Mr. and Mrs. Gurney sat in their cosy sitting-room, which was plainly but tastefully furnished; but though quiet, one could not fail to realize that it was the home of people of more than ordinary intelligence and culture. They both had passed life's meridian, and were, at the time we introduce them to our readers, verging upon three score years. They were dressed in deep mourning, and the look of subdued sadness which overcast their thoughtful faces told they had lately "passed under the rod." But suffering had not made them hard and cynical, but richer in grace and goodness, riper, sweeter, mellower. Each had learned to say with Asaph, "My flesh and my heart faileth, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion for ever."
They certainly had reason to mourn. God had blessed them with four children; children of whom they had just cause to be proud, for they early displayed talents which marked them as above mediocrity, but one after another, just after they had reached manhood and womanhood, they had fallen victims to that insidious disease, consumption, and the aged couple were left in their declining years, sad and lonely, like two aged trunks stript of their foliage, bare and alone.
Mr. Gurney had been for years engaged in the dry goods and clothing trade, and had intended his last surviving son should take the business, but Providence had ordered otherwise, taking him away just at the time when the father was about to carry out his long cherished scheme.
After they had laid in the grave the body of their beloved, for a while a cloud of intense sorrow hung over their home, though they had faith to believe it was lined with the silver of their Father's love.
They were too intelligent, and their grief was too intense for much outward manifestation, but each knew the pregnancy of the other's sorrow from their individual experiences; and by gentle ministrations of love each endeavored to soothe and ease the burdened heart of the other.
Mrs. Gurney found some relief in attending to her household duties—to the plants and flowers in the conservatory—for they had one of considerable size. This latter had been the special duty of her daughter who had preceded her brother by a few weeks to the grave. And as the mother now engaged in this "labor of love," each plant and flower that received her gentle attention would suggest some tender recollection of the loved and lost. As she trained them to their supports and trellises she would remember that the white fingers which had so frequently and lovingly performed the task were now cold in death.
But there was one—a night blooming cereus—which was a particular favorite of Grace's, and which, even after she knew she had not long to live, she hoped she would be spared to see bloom. But when she perceived she was failing so rapidly—quietly, peacefully, sinking to rest—she said—
"Mamma, darling, I have looked forward with a great deal of expectancy to the time when my cereus should bloom, I now know my hope in this respect will not be realized, but I want you, mother, when it opens out its pure white petals and its fragrance perfumes the midnight air to remember I shall be in heaven—among fairer flowers, with sweeter perfume; for they have not been cursed by sin. And while you mourn at my absence remember I am with Jesus—'Absent from the body, present with the Lord.'"
And now as the mother tended these flowers, and lovingly lingered near this special favorite, around which such tender memories lingered, the flood-gates of her soul were mercifully lifted up and she "eased her poor heart with tears."
Thus the mother, who was constitutionally the frailer of the two, and was the one from whom the children had inherited the tendency to the disease which had carried them off so prematurely, seemed to come back to herself, so to speak, and she soon manifested a subdued cheerfulness as she set about managing the domestic economy of her home.
But Mr. Gurney did not recover so rapidly; there seemed to be no outlet to his feelings—nothing to ease his burdened heart.
He had given his business into the hands of his clerks, and had concluded to sell out and permanently retire from active life. He went with his wife on a journey to the seaside, to a quiet watering-place, hoping that change of scene might divert his attention from his sorrows and enable him, at least to some extent, to recover his wonted health and spirits. But he returned unbenefited, and his wife and friends began to have grave fears for his life. They consulted an eminent physician, who advised him not to give up his business, but to devote to it as much of his attention as his strength would permit; and this advice coinciding with his own judgment, he concluded to act upon it; but as none of his employees hardly came up to his ideal of what a managing clerk should be, he thought he had better advertise for a responsible man, who thoroughly understood the business, and who could keep the books, while he could do the buying and attend to the outlying duties of the firm.
It was in accordance with this idea that he inserted the advertisement in theGlobewhich brought Richard Ashton to answer in person.
"Have you received any answer to your advertisement, dear?" askedMrs. Gurney of her husband.
"Yes, dear, I received a telegram this morning from a man who lives in L——, who said he thought he would suit me. He stated he could give first-class references, and that he had been in the business from a boy. He also stated he would make personal application, and would take the next train for this place: so I am expecting him on the 7 o'clock. I left word with Johnson to drive him here, and he may arrive at any moment."
"But, my dear," said his wife, "is it not rather risky for him to come? You may not like his appearance, and if even in this respect everything is satisfactory, his credentials may not be so."
"I am sure I cannot help that," replied Mr. Gurney. "I did not state in the advertisement that parties who wished to engage should make personal application, and I have no doubt but I shall receive applications by letter. If individuals come from a distance to apply, it must be at their own risk."
Their conversation was here interrupted by the ringing of the door-bell, and in a moment after the servant reported that a Mr. Ashton wished to see Mr. Gurney.
"That is the name of the person in question," Mr. Gurney remarked. "Show him in, Sarah;" and in a moment after Ashton was ushered into their presence.
"Mr. Gurney, I presume," he said, with that ease and grace that good breeding and familiarity with good society alone gives to a man.
"I sent you a telegram," Ashton continued, "making application for the situation, in answer to your advertisement; and I have now come in person, as I stated I would."
Mr. Gurney, who had risen, extended to him his hand—then introduced him to his wife, and in a few moments, by his cordial reception, made him completely at his ease.
His appearance, and, still more, his manner, impressed Mr. and Mrs. Gurney favorably, and they both concluded he was a very intelligent person.
He produced his credentials, which were highly satisfactory; but Mr. and Mrs. Gurney were too keen observers not to notice the marks of dissipation which his two weeks' debauch had stamped upon his face. The former, however, possessed too much of the courtesy which distinguishes the true gentleman to give utterance to a word which would wound even the most sensitive person, if he could do his duty and avoid it. Though, if it lay in the way of his duty, he immediately entered into its performance, but in the least offensive manner possible.
He said to Richard Ashton, in his most kindly tone: "You will pardon me, I am sure, for asking you another question. I would not do so only it is necessary that I should exercise the utmost caution in order that I may secure a person who has not only ability and experience, but who also is a man of good character and temperate habits—who, in short, would be every way reliable. Pardon me if I ask, in all kindness, would you in every respect till up my requirements?"
This was a plain question, put with the most gentle courtesy, but yet in a straightforward manner; and if Ashton had wished in any way to equivocate, he felt he could not do so without utterly destroying his chances of employment. To do him justice, however, let us state he never, even for a moment, entertained a thought of so doing. He felt he was being weighed in the balance, and would probably be found wanting, but he resolved he would not endeavor to bring down the scale in his favor, either by equivocation or dealing in untruths. In fact, he immediately concluded to make a clean breast of it, and give him, in as few words as possible, a history of his life, and then leave him to deal with his case. Acting upon this thought, he in a few moments graphically and pathetically told his sad story.
"I will not ask you to decide to-night," he said after he had finished, "but if it is agreeable to you I will call in the morning. I would like you would give me a decided answer by that time if possible, and," he added, "if you conclude to engage me I will endeavor so to devote myself to your interest as never to give you cause to regret it."
Mr. Gurney immediately agreed to this arrangement, as he thought it would be better to have a few hours to carefully consider the matter, and to talk it over with his wife. In fact, he had been so much wrought upon by the sad recital, as to entirely unfit him for a calm and judicious consideration of the business in hand. So, making an appointment for the next day at 9 a.m., he saw Ashton to the door, and bade him good night.
Ashton, as he walked rapidly away, was very despondent. He had but slight hope of securing the situation; for, he reasoned to himself, had a person of similar character come to him seeking a position, when he was in business, no matter how much he might sympathise with him he never would have thought of engaging him.
He wisely determined, however, to hope for the best. He was sure he would like the situation, for he had formed a very high opinion of Mr. Gurney. He considered him a very superior person—cultured, but plain, and practical, and it was because he knew he possessed the latter attribute he had no hopes of being engaged.
But had he been capable of reading Mrs. Gurney's mind, and could he also have known the influence she possessed over her husband, he would not have been so despondent. His story had not been half told before she had been so affected by its touching pathos as to be unable to repress her tears, and before he had finished she had resolved she would exert all the influence she possessed over her husband to persuade him to take Ashton on trial; for she felt it would be a noble thing to aim at the redemption of this man from evil, and to give help, hope, and joy to his wife and children, of whom he had spoken so tenderly.
"Well, Martha," said Mr. Gurney, after Ashton had departed, "would it be safe for us to employ him?"
He asked this in all sincerity; for he was a man who consulted his wife in relation to all his business affairs. He said, "he looked upon marriage as a partnership, the wife being an interested member of the firm." And as he firmly believed this, he made it a rule never to enter into any business transaction without seeking her counsel, in regard to it, and he boasted that some of the best hits he had made in business had been the outcome of acting upon her advice.
"Well, my dear," she said in answer to his question, "I am strongly in favor of giving him a chance. He is certainly a man of more than ordinary intelligence, and he could not have that ease and grace of manner which he possesses in so eminent a degree had he not associated with the best society. It is certainly a great pity he has become a victim of strong drink, but, then, if he had not he would never have applied for the situation."
"But, Martha," interjected Mr. Gurney, "do you think it would be in conformity with sound wisdom to engage him after the confession he has made?"
"Yes, James, I really do, and one of the strongest reasons for my thinking so is because of that confession. If he had protested he had not been drinking, as most men in his circumstances would have done, then I should have opposed your engaging him, but he was so straightforward that he has certainly enlisted my sympathy in his favor; and then I really think God guided him here. We have always been advocates of temperance, and if there is one thing more than any other for which I feel like praising Him, it is because he has enabled us to deliver some of our fellow-mortals from lives of intemperance, and it may be, some from drunkard's graves. But this has been done without any great sacrifice upon our parts—that is, we have not had to run any great risk. Now we are placed in different circumstances, and we have an opportunity of possibly saving one of our fellow-creatures if we are only willing to risk a little trouble and loss in order to accomplish our object. Now, don't you think, James, the Lord has sent him here just to try us?"
"It has not thus occurred to me," he answered; but he did not make any further remark, wishing to hear all his wife had to say before doing so.
"I think, James," she continued, "the reason that the cause of temperance has not gained greater triumphs, has been because its advocates have not been willing to make sacrifices enough: let us not fail in this respect. There is no doubt but you would employ Mr. Ashton if you had no fear he would again fall, for he seems to me in every way suited for the position—if we had any doubt in this respect his credentials should remove it. But, unfortunately, he has been a great drinker, and, therefore, if you employ him, it may involve you in trouble, and in the end it may result in loss; but if you do not employ him it will be because you are afraid of these things, that is, it will be a matter of selfishness, and you will practically say you are a friend of temperance until it becomes a matter which may affect your interest, but when it touches you there you will draw back and go no further, though by being willing to risk a little you may be the means of saving this man, and of giving succor to his wife and helpless children. I think, James, looking at it in this light, you should give him a trial for a month or two if you can agree as to terms."
She had grown quite eloquent, ere she was through, for her heart was enlisted, and she was determined, if possible, to save this man. And, as she had listened to his description of his wife and children, she felt as if she almost knew Mrs. Ashton, and was certain she should esteem her very highly. So, she brought all her powers of persuasion to bear upon her husband, that she might persuade him to her way of thinking.
Mr. Gurney had listened to his wife attentively until she waited for an answer, and then he scarcely knew what to say in reply. He had, in fact, as we have stated, been also touched by Ashton's graphic story, and he felt he would be willing to sacrifice a great deal to save him; he also felt the force of her logic when she argued if he were a true temperance man he would be willing to make great sacrifice in order to rescue one of the victims of the rum traffic, but he thought he would be running almost too much risk to employ him under the circumstances. It was under the influence of these counter currents of thought he made his reply:
"Well, Martha," he said, "I should like to engage the man, and I have concluded, if he did not drink, he would just suit me, but, according to his own statement, he has not only fallen once, but several times, and we have no guarantee that he will not fall again. The fact is, judging from almost universal experience, he is more likely to fall than not, and if I should employ him, and after he had charge of the business he should give way to his besetting sin, he would not only cause me serious loss, but care and worry, which, in my delicate state of health, I should, if possible, avoid. Really, dear, I am in a strait betwixt two; I should like very much to help him, for, I will candidly confess, that no stranger, in so short a period of time, ever took hold of my feelings as he has done, and yet to put him in charge of my business, after the confession he has made, seems so contrary to the dictates of sound judgment as, in fact, to be actually courting trouble. But, my dear, let us not say anything more about it to-night; we will pray over it, and, in the morning, we will decide what to do. God will guide us in this as He has in all our past transactions, when we have gone to Him for guidance."
"I am perfectly content, dear, to leave it in His hands," said his wife, "but I am nearly satisfied now that it is His will we should employ Mr. Ashton. We will lay all the matter before him, and let us also bring this poor victim of strong drink, and his wife and children, before the Throne of Grace."
Mr. Gurney, after praying for Divine direction, and seriously considering the matter, concluded he would give Ashton a trial. He saw his wife would be seriously disappointed if he did not do so, and he wished to gratify her as far as he possibly could. He also thought if he took him for a comparatively limited period, on trial, there would be no great risk in it. He, however, determined to give him to understand the retaining of his position entirely depended upon his good behavior.
Ashton, when he called in the morning, was agreeably surprised to learn that Mr. Gurney had concluded to try him for a short period, if they could agree as to salary, and as he was willing to accept a very moderate one until he had satisfied his employer he was worthy of something better, they were not long in coming to terms.
So the matter was settled, and Ashton was able to write home to his wife that he had secured a situation.
"I think, my darling," he said, "I shall like the place very much. Mr. and Mrs. Gurney (my employer and his wife) seem to be an excellent couple. I should judge, from appearances, they are in very easy circumstances, and very intelligent and cultured.
"Bayton is a beautiful, cosy, old-fashioned town, containing, I should think, about three thousand inhabitants, and there is a fine river running through the centre of it, nearly, if not quite, as large as the Genesee. Its houses are, most of them, embowered in trees; in fact, it appears like an English town Americanized, and its inhabitants seem to have more the characteristics of Americans than Canadians.
"The business of which I am to have the management is the best dry goods and clothing establishment in the place. I am to remain on trial for a month, and then, if I give satisfaction and like the situation, I am to have a permanent engagement.
"I hope, my dear, at least for once, that old Father Time will fly with rapid wings. I do so long to see you all again. Tell Eddie that this is a famous river for fish, and will furnish him with rare sport. Also tell Allie that Bayton is a famous place for flower culture, almost every house having a flower garden in front of it to beautify it and to fill the air with fragrant perfumes.
"I was glad to learn that papa's darling little Mamie was well; and growing finely. You must not let her forget me. I hope Eddie and Allie are paying strict attention to their studies; for if they do, success is almost certain, and in after years they will rejoice because of their present self-denial.
"And now, my darling, good-bye for the present. Kiss all the children for their papa.
"Your affectionate husband,
It is now time that we should return to Ruth and her children.
After her husband had left her, as we narrated in the first chapter, she was very sad, almost desolate, and she felt she must retire to hold communion with Him who promised to give rest to the weary soul who came to Him; so, leaving little Mamie in care of Eddie and Allie, she retired to her room to weep and also to pray. She was literally following the injunction of her Saviour—praying to her Father in secret that He might reward her openly. The reward she longed for was that He would protect her husband and influence him to walk aright.
As she was thus alone—and yet not alone, for God was with her—her memory took her back to the sunny days of her girlhood. How bright those halcyon days appeared! She was in fancy again walking amid the green fields and by the hedgerows of dear old England, plucking the daisies from the meadows and listening to the sweet strains of the lark as it carolled its lay to the morning. Sunny visions of the past, with loved faces wandering in their golden light, flitted before her; and her heart was filled with sadness as she remembered the breaks that Time, with his relentless hand, had made in that once happy number. She found herself unconsciously repeating—
"Friend after friend departs—Who hath not lost a friend?There is no union here of heartsThat hath not here an end."
Then the thoughts of the days when Richard Ashton came wooing, of moonlight walks, of music and literature—these incidents of joyful days flitted before her, each for a moment, and then vanished away, like dissolving views. Some who sought her then were now opulent, filling positions of honor and great responsibility; and some of her associates who then envied her, because she was more sought after than they, were now presiding over palatial homes.
As these visions of the happy days of yore passed like fairy dreams before her she heaved an involuntary sigh as she passionately exclaimed: "Oh drink, thou hast been our curse; turning our happiness into misery; our Eden of bliss into a waste, weary wilderness of poverty and woe!"
"Mamma, mamma, may I tum, I have such a petty flower to show oo."
It was the voice of little Mamie, and, as her mother opened the door, she came in, an almost perfect picture of innocent beauty; as with eyes sparkling with delight she held up to her mother a large and beautiful pansy.
"Isn't that petty, mamma? and wasn't Eddie a dood boy to get it for me? Now, mamma, I'm dust going to save it for papa. Will you put it up for him?"
Mrs. Ashton hastily turned away her head, and wiped her eyes, so that her child might not see traces of her recent tears. She then turned, and taking Mamie in her arms brushed her golden curls, which, young as she was, hung down her back, falling in rippling waves of sunlight over her fair young form, and assured her she would put away the flower for dear papa.
Little Mary, or as they called her Mamie, was born, as we have already noticed, a short time after they came to Rochester. She was a beautiful child, and in some respects seemed to resemble each of her parents; for she had the complexion and large, dreamy eyes of her mother and the features of her father. And in disposition and mental characteristics she also inherited qualities from both father and mother; for she possessed the sprightly animation of the former which ever and anon bubbled over in gentle, kindly mischief. While she, also, possessed the guileless trustfulness of the latter, and seemed never so happy as when she nestled peacefully in the arms of one she loved, and listened to a simple story of the good in other days, or was charmed by some beautiful song or hymn, which it was her delight to help sing.
As one looked at her fair young face—her sunny curls and regular classic features—either sparkling with animation or melting with tenderness, they wondered not that she was the pet of home, and generally beloved, for with such beauty and such gentle witcheries she could not fail to win hearts.
"Mamma," she said, after her mother had kissed her, "Why has papa don away? I 'ove my papa ever so much, and I asked him, before he went away, if he 'oved oo and Eddie and Allie, and he taid he did, and that he 'oved me, his 'ittle sunbeam, too, and ett he has don and left us all. I am so sorry papa has don."
As Mamie said this the tears began to glisten in her eyes, and then sparkling for a moment, in their blue settings, ran in pearly drops down over her cheeks. Her mother snatched her closely to her to quiet her sobbings; but, in a moment or two, was weeping in sympathy with her child.
"My darling," she said, "papa has gone away to find another home for us all, and after awhile he will come back for us, then my little Mamie will be her papa's sunbeam again."
"But, mamma, I don't want to go, I dust want to 'top where we are now, for Eddie was saying, yesterday, that papa was in Tanada, and that he was coming over after us. And he taid, mamma that Tanada was so cold we would not have any petty flowers there, and I don't want to leave all my petty flowers. I dust want to stay here in our nice home."
"Eddie should not talk so to his little sister," said her mother, "and I do not think we will find Canada much colder than this country. God will take care of us there, Mamie, if we are good and pray to Him, and He will also take care of papa if we ask Him to do so."
"Will He, mamma?" said Mamie, "den I will ask Him."
She knelt down, and clasping her tiny hands looked heavenward with sweet trustfulness as she murmured: "Dod bless my papa, and take care of him." And then she added—the thought seeming to come intuitively to her mind. "O, Dod, don't let my papa drink, taus den he is tross to my dear mamma and to Eddie and Allie; and he don't 'ove mamma den. Dust let him come home nice.—Amen."
Her mother was strangely moved at her child's prayer and murmured, Amen. And as the little innocent knelt there, a perfect picture of seraphic beauty, purity, innocence and faith, the thought of the poet came to her mind—
"O man, could thou in spirit kneel beside that little child;As fondly pray, as purely feel, with heart as undefiled;That moment would encircle thee with light and love divine,Thy soul might rest on Deity, and heaven itself be thine."
And she prayed that God might ever keep her as innocent and pure.
Time seemed to creep along very slowly for the next two days to Ruth Ashton. She sent Eddie to the Post Office, and when he came without a letter she was terribly disappointed. She exclaimed: "Oh, I am afraid he has broken his promise and is drinking again; for he certainly would have written if he were not!"
If those Christians and respectable members of society, who favor the drinking usages and oppose with all the power of their intellect the passing of a law to do away with its sale, only experienced for one short day the agony which wrung the heart of that sensitive, loving woman, that experience would do what the tongue of the most eloquent pleader would utterly fail to accomplish; that is, turn them to hate the traffic as they hate the father of evil.
Her mind was preyed upon by doubt, fear, terrible anxiety. "If he were drinking, in a strange country, what would become of him? She remembered he had considerable money with him; also, when he was intoxicated he always became reckless, and would be almost certain to display it, and thus, probably, tempt some hard character to rob or murder him.
"Oh, my Father, protect him!" she exclaimed in her anguish, as she knelt before Him who was her only help and consolation in such times of trouble.
The next morning Eddie was again sent for a letter, and as he came with one in his hand, the mother grasped it impulsively. But, a moment after, thinking her action might appear strange to Eddie, she kissed him affectionately, and said: "Excuse your mamma; my boy, I was so anxious to read papa's letter that I forgot myself."
The reader has already been made acquainted with the contents of that letter, and when Ruth had read it her worse fears were not allayed—rather, confirmed.
She wrote to him immediately—not expressing her fears, but filling her letter with words of love and confidence, thinking that by thus doing it would influence him, at least to some extent, to endeavor to prove to her that her confidence had not been misplaced.
She did not hear from him again for more than two weeks, though either she or the children wrote him several letters in the meantime. The agony she endured during that period I will allow the reader to imagine.
At length Eddie brought home the letter, the contents of which I have given in a former chapter. It relieved her heart of a great burden. In fact, she felt some compunctions of conscience—she thought she must have judged him wrongfully, for it hardly seemed possible to her that a stranger to her husband would have engaged him, if he had presented himself immediately after a long continued debauch.
That night, as she knelt by her bedside, she thanked God for His loving-kindness to her, in her hour of great trial. But, after she had retired and began to think over what the letter contained, she found that while, on the whole, its contents gave her great cause for thankfulness, yet, that it made her feel inexpressibly sad—sad, because she would have again to part with tried and true friends and go among strangers.
Never in her life had she been the recipient of more gentle attentions and delicate expressions of kindness than since she had resided in Rochester. True, some of her neighbors were more curious in regard to her affairs than she thought was consistent with good breeding, and sometimes they made inquiries which she did not wish to answer, but which she did not know how to evade without giving offence. However, this trait of a certain class of her American friends—and which, by-the-bye, has furnished a fund for humorists the world over—was more than redeemed by their genuine kindness and willingness to help upon every possible occasion. And some, she thought, were noble examples of what men and women are when in them natural goodness is joined with intelligence and culture; for they seemed to divine her wants like a quick-witted person will catch at a hint, and any service rendered was so delicately tendered that it almost left the impression upon the mind of the recipient that a favor had been granted in its acceptance. In fact, she had been favorably impressed with her acquaintances in Rochester from the first, and now she was about to leave, their kindly attentions endeared them to her so as to make it very hard for her to separate from them; for, day after day, they vied with each other in doing everything which kindness could suggest to prepare her for her anticipated journey.
And Ruth herself was employing every moment, for she never doubted her husband would have a permanent engagement. She had clothes to provide for the children, and her own wardrobe to replenish, so that all might be well prepared to go among strangers.
Eddie and Allie, also, had their own sorrows and trials. At first they said they would not leave their old home. Child-like, they thought Rochester was the only place in the wide, wide world where they could live and find pleasure; and as they had but dim recollections of England, and all the persons, objects, and scenes which they loved, and around which their memories lingered, were centred there, it is not surprising it was the dearest spot on earth to them, nor that it seemed very hard to leave their school and school-mates, their trees and flowers, and the many and varied objects which had been familiar to them for so many years.
"I do wish mamma would coax father not to move among strangers, especially when it is a cold country like Canada he is going to. I declare, it is too bad to leave everything we like behind, and go among those we won't care for, and who will not care for us."
As Eddie spoke, the tears began to glimmer in his eyes, for he certainly thought their lot was a hard one.
Allie agreed to use all her powers of persuasion to prevail upon their mother to influence their father not to take them from Rochester.
It was at one of these little indignation meetings they had given expression to the speeches which had been reported to their mother by Mamie. This called forth a remonstrance from her, and she pointed out to them how selfish and sinful it was to talk as they had been doing. This had the desired effect, and they promised not to murmur again, and the promise was kept; for they truly loved their mother, and would not do anything which they thought would grieve her.
"I tell you, Allie," said Eddie, one day, "it won't be so bad after all; for if we are lonesome, when we are not helping father and mother, you can be working in your flower garden, and I can help you; and if the fishing is as good as father thinks it is, won't I enjoy it? I tell you it will be jolly, and if I catch some big ones I will be able to write back and tell Harry Wilson and Jim Williams about it."
The eyes of Eddie sparkled with animation as he was looking forward and by anticipation enjoying these pleasures—forgetting, for the time being, the hardships which a short period before had stirred up such rebellious feelings; and then they settled into a more thoughtful expression as he continued: "Father says there is a good high school there, and I will, if I can, be the best in my class there, as I have been here."
"Well," said Allie, "I think we were naughty to speak as we did, and we caused mamma to grieve. She says God knows what is best, and that we should be satisfied to leave everything in His hands. I am sure I shall enjoy myself helping mamma and attending to my flower garden; for I know you will help me to make the beds, and we will also make a nice tiny one for Mamie, too. O! won't that be splendid?"
"I hope," continued Eddie, "that father will keep from drink there. I am sure mamma thinks he has been drinking since he has been away, and she is almost grieving herself to death about it. Oh, I don't see how it is that he don't leave whiskey alone!"
"I do wish he would," said Allie; "for sometimes, when I see mamma looking so sad, I go to my room and cry, and, Eddie, I often pray to God to keep papa from drink. Do you think He will hear and answer me, Eddie?"
"I guess He will," said Eddie. "Mamma says so, and she knows. I always say my prayers, Allie, but I don't do much more praying. I think you girls are better than we boys, anyway."
"I don't know," replied his sister; "I think I am bad enough, and I pray to God to make me better. I think the girls quarrel just as much the boys, and though they may not swear and talk so roughly, yet I think they speak far more spitefully."
"I never thought so," said Eddie.
"Well, they do. Why, just yesterday, Sarah Stewart, because I got ahead of her in our spelling class, twitted me about father's drinking, and said 'a girl who had an old drunkard for a father need not put on such airs.' And, Eddie, I did not say anything to her to make her speak so, only teacher put me up because I knew my lesson better."
"If a boy, had twitted me like that I would have knocked him down." And he clenched his teeth and doubled up his fist as he spoke, which left no doubt in the mind of his sister that he would have tried his best to have done as he said.
"Well, Eddie, that would have been wicked; it would have grieved mamma, and, besides, it would have brought you to the level of the one who insulted you. I was very angry at first, and almost felt like slapping her, but then I thought how low it would be. When I cried, the other girls, who heard what she said, shamed her. I stopped them, for I pitied her. I would pity any girl, Eddie, who could do so low a thing, and every night since then I have prayed for her."
"You are a good little puss," said Eddie, as he kissed her.
"Not very good," she answered, "for I am sometimes quick-tempered and hateful, but I do try to be good."
Richard Ashton gave good satisfaction, and was hired for a year with a salary that exceeded his expectations. He rented a suitable house, filling up in every respect the promises made in his letter. Then, getting leave of absence for a week, he came over for his wife and family.
He found a purchaser for his property in his next door neighbor, who paid half down and gave him his note for the remainder, which would expire a year from date.
He could not, try how he would, keep from feeling sad at leaving his American home and many friends: for Richard was himself again, and now saw, in its true light, his former foolishness. In his heart he sincerely liked the Americans, and left them with regret.
The hearts of Ruth and her children were almost too full for utterance, and when the time of parting came they did not attempt to give expression to their sorrow in words. They parted with many regrets from the dear old home that had sheltered them so long, and that would be hallowed in their memory forever more; and from the many friends who had treated them so kindly, some of whom they would never meet again. In a few days they were kindly welcomed and settled in their new home.
"Did I not tell thee, Phoebe, that I was sartan there was going to be a death, and like enough more than one? Does thee not remember I told thee that on the first day, just before William Gurney died? And thee sees now that what I said has come troo, for both William and Annie have died since."
"Yes," said the person addressed as Phoebe, "thee then said thee had warning of death and knoo some one was going to die, and that thee thought there was going to be more than one. I remember just as plainly as if thee had said it not more'n a minute ago."
"I thought thee'd mind it," said the first speaker, and there was an accent of triumph in the tone of her voice as she spoke.
"I have known thee to tell before of things that jest happened as thee said they would. Why, thee told there was going to be a death just before Martha Foxe's child died; and whenever thee has told me that such was to be the case, I ain't never known it to fail. Tell us, Aunt Debie, how thee is able to foretell things as thee does."
"Well, Phoebe, there is more ways than one that I get warnings. If in the night I hear three loud raps, one after the other, I am then sartan there is goen to be a death; and if there is more than three then I knows there is goen to be more'n one death. If the raps are loud and sharp, then I know the death or deaths are to be right away; but if they be kind of easy like, I then know it will be quite a while. Now, I hearn three raps last night. I was awakened about one o'clock. I knoo it was one, 'cause I had the rheumatiz so bad I couldn't sleep, and so I got up and went to the fire to keep warm. I thought I would put my horn to my ear, and I jest caught the faintest sound of the roosters crowin'; so when I hearn that I knoo what time it was. Jest a little after that I went back to bed, and I hadn't been there more'n a minute of two before I hearn a rap, and then, in a little, I hearn another, and then another; they sounded far away like, and awfully solemn. Is it not strange that I can hear these things, when I cannot hear anything else?"
"Yes," said Phoebe, "it is strange; but God's ways are mysterious to us, and past finding out."
"Well," continued Aunt Debie, "I am sartan there is goen to be another death; for I never hear these things but some of our friends die."
"Oh," said Phoebe, solemnly, "I wonder who will be called for this time."
"God knows best," remarked Debie, "and he ain't going to do wrong; we must larn to trust Him."
"And then," she continued, "I have another way of knowing when there is to be trouble, sickness, and death. If I dream of a person walking through a corn or wheat field, I am then sartan there is going to be trouble or sickness; if they are cutting the wheat, or plucking the ears of corn, it is then sure to be followed by a death. I suppose God reveals these things to me by figures, the same as He did to Simon Peter in the long ago; for ain't we all jest like wheat waiting for the sickle, or like corn waiting till the time comes to be plucked by the Death Angel? I suppose my heavenly Father reveals more to me than He does to others, 'cause He, in His wisdom, has taken so much from me. He has left me here a poor old woman, deaf, blind, and lame. I can't see the faces of my friends through these poor sightless eyes, nor the beauties of the fields and sky, nor the blossoms and fruit of the trees, nor the flowers in the garden; neither can I hear the sweet music of the birds, nor even the prattle of the dear little children who come and kiss me, and let me play with their curls, save through this horn. He only knows"—and Aunt Debie looked up as she spoke—"how I long sometimes to see them. But, Father, Thou knowest what is best: 'Though Thou slayest me, yet will I trust in Thee.'"
This conversation occurred in Mrs. Gurney's parlor; for both Mr. and Mrs. Gurney were originally Quakers, but, settling in Bayton in their early married life, they joined another body, though they ever retained a profound respect for the Church of their childhood. In fact a great many of their relatives, and a very large circle of friends in the surrounding country, belonged to that body; and, as they are a people who are especially noted for their social qualities and for their warm attachment to kinsfolk and friends, the Gurneys very frequently received visits from them.
The conversation, part of which I have given to my readers, took place upon one of these visits. One of the parties present on this occasion deserves more than a passing notice, as she was an uncommon character.
Deborah Donaldson, or, as she was always called, "Aunt Debie," was, "after the strictest sect of her religion," a Quaker, and she never quite forgave James and Martha Gurney for leaving the Church of their fathers. She had been a widow for more than thirty years, her husband having been killed by the falling of a limb from a tree which he was chopping down, and she had been blind and deaf for the greater part of that time.
She had been a woman of very great energy, and there were some who hinted that she was the controlling member of the matrimonial firm when the now lamented Donaldson was living. Whether there was any truth or not in that report it is not for the writer to say, but she was certainly a woman of great force of character—a living embodiment of the Scripture maxim, "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might." And even now, in extreme old age—for she was more than four score—though in many ways she manifested she had entered her second childhood, she yet retained a great deal of her original energy. As I have illustrated, though she possessed genuine piety, it was so mingled with superstition as to leave it difficult to decide which exerted the controlling influence.
If any of my readers have associated to any extent with the people in the rural districts, especially those of American or Dutch-American descent, they, no doubt, have observed that a great many of the older and more illiterate ones among them are very superstitious, being implicit believers in signs, charms, apparitions, etc.; and most of them, also, entertain the opinion that the moon exerts an occult influence over many things of vital importance to the residents of this mundane sphere; and no power that could be brought to bear could induce some of them to plant corn, make soap, kill pigs, or perform many other important duties in certain phases of the moon, for they would be positive if they did it would result in dire disaster.
There are also sounds and signs which are looked upon as warnings of coming woe; for instance: three knocks in the still hours of the night are considered a "death call," and when heard by them they expect soon to learn of the decease of a friend. Dreams are the certain presages of coming events—of prosperity and happiness, of sorrow, disease, and death.
Now, Aunt Debie and her friends were firm believers in these things, and the former was looked upon as one who was favored with receiving more signs, seeing more visions, and dreaming more dreams, than any person in that section of country. She was also viewed by her friends as an oracle, in interpreting these signs; and she, having no doubt in regard to her own endowments, accepted in perfect faith their eulogium of her power in this respect.
Another present at the time to which we refer was a sister of Aunt Debie's, some ten years younger than herself, Phoebe Barrett by name. She was attended by her husband, whom she addressed as Enoch. He certainly was not the predominant spirit of the family; for he was so quiet and unobtrusive as to scarcely ever utter a word, except it might be to make a remark in regard to the weather or answer a question. There was also a young Quakeress by the name of Rachel Stebbins, a distant relative of the others, and they were all related to Mr. and Mrs. Gurney.
"Did thee have any peculiar dreams lately, Aunt Debie?" askedRachel Stebbins. "I had a perfectly awful one the other night."
"Doo tell. What was it, Rachel?" said Aunt Debie.
"I dreamt," continued Rachel, "that I was standing by an open grave; and it appeared to me, jest before they lowered the coffin into it, they took the lid off from the coffin, and in it was the corpse of a young girl, white as chalk, but she appeared as if she must have been very pretty when she was living. There were orange blossoms on her bosom and also in her hair. The features 'peared familiar, but I could not, for the life of me, make out who she was, nor can I yet, though I see her ghastly face ever before me, and think I shall thus see it until the day I die. And what 'pears to me as singular is, that I saw every one that is here now there, and a great many more of our relatives and friends, and all were weeping as if she were some one very near and dear to them. Now, what does thee make of that dream?"
"What did thee eat before thee went to bed, Rachel?" asked Mr. Gurney, who came into the room while she was relating her dream. He was by nature inclined to be reserved, but yet possessed a fund of quiet humor, and he delighted to quiz Aunt Debie and her Quaker friends in respect to their superstitious fancies. But Aunt Debie could not look upon this levity with any degree of allowance, in fact, she viewed it as little else than profanity. "Did thee eat mince pie, dough nuts, or plum cake? If thee did, thee must be more careful in thy diet, or thee may dream something even more terrible the next time."
Rachel Stebbins repeated to Aunt Debie what Mr. Gurney had said, which so roused the old lady that she said to him, with considerable asperity in the tone of her voice:
"I know thee always laughs at these things, James; but thee may be convinced some day in a manner that thee will not like, and then thee will be sorry that thee made so light of it."
And then addressing Rachel, she said, in answer to her question: "Well, Rachel, when I dream of a death I always expects to hear of a wedding. I have never known it to fail. And thee will see that some friend of ours will be getting married soon, and then thee will wonder how strangely contrary these kinds of dreams is. Why, before Jonas Head was married to Prudence Leggit, I seed him laid out in his shroud as plainly as I used to see thee; and a short time after that I hearn that he was married. Now, thee just watch if this dream don't end in the same way."
"But, Debie," said Phoebe, "thee was telling me the other day about dreaming of Charles Dalton walking through the cornfield. Will thee tell it to us now?"
This was a request that would yield a great amount of satisfaction to Aunt Debie, for she was always delighted to be asked to relate her dreams and the warnings she received of coming woe. Phoebe, of course, was well aware of this, and it was partially because of it that she asked the question; but the strongest motive power that moved her was that she herself was a strong believer in the supernatural. And though men will not acknowledge it, or rarely do so, nevertheless all are more or less influenced by a certain undefined and shadowy belief in the supernatural, even in this grosser shape; and I believe most have a desire, though mixed with a strange dread, to listen to its relation.
"Well," began Aunt Debie, responding to Phoebe's request, "I dreamt I saw before me a field of waving corn. It was nearly ready to cut, and the wind moaned through it, as it bent and shook before it, and the tassels glinted in the moonlight like ghosts keeping watch. And then there seemed to be something gliding through the corn; at first it was nothing but a shadow, but after a little it 'peared more plain, and at last I could see the features—it was the face of Charles Dalton. And then way down at the other end of the field I could see men, though not very plain, but just like shadows, and they were cutting the corn. I tell thee there is going to be some terrible trouble come to him ere long, and before many years he will die."
Just after Phoebe had asked the question, Ruth Ashton came in and was introduced to the company, with the exception of Aunt Debie, Mrs. Gurney explaining that the latter was blind and deaf, and telling Mrs. Ashton she would introduce her to the old lady when she had finished relating and explaining her dream.
Mrs. Ashton had been invited to spend the afternoon with them, and had accepted the invitation.
After Aunt Debie had finished relating her dream and giving her interpretations of its meaning, Mr. Gurney moved his chair over near her and asked: "Were you talking and thinking of Charles Dalton, and of his unfortunate drinking habits, also of his being nearly drowned, before you went to bed the night you dreamed that dream?"
"Ye-s," said Aunt Debie, "I—was." She made the admission very reluctantly; for she immediately saw the inference Mr. Gurney wished to draw.
"And did thee not eat plum cake and cheese just before retiring?" He knew the old lady was very partial to the edibles he mentioned, and suspected that because she had yielded to her weakness she had been disturbed by dreams.
"Well," he said, "thee ate the cheese and plum cake, and these indigestibles caused thee to dream; and thee believes that to dream of persons walking in a cornfield and plucking ears of corn is a sign of disease and death. You were talking of Charles Dalton and of his unfortunate drinking habits, also of his being nearly drowned lately. Now, what is more natural than that you should dream of him of whom you were thinking just before you went to sleep, and that your sleeping thoughts should be influenced by your waking ones, and by your opinions in regard to such dreams?"
"Thee can always explain things to suit thine own notion, James Gurney. Does thee not believe that God can give warnings now the same as He did in the days of old? Did He not give warnings to Samuel of Eli's coming trouble? Likewise of Saul's? And to Nathan of David's? And is there not many other places in the Bible where it speaks of warnings given? Now let me ask, Is not God 'the same yesterday, today, and forever,' and, if so, can He not do as well now as He did then?I wonder at thee, James Gurney!"—and the old lady raised her voice as she uttered the last sentence.
Mr. Gurney thought it better not to argue the point, so he put his mouth to her horn and said: "Thee and I had better not argue any further, Aunt Debie. Thee always gets the better of me anyway. But were not Judge McGullett and Sheriff Bottlesby with Charles Dalton, and were they not the ones who furnished him with the liquor that intoxicated him?"
"Yes, they were," said the old lady. But we will leave the remainder of her reply to another chapter.
Aunt Debie continued: "They were out shooting on the marsh, and the jedge and the sheriff had whiskey with them, of which I guess they drank as much as he did, but it 'pears they was able to stand it better, for they did not get drunk. I think it is a disgrace to this county to have a drunken jedge and sheriff. The idea of the judge setting on the bench and trying men for breaking the law! And yet he will intice other men to drink that which will fit them to commit the crime which, if they come before him, he will punish them for doing. And the sheriff will take them to jail when they are condemned by the jedge, though he helped to prepare them for the evil work they did."
"I agree with you, Aunt Debie," said Mrs. Gurney, speaking for the first time. "These two men being allowed to hold such high positions is not only a disgrace to this county but also to Canada. Men who hold offices of trust and grave responsibility should be patterns to the community, and above reproach. Especially should this be the case with a judge. He should be a man not only of the highest legal talent, and with a broad, judicial mind, but also of a pure and lofty character. How ever they came to appoint a man with the loose habits of Judge McGullett to the position is a mystery to me."
"Why, my dear," said Mr. Gurney, "it was given him because he worked for his party. He has ever been a man of low instincts and loose habits, though he was considered what is called a smart lawyer. In my opinion this did not qualify him for his position as judge. A man may be cunning, and so is a fox. He may have the qualities which enable him to browbeat a witness, and so has a bully. He may have great volubility, and so has a Billingsgate fishwife. He may even have considerable legal acumen, and yet be narrow and coarse. A man to be a judge, as you just remarked, should be of a broad, judicial mind, able to look at a case in all its bearings, to sift evidence, balance probabilities, and, being above prejudice and every outward influence, should decide a case on its merits. And I believe with you and Aunt Debie, that he should be as far above anything that is coarse or impure in his private life as above suspicion in his public capacity. But I look upon our present judge as the farthest remove from this; he was a good party hack, and, to the shame of the government in power when he was appointed be it said, he was rewarded for his unscrupulousness by being elevated to the bench of our county.
"In regard to Sheriff Bottlesby, he is a man who is almost beneath contempt; he has neither the brains, dignity, nor character to fit him for such a position. He cunningly worked to pack a caucus to secure the choice of our present member as a candidate to the local legislature, with the understanding, no doubt, if his efforts were crowned with success, that he should receive his reward. By low cunning, and resorting to means that no honorable man could employ, he succeeded. The last occupant of the position was found to be too old, and therefore asked to retire; and Bottlesby was rewarded for his faithfulness by getting the vacant position, though his predecessor was infinitely his superior in every respect.
"The fact is, everything that is pure and good in the government of our country is being dragged through the mire of party politics. If a measure is brought forward, I am afraid the question is not, Will this be for the best interest of society or the country? but, Will it help or hurt the party? If a public position of great responsibility becomes vacant, they do not appoint the man who is best qualified to fill it, but the one who has done the most for his party. And in some instances when they have not places for those who have been their subservient tools, they make them by removing, on some trivial pretext, those who are the occupants of the position, utterly regardless of the fact that it may cause misery to the ones removed and their families. If this evil is allowed to grow unchecked, our country will ere long be cursed with a system similar to that introduced into the United States by Burr and Jackson, and forcibly expressed by the words of an unscrupulous politician, 'To the victor belongs the spoil.'"
Mr. Gurney became quite excited while he was making this speech, for it was a subject upon which he had often thought, and with a great deal of solicitude. In fact, it was about the only topic which could have inspired him to speak with so much bitterness, and it was also the only time any of his friends had seen him so animated since his great bereavement. He was a man too broad in his views to make principle subservient to party. He had a party, and believed that it was necessary in the government of a country that such should exist; but he would not be a mere tool and follow his leaders, even though he could not endorse their policy. He said he would not vote for a man whom he believed was unprincipled, even if his party, through the caucus system, did make him their standard-bearer. He was strongly of the opinion that men who were not pure in private life should not be entrusted to conduct public affairs; and if the party to which he gave allegiance chose such a man as their candidate, he would not so violate his conscience as to give him his support, for he would not trample his honor and principle in the dust for any party.
As Mr. Gurney has given to my readers some idea of Judge McGullett and Sheriff Bottlesby, I will give a sketch of Charles Dalton, the one whose name had been associated with those two worthies.
He was the only son of Aunt Debie's youngest sister. This sister had not married a Quaker, and in this respect differed from the rest of the family. Her husband was, however, a farmer in very comfortable circumstances, and was chosen, because of his superior intelligence, as reeve of the township in which he resided; but he had become a poor, besotted victim of strong drink, and driving home from Bayton one night, while in a helpless state of intoxication, he was thrown from his buggy, being so injured by the fall as never to recover consciousness, and died the following day. He left his wife and only child—a son, three years old—ample means.
Mrs. Dalton, much to the surprise of the Mrs. Grundys of the neighborhood, never married again, but seemed to devote her life to her son, whom she loved with a passionate tenderness. He, from a very early age, manifested that he was a child of quick parts: he seemed to master in a short time, with consummate ease, lessons that would tax the brains of others for hours; and he had a prodigious memory. He was also a general favorite, because of his chivalrous character and amiable disposition. In fact, this last element of character was his weakness, for he was so amiable as to sometimes be persuaded to enter into engagements against the dictates of his better judgment.
When he reached the age necessary for him to decide as to his future course of action, he chose medicine for his profession. He first took an Arts course in Toronto University, and then entered one of the Medical Schools of that city, in both institutions taking front rank as a student.
He had, previous to his entering the Medical School, neither smoked nor drank, and even when there, though he was almost alone in this respect, his companions found it impossible to tempt him. His mother had suffered so much from drink that she had taught him to shrink from even a glass that contained it as he would from a rattlesnake. But visiting one day at an old friend of his mother's, who was at that time residing in Toronto, a glass of wine was placed before him; and as all the rest drank, he, through fear of being laughed at for being singular, drank too. He would, no doubt, have passed through the ordeal unscathed, had not the eldest daughter of his host, a handsome young girl of eighteen, said to him, when she saw he hesitated, "Take a glass, Charley; it will do you good, and cannot possibly do you any harm."
Now, he had conceived a warm attachment for her, and had every reason to believe that his attentions were not distasteful to her; so, when she made the remark, he no longer hesitated, but took the fatal first glass. As he and a companion were on their way home from Mr. Fulton's to their boarding-house, the companion said: "Come, Charley, let us go into Frank's and take a glass of ale;" and, since he had taken the wine, it strangely presented itself to his consciousness as a reason why he should not refuse to take the beer. Thus Satan leads us on by first tempting us to transgress, then making our first sin an argument to sweep away all objections in regard to committing others. Dalton took the ale; and the enemy having broken down the barriers of his temperance principles, it was not long ere he had full possession of the citadel. In fact, in a short time after he had taken his first glass, he and several of his fellow-students had, what they termed, "a regular spree."
His mother, fortunately for her, did not live to hear of her son's sad fall; for, as she was sitting in her easy chair one day, she was suddenly seized with a pain near her heart, asked to be assisted to bed, and before the doctor could arrive she was dead.
"Died of heart disease," said the doctor; and then he added: "There is no doubt it resulted from her husband's death. She has never recovered from the shock; and though she has lived for years, she might have dropped off at any moment if she had been the least excited."
But she received her call home while sitting in her chair reading the 14th chapter of St. John's Gospel; asked to be carried to her bed, and, after being propped up by pillows, she said to her attendant, "Elizabeth, I think I am dying; tell Charley my last thoughts were of him." And then, looking heavenward, she murmured, "God bless and guard my own dear boy," and in another moment she was dead. But "the silver cord was loosed" as if by seraph fingers, and "the golden bowl was broken" so gently that she scarcely felt the stroke of the Death Angel. They laid her to rest while yet in her prime by the side of the husband of her youth.
The son was sadly stricken by his mother's death, for he had a very strong affection for her; and for a long time after his return to the Medical College—in fact, until he had taken his diploma—he remained perfectly sober; but in the banquet that he and the rest of his class held to celebrate that event he again fell, and ere he left was so intoxicated he had to be helped to his lodgings. From that period he seemed to lose all power of resistance and almost all sense of shame.
He had been engaged to Mary Fulton, the young woman who, in her innocence, first tempted him to drink, and who now bitterly repented of her thoughtlessness; for she was a true woman, and loved him with all the strength of her deep, sensitive nature. He, after taking his medical degree, had started to practice in Orchardton, a small and lovely village not far from Bayton, and would have done exceedingly well had it not been for his drinking propensities.
It was about a year after he had begun to practice that he met with the adventure of which Aunt Debie and her friends were speaking.
"God was merciful when He removed poor Rebecca before she had a chance to hear of her boy's shameful conduct," said Aunt Debie. "'Pears to me that the words of Scripter is come troo in his case—'The sins of the parent has to be borne by the children to the third and fourth generation.'"
Aunt Debie endeavored to quote from memory, and so she is to be excused if she did not render it according to the letter.
"I believe with thee, Aunt Debie," said Mrs. Gurney. "It was a blessed thing for Rebecca she died thinking her boy was pure; if she had known how it was—and if she had lived a little longer she would have been sure to have found out—it would have broken her heart. Then she would have gone down to her grave in sorrow, and Charles would have had his mother's death to answer for."
"I believe," said Mr. Gurney, breaking in rather abruptly, "that a tendency to drink is transmitted from father to son—that, in fact, it is a disease, and in this respect is similar to consumption or insanity. Because I take this view of the case, I have a great deal of sympathy with Charley Dalton. I am determined to do all I can to save the boy. I heard from a lady friend the other day who is very intimate with Mary Fulton, and she said that the latter was experiencing deep grief because of Charley's utter fall; for she holds herself partially responsible, because she, in her innocence and thoughtlessness, tempted him to take his first glass of wine. Her friends have been endeavoring to influence her to break the engagement, but she resolutely refuses to do so. She says she will never marry him while he continues to drink as he does, but breaking off the engagement will be the last report, and she declares she will never marry another."
"Well," said Phoebe, "I don't wonder she feels bad; 'pears to me I should feel bad, too, if I had coaxed the man I thought more of than any one else to drink, and then he went to the bad after it."
"Thee must not be too severe in thy thoughts of poor Mary," said Mrs. Gurney, "but when thee feels like censuring her, just remember that she has been accustomed to see wine on her father's table ever since she was a girl. It is the custom which should be condemned, and not poor, foolish innocents like Mary Fulton."