“No,” she replied, as they sauntered on together, and went on to tell to what parts Violet had taken her.
“Ah,” he said, “I am glad the pleasure of showing the rest was left for me. It is a fine old place, and being a near relative of the owners I have seen much of it.”
“Yes, and I have been told that Roselands also is a fine old place,” she returned; “and was not it Cousin Elsie’s home at one time?”
“Yes; for several years before her father bought this place and fitted it up for a home for himself and her.”
“I think it was there she was so very ill while still quite a little girl?”
“Yes; that was before my time, but when you visit us there, as I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you do next week, I will show you the room she occupied; no—I am forgettingthat the house standing there then was afterward burned down; but it was rebuilt, that part of it being an exact reproduction of those rooms in the old house.”
“Burned down, did you say? How did that happen?”
“It was during the war,” he replied. “As I remember Roselands on my first sight of it, it was a most desolate place—only the ruins of a house there, the ground ploughed up by cannon, the grand old trees all cut down, the lawn changed to a muddy field, the gardens a desert, neither fences, hedgerows, nor shrubbery left, the fields overgrown with weeds—all the result of that dreadful civil war for which I now see there was no cause but the curse of slavery.
“But,” he continued, his voice taking on a more cheerful tone, “many years have passed since then; our dear Cousin Elsie furnished the necessary means for repairing damages so far as money could do it, the passing years have helped, and Roselands again deserves its name; in the eyes of its owners at least it is again a beautiful place, the fields are fertile and scarce anything is left that reminds us of its former desolation.”
“I am very glad indeed to hear that,” returned Mary, “and shall greatly enjoy seeingit in its renewed beauty. This place it would seem escaped better than Roselands?”
“Far better; indeed had, I believe, suffered only from some years of neglect. It was quite habitable; so uncle kindly gave us all shelter here for a time—that is, until Roselands was ready to receive us.”
“That was very kind,” responded Mary.
“It was indeed,” said Calhoun. “I cannot tell you how strongly I am attached to uncle, Aunt Rose, Cousin Elsie, and indeed the whole family.”
Just then a turn in the walk brought them face to face with another small party of young people—the Dinsmore girls, Rosie Travilla, Croly, Harold, and Herbert.
“So here you are!” exclaimed Harold. “We were looking for you and want to take you back near the house. We are to have a small lunch of cake and lemonade handed about to us on the lawn, Aunt Sue says; after that some games to make the time pass pleasantly until the dinner-hour.”
“With such inducements held out would it not be well to go with them, Miss Keith?” queried Calhoun.
“Perhaps so,” she returned laughingly; “since I heard the lemonade mentioned I have discovered that I am somewhat thirsty.”
“And I own that the announcement has had the same effect upon me,” he said.
“Then come,” said Herbert, leading the way by turning into another shaded alley; “we will reach our destination sooner by this path.”
The day passed most pleasantly to all, the greater part of it spent in sports in the open air; a grand dinner, served in the large dining-room of the mansion, taking up an hour or more; then a time of rest and quiet talk underneath the trees or on the verandas; after that more games, followed by a light tea handed the guests where they were, and soon after a pleasant ride or drive homeward.
FOOTNOTE:[A]See “Mildred’s Married Life.”
[A]See “Mildred’s Married Life.”
[A]See “Mildred’s Married Life.”
Thenext day was Sunday, always religiously kept by every family in the connection. They all met at church in the morning, and most of the Ion and Woodburn people again in the afternoon; first at the school-house on the captain’s estate, where an hour was spent in the instruction of the poor whites of the neighborhood, then in the Ion school-house appropriated to the same use for the colored race of the vicinity.
Mary Keith, Harold, Herbert, and their old friend Croly attended and took part in the exercises of both schools; for they were all earnest, active Christian workers, full of zeal for the Master’s cause and anxious to win souls for him.
Harold and Herbert dearly loved to talk over with their mother their plans for future usefulness and the necessary preparation for it, and, to their supreme content, contrived to get her to themselves for a time on their return from the scene of that afternoon’s labors. The call to tea broke up their conference.
The evening was spent in Bible study, religious conversation, and sacred song.
It had been a day of rest from earthly cares and pleasures, and all rose on Monday morning refreshed and strengthened in mind and body.
That day was spent at the Laurels, very much as Saturday had been at the Oaks; Tuesday at Fairview. Violet claimed her right to be the next entertainer of the connection, so all were invited to spend that day at Woodburn, where preparations for their entertainment had been going on for several days.
Eager, impetuous Lulu was almost wild with delight. “O papa,” she said, when she and Grace had exchanged with him their usual affectionate good-morning, “I do just hope we’ll give the folks the grandest good time they’ve had anywhere yet. It’s a splendid day, and our grounds never looked more beautiful. I could hardly get dressed for gazing at them through my bedroom windows, and I thanked the Lord over and over again for giving me such a lovely home and dear, kind father,” putting her arms round his neck and giving him a second ardent kiss.
“Yes, daughter,” he returned, holding her close, “the goodness of our heavenly Father to us is far, far beyond our deserts. I thank him every day for the ability he has given me tomake such a delightful home for my wife and children.”
“Yes, papa,” said Grace, leaning up affectionately against him on his other side, and slipping a hand into his, “I often think how very, very good God has been to us children in giving us such a good, kind father, when so many poor children have cross, drunken fathers who beat and abuse them for just nothing at all, and don’t care whether they are comfortably fed and clothed or not.”
“It is a sad truth that there are such fathers in the world,” he replied, “and some who with all their efforts cannot comfortably feed and clothe their little ones.”
“And other poor little ones who have no father or mother,” added Grace. “Oh, I do hope God will let me keep my dear father as long as I live.”
“Do not allow yourself to be anxious and troubled about that, daughter,” the captain responded tenderly, “our heavenly Father knows and will do for each one of us just what is best.”
“Papa,” said Lulu coaxingly, “don’t you think you could excuse us from lessons to-day? There will be so much going on that I know I shall find it very difficult to give my mind to lessons, and I’m sure it will be just the same with the others.”
“If I thought it for your good, daughter,” he said in reply, “I should certainly say yes; but I do not. If you are diligent you can be ready to receive your young guests by eleven o’clock.”
“But I think it will be almost impossible to give my mind to tasks when it is so full of all that’s to be done and enjoyed through the day,” she sighed.
“I am sure you can if you will exercise sufficient determination,” he replied; “you have a strong will, and can put it to good use in forcing Lucilla Raymond to resolutely put aside distracting thoughts and give her mind for a time wholly to her appointed tasks. Show her that if she wants to do right and please her heavenly Father, she will do it for that reason; and if she loves her earthly one as dearly as she says, she will do it to gain his approbation and make his heart glad that he has so good and dutiful an eldest daughter.”
“So I will, papa,” she said, giving him another affectionate hug, “for oh, I do want to make you glad that I am your very own child, your very, very own, and don’t belong to anybody else in the whole world.”
“And that I am, papa,” Grace said, lifting to his eyes full of ardent filial love. “I am every bit as glad to belong to you as Lu is.”
“And I quite as glad to own you, my owndarling little girl,” he responded, drawing them both closer into his embrace.
The breakfast-bell rang, and taking a hand of each, he led them down to the lower hall, where they met Violet coming in from the veranda where she and her two little ones had been taking the air.
Pleasant greetings were exchanged with them and with Mr. Lilburn and Marian, who presently joined the family in the breakfast-room. Then all seated themselves, the blessing was asked, and the meal began.
“Cousin Ronald,” said Violet, “I hope you will help to entertain our guests to-day by the exercise of your ventriloquial powers, which have not yet been discovered by either Cousin Mary Keith or Mr. Croly.”
“I should like to oblige you, cousin,” replied the old gentleman, “but I fear I cannot think of anything new in that line.”
“Well,” she said, “we will hope some bright thoughts may occur to you.”
“Perhaps you might borrow a bugle again, sir,” remarked Lulu with a little laugh. “I don’t believe they’ve found out yet who that bugler was who played near the lakelet at Ion, when they were in the boat on it.”
“No,” said Marian, “from something that was said yesterday, I am sure they have not.”
“Such being the case, perhaps the fellow may take it into his head to visit the wood here this afternoon or evening,” Mr. Lilburn remarked in a quiet tone.
“Oh, I hope he will!” exclaimed Lulu, “and that he’ll play longer than he did at Ion. I wonder if he couldn’t sing us a song too,” she added, smiling archly into Mr. Lilburn’s eyes.
“Now perhaps he may if I tell him that a daughter of our entertainers makes the request,” returned Mr. Lilburn gravely. “I’ll try my influence with him, my dear.”
“Oh, thank you, sir!” she exclaimed with a merry laugh. “I am quite sure he will not be able to resist that.”
“I just wish we had Maxie here,” said Grace, “for then we might have one sing and the other play at the same time.”
“That would be fine,” laughed her father, “but unfortunately we cannot have Max.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Marian with a look of surprise and pleasure, “now I know who was the ventriloquist at Minersville!”
“There now!” cried Grace with a look of dismay, “I ought to be ashamed. I never meant to tell that secret.”
“Don’t look so troubled, daughter,” said the captain, smiling kindly upon her, “there is no great harm done. Marian would probably havefound it out before long without any help from you.”
“And I’ll try to make no bad use of my discovery,” added Marian.
“You and papa are very kind,” returned Grace, with a slight sigh of relief.
“I suppose this is to be a holiday for the children, captain?” remarked Violet with an inquiring look at her husband.
“Quite a mistake, my dear,” he returned pleasantly. “I do not think it good for my pupils to have too many holidays, and have no doubt they will enjoy play all the more for having done a little work first.”
“Yes, sir, no doubt we shall,” said Marian cheerfully, “and I for one should be very loath to miss the lessons. I enjoy them, and am very grateful to you for taking the trouble to teach me.”
“You are as welcome as possible,” he returned in the kindest of tones. “Your companionship in her studies is of advantage to my daughter Lulu, and makes very little more work for me.”
“You are very kind indeed to look at it in that light, sir,” was Marian’s response, while Lulu gave him a most grateful, loving look.
Then a voice that seemed to come from the doorway into the hall said: “You are the very best of fathers, sir, always ready to take anyamount of trouble for the benefit of any of your children.”
“Maxie! where is you? Tum and det some breakfus,” exclaimed baby Ned, as he and all the others turned their heads in the direction of the sounds.
But no one was to be seen there.
“Where is Maxie?” queried Ned, almost ready to cry. “Papa tell Maxie tum eat his breakfus.”
“Maxie isn’t there, son,” said the captain pleasantly. “It was Cousin Ronald talking in Maxie’s voice.”
“Papa,” said little Elsie, “maybe Maxie is there, hiding behind the door.”
“Do you think so?” returned her father with a smile. “Well, you may go and look, if you wish, and if you find him tell him papa says for him to come immediately to his breakfast.”
At that Elsie made haste to get down from her chair, and ran to the door calling, “Maxie, Maxie, papa says, come right to your breakfus dis minute.”
Not finding Max at the door, she ran on down the hall, out upon the veranda, looking searchingly from side to side, back again and through the different rooms, calling, “Max, Max, where are you? Papa says, come to your breakfus.”
Then on into the breakfast-room she came again, saying with a bewildered look, “Papa, I can’t find Max. Where did he go?”
“Don’t you remember that papa told you he was not there, daughter?” returned the captain pleasantly. “It was Cousin Ronald who spoke, making his voice sound like Max’s.”
“Oh, I wish it was Maxie, ’cause I love him and want to see him,” returned the baby girl, tears springing to her eyes.
“Never mind, papa’s dear little girl,” the captain said, lifting her into her chair again; “we may hope to see dear brother Max here one of these days; and then how glad we shall all be!”
“Oh, yes, papa; please write Maxie a letter and tell him Elsie wants him to come soon,” she said, smiling through her tears.
The moment family worship was over, Marian, Lulu, and Grace hastened to the school-room, where they were joined a few minutes later by Evelyn Leland, Rosie and Walter Travilla. The lessons had all been thoroughly prepared, so that recitations proceeded rapidly, and by eleven o’clock all were dismissed with permission to spend the remainder of the day in such sports as suited their inclination.
The guests had already begun to arrive, and directly the most of them were scattered through the beautiful grounds exploring every nook andcorner of them. Then games were played—lawn tennis, croquet, and others suited to different ages and tastes. A grand dinner followed in due season, after which they sat on the verandas or under the trees or wandered slowly through the wood and the shaded alleys.
Tea was over, the sun near his setting, and somewhat weary with their sports almost all were seated in or near the verandas, when the sound of a bugle broke the stillness, coming apparently from the wood where a number of the young people had been straying only a half-hour before.
“There he is again!” cried Croly, starting to his feet. “Harold, suppose we hurry out yonder and see if we can catch sight of the fellow.”
“Oh, not yet,” said Grandma Elsie; “let us enjoy his music for a little first. Hark! he is beginning the Star-spangled Banner.”
“Very well done,” commented Mr. Dinsmore as the last notes died away on the air. Croly looked at Harold and half rose from his chair; but the bugler began again. This time it was a Scottish air, and Marian absently, and scarcely above her breath, sang the words:
“‘Scots wha’ hae wi Wallace bled,Scots whom Bruce hath often led,Welcome to your gory bed,Or to victory.’”
“‘Scots wha’ hae wi Wallace bled,Scots whom Bruce hath often led,Welcome to your gory bed,Or to victory.’”
“‘Scots wha’ hae wi Wallace bled,Scots whom Bruce hath often led,Welcome to your gory bed,Or to victory.’”
“‘Scots wha’ hae wi Wallace bled,
Scots whom Bruce hath often led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory.’”
The notes of the bugle died away, and all was quiet for a moment; then Walter broke the silence:
“So that’s a Scotch tune, is it, Marian? I heard you singing Scotch words to it—about Wallace and Bruce—and there’s scarcely any story I feel more interest in—unless maybe tales of our own Revolution. They were brave fellows, and I like to think I come of the same stock on mamma’s side at least.”
“Yes, it’s a good stock to come of,” she answered, her eyes kindling; “none better in my esteem; they have always been a liberty-loving, God-fearing race—the great mass o’ them at least. But hark! there’s the bugler at it again; nearer, and playing quite another tune.”
It was a simple little air, played as a prelude, and presently the bugle ceased, and a man’s voice sang:
“Thimble scolding, wife lay dead,Heigh-ho, says Thimble.My dearest dear, as Defunctum said,Death has cabbaged her, oh she’s fled,With your rolly-pooly, gammon and spinnage,Heigh-ho, says Thimble.“Thimble buried his wife last night,Heigh-ho, says Thimble,It grieves me to bury my heart’s delightWith a diamond ring on her finger so tight,With your rolly-pooly, gammon and spinnage,Heigh-ho, says Thimble.“To cut off her finger and get this ring,Next came the sexton;She rose on an end and she gave him a fling;‘You dirty dog, you’ll do no such a thing,With your rolly-pooly, gammon and spinnage,’Off ran the sexton.“She stalked to her home and she made a great din,Heigh-ho, says Thimble;He poked out his head and he said with a grin,‘You’re dead, my dear duck, and I can’t let you in,With your rolly-pooly, gammon and spinnage,’Heigh-ho, says Thimble.”
“Thimble scolding, wife lay dead,Heigh-ho, says Thimble.My dearest dear, as Defunctum said,Death has cabbaged her, oh she’s fled,With your rolly-pooly, gammon and spinnage,Heigh-ho, says Thimble.“Thimble buried his wife last night,Heigh-ho, says Thimble,It grieves me to bury my heart’s delightWith a diamond ring on her finger so tight,With your rolly-pooly, gammon and spinnage,Heigh-ho, says Thimble.“To cut off her finger and get this ring,Next came the sexton;She rose on an end and she gave him a fling;‘You dirty dog, you’ll do no such a thing,With your rolly-pooly, gammon and spinnage,’Off ran the sexton.“She stalked to her home and she made a great din,Heigh-ho, says Thimble;He poked out his head and he said with a grin,‘You’re dead, my dear duck, and I can’t let you in,With your rolly-pooly, gammon and spinnage,’Heigh-ho, says Thimble.”
“Thimble scolding, wife lay dead,Heigh-ho, says Thimble.My dearest dear, as Defunctum said,Death has cabbaged her, oh she’s fled,With your rolly-pooly, gammon and spinnage,Heigh-ho, says Thimble.
“Thimble scolding, wife lay dead,
Heigh-ho, says Thimble.
My dearest dear, as Defunctum said,
Death has cabbaged her, oh she’s fled,
With your rolly-pooly, gammon and spinnage,
Heigh-ho, says Thimble.
“Thimble buried his wife last night,Heigh-ho, says Thimble,It grieves me to bury my heart’s delightWith a diamond ring on her finger so tight,With your rolly-pooly, gammon and spinnage,Heigh-ho, says Thimble.
“Thimble buried his wife last night,
Heigh-ho, says Thimble,
It grieves me to bury my heart’s delight
With a diamond ring on her finger so tight,
With your rolly-pooly, gammon and spinnage,
Heigh-ho, says Thimble.
“To cut off her finger and get this ring,Next came the sexton;She rose on an end and she gave him a fling;‘You dirty dog, you’ll do no such a thing,With your rolly-pooly, gammon and spinnage,’Off ran the sexton.
“To cut off her finger and get this ring,
Next came the sexton;
She rose on an end and she gave him a fling;
‘You dirty dog, you’ll do no such a thing,
With your rolly-pooly, gammon and spinnage,’
Off ran the sexton.
“She stalked to her home and she made a great din,Heigh-ho, says Thimble;He poked out his head and he said with a grin,‘You’re dead, my dear duck, and I can’t let you in,With your rolly-pooly, gammon and spinnage,’Heigh-ho, says Thimble.”
“She stalked to her home and she made a great din,
Heigh-ho, says Thimble;
He poked out his head and he said with a grin,
‘You’re dead, my dear duck, and I can’t let you in,
With your rolly-pooly, gammon and spinnage,’
Heigh-ho, says Thimble.”
All had listened intently, and for a moment after the song ceased, no one moved or spoke. Then Croly started up, saying: “I’m bound to see that fellow. Come, Harold and Herbert, will you go with me, or must I search for him alone?”
“Oh, I have no objection to going with you,” returned Harold with a slight laugh. “I hardly think he can be dangerous, and if he is I must try to defend you, Will.”
“And in that case you may stand in need of my services also,” said Herbert, joining them as they hurried down the veranda steps and along the drive in the direction from which the sounds of the bugle and the voice had come.
“I hope they won’t find him a dangerous fellow,” remarked Rosie with a gleeful laugh.
“No, indeed, I hope not,” said Mary Keith, in a slightly anxious tone. “Have you gentlemen any idea who he may be?”
“The bugler, do you mean, cousin?” asked Edward Travilla. “I won’t say certainly, but I have an idea that he is a perfectly harmless old fellow who occasionally haunts this neighborhood.”
“A crazy man?” she asked.
“No, not that, but one who enjoys surprising and mystifying those who know little or nothing about him or his arts.”
“Well, I am glad to hear that he is harmless,” she said in a tone of relief, “for knowing that, one can enjoy listening to his playing and singing.”
“Do you think they will find him, Cousin Ronald?” asked Marian, in a tone that sounded slightly mirthful.
“I, lassie?” he returned; “what should I ken aboot the folks o’ this neighborhood?”
“Oh, you have visited here a good deal, and so I thought you might have gained some knowledge of so odd a character.”
“More than that possessed by any o’ these cousins who live in the neighborhood, lass?” he asked with a good-humored laugh. “Trulyyou are paying your auld kinsman a high compliment.”
“I could not possibly pay you one that would be higher than your deserts, Cousin Ronald,” she returned.
“Oh, hark!” exclaimed Rosie, “the bugler is at it again!” as a few notes floated on the air; then the same voice they had heard before sang again, apparently coming from a tree-top not many yards away:
“Green grow the rashes, O,Green grow the rashes, O,The sweetest hours that e’er I spendAre spent amang the lasses, O.”
“Green grow the rashes, O,Green grow the rashes, O,The sweetest hours that e’er I spendAre spent amang the lasses, O.”
“Green grow the rashes, O,Green grow the rashes, O,The sweetest hours that e’er I spendAre spent amang the lasses, O.”
“Green grow the rashes, O,
Green grow the rashes, O,
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend
Are spent amang the lasses, O.”
“He seems to be very fond of the lasses, but has nothing to say of the lads,” laughed Walter.
“And they, it seems, can’t find him,” said Edward, as the three young men were seen returning toward the house. “Well, lads, what success?” he called to them.
“None as yet,” replied Harold, “but we are not quite in despair. Surely we heard his voice a moment since, nearer the house than when he gave us his Thimble song.”
“Yes, it seemed to me to come from the top of that magnolia, and he must be very quick in his movements if he has got down from it already.”
“What you doing? what you ’bout?” came just at that instant in a loud, harsh scream, apparently from the same tree-top. “Breakfast-time. Polly wants a cracker. Polly wants a cup of coffee.”
The three young men stepped close to the tree and gazed upward among its branches.
“The parrot again!” exclaimed Croly. “Do you see her, boys?”
“Not I,” replied Herbert, “but it is quite dark up there where the branches and leaves are so thick.”
“So it is,” said Croly. “Hi there, Polly! show yourself.”
“Go ’way!” screamed the harsh voice.
“Come down, Polly; we won’t hurt you,” said Harold.
“Polly’s hungry; Polly wants a cracker,” responded the harsh voice.
“Come down, and if you are the good bird you seem, you shall have a cracker and a cup of coffee,” he promised; but the only reply was a sound as of the fluttering and flapping of wings that seemed to leave the tree and go farther away till lost in the distance.
“Gone!” said Croly; “and I did not catch so much as a glimpse of her. Did anybody else?”
“And you haven’t found the bugler either,” remarked Mary Keith.
“No,” laughed Calhoun Conly, sitting beside her, “they are not very successful hunters.”
“Do you think you could do better, Cal?” asked Herbert, as he and his two companions came leisurely up the steps into the veranda.
“Well, I hardly think I should do worse,” returned Calhoun lightly.
“Then suppose you start out on the quest, find that bugler, and coax him to give us another tune.”
Some soft, low notes came to their ears at that moment, as if in reply; they seemed to issue from the depths of the wood, and the listeners almost held their breath to catch them. As they died away Croly spoke again.
“He seems to have made quite a circuit to escape us; and why on earth should he? for he surely has no reason to fear we would do him harm.”
“Bashful, perhaps,” suggested Edward. “But why care to see him? Is not hearing enough?”
“If Mr. Croly were a woman, I would suggest that he was probably actuated by curiosity,” laughed Mary Keith; “but since he belongs to the other sex, it must be supposed to be something else.”
“Dear me, Miss Keith, who would ever have dreamed you could be so severe? You who belongto the gentler sex?” returned Croly, in a feignedly mortified tone.
“Hark! there he is at it again!” exclaimed Maud Dinsmore, as distant bugle notes once more came softly to the ear. “If you want to catch him, I advise you to hasten in the direction of those sounds, Mr. Croly.”
“Hardly worth while, since he is so adroit at getting out of the way,” sighed Croly, sinking into a chair as if quite exhausted with the efforts already made.
“Never say die, Mr. Croly,” laughed Rosie Travilla. “Gather up your strength and pursue the investigation. ‘Try, try, try again,’ is an excellent motto.”
“Yes, Miss Rosie, in some cases, but perhaps not in this, where the game seems to be hardly worth the candle.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Walter, “the music seems to be coming nearer! Hadn’t you fellows better start out and try again to catch the player? You might be more successful this time. I wouldn’t like to give it up so if I were in your place.”
“Then suppose you put yourself in our place, and start out in quest of him,” suggested his brother Harold.
“I’ve no objections; I’m not afraid of him,” returned Walter, jumping up; “but if you’dlike to go with me, Cousin Ronald?” turning toward the old gentleman, as if with a sudden thought, “I’d be very glad to have you.”
Mr. Lilburn rose as if to comply with the request, but Mrs. Travilla interposed.
“Oh, no, my son,” she said; “Cousin Ronald must feel tired after all the exertion he has made to-day.”
“And I offer myself as a substitute,” said Dr. Conly, rising. “If the fellow should happen to be vicious enough to knock you down, Walter, it might be well to have the doctor along to see to your hurts.”
“Pshaw! I’m not a bit afraid of him,” said Walter.
“But your lack of fear is no positive proof that he is entirely harmless; so I think it would be as well for you to have an elder brother along,” remarked Herbert, following them down the veranda steps.
“Oh, come along then, and if the fellow attacks us, I’ll do my best to defend you,” laughed Walter; and the three set off together for the wood.
“Is this the bugler’s first visit to your place, captain?” asked Croly.
“I really do not remember having heard his bugle about here before,” was the reply in ameditative tone, “but I do not imagine him a person likely to do any harm.”
“Why, there is the hack from Union turning in at the great gates!” exclaimed Lulu. “We must be going to have a visitor.”
It came rapidly up the drive and paused before the entrance; the door was thrown open, and a rather young-looking man alighted, the captain at the same time rising from his chair and stepping forward to greet him.
“Captain Raymond?” the stranger said inquiringly, lifting his hat as he spoke.
At that Mr. Lilburn sprang to his feet and came forward, exclaiming, “What, Hugh, my mon, is it you?” grasping the young man’s hand and giving it a hearty shake. “It’s one o’ my sons, captain,” turning glad, shining eyes upon his host. “I was not expecting him, for he had given me no warning of his coming.”
“You are very welcome, sir,” said the captain, taking the hand of the young man in a cordial grasp.
At that Grandma Elsie, Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, and Violet hastened forward with like greetings and expressions of pleasure at seeing him again after the lapse of years since their weeks of friendly intercourse at the sea-shore.
“But you should be my guest, cousin,” said Mrs. Travilla. “We shall be going home presently,and will be most happy to have you accompany us.”
“Oh, no, mother, it will not do for you to rob us of our guest so promptly,” said Captain Raymond.
“No, indeed, mother dear, we must have Cousin Hugh here with his father, at least for the first few days,” Violet hastened to say; and so it was settled after a little more discussion, and a servant was dispatched to the village for Hugh’s baggage.
Just as that matter was fairly arranged, Dr. Conly, Herbert, and Walter returned to the house.
When they and Hugh had been introduced and had exchanged greetings, Croly inquired if they had succeeded in catching the bugler.
“No, we didn’t get so much as a glimpse of him,” returned Walter. “But then you see it was growing quite dark in the wood, so that it wasn’t so very difficult for a nimble-footed fellow to make his escape.”
TheConlys claimed it as their privilege to entertain the connection on the following day, and before leaving Woodburn that evening gave Mr. Hugh Lilburn a cordial invitation to make one of the company, which he accepted with evident pleasure.
Again the weather was delightful, every one in good health and spirits, and the host and hostess were most kind and attentive, making each guest feel welcome and at home.
Roselands was again a beautiful place; its fields in a higher state of cultivation than ever before, yielding excellent crops, Calhoun having proved himself a wise, industrious, scientific planter and manager, while Arthur assisted with his advice and professional gains; so that they had at length succeeded in paying off all indebtedness and could feel that the estate was now really their own.
Calhoun greatly enjoyed showing Mary Keith about the house and grounds; calling her attention particularly to such parts of them as weremore especially associated with the experiences of his Cousin Elsie’s early life; for Mary was a deeply interested listener to everything he had to tell on the subject.
Toward tea-time all had gathered on the verandas and the lawn in front of the house. The young people and little ones were somewhat weary with romping games and roaming over the grounds, so that very little was going on among them except a bit of quiet chat here and there between some of the older people.
Walter, always eager for the sports Cousin Ronald could make for them with his ventriloquism, stepped to the back of the old gentleman’s chair and made a whispered request for an exertion of his skill in that line.
“Wait a bit, laddie, and I’ll see what can be done,” replied Mr. Lilburn, ever willing to indulge the boy, who was a great favorite with him.
Walter took possession of a vacant chair near at hand, and patiently waited. Mr. Lilburn gave his son a slight sign, hardly noticed by any one else, and almost immediately the notes of a flute came softly to the ear as if from some distance.
Instantly conversation was hushed and all listened intently. It seemed but a prelude, and presently a rich tenor voice struck in and sanga pretty Scotch ballad, the flute playing an accompaniment.
Many looks of surprise were exchanged, for surely Cousin Ronald could not be responsible for it all; he could not both sing and play the flute at the same time, and the questions, “Who are they? What does it mean?” passed from one to another.
“What you doing? what you ’bout?” screamed a harsh voice, apparently from a tree-top near at hand.
“None o’ your business,” croaked another.
Walter started up and whispered in the old gentleman’s ear, “Why, Cousin Ronald, are there two of you to-night? or—no, it can’t be that Max is here?”
“No, no, laddie, that guess is wide of the mark,” laughed Mr. Lilburn in return, while little Elsie Raymond exclaimed, “Two Pollies! and we have only one at our house.”
“Why, it’s very odd,” remarked Lulu. “I really thought my Polly was the only one in this neighborhood.”
“I think the voice of the first one was hers,” said Mary Keith, “and the same too that we heard at Ion; I recognized it when I saw and heard her at Woodburn; but the other voice is a little different.”
“Yes, a little harsher,” said Rosie, “like amale voice. Polly must have hunted up a mate somewhere.”
“Two cups of coffee!” screamed the first voice. “Polly wants her breakfast.”
“Not breakfast, Polly, but supper,” laughed Walter. “You don’t seem to know the time o’ day.”
“Supper! Polly wants her supper,” croaked the second voice. “Polly’s hungry.”
“Just wait a bit,” laughed Walter; “we’ll all be getting ours presently, and if you are good birds probably you’ll get some too.”
At that moment a bell rang.
“There’s the call to it now,” said Calhoun. “Walk in, ladies and gentlemen—children too—and the pollies shall have theirs if they will follow with the crowd.”
Every one accepted the invitation, and they were soon seated about the tables; it took several to accommodate them all. A moment’s hush, then Cousin Ronald was requested to ask a blessing, and did so in a few words spoken in reverent tones. The guests were then helped, and the meal began, a buzz of subdued conversation accompanying it.
The parrot at Woodburn had learned many words and sentences since her arrival there; during Mr. Lilburn’s visit he and she had become well acquainted, and under his tuitionher vocabulary had been very considerably increased, so that she could upon occasion, or when so disposed, make herself a very entertaining companion.
Presently her voice, or one very like it, was heard above the clatter of plates, knives and forks, and the buzz of talk, coming seemingly from the mantelpiece some yards in Mr. Lilburn’s rear.
“Polly wants her supper. What you ’bout? Polly’s hungry.”
“Stop your noise, Polly,” promptly responded the other parrot’s voice.
“Cup o’ coffee for Polly, Mamma Vi,” promptly demanded the first voice.
“Miss Ella rules here,” laughingly returned Violet, “but even she cannot serve you unless you show yourselves.”
“Why, where is dem?” queried little Ned, gazing in wide-eyed wonder in the direction from which the sounds had seemed to come. “Me tan’t see de pollies.”
“Nor can I, Neddie boy,” said his Uncle Edward.
But at that instant subdued voices were heard conversing in quiet tones, apparently outside upon the veranda, but close to an open door leading into the dining-room.
“That supper smells mighty good, Bill.”
“So it does, Pat. Come now, let’s just step in and help ourselves, seein’ as they doan’t hev perliteness enuff to ask us in or hand out so much as a bite o’ victuals to us.”
“Let’s wait our turn, though, and perhaps we’ll get an invite when they’re well filled theirselves.”
“You’re not afeared they’ll eat it all theirselves?”
“Huh! no; how could they? There’s loads and loads of grub there; plenty for them and us too.”
“Yaas, ’bout enuff to feed a regirment.”
Conversation about the table had ceased; every one was gazing in the direction from which the sounds of the talk between the two rough men seemed to come.
“Whar dem fellers? I doan see ’em!” exclaimed a colored lad engaged in waiting on the table; “hear deir talkin’ plain ’nuff, though.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed one of the strange voices, “is that so, darky? Then I reckon your hearing’s some better’n your sight.”
“Impident rascal!” returned the colored lad wrathfully. “Mr. Cal, I’ll go drive ’im out ef you say so, sir.”
“Yes, do so at once, Hector,” returned Calhoun. “We don’t want tramps about to-day, and he seems a decidedly impudent one.”
Hector hurried to the door, but was back again in a moment, his face ghastly with fright.
“He—he—dey am no dar, sir,” he gasped. “Couldn’t see nobody ’tall. Whar—whar you ’spose dey’s done gone so pow’ful quick, sah?”
“Oh, don’t be frightened, Hector; they’re not likely to prove very dangerous fellows,” returned Calhoun. “The probability would seem to be that they have just stepped off the veranda into the grounds—scared, you know, at seeing so powerful a fellow as you coming after them in such a rage—and will be back asking for their supper in another minute or two. However, as they may be lurking about, watching an opportunity to help themselves, you may as well send some one out to look them up and watch their movements.”
“Ha, ha, you’re a bit late with your precautions, mister!” exclaimed one of the voices, now coming apparently from an inner room, “we’re here already, and what’s more, defy you, sir, to put us out in a hurry.”
“That’s so,” growled the other voice; “’twould take any two o’ those gents at the table to put me out; and I’ll not go a step till I’ve satisfied my appetite with the best they’ve got.”
“Well,” exclaimed Ella, “if that isn’t impudence I never heard any. But we are neglectingour guests, Art.; Uncle Horace’s plate wants replenishing; the captain’s too.”
“Polly’s hungry; poor old Polly, poor old soul!” screamed from the mantelpiece again the voice that sounded like that of Lulu’s pet. “Breakfast-time. Polly wants coffee.”
“Hush, Polly! be quiet, Polly!” croaked the other voice. “Eat your cracker and go to sleep.”
“Hold your tongue, Poll,” screamed the first. “Polly wants a cup of coffee.”
Hector, who was a new servant, stood looking this way and that, gasping and rolling up his eyes in terror, but the others, who were tolerably well acquainted, by hearsay at least, with Mr. Lilburn’s ventriloquial powers, had by this time recalled what they had heard on that subject, and went quietly about waiting upon the guests.
Croly and Mary Keith had been most interested listeners, and when an instant’s lull occurred, after the parrot-like screams, the former said: “Well, ladies and gentlemen, I am now fully convinced that we have, at least, one ventriloquist among us, though which of you it is I have not been quite able to decide.”
“It may, perhaps, be easier to decide who it is not,” remarked the elder Mr. Dinsmore, with an amused smile.
“Very true, sir,” said Croly, “and I have come to the conclusion that it is not yourself, Captain Raymond, Doctor Conly, or my friends Harold or Herbert Travilla.” With the last words he looked inquiringly at each of the other gentlemen present. Not one of them seemed to him to look conscious, and he felt that his question still remained unsolved.
Hector, still trembling with fright, and now and then sending a timorous glance in the direction of the door at which the tramps had last been heard, had listened in wondering surprise to the talk about the ventriloquist.
“What dat, Scip?” he asked in shaking undertones, plucking at the sleeve of a fellow servant, “dat vent-vent-erquis? Dis chile neber hear of dat sort of ting afore.”
“You jess g’long an’ look fer it then,” returned Scip loftily. “’Pears like maybe you find him in de parlor yonder behind de doah.”
The children had been looking and listening, wondering where the men and the parrots were.
“Papa, where is de mans and birds? de pollies dat talked so loud?” asked little Eric Leland. “Me don’t see dem.”
“No; they can only be heard, not seen,” laughed his father, “while little fellows—like my Eric, you know—should be seen and not heard when at table with so many older people.”
“Big folks talk very much, papa,” remarked the little one, smiling up into his father’s face.
“So they do, and so may you when you grow big,” returned his father. “And now, when at home with no strangers by, you may talk too.”
“Well, Hector, suppose you take Scip’s advice and go and look for those tramps,” said Dr. Conly, addressing the frightened, perplexed-looking young servant-man. “Don’t be afraid; I promise to cure your hurts if you get any in trying to put them out.”
But Hector stood where he was as if rooted to the spot, shaking his head gloomily in response to the doctor’s suggestions.
“No, tank you, doctah, sah, but dis chile radder stay cured widout bein’ hurted fus,” he answered, retreating a little farther from the parlor door as he spoke.
“Then come and make yourself useful,” said Ella. “Get your salver and hand this cup of coffee to Mr. Lilburn.”
Hector obeyed, and Cousin Ronald, giving him a humorous look as he took his cup from the salver, asked: “Are you really going to leave those tramps in the parlor yonder to carry off whatever they please?”
“Why, sah, dis chile ain’t so powerful strong dat he kin fight two big fellers widout nobodyto help wid the business,” grumbled Hector, looking very black at the suggestion.
“Oh, Hector, don’t be such a coward,” exclaimed Walter Travilla. “I’m not very big or strong, but, if mamma will let me, I’ll go along and protect you from them while you put them out. I may, mayn’t I, mamma?” giving her an inquiring look as he rose from his chair.
But at that moment one of the strange voices was again heard at the door opening on the veranda.
“Never mind, little feller; we’re out here and going off now; and we haven’t taken a pin’s worth, for we’re honest chaps if we are poor and sometimes ask for a bite o’ victuals.”
“Yaas, that’s so,” drawled the other voice.
A sound like that of retreating footsteps followed; then all was quiet, and Hector drew a long breath of relief.
“Glad dey’s gone,” he said presently, then went briskly about his business.
It was still early, not yet sundown, when those of the guests who had little ones took leave of their kind entertainers, and started for their homes. Edward and Zoe, with their twin babies, were among the first. Herbert, too, excused himself, and on the plea of a letter to write for the next mail went with them, ridinghis horse beside the carriage in which the others were seated.
They took a short cut through a bit of woods and were moving rather leisurely along, chatting about Cousin Ronald’s tricks of the afternoon and speculating upon the seeming fact that he must have a coadjutor, when Herbert suddenly reined in his steed, backing him away from the vehicle, and at the same time calling out in a quick, imperative, excited tone to the driver: “Rein in your horses, Solon! Quick, quick, back them for your life!”
Even while he spoke the order was obeyed, yet barely in time; for at that instant a great tree came down with a heavy crash, falling across the road directly in front of the horses and so close that it grazed their noses as it passed.
Zoe, throwing an arm round her husband’s neck and clasping her babies close with the other, gave one terrified shriek, then for several minutes all sat in horror-struck silence, feeling that they had escaped by but a hair’s-breadth from sudden, horrible death. Edward’s arm was about her waist, and he drew her closer and closer yet, with a gesture of mute tenderness.
“O Ned, dear Ned, how near we’ve been to death! we and our darlings,” she exclaimed, bursting into tears and sobs.
“Yes,” he said in trembling tones. “Oh, thank the Lord for his goodness! The Lord first, and then you, Herbert,” for his brother was now close by the side of the carriage again.
“No thanks are due me, dear Ned,” he replied, with emotion, “but let us thank the Lord that he put it into my heart to come along with you, and directed my eyes to the tree as it swayed slightly, preparatory to its sudden fall. Look, Zoe, what a large, heavy one it is—one of the old monarchs of the wood and still hale and vigorous in appearance. Who would ever have expected it to fall so suddenly and swiftly?”
“I hardly want to,” she said, shuddering; “it seems so like a dreadful foe that had tried to kill my husband, my darling babies, and myself.”
“How the horses are trembling with fright!” exclaimed Edward. “Poor fellows! it is no wonder, for if I am not mistaken the tree actually grazed their noses as it fell.”
“Yes, sah, it did dat berry ting,” said Solon, who had alighted and was stroking and patting the terrified steeds, “an’ dey mos’ tinks dey’s half killed. I dunno how we’s goin’ fer to git ’long hyar, Mr. Ed’ard, sah; cayn’t drive ober dis big tree no how ’tall.”
“No, but perhaps we can manage to go round it; or better still, we’ll turn and drive back tillwe can get into the high-road again. But drive slowly, till your horses recover, in a measure at least, from their fright.”
“Yes, I think that is the best we can do,” said Herbert, wheeling about and trotting on ahead.
The shock to Zoe had been very severe. All the way home she was shuddering, trembling, sobbing hysterically, and clinging to her husband and babies as though in terror lest they should be suddenly torn from her arms.
In vain Edward tried to sooth and quiet her, clasping her close and calling her by every endearing name; telling her the danger was a thing of the past; that their heavenly Father had mercifully preserved and shielded them, and they had every reason to rest with quietness and assurance in his protecting care.
“Yes, yes, I know it all, dear Ned,” she sobbed, “but have patience with me, dear; my nerves are all unstrung and I cannot be calm and quiet; I cannot help trembling, or keep back the tears, though I am thankful, oh, so thankful! that not one of us was killed or even hurt.”
“No; it was a wonderful escape,” he said in moved tones; “a wonderful evidence of the goodness of God to all of us; and thankful I am that even the horses escaped injury.”
“Yes, yes, indeed, poor things! I’m very glad they escaped so well,” she sobbed; “but for them to have been killed would have been as nothing to having one of our dear babies hurt.”
“Oh, no, no! and we can never be thankful enough for their escape,” he responded in moved tones, putting his arm around both at once and drawing them into a closer embrace, while they looked from one parent to the other in wide-eyed wonder.
“There, dear,” said Edward the next minute, glancing from the window, “we are turning into our own avenue and you may surely feel that the threatened danger is fully past.”
“Ah, no!” she returned, shuddering; “how can we be sure that any of our grand old trees may not fall at any moment? I shall never, never feel safe again.”
“Except by trusting in Him without whose will not even a sparrow falls to the ground,” he said low and tenderly. “‘The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him and delivereth them. O taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the man that trusteth in him.’”
“And you are that man, and so the Lord has spared you and your wife and little ones. O Ned, dear, ask him to make their mother a Christian too.”
“My darling, I will; I do every day of my life,” he said with emotion, and holding her close.
In another moment the carriage had drawn up before the veranda steps and Herbert, who had arrived and dismounted a little in advance of the others, hastened to assist them to alight.
“Why, Zoe, dear girl, how you are trembling!” he exclaimed, as he lifted her out and set her on her feet. “Don’t allow yourself to be so agitated; the danger is past, and by God’s great goodness we have all escaped injury.”
“Yes, yes, I know it!” she said, “but the shock was very great, and I cannot get over it yet.”
She and Edward went directly to their own apartments, taking their babes with them; for Zoe seemed unwilling to lose sight for a moment of any one of her three treasures.
But Laurie and Lily were soon asleep.
“The sweet pets!” murmured Zoe, leaning over them, her eyes full of tears. “O Ned, suppose they, or even one of them, had been struck by that tree and killed or badly hurt, how could we have borne it—you and I?” She ended with a storm of tears and sobs.
“Only by the strength that God gives in proportion to our needs, dear little wife,” Edward answered, holding her close and caressing herwith great tenderness. “He is ever faithful to his promise to his people. ‘As thy days, so shall thy strength be.’”
“But I cannot claim that promise,” she sobbed, laying her head on his shoulder, while he clasped her close. “But I want to be a Christian. My heart goes out in love and gratitude to him for sparing to me my life, my dear babies, and most of all my best and dearest of husbands.”
“And I should be very, very desolate without you and yours, love,” he returned with emotion; “I cannot feel that I could do without you even in another world. Ah, dearest, why delay any longer? why not come now—at this moment—and give yourself to God? Surely you cannot refuse, cannot hesitate when you think of all his loving-kindness to you and yours.”
“I do want to be his,” she said, “but the way does not seem quite clear to me; can you not tell me just how?”
“It is very simple. Just tell him that you are a lost, helpless sinner, ask him to forgive your sins and save you from them. David’s prayer was, ‘Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity and cleanse me from my sin.... Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me’—petitions that he isboth able and willing to grant. He says, ‘him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.’ Delay is very dangerous, dearest, as the experience of this evening may well convince us; we are sure of no time but the present. ‘Now is the accepted time; now is the day of salvation.’”
A moment of silence followed, broken at length by a few low-toned words from Zoe: “I want to do it, dear Ned. Let us kneel down together, and you say the words for me. I will follow you in my heart, for I do want to belong to the dear Lord Jesus from this time forever.”
They knelt down with their arms about each other, and in a few earnest words he expressed for her her sense of sin, her desire to be delivered from it, and to consecrate herself with all her powers and possessions to God’s service, for time and for eternity.
Zoe followed with a fervent “Amen! Dear Lord Jesus, take me for thy very own, and let me be thine, wholly thine, forever and forevermore.”
Solonhad an exciting tale to tell in the kitchen while he gave his horses a brief rest before returning to Roselands for the remaining members of the family.
It was listened to with intense interest, and many ejaculations of astonishment at the sudden fall of the tree and of thankfulness that no one was hurt.
“My!” exclaimed the cook, “it would ’a’ been a’ awful thing if Miss Elsie been ’long and got killed wid dat tree a-fallin’ onto her.”
“Yes, tank de good Lord dat she wasn’t dar,” said Solon; “but I reckon she’d mos’ rather be killed her own self dan have such ting happen to Marse Edward an’ Miss Zoe and de babies.”
“Course,” put in another servant; “Miss Elsie she’s got de kindest heart in de world, and she loves her chillen and gran’chillen better’n her own life.”
“I reckon dat’s so; but I must be goin’ back after Miss Elsie and de res’,” said Solon, pickingup his hat and putting it on as he passed out into the grounds.
His story caused great excitement at Roselands, and the whole Ion family, with their guests, hastened home in anxiety to hear the version of the story Edward and Herbert would give, and to learn what had been the effect of the fright upon Zoe and the babies.
Solon’s report was: “Miss Zoe she scared most to deff, and Mr. Ed’ard he huggin’ her up, and comfortin’ her all de way home; an’ she’s afraid of de trees on de lawn at Ion, les’ dey falls suddent—like de one in de woods—and kill somebody. But Mr. Ed’ard he tells her to trust in de Lawd, an’ she needn’t be ’fraid ob nothin’.”
“And the babies, Solon?” asked Rosie; “weren’t they frightened almost into fits?”
“Not a bit, Miss Rosie,” returned Solon, chuckling; “dey’s just ’sprised, dey was, an’ quiet as two little mouses. ’Spect dey’s wonderin’ what makes deir mudder cry so, and deir fader hug her and dem up so tight.”
“Ah, here comes Herbert,” said Harold, who, with Croly, was riding alongside of the carriage. “We’ll get the whole story from him.”
“Ah, has Solon been telling you of our adventure in the woods this evening?” asked Herbert, reining in his steed near at hand. “Itwas quite an exciting one, and we have great reason for gratitude over our narrow escape.”
“As we all have,” returned his mother with emotion. “It was you, Herbert, was it not, who saw the tree tottering and gave warning to the others?”
“Yes, mother. I, being on horseback, had of course a much better opportunity to see it than the others in the covered carriage; yet it was a good Providence that turned my eyes in that direction at that precise moment, and thus saved, possibly, all our lives.”
“Oh, we can never be thankful enough for that!” exclaimed his mother. “But Zoe was very much frightened, Solon says?”
“Oh, very much, and no wonder, poor thing! But Edward took her and the babies directly to their rooms, and I have not seen them since. I wrote my letter, rode in to Union and mailed it, and have just ridden out again.”
The carriage had been at a standstill while they talked, but now Mrs. Travilla bade Solon drive on. They were very near home, and in another minute or two had turned in at the avenue gates.
Edward was waiting on the veranda to assist them to alight, and his mother at once inquired anxiously about Zoe and the twins.
“The little ones are asleep, and Zoe is restingpretty quietly now on her couch,” Edward replied. “I suppose Herbert and Solon have told you of our narrow escape from being crushed by a falling tree as we passed through that bit of woods?”
“Yes; it was a wonderful escape,” Elsie returned in tones quivering with emotion. “I can never be thankful enough for the spared lives of my children. Would Zoe care to see her mother just now, do you think?”
“Yes, yes, indeed, mother! Shall I take you to her now? Our guests will excuse us, I know, and we will leave the others to entertain them.”
Zoe, lying on the couch in her dressing-room, the crib with its sleeping little occupants within reach of her hand, started up with a glad cry, “O mamma, dear mamma, how glad I am to see you!” as her husband and his mother came softly in and drew near where she lay.
Elsie took her in her arms and held her close with low-breathed words of tenderness and love. “My dear girl! my dear daughter! thank God that I have you safe in my arms again. How little I thought of such danger when we parted an hour ago, and oh! to have lost you—my sons—Edward and Herbert, and the darling babies, or any one of you!—ah, it is almost too terrible to think of for a moment.”
“Yes, mamma dear; even the sudden danger,though we all escaped, gave me a shock that has completely unnerved me. I cannot forget for a moment how near we were to death—so sudden and dreadful—escaping only as by the skin of our teeth.”
She shuddered and was silent for a moment, still clinging to her mother, and held fast in her loving embrace; then in a low, sweet voice, “Mamma, dearest mamma,” she said, “this terrible experience, this narrow escape from a sudden, awful death, has proved to me a blessing in disguise. I have given myself to God and feel that he has taken me for his very own child; and oh, amid all my suffering from shattered nerves, there is a sweet peace in my heart such as I have never known before!”
“My dear, dear child!” Elsie exclaimed with emotion, “no sweeter, no gladder tidings could have reached me. It is an answer to prayer offered for years that you—my Edward’s wife—might learn to know and love the Lord who shed his own precious blood that we might have eternal life.”
“Yes, mamma, I wonder at myself that I could have ever resisted such love, that I did not give him my whole heart years ago, and strive to serve him with all my powers.”
“Yes, dear little wife,” Edward said with emotion, “what seemed to us so terrible atthe time has turned out a real blessing in disguise.”
“So may every trial prove to you, my dear children,” said his mother. “I must leave you now; and Zoe dear, go to sleep in peace, fearing no evil. Remember and rest upon those sweet words: ‘The Lord is thy keeper; the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand. The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil; he shall preserve thy soul.’”
Edward saw his mother to the door and kissed her good-night.
“My dear boy, I am very glad for you,” she said, “glad that you and your young wife, the mother of your babes, are at last travelling the same road, and may hope to spend a blest eternity together.”
“Yes, mother dear, I think I have great reason to thank God for that narrow escape of ours from a sudden, terrible death,” he replied in tones tremulous with emotion. “It was better than not to have been in danger, since it has proved to be the means of opening Zoe’s eyes to her guilt and danger as a sinner who had never sought pardon and safety in the one way God has provided.”
“Yes, my heart sings for joy for her and for you. But she is quite worn out; get her tobed and to sleep as soon as you can.” So saying Elsie hastened downstairs, where she found the rest of her family and her guests sitting in the veranda talking over the events of the day, particularly the narrow escape of those present at the fall of the tree in the wood.
Both Harold and Herbert sprang up at sight of their mother and hastened to hand her to a comfortable seat.
“How is Zoe, Elsie?” asked her father.
“A good deal shaken and exhausted by her fright, papa; but I hope a night’s sleep will restore her to usual health and spirits.
“O Herbert, my dear son,” turning to him, “how thankful I am for your escape as well as for theirs!”
“As I am for your sake, mother, as well as my own,” Herbert returned, taking her hand and carrying it to his lips; for he had seated himself close at her side.
“There’s the telephone bell!” exclaimed Rosie, springing to her feet and running into the hall.
She found that Captain Raymond was calling from Woodburn to ask after Edward, Zoe, and the others who had been present at the fall of the tree. He was glad to learn that they had escaped injury and were doing well.
His inquiry was followed almost immediatelyby a similar one from Fairview, then from each of the other places with which Ion had such connection, and all expressed themselves relieved to learn that none of the little party had been injured.
At Woodburn the captain and his two gentlemen guests sat conversing together.
“This is a beautiful country, captain,” remarked Hugh. “Father and I are so well pleased with it, and with the relatives we have found here, that we have serious thoughts of settling in the neighborhood.”
“That would be pleasant for us,” said the captain, “and, by the way, I heard to-day that our next neighbor talks of selling his plantation and leaving the vicinity.”
“What! surely not that beautiful place that I was admiring the other day?” questioned Cousin Ronald. “Beechwood I think you told me they called it.”
“The very same,” replied the captain, “and we should all be very glad to see you and your son settled there.”
“What do you say to that, laddie?” asked the old gentleman, turning to Hugh.
“It sounds very inviting, sir,” was the smiling reply; “and would not be too distant from our proposed place of business.”
“No, I think not; hardly more than fifteenminutes’ ride or drive from the village if one has the right kind of steed.”
“Ah, you think of going into business in Union, do you?” inquired the captain in a tone of surprise.
“Yes, I have been quietly spying out the land,” replied Cousin Ronald, “and if Hugh agrees with me in thinking it a suitable place for a factory, I think we shall buy and build there.”