"Grandpa's shoulders ought to be very broad to support so many descendants," said Ellen, looking scornfully at their beautiful guest. "Henry, why do you not aspire to so distinguished a relationship?"

"People often aspire to that which they can not attain," said Henry, with a look of quiet but deep earnestness at Jennie, whose eyes sunk under his gaze, and whose heart swelled with emotion at the thought of her own isolated fate. "No father, no mother, no kindred," felt she, "and even the love of this weak old man grudged me by one who has all!" She said nothing more while the visitors remained, but sat with the palsied hand in her soft palm, dreaming of the time when she should be gathered into the bosom of a ransomed family, and her spirit grew calm with the thought, so that when Rosalie and the young men arose to leave, and asked her to join them in a little excursion on the morrow, she answered them with a beaming and glad face.

"Fred," said Henry, as they left the gate, "I never can forget that face. Did you see how almost heavenly it was as she stood by old Mr. Halberg when we left?"

"It was indeed a lovely picture," said Fred; "the old bowed head with the evening's breath moving the gray hair, and that delicate girl, with her white dress glistening in the moonbeams, and with the seraphic expression on her brow!"



CHAPTER XXII.

"Eleanor," said Mr. Halberg to his wife, after the young people had retired to rest, "there is something very singular about that girl. She is so like our departed Jane that she awakens my deepest interest. Did you notice her manners, at once so child-like and so mature? I must inquire more particularly about her of Mrs. Dunmore; it strikes me she is no common child."

"I paid no especial attention to her," replied the wife; "she is sufficiently long under the influence of a refined example to overcome all taint of birth and early habit, however."

"I tell you, wife," said the husband, "there's an innate pride and dignity about the girl that no training could effect. I watched her all the evening, and could detect nothing but the most perfect ease and grace. Her face, too, haunts me. Do you remember how pure and earnest the expression of Jane's eye was? Well, there's the same look in that young girl's, so that I longed to take her to my heart and call her sister. If we had not learned with such apparent certainty about the death of the child I should say this was she," soliloquized he, as his wife left the room for one moment, and resuming the subject as she returned. "Why, Eleanor, how long is it since my father lost his reason?"

"About four years, I believe," replied Mrs. Halberg.

"And our poor Jane had been twelve years away, and her little one was born three years after her marriage, and this child is—how old did you say, wife?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Frank; but what possesses you? Have you any idea that Jane's child is still living? and if it were so and we should ever find it out, are you not aware how materially it would affect our own children's share of their grandfather's property?" said Mrs. Halberg, blushing for very shame, as she encountered her husband's searching and grieved eye.

"Eleanor," said he, "my sister was bitterly wronged! God only knows how and what she suffered, not only from the neglect and desertion of her kindred; but from the stern pinchings of want. For my own part," continued he, leaning his head upon his hand, and sighing deeply, "I would be willing to forfeit all the inheritance if by that means I could make some reparation for the cruel past!"

"Well, well, Frank, it can not be helped now! Since it is all over, why not let it go without troubling yourself with vain regrets?"

"Those are not vain regrets, Eleanor," said the husband, "which purify the soul. My father has been spared the agony of remorse for the one great error of his life, by a merciful Providence which has made the sad past oblivious to him; but my heart would be hardened indeed, if it should cease to feel an intense sorrow for the wrongs committed against the patient and sainted one."

Mrs. Halberg was touched by her husband's unfeigned grief. He had never spoken so fully to her before, on a subject which, by common consent, all the family had avoided, and she knew not until now how weighty had been the burden of his secret repinings. Before the world he was unbending and reserved; but now as he sat in the solitude of his chamber, with only his wife's eye upon him, save that of the Omniscient, the proud man yielded to a long pent-up emotion, and wept like a child. "Eleanor," said he, as he felt the tears from other eyes mingling with his own, "tell me that if it is ever in our power to make restitution for the sins of other years, you will aid me with all your power, even if it were to our own pecuniary loss?"

The wife placed his hand fondly upon the heart that was beating for him so truly, and kissing him tenderly, murmured, "My husband, I promise!"

"If," continued he, "it should prove upon thorough investigation—which has been already too long delayed—that the child of my sister was spared, and is even now living, will you take her to your home and cherish her as one of your own children, so that she may feel no want of sympathy and love?"

With the hand still upon the life-spring, the affectionate wife earnestly answered, "My husband, I will. But why," said she, after a moment's hesitation, "do you doubt the truth of the report, that you have hitherto considered credible?"

"It never occurred to me," said Mr. Halberg, "that it might be false, until to-night; but Eleanor, presentiments come sometimes upon us with all the force of a certain conviction, and my conscience will never be easy until I, make some effort to find out, beyond the shadow of doubt, whether my sister's child is wandering upon the earth, yearning for kindred and home, or is gathered to the home which is brighter than any this world can afford. What first awakened these thoughts within me, was the sight of a gipsy woman to-day. She stopped me in the street to beg a few pennies, and by the hand she held a gentle little creature of five or six years old, which I was confident could not be her own. Visions of a bereaved and mourning family, and of the future of the delicate child, troubled me, and the feeling that one bound to me by a dearer tie than that of humanity, might be roaming amid the vicious and low, smote me with such cruel misery that I have not since been able to regain my wonted calmness, and the coming of this beauteous child, so like my sister, has excited my anxieties and fears still more."

"I doubt not but that it is all a fantasy of the imagination, Frank. You had better take a composing draught, and to-morrow will find you more cheerful," said the wife.

"I know of none more soothing," replied Mr. Halberg, as he prepared for his night's repose, "than a spirit at peace with God and man."



CHAPTER XXIII.

"Jennie," said Carrie the next morning, "come with me and we'll get a peep at the portrait. I saw father go into the room a moment since, and grandpa's out on the piazza. We'll step softly just inside the door, for father never likes to be disturbed when he's there."

With their arms about each other's waists the two friends went skipping along, until they reached the apartment appropriated to the old gentleman. The door was partially open and they could see through the crack the dark figure of Carrie's father standing with his back toward them. The room seemed very bright and cheerful, and the rich colors of a gay carpet, and the elaborate carving of the massive and antique furniture rendered it still more pleasant and attractive. As they were about to cross the threshold, and Carrie had her hand against the door to push it open still further, Jennie whispered, "Stop a minute, Carrie, my heart beats so!—I'm afraid your father will not like it if we intrude upon him now! You know there's something very sacred in one's sorrow!"

Mr. Halberg, meanwhile, had withdrawn the black vail which had obscured the portrait since his sister's marriage, and stood thoughtfully gazing upon the lovely features, and comparing them with those of the young girl, whose image filled his mind. "It is very strange," murmured he; "the same waving mass of hair, the same beautifully-arched brows and long lashes, and the liquid eyes, melting one with their subduing pathos; the very expression so like, too! It is very wonderful! very wonderful!" and he wiped away a tear that betrayed the depth and earnestness of his feelings.

"Come, Jennie—father will not see us," said Carrie, gently pulling her within the door, "he gets so absorbed!"

As Jennie entered the room she raised her eyes to the place where Mr. Halberg stood. That moment the sunlight came through the windows, casting a bright gleam upon the beautiful portrait, and, stretching out her arms toward it, the young girl faintly cried, "My own blessed mother!" and sunk senseless to the floor.

In one moment Mr. Halberg was beside her, and raising her gently he placed her upon the bed, and with a face as colorless and rigid as her own, awaited her return to consciousness, applying the proper restoratives with a calm and skillful hand. Carrie had loosened her dress, and as she did so, a miniature fell upon the bed. Her father looked eagerly upon it, and with tremulous fingers pressed a spring upon the back. It was indeed his sister's likeness, placed beyond dispute by the convincing inscription, "Jane Halberg, to her beloved daughter, Jennie Grig!"

This, then, was the child of that precious one who had roamed with him through the sunny paths of infancy and youth, but whose maturer years were overshadowed by adversity and gloom! God had sent a pitying heart to her in the hour of her saddest need, and had gently led her back to the home whence her mother had been cruelly banished; that mother He had received into more beauteous mansions, but the child was left, to fulfill a noble and glorious mission among those who had hitherto deemed her as helpless in the grave! Strangers had proved better than those of her own household to the outcast and orphan, and had nurtured and cared for her while they were contenting themselves with the report that she had gone where no earthly care avails. Only the evening before had she sat in the midst of her relatives, with a sad feeling of isolation—now they were gathered about her with evidences of an awakening love and tenderness. It was pleasant to shut her eyes and open them again upon so glad a revelation! So thought Jennie as she gazed upon her new-found connections, who crowded around with exclamations of surprise and affection. Carrie, then, was her own cousin! and the great heart against which she was so fondly pressed was warm with kindred blood? Grandpa, too, had fondled and caressed her idolized mother, and even his wandering faculties had detected her lineage, so that he had clung to her for some better reason than an impulsive and wayward fancy!

"Speak not now, my darling," said Mr. Halberg, as Jennie made an effort to say something to him, "but put your arms around my neck, and let me feel by this mute expression that the past is forgiven; I am not yet able to bear one word from the child of my deserted sister."

The young girl's lips were still parted, but the loving arms twined closely around her uncle, and although no verbal absolution came, he felt that the past would never again haunt him with its spectral figure, but that his sister's blessing would come to him through the child who now lay so fondly upon his bosom.



CHAPTER XXIV.

Three more years had mingled with the past, and yet Mrs. Dunmore and Jennie, who had now developed into a mature and perfect beauty, lingered in the vicinity of the Halbergs. Not that they had any idea of sundering the ties that so closely united them, or of claiming a place for the orphan in the home of her newly-found kindred, but the old man clung with such touching fondness to his beloved grandchild, and grew so frantic if she left him, even for a few days, that it seemed a sacred duty to give themselves up to his few remaining years; and as from month to month they perceived a manifest dawning of light upon his bewildered intellect, it became rather a pleasure than a sacrifice to forego all those amusements and comforts that interfered with his peculiar fancies or desires. Mrs. Halberg would remonstrate, and Ellen would sneer, as the young girl denied herself the companionship of her youthful associates in order to be with and cheer her aged relative; but Jennie would place her hand gently upon his silvery head, and say, in her quiet, subduing way, "It will not be very long, dear auntie!"

Nor was it very long, for every day the tottering knees grew more and more feeble, until at length the old seat in the garden was altogether abandoned for the pleasant room; and there, by the window, in the warm sunlight, would the shadow of a majestic being crouch, shivering through the summer days, while a soft and low voice read and chatted away the otherwise weary hours.

But the old figure stays not long in the sunlight, for the messengers have come for him, and the hour of his departure is near, and prostrate upon his bed he awaiteth the final summons. It was Jennie's sixteenth autumn, and as she sat beside her grandfather's couch with his shriveled fingers in her warm clasp, the old man turned his head upon his pillow, and, looking intently upon her, said, "My child, I have been dreaming. I have slept a long, long time; but I am wide awake now, and I know it all. It has come to me slowly and painfully, and I shall not forget it again."

"What is it, grandpa?" said Jennie; "you are weak and ill now, and must not talk, I am your little nurse you know, and Dr. Wright says 'I must keep you quite still if I would have you get well again.'"

"Isn't your name Jennie Grig? and is not that your mother?" continued her grandfather, rising upon one elbow and pointing to the portrait at the foot of the bed. "You was a young thing when she died, Jennie, and I meant to find you out and bring you home; but I could do nothing while the strange dream was upon me. It was just as well, for she brought you to me with her angel hands, and that made the dream pleasant to me;" and the old man sunk back upon his pillow. He lay quietly for some time, and Jennie thought he was sleeping, but as she motioned Simon to take her place by the bed, and tried gently to relax her hand from that of her grandfather, he tightened the pressure, and spoke again in a feeble tone. "I shall not get well again, Jennie, I'm going to your mother; but I can not die yet. Call your uncle to me, and leave us for awhile, I must make it right again." Jennie was more surprised and frightened at her grandfather's calm and rational manner than she would have been by any strange or frenzied actions; but she had heard that reason often wholly resumes its throne as the hour of dissolution approaches, and, thinking that life might be fast ebbing, she hastened to summon her uncle, who was soon in his father's presence.

His heart leaped for joy as soon as he saw that the old gentleman was sufficiently sane to alter his will, which had been made in a moment of passion, and had cut off the inheritance from his daughter; and both seemed relieved of a sore burden when the papers were re-executed and the child was made sure of her rightful portion.

Her grandfather tremulously affixed his signature as Jennie returned to him followed by her aunt and cousins.

A peaceful smile was upon the dying man's face as he looked upon the little group that surrounded him, and said, with a solemn emphasis, "My children, be kind and forgiving—forgiving." Then closing his eyes, he murmured "dear little Jennie! dear little Jennie!" and slept to awake no more to the pains and ills of life.



CHAPTER XXV.

Henry Moore had been a frequent visitor at Mr. Halberg's during Jennie's sojourn there, and so lovely a character as hers could not fail to awaken in his bosom a deeper feeling toward her than that of friendship; yet so calmly had the time glided away that they had spent together, and so far from his mind had been the idea of a separation, that he was scarcely aware of the nature of his emotions until she announced to him her approaching departure from her uncle's.

They were standing together in a little summer-house in the garden, a few weeks after the old man's death, and Carrie was with them, when Jennie looked sadly out upon the old seat that had been left vacant beneath the trees, and said:

"Don't let them remove that, when I am away, Carrie, darling. You know it is all that restored to me my relatives."

"Are you going to leave——, Jennie?" said Henry, with a sudden start which made both the girls gaze eagerly at him. Jennie did not perceive the deep flush that overspread his face; but Carrie observed it, yet thinking it better to appear as if she had noticed nothing unusual, she picked an autumn bud, that had obtruded itself within the trellised window, and quietly handing it to him, said,

"Every thing that we love seems to be going from us at this dreary season, Henry. Even that last bud would have faded from me with the next few chilly hours. Perhaps it is well," she continued, "that we can not have the good and the beautiful always around us, we might forget our unfading inheritance!"

Henry did not answer, for he could not trust himself to speak just then; but Jennie turned to the window that overlooked the village churchyard where her grandfather's grave was made, and repeated, in a low voice, that beautiful hymn of Mrs. Heman's, "Passing Away." As she came to the verse,

"Friends! friends! oh, shall we meet In a land of purer day, Where lovely things and sweet Pass not away?"

her voice faltered, and she did not attempt to finish, but sinking upon a bench near her, she wept unrestrainedly.

"Quite a tragic scene! Whose benefit is it to-day, Carrie?" said Ellen Halberg, who that moment approached the summer-house.

"No wonder Jennie feels some sorrow at leaving a spot where we have spent so many happy hours," said Carrie, "one must have no heart, to break away from friends without any manifestation of regret."

"Oh! I can easily conceive of its being a great grief to leave a place where she finds so many attractions as here," said Ellen, looking significantly at Henry, who was mentally contrasting the two girls so nearly allied, yet so unlike.

"Doubtless your cousin has emotions which you can neither understand nor appreciate, Miss Ellen," said he, with somewhat of sarcasm in his tone. "There are minds so constituted, that wherever they dwell they form attachments which are not easily loosed!"

"Oh! I fully sympathize in Jennie's distress," said Ellen, mockingly holding her handkerchief to her eyes.

Not for worlds would she have committed that one thoughtless act, had she known how contemptible it would make her in the estimation of him whom she most cared to please! Henry Moore of all others was the object of her especial regard. From their childhood they had been thrown constantly together, and, until the coming of her cousin among them she had appropriated him to herself as a lawful and undisputed right. All the villagers had looked upon their union as a "settled thing," and no doubt Henry would gladly have fulfilled their prophecies if Ellen's maturer years had verified the promise of an earlier age; but as he saw her give way to petty envies and jealousies, and to an uncontrolled and vindictive temper, he turned from her to the study and contemplation of her sweet and gentle cousin. No wonder he became a worshiper of so pure an image, rather than pay homage to a distorted object. Jennie meanwhile, was wholly unconscious of the interest she excited. So completely had her mind been occupied in contributing to her grandfather's comfort, that she sought no other affection, and so long as her friends looked kindly upon her, she was too happy to question their feeling toward her. One only sorrow had she experienced since her restoration to her kindred, and that was in her cousin Ellen's continued ill-will and hatred toward her. Perhaps she might have succeeded in winning her to an opposite feeling, by the little acts of courtesy and love so constantly shown, if the demon jealousy had not insinuated itself into Ellen's bosom.

Was it a crime to beget in another a love so deep and holy, when she herself was free from all design, and even unsuspicious that she was regarded with more warmth than were her cousins? So Ellen must have thought, or she would not have taken every opportunity to thwart and tease her orphan relative, and to detract from her merit when in the presence of her friends.

On this day especially she seemed to feel a peculiar malice and spite toward her. She had seen—herself unobserved—the emotion of Henry when Jennie's departure was spoken of, and her own heart told her that no light or common feeling produced it.

As she removed the handkerchief from her face, she perceived that she had gone too far, for even the unresentful Jennie, unable to bear the ridicule of her most sacred sentiments, had arisen to go to the house. She did not escape, however, before Henry had whispered the request, that she would go with him to Blinkdale on the morrow.

"To-morrow is Sunday," said she, quietly, "and I shall accompany uncle to church."

"Well, the next day; I will call for you," said Henry. "You can not refuse to take one last walk with me?"

"I have no disposition to refuse," replied Jennie, as she turned slowly and sadly from the spot.

"Ellen, how could you!" said Carrie with flashing eyes, "so short a time as Jennie is to be with us, and yet you make her miserable?"

"She shall not come between me and happiness with her soft and hypocritical ways!" said Ellen, snapping off the leaves of a twig near her, and looking upon the retreating figures of her sister and cousin, who were going up the avenue. Then turning to a point where she could see in the distance the dim form of Henry Moore, she took the seat that her cousin had vacated, and gave vent to a keener anguish, but how different!



CHAPTER XXVI.

"Come, girls," said Mr. Halberg, as the young ladies descended from their rooms equipped for church, "the bell has been tolling for some time, I fear we shall be late. Where's Ellen?" he continued, casting his eyes over the group and missing his eldest daughter.

"She is not well to-day, papa, and prefers remaining at home with mother," said Carrie. "Nothing serious," added she, observing her father's anxious and troubled look. "She said she would try to sleep, and perhaps that would banish her head-ache so that she would be able to go with us this afternoon;" and the party left the house, and calling for Mrs. Dunmore and Rosalie, they all proceeded to the church.

The walk was rural and quiet, through green lanes that were seldom disturbed except when the house of God was open. A little footpath was worn upon the verdant turf, and the green was unpressed elsewhere, save where some passive burden was silently borne to its lowly bed; there the somber wheels crushed down the blades that lifted up their heads to the glad sunlight, as if it were wrong to live and grow on while death was moving over them.

There were recent traces upon the grass that recalled to every mind the venerable and stricken old man who was now resting so peacefully beneath the church's shadow, and as Jennie's eye perceived them, she leaned heavily upon her uncle's arm and sighed.

"My darling," said he, in a low and gentle voice, "we shall miss you very much—more than I can tell! Your love and care for your poor grandfather, notwithstanding all the past, have endeared you more and more to my heart, so that it is a bitter trial to think of parting from you, and one which I should strive to avert, were it not that too much of your young life has been given up to seclusion when you might have been deriving both happiness and profit in the world. Your self-denial, dear child, will be rewarded, if it is not already giving you a rich harvest of peaceful and self-approving thoughts!" Jennie could not reply, even had she desired, as they were at the church door, and her uncle was accosted by the senior warden:

"We have a stranger to preach for us to-day, sir," said Mr. Brown, after the accustomed salutations had passed between them.

"Ah! where is our own rector?" asked Mr. Halberg.

"I suppose he is supplying this young minister's pulpit," returned the warden. "It is seldom that we have an exchange, and they say that this stranger is uncommonly eloquent."

"We shall have an opportunity to judge for ourselves," said Mr. Halberg, as he turned from his friend and entered the church with his niece. The service commenced, and as the rich deep tones of the minister fell upon Jennie's ear, there rushed upon her mind a tide of joyous memories that transported her to a sunny home amid the mountains, and a little tomb, and a quiet avenue, and a bench beneath the old maples, where she used to sit and listen to a calm and gentle voice that seemed to reach her even now; and then her thoughts came back to her hallowed employment, and as she raised her eyes to be sure that it was not all a dream, they fell, not upon a strange minister, but upon the same kind friend who had beguiled her childhood's hours.

How many years had passed since she had roamed with him among the hills, not a gay and sportive child, as one who had known nothing of trouble or poverty; but a young being whose gleesomeness had been crowded down by premature cares and sorrows, so that it seldom gushed out as a little child's mirth should always do. Will he recognize her now? She must be so changed! She would scarcely know him but for the voice, and the broad pale forehead that seems to have been expanding all these many years, so wide and high does it appear.

He does not see her, he is all absorbed in the solemn worship, as she too should be—now he is in the pulpit, and as he glances around upon the congregation, his eyes meet the earnest soul that once beamed upon him in his own parish church.

There is no mistaking it. For many a weary hour has it cheered him in his labors. It was but a child's soul, but it was an eager one, on which the seed fell availingly—and now it is a woman's soul, and the good fruit has been nourishing the faint old man who needs it no longer. The minister knows nothing of that, he only sees that it is before him, as desirous as ever of spiritual nourishment, and the people wonder at his zeal and fervor, little thinking of the power there is in a thirsting spirit to awaken the energies of him who dispenseth to them of the waters of life.

The service is over, and Mrs. Dunmore and Jennie meet their old friend, who scarcely dares even to press the hand of the child he used to caress so fondly. Time and absence strangely change us!

"May I see you to-morrow," said he, "before I leave?"

"We shall look certainly for you," replied Mrs. Dunmore as they left the vestibule.

"Pardon me, dear mamma," said Jennie; "but I must leave you, uncle wished me to join him in the churchyard. It may be our last opportunity alone;" she added as she moved away.

Mr. Halberg was leaning upon the gate at the entrance of the burial-ground, gazing intently upon the many mounds that filled the spot, and wondering when his own tomb would be pointed out by others, when Jennie lightly touched his hand to remind him of her presence.

He started, and, opening the gate, they were soon within the sacred inclosure. "You may wonder," said he, "why I choose a place fraught with so many saddening associations for a little quiet conversation; but it suits my mood, and there are so few who frequent this somber place that we are sure not to be disturbed."

"The precincts of the dead, dear uncle," said Jennie, "are any thing but gloomy to me; the lessons of my childhood were too full of solemn realities to foster in me a shrinking from the entrance to a purer and more beauteous existence."

"It is of your early life I would speak, my child," said Mr. Halberg, with an effort at composure. "I have never trusted myself to ask of you your history previous to your adoption by Mrs. Dunmore; but the time has come when I wish to know it, and, however painful the details may be, you must no longer hide them from me."

"But uncle," replied the niece; "why not bury the past, and look only to the happy present and the promising future. Is it well to exhume the moldering remains when the sight would bring only suffering!"

"It is for the moral, Jennie; your uncle has hitherto been so selfish that he needs awakening by some stirring appeals, and what can be more sure to arouse him than the recollection of his beloved and only sister's trials!"

"I feel that I have so little to tell," said Jennie, trying to evade the subject; "the time spent with you has been so pleasant, that it quite banishes the bitterness of my younger days."

"And yet," said Mr. Halberg, "there must have been intense anguish on your mother's part, as she felt herself given up by those who should have clung to her, and her very means of subsistence failing her!"

"I never heard my mother complain," replied Jennie, "There was one time when our miserable room was quite cheerless and cold, and we knew not where to look for fuel or food, then my poor father seemed almost frantic with grief for my mother and myself; but I well remember her holy smile, as she calmly said, 'My husband, trust in the Lord, and verily thou shalt be fed.' I never met with a firmer confidence in the love and over-ruling providence of God than my mother possessed," continued Jennie. "Her example is ever before me, and yet how difficult to attain to!"

"Were you often in so desperate a condition, my child?" asked Mr. Halberg; "and did your mother's patience never fail her, so that she would speak accusingly of her relatives?"

"There was seldom a day," replied Jennie, "after my father's illness, that we knew how to provide the necessaries of life; and the only time I ever surprised my mother in an outburst of sorrow was when I took my broom for the first time, and went out to sweep the crossings. That day she called me to her, and tying back my curls, so that none of them could be seen beneath my hood, she clasped me convulsively to her, and wept until I ran away to escape the agony."

"Were you not afraid in the crowded streets?" inquired the uncle, as Jennie paused.

"Oh, yes! very often, dear uncle—that is, of the ugly wheels; but there seemed a guardian presence around me and few ever spoke rudely to me; and I was never injured, excepting on that blessed night when God's time had come to help us through my physical hurt. Don't let us think any more about it," continued she, looking up at her uncle, and perceiving how deeply he was moved; "it was all right, and if it had not happened we might have been wicked and thoughtless instead of feeling that our heavenly Father's will is always better than our own."

Mr. Halberg arose and walked around on the other side of the church, and on his return to his niece he said, in a calm yet earnest tone, "My child, you must pray for your uncle—his life will be weary indeed without you!" and pressing her fondly to him as they stood by the old man's grave, he too murmured "Dear little Jennie!" and they left the spot to the breath of the winds and the twittering of the birds that hopped about upon the willow branches.



CHAPTER XXVII.

Meantime Ellen lay upon her couch, tossed with many conflicting emotions. Her better nature reproached her for her injustice and cruelty toward her innocent cousin, and almost persuaded her to cease her persecutions, and even to strive to imitate her winning virtues; but the remembrance of the scene in the summer-house, and of Henry's contemptuous look as he left her, without even a parting salutation, awakened the bitter thought that she had fallen in his estimation, perhaps beyond the power of retrieval, and she resolved to keep up the semblance of a pride and indifference which she was far from feeling. For her cousin's opinion she little cared, nor was she influenced by the thought of an invisible yet heart-searching eye. No wonder, then, that she clung to her perverseness, and moved about on her restless pillow with no sweet or refreshing sleep to quiet the throbbings of her heavy brow.

The noonday sun was streaming through her window making the autumnal air seem warm and cheery, when a gentle rap was heard at her door, and her cousin entered. Her countenance was serene and peaceful, and her voice soothing and mild, as she said, "I have come to bathe your head, dear Nellie, Carrie told me you were ill, and I could not feel easy nor happy until I came to you."

"I am better alone," said Ellen, with a repelling motion of the hand. "If I need any thing, I will ring for Meggie; she is quite accustomed to my headaches."

"But, Nellie," said her cousin, in a beseeching tone, "something in your manner tells me that you do not love me, and yet I am not conscious that I have offended you. I can not go from——, without being at peace with everybody. The sermon was so full of mercy and kindness this morning!"

"I do not feel like hearing a sermon to-day," said Ellen, "and you will oblige me, Jennie, if you will leave me to myself, it is decidedly the best way to relieve me."

Jennie said no more; but arranging her cousin's shawl closer about her, and darkening the room, she placed the cooling liquid which she had prepared near the bed, and softly left the room. There was a slight shadow upon her brow as she entered her uncle's study, but it was banished by his welcome kiss. Her aunt and two cousins sat in a bay-window facing the south. Here they had always assembled on Sundays, until there came to be a sort of consecrated air about that quiet room, and something hallowed in the lovely view seen from the window.

"Here is your nook, Jennie, we have been expecting you for some time!" said Carrie, "there'll be such a sad vacancy next Sunday! I don't believe I shall love this room any more after you are gone, dear cousin!"

"I am glad if my presence makes it happier to you, Carrie," replied Jennie; "but you forget that uncle, and aunt, and Mary, and Ellen will be left to you besides the pleasant associations that cluster about all these familiar objects, while I shall be deprived of every thing but dear mamma."

"But every body will love you, Jennie," said Mary, "and you have the power to draw around you whoever you wish, so that your life will be sure to be sunny wherever you go."

"Not every body, Mary," said Jennie, looking thoughtfully upon the glorious view that was spread out before them, "if so, my heart would feel no weight upon it to-day. It is not well," she continued, "to have too much sunshine; else the storms would never be permitted to come; I don't believe we should truly appreciate and love this bright landscape if the shadows were not often flitting over it, thus making the glory more apparent!"

"You are right my child," said Mr. Halberg, "the trying dispensations of our life are wisely ordered, and who of us would dare to wish it otherwise!"

"And yet it seems," said Mary, "as if sorrow never came to some people, they glide through the world so unruffled and cheerful!"

"How little can we judge!" replied her father. "Every heart knoweth its own bitterness, and the outer surface is not always the index to the inner emotions or passions."

"Do you think, dear uncle," said Jennie, "that one can ever learn so to bear the ills of his lot, as always to present a cheerful and happy exterior to the world?"

"Not always, my child," said her uncle, "there is often a weakness of the flesh, when the spirit without its depressing influence, would be strong to endure; yet we may cultivate such a feeling of confidence in the will of God as never to murmur at His decrees, and even to welcome His chastisements, as blessings in disguise."

"That seems so difficult," said Carrie, "I am afraid I could never learn to welcome a sorrow."

"Not simply as a sorrow, my dear child," returned Mr. Halberg; "but as a means to a future good which could not be attained without it; there is a great deal that is hard for our sinful natures to comprehend; but there are spiritual aids of which we may all avail ourselves. Do not let us slight them, my dear children," continued he, rising from his seat, and gathering the three in one embrace as they stood by the window. The golden light was sprinkled upon the landscape, and the whole face of nature seemed to glow with an unusual radiance, as that little band of loving hearts beat in such grateful and perfect unison. Yet was there a sigh in the midst of it all, for the absent and sinning one:

Worlds like to this Mingle sorrow and bliss.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

Mrs. Dunmore and Jennie were busy in talking over the past, and forming plans for the future, when Mr. Colbert was announced.

"I trust you will excuse my early call," said he, as they arose to greet him. "I have to leave the village at noon, which is my only apology for intruding upon your morning hours."

"We are always at home to our old and valued friends," replied Mrs. Dunmore. "I hope our long separation will not make us strangers to each other."

"Miss Jennie reminds me that a long interval has come between us," said the clergyman, glancing at the graceful and womanly figure before him; "I have been accustomed to think of her as the child of my pleasant rambles, so that I am scarcely prepared to meet her in another form."

Jennie had received him with that timid cordiality so common to early womanhood, a kind of shrinking from the advances of a new and not wholly defined stage of being, and, as he alluded to the days of her childhood and the hours spent together in his hill-girt home, a slight blush tinged her face, and she said, "the long interval has changed you too, Mr. Colbert, so that there needed early memories to aid me in recognizing you."

"Time has dealt very differently with us," replied her friend, as the mirror opposite enabled him to contrast his sunken and pallid features with the round and healthful face of the lovely girl. "There are many things, however, that encourage me in the hope that we are none the less friends than formerly, and that we still have the one great sympathy in common;" added he, recalling her devout manner in church the day before.

"Are you not well, Mr. Colbert," asked Mrs. Dunmore; "or do you trespass upon the hours necessary to your repose and recreation that you are so much thinner and paler than you used to be? I fear I must usurp your prerogative and turn preacher if you are really destroying your health by too great devotion to your duties."

"I have been quite a sufferer for the last few years, my dear madam," returned the minister; "but not from the cause you assign."

"Perhaps you need change," said the widow; "it is not well to confine one's self too constantly to one locality."

"I feel confident it is so," said Mr. Colbert, "since even so short a journey revives me materially; but how comes it," he asked, "that you are here, and apparently settled?"

"Jennie must explain that to you," replied Mrs. Dunmore, "as it was through her that our present arrangements were made."

"Ah! do you find a rural life so much more congenial than your city home that you have adopted it altogether?" said Mr. Colbert, addressing Jennie.

"It is not that," she replied, "the city was the scene of my happiest, as well as my saddest days, and we are soon to return to it; but this village is the home of my nearest relatives, who were restored to me a few years since through a singular Providence, and my grandfather's infirmities rendered it expedient that we should remain here until now."

Mrs. Dunmore seeing the tears that dropped upon her child's work at mention of her grandfather, took Mr. Colbert aside, and gave him a brief history of all that had occurred during the years of their severance, and when she had finished her relation of the old man's derangement, and of Jennie's devotion and love toward him, the minister arose, and walked backward and forward in the room with an absorbed and meditative air, and then stopping so suddenly before the young girl as to startle her, he said abruptly: "Will you give me one moment in the garden? I have a single word to say to you alone." Jennie laid aside her work, and as they stepped from the colonnade into the garden of their lodgings, she opened an adjoining wicket that led to her uncle's grounds, and, motioning Mr. Colbert to follow, she passed through and entered the little summer-house.

"Are we quite free from intrusion?" asked her companion, as she seated herself upon a bench near the window.

"I believe I reign sole monarch of this sequestered nook at this season," replied Jennie. "My cousins care little for such solitude now that the breeze is chilly and the flowers have vanished."

"Jennie," said her friend, leaning against a pillow as if for support, "if you knew that all my suffering for the last few years had been for you, that this change, and pallor, and thinness, were all occasioned by the fear that the time might never come when I could tell you that I love you, you would pardon such a hasty declaration of my feelings toward you. You were but a child when first we met," he continued, placing his hand upon her head as he had then been wont to do, "but how closely your young being had woven itself with mine my subsequent weary life will prove. Were you ever sundered from the object you had learned to prize most on earth, Jennie?" said he, as the drooping lashes were lifted, and the pensive, earnest eyes met his inquiring gaze, "and was there utter desolation? Then do you appreciate fully all that I would say to you of my own sorrow when bereft of the only mortal whom my heart had ever cared to cherish. I ask you not to bind yourself to me in an irrevocable vow, but to think of me as your truest friend until you have seen more of the world and of men. If then you can turn away from all to the heart that will never beat for another, and call me husband, God be praised—my only earthly prayer will be answered."

Not another word was spoken, but silently as they came so they went back, through the little wicket into the presence of Mrs. Dunmore, and Mr. Colbert made his adieus and departed—but alas for Henry Moore!



CHAPTER XXIX.

The afternoon was charming—one of those mellow, hazy atmospheres that make the autumnal season so pensive and dreamy, and Jennie felt its influence as she and Henry Moore sought the bright path to Blinkdale. Not richer nor more sparkling could the emerald, and the topaz, and the amethyst, and the sardius be, in their gay and beauteous variety, than were the changing leaflets in the sun's burnishing rays. The birds were singing merrily amid the brilliant foliage, and the fresh winds played among the branches, tossing them to and fro, and blending the bright and the somber in one glorious commingling. A streamlet crossed their pathway, moving placidly and gently along, but as they followed its windings, gurgling and foaming over the rocky obstructions, and almost drowning their voices in its noisy course. "How beautiful" exclaimed Jennie, seating herself upon a mossy stone on the river's bank, and looking to her companion for sympathy in her enthusiastic delight.

"I would rather look on a sweet face," replied Henry, as his eloquent eyes met hers. Blushing deeply, Jennie turned away and remained thoughtful and still, listening to the din of the waters and the wail of the autumn winds as they swept through the tree-tops, and her quiet revery brought the old expression of early maturity and care, for her thoughts had been roving all along her past life, and had left her amid her childhood's sorrows in the narrow dreary room, with the weary and forsaken ones, and none else to love and cheer her.

"Jennie," said her companion, noticing the bitterness that passed over her young face, and wishing to dissipate any mournful musings, "do you know why I asked you to come alone with me to Blinkdale to-day?"

Aroused thus suddenly, the young girl started from her lowly seat, and patting its mossy side with her foot, replied, "How should I, Henry, unless it be that it is always pleasanter to have one companion who can understand and appreciate your love of nature, than to be surrounded in your walks by many who care only for merriment and chatting. I could spend the whole day in these solemn old woods with nothing to amuse me but my own thoughts."

"And yet, I doubt if your pensive musings would be profitable to you," said her companion; "there is something dirge-like in the music of nature that begets a morbid sort of feeling in a mind like yours, Jennie, and too much of such solitude would injure you. Pardon me," continued he, as he caught her half comic inquisitive gaze; "but your character has been my study for a long, long time."

"Not more profitable to you than my solitary reveries, I fancy," said Jennie.

"But more delightful to me than any study," replied Henry, and seating her again upon the bank near him, he told her all—how he had watched her growing graces both of heart and mind, since the first time they had met beneath her grandfather's porch; how he had striven in his profession for her sake; how he had suffered his whole soul to go out toward her in a hallowed and sincere affection; and how cold, and dead, and sad his life must be if she reciprocated not his tenderness; and then, with a flushed and anxious face, he awaited her answer.

Oh! how weary was the walk home! The woods were dark and dreary, and the steps of the young man heavy and listless, as he sauntered on beside his silent and suffering companion. Life had gained a new and somber aspect to her too, since she was the cause of a crushing sorrow to one who had lavished upon her his heart's breath. Why could he not be content with the sisterly regard she had ever felt toward him? It is so terrible to see him in his manly grief, and to feel that she may avert it! And yet, how can it be otherwise, since there is ever before her a pale face, with its spiritual eyes fixed on her soul calling forth all that she has to bestow.



CHAPTER XXX.

Standing alone that evening in the bay-window of her uncle's study, Jennie gazed out upon the peaceful moonlit scene, trying to derive from it a tranquillity which the day's events had banished, when a loving arm was wound about her, and a low voice said, "May I share your thoughts this evening, my child?"

"It is you, is it, uncle!" said Jennie; "your step was so ghost-like that I did not hear you enter."

"I came very softly that I might not disturb you," replied Mr. Halberg; "you seem quite absorbed."

"And so I was, dear uncle, endeavoring to gather somewhat of serenity from the quiet and beauty of nature."

"What disturbs you to-night, my darling?" said her uncle, looking fondly upon the sweet face that was upturned to his, and wishing that his own soul could look forth as calm and pure in its simple truthfulness as that young and guileless one's. "There is naught but sin that should mar our peace, and I trust you are constant in your efforts to be clean from that."

"Is it not a source of sorrow, dear uncle, to occasion grief to others, even though the infliction involves no sinful motive?" said Jennie, with suffused eyes, and a tremor in her voice.

"Truly so," replied Mr. Halberg, instantly conjecturing the cause of his niece's self-reproach; "but the ills that we are unable to avoid we should not dwell upon. If a person seeks that which we know we can not conscientiously bestow, it is a sacred duty to refuse it him, even though we are sensible that it will give much pain, and when the duty is performed in a Christian manner it will leave no lasting sting, but will itself prove a healing balm to the wounded one."

"You comfort me much, dear uncle," said Jennie; "I have been so sadly depressed this evening that the quiet and solitude even were overpowering, and your presence is so soothing and cheering. It will be a great loss to me to be deprived of so precious a guide—and a great cross too!" she added as her uncle bent to kiss her brow.

"We are all called upon to bear our cross in this life, dear child," said Mr. Halberg. "This will be a heavy one to your old uncle, but it is for your good, and he therefore cheerfully submits to it. I am not afraid to confide you to One who will guide you unto a perfect rest and peace. Come in, my children," said he, as a tap announced his three daughters. "Where's mother? we must have our circle complete to-night since Jennie will leave a vacant space on the morrow," he added with some emotion.

"Here I am," replied Mrs. Halberg, hastening toward them from an adjoining apartment; "it is really very delightful to have you all gathered once more about me! Nellie has been a sad truant of late, and Rosalie has quite monopolized the other girls."

"I did not flatter myself that I should be missed," said Ellen; "and as for the girls, Mr. Moore's house seems quite as attractive as their own home to them."

"His is indeed a complete and charming household! my daughter," said her father; "such perfect unison and harmony reigns among its members. I know of no fitter examples for my children, and am only too happy that they are on such an intimate footing there."

"It would be more agreeable to some, perhaps, if the connection were still nearer," answered Ellen, with an unmistakable glance at her cousin, whose increasing color showed that she applied her meaning. This then solved the mystery. Had she penetrated her cousin Ellen's feelings before, how much hatred, and malice, and spite, might she not have averted.



CHAPTER XXXI.

"May I come in, Nellie?" said Jennie, as her cousin answered her gentle rap by half-opening the door and peeping out to see who the intruder was at that late hour. "I have a great deal to say to you," continued she, as Ellen gave her an ungracious permission to enter.

"Well you must hurry and say it, Jennie, for I am uncommonly sleepy, and feel a stronger inclination for my bed at present than for any communications," replied Ellen, throwing herself languidly down, and motioning her cousin to be seated.

"Nellie," said Jennie, placing her small white hand upon the one that hung over the arm of the sofa, "to-morrow we part, and God only knows when and where we may meet again. Be that as it may, to-night we have the opportunity to understand and love each other, another evening's shadows may stand between our hearts if they are not earlier united. You think that I love Henry Moore; will it make you happy to know that he will never be aught to me but a kind and affectionate brother, and that the most sacred place in my heart is reserved for another occupant?"

Quite ashamed and almost like a guilty thing, Ellen sat, while the color rushed over neck and face, mounting even to the brow, and deepening as it rose until it seemed too painful to endure, then rising from her seat, and opening the window upon the balcony she stepped forth into the night air, and kneeling by the balustrade, remained, motionless as a statue until a soft kiss upon her forehead assured her that she was forgiven. The stars looked down with a brighter twinkle, and the autumn wail grew into a sweet harmony as the two reconciled cousins stood with clasped hands gazing upward.



CHAPTER XXXII.

"Good-by, uncle; good-by auntie; good-by girls," said Jennie, as she was pressed to the bosom of her relatives at the parting hour. "Simon, don't forget the dear old seat," continued she, putting a coin in his hand, and turning tearfully toward the carriage where Mrs. Dunmore was awaiting her, and then springing back to give one more kiss to her uncle, and to whisper something in Carrie's ear that sent the warm blood quickly to her face.

Henry and Rosalie were there to bid her adieu, and golden-curled Minnie, too, with a bunch of autumn leaves in her little hand, which she had gathered on the way as a parting gift, and which she now held up beseechingly to Jennie, who stooped to embrace her, and taking the withered tokens, hastened to hide her emotion in the furthest recess of the carriage that bore her away from the home of her kindred. It seemed to those who watched the receding travelers, as if a blight had fallen upon their pleasant things; as if the winter had suddenly come and frozen up all the springs of pleasure and delight, for that young girl's presence, though unobtrusive in its influence, had diffused warmth and gladness all about her, and now that she was gone the warmth and gladness had also departed, and a mournful group turned back into the house with a mournful feeling, almost as if the grave had swallowed up one of its inmates. Old Simon betook himself to the seat beneath the trees, and with his knees crossed, and a dolorous motion of his gray head, he muttered,

"I thought it couldn't be all in the name! the likeness was amazin'! amazin'!" And forth from the stilly air seemed to come to the good old butler's ear, "Dear little Jennie! dear little Jennie!"



CHAPTER XXXIII.

Six years have passed, and beneath the old maples sits Nurse Nannie, wrinkled and bent, with a wee babe upon her lap, while a girl of two years and a half plays with her doll upon the lawn, now and then looking up to catch mamma's smile, or to wonder why dear papa looks so grave when Grandmamma Dunmore tells him about the sick man in the cottage at the end of the lane, and his motherless children. And now she spies cousin Henry and Carrie coming from the avenue in the road, and springs to meet little Harry, who takes her hand and marches off with her, saying, he "isn't afwaid of tows," and brandishing a wisp of a stick as if there were a mighty power in it. Sally brings more chairs out upon the green, and the mammas and papas talk busily together, while the little ones run about enjoying their own infantile prattle; and just as Harry and Jennie are the happiest, with their pinafores full of buttercups and daisies, and their little faces flushed with exercise and joy, nurse comes to take them to the house, for the dew begins to fall. Then Mamma Colbert proposes that all go to spend the evening with Fred Burling and Rosalie, who occupy Grandmamma Dunmore's summer home.

Thus the days pass until the summer is gone, and the snow comes and drives them all to the city.

Mamma spends only a month away, for papa can not leave his parish, and she takes them to see Grandpa and Grandma Halberg, and Aunts Ellen and Mary, who pets them very much; then they go to the great house in the avenue, and every thing is so new and beautiful, that the time goes very pleasantly; only sometimes as they drive through Broadway, and stop near the crossings, a little ugly-looking creature, with a broom, gets upon the steps of the carriage and asks for pennies, and when Jennie shakes her tiny hand at her, and says "go 'way, bad girl," mamma speaks kindly to her, and puts a great silver bit into the poor girl's hand, and when she has gone, tells Jennie that she must pity and be good to the little street-sweepers, for dear mamma was like that poor girl once. Then Jennie puts up her wee mouth, and says, "No, no, mamma," while she makes an ugly face at the vision of the child with the broom, and revolves in her bewildered mind what dear mamma can mean!



NANNIE BATES,

THE HUCKSTER'S DAUGHTER.



NANNIE BATES.



CHAPTER I.

It was little comfort life had ever brought to her, what with harsh treatment from a cruel father, and the woman's work that came upon her young shoulders, while her mother traveled up and down the streets with her basket of small-wares, trying to get the wherewithal to keep soul and body together. The lazy husband droned away the hours in the dram-shops, gulping down the hard earnings of his busy wife, or he staggered home with his reeling brain, to vent his ill-nature on the little pale thing that kept the house. It was "Nannie, do this," or, "Nannie, do that," or, "Nannie, mind the baby," all the live-long time, when he was sufficiently sober to know what was going on about him; and if the tired little feet loitered at all at his bidding, a wicked oath or a villainous blow hastened her weary steps. "What was she born for, any way?" She looked down upon the face of the sleeping babe whose cradle her foot was rocking, but it gave her no satisfactory answer. It was not a bright rosy-cheeked thing such as she met every day just round the corner, where she went to the pump for water! She must have been just so white and sickly, for the bit of a looking-glass that she picked up from an old ash-barrel in the street gives her back no round and healthy cheeks, but the reflection of a meager, sad-looking face, that nobody can care to look upon! And they must always be so, both baby and she, for one of her teachers in the Industrial School told her that nothing could be strong and healthy without the sun, and there was never a single ray in that dreary basement.

Oh! no, they needn't be weak and sickly! A thought has occurred to her—she wonders why she never had it before! Perhaps father wouldn't like it if he should come home and find her away. But love for baby is stronger than fear of father, and so she tidies herself up as well as she can, and wrapping the little one in a piece of an old blanket, takes it out where it is the brightest and sunniest, and there she sits on the broad stone-steps of some great house, watching the merry children who play upon the walk, and wondering if she can ever hope to see dear little Winnie as joyous and happy.

"Look at that poor girl," said one of the gay children, stopping her hoop and touching her brother upon the back with her stick; "she's got a little baby in her arms just as big as sissy—hasn't she Willie? And only see what an old ragged blanket it has on! Haven't you got any nice clothes for the baby?" said she to the young girl, who had heard her, and was moving off with the wee child hugged closely to her breast—"because sissy has a great many, and I know mother can spare you one," and with that she ran up the steps, and pulled the bell as hard as she could.

"Oh! mamma," said she, all out of breath with haste and excitement, "there's a little bit of a baby out there, just like my sissy, and it hasn't any thing on its feet, and the old flannel rag can't cover it half over; won't you let me give it that one you put in the mending basket? It is so much bigger and nicer than that!" and the tiny arm was thrown caressingly around the gentle mother's neck, and the little lips were touching her cheek.

"Blessings on her swate heart!" said Biddy, rising, by her mistress' permission, to get the blanket. "'Tis never the like of ye'll come to want, so shure as my name's Biddy Halligan, an' ye so free in your benivolence. But where's the baby, faith?" said she, as she went down the steps holding the little girl by the hand.

"Oh! Biddy, what shall I do? she's gone, and now I can't give her the blanket!" and the disappointed child wiped her eyes upon her pinafore, and stood still upon the walk, while her nurse looked down the length of the street.

"Maybe that same is she," said Biddy, "with the brown bonnet upon the head, as is going round the corner by the the big grocery."

"Oh! yes, that's she," and little May brightened up, and walked as fast as she could to overtake the poor girl. They reached her just as she closed the door of the basement after her, and May hung back at first, half frightened as she looked into the dismal place; but Biddy encouraged her, so that she just ventured within the door, and handed the small parcel; then she would go home, for a vague feeling of evil haunted her timid mind in that dark and lone spot.

Nannie opened the bundle, and her eyes glistened as she saw the great square of soft flannel with a pretty silken border worked all around it. "They can't be bad people all of them that live in grand houses, as father says," thought she, "or they wouldn't have sent me this pretty thing!" She is so glad to get home before he comes, for now, perhaps, she can escape a scolding, and, common as cross words are to her, she shrinks from them. She will go out every day at this hour when it is pleasant, and then she will not be missed at home. "'Tis so nice to have that comfortable covering for Winnie, for now she can hide her scanty apparel, and she will look quite respectable and neat;" for Nannie has some idea of neatness, and really tries to better the condition of the family. She learned a great many good ways at the school, and she does not forget them, although she has not been since baby's birth, and they will tell greatly upon the whole of her life. There was a time when she did not care if the floor was all covered with heaps of dirt, and she would go out into the street with the rags flying all about her, and her hair in masses of thick tangles, and her face quite black and ugly. Now she scrubs up the room very often, and you never see any of the streamers hanging from her garments, for she mends them as well as she can, and she makes free use of the nice water that is a blessing of such magnitude to the poor. Her hair too is always glossy and smooth—no matter if she does have to wear a coarse frock, and an old and faded bonnet, they are whole, and that is far better than rags or dirt. She isn't a bit ashamed of them nor of her bare feet, for they are so white that the blue veins are plainly visible, and things are so much better than they used to be.

"This is a very pleasant morning, what with the nice little girl, and baby's new blanket!" and she went to fold it up and lay it in a safe place for the next day, when a rough hand caught it from her.

"What have we here?" said her drunken father; "embroidered, eh! that's good luck, indeed! I'll take it, child, it's just the thing, it will bring a good price!"

"Oh! don't, please don't sell Winnie's blanket, father!" pleaded Nannie; "it is all she has that's decent, and a good little girl brought it on purpose for her, please don't take that, father!" But the man was gone, and while the girl sat sobbing over her loss, he was greedily swallowing its price as he had done that of many a nice article before.



CHAPTER II.

"Matches? shoe-lacings? buttons? only a penny a dozen, ma'am!" and the foot-sore woman presses her face to the basement windows, and holds up her wares with a strange pertinacity, even though the mistress of the mansion shakes her head many times, saying, "not to-day;" and turns to discuss some trifling subject as if there were not starvation and misery in the tones that are dying upon her ear. Heart-sick and desponding, the poor woman turns away, and renews her entreaties at the next neighbor's, perchance to be spurned again and again; for the cosy tea-hour has arrived, and husband and children are all gathered around the well-spread board, and it is annoying to be disturbed by beggars, now.

The pleading voice, and scanty raiment, and woe-begone expression, jar sadly upon the glad home-circle that is teeming with content, and plenty, and cheerfulness, and it is easier to send such forlornities off, and trouble yourself no more about them, than to break away from your own beloved and blessed ones to inquire into their condition with a view to comfort and relieve.

"For the love of heaven will ye buy something, sir," says the half-frantic creature, addressing a benevolent-looking gentleman who had cast a pitying glance upon her. The stars are hidden by dense black clouds which every moment threaten to pour out their fury upon the earth, and the quick tread of the people seeking the shelter of their homes awakens the wretched woman to a last effort, and she touches the arm of the stranger in her eagerness to secure his attention. "I have sold nothing this day, sir, and the two children at home waiting for the morsel that I have not to carry them—oh! buy something, sir, and the blessing of the poor be with ye!"

"Where do you live, my good woman?" asked the gentleman, half inclined to doubt her. He has so often been deceived by tales of sorrow and want which had no foundation; yet there is something in the present case that banishes his suspicions, and he follows her as she designates her abode. She hesitates, as they near the spot, for fear her husband would be at home in one of his abusive moods, for her woman's heart would fain cover up even her bloated and loathsome husband with its loving and forgiving mantle.

Was it best to tell him, or to persist in her obstinacy, and lose the chance of supplying her children's need? A mother's affection prevails, and with a sigh, she descends the steps, and opens the door of her miserable dwelling. Her husband has not returned—that is well; but what is the matter with Nannie? Leaning over her cradle and sobbing as if her heart will break, the girl sits, while the darkness and want are only made the more visible by a small bit of an offensive tallow candle that is stuck in a potatoe for a candlestick.

"Is it the child that is sick, my girl, or what has come over ye that ye moan and take on in that manner?" said the woman, advancing and holding the candle close to the infant's face—then perceiving that nothing ailed the babe, and supposing that the father might be the cause of the girl's grief, she said no more about it; but bade Nannie hand the stool to the gentleman who was standing with his back to the door while the poor woman scrutinized the child.

"And is this your home?" asked he, glancing around the damp, unwholesome apartment, and shivering even in the middle of the month of August. "Have you no husband, and do you depend upon what you sell daily from this basket for your living?"

If she told him that she had a husband, he would question her, and find out his degradation; therefore she said she was a widow, turning around to cross herself as she muttered softly, "the Lord forgive me the lie!"

"You must be but lately a widow," added he, looking at the tiny baby before him.

"Faith, sir, ye must pardon me, an' I will tell ye all, since it's ye would be taking the trouble to inquire of a poor body like me. Jim's been enticed away by bad companions until it's every thing we had has been pawned for spirits, and how could I tell ye 'twas my own husband that was once so good and kind to me, and he not so much to blame as the poor wretches that deal out to him the dreadful stuff!" and the afflicted woman hid her face against the wall and wept for very shame that the stranger should know her husband's folly. She was interrupted in her grief by the object of it, who stumbled into the room, kicking at the cradle-rockers as he came near tripping over them, and doubling up his fists with a show of fight as his eye fell upon the stranger.

"Isn't it m'own house I'm in, Molly?" said he, "and what business have you t' be taking in lodgers, and me the masther here!" and with that he made a dive at the gentleman, who arose and stepped quietly aside.

"Oh! Jim," said the woman, "'tis a kind friend who is afther helping us, when I could sell nothing the day."

"Who talks of help? A'nt I able t' s'port m'own fam'ly, I'd like t' know?" muttered the drunken wretch, as he fell a loathsome heap upon the straw in the corner of the room.

The stranger gave a compassionate glance at the wife, who seemed ready to sink from mortification and sorrow, and putting some money into her hand for their present necessities, called Nannie to him, and looked steadily into her face one minute, and left without a word. The girl was in his mind, though, as he took the way to his solitary lodgings—for Mr. Bond was a bachelor.

She was not pretty, nor very prepossessing; but her expression showed depth and character, and she was worthy a better training. At any rate she must not be left to the tender mercies of that brutal man. He will help her to make her way in the world, not by a mistaken charity, but by teaching her self-reliance. She must be looked after. If Betty Lathrop had not been taken from him so early in life, there might have been a "Nannie Bond" to care for and teach, and perhaps Providence meant this for his charitable and acceptable labor. And Mr. Bond rubbed his great hands together, and sprang up the stairs to his chamber with a boyish step and a light heart. He had found something to do.



CHAPTER III.

There was a neat carpet upon the floor, and two comfortable rocking-chairs in the room, one at each window, with nice plump cushions in them, and by a center-table, that had upon it a large family Bible, a copy of "The Pilgrim's Progress," an almanac, and the "Daily Times," was Mr. Bond's easy-chair. Nobody ever occupied that chair but himself, and sometimes a sleek, gray cat, that once belonged to Betty Lathrop, and would have had a joint ownership had Providence spared the mistress. Now it was his especial care, and he would sit motionless by the window for hours, rather than disappoint the favored puss of one tittle of her nap. There was a picture of a young woman over the mantle, which Mr. Bond thought a master piece of art, and which was the constant theme of his contemplation. It had a round, ruddy face, and upon the head was a sort of coiffure which our modern critics might eschew; but which Mr. Bond believed the very perfection of elegance. It was composed of loops of muslin disposed on each side over a profusion of brown curls which distended the head to an enormous width, and upon the top was visible a high back-comb which quite "capped the climax." The dress of the lady was black silk, sleeves "a la mouton," and a collar of muslin with a deep frill that reached nearly to the elbows. This was fastened with a yellow glass pin, the gift of Mr. Bond on his promised possession of the fair maiden who was to adorn herself with it. Before this portrait was many a moment spent in vain regrets that it was only the image of that which, but for an inscrutable wisdom, might have been his. A couple of glass lamps, and a thermometer formed the mantle ornaments, and a mailed figure of some Roman general in bronze, and a "Samuel" done in plaster, completed the luxuries of the apartment.

It was a cosey place to the Bachelor though! the sun had free access through the curtainless windows, and a merry time of it, it had playing upon the benevolent features of the good man, until many a little freckle stood out, as witness to its audacity. There was not a leaf in his neighbor's garden just below his windows, that was unfamiliar to him, and the three little girls that came out there to play beneath the trees, were always glad to see the kind face above them, for many a paper of sugar-plums fell from a capacious pocket that emptied itself upon the grass, and many a pleasant word floated downward, to make them happy. Oh! his was a nature to make a Paradise of any spot! so full of love toward every living thing! What if his landlady was fidgety and exacting, and called after him every time he entered the house, to wipe his feet, and when she went to make his bed, would go around shoveling up the dirt from the carpet muttering all the time about "some people's slovenliness?" What if his fellow-lodgers always managed to get his seat at table, and to eat up all the toast and muffins, before he was once helped, leaving him only the dry bread with which to satisfy a morning's appetite? What if the neighbors did torment him by continually stoning his poor cat every time she took a walk in the garden to breathe the fresh air, so that he was obliged to turn sentinel over the animal's pedestrian excursions? It wasn't any thing to grumble about, and so the peaceful man kept a sunny expression and a blessed and good heart, and his oppressors only heaped upon themselves disagreeable traits without moving him to a single murmur.

Mr. Bond did not seem to think it incumbent upon any body else to be kind, or attentive, or good. He had his own way of living and doing, and it mattered little to him if all the world went in an opposite direction, he kept straight on in his bright and pleasant path, and it brought him abundant joy and blessedness.

His cosey room was unusually beautiful and attractive as he returned from his visit to the lowly basement, and it was with a feeling of peculiar satisfaction that he seated himself by a window, with his feet on the sill and his arms crossed upon his breast, while he watched the vivid lightning as it glided swiftly about amid the blackened heavens. Oh! how the rain descended, as if to drown the very earth in its pouring fury. No wonder the good man heaved a sigh for the inmates of that dreary room, and fancied himself back in the dismal place, with the cataract of waters rushing down, until baby, and cradle, and stool were all afloat as upon the great deep. He could not bear it any longer, and so he took one of the lamps from the mantle, and struck a light, and lost himself in his newspapers.



CHAPTER IV.

"It won't do, it won't do, Nannie," said the poor woman, wildly, as the accumulated drops streamed like a rivulet down the steps of their cellar; "we must manage to arouse your father, or the morning'll never see him alive!" and she pushed and shook the inanimate clog that lay in the corner, while the torrent still flowed on, until fear for the child's safety made her quit her efforts with its father, and snatching the infant from the cradle, and bidding Nannie follow her, she rushed hastily out to seek help in order to remove her miserable husband. Not a creature was stirring, for the bitterness of the storm had driven every breathing thing under shelter. Still undaunted, she moves on, folding her thin and drenched garments around the babe, until a watchman stops her with a rude demand as to what calls her forth in the pitiless night? She heeds not his roughness, but pulls him by the coat, while he vainly endeavors to shake her off, and entreats him to aid her helpless husband.

"Where is he, woman? and what do you want?" asks the besieged man, as she continues to drag him along with a maniac's strength.

It is a long time that has elapsed since she left her threatened home, and the waves have found their victim. They are not affrighted at the hideous spectacle of a brutish and disfigured one, but they leap caressingly about him, gliding over his pillow and hushing him into a deep and lasting sleep. The empty cradle, and the stool, and the rough board table with the flickering light upon it, float above the flowing tide as the watchman enters the dismal cellar with the agonized woman and her children. She springs to the corner, and while he feels for the heavy mass with his club, she raises it with her tender hands, and supports the drooping head upon her loving breast, while a cry of anguish goes out from the heart that could never spurn him, even in his lowest moments.

It is not of any use to chafe the cold temple, nor to try to bring back the departed life! You'll be better without him, poor soul, though it is dreadful to feel that he has gone hence in his sins! No wonder Nannie shrinks away as the watchman, with the aid of one of his fellows whom a spring of his rattle brings to the spot, bears their father out on their way to the dead-house. He had never been kind to her since she can remember, and his coming has occasioned only a terrible fear and dread from day to day, yet she sobs out of sympathy for her mother, whose grief is fearful to witness.

They follow the corpse, and all night long the poor woman keeps her widowed vigils around the place where they have deposited her husband. She thinks not of the child upon her bosom, nor does she heed nor resist Nannie as she takes it gently away and runs back to the region of the overflowed cellar. The morning has dawned in serenity and loveliness, but there are signs of a late devastation all about. Broken limbs of trees are strewn hither and thither, while now and then one wholly uprooted lies prostrate across the street. Busy men are working hurriedly to extricate a poor family whose house a land-slide has quite buried. The mother and father have escaped the catastrophe, but their boy and girl are crushed in the fallen ruins. Deep gullies in the hill above her home show Nannie how fearful was the storm, and a mass of stones and rubbish that fill the sluice, that should have turned the water from their door, tell her the reason of their dreadful inundation. She is trying to think whether it is dreadful to her or not, when a kind voice accosts her. "What's the matter here?" says Mr. Bond; "and what are you and the baby out for in this soaking condition? Isn't your mother in the house, and haven't you a dry rag to put upon that poor child? 't will get its death, and you, too; come in here, quick, and let's see what can be done."

"If you please sir, father's drowned in the rain last night, and my mother's up by the dead-house, and me and baby haven't any home any more to go to, nor any dry clothes to wear," said Nannie, wringing the little frock that clung to the shivering infant, and following her friend half-way down the steps to the cellar.

"Just as I feared!" said he, looking into the room and quickly retreating; "the poor wretch has met a sudden and awful doom, the Lord preserve us all!" and, telling Nannie to keep up with him, he led the way to a higher and more healthy quarter of the street, and stopped at a tidy-looking house, where a neatly clad woman answered his rap. "You have lodgings to let?" asked he, glancing with an evident pleasure upon the white floor of the entry that showed no spot nor stain.

"Why, yes, sir," returned she with an uneasy look at the forlorn child and baby on the step; "there's a room and bedroom in the attic to let to respectable people as has no followers, nor drinkings, nor carousings, nor such like about 'em."

"Let me see them, my good woman," said Mr. Bond; "I'll make all right if they suit," and he went puffing up the three flights of stairs, while Nannie pattered after him with the infant, drabling her wet garments over the clean floors, to the no small annoyance of the landlady. "These'll do, these'll do," said Mr. Bond, with a gleesome tone, as he looked from the windows upon the blue waters, where the boats were gliding busily back and forth, and whence the pure fresh breeze came up even into the rooms, giving them a healthful air. "This is to be your home now, Nannie, and you may be sure I'll help you to be somebody if you'll help yourself;" and, turning to the woman, he told her the reason of the child's pitiable condition, and payed her in advance a quarter's rent, giving her also some money with which to procure a dry suit for the children; and then he departed to send the few articles of furniture from their former abode, to which he added a bedstead and bedding, a nice cooking-stove, a couple of chairs, and a few other conveniences.

Nannie was almost beside herself for joy as she surveyed the snug and cheerful apartment, and the new goods as they stood in their respective places. The chairs were by the windows, and the stool occupied a prominent position before the new stove; the old table was covered with an oil-cloth, and a brass candlestick and snuffers were upon it. There was a pound of crackers, and a loaf of bread; and a pint of milk, and a new tin cup and pewter spoon for Winnie, and Nannie hastened to give the starving child some of the fresh milk, while she sat beside the pleasant window wondering if Mr. Bond was one of the angels that her teacher used to tell her about—and then she laid the baby upon the soft bed in its cradle, and put a new blanket over it, and peeping into the bedroom again to see if she hadn't been dreaming there was a real bedstead there, all nicely furnished and dressed, she went off to seek her mother, locking the door carefully after her as her kind friend had directed.



CHAPTER V.

It was hard to hurry him off so and to cover him up from the face of his own wife, even if he was a loathsome drunkard! But they couldn't keep him there long, for new victims were constantly arriving, and he must give place to them, and so they hustled him off in a deal box, without pall, or procession, or priest, and they did not mind the woman and child that followed on and stood side by side at the place of his burial; but they covered him over with the damp earth, and never a prayer above his head; and so they went away again, perchance to repeat the office for another miserable one.

"Mother," says Nannie, as the hardened band moved away leaving the one mourning heart by itself, "mother, come home now, 'tis no use staying here, and baby'll be crying for ye, ye know."

Baby!—oh! what a link to earth was that!

"Where is the child?" said the mother, with a frantic start, as if just awakened from a frightful dream. "Isn't she dead, Nannie? Didn't they just bury her with your father?" and she cast herself upon the moist turf, and tore her disheveled hair until the very wildness of her sorrow calmed her. Then she suffered Nannie to lead her away. It was a long distance; but they reached it at last, and the mother rushed quickly up the stairs, not seeming conscious of the change, as she heard the child's cries; for the poor little thing, unused to such long neglect, made all ring again with its screams.

"Did you say this was home, Nannie, or is it heaven, child?" said the woman, as her babe was hushed, and she became somewhat awake to her new position.

The sun was streaming upon the floor, and wall, and the snowy curtains were fluttering in the pure breeze, and the blue waves were dancing and sparkling in the bay, and white sails were moving rapidly about, and from the windows two beautiful islands were visible with their summer verdure, and the bewildered mother pressed her hand to her forehead, as if trying to unravel the mystery, when Mr. Bond's fat and merry face peered in at the door.

"All right," said he, with a glad smile, "how are you getting along here, eh? Rather better than the old cellar, isn't it, Nannie?" and helping himself to a chair, he took the baby from its mother, pinching its cheeks and chirruping to make it laugh, until even Mrs. Bates was forced into a more cheerful mood. But the tears would not stay long away, and as the memory of her loss came from her from time to time, she burst forth in a bewailing strain to her kind benefactor,

"Ye's too good to me, sir, and it's thankful to ye I am for it all; but it's my own husband that's taken suddenly from me, and ye'll not be minding the grief."

"I know all about it, my good woman," said he, the muscles about his mouth quivering with emotion. He was thinking of a green grave afar off, with a maiden name upon it, and a true heart moldering beneath. "But don't tell me any more, think of the living that have got to be cared for, and you'll have no time to lament the dead," and he chucked the baby under the chin, and dandled it upon his fat knees, as if he had been used to it all his life.

"It's the Lord will reward ye, sir, for looking after the fatherless and widowed," said the woman, as she cast a thankful glance about the cheerful room, and then upon the benevolent face before her. "There'll be three witnesses for ye if ever we get to the blessed land, and sure ye'll not need them either, I'm thinking!"

"Never mind, never mind," said the kind man; "I like to help them that are trying to get up in the world, and you'll know where to find a friend whenever you are in trouble—I'll look in upon you once in a while to see how the children get on," and he handed her a card with the number of his lodging upon it, saying as he went out the door,

"Don't forget to send for Peter Bond, when you need any thing."

"Blessings on his big soul!" says the poor woman, as his retreating footsteps die upon the stairs. "It is like taking away the light, to lose sight of his merry countenance!"



CHAPTER VI.

"Wake up, child," said the mother, giving Nannie a gentle shake; "the sun's high in the heavens, and it's lazing we are in our blessed bed."

No wonder they pull the nice spread over them, and sink down again upon the soft pillows, feeling that there could be no greater luxury on earth. "But it must not make them idle," Mrs. Bates says, and so Nannie jumps up and dresses the baby, while her mother prepares the breakfast.

Was there ever stove like that! There's a pleasant smell to the polish as it burns off, and the wood has such a crackling, cheery sound; and the hot steam from the Indian cakes sends forth an inviting odor as the brown sides are turned upward.

Never mind if it is midsummer! the windows are open, and the superfluous heat escapes, and the fresh air mingles with and tempers the warmth of the room, so that it is nice and comfortable; it is so much better and more wholesome than the damp, dark basement. There is a slight tinge upon baby's cheek already, and Nannie doesn't look quite so pale and sickly as she stands before the little mirror to brush her hair. "Oh! an attic's the place, mother! isn't it?" says she, as she danced about the room with Winnie. "We can breathe better up here, and Winnie'll grow stout and healthy, for the sun comes in here," and she smoothed her tiny palm over a bright beam that lay upon the child's head, and kissed it as if it were a living, grateful presence. Winnie, too, crowed, and jumped, and twisted her wee fingers in the warm rays, and seemed quite conscious that something great and good had happened to her. The mother participated in the joy, but as they sat down to a comfortable breakfast, and she missed the red features that had so long been opposite, her knife and fork dropped from her hands, and the food was salted with bitter tears.

"Mother," said Nannie, putting down her untasted cake, "ye'll be breaking your heart for the dead father, and then what'll Winnie and me do? I'll not eat a morsel till ye dry your tears and help me!" and she folded her hands and sat gazing upon her mother, with the drops in her own eyes, until she saw her make an effort to eat. It was a quiet meal, though, and soon over, and the child was left to tidy the house, while the mother went forth to sell her wares. She did not mind so much being repulsed now, for even if she failed to profit by her day's labor, there was a willing friend to fall back upon, so that there was no fear of starving; so, with a light step, she trudged along, and the people wondered what had come over the poor huckster woman.

There was such a winning, cheerful sound in her voice as she tapped at the window and said, "Any thing to-day, ma'am?" they could not let her go without purchasing something—a piece of tape, or a few pins, or a bunch of matches. It did not matter if they were at breakfast, father could wait a minute for his coffee, and mother would write an excuse for the children to take to school, so they open the window, and make their bargains, and hand out the pennies, and the happy woman goes tripping along, lighter both in basket and heart, and the breakfast has an uncommon relish, so all think as they gather around the table again. Charity is a capital seasoner.



CHAPTER VII.

Mr. Bond sits beside his center-table with his legs crossed and his eyes fixed upon the portrait. He wonders what Betty Lathrop would advise him to do about the poor girl if she could speak. He hears a great deal about spiritual manifestations and communications, but he has no faith in them, and even if he had he wouldn't be guilty of disturbing a departed soul unless for something of great moment.

He thinks he reads her approbation of his conduct, thus far, in the mild eyes that seem to look encouragingly upon him. Good old man, it would puzzle the saints to find fault with any of thy pure impulses!

He wonders if Nannie ever went to school, and if she has read the Pilgrim's Progress? He'll take it round there some day, her education mustn't be neglected, and she can't be spared from Winnie to go to school now. He hasn't any body to care for, and why shouldn't he make those children his especial charge! Puss rises slowly from the rug, where she has been lying curled up this long time, shakes herself, and puts her two fore paws on Mr. Bond's knees, as if to remind him that he has something to care for and cherish, and then walks back again and puts herself in the old position, while her great orbs are rolled up at the master.

"It will not make any difference to you, puss," says Mr. Bond, leaning over and stroking the warm fur; "there's milk enough for you and Winnie too, and she'd have done it, I know," pointing upward to the portrait, as if the cat understood it all; then he took his hat and cane in his hand and went down stairs, stopping at his landlady's room to tell her "if a poor little girl with a baby should come to see him, not to send her away, but to let her go to his room and rest."

"Pretty piece of business!" said Mrs. Kinalden, as he left the house; "tisn't any beggars' brats I'll have tracking the dirt up my stair-ways, I'll warrant ye!" and she flourished her soup-ladle as if in defiance of all such encroaches upon her blessed domain.

Mr. Bond didn't hear nor see it, though, for his elastic step was away down the street, and if he had he would have thought it only Mrs. Kinalden's way, and would not have taken offense at it. There was so much that was bright and good in his own heart that he could not feel the ill that was in other people's natures, and his life passed as smoothly as if he were not continually subjected to petty annoyances from those about him who imposed upon his forbearance and amiability.

Earth was beautiful to him, and so was life; there had been but one dark spot in his whole existence, and that was when Betty Lathrop twined her young arms around his great neck and told him she must die.

Her grave was very green, though, and there were roses of his own planting around it, and a pure white lily; and there was a holy light always visible to him just above it, as of an angel with glorious wings hovering. He didn't feel as if she had departed wholly from him because he could not see her bodily presence, for he knew that the love was still with him, and this it was that shed such a halo all about his pathway, and there can not be sadness nor gloom where such a consciousness exists.