"It is rather too late for that, my timid beauty," returned her companion with a smile, which certainly did not add much to the attractiveness of his features. "Even if you care for nothing else, you must remember that I have risked much for your sake, and I am not likely to give up my prize now that have it fairly in my hands. No, we will not give it up, but we will procure a carriage, and go on to the next station, where we can wait in comparative safety. I go to seek one. Meantime you will remain here. I have told our friend in the office that you are a lady slightly insane, whom I am conveying to her friends, so he will have an eye to your safety."
He smiled again and departed, leaving Delia overwhelmed with terror and despair. She thought at first that she would run home at all hazards, but she saw the baggage master watching her, and she dared not attempt it. He believed her insane, and even if she told him her story, he would not believe her. She covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears of agony, but at that moment, a strong hand was laid on her arm, and a familiar voice said, "Delia!"
She looked up in amazement. There stood Mr. Fletcher, wrapped in his long dark cloak, his black hair dripping with the rain, and his eyes like blazing fires!
"Delia," he repeated, "what are you doing here?"
Delia had once feared Mr. Fletcher more than any other living being, but now he seemed to her like an angel sent from Heaven to her rescue.
She threw herself at his feet, and exclaimed, "Oh, Mr. Fletcher, save me, take me home!"
Mr. Fletcher raised her without a word, drew her shawl around her, and taking her arm within his, prepared to leave the room, when the baggage master interfered—"What's the case, Mr. Fletcher? Anything wrong? The French gentleman said the lady was crazy."
"The French gentleman is a scoundrel, and you may tell him I say so," was Mr. Fletcher's reply. "This lady is under my protection, and you know me."
"All right!" returned the baggage master, as if it were all in the ordinary course of business. "I am glad you came in, for I had begun to suspect something wrong. One of the seminary girls, I suppose," he continued to himself, as the pair left the room. "The rascal! I should like to give him a thrashing myself."
In about ten minutes, Mr. Hugo returned. His surprise and wrath at finding Delia gone, may be imagined.
image006
"Oh! Mr. Fletcher, save me!"
"Where is the lady, sir?" he asked in rather a threatening manner, approaching the baggage master, who was a herculean fellow, with a clear blue eye, and that peculiar coolness of manner which is rather apt to characterize railroad men. "What has become of the lady?"
"The crazy lady?" asked the other, with a slight elevation of the eyebrows, but without removing his hands from his pockets. "She might have stepped into the other room. You can see if you like."
Mr. Hugo opened the door, but no lady was there, and he returned more wrathful than ever.
"Where is the lady?" he reiterated, absolutely foaming with rage. "What have you done with her?"
"Mr.," said Mr. Brown, "I hav'nt done anything with her myself, but a gentleman of my acquaintance called and took her away. She seemed glad enough to go, poor thing. He said it was all right, and left a message to you."
"What message, you villain?" demanded the enraged Frenchman.
"He said you were a scoundrel," said Mr. Brown, adding an expletive which certainly Mr. Fletcher had never made use of, "and I am much of that opinion myself."
Mr. Hugo shook his fist in the man's face.
The baggage master took his hands out of his pockets, and in another moment, the professor found himself sprawling on his face in a mud puddle outside the station room door.
Meantime Mr. Fletcher pursued his way homeward, walking rapidly and almost carrying Delia, who could scarcely support herself, and stumbled continually. He did not speak, except to encourage her as she looked back evidently in deadly fear of being pursued. Her hands grew lighter, as the distance between them and the station increased, and when they reached the seminary gate she felt comparatively safe.
"We will go in at my door, and I will take you directly to Mrs. Pomeroy's room," said he as he helped her up the steps. "We must save you from any exposure if possible." He prepared to open the door as he spoke, but Mrs. Pomeroy saved him the trouble.
"I bring you a stray lamb!" was his greeting. "A repentant wanderer, I hope, since she has come back of her own accord. Let us thank God for all His mercies. A little moment longer and I should have been too late."
MR. HUGO picked himself up, his appearance not greatly improved by the mud which decorated his dress and moustache, or by the black eye so generously bestowed upon him by the baggage master, who had again put his hands in his pockets, and was coolly regarding him through the glass door of the station house, much as he might have amused his leisure hours by the contemplation of a stray dog or horse.
His first impulse was to annihilate his late antagonist upon the spot, but a second thought convinced him that the work of annihilation would not be a very easy task, and might be attended with inconvenience to himself; so he contented himself with threatening to procure his immediate discharge from office, a prospect which Mr. Brown seemed to take very coolly, and walked off to his lodgings.
As he himself expressed it, he had still another card to play. Delia was out of his power, and her fortune was lost to him, and he gnashed his teeth with rage, as he thought how Mr. Fletcher had carried her off from under his very face and eyes; but he had still all her letters, and he believed that her father would be very glad to purchase his silence and their destruction, by the sacrifice of a part of that fortune which he had hoped to secure entire. Revolving these schemes in his mind, he retired to rest.
We have already related how Mr. Fletcher and his companion were received by Mrs. Pomeroy at the door. It was no time for reproof or inquiry, for Delia was clearly all but beside herself with excitement and terror, and moreover, it was necessary to have the house quiet before any alarm should be given which might lead to inconvenient questions. It was not till Delia was half led, half carried up stairs into Mrs. Pomeroy's room, her dripping shawl and dress removed, and a restorative administered, that Mrs. Pomeroy spoke.
"My poor, dear child," said she, "What could have induced you to take such a step?"
"I don't know," replied Delia. "I was possessed, I think."
A man's step was heard at the door at the moment, and trembling all over she clung to Mrs. Pomeroy, exclaiming—"Oh, Mrs. Pomeroy, don't let him come near me—he will kill me!"
"Do not be frightened, my love,—it is only Mr. Fletcher, and you do not fear him. No one shall hurt you. Poor thing," she said to herself, as she disengaged herself and opened the door. "It is clearly no time for lecturing. I must get her to bed at once, and it is a wonder if she is not sick enough in the morning to make a good excuse for keeping her there. I only hope poor Emily won't be sick again. What an effort she must have made!"
Mr. Fletcher had come to suggest that some one should go over to Delia's room, and take measures to prevent any untoward discoveries being made in the morning.
"I will go myself, as soon as I got her to bed," said Mrs. Pomeroy. "She is terrified almost out of her senses."
"I believe she has been ruled by terror more than any thing else," replied Mr. Fletcher. "She was evidently most thankful to see me come in. The villain thought he had provided against her escape, by telling Brown that she was deranged, and he was her keeper. He did not know exactly with whom he was dealing."
"There is one thing I should like to know," said Mrs. Pomeroy, "and that is, how you came to be there at all?"
Mr. Fletcher only smiled, and said good night, nor though Mrs. Pomeroy often attacked him upon the subject afterward, did she ever succeed in getting an answer. Whatever might be his sources of information, he kept them to himself.
"I shall put you to bed in my room for to-night," said Mrs. Pomeroy, returning to Delia, "and to-morrow we will see what is to be done. But this much I must say—I will do nothing for you—I will leave you to the fate you have provoked by your misconduct, unless you promise to be guided entirely by me, and to be perfectly obedient and straight-forward."
"I will," replied Delia, earnestly. "I have had enough of crooked courses, and by the help of God,—if He will help such a creature as I am—I will never tell another lie as long as I live."
"You must not doubt of God's mercy," said Mrs. Pomeroy. "The greatest sinner may return to Him, with a full assurance of welcome and pardon. At the same time, you must not expect to escape entirely from the consequences of transgression."
"I don't mind that," replied Delia. "Only for my father's sake, I should be glad to escape from disgrace. But I fear that is impossible!" And she burst into tears.
"We will talk it all over in the morning, and decide what is best to be done," said Mrs. Pomeroy, soothingly. "You must go to bed now, and try to rest. See, here is poor Emily waiting for you! You ought to be grateful to her, for she ran a great risk to try to save you."
"Oh, Delia!" whispered Emily, as she clasped her friend in her arms, "I told! I could not help it!'"
"You was right," replied Delia, returning the embrace. "If I had only listened to you—but it is too late, now!"
"You must not give way to despair," observed Mrs. Pomeroy, over-hearing her. "Think how much worse it would have been if Mr. Fletcher had not found you, or if the cars had come in time! Lie down, now, and do not talk any more. I am going over to your room, and hope to find you both asleep when I return."
She kissed them both, turned down the gas, and left them to repose. They had both been greatly excited, and now felt as though rest was almost out of the question, but sleep comes easily to the young, and when Mrs. Pomeroy returned, she found them slumbering in each other's arms.
Mrs. Pomeroy's prophecy proved true, and Delia, next morning, was too ill to rise. Great was the questioning and wonderment when her room was found empty, and Miss Thomas came running over to Mrs. Pomeroy's room with the news, in a state of the greatest excitement.
"What do you think, ma'am? Miss Mason is gone! Her room is empty, and all her clothes that she wore yesterday are gone: She has gone off to be married, no doubt. Well, I only hope I shall be allowed to believe my own eyes, next time, that is all. I am not quite a goose, nor absolutely a blind bat, though some folks seem to think so!"
"Gently, gently, my dear Miss Thomas," said Mrs. Pomeroy, smiling in spite of herself. "Miss Mason is safe in my room, and has been there since midnight. She is very ill, and excessively nervous, and I shall be obliged to you and the other teachers, if you will keep the house as quiet as possible, and allow none of the young ladies to come to my room—but I will arrange that matter myself."
Miss Thomas retreated to her own domain, rather disgusted than otherwise that Delia should be safe after all, for she was a prophet of the school of Jonah, and would rather half the young ladies should run away to be married, than that one of her own predictions should fall to the ground.
"What is it, Miss Thomas? What did Mrs. Pomeroy say? Does she know that Delia has gone?" were some of the questions that greeted her from the group of dressed, undressed, and half-dressed girls, which surrounded her as she made her appearance in the hall.
"Hold your peace all of you, and get ready for breakfast!" was the polite rejoinder of the teacher. "Delia is in Mrs. Pomeroy's sick in bed. That is the whole story, and no one in their senses would have thought of any thing else. Look at your petticoats, Miss Faushane,—actually sweeping the floor—I wonder you don't take them to rub the stove with. Miss Crosby, I will give you an untidy mark for every curl on your head, if you don't get rid of those curl papers by breakfast time. Miss Graves, if none of the other teachers think it worth while to pay any attention to their duties, I think as long as you are monitress, you might see that the young ladies behave themselves properly, instead of indulging in idle gossiping conjectures about their companion."
Janet only shrugged her shoulders and retreated to her own room, to finish her toilet. She had found that the best way to silence Miss Thomas, was to let her alone. But Belle was not quite so forbearing.
"I wonder who started the idle gossipping conjectures," said she quite loudly enough to be heard by the retreating teacher. "No one would have dreamed of Delia's having run away, if Miss Thomas had not said so."
"It is queer, though," said Almira Crosby. "How did she come to be over there without any one's knowing it?"
"Easy enough," replied Belle. "She rooms alone, and not feeling well, she probably dressed herself, and went over to Mrs. Pomeroy's room for some medicine, and Mrs. Pomeroy kept her."
"She has not seemed like herself for a good while," remarked Annette. "She has grown so nervous. I have noticed how she changes color when she gives in her exercise, and you know we did not used to think she cared for any such thing."
"There is something wrong about those exercises," said Almira. "I have never felt satisfied about that matter."
"Oh, Almira!" exclaimed Janet, who had appeared again upon the scene, when Miss Thomas had departed. "What a vacuum your head must be! If you get a notion into it, it buzzes there like a bee in an empty cask. It seems to me that I would stuff it with something, if it were only to stop the echo. No one but yourself sees anything wonderful in the matter at all, and I had forgotten it long ago."
"Very likely," returned Almira, no-ways abashed by the ridicule, to which indeed she was pretty well accustomed. "But I don't forget a thing when once I hear it."
"Don't you?" said Belle. "In what year was the English revolution? You hear that often enough."
"In 1492," retorted Almira triumphantly. "You didn't catch me that time, Miss Faushane!"
"Well, I don't know," said Belle. "I should rather think I did."
"I don't care!" returned Almira. "I remember some things, if I don't recollect dates."
"Such as French verbs, and rules in Arithmetic, I suppose. But come there is the breakfast bell."
Mrs. Pomeroy appeared at the breakfast table, serene as usual, and no one was missing but Delia. Emily had been gone so long, that the girls had ceased to look for her. Towards the end of the meal, Mrs. Pomeroy tapped with her spoon upon the urn before her, and the girls were all attention in a moment. Mrs. Pomeroy spoke with her usual deliberation.
"I wish to say to the young ladies, that some of them must come to my bed-room to-day, upon any pretext whatever, but must apply to Miss Gilbert who will supply any thing that may be necessary. Miss Mason is quite ill, and it is necessary that she should be kept perfectly quiet. I am sure your own good feeling will lead you to make as little noise as possible in going back and forth to your lessons. There will be no recitations in French this morning, and the young ladies will study in the school-room during that hour. You are excused."
"There, I knew there was something queer," said Almira, exultingly. "I knew that Mr. Hugo was mixed up in it somehow. What is he away for to-day, if it is not so?"
"Perhaps he has shot himself!" said Janet, bravely.
"Or lost, or accidentally mislaid himself," added Lucy, taking up the ball.
"Or lost his boots—or broken his bottle of hair-dye—or got a black eye—" continued Belle, coming nearer to the truth than she imagined in this last suggestion. "Send down some one with your compliments, and inquire."
"I don't care," said Almira, sulkily, "I will find out all about it, yet,—see if I don't, if I have to listen at the door."
"There will be no occasion to see if you don't, since we shall all be sure to hear if you do," said Belle. "But I advise you not to let Mrs. Pomeroy catch you listening. She does not admire the pursuit of knowledge under such circumstances."
Delia slept till nine o'clock, and awoke so much refreshed and composed, that Mrs. Pomeroy no longer feared to question her on the events of the past night. She concealed nothing, but related the whole affair from the very beginning at the Classical Gymnasium; where the correspondence commenced, to its close, screening Emily as much as possible, and taking the whole blame upon herself.
"But I do not understand, Emily, why you did not refuse to have any participation in the matter," said Mrs. Pomeroy. "You might at least have done that, if your false ideas of honor and friendship prevented you from revealing the secret. It was not what I would have expected from you. I had a good deal of confidence in your good principles."
"Your confidence was sadly misplaced," said poor Emily. "I had a secret of my own, even worse than Delia's." She felt that the time had come for her to lay down the burden which had weighed on her so long, and with many tears, she confessed all her faults from that first one of making "a bill at the store," to the last and most disgraceful ending.
Mrs. Pomeroy was excessively shocked. She had never dreamed of such a thing as that the money should have been taken by one of the young ladies, and she could hardly believe her ears when she heard that such was the case.
Emily concluded by saying, "Ever since I was sick, I have made up my mind to confess at all hazards, and I was only waiting to have one more talk with Delia to try and persuade her to join me. I am ready to tell the story before the whole school, if you wish me to do so."
"There would be no good, but a great deal of harm in that," replied Mrs. Pomeroy. "The whole matter has died away now, and there is no use in recalling it. I think it will be necessary to tell Kitty, but we can rely upon her discretion as much as if she were fifty years old. The poor child will be terribly shocked, for she almost worshipped you, Emily."
"I have been thinking," said Emily in a low voice, "that I ought to write and tell my father."
"There is some good in her yet," thought Mrs. Pomeroy, "or she would never propose such a step of her own accord." "You are quite right in thinking so," she said aloud. "It is one of the best proofs you can give of your sincere repentance."
"And my father," said Delia anxiously, "what about him?"
"I have written to him and your mother to come here," replied Mrs. Pomeroy, "and I shall expect them to-morrow morning. We must consult together what is best to be done. I cannot now arrive at any decision, and till I do so, I wish neither of you to leave this room on any pretext whatever, nor shall I allow you to see any one. You must not complain if I treat you altogether as culprits till you have shown yourselves worthy of confidence."
There was a violent ring at the door as she spoke, and a few minutes afterward, a servant appeared and informed Mrs. Pomeroy that Mr. Hugo was below, and desired to see Miss Mason immediately.
Delia turned pale.
"Oh, Mrs. Pomeroy, I cannot see him. Don't let him come near me!"
"Fear nothing, my child. He shall not harm you, if I can help it. I only wonder at his insolence in presenting himself here at all."
She stopped a moment to put her cap to rights, for in no emergency was she seen with any part of her dress in disorder, and descended to the drawing room, which was directly under her own apartments.
The girls sat clasped in each other's arms, Delia trembling and terrified, listening to the angry voice which made itself heard through the floor, and offered a striking contrast to Mr. Fletcher's deep and composed tones. Leaving them to comfort each other, we will follow Mrs. Pomeroy to the drawing room.
Mr. Hugo was walking up and down the long apartment, raging like a wild beast, his appearance not improved by his black eye, or the loss of his moustache, which he had been obliged to sacrifice, being quite unable to clean it from the tenacious clay which it had contracted in his fall. Mr. Fletcher stood by the fire-side, quietly regarding him with his dark, bright eyes, but showing no signs of disturbance. Mr. Hugo turned round as Mrs. Pomeroy entered.
"To what am I indebted for the unexpected honor of seeing Madame?" he inquired, with sarcastic politeness. "If my memory serves me, I inquired for Miss Mason, alone."
"When visitors inquire for my young ladies, I am accustomed to receive them myself," was the quiet reply. "Miss Mason is at present quite too unwell to see any one, and she requests me to say, that neither now, nor at any other time, does she wish to receive visits from Mr. Hugo. I must add, that owing to recent events, I must decline any further attendance from you at this establishment."
"Which I have degraded myself ever to have entered—" burst forth Mr. Hugo. "But upon what pretext does Miss Mason deny my visits?"
"I am not aware that any pretext is necessary, but if it were, I have forbidden her to leave her room till her father arrives, nor, I may add, has she any wish to do so. She has related to me the whole story of her acquaintance, from the beginning, and I have her authority not only for refusing any further correspondence, but also for returning your presents, and requesting the return of her letters."
"Which, nevertheless, I shall take the liberty of retaining," said Mr. Hugo, with his peculiar smile. "These same letters will make a pretty little romance, which will, no doubt, be pleasing to the friends of Miss Mason and Miss Arlington, and add greatly to the reputation of Mrs. Pomeroy's school, as showing the care which is taken of the young ladies' morals at that establishment."
This was touching Mrs. Pomeroy upon a tender point. As Delia had once remarked, she valued the reputation of her school above all things, and it had hitherto been above a breath of reproach. She cast a glance of some alarm at Mr. Fletcher, which Mr. Hugo perceived, and fancying that he had gained an advantage, he pursued it.
"Very pretty documents are these same letters, and when they are properly arranged, and accompanied with some account of moonlight walks, and meetings in the back rooms of confectionary shops, and so forth, they will make a nice story for some of the daily prints. Your respectable pension will derive additional lustre from the fact of its having been the scene of such a transaction, and I shall put a pretty little sum in my pocket. This will be some compensation for the loss of the fortune of Miss Delia, who, as the heroine of this romance, will confer honor on her family name. Monsieur says nothing," he added, turning from Mrs. Pomeroy to Mr. Fletcher. "Possibly he is struck dumb with astonishment!"
"Not at all!" replied Mr. Fletcher. "I always believed you to be a consummate rascal, from the first moment I saw you. I suppose the plain English of all this rodomontade is, that you want to be paid for suppressing the letters. If that is your object, you would do better to state it directly."
"Monsieur is very quick-sighted," said Mr. Hugo, with a grin. "You must be aware that the publication of these letters will irrecoverably injure the young lady. Notwithstanding the way in which she has treated me, I have a disinterested regard for her—"
"We will dispense with any reference to your regard," interrupted Mr. Fletcher, "which might have been somewhat modified, had you been acquainted with the fact that the young lady's fortune is wholly forfeited if she marries without her father's consent, before she comes of age."
"The traitress!" exclaimed Mr. Hugo. "She never told me that. However, it is no reason why I should not make my profit off these documents."
At this juncture, Mr. Fletcher was called out of the room. He remained about some five minutes, during which time Mr. Hugo walked up and down, examining the pictures, and commenting upon them in a way which told a good deal for his knowledge of arts, and still more for his powers of impudence, while Mrs. Pomeroy sat on thorns, afraid lest someone should come in, and wondering what could detain Mr. Fletcher.
Presently he returned. He did not, however, resume his former place but remained standing by the door, with his hands behind him, and a curious smile on his face, which Mrs. Pomeroy could not exactly understand.
"Well sir!" said he. "Have you made up your mind how much to ask for these same documents?"
"Ah! That is coming to the point," said Mr. Hugo. "I have no desire to be exorbitant, out I am, at this moment, in want of money to return to France. I should think that a thousand dollars from the young lady's father, and another thousand from Madame here, would content me—for the present."
Mrs. Pomeroy opened her eyes in amazement.
Mr. Fletcher said quietly:
"And suppose we pay this sum, what security have we that you will perform your part of the engagement?"
"The honor of a Frenchman, Monsieur!" said Mr. Hugo, drawing himself up in a magnificent manner.
Mr. Fletcher laughed outright. "I am afraid you would hardly get a note discounted upon that security," said he. "I think your terms high, and as I hold the documents in my possession, at this moment, I must beg leave respectfully to decline the bargain."
He brought his right hand from behind him as he spoke, and displayed a large bundle of papers, arranged and filed in a manner which did credit to Mr. Hugo's business habits. Mrs. Pomeroy uttered an exclamation of joy, and Mr. Hugo seemed for a moment as though he were about to spring upon Mr. Fletcher like a wild cat. He restrained himself; however, and said grimly through his teeth:—
"You search gentlemen's rooms, do you?"
"No," replied Mr. Fletcher, "but there are those who render that service to such honorable gentlemen as yourself!"
He tapped the door slightly as he spoke. It opened on the instant, and in walked two stout professional looking men, of decidedly determined aspect, followed by Mr. Hugo's old acquaintance, Mr. Brown, the baggage master.
At the sight of the foremost man, Mr. Hugo turned ghastly pale: all his assurance seemed to desert him—he looked helplessly round as though searching in vain for some way of escape, and then dropped into a chair; as the officer, for such he was, walked up to him and laid his hand on his shoulder, he seemed to collapse and shrink into himself, and Mrs. Pomeroy looked to see him disappear altogether.
"Excuse me, madam," said the officer, politely addressing Mrs. Pomeroy. "It becomes my duty to arrest this person for forgery and bank robbery committed at New Orleans, some time since. We have been for a long time upon his track, and only heard of his whereabouts a short time ago. I understand he has been acting as teacher in your establishment, and elsewhere, under the assumed name of Emile Hugo."
"It is true," replied Mrs. Pomeroy, recovering a little from her first surprise. "My eyes have been but just now opened to his true character."
"It is well that they are so," said the officer. "From what I gathered from the papers found in his apartment, I should imagine that he had been endeavoring to draw some young lady under your charge into a clandestine marriage. Had he succeeded, he would have been liable to a prosecution for bigamy, as he has a wife now living in New Orleans."
"My poor Delia!" exclaimed Mrs. Pomeroy, quite thrown off her balance by this new proof of villainy. "From what a fate have you been saved?"
"Mr. Fletcher, to whom we are indebted for the information which led to Mr. Bruce's apprehension," continued the last speaker, "has informed me that the prisoner had an idea of extorting money from the young lady's friends, by means of those letters, which I thought proper to deliver to him. As you may have some fears on this point, I take pleasure in informing you that neither you, nor the lady in question, need entertain any apprehension, as the proof against him will be more than sufficient to send him to finish his days in the State prison."
He produced a pair of hand-cuffs, as he spoke, and in a few minutes the wretched man had taken his departure between his two guards. We have only to add, that the officers' prediction was fulfilled, and the accomplished Mr. Hugo now dresses stone in the State prison.
Mr. Brown lingered a moment, to talk the matter over with Mr. Fletcher.
"Well!" said he. "The fellow is well disposed of. The officers came on the morning train—the very one he would have taken, if it had been in time. I knew who they were the moment I saw them, and something, I don't know what, gave me a guess of who they might be after—so I stepped up and asked them if it was a Frenchman they were looking for. They said yes, and I described the man who was in the office last night with the girl. That was their customer, they said, and asked me to go with them. We went to his boarding-house first, and there saw these letters lying on the table. I hinted to them that he had been trying to run off with one of the Seminary girls, and told them to bring the letters along, intending to hand them to you or Mrs. Pomeroy."
"Thank you, very much," said Mr. Fletcher. "For the poor girl's sake, I must ask you not to mention what happened last night, as we want to keep the affair quiet, if possible."
Mr. Brown's tawny moustache twitched a little. "I had a daughter of my own, about that poor girl's age, Mr. Fletcher. She was a good girl, and has gone to a better place than this—but I know how I should have felt if any rascal had tried to serve her so. I am not what I should be, but I've got a father's feelings, and no one will ever know a word from me!"
"You are a good fellow, Brown," said Mr. Fletcher, grasping his hand. "But hav'nt you another daughter? I think I have seen a little girl with you sometimes."
"Yes," replied Mr. Brown, surprised at the question—"Why?"
"I want you to send her up here to school, and let me educate her," was the reply. "I am sure she will be an honor to the establishment, and both Mrs. Pomeroy and myself shall consider her education but a small return for the service you have rendered us in this unhappy affair."
"Pray do so, Mr. Brown," added Mrs. Pomeroy. "I assure you, she shall be cared for, as if she were my own daughter."
"I don't want any return," said Mr. Brown, a little gruffly. "I did as I would be done by, and that's enough. At the same time, I have no right to refuse such an opportunity for the girl, who is a good one, if I say it myself. I am much obliged to you, ma'am, and since you are so kind, I shall send her to you to-morrow."
We will not attempt any description of Delia's feelings, when she was informed by Mrs. Pomeroy of the events that had transpired in the parlor. It would be hard to tell whether she were more horror-struck at the danger to which she had been exposed, or thankful for her escape. Mrs. Pomeroy had a long conversation with her, and was fully convinced of the reality of her repentance.
"There are your letters," she said in conclusion, putting the parcel into her hands, "and the only penance I shall at present impose upon you, is, that of reading them through from first to last, before you commit them to the flames."
We have but one more incident to record of this most eventful day, and that is an adventure of Miss Almira Crosby's in the pursuit of knowledge. Pursuant to the declaration she had made in the morning, she had been watching and peeping all day, but she had ascertained nothing beyond the fact that Mr. Hugo had called, and that he had gone away in company with several other persons; and that Delia and Emily were together in Mrs. Pomeroy's room.
At last an opportunity presented itself which was too good to be lost. Mrs. Pomeroy's dressing room opened upon a kind of upper piazza or balcony, which was accessible by a flight of steps from below. This door was seldom opened in winter, but as Almira was passing to and fro upon the walk, trying at least to catch a glimpse of some one passing the window, she suddenly perceived that the door was ajar. Her resolution was instantly formed. She slipped off her shoes, and putting them in her pocket, she stole softly up the stairs, and applied her ear the door.
All was still at first. There seemed to be no one in the dressing room, but he heard a murmur of voices beyond, and as her ear grew accustomed to the sound, she could easily distinguish the words. She heard Mrs. Pomeroy say, "Are you prepared—"
She listened eagerly for the remainder of the sentence, placing her head still closer to the door, when alas! A gush of wind came round the corner—the door slammed violently and suddenly, and poor Almira found herself a prisoner, held fast by the whole of one side of her long ringlets, which had been caught by the closing door so close to her head, that it was a marvel her ear had not shared the same fate.
Here was a dilemma! What was to be done? She could not open the door, which had no handle on the outside. Mrs. Pomeroy might come out of the bed-room and find her there at any moment, or some of the girls might come round the corner. There was but one way. Luckily she had a pair of scissors in her pocket; she drew them forth, and in another moment she was at liberty, but at the expense of one whole side of her ringlets, which she was obliged to leave hanging in the door. It was not till she had succeeded in escaping unseen to her room, and looked in the glass, that the whole extent of her misfortune burst upon her, and she saw that the other side must needs share the fate of its fellow. She burst into tears, but there was no remedy, and reluctantly she applied the scissors once more, laying each severed curl carefully and mournfully away.
"What in the world have you been doing to yourself, Almira?" exclaimed Annette, opening her eyes in amazement, as Almira came out of her room when the tea bell rang.
"I have cut off my hair," replied Almira, trying to put a good face upon the matter. "It was altogether too much trouble, and took too much of my time."
"But you need not have cut it so short," said Annette. "Why didn't you just brush it back plain. You look like a picked chicken."
"I made a mistake," replied Almira.
"Never mind, it will soon grow again," said Belle, consolingly, seeing that Almira looked annoyed. "She will come to something, after all," she continued to Janet, as they went down stairs together. "I shall have some hope of her, now that she has got rid of those curls. Poor thing, what a struggle it must have cost her."
"Those same ringlets never went for nothing," replied the Queen of Sheba, who in her office of monitress had been more than usually disturbed by Almira's carelessness and laziness during the day. "I should not be surprised if we should hear something more about them before long."
So it turned out. In her distress at her loss, it had never occurred to Almira that she was leaving behind her a token of her presence, which could not fail to be recognized.
Mrs. Pomeroy, coming out of her bed-room, had seen the unlucky ringlets hanging in the door, and at once divined how they came there. For more than a year, she had been trying by all sorts of gentle means, to break Almira of her habit of eaves-dropping, and prying into the concerns of others, but without the least success, and she now determined to try the effect of another course. Taking the locks in her hand, she descended to the tea-table, and at the end of the meal, the usual signal announced a speech from the throne.
"Has any young lady lost any thing?" asked Mrs. Pomeroy.
There was silence, but one or two glanced significantly at poor Almira, whose cheeks began to burn.
"These curls were found hanging in the outside door to my dressing room," continued Mrs. Pomeroy, holding them up in full view of the assembled family. "I cannot, of course, imagine how they should have come there, unless, indeed, some one has been listening at the door, but if they belong to any young lady in the establishment, she can have them returned, by calling at my room and proving her property."
MR. AND MRS. MASON arrived next morning, and had rather a lengthened conversation with Mrs. Pomeroy, before they were admitted to see Delia, who continued very unwell, and seemed threatened with serious illness. Poor Delia meantime was trembling with conflicting emotions, among which shame, perhaps, predominated. She had, as Mrs. Pomeroy requested, read through all the returned letters, from beginning to end. The task was a hard one, but it did her good. Now that her eyes were opened to the man's real character, she wondered what it could have been about him that fascinated her.
"But I never really did care for him," she said to Emily. "My vanity was flattered by his attentions, and I thought there was something very interesting in having a secret correspondence. There were plenty of such things going on at the Gymnasium, and some of the teachers knew it well enough, too. I have seen Miss Jenkins look the other way, very hard indeed, when she knew, as well as they did, that the girls were doing things that were forbidden. But the poor thing was so overworked, and the girls plagued her so, that it was no wonder if she was glad to buy a little peace at any price. How long they stay down stairs! I do wish they would come up, and yet I dread to see them, especially mother. I have acted so shamefully towards her."
"Don't excite yourself," said Emily, seeing that Delia was growing feverish again. "If your mother is as good as every one says, I am sure you have no cause to fear her. Oh, dear me! I only wish I had a mother to turn to."
The door opened as she spoke, and Mrs. Pomeroy entered, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Mason. Mr. Mason had been very angry at hearing of his daughter's misconduct, and had fully determined to treat her with great sternness, a resolution from which Mrs. Pomeroy had attempted in vain to dissuade him. As they were going up stairs, however, Mrs. Mason dropped behind and whispered to her.
"You need have no fear of Mr. Mason's using any undue severity. You will see how it will be!"
Delia was still confined to her bed, but she raised herself, as they entered, and looked eagerly towards them. She had grown very thin and pale of late, and her black eyes looked unnaturally large and bright. She did not speak at first. Mr. Mason made an effort to deliver his intended reproof.
"Delia!" he began, with an extra amount of sternness in his voice, as he felt his courage giving way at the sight of his daughter. "I am very much shocked—I could never have believed that a daughter of mine—bless me, how thin she is—why she looks like a ghost. There, there, don't cry, poor dear, and we won't say any more about it, just now. It is all over, and you have only to get well, and try to do better in future."
Mrs. Mason glanced at Mrs. Pomeroy, as she stooped to kiss Delia, while Mr. Mason walked away to the window, to blow his nose and wipe his spectacles.
"Oh, mother!" were Delia's first words. "If I had only been guided by you, I should never have been where I am."
"Try not to agitate yourself, my love," was Mrs. Mason's quiet reply. "We can talk of that another time. You must keep yourself quiet as possible now, in order not to increase your fever. Mrs. Pomeroy has told us the whole story, and we are ready to forgive every thing. Nobody else knows any thing of the matter, and you have nothing more to fear from your persecutor."
"I don't want you to judge him too hardly, mother," said Delia. How naturally the word mother now came to her lips, and how she wondered that she should ever have found it so hard to speak. "I do not think Mr. Hugo was nearly so much to blame as myself. He would never have thought of such a thing, if I had behaved properly."
"I dare say not," said Mrs. Mason. "In ninety-nine such cases out of a hundred, the fault rests more with the woman than the man. If a girl respects herself, other people will respect her."
"I think it will be hard for me to respect myself, after this," said Delia, sighing. "I am sure I cannot expect others to respect me. It does not seem as though I could ever look any one in the face again."
"That very humility must be your safeguard, my child. But Delia, there is One against whom you have offended far more than against any earthly friend. Have you asked forgiveness of Him?"
"Yes, mother," replied Delia, in a low voice, "but it is very hard for me to think that He will forgive me. I don't feel so."
"You have a surer witness than any mere feeling, my dear."
Delia looked at her, inquiringly.
"You have the promises of God, expressed in Holy Scripture, that no repentant sinner who comes seeking forgiveness through the intercession and merits of our Saviour, will be cast out. Feeling is a very uncertain thing, at the best; and often leads us astray, but not so the promises of God. There is no variableness nor shadow of turning in them."
"That is something like what Emily says," observed Delia. "She was very religious when she first came to school, but she says now that it was all feeling, and that she had no more principle than I had."
"Probably that is true," said Mrs. Mason. "They are often mistaken, the one for the other."
"Then you think, mother," said Delia, after a little pause—"that I ought to believe that God has forgiven me? I should be only too glad to think so, but it seems almost presumptuous."
"Do you think, Delia, that you have truly repented of your past sins?"
"Yes, mother, I think so."
"You have asked the forgiveness of your Father in Heaven, through the merits and intercession of our Lord Jesus Christ?"
"Yes, mother, over and over again."
"And what about the future. Do you wish, or intend that it shall be like the past?"
"Oh no, indeed!" replied Delia, shuddering. "I do hope to live a Christian life after this. But I don't know—I have no faith in myself."
"Nor is it necessary or desirable that you should have faith in yourself. Faith in God is much better. But since you are truly repentant, and have sought God's forgiveness in the way of His own appointment, is it not rather more presumptuous to indulge a doubt of receiving it, than it is to believe in his plainly expressed promises?"
"Perhaps so!" replied Delia, sighing, as if with a feeling of relief. "I had never looked at it in that way. I am sure I shall be only too glad to believe it."
"We will not say much now," said Mrs. Mason, observing that Delia seemed very tired. "You are evidently over excited, and need rest and quiet. We will talk over these matters another time."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Mason. "Talk it over with your mother. She understands such things. She has taught me a great deal that I never knew before. But I want to see you well, now. Poor dear, how much you must have suffered. I only hope you have had enough of secrets to last you all the rest of your life. They are wretched things. Why, dear me, it makes me miserable to have any thing on my mind that I can't talk about."
Delia could not help smiling.
"There, that's right. Now you look natural again. But as I was saying, I don't think you will ever want any more secrets."
"No, indeed!" said Delia, heartily. "I don't think I shall as long as I live."
Great was the wonderment of the school when the true story of Mr. Hugo's departure came out, and great also the triumphing of Almira, who declared that she knew there was something queer about him, and appealed to the girls to know if she had not always said so. She had kept herself pretty quiet after the loss of her hair, and the consequent exposure, but the "delight" of finding herself in the right, as she expressed it, quite overcame her previous mortification, and she was loud in her exaltation, ending by saying—
"And more than that, I know that Emily Arlington and Delia Mason had something to do with the business, or why does Delia stay in Mrs. Pomeroy's room and see no one, and why were her father and mother sent for in such a wonderful hurry? As to her being sick, that is all humbug. I don't believe she is any more sick than I am. Mrs. Pomeroy means to keep the thing quiet, that is all."
"Did you learn all that the night you lost your hair?" asked some one.
"You just be quiet, Sue Dayton. I am not the only person in this house that has ever listened at a door. But any how, I know just as well as I know any thing—"
"That is not so strong an assertion as you might use, Almira," interrupted Belle; "since there are some things that you don't know very well."
"Just as well as I know any thing," continued Almira, disregarding the interruption—"that Em. Arlington and Delia Mason were mixed up in that affair of Mr. Hugo's."
"Let me advise you, as a friend, not to repeat that assertion, Almira," said Janet Graves, seriously. "Mrs. Pomeroy would be very angry to hear you connect the name of any of her young ladies with Mr. Hugo's, and you do not stand so well with her now, that you can afford to lose any favor. It would only take a very few more mis-steps on your part, to ensure your dismission from school."
"I should like to know how you come to know so much about it," said Almira. "You are not a teacher, and I don't believe Mrs. Pomeroy tells you every thing."
"It is true, I am not a teacher," replied Janet, "but since Miss Bronson has been sick, I have helped Miss Gilbert to make up her books, and I know the standing of every scholar in school. Your marks are not what I should like to have mine, and though I am not at liberty to say any more, I certainly advise you to take care how you make them any worse. Even you would not like to be sent home in disgrace."
"Dear me, no!" said Almira, in alarm. "I should never dare to show my face there, if I was expelled. But are they so very bad, Janet? I did not think they would be."
"I don't know how you can think so, when hardly a week passes that your name is not at the very bottom of the bill, both for lessons and deportment. You have only been in the perfect list once this term."
"But just tell me how many marks I have, Janet, or let me guess—Is it fifty?"
"Did I not tell you that I was bound in honor not to say any more?" said the Queen of Sheba, much disgusted. "If you had any sense of propriety, you would never ask me another question, after that."
"Dear me! What is the use of being so grand?" asked Almira. "Of course, I should not tell Miss Gilbert, and what harm would it do, so long as she did not know it?"
Her majesty deigned no reply, but walked away, leaving Almira to her reflections, if she could be supposed to have any.
"After all," said Lucy, when Janet related this conversation to her afterward. "Perhaps we are all too hard upon poor Almira. She has had no home advantages. Her mother is just as great a gossip as herself, and I dare say, Almira has heard all the affairs of the neighborhood, public and private, beside a good many that never existed at all, talked over in her presence over since she can remember. I don't believe Mrs. Crosby ever read through a book of any sort in her life. I could not help laughing the last time I was at home, to hear her tell mother, with such an appearance of self-satisfaction, that she had no time for reading or study—she had to attend to her domestic concerns, which she considered as woman's proper sphere."
"But one would think Almira might have improved," said Janet. "Mrs. Pomeroy has taken so much pains with her, that it seems as if she might have formed a different sort of character."
"Her character was pretty much formed before Mrs. Pomeroy had any thing to do with her, I imagine," replied Lucy. "Remember that she was almost sixteen when she came here. I do hope, however, that she will not be sent home, for neither her father nor mother would have any forbearance with her, under such circumstances."
"It was for that very reason that I gave her a hint," said Janet. "I know how angry it would make Mrs. Pomeroy to hear that any such talk was going on in the school. But it is nonsense to say that Delia is not sick. I saw her for a moment this morning, and really don't think I should have known her."
Delia did, indeed, continue very unwell. Mrs. Pomeroy had hoped that her illness would have passed away with the excitement which caused it, but such was not the case, and as the days went on, it became evident that her health had received a serious shock. It was at last decided that she would be more likely to recover in the quietness of home, and under the care of her mother, to whom she now clung almost as much as she had hitherto disliked her; and as soon as she was able to travel, she was removed.
Even Miss Thomas was moved, when she saw Delia for the first and last time, and she bade her an affectionate farewell. None of the girls, except Emily and Janet, saw her at all, as she was still very weak, and unable to bear the least excitement, but she exerted herself to look out of the carriage and wave her handkerchief, as she passed the gate, where most of her companions were assembled to see the last of her.
"Oh, how happy I might have been here," she sighed, as she sank back again, "but it was all my own fault."
"Let us hope that you have many happy days still in store," said Mrs. Mason. "Your lesson, though a hard one, will be worth all it has cost you, if it has led you to the foot of that Cross wherein alone is safety and salvation."
Emily had not forgotten her resolution, and as soon as Delia was gone, she sat down resolutely to write to her father. It was a hard task, and was not accomplished without many tears, but she knew what was her duty, and she resolved to perform it faithfully. She concealed nothing, but related the whole story of her faults, from the very beginning, without attempting the least excuse or palliation of her conduct. She concluded, by humbly asking permission to remain at the school till her father's return, that she might have an opportunity of redeeming her character, and regaining the confidence of Mrs. Pomeroy, of whose kindness she could hardly say enough. This letter was submitted to Mrs. Pomeroy, who approved it, and added one of her own, which, however, she did not show to Emily.
When Mr. Arlington received these two letters, his first impulse was to remove Emily from the school at once, and keep her in future entirely under his own eye. But he was not a hasty man, and though his temper was naturally severe, he was lacking neither in a sense of justice, nor in a due regard for his daughter. He could not help observing that Emily's letter showed every sign of true contrition, without the least attempt at self-justification, and he was particularly pleased with the sensible and straight-forward tone of Mrs. Pomeroy's note.
Mrs. Pomeroy had written that she should not make any attempt to excuse Emily, further than to remind him that she was still very young, and that the perfect retirement in which she had lived previously to entering school, had, perhaps, not altogether fitted her for resisting temptation. There could be no doubt of the sincerity of her repentance, as her letter, written entirely of her own free will, and by her own suggestions, abundantly showed. She had no desire to lose Emily from the school, but stood ready to dispose of her as her father should appoint.
Mr. Arlington reflected that it would be exceedingly inconvenient for him to return home, or to have Emily come out to him, and that she would be more likely to get into fresh trouble among strangers, than with Mrs. Pomeroy, who was well acquainted with her faults, and for her own sake, would watch her carefully hereafter. Finally, he decided to let her remain where she was, at least for another year, and wrote to Mrs. Pomeroy to that effect, at the same time enclosing money to pay all her indebtedness. His letter to Emily was extremely kind—more so than she had anticipated, or indeed than he had at first intended, but as he went on writing, his heart melted toward the motherless child, so far separated from him, and though he did not conceal his displeasure at her faults, he assured her of his entire forgiveness and continued affection, and his desire to act solely for her good, concluding with a fervent blessing upon his only and darling child.
Emily watched and waited for this letter till her heart was sick with fear and hope deferred, but when it came, she hardly dared to open it till Mrs. Pomeroy assured her that it contained no ill news. Many were the tears of joy and sorrow which she shed over its pages, and most fervent were her prayers that she might have grace given her from on high to enable her to show herself worthy of so much affection. It gave her a different feeling toward her father, from any she had ever entertained before, and she thought she should never again fear to open her heart to him. In fact, from this time might be dated the beginning of a thoroughly good understanding between Mr. Arlington and his daughter which was never again interrupted.
Mrs. Pomeroy paid Kitty the ten dollars which she was at first very unwilling to receive, but she consented to do so upon Mrs. Pomeroy's representing to her that she would thereby relieve Emily from a painful sense of obligation. She had been greatly shocked on being informed of the transaction, but her anger was quite swallowed up in her sympathy for Emily's distress. Again and again she kissed her and assured her that it was no matter—that she had done quite as well without it, and that she was even glad she had lost it, as that it gave her an opportunity of seeing how much the girls loved her. Nor did any allusion to the matter ever pass her lips. Her health was improving greatly, and Mrs. Pomeroy began again to hope with trembling that she might be spared to grow up a comfort to her own declining years.
Mr. Arlington had requested Mrs. Pomeroy to give Emily a certain weekly allowance, such as she should deem suitable, and Mrs. Pomeroy did so, but Emily seemed all at once to have grown very economical. She never asked permission to go out shopping, the candy woman's attractions were passed by unheeded, and even resisted the temptation of purchasing some beautiful verbenas to plant in her garden. Mrs. Pomeroy noticed this economy, but made no remark upon it, nor was she much surprised, when after the lapse of some time, Emily brought her ten dollars; the whole sum of her allowance, requesting her to expend it in some way for Kitty's benefit.
But though not surprised, she was much pleased. She thought it a sign of no small firmness and principle in Emily thus to have denied herself almost every pleasure, in order to restore from what was strictly her own, that which she had stolen. Nor did she refuse the money, though she declined to appropriate it to Kitty. There was a charitable fund which had existed in the school, almost since its commencement to which most of the girls were subscribers, and the proceeds of which were appropriated to clothing poor children for Sunday Schools. Mrs. Pomeroy proposed to Emily that this ten dollars, the fruit of her self-denial, should be quietly placed in this fund, and Emily joyfully consented, feeling her heart very much relieved.
Little now remains to be added to our story.
Delia remained very unwell, and greatly depressed in spirits for a considerable time, but the quiet of home, and the kind attentions of her friends at last had their effect, and she gradually recovered her health. Emily spent the summer vacation with her, and they returned to school together. Delia was not a person to do anything by halves. She had once said that it would take an earthquake to convert her, but that then she should stay converted. It was even so. She had had the earthquake, and the rest of the prediction seemed likely to be fulfilled. Her reformation was complete and lasting, and during the last year of her stay at school, she was as noticeable for her consistent Christian character, as she had formerly been the reverse. Her presence was of great service to Emily, who was not possessed of her friend's force of character, and might perhaps have been led again into temptation, without the help of Delia's counsel and example. They finished their school course with credit to themselves and their instructress, and are now both useful and respected women.
We are sorry not to be able to say as much for Miss Crosby. She returned home at the end of the year, not one particle wiser than she had been at its beginning, having expended more time and ingenuity in getting rid of lessons than would have been requisite to learn them twice over. But she was very pretty and graceful, and was soon married to a gentleman, who believed such lovely simplicity would be easily guided, and thought it would be a delightful task to form the mind of such an artless young creature. It is possible that he may have found out by this time that the artless young creature has not only a mind, but a will of her own already formed. Such at least is the idea current among his friends, who do not appear to consider him an object of envy.
Alice Parker was considerably impressed by her conversation with Belle Faushane at the time of Emily's sickness, and began to consider whether she had not been in some degree to blame in making the very worst of her lot instead of the best. As she was not deficient either in strength of mind, or religious principle, she was induced to make an effort at greater cheerfulness, and had really improved considerably, when she received intelligence which seemed likely to throw her back again. Mrs. Williams was attacked with paralysis, and her presence was required at home immediately. Mrs. Williams partially recovered, but remained quite feeble and helpless, and as she was unwilling to have her adopted daughter away from her side, Alice's school career came to a sudden termination. The effect of the change upon her character, was reported by Belle Faushane after her return to school in the fall.
"Oh, and by the way, I went to see Alice."
"How does she get on?" asked Delia. "I suppose she must be more dismal than ever, now that she has to live at home all the time."
"On the contrary, she has brightened up amazingly. I never saw any one so changed. She did not sigh once while I was there, and she laughed quite merrily two or three times. Poor Mrs. Williams suffers a great deal and is quite childish, and Alice has to contrive all sorts of ways to amuse her. She has prevailed upon her to have Mrs. Parker there to keep house for them, which of course makes it much pleasanter, but after all, I believe the change is more in Alice herself."
"I always thought Alice might be happier at home if she managed differently," observed Lucy. "But she always had such a way of acting as though she was terribly abused by some one, that it was not calculated to conciliate a woman like Mrs. Williams, especially when she felt at the same time that she really was doing a great deal for Alice."
"I think Alice feels that herself," said Belle. "She said to me, 'You told me once that the reason I did not find my work was, because I did not look for it, and I believe you were right. I have found it now, and it seems likely to be lasting, but I am far from quarrelling with it, for it has made me happier than ever I was before.'"
Belle herself has found her work. She has married a clergyman and is the very head and front of all the charitable, literary and other undertakings in a large city parish, where she is much liked and admired, though it must be confessed that she sometimes terrifies and now and then extinguishes, certain fine young gentlemen of the weaker sort, causing them to seek revenge in remarking upon safe opportunities, that Mrs. Garland would be quite a fine woman if she was not so sarcastic.
She is quite worshipped by all the poor people, children and servants in the parish, including her own, and she and her husband think each other the most wonderful people in the world. She is an admirable housekeeper too, which rather surprised Miss Thomas, who lately spent a Christmas vacation with her.
Miss Thomas confessed to Mrs. Pomeroy on her return that she had never seen a household better managed, but added—"As much pains as I took with her, it would be strange if she did not turn out something, but there are none of the girls of the present day, who compare with that set. They are all slatterns and idlers from beginning to end."
From which remark it may be inferred that Miss Thomas is not much altered by the lapse of time.
Mr. Hugo's place was supplied by an amiable and accomplished French lady, under whose instructions Annette made such progress that she actually received the second French prize. It is unnecessary to say that her amiable disposition and strength of principle made her a happy and useful woman.
Lucy became a teacher in the seminary after the death of her mother, and had the pleasure of seeing her two little sisters educated under the fostering care of Mrs. Pomeroy, who still continues her honorable and useful career, cheered by the love and care of Kitty Mastick, and of Agnes Brown, the baggage master's daughter, who has been with her ever since the memorable night when her father knocked down the gallant Mr. Hugo.
Mr. Fletcher lives honored and venerated by all who know him. He is still addicted to going out in the stormiest weather and making long botanical excursions on foot. Mrs. Pomeroy has never found out how he came to be in the station room just in time to meet Delia.
Cornelius Agrippa lived to a very great age, and died much lamented. His remains repose in the garden under a picturesque monument, erected by the contributions of the young ladies. His master was much afflicted at his loss, but was partially consoled by an opportune present of four horned frogs, which were carefully brought all the way from one of the southwestern military posts by a favorite pupil who had been home to spend the summer. These charming creatures were alive and thriving at the last accounts.
I cannot close this little volume better than by commending to one and all of my young readers, the motto adopted by Emily Arlington for her graduating composition—
"WALK IN THE LIGHT, AS CHILDREN OF THE LIGHT. HE THAT WALKETH IN DARKNESS KNOWETH NOT WHITHER HE GOETH."