There are boys to be found in every large school who delight in playing practical jokes, and in teazing and tormenting those who are susceptible of annoyance in this way. There was a large, stout boy in Dr. Hamilton's school, of the name of Colton, a great bully and teaze, whose delight it seemed to be to torment and put into a passion one so fiery as our little hero, feeling safe from the only kind of retaliation which could injure him, as he was so much the stoutest and strongest of the two. This boy soon found that there was one point upon which Lewie was peculiarly sensitive, and the slightest allusion to which would call the red blood to his face. This was the fact of his being accompanied by his mother when he came to the school, and her having taken board in the village, that she might be near him as long as he was there. Lewie had remonstrated with his mother, when she proposed accompanying him, and had urged her to accept his Uncle Wharton's invitation to make his house her home. He was just at that age when boys love to appear independent and manly, and able to take care of themselves; and he had hoped that he should be allowed to go alone to school, as many of the other boys did, or perhaps to accompany his uncle and cousins. But to be taken there under the care of a woman, and to have her remain near him, as if he could not take care of himself! Lewie thought this a most humiliating state of things. But for once his mother was firm. It would be like severing her heart-strings, to separate her from her darling son; and wherever he went, she must go as long as she lived. This ingratitude on the part of Lewie and evident desire to rid himself of her company, after so many years spent in devotion to his slightest wishes, wore upon her spirits, and was one cause, perhaps the principal one, of her nervous depression, and consequent ill health.

As soon as Colton understood the state of Lewie's feelings on this tender point, and noticed How his cheeks would flush with passion whenever the subject was mentioned, he took advantage of it to harass and enrage him, renewing the subject most unmercifully at every convenient opportunity. Thus, whenever, in their sports, Lewie took upon himself to dictate, in his authoritative way, Colton would ask the boys if they were going to be governed by a baby who had not yet broken loose from his mother's apron-strings; and when Lewie could no longer restrain his passion, and began to show signs of becoming pugnacious, Colton would advise him to "run to mother," to be petted and soothed.

For sometime prudence restrained Lewie from making an attack upon this boy, so much larger and stronger than himself, for he was almost certain that he would get the worst of it in an encounter with him. But one day when Colton was more aggravating than ever, Lewie suddenly lost all command of himself, and flew at him in a most fearful storm of rage, and with all the might of his passion concentrated in one blow, he dashed the great boy against a tree; and after he was down, and lying insensible, with his head cut and bleeding, Lewie could scarcely be restrained, by the united strength of those about him, from rushing upon his senseless body, and by renewed blows continuing to injure him.

His rage was fearful to witness, and his companions stood aghast, for they saw clearly that murder was in his heart, and that nothing but the restraint they exercised upon him, prevented him from carrying his horrible purpose into execution. Colton was borne to the house, and it was long feared that he would never entirely recover from the effects of the severe blow upon his head as he fell. Lewie seemed to feel nothing like remorse; he had always hated Colton, and everything this boy had done had tended to increase and aggravate his feelings of dislike; he thought nothing in his frantic rage of the consequences to himself, but would have rejoiced to see his tormentor dead at his feet.

This last affair decided Dr. Hamilton that it would not do to keep a boy of such fierce, unrestrained temper, longer in the school. Lewie had all this time been progressing rapidly in his studies; a fierce ambition seemed to have seized upon, him, and he applied himself to his books as if he had come to the determination that he would at least rise superior to his school-mates, in his standing in the class, if they would not acknowledge his superiority in anything else.

Dr. Hamilton called soon after Lewie's attack upon Colton, to see Mrs. Elwyn, and while he spoke of Lewie as one on whom he could justly be proud, as the best and most forward scholar in his classes, he said it was impossible for him to allow him to remain; that the lives of his other pupils were hardly to be considered safe with so passionate a companion, and for the sake of the reputation of his school, he must ask her to save him the necessity of a public dismissal of her son. Sad by this time were the forebodings of Mrs. Elwyn, but they were useless; her remonstrances with her self-willed son were vain. If Lewie was obliged to submit to being accompanied by his mother wherever he went, he seemed determined to show her, that her wishes had not the slightest power over him. The sowing time had passed;—the reaping time had begun.

Lewie no longer urged and entreated, but merely expressed his determination to go to the school to which he had so long been desirous to remove, and his poor mother knowing that henceforth his will must be hers, made her preparations for accompanying him.

Boys are the same everywhere; and unless all are willing in some degree to relinquish their own gratification for the sake of others, there will surely be trouble. So Lewie found at Stanwick; so at the next school, and the next; for as he became dissatisfied with one and unpopular there, he removed to another, his poor mother following his fortunes everywhere. Many were the kind and remonstrating letters which Lewie received during these three years of change, from his lovely sister, but the affectionate advice contained in them as to an endeavor to gain command over his temper, and in regard to his treatment of his mother, seemed to have no permanent effect.

All this time, wherever he went, he ranked' among the highest as to his scholarship, and at the age of sixteen he entered college at C——, about ten or fifteen miles from Hillsdale. By the time they were fairly established at C——, Mrs. Elwyn's health completely failed. Lewie's time much taken up with his college duties, and even if it had not been, he was not one to wait with patience upon the humors of a nervous and fretful invalid; and the greater part of the time was spent by Mrs. Elwyn in loneliness and repining.

And now her thoughts turned often, and rested almost fondly upon the memory of her long neglected daughter. Oh! for such a kind and gentle nurse and companion to be ever near her, to minister to her wants and soothe her lonely hours. The more she thought of her, the more she longed for her presence, and it was soon after Agnes left Mrs. Arlington's and returned to Brook Farm, that she received with delight a summons to come to her mother at C——. The idea that her mother really wished for her, and that she could be in any degree useful to her, made her heart bound with joy; and then, too, the idea of being so near her brother, to endeavor to exercise a restraining influence upon him, was happiness in itself for Agnes.

She found her mother greatly changed: anxiety of mind and bodily suffering had worn upon her, till her face, which might still have been young and blooming, was faded and wrinkled. She was glad to see Agnes, only because now she could be useful to her; and Agnes often found her whole stock of patience brought into requisition, in endeavoring to gratify the changing whims and fancies of a nervous invalid. Lewie was in ecstasies at his sister's arrival; for he did dearly love Agnes, and he now passed all his leisure time at his mother's room. Agnes thought him more gentle and tractable, and hoped that he really exercised some control over his passionate temper; but it was only, for the time, the want of provocation, and the restraining influence of his sister's presence, which kept him from any serious out-break. The grace of God alone could materially change Lewie Elwyn now.

Agnes remained many months in attendance upon her mother, who failed very gradually. As she grew weaker, she became more exacting; and though never betrayed into any expression of affection for Agnes, yet she was not willing to have her out of her sight for a moment. The consciousness of being useful to her mother, was sufficient reward for sleepless nights and days of close confinement; and Agnes resisted all Lewie's entreaties that she would leave the sick room for a while each day, and take a stroll with him.

Had Lewie been inclined to dissipation, this would have been a dangerous time for him; for his wonderful musical powers made him such a favorite, that no gathering was thought complete without him. As long as Agnes was at C——, he preferred spending his evenings with her to any party of pleasure; and after he could no longer enjoy her society, and when he began again to mingle in scenes of festivity, though sometimes betrayed into excesses, he never was habitually dissipated.

Mrs. Elwyn lingered on, becoming weaker and weaker, until, after Agnes had been with her about six months, she perceived that she was failing more rapidly, and at length was informed by the physician, that her mother could live but very few days longer. Agnes hastily summoned Mr. and Mrs. Wharton, who arrived only in time to witness the death-bed scene. Just before her death, Mrs. Elwyn seemed to awake to a sudden realization of the great mistakes of her life with regard to her son and daughter. She seemed to see now, as clearly as others had seen all along, the evils of her own management, and to trace the unhappy results to their proper source. It was sad to hear her, when all too late to remedy these evils, lament over "a wasted life—a worse than wasted life;" and so, with words of remorse upon her lips, she, who had had such power for good in her hands, passed away from earth.

And Agnes returned to her uncle's house, leaving her brother at college. As soon as she had taken a little time to recruit, and to consider, she began to look about for a situation as governess, much against the wishes of every member of her uncle's family, who would have considered it a privilege to keep her always with them. About this time, a distant relative of Mrs. Wharton's, a Mr. Fairland, in passing from his Western home to the city, stopped to make them a visit. He was a plain, kind-hearted man, and seemed to take a particular interest in Agnes, with whose father and grandfather he had been intimately acquainted. Mr. Fairland had made quite a fortune by successful speculation, in a large Eastern city; but the extravagance of his wife and daughters, who were not willing to be outdone in dress or establishment by any of their neighbors, made such rapid inroads upon his newly-acquired wealth, that Mr. Fairland soon became convinced that it was leaving him as rapidly as it came. So he thought it the part of prudence to beat a retreat at once; and, in spite of the tears and remonstrances of his wife and eldest daughters, he removed the whole family to the beautiful village of Wilston, near which place he owned some fine and flourishing mills.

It was while speaking of his new home, and its many beauties, at Mr. Wharton's breakfast table, that Mr. Fairland mentioned the only drawback to his happiness there, which, he said, was the want of the advantages of education for his younger children, who were running wild without any instruction, as their mother was unwilling to allow them to attend the village school. He had long been looking, he said, for a governess for them—one who would bring them up with right habits and principles, at the same time that she was instructing their minds.

Agnes seized the first opportunity in which she could find Mr. Fairland alone, to propose herself as governess to his children. This was more than Mr. Fairland had dared to hope for, and her proposal was hailed by him with gratitude and joy. He wished her to return immediately with him; but Agnes had some preparations to make, and her uncle was not willing to part with her quite yet: he promised, however, to bring her himself in the course of a month. A serious illness, however, deranged all Mr. Wharton's plans and as soon as he was able to travel, business of the utmost importance called him to the city; so that Agnes, who disliked to keep Mr. Fairland waiting for her any longer, wrote to him when he might expect her, and, much against Mrs. Wharton's wishes, set out alone in the stage for Wilston.



XIII.

NEW SCENES FOR AGNES.

"The stranger's heart! oh, wound it not! A yearning anguish is its lot; In the green shadow of the tree, The stranger finds no rest with thee."

"And when may we expect to be favored with the presence of this paragon of perfection, and embodiment of all wisdom, papa?" asked Miss Evelina Fairland, with what was intended for the utmost girlish sprightliness of manner; for, although it was only at breakfast, Miss Evelina never laid aside her manner of extreme youth, as she thought it best to be continually in practice.

Her father answered quietly, that he expected Miss Elwyn by the afternoon stage.

"Is she one of these prim, old-maidish governesses, like our poor old Miss Pratt?" asked Miss Calista, a lady of something over thirty, and rather the worse for twelve years' wear, in the way of balls and parties, the theatre and the opera. Indeed, at the breakfast table, Miss Calista looked considerably older than she really was, with her pale, faded cheeks, and her hair "en papillottes;" but, in the afternoon, by the use of a little artificial bloom, some cork-screw ringlets, and a manner as gay and girlish as that of her sister, she appeared quite another creature.

To Miss Calista's question Mr. Fairland, with an amused pucker about the mouth, answered:

"Oh, I shall tell you nothing about her looks; you must wait and judge for yourselves. There's one thing I will say, however. I suppose you can't alter your looks, girls; but, as far as manners are concerned, I wish very much that I could place my two eldest daughters under Miss Elwyn's tuition."

"Perhaps she will condescend to take a class, twice or three times a week, in 'manners for six-pence,'" said the sprightly Miss Evelina. "I should like to see Calista and myself curtseying, and walking, and leaving and entering a room, as we used to be obliged to do for old Miss Pratt. Wouldn't you, Calista?"

"Let's see," said Mr. Fairland, whose reminiscences were not always of the most agreeable nature to the young ladies—"let's see. How long is it since you and C'listy were under the care of Miss Pratt? I think it must be nigh twenty years."

"Twenty years, papa!—absurd!" shrieked Miss Calista; "why, you must be losing your memory!"

Now, if Mr. Fairland's daughters were touchy on the subject of their ages, their father was no less so on that of his memory, as Miss Calista well knew when she made the foregoing remark.

"Losing my memory indeed, Miss C'listy! My memory is as sound as ever; and, to prove it to you, I will inform you, that I shall be sixty-four years old this coming August; and by the same token, you are just exactly half my age; and if you don't believe it, you may just take a look at the family record, in the big Bible."

"C'listy's scratched out her date," said little Rosa, "and so has Evelina."

"Hold your tongue, you impertinent little minx!" said Miss Calista; "I really hope the prinky old governess who is coming will be able to whip a little manners into you. I really wonder you can allow the children to be so pert, mamma!"

The lady addressed as "mamma" was the second wife of Mr. Fairland, a rather handsome, but very languid lady of forty, who was sleepily sipping her coffee during the foregoing conversation. Now, as Mrs. Fairland did not look much older (perhaps not at all older, at the breakfast table,) than the oldest of her step-daughters, the young ladies quite prided themselves on so youthful a "mamma;" and when in company, or at the various watering-places to which, in former tunes, they had succeeded in dragging their parents, they hung round her, and asked her permission to do this and that, with the most child-like confidence in her judgment.

This was by no means relished by the step-mother, who had no fancy for matronizing daughters so nearly her own age, and who wished no less fervently than the young ladies themselves, that something in the shape of a husband would appear to carry each of them off. She never failed after such a display of filial affection on their part to explain to those near her; that the young ladies were her step-daughters; and to mention how odd it sounded to her when she was first married, to hear those great girls as tall as herself, call her "mamma."

It was a beautiful evening in the pleasant month of July, when Agnes entered the lovely village of Wilston, and drove through its one long street, to the spacious and rather showy dwelling of Mr. Fairland. Agnes had heard much of the beauty of Wilston, but her heart was now so oppressed with many agitating emotions, at the near prospect of the new and strange scenes upon which she was about to enter in so new a character, that not even the loveliness of the landscape, with its variety of hill, and dale, and wood-land, on the one hand, and on the other the peaceful lake tinged with crimson by the setting sun, had power to win her attention.

Yet we need not fear for Agnes, that in thus appearing in the character of a governess, she will lose aught of her gentle dignity, or quiet self-possession. Agnes was a lady in every sense of the term, and place her where you would, or under whatever circumstances, she would invest her occupation with a dignity all her own, and make it honorable; winning from all around her an involuntary respect and homage. Though ever kind and amiable, and ready to oblige, she will never cringe to those who, by the favors of fortune, are placed for the time in circumstances more prosperous than her own. Tried, she may be by their arrogance, and airs of assumed superiority; but with the inward conviction which in spite of her modesty she must possess, that in all that is of real and true worth she is far above them, she will toil on undisturbed in her vocation, anxious only to fulfil her duty towards God, and toward those whom He has placed under her influence; and to acquit herself well of the high responsibility resting upon her.

Mr. Fairland met Agnes at the door, with his kind pleasant face, and with both hands extended to give her a cordial welcome to his roof. Mrs. Fairland rose languidly from her chair to receive the governess, and gave her a ceremonious, and to Agnes a most chilling greeting. The young ladies were out walking; but presently a troop of noisy children, who from some part of the grounds where they were at play, had seen the arrival of the stranger, came bursting rudely into the room. These, as Agnes supposed, were her future pupils, and a most unpromising set they at first sight appeared.

The eldest, "Tiney," was a heavy, dull looking girl of about ten years of age. Her eyes had no more brightness or expression in them than two balls of lead, and her flabby colorless cheeks hung down each side of her mouth, giving that feature much the expression of a bull-dog, while a sullen fierceness about her face, increased the resemblance to that animal. Her teeth, utterly unacquainted with the action of a brush, were prominent, so that her lip seldom covered them, and her uncombed hair hung rough and shaggy around her unattractive face. Agnes at once guessed that this poor child was deficient in intellect, and unamiable in temper.

The next, Rosa, was a wild, handsome little gipsey, with eyes as black as jet, and as bright as diamonds, a brilliant color shining through her sunburnt cheek, and with straight black hair, no better cared for than her sister Tiney's.

The third little girl, Jessie, was very fair, with beautiful deep blue eyes, and golden curling hair; but the curls were all in tangles, for no one took the trouble to keep them in order, except on great occasions, when the poor child was put to the torture of having it brushed and combed, and laid in ringlets, which for the time were the special pride of her mother.

"You'll have enough to do, Miss Agnes, to tame all these rough spirits," said Mr. Fairland, "they have been running wild ever since we left the city, and a more rude and ungoverned set of little desperadoes, it has never been your lot to meet with, I'll venture to say." And then addressing them, he said, "come here, children, what do you stand there gaping for, with your thumbs in your mouths, as if you had never seen anybody before? Tiney! Rosa, you witch! Jess, my chicken! come up here this minute, and speak to Miss Elwyn."

But Tiney only pouted her ugly mouth and scowled; and Rosa, making a sudden dart for her mother's chair, retreated behind it, peering out her black eyes occasionally, to take a look at the stranger; while Jessie ran and sprang into her father's lap, hiding her little tangled head on his shoulder. And now a whooping and shouting made known the approach of Master Frank, the son and heir, a young individual of about four years of age, who, nothing daunted by the stranger's appearance, made for his father's chair, and proceeded to dislodge his sister Jessie from her seat, and to establish himself in her place. Jessie screamed, and scratched, and pulled in vain. Frank, though younger, was much the strongest, and the fight ended by the sudden descent of Miss Jessie to the floor, and the ascension of Master Frank into the vacated place.

"Be quiet now, will you, Frank, and speak to Miss Elwyn," said his father.

"Hallo! is that Miss Elwyn?" exclaimed Master Frank, aloud; "why, C'lista said she was old and ugly."

"Well, C'listy didn't know, did she?" said his father.

"And Ev'lina said she'd train us well, and whip us, and shut us up, and be awful cross all the time. She doesn't look like that, does she, papa?"

"No, she does not," said his father; "and I guess Evelina must have been mistaken too."

Agnes was all this time looking at Frank, very much amused, and laughing quietly at the description which had been given of her to the children.

"You think I do not look so very terrible, then, Master Frank," said she; "do you think you will ever like me?"

"I don't know," said Master Frank, boldly; "if you don't make me mind, I'll like you."

"But she is going to make you mind, Master Frank," said his father; "and, do you know, I have promised Miss Elwyn that she shall do just what she pleases with you all, and nobody shall interfere."

"In school hours," said Agnes.

"Yes, in school hours, and out of school hours, except when their mother or I are present: they are always to obey you, Miss Elwyn. I wish that to be understood in the family. But, my dear," said he to his wife, "perhaps Miss Elwyn would like to change her dress before tea."

Mrs. Fairland languidly directed Tiney to show Miss Elwyn to her room; but the only notice taken of this command by Miss Tiney was a stupid, sullen stare. Agnes had risen to leave the room; but perceiving that Tiney did not stir, she turned, and putting out one hand toward Rosa, said, in her own bright, winning way:

"This little black-eyed girl will show me the way, I'm sure."

There was no resisting the gentle kindness of Agnes, and the confidence of little Rosa was won immediately. Coming out from behind her mother's chair, she put her hand in that of Agnes, and led her up stairs into a large room, on the second floor, overlooking the beautiful lake.

"What a very pleasant room!" said Agnes. "Is this to be mine?"

"Yes," answered Rosa, who, having once found her tongue, showed that she could make very rapid use of it when she chose—"and that bed is yours, and that one is for me and Jessie."

'"Jessie and me,' you mean, Rosa, do you not?"

"I'm the oldest," answered Rosa.

"I know that, Rosa; but recollect, whenever you speak of any one, no matter who, in connection with yourself always to mention the other person first. Will you remember that?"

"Yes, I'll try," answered Rosa. She then proceeded to inform Agnes, that her mamma had wished to give her a little room on the other side of the hall, but papa said she should have this room, because it was so pleasant, and he had heard her say that she was so fond of the water.

"That was very kind of your papa," said Agnes; "and where does Tiney sleep?"

"Oh, Tiney sleeps with Susan, because she has fits, you know."

"Who has?—Susan?" asked Agnes.

"No, Tiney has fits, and nobody likes to take care of her but papa and Susan."

Agnes was disappointed to find that she was not to have a room to herself. "I came here to instruct these children," said she to herself, "not to act in the capacity of nursery-maid. However, I will bear it patiently for the present; perhaps I shall gain an influence over them, by having them so constantly with me, that I could not acquire in any other way. There is so much to be corrected in their habits and language, besides their being so woefully ignorant!"

Agnes continued talking pleasantly to little Rosa, while she was dressing; and when they went down stairs, hand in hand, the very pleasantest relations appeared to be established between them.

"What shall we call you?" asked Rosa.

"You may call me 'cousin Agnes,' if you choose," she answered, "and if your papa and mamma are willing."

"Oh, I shall like that!" said Rosa.

Soon after Agnes and little Rosa re-entered the sitting-room, the Misses Fairland returned from their walk. They were gayly and showily attired in the very height of the fashion, and entered the door talking and laughing very loudly; but when introduced to Miss Elwyn, they stopped and opened their eyes in unaffected amazement. As Agnes rose with graceful ease to meet them, looking so lovely in her deep mourning dress, and with her rich waving chesnut hair, simply parted on her forehead, and gathered in a knot behind, there was a most striking contrast between her and the gaudily dressed, beflounced, and beflowered ladies, who were fashionably and formally curtseying, and presenting her the tips of their fingers.

Though younger by some years than the youngest of the Miss Fairlands, there was a dignified self-possession about Agnes, which was quite astonishing to them. Though rather of the hoyden-ish class themselves, they could not fail at once to recognize the air of refinement which marks the true lady, and while intending by their own appearance to over-awe the new governess, they were so completely taken by surprise by her perfect ease and composure of manner, that they alone appeared stiff and awkward, and she unembarrassed and easy.

And this was the prim old-maidish governess they had been expecting! this fresh, blooming, lovely looking girl! It was by no means a pleasant surprise to the Misses Fairland. However, she was nothing but a governess after all; and could easily be kept in the back ground; it was to Be hoped she would know her place and keep it.

The Misses Fairland made the mistake very common with persons of weak mind, and little cultivation at that, and instead of judging of others by their intrinsic worth, character, or intellect, formed their estimate only by the outward circumstances in which they found them. Had this same Agnes Elwyn come to make a visit to her far away cousins, in her own carriage, and surrounded by external marks of wealth, they would have been ready to fall down and worship her; but coming as a governess, and by the stage, what notice could she expect from the Misses Fairland! These young ladies had so often been made wretched, by intentional slights from those in whose sphere they had aspired to move, that they did not doubt Agnes would be rendered equally uncomfortable by their own neglect.

The tea-bell rang, and the Misses Fairland hastened to take off their bonnets and soon re-appeared at the tea-table, where they took up the entire conversation, telling of all they had heard and seen, in their calls through the village. For like the ancient Athenians, these young ladies literally "spent their time in nothing else, but to hear or to tell of some new thing."

In the midst of the conversation there was a sudden bustle, and Tiney rose hastily from the table. Her father immediately left his chair, and went round to her place, and took her by the arm. There was a ghastly and disturbed look about poor Tiney's face, and an expression of terrible malignity about her eye, and as she passed the chairs of her little sisters, one screamed loudly and then the other, and when she came near Agnes, it was with great difficulty that she too could resist the inclination to scream with the pain, caused by a terrible pinch from the fingers of Tiney, which left its mark upon her arm for many days.

Mr. Fairland led the child from the room, and as the door closed after them, Agnes heard a succession of the most piercing shrieks, as if all the strength of the sufferer's lungs were expended upon each one.

"Oh, dear! Susan is out, and your father will need assistance," said Mrs. Fairland; "but really, these scenes have such an effect upon my nerves, that I find it necessary to avoid them altogether."

"And so do I," said Miss Calista, "indeed I always suffer with a severe headache after them."

"And they are so utterly disagreeable to me, to to be more candid than either of you," said Miss Evelina, "that I always keep as far out of the way as possible."

"Can I be of any use?" asked Agnes, partly rising and looking towards Mrs. Fairland. She would have followed poor Tiney and her father immediately, but did not wish to appear to pry into that of which nothing had been mentioned to her, and of which they might not like to speak out of their own family.

"Oh, do go, Miss Elwyn, if you have the nerve," said Mrs. Fairland.

The reader knows enough of Agnes to feel assured that her nerves were never in the way, if opportunity offered to make herself useful to the suffering; and the moment Mrs. Fairland answered her, she left the room, and, guided by those still piercing shrieks, she passed through a long hall, and entered a small bath-room, where she found Mr. Fairland holding the struggling Tiney, who presented a shocking appearance. Her face was now quite purple, and the white froth stood about her mouth; and her father was holding both of her hands in one of his, to quiet her frantic struggles.

"Oh, bless you, Miss Agnes!" said Mr. Fairland, as soon as she opened the door; "set that water running immediately till it is quite hot, and take off this poor child's stockings and shoes. You see I can do nothing."

As quickly and as quietly as possible Agnes did as she was directed; and then also, by Mr. Fairland's direction, took down a bottle of medicine, always kept ready for this purpose in the bath-room, and dropped some of it for him. In a few moments, the shrieks subsided to moans, as Tiney lay with her head back on her father's shoulder.

"Poor child!" said Mr. Fairland, wiping her lips and forehead, "she is a dreadful sufferer."

"Has she been so long?" asked Agnes.

"Ever since her third year," answered Mr. Fairland, "though, at first, the attacks were comparatively slight; but of late years they have grown more and more severe. Her intellect, as you perhaps have already noticed, is much weakened by them, and her temper, naturally very sweet, is at times almost fiendish. It seems to be her great desire, while suffering so intensely, to injure all within her reach."

Agnes now understood the reason of the screams of the children, and also of the pinch she had received as Tiney passed her chair. When poor Tiney's moans had become more faint, Mr. Fairland said:

"Agnes, will you sing? Music seems to soothe her more than anything else, after the extreme suffering is over."

Agnes sang, with her marvellously sweet voice, a simple air: presently poor Tiney turned her head, and fixed her half-closed eyes on Agnes' face. Then she said, from time to time, in a dreamy way, "Pretty!—sweet! Sing more;" and then she lay perfectly quiet, and soon fell into a gentle slumber. Often and often, after that, when poor Tiney was seized with these excruciating attacks, as soon as the first intense suffering was over, she would say, "Cousin Agnes, sing!" and, from the time she heard the gentle tones of Agnes' voice, she would be quiet and gentle as a lamb. The effect could be likened to nothing but the calming of the evil spirit which possessed the monarch of Israel, by the tones of the sweet harp of David.



XIV.

THE SCHOOL IN THE WEST WING.

"Scatter diligently, in susceptible minds, The germs of the good and beautiful, They will develop there to trees, bud, bloom, And bear the golden fruit of paradise."

Agnes found it no easy task to bring into training minds so ignorant and so utterly undisciplined as those of her little pupils. Left entirely to themselves, as they had been for many months, with a mother too indolent to trouble herself about any systematic plan of government, and a father too easy and good-natured to carry out the many plans he was ever forming for their "breaking in;" scolded and fretted at by their older sisters, to whom they were perfect torments; by turns playing harmoniously, and then quarrelling most vigorously,—they roamed the house and grounds, doing mischief everywhere, and bringing wrath upon their heads at every turn.

With a perfect horror of anything like study, they had expected with great dread the arrival of a governess, as putting a final stop to all their fun and freedom. This dread had been in nowise diminished by the constant remarks of their older sisters upon governesses in the abstract, and their own expected governess in particular. One evening with Agnes served to dispel the horror, so far as she was concerned, though the dread of books was still as great as ever. Before the evening was over, Agnes had them all round her, as she sat on the sofa, telling them beautiful stories, and asking them questions.

"Have you any pretty flowers in the woods about here?" she asked.

"Oh, lots!" answered Rosa; "yellow flowers, and blue flowers, and white flowers."

"Then if you would like to learn something of Botany, so as to know the names of all these beautiful flowers, we will take many pleasant rambles in the woods, and gather the lovely wild flowers, and I will teach you how to press them."

"But we haven't got any Botany books," said little Jessie.

"Oh, I think we shall not need any books, for all the Botany I shall teach you, Jessie; and if we do, we will take the leaves of the flowers for the leaves of the books, and the flowers themselves for the pictures. Do you not think we can make beautiful books that way? Jessie, can you read?"

"I can!" said Rosa, while Jessie hung her curly head.

"And can you write, Rosa?"

"No. I can make straight marks," answered Rosa.

"And what can you do, Master Frank?"

"Oh, Frank doesn't know anything?" said Jessie. "He did know his ABC's once, but he's forgot them all."

"Take care, Miss Jessie, that he does not read before you," said Agnes. "Your papa says we are to take the west wing for our school-room; you must show me where it is, and after a day or to get in order, and to make each other's acquaintance, we will begin school in earnest."

The next morning Agnes took the toilettes of her two little room-mates under her care, and when they appeared at the breakfast-table, the rest of the family hardly knew them, they looked so tidy and sweet. And poor Tiney, who gazed with astonishment at her two little sisters, made her appearance at Agnes' door soon after breakfast, to ask "if she wouldn't make her look nice too."

Agnes found so little to sympathise with, and took so little pleasure in the society of the ladies of the Fairland family, that she longed for her school to begin, that she might have useful occupation for her thoughts and time. On the appointed morning therefore, she was well pleased to meet her little pupils in the pleasant little room in the "west wing," and to begin in earnest her labors as a teacher. Such a pile of soiled, well-thumbed, and dogs-eared books, as the children produced, Agnes had never seen together, and on opening them she found that the young Fairland's had been exercising their taste for the fine arts, by daubing all the pictures from a six-penny paint-box.

"Now, my dear children," said she, "the first thing we shall do every morning, will be to read in the Bible; but I do not see any Bible or Testament among your books; I suppose you each own one, do you not?"

If Agnes had been a little longer in the family of Mr. Fairland, perhaps she would not have asked this question; for she soon found that she had come into a family of as complete heathens, as she would have found if she had gone to be governess among the Hindoos. There was a "family Bible" in the house to be sure, but the only use to which it had ever been applied, was that of registering the births of the family, and the testimony it bore proved so exceedingly disagreeable to the Misses Fairland, that as Rosa has informed us, they took the liberty one day of erasing it.

Agnes told the children to ask their papa if they might each have a Bible of their own, to which he consented, and when the Bibles were brought home, the exclamations of derision from the Misses Fairland, were loud and long.

"A missionary in disguise!" they exclaimed; "a saint in the form of a governess; come to convert us all, and the first thing is an importation of Bibles!" and many were the sneering and sarcastic remarks and allusions which came to the ears of Agnes, but she kept on her way quiet and undisturbed. Agnes was perfectly astonished to find how utterly unacquainted these children were with the contents of the Bible. It was all new to them; and after she had read to them every morning, she would gather them around her, and tell them in simple language the sweet stories from the Bible, while they listened, the younger ones with their bright, wide-open eyes fixed upon her face, as if they could not lose a word; and even poor Tiney loved to lay her head in Agnes' lap, and hear of Him who ever sympathised with the sick and suffering.

It was very strange, and very interesting to Agnes, to hear the remarks these children made, and the many questions they would ask on subjects so new to them; and as they had not yet learned to look at the character of God, as revealed in his Son, with the reverence which better instructed children feel, they often spoke of Him as they would of any good man of whom they might hear, and in a way which would seem too irreverential, were I to tell you all they said.

Once when Agnes had been telling them of some of the miracles of our Saviour, in curing the sick, and giving sight to the blind, and hearing to the deaf, Rosa with her bright black eyes fixed intently on her face, said with the utmost earnestness:

"Why, He was real good, wasn't He?"

"Yes," said Agnes, "always good and kind, and always ready to help the sick and suffering."

"He could cure anybody, couldn't He?" continued Rosa.

"Yes; He was all-powerful," answered Agnes.

"Could He cure Tiney?" asked Jessie.

"Yes; if Tiney had lived when Christ was on earth, or if He was here now, He could say the word, and make her well."

And then they asked, "Where is He now?" and "How can we talk to Him now?" and "Why will He not cure Tiney now?" And Agnes tried, in the most simple manner, to teach them the nature of the prayer of faith.

Once, when she was talking to them of our Saviour's meekness under injuries, and telling them of His bitter sufferings, and the kindness of His feelings towards His persecutors, the large tears rolled down their cheeks, and Rosa made a practical application of the lesson at once, by saying:

"The next time Tiney pinches me, cousin Agnes, I don't mean to slap her back again."

"Nor I either," said Jessie.

And Tiney whispered, "I will try and not hurt them next time."

Frank, who had been choking down something in his throat, as he sat in his chair, said, in an unsteady voice:

"_Is it all _true_?"

"Every word of it, Franky," said Agnes.

"I've got something in my eye," said Frank, rubbing both eyes very hard with the back of his hands; and then throwing himself on the settee, he cried bitterly for a long time.

Agnes taught them many pretty hymns; and as they all had good voices, and loved music dearly, they were never so happy as in singing, morning and evening, these sweet hymns with Agnes. Even poor Tiney, who was passionately fond of music, readily caught the tunes, though it was almost impossible to teach her the words.

The very first Sunday that Agnes passed under the roof of Mr. Fairland, was enough to convince her that the Sabbath day with them was passed much like all other days. She was shocked to see novels, and other light and trashy works, in the Lands of the Misses Fairland on this holy day, and to hear them howling snatches of opera tunes, as they ran up and down the stairs. These young ladies sometimes went to church in the morning, to be sure, especially if they had lately received new bonnets from the city, which they wished to display for the envy or admiration of their neighbors. Mrs. Fairland was too indolent to take the trouble, even if she possessed the inclination, to appear at church; and Mr. Fairland looked upon this seventh day of the week literally as a day of rest, in which to recruit the exhausted energies of the body, in preparation for the labors of another week. The day was passed by him in looking over the newspapers, or sleeping in his large chair, with his red silk handkerchief over his head; and towards evening, he usually took a stroll over to his mills, or around his grounds, to mark out what was necessary to be done on the coming week.

Agnes felt the importance of exerting in this ungodly family a strictly religious influence; but, except with her own little pupils, she did not attempt, at first, to do so in any other way than by her own quiet, consistent example. Mr. Fairland was much surprised when Agnes requested permission to take the children to church with her he readily granted it, however, as he invariably did the wishes of Agnes; and from that time, Mr. Fairland's pew had at least four or five occupants, on the morning and evening of the Sabbath day. Though not required by her engagement to do so, Agnes kept the children with her on Sunday, reading to them, singing with them, or telling them beautiful Bible stories; and those pleasant Sabbaths spent with her they never forgot, nor did they ever lay aside the habits they acquired under her care.

"What a pleasant day Sunday is!" exclaimed little Rosa; "I never knew it was such a pleasant day before."

"It's cousin Agnes makes it so pleasant," said blue-eyed Jessie.

"It is because you spend it as God directs, that it is a pleasant day to you, dear children," said Agnes; "and I wish you to remember that it will always be a happy day, if you spend it in His service, 'from the beginning unto the end thereof.'"

Even if I were sufficiently acquainted with them to detail all the plans of Agnes for the education and improvement in manners and habits of her rude and ignorant little pupils, I should not do so here. They required peculiar training and an unfailing stock of patience, and it was long before any very perceptible change was wrought in their almost confirmed habits of carelessness, or any improvement in their rude and unformed manners; but at length a material change was apparent, and even the Misses Fairland could not keep their eyes closed to the visible improvement of the children. They were all much more gentle and quiet; and even poor Tiney softened much, under Agnes' gentle influence, and the light of intelligence began to beam in her heretofore dull eye. For the first time in her life, she was gaining useful ideas; and the consciousness that she was learning something as well as her sisters, seemed to make her happier and more kindly in her feelings.

It was not long before the door would open gently, as the sound of their evening hymn was heard, and Mr. Fairland, who was extravagantly fond of sweet and simple music, would steal into the room, and seat himself in the corner. And when he heard the voices of his children singing the praises of God, and saw his poor Tiney, hitherto so neglected, joining with eager interest in the singing, the tears would glisten in his eye, and roll unbidden down his cheek. Then he began to find his way to the school-room on Sunday evenings, and Agnes always took the opportunity on such occasions, to question the children on the elements of religious truth, that their young voices might be the means of instructing their father, who was more ignorant even than they, on these all-important subjects. At these times he never said one word, but when he left the room, it was often wiping the tears first, from one cheek and then from the other, and the heavy tread of his feet could be heard far into the night, as he walked the whole length of the two large parlors, with his hands behind him, and his head bent down. Before Agnes had been six months in the family, the good people sitting in the church at Wilston, one Sunday, opened their eyes with astonishment, to see Mr. Fairland walk into church and take his seat in a pew; and still more were they amazed, to see him do the same thing in the afternoon. It was a surprise to Agnes too; for though she had not failed to notice an unusual solemnity about Mr. Fairland, yet no word on the subject of his duty in this matter had ever passed between them.

Thus in the strict and conscientious performance of her daily duties, passed the summer with Agnes, with one delightful break, of a fortnight's vacation, spent with the dear loving friends at Brook Farm, where she saw much of her dear brother Lewie, who rode over every evening and passed the night, returning to his college duties early in the morning. The quick eye of a sister's love soon detected that all was not right with Lewie. He was as affectionate as ever, and if possible handsomer; but the faults of his childhood had grown with his growth and strengthened with his strength; his temper seemed more hasty and impetuous than ever, and there was a dashing recklessness about him which gave his sister many a heart-ache; and she had painful, though undefined fears for the future, for her rash and hot-headed brother.

Her kind friends at Brook Farm, who fancied from some things they drew from Agnes, that her home at the Fairlands' was not in all respects a happy one, urged her most earnestly not to return there, but without success. Agnes was convinced that there the path of duty lay, at least for the present, and nothing could make her swerve from it.

"Remember then, my sweet niece," said her uncle, as he kissed her at parting, "this is your home, whenever, for any reason, you will make us so happy as to return to it."

The winter passed by very quietly to Agnes, in her accustomed round of duties; indeed she was happier than she had yet found herself under Mr. Fairland's roof, in consequence of the absence of the two young ladies, who having by some means or other succeeded in securing an invitation out of some acquaintances in the city, to make them a short visit, inflicted themselves upon them for the whole winter, and did not return to Wilston till the spring was far advanced. Their hosts, in order to rid themselves of such persevering and long-abiding guests, began to make their preparations long before the usual time for closing their house and going to the country, and the Misses Fairland, invulnerable as they proved all winter to anything like a hint, were obliged to take this intended removal of their friends as a "notice to quit," which they accordingly did.

One bright spot to Agnes this winter, was a visit of a week from Lewie, who took his vacation at the time of the holidays to run up and see his sister.

He had his guitar with him, and his voice, which had gained much in depth and richness, was indescribably sweet. It seemed as if Mr. Fairland never would tire of hearing the brother and sister sing together. His mills and everything else were forgotten, while he sat silently in his great chair with his eyes closed, listening hour after hour to the blended harmony of their charming voices.

That happy week was soon over, and the brother and sister parted. The next time Agnes heard the sound of her brother's guitar, under what different circumstances did its tones strike upon her ear!



XV.

The Strangers in the Rookery.

"If thou sleep alone in Urrard, Perchance in midnight gloom Thou'lt hear behind the wainscot Sounds in that haunted room, It is a thought of horror, I would not sleep alone In the haunted room of Urrard, Where evil deeds are done."

—UNKNOWN.

"What do you think, Calista? What do you think?" exclaimed Miss Evelina Fairland, one day soon after their return from the city, bursting in, in a great state of excitement. "Two of the handsomest men have come to the village, one of them is a Mr. Harrington; isn't it a lovely name? and he has purchased "the Rookery" do you believe! some say that he is a young man, others that he is a widower. They have come down to hunt and fish, and he was mightily taken with "the Rookery," and in spite of ghosts and goblins he has actually bought it;" and here Miss Evelina paused to take breath.

"The Rookery" was a large old mansion which had once been a very handsome dwelling. It stood quite alone on a rising ground a little out of the village, and was surrounded with an extensive lawn, which on one side sloped down the lake, over which were scattered magnificent elms; and there was only one thing that prevented "the Rookery" from being the most delightful residence in the country. This was the well-attested fact that the house was haunted; and though at different times, those who were above being influenced by these idle fears, had fitted up the place and endeavored to live there, yet there could be no comfort in so large a house without servants, and not one could be found to remain in it more than one night. Servants were brought from a distance, but they soon heard in the village the story of the lady who died so mysteriously in that house twenty years before, and how she walked every night, and then of course they heard sounds, and saw sights; and they too, forthwith took their departure.

So the old house was quite falling into decay when these two brave men came down and took possession of it; and fitting up comfortably two or three of the most tenantable rooms, they there kept bachelors' hall, unterrified and undisturbed, at least by spirits. A few days after the announcement of the arrival of the strangers in the village, a widow lady of the name of Danby came to make a visit to the Fairland's. She had with her a little girl, her only child, a wilful, spoiled little thing, who took her own course in everything, utterly regardless of the wishes or commands of others. In the afternoon, as Agnes was preparing to start with her little pupils for their accustomed walk, Mrs. Danby said:

"Bella wishes to accompany you, Miss Elwyn, but you must take good care of her."

"I will do my best, Mrs. Danby," said Agnes, "but one thing I shall insist upon, and that is, that Bella shall obey me as my own little scholars do."

Miss Bella was not at all pleased with the idea of obeying any one, and so she was continually showing off her independent airs as they walked, hiding behind trees, describing eccentric circles around the rest of the party, or darting off in tangents. At length she became so troublesome, that Agnes determined to shorten their walk, and turned to retrace their steps; at this Miss Bella was highly indignant, and declared "that she would not go back, she would go on, down there by the water."

They were at this time near an open space, which reached to the water, at the end of which was a dock, for the convenience of those who wished to go out upon the lake in boats. Agnes endeavored to detain the wilful child, but she suddenly pulled away from her, and started like the wind for the dock. Agnes called, and the children screamed, in vain; faster and faster ran the little witch, still looking behind every moment to see if she was pursued, till at length she tripped over a log, and fell far out into the water. Agnes clasped her hands in speechless terror, while the cries of the children were loud and agonizing. Just then a boat in which were two gentlemen rounded a point of land near them, and made rapidly for the struggling child, who in another moment was lifted into the boat, and handed up to the arms of Agnes.

Agnes was too much agitated to take particular notice of these strangers, but taking off her shawl she wrapped the dripping child in it, while one of her preservers carried her into a cottage near by, Agnes and the still weeping children following. When the child was placed in the kind woman's bed, and little Rosa was sent home to ask Susan for some clothes to put on her, with special directions not to alarm Mrs. Danby, Agnes returned to the sitting-room of the cottage, to thank the strangers who had so opportunely come to their assistance, when what was her astonishment to find that one of them was her old friend, Tom Wharton.

"And you knew I was in town, Mr. Wharton, and have been here three or four days without coming to see me," said she.

"Oh! you know I don't do things just like other people," answered Tom; "and to tell the truth, though I have no fear of ghosts and hobgoblins, I have not yet had the courage to face two famous man-hunters, who I hear reside under the same roof with you, Agnes. But it is time I should introduce you to my friend Mr. Harrington, the present proprietor of "the Rookery," together with all the spirits, black and white, red and grey, who are the inhabitants thereof."

Agnes was glad to meet Mr. Harrington, of whom she had often heard her uncle speak in terms of great admiration, as an accomplished gentleman and a Christian; and one who used the large property he had inherited in deeds of benevolence and usefulness. They had been for some time in conversation about the friends at Brook Farm, from whom the two gentlemen had lately parted, when little Rosa returned.

Rosa found that her older sisters and Mrs. Danby had gone out for a walk; so it was a very easy matter to get some dry clothes for Bella, and bring her safe home before her mother heard of the accident. What was the surprise of the Misses Fairland, as, in coming down the street, they saw Agnes returning, accompanied by one of the handsome strangers whose acquaintance they had been "dying" to make; while the other followed, carrying little Bella Danby in his arms. A few words sufficed to tell the story of the accident, and to introduce the strangers, who, with the utmost cordiality, were urged to come in; an invitation which was unhesitatingly accepted by Mr. Harrington, and rather reluctantly by Mr. Tom Wharton. Mrs. Danby, pale and agitated, took her little darling in her arms, and hurried to her own room, there to administer certain restoratives, and, much against the young lady's will, to place her again in bed.

Mr. Harrington, having now gained the entree to Mr. Fairland's house, seemed inclined to be a frequent visitor, much to the gratification of the ladies Calista and Evelina, who laid siege to him right and left. If my reader possessed the key to Mr. Harrington's real object in coming to Wilston, perhaps he would be as much amused as the gentleman himself at the efforts, so exceedingly apparent, to gain for one of them possession of his hand and fortune; for that Mr. Harrington was wealthy, they were well assured. They each kept out a hook, too, for Mr. Tom Wharton, in case the other was successful in taking the more valuable prey; but the bait was by no means tempting to Mr. Tom, who darted off, leaving his friend, unsupported and alone, to resist the attacks of these practised, but hitherto unsuccessful anglers.

"Well, Harrington," said Mr. Tom Wharton to his friend one day, "since your object in bringing me down here with you is accomplished, I must now leave you to your fate. What that may be, in the midst of attacks from spirits by night, and from more substantial persecutors by day, I cannot divine; but if there is anything left of you, I shall hope to see you in the city before long, and to hear the account you have to give of yourself."

"I thank you for your services thus far, my dear friend," said Mr. Harrington; "still, I think it would be the part of disinterested friendship to stay and help me a little longer."

"I can't—I can't stand it, Harrington. You may be able to bear it better; but I'm not used to this sort of thing, and I don't know how to get along with it at all. Your case is a hard one, I acknowledge, my friend; but having some business of my own to attend to, I must leave you to fight out your own battles." And Mr. Tom Wharton, resolutely closed his ears to his friend's appeals, and took his departure.

A beautiful little boat which Mr. Harrington had ordered from the city having arrived, he called, one afternoon, at Mr. Fairland's, to ask the ladies if they would take a sail with him upon the lake. Most eagerly the Misses Fairland consented, and were leaving the room to prepare to go, when Mr. Harrington turned to Agnes, who happened to be in the room, and said:

"May I not hope for the pleasure of Miss Elwyn's company too?" Upon which Miss Evelina, with a childishly-confidential air, raised herself on tiptoe, and whispered in his ear:

"It is not at all necessary to ask her: we never feel obliged to, I assure you. She is only governess to the children."

But Mr. Harrington renewed his invitation, which Agnes had respectfully declined, when Mr. Fairland entered the room, and Mr. Harrington appealed to him.

"Go? Certainly Agnes must go; she has never been on the lake in a sail-boat, and I have often heard her say she would delight to go. Come, Agnes! put on your things without a word, and go along."

Thus urged, Agnes consented to go, though she felt a little uncomfortable at the silent displeasure of the Misses Fairland. There was a pleasant breeze, and the little boat flew like a bird over the dancing waves. Agnes, a devoted admirer of nature, was in an ecstasy which she could not conceal, as one beautiful view succeeded another during their sail up the lake; but the other ladies were so much occupied in trying the effect of art, that they had no eye for the beauties of nature. The breeze soon died away, leaving them far from home, and Mr. Harrington was obliged to take to his oars; and long before the village was in sight, the gentle moon had begun her walk through "golden gates," throwing across the water a brilliant column of light, sparkling and dancing in glorious beauty on the gentle ripples of the lake.

"Now is the time for music," said Mr. Harrington; "for truly

'Music sounds the sweetest Over the rippling waves.'"

But for once the Misses Fairland were obliged to relinquish the opportunity of charming by their united voices; the only music in which they were practised, and which they thought worth listening to, being of the flourishing, trilling, running, quavering, shrieking kind; and this they could not attempt without their "notes" and the "instrument." Mr. Harrington then proposed to Agnes to sing some sweet old-fashioned airs; and laying down his oars, he took a seat beside her, and joined his rich tenor to the strangely-melodious tones of her voice; and as the harmony floated over the water, it seemed almost like the music of heaven. This was a state of things by no means agreeable to the two neglected ladies in the other end of the boat, and Miss Calista began to be afraid of the night air, and Miss Evelina was taken with a hacking cough; so that Mr. Harrington was obliged to resume his oars, and row them rapidly to the village.

Mr. Harrington consented to moor his boat, and accompany the ladies up to the house to tea. Anxious to try the effect of their own accomplishments, the Misses Fairland, soon after tea, led the conversation to the subject of music, and were easily persuaded to attempt, with the "notes" and "instrument," some of their favorite songs. And now began a flourishing and screaming unparalleled in the annals of music. Miss Calista screamed, "I love only thee!" and then Miss Evelina shrieked, "I love only thee!" and then Miss Calista trilled it—and Miss Evelina howled it—and Miss Calista quavered it—and Miss Evelina ran it—and then one of them started on it, and the other ran and caught up with her—and then one burred for some time on thee-e-e-e-e, while the other ran up and down, still asserting as rapidly as possible, and insisting boldly, and stoutly asseverating, "I love only thee!"—and then, with a combined shriek, they made known the fact once more and finally, and then the ears of their hearers were allowed to rest.

"Now, girls, if you have done with that clatter," said Mr. Fairland, "I want Agnes to sing for me one of those sweet old Scotch songs; it will be quite refreshing after all this screeching."

"Oh!" said Miss Calista, rising from the instrument, and casting up her eyes at Mr. Harrington, "my dear old papa has the oddest, old-fashioned taste!"

But as soon as Agnes began to sing, it seemed as if Mr. Harrington's taste was quite as "odd" and "old-fashioned" as that of the "dear old papa" himself; for he was guilty of the impropriety of not hearing what Miss Evelina was saying to him, and soon rose and took his stand by the piano, where he showed very plainly that he had no ear for any other sound than that of Agnes' voice.

Agnes went to bed with some very pleasant thoughts that night; for, though tongues may be silent, eyes can tell their story very soon; and it is a pleasant thing to find one's self an object of interest to some noble heart; and particularly grateful was it to Agnes, in her present lonely, toiling life. And she needed all the inward peace and comfort she possessed, to enable her to bear the increased ill-nature of Mrs. Fairland and her daughters; for the "mamma" was no less displeased than the young ladies themselves at the prospect of the failure of one of their cherished plans.

And now, when Mr. Harrington called, there was generally some excuse contrived for sending Agnes from the room, and for keeping her busy in some other part of the house; and though Agnes was indignant at this evident desire to get her out of the way, by putting upon her labor which they had no right to require of her, yet, at the time, and in Mr. Harrington's presence, she would not contest the point, but quietly left the room. This never happened, however, when Mr. Fairland was present, as the good man, if he had fully seen through all the plans of his wife and daughters, could not have discomfited them more surely than he always contrived to do.

In the meantime, the ladies Calista and Evelina never for a moment relaxed their efforts, or ceased to practise their arts, upon the wealthy and agreeable stranger.

"How charming your place must her Mr. Harrington!" said Miss Evelina one evening; "I do delight in these old haunted mansions; there is something so delightfully romantic about them."

"And have you really heard any of these strange noises at night?" asked Miss Calista.

"Noises?—enough of them," he answered; "I have sometimes been so disturbed, that I could not sleep at all."

"And what did you do?" asked the young ladies in a breath, their eyes dilating with horror.

"Why, in the first place," said Mr. Harrington, "I bought a terrier, and in the next a large rat-trap; and by means of both, I succeed in laying several of the spirits every night, and have strong hopes that, before long, perfect quiet will be restored to the haunted mansion."

Then calling Jessie, who was in the room, to his side, Mr. Harrington took her in his lap, and said:

"You remind me very much of a little blue-eyed, flaxen-haired girl I have in the city."

"Why, have you a little girl?" Mr. Harrington, asked the young ladies.

"Yes, two of them," he answered.

"Oh, how I doat on children!" exclaimed Miss Calista.

"Cousin Agnes, what is the meaning of doat?" screamed Master Frank, running up to Agnes, who just then entered the room.

"What is it to doat on any one?"

"It is to love them very dearly;" answered Agnes quietly.

"Ho! C'listy says she doats on children—she doats on us, don't she Rosa?" and Master Frank laughed such a laugh of derision, that Mr. Harrington was obliged to say something very funny to little Jessie, who was still sitting on his knee, in order to have an excuse for laughing too.

Miss Calista fairly trembled with concealed rage, and soon succeeded in having Master Frank sent off to bed. Indeed, Frank was the cause of so much mortification to Miss Calista, that she would gladly have banished him too from the parlor, but he was lawless, and no one in the house could do anything with him but Agnes.

Mr. Harrington was very fond of children, and often had long conversations with little Frank, whose bold, independent manners seemed to please him much. One evening when he was talking to him, Frank said:

"Mr. Harrington I'm saving up my money to buy a boat just like yours."

"You are, hey, Frank? and how much have you got towards it?" asked Mr. Harrington.

"Oh! I've got two sixpences, and a shilling, and three pennies;" said Frank. "I keep all my money in a china-box, one of C'listy's boxes she used to keep her red paint in; this, you know!" touching each cheek with his finger.

This was too much for Miss Calista; she rushed from the room, and vented her indignation in a burst of angry tears, and the next time she met Master Frank, she gave him a slap upon his cheek, which made it a deeper crimson than the application of her own paint would have done. All these slights and mortifications were revenged upon poor Agnes, who would gladly have left a place where she was so thoroughly uncomfortable; but the thought of the children, to whom she had become attached, and who seemed now to be rewarding her pains and trouble by their rapid improvement, deterred her from taking a step which should separate her from them forever. Poor Tiney too, who seemed rapidly failing under the power of disease, and who clung to her so fondly, how could she leave her?



XVI.

Death and the Fugitive.

"She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer, Apart she sighed; alone, she shed the tear, Then, as if breaking from a cloud she gave Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave."

—CRABBE.

One summer night, Agnes, who had been up till very late, soothing and quieting poor Tiney, and had at last succeeded in singing her to sleep, left her in Susan's care, and returned to her own room. It was a lovely, warm, moonlight evening, and Agnes stood by her raised window, watching the shadows of the tall trees which were thrown with such vivid distinctness across the gravel walks and the closely trimmed lawn, and thinking of a pleasant walk she had taken that day, and of some one who joined her, (as was by no means unusual,) on her return from the woods with the younger children.

Suddenly her reverie was broken by the sound of a few chords struck very lightly and softly upon a guitar. The sound came from the clump of trees, the shadows of which Agnes had just been admiring; and she supposed they were the prelude to a serenade. Her heart whispered to her who the musician might be, for though she had never heard him, with whom her thoughts had been busy, touch the guitar, yet with his ardent love for music, she did not doubt that he might if he chose, accompany his rich voice upon so simple an instrument.

But now the blood which had crimsoned her cheek flowed back tumultuously to her heart, as she heard a voice she could not mistake, humming very softly the notes of a sad and touching air, which she and Lewie had often sung together. This plaintive singer could be no other than her brother. But why here, at night, and in this clandestine manner, evidently trying to win her attention, without arousing that of others? The house seemed quiet: and Agnes, throwing a shawl about her, quickly descended the stairs, and, quietly opening a side door, crossed the lawn, and in another moment stood beside her brother, under the shade of the tall old elms.

"Lewie! is it indeed you?"

He made no answer, he said not one word, but, drawing Agnes to a seat under one of the trees, he seated himself beside her, and laying his head upon her shoulder, he was quiet for a few moments; and then Agnes felt his frame tremble with sudden emotion, and heard a deep sob.

"Lewie! my brother! do speak to me! What is it? Do not keep me in suspense! What dreadful thing has happened?"

"Agnes," said he, with a sudden and forced calmness, the words coming slowly from between his white, stiffened lips—"Agnes, it is—murder!"

Agnes did not scream—she did not faint—forgetfulness for a moment would have been a relief. In a flash she had comprehended it all.

"Lewie," said she, "is there blood upon this hand?"

"Agnes, it is true; your brother is a murderer! No less a murderer, because the blow was struck in the heat of sudden passion, and when the brain was inflamed with wine; and no less a murderer, because it was repented of the moment given, and before the fatal consequences were suspected. My sister, I am a fugitive and a wanderer, hunted by the officers of justice, and doomed to the prison or the gallows."

It seemed to Agnes like a fearful dream! It was too dreadful to be true! The thought crossed her mind, perhaps it is a dream; she had had dreams as vivid, and had awakened with such a blessed feeling of relief. But no! she clasped Lewie's cold hand in hers, and felt assured it was all reality. For a few moments she could only bury her face in her hands, and rock to and fro and groan. She was aroused from this state of agonized feeling by Lewie, who said:

"And now, what shall I do, Agnes? I have come all this way on foot, and at night, to see you once more, and to ask you what I should do? Oh that I had been more willing to follow your gentle guidance before, sweet sister!—but I have followed nothing but the dictates of my own ungoverned passions. Shall I try to escape, or shall I give myself up for trial? On my word, Agnes, I am not a murderer by intention. I was excited; something was said which tried my quick temper; I answered with a burst of sudden passion; more taunting words followed; and, quicker than the lightning's flash, I had dealt the blow which laid my class-mate dead at my feet I was sobered in one moment; and oh, Agnes! what, what would I not have given to restore my murdered friend to life!—not for my own sake; for I never thought of myself till urged by my terror-stricken companions to fly. Then I thought of my own safety; and, my darling sister, I thought of you, and determined that you should hear of your brother's disgrace and crime from no lips but his own. I have been hanging about here all day, but could not see you; and finding no other way to call your attention, I borrowed this guitar at the tavern, and have been watching from these trees, till I saw a white form at a window, which I knew was yours. Now, Agnes, what shall I do?"

"Oh, Lewie, what can I say but fly, and save yourself from an ignominious fate! It may not be right counsel; but how can a sister advise otherwise? My poor, poor brother!" And Agnes was relieved by a passionate burst of tears. And now came the time for parting. He must go, for they would be likely to seek him in the home of his only sister,—he must go quickly and quietly;—and, with a few hurried words, in which his sister commended him to God, and entreated him to go to Him for pardon and peace, and with one last fond embrace, they parted. Agnes returned to the house with feeble, staggering steps, stricken to the very heart.

No sleep visited the eyes of Agnes that night; and when she appeared in the breakfast room the following morning, her pale and haggard countenance showed marks of extreme suffering, which should have been respected even by the Misses Fairland. But no! their quick ears had also caught the tones of the guitar, and rushing to a window on that side of the house, in the expectation of a serenade, they had seen Agnes as she crossed the lawn, and returned again to the house. Here was food for conjecture, and jealousy for the suspicious ladies, and they had long been awaiting the arrival of Agnes in the breakfast room, hoping to have the mystery cleared up.

"May we be informed, Miss Elwyn," began Miss Calista, "how long you have been in the habit of receiving signals from lovers, and stealing out at night to give them clandestine meetings in the grove?"

A bright blush suffused the cheek of Agnes, which died away immediately, leaving it of an ashy paleness, as she said:

"I have met no lover in the grove, Calista, at least not what you mean by a lover," she added, thinking this might be an evasion, for did not her brother love her dearly?

"Not what I call a lover," said Miss Calista; "a very nice distinction! then you do not deny that you met what you call a lover in the grove. Indeed you need trouble yourself to make no denial, for Evelina and I both watched you."

Agnes rose from the table, and all who were gathered around it were amazed at the unusual vehemence of her manner, as with an expression of intense wretchedness upon her face, she exclaimed:

"Oh! do, do let me alone! do leave me in quiet; for I am very, very unhappy!"

And hastily, and with great agitation, Agnes left the room.

Mr. Fairland, who was so much interested in a paragraph in the paper, which appeared to shock him exceedingly, that he had not heard the ill-natured remarks of his daughters, looked up just as Agnes rose from the table, and heard her agonized address.

With more sternness than usual, he asked his daughters what they had been saying to Agnes, and on hearing their account of the conversation, he exclaimed:

"Poor Agnes! you will see in this paper girls something that will shock you, and will perhaps inspire you with a little sympathy for one whom it seems to be your delight to torment. You may perhaps now guess who it was that Agnes met in the grove last night."

The Misses Fairland were really shocked to read the account of the murder, and to read the name of Lewis Elwyn as the murderer; and something like remorse for a moment visited their minds, that they had added to the sufferings of the already burdened heart of Agnes.

"Poor fellow! poor young man!" exclaimed Mr. Fairland; "such a handsome fellow as he was, and such a sweet singer too! this seems to have been done in a sudden passion; and not without provocation too. But it is an awful thing! Poor Agnes! she must not attempt to teach the children while she is so distressed; and I do desire girls, that you will have the decency, if you have not the feeling, to leave her entirely undisturbed."

Days passed on and nothing was heard of the fugitive. Oh, what days of restless and painful suspense to Agnes! Had she not had constant and unusual occupation for her time, it seemed to her that she could not keep her reason. But poor Tiney had grown suddenly and alarmingly worse, and the physician said a very days at most would terminate her sufferings. With all the distressing thoughts which crowded upon her, Agnes remained by the bed-side of the little sufferer, endeavoring to soothe and cheer her descent to the dark valley.

Mrs. Fairland, who though indolent and indifferent in many things with regard to her children, was not altogether without natural affection, passed much of her time, during the last two or three days of Tiney's life, in her room, sitting quietly near the head of the bed. Mr. Fairland, who seemed more overcome even than Agnes expected, hardly ever left the bed-side. The older sisters looked in occasionally for a few moments, but their "nerves" (always ready as an excuse with people destitute of feeling) would not allow their staying for more than five minutes at a time, in the room of the sick child. The younger children wandered restlessly about the house, their little hearts oppressed by the first approach of death among their number; sometimes coming in quietly to look at the dying sister, and then wandering off again.

"Cousin Agnes, must I die?" asked Tiney, the day before her death, as Agnes and her father and mother were sitting near her.

"You are not afraid to die, dear Tiney, are you?" asked Agnes in reply.

"No, I shall love to die, because you told me I would never be sick any more; but I feel a little afraid to go to Heaven."

"Afraid to go to Heaven, dear Tiney! And why should you be afraid to go there?" asked Agnes, in astonishment; for she had, oftener than ever, of late, talked to the failing child of the glories of heaven, and did not doubt that, even with her poor weak mind, she had so trusted by faith in the merits of an all-sufficient Redeemer, that through those merits her spirit would be welcomed to that blissful abode.

"I was thinking," answered Tiney, "that I don't know anybody, there; not a single soul; and I feel so shy with strangers. Will they love me there, cousin Agnes, as you and papa do?"

Agnes could not repress the tears at this question, so natural, perhaps, to a simple child, and yet one which she had never thought of as likely to occur to one before. But she talked to Tiney so soothingly and sweetly of Him who loved little children when on earth, and who was watching for her now, and would send some lovely angel to bear her to His breast, that poor Tiney lost her fears, and longed for the hour of her release. And it came the next morning. Just as the glorious sun was rising over the lake, the spirit of poor little suffering Tiney left its earthly dwelling, and began its long and never-ending day of happiness.

Oh! what a brilliant light shone for once in those dark gray eyes, as Tiney raised them, with a look of wonder and astonishment and joy, as if she saw far, far beyond the limits which bounded her mortal sight!—and as, with an enraptured expression, she murmured something about "that lovely music," the light faded from the still wide open and glassy eye; and Agnes, passing her hand gently over the lids, said, "Mr. Fairland, she is gone!" and the first thought of her sad heart was, "Oh that I too were at rest!" But she checked it in one moment, when she remembered that there were duties and conflicts and trials before her yet; and she determined she would go forward, in the Divine strength, into the furnace which she must needs go through, in order to be refined and purified.

Once, during Tiney's last sickness, a messenger called for Agnes, and put a note and a little bouquet of green-house flowers into her hand. At first, Agnes hoped that the note might contain tidings of her brother; but though disappointed in this respect, the contents of the note were soothing and grateful to her troubled heart. The words were simply these:

"Is there anything I can do for you? And if you need a friend, will you call upon me?" The note was signed "C.H."

At first Agnes merely said, in a despairing tone, "Oh no! nothing can be done;" and then, feeling that a different answer should be sent to a message so kind, she tore off a bit of the paper, and wrote upon it:

"Nothing can be done for me now. Believe me, I will not hesitate to call upon you, when you can do me any good."

The day after Tiney's death, officers came to search Mr. Fairland's house for the fugitive, having traced him to Wilston. Every corner of the house was searched, and even the chamber of death was not spared. The search, of course, was unsuccessful; but, the day after poor Tiney's funeral, came tidings to Agnes of the arrest of her brother. He was taken at last, and safely lodged in the jail at Hillsdale, where he was to await his trial.

And now Agnes, whose office ever seemed of necessity to be that of consoler and comforter, must leave her little charge, and go to be near her brother. It was a bitter parting; it seemed as if the children could not let her go; and the scene recalled so vividly to Agnes the parting with Miss Edwards at Brook Farm, that the recollection made her, if possible, still more sad, as she thought the resemblance might be carried out even to the end, and the close of this earthly scene to her might be as melancholy as was that of her beloved teacher.

She promised Mr. Fairland that, as soon as she could attend to it, she would ascertain if there were vacancies in Mrs. Arlington's school for Rosa and Jessie, and also if Mr. Malcolm would consent to take charge of Frank's education; and, accompanied by Mr. Fairland, she left Wilston, as she supposed, forever.



XVII.

The Jail.

"I may not go, I may not go, Where the sweet-breathing spring-winds blow; Nor where the silver clouds go by, Across the holy, deep blue sky; Nor where the sunshine, warm and bright Comes down, like a still shower of light; I must stay here In prison drear; Oh! heavy life, wear on, wear on, Would God that thou wert gone."

—FANNY KEMBLE.

They reached Brook Farm late in the evening, and here the greeting, though not as noisy and joyous, was warmer, and if possible more affectionate than ever. They all loved Lewie in spite of his many faults, and their sympathy was most sincere and hearfelt for Agnes, who was very dear to them all. As soon as Agnes could speak to Mr. Wharton alone, she said:

"Uncle, have you seen him?"

"Every day, dear Agnes, and have been with him some hours each day."

"And how does he feel, dear Uncle?"

"Relieved, I think, on the whole; that the suspense is over thus far. He says he would not live over again the last three weeks for worlds. Many and many a time he had almost resolved to return and give himself up for trial; but the thought of you, Agnes, prevented. He said that you must be a sharer in all his trouble and disgrace, and if he could spare your distress and suffering, by escaping from the country, he meant to try and do it, and then he would soon be forgotten, except by the few who cared for him."