliging girl, who was a blessing to all in the house, had ever been the grief and the sorrow of her friends, a thorn and a torment to all who came in contact with her.

When the time for Fanny to leave for Minnesota arrived, it was hard for the family to part with her. Miss Fanny begged that the arrangements might be altered; that she might be permitted to remain at Woodville, or even to go to Europe with them; but her father thought it best that the original plan should be carried out; he believed that it would be better for Fanny herself. There were many tears shed when they parted. Miss Fanny was sorry to lose her protegee just as her teachings, quickened into life by her visit to the city, were beginning to bear their fruits.

Mr. Grant had decided to attend the young traveller to her new home, for he was unwilling to trust her to the care of any chance friend who might undertake the charge of her, fearful lest the good impressions which were beginning to take root in her soul might be weakened during the long journey. They travelled leisurely, and at the end of a week reached Mankato, at the great bend of the Minnesota River, in the southern part of the state.

John Grant, Fanny's uncle, lived at a settlement near the southern line of the state, about seventy miles from Mankato; and thither Mr. Grant and Fanny proceeded in a wagon, hired for the purpose. They were warmly welcomed by the settlers, who seldom saw any one from the busy walks of civilization. Mr. Grant remained but one day, which he used mainly in informing the future guardians of Fanny in regard to her moral, mental, and spiritual needs. He told them of the change which had come over her, and hoped they would do all they could to foster and encourage the growth of her good principles. When he had faithfully discharged his duty to his late charge, he took an affectionate leave of her, and departed for his home, returning to Mankato in the wagon by which he had come.

Fanny now entered upon her new life, and had an opportunity to take a survey of her future home. The settlement consisted of about fifty persons, most of whom had emigrated from states east of the Mississippi. Among them were a few Germans, Swedes, and Norwegians. The country was a perfect garden by nature, and the rich, deep soil produced the most abundant crops. The settlement was located on one of those beautiful lakes for which Minnesota is distinguished, whose bright, clear waters abound in fish. The lake was eight miles in length, with an average width of about three miles. From it flowed a small stream, and after receiving other tributaries, discharged its waters into the Watonwan, which in its turn entered the Minnesota.

John Grant was one of the most important persons at the settlement. He had cleared up a large farm on the border of the lake, and, with more means at the beginning than most of his neighbors, had realized a high degree of prosperity. As he had no children of his own, he was glad to have Fanny as a member of his family, especially since he had learned of the improvement in her conduct.

About one third of the population of the settlement were children, and a school had been established for their benefit. The instructor, Mr. Osborne, a young man, brother of one of the settlers, had lost his right leg and his left arm by a terrible railroad accident. He was a graduate of an Ohio college, and had been engaged in preparing himself for the ministry when the calamity occurred which rendered him unfit for the active duties of life. From choice rather than from necessity, he remained with his brother at the settlement, being both teacher and preacher.

Fanny immediately entered his school, and devoted herself with great earnestness to her studies. She soon became a favorite of Mr. Osborne, who had learned a portion of her history, and felt a strong interest in her welfare. She was a good scholar, and her progress was entirely satisfactory to her teacher.

In the home of her uncle, Fanny found, on her arrival, a boy of her own age. His name was Ethan French; and he had come from Illinois with Mr. Grant to work on the farm. He had no parents living, and was expected to remain with his employer till he was twenty-one. He was an uncouth fellow, and though he could read, write, and cipher, he seemed to be as uncultivated and bearish as the wild Indians that roamed through the country. Fanny tried to be his friend, and never neglected an opportunity to do him a kindness; but the more she tried to serve him, the more the distance between them seemed to be increased.

"I don't want nothin' to do with gals," was a favorite maxim with Ethan; and Fanny found it impossible to be very sociable with him. He did not repel or resent her well-meant advances; but he edged off, and got out of the way as fast as he could.

Fanny had made up her mind, before she came to her uncle's home, to be contented and happy there; and she was surprised to find that she liked her new residence very much. Her aunt was by no means the person her former experience had taught her to believe she was. Fanny was docile and obedient, and Mrs. Grant was no longer unjust and tyrannical. They agreed together remarkably well, and during the short period they were permitted to be together, no hard thoughts existed, and no harsh words passed between them.

Though Fanny had not been accustomed to work at Woodville, she readily adapted herself to her new station. There were no servants at the settlement; people did their own work; and Fanny, true to the good principles she had chosen, did all she could to assist her aunt.

Let it not be supposed that Fanny had no temptations; that the new life upon which she had entered was free from peril and struggles. She was tempted from within and without; tempted to be unjust, unkind, wilful, and disobedient. We cannot even say that she did not sometimes yield to those temptations; but she prayed for strength to resist them. She labored to be true to her high purpose. The anchor which she always wore on her breast frequently reminded her of her short-comings—frequently recalled the memories of the dying angel who had spoken peace to her troubled soul.

"HOPE AND HAVE," she often said to herself; and the words were a talisman to keep her in the path of duty. Continually she kept before her what she hoped to be, and continually she labored to attain the high and beautiful ideal of a true life.

She was happy in her new home, and her friends were happy in her presence there; but not long was this happiness to continue, for even then was gathering in the distance the storm which was to overwhelm them with woe and desolation. An experience of the most awful and trying character was in store for Fanny, for which her growth in grace and goodness was the best, and indeed the only preparation.

By treaty and purchase the United States government had obtained vast tracts of the lands of the various sub-tribes of the Sioux and Dakotah Indians. By the original treaty the natives had reserved for their own use the country on both sides of the Minnesota River, including a tract one hundred and fifty miles in length by twenty in breadth. When the Senate of the United States came to act upon the treaty, it was made a condition of the approval that this reservation should also be ceded to the whites. The Indians assented to the condition, but no lands being appropriated for their use, as agreed, they had moved upon the reservation, and their right to it was recognized.

A portion of this reservation was subsequently acquired by purchase, but the Indians continued to occupy the rest of it. By the various treaties, the Indians were paid certain sums of money every year, and supplied with quantities of goods, such as blankets, clothing, tools, and arms. But the money was not paid, nor the goods delivered, when due. The Indians were cheated by traders, and the debts due the latter were taken from the money to be paid the former. The neglect of the government,—fully occupied in suppressing the rebellion at the South,—and the immense frauds practised upon the simple natives, roused their indignation, and stirred up a hatred which culminated in the most terrible Indian massacre recorded in the annals of our country.



CHAPTER XIII.

THE INDIAN MASSACRE.

Though there were no Indians residing very near the Lake Settlement, they frequently visited the place, and the settlers were on familiar terms with them. At the house of John Grant they were always treated with kindness and a generous hospitality. Among those who sometimes came was a chief called Lean Bear. Fanny was much interested in these denizens of the forest, and she exerted herself to please them, and particularly the chief of the Red Irons, as his tribe was called. She sang to him, brought him milk and bread, and treated him like a great man. He was a brawny fellow, morose and savage, and though he smiled slightly, he did not seem to appreciate her kindness.

About the 15th of August, when Fanny had been at the settlement less than two months, Mr. Grant started for one of the Indian Agencies, on the Minnesota River, for the purpose of procuring supplies of the traders in that vicinity. He went with a wagon and a span of horses, intending to be absent ten days.

One morning, when he had been gone a week, Mrs. Grant was milking the cows, of which they kept twenty. Ethan was helping her, and Fanny, not yet a proficient in the art, was doing what she could to assist. Doubtless she was rather bungling in the operation, for the cow was not as patient as usual.

"Seems like you gals from the east don't know much," laughed Ethan. "You are on the wrong side of the creetur."

"So I am! I thought there was something wrong, for the cow don't stand quiet," replied Fanny.

"No wonder; cows allers wants things did accordin' to rule," added Ethan.

"I didn't mind that I was on the wrong side."

"What do the gals do out east that they don't know how to milk?"

"They don't milk there."

"They don't do nothin'—do they?"

"Not much; at least, they didn't at Woodville."

"Well, gals isn't good for much, nohow," said Ethan, philosophically, as he commenced milking another cow.

"They can do some things as well as boys."

"Perhaps they kin; but you couldn't milk a cow till you kim out hyer."

"I could not."

"Hokee!" suddenly exclaimed Ethan. "What's all that mean?"

"What, Ethan?"

"Don't you see all them hosses up to the house? Hokee! Them's Injins, as sure's you live!"

Fanny looked, and saw about twenty Indians ride up to the house and dismount. The sight did not alarm her, though it was rather early in the morning for such a visit.

"D'ye see all them Injins, Miss Grant?" said Ethan to his mistress.

"Dear me! What can they want at this time in the morning? I must go into the house, and see to them, for they'll steal like all possessed."

Mrs. Grant put her milk-pail in a safe place, and hastened to the house, which she reached before any of the savages had secured their horses. Five or six of the visitors entered by the front door, and the rest assembled in a group, a short distance from the dwelling.

"I wonder what them redskins wants here so airly in the mornin'," mused Ethan, when Mrs. Grant had gone. "I wonder ef they know there ain't no one to home but women folks and boys."

"Suppose they do know,—what then?" asked Fanny.

"Nothin'; only I reckon they kim to steal sunthin'."

"They wouldn't steal from aunt Grant."

"Wouldn't they, though!" exclaimed Ethan, incredulously.

"She has been very kind to them."

"They'd steal from their own mothers," added Ethan, as he finished milking another cow, and moved towards a third.

As he crossed the yard he stopped to look at the horses, and to see what had become of the riders.

"Hokee!" cried he, using his favorite expression when excited.

"What's the matter, Ethan?" asked Fanny.

"As true as you live, one of them hosses is 'Whiteskin,'" replied he, alluding to one of Mr. Grant's animals.

"One of the Indian horses?"

"Yes; as true as you live! I kin see the old scar on his flank."

"Where could the Indians get him?"

"That's what I want to know," continued Ethan, now so much excited that he could not think of his milking. "Creation hokee!" he added—his usual expression when extraordinarily excited.

"What is it?"

"Creation hokee!" repeated Ethan.

"What do you see, Ethan?" demanded Fanny, who was now so much interested that she abandoned her occupation.

"There's the t'other hoss!" replied Ethan. "They've got both on 'em."

"Where could they get them?" said Fanny, who regarded the fact indicated by her companion as sufficiently ominous to excite her alarm.

"That's what I'd like to hev some 'un tell me. Fanny, I tell you sunthin' hes happened."

At this moment a shrill and terrible scream was heard in the direction of the house, followed by the sharp crack of a rifle. Ethan and Fanny, appalled by the sounds, looked towards the house. They saw Mrs. Grant rush from the back door, and then fall upon the ground. Two or three Indians followed her, in one of whom Fanny recognized Lean Bear, the stalwart chief she had endeavored to conciliate. He bent over the prostrate form of the woman, was seen to strike several blows with his tomahawk, and then to use his terrible scalping-knife.

At the sound of the rifle, which seemed to be a signal for the purpose, the savages who had grouped together outside of the house rushed in, yelling and hooting like demons.

"Creation hokee!" gasped Ethan, his face as nearly white as its sun-browned hue would permit.

Fanny's blood was chilled in her veins; she could not speak, and her limbs seemed to be paralyzed. And now in the distance harsh and discordant sounds rose on the still morning air. They came from the direction of the other portions of the settlement. The shrill screams of women, the hoarse cries of men, and the unearthly yells of the savages, mingled in horrible confusion. It was evident to the appalled listeners that a fearful Indian massacre had commenced. They had seen Mrs. Grant fall; had seen the fierce Lean Bear tomahawk and scalp her.

It was madness to stand still in the midst of so much peril, but both Ethan and Fanny seemed to be chained to the spot where they stood, fascinated, as it were, by the anguished cries of agony and death that were borne to their revolting senses by the airs of that summer morning. The savages were at that moment busy in ransacking and plundering the house, but Fanny realized that she might be the next victim; that the tomahawk of the terrible Lean Bear might be glaring above her head in a few moments more. She trembled like an aspen leaf in the extremity of her terror, as she heard the terrific cries uttered by the mangled, mutilated, dying men, women, and children, far enough off to be but faintly heard, yet near enough to be horribly distinct.

"It's time sunthin' was did," said Ethan, with quivering lips.

"What can we do?" asked Fanny, in a husky whisper.

"We must git out of sight fust. Come along with me, Fanny," added Ethan, as he led the way into the barn.

"They will find us here," said Fanny.

"P'rhaps they will; but there ain't nowhere else to go to."

"Why not run away as fast as we can?"

"We kin run, but I reckon bullets will travel faster 'n we kin."

Ethan went up a ladder to the top of the hay-mow, and Fanny followed him. He carried up with him a small hay-fork, with which he went vigorously to work in burrowing out a hole in the hay. Fanny assisted him with her hands, and in a few moments they had made an aperture deep enough to accommodate them. This hiding-place had been made in the back part of the mow, next to the side of the barn, where there were wide cracks between the boards, through which they could receive air enough to prevent them from being stifled.

"Now, you get in, Fanny, and I'll fix the hay so I kin tumble it all down on top on us, and bury us up."

"Suppose they should set the barn afire," suggested Fanny.

"Then they will; we must take our chances, such as they be. We hain't got much chance nohow."

Fanny stepped down into the hole; Ethan followed her, and pulled the mass of hay over so that it fell upon them. They were four or five feet below the surface of the hay.

"I would rather be killed by a bullet than burned to death in the fire," said Fanny, with a shudder, when her companion had adjusted the hay so as to afford them the best possible means of concealment.

"P'rhaps they wouldn't kill you with a bullet. Them redskins is awful creeturs. They might hack you all to pieces with their knives and tomahawks," whispered Ethan.

"It's horrible!" added Fanny, quivering with emotion.

"I've hearn tell that there was some trouble with the redskins up on to the reserves; and I knowed sunthin' had happened when I see them two hosses. I was kind o' skeery when the varmints rid up to the house."

"Do you suppose they have killed my uncle?" asked Fanny, sick at heart.

"I s'pose they hev," answered Ethan, gloomily. "I reckon we'd better keep still, and not say nothin'. Some o' the redskins may be lookin' for us. They're pesky cunnin'."

This was good advice, and Fanny needed no persuasion to induce her to follow it. Through the cracks in the side of the barn she could see a few houses of the settlement; and through these apertures came also the hideous sounds which denoted the progress of the massacre. Great piles of curling smoke were rising from the burning buildings of the devoted settlers, and the work of murder and pillage still continued, as the relentless savages passed from place to place in the execution of their diabolical mission.

The greater part of the detachment which had halted at the house of Mr. Grant had now departed, though the sounds which came from the dwelling indicated that the rest were still there. Lean Bear knew the members of Mr. Grant's household. With his own hand he had slain the woman who had so often fed him, and ministered to his necessities, thus belying the traditional character of his race; and it was not probable that he would abandon his object without a diligent search for the missing members of the family.

Fanny was safe for the present moment, but the next instant might doom her to a violent death, to cruel torture, or to a captivity more to be dreaded than either death or torture. She trembled with mortal fear, and dreaded the revelations of each new second of time with an intensity of horror which cannot be understood or described.

"They are comin' out of the house," said Ethan, in a tremulous whisper. "There's seven on 'em."

"Are they coming this way?"

"No; they are lookin' round arter us. They are going down to the lake."

"I hope they won't come here."

"But they will kim here, as sure as you live."

"Do you ever pray, Ethan?" asked Fanny, impressively.

"Not much," replied he, evasively.

"Let us pray to God. He can help us, and He will, if we ask Him in the right spirit."

"I dunno how," added Ethan.

"I will pray for both of us. The Indians can't hear us now, but God can."

Fanny, in a whisper, uttered a brief and heart-felt prayer for protection and safety from the savage monsters who were thirsting for their blood. She prayed earnestly, and never before had her supplications come so directly from her heart. She pleaded for herself and for her companion, and the good Father seemed to be very near to her as she poured forth her simple petition.

"Thy will, not ours, be done," she murmured, as she thought that it might not be the purpose of "Him who doeth all things well" to save them from the tomahawk of the Indians. If it was not His will that they should pass in safety through this ordeal of blood, she asked that they might be happy in death, or submissive to whatever fate was in store for them.

Ethan listened to the prayer, and seemed to join earnestly in the petitions it contained. With his more devout companion, he felt that God was able to save them, to blunt the edges of the weapons raised to destroy them, or to transform their savage and bitter foes into the warmest and truest of friends.

"I feel better," said Fanny, after a moment of silence at the conclusion of the prayer.

"So do I," replied Ethan, whose altered look and more resolute tones confirmed his words. "I feel like I could fight some o' them Injins."

"We can do nothing by resistance."

"I dunno; if they don't burn the house, I reckon I know whar to find some shootin' fixin's."

"Where?"

"Mr. Grant sort o' hid his rifle and things, for fear some un might steal 'em, I s'pose. I know where they be; and I reckon them redskins won't find 'em."

"Let us not think of resistance. There must be hundreds of Indians at the settlement."

"'Sh!" said Ethan, impressively. "They're comin'."

The light step of the moccasoned feet of the savages was now distinctly heard in the barn. Their guttural jargon grated harshly on the ears of the fugitives in their concealment, as they tremblingly waited the issue.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE INDIAN BOY.

Above the voices of the other savages, the harsh and heavy tones of Lean Bear were prominent. He spoke in the Indian dialect, and of course the anxious fugitives could not understand what he said; but he seemed to be angry and impatient, disappointed and chagrined; and Ethan and Fanny readily inferred that, as he was searching for them, he was the more ferocious because he could not find them. They lay silent and motionless in their hiding-place, hardly daring to breathe, lest a sound should reach the quick ears of their relentless foes.

The Indians searched in every nook and cranny of the barn where a human being could possibly be concealed. They climbed to the top of the mow, pulled over the hay, jumped upon it, and thrust their knives deep down. The fugitives felt the weight of the pursuers pressing heavily down upon them; they realized that the points of the bloody knives were within a short distance of their vital organs; but, breathless and silent, they lay in the most agonizing suspense, expecting to be dragged from their retreat, and subjected to atrocities which it froze their blood to think of.

The remorseless miscreants howled with disappointed rage as the search was abandoned. Fanny and Ethan drew a long sigh of relief when they heard their foes on the floor beneath them. The good Father to whom they prayed so earnestly had dimmed the eyes of the savages so that they could not see, and the danger of that terrible moment passed by them. Fanny breathed her thanks to God for her safety—she did not dare to speak them.

The savages consulted together, using brief, sharp, and exciting sentences. Their words were not understood, and no clew to their future purposes could be obtained. Lean Bear spoke in tones even more savage than he had used before, and the steps of the Indians were heard as they left the barn.

"Hev they gone?" asked Ethan, in a convulsive whisper.

"Yes, I think they have," replied Fanny, in a tone not less agitated. "Let us thank God that we are still safe."

"Don't whistle till you get out o' the woods," added Ethan, who referred, not to the thanks, but to the exultation which his companion appeared to feel at their apparent safety.

"We must be thankful and submissive, Ethan. We have been saved this time, whatever may happen next."

"I am thankful."

"I know you are. We must trust in our Father in heaven if we expect him to hear our prayer."

"'Sh!" interposed Ethan, as he became silent and motionless again.

The voices of the Indians were heard near the barn again, and other moments of agonizing suspense were in store for the fugitives. The gruff tones of Lean Bear rose above those of his companions, and it was evident that they had not yet given up the search.

"Ho, ho, ho! He, he, he!" yelled the monsters, which cries were to them expressions of satisfaction.

It was painfully clear to Ethan and Fanny that the Indians had made some important discovery, or done some act which would accomplish their purpose. More agonizing than the thought came the reality, a few moments afterwards, while the wretches outside of the barn were still shouting their hideous yells. A smell of smoke, accompanied by a sharp, crackling sound, assured the waiting, trembling couple in the hay-mow that their worst fears were realized. The Indians had set fire to the barn.

"We are lost!" exclaimed Fanny. "They have set fire to the barn!"

"'Sh! Don't say a word," interposed Ethan.

"We shall be burned to death!"

"Don't give up; keep still."

"Keep still?" repeated Fanny, amazed at the self-possession of her companion. "We shall be burned to death in a few minutes."

"Don't say nothin', Fanny."

It was not easy to keep still in that terrible moment of peril, but Ethan seemed to know what he was about, and his coolness and courage acted as inspiration upon his terrified companion. Fanny prayed again, in a hardly audible whisper; but this time, Ethan, though perhaps his heart was with her, was thinking of something else. She felt more calm after her prayer, though the dense smoke and the snapping flames admonished her that death was close at hand. The rough prairie boy looked resolute, and seemed to have conquered his fears. She wondered whether he had discovered any possible avenue of escape, for nothing but the promptings of a strong hope, whether real or delusive, could have produced such a change in his bearing.

"Better be burned up, than butchered by the redskins," said he, at last.

Was this the explanation of his new-born courage? It was a terrible alternative, but Fanny was forced to believe that what he said was true.

"Is there no escape for us?"

"Don'no; whar's the Injins now?"

"I don't hear them," replied Fanny.

"Nuther do I. We must stay here jest as long as we kin."

"But the barn is on fire! If we are going to get out at all, we must do so at once."

"Don't hurry. The fire's all out to t'other end o' the barn. It won't hurt us jest yit," said Ethan, with wonderful coolness. "I s'pose the Injins is in a hurry, and they won't stop no longer'n they want to. Jest as soon as they move off we'll git out."

"How shall we get out after the barn is all in a blaze?"

"That's easy enough. I ain't a bit afeered of the fire, but I am pesky skeered of the Injins."

The confidence of Ethan increased the courage of Fanny. She had more to dread from the Indians than he had, and if he preferred to die by the flames, she ought to be willing to share his fate. She commended her soul and that of her companion to God, and tried to be calm and resolute, and she succeeded to an extent which astonished herself.

The fire was rapidly leaping upward, and the barn was soon enveloped in flames. The Indians could not now be seen through the cracks, nor could their voices be heard, and the fire-besieged fugitives supposed they had gone to new fields of blood and rapine.

"We can't stand it much longer—kin we?" said Ethan, as they heard the crash of some falling timbers at the other end of the building.

"We are not burned yet, but I am nearly suffocated by the smoke," replied Fanny. "Do you suppose the Indians are gone?"

"I reckon they be; but they hain't gone fur yit," added Ethan, as he applied his shoulder to one of the boards on the side of the barn.

"Let me help you," said Fanny.

"You ain't nothin' but a gal, and you can't do much," replied Ethan.

He was a stout boy, and the board, only slightly nailed, gave way before the pressure he applied to it; but it required a great deal of labor to detach it from the timbers above and below. He had not begun this work a moment too soon, for the flames were sweeping over the surface of the mow, and the roof was falling in upon them. The barn was stored full of new hay, which, being partially green, did not burn very readily, especially the solid masses of it. The heat was intense, and nothing but a greater peril without could have forced them to remain so long in the building.

The first board was removed, and then a second, leaving an opening wide enough for them to get out. They were about fifteen feet above the level of the ground, but there was no difficulty, even to Fanny, in the descent, though some young ladies might have regarded this minor obstacle as one of some importance. Ethan thrust his head out at the aperture, and looked in every direction his position commanded a view of, in search of the Indians, but none of them were in sight.

"Be quick, Ethan, or the fire will be upon us," said Fanny, who began to feel the near approach of the flames above her.

"Where shall we go when we get out? We must understand matters a leetle grain aforehand."

"I think we had better go down to the lake. We can take the boat and go over to the island."

"That's fust rate," replied Ethan, with enthusiasm. "The Injins hain't got no boats, and can't foller us. Now we'll go down; but be keerful. It would be miser'ble to break your neck here, arter gittin' clear of the fire and the Injins both."

Ethan descended, holding on at each side of the aperture with his hands, and thrusting his feet into the solid mass of hay in the mow. Fanny, adopting the same method, also reached the ground in safety.

"'Sh!" said Ethan, as he took her arm. "Run for them bushes!" and he pointed to a little thicket near the barn.

Fanny ran with all her speed to the bushes, and concealed herself behind them. She was immediately followed by Ethan. The barn was now nearly consumed; the portion of the roof which had not before fallen in, now sunk down with a crash upon the masses of burning hay. The lake was beyond the house, which they were obliged to pass in order to reach their destination.

"I s'pose the sooner we start, the sooner we'll git there," said Ethan, after he had carefully surveyed the ground to ascertain if any savages were near.

"I am ready, Ethan. I will do whatever you say."

"We'll go now, then. Foller me, Fanny."

Ethan led the way, but they had hardly emerged from the bushes before they were appalled to find that they were discovered by their savage foes.

"Ho, ho, ho!" yelled the Indians from behind them.

It appeared that Lean Bear and his companions had waited in the vicinity until the burning barn was so far consumed that it was not deemed possible for a human being to remain concealed in it, and then moved off towards another part of the settlement. With watchful eyes behind as well as before them, they had discovered the young fugitives when they left the clump of bushes.

"Ho, ho, ho!" shouted the painted wretches, as they gave chase to Fanny and Ethan.

"Run for the house!" cried Ethan.

"Why not for the lake?" asked Fanny, in an agony of despair.

"They'll ketch you afore you git half way there. Run for the house!"

They were both running with all their might; and Fanny, though against her judgment, directed her steps to the house. As they approached the back door, an Indian boy and a squaw came out of the building, where they had probably been searching for such valuables as might have escaped the hasty observation of the party who had sacked the premises. The boy was apparently about ten years old, and the woman appeared to be his mother.