image012Christmas at Cedar Hill.
Christmas at Cedar Hill.
Christmas at Cedar Hill.
"'But I am not going to cry,' said Fanny aloud, resolutely brushing the tears from her eyes. 'If I once begin, I shall never know when to stop. I shall make my head ache, and then I shall be good for nothing.'"
"Determinedly she wiped her eyes and choked down her sobs. She looked into the candle box. It was half full of nice mould candles, and there was, besides, a jug of oil."
"'Well,' said Fanny, as she concluded her survey, 'I don't see that I need be extra careful of anything but wood, and I don't think I shall get out of that very soon. If father and mother are alive, they will be coming to look for me before long. Then they must know down at Mr. Morrell's that I am here alone, because father told Miss Gibson, and I should think they would see that I don't suffer. At any rate there is One who knows all about it, and while He cares for me, no real harm can come to me. Oh, I never knew before how good it was to trust in Him!'"
"Fanny got her breakfast and washed all her dishes nicely. When the necessary work was done, she began to consider how she should spend the day. It was Thanksgiving day—a time set apart by the Church and the State is which to praise the Lord and rejoice before Him for all His goodness during the year. Fanny know what her duty was. She loved the services of the Church dearly, and she had always been taught that it was not only her duty, but a precious privilege, to join with heart and voice in the prayers and praises of God's people; and she felt comforted at the thought that she could still join with them, though she was alone on the snowy hill-top."
"When church time came, she got out the great Bible and Prayer-book and laid them on the table. Then she took down one volume of a set of sermons, out of which her father often read when they did not go either to Rockville or to the Corners on a Sunday. She selected a discourse which seemed to her suitable to the occasion, and put in a mark."
"Then, as the clock struck the hour of church time, she opened her Prayer-book and slowly and reverently read the service. She had never prayed more earnestly in all her life than she did at this time; and she realized more than she had ever done the meaning of those words in the Creed, 'The Communion of Saints.' She felt herself a member of the Church, and she found great comfort in the feeling. She was but a little girl twelve years; she had never taken up much room in the world, and if she died hardly any one besides her father and mother would miss her very much; and yet she was, by her baptism, 'A member of Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven.' She was, in some mysterious way, one with Christ, and through Him with all his faithful people. How then could she ever be really alone?"
"Fanny read the sermon she had selected, and though she did not understand all of it, she found many things both pleasant and profitable. When she had finished her services, she sat for some time singing the psalms and hymns in the Prayer-book, and others which she had learned down in the village. She had a sweet voice, and always took great pleasure in singing. If anything happened to make her angry or sad, she would run away by herself and sing; and she seldom failed to regain her tranquillity in this way."
"'I must get a nice dinner,' said Fanny, when noon came. 'It would not be like Thanksgiving unless I did.'"
"After dinner, Fanny began to think what she should do next. She did not feel quite so cheerful as she had done in the morning. The darkness and the loneliness began to tell upon her spirits. Then, too, it was so terribly still. Fanny felt as though even the roaring of the wind would be a relief; but she could not hear a breath. There was only the ticking of the clock, the burning of the fire, and the noises made by the kittens in playing about the floor. Every now and then Fanny would feel sure that she heard people digging in the snow, and she would strain her ears to the utmost, only to be disappointed again. The time wore on very slowly, and at last the clock struck four."
"'I cannot stand this,' said Fanny, throwing down the book she was in vain trying to read. 'I must have something to do. I believe I will get out my spinning wheel. I hope it will not be doing wrong. I feel as if I should be crazy unless I did something.'"
"This again was wise in the little girl. There is nothing so good as strenuous employment to keep the mind healthy under circumstances of excitement and suspense. Fanny worked hard at her spinning, taking the greatest pains with her thread, till eight o'clock, when she took her supper, fed the dog and cat, and then went to bed."
"Fanny's danger was much more serious than she had any notion of. A great weight of snow had by this time gathered on the house, which was what is called gambrel-roofed—that is to say, it was two stories high in front and sloped down to one behind. A modern-built house would most likely have been crushed at once, but the old red farm-house was solidly framed with stout oak timbers, three times as thick as any we think of using nowadays, and it stood out bravely as yet."
"Fanny did not rest as soundly this night as the night before. She was troubled with bad dreams, from which she started affright, calling for her mother, and crying when she remembered that that mother was far away, if indeed she were alive. It was dreadful to wake in the morning from a dream of summer and green trees, and David walking with her to school, and then to realize it all—the snow above and around, the loneliness and uncertainty. Fanny would have been glad to sleep till noon, but that was impossible."
"So she got up, and after she had finished her breakfast she set to spinning with all her might. She now kept two candles lighted, the place seemed so dismal. Bose was growing very uneasy. He whined and cried to go out, and behaved so strangely that Fanny was half afraid of him."
"The day wore on slowly, and night came again, and yet she was alone."
"For three whole days, she had not seen the face of a human being. Her firewood was getting low, too. She hardly dared to go into the shed for more, and yet she was afraid her fire would go out unless she got a larger stick. At last she determined to venture. She found her sled in one corner, and, getting a pretty good-sized log on it, she managed to drag it into the kitchen. She had done this three times and was going out again, when Bose sprang between her and the door, and would not allow her to pass, even growling and taking hold of her dress with his teeth when she tried to push him out of the way. At that moment, the shed fell in with a great crash. But for the dog, Fanny would have been buried in its ruins."
"As it was, the fall of the shed was both alarming and inconvenient. She could get no more wood and no more well-water; and what if the roof to the home should fall in as that of the shed had done! She went up into the garret to see if she could see any signs of its yielding, but all stood firm as yet."
"And now Fanny made a great discovery. There was a little projecting window, such as is sometimes called a dormer window, high in the roof, looking towards the east, and through this window Fanny could see a little glimpse of daylight. She stood looking at it in a kind of ecstasy, and as she gazed a ray of clear sunshine shot through it and glanced upon the great old chimney and the blackened beams and boards of the roof. It seemed to the poor little girl like a visible angel messenger from her Father in heaven. She clasped her hands and burst into joyful tears, while she fell upon her knees and thanked God that at least the dreadful storm was over."
"It was long before she could tear herself from the sight of that blessed light; but at last, finding herself growing chilly, she descended to the kitchen, and, having carefully made up her fire, she began to spin once more, singing as she drew out her long threads and speaking cheerfully now and then to the cat and dog."
"Presently she stopped her wheel, and went to get the reel on which to wind the yarn she had spun. As she set it down, Bose sprang up, and began to bark and howl furiously, at the same time scratching violently at the door. With some trouble, Fanny quieted him for a moment, and listened as well as her beating heart would let her. There was certainly something moving outside—a muffled sound of digging. Fanny even thought she could distinguish voices. She flew to the garret, and piled one box on another, lifting easily in her excitement a chest she could hardly have moved at another time. A tall, slender pole stood in the corner. She pulled off her pink apron and tied it on the pole for a flag. Then finding that she could not move the window, she broke the glass, and, thrusting the pole through it, she waved it about. Oh, joyful sound! Her signal was answered by a shout. She was saved!"
"We must now go back to Mr. Morrell's house at the Corners. After the storm came on, Jake began to be rather uneasy about the consequences of his falsehood. He tried to comfort himself by thinking that after all Fanny very likely had gone with her father and mother, and was safe in Rockville all the time; but still the thought would haunt him that Fanny was alone in the house on the hill, and that if anything happened to her he would be answerable."
"'Bolt's folks will hardly get home to-night,' remarked Mrs. Morrell, as her husband came in with Jake from foddering the cattle and milking the cows."
"'If they have any sense at all, they won't try!' replied Mr. Morrell. 'It is quite providential, as it turns out that Fanny went with them, and that Eunice did not go up there. How is she?'"
"'Pretty considerable sick,' replied Mrs. Morrell. 'She has got a real bad cold. Did Captain Bolt say anything about what time he should be back, Jake?'"
"'No,' replied Jake."
"'It must have been a real sudden start, taking Fanny,' continued Mrs. Morrell. 'He didn't know anything about it when he stopped here on his way to the post-office. Maybe there is something going on in their church.'"
"'I shouldn't wonder; and Bolt might have got notice of it when he went to the post-office. Where did you see them, Jake?'"
"'Right up here by the Corners,' answered Jake, keeping as much out of sight as he could."
"'They must have taken an early start to get down to the Corners by that time.'"
"'Like enough they did start early just on purpose to let Eunice know, and calculated to take her up on the way back,' remarked Mrs. Morrell. 'Didn't they say anything about it, Jake?'"
"'I didn't hear it, if they did,' replied Jake. 'Bolt said something just as he was driving off, but I didn't understand what it was.'"
"'I dare say you forgot half your message,' said his aunt. 'Some one must try and get up the hill early in the morning, and see what becomes of the critters. The cows will be spoiled.'"
"But the next morning and the whole of the next day there was no stirring out. The storm raged so fiercely that it was not thought worth while to open the meeting-house, as no one could come who did not live close by. Many a family in the village sat down three or four in number to the dinner which had been prepared for twelve or fifteen. It was the dullest Thanksgiving ever known."
"The family at Mr. Morrell's were round the fire at early twilight, when a knock came at the door. Mr. Morrell opened it, and there stood a man covered from head to foot with snow."
"'Come in, stranger, come in to the fire,' said Mr. Morrell."
"The stranger walked in, after shaking off as much as possible of the clinging snow."
"'So you don't know me, Mr. Morrell,' said he, with a kind of sad smile."
"'I ought to, I dare say, and your voice sounds kind of natural too,' said Mr. Morrell, looking closely him."
"'Good gracious, husband, don't you see!' exclaimed Mrs. Morrell, springing forward. 'It's David—David Bolt. My goodness sakes alive, man, where did you come from?'"
"'From Whitehall, this time,' said David, submitting to be kissed by the good woman as if he had been still the little boy who used to sit on her lap. 'I started from there early this morning, and got a ride as far as Daucey's. I have footed it from there, and tough work it has been. But I felt somehow as if I must get home to-night after I heard from Daucey that the old folks were alive and well. But coming by and seeing your windows so bright, I thought I would drop in and rest before I went up the hill. I expect it will be a tough pull, though.'"
"'You wont stir another peg this night,' said Mr. Morrell, positively. 'Your folks all went to Rockville yesterday before the storm began, and they can't have got home yet. You just stay here to-night, and in the morning early, if it clears off, we will go up and see what has become of the cattle.'"
"With some difficulty David was persuaded to stay all night at the Corners. The next morning, the storm was as bad as ever, and there was no possibility of stirring. But on Saturday morning, the snow had ceased falling, the wind went down, and the sun shone bright and clear. In every direction the roads were blocked up, and it took two hours' work of all the horses and ox teams in the village to clear a path from the store to the meeting-house. David Bolt was enthusiastically welcomed by all his old friends in the village, and invited to more dinners than he could have eaten in two weeks. Just as the long train of teams reached the post-office, two men on horseback came plunging through the drifts from the direction of Rockville."
"'Hurrah! Here's Captain Bolt! Here's your father, David!' shouted the men and boys."
"But Captain Bolt did not seem to heed their words. He rode into the midst of the group, and, throwing himself from his horse, exclaimed:"
"'For the Lord's sake, neighbors, do any of you know anything about my Fanny?'"
"'Fanny!' exclaimed Mr. Morrell, in wonder. 'Why, didn't Fanny go with you? Jake said she did.'"
"'No, no, I never thought of taking her. I thought Miss Gibson was going up there, and we should be home by night. Oh, what has become of those poor girls all this time!'"
"'Eunice is at our house. She is sick with a cold,' said Mr. Morrell. 'Then that poor dear girl has been there alone! Jake, you villain, did not you tell me that you saw Fanny with her father?'"
"But Jake had shrunk away from the crowd and disappeared at the first sight of Captain Bolt."
"'Cheer up, captain,' said Mr. Morrell, kindly. 'I hope all will be well. And see here, who is this waiting to speak to you?'"
"'David—no! Yes, it is! The Lord bless you, my son! Praised be His name who has brought you again from the dead! But oh, David, your poor little sister!'"
"Mr. Lee, the Congregational minister, had been helping his parishioners to break the roads, and he now sprang upon his horse and waved his hat, the wind blowing his white locks about his face."
"'Neighbors and friends,' he said, in a voice that all could hear, 'Captain Bolt's little daughter has been left entirely alone in their house for three days and nights. Let us leave our own concerns and go at once to her rescue!'"
"'Hurrah for Bolt's Hill!' shouted the big blacksmith; and then with a sudden break in his voice: 'Poor dear little young one, all alone in that lonesome place! Hurry up, neighbors. Just think if it was your own child, and work with a will.'"
"It took an hour to reach the turn in the road where the path branched off ''cross lots' to Bolt's Hill. As they reached it and looked up, a universal groan burst from the party. Nothing could be seen of the red house. It was one long unbroken sweep of snow from the top of the ledge almost down to the brook."
"'The Lord have mercy on her!' said Mr. Morrell. 'I'm afraid the house has fallen in, and it is all over.'"
"'No, no! Keep up courage, father,' exclaimed David."
"A tall tree stood just at the turn. The active sailor was at the top in a moment, looking with eager eyes towards the place where the house should have been. There was a moment's silence and suspense."
"'Hurrah, father, I see a smoke!' exclaimed David. 'I see the top of the old chimney, and there is a fire!'"
"'Hurrah!' burst from the crowd. And in a moment they were all pushing with frantic haste towards the hill. They had succeeded in breaking a path as far as the bars which led from the barn-yard into the pasture, and were digging their way towards the house, when they saw the pole with Fanny's red flag thrust out of the garret window. This gave them new courage, and in twenty minutes' time, Fanny was in the arms of her father."
"'Where is mother?' were Fanny's first words."
"'Safe and sound, my dear. We got as far as the White Tavern on our way home, and there we have been ever since. You may guess we have been uneasy enough about you, even when we thought you had Miss Gibson with you. We never guessed that you would be here alone. But, Fanny, you do not speak to David?'"
"'David!' said Fanny, starting."
"'Yes, David! I have hardly spoken to him myself: I have been so troubled about you. But here he is once more, safe and sound, thank God!'"
"Fanny started back, looked for a moment with wild, wide open eyes at the bearded figure which approached her, and put out her hand with an uncertain motion as if to keep him off. Then sight and sense failed her. The next she knew she was lying on the settee, and a kind motherly voice said:"
"'She is coming to herself. Why, Fanny! Look up, dear.'"
"She opened her eyes, and there was good Mrs. Morrell bending over her, and David kneeling by her side. Mrs. Morrell, thinking that Fanny might very likely be ill, had borrowed the minister's cutter, and she and Mrs. Lee had driven up in the wake of the road-breakers."
"That evening Thanksgiving day was kept in earnest, if rather late, at Bolt's Hill. Some one had ridden off at once to the White Tavern to relieve the anxiety of Mrs. Bolt; and by sunset the whole family were assembled in the red house, together with the minister's family and the doctor's, Mr. and Mrs. Morrell, and Eunice Gibson, who had come up, bringing with them a great supply of cakes, pies, biscuits, and all sorts of good things. Fanny, looking pale and feeble with the excitement and fatigue she had gone through, was bolstered up in one corner of the sofa; while between her and his mother sat David, holding a hand of each and relating his adventures."
"He had indeed gone down with the unlucky ship, but had risen again and obtained possession of a part of the wreck. On this, he had floated for a week, until, when almost starved, he had been taken up by a canoe full of savages. Knowing how many of the islanders in the Pacific are cannibals, David expected nothing but that he should be killed and eaten, or at least reduced to the condition of a slave. What, then, was his surprise and delight to find himself among Christian men, some of whom could even speak a few words of English. They had been converted by some of the missionaries which the Christianized islanders are constantly sending out at the risk of their lives to preach the glad tidings of the Gospel among the heathen."
"With these good-natured people David lived five years in great comfort and consideration, his chief trouble being home-sickness. He had the satisfaction of teaching the islanders many useful arts, and of giving them instruction in the truths of the Gospel. At the end of that time, an English ship touched at the island for water, and in her David obtained a passage to Liverpool, from which place he had no difficulty in working his way home."
"'And now you are home, I hope you will stay,' said Mr. Morrell. 'I should think you had had enough of the sea.'"
"'I don't say anything about that,' said David. 'Salt water comes pretty natural to us Bolts. I believe, if father would confess it, he would like to find himself on blue water once more.'"
"'I won't deny but I do have a hankering after it now and then,' said Captain Bolt, laughing; 'but I am pretty well contented to sit in the chimney-corner to-night.'"
"In the course of two or three days Fanny was quite well again. The cows and the old mare suffered somewhat from their long fast, but with care they soon recovered. Nobody was very long the worse for 'the great drift on Bolt's Hill' but Jake Penniman. Mr. Morrell was an upright man, who hated lies in every shape, and had some old-fashioned notions of discipline. The first misfortune which befell Jake was a sound horse-whipping. But a still sorer punishment was the universal contempt and coldness with which he was treated. Not one of the village boys would speak to him or play with him; the girls turned up their noses, and talked about cowards and about poor dear Fanny Bolt whenever he made his appearance. Even Jake's dull nature was roused by this treatment. He found himself more miserable than he had ever been in his life, and he thought seriously of running away."
"'I really don't know what to do with Jake,' said Mr. Morrell to Captain Bolt one day. 'He does have a hard time in the village, that's a fact. I don't think I know how to make any one work. I am no hand to drive. It is so much easier to take hold and do things myself than it is to follow Jake round and make him do them. Wife says I am to blame for a good deal of the boy's laziness, and I don't know but she is right.'"
"'Suppose you let Jake come to me for the rest of the winter,' said Captain Bolt, after a little consideration. 'I believe I am a pretty good hand to drive, at least my boys always thought so; and I will see if I can do anything for Jake.'"
"'Well, Captain Bolt, if you ain't a Christian man, I wouldn't say so,' said Mr. Morrell. 'I shouldn't suppose you could bear the sight of the boy.'"
"'Forgive and forget, neighbor. I should be ashamed to bear malice against a boy like that; and if I can do him any good, I am sure I am very willing to try. I am an old sea captain, you know, and used to having my own way, and maybe Jake will be the better for a change. I will talk with my wife and let you know.'"
"At first Jake did not very well like the notion of going up to Bolt's Hill; but his admiration of David, the returned sailor, and his desire to get away from the village, prevailed. For a while he found his life very irksome. Captain Bolt did not do after him what he left half-finished. He simply made Jake do it over again—twenty times, if necessary. So with his lessons. Jake had never perfectly learned the multiplication table. He now learned it in a day, simply because he was informed that he would have no supper till he did. He learned more in four months than he had done before in all his life, and really turned out quite an average sort of man."
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"IT is growing late," remarked the squire. "Miss Hope, will you tell us a story?"
"I think I must be excused," said Miss Hope, smiling. "I am no story-teller; but I will, if you please, sing you a song instead."
"Oh, how nice!" exclaimed Annie, hastening to open the piano. "I do love music, and our piano hardly ever gets used nowadays."
"Don't you play?" asked Agatha.
"No; only a little by ear. I am going to take lessons as soon as grandfather can find a lady to live in the house and teach me. Hush, Miss Hope is ready to begin."
Miss Hope sang two or three songs which pleased every one, for her voice was very sweet and her pronunciation clear and distinct. Then she played some lively waltzes and marches for the children.
"Oh, how charming!" said Annie, who had hardly dared to breathe while the music was going on. "I wish Miss Hope would live here and give me lessons."
"Perhaps Miss Hope would not care to give lessons," said the old lady, seeing that she colored a little.
"I should be very glad to do so," replied Miss Hope, gently and modestly. "I have lately lost my only earthly dependence, and shall be obliged henceforth to work for my living in some way."
"I should say you were well qualified both to teach music and to sing in a church choir," remarked the clergyman. "Your voice and style are admirable."
"I have always sung in church," said Miss Hope; "but I never once thought of being paid for it. I was glad to give my services; since I had little else to give."
The clergyman smiled approvingly. "You are quite right, my dear Miss Hope. I wish more people were moved by the same spirit. I have no doubt you will succeed in whatever you undertake."
The squire and the old lady exchanged meaning glances.
"It wears late," said the squire once more, "and we have not yet heard from any of these young people. I suggest that they should draw lots, and the one upon whom the lot falls shall relate the story of his or her own life."
This proposal met with universal approbation. Half a dozen colored marbles and one white one were put into the old lady's knitting bag, and the children drew in turn. On examination it was found that Agatha held the white marble.
"I am glad Agatha has drawn it," said Edward. "She has had more adventures than any of us."
"I am not sure that I can make the story very interesting," said Agatha, modestly; "but I will try to do my best. You may call my story, if you please:"
"I was born in the East Indies, though at what place I do not now remember, and the very first thing I recollect is a dead tiger."
The scholar started as he heard these words, and turned his chair so as to bring him a great deal nearer to Agatha. He looked at her earnestly as she proceeded, and seemed deeply interested.
"I do not know how the tiger came to be dead, or how he came there at all," continued Agatha; "but he lay upon the ground in front of my father's house, and my mamma was persuading me to go near and look at him, telling me that he was quite dead and would never kill anybody again. I was dreadfully afraid at first, especially when my brother, who was a great deal older than I, got astride of the tiger's back and sat down; but after a while I let him take me on his knee. He made me look at the tiger's teeth and claws, and stroke the fur on his head, which was very soft and glossy; and I asked him to get me a little tiger to play with. By-and-by they took him away, and his skin was afterwards spread out on our floor."
"I remember having a Persian kitten with a bushy tail, and a beautiful black bird which could talk and whistle, and would swear dreadfully sometimes in spite of everything we could do to him; and I remember a great lizard which lived on a tree planted in a tub and covered with net-work. There were a good many colored servants about the house, but lighter and having straight hair, who dressed very neatly in white muslin. One of these belonged to me particularly. I used to call him my bearer. He was very good to me. He used to carry me about and do all sorts of things to amuse me, and I loved him dearly. But it is very curious that, try as I will, I never can remember his name, though I am sure I should know it in a minute, if I heard it spoken."
"Was it Cashirim?" asked the scholar.
"That was it! That was it!" exclaimed Agatha. "How did you know it?"
"Never mind now. Go on with your story."
All the rest of the party looked at the scholar in surprise, for he was very pale, and his eyes were fixed upon Agatha as if he would look her through. He took no notice of them, however, and again begged Agatha to go on with her story.
"I do not remember my father so very distinctly," continued Agatha, "and I think he must have been away from home a great deal; but I seem to see my mamma's face whenever I try to think of her. I never saw any one who looked the least like her. She had rather delicate health, and did not go out a great deal when my father was away. She used to teach me my lessons every morning. I was very happy in those days, and the first trouble I remember came from my brother's going away. He was quite a grown-up young man then, and he was always very kind to me, telling me stories and letting me ride out with him, for I could ride on my pony when I was a very little girl."
"A gentleman came to our house about that time, whom I was told was my mamma's brother, who had come all the way from America to see her. He was very lively and pleasant, and I liked him very much till he went away, and took Charley with him. Mamma told me that Charley had gone to America to be educated, and would come back to us after a while, but I never saw him again."
"Not a great while after my brother went away—I do not know exactly how long—came a very sad time. My father was an officer, and I used dearly to love to see him on horseback and dressed in his uniform. His men were Indians—irregular horse, I know they were called—and splendid, fine-looking men some of them were; but they were all very good to me, and much pleased when I chattered to them in their own language, of which I know a good deal."
"One day my father came home looking very much excited, and called my mother aside. What he said to her I don't know, but she gave a little scream and threw her arms round his neck. He kissed her, and I heard him say: 'Try to be calm, dear Julia, for my sake.'"
"After that she was very quiet, and went about giving orders, and seeing papa's things packed, as if he were only going away for a day's shooting. When he had kissed us and bade us good-by, and we could not see him any longer from the veranda, mamma led me into her room and took me on her lap, where she cried and sobbed over me for a long time. Then she told me that papa was going to battle, and that we must pray to God to send him safe home again; and so we did, but he never came back any more. Two or three days after he went away, my father's orderly came galloping up to the house. He dismounted, and spoke two or three words to the servants as he passed through the veranda, at which they all broke out into loud lamentations. I knew what he said, for, as I told you, I had learned a good deal of the language. He said, 'Your master is killed!'"
"Mamma was lying on the couch in the inner room, with the blinds all drawn down, for it was very hot, and she was not well. I ran in to her, crying: 'Oh, mamma, my papa is killed!'"
"'What do you mean, Agatha?' she asked, rising and looking very pale. 'Have you been dreaming? Who has heard anything of Papa?'"
"At that moment Jones came to the door, and as soon as mamma saw him she guessed what had happened."
"'Is my husband dead, Jones?' she asked, as quietly as though it had been an ordinary question."
"'I am sorry to say it is too true, ma'am,' he replied; and then he gave her some letters to read, and turned away, brushing the tears from his eyes, for all my papa's men loved him. My mamma read the letters quite calmly, and then calling Jones' wife, who waited on her, and giving me into her charge, she went away into her own room, and shut the door. By that time the news was known all through the cantonment, and several of the ladies came to see my mother, but they could not do her any good. She just sat still in her chair, and did not speak or seem to hear one word that was said to her."
"'This will never do,' said the doctor, who had come with the rest. 'She must be made to weep, or she will die.'"
"'Go to your mamma and talk to her about papa, my dear Agatha,' said the chaplain's wife to me. I did as I was told, though I felt rather afraid. At first she did not seem to notice me, but by-and-by she burst into tears and cried bitterly for a long time. All the ladies seemed glad, and I thought this very strange. It seemed cruel to me that they should want my mamma to cry, but the chaplain's wife explained to me that they thought she would feel better after it. She was better, especially after the chaplain himself came and read to her and prayed with her. He was a kind, good man, and that night, he took me on his knee and talked to me a long time about dear papa. He told me what a brave soldier and what a good man he had been, and that he had no doubt of his being in heaven, where I should some time see him if I loved my Saviour as he had done. All this comforted me very much, and I have always remembered it."
"After this there was a great confusion, packing up, and selling off all our things. I was told we were going to England to see my father's relations, about whom I had never heard a great deal, for, when mamma talked about my uncle, she always meant my uncle in America, who had taken Charley."
"'Cannot we go to America, where Charley is?' I asked."
"'I hope we shall do so by-and-by,' she replied; 'but we must go to England first.'"
"We went a long, long journey in palanquins and on horseback, and down the river to Calcutta, where a great many people were very kind to us, for papa had distinguished himself very much in the battle where he was killed. Before long we set sail for England, leaving behind us all the servants except Jones, who was going home to see her relations. Oh, how I cried at parting with my poor bearer! I do not remember much about the voyage, except that it seemed very long. I thought only of mamma, who was very ill all the time, and grew worse and worse, till just a week before we reached England she died, and was buried in the sea. How dreadful it was to see my dear, dear mamma's body thrown into the deep water! It seemed so much worse than seeing her buried in the ground. I knew that she was in heaven just the same, but still it has always been a grief to me that I could never know exactly where my father and mother lay, for papa was buried on the battle-field, and mamma lies in the ocean. They were all very kind to me on the ship, but I was very sad, and cried all the time; and Jones thought I would die too."
"Well, we arrived in London at last, and Jones took me to my uncle's house, which was a very fine one in a grand square."
"The drawing-room in which my aunt sat was the handsomest I had ever seen, but somehow it never looked pleasant to me. My aunt received me very kindly, kissing me a great many times, and telling me that she hoped I would be happy with her, but I could not help thinking that she did not look very happy herself. I grieved sadly at parting from Jones, but I was a little comforted by her promising to come and see me as often as she could. When she was gone, my aunt took me on her lap, called me her dear little girl, and asked me a great many questions about papa and mamma, and my brother Charles. It made me cry to talk of them, and before I had got over my tears my uncle came home. He was a big man with a red face and grizzled features, and I noticed that my aunt seemed frightened when she heard his step, and hastily wiped her eyes."
"'Hallo. What does all this mean?' he asked, as he entered the room and saw me sitting there."
"'This is my brother's little girl, from India, my dear,' she answered, in a timid, submissive tone."
"'Umph! And what is she crying for? We want no cry babies here, little miss. Quite enough of that sort of thing already.'"
"This was all the welcome he gave me. I felt as though I should choke, and heartily wished myself back in the ship. By-and-by we were called to dinner, which was splendidly set out in a beautiful dining room, hung with pictures. My uncle did not speak a word all through dinner, except to give an order or find fault about something; and my aunt hardly spoke except to ask what I would have. Even then my uncle contradicted her, and said I was to take what was given me and not to choose for myself. It was plain even to me that he was in very bad humor about something. Presently my uncle said it was time for me to go to bed. So we left him drinking his wine all alone, and my aunt took me up to my room, where I was to sleep."
"It was small, but very pleasant, and there was a picture of a pretty little boy over the mantel-piece, which she told me was a portrait of my father, painted when he was young. Aunt undressed me herself, and heard me say my prayers, and after I was in bed, she sat down and talked to me in a very affectionate manner for some time. She told me she had no children of her own, and she would try to be a mother to me. She told me also that I must be very good, and try to please my uncle, who was very particular; and I promised to do my best."
"Try as I might, I never could succeed. He never had a kind word for me, end it seemed as if he were angry at my being in the house at all. My aunt petted me a great deal when he was away, but if she did so before him, he scolded her, and told her that she made a fool of me—that I should have to work for my bread when I grew up, and she was not to make me into a useless fine lady, like herself. Fool was his favorite word, and he applied it to my aunt oftener than to any one else. What made his conduct seem worse, was that before company, he treated us both with the greatest kindness and politeness; so that many people thought him the best of men. Indeed I heard a lady say as she went away from one of our dinner parties—my uncle often gave dinner parties—'What a pity it is that Mr. Morley has such a dull, cross-looking wife! He seems such an admirable man!'"
"I knew my aunt loved me, or I really believe I should have died of a broken heart. But she could show her love to me only when we were alone together. I had never seen Jones but once since she left me, when she had come to tell me of the loss of her husband, who died within a week of her leaving him. We were crying together over this sad news—for I loved all my dear father's men, and Jones had been a special favorite—when my uncle happened to come in, and seeing me in tears, he ordered the servants never to admit that woman again, declaring that she made me a worse baby than I was without her. I tried to tell him what we were crying about, but it was of no use—he never would listen to any explanation. My aunt taught me my lessons, and I took great pains to please her, but I could hardly help hating my uncle, and I dreaded to see him come into the house."
"One day, however, he actually came home in a good humor, and eat his dinner without finding fault with anything. He spoke to me quite kindly several times, helped me plentifully to sweetmeats, and after he came into the drawing-room, he called me to him and made me sit on his knee, a thing which he had never done before since I came into the house. My aunt looked surprised and almost frightened, but presently she ventured to say:"
"'Agatha has been a very good girl to-day.'"
"'Has she?' said my uncle, 'I am glad to hear it;' and he actually put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a guinea."
"'Keep that and show it to your Yankee relations,' said he."
"'What do you menu, Mr. Morley?' said my aunt, turning pale."
"'I mean that I am going to send the child to her father's relations in America,' he replied. 'That woman Jones, of whom she is so fond, is going out to her daughter in New York, and she will take charge of her. So you have nothing to do but to get her ready as fast as you can. Let her have good clothes and plenty of them. I don't want the Yankees to think that she has been neglected: and mind, madam, I will have no whimpering about the matter. You can see plainly that the child is glad enough to go.'"
"I believe I was pleased at the prospect of going to America, for I thought I should see my kind uncle Hamblin and Charley again. But I began to moderate my joy when I saw how unhappy my aunt was at the thought of parting with me. She kissed me and cried over me that night, calling me her only comfort; but when I said I would stay with her if she wished it, she told me that there was no use in talking about it—my uncle had made up his mind and would have his own way. Jones came to see us the next day, and had a long private conversation with my aunt, and so the matter was settled. All my old clothes were laid aside, and I had a complete outfit of new ones; and my aunt gave me five guineas in a little purse and bade me take good care of it. My uncle paid my passage and gave Jones money for my travelling expenses, after I should get to America; and my aunt made her promise not to leave me till I was in my uncle's hands."
"It seemed as though I was always to be unfortunate in my sea-voyages, for before we were half-way across, the cholera broke out in the ship. We were in the steerage. My uncle had told my aunt that he had paid for a cabin passage for Jones and me, but it was not true. The surgeon as well as the captain and other officers did all in their power for the poor passengers, but many of them died, and among the number my poor dear nurse."
"There was a poor widow, named Mrs. Mix, who had been very kind to us all the way over, and Jones gave me into her charge, together with the money my uncle had given her, begging her to put me in the way of getting to my friends, which she promised to do. But it seemed as though I were to have nothing but trouble in my travels. In the bustle and confusion of our arrival in New York, my trunk was lost or stolen, and I never saw it again. This was all the worse, because all my money and my uncle's direction were in it. Mrs. Mix had the direction from my nurse, but she had forgotten it, and I did not know it at all. Mrs. Mix had expected her friends to meet her in Now York, but they did not come, and after a few days, she received a letter from them, telling her how to find them. They lived in Greenbriar, and thither she went, taking me with her."
"The surgeon offered to get me into an asylum in New York, but this she would not hear of: so I went with her into her little house, and used to help her carry home the washing which she took from the school. We thus became acquainted with Dr. and Mrs. Bower and told them my story; and Mrs. Bower adopted me for her own daughter. I have lived with them for three years, and been very happy all the time. That is the end of my story."
The scholar had been listening silently, never taking his eyes from Agatha's face for the whole time, As she closed her narrative, he took from his breast a miniature case, opened it, and handed it to Agatha without a word.
"My papa and mamma! My own dear papa, and mamma!" almost screamed Agatha. "Oh, where did you get them? Did you know my mamma? Do you know my brother?"
"Agatha!" said the scholar. "Do you remember that not very long before Charles went away, he was thrown from his horse and got a scar on his forehead?"
"Yes!" answered Agatha, breathlessly. "Why?"
The scholar pushed back his thick hair, and showed her a scar upon the right side of his forehead, asking, "Do you remember me now?"
"Charley! Oh, Charley!"
In another moment, Agatha was in her brother's arms. I will not undertake to describe the scene which followed. Presently the scholar rose, and taking Agatha by the hand, led her into the room and closed the door behind them.
"How strange!" said the old lady. "It seems as though there was a Providence in it; your coming out of the way as you did, and even in your being snowed up, since if it had not been for your stopping here and our telling stories, they might not have found each other out after all."
"There is a Providence in all things," observed the doctor, taking off his spectacles and wiping them; "'All things work together for good to them that love God,' though we do not always see the working so plainly as in this particular instance."
"Agatha noticed her brother when we first came on the cars," remarked Herbert. "She said she was sure she remembered him, though she could not tell where she had seen him: and I observed that he took a great deal of notice of her. He kept looking at her all the time he kept talking to me. I hope he won't want to take her away from us! I don't know what my father would do without her, especially now, that—" Herbert stopped abruptly and turned away his head.
"I would not worry about that, my dear," said the old lady, kindly. "I dare say the matter will be managed, somehow. I guessed something when he asked her if that was not the servant's name."
"And so Agatha has really found her brother, that she talks so much about," said Frank. "What a fine-looking man he is! I wonder if he is rich?"
"I hope not, and then he won't want to take Agatha away," said Edward.
"O Ned, that would be selfish!" replied Herbert. "Her brother has the best right to her, of course; though—but we won't borrow trouble about that. How glad I am, Frank, that we came this way. Only for your mistake, Agatha might not have found her brother at all."
"No thanks to me, though!" said Frank, laughing.
The conversation was now interrupted by the return of the scholar and Agatha. They had both shed some tears, but they looked as though they were perfectly happy in each other. The scholar sat down, still keeping his arm round Agatha, as though afraid of losing her again.
"You will be glad, no doubt, to hear a little farther explanation of my sister's story," said he, after they had received the congratulations of the party.
"I should!" said Edward. "I want to hear who your father was, and how you came to leave him, and all about it."
The scholar smiled. "My father was an English officer," said he. "When he was very young man, and in Canada, with his regiment, he married a young lady, the daughter of an American sea captain. I have understood that his family were very much displeased with the match, and, his father dying soon after, left the whole of his property to his step-daughter, a lady much older than my father, who had married a London merchant. My father was very fond of this sister, but her husband, as well as my grandfather, professed great displeasure at the match my father had made, and would not allow my aunt to see her brother, though they were permitted occasionally to correspond."
"Captain Goldwin accompanied his regiment to India when I was fourteen years old, and there Agatha was born. My father had no income but his pay, and his expenses being necessarily great, he found himself unable to send me to England for education, so I grew up without any except what he was able to give me in the intervals of military duty, and what I got from the resident chaplain. Still I had a great fondness for study, and employed my time to pretty good purpose."
"I was eighteen years old when my uncle came to India, partly on business and partly to visit his sister. He proposed to my father that I should return with him to America, finish my studies at one of the colleges in New England, and then, if it were thought desirable, return to India. The offer was a very advantageous one to me, and my father allowed me to accept it. Before I left, my mother gave me the miniatures I have just showed Agatha, and I have never parted from them."
"In the course of two or three years, I heard of the death of my father, who fell in battle, as Agatha told us, and learned that my mother had set out for England, intending to come to her friends in America. Hearing nothing more for a long time, I wrote to my aunt in London. Her husband answered the letter, saying that my mother died before reaching England; that he had sent the child—meaning Agatha—to her friends in America, under such and such an escort, and supposed she had reached her destination."
"I went at once to New York and made every inquiry, but my efforts resulted only in disappointment. At last I learned that the cholera had broken out in the ship and that a great many of the passengers had died,—among them a woman named Jones and her little girl. This account seemed to render the matter hopeless, and I gave up all further inquiries. Agatha's face interested me at once from her resemblance to my mother, but supposing, as I did, that my sister was dead long ago, I should not have pursued the matter had not her story awakened my long dead hopes."
"The mention of the dead tiger struck me like an electric shock, for I remembered the incident directly and how hard I had begged to be allowed to go with the party that killed him. He was a famous man-eater, as they are called—that is to say a tiger which, having acquired an appetite for human flesh, will eat no other. Such animals are frequently found in the neighborhood of East Indian villages, a great terror and pest to the inhabitants, and, in this case, the officers stationed near had made a hunting party to kill him. As Agatha went on, I felt certain that she must be my lost sister, and her instant recognition of the miniatures would have confirmed me, had I by that time entertained any doubt. My great desire is now to see Dr. Bower and thank him for his kind care of my little darling."
"It grows late," remarked the squire, after a little pause, and looking at his watch. "We have had a very pleasant evening and it has come to a most happy conclusion. We will now have prayers, if the good doctor will be so kind as to read them."