Scene second was opened. The store was the same, but the business extended, calling another clerk to the counter; the seats were there, and the pleasant views around; the company sulky, polished like a razor, danced on its light elliptics, behind a proud pawing horse at the post; and the sun literally revelled in the yellow gold that flamed on the sanded sign over the door.

His eyes were still more pleased, and there flocked around his heart sensations of more exalted bliss. The chances of his fortune were very large, and sure; but he would feel rich on a quarter of what would be required in older sections, and in cities. If he could have ten thousand dollars, and a clear conscience and good name left, he would feel richer than many with a million. He would be rich enough, and thank no man for more. No man ought to accumulate more. With that fortune he could settle down, in the pleasantest home.

That home rose before him in the scene. It stood fronting the village green. It supported its piazza and Paris green blinds, and was white and modest in all appearance. It was a two-story house of course, for a story and a half would look too much like a squatter's home, in a village; yet it was not over large. A large house would give Mrs. Fabens too much care and work, and she would not have a servant to wait on her. The house was just suited to his family. It was furnished neatly but prudently; having a sofa indeed, and one large mirror; but brick fireplaces, frugal lamps, a plain carpet in the parlor, and maple chairs with simple flag-seats.

In that home, how much comfort he could take when his friends gave him calls; when Fanny and her children came home on a visit, and when some poor weary mendicant entered for shelter, alms and rest! To that home he could retire in a few years, free from the cares of business, anxious for nothing, but the good of his neighbors, still young in his heart, and fresh in all his feelings to enjoy life's blessing and peace.

Scene third was opened. The store remained, with an increase of business, and an enlargement of the building. He still continued in business; but it was from choice, and not necessity; for all of his ten thousand was made; and it was made so easily, and in so much less time than he anticipated, and so pleasantly withal, he might just as well keep on to twenty thousand; if a clear conscience might remain, and he might be a little more happy.

Mrs. Fabens could be lady of a handsomer home, and perhaps persuaded to keep a servant or two, and take some comfort in her old age. His first object should be to force happiness on her; for a better wife never blest a devoted husband. Mrs. Fabens should be urged to extend the sphere of her enjoyments, and Fanny should be well provided for. He would try for twenty thousand. Then a larger house could be built, and a good horse and carriage attend at the door.

That sum was accumulated, and that home and its opulent comforts and equipage rose in the scene. He was glad he possessed it. The poorest of his friends, the most humble of his fellows were welcome as ever there, and he was happier, showing how a rich man could unbend, and how much more was in his power to bless them.

Now he could travel some. Neither he nor his family has seen anything of the world at all, and he would take them around to see it. They should go to Saratoga a week, thence to Albany, thence to New York, and Philadelphia. Perhaps they would go through the country in their own private carriage, taking all the comfort of the journey. It would be grand to visit Niagara, and bring home in their souls the sublimity of the falls. May be they would go to Boston, and set their feet on Bunker-hill, where his father fought in the Revolution; and if he should ever be honored with a seat in the Legislature, or in Congress, he would take his family with him, for he could do it as well as not.

Scene fourth was opened, and that was pleasanter than all the rest. But he found that even twenty thousand would not be sufficient to accomplish all his plans. Yet, he was in no dilemma. Fairbanks, Frisbie and Fabens, had grown up into a mammoth business, and it would be as easy to make his thirty thousand, as to turn his hand over. Make it honestly too: and the money was all made, and he said now he had enough in all conscience, for one man to possess. Now his comfort would be complete.

He wondered why he should have taken it into his head to build his house in the village, where he could not turn himself without knocking his elbows, and where he could get no good views of nature, and hardly land enough for a patch of green grass to spread-out washings on.

Judge Garlock had a country-seat overlooking the Cayuga, scarcely a bow-shot from the pebbly shore, and he must have one too. He sells his village home, purchases ten acres on a gentle and beautiful slope, builds him a splendid house, with polished marble mantels, with cornices, centre-pieces, and folding-doors, furnished in several rooms with mahogany chairs and sofas, with ottomans and divans; the large parlor graced with a fine piano, for Fanny and her sweet daughters, when they shall come home; and his lovely acres are made more lovely by a profusion of trees, circles and lines of white pebble walk, pink-beds and tulips; and flourish not long without a deer-park and duck-pond, as symbols of ancient times.

And how his heart leaps with delight as he beholds that home in contrast with the old ones, and imagines the comfort they will find there. Not the wet grass, or slumping soil of a farm, but the white pebble path of a villa will he now tread, as he goes forth to enjoy the morning and the night. And while he is out, if he chooses not to sit down in his summer-house, and read, or look over his last paper, under one of his maples, and has nothing else to busy his thoughts, and no one to share his company, he can fling corn to his ducks in the pool, and feed his gentle deer, delighting to see them enjoy his care.

Who has not a right to build as handsome a house as money will buy? He cannot withdraw his eyes from the charming scene! He retires and returns again and again, to linger and look upon it. The clear and cool Cayuga shines beyond, as if hung for a mirror to reflect it; and he sees the whole magnificent estate, the house and its terraces, the grounds and trees, the walks and waters, the ducks and deers; even the tulips and pinks, as plainly in its placid splendor, as you can see the sun in the silver sky.

But he must turn, at least to breathe, for the fifth scene opens. Still he remains a member of the firm of Fairbanks, Frisbie and Fabens. Still at times he is seen in the store, waiting on customers, when the others are absent, sitting now and then in the counting-room to counsel or converse, or enjoying a cool hour on the back piazza. Still he is very happy, yet not quite satisfied.

He has run upon the idea that a high-school is wanted in Summerfield, and that he cannot more nobly enhance his happiness than by establishing a school of the first class, in a building erected for the purpose, endowing it amply, and making a present of it to the town. Ten thousand dollars more could easily be made, and it would enable him to do that very handsome thing for Summerfield.

In comes the money without effort, and without delay; the school is established on a pleasant eminence, in full view of his mansion, and it makes a fine ornament to the place; while he finds it a pleasant sight indeed, to see talented young men, and accomplished young women, going forth from Fabens' Academy, to improve society, and ennoble their own life with learning, and graceful manners and ways.

And while revelling in this new source of joy, his fortune continues to grow, and the sixth scene opens. It will be thought a novel enterprise in that community, and he is prepared for it, and even for a few sneers and witticisms; but these will not move him at all, and he resolves to build a meeting-house, and call a pastor, and settle a salary upon him. He has always supported Elder Darling's meeting—the Elder is an excellent man, and he will continue to support him; but he is not perfectly suited with the Elder's preaching; it wants heartier life, and a more evangelical power and effect; and he knows of many who hunger for a gospel of larger faith and charity; which shall feed and refresh the people, and raise their aims and views; which shall identify religion more with a pure and benevolent character; which shall not be sectarian; and, free from cant and vain pretension, shall enter into every-day life, and make smiles its hymns, and deeds of good its prayers. Such a minister can be procured, such a church established. He can establish it himself, and not mind the cost. He will do it, and ask no man's assistance. Up goes a beautiful church as there is in all the country, and on comes the eloquent preacher; and full meetings, and joyful seasons follow. If ever he was a man of perfect happiness, it is now.

And what can prevent the continuance of his bliss? The evangelical gospel sounds sweeter than ever in his ears. New interpretations of Scripture enlighten him, and higher views of God and heaven open like elysium around. And can anything, out of heaven, flood his heart with a fuller satisfaction, than on a still, bright, silent Sunday, such as God gives in holiest beauty only to the country, to ride in his carriage to that lovely church, which nestles like a white dove in among the hills, and hear preaching that will fatten his soul with celestial manna-dew, exchange warm greetings with hundreds who thank him for the privilege they enjoy at his hand, and ride home, rejoicing all the way, to be the agent by which a door is opened for light and truth in a new region?

His happiness continues to flow. All his reasonable expectations are fulfilled, and he seems to live longer in a single day, on a single Sunday now, than he once did in a twelvemonth; it makes him so happy to know he has made many others happy. But with the increase of fortune, comes the increase of desire, and he finds another thing lacking; a new project leaps into his mind, and the last scene opens.

There are a great many poor people in Summerfield. Several causes have combined to make them poor. Most of them are very worthy, and have interesting children. All of them are God's sons and daughters, and should not pine in want and grief amid so much wealth and country. If a Poor Man's Home were established on a large and productive farm, and put under judicious management, how much suffering might be alleviated! How many aged heads lie down on soft pillows of peace! How many aged hearts, unburdened of grief, and made to run over with flowing tears of gratitude! How many of the disabled and unfortunate, placed beyond reach of want and misery! How many bright children snatched from the errors and temptations that lurk in the way of poverty, and clothed and educated in virtues and lessons, that would place them on a footing with rich men's children, and lead them to lives of usefulness and honor! How many orphans provided for, and how many widows made to sing in their hearts for joy!

He has means sufficient to do most of the building himself, and endow the Home; and with a little help from others, the institution is completed; and he sees bright glancing wings of joy hovering at doors where grief has been a constant guest; Comfort wiping tears from eyes long accustomed to weep; and Virtue and Knowledge leading large processions of rescued children on their heavenward way. He is rich and happy as he can hope or desire to be on earth, and he lies down to sweet dreams on the last night of his Week of Castle Building, and with those dreams the visions of affluence close.



XXV.

A WEEK OF REALITY.

During that memorable week, while those splendid scenes of fortune passed his view as on a rolling panorama, there were moments when Fabens felt that the scheme was too magnificent to contemplate alone, and Mrs. Fabens and Fanny ought at once to be admitted to the blissful secret, and participate his joy. Then again, he happened to remember Julia's love for the old home, and her questioning, slow-footed caution, and he refrained from a disclosure.

But he could not refrain from sounding her mind a little, as he returned from the field for his meals, to ascertain if his own dreams could possibly be too extravagant, and if there were any hope of a consent from her, provided in the end he should have an earnest desire to accept the tempting offer. He asked her several questions of considerable meaning to himself, which she answered, with little suspicion of the thoughts that lay concealed beneath the surface of the words.

"Our fields never looked more beautiful to me, not even in June, than they have for a few days now of this lovely weather," said Mrs. Fabens, gazing from her favorite window upon the rich landscape in view, on the first day of the Week of Reality.

"We are somewhat retired, and cannot see a great distance north or east from the house, but what we can see is so bound up with all my dearest feelings and pleasantest thoughts, I would not change it away for more pretending views from new situations. I love to look at our east woods very well; and the hill pasture; and the orchard in blossom is a charming sight, and more charming still when tossing the yellow pippins to the sun, as in this pleasant breeze."

"You think the old farm is pretty near the centre of the world, I suppose," said Fabens.

"It holds my heart as if balanced on the world's centre," replied Mrs. Fabens.

"And nothing would tempt you to leave it? not even a larger house, or nearer sights of lovely water, or pleasanter walks?"

"No, indeed!"

"But, you always thought Judge Garlock's place very handsome."

"O, it is handsome to look at as you pass; it is nearer the lake than ours; and no doubt it is the dearest spot on earth to Mrs. Garlock, she has lived there so long; but I would not leave this place for that."

"But you forget her splendid house, her white pebble walks, her grounds looking like an Eden; and—"

"No doubt they are very dear to her, but I would not exchange houses, or grounds, or gardens, or sights with her."

"Not if we had more money, to live as they do!"

"No! not for a house full of silver dollars."

"Not to have such a splendid view from your door and windows of the silver-breasted lake, and the grand old hills beyond?"

"Hardly, if the river Jordan rolled there, and Canaan bloomed opposite; though I always thought that would be the loveliest sight on earth. But what are you talking about, Matthew? do we not see the lake from our house, and the hills, too, beyond?"

"Only from a distance."

"'Distance lends enchantment to the view,' as Fanny's poet sings."

"Only in little patches; and they are dull, and without interest, unless the sun happens to shine. But would you not like to live there if I was a merchant or lawyer; and had given a school, a church, and hospital to the town, and grand folks were flocking from all quarters to visit us?"

"No, I would not, as true as I live and breathe; not if you were King George, and kings and queens were flocking to see you. Nothing but Heaven would tempt me to change away the old home; we have taken so much comfort here. It seems a part and parcel of myself. I would as soon think of changing you off for Merchant Fairbanks, because he may be called a little handsomer, and goes dressed up like a lord every day about his dainty store. I would as soon think of selling Fanny, and buying Desdemona Faddle to fill Fanny's place, just because she has a mess of dangling curls, and paints her face, and wears more rings and flounces."

"How you do talk! That would be quite a different thing; wouldn't it, Fanny?"

"No, father, I think mother is right. I'm sure I never can love another home as I love this. I should feel dreadfully to hear you talk of selling. I never could love another home."

"Not if you had George there, to increase your happiness?"

"Another home to call father's and mother's I mean; where I could return and enjoy all the old things that are grown so fast to my heart. But why do you talk so, father?"

"That I was going to ask. You have no intention of leaving here, I hope, and why do you talk so? You act wild."

"You began the talk, Julia, and I was seeing to what a stretch you would carry your feelings. But here, it is time I was out in the field at the plough again, and I will leave you now, to think it all over, and see if there is nothing on earth that would tempt you to sell the old home."

A drop of cold water, or the slightest shake will interrupt the reallest seeming dream; and half of this conversation would have brought Fabens out of what but a day before seemed a splendid reality. He went to his plough in the light of his awakened senses, and walked all the way on the actual, sober ground. His gorgeous air castles vanished like a train of fleeting clouds. A walk in the dirty furrow seemed long before night, a very pleasant and refreshing pastime; and he shuddered with shame more than once to think he had been so extravagant in many of the thoughts, that were set afloat by the merchant's offer. He came to himself that afternoon; and sitting down to tea, with a glance first at the north meadow and the white ash shade-trees blooming there; then at the east woods and orchard; then at the blue fringes of the mountains lifted sublimely before him in the south; then at the crystal Cayuga in the west and the green hills sleeping beyond; he exclaimed, "I must agree with you, Julia; we have views from our doors and windows as handsome as any I know of, and the old farm still looks very good to me."

During that afternoon, however, Mrs. Fabens had been thinking of Fairbanks and Frisbie, and it occurred to her that they might have said something to her husband about selling his farm; and from that, her mind returned to the borrowed notes. It had been her expressed desire that he would not contract a liability for any one, of more than fifty dollars, without security; and now she felt painfully curious to know, if the former notes loaned had been all taken up, why they had not been brought to her husband, that he might positively know that his liability had ceased. But Fabens was so magnanimous he had thought it unmanly to ask security of the merchant, or distrust the assurances of men who had dealt so handsomely as they.

She wondered she had not remembered to inquire about the old notes before, and was troubled till she could ask the question. At night she introduced the subject. "It may be all right," said she, "but something keeps whispering to me, that trouble awaits us. We have a comfortable property, as much as anybody ought to desire I know, but we have all worked hard and honestly to get it, and it would be hard to be defrauded of a hundred dollars. I would rather give all we can spare to the poor and needy, than to be defrauded of it."

"I confess to you, mother, what till this week I never felt," said Fanny with emotion; "I begin to lose confidence. I fear father is deceived. I don't like their coming so often. I don't like the way they make so many presents. I don't like their asking for so many notes, and I have heard too much of what begins to sound like flattery. Oh, I hope father will not have trouble!"

"I hope too, that I shall not have trouble," said Fabens with rising agitation; "but you seem to wake me out of a singular dream. What have I been doing? Why have I given them power so to deceive and defraud me, if they chance to have the wicked will? I must go and see if all is well. I fear, I fear they deceived me! What have I done?"

Early the next morning Fabens set off to see Fairbanks. He designed first to inquire if Fairbanks had preserved, and could produce the old notes represented as paid, and next ascertain whether the last one left him liable; and in his anxiety, and the wakefulness of his reason and judgment, he gave no thought to the idea of quitting his fine old farm for a merchant's life, except to wonder how such an idea had been permitted to enter his head. A cool hour's ride brought him to the village where Fairbanks traded, and his fears were in no wise relieved, by finding the store still closed, and failing to obtain an answer to his rap and call.

He stepped over to the tailor's shop across the way, and there he was informed that the store was closed by a sheriff the day before, on an old judgment from New York, and there were not goods enough on hand to cancel the liability. That the neighborhood was all in excitement, for astonishing things had come to light. That Fairbanks had obtained money at the banks in considerable amounts on the endorsements of several citizens; and still was owing for two or three crops of wheat and other produce; besides leaving a large board bill unsettled; horse hire, cigar and liquor bills, and hired help unpaid; and with Frisbie had left the town, no doubt, never to return!

"What shall I do?—Can it be possible?—Can I believe it? You amaze me! How they did deceive me!" were the answers of Fabens to each unwelcome item of this news.

"Then they run away in your debt, too, did they, Square?" asked the tailor, as he finished the hurried tale of recent disclosures. "If he's in debt to you, you've a plenty of company. A good many were took in by the rascals. I begun to smell the rat after it was too late. Each of 'em owes me now for a suit of Sunday clothes. When I set pressing 'em off at midnight, I little thought they would be run-away suits, and I was working so hard for nothing. But I must pocket the loss, I suppose, and comfort me, remembering this is the first time a rascal has bit me. How much did they owe you, Square, considerable?"

"I know not as I can say positively, that they owe me anything," said Fabens, as soon as he could crowd in a word of reply to the talkative tailor's question; "but it must be, I shall lose by them. I loaned my note to Fairbanks, a few weeks agony [Transcriber's note: ago, agone?]—my note at the bank for three hundred dollars. I expect I shall have that to pay, and I know not how much more."

"Why, of all things! they've bit you hard, you may depend!" exclaimed the astonished tailor.

"Is it possible that they are such deceivers?" asked Fabens, in an agony of grief.

"They are dreadful creatures; there's no mistake about that, I guess," said the tailor.

"But they always looked honest and friendly," said Fabens.

"And so can old Bill Shazzar, and old Bill Zebub, look honest and friendly too, when they want to come it on a fellow," said the tailor.

"Who next can we trust?" exclaimed Fabens, wounded as deeply by the deception as by the loss. "Where was my reason? Where were my senses all this while? Why didn't I take my wife's advice, when she gave it with tears in her eyes? I dread to go to the bank and see how matters are."



XXVI.

ANOTHER WEEK OF REALITY.

Before Fabens left town for Auburn, to inquire at the bank, concerning his paper, an officer of the bank met him, having been to his house, and followed him here, and he disclosed the fact that Fabens was liable for a thousand dollars, not one of the old notes having been paid. "My worst fears are realized!" cried Fabens, the cold sweat starting out in beads on his forehead.

"Why was I so heedless? And is this all right, sir? Could you not have warned me of my danger before it went so far? You must have known that something was going wrong in that fellow's affairs; and why was I kept in the dark to this hour?"

He was answered that the villains had managed so adroitly, they did not suspect deception, till too late. "But we are not at all alarmed, Squire Fabens, concerning the amount for which you are liable to us," said the gentleman. "We know you are good and honest. We will give you all reasonable time to cancel the notes. I regret sincerely, that you have met such a loss, Squire Fabens. But there, a farmer should never be liable for a trader. Let farmers endorse each other if they will; they know each other's risks and resources. But they know little of the risks and insecurities of trade, and less of the chances of deception connected with it, and they should never endorse for traders, or loan their notes. Hundreds of fine farms go in this way to pay other people's debts."

"But must my farm go to pay those notes?" asked Fabens, turning still whiter in the face, and sweating almost blood. "My farm, that I have worked so hard for? my comfortable home? Must it go, and leave us destitute now as old age comes in sight? It is hard to think of these things. And what will my poor wife say? and how can she endure this trouble? I will pay the notes, if it takes all I have, and the coat from my back, in the bargain; but I beg you don't sue me. I never was sued in my life. Don't injure my character, or make me unnecessary cost."

Everything proved just as they informed him, and he went home heavy-hearted, to relate what he had heard. Mrs. Fabens and Fanny were deeply grieved by the thought, that he stood so largely liable on Fairbanks' account. But they bore the shock with a composure, which comforted Fabens greatly; and such hopefulness had ever been the blessing of them all, before another week, they had nearly recovered from the first agitation, and begun to contrive how they should manage to make the best of the misfortune.

It was nothing against their firm religious faith in overruling Good, nor against their fortitude, or self-reliance, to say that at first they yielded to agitations and griefs. It would have been unnatural in them not to be moved. For the present it was a calamity which they must suffer. Their old farm was dear to them, every acre of it. To its woods and waters; to its fine pastures and green meadows; its generous fruit-trees and grateful shade-trees, they were tenderly attached, looking upon them with family affection; and how could an item of that sweet home be spared? They doubted not but God would control the event for good; but it could not displease him to behold this feeling in his children. How could they adjust their faith to the event and be resigned so suddenly? It was hard to bear the stroke. It cut to the tender quick, and they shuddered and wept. It was hard to think the unworthy should be agents, to bring the disguised blessing which would follow such a woe. Hard to be deceived by those in whom so many confided with such pure and magnanimous trust.

But they were not immoderate in their grief. The deception might have been deeper, and the loss more alarming and great. And then what was their grief at that hour, compared with the misery that must gnaw at the hearts of the deceivers, as inseparable from their guilt. What gift in the wide world would tempt them to exchange places with the wretched creatures? What a thorny road of perdition must their way of life be! How they must whiten and gasp, and what poignant pangs must thrill them through and through when they remembered their villainous deeds!

And then they remembered how thankful they should be, that the designs of the criminals on Fanny had failed even of their first success, while they wept to hear of the shame in which more than one poor victim had been left; that they lost no confidence in George Ludlow; and none of their family had been made less virtuous by them.

Fabens remembered his schemes of benevolence, and his project of a new church and minister, without regret; but he crimsoned with blushing shame, as he confessed the foolish idea to which they forced him to listen, in regard to selling the old homestead and becoming a merchant. "Just as though it could be possible for us to be as happy as we are, in another sphere of life!" said he. "What in the world do I want to make me happy and respectable, except more faith and goodness, and the means to confer more good, that I did not possess before the scoundrels came? I wonder that Matthew Fabens allowed them to make him such a silly fool!" But it was long before he told them the dreams he indulged in his Week of Castle Building.

They counselled together: with returning resignation and confidence, they counselled.

"A thousand dollars!—a thousand!" said Fabens, with a long-drawn sigh. "That is a large debt for me to owe—a large one! I must see how I can settle it. I cannot bear to be in debt, even on another's account. I must not sit down and give up. I cannot rest very well till I do something to square it. He said they wouldn't sue me. I never was sued, and I could not bear to be. But I have only about a hundred dollars, and where can I raise the rest? The debt is a round thousand in all."

"I do not know. It really looks dark before us after all," said Mrs. Fabens. "A thousand dollars does not grow on every bush. I see no way, but a slice of the farm must go, and a pretty large slice too; and that will be very hard. How much is the whole farm worth?"

"It ought to fetch six thousand, five hundred," said Fabens. "Six thousand I've been offered for it, time and again."

"I cannot bear to part with an inch of the farm—it is so dear to us," said Mrs. Fabens.

"How can we part with a rood or a tree," asked Fanny, with a sigh. "Every tree seems one of the family, and every rood has transferred a picture of its beauty to our hearts."

"But something must be done to wipe off the thousand dollars. The hundred on hand will help; and where shall I raise the rest? They may sue me, and sacrifice double the amount, if they have to wait too long," said Fabens.

"O well, we shall have enough left after paying the thousand," said Mrs. Fabens. "Any one will loan you nine hundred, and take a mortgage. Then we should not have to sell a single rood. We could all turn to, and raise it off from the farm in three or four years."

"I cannot bear to mortgage the farm," said Fabens. "I should then feel in debt. I hate debts as I do sin and Satan. Hadn't we better sell off a little strip joining Nimblet's, and stand free and clear once more? It is handsome land, I know; my heart leans to it warmly, for I have labored along there a good many pleasant days. But hadn't we better let the pretty piece go? He has been at me these three years to sell it; and he can pay for it all down. Wouldn't the farm be large enough without that strip?"

"That may be best," said Mrs. Fabens. "I dislike debts and mortgages as much as you. But the farm is so handsome with that green border, and its lovely shade-trees!"

"That is the most beautiful fringe of fields on the farm," said Fanny. "The trees are the finest;—think of those charming chestnuts, and how their white blossoms sweeten the air in July! And the handsomest walnuts and maples wave along there. And there is my lovely linden, and mother's balm of Gilead. And how level the ground is; and how the bluebirds and robins love to sing there!—But perhaps it may be best to let it go, and be out of debt. We shall all feel so much better. You cannot sell the loveliness of those fields, and he could no more buy it than buy the songs of the birds, or the light of the blue skies. The handsome prospect, the verdure, light, and song, are the property of all who have eyes to see and hearts to enjoy them; and Mr. Nimblet will take pains, I know, to make the fields more lovely, if he can."

"Then I may say to Mr. Nimblet, he can have the north fields?" asked Fabens.

"O, wait a little while," said Fanny, "and see if we cannot keep them. It looks so beautiful in the middle field in the spring, when the dandelions blow; and the strawberries blossom; and the butter-cups wave in the wind; and the bobolinks light on the red clover and sing;—there would be more comfort in knowing it was all ours as we enjoyed the sight!"

"But we cannot have everything, Fanny, as we wish in this world," said Mrs. Fabens. "Let it go. I am willing, if you think best. As Fanny says, the landscape will be ours as much as ever. And after all, how much better off are we without that strip of land than many of our neighbors! Think of the poor laborers and mechanics that Fairbanks owes for work! How much more ought we to think of their loss than our own!"

"Yes, but, how much good we could have done with that thousand dollars," said Fabens; "giving some of it to the poor, and lending the rest to worthy young men who are struggling against hope to get something, and would be set on their feet by a little lift. But it is of no use to cry for spilt milk."

"And what is this trouble, compared with the loss of poor little Clinton, and our grief for him?" asked Mrs. Fabens.

"Dear me,—I would give the beauty of the world to see my brother Clinton!" cried Fanny, her blue eyes sparkling with tears. "I cannot remember seeing him; but how could I help loving him when you have said so much about him, and wept so many sad hours for his loss? O what would we not give to see Clinton? And how foolish it will be to mourn for a small deception and a thousand dollars! Don't let us mourn any more for that!"

"Clinton!" said Fabens, kindling to a glow, and rising and pacing the room. "Give all the world to see Clinton? I think we would, and we would be rich and happy, if Clinton were alive and here, though we were without money and handsome fields, and had no more than a bark shanty to shelter our heads."

"Indeed we would!" added Mrs. Fabens, rocking more earnestly in her chair. "And let us pay up the debt, sell the land and pay it, and thank the Lord that he has been so good to us, and taught us how to bear our troubles."

George Ludlow was present to sympathize and counsel, and he said "Let the land go;" and Fanny repeated, "Let it go; we have all its beauty pictured on our souls, and will possess it with our estate;" and before the week was over, Mr. Nimblet had purchased the row of fields on the north side of the farm, and the debt was paid, and happiness became, for that misfortune, no stranger to the household.



XXVII.

SUNNY SKIES.

Time and reflection, mutual sympathy, and a happy knack of always hoping for the best, completed their resignation, and prosperity and peace once more attended their efforts and desires. The farm was found quite ample in what was left, to employ them all, and satisfy their hearts. In fact there was more land left than Fabens could manage without much assistance, and more than a supply of all that heart could wish.

They seemed to enjoy home and prosperity, and everything around them better than before; for the loss and anxiety given them by Fairbanks awakened a new appreciation of all good, and taught them to be more thankful for what they could call their own. They also learned how to exercise a will that conquered all misfortune, and rested in a faith that overcame the world. As they looked back to early life, and counted all the sorrows they had seen, though some had been heavy as humanity can bear, they could not select one and say, it had not seemed to soften their hearts, and open to their minds a sense of the goodness of God and the mercy of every providence. "I can cry with David," said Fabens, "it is good for me that I was afflicted, although it is difficult, at all times to see in what way good out of evil may come."

After this, George Ludlow was employed to assist in managing the farm, and the progress of time only quickened the increase of their love for him. He grew manly still more in appearance, though to strangers he was homely; he grew intelligent still more in mind, and his society in that home was not its smallest joy.

And Fanny Fabens had now attained to full maturity, and she presented a person and a mind that all admired and loved. Her form had a round and erect development; and her step was as light, and her carriage as proud as the colt's that ranged the hills. Her hair was a shaded and glossy flaxen now, and her eyes were a darker blue. Her beauty was unchanging as the Pleiades, in all situations; for whether she hetchelled flax in the kitchen, or spun wool in the barn; whether peeling apples, or piecing quilts; whether churning butter or dressing cheese; whether gleaning wheat or picking berries; or dancing at a wedding, or singing hymns at church; she was the same rosy, brisk and brightly smiling creature; the same full, free and glad-hearted life; giving grace and honor to labor; light and beauty to nature; joy and virtue to amusements; peace and holiness to worship, and love and happiness to home.

One day when Fabens happened to stop at the tailor's, in the village, he thought to inquire into Frisbie's story, concerning the handkerchief, which he would have them believe George Ludlow had stolen. The tailor was positive in denying the truth of the whole affair. It was false, he said, and much like many other lies they had told.

The next time Fabens saw Troffater, he inquired if Tilly knew any evil of George Ludlow, or if he ever warned Fairbanks and Frisbie against him.

"They never said so much as boo, about 'im to me, nor I to them; that's honest," said Troffater. "But I tell you, Fabens, I never thought a great 'eal o' them scamps. I itched to give you a jog, when they come so thick around you. You was green as a mess o' cowslops, or you'd a seen what they was arter. I thought you'd git nipt a grain, or my name wasn't Troffater. But I dasn't tell you what I thought on 'em. You wouldn't a' b'lieved me, I ben such a witch with my word. I spose you know the fellers have been heern from? They run out of all they cabbaged here perty quick. Frisbie, they say, is jugged up in jail, and there's better men sometimes hung than that Jock Fairbanks. I guess some o' the gals are kindy sorry they sot their caps for 'em! The Faddle gals, I guess, would give all their old shews, if they'd a' kep away from the whelps. My gals is all in titters about it; and Beck Teezle, says she, 'I wonder, says she, if Des and Luce Faddle, says she, will feel above us now?' They couldn't git me to dew their dirty Work, with all their ile and palaver. I bought a pitchfork on 'em, once in hayin', and got a platter there when Josephyne was married, and I paid 'em tew in mink skins; and that's all I had to dew with 'em. You lost a good 'eal by 'em, didn't you, Square?"

"A thousand dollars," said Fabens. "It seemed a great sum to lose, at first. It was too much for me. But it has been a good lesson to me, in many ways. The lesson perhaps will give me my money's worth."

"That is a big sum to luse, I swanny! I wish I had a jogged your elbow a grain. I seen threw the cunnin' scamps the fust time. Didn't you know, Square, that Fairbanks was gray as a wharf rat, when he let his hair alone?" said Troffater.

"No, I did not. He was not gray; his hair was a glossy black," said Fabens.

"Ha! ha! ha! you was greener 'n cowslops, or you'd a seen that was all dye-stuff!" said Troffater. "Why, I seen the gray roots glisten for half an inch, the fust time I seen 'im. But didn't you know 'im, Square? He come from the Hudson."

"I never knew him till he came here," said Fabens.

"But, you've got a clean conscience," said Troffater. "If I had that, I wouldn't lay wake o' nights, nor grow hatchet-faced a great 'eal. I see your cheeks don't fall in, and nobuddy would spose by your looks that you had a great grist o' trouble. Wish I could look as cheerful, and had a bit o' your pleasant peace o' mind."

"But you have forgotten one of my questions; I asked if you knew any ill of George Ludlow," said Fabens.

"All I know, I can tell perty quick," said Troffater, and cooked his quid, and spit through his teeth. "What do you know, Tilly?" asked Fabens.

"I know an awful cuss hangs over the feller," said Troffater.

"How you talk! Curse! what do you mean?" asked Fabens, with emotion, and a searching glance of his large and loving eye: "George Ludlow under a curse?"

"Yis, under a cuss, an' may it please your honor," said Troffater.

"Who pronounced it?" asked Fabens.

"Scriptur!" said Troffater, drawing down his monkey brows over his little, black-and-blue eyes, and looking wise as a magistrate. "Scriptur pernounced the cuss."

"The Scripture!" exclaimed Fabens. "The Scripture pronounced a curse! What do you mean? What does the Scripture say to condemn George Ludlow?"

"A good 'eal, I guess," said Troffater. "The Scripture says—'Woe unto him that all men speak well of;' and George Ludlow is the man!"

"O, you will be Tilly Troffater, as long as you live!" said Fabens. "Why can you not be serious once in a while? You are getting to be an old man, and such levity shocks one's reverence for your gray hairs. But if that is all you know, I am sure you never spoke ill of the young man."

"Not I, Fabens, not I," said Troffater, sobering down at this mild rebuke. "He's a likely feller. He'll dew wal enough, I'll warrant. Tell Fan, for me, if she gits George Ludlow, her fortin will be fixed. A good many young bucks, that feels above him, might thank the powers, if they knowed as much as he, and was half as likely. Wish I had ollers did as wal as George, and my mind was peaceful as his'n. But I must go hum. I calkilate to start on a journey to-morror, for the Holland Purchase, and I've a little fixin' to dew."

So they separated, and Fabens went home, musing in his heart, and inquiring what fresh remorse could have seized on Troffater's conscience, and what might be the object of his journey.

Under the joint management of Fabens and George Ludlow, for a period of good prices and great prosperity, the farm yielded a return of a portion of the sum lost by Fairbanks, and a year or so was anticipated as time sufficient to retrieve the entire misfortune, if misfortune it might really now be called; and place the family and their young friend in very desirable circumstances. The smaller farm yielded an extra increase for receiving the care and culture formerly bestowed on the fields that were sold; the seasons seemed more genial; the rains more timely, and the sun more liberal in his bland, warm beams, than for years gone by. The beneficence of God was pictured out on all the glowing sky; blooming in all the fields and woods, and sung by the birds and breezes. Lessons of grief, quite as much as those of joy, had taught them to discover the signs of that beneficence; to rejoice in all its light, and repose in its blissful promise.

Mr. and Mrs. Fabens had arrived at a period of life when old age was approaching, yet most tardy in its advances; and their relation as parents was most interesting; and their convictions and sentiments, as trusting Christians, gave daily refreshment to their souls.

As one good consequence of the late trial, our excellent farmer considered his cure of a love of praise, which had grown insensibly upon him, and commenced already to make him unhappy, by warping his independence, and making him almost a slave to the vain opinions of men. As another effect in which he discovered a blessing, it weakened his worldly cares, and taught him to set his affections on things above.

There was a time of general happiness in Summerfield. Some of the old people had passed away; among whom Mr. Flaxman and old Mr. and Mrs. Waldron were much lamented. Many worthy sons were left behind; and several who had been prodigals were now reformed, to render the old neighborhood pleasant and happy.

Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were still alive, and possessed a fine property, and rejoiced in the society of several dutiful children. Colwell and his wife were still alive and happy. The Teezles had not succeeded greatly in worldly affairs; but they had a home and a good family, and none saw pleasanter days. Uncle Walter and Aunt Huldah lived in a ripe old age; and he loved a hunt and a fine story, and she loved stubbing and scouring still; and could boast the whitest linen, the whitest floor, and clearest maple sugar. And these had all learnt wisdom since the feast at Aunt Polly Waldron's, and were more refined in thought and speech.

Tilly Troffater carried still about him, as he did his scars, a few of his early habits and characteristics; as for instance, his love of levity slightly corrected; his love of indolence, and an occasional glass of whisky; his swaggering loquacity, a little improved; and once in a while the mischief of the busybody. But all regarded him, on the whole, as a reformed man, and were quick to give him credit and encouragement, where they could see any change for good; expecting that he would carry a few peculiarities with him to his grave.

George Ludlow was solidly esteemed and affectionately regarded as a son by Mr. and Mrs. Fabens, while Fanny responded to his sentiments, and answered his heart with something deeper, and more a principle of her soul, than common passional love. He was esteemed by the neighbors as quite a second Fabens; and those few vain youths and maidens who had affected contempt for his humble parentage and life, were now compelled to blush for their heartless folly, and respect him. The week arrived in which George and Fanny were to be married, and great preparations were made for the happy bridal day.



XXVIII.

CONCLUSION.

Life in the country has many scenes for pictures. Its customs and festivities, though sometimes rude and homely, are never without their romance. The country courtship may not be conducted by laws laid down in books of etiquette, but it is all the more romantic for its frank simplicity. The city courtship may appear the most genteel in the splendid parlor, with the lover on a sofa displaying his stocks and certificates of wealth to the matron, and through her winning his sweetheart; while the maiden at her piano opens absorbing ears to catch his wooing words; but all must confess the country courtship makes the best picture, with the ruddy maiden in the farm-yard, in her cool sun-bonnet and clean checkered frock; the bloom of the season on her cheeks, and its fragrance in her breath; making music with sweet streams in her milk-pail; while her lover at her elbow, or leaning over the wall, as jocund as a bobolink, tells her of his horses and cows; his wheat-lands and meadow-lands; his berry-fields; his melon-patch, and maple-orchard; his nice little rural home, and his pleasant love of her.

The country wedding also makes a charming picture of one of the happiest scenes under heaven; and it was determined by the Fabenses that Fanny's wedding should lack no joy or enjoyment which they had means to give. The season was never more lovely, and the fruits of the garden, orchard, and field were never more abundant. The commodious farm-house had been re-painted, and it looked as well as new; its doors could open to a goodly company, and a goodly company came before three o'clock to make merry with them.

Neighbor Nimblet and his wife were the first of the wedding-guests who entered; and Nancy and her husband entered soon after. Then came Uncle Walter over the fields, a-foot, with his coat on his arm, in his new wide-brimmed hat, long Lon'on-brown vest, with gilt buttons and scarlet back; his white wristbands turned up, and white collar turned down; enjoying, in the tidiest way, a clean little quid of Cavendish, and selecting and cooking a story for the feast. And Aunt Huldah came with him in the neatest cap, the nicest dress, and the brightest gold beads that any old lady wore. Then came the Teezles; then came the Colwells, followed soon by their young people. Then came the Wilsons; then came the widow Flaxman, thinking how sad it would be to sing one of her old nasal songs alone. Then came Mrs. Troffater and Ruth; and they were able to offer no satisfactory excuse for Tilly, who had refused all their pleas to come with them, and taken to the woods without his dog or gun. Many remarked that they never saw Mrs. Troffater appear so well before. She wore a brand-new calico frock, of a rich de laine appearance; she had a nice cap, and handsome amber beads; and though her cap-border was rather too wide, and plaited too thinly for perfect taste, and the young people smiled to see it rise and fall with the wind; she appeared well enough; and no one attended the wedding with a warmer welcome than she. Then came Seneca Waldron and his wife; and soon all the guests were there.

The fathers and mothers were gathered into the white north-room, exchanging glad looks and hearty salutations, as if each had been autumn itself, smiling in great and abundant heart on the scene; and they were discussing the beauty of the day, and the excellence of the season; relating each other's history; and recalling incidents of the olden time, when the country was new, and neighbors were farther apart and more friendly; while the young people, happy as a flock of birds in the sunny days of mate-choosing, and freshly blooming as the landscape—around them, were out on the mown field adjacent to the house, whirling in the sportive ring, bounding in the merry dance, chatting in agreeable groups, or chasing one another on flying feet to exact or administer some little forfeit, or whisper some mirthful word or tale.

Father Lovelight, the travelling Minister, had long been expected on another visit to Summerfield, and he came three or four days in advance of the appointment, to attend the wedding and perform the ceremony. The time drew near for the company to be called in, and the ceremony to commence, and Mr. and Mrs. Fabens talked to each other of the joy that sat as a guest in their home.

"We feel well for our daughter," said Fabens, "we believe that life to her must be a blessing, and we are glad to meet our friends when we find it in our power, as in our pleasure, to make them so happy."

"Certainly, this is a happy occasion as I ever attended in my life," said Father Lovelight; "and I wish my good wife could be here. I know her whole heart would enjoy it. I have attended weddings, where the parties were unequally matched, or unprepared for a union so sacred, and they have given me funeral thoughts. May this joy be prophetic of the future bliss of the young couple. May my offices this afternoon be always a subject of pleasant thoughts."

"There's nothing at all unpleasant in a time like this," said Uncle Walter; "and I tell you what, Fabens, we have had a good many merry times in these parts."

"That we have," answered Fabens, "and I do not recollect any party we have had among us, that did not more than pay the trouble and expense, in the proceeds of joy and love it added to our treasury."

"Uncle Moses and I determined before any of you came, that there shouldn't be any hermits in the settlement; but if we could have our say, all should be neighbors, and have our joys and griefs together, without respect to high or low. We have kept our word pretty well; and, if we have not, like the chipmonks, laid up quite so many nuts in our nests, we have had acorns of pleasure in thousands, laid up all the more comfort, and held our ages better."

"Ay, ay," answered Fabens; "these neighborly loves, these social regards and reunions, have been the life and wealth of our place; and I for one have been more blest than Hezekiah, as I am sure that more than fifteen years have been added to my life."

"Our lives are greener and wider, as well as longer for these things," said Uncle Walter. "Men are like corn, growing all to stalk, and looking sallow, and scrawny, when standing alone; but branching out in broad leaves, abundant silks and lusty ears, when they grow and wave together."

"Even the young man who came here last night a stranger, Mr. Sumner, I believe he called his name,"—interrupted Mrs. Fabens, glancing out on the green where the young people lingered in merriment:—"even he seems to enjoy it with the rest. I am glad we invited him to stay and refresh himself, and share our happiness all he can. And I see he is already acquainted with several, and often smiles. But he frequently looks serious and absent, as though his mind was away. He may be reminded of his home, and of some good time like this with hearts near and dear."

"A stranger?" asked Mrs. Nimblet, "a stranger! and how could you persuade him to stay where all were strangers to him?"

"We urged him considerably," said Fabens, "and thinking it would rest and refresh him for finishing his journey, he concluded to tarry and enjoy what he could. See, there he stands talking with Jeanie Waldron, near the bee-house on the left,—the girl dressed in white with a flower in her hair."

"Near the girl with a flower? O I see him, I see him," cried Mrs. Nimblet. "And I," cried another, "and I" another.

"Well, he's a real nice-looking fellow, I vow he is, if that's he with Jeanie," said Mrs. Wilson.

"I tell you what, he looks like a manly major," added Uncle Walter.

"I call him handsome," said Mrs. Fabens, "and I know he must be a good and noble-gifted being; he looks it all from his lovely eyes. And if he is made happy among strangers, surely we have done something for a wayfarer, and ought to take pleasure from the deed."

"A deed like that will answer very well in lieu of what the Squire was going to do for a young man in 'Fabens Academy,' and for a poor homeless heart in 'Fabens Asylum,' when he got rich in the firm of 'Fairbanks, Frisbie and Fabens!'" said Uncle Walter with a roguish leer.

"None of your nonsense now, Uncle Walter!" answered Fabens with a blushing smile.

"I never had a stranger so win upon my heart before," said Mrs. Fabens. "He seems a stranger, and not a stranger, in the same look. I could kiss him and call him my son, I could, I feel so towards him!—O there is one wish that keeps rising in my heart. I have tried to repress it, for it cannot be right to harbor it so long; but it will rush before me, and I sigh for one more blessing. If Clinton could be here, our dear lost Clinton! Last night I dreamed he came back and made us all so happy; and as he sat down to a feast we made for him, a company of joys like little smiling cherubs waited on the table, and gave him the best of every dainty and treat. And telling the dream to Fanny this morning, the tears filled her eyes, and she said, 'If we could have him here, it would be all the heaven we could ask below. What would I not give,' said she, 'to have my brother at my wedding!'—It was such a joyful dream, and it was so hard to wake up and find it was nothing but a dream, and Clinton was not here!"

"I cannot think of the poor boy for a moment," said Fabens, "without grief for his loss and regret for the affliction. But we cannot have everything as we like it now. We must be resigned, and wait for heaven to bring the perfect bliss. God afflicts in mercy; I am sure we shall meet him in heaven, and that will be greater than any blessing earth can give. You would have worshipped an Indian, Julia, if he had brought Clinton alive to your arms, on the day of the great search, would you not?"

"I should have been tempted to worship him. Words could not have told my gratitude and love," said Mrs. Fabens.

"Then, think what sufficing joy we should take to our souls," said Fabens, "and what thanks of worship we should give our God and Redeemer, for the assurance that he will be brought to our bosom in all the youthful bloom of heaven, never more to wander from us, never more to suffer, never more to sorrow, never more to die!"

"But for that blessed hope," said Mrs. Fabens, with a flush of lofty feeling lighting all her features—"but for that blessed hope, I should be a maniac, I know I should, at this moment."

"What could have become of the pretty precious boy?" asked Fabens, as a tear rolled over each cheek. "Can he be alive? I often think of the little fawn, and mother's dying words. O, the terrible mystery! Will it never be solved on earth?—The Lord's will be done!"

"I remember just how he looked the last time I saw him," said Uncle Walter, wiping his eyes. "I fingered his crinkling curls, and said—'What does Uncle Walter want of Clintie?' 'A kiss,' cried the little beauty, and threw his soft arms around my old neck, opened hit lips, like sweet-pea blossoms, and planted a rousing smack on my chin. Then, I caught him in my arms, kissed his velvet cheeks, chanked his fat neck, chuckled under his chin, and called him a bobolink; and he made all ring again with his merry bobolink laugh. That was the last time I saw him."

"He was a dear boy," sighed Fabens.

"Too dear, too dear to die as he did. O, Lord, continue thy comfort!" sobbed Mrs. Fabens.

The conversation was then interrupted, for it was announced that the couple were ready to appear for the ceremony as soon as the guests could be called into the north room. The guests gathered in, and took their seats, more than filling the room. Then entered the bridegroom, leading as bright a blooming beauty of a bride, as your dainty eyes would choose to see; and they seated themselves where nearly all the company had the blessing of a view of their joyful looks. Uncle Walter declared, that the sight was feast enough for him, and he should have no appetite after that for supper. Colwell thought it was lighter and more summer-like in the room than before.

Then, when every breath and pulse were so hushed, that nothing but silence itself filled all ears,—Father Lovelight begged leave to perform a ceremony before the marriage one. It would not be a great interruption, and he hoped it might heighten, and not dampen their joys. And leading in the stranger, he said, "Mr. and Mrs. Fabens, the gentleman I hold by the hand, revealed to me a mystery last night, which I am not unhappy now to disclose. Your prayers are answered. Your joy is complete. Receive your lost son. Clinton returns in joy to your arms!"

"Has heaven been opened so soon?" cried Fabens, standing like a statue.

"It cannot be Clinton, but, only my dream of him!" cried Mrs. Fabens, clasping her hands, and looking amazed.

"Believe me, madam, it is your own dear son," said Father Lovelight.

"Father!" cried the stranger.

"Clinton!" cried Fabens, rushing to embrace him.

"My child! my dear, dear child!" cried Mrs. Fabens, falling in his arms.

"O, father!—mother!—sister!" cried the stranger, as the loving three contended to clasp him closest to each heart.

"Is it my brother, or my mother's dream I hold!—It must, it must be he! O, we will be happy now!" cried Fanny, embracing all of that precious form she could extort from her father and mother.

"I will have at least one hand—my brother's hand!" cried George Ludlow, grasping his left hand and pressing it warmly.

"It is he!—it is Clinton! I know this face—these eyes! I do not dream! It is not heaven has opened. Clinton's alive, and mother's word fulfilled!" cried Fabens, pressing the stranger closer to his heart.

"Merciful heavens! what can this mean?" exclaimed Mrs. Nimblet.

"It is amazing strange!" replied Mr. Nimblet.

"I'll have one grab at him, any way," cried Uncle Walter, making for the hand, so warmly clasped by George Ludlow.

"So'll I! So'll I, and take pay and interest for my four days' hunt," cried Wilson.

"I loved to kiss him, too; and where is my part?" cried Aunt Huldah, joining in the group.

"And mine!" "and mine!" cried Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Colwell.

"Gracious alive! what's comin' to pass?—Good! good! good! if it's Clintie—but, O, I fear now, that Tillson's in fault—I fear!" exclaimed Mrs. Troffater, seeming to be shocked with some new suspicion of her husband.

"Bring water! bring water! Mrs. Fabens is faint!" cried Mrs. Teezle, and Mrs. Troffater brought water, and her mind and strength were restored, while she exclaimed, "too good! too good, I fear! too good to be true!" and "just right! just right in the nick o' time!" replied Uncle Walter.

Others attempted to edge in their hand and word of joy, who were crowded back by those before them. It was no dream. It was their own worshipped Clinton in their arms. And it remains only for the present to relate, that the marriage ceremony, though delayed longer than any one was aware, till Father Lovelight at last gave the hour, was still performed, and rare and high was the joy that made Uncle Walter forget his story, and Mrs. Flaxman her song; and was carried on by that glorious company full to the very midnight.

Tilly Troffater had bitterly repented the crime of the boy's abduction, to which he was accessary, and he received not a moment's respite from the tortures of hell, that tore his anguished heart, till he heard where Clinton remained; went, and informed him of his parents, and home, and directed his steps to that door. But the young man's story is reserved for another volume, on another labor of life.

THE END