I turned to my work and left Aunt Hildy with the shadows of the past clinging about her, her feelings being too sacred for the gaze even of a friend. Every heart knoweth its bitterness, I thought, and secretly wondered if every heart had to bleed a little here, holding some sorrow close to itself. If so, our duty in life would ever be a struggle, whereas it seemed to me the world was so beautiful, and if every life could reflect this beauty, all would be easy, and the pleasure of well-doing be always at hand.

Aunt Peg said 'twas easy enough to preach, but hard work to practise. I began to realize it a little, and the teacher who gave me the most practical illustrations was myself.

I wrote a long letter to Louis, telling him of our going to hear Mr. Ballou preach, and of Matthias' coming among us, and I felt like making him my confessor, and wanted to tell him all about the frantic endeavor I had made for Clara's sake; but my letter was long enough when I felt this impulse, and I thought I could talk it all over with him when he came, and concluded to wait. And here is another lesson, for me to stop and reflect on. As time proved, that impulse was right, and I should have followed its guidance, while the sober second thought which I obeyed and of which I felt proud, led me to just the opposite of what I ought to have done. How was I to find myself out? If I yielded to impulse I was so often wrong, and in that instance I should certainly have been impulsive. Again comes in the text, "the ways of life are past comprehending."

Mr. Benton improved every opportunity to talk with me, and while I did not like the man at first, I became gradually interested in what he said; and when, in confidence, he informed me that Hal was in love with Mary Snow, I had a secret joy at receiving his confidence. He was eighteen years older than myself, and after my mind was settled regarding the wrong estimate in which I had held him, I treated his opinions with more deference than over before, and came to regard him as a good friend to us all.

I intimated to Clara one day that he was a much better man than I had thought, and she gave me no reply, but looked on me with a light of wonder in her eyes.

"He does not trouble you now, Clara, does he?"

"Not as before, Emily."

"Well, does he at all?"

"I cannot say I feel quite at ease, Emily dear," she replied.

And I said: "It is your beautifully sensitive nature, darling; you cannot recover the balance once lost, and the tender nerves that have been shaken are like strings that after a touch continue to vibrate."

"Perhaps so, Emily, but I shall be so glad when the day comes when no mask of smiles can cover the workings of the heart, so glad; when we can really know each other."

"Those are Louis' sentiments."

"Oh yes, my dear boy! he has a heart that beats as mine, Emily, and after many days it shall come to pass that the desires of his heart shall be gratified."

Something in her tone and manner made me feel strangely; a chill crept over me, and for a second I felt numb.

It passed away, however, and through the gate of duty I found work, and left these thoughts.

When March came to us, father insisted that mother should go to Aunt Phebe's, if we could get along without her—she had a little hacking cough every spring, and he knew she needed the change. It was decided that she should go and stay a month, if she could keep away from home so long. Aunt Hildy said: "Why, Mis' Minot, go right along. Don't you take one stitch of work with you neither. Go, and let your lungs get full of different air, and see what that'll do for you. Take along some everlasting flowers I've got, and make a tea and drink it while you're there, and let the tea and the air do their work together."

So, although it was a trial to mother to leave home, she went, and we were to be alone. There were a good many of us, but it seemed to me, the first week, that her place would not be filled by twenty others, and while I enjoyed the thought of her being free from care, I walked out in the cold March wind alone every night after supper, and let the tears fall. If I had been indoors Clara would surely have found me. It was on one of these walks that Mr. Benton overtook me, and passed his arm within mine, saying:

"What does this mean, Emily," he dropped "Miss Minot" soon after the first talk, "this is the fifth time I have seen you go out at this hour alone; what is the matter? Are you in trouble?"

"And if I am," I said, "what have you to do with it?" at the same time trying to release his arm from mine.

"I have the right of a dear friend, I hope," he said, and the tears that would keep falling forced a confession from me and provoked his laughter, which grated on my ears at first, but he begged pardon for its seeming rudeness, and said he was thinking only of my going over the hills to cry, when I could have a whole house to fill with tears.

We walked farther than I intended, and Matthias passed us on his way over to his "ground room."

I said, "Good evening, Mr. Jones," and he saluted me with uncovered head, saying:

"De Lord keep you, miss, till mornin'."

Realizing how far we had walked, I turned hack so suddenly that Mr. Benton came near being pushed into the stone wall on the old road corners. On our return he spoke of Matthias.

"I don't like that fellow anyway, Emily."

"Don't like him! why not, pray?"

He gave a sort of derisive ejaculation, and added:

"You are a little simpleton, Emily, so good and true, you take all for gold."

"Well," I replied, "Matthias is good, I know; but why do you dislike him?"

"Oh! he belongs to a miserable, low-lived, thievish race, and he knows enough to be a dangerous fellow to have round. If I were you I'd not encourage his hanging round; he'll do something to pay you for your kindness yet."



CHAPTER XII.

A REMEDY FOR WRONG-TALKING.

I could not believe what Mr. Benton said of Matthias, and did not refrain from speaking of it to Clara, whose opinions were golden to me, and her reply was perfectly in accordance with my own feelings. Each took her own route to the conclusion, but her interpretation came as an intuitive perception, while mine was more like something which fell into my mind with a power whenever his eyes met my own.

"Emily," said Clara, "I have taken his dark hand in mine. I have come close to his white heart, when from his lips have fallen the words telling his history, and I would trust him everywhere. If any trouble comes to you, Emily, trust Matthias; he is as true as truth itself, and his soul is pure—purer, perhaps, than the souls of many who have had great advantages, and whose forms have been molded in a more beautiful shape. Our Father judges from within; let our judgment be like his."

This was good for me to hear. I felt glad that I could sometimes come so near to Clara's thoughts. I was greatly wrought upon by Matthias' tales of the South; and yet he venerated the people of that country, and said:

"The Northerners are too cold-blooded: they didn't invite folks to have a bite without first feelin' in their pockets to see if they could find money there."

I knew nothing from experience of Southern hospitality, but believed all he told me, and I thought it the greater pity that such a lovely land should be so marred with this terrible trade in lives, and I said to Clara, when we were discussing this subject:

"Is it not too bad, and does it seem possible that this great evil will be suffered to endure forever?"

"No," said Clara, "neither possible nor probable. I may not live to hear with these earthly ears the glad news, but you, Emily, will live to see the bond go free, and the serpent of slavery lie at the feet of America, who will place her heel on its crushed and bleeding head. This will be, must be, and the years will not number so very many between now and then."

"Why do you think so, Clara?"

"Oh! I do not think it; I know it to be true; I have long known it; it stands by the side of the beautiful truth we have heard from the lips of that venerated preacher, Emily, and I cannot see why we may not all be in some measure the recipients of these truths, for they lie all around us on every hand. Did you ever read, Emily, of the man called Dr. De Benneville?"

"Never," said I; "tell me, please, his history."

"It was printed about 1783. I think I have it."

"Well, tell me, Clara, a little; I cannot wait for that now."

She smiled and said:

"Dear child, how glad I am that you have so good a heart, and some day these impulses will drive your boat on the shore of peace that lies waiting for us on the bay of truth. But you are anxious and I will tell you. Dr. George De Benneville was the son of a Huguenot, who fled to England from persecution, and was employed at court by King William. His mother was a Granville, and died soon after his birth in 1703. He was placed on board a ship of war—being destined for the navy—at the early age of twelve years, and received on the coast of Barbary singular religious impressions, induced, it is said, by his beholding the kindness of the Moors to a wounded companion. He had great doubts regarding salvation, but after suffering for months with doubts, the light was made clear to him, and he held to his heart the faith in a universal restitution. His great sense of duty led him to preach, and he commenced in the Market-house of Calais in his seventeenth year. He was fined and imprisoned, but did not desist. He sought and found co-laborers, and persisted two years in preaching in the woods and mountains of France. At Dieppe he was seized, and with a friend, Mr. Durant, condemned. Durant was hanged, and while the preparations for beheading De Benneville were in progress, a reprieve from Louis IX arrived, and after a long imprisonment in Paris, he was liberated through the intercession of the Queen."

"Good," I said, "she had a heart."

"He then spent eighteen years in Germany preaching and devoting himself to scientific studies, and at the age of thirty-eight he emigrated to this country. He claimed no denominational name, but preached this glorious truth. I can come nearer to him than any other whose history I have known, for was he not called of God, and did he not fulfil his mission gloriously? He was ill on board the ship which brought him to America, and when it arrived in Philadelphia, a man by the name of Christopher Sower came on board, saying he was looking for a man who was ill, and whom he wished to take to his house. This man Sower was also divinely led, for he received a commandment in a dream to go seven miles from his home in Germantown to a certain wharf in Philadelphia, and inquire on board a ship just arrived for a man who was ill, to take him home and to specially care for him. He hitched his horse to his carriage, and followed the instructions of his dream."

"Were these facts the doors that led you out into light?" I asked.

"I never read these facts, Emily, until after my vision was made clear, and I saw the future that lives and waits for all."

"Girls," called Aunt Hildy, "ef you've got through with the meetin', I want to ask about these biscuit; I'm afraid they're going to be poor; come look at 'em, Emily."

"The biscuit are all right, Aunt Hildy. Did you hear what the preacher said."

"No, not really, heard all I could without neglectin' of my work."

"She has been telling me a story of a good man. We will ask her to preach again."

"Perhaps," said Aunt Hildy, "more'n just you and I will hear her. I can't see how all these ideas are comin' out, and 'pears to me, it looks as ef we'd got to meet, and have a battle somewhere before long. The troubles are simmerin' over the fire of different minds, and I shall never sell my birthright over a mess of pottage; that's jest what I shan't do. It has stuck to me where everything else has failed, and I'm never agoin' to let go of it."

I knew to what she alluded, for our good minister had stirred the waters with his sermons, and they were, of course, induced by his fearing the progress of liberal thought in our midst. We had ourselves received a sermon evidently directed at us, which described the act of going to hear Mr. Ballou as a wrong step. Even if we had not been clear-sighted enough to have taken the sermon to ourselves, we should have been reminded of it by the looks of some of the congregation, who sought out our pew with strong reproof in their eyes; among those whose eyes met mine in this manner, I remember most distinctly Jane North and Deacon Grover. I smiled involuntarily, and with a glance of horror at my wickedness, they turned their faces toward the preacher.

Clara was not with us that Sabbath, for which I was glad. I wondered what would be done, and the week after mother left us, Jane North came over, and I expected to hear some talk concerning it.

She brought her knitting in a little gingham bag on her arm, and there was no way to get rid of her or of her coming talk, which, I confess, I dreaded.

"Oh, dear!" I said to Clara, "that wretched meddler is coming. What shall we do with her?"

"I will try and help you, Emily. Perhaps she has a good heart after all, and meddles only because her conditions in life have fitted her for nothing better."

"It isn't so, Clara; she tells stories about everybody; I would not believe her under oath."

"Charity," she said softly, and through the door came Jane.

"Good afternoon, Emily."

"Take a seat," I said, bowing.

"Good afternoon, Mis' Densin," to Clara.

"Mrs. De-mond," I said, pronouncing the name rather forcibly.

"Oh! De-mond is it?" with accent on the first syllable

"That is more like it," said Clara. "How do you do to-day? let me take your things."

"Don't feel very scrumptious, and ain't sick neither, kinder so so. How are all here? I heard Mis' Minot was gone. Ain't you lonesome?"

"We do miss her sadly," said Clara.

"Gone to a weddin', ain't she?" I laughed aloud.

"Only for a change," said Clara.

"Why, Mis' Grover"—

Clara waited for no news, but said quickly:

"You were very kind, thinking we were lonely, to come over and see. Come into the other side of the house," and she led the way to her sitting-room.

"Oh! ain't this be-yoo-ti-ful! What a wonderful change from the old side of this house! I declare, I should think Mr. Minot would be thankful enough for this addition to his house."

"Oh! I am the one to be thankful," said Clara, "he was so kind as to build it for me."

"Oh! he built it, hey; with his own money, did he?"

"Certainly, he never would use any other person's. Cousin Minot in a very nice man."

"Is he your cousin?" said Jane in astonishment.

"Why, of course he is. Did you not know of it?"

"Never heard of it before."

"What are you knitting?" said Clara.

"Stockings," was the monosyllabled reply.

"Did you ever knit silk?"

"Shouldn't think I did. I ain't grand enough to afford that."

"You could, though, I know," said Clara.

"Why, I dunno,—praps so." Jane North was foiled, and she succumbed as gracefully as she could, although awkwardly enough; but Clara went on:

"I have some beautiful silk thread, I have had it for years. My grandfather's people, over in France, were silk weavers. It is through my mother that I am related to Mr. Minot; my father's people were French," she said, noticing an incredulous look in the eyes of Jane. "I have a lot of silk in thread and floss: I'll get the box and show it to you," and she did.

My own curiosity led me into the room—I had stood back of the door all this time—and the silk was beautiful; rich dark shades and fancy colors mingled, and a quantity of it too. Although kept so long, it was strong, having been of such fine material.

"Sakes alive! I should be scar't to death to own all that," said Jane.

"Well," said Clara, "if you will show me how to knit some for myself, I will be willing to scare you a little. I would like to give you enough to make a pair or two of stockings for yourself. Chose your own colors," and she emptied the contents of the box on the lounge at her side.

"You don't mean it, Mis' De-mond."

"Certainly I do, take any shade you prefer, and if Emily has needles, we will go right to work on our cutting."

The right string was touched, the cutting started, and when Jane North left us, she whispered to me:

"I like that woman, and I don't care whether she is a Baptist, or what she is, she's a lady."

Those stockings averted much, for her head was full of wonder talk.

I reminded Clara of the indignation she felt at her expressions, when she first saw her, and told her I did not suppose she ever would desire to look at her again.

"Why, Emily," she said, "I never feel like annihilating people whose ideas are all wrong. They are but representatives at the most, and I would rather desire to help these eaters of husks to find the true bread that shall bring to them comfort and peace. I should wish to fill their hearts so full that the rays of this inner light shall radiate around them, touching with the magic of good deeds all the suffering our world contains. This would leave no empty rooms in the house of our understanding; all would be filled with tenants of good-will and loving faith, bearing charity and love each toward the other; and uncultivated fields would be found no more. I thought if I could touch Miss North in the right spot, I might fill her mind, for a few brief hours at least, with something beside her gossip. If this could be done every day in the week, she would lose sight of it altogether, and like a tree engrafted with better fruit, on these new thought-branches beautiful wisdom apples might grow and ripen. If she comes again I will find something as new to her, I hope, as I have found to-day."

"What a wonderful compound you are, Clara," I said, "and what perfect symmetry nature has given to you, while I am your antipodes."

"What's that you are calling yourself?" said Aunt Hildy.

"Oh, something just different from all that is good and true enough to belong to Clara!"

"'Pears to me you're gettin' some dretful big word now-a-days; when you want me to understand you, talk plain English."

Hal, who had entered that moment, laughed heartily. "So I say, Aunt Hildy. Our Emily is going to be a blue-stocking, I fear. Housework will suffer before long, for housework and book cannot go together."

"No more than ploughs and plaster," I added.

"Not a bit more, sister mine," and he passed his arm around my waist,—he often did this now-a-days,—and whispered, "give me a chance to say something to you."

I nodded an assent, and he passed on through the room, whistling to himself "Bonny Doon." I embraced the first opportunity to follow him, and found him alone in his studio. He seated himself beside me, took one hand in his and passed an arm around me. I wished he could have been my lover then, in fact, I often wished it, for he was as good as he was handsome, both noble hearted and noble looking. He was to me the embodiment of all that was good and all that went to make the best man in the world.

"Emily," he began, "you have been a blessed sister to me; I have loved you always, even though I plagued you so much, and you have been faithful to me. I entrusted to you the first great secret of my life, when I sought you under the apple tree."

"Why could you not have told me more?" I said.

"For the sole reason it would have been hard for you to have kept it from mother, and I wanted to surprise you all at home. Your hand, Emily, was the one that held the cup of life to my lips; and Louis," he added in a tender tone, "with his sympathy and the power of his heart and hand, led me slowly back to strength. Louis is a grand boy. Now, Emily," and he drew me still closer, "I have something else to tell you."

"Don't go away, Hal."

"I desire to stay, but, Emily, I love Mary Snow. I want to tell you of it. I cannot speak positively as to what may happen, but I love her very dearly. Could you be glad to receive her as a sister?"

Selfish thoughts arose at the thought of losing Hal, but I banished them at once, and my heart spoke truly when I said:

"Mary Snow is good enough for you, Hal. I have always liked her so much, but how stupid I am, never to have dreamed of this."

"No?" said he, as if surprised. "Never dreamed of it? Do you think it strange that I should tell you, Emily? I have seen the time when it would seem very silly to me, but I have learned to realize how great is the tie that binds us, and I hope through all the years you and I will never be apart. I ask of you, too, one promise. Do not tell even Clara, and if ever you have such a secret, tell me frankly, for we should love each other, and our joys should be mutual."

I said not a word, but I thought of Louis, and I longed to show him the chain and locket, which I constantly wore, but I could not, and I have wished since that I might have been wiser. At this moment Mr. Benton entered, and our position did not escape him.

"Truly, Hal," he said, "you make a capital picture. Courting, eh?"

"Call it that if you please; we are very near in spirit, thanks to the Father."

The thought of work came over me, and I left them to help about getting supper. To be in Hal's confidence and to feel the trust he reposed in me had made me very happy. Precious indeed did this seem to me, and if all brothers and sisters were as near, how much of evil would be averted. Young men might find at home the love and society they need, and less temptation and fewer penalties to pay would be the good result.

Mother's absence was nearly at an end, and father had gone on Saturday to Aunt Phebe's to spend the Sabbath, and was to bring mother back on Monday.

Sabbath evening Hal went over to Deacon Snow's, Clara was in her room writing to Louis, Ben reading in the kitchen, and I was left with Mr. Benton in Hal's room. This night was never to be forgotten, for although from time to time I had been forced to notice the great change in his manner toward me, I was unprepared for what occurred, and unconscious that he had so misunderstood and perverted my motives in that fated talk. I cannot tell you all he said, nor how he said it, but I was thoroughly confused and startled by his protestations, and could only say:

"Mr. Benton, I do not desire to hear this; I cannot understand it; you have been mistaken," etc.

To all of which he replied as if deeply pained, and I believed in his sorrow and despised myself. I could not and did not tell him of Louis, for when I thought of it, it seemed too sacred, and he had no right to this knowledge. I was overwhelmed with strange and unpleasant feelings; there was no satisfaction in the thought of having heard these declarations; it was an experience I would fain have avoided. His talk to Clara, too, came to my aid, and rallying a little, I said:

"It is not long since you felt you could not live without the love of Clara's heart; how strangely all your feelings must have changed. This perplexes me, Mr. Benton."

He raised his head from his hands—he had been sitting some moments in a despairing attitude, evidently struggling with great emotion—and answered:

"It is natural that this should perplex you, and I am prepared for it. Years of lonely waiting and yearning for the love of a true heart, have, perhaps, made me seize too readily on any promise of hope and sympathy. I was certainly fascinated with Mrs. Desmonde, and told her of my feelings, prematurely as it proved, for the more I knew of her, the more convinced I grew of her unfitness, I might almost say for earth, although she still is beautiful to me. But you, Emily, are a woman of strength and will, of a strength that will grow, for your years do not yet number twenty-one; these years have already given you maturity and power, and I respect and admire you, and I believe I could worship you if you would let me."

This was stranger talk than I could endure, and I broke out passionately:

"You need not ever try; I do not want you to, for I shall never love you, and you are also old enough to be my father." I cannot tell why I should have made this great mistake for which I immediately reproached myself.

The lines in Mr. Benton's face grew a little sharper, and the gleam of his eye for a second was like a fierce light, and he answered gravely:

"My years do number more, but in my heart I stand beside you. I would have waited longer to tell you, but I am going away." I looked wonderingly. "A friend is ill. I go to him; then to Chicago to see some of our statuettes, and then if your parents will board me here, shall return for the summer, unless," and his eyes dropped hopelessly, his voice trembled, "unless," raising his eyes to mine appealingly, "I shall be too unwelcome a friend to remain."

Dear Hal and his art rose before me, and pity and love caused me to say:

"Oh, come back, Mr. Benton! Hal needs you."

"We will consider then that we are friends, Emily?"

"Certainly," I said, glad enough to pass out of this door. Would it had been wider!

Advancing to me he took my hand, and said:

"My friend always, if I may never hope for more. I leave to-morrow morning, let us say good-bye here."

This was a strange scene for a plain country girl like Emily Minot. Don't blame me if I was bewildered, and if I failed for a moment to think of the snake I had dreamed about: neither wonder that in this last act in Mr. Benton's drama, he seemed to have gained some power over me. He knew, for I was no adept at concealing, that he had won some vantage ground, and that I blamed myself and pitied him.

Morning came, and he left us, and Aunt Hildy said: "Gone with his great eyes that allus remind me that still water runs deep. Can't see how Halbert and that man can be so thick together."

Matthias, who was there early, ready to go to work, said to himself as the stage rolled away: "De Lord bless me, if dat man don't mos' allus set me on de thinkin' groun. Pears like he's got two sides to hisself, um, um."

I heard this absent talk of Matthias', and also Aunt Hildy's words, and I marvelled, saying in my heart, "Emily Minot, what will be done next?"



CHAPTER XIII.

PERPLEXITIES.

We were all glad to see mother, and she had enjoyed her visit, which had improved her much.

"Hope you haint done any work?" said Aunt Hildy.

Mother said nothing, but when her trunk was unpacked she brought forth, in triumph, a specimen of her handiwork.

"Aunt Hildy," I called, "come and give her a scolding."

She came, and with Clara and myself, was soon busy in trying to find out how the mat—for this was the name of the article—was made.

"How on airth did you do it, and what with?"

"Why don't you find out?" said mother.

"For only one reason, I can't," said Aunt Hildy.

"It is made of pieces of old flannel and carpet that Phebe got hold of somehow. We cut them bias and sewed them on through the middle, the foundation being a canvas bag, leaving the edges turned up."

"Well, I declare," said Aunt Hildy; "but you had no right to work."

My mind was sorely troubled, and when, in about a week after Mr. Benton's departure, I received a long letter from him, I felt worse than before. I blamed myself greatly, and still these wrong steps I had taken were all only sins of omission. It was for Clara's sake; for Hal's sake; and last, but not least, I could not say to Mr. Benton, as I would have wished to, that my love was in Louis' keeping, for you remember I had met Louis' advances with fear, and he had said, "I will wait one year." How could I then say positively what I did not know? Louis was growing older, and my fears might prove all real, and I should only subject myself to mortification, and at the same time, as I really believed, cause Mr. Benton sorrow.

"Poor Emily Minot," I said, "you must condole with yourself unless you tell Halbert," and I resolved to do this at the first opportunity.

Clara was delighted at Mr. Benton's absence. She went singing about our house all the time, and the roses actually tried to find her cheeks. Our days seemed to grow more filled and the hearts and hands were well occupied.

Hal was busy with his work and hopes, and I had been over with him to see Mary, and had looked with them at the picture of their coming days. I enjoyed it greatly. They were not going to be in haste, and Mary's father was to talk with our people concerning the best mode of beginning life. I think some people end it just where they hoped to begin. Mary had a step-mother, who was thrifty, and that was all; her heart had never warmed to infant caresses, and she would never know the love that can be felt only for one's own. It was sad for her, and I can see now how she suffered for this well-spring of joy which had never been found. To Mary she was kind, but she could not give her the love she needed. Mary was timid. Hal always called her his "fawn." It was a good name. He made a beautiful statuette of her little self and christened it Love's Fawn, and while he never really meant it should go into strange hands, it crossed the Atlantic before he did, and received high commendation—beautiful Mary Snow.

Instead of my visit helping to open my secret to Hal, it seemed to close the door upon it, and only a sigh came to my lips when I essayed to speak of it. Once he asked me tenderly as we walked home:

"It cannot be our happiness that hurts you, Emily?"

"No—no," I said, "it gives me great joy to see you so happy."

I told mother when he wished, and a talk ensued between her and father, then a conference of families, and a conclusion that the marriage which was to occur with the waning of September, should be followed, as the two desired, by their going to housekeeping.

Father had a plot of thirty acres in trust for Hal, and he proposed to exchange some territory with him, that his house might be nearer ours. Hal was named for Grandfather Minot, and was a year old when he died. In a codicil to the will, grandfather had bequeathed to Hal these thirty acres, which was more than half woodland. Hal was glad to make an exchange with father, and get a few acres near home, while he would still have nice woodland left. Acres of land then did not seem to be worth so much to us, and it was a poor farmer in our section, who had not forty or more acres, for our town was not all level plains, and every land-owner must perforce have more or less of hill and stubble. These new ideas of building and "fresh housekeeping" as Aunt Hildy said, gave much to think about, and while Clara and I were talking together with great earnestness one afternoon in April, we were surprised by a letter of appeal from Louis. We, I say, for Clara read to me every letter he sent her, and this began as follows:

"Little mother, bend thy tender ear, and listen to thy 'dear boy' who desires a great favor; think of it one week, and then write to him thou hast granted it."

The entire letter ran in this strain, and the whole matter was this: he felt he could not stay in school his appointed time. He had done in previous months more than twice the amount of work done by any one student, and when the vacation came with the coming in of July, he would stay with the professor through the month, and thus work up to a certain point in his studies, then he wanted a year of freedom, and at its close, he would go back and finish any and every branch Clara desired him to.

"Emily," said Clara, "he will be twenty-one next January, but he will be my boy still, and he will not say nay, if I ask him to return again. I have expected this. If Louis Robert had not left so strong a message—" and she folded her hands, and with her head bent, she sat in deep thought and motionless for more than half an hour. Then rousing suddenly, said:

"It will be well for him, I shall send the word to-morrow."

My heart beat gladly for in these days, I longed for Louis. Thoughts of Mr. Benton vanished at the sight of Louis' picture, and his letter I did not answer. He wrote again. The third time inclosed one in an envelope addressed to Hal, who looked squarely at me when he handed it to me, and afterward said:

"Emily, do you love Will?"

I shook my head, and came so near telling him, but I did not, and again committed the sin of omission.

While all these earthly plans were being formed about us, the stirring of thought with the people on religious matters grew greater. Regularly now several of our people went ten miles to the church where we heard Mr. Ballou. A donation party for our minister was to be given the last day of April, and the air was rife with conjectures. Jane North made her appearance, and her first salutation was:

"Good afternoon, Mis' Minot. Going to donation next Monday night?"

"I think so," was mother's quiet reply.

"Well, I'm glad: s'pose there's a few went last year that wouldn't carry anything to him now?"

Aunt Hildy stepped briskly in and out of the room, busy at work, and taking apparently no notice of the talk, when Clara came again to the front with:

"Oh! come this way, Miss North, I have something to say, these good people will excuse us."

"Oh! yes," said mother, and they went. I could not follow them for I was busy. Two hours after, I entered Clara's sitting-room, and Jane sat as if she had received an important message from some high potentate, which she was afraid of telling. She sat knitting away on her silk stockings, and talked as stiffly, saying the merest things. Clara left the room a few moments, and then she said:

"Ain't she jist a angel; she's give me the beautifullest real lace collar for myself, and three solid linen shirts for our minister; said per'aps she should'nt go over; and two or three pieces of money for his wife, and a real beautiful linen table-cloth; you don't care if I take 'em, do you?"

"Oh, no!" I said, "Mrs. Desmonde is the most blessed of all women."

"So she is, but here she comes," and again Jane sat covered with new dignity. It was rather a heavy covering, but I thought of Clara's philosophy and said to myself, "Another batch of scandal pushed aside." This way of Clara's to help people educate themselves to rise above the conditions which were to them as clinging chains, was to me beautiful. If all could understand it, it would not be long before our lives would unfold so differently. "Emily will help me." These words came full often before me, and now if I could only see my way through the difficulties which entangled me, then my hands would, perhaps, led by her, touch some strings which might vibrate sweetly. Then, and not till then, could I be satisfied, and unconscious of any presence, I sang aloud:

"How long, oh, Lord! how long?"

"Dat's de berry song I used to sing down thar, an' I dunno as I could 'spected any sooner," said Matthias, who came in unexpectedly.

"Oh, Matthias!" I said, "do you know I believe your people will all go free?"

And his large, honest eyes opened widely, as he said:

"'Way down in yer, I feel sometimes like I see freedom comin' right down on de wings of a savin' angel, and den I sings down in dat yer grown' room, Miss; I sings dat ole cabin-meetin' song, 'Jes' lemme get on my long white robe, and ride in dat golden chariot in de mornin' right straight to New Je-ru-sa-lem.' 'Pears like I get great notions, Miss Emily."

"The Lord will hear you as well as me, Matthias, and some day slavery will die. What a good time there will be then above there," said I, pointing upward.

"Yes," said he, "good for de righteous, but dat old Mas'r Sumner, he'll jes' be down thar 'mong dem red-hot coals."

"Oh, Matthias!" I said, "there are no red-hot coals."

"Sure, Miss, I dunno but dat 'pears like I can't hab hevin' wid dat man thar."

"He will be changed and good."

"Can't think so. Dat man needs dat fire; preachin' could'nt do him no good, noway."

"We will agree to let each other think as they feel, but our Father must love all his children."

"Ef dat's so," said he thoughtfully, "I hope he'll hab more'n one room for us, rather be mos' anywhar dan in sight ob dat man," and he trudged off with his literal Heaven and Hades before him.

Poor ignorant heart! let him hold to these thoughts; he cannot dream of a love so liberal as that which delights my heart to think of; he cannot know that we, being God's children, must inherit some of his eternal goodness, and that little leaven within will be the salvation of us all through time that knows no end. Poor Matthias! his eyes will be opened over there; and tears filled my own at the glorious prospect waiting. He was living in his ground room truly.

The donation came off happily. Our minister had been many years with us, and was a good man, to the extent of his light, and worthy of all we could bestow on him. He owned a small farm, and had also practised a little in medicine, and had always tried to do his duty. I suppose his fiery sermons were preached honestly, and that his duty, as Clara said, led him to hang out a signal lantern. To me it was a glow-worm light, that only warned me in a different direction, and although my fierce treatment of that Christmas sermon was past, down deep in my heart strong truths had been planted. I felt I must have a talk with both my pastor and my father before I could again partake of the communion.

Clara did not go with us to the donation. We went after supper, meeting at the house about six P.M., and stayed until nine. Many good and sensible gifts were brought them, and Clara's was not least among them. Jane North proudly displayed the four five dollar gold pieces, and descanted long on "such fine linen," and that beautiful lady who sent it.

Several said to us: "Why, we didn't know as you would come"—to which I said:

"Oh, yes! of course we proposed to come;" and for once I was wise enough not to ask why. I told Clara, she certainly had planted good seed, for not one word of scandal escaped the lips of Jane that evening, only praise of the beautiful Mis' Desmonde.

It was only a few days after the donation, that Mr. Davis, our minister, came over to spend the evening, and we had a long talk, one that ended better than I anticipated. When he came he inquired particularly for Clara, who insisted on our going into her sitting-room, and all but Hal followed her thither, his steps, after supper, turning as usual toward the house of his "fawn."

Mr. Davis alluded to his donation visit, and he desired especially to thank Clara for her most welcome offers to his wife and himself, adding, "And the greatest wonder to me is that the shirts fit me so well."

"You know my dear boy is a man in size," said Clara, "I thought they would be right, and he has now left four more that are new and like the ones I sent you, but please do not thank me so much, Miss North did me full justice in that line."

"She was a willing delegate, then?" said Mr. Davis.

"Oh, very!" said Clara, "and she is a lonely soul in the world."

"So she is, more lonely than she need be if our people could understand her," he replied; "but I confess my own ignorance there, for I never seemed to know just what to say to her."

"Clara does," said I, but Clara looked, "Emily don't," and I said no more.

At last the conversation turned on religious matters, and to my surprise, Mr. Davis came to explain himself instead of asking explanations, as I had expected.

"I have understood," said he, "that you, Mr. Minot, think my sermon alluding to false doctrines, and also the one in which I spoke of preachers of heresy, were particularly directed to you, and that I believed you had done very wrong in leaving for one Sabbath your own church to hear a minister that preaches new and strange things."

"I never have intimated as much, Mr. Davis. I did suppose you intended some of the remarks in your last sermon should apply directly to myself and family; but of the first one, I had only one idea. As I have before said to you, the thought of a burning hell always makes me shudder. I never could conceive of such torture at the hand of a wise and loving God. If there is punishment awaiting the unrighteous, it is not of literal fire. I am well persuaded of this, for if it were a literal fire, a body would soon be consumed; hence, the punishment could not be endless as supposed; while upon a spiritual body, it could have no effect. The fire in the stove burns my finger, but touches not my soul."

"You know the tenets of our belief embrace both eternal comfort and eternal misery," said Mr. Davis; "it is what we are taught."

"I know," said my father. "I have considered my church obligations seriously, and am prepared to say, if it is inconsistent for me, in the eyes of my preacher or of his people, that I, holding these thoughts, should remain in fellowship with them as before, I can only say I have grown strong enough now to stand alone, and I should think I ought to stand aside. I cannot see why we may not agree on all else."

"I believe we do; I respect your opinions, Mr. Minot; we cannot afford to lose you either. May I ask with what denomination you would propose to unite?"

"None at all," said my father, "unless the road comes clearer before me. I love our old meeting-house, Mr. Davis; my good old father played the violin there for years, and when a youth, I stood with him and played the bass viol, while my brother, now gone, added the clear tones of the clarionet, and the voice of my sweet sister Lucy could be heard above all else, in the grand old hymns 'Silver Street' and 'Mear.'" At these recollections my father's voice choked with emotion, and strange for him, tears fell so fast he could say no more.

"Brother Minot," said Mr. Davis, rising to his feet and taking his hand, his eyes looking upward, "let the God who seeth in secret hold us still as brothers; keep your pew in the old church. This one difference of opinion can have no weight against either of us. This is all the church meeting we need or will have, and if I ever judge you falsely, may I be thus judged."

Aunt Hildy said: "Amen, Brother Davis, your good sense will lead you out of the ditch, that's certain."

Clara's eyes were looking as if fixed on a far-off star. She was lost in gazing, the thin white lids covered her beautiful eyes for a moment or two, then she turned her pure face toward Mr. Davis, and said:

"It is good for us all to be wise, and it is not easy to obey the scriptural injunction, 'Be ye wise as serpents and harmless as doves.' Ever growing, the human mind must reach with the tendrils of its thought beyond the confines of to-day. The intuition of our souls, this Godlike attribute which we inherit directly from our Father, is ever seeking to be our guide. None can be so utterly depraved that they have not sympathy either in one way or another with its utterances. Prison bars and dungeon cells may hold souls whose central thoughts are pure as noon-day; and sometimes hard-visaged men, at the name of home and mother, are baptized in tears. The small errors of youth lead along the way to greater crimes, and I sometimes ask myself if it is not true that living with wants that are not understood, causes men to seek the very things their souls do not desire, and they are thus led into deep waters. If Mr. Minot's soul reaches for a God of compassion and mercy, is it not because that soul whispers its need of this great love; and if it asks for this, will it not be found; for can it be possible with this spark of God within us, the living soul can desire that which is not naturally designed for it?

"Why, my dear friends," she continued, "this is the great lesson we need to make us, on this earth, all that we might and should be. It is not true that the thought of eternal love will warrant us in making mistakes here; on the contrary, it will help us to see all the beauty of our world, and to link our lives as one in the chain which binds the present to the enduring year of life to come. Duty would be absolute pleasure, and all they who see now no light beyond the grave, would by this unerring hand be led to the mountain top of truth's divine and eternal habitation. In your soul, Mr. Davis, you ask and long for this. Doctrinal points confuse you when you think upon them, and you have lain aside these thoughts and said, 'the mysteries of godliness may not be understood;' but my dear sir, if this be true, why are we told to be perfect even as our 'Father in Heaven is perfect;' for would not that state be godly, and could there be mysteries or fear connected with it?"

"Never, never," said Aunt Hildy.

Then, with her hands stretched appealingly toward him, Clara said:

"Oh, sir, do not thrust this knowledge from the door of your heart! Let it enter there. It will warm your thoughts with the glow of its unabating love, and you will be the instrument in God's hand of doing great good to his children."

She dropped her hands, the tender lids covered again those wondrous eyes, and we sat as if spell-bound, wrapt in holy thought.

"Let us pray," said Mr. Davis, and we knelt together.

Never had I heard him pray like this, and I shall ever remember the last sentences he uttered; "Father, if what thy handmaid says be true, give me, oh, I pray thee, of this bread to eat, that my whole duty may be performed, and when thou shall call him hither, may thy servant depart in peace."

Mr. Davis shook hands with us all just as the clock tolled nine, and to Clara he said:

"Sister, angels have anointed thee; do thy work."

This was a visit such as might never occur again. Truly and strangely our life was a panorama all these days. I dreamed all night of Clara and her thoughts, and through her eyes that were bent on me in that realm of dreams, I read chapters of the life to come.



CHAPTER XIV.

LOUIS RETURNS.

It would be now only a few days to Mr. Benton's return, and I dreaded it, never thinking of him without a shudder passing over me; Aunt Hildy would have called it "nervous creepin'." I felt that this was wrong, and especially so since I knew I was thus hindered in the well-doing for which I so longed.

"Happiness comes from the inner room," said Aunt Hildy; "silver and gold and acres of land couldn't make a blind man see."

Her comparisons were apt, and her ideas pebbles of wisdom, clear and white, gathered from experience and polished by suffering. Both she and Clara were books which I read daily. How differently they were written! and then how different from both was the wisdom of a mother whose light seemed daily to grow more beautiful. It seemed when I thought of it as if no one had ever such good teachers. And now if I could only break these knots which had been tangled through Mr. Benton's misunderstanding of me, there seemed no reasonable excuse for not progressing. Church affairs had been happily regulated, so far as Mr. Davis and our few nearer friends were concerned, and the sermon on good deeds which he preached the Sabbath after his visit to us was more than worthy of him.

Clara said, "He talked of things he really knew; facts are more beautiful than fancies."

"And stand by longer," added Aunt Hildy.

Louis was to come on the first of July, his mother not deeming it advisable for him to study through that month; but Mr. Benton preceded him and came the first day of June. It was a royal day, and he entered the door while the purplish tinge of sunset covered the hills and lay athwart the doorway.

"Home again," was his first salutation.

"Very welcome," said Hal and father; mother met him cordially, and I came after them with Clara at my side, and only said:

"How do you do, Mr. Benton?"

He grasped my hand and held it for an instant in a vice-like grasp. I darted a look of reproof at him, and the abused look he wore at our last talk came back and settled on his features.

It seemed to me the more I tried to keep out of his way the more fate would compel me to go near him. Hal was very busy, and it seemed as if Clara had never spent so much time in her own room as now, when I needed her so much. Mother was not well, and every afternoon took a long nap, so I was left down stairs, and no matter which side of the house I was in he was sure to find me. The third day after his arrival he renewed his pleading, trying first to compliment me, saying:

"What a royal woman you are, and how queenly you look with your massive braids of midnight hair fastened with such an exquisite comb!" (Louis' gift).

"Midnight hair," I said. "I've seen many a midnight when I could read in its moonlight; black as a crow would be nearer the truth," and I laughed.

The next sentence was addressed to my teeth. He liked to see me laugh and show my teeth; they looked like pearls.

"I wish they were," I said, "I'd sell them and buy a nice little house for poor Matthias to live in."

"Ugh!" he said, and looked perfectly disgusted; but he was not, for he said more foolish things, and at last launched out into his sober sentiment. Oh, dear, if I could have escaped all this!

"Have you not missed me? You have not said it."

"I have not missed you at all," I said, "and I do wish you would believe it."

"You have no welcome, then, no particular words of welcome?"

"Mr. Benton, you know I am a country girl."

"Yes, but you remind me of a city belle in one way. You gather hearts and throw them away as recklessly as they do, throwing smiles and using your regal beauty as a fatal charm. I must feel, Miss Minot, that it would have saved me pain had we never met."

This touched a tender spot. "Mr. Benton," I cried, "cease your foolish talk, you know that I never tried to captivate you, that I take no pleasure in an experience like this. You say that I am untrue to myself, false to my highest perception of right and justice. If you claim for me what you have said, you do not believe it, Wilmur Benton; you know in your soul you speak falsely."

"Why, Emily," he said, "you are imputing to me what you are unwilling to bear yourself; do you realize it?"

"I think I do," I replied, "and further proof is not needed to convince me."

"Really, this is a strange state of affairs, but (in a conciliatory tone), perhaps I spoke too impulsively, I cannot bear your anger; forgive me, Emily."

"Well," I answered merely.

"Can you forget it all?" he said.

"I will see," I replied, and just then I saw Halbert coming over the hill, and I was relieved from further annoyance. I cannot say just how this affected me. I felt in one sense free, but still a sense of heaviness oppressed me and all was not clear. My mental horizon was clouded, and I could see no signs of the clouds drifting entirely away, but on one point I was determined. I would give no signs of even pity for Mr. Benton, even should I feel it as through days I looked over my words and thoughts. He should not have even this to hold in his hand as a weapon against me. I would say nothing to Hal, for Louis would come, and in the fall, the year of his waiting would be at an end. He would tell me again of his great love, and I would yield to him that which was his. Oh, Louis, my confidence in your blessed heart grows daily stronger!

While these thoughts were running through my mind, Matthias' voice was heard, a moment more and he was saying:

"Guess he's done gone sure dis time; he drink an fiddle, an fiddle an' drink; and nex' ting I knowed he's done dar at the feet of dem stars all in a heap by hisself."

"Who's that?" I cried.

"Plint, Miss. He's done gone, sure, an' I came roun' to get some help 'bout totin' him up stars. Can't do nothin', an' Mis' Smith she's jes gone scart into somebody else. She don't 'pear to know nuthin', an' when I say help me, she jest stan' an' holler like mad."

"I'll go over," said Aunt Hildy, wiping her hands, and turning for sun bonnet and cape.

"I'll go," said Hal.

"Me, too," cried Ben, and off they started.

Poor Plint was gone, surely enough; dead, "a victim to strong drink and fiddlin'," Aunt Hildy said. His funeral was from the church, for we all respected Aunt Peg and pitied Plint, and Mr. Davis only spoke of God's great mercy and his tenderness to all his flock; never putting a word of endless torment in it.

Poor Aunt Peg had great misgivings concerning Plint, and groaned audibly throughout the entire service. Matthias was a great comfort to her through her trouble, and she told Clara and me when we called on her, that he was not as clean as she wished, but he was a mighty comfort to her, and the greatest blessing Aunt could have sent. Plint's fiddle hung against the wall in her little room with whitened floor and straight-back chairs, and I could not keep back the tears when I noticed that she had a bunch of wild violets tied to the old bow. She noticed it and burst into tears herself, crying:

"That there fiddle was no use no way, but seems now I kinder reckon on 't." She was true to these intuitions of the soul, these thoughts that cover tenderly even the remembrance of a wasted life, and we could not but think that if Plint had not loved cider so well, he might perhaps have developed rare musical talent.

I had been true to myself as far as Mr. Benton was concerned, and since our last stormy interview, treated him with respectful indifference. He had two or three times attempted to bring about a better state of affairs, but I could not and did not give him any encouragement. I felt wronged and also justified in the establishment of myself where I should be safe from greater trouble at his hands.

The first day of July, the day for Louis' coming, dawned auspiciously, and I was as happy as a bird. It seemed to me my trouble was nearly over, and Louis, when he came in at our door that night, looked admiringly at me, and after supper he said:

"Emily, you are growing beautiful, do you know it?"

"I hope so," I said honestly, "you know how homely I have always been."

"No, no, I do not, you have been to me my royal Emily ever since I first met you."

"I must have compared strangely with your city friends and their bewildering costumes."

"It was more strange than you know; you made the picture and they were the background," he said, and I thought, perhaps, he was going to cut short the year of waiting and say more. Instead, he looked off over the hills, and held my hand tighter. We were in Hal's room, and Mr. Benton entered, saying with great joy in his tones:

"Louis, I have made a success, take a little walk with me and I will tell you about it."

Louis looked at me a moment, as if to tell me it is the picture, and with a tender light in his eyes, went out under the sky, which was beautiful with the last tinge of sunset clinging to it, as if loath to leave its wondrous blue to the rising moon and stars.

As they passed out, I thought I saw Matthias coming, but must have been mistaken, as he did not appear. An hour passed and Louis and Mr. Benton returned, the latter looking wonderfully satisfied and happy, Louis thoughtful, and I should have thought him sad had I not known of Clara's picture.

The days passed happily, but through them all I was not as happy as I had expected. Louis must be sick, I thought; he was so quiet, and almost sad. Perhaps he had met with less, and I longed to ask him but could not. I was annoyed also by Mr. Benton, who would not fail to embrace every opportunity that offered, to talk with me alone, holding me in some way, for moments at a time. If I was dusting in Hal's studio, and this was a part of my daily duties, he was sure to be there, and several times Louis came in when we were talking together, I busy at work and Mr. Benton standing near.

Clear through the months that led us up to the door of October, these almost daily annoyances troubled me. It was not love-making, for since the day of my righteous indignation he had not ventured to approach me on that ground; but any thought which came over him, sometimes regarding his pictures and sometimes a saying of Aunt Hildy's,—anything which could be found to talk upon, it seemed to me, he made a pretext to detain me, and since he did this in a gentlemanly manner, how could I avoid it! It was a perfect bore to me, and yet I thought it too foolish a trouble to complain of. That was not the summer full of joy to which I had been looking, but it was full of work and care, and over all the mist of uncertainty.

Hal's house had been built; it was a charming little nest, just enough room for themselves and with one spare chamber for company.

"Don't git too many rooms nor too big ones," said Aunt Hildy. "If six chairs are enough, twenty-five are a bother. One loaf of bread at a time is all we want to eat. I tell you, Halbert, you can't enjoy more'n you use; don't get grand idees that'll put your wife into bondage. There are all kinds of slavery in this world," and between every few words a milk-pan went on the buttery shelf. She always worked and preached together.

Hal had a nice room for his work; then they had a sitting-room, kitchen and bedroom down stairs, and two chambers. It was a cottage worth owning, and Clara, as usual, did something to help.

"Allus putting her foot down where it makes a mark," said Aunt Hildy.

She furnished Hal's room entirely, and gave Mary so many nice and necessary things that they were filled with thanksgiving. The marriage ceremony was performed at Deacon Snow's, and I cried every moment. I sat between Louis and Clara, notwithstanding Mr. Benton urged a seat upon me next himself; and on our return home he appeared to think I needed his special care, but I held close to Clara, and Louis, whose arm was his little mother's support, walked between us. He was sadly thoughtful, saying little.

The wedded pair left our town next morning for a brief visit with Mary's friends, and returned in a few days to their little house, which was all ready for occupancy. Aunt Hildy and mother had put a "baking of victuals," according to Aunt Hildy, into the closet, and the evening of their return their own supper table was ready, with mother, Clara, Louis and me in waiting. Louis remarked on Mr. Benton's coming over, and I forgot myself and said, in the old way:

"Can't we have one meal in peace?"

Mother said:

"Why, Emily, you are losing your mind; what would Hal think if Mr. Benton were left alone?"

Father and Ben came over, but not till after supper, and Aunt Hildy persisted in staying at home and doing her duty.

"Let him come, and stay, too," I added, still feeling vexed; and how strangely Louis looked as Mr. Benton came in. "Fairy land," he said.

Mother made some reply, but I sat mute as my thought could make me.

The stage came. Our first supper was pleasant both as a reality and as a type of their future. Hal and Mary were truly married, and through the ensuing years their lives ran on together merged as one. When we stopped to think over the years since his boyhood, to remember the comparatively few advantages he had enjoyed, the ill luck of my father in his early years, and his tired, discouraged way which followed,—it was hard to realize the facts as they were. Grandma Northrop often prophesied of Hal, saying to mother:

"That boy's star will rise. I know his good luck will more than balance his father's misfortune, and in your old age you will see him handsomely settled in life."

It seemed as if the impulse of his youth had all tended to bring him where the light could shine on his art, and from the time he entered Mr. Hanson's employ his good fortune was before him. There is another thought runs by the side of this, and that is one induced by the knowledge of the great power of gold. Mr. Hanson was a man of wealth and good business relations. Liking Hal for himself, and interested in his art, it was easy for him to open many doors for the entrance of his work. Mr. Benton was a help to Hal in his art, and his reward was immediate almost, for Hal had told me Will's pieces had never been appreciated as now. It was astonishing, too, how many people had money to buy these expensive treasures,—but the sea was smooth.

"Every shingle on the house paid for," said Aunt Hildy; "aint that the beginning that ought to end well?"

And now the road of the future lay, as a fair meadowland, whose flowers and grasses should be gathered through the years. Truly life is strangely mixed.

The look of perplexing anxiety had vanished from my father's face, for with Hal's prospects his own had grown bright, and you cannot know how Clara lifted him along, as it were; paying well and promptly and saving in so many ways, was a wondrous help to a farmer's family. There was also the prospect of a new street being opened through the centre of the town, and if my father wished he could sell building lots on one side of it, for it would run along the edge of his land.

"Trouble don't never come single-handed, neither does prosperity, Mr. Minot," said Aunt Hildy.

"Love's Fawn" was a famous little housekeeper, everything was in good order, and I certainly found a well-spring of joy in the society of these two. If Mary needed any extra help, Hal said, "Emily will do it." This was a very welcome change from the old saying.

Ben was a daily visitor, and spoke of sister Mary with great pride. He was a good boy and willing. Hal felt anxious to help him, if he desired it, by giving him more schooling, but he was a farmer born, and his greatest ambition was to own a farm and have a saw mill. He went to the village school, and had as good an education as that could give, for he was not dull. I was glad for his sake he liked farming; it seemed to me a true farmer ought to be happy. Golden and crimson leaves were fluttering down from the forest trees, for October had come upon us and nearly gone, and while all prospects for living were full of cheer, I felt a great wonder creeping over me, and with it, fear. Louis had said no word to me as yet, and could it be he had forgotten the year was at an end? Surely not. Could his mind have changed? Oh, how this fear troubled me! He was as kind as ever, but he said much less to me, and seemed like one pre-occupied. One chance remark of Clara's brought the color to my cheeks, as we sit together.

"Louis, my dear boy, what is it? A shadow crossed your face just then."

He looked surprised, and only half answered:

"The shadow of yourself. I was thinking about you."

Mr. Benton did not talk of leaving us; he had some unfinished pieces, and my father had said:

"Remain as long as you please, if my wife is willing."

After Hal left, I felt his studio marred by Mr. Benton's presence, for he had become a perfect torture to me, and I began to believe he delighted in it, secretly. Then again, I had the room to attend to, and I must in consequence be annoyed. Of this I was tired, and when day after day passed and brought no word from Louis, save in common with the rest, I said, hopelessly:

"Let it go. I will try to love no one but father and mother and Clara and Hal, and oh, dear! when shall I ever be ready to say, 'Now Clara, let me help you'?"

She said to me through these days I was not happy. "Wild flower, what troubles thee?" one day, and again, "Emily, my royal Emily, art thou sighing for wings?"

November came and passed, and the gates of the new year were opening, still all the way lay dark before me. Night after night my tear-stained pillow told my sorrow mutely, and day after day I sighed. Mother was not well, and I felt that everything was wrong. I was worrying myself sick, I knew, and could not help it.

It was a cold, bitter day, and in my heart lay bitter thoughts when Matthias came over to tell us, that "Peg was right sick, 'pears like she's done took sick all in a minit, onions and onions, mustard and mustard, an nothin' don't do no good. Here's a piece of paper I foun' in de road, 'pears like you mus' want it," and he handed it to me.

I put it in my pocket and went to ask Aunt Hildy what to do for Aunt Peg. She proposed to go over, and Ben went with her.

While they were gone I read the paper, which proved to be a letter, evidently written to Mr. Benton, and the signature was plainly, "your heart-broken Mary," I could only pick out half sentences, but read enough to show me the treachery and sorrow, aye, more, a life cursed with shame, and at the hands of Wilmur Benton.

"Thank God," I cried aloud—I was in the sitting-room alone—and then tears fell hot and fast, and I sobbed and cried as if I had found a wide white path that led from the night of my discontent, out into the morning of the day called peace. I could not stay there and cry, I must pass Clara's door to go to my room, and throwing a shawl over my shoulders I rushed out, and fairly flew over the frozen ground to that dear old apple tree. What a strange place to go to, standing under those bare limbs, or rather walking to and fro, but I could not help it! This same old tree had heard my cries and seen my tears for years. I covered my face with both hands, and wept aloud. I could not have been there long, when I felt a presence, and Louis was beside me.

Putting an arm around me, he said tenderly, "Come in, Emily."

"Oh, Louis!" I cried, "I cannot, they will see my face, what shall I do? how came you here?" and I still kept crying and sobbing as if my heart would break.

"Why Emily, my royal Emily, come into little mother's room,—she has lain down,—and tell me why you weep."

I yielded gratefully, not gracefully, and we were seated alone, all alone, and he was saying to me:

"Emily, tell me what it is, you have troubled me so long, your eyes have grown so sad. Oh! Emily, my darling, may I not know your secret sorrow? I can wait longer, my year has flown, and three months more, and still my heart is waiting; tell me your sorrow, and then let me say to you what I have waited in patience to repeat."

It was not a dream, my heart beat like a bird, and I could tell him, only too gladly. "Emily will do it."



CHAPTER XV.

EMILY FINDS PEACE.

As soon as I could control my voice I said, "I cannot tell you why I cry so bitterly. I felt so strangely when I read this terrible letter, which Matthias had picked up in the road and given to me. Instead of sorrow covering me, as would seem natural, sorrow for another, not myself, I said, 'thank God,' for it seemed as if I had looked at something that would lead me from darkness to light. I have been so miserable, Louis; Mr. Benton has tormented me so long, that I have been filled with despair, and I begin to believe I shall never be worth anything again; oh! I am grieving so, and yet feel such a strange joy;" and I shook as if with ague.

Louis looked as if wonder-struck, and holding both my hands in one of his, drew my head to his shoulder, and with his arm still round me, put his hand on my forehead.

"Your head is like fire, Emily; the first thing is for you to get quiet; a terrible mistake has been made, and we may give thanks for the help that has strangely come."

I knew it would appear but did not know how. I still grieved and sighed and was trying hard to control myself.

"Emily," said Louis, in a tone of gentle authority, "do not try to hold on to yourself so; just place more confidence in my strength and I will help your nerves to help themselves, for you see these nerves you are trying to force into quiet, are only disturbed by your will. Let the rein fall loosely, it will soon be gathered up, for when you are quiet you will be strong, and the harder you pull the more troubled you will be. You must lean on me, Emily, from this day on as far as our earthly lives shall go—you are mine. It is blessed to claim you."

I tried to do as he said, and after a little, the strength he gave crept over me like a tide that bore me up at last; my grieving nerves were still, but my face was pale, as he said again:

"Now, Emily, let me hear from your own lips, 'I love you, Louis,'" and his dark eyes turned to meet my own, which were filled with tears that were not bitter—holy tears that welled from the fountain of my tired and grateful heart.

"I do love you, Louis—and Louis," I cried, forgetting again, impetuously, "I thought you had forgotten. I have suffered so long and you did not know it, and I dared not tell."

"Emily should have done it, but never mind, you say you love me, and shall it be as I desire? will you be my wife, Emily?"

I bowed my head and he continued:

"Thank you, Emily, and I do hope that listening angels hear and know it all. Their love shall sanction ours, and we will do all we can for each other, and also for those who unlike us see not the love, the comfort, and the faith they need. Now you shall be my Emily,—you are christened; this is your royal title,—my Emily through all the years."

Oh, how glad I felt! From the depths of my spirit rose so strong and full the tide of feeling that told me one love was perfect, and it cast out fear.

I said: "Louis, let us wait. Do not look at the dreadful letter now, it will mar this pleasant picture which rests me so, and I have been tired too long. I hope I may never again have to say to myself, 'Emily did it,' or its companion sentence, 'Poor Emily did not do it.' Let me breathe a little first, for I shall be again wrought up."

"Perhaps not," said Louis.

"Oh! I must be, it cannot be avoided, there is a dark passage through which we must pass, but if we go together it will not be so hard."

"As you say, my Emily," and at that moment Clara entered.

"Come in, little mother," said Louis, "come in and seal my title for your royal cousin with a motherly kiss, for she has promised to be my wife—my Emily through time."

And she glided toward us, kissed my forehead tenderly, and then taking a hand of each in one of hers, she turned her eyes upward and said:

"Father, bless my children; they were made for each other. May their lives and love continue, ever as thine, through endless time. Let our hearts be united and thy will be ours," and she knelt on the floor at our feet, her head resting in my lap, and her hand in Louis', whose face was radiant with the thoughts which sought expression in his features. I marvelled, as I looked on his beauty, that plain Emily Minot could have become so dear to him.

The thought of father's fear, too, came over me, and while we were thus in thoughtful silence, the old corner clock gave warning of the supper hour being near, and I said:

"The supper I must see to, Louis."

He smiled and said:

"My Emily can get supper, I know, for she makes both bread and butter, and is loyal to her calling ever, as to her lover."

Mr. Benton looked sharply at me during the meal, and it seemed to me as if my eyes betrayed the thought which, filled my heart. Aunt Hildy had returned from her errand of mercy, and she said it was "nervous rheumatiz."

"Poor creature, she's broke down with her hard work."

"Perhaps she'll marry that old fellow, Mat Jones," said Mr. Benton. "He'd make a good husband if she isn't too particular," and he laughed as if he thought his remark suggestive of great cunning. No one gave it even a smile. He did not like Matthias, and often spoke slurringly of him. This was strange, for I could see no harm coming to him from this harmless soul who was good and true and faithful as the sun. He was to us the very help we needed, and father could entrust the care of his work to him whenever he desired to rest a day, or it was necessary for him to be absent from home. This was no small consideration, and well appreciated by those who knew what the care and work of life on a farm meant. Mr. Benton's remark called forth from Louis after a time one concerning the great evil of slavery.

"And if we suffer from any error this race commit, we must remember it is our own people who have brought it to us," said he. "Africa never would have come to us."

Mr. Benton, apparently nettled, said:

"I imagine you would not enjoy a drove of these people in your care. I had a little taste of the South during two years of my life, and my word for it, Louis, they are not attractive creatures to be tormented with. They are a perfect set of stubborn stupidities, and driving is the only thing to suit them, depend on it."

Louis looked more than he said, only recalling that the blame for this could not rest on the slave alone. "I do not imagine I could enjoy slave-owning. I feel the majority of slave-owners lower themselves until they stand beneath the level of the brutes."

Father said, "It is all wrong."

Aunt Hildy added, "All kind of bondage is ungodly, and the days will bring some folks to knowledge."

"Out of the depth into the light," said Clara, and our meal was over.

The days flew by on wings, each wing a promise, and it was a week after we plighted our vows ere I felt ready to read that letter and hear what Louis had to say. Then something came to prevent, and another week had passed when Louis said:

"My Emily, I must have a talk with your father and mother. I cannot feel quite satisfied, and it is only right they should be consulted, for you are their own good girl. I would wait for their hearts to say, 'take her,' if I waited years, but then, my Emily, it is neither giving nor taking, for every change that is right does not ask us ever to give ourselves or our loved ones away. I dislike that term."

"You may wait, Louis; I will tell mother, and she can tell father."

"No, no, Emily! It is I who ask for your hand, and is it not my privilege as well as duty?"

"What a strange man you are growing to be, Louis! Hal couldn't bear the thought of telling mother or father his heart affairs, and I was the medium of communication between them."

"He feels differently about it," said Louis, "and yet he has the tenderest heart I ever knew within the breast of a man."

"He is a good brother, Louis. I could not ask a better."

"Nor find one if you did."

At that moment Matthias came in. Taking off his hat and saluting us in his accustomed way, he said:

"'Pears like I'll have to ask some of yere to go out in de woods a piece—thar's a queer looking gal out thar, an' she's mighty nigh froze to death; she is, sartin."

"Where is she, Matthias?"

"Clean over thar; quite a piece, miss."

"Near any house?" I said.

"Wall, miss, she mout be two or three good steps from that thar brick-colored house."

"Oh, clear over there? Well," I said, "I'll go over if Lou Desmonde will go with me."

"I will go, only never call me that again. Matthias calls me Mas'r Louis, and he says I remind him of a mighty nice fellow down in South Carliny," said Louis.

"Yis, sah, you does," said Matthias.

Telling mother and Aunt Hildy what we were going out to find, we started.

It was a very cold day, and through our warm clothing the winds of March pierced the marrow of our bones. We found the woman, who proved to be, as Matthias had said, nearly frozen. Louis took her right in his arms to the nearest shelter, Mr. Goodwin's, the brick-colored house, and his good, motherly wife had her put into the large west-room, where the spare bed was made so temptingly clean, and with such an airy feather mattress, that, light as she was, the poor girl sank into it almost out of sight. Matthias brought wood and made a fire on the hearth, and Mrs. Goodwin, Louis and I worked hard for an hour chafing her purple limbs, her swelled feet and hands, and at last she turned her head uneasily, and murmured:

"The baby's dead—she is dead and I am going to her."

Then a few words of home and some pictures.

"Myself! myself!" she'd cry, "my picture; yes, my hair is beautiful; my golden curls, he said; and my baby's hair; let me put it here."

And she passed into a sleep from which it would seem she could never waken. We sent Matthias back to tell mother, and say that we should both stay all night if necessary. This girl could not be more than twenty, we thought. Her fingers were small and tapering, and on her right hand she wore a ring set with several diamond stones. Her dress was of silk, and her shawl fine but thin. Her head covering had doubtless fallen off and then been carried by the wind, for we saw nothing of it. She was a beautiful picture as she lay there, for the blood had started and her cheeks were flushed with fever, her lips parted, showing a set of teeth, small, white and regular. Who could she be? Where did she come from? It was about an hour after she fell asleep that she stirred, wakened, and this time opened her eyes in which a conscious light was gathering.

"Where am I? What is it?"

Mrs. Goodwin stepped near her, Louis retreated from the room, and I kept my seat by the hearth.

"Dead, dead, I was dying but I am not dead; do tell me," she said, putting both her hands out to Mrs. Goodwin.

"You are sick, my child. We found you in the road and took you in. You had lost your way."

"Oh! oh!" she murmured, "can I stay all night?"

"Oh, yes, stay a week or two, and get rested!"

"May I go to sleep again? Who knows me here?" and again she fell asleep. By this time Aunt Hildy appeared on the scene, and commanded me to go home and stay there.

"'Tain't no place for you; I've brought my herbs to stay and doctor her. You go home and help your mother." I obeyed, of course, and when I left, kissed the white forehead of the poor girl, and sealed it with a tear that fell.

She murmured: "Yes, all for love,—home, pictures, mother,—all left for love, and the baby's dead. I'm going there."

I went out into the crisp air with Louis' arm for support, and a thousand strange thoughts whirling in my brain. "Great, indeed, must have been the sorrow which could have driven so tender a plant from home."

"Yes," said Louis, "God pity the man whose ruthless hand has killed the blossoms of her loving heart. She looks like little mother, Emily."

"So she does, Louis." And we talked earnestly, forgetting everything but this strange, sweet face. Supper was ready, and the rest were at the table.

"What have you been up to?" said Ben, "you look like two tombstones." I related briefly the history, and concluded by saying:

"She looks as frail as a flower." To which Mr. Benton added:

"Doubtless her frailty, Miss Minot, is the cause of her present suffering."

"Poor lamb," said Clara, "how thankful we should feel that Matthias found her."

"Yes," said Louis, "and if he only could have thought to have carried her into Mr. Goodwin's, and then come over after us, she would not have so hard a struggle for life."

"Do you think she can live?" said Mr. Benton.

"Oh, yes!" said Louis, "the blood has started, and with Aunt Hildy by her bedside she will be, by to-morrow, very comfortable. I think she had not been there long when we found her."

"Perhaps she will not thank you for bringing her back to life, however."

"Perhaps not," said Louis, "still it seems a sacred duty, and in my opinion, not finished with her mere return to life. She looks very beautiful—looks like little mother," turning in admiration to Clara, whose eyes reflected the love she held in her heart for him.

Father and mother were silent, but after supper mother said they would ride over and see if anything was necessary to be done that they could attend to. My mother was too silent and too pale through these days. I looked at the prospect of less work for her with pleasure, and after Mr. Benton left there certainly would be less. Louis would have Hal's room, and Clara then would see to their apartments almost entirely. This would be a relief, and now that my mind was at ease, I knew I could be of more service, while Aunt Hildy would still remain, for she said she would make "Mis' Minot's burden as easy as she could, while the Lord gave her strength to do it."

After father and mother were gone, Louis sat with me in our sitting-room, while Clara absented herself on the plea of something very particular to attend to. I mistrusted what it might be, and looked at her smilingly. "My Emily guesses it," she said, "something for the little lamb. Emily will help me too, have I not said it?" and she passed like a sweet breath from the room.

"Now Louis," I said, as we sat together on the old sofa,—our old-fashioned people called it "soffy,"—"let us look at that letter."

He produced it from the pocket where it had lain in waiting, and we read. Many lines were illegible entirely, but together we deciphered much of it. "The baby is dead—she was beautiful, and if (here were two words we could not make out), it would have been so nice (then two lines blurred and indistinct, and another broken sentence). Where can your letters —— I am sure you write. If —— then I shall go to find ——. My father will give us ——" and from all these grief-laden sentences, we gathered a story that struck us both as being almost made to coincide with that of the poor lamb.

"Louis," I said, "if this is the very Mary, what shall we do?"

"We will do right and let problems be solved as best they can. First let us understand about ourselves, then we can better act for others. How did Mr. Benton annoy you?"

Then I told him.

"And you did not even think you loved him?"

"Louis," I cried, "how could you think so, when my heart has been yours always? How could you think of me in that light?" And those old tears came into my eyes.

"I could not convince myself that such was the case, but Wilmur Benton gave me so to understand—said you were a coy damsel but a glorious girl, and would make a splendid wife—'just such as I need,' he said, 'congratulate me.'

"When, Louis, did he say this?"

"The night of our walk; and it was this instead of the picture he talked of."

"You were cruel not to tell me," I said.

"I waited for my year to finish as I had said I would, and then, Emily, I waited longer for fear you did not know your heart. Matthias said to me one day, 'Masr' Louis, dat man neber can gain de day ober thar; Miss Emily done gone clar off de books, an he's such a bother—um—um.' This set me to thinking; I asked him how he came to think so. 'Dunno, can't help it, 'pears like dat gal's eyes tell me 'nuf.' All this was good to hear, and I had watched you very closely for days, thinking every morning, 'I will tell her before night;' and several times went into Hal's room purposely, but Mr. Benton was always before me. It was because you felt all this that the letter made you feel truly an opening path—your tearful talk by the old apple tree was the 'sesame' that opened the way to the light."

"I do not like to feel that man is such a character as all these things indicate," I said, adding dreamily, "but I never came very near to him. He is a splendid artist, and still the canvas does not speak of his soul."

"How utterly void of feeling for those in bondage he seems to be! What a cold crust covers him! Emily."

"It hurts me to think you could for a moment believe I preferred him to you."

"You must not for a moment believe that in my soul I did, for it is not true; but I knew your artless, loving heart, and I knew also Mr. Benton had the power to polish sentences of flattery that might for a little dazzle you, as it were."

"And they did sometimes, Louis," I said, for I wanted the whole truth to be made plain, while I felt his glittering eyes fastened on me, "but not long. When I was alone, I saw your face and longed to hear again the words you had said to me. We are both young, Louis, and I feared you did not love me as you thought. I had no right to defend myself against Mr. Benton's attacks by using your name with my own. And when the year was past, then I still felt no right, and further," I added slowly, "to me my love was a sacred picture I could not ask him to look at."

"My Emily forever," said Louis, folding me closely to him. "Your fears were groundless as to the changing of my love for you, but, as you say, the picture was not for his eyes. Your suffering causes me sorrow, but let us hope it has not been in vain."

"It is all right, Louis, now, and I have said to myself, let 'Emily will do it' be the words hereafter, for 'Emily did it' has passed, and with this lesson, too, I hope, the second sin of omission, which in my heart I characterize as 'Emily did not do it.' And now your little mother's words lie just before me, reaching a long way through the years, 'Emily will do it.'"

"Amen," said a sweet voice, which was Clara's. "Emily has begun, and when she goes to see the little lamb here are some things to take."

"Do you want to see her, little mother?"

"Not now, Louis; I cannot now look upon her sorrow. By-and-by," and over her face came a shining mist, and through sweet sympathy's pure tears her eyes looked earnestly, but she did not tell us of what she was thinking.



CHAPTER XVI.

MARY HARRIS.

I think we must all have dreamed of the lovely face over among the pillows in Mr. Goodwin's west room, for we were hardly seated at the breakfast table ere Ben said:

"Wonder how that pretty girl is this morning?"

"She was better when we left last night," said mother, "I thought she appeared as if ready for a comfortable night; but shall hear soon if she is better, Aunt Hildy will be home, and if not, Matthias will be over."

"Wish I could see her—will she go right away?"

"That I do not know," said mother, "we have yet to learn her history. Mrs. Goodwin wanted Matthias to come over to-day, for after you left, Emily, she called for 'Peter, colored Peter,' looking as if expecting to find him. Matthias came into the room and brought some wood, while she was awake, and when she saw him, she said, 'Oh, Peter! stay till I get rested—I want to tell you.' He dropped his wood heavily, it gave him such a start. He says no one ever called him that except some young people down in Carolina, and it seems he named himself Peter, to their great amusement, telling them that he 'cakilated to treat his old Mas'r just as Peter treated de good Jesus.'"