"Be sure that the children from the Home all go, and I would like you with them to occupy the front pews. I have a fancy," and she smiled, "that if you sit there it will help me to come near to my deserted tenement. I know I shall be with you there, and I hope you will never call me dead. My house of clay is nearly dead now, and the more strength it loses the stronger my spirit feels. Mr. Minot said, long since, that I might own part of his lot in the churchyard, and I would like to be buried under the willow there. I like that corner best. Do not ever tell little Emily I am there; just say I'm gone away to rest and to be well and strong, and when she is older tell her the frame that held the picture is beneath the grasses, and that my freed soul loves her and watches her, for it will be true. If you feel, Louis, my dear boy, like bringing your father's remains to rest beside me, you can do so. It will not trouble either of us, for it matters little; we are to be together. This is all, except that, if it be practicable, I should like the burial to take place at the hour of sunset; this seems the most fitting time. While the grave is yet open, please let the children sing together, 'Sweet Rest;' I always like to hear them sing this. To-morrow evening I have something to say to the friends who really seem to belong to me,—Hal and Mary, Mr. Davis, Matthias, Aunt Peg and John, Jane and her husband. Please let them come at six o'clock."

She closed her eyes wearily, and looked so white and beautiful, her small hands folded, and the fleecy shawl about her falling from her shoulders, and it seemed as if the material of life, like this delicate garment, was also falling from her. Desolation spread its map before me. I could think of nothing but an empty room and heart, and with Louis' arms about me, I sobbed bitterly. Then I thought how selfish I was, and said: "Louis, take her in your arms; she is so tired, poor little mother." The blue eyes looked at me with such a tender light, and she said, "Yes, I am tired." Louis gathered her in his arms and seated himself in a rocker. Aunt Hildy went for some cordial. Mother and father sat quietly with bitter tears falling slowly, and with little Emily in my arms, I crossed the room to occupy a seat where my tears would not trouble her. It was sadly beautiful.

She drew strength from Louis, and was borne into her room feeling, she said, very comfortable. I wanted to stay with her through the night, but she said:

"No, the baby needs you; so does Louis; I know how he feels; my night will be peaceful and my rest sweet; Aunt Hildy will rest beside me."

"Yes, yes, I'll stay, and we shall both rest well," said Aunt Hildy.

In the morning she was weak, but we dressed her, and after eating a little she felt better, and in the afternoon seemed very comfortable and happy. We had our supper at a little after five o'clock, and at six o'clock, as she had wished, all were in her room.

"Louis, roll my chair into the centre of the room, and let me face the west, for I love to see day's glory die. Now come, good friends all, and sit near me, where I can see your faces. I want to tell you that I am going out of your sight, and I have left to each of you what seemed good and right to me. I hope, yes, I know you will remember that I love you all so much I would never be forgotten. You are grown so dear to me that I shall not forget to look upon you; and please remember that I am not dead, but shall be to you a living, active friend, who sees and knows your needs, and to whose heart may be entrusted some dear mission for your greatest good. Mr. and Mrs. Turner," and she held her hands to Jane and her husband, "be true and faithful to each other. Leave no work undone, love the children, and ask help from the hills, whence it shall ever come. You will, I am sure;" and her eyes turned inquiringly upon them.

"Oh, Mis' De-Mond," said Jane, "I will, oh, you blessed angel woman!"

"I will, so help me God!" said Mr. Turner, and they took their seats, while Clara, with a motion that said please come, called:

"Matthias and Aunt Peg, and you too, John, don't think I can ever forget you. You will come to me, and you will know me there, and, John, you have a wonderful work to do; your words will bear sweet tidings to your race, and your reward shall be that of the well-doer."

"Oh, de good Lord! white lamb, how kin we ever let you go; you's done got hold on our heart-strings! Oh, de good Lord bless ye, ye snow-white darlin', an' ef it's de Mas'r's will, den we mus' lib all in the dark widout ye, but de light ob your eyes is hevin to dis ole heart!"

"Oh, that's true' nuf!" said Aunt Peg, "God'll take care on you, but what'll we do?" and their groans fell like the wailing winds upon the ears of us all; our hearts were touched to their inmost chords.

"Mr. Davis," said Clara, and her eyes dilated with a wondrous light while her voice grew unnaturally strong, "I am to see your wife. Shall I say you are looking forward to meeting her?"

"Just that, and it will not be long," and he bowed his head as he held in both his own her white hand.

"Halbert and Mary, come and let me bless you. My brother and sister, you are so dear to me. You, Halbert, have a wondrous touch; you stand before the shrine of art, and ere many years a people's verdict shall more than seal your heart's desire; a master artist you shall be, my friend."

"Oh, Clara, Clara!" said Hal—

"Yes," she continued, "Love's fawn has won the prize for you at home and abroad; I leave to you a friend,—Louis will attend to it all,—and among the little ones who come there will be some who have, like you, talent; help them as you shall see fit."

He could only bow his head, while Mary, sobbing as if her heart would break, said:

"Do not go; oh, do not leave us!"

Clara closed her eyes and sank back among her cushions almost breathless. We took her hands, Louis and I, and I feared she would never speak again. Tearful and motionless these beloved ones sat about her, and at last, when the crimson and gold swept like a full tide of glory the broad western expanse that lay before us, she raised herself, looked into all our faces, held her lips for a last kiss from us of the household, and said in tones as clear as silver bells:

"I am going now; he is coming. Aunt Hildy, you will come soon. Emily, love my Louis. Louis, kiss me again; fold close the falling garment. Baby, breathe on me once more—Louis Robert. Oh, this is beautiful!"

Her head dropped on Louis' shoulder. Slowly the eyelids covered the beautiful eyes.

She was dead. Clara, the purest of all, dead and how beautiful the transition! What a picture for the sunset to look upon, as with the full tide of sympathy flooding our hearts, we stood around her where she lay! John, in his strong dark beauty, with folded arms, and eyes like wells of sorrow; Matthias and Aunt Peg, with tears running over their dusky faces; good Mr. Davis, with his gray hairs bending over her as if to hear her tell the message to his loved one; Aunt Hildy standing like one who is only waiting for a little more to fill the cup, which is already near her lips; my father and mother with their tender sympathies expressed in every feature, with Jane and her husband near them like two statues; Hal and Mary beside Louis and me, wrapt like ourselves in the mantle of a strange and new experience. How long we stood thus, I know not; the last sun-rays were dying as Aunt Hildy said: "We must wait no longer; Jane and Aunt Peg, you'll help me, the rest of you need'nt stay;" and so we left our beautiful dead, still in the hands of her friends.

The day of her burial was a perfect one—calm in its beauty, the blue of its skies like the eyes of our darling. The little pillow made by her own hands was of blue, covered with a fine web of wrought lace, and with edging that had also been her handiwork. We dressed her as she desired,—in a plain dress of pale blue,—the violet blossoms she loved were in her hand, and it seemed to me as if I could never see her laid out of sight—she was so beautiful in this last sleep; she looked not more than thirty; there were no gray hairs among the brown, and no lines of care or sorrow marked her sweet, pure face.

All things were as she desired, and when the sun burned low on the hills, we laid her under the willow, while the children sang "Sweet Rest."

"Will there ever be another like her?" I said.

"Never," said Aunt Hildy.

"No, never," said the hearts of all.

My father missed her as much as if she had been his daughter, and I was glad of little Emily's presence; it was a star in our night. Louis was calm and strong, and spoke of her daily, and insisted on her plate at the table, saying:

"I cannot call her dead. Let us keep a place for her."

It was a tender recognition which we respected. He looked after her, it seemed to me, and almost saw her in her new home. The months wore on, and our cares were still increasing. News of battles lost and won came to us daily, and at last a letter telling of Lieutenant Minot having been wounded seriously. It was impossible for any one to reach him at present, and we must wait until he got to Washington, whither he would be sent as soon as he was able. Our fears were great, but at last a letter came from Washington, stating he would start for home on the twenty-first of October, and he desired Hal to meet him in New York. Hal found that the wound was in the shoulder, and the ball was still in it. Unsuccessful probing had caused him great suffering, and we should hardly have known him.

When the real state of the wound was known, Aunt Hildy said:

"I can get that ball out," and she went to work energetically. She cut cloth into strips and bound all about the place where the ball entered, and then she made a drawing "intment," as she called it, and applied it daily, and in about four weeks, to our great delight, the ball came out. Ben had the receipt for that wonderful "intment," and he calls it "Aunt Hildy's miracle."

When the cold days of the fall came upon us, Aunt Hildy felt them greatly, and the morning of December tenth we awoke to find her gone; she had gone to sleep to wake in a better home.

It seemed as if we could not have it so, but when I remembered all she had told me of her hopes and fears, when I knew she had found Clara and was glad, I said we were selfish; let our hearts say "Amen."

The town mourned Aunt Hildy, and again our church was filled to overflowing, and the sermon Mr. Davis preached was a just and beautiful tribute to our beloved friend, the true and faithful Hildah Patten.

The day after the burial, father said to us in a mournful tone:

"Now I have a duty to perform, and when she talked to me about it, she said, 'Do it right off, Mr. Minot; don't wait because you feel kinder bad to have me laid away. It's the best way to do what you've got to do, and get it over with.'

"So to-night we'll read the papers, and then we will carry out her desires—good old soul; I do wish she could have stayed longer. I can hardly see how we're going to live without her."

The evening drew near, and Halbert, Mary and Ben, with little Hal, were seated in the "middle room," while my father, with a trembling hand, turned the key in a small drawer of the old secretary, and took out a roll of papers and a box. As he did so a thought struck him, and he turned suddenly, saying:

"Why are not all here? She told me to have Matthias and Peg and John come over. I believe a few more sad partings would make me lose my memory."

"I'll go over for them," said Ben; "it is early yet."

"Yes, there is plenty of time," said father. "The sun sets early; the shortest day in the year will soon be with us," and his eyes closed as if he were too tired to think, and he sat in silence until the sound of feet on the walk aroused him.

"Hope we hain't come over to see more dyin', Miss Em'ly. 'Pears like its gettin' pooty lonesome round yere," and as our friends seated themselves, the old clock tolled the hour of seven.

Little Emily was asleep in Louis' lap, and her cousin Hal curled himself up in one corner of the old sofa, as if he, too, felt the presence of the god of sleep.

"Now we are ready," said my father, "and here is the paper written by Aunt Hildy which she bade me read to you all, and whose instructions we must obey to the letter, remembering how wise and good our kind friend has ever been. It is written in the form of a letter," and he read the following:

"My dear friends, I am writin' this as ef I was dead and you still in the land of the livin', as we call it; I feel now as if when you read it I shall be in the land of the livin', and you among them who feed mostly on husks. I know by this stubbin pain in my side that I shall go to sleep, and jest step over into Clary's room before long, and all that ain't settled I am settlin' to-night, and to Mr. Minot's care I leave these papers and this box. You have been good and true friends to me, and I want to help you on a little in the doin' of good and perfect work. When Silas left me alone he took with him little money. I don't know what possessed him; but Satan, I guess, must have flung to the winds the little self-respect he had. He took one boy off with him to be a vagrant. Silas' father was a good man, and he left a good deal of property to this son of his, and we had got along, in a worldly sense, beautiful; so when, he went away he left considerable ready money and a lot of land, and I've held on to it all. Sometimes I've thought one of 'em might come back and want some of it; but now I know they are dead. From time to time I've sold the land, etc., and you see I've added to what was left. I now propose to divide it between Emily and Louis, as one, Jane North Turner and her husband, and John Jones."

As this name fell from my father's lips, John's dark eyes spoke volumes and his broad chest heaved with emotion, but he sat perfectly erect, with his arms folded, and I thought what a grand picture he made.

Matthias groaned:

"Oh, de good Lord ob Israel, what ways?" Aunt Peg gave vent to one of her peculiar guttural sounds as father concluded the unfinished sentence with the names of Ben, Hal and his good little wife.

"Now, you can't do a great deal with this money, but it will go a little ways toward helpin' out. I believe there is just three thousand dollars, and that figgers only six hundred dollars apiece. Now, ef Ben's shoulder prevents him from workin', and he needs to have it, Halbert must give him half of what I leave to him, and I know he'll do it. Ben wants to get married, and I can see which way the wind blows in that quarter, and I think sense he's been half killed you'd all better help him. When that comes to pass, give to him all the furniture and beddin' that I leave, for his wife will be sensible enough to be glad of it. Halbert's likeness of me in marble is a great thing they say, and sells well, and he will please to put me up again in that same shape, and then sell the picter and use the money to help the poor. He'll do jest what I'd like to have him.

"Emily and Louis will know jest what to do with their share; and now, John Jones, to you,—as a child of our father, as a brother to me,—I say, help yourself with what little I bestow in the very best way you can. Ef I didn't know you would look well after Peg and Matthias I should have left it to them and not to you. They won't stay here very much longer, any way—and its all peace ahead, blessed peace. You, perhaps, are wonderin' why Jane and her husband ain't here in this list. This is the reason: I wanted to tell you jest how I come to have this money, and I thought her husband would feel bad at the explanation. I should like to have you all go over there, and let Mr. Minot read to Mr. and Mrs. Turner and the children the paper I have left for them. Now I'm contented to go, and ef they do put a railroad track through my wood lot, it can't make me feel bad. The things of earth that I held so close through long years, will not seem to me any more as they have, too holy to be teched."

When father concluded the reading, we sat in such silence that the tick of the old clock, was to our ears the united beating of our hearts. Our thoughts were all centered on the wisdom and goodness of our unselfish friend who, through her life had been ever mindful of the needs of her fellow-men, and who, when standing before the gate of her eternal home, threw behind her her last treasure, thinking still of the poor hearts who needed its benefit.

We were to assemble at Jane's the next afternoon at five o'clock, and when we said "good night," John looked up at the stars and said:

"If the spirit of that good woman sees me, she reads what I cannot tell you."

The next afternoon found us in Jane's large square room, which faced the western sky, and no less than twenty children were seated there with us. This number seemed to be the complement of the Home,—as many as could comfortably be accommodated. It was a pleasant care to Jane, for her heart was in the work, and she looked younger now than before the work began. The wishes of the boys were consulted, and each one as nearly fitted to the place he occupied as possible. Jane said, when they first began to multiply, the care troubled her some; but she began to talk to herself, and to say: "There now, don't be foolish enough to notice every little caper of them boys," and then, she said: "I began to practise what I preached to myself. It worked first-rate, for I give over watchin' 'em, and we get along splendid."

There was a breathless silence when Louis said:

"We are here at the request of your friend, children, the blessed Aunt Hildy who has left a word for you. You know she loved you, and I imagine at this moment you are each wearing a pair of stockings which were knit for you by her. Now listen, please, while Mr. Minot reads to you her letter."

Then, in a slow and impressive manner, father read as follows:

"My dear folks at the Home. I'm about to leave this world for a better, and on the borders of that blessed land I think of you. I think of your happy faces and of Mr. and Mrs. Turner, who love you so much, and I should like to have you know that I expect to meet you all over there. You boys will grow to be good men, and you girls, who are like sweet pinks to my mind, I want you to make blessed good women every one of you. Now I think the good folks who take care of you would be thankful to have a school-house of their own, and teachers who are interested in the work of helping you along; and to give a little help, I leave to Mr. and Mrs. Turner eight hundred dollars—two hundred is in the box in one dollar gold pieces—to build a school-house with. You know I own a piece of land next to yours, and here in this plot of two acres I want you to put up this school-house. Give Mr. Brown the work, and let him draw up the plan with Mr. Turner; I've figured it out, and I think there's enough to build a good, substantial building such as you need; and the deed of the two acres I give to the children. Each one of their names is there, including those of the two that came first. Let each one, ef old enough, do as he or she pleases with the ground. Ef they want to raise marigolds, let 'em, and ef they want to raise garden sass, let 'em. I should think Burton Brown would like to step in as a teacher, and I believe he will, but the rest you can manage.

"Now this is all. When you get the school-house built you'll want a walk around it, and ef you should have a border of flowers, you may put in some 'live forever' for me, for that means truth, and that is what I want you to find. If Fanny Mason feels like goin' over to Mis' Minot's to live with her, I'd like to have her go, and if she does, she'll find two chests and a trunk full of things I've left that she needs, but she must have her piece of ground here just the same. The deed I have made is recorded, and I would like to have Mr. Dayton survey the land, and make the division of it. Then you can each one of you hold your own as long as you live, Mr. and Mrs. Turner keepin' it in trust till the law says you're of age."

The hearts of the children were touched at this token of love. Bright eyes reflected happy thoughts. Fanny Mason was the first to speak. She looked at my mother, while her eyes swam in tears.

"May I come, Mrs. Minot?—I would like to help somebody, and it must be right or she would not have written it."

Mother held her hand to her, and I thought I never saw gratitude more plainly written than upon the face of Fanny. She was one of the three girls whom Louis found in the city streets, the eldest of the flock, and so good and amiable we had always loved her. When mother held her hand out to her in answer to her question, little Emily thought it time to speak, and putting out both her own, said:

"Tum, Panny, et, you outer."

"I will," said Fanny, as she gathered her in her arms.

"I'm goin' to have flowers," I heard one little fellow say.

"I'm goin' to raise corn," said another.

Mr. Davis was with us this evening, and after the children had given vent to their joy, he rose, saying:

"I have a word to say of our dear good friend, Mrs. Patten. About four weeks before she left us, I had a long talk with her. She told me of her pleasant anticipations and also that she expected to see me there ere long. Her last words on that memorable occasion were, as nearly as I can remember, these: 'I go from death to life, from bondage to freedom. All I have of earth I want to leave where it shall point toward heaven, or a higher condition of things. If you were to stay, Brother Davis, you should do some of this work, but you must get yourself ready, and you need no more to dispose of.' I feel that this is true, and I ask you, children, to feel that I shall hope to be remembered by you through time. The lesson of harmonious action has been taught upon these hills, and when the years to come shall brighten our pathway, tired hearts will still be waiting. The angel of deliverance will be present then, as now, and the munificence of those who have gone from us, as well as of those who are yet in the body, has made the strong foundation on which to stand; and in the blest future your hands will be helpful, while your hearts shall sing of those whose hearts and hands did great service for the advancement of love and truth. My heart is glad; I have learned much; I know that our Father holds so closely his beloved, that no one of his children shall call to him unheard."

We had a real meeting, as Jane expressed it, and I said to Louis:

"What a great fire a small matter kindleth!"

He replied: "We have claimed the promise and brought to our hearts the strength we need 'where two or three are gathered together.' You know I often think of this, and also of the incomparable comfort the entire world would have if the eyes that are blinded could see; if the hearts that beat slow and in fear were quickened into life. Ah! Emily, the years to come hold wondrous changes. The cruel hand of war would never have touched us had the first lesson in life's book been well read and understood."

"That is true," said my father, as we entered the gate at home, and looking up I saw two stars, and said:

"Clara and Aunt Hildy both say 'Amen!'"



CHAPTER XXIII.

AUNT HILDY'S LEGACY.

It was the spring of 1862, when "Aunt Hildy's Plot" was the scene of happy labor. Uncle Dayton made the survey of the land and a map of it. All the children knew the boundaries of their individual territories; and the youngest among them, five-year-old Sammy, strutted about with his hands in his pockets, whistling and thinking, now and then giving vent to his joy. When he saw Louis and me coming, for we all went over to see the ground broken for the schoolhouse, he came toward us hurriedly, saying with great earnestness:

"I shall raise much as three dollars' worth of onions on my land. Do you s'pose I can sell em, Mr. Desmonde? I want to sell 'em and put the money in the bank, for when I get money enough I'm going to build a house, and get married, too, I guess."

Louis answered him kindly, as he did all the rest, and when we went home he said he held more secrets than any one man ought to.

The dedication of our schoolhouse was a grand affair. It came off on the seventeenth of June. Uncle Dayton and Aunt Phebe came, and we gathered the children from the town and village, clothed them in white with blue ribbons streaming from their hats, and had them marched in line into the building—the first two holding aloft a banner which Louis and I had made for them. Many came from the surrounding town, and three of our friends from Boston. There were speeches made by Mr. Davis, Uncle Dayton, Louis, John, and others, and singing by the children. It was a glorious time, and we felt that our beloved Aunt Hildy must now be looking down upon us with an approving smile; and when the marble statuette of her dear self was placed in a niche, made for its reception, it seemed to me I could hear Clara say, "It is beautifully appropriate."

The mode of operation was to be decided on, and when Louis spoke with feeling of the coming days, he said to the children:

"You are our children; we are your friends; and together we mean to be self-supporting, instead of going about among the people soliciting alms. We will be pensioners on each other's bounty, and when we are strong enough to aid others who need our assistance, we will send forth gladly comforts from our home. Some little boys who are to raise strawberries on their patch of ground, will be glad to carry a dish of berries to some poor invalid; and so with everything you do, remember the happiness of doing something for those around us, for the poor we have always with us. I have been thinking about a teacher. Mr. Brown, our little Burton from the mill, has engaged to teach school in an adjoining village, and for a time cannot come to you. He will be able to be your teacher after awhile, and I understand that is his wish. I never taught school myself, but I have been wondering if you would like me to try until he is ready. All those who would like me to come, say aye."

I rather think Louis heard that response. I started, for such a sharp, shrill sound rent the air that the window glass quivered as if about to break."

"Now all who do not wish me for a teacher, say no."

A calm like that of the Dead Sea ensued, to be broken after a second by little Sammy, who cried:

"Oh, pooh! There ain't nobody."

"Agreed," said Louis; "then I am elected, am I?"

"Yes, sir!" shouted the children.

"Then we'll hear you sing 'Hail Columbia,' and separate for the day. I hope the summer will be a happy one for you all!"

It will be impossible to fully describe "Aunt Hildy's Plot," as it appeared in the days when everything was settled, and the children at work in earnest, each with an idea born of himself.

I thought I saw little that spoke to me of original sin and of the depravity which, according to an ancient creed, grew in the human heart as a part of each individual. There were strawberry beds and raspberry rooms, patches of lettuce and peppergrass, long rows of corn with trailing bean-vines in their rear, hedges of peas and string beans, and young trees set out in different places, like sentinels of love and care reaching toward the overarching sky.

Little Sammy had his onion patch as he desired. It was a happy sight, and one that touched the heart, to see each one progressing methodically day after day. They worked an hour before breakfast, and as long as they pleased after supper. They took great comfort in "changing works," as they called it; you would hear them say:

"Now, let's all go over to Joe's land this afternoon, and to John's to-morrow;" and in this way they sowed and reaped together.

The plot measured considerably more than two acres, and there was a space of about twenty square rods for each.

This, when properly cared for, made for them nice gardens to take care of. Louis succeeded, of course, in the school. The building had cost considerably more than six hundred dollars, for we knew it was wise to build it of brick rather than wood, and also to have room enough for an increase of pupils.

Louis said, when it was being built:

"I can see, Emily, the days to come; the harvest that shall arise; and for years, perhaps, the hands of the reapers will not number many. Some of the seed will fall on barren soil, and some of the grain that waits for the reaper will spoil; but in the end, yes, in the gathering up of all, the century shall dawn that lights the world with these dear thoughts that feed us to-day. Work and pleasure go hand in hand with the progressive thought that after a time shall blend the souls of men with those of angels, for 'the earth is the Lord's and the fullness thereof.' I feel that I have escaped so much in coming here when I did. These hills have, with your presence, my beloved, made it the shrine of purity, and the vows here taken have absolved my soul. The little things that arise to annoy us may not be called trouble, and we shall live here till our hair is gray; till Emily Minot shall take in her own hands the reins that fall from the hands of her mother; for I feel that all the unfinished pictures which we shall leave will be completed, some at the hands of our daughter, and others by those whose hearts we shall learn to know.

Before we leave this lower state To join the well-beloved who wait, Our little mother helps us here, Our guardian angel through each year. She was as beautiful as fair; How glorious an angel there!'"

And the face of my Louis, transfigured by his thought, shone with a light that seemed to come from afar. I loved so well to hear him preach, that when Mr. Davis' health became too precarious for him to occupy the pulpit longer, I was glad to hear Louis say he would accept the place tendered by Mr. Davis and by all the people of our town. I say all the people, although perhaps there were a few who, liking to be busy and failing to look for anything better, occupied themselves with the small talk which made sometimes great noise without really touching anybody; but we did not count this in life's cost, and were not affected by it.

Louis treated all with uniform kindness, and taught them the lessons they could not fail to appreciate, though, as he had said, some of the seed must fall on barren ground. It is not to be supposed that the mill-owners were glad to lose the work of the children, for it was worth much and cost little; but since they were not powerful enough to establish monarchical government, they were forced to submit, and they submitted gracefully, too, from the policy which, as Louis had said, whispered "He has money," and they might sometime desire favor at his hands.

It seemed to me sometimes that Louis' money would not last as long as his life; but when I said something of the kind, he answered:

"Yes, yes, Emily; we shall not be embarrassed financially, for we consult needs, and these you know are small compared to wants. A little ready money will go a long way; we shall not suffer from interest nor from high rates of taxation here; give yourself no uneasiness."

When the school was started we were surprised, as well as pleased, to receive calls from some of our good people, who desired to have their children go to the Home School as pupils. They felt moved to take this step from two considerations; one, the more thorough education which the children would receive; and the other, an interest felt in our work, and a desire to help the school to become one of the best.

They proposed paying a tuition fee, to which we all consented, reserving to ourselves the right of taking those who might desire to attend and not be able to pay; and through their really generous contributions in this way, when Burton Brown came to assume the duties of a schoolmaster, there was a fund sufficient to pay him well for his services.

We named this the Turner Fund, although Jane insisted it should be Demond.

John desired to donate his gift from Aunt Hildy to the Turner Fund, but Louis objected, saying:

"John, you have no right to do this; you need to get a house for yourself before you help others. It would not be right to take your money, and we cannot accept it."

Matthias says:

"'Pears like I kin tote ober to de 'Plot' an' tinker roun' thar wid de chilun. John's done boun' I shan't do no moah work, an' I can't stop still no how, for it 'pears like I'm dead 'fore de time."

He made himself wonderfully useful there, and the children loved him. John got along splendidly, and bought the saw-mill; for Ben, although better, could not do any work at the mill, and John was very glad to own it.

I am ashamed to say that now and then a small-souled individual would ventilate his miserable prejudices, and expressions like the following came to our ears:

"Wonder what'll happen if the niggers all get free; got one for a saw-mill owner already;" all of which fell, to be sure, at John's feet with an ignorant thud. Still, when we looked at him and realized his noble nature, it seemed too bad to think there could be one such word spoken.

How fortunate it is that our hearts do naturally retain the perfume of the roses, and forget the presence of the thorns! The wiser we grow the more natural we become; and on the rock of truth we can stand, feeling no jar, when the missiles of a grovelling mind are hurled against its base. When we get tired, however, and are forced by the pressure of material circumstances to wander down into the valley, while we stand even then in the shelter of our mountain, still we find our feet sometimes soiled by the gathered mud.

Here is where the weak-hearted of our earth fail, and, looking not to the mountains, become at last settled in the valley, and suffer even to the end, borne down by the fettering chains of a life which is, at best, only breathing. Their wings held close, they cannot rise beyond the clouds and fog into the clearer atmosphere of a higher condition.

My fortieth birthday is upon me. I am sitting in the room where, since the day of our wedding, all of my best thoughts have been written. Sharp winds blow around our dwelling, but our hearts heed not their harsh voices. Louis and I have been retrospecting to-day, reading together the journal of the past two years. We have kept it together, devoting two pages to each day, each of us writing one. It is not uninteresting; many changes have been dotted down; and still, to look in upon us, you could not see them. Here is the date of one, the death of good Mr. Davis, and an account of the sermon preached by Louis at his funeral, the witnessing of his last experience among us, and the blessed comfort it gave us, as with his death-cold lips he murmured, "My wife." Clara and all, he saw their beckoning hands and angelic faces. He heard sweet music blending with our voices as we sang to him at his request.

"It is enough; let us rejoice together," said Louis, "for he has gone to his own, and he shall have no more pain forever."

On another page we read of the children's harvest gathered, and also of their Christmas festivities, of the prosperous condition of the school, and the untiring diligence of the scholars; extracts from lectures given by John at the schoolhouse, and the date of his first lecture in the Quaker city, Philadelphia; sorrowful records of the battles fought and gained; a sad story of Willie Goodwin, who was taken prisoner by the Confederates, and came home, poor fellow, only to die; news from our Southern Mary in her Pennsylvania home, and an account of her visit to us, bringing with her Louise, a pet girl, once owned by her father. I saw John looking at her sharply, and with undisguised admiration, and I thought, perhaps, when Ben's wedding day had passed, John might have one. I could say truthfully, "I hope he will."

No matter how many or great the changes, the robins still build their nests in the elm tree, and the grass still grows to cover the earth of brown with its emerald mantle; for what care the daisies and the grapes, if the hand of the reaper bids them bow before his trusty blade? The life is at their roots, and their flowers and blades will come again. So with our hearts; they are as hopeful as in the earlier days, ere we had lost sight of some of our jewels, and it is true our love has deathless roots.

Louis grows more blessed all the while. The step of my mother is slow, and father bends to bear the burden of his years, while the voice of our Fanny, who will be my sister through all time, cheers them in their daily walk, as she holds in peace the place of little house-keeper. She loves her home, and we love her. Louis and I have just been looking at the pleasant picture in our middle room, where our Emily Minot, sitting between gray hairs, holds in her lap a year-old brother (Louis), while Fanny, sitting on the old sofa, sings the song of "Gentle Annie."

Matthias, Peg and John are coming over the hill; Jane and her husband will be here soon, for I am to have a birthday supper. Ben will be with us, but Hal and Mary, with little Hal, are across the sea. They sailed last June to find "Love's Fawn," or rather strength for Mary. Aunt Hildy, "done up in marble," went with them. They will come to us in June, the month of roses; I love it best of all.

"Hope dey will; but 'pears like you's jes' gone an' done it."

It is morning again. No clouds skirt the horizon; broad, beautiful daylight beams lovingly upon us. The wind, which yesterday blew such fierce breaths, journeyed southward during the night, and returned laden with good-tempered sweetness, whispering of warmer days. We had a pleasant birthday supper, and by request I read aloud a few of the foregoing chapters. Matthias rose in terror as he listened to the recital of our united lives, and interrupted me, saying:

"De good lansake, 'fore de Lord ob Canaan! but you ain't gwine to put me down in rale printed readin', is ye?"

One would have supposed I had been reading his death warrant, or something equally portentous, as he stood before me with dilated eyes and upraised hands. I smiled at the picture and answered:

"Certainly."

"Wall," he said, in a despairing tone, "it'll jes' kill de sale ob dat book. All de res' is good nuf, but dem tings I'se said don't have no larnin' to 'em, Miss Em'ly. 'Spect de folks'll tink you's done gone crazy puttin' me down by de side ob de white lamb. It's mighty quare an' on-reasonablelike, 'tis sartin'."

"Oh, Matthias," I replied, "the people will like it!"

"Hope you's in de right ob it, but what kin you call it when it's all done printed out fur ye?"

"That is the question. Louis says 'call it The Harvest of Years.'"

The look of quiet wonder which had succeeded the terrified expression his face at first revealed merged gradually into one of happy certainty, his large eyes filled with honest tears, and he said with much feeling:

"Mas'r Louis knows what's right sure nuf. De good Lord had taken into de kingdom some ob de bes' grain an' lef de ole stubble still. 'Pears like 'twas cuttin' a big field fur to take Miss Catten an' de white lamb too. Ah! Miss Em'ly, dis harves' ob years is a gwine on troo all de seasons; hope dis ole nigger'll be ready when de Lord comes roun' fur him."

The child of my thought is christened by the recognition which comes from the heart of one who is "faithful over the few things," and therefore claims the promise which many with enlarged privileges fail to acknowledge. Can I regret the choice Louis made? My heart says "never," and my narrative shall be called "The Harvest of Years."

"Yes," said Louis, "I think so too; but my name for the book is 'Emily Did It.'"



Transcriber's Notes:

Pg 164—moved closing quote from 'shook as if with ague."' to 'feel such a strange joy;"'

THE END