"I am so cold here," she said, placing her hand on her heart—"I will not go out any more, Mrs. Minot; it hurts me."

We never afterward urged her, nor explained her suffering to the friends who inquired. She exacted a promise to that effect.

What a strange being our lovely Clara was! She grew to our hearts as ivy to the oak, and the tendrils of her nature entwined us, creeping a little nearer daily, until the doors of our hearts were covered with their growing beauty. I should be writing all about her, and not bring myself into my story at all, but the promise I made you must be fulfilled. At some other time I may write out for you the life and work of this beautiful friend. My own experience seems to me only a background against which her picture ought to rest. I have been rambling, for you remember I began to tell you about the coming of Hal's artist friend from Chicago. I believe it was the fifteenth of November when he came, and his presence was not a burden as I feared, for he found and filled a place held in reserve for him, and all united with me in saying: "What a splendid man he is!"

Brother Ben, who was now at an interesting age, called him "a man to study," and he seemed to be fascinated by him. His eyes followed every motion, and his ear was keenly alive to every expression of thought. I sometimes thought Hal wished Ben did not like him as well, for he was constantly availing himself of his society. Some work fortunately had to be done, else Hal would have been very much troubled to gain an audience. Clara did not like the artist quite as well as I did, though she said with the rest, "What a splendid man!" and betrayed by no word or act any disregard for his feelings, still I intuitively felt a something she did not say; and when I told her he had made an arrangement to stay all winter, she clasped her white hands together tightly, and between two breaths a sigh came fluttering from her lips, while tears gathered in the blue of her eyes, as the white lids fell to cover what she would not have me notice. Although a pain and wonder filled my heart for a moment, I knew if Clara wished me to divine her feelings she would explain herself, and her silence left me to my own conjectures. I said to myself "Some thought of the past has come over her," for I could not see how the stay of Wilmur Benton could affect her happiness. He treated her with great deference and seemed to realize with us that she had a rare organization. His stay was a matter of great interest with Hal, as Hal was to gain from him the instruction he needed, and they expected to get much enjoyment from working together. Louis would be with us through the holidays, and Mr. Benton would, I knew, enjoy that, for he insisted that it was the magic of his hand that had saved Hal's life, and he looked on him as a real blessing. The two artist souls blended as one, and drank daily deep draughts from the fountain of an inspiring genius, and as I watched the work grow under their hands, and the plastic and senseless clay become a fair statue, lacking nothing save breath and motion to reveal an entity, I questioned if the power was really theirs, or if their hands had touched a secret spring and were guided outside of themselves. It really never seemed like exertion, and to sense this wondrous art was to me the asking of questions deeper than any among us could answer.

Hal's statue of dear Aunt Hildy was copied, and improved also by Mr. Benton, who considered it a masterpiece, and the respect we bore our friend was not lessened, even though there were those among us who might speculate as to the motive that prompted it.

We never called her funny, but original, and good as gold. Our family numbered now seven people, and with the farm work in addition to the daily preparation of meals, the clearing up and upsetting again of things, there were many steps to take, and Aunt Hildy was installed as our help in need.

These were the days of help—not servants—when honest toil was well appreciated by sensible people, and no hurried or half-done work fell from their hands, but the steady doing resulted in answering the daily demands.

"It's a bunch of work to do; it is, indeed, Mrs. Minot," said Aunt Hildy.

"But we'll master it."

"I ain't never going to be driven by work, nor aristocracy neither. It's a creepin' in on us, though, like the snake in the garden, just to make folks think they can get more comfort out of fixin's than they can out of the good old truths. I can't be fed on chaff; no, I can't."

And her sleeves would go up to her elbows, and she would march through work like a mower through a field.

Her coming gave me a chance to do some sewing, and with Clara's help about cutting (and she sewed with me), the needed spring and summer apparel and house linen were fashioned and made ready for use. The days passed pleasantly to us all, and though I had watched Clara closely, she betrayed neither by word nor sign anything that savored of dislike toward Professor Benton; and still, sometimes, I felt that unexplainable something that once in a while tried as it were to shape itself before me, and as often vanished in mist. We had long evenings, and many new topics were introduced and discussed. I had access to Clara's large and well selected library, and I improved every opportunity to inform myself on doubtful subjects. Sometimes I despaired of knowing anything new, and again my brain would seem clearer, and would take in the new thoughts with keen perception. When, however, we came to talk upon these same subjects, I sat nearly dumb; I could summon no thoughts nor words to frame them. Even this stupidity had its advantage, for Mr. Benton (Hal called him Will) was a good talker, and had, as all talkers have, a great respect for a good listener, and he often said to me:

"You have a heart to appreciate rare truths, Miss Minot."

Clara was gifted in conversation, but did not always express her sentiments with great freedom.

If we touched on things nearest her heart, and I believe the doing of good each to the other was her highest thought, she was at home, and her blue eyes would glow with light, as in her own sweet way she talked long and earnestly. I shall never forget the first time Mr. Benton noticed this point in her organization. The newsmonger of our town had been to see us, had spent the afternoon and taken tea, and while it was amusement for me to hear her gossip incessantly about this thing and that, this person and the other, Clara was greatly annoyed by it. It caused a righteous indignation to rise within her, and when after the visit we were seated by the antique centre table in her sitting-room, the conversation turned upon the peculiarities of this scandal-loving Jane North.

Clara expressed herself freely on the subject of small talk, as she termed scandal. Her eyes dilated, her small hands were folded tightly, and when she closed it was with this last feeling sentence:

"I can only say, 'Father, forgive them, they know not what they do,' who scatter the theme of contention where roses should appear, and in tearing down the habitation of their neighbors lose also their own; for they who have respect for themselves will have respect for their neighbors. May we yet live to understand the meaning of the words, 'Love ye one another.' When this shall be, oh, my more than friends, when this shall be, we shall know each other, even as we are known! No secret blight shall cover any life, no worm of regret gnaw at the tree of our unfolding lives! We shall all be as a unit, and our Father who seeth us in secret shall then reward us openly! Yea, more, for are not we ourselves capable of holding communion with this part of God within us? We know our souls are with us to-day, and it is only because the roots of thought are covered, and the feet of envy, hatred and malice are pressing, the hard soil against them, that the tendrils of our loving natures are never asked to climb, and the eternal ivy of our great love reaches not the windows of expressed thought, else our hands would be made strong to do daily that which is found to do with all our might."

Her last beautiful utterance finished, she closed her eyes as if covered with the mantle of her holy thoughts, and we all sat in a breathless silence. Aunt Hildy who sat in the corner (by preference) stirred not a muscle from the beginning to the close of her talk, and Mr. Benton looked first in wonder then in admiration, and when our silence was broken by a fervent "Amen" from Aunt Hildy, he added:

"'Even so let it be.' Those thoughts are beautiful."

Clara looked at him with an almost reproachful glance, the import of which I could not understand.

I was not sensitive like Clara; perhaps intuitive would express it better. She seemed to understand every one's nature on the first meeting, and I had marvelled many tunes at her accuracy in reading character.

She told me that her heart went out to Aunt Hildy at their first meeting, and I felt convinced now there was something about this new friend that no one save herself could detect, and whether it had shape with her or not was a question.

Three weeks of Mr. Benton's stay had passed when this incident occurred, and from that hour there was a marked change in his manner toward her. I could see, ignorant as I was of the phases of life, how he was attracted to her. This glimpse of her wondrous nature had opened his eyes, and perhaps touched his heart. His age must be about hers, I thought, and how strange if it should be that he loved her. But here I run into a mist where nothing was plain. Days will tell the story, I thought, and we were sure of days and changes while life lasted. It became plain to me after a little that Clara felt the change in his manner toward her, and in every quiet move of hers I detected the disposition on her part to repel any advances. She gave him no opportunity to be with her alone, and if by chance this happened, her sweet voice would call "Emily, come in this way, we are lonely without you," and her eyes would turn on me when I entered with a sort of wistful glance. It always reminded me of a child looking confidently into the eyes of its mother, expecting the help it was sure to find. I hardly enjoyed this, for I knew Mr. Benton thought me old enough to discern a little, and he must have believed us to be in league together, whereas no word had passed between us on the subject until just before Christmas, when Louis was expected.

Clara and I were sitting busily sewing and talking of the coming of "her dear boy," when she let her sewing fall and sat as in thought a few moments before she spoke.

"Emily (and she spoke slowly and with earnestness. I felt frightened for her cheek grew white as the words fell from her lips), when Louis comes keep close to me all the time, will you? Oh! I know you will, and since I ask such a favor, it is only right I should tell you all about it. I know, for I feel it in here (and she laid her hand on her head), that Professor Benton desires to talk to me. He must not be allowed to, Emily, for if he does it will hurt me so much. I will tell you why, and I know you will tell it to no one."

I looked an assent and she continued:

"He thinks that he might like me so well that he would wish me near him for ever. But he does not know that I cannot let him say this to me. It would be hard to make him understand me; he never could. And then if he should know me very well, it would be all wrong. I love my Louis Robert, and he is waiting on the hills for me. Yes, my dear Emily, he waits for me there. Did he not say so when he died, and will he not come for me some day when I shall be a little more weary, and this beating heart grows colder? He says he will and I am always with him in my thoughts. It almost hurts me to live at all. Can you see, Emily, can you know how it is because I need you all so much that I must stay with you? Professor Benton has a good heart, but it feels cold to me. His art obscures from him all else; he can love no one as he loves a picture. Now you will promise me, no not with words—I would only feel your arm around me, and with my hand in yours feel you are my trusted one—my soul friend and my great help."

Silence was ill suited to my feelings at that moment. I gathered her gentle form to me, and held her tight while those ever ready tears of sympathy filled my eyes full, and I spoke honestly when I said:

"I don't care a fig for Mr. Benton, and if he troubles you I will send him back to Chicago, and I wish he had never come at all."

"Oh! oh! do not say it; I shall fear to have you know my heart, it makes you rebellious. It is well that he came, as your brother needs him, and you do wrong to say such words. Wait, Emily, keep quiet, you are like a wind when your thoughts are stirred, and time, my love, will help you to make your hand strong, and your heart also. It is on a full tide and with a steady wind that vessels find the sea, while changeful blasts will shipwreck them, and then cast their wrecks upon the shore. And so it is with mortals; we have to keep saying, wait! while we pray to be guided aright."

"I am always running off the track, Clara, I know; teach me to know myself and let me help you; you are so different; I shall never be like you," I said.

"And you do not wish to be, I hope," was her reply.

"I would like more of your quiet spirit, but that belongs to you, and if I wait and work hard to do it, I shall always be upsetting what I wish to do, and plaguing others instead of helping—" Mother came in and our talk was at an end.



CHAPTER VIII.

FEARS AND HOPES.

Many thoughts filled my mind after what Clara had said, and I thought much of her beautiful faith as to her husband and his waiting for her; of her trust in his coming, and of the reality with which came into her existence this wonderful future that waits for us all if (and sometimes this little conjunction assumed wonderful proportions) immortality really be ours. My heart told me we were to live, and in my higher thoughts I could sometimes see the light that flooded those old hills near our home, reaching far on to where all those of our household were waiting. I never at these times could think of our beloved friends, my blessed grandmother, of whom we did not even possess a daguerreotype, as an angelic and unearthly something with wings, but rather as a real being, whose face I should recognize, whose hands should touch my own, while her lips would move, and in her dear old way she would say "Come in, Emily," just as she used to when I went as a child to her door, and looked in at her, as she lay on her bed, partly paralyzed. Her hair was white with the cares of seventy-four winters, and her eyes filled then with such a pleasant light. She had lived with us, this dear Grandma Northrop, for years. Hal had always been her special charge; she called him her boy, and up to the last month of her life mended his stockings first; she would go to the door and watch him go for the cows, and when he came back over the west meadows, would say with admiration:

"That boy is worth a dozen such as Ben Davis; he'll do something great before he dies."

My mother spoke often of her, and also recalled her saying, "I hope angels can see men," meaning that she could not bear the thought of leaving Hal.

I was only five years old when she left us, still her memory was sacred to me, and through the summer days I covered her grave with everlasting flowers and daisies. I remembered her as genial, though somewhat peculiar in her ways; she had a warm appreciation of wit, and was ever ready with answers. Mother remembered and told me so many of her happy sayings that it kept her memory fresh among us all, and if angels could both see and hear men, she must have felt grateful that we remembered her with such pleasure. I treasured the hoop ear-rings which she wore, and which bore her initials, "E.L.N." Her name was Elizabeth, but she was called by all "Betsey." To Hal she had left two silver spoons and her snuff-box. He had it among his little treasures, and kept the same bean in it that was there when she died. I wished a thousand times and more that my name might be Elizabeth, but Emily was given me by a sister of father's who desired me to be her namesake, and if I had been more like her in my young years I should never have been likened to a "fierce wind," as Clara so truly termed me. This Aunt Emily had gone to her heavenly home, as had many of my mother's family. She was one of eleven children, and at this date only one brother, Peter, and a sister, Phebe, were living. Mother had a beautiful sister, Sallie, who died young, and whom I loved to hear about. She painted her picture in words for me, and I could see her dark blue eyes, her brown hair that looked like satin, and her pink cheeks, almost as if I had really seen and known her. And when this heaven, that sometimes seemed so like far off mist, grew nearer, I imagined the meeting of them all, and enjoyed the pleasant picture which lay before my mind's eye like a waiting promise of whose fulfillment I felt sure. Clara and Aunt Hildy had long conversations on these subjects, and Aunt Hildy said to me when speaking of these talks:

"Oh! I love her white soul, Emily; she allus brings heaven right down to airth, and even when she don't talk I feel so kind of blessed when I sit near her. Few such folks are let to live, and somehow I'm almost convinced she can't stay long," and the corner of her blue-checked apron would touch her humid eyes, as she turned again to her work.

Work was a matter of principle with her, and to neglect one duty unnecessarily, no light offense. She was as true to her highest conviction of right as the needle to the pole, and held the truth close to her heart—so close that all her outer life was in correspondence with her interior perceptions. Truly her light was not under a bushel.

I hoped her fear of Clara's death would not soon be realized, for it did not seem as if we could bear to lose her presence. Never in any way could she intrude herself, for her nature moved her in perpetual lines, whose shadow never fell on the path of another. I felt sorry that she should be troubled, and I fear my dark eyes now and then shot telling glances at Mr. Benton.

The more she tried, even in her graceful way, to repel his advances, the more determined he was to gain access to her heart. In this I could detect the selfish part of his nature, and while I could not blame him for loving her, I knew that my love for her was so great that I would not knowingly give her any pain, and it seemed to me his love must be less than it should be, for he could not fail to know it troubled her and should have desisted. In a few days after our conversation Louis came.

Clara had, since she realized Mr. Benton's feelings toward her, been very careful in the selection of her wearing apparel, choosing for her daily use the plainest dresses. But on the day of Louis' arrival she said to me, as we went up stairs after dinner was cleared away:

"Emily, will you put on the dress that becomes you so well?" It was a garnet merino she alluded to, a gift from herself.

"We should make a pleasant picture for Louis when he comes; the dear boy loves to see his little mother in blue, and our royal Emily in becoming colors."

"Of course I will," I said, and as I fastened the lace collar, whose pattern was roses and leaves, with the pin she gave me, and looked in my little glass, I thought what a poor resemblance to royalty I bore, and laughed at the appellation.

Supper was ready, but we waited for the stage, and when it came we were all at the door. Hal met Louis first and then came Mr. Benton; Clara kept drawing me back with her, and he was obliged to greet mother and father and Aunt Hildy also, ere we were visible.

"Little mother! blessed little mother!" and he held her close, kissing her with passionate fondness, then turning to me he took both my hands and whispered softly:

"Last but not least," and we followed the rest to the supper table.

Mr. Benton was more than polite during the meal, and afterward delighted Louis with showing him an unfinished portrait of Clara, which he had commenced painting on canvas.

This information was conveyed to me at the first favorable opportunity, and when Louis enjoined secrecy upon me, he expressed great pleasure with Mr. Benton, and said:

"Oh! Miss Emily. Little mother is so beautiful; she is always a picture. When the artist adds to the charming portrait the dress and the little pearls she wore to receive me, it will be so real I shall want to ask it to speak to me, and when she leaves me I can look at it, and in my heart hear her say 'Louis my dear boy.' You love her very much, do you not, Emily?"

"Oh, Louis!" I cried, "do not talk so, everybody says she is too good and beautiful to live, and it is a thought too bitter, I cannot bear it."

He turned the conversation into another channel, and talked so strongly about his great desire to master this art of painting, while I wondered to myself how it had happened that these hearts were gathered to our own and had become members of our household, coming, as they did, like rare exotics, to live and blossom among us plain hollyhocks and dandelions. Hal I could liken to a rare flower, but then he was only one among our number, and in all our family and friends there were none possessing the gifts of these two souls which had come to us so strangely.

Aunt Hildy said, "The ways of life are past all comprehending." I thought so too. Christmas came on Sunday in this year of our Lord eighteen-hundred-and-forty-two, and for this I rejoiced and was glad. When it came on a week-day, it seemed like Sunday, and although now and then we had some really interesting sermons, there was not enough to fill two sabbaths coming so near together, and it gave me a restless sort of feeling, especially so, when I knew how quiet and solemn my father used to be all day, and also his great desire that we should imitate him.

I had been a member of our old church three years, and while I desired to live a Christian life, I could never feel that a long face, and solemnly pronounced words made any difference in my real life. Father did not believe any more in long faces than I did, still, I think from fear of neglecting any part of his duty, he maintained a serious demeanor from the break of our Sabbath days to their close. He had an unusually beautiful way of asking a blessing that always gave me a happy feeling. He merely said in a pleasant way, and with open eyes: "We should be very thankful for this meal; may we have wisdom to prepare no unsavory dishes, and strength to earn for ourselves, and others if necessary, the bread we daily need." This gave us a thought (that never grew old with me) of the needs of our neighbor, and also seemed so rational, and fitted our needs so perfectly. Aunt Hildy called it a common-sense blessing. I remember well how she spoke of it, in contrast with Deacon Grover's long-drawn-out table prayers, saying with emphasis; "The man, if he is a deacon, has a right to grow better, and we know he asks God to bless things cattle couldn't eat."

Christmas, we all went to church, and although it was more than a mile, aunt Hildy refused to ride.

"Let me walk as long as I can, time enough to ride by and by, and I'm only fifty-eight years old, Mr. Minot," she said.

It was useless to urge her, and she came into church a few minutes later than we did, and sat in her own pew next ours. This church was an old-time affair, having been built by the early settlers. It had, as all those old churches had, square pews, a stove in its central portion with huge arms of pipe that stretched embracingly in all ways; and its pulpit was so high that I prevailed on father to sit back from the centre as far as we could and be comfortably warm, for it was breaking ones' neck to look at the minister, and the sermon was half lost if you could not see the play of his features. Our worship was of the Presbyterian order, and our present pastor a worthy man. This was all the church that belonged to us really. In the village which nestled in the valley two and a half miles south-west of us, like a child in the lap of its mother, there were three churches, Baptist, Methodist, and Presbyterian, and many who attended our old church would have liked better to go to one of those, and at times did so, but it was quite a ride in winter, and for this reason our church was better filled at this season than in the summer days.

A new branch of belief had latterly developed itself somewhat in our neighborhood, and this embraced the thought of universal salvation. There had been meetings held at the houses of some of our friends, and once or twice mother and myself had attended.

The sermon on this Christmas day did me no good, for our minister chose for his subject false doctrines, and the pointed allusions and personalities savored greatly of a spirit that was not calculated to remind us of the humble Nazarene and his lowly spirit.

Tearing the roof down over our heads would not give one an idea of a comfortable home; and surely charity's mantle should at least cover the sins of ignorance, and that certainly was the hardest verdict we could render against those of our number who had become interested in these ideas, for that they were good and true people appeared from their doctrines. The only difference was this: That the love of God was so great for his children that not one of them would be lost or cast into the terrible fires, which, according to our old belief, burned for the guilty through endless time. And now as I reflect I can surely see it was more through fear of being thus cast off, and not because I could put my hand on anything so terribly wicked in myself or my acts, that I early desired and had communication with the church. Somehow I felt more secure to know I was approved of by men, and my name enrolled on the church list. As I grew older this was a troublesome thought that now and then, asked for a hearing. As we came out of church, Deacon Grover with his small black eyes peering into aunt Hildy's face, said to her:

"Smart sermon; good talk, Miss Patten, how did you enjoy it?"

"Well as I could," and I nearly laughed in his face, although I knew he did not realize what she meant. She never liked fiery sermons, as she called them, and believed that the only way to heap coals of fire on the head of the unrighteous, was by living so rightly as to make them ashamed of their ways and do better. Mr. Benton and Louis walked with Ben and aunt Hildy, and our ride home was a nearly silent one. I knew my father had not been any more edified than myself, but it was not his way to talk of it, and not until the next evening was the subject mentioned. The fire of reproof was begun by your humble servant, and I said many things which were unnecessary, and expressed my determination to investigate the new doctrine. If father had been with us I should have spoken less freely, and as it was I shocked my mother and almost myself, so severely did I denounce the minister. Louis sat in silence, also his mother, but aunt Hildy spoke as follows, after waiting a few moments to see if any one else had pent up wrath to give vent to:

"Well, as the youngest has spoke, I suppose I may express my feelin's, and I must say I never heerd a worse sermon. I have been a steddy meetin-goer for forty years, and have tried to hold a peaceful spirit that would be jest such as the Master would recommend if he was among us; but I believe we all allow we are sinners more or less, and after all do daily the things we should not do. Still if anybody wanted my help, I should hate to have 'em chase me with a broomstick, for I couldn't do a thing for 'em if they did; and if we think anybody is going into a ditch of a wrong idee, we'd better not scare 'em to death hollerin at 'em, it would be apt to send 'em in head first, while if we could kinder creep along behind, and speak a few words kindly, they would turn round, and we could tell 'em of their danger." Her similes were original, and we involuntarily smiled an approval of her sentiment, when Mr. Benton said:

"Do you not think the fear of hell helps to hold people in the right path sometimes, Mrs. Patten?" Aunt Hildy looked at him with a wondrous light in her eyes, as she answered:

"No, sir, I don't; my Bible says perfect love casteth out fear. The woman that's afraid of her husband can't love him if she dies for it, and the boy who hates his father through fear, can't muster up respect enough to love him if he tries." And her knitting needles clicked again as if to say, "that's the truth."

A few moments and then Clara spoke (Aunt Hildy stopped knitting the moment she began, as if expecting a treat). "We are taught," she said, "that our Father loves us; that he rejoices with great joy in the return of a prodigal to his fold. The truth that he loves us better than we can ever love each other here, that none of us shall ask for bread and receive a stone, neither fish and receive a serpent, was spoken to us from the ages past. Christ came into the world as the bearer of all essential truths. His enemies, the Jews, knew he told the truth and hastened to crucify him, saying in plain words—'If he live, all men will believe on him, crucify him, crucify him,' and it was done, but he left behind him the great token of his love, and he hath said, 'Whosoever believeth on me, even though he were dead yet shall he live,' etc. If we can understand him, he means us all, every child of our Father, and are we not all his? The law of Moses was buried when the law of Christ was given, which is the law of our omnipotent Father. I am ready," and down her cheeks tears coursed their way; "I do so want to know more of this beautiful faith, for it has ever been my own; I say to you to-night and I have already said it to my heavenly Father, I will yield my life, if I can help the poor, tired hearts, the needy souls of men, to embrace this glorious truth, 'Love ye one another.'" Tears filled the eyes of all save those of Wilmur Benton, who sat as if covered with astonishment, and I could see that he was puzzled; and if he spoke his thought might have said, "What manner of woman is this, and how can I touch the strings of her heart."

Clara's eyes grew large and full of light as she continued:

"I care not for the name, for what manner of difference can that make—we are to be known and know each other by and by; we can and should have our heaven below; we can and should have love for one and all; and while my loyal friend Emily speaks harshly of the minister, who, fearing a new path before some of his people, feels it his duty to not only call, but drive them back into the square pen of the old ideas; yet we must not condemn him, neither measure his heart exactly by the words of his text or sermon. The circumference of the tree is more than three times its diameter, and yet we know the width of the board we use is found in the diameter. Words are a circumference which encircle the breadth of a diameter, and we may feel and know that this man, standing as he does within the bounds of a belief whose main foundation embraces the two thoughts, heaven and misery, cannot, if he believes this to be true, do less than urge it upon us all. But if we stop and think, we can say, perhaps the heart of this religious tree he represents may not be sound, and when the axe of advancing ideas trims its branches and buries its blade within its trunk, we shall, as I believe, have proof of this; and then, perhaps his eyes will turn with ours to the outstretched arms of a noble oak, whose leaves are green, whose heart is sound, and at whose base we all may gather, against whose sides we all may rest. It has waited long, and grown in our father's forest until at last its giant dimensions have been apparent. The leaves of its upper branches caught the eye of a ranger on truth's high mountain, and the underbrush must now be cut away to make a path for our feet. Let the winds annihilate the dogmas of a creed, let our hearts open to all good thoughts, and let this one also be as the anchor of our souls, this glorious thought of our Father's love, this binding together of his children. Patience and work both are needed: will not my dear boy help me? I know he will, and our Emily; God give to me the help I need from these two young hearts," and she held out her hands to us.

I said "Oh, Clara!" and sank on the floor beside her, put my head in her lap, and let the tears fall as they would, unmindful of all else save my dear, beautiful friend. Louis sat on the other side of her with his arm around her waist, and her head lay on his shoulder. The curtain of the evening slowly fell, and in slumbers I drew her thoughts close to my heart, Aunt Hildy's "God help us" floating like music through my dreams.



CHAPTER IX.

THE NEW FAITH.

"Emily will help me!" Oh, how those words haunted me! I would help her; yes, if I could, but when should I ever stop making blunders, when should I lose the impetuous nature that drove me too often on the beach of thought, with shipwrecked sentences that fell far short of my thought, and expressed nothing of my real self. Why was it, as I grew older, I came to realize, that if I had been born a little later, it would have been easier? I was standing on tip-toe trying in vain to touch that which lay beyond my reach; of course I must be constantly falling, and the security of growth I could not then wait for. I must keep reaching and falling, covering myself with disappointments, while in the hearts if not on the lips of those about me must rest the same old words, "Emily did it."

Clara says I can do something, and having grown to feel that her words were almost prophecy, I felt sure there was something ahead, and repeated again and again, "Emily will do it." Mr. Benton was looking beyond his depth, and still did not hesitate to try and swim across the difficult waters that lay between himself and Clara, and before Louis left us, something occurred which I must tell about. I had been called over the hill on an errand, was obliged to go alone, and was then detained somewhat, and when I came back, Louis met me, and taking my arm, said:

"Walk slowly, I have something I must say."

I thought of Clara at once, and it was a true impression, for he said:

"My little mother is in trouble; I have heard what I would never know if I could avoid it—Professor Benton has been telling her that he loves her. He has forced this upon her, I know, for these are his words to which I unwillingly listened: 'Why, Mrs. Desmonde, do you shun me, why turn you eyes whenever they meet my own, why call Miss Minot to your side when an opportunity presents for us to be alone together? I cannot be baffled in my love for you; no woman has ever before touched the secret spring of my heart, no voice has ever reached my soul—yours is music to me; and, Mrs. Desmonde, I need great love and sympathy; I am not all I want to be; my lot in life has been in some respects very hard to bear; I never knew my mother's love, and when old enough to desire the companionship man needs, I had an experience which killed the flower of my affection—I thought its roots were as dead as its leaves, until I met you. Oh! Mrs. Desmonde, do you not, can you not return this feeling? My life is in your hands.' It was hard for my little mother, and I stood riveted to the spot, Emily, expecting to be obliged to enter and catch her fainting form, for I knew in my heart each word was a thorn, but here is her reply:"

"Professor Benton, I had hoped to be spared this pain, I have avoided you, because I could do no other way. I am so sorry! I can never, never love you as you desire! I have a husband—my Louis Robert waits for me in heaven, and he is my constant guide here. He will always be near me while I tarry, and I have no love to give you in return for yours. I can be your good friend always, I can help you as one mortal helps another. I can call you a brother, and I can be your sister; but do not dream falsely. I shall not learn to love you; my heart is full, and it is through no fault of mine that you have raised false hopes in your bosom, but I am very sorry—more sorry than I can tell you."

"Is that all, and is it final?" I heard him say.

"It is all that I can ever say," she said.

"I drew back from the door, and, passing through your middle room, came into my own, in time to see Professor Benton step into Halbert's studio. I entered then the room where little mother sat, and held her in my arm awhile, saying no word to her of what I had heard. She was not exhausted, and after a little time I left her to come and meet you. Tell me, Emily, if you know about it—has she said anything to you?"

Of course I told him all, and then added her, "'Say no word to Louis,' but under these circumstances she could not blame me, could she, Louis?"

"No, no, Emily," he replied, "but what can we do?"

"I do not know," I said, and he added:

"Do you like Professor Benton?"

"I cannot see anything in him to like very much, Louis," I replied; "when I met him in Hal's sick-room, he seemed really beautiful. His eyes looked so large and dreamy, and he had such sympathy for Hal, and I like him now, for that, but otherwise he jars me so I say all sorts of uncomfortable things, and his talk always irritates me. No, I could not imagine your mother loving him, for she is so much better than I am, and I could never love him in the world."

Louis' hold on my arm tightened, and he said:

"Ah! Miss Emily, you are beginning to know yourself, you are learning to understand others, and I am glad," and to his eyes came again that earnest look, "for I long to be known by you; I have brought you a Christmas present, and the New Year is at hand before I give it to you—wear this in the dark, until your heart says you love me, then let the light fall on it."

He put a box in my hand, and when I opened it in my own room I found a small and finely linked chain of gold, and attached to it a locket holding Louis' picture. One side was inlaid with blue enamel in a spray of flowers, and on the other the name "Emily." My heart told me that I did love Louis, and then there came so many changeful thoughts, that I felt myself held back, and could not express myself to Louis.

This evening was spent in our middle room, and Mr. Benton, being obliged to write letters, was not with us. Of this I was glad, for it gave relief to the three who were cognizant of what had passed. The subject of universal salvation was again brought before us, and this time my mother expressed herself greatly in favor of giving the new thoughts a hearing, and to my utter astonishment and pleasure, my father proposed going sometime to hear the Reverend Hosea Ballou, who was then preaching over his society in Boston, and came sometimes to preach for the few in a town lying to the north and east of us. There were no houses of worship dedicated to the Universalists nearer than the one I speak of, and though it was a ride of ten miles, that was nothing for a span of good horses.

"When can we go?" rose to my lips quickly.

"Are you also desirous of hearing him, Emily?"

"Oh, father!" I said, "I want something beside the fire of torment to think of. You know the Bible says, 'He that is guilty in one point, is guilty of the whole.' If that is true, father, I am not safe; but if these new thoughts are truths, I am; and can you blame me if I want to know about it. I am afraid I knew very little of what I needed when I was united to our church."

"It is not singular, Emily," my father said, "and I desire only to help you, if you really want to know. We need not fear to investigate, for if the doctrines are erroneous, they are too far below our own standard of truth to harm even the soles of our feet, and if they are true, it must be they lie beyond us, and we shall feel obliged to reach for them, and be glad of the opportunity. Halbert, have you nothing to say? are you to go with us? the three-seated wagon will hold us all."

"Yes," added mother, "and we will take our dinner and go to cousin Belinda Sprague's to eat it."

Halbert looked a little puzzled and then replied:

"I guess the rest of you may go the first time, and I will stay at home with Will (Mr. Benton), for I know he would as soon stay at home as go."

Then said Ben, "Let me go, father, I'm young and I need starting right; don't you think so?"

We all laughed at this, and my father looked with fondness at his boy, as he answered:

"Ben, it shall be, and a week from next Sabbath, the day, if nothing happens."

I believe it was a relief to my father, this hope that there might be something more beautiful beyond than he had dared to dream; and Clara was absorbed with the prospect of his getting hold of the truth, which, though unnamed by her, had always been, it seemed, her firm belief. She said nothing to me of what had occurred, and the days wore on until the morning came when Louis said "good-bye," and left us for school.

Directly after his departure, Aunt Phebe (mother's sister) wrote us she was coming to visit us for a few days. Of this I was glad, and I rehearsed to Clara her virtues, told her of her early years, the sorrows which she had borne, the working early and late to maintain the little family of four children (for at the age of twenty-eight she was left widowed and alone in a strange city). Her native town was not far distant from the one in which we lived, and when she came I expected a treat, for together these two sisters unshrouded the past, took off the veil of years that covered their faces, and walked back, hand in hand, to their childhood—its years, its loves, its friends, its home—and it was never an old tale to me.

I loved to hear of grandfather Lewis, who went as minister's waiter in the War of Seventy-six, going with old Minister Roxford, whose name has been, and is still to be handed down through generations as a good old man of Connecticut. Grandfather was only sixteen years at that time, and though he saw no hard service, but was dressed up in ruffled shirt, etc., received through life a pension of ninety-six dollars per year, having enlisted for a period of six months, whereas some of his friends, who saw hard service, and came out of the contest maimed for life, received nothing.

Grandfather was of French extraction, and he boasted largely of this, but I could not feel very proud of the fact that he traded with the British, carrying to them hams, dried beef, poultry, and anything in shape of edibles, receiving in return beautiful silk stockings, bandanna handkerchiefs, and the tea that the old ladies were so glad to get. Several times he was nearly captured, and once thrust into a stone wall, in the town of Stratford, a quantity of silk stockings, with which his pockets were filled. He was so closely pursued at that time, that he lay down close to a large log and covered himself with dead leaves, and one of his pursuers, a moment after, stood on that very log and peered into the distance, saying, "I wonder which track the scamp took."

I must not tell you more about this grandfather, whose history filled me full of wonder, but must hasten on to meet Aunt Phebe, who came according to appointment, and found a warm reception. She had a fine face, was tall and well-formed, her hair was a light-brown, and her eyes a bright, pure blue; she had a pleasant mouth and evenly set teeth, and she was a sweet singer. She is yet living, and sings to-day a "Rose tree in full blooming" with as sweet a cadence as when I was a child.

Clara was drawn toward her, and brought some of her best thoughts to the surface; read to her some of her own little poems, and wrote one for her, speaking tenderly of the past and hopefully of the future. Aunt Phebe had a nature to appreciate the beautiful, and ought herself to have been given the privilege of a later day, that she might have expressed her own good and true thoughts. She was a member of the Baptist church, and while we had no fear of condemnation from her lips, we knew she had not as yet tested this new thought that was now agitating our minds. She said she would like to go with us to hear "Father Ballou," as he was called by the Universalist people, and Clara, said:

"Well, Mrs. ——, the day is coming when all shall see and rejoice at the knowledge they have long desired; this will be the real fruit that has been promised by the hope of the soul for years; and it is not new, it is an old, old truth, and for this reason there will be less preparation needed to accept it. The soil is ready, and the hand of the age will drop the seed in the furrows which the years have made."

"This talk is as good as a sermon," said Aunt Phebe, "I would like to hear you every week. Learning the work of wisdom is not an easy task, and all these thoughts come as helping hands to us; we are never too old to learn."

Aunt Phebe was free from all vanity; she dressed simply, and was truly economical. Her hands were never idle; she had always something to do; and during the few days she spent with us she insisted on helping. A huge basket of mending yielded to her deft hands, and patches and darns were made without number. These were among our great necessities, for, as in every other household, garments were constantly wearing out, and stitches breaking that must be again made good, and nothing could be appreciated more than her services in this direction. Mother felt, however, that she was doing wrong to let her work at all.

"Phebe," I heard her say one afternoon, as they sat in our middle room together, "you have stitches enough to take at home, and I feel condemned to see you so busy here. You should have every moment to rest in; I wish you could stay longer, for I believe when these carpet rags are cut you will find nothing more to do, and then we could rest and talk together. How I wish Sally and Polly and Thirza could be with us, and our brothers too! Have you heard from Peter lately?"

"I heard only a few days before I left; one of the girls came down, and she said Peter was well, but oh, how they miss their own mother! Peter's first wife was the best mother I ever knew; those little girls looked as neat as pins, with their blue and iron-rust dresses, and she taught them to do so much—not half do it, but to finish what they began. I think of her with reverence, for her ways were in accordance with her ideas of duty, and she was no ordinary woman. It seems too bad she could not have lived."

And Aunt Phebe sighed, and then added:

"You ask what makes me work? Work has been my salvation. In the needs of others I have forgotten my own terrible experiences, and although the first time I washed a bedquilt I said 'I can never do that thing again,' I have since then washed many; and done also the thousand kinds of work that only a woman can do. Force of circumstances has made me self-reliant, and so long as I can work I am not lonely, and if there comes a day when the labor of my hands is less needed, I shall be only too glad to take the time for reading I so much desire."

"Oh, Phebe!" said my mother, "I often think of you as you were when young; slender and lithe as a willow, with a cheek where the rose's strength did not often gather; and then I think of all you have done since, and looking at you to-day, you seem to me a perfect marvel; for you have lived, and borne hard work and sorrow, and your face is fresh, your fingers taper as of old, and on your cheek is the tinge of pink that becomes you so well. You are only five years younger than I, and you look every day of twenty; you may outlive me—yes, I'm sure you will."

There was silence for a few moments, and then Aunt Phebe said:

"Speaking of work makes me think to tell you about an old colored man who came to my door last winter. He was so cold he could hardly talk, but seeing some coal before the door wanted to put it in for me. I asked him in, and he grew warmer after a little. I made a cup of hot composition tea for him, and while he was putting in the coal hunted up an old coat that one of our neighbors had given me for carpet rags, and when the poor old man told me his story I felt like proclaiming it to the city. Never mind that now. He lived through the winter and did not freeze, and last summer found considerable work, but I have thought for some time how valuable his help would be to William, my father, and I wonder if he could find a place to live in here among you. His name is Matthias Jones, and he is faithful though slow, but the constant dropping, you know, wears a stone. I like the old man, and you would, for he is honest and ambitious. He might have owned a farm himself if the evil of slavery had not crushed under its foot the seeds of growth that lay within him. Mr. Dutton has helped to get him work."

"Phebe," said mother, interrupting her, "are you going to marry that Mr. Dutton?"

"I can't say," said Aunt Phebe, and their conversation closed, for father came in and supper-time drew near.



CHAPTER X.

MATTHIAS JONES.

Father was consulted regarding the coming of Matthias Jones, and he thought it would be a good plan, for our farming people had often cause to hire help, and it had always been scarce, since it was only in the busiest time there were such needs.

Aunt Phebe and myself were delegated to go over to the house of Jacob Lattice and Plint Smith, who were the only colored people among us, and who lived about a mile to the west of our house. We thought there might be a chance for a home among them, and so it proved.

Jacob Lattice's wife had no room; "hardly enough for themselves," Mrs. Lattice said depreciatingly, "much less any place for strange folks"; but Mrs. Smith, known to us all as Aunt Peg, gave us a little hope. She had a peculiar way of addressing people, and sometimes her talk seemed more like the grunting of words strangely mixed. When she saw Aunt Phebe with me, her face radiated in smiles (and as her mouth was large, these smiles were broad grins) and, jerking her small wool-covered head while she hastily smoothed out her long apron, she said:

"Come in, Miss Minot."

"This is my aunt,—you have seen her before," I replied.

"Yes, seen her to meetin' with ye; come in, mam," and she dropped a low curtsey and set forward two chairs, whose sand-scoured seats were white and spotless, for Aunt Peg was a marvel of neatness.

I told our errand, and with one of her queer looks, she said:

"Is he clean?"

Aunt Phebe replied, "Why, I think the old man does the best he can, a lone man can't do as well as a woman, you know."

"Well, there's that ground room of mine he kin have if Plint is willin', and if he ain't, for that matter; for Plint himself arn't good for nothin' but fiddlin', and you see if I want bread I get it. I s'pose wimmen ought to be a leetle worth mindin', 'specially if they get their own bread," and a look of satisfaction crept over her face as if pleased with this thought.

"Well," said Aunt Phebe, "I would like to see the room, and also know the price of it; of course, you must have some pay for it, and then, if Matthias should be ill, or prove troublesome to you in any way, it will not be so hard for you."

"Oh, the pay, bless the Master, mam, I never get pay for anything hardly, not even the work I did up to Deacon Grover's for years! I jist wish I had that money in a chist in the cellar. He kep' it for me, he said, an' so he did, an' he keeps it yet, and—oh! but the room, come right along, this way, mam," and we followed her steps.

She led us out of the little door, which in the summer was covered with those dear old cypress vines my mother used to have, and though the lattice was made by her own hands of rude strips, when it was well covered with the cypress intergrown with the other vines, there was great beauty round that little door.

When Clara saw it, and I told her of its construction, and remarked on Aunt Peg's love for flowers, she said:

"Ah, Emily, it is typical of our nature! We do seem so rudely made in the winter of our ignorance, and through the lattice of our untutored thoughts the cold winds of different opinions blow and we are troubled. But when the summer of our better nature dawns, and the upturned soil catches seed, even though dropped by a careless hand, the vines of love will cover all our coldness, and the scarlet and white blossom of our beautiful thoughts appear among the leaves. Aunt Peg's earthly hand made the lattice, and the love of her undying soul planted the cypress seeds."

I thought of it this cold winter's day, and told Aunt Phebe, as we passed out of the door, how many flowers she had in summer and how pretty the vines were. Aunt Peg heard me, and smiled graciously. Then we went around to a side door, which opened into the ground room, as she called it.

Her house was on a bank, or at least its main part, and while a valley lay on one side, the ground rose upon the other. The door-sill of this room was, therefore, even with both the ground and the floor, and on either side of it were two windows, both door and windows facing the south. The sides and back of the room had no windows, the back partition being that which divided it from Aunt Peg's little cellar; and the east and west sides were hedged in by the bank which came sloping down from both front and back doors.

"This is a very comfortable little room," said Aunt Phebe. "Now, what will be the rent?"

"Well, if you are bent on payin', I don't want to say less than ten dollars a year."

"I would call it twelve, and that will be one dollar a month, Mrs. Smith."

"Thank you, mam, it'll be a great help; I have the sideache sometimes, and can't do nothing for a day or so, not even get the wool rolls off my wheel, and that is jist play when I'm smart: he may come neat or not neat, Plint or no Plint," and the bargain was finished, and Matthias Jones was to appear on, or near, the first of March.

My rehearsal of our visit at the dinner-table provoked great mirth, and Mr. Benton smiled on me more kindly than ever before, but I could not but think, whenever I looked at him, that he must die pretty soon, because Clara could not love him, and he had told her his life was dependent on her love.

The days of Aunt Phebe's visit drew too quickly to their close, and the time to go came on a bright sun-shiny morning. Father carried her to the railway station; we filled a large trunk with the farm products, so welcome to those who live in cities. Aunt Hildy put in a bundle the contents of which she did not even want me to guess. She was a firm friend to Aunt Phebe, and shook her hand when she left, as if loath to let it go, and said:

"Come again as soon as you can, and if I am in my own little nest, come and stay with me, and we'll have some more good sensible talk that helps our wings to grow; we are only covered with pin-feathers so far."

Aunt Phebe appreciated this good old soul, and said, earnestly, "God bless you, Mrs. Patten," as my father started the horses.

Aunt Hildy watched them until they were out of sight, saying as she came in, "That woman will have an easier time before she dies. My Bible says, 'He that is faithful over a few things shall be made ruler over many.' She will have a home of her own, jest as true as preachin' is preachin', Mrs. Minot."

"She ought to," said mother. "May the day be hastened!" and again that never-to-be-neglected work claimed our attention.

Since Louis' departure Clara had had several "pale" days, as she called them. After Aunt Phebe left us, she seemed to grow weak. I felt worried, and could not refrain from asking her what troubled her. She turned her beautiful eyes full on me, and putting both her hands in mine, said:

"I know that Louis heard it, and that he told you, and your secret sympathy has been a strength to me. It will pass over, Emily, but Professor Benton is not satisfied. He will not be content that I may not answer his demand for love. Yes, Emily, his words were soft, but a blade was beneath them and I could feel that it would have cut my heart-strings. I thank our Father that I do not love him; I should be so starved. Emily, I can love your brother,—no, no, not with that best love," she said quickly, noting, I suppose, the look of wonder in my eyes, "but I can have that love for him that is founded on great respect and faith in his pure heart. It is only their art draws them together; they are not alike, and they will not come too near. The days will sunder them, and it will be better that they should. But, Emily, I must, I fear, call Louis back to give me strength. He is a great help to me. On his heart as on his arm I can rest myself, and I need him so much. I cannot tell you now, but you will know some time when you are no longer as strong as now, how the spirit feels the darts that are shot from the mind of another, and bury their poisoned points in the quivering life."

She looked so weak as she spoke, her face was so transparently white, that I trembled with fear.

That night we slept together—she alone slept, however, for my eyes were open, their lids refusing to close until after midnight, and it was long after that hour before I fully lost consciousness. I felt wretched the next day in both body and mind, and my spirit was roused within me.

"I will avert it," I said to myself—thinking first to ask mother how, and afterward saying aloud "No, I'll do it myself, Emily will do it," and the harder I thought the faster I worked.

I never washed the dishes so quickly; milkpans were despatched speedily to the buttery shelves, and at last Aunt Hildy, who was kneading bread, stopped, and looking at me, said:

"What on airth are you going to do? you work as if you was a gettin' reddy to go to a weddin', or somethin'—Is there doins on hand among the folks?"

"No, mam," I replied, "but I have been so full of thoughts I could not help hurrying."

"I hope you're on the right track, Emily; sometimes ideas that stir one up so aint jest the kind we ought to have."

"I'm on the track of truth, Aunt Hildy, and that is the right track."

"Well, it ought to be, but sometimes truth has to wait for sin to get by before it can move an inch. I've seen it so many a time," and a sort of sigh fluttered to her lips, but the look of resolution that followed it closely gave it no time to linger, and the lines about her mouth grew firm as she resumed her bread-kneading.

Clara was better during this day, and while she took her after-dinner nap, I came quickly down into Hal's studio, and seated myself in his chair with a book.

Hal was in town all day on business, and I expected Mr. Benton to be there, and he appeared, saying:

"You look very comfortable, Miss Minot; am I an intruder?"

"No, sir, you are the person I wish of all others to talk to." Where was my guardian angel then?

"In need of advice, are you?"

"No, sir, not at all; I have some to give, however," and his eyes opened widely, as he seated himself almost directly opposite me on a lounge, taking a very artistic position, with his head resting on his hand, and his arm supported by that of the lounge.

"Proceed, Miss Minot, for I assure you I am much in need of comfort, and if you had been ready before, I might have been thankful to receive it."

I had begun more abruptly than I meant, and already felt I was stepping on dangerous ground. I thought for an instant I would turn it aside in a joke, then Clara's pale face rose before, and I said impetuously:

"I came to speak for another, though without her authority or knowledge. I desire to ask you not to trouble Clara, by persisting in your suit."

He started to his feet as if a hand had struck him, walked a few steps, and then turned toward me with a blanched face, and eyes that seemed to be leaping from their sockets; he was struggling between anger and policy. The latter prevailed, as he said:

"You are much interested in me; you fear that I shall have a friend. Is that it?"

"I suggested nothing of that kind; I fear my lovely Clara may die." He smiled derisively.

"Am I then such a monster that I am feared? Really, Miss Minot, your picture of me is rather different from anything I have before known."

"I ought to have known you would not understand me. It would have been equal folly for me to try to explain Clara's nature to you, for you do not and cannot appreciate it."

"We are getting into deep water," he interrupted, but I continued:

"I have never called you a monster and have treated you as well as I knew how to. You were my brother's friend, I have not doubted your esteem for Clara, for how can any see her without loving and respecting her; that is not the point. Your feelings, she has told you, she cannot reciprocate; why can you not respect her feelings, even at the sacrifice of your own? If you would do this, Mr. Benton, you would be stronger."

"Miss Minot, you are braver than I imagined. Let me disarm your fear; I have no intention of intruding myself where I am not desired. How you came in possession of these interesting facts is a mystery (insinuating, I felt, that I had been eavesdropping). Nevertheless I admit them all, and I admire you greatly. You are, however, as impulsive as a changeful sea, and you made little preparation for this conversation. Allow me to suggest that in affairs of the heart you should be a little less stormy. I am your friend, and I say this in kindness."

"I thank you, sir; you have lived longer than I have, and I know by the expression in your eye to-day that you can, if you choose, govern all the love in your nature at the will of your intellect; I cannot, and I never want to; I like to be impulsive, I like to be true, I hate policy." As I spoke, my eyes were, I know, like dark fires.

He looked like a man of marble as he said, "Your fears are ungrounded; you might have spared yourself this trouble," and turning, left me.

"There, 'Emily did it,' and didn't do it all," I said to myself. "Now he will be more determined than ever, Clara will die, Louis will hate me, and I shall be bereft doubly. Oh! dear, dear! Emily mistakes—my name should be." Then the tears came and I sat with my face buried in my hands, and cried like a child. A hand touched me, an arm crept round me, "Hal," I said, starting.

"No," said Wilmur Benton in his sweeter tone, "It is I."

"Oh!" I screamed almost, making an attempt to rise, but his arm held me firmly as he said:

"Forgive me, Miss Minot, if I have caused you pain—I spoke harshly, I fear."

"You are forgiven," I said, "let me go."

"You are my friend still?" he asked.

"Yes, yes," I said quickly, "do let me go," and I fled to my own room, and endeavored to wash away the stains of tears, to make my appearance down stairs, for it was already late and mother would be looking for me.

I felt unlike myself and feared all would discern my uneasiness. Mr. Benton had, I knew, a mistaken idea, and his polite attentions were torture to me; he evidently thought my tears needed his commiseration, whereas, I was only sorry I had not delivered a forcible speech in Clara's behalf, and caused him (as I had intended) to realize the necessity of a change in his conduct toward her. I expected him to be vexed with me and was willing he should be, if it would relieve Clara. Now, however, he seemed to feel I was entitled to his sympathy. There was one thought, however, that gave relief; while he was occupying himself with me, Clara would not be annoyed. Mother said she had a basket to send to Aunt Peg, and I volunteered to take it. Mr. Benton smilingly said:

"Let me accompany you, Miss Minot, it will be quite dark ere you return."

"I am not afraid, thank you, and it will be moonlight," then thinking of Clara I added, "still I might encounter an assassin on the road."

This did not help the matter any, and only furthered the mistaken thought of Mr. Benton; nevertheless for the sake of that dear friend, for whom I knew I could have borne anything, I had, after all, a secret delight, in being misunderstood. I was a willing martyr to a just cause, and we started together.

"Take my arm, Miss Minot."

"Thank you, walking is second nature to me, and very easy," I replied.

After walking a little further he said, "I am very glad of this opportunity to talk with you, Miss Minot; I fear, from what I gathered in our talk of this afternoon, your idea of me is one which I would fain alter—it is not pleasant to feel that one is misjudged—"

"I know that," I interrupted.

—"And especially when the charge is a serious one. I cannot understand why I was so feared; rude enough I must have seemed, and your first words gave me a shock; I hardly know now how to explain it, and what I desire is light. Pray tell me by what act of mine, you came to such an unwarrantable conclusion."

"It was no act of yours at all. Common sense, I suppose, told me you would not be foiled if you could help it. All men are selfish."

"Are not women?"

"No, sir," I replied, "they are foolish."

"Excuse the question, but has Mrs. Desmonde complained to you?"

"No, sir," I said quickly—that was a little story and then again it was not, I reasoned.

"So I must conclude that you feared for the safety of your friend, reading, as you thought you did, the terrible selfishness of my heart.

"I guess that is about right," I said.

"You admit this as a fact?"

"Yes; before a judge, if you desire," I said.

"That being the case, let me here say from my heart I am not as much in love with Mrs. Desmonde as I might be, and one reason is that I find her more and more enveloped in the strange fancies peculiar, I judge, to herself alone."

"What am I to understand from this? Strange fancies, indeed! If truth and love are strange fancies, she is indeed enveloped. My darling Clara! She is a light leading to the eternal city. I knew you could not understand her."

"Well, Miss Minot, let me explain. I know she is graceful, and beautiful, and truly good, but none can know positively there is an eternal city, and I must say I do not feel interested in the dreamy talk, which is, after all, only talk."

"Goodness!" I exclaimed, "are you an infidel?"

"I cannot vouch for anything beyond this life."

"If I felt I could not, I'd commit suicide to-morrow."

He laughed heartily at this, and, as we were at Aunt Peggy's door, could not answer until we turned toward home, when he said:

"Instead of taking my life, I desire to keep it as long as I can, and get all the enjoyment possible on this side the grave. I hope I have made myself understood, and disarmed every fear of your friendly heart."

"The days will tell," I replied, and our walk at last was ended.

It had been thoroughly uncomfortable to me, although he had seemed to be enjoying every step. I went to my room that night, and in my dreams tried to find the garden of Eden somewhere in our town, while a snake, with eyes like Wilmur Benton's, seemed to be crawling close behind me, and with the daybreak, I said:

"That dream means something."

Aunt Peg told me she should go to work and clean up the ground-room, and if father had any old "chunks of wood he could spare, Plint could come over and get 'em, and when that new nigger came, there'd be a prospect awaitin'."

I carried the message, and father thought it would be a good plan to have Matthias Jones appear, as he had more wood cut in the forest than he could haul with Ben's help, and doubtless this poor man would be glad of the job. Mother said the room could be made ready, she thought, inasmuch as there was an extra high-post bedstead in our attic chamber. Aunt Hilda added, "I've got a good feather mattress to put on it, and a straw-bed is easily fixed."

So I wrote a letter to Aunt Phebe, and Plint came over for the chunks of wood, riding back on a load of things we had gathered. When the ground-room was ready for occupancy, it was not a cheerless place. A nicely-made bed in its north-west corner, a deal table at the east side of the room, two rush-bottomed chairs, and a straight-backed rocker, two breadths of carpet lying through its centre, the wide-mouthed fireplace, with well-filled wood-box at its right hand,—all savored of comfort. To cap the climax, Clara put up to the windows some half curtains of unbleached cotton, bound with bright French red. It really looked nice, and Aunt Peg said: "I do hope, mam, he's clean."

The days sped on quickly, and Clara felt better. Mr. Benton had evidently dropped all thought of her, and his uniformly kind treatment of us, began, after a little, to make me feel ashamed of the suspicions which had crossed my mind. Letters from Louis came as usual, and I wish I could give them now—such beautifully-expressed thoughts, such tender touches did he give to his word pictures, that I read and re-read them. Treasures they were, and I have them all yet; not one but is too sacred to lose. My heart grew strong in its love for him, and his thoughts were all as hands reaching for my own.



CHAPTER XI.

THE TEACHING OF HOSEA BALLOU.

February first brought Matthias Jones. Father met him at the village, and our curiosity which was aroused regarding this new comer, was thoroughly gratified at his appearance. A better specimen of a southern negro was never seen. He was above the medium size, broad-shouldered; his hair thick and wooly, sprinkled with grey, and covering a large, flat surface on the top of his head. His nose was of extra size, mouth in proportion, and his eyes, which were not dull, expressed considerable feeling, and you would know when you looked at them he was honest. His gait was slow, slouchy as I called it, and, as he walked leisurely along the path, Ben whispered, "My soul, what feet!" Sure enough, they seemed to stretch back too far, and they were immense.

He took supper with us, and then father and Ben both went over to his future home with him, and introduced him to Aunt Peg and Plint. He was to work for father, and would be over in the "mornin'," he said.

"I wonder if he was a slave, Emily?" said Ben.

"I think so," said I. "We will question him to-morrow if we get a chance," and we did, for the day was stormy, and father did not go to the woods, but kept Matthias at work in the barn cleaning up, etc. About four o'clock his work was finished, and we invited him to come in and sit awhile.

"Now, Ben," I said, and we seated ourselves for a conference.

"Mr. Jones," said I, "you came from the South, did you?"

"'Pears like I did, Miss, an' it's a mighty cool country yere; I'm nigh froze in de winter, I is sartin."

"Were you a slave?"

"Yes'm," and the old man gave a long sigh.

"Would you mind telling us about it? Ben and I never saw a person before from the South."

"Never did? There's a heap on 'em, wud 'jes like ter see ye. Long time awaitin', but de promise ov de Massa mus' be true," and again a thoughtful look came over his dusky face. "I don't mind tellin' ye a little if I ken. I was a slave in Carlina, an' I had a good massa, Miss; a fus-rate man, but he done tuk sick an' died, an' then—wh-e-ew," and he gave a long, low whistle, "thar cum sich a time thar; de ole woman she done no nuthin' 'bout de biznis, an' de big son he sell all de niggers an' get all de money, an' dars whar my trubbel begin. De nex' massa had de debbil fur his father, sure; nothin' go rite; made me go an' marry, fus thing, an' to a gal I didn't like, nohow. Little niggers come along, an' I done bes' I cud by 'em, but what cud I do? Nothin' at all; an' fus thing I knew—he'd done gone an' sold ebery one ob dat family, and den he mus' hab me marry agin. Dis secon' marriage was better'n that; fur I did like de gal mighty well. 'Pears like we's gwine to take sum comfort, and when we'd had de meetins to our cabin, oh! how we did jes pray fur dat freedom we hear'm tell 'bout—pray mos' too loud, for dat old Mas'r Sumner tink we's alltogeder too happy, an' den, he up and sold dat pretty gal ob ourn, what was jes risin' uv her fourth year, Miss, an' as pretty as could be. Dis broke my wife's heart, an' den he sold one more to a trader; and not long fur de wife an' two last' chilun was gone. Den I jes swore rite up, Miss—rite into dat Masr's face an' eyes—'I'm neber gwine to hab no more chilun,' an' he says to me, 'Matt, you got to do jes as I say,' an' I swear agin, an' he cuss and swear, an' then, I got sich a floggin'—Miss, but I didn't keer, an' I would never done as dat man sed, an' I 'spected to die, but a New Orleans trader cum dat way, an' I was sold, and Mas'r Sumner said, de las' thing, 'You'll get killed now, Matt.' 'All right, Mas'r,' I sed, 'de Lord is a waitin' an' He's a good fren, too,' an' off I went. Dar we wur in a pen in New Orleans, waitin' fur we didn't know what, an' on come a fever an' dat trader know he's got to die. Den, to make peace wid de Lord at the las't jump he done giv us all freedom, an' money to git us into dat great city ov New York; an' mine lasted me clean up to Misse Hungerford's door (Aunt Phebe), an' las' night, when I see dat nice room over thar an' that good fire, oh! my," and the old man buried his face in his hands and wept like a child, then looking up, he said, "Ef I cud only ahad my chilun in thar; 'pears de Lord Himself might ahelped me a minnit sooner—but dey is gone, all done gone, an' 'taint no use."

"You may meet them again, Mr. Jones; I hope we shall know each other there in that better country, and if we do you'll surely know and find them."

"Oh! Miss, that's the bery thing, it takes a load right off yere, when I think about it," and he laid his hand on his heart, "but I'd better be shufflin' off home, an' I'll tell you a heap more sometime," and as he went through the yard, I heard him singing "dat New Je-ru-sa-lem," prolonging the last word, as if it was too musical to lose.

I told it all to Clara, and she said:

"Oh! Emily, is he not one of God's children, and is it not true that all have that within which points to better things? How could the soul of this poor negro stay within his body if it were not for this hope that covers his troubles, and, like a lantern-light, throws a gleam into the path which lies before? I hope he will live now in comfort and die in peace. He must have been sent to you. Next time let me listen to his story." And she did, for the next evening we walked together over to his home, and spent two hours pleasantly enough.

Clara could not rest until sure of just how he could get along there, and finally made an arrangement with Aunt Peg to give him his meals when he should be there. The voice of the old man—he looked more than sixty years, but said his age was fifty, I think he did not know—quivered with emotion, as he said:

"Thank yer, mam, thank yer kindly, I'll tote a load forty miles for ye any day, and I kin tote pretty 'harbaneous' loads too."

"Never mind that, Mr. Jones, I like to see you comfortable."

"Strange talk, mam," he said; "these yere ole ears been more used to, 'git up thar, yer lazy nigger, this yere cottin mus be got into de market.'"

He proved a valuable acquisition to my father, and before this month of February, whose beginning brought him to us, had passed, father said to mother:

"I hardly see how I could get on without Matthias. He is so trusty, and he is smart too. If the poor fellow had been given half a chance, he would have made a good business man, for he has good ideas as to bringing things around in season."

"Truth is stranger than fiction," said mother. "Two classes of society have been perfectly represented in those who have been brought to us during this last year."

"How strangely things work, and there seem to be ways under them all that will work out in spite of us," said father.

The Sabbath on which we had expected to go to hear the Reverend Hosea Ballou preach proved cold and rainy, and a month would elapse ere he came again. We were impatient waiters, but the time came at last, on the Sabbath after the arrival of Matthias, and he was to come over and attend to the early milking, while Hal and Mr. Benton would have supper ready for us on our return.

That day was to me like a never-to-be-forgotten sunrise. Although gleams of light had before this crossed my vision, never had so radiant a morning of perception opened the door of my soul. New yet old, unknown yet longed for, those words fell like golden sun-rays into the room of my understanding; they bathed me with light, and baptized me with tenderness, while I stood at the fount of living inspiration. That grand old man, then about seventy-two years of age, talked to the assembled congregation from this text: "For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God; an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens" (Second Corinthians, fifth chapter and first verse). It was all as natural as a part of himself could be, and he was a power. Pure and dispassionate, the plea he made rested on the ground of revealed truth. He told us of what the history of the past furnished, and carried us clear on into the life beyond. "The letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life; as in Adam all die, so in Christ shall all be made alive."

It seemed to me then, and still seems, that he spoke with a power that was divine. The tide of earnest thought and feeling that carried him with his subject out on the depth, carried also his hearers, and we were shown the way to the port of eternal life. Oh, how he strengthened me! His touching invocation reached, as it seemed, the very doors of heaven and swung them wide open, and when the people joined in singing the good old hymn, written by Sebastian Streeter, whose first verse runs as follows:

What glorious tidings do I hear From my Redeemer's tongue! I can no longer silence bear, I'll burst into a song.

I cried almost aloud for great joy. My father and mother were moved, and when they saw my tears united their own. To our great surprise, after the service we learned that the professor was the guest of our cousin, Belinda Sprag, and at her house after dinner I had an opportunity to say to him:

"Mr. Ballou, call me your child, for you have to-day baptized me. I am a Universalist, I know, for I love your doctrine."

"Bless you, my daughter," was his reply. "God finds His own through time. May your young heart be made strong, and your life blossom with roses that have no thorns."

That was great honor to me; the touch of that hand on my head; those words addressed to me. We all went home, having had a feast of good things, and our blessed Clara, who had been the means of leading us to the light, sat all the way as in a dream, only saying:

"I have long known it was true."

Ben added his testimony to the rest.

"When I die," said he, "I want that man to preach my funeral sermon, if he will, and if he can't, I don't want any at all."

Dear boy, he had a loving heart; he was born later than either Hal or me, and had an earlier spiritual development. Is it not always so?

I could not enjoy my new thoughts in silence as Clara did, and gave vent to my theme in the strongest terms. Hal did not ridicule me at all: he was too sensible for this, but he smiled at my strong expressions, and said:

"You will preach yourself if you keep on, and I believe you would make converts. Your eyes are as large again as they were this morning."

"Then it must improve my looks, Hal," I said. "If so, I am glad, for in that respect I have always stood in the background. My brother is an artist, and must, of course, have the handsome face."

He laughed again, and added:

"He will never be ashamed of his sister, I think, and never say 'Emily did it,' even if she turns preacher."

Mr. Benton enquired—with his eyes—the meaning of those words.

I answered:

"Oh! Hal was forever shouting that in my earlier years at my many mistakes, until I almost hated the sound of my own name, for I was always doing the very things I tried not to, and I fear I have not finished all yet. And I thought, for a little, of the wrong light in which Mr. Benton held my strange talk with him.

I was each day more troubled regarding this, and especially so, since I had no one to talk with about it. Clara I must not tell, and I had resolved for her sake to be misunderstood indefinitely, for if I had failed in one point, I had gained in another. The burden was lifted from her, and she had told me the cloud was broken and she felt better, and added the strange words, "It may yet come near me; it seems as if a fringe of the cloud must yet touch me: but I am relieved for the present."

I feared to worry my mother, who, during all these days, was very busy and full of care. Aunt Hildy would hardly understand me, and as I was waiting for something to move as it were, to make room for me to step, I must still wait, and thought what a pity it was I had not waited in the beginning, and then when I did move make all things plain. But then it lay before me, around and within me, this strange compound of good thought and impulsive will, and I must reach and fall until, ah! I could not tell when I should graduate in this school.

I had now power to restrain myself in many ways, and that had been given in the days before described, when I passed from girlhood to womanhood, but to sit satisfied and wait, I could not yet do. It seemed as if the wings of my thought must grow, and wanted to help me fly, and I was like a bird longing to get into the freedom that waited, and like the bird too, did not realize that my attempts would be in vain, and I could never get out of the cage until a hand opened its door. Therefore, full often I battled unwisely, but I certainly came to know those times, and never made a mistake that I did not realize just a moment too late. How foolish it was!

I prayed for strength, and after the baptism of Mr. Ballou's preaching, I thought, "This will help to make me stronger; now I shall make fewer mistakes."

This was a comfort and a light before me, but my heart sank a little, thinking I might have penance to do for those already committed,—coming events cast their shadows before.

So full of this thought my heart grew, that I asked Aunt Hildy one day if she ever felt trouble before it came, and if that feeling had ever helped her to avoid any part of what was to come.

"Well," said she,—she was coring and paring apples for pies,—taking up the towel and wiping one apple three or four times over in an absent way, "Well, Emily, I've had a host of troubles in my day. They began early, perhaps they'll end late, but there is one thing, the things we expect are agoin' to kill us, most allus turn out like the shadder of a gate post. You know the shadder sometimes will be clean across the road, but when you find the post itself 'taint more'n five feet high. Then again the things we don't expect 'll come some morning like a great harricane, and kill the marigolds of the heart in just a minit."

I was sorry for her sake I had asked the question, for I knew there was something she thought of that pained her dear old heart, and I kissed her wrinkled cheek and said:

"I hope you will always be with us, and trouble have no part in the matter."

"There, there, child, don't talk so; never mind kissin' my old face neither, I've allus said it only made it worse to think of it, and I've shut up my heart tight and done the best I could as it comes along. When I get in that new body I shall have over there," and her tearful eyes were looking upward then, "perhaps I can hope to have some love that'll touch that empty spot."