"I marked the Spring as she pass'd along,With her eye of light and her lip of song;While she stole in peace o'er the green earth's breast,While the streams sprang out from their icy rest.The buds bent low to the breeze's sigh,And their breath went forth in the scented sky;When the fields look'd fresh in their sweet repose,And the young dews slept on the new-born rose."—Willis Gaylord Clark.
"Well, I'm both glad and sorry Horace is gone," Mrs. Keith remarked with a smile, a sigh and a dewy look about her eyes, as the stage passed out of sight. "I'm fond of the lad, but was troubled lest the ague should get hold of him. Besides, the dearest of guests is something of a burden with sickness in the house and a scarcity of help."
"Yes, that is very true, mother," Mildred answered, "and so thoroughly do I realize it that I am wholly and heartily glad he's gone; albeit I liked him much better this time than I did before."
Celestia Ann had left months ago, and theyhad had very indifferent help during Mr. Dinsmore's visit, though fortunately such as they could keep away from the table when their guest was present at it.
Mildred went on now to express her satisfaction that such had been the case, adding, "What would he have done if Miss Hunsinger had been here, and in her usual fashion asserted her right to show that she felt herself as good as he or anybody else?"
"He'd have annihilated her with a look," laughed Rupert.
"He would have acted like the perfect gentleman he is," said Mrs. Keith, "but it would have been exceedingly mortifying to me to have him so insulted at my table; for as he has been brought up, he could not avoid feeling it an insult to be put on a social equality with one so rude and vulgar."
"The house feels lonely," said Zillah, "it seems 'most as if Aunt Wealthy had just gone away."
"We'll get our sewing and a book," said her mother, "Come all into the sitting-room. Rupert may be the reader this time.
"Mildred, you and I will have to be very busy now with the fall sewing."
"Yes mother dear; it's a blessing to haveplenty of employment. But do you think I shall need to give up my studies for a time?"
"No, daughter, I hope not. I want you to go on with them; Mr. Lord says you are doing so nicely. Your cousin, too, told me he thought you were getting a better—more thorough—education with him, than you would be likely to in any school for girls that he knows of."
Mildred's eyes sparkled, and cousin Horace took a warmer place in her affections than he had held before. It was well, for it needed all that to keep her from disliking him for his indifference toward his motherless little one, when, a few days later, she heard his story from her mother's lips.
They had a very busy fall and winter, missing sorely Miss Stanhope's loved companionship and her help in the family sewing, the putting up of fruit—the pickling and preserving, indeed in every department of household work; and in nothing more than in the care of the sick.
Letters came from her at rare intervals—for mails were infrequent in those days and postage was very high—were read and re-read, then put carefully by to be enjoyed again when time and opportunity could be found for another perusal.They were not the brief statements of facts that letters of the present day generally are, but long chatty epistles, giving in pleasing detail, her own doings and those of old friends and acquaintances, and all that had happened in Lansdale since they left; telling of her pets, of the books she read and what she thought of them.
Then there were kind inquiries, conjectures as to what they were doing and thinking; answers to their questions, and words of counsel and of tender sympathy in their joys and sorrows.
Many a laugh did they give their readers, and many a tear was dropped upon their pages. They so loved the dear old lady and could almost hear the sweet tones of her voice as they read or repeated to each other, her quaint sayings.
Fall and winter passed, bringing with them no marked changes in the family, but very much the same round of work, study and diversion as in the former year.
The children grew, mentally and physically, now mother, and now sister Mildred, "teaching the young ideas how to shoot;" for they could not endure the thought of resigning the precious darlings to the tender mercies of DamarisDrybread, whose school was still the only one in town.
The old intimacy was kept up in just the old way among the coterie of six, and the gossips vainly puzzled their brains with the question which girl was the admired and admirer of which young man.
Mildred was happily freed from the visits of Ransquattle—of which Lu Grange had become the impatient and disgusted recipient—and saw little of Gotobed Lightcap, who, upon one excuse, or another, absented himself from most of the merry-makings of the young people.
Indeed there had been scarcely any intercourse between the two families since the removal of the Keiths from the immediate neighborhood of the Lightcaps; for there was no similarity of taste, no common bond of interest to draw them together; nothing in truth, save a kind and friendly feeling toward each other; and as regarded Rhoda Jane, even this was lacking.
She had never yet forgiven Mildred's rejection of her brother and almost hated her for it, though she knew naught of her added offense in the matter of the criticism on his letter. That was a secret which Gotobed kept faithfully locked in his own breast.
The spring opened early for that climate; with warm rains that brought vegetation forward rapidly.
The Keith children revelled in out door work and play; each of the younger ones had a little garden to dig and plant as he or she pleased, and a pet hen or two in the chicken yard, and there was much good-natured rivalry as to who should have the earliest vegetables, the greatest variety of flowers, the largest broods of young chicks, or the most newly laid eggs to present to father and mother, or the invalid of the hour; for the old enemy—ague—still visited them occasionally; now one, now another, or it might be several at once, succumbing to its attacks.
However, the lion's share of both gardening and poultry-raising fell to Rupert; who busied himself out of study hours, with these and many little odd jobs of repairing and adorning—such as mending fences, putting up trellises, training vines and trimming shrubbery and trees.
The mother and Mildred found so much to do within doors, that some oversight and direction of these younger workers, and the partial care of a few flower-beds near the house, were all they could undertake outside.
They had been without a domestic for someweeks, had passed through the trying ordeal of the regular spring house-cleaning with only Mrs. Rood's assistance, when one pleasant May morning, while dishing up breakfast, their hearts were gladdened by the sight of the sinewy form and energetic countenance of Celestia Ann Hunsinger as she stepped in at the kitchen door with a characteristic salutation.
"How d'ye, Mis' Keith? You don't want no help round here, do ye?"
"We want just the sort of help we'll be sure of if you'll take off your bonnet and stay," Mrs. Keith answered, giving her a hearty grip of the hand.
"Then that's what I'll do and no mistake," returned the girl, setting down a bundle on a chair, with the remark, "You see I've brought some o' my duds along," pulling off her sunbonnet and hanging it on a nail. "Here, Miss Mildred, let me smash them 'taters."
"So Mis' Keith, you've been buildin' since I was here last."
"Yes; a new kitchen; so we could take the old for a dining-room and be less crowded."
"It's awful nice; I always did like a good big kitching;—room to turn round and keep things straight."
"It's going to be nicer still, Celestia Ann," said Rupert who had just come in from his work in the garden, and was washing his hands preparatory to taking a seat at the table, "it wants a coat of paint on the outside and I'm going to put it on myself, to-day."
"Well, I never!" she ejaculated, "do ye think you're up to that?"
"Of course I do; and so, I suppose, do father and mother; or they wouldn't have consented to let me try."
"Well, there's nothin' like tryin'; as I've found out in my own experience," returned Miss Hunsinger, using her potato masher vigorously, "and I allers enjoy meetin' with folks that's willin' fur it. But do you know, Mis' Keith, 'pears to me like 'I can't' comes the easiest to most human critters' tongues of any two words in the American language; and with more'n half on 'em they're lyin' words; yes, there's more lies told in them two words than in any other ten. So there!" as she laid down her masher to stir in the milk, butter and salt.
"I'm afraid there is only too much truth in your remark," said Mrs. Keith, "but certainly no one can accuse you of a fondness for that favorite phrase of the indolent and ease-loving."
"Thank you, Mis' Keith. I've lots of faults and failin's as well's the rest o' the human family,but I'm certain sure there ain't no lazy bone in my body.
"Here these taters is ready to set on the table, and I see you've got your steak and biscuits dished up. But I hain't inquired after the fam'ly. Anybody got the agur?"
"No, I believe we are all well this morning thanks to a kind Providence. Rupert, call your father and the rest to breakfast."
No frowns greeted Celestia Ann as she, with her accustomed nonchalance, took her place with the others. Everybody was glad to see her, because her arrival meant comparative rest for mother and Mildred, and more time to be devoted by them to the loving care and entertainment of father and the younger children.
After breakfast, family worship. Then Mr. Keith went to his office and the others scattered to their work or play. Sunbonnets and hats were in request among the little ones; for mother had given permission to go out if they would be careful to keep on the gravel walks till the dew was off the grass.
Sister Mildred gave kind assistance, and away they ran, while she and Zillah and Ada, old enough now to begin to be useful about the house, made beds, dusted and set things to rights in sleeping and dwelling rooms, andRupert donned a suit of overalls and went to his chosen task.
Celestia Ann needed but little direction or oversight, and in half an hour Mrs. Keith repaired to the sitting-room.
What a pleasant place it seemed as she came in!—fresh and bright from its recent cleaning, neat as a new pin, the open windows looking out upon the grassy side yard, with its shrubbery and trees clothed in vivid green, and giving a charming view of the clear waters of the swiftly flowing river sparkling in the sunlight.
"Isn't it a lovely morning, mother?" cried Mildred, whose graceful figure was flitting about here and there, putting a few finishing touches to the adornments of the room. "I think the sunshine was never brighter, the air never sweeter. It is a luxury just to live! Hark to that robin's song and the sweet prattling of the little voices you and I love so well! And I feel as blithe and gay as a bird."
"Yes, dear child," said the mother, happy tears springing to her eyes, "Oh, how great is His goodness to us unworthy creatures! so much of mercy and blessing here and the certainty of endless joy and bliss beyond! Life has its dark and dreary days, but after all thereis more of brightness, to those who look for it, than of gloom."
"I believe that is true, mother," responded Mildred, "though when the dark and dreary days are upon us, it is sometimes very difficult to hold fast to one's faith.
"I do love this time of year," she added, leaning from the window to watch the ferryboat slowly crossing,
"'Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie.'"
"Come, let us go out; I think we may spare an hour to the garden this morning," Mrs. Keith said gayly, leading the way. "What a blessing, among others, it is to have a good reliable girl in the kitchen!"
"Yes," laughed Mildred, "I could almost have hugged Celestia Ann; I was so glad to see her. What do you suppose brought her just at this time, mother?"
"Need of money for summer finery, I presume. See, our morning glories are coming up nicely."
"Mother, mother, and Milly," cried Fan running to them in an ecstasy of delight, "my speckled hen has thirteen little chicks, the prettiest bits of fuzzy things you ever saw. Do come and look!"
She turned and sped back again toward the chicken yard, mother and sister following.
The other three little ones were there watching "Speckle" and her brood with intense interest.
"See! see! mamma, Milly! see! see!" cried Baby Annis in a flutter of delight, holding her little skirts close to her chubby legs, as the "bits of fuzzy things" ran hither and thither about her feet, "pitty 'ittle chickies, dust tum out of eggs."
"Yes, dears, they are very pretty," Mrs. Keith said; "but they are very tender little things; so be careful not to hurt them. No, Cyril, don't pick them up, and be sure you don't step on them. You may go to the house for some bread crumbs, Fan, and you and Annis may feed them."
This permission gave great pleasure, and Fan's small feet went skipping and dancing through the garden in the direction of the kitchen door.
Then mother must look at Annis's hen sitting on her nest, and notice how the older broods, belonging to Cyril and Don, were growing in size and strength; Zillah's and Ada's also; and hear how many eggs the other nests had furnished this morning.
After that the gardens were submitted to her inspection, Mildred still bearing her company, both making suggestions and giving assistance.
And so a full hour had slipped by before they returned to the house, and Rupert, they found, had made great progress with his work.
"I've painted the whole end, mother; do you see?" he called to her; "and now I'm beginning this side. I think I'll have the whole job done to-day."
"You have been very industrious," she said, "but don't make haste so fast that it will not be done well."
"Oh, no, ma'am, I don't intend to."
He was at the top of his ladder and near the roof of the new one-story addition to their house.
"Take care, my son," said Mrs. Keith; "it seems to me your ladder doesn't stand very securely. Is there no danger of its slipping?"
"Never a bit, mother," laughed the boy "why what should make it slip?"
She and Mildred turned and walked on toward the front of the house, had just set foot upon the porch there, when a shout from Rupert startled them and made them pause and look back at him.
They saw the ladder slip, slip then slide rapidly to the ground, while with a cry of alarm they rushed toward him.
But they were much too far off to reach him in time to be of the least assistance. Down he came to the ground, falling with considerable impetus and alighting upon his feet, his brush in one hand, his paint pot in the other, striking with a force that sent the paint all over his person.
He reeled and dropped.
"Are you hurt? oh, my boy, are you much hurt?" asked his mother tremulously, as she hurried to him, looking very pale and frightened.
"My clothes have got the worst of it, I believe, mother," he said, laughing and staggering to his feet. "I'm afraid they've robbed the house of half its new coat."
The others came running from chicken-yard and garden; Celestia Ann poked her head out of the kitchen window, and a peal of laughter met him from all sides.
"I dare say I cut quite a comical figure," he said, taking it in good part, "but since I've broken no bones, I wouldn't care a red cent, if it wasn't for the loss of the paint and the damage to my illegant attire.
"'O what a fall was there, my countrymen.'"
"Since you are unhurt, no matter for the clothes; even if they were an elegant suit," said his mother, with a sigh of relief.
"But half the paint's gone, mother—or at least put upon my person where it's worse than useless," cried the lad, surveying himself with an expression so comically lugubrious that there was a fresh explosion of mirth.
"Never mind; it will not cost a great deal to replace it," said Mrs. Keith. "But I think the job may wait now till we can get a regular house-painter to finish it up."
"What! would you have me give up so easily, mother, and own myself beaten? I don't like to do it. Please let me try again, and I'll place the ladder more carefully."
"I don't know; we'll ask your father first. There's no special haste and—how would you all like to go with me for a walk? a nice long stroll down to the bridge, and over the river, to look for wild flowers."
The proposal was greeted with loud acclamations and clapping of hands. "Oh, delightful!" "Oh goodie! goodie!" "May we mother?"
"Yes; we've all been working hard thislong time, and I think really deserve a holiday. Rupert, make yourself decent and we'll set out at once, taking a lunch with us, so that we need not hurry home."
"Tan I do, mamma? tan Annis do?" asked the baby girl eagerly, the rosy face all aglow with delight.
"Yes, indeed, mother's darling; you shall go in your little coach; because your dear little feet couldn't travel fast enough to keep up with the rest, and would get so tired."
"Do we need to be dressed up, mother?" asked Fan, "me and Don and all the children?"
"No, dear; we don't go through town and are dressed quite enough for the woods."
They were soon on the way, strolling leisurely along, drinking in with keen enjoyment the sweet sights and sounds.
The sky over their heads was of a dark celestial blue with here and there a floating cloud of snowy whiteness, whose shadow flitted over the landscape, giving to it a charming variety of light and shade.
Their road lay along the bank of the river and its soft murmur mingled with the hum of insects and the song of birds. The grass beneath their feet was emerald green thickly studded with wild flowers of every hue, and thegroves of saplings through which they passed were fast donning their summer robes.
The bridge was a rough wooden structure half a mile below the town; quite out of danger of crowding the houses of the citizens or doing much injury to the custom of the ferry.
The walk was a longer one than the younger children were accustomed to take, but there was no occasion for haste—they were in search of rest and pleasure, and when little feet grew weary, mother let them stop and amuse themselves with making wreaths and bouquets of the flowers they had gathered, or by throwing stones into the river, till they were ready to go on again.
They did not go far beyond the bridge; only climbed the bank, on the other side, picked a few flowers there, and were ready to return.
"You are meek and humble mouth'd;You sign your place and calling, in full seeming,With meekness and humility; but your heartIs cramm'd with arrogancy, spleen, and pride."—Shaks. Henry VIIIth.
"Oh, what's that? what's that?" cried a chorus of young voices, as Mrs. Keith and her little troop, returning from their morning stroll, stepped into the front porch at home.
"What indeed!" echoed the mother, as much surprised as any one of the others. "It looks very like a box of goods; but where could it come from?"
"Aunt Wealthy," suggested Mildred, examining it with a curious eye.
"Ah, so you have come back at last, eh?" said Mr. Keith coming out with a smiling face. "That's been waiting for you for over an hour," consulting his watch. "Come let's have dinner and then we'll see what's inside."
"Is it ready?" asked Mrs. Keith, taking off her bonnet.
"Yes; barely time for the washing of small hands and faces," he said, picking up Annis and racing off to the nursery with her; for so they called the room where the little ones slept and were dressed and undressed, though but a small part of the day was ordinarily spent there.
There was no lingering over the dinner table, though the meal was a good one, and the children's appetites had been sufficiently keen until they saw the box.
They ate and drank with dispatch, taking time for but little talk beyond a few conjectures as to its probable contents.
Father and mother certainly shared their curiosity and eagerness to some extent, and did not keep them waiting long.
A few minutes' work with the hatchet and the lid was off.
"Just newspapers!" cried Don, in a tone of bitter disappointment.
"Wait a bit, laddie," laughed Rupert.
"Something else under, I guess," said Cyril, while father, mother and Mildred made haste to lift and lay aside the papers for further perusal, for newspapers were too rare in those days to be despised, even though some weeks old.
"Books! oh delightful!"
"How good and kind in her!"
"Now we'll have a feast!" exclaimed one and another in varying tones of gladness.
"What are they? let us see," said Mr. Keith proceeding to lift them out one or two at a time, and with a glance at the titles on the backs, handing them to wife, son or daughter.
"Cooper's Naval History of the United States! There, that will particularly interest you, Rupert.
"And here are his novels, which mother and Mildred will enjoy. Scott's works also: those for older folks and his 'Tales of a Grandfather' for the children. Two more little books—'Anna Ross,' and 'Ruth Lee.'"
"Oh, they look pretty!" cried Zillah and Ada, peeping into these last.
"'Dunallan' for me! oh how glad I am!" exclaimed Mildred the next instant.
"Here's a bundle," said Mr. Keith, handing it out.
"Remnants, I presume," his wife said laughingly, and opening it found her surmise correct.
Groceries, candies and toys for the children, and some few other miscellaneous articles filled up the rest of this most welcome box.
"Dear old auntie! She shouldn't have wasted so much of her money on us," Mrs. Keith said with tears in her eyes, as she glancedover a note pinned to a dress pattern for herself. "But she says she has enjoyed it intensely, and I know that is so; for giving, especially to us, is her greatest delight."
"Yes, there never was a more generous soul," assented her husband.
"Ah, if we could only do something for her in return!" exclaimed Mildred.
"Yes, indeed! what a feast she has provided us!" cried Rupert, taking a peep here and there into the history. "Mother, can't we begin on them this afternoon?"
"I'm not ready for Mr. Lord," objected Mildred, "and in an hour it will be time to go to him."
That reminded the lad that he, too, had a lesson to prepare, and he left the room to attend to it.
"Wife," said Mr. Keith, "do you know that little Mary Chetwood is seriously ill?"
"No, I did not, I'll put on my bonnet and go over there at once."
"Mother," said Mildred, "I've been thinking it would be nice to lend one of these books to Effie Prescott. I do not know her at all intimately, but Claudina says she is very intelligent and fond of reading, and in such poor health that she is often too miserably weak and ill to do anything but read."
"Certainly! she must have the reading of every book in the house, if she wishes, and will not abuse them."
"Claudina says she is always very careful of those she lends her, and very glad to get them. She's a lovely Christian, too, and very patient under her trials."
"Yes; I have been pleased with the little I have seen of her. I believe I owe Mrs. Prescott a call; so I shall take their house on my way to the squire's and carry a book with me."
Mrs. Keith found Mrs. Prescott out, the invalid girl lying back in a large rocking chair, and Damaris Drybread seated, in her accustomed bolt upright fashion, directly opposite.
At sight of Mrs. Keith, Effie started up in nervous haste and trepidation, to offer her hand and then a chair.
"Never mind, dear child, I will help myself," said the lady, pressing the trembling hand tenderly in hers. "How are you to-day?"
"About as usual, thank you; which is neither very sick nor very well," the girl answered with a faint smile, sinking back again, breathing short and hard.
"Now don't talk so; you look very well," remarked Miss Drybread in a cold, hard tone. "Just make up your mind that there's nothingmuch the matter, and you're not going to give up to the hypo, and ten to one it won't be long till you find yourself well enough."
Tears sprang to Effie's eyes, for she was both nervous and sensitive to the last degree.
"I know I look well," she said. "I'm not thin, and I have a good color; but it's often brightest when I feel the worst. And I've tried to believe my sickness was all imagination, but I can't; it's too real."
"No, Effie, you do not look well," said Mrs. Keith; "that brilliant bloom hardly belongs to health, and your eyes are heavy, your countenance is distressed."
"Of course she'll wear a distressed countenance as long as she imagines she's sick," observed the schoolma'am severely. "And you, Mrs. Keith, are only making matters worse by talking in that way."
"Not so," said the sick girl, "such kind sympathy does me good. Oh, thank you a thousand times!" as Mrs. Keith put "Dunallan" into her hands. "I shall enjoy it so much, and will be very careful of it, and return it soon. I read it years ago and liked it exceedingly, and it will be new to me now. Grace Kennedy is such a sweet writer; what a pity she died so early!"
"A novel!" sniffed Damaris. "If you are really sick you oughtn't to read anything but the Bible."
"The teachings of this book are so fully in accord with those of the Scriptures, that I can not think it will hurt her," said Mrs. Keith.
"I love the Bible," said Effie, "I never could do without it; its words often come to me when I am sad and suffering and are 'sweeter than honey and the honeycomb,' but reading other good books seems like talking with a Christian friend, and refreshes me in the same way."
At this moment Mrs. Prescott came in and greeting the two callers with a pleasant "Good afternoon," sat down to chat with them.
The talk presently turned upon their gardens, and Mrs. Prescott invited the visitors to walk out and look at hers.
Mrs. Keith accepted the invitation, but Miss Drybread said she would just sit with Effie till they came back.
"Aren't you teaching now, Miss Damaris?" asked the girl, as the others left the room.
"No, I've closed my school for a couple of weeks to do my spring sewing."
"It was kind in you to take time to call to see me when you are always so busy."
"I try to attend to every duty," returned the schoolma'am, with a sanctimonious air "and I felt that I had a duty to perform here. I've been thinking a good deal about you, Effie; trying to find out why your afflictions are sent; and I've concluded that it's as a punishment for your sins, and that when you repent and reform, your health will be better.
"You know Christians (and I really hope you're one; I know you belong to the church) won't have any punishment in the other world; so they have to take it in this, and so, as I said, I've been considering about you, and I think if you thought better of Brother Smith and enjoyed his sermons and prayers and talks in the meetin's, 'twould be better for you.
"He's a good Christian and so you'd ought to like what he says, and be his friend with other folks that isn't inclined to listen to him."
"He may be a Christian; I hope he is," returned Effie, "though it is very difficult for me to realize that a man has much true love to Christ and for souls, when his tone and manner are utterly indifferent and business like (or perhaps that isn't quite the right word; for men generally show some interest in their business).
"Besides it requires other things in additionto conversion to fit a man for teaching; he must have knowledge and the ability to impart it.
"I have nothing against Mr. Smith personally, but he does not instruct me, does not give me any food for thought, or help me on my way to heaven. So I felt it my duty to object to having him become my pastor. But I haven't been going about slandering him, and don't know why you come and talk to me in this way.
"It strikes me, too, that you are the last person to do it—as I have heard you say far harder things of other ministers than ever I've said of him."
An angry flush rose in the sallow cheek of the spinster at that.
"I've tried to do my duty always," she said, bridling. "I've never indulged in any vanities of dress; but that's been one of your sins, Effie Prescott; bows and even flowers and feathers on your bonnets, and knots of bright ribbon at your throat and in your hair. It's sinful and you may depend you'll be afflicted till you'll give up and be consistent in all things."
"I know better than you can tell me, that I deserve all I suffer and a great deal more," said the girl humbly, tears gathering in hereyes; "but for all that I don't believe you are right. You are a Job's comforter, and God reproved those men for talking so to him.
"And don't you remember what Jesus said about trying to take the mote out of your brother's eye while there is a beam in your own?"
"I see its time for me to go," said Damaris, rising.
She stood a moment looking at Effie, her lips compressed, her face white and her eyes ablaze with rage.
"There's no Christian spirit about you," she hissed, "you don't like faithful dealing; you don't want to be told of your sins. Very well, Miss, I wash my hands of you; I shake off the dust of my feet against you."
And with arms folded on her breast and head erect, she stalked out of the house, leaving the invalid girl quivering from head to foot with nervous excitement and distress, crying and laughing hysterically.
"Oh dear! oh dear!" she sighed to herself. "I haven't behaved in a Christian manner; I was angry at what she said."
Mrs. Prescott and Mrs. Keith were strolling in from the garden, chatting pleasantly of their domestic affairs, when an infant's screams were heard coming from a back room.
"There, my baby is awake and calling for his mother," said Mrs. Prescott. "Please excuse me a minute. Just step into the parlor again and talk with Effie."
Mrs. Keith complied and found Effie alone, lying back in her chair, trembling, flushed and tearful.
"My poor child! are you suffering very much?" she asked, bending over her and smoothing her hair with a caressing motion.
"No, ma'am, I'm not worse—only—it was something that Damaris said; and that I didn't take it quite as I ought.
"Oh, Mrs. Keith, do you think God sends sickness to punish us for our sins? and that my health is poor because I'm more wicked than anybody who is well?"
"Certainly not. I have excellent health as a general thing, while many an eminent saint has been a great sufferer.
"We know that sin brought disease and death into the world and that God sometimes sends afflictions as chastisements; but to his own people it is in love and for their growth in grace.
"'As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten; be zealous therefore and repent.' 'Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth everyson whom he receiveth. If ye endure chastening, God dealeth with you as with sons.'
"Remembering that, would you wish to escape it?"
"Oh no, no! But oh, it makes the burden so much heavier to think that it is because He is angry with me!"
"It is because he loves you. Do not look at it as punishment, but as discipline; as the cutting and carving which are necessary to bring out the beautiful statue from the shapeless block of marble, or to change the diamond in the rough to the brilliant sparkling gem.
"As to the idea that the Christian bears any part of the penalty of his sins—atoning for them by his own suffering, or his works, or in any other way, either in this life or the next,—it is totally unscriptural. 'For Christ is the end of the law for righteousness to every one that believeth.'"
"O, thank you, so much, so very much!" she exclaimed, looking up gratefully. "What wonderful love His was, and who would not be willing to bear any suffering to be made like unto Him?"
"That is unquestionably a Christian spirit," said Mrs. Keith; "none but those who have felt the burden of sin and learned to hungerand thirst after righteousness know that ardent desire for conformity to His image."
"You make my heart glad!" cried the girl. "Damaris just told me there was no Christian spirit about me; and I'm often afraid there isn't; yet I do love Jesus and desire His love more than anything else. I want to do and suffer all His holy will!"
Little Mary Chetwood, a sweet child of six, was the only daughter except Claudina, and coming after some half dozen boys, naturally became, from the first, a great pet and darling, made much of by parents, sister and brothers.
Yet she was not a spoiled child; she had been taught obedience, religiously trained, and not indulged to her hurt.
Love and wise indulgence do no harm, but quite the contrary; while harshness, a dearth of affection, and undue severity have ruined many a one for time and eternity.
Mrs. Keith found the Chetwoods a distressed household; for though the little girl had been but two days ill, such was the violence of the attack that it was already apparent that there was small hope of recovery.
"This is kind," whispered Mrs. Chetwood, pressing her friend's hand, while tears coursed down her cheeks. "The darling won't betended by any body but mother, father or sister, but your very presence is a comfort."
"I should have been here sooner, but did not know of her illness till this afternoon," Mrs. Keith responded in the same subdued key. "If I can be of any use, I will take off my bonnet and stay; it is perfectly convenient."
The offer was gratefully accepted, a note dispatched to Mildred, entrusting the children at home to her care till such time as her mother could be of no more service at the squire's, and Mrs. Keith's gentle ministries in the sick room began.
Her quiet movements, her thoughtfulness, quick comprehension and fertility of resource, made her invaluable at such a time.
The end came sooner than was expected; day was just breaking when, with her head on the bosom of her who gave her birth, the little one gently breathed her last.
In all the trying scenes that followed, Mr. and Mrs. Keith and Mildred were most kind, helpful and sympathizing, and the ties of Christian friendship were thus more closely drawn than ever between the two families.
The bereaved family found their home sadly desolated, but there was no murmuringagainst the Hand that dealt the blow; the language of their hearts was, "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."
"Hail! independence, hail! heaven's next best gift,To that of life, and an immortal soul."—Thomson.
"There is strength,Deep bedded in our hearts, of which we reckBut little till the shafts of heaven have pierc'dIts fragile dwelling. Must not earth be rentBefore her gems are found?"—Mrs. Hemans.
"Boom!"
The loud voice of the cannon rent the air with sudden shock just as eager waiting eyes caught the first glimpse of the sun's bright disc peeping above the eastern horizon.
The sound broke suddenly in upon many a dream, woke many a sleeper.
"Independence day! the glorious Fourth, the nation's birthday," shouted Cyril, giving Don a kick, then springing out of bed and hurrying on his clothes.
"Oh! oh! Fourth of July!" echoed Don, following suit. "I'm so glad, 'cause now we can fire our crackers."
Their clatter and another shot roused Fan and Annis who joined in the rejoicing, the latter calling loudly for mother or Milly to come and dress her.
"No more hope of sleep," yawned Mr. Keith, in the next room; "so we may as well get up."
"Yes," returned his wife, "I wish you would, and watch over the children;—see that they don't burn their fingers or set things on fire.
"Yes, Annis, mother's coming."
Breakfast was prepared amid the almost constant firing of crackers and childish shouts of exultation, near at hand, and the occasional booming of the more distant cannon.
The young folks were full of gayety and excitement, hurrahing, singing "Hail Columbia!" "Yankee Doodle," and "Star-spangled Banner."
Rupert came in a little late to breakfast, from a stroll down town, and reported that a wonderfully large flag-staff had been planted in front of the court-house, and that the stars and stripes were floating from its top.
The Sunday schools were to unite and march in procession through the streets of the town, then separate, and each school betake itselfto its own church, there to enjoy a little feast prepared by the parents and friends of the scholars.
There had been a good deal of baking going on in Mrs. Keith's kitchen the day before, and shortly after breakfast a large basket was packed with delicacies and sent to the church.
Then mother and Mildred had their hands full for an hour or so in dressing the children and themselves for the grand occasion.
They made a goodly show as they issued from the gate and took their way toward the place of rendezvous; the girls all in white muslin and blue ribbons, the boys in their neat Sunday suits, and each with a flower or tiny nosegay in his button-hole.
The house had to be shut up, as Celestia Ann claimed the holiday, but was left in its usual neat and orderly condition, by means of early rising and extra exertion on the part of the three older girls. Otherwise Mildred could not have been content to go, and delay was dangerous, as on account of the heat of the weather the procession was to move by nine o'clock.
The whole town was in holiday attire, and everywhere smiling faces were seen.
A shower in the night had laid the dustwithout turning it to mud, and the Sunday school celebration proved quite a success.
The children enjoyed their treat of cakes, candies and lemonade, then the little Keiths went home, tired enough to be glad to sit down and rest while father, mother and Milly told them stories of other Fourths that they could remember.
After dinner Mildred went to call on her friend Claudina, carrying with her another book for Effie Prescott.
"Dunallan," had been returned in perfect condition and with a little note of thanks.
Effie met Mildred with a pleased look, a cheerful greeting, and warm thanks for the book.
"I am so glad to see you!" she said, "and it was very kind in you to come; for I am owing you a call. I thought I should have paid it long ago, but there are so many days when I don't feel quite equal to the walk."
"You do walk out then?"
"Oh yes! every day when the weather is good. That is part of the cure. But I cannot walk fast or far."
"I hope you are improving."
"Yes, I believe so, but very slowly. I'm never confined to bed, but never able to do much, and the books are such a blessing."
From that they fell into talk about books and authors and were mutually pleased to find their tastes were similar as regarded literature, and that their religious views accorded.
It was the beginning of a friendship which became a source of great enjoyment to both.
Effie had learned to love Mrs. Keith. That drew Mildred toward her; and their common faith in Christ and love to Him, was a yet stronger bond of union.
They regretted that they had been so long comparative strangers, and Mildred felt well rewarded for the kind thoughtfulness on her part, which had at length brought them together.
But leaving Effie to the perusal of the book, she walked on to Squire Chetwood's.
Mrs. Chetwood and Claudina, in their deep mourning dress, sat quietly at home, with no heart to join in the mirth and jollity going on about them; yet calm and resigned.
"Ah," sighed the mother, tears springing to her eyes, as the joyous shouts of children penetrated to their silent room, "our little darling would have been so gay and happy to-day! But why do I say that! I know she is far, far happier in that blessed land than she could ever possibly have been here."
"I know that," said Claudina, weeping,"and I do rejoice in the thought of her blessedness; but oh, the house is so dreary and desolate without her! O Mildred, how rich you are with four sisters!"
There was a knock at the street door, answered by the girl, and the next moment Miss Drybread walked into the parlor where the ladies were sitting.
She was courteously received and invited to take a seat; which she did, drawing a deep sigh.
"Are you well, Miss Damaris?" asked Mrs. Chetwood.
"Yes; I'm always well; I try and do right, and have no sick fancies; am never troubled with the vapors. I hope you're well?"
"As usual, thank you."
"You've had a great affliction."
No response, for the torn hearts could scarce endure the rude touch; her tone was so cold and hard.
"I hope you're resigned," she went on. "You know we ought to be; especially considering that we deserve all our troubles and trials."
"I trust we are," said Mrs. Chetwood, "we can rejoice in her happiness while we weep for ourselves."
"Don't you think you made an idol of that child? I think you did, and that that is the reason why she was taken; for God won't allow idols."
"We loved her very dearly," sobbed the bereaved mother, "but I do not think we made an idol of her, or ever indulged her to her hurt."
"The heart is deceitful," observed the schoolma'am with emphasis, "and putting on mourning, and shedding so many tears, doesn't look like submission and resignation. I don't see how a Christian can act so."
"Wait till you are bereaved," replied the mother, sobs almost choking her utterance.
"And remember how Jesus wept at the tomb of Lazarus, and that he never reproved the Jews for putting on sackcloth and ashes when mourning for their dead," said Mildred, adding, in her uncontrollable indignation, "I think you might be at better work, Miss Drybread, than wrenching the hearts of these bereaved ones whom Jesus loves, and in all whose afflictions He is afflicted."
"I'm only doing my duty," retorted the spinster; "the Bible says we must reprove our brethren and not suffer sin upon them."
"It says 'Judge not, that ye be not judged.' They are the words of Jesus in the Sermon onthe Mount, and if you turn to the passage and read on a little further, you will see that people who try to pull the mote out of a brother's eye while there is a beam in their own, He calls hypocrites."
"I can understand an insinuation as well as the next one," said Miss Drybread, rising in wrath, "and let me tell you, Miss, that I consider you the most impertinent young person I ever met.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. and Miss Chetwood; I wish you joy of your friend," and she swept from the room and the house, before the astonished ladies could utter a word.
"What a disagreeable, self-righteous old hypocrite!" cried Mildred, her cheeks flushed, her eyes flashing. "To think of her talking to you in that cold-hearted, cruel manner, Mrs. Chetwood and Claudina. But there! I am judging her. Oh dear! oh dear!"
She finished with a burst of sobs, clasping her arms about her friend, who was weeping bitterly.
Mrs. Chetwood, too, was shedding tears; but presently wiped them away, saying, "We will try to forgive and forget her harsh words. I trust she is a well-meaning, and perhaps, truly good woman; though mistaken as to her duty and sadly wanting in tact."
On her way home Mildred passed Mr. Lightcap's. She usually avoided doing so by taking the other street; but to-day was too full of grief for her bereaved friends, to care which way her steps were tending till they were arrested by Mrs. Lightcap's voice, speaking from her open door.
"Why, if it ain't Miss Keith! I hain't seen a sight o' you this long time. Walk in, won't you? and sit a bit. They've all run off somewheres and left me settin' here without a soul to speak to, and I'm dreadful lonesome."
Mildred could not well refuse the invitation, so stepped in and took a seat.
Her first feeling on becoming aware that Mrs. Lightcap was addressing her was one of embarrassment at the idea of facing the mother of her rejected suitor; but the next instant she concluded from the cordial manner of her neighbor, that she must be entirely ignorant of the affair, which was really the case; Gotobed having insisted upon Rhoda Jane keeping his secret.
Mildred was not in a talking mood, but Mrs. Lightcap grew garrulous over the day's celebration, the heat of the weather,—prophesying that if it lasted long, coming as it did after a very rainy spring, there would be a great dealof sickness—branching off finally to her housework and garden; two inexhaustible themes with her.
An occasional yes, or no, or nod of acquiescence, was all that was necessary on the part of her listener; and these Mildred could supply without giving her undivided attention to the steady flow of empty talk.
The firing of the cannon at short intervals had been kept up all day. "Boom!" it came now, causing Mrs. Lightcap to give a sudden start and break off in the middle of a sentence.
"Well, I declare!" she exclaimed, "I can't git used to that there firin'; and I jest wisht they'd stop it; 'fore some on 'em gits hurt. It's a dreadful dangerous thing—gunpowder is, and I guess there ain't never a Fourth when there don't somebody git about half killed."
"Or quite," said Mildred; "people will be so careless; and I suppose that even with the greatest care there must be some danger, from the bursting of guns and other accidents that it is, perhaps, impossible to guard against."
Mildred sat very near the open door, Mrs. Lightcap farther within the room.
"Well as I was a sayin'," began the latter, resuming the thread of her discourse.
Some one came running without, his heavyfootsteps resounding upon the sidewalk. It was a man. He paused before the door, looking pale and frightened, and beckoning to Mildred, said in a low, hurried tone, "Just step this way a minute, Miss, I want to speak to you."
Hardly comprehending, too much taken by surprise even to wonder what he could want, she hastily complied.
"She ought to be prepared, you know," he went on in the same breathless, agitated manner, drawing her further away from the door as he spoke; "he's awfully hurt, a'most killed, I believe, and they're bringin' him up the street now."
"Who?" gasped Mildred.
"Her son Gote; gun went off while he was ramming in the wadding and shot the ramrod right through his hands; I guess they'll both have to come off."
Mildred staggered back, sick and faint, and with a dazed sort of feeling that she was somehow to blame.
"They're comin'," repeated the man hurriedly, pointing to a little crowd of men and boys moving slowly up the street, scarcely a square away, "can't you say something to her! kind o' break the shock a little, you know."
Mrs. Lightcap had stepped into the doorway and was looking this way and that, curious to learn the cause of Mildred's sudden exit.
"Why, Jim Foote, is that you?" she exclaimed. "What on airth are you a wantin' with Miss Keith?" then catching sight of the approaching crowd, "What's goin' on?" she asked, "anything the matter?"
Mildred sprang to her side, and fairly pushing her back into the house, threw her arms about her sobbing, "Oh, I'm so sorry for you! so sorry! Don't look! not yet. He—he's living but—"
"Who? who's a livin'? who's hurt? Girl, tell me quick! 'Tain't none o' mine, sure? 'Taint my old man? Oh, what'll I do? what'll I do?"
The trampling of many feet drew near, her husband rushed in, pale, breathless, trembling, and at sight of her burst out crying like a child. Then the wounded man was supported into the house, men and boys, and even women and girls crowding in after, till in a moment the room was full.
Rhoda Jane and the younger brothers and sisters were there, screaming and crying. Gotobed was silent, bearing his agony with the heroism of a soldier, but as his mother caught sight of his ghastly face, his mangled hands, theblood upon his person, and the surgeon with his instruments, she uttered a wild shriek and fell back fainting.
Her husband carried her into the kitchen, and some of the neighbor women gathered round with restoratives and whispered words of pity and condolence, while others hurried back and forth in quest of such articles as the surgeon called for.
Rhoda Jane rushed out of the kitchen door, and ran to the foot of the garden, screaming and wringing her hands, the younger ones following her.
Mildred could not go away and leave the family in their dire distress. She caught Gotobed's eye, and there was in it a dumb entreaty which she had neither power nor heart to resist.
Silently she made her way to his side. The doctors were clearing the room of all who were not needed.
"They're a goin' to take off my right hand," he said hoarsely. "It's an awful thing, but if—if you'll stand by me and let me look in your eyes, I can bear it."
She turned hers on the surgeon—Lucilla Grange's father.
"May I?"
"If you have the nerve, my dear child; it would be a great kindness to the poor fellow. There ought to be a woman near him, and it seems neither mother nor sister is equal to it."
"I will stay," she said, a great compassion filling her heart. "I shall not look at what you are doing; but I will stand by and fan him."
She kept her word; forgetting herself entirely, thinking of him only as one suffering terrible agony and in need of her support, she stood gazing into his eyes, her heart going up in silent, fervent prayer on his behalf.
Chloroform and ether were not known in those days, and the knife's cruel work must be borne without the blessed insensibility to pain that they can give. Had the magnetism of Mildred's gaze a like effect? I know not; but something enabled Gotobed to pass through the terrible ordeal without a groan or moan; almost without flinching.
The right hand had to be taken off at the wrist; the left, though much mangled, the surgeon hoped to save; and did so ultimately.
The amputation and the dressing of the wounds was over at last and Mildred was turning away when a cup of tea was put into her hand with the words, spoken in a half whisper, "Give him this; he will take it from you."
She held it to his lips and he drank; a plate was silently substituted for the cup and she fed him like a child.
Poor fellow! it would be long before he could feed himself again.
Mildred set down the plate and stole quickly from the house. Her long pent up emotion must find vent.
She went weeping home, her heart breaking with pity for the man she could not love, could not have married for the wealth of the world. Oh, why did he love her so?
She had read it in his eyes;—that she was more to him than all the world beside, and that he knew his was a hopeless passion.
She was glad to see that the sun was setting; because she knew from the lateness of the hour that tea must be over at home, and the little ones in bed; for she dreaded their questionings and curious looks, and loathed the thought of food.
Her mother, that best earthly friend, who always understood her as by intuition, met her at the door and clasped her in a tender, loving embrace; and on that dear bosom the whole sad story was sobbed out.
"Poor, poor fellow! my heart aches for him," Mrs. Keith said, mingling her tears withMildred's. "And, my dear child I am very glad you had the courage and firmness to give him the help you did. I pity him, too, for his unfortunate attachment, at the same time that I, of course, could never, never be willing to see it returned.
"But your courage surprises me, I doubt if I should be capable of the like myself," she added, smiling through her tears.
"I know you would, mother dear," returned the girl, gazing with loving admiration into her mother's eyes; "for you are far braver and firmer than I. I should not have expected to be able to do it myself, but we never know what we can do till we are tried.
"I am sure our Father helped me in answer to prayer, and according to his gracious promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be,'" she added in subdued, tremulous tones.
"I do not doubt it," said Mrs. Keith; "for 'our sufficiency is of God.'"
Throughout the whole town great sympathy was felt for the wounded young man. People showed it in various ways; by inquiries made of the doctor or at the door, by calling in for a little friendly chat and sending delicacies to tempt his appetite; which for a time failed under the pressure of pain, enforced idleness(a great change for one who had been all his life a hard worker) and depression of spirits; for there were seasons when he was well-nigh overwhelmed at the thought of his maimed and helpless condition.
Mrs. Keith went frequently to see and comfort him and his distressed mother, and was more successful in so doing than almost any one else; except Mildred, who occasionally accompanied her.
They carried to Gotobed food for the mind as well as the body; books which they read to him; as he could not hold them himself, and the other members of the family had little time or ability to entertain him in that way.
Also they said many a kind, encouraging word concerning the possibilities of future usefulness yet remaining to him.
"I shall never be good for nothing no more," he sighed, mournfully, one day, looking down at his maimed arm and wounded hand; "can never swing my hammer, or shoe a horse again. I'll have to be a helpless burden on other folks, 'stead o' takin' care o' father and mother when they git old, as I used to think I should."
"I don't know that, Gotobed," Mrs. Keith answered cheerily; "I think God has givenyou a good mind, and that you will gradually learn to do a great deal with that left hand; write, hold a book and turn the leaves, and so be able to educate yourself for usefulness in some new line; perhaps do more for your parents and friends than you ever could have done with your hammer."
A light broke over his face at her words, "Oh!" he said drawing a long breath, "if I thought that I could bear it."
"I think you are bearing it bravely," she said.
"I'm tryin' my best," he sighed, "but the Lord only knows how hard it is; 'specially when folks comes and tells you it's a judgment sent onto you for your sins."
"And who dares to tell you that?" she cried, flushing with indignation, "who could be so heartlessly cruel?"
"Well, Damaris was in t'other day. She means well enough, I guess;—she fetched something she'd cooked up for me—but she don't seem to understand a feller critter's feelin's. She give me a long lecture; said I'd been dreadful proud o' my strength and what a neat job I could make o' shoein' a horse and the like, and so that the Lord took away my hand to punish me and fetch me down. Doyou think 'twas that way, Mis' Keith? I was thinkin' 'twas my own carelessness and not to be blamed on Him at all."
"It strikes me that you are very nearly right there," she replied, half smiling at the earnest simplicity with which he spoke. "He is very merciful and gracious, full of tender pity and compassion for the creatures He has made; especially those who are peculiarly His own because they have accepted of the salvation offered through Christ Jesus; yet He does not always see fit to save them from the consequences, as regards this life, of their own follies and sins."
"Carelessness is a sin," he said with a heavy sigh. "I didn't use to think so, but it's plain enough to me now. And do you think, Mis' Keith, He feels kind o' sorry for me even though 'twas my own fault?"
"I am sure of it; and that He will give you strength to bear your trouble if you will ask Him; to bear it bravely and not let it spoil your life by robbing you of cheerfulness and hope, and the usefulness you may attain to by a determined, manly struggle with your difficulties.
"There is a pleasure in overcoming difficulties," she added with a bright, winning smile, that was like a ray of sunlight to his saddenedheart, "a pleasure that the slothful know nothing of."
"I'll try it!" he said with determination. "God helping me, I will. Bless you, Mis' Keith, fur them words. I'll not forget 'em."