RELIGION IN JAMAICA.
The population of Jamaica numbers about half a million, of whom nearly four-fifths are blacks, one hundred thousand colored people, and only thirteen thousand Europeans. In addition to these there are several thousand Cubans and Haytians, who have been driven from their homes by political troubles, some thousands of Indian coolies, and a few Chinese and Madeira Portuguese.
Of this motley population only a few thousand are Catholics. The greater part of the English belong to the Church of England, which, however, has been disestablished in Jamaica for some years. These enjoy the full benefit of the usual High Church and Low Church party warfare. One of the leading clergy of this denomination has started a monthly paper in Jamaica, called theTruth-Seeker. It is to be hoped that he may be successful in his search. The last number which the writer saw contained arguments in favor of spiritualism, homœopathy, and Extreme Unction. The editor is a vegetarian and teetotaler, and is said to have employed in the communion service, as a substitute for wine, the juice of a few grapes squeezed into a tumbler of water. When the bishop was asked about it he made a wry face and expressed a hope that he might never receive the communion in his teetotal friend’s church again. This reminds us of an incident related by a Church of England parson. He arrived at Kingston by the mail steamer from England on a Sunday morning, and duly betook himself to a church. It happened tobe communion Sunday, and he “stayed.” He noticed that most of the white people went up to receive first, and that the few who neglected to do so, and who communicated with the negroes, came back to their seats screwing up very wry faces. Our friend solved the mystery when, going up nearly last, he found that his black friends’ lips had imparted such a flavor to the cup that he did not lose the taste of it for hours!
But the most popular sect amongst the blacks is the Baptist. The Baptist ministers are credited with having been the cause of the insurrection a dozen years ago, which was attended with so much bloodshed. Their great recommendation to the people appears to consist in their teaching virtually that the country belongs to the black man, and that the whites endeavor to defraud them of their rights by giving them insufficient wages and by other means. The consequence is that the negroes frequently defraud their employers by theft, shirking work, injuring their property, and so forth.
The Wesleyans and Presbyterians have large followings. There are also some Moravian stations. After a certain term of years the Moravian missionary is judged worthy to be rewarded with connubial bliss, and a spouse is selected by the authorities in Europe and sent out to him. The Jews are numerous and opulent, a great part of the commerce of the country being in their hands. But they are said to be very indifferent as to their religion, Jewish ladies often marrying people ofother religions and ending by professing none at all.
It is pleasant to turn from these conflicting sects to consider the Catholic Church. Kingston, the capital of Jamaica, contains forty thousand people, and of these seven thousand are Catholics. The Jamaica mission is in the hands of the Jesuits. They do not number more than half a score, and are consequently hardly worked. They have a convenient house, popularly called the “French College,” though there is only one French priest there. Attached to it is a small college for the education of Catholic youths, but several Protestants are permitted to benefit by the instruction there given. In the little chapel at the back of the house the Blessed Sacrament is reserved. Among the priests is a venerable man whose tall, ascetic figure commands universal respect. He was formerly a Protestant clergyman, a fellow of his college at Oxford, and one of that remarkable band of men who founded the Oxford or Tractarian party. His quiet, instructive sermons are of a very high order, simple, admirably expressed, and pregnant with matter. Equally beloved is a white-headed French priest who has labored in Kingston for thirty years, and who endeared himself to all by his indefatigable devotion to the sick and dying during a terrible epidemic of yellow fever which raged there some years ago. He is well acquainted with, and sympathizes in, the joys and sorrows of all the congregation, and, in spite of a strong French accent which renders his conversation nearly unintelligible to a stranger, all seem to understand him perfectly. There are several younger priests who conduct the college, and one devotes his energiesespecially to work amongst the Cubans. There is also an excellent lay brother, a convert from Protestantism, who presides over a school for the children of poor Catholics. The church, dedicated to the Holy Trinity, is a plain brick structure, like all the churches and chapels in Kingston, but it is distinguished from the others by crosses on the gable ends. There are two side altars in addition to the high altar. The latter is handsomely adorned, and above it is a rose-window of stained glass. There is a good attendance at the daily Masses, which are said from five to half-past six, the congregation consisting mainly of black or colored people.
Besides the large church there is a smaller one dedicated to St. Martin, and commonly called the “Cuban Chapel,” because it is employed especially for their use. Spanish sermons are preached there at the eight o’clock Mass on Sundays. At the commencement of the month of May a handsome new altar was built and High Mass celebrated, the church being crowded with devout worshippers.
Near the large church is a convent with a private chapel, the nuns devoting themselves to the education of a number of young ladies, mostly Haytians, who reside with them.
A mile from the town is the camp of the First West India Regiment, a corps of Black Zouaves. Some of them being Catholics, Mass is said there on Sundays by a priest from Kingston. Another goes on alternate Sundays to Port Royal, a few miles from Kingston, where the guard-ship, theAboukir, is stationed, and says Mass for the Catholic seamen.
The whole of the remainder of theisland is served by three priests, who lead a most arduous life, constantly riding or driving from one station to another. Newcastle, a beautiful place in the Port Royal mountains nearly four thousand feet above the sea, is the station of the Thirty-fifth Regiment of the Line, and Mass is said here on alternate Sundays by a young priest who has just arrived from England, and replaced a stalwart father who was formerly senior captain in his regiment. Another extensive district is served by a worthy Belgian father with venerable beard and simple manners. This apostolic man rides long distances, often having to ford dangerously swollen torrents, and frequently having no lodging but the sacristy of a rural chapel, and no food but a little yam and salt fish.
But the most experienced missionary in the island is the superior of the Jesuits, who is vicar-apostolic. He has travelled about Jamaica on missionary journeys for sixteen years, and boasts that he knows every road and track in the country. He is generally beloved by Catholic, Protestant, and Jew alike, his genial manners and cheerful conversation making him a welcome guest everywhere, and his medical skill (for he was a physician before he joined the Society of Jesus) having enabled him to confer material benefits on many suffering persons. He has always led an active life, and is especially fond of relating his reminiscences of the siege of Sebastopol, where he was senior Catholic chaplain to the British forces. He drives about in a buggy, with spare horses following under the charge of his servant, or “boy,” who rides on horseback. The Jamaica horses are small, poor-looking animals, costing little, and veryhardy and inexpensive, but they are capable of a great deal of trying work.
To reach Kingston for the confirmation on Pentecost Sunday, the good father had to drive for some miles over a road on which the water had risen from a neighboring river to such an extent that it was as high as the axles, and sometimes even came into the buggy. Fording swollen streams on horseback in the rainy season is often very dangerous work. This father having one day with difficulty crossed such a stream, a negro, who had been watching him all the time, told him that he was the first person who had succeeded in crossing there for some days, three men who had attempted it having been drowned.
“Why didn’t you tell me, then?” asked the priest.
“My sweet minister, me want to see what you do.”
Not that the man bore him any malice, but these people seem to be totally reckless of human life.
If he can be said to have any home, the vicar-apostolic lives in a pretty little house on the northwest coast. It is about a mile from the sea, but some hundreds of feet above it, and commands a magnificent view of the well-wooded hills, the sea, and the numerous small islands covered with mangroves. Near the house is a small oratory, built as a coach-house. It is very plain, and yet unpaved, the congregation kneeling on small pieces of board placed on the earth. Attached to the house is a pen, or grazing farm, of about seven hundred acres. It is for the most part overgrown with bush, the property having been much neglected; but strenuous efforts are being made to set it in goodorder, and not without success. It is hoped that it will eventually realize sufficient to support four or five missionary priests, which will be a great advantage to the church in Jamaica, as the mission there is very poor. The property was left to the church by a Catholic gentleman who resided on it and died some few years ago. It now supports about one hundred head of cattle, besides which it is planted with a number of pimento, lime, and cocoanut trees, the fruits of which are of value.
A private chapel, which stands in the grounds of a gentleman who resides on one of the most beautiful pens in the island, is well worthy of mention. This gentleman is a convert and has done much for the church. His chapel is the most charming little rustic oratory imaginable, the chancel screen and other wood-work being made of rough twisted branches of trees, and the staircase to the gallery consisting of the trunk of a pine tree with steps cut in it. On the Sundays when Mass is said here the Catholics from eight or ten miles round drive or ride in, and the chapel is sometimes nearly filled. After Mass they take their dinner, which they have brought with them, and walk about and admire the beautiful garden, the hospitable proprietor and the ladies of the family saying kind words ofwelcome to their humbler friends. An hour after Mass there is rosary and benediction, after which the people return to their distant homes.
But not always can a church be had for Mass. In some places a room in a private house is all that can be obtained, and the Catholics of the neighborhood, having been warned by letter of the intended service, assemble at the appointed hour. The priest will sit in one room to hear confessions, whilst the people wait in an adjacent one, where a sideboard or table is prepared as an altar. After Mass will often follow baptisms, marriages, or confirmations. But the great work before the church in Jamaica now is to form stations with churches where Mass may be celebrated at stated times. Several such are already established, and things are better than formerly, when the Holy Sacrifice had often to be offered up in the houses of Protestants. But much has yet to be done, and there is good reason to hope that the time will come when the small Jamaica church will develop into a flourishing diocese. In spite of the prevalent indifference as to religion, some of the Protestants are beginning to see that truth is not to be obtained in their conflicting sects, and they are turning their eyes Romeward in search of peace.
MARGUERITE.
“Frogs, fresh frogs! Buy a few frogs!” cried a sweet girl’s voice, which blended strangely with the other sounds and voices round about the little booth near Fulton Market. “Frogs, fresh frogs!”
“Ride up, gentlemen, ride up!”
“Move on quick, move on!”
“Look out, mister, or I’ll run over you!”
And on the ’buses and drays and express-wagons rumbled and rolled, and the policeman screamed himself hoarse trying to keep the great thoroughfare clear; the mud, which was knee-deep, flew in all directions, the jaded horses floundered and fell in the grimy slough, and ’twas Pandemonium indeed just here where pretty Marguerite’s frog-stand stood. But the girl, who was used to the bustle and din, went on quietly knitting a stocking and calling out, “Frogs, fresh frogs! Buy a few frogs!” while her words, like a strain of sweet music, floated away upon the muggy April air, heavy with oaths and villanous cries.
We have called our heroine pretty; yet this was not strictly true. Many a young woman passed through the market with more beautiful features than she had. Her nose was of no particular shape—we might term it a neutral nose—and her mouth was decidedly broad; while the tall, white cap she wore gave her a quaint, outlandish appearance that made not a few people stare and smile. But Marguerite’s eyes redeemed, ay, more than redeemed, whatever was faulty in the rest of her countenance. Oh! what eyes she had—so large and black and lustrous.Like two precious stones they seemed; and when she turned them wistfully upon you, you were fascinated and rooted to the spot, and if the girl ever sold any frogs it was thanks to those wonderful eyes.
Poor thing! at the age of seventeen to be left an orphan, alone and friendless in the big city of New York. Poor thing! From the Battery up to Murray Hill, and across from river to river, not a solitary being knew or cared about her; and had she died—died even a violent, sensational death—the coroner’s inquest would have taken up scarce three lines in the daily papers, after which, like a drop of water falling into the ocean, she would have passed out of sight and mind for ever.
But no, we are wrong; there was one who did care for Marguerite—one who had known her parents when they first came over from France, and had done everything she could to help them. But, alas! down in the whirlpool of poverty husband and wife had disappeared and died, and many a pang shot across Mother Catherine’s breast as she thought of the child left now to shift for herself like so many other waifs.
The girl’s home was in a tenement-house, and the room where she slept was shared by three other women, who would have made it a filthy, disorderly place indeed except for Marguerite. Every morning she swept the floor, opened the window to let in fresh air, and imparted a cosey look to what would otherwise have been the most squalid chamber in the building.By her mattress hung a crucifix, a gift from Mother Catherine, and near the crucifix was a piece of old looking-glass which Marguerite had found in a dust-barrel. Before this she would daily spend a quarter of an hour making her toilet. Her dark hair was neatly gathered up beneath her Norman cap—only one little tress peeping out; across her bosom was pinned a clean white kerchief; the mud-spots were carefully brushed off her tattered gown; then, after lingering a moment to admire herself, she would sally forth, the envy of all the slatterns in the neighborhood, and the boys would wink to one another and say: “What a nice-looking gal!”
Marguerite often wished that she had a better class of admirers than these. “But, alas!” she would sigh, “I am poor. Poverty like a mountain presses me down. If I could sell more frogs and get a new dress, then real gentlemen might notice me. But, alas! I must be thankful I have this old calico thing to cover me. But even this is falling in rags, and I may soon be without shoes to my feet.”
One day, while she was thus inwardly bemoaning her hard lot and crying out: “Frogs, fresh frogs! Buy a few frogs!” without having anybody come to buy even a dime’s worth, her attention was drawn to a middle-aged man, dressed in a faded suit of black, who had paused on his way up the street, and seemed to be listening with wonder to her cry.
He was not at all handsome, yet there was something very striking about him, and you would have marked him out in a crowd as one who did not follow in the beaten ways of other men.
When he first halted, his thin, wan face had assumed an air ofsurprise; but presently, advancing nearer to the booth, this changed to an expression of melancholy which caused the girl to feel pity for him.
“Are you selling frogs, miss—frogs?” he said, fixing his deep, sunken eyes upon her.
“Yes, sir. Would you like a few?” replied Marguerite, her heart fluttering with hope.
“Well, now, I thought I had eaten almost everything that is eatable; but upon my word this does go a little beyond my experience,” said Abel Day, as he bent down to examine the delicate white frogs’ legs, which were ranged in rows, tastefully fringed with a border of parsley leaves. “But are you sure they are what you say they are? No toads among them?”
“We don’t eat toads in France, sir,” returned Marguerite, the blood mounting to her cheeks.
“In France! Why, are you from France?”
“I am.O la belle France!And father and mother used to keep a frog-stand in Rouen; and they had a fine mushroom garden there, too. But folks here don’t know what is good to eat. Oh! I wish my parents had never come to America; and so did they wish it before they died.”
“Well, what sort of a place is France?” inquired the other, who began to feel interested in the girl.
“I was very young, sir, when I left it; therefore I cannot describe it to you. But I know France is a beautiful country. It must be beautiful; no country in all the world can compare with it. Father and mother used to drink wine in France.”
“Well, people here drink wine, too, sometimes.”
“Do they? All those I knowdrink nasty water or else horrid whiskey,” said Marguerite, making a wry mouth.
“Humph! you are the first I ever met who didn’t like America,” pursued Abel Day. “However, I’ll not let this set me against you; so what is the price of your frogs?”
“How many do you wish?” inquired Marguerite, who hardly expected him to take over a quarter of a dollar’s worth at most.
“Let me have the whole lot.”
“Well, will four dollars be too much?” she said hesitatingly.
“Here is your money,” answered Abel, drawing forth the sum. “And now, while you are wrapping up these funny-looking creatures—verily, I might take ’em for little pigmies just ready for a swim—please tell me how business is.”
“Bad, sir. It always is with me; and I sometimes think of giving it up.”
“And trying something else? Well, now, take my advice—don’t. This business can be made to pay as well as any other. All that’s wanted is to know how to go about it.”
“Oh! I’d be only too thankful if you’d tell me what to do,” exclaimed Marguerite. “Too thankful; for I’m almost in despair.”
“Well, then, open your ears, and I’ll give you a ‘wrinkle’ that’ll set you on the highroad to prosperity.” Here Abel lifted his forefinger; then, after clearing his throat, “My young friend,” he went on, “you must know that the world is largely composed of fools. Of course it wouldn’t do to tell ’em so; nevertheless, it’s the truth, though they are not to be blamed for it—not a bit. We are born what we are; we don’t make ourselves. A pumpkin can be nothingbut a pumpkin; a genius is a genius. And this makes the world all the more interesting, at least to me. Why, what a dull place ’twould be if we were all alike! Oh! I do love to look down upon the broad pumpkin-field of humanity, and feel how far, far above it some few men are elevated—some very few.”
“Like yourself,” interposed Marguerite, with an air of seriousness, only belied by a laughing gleam in her eyes.
“Please let that pass; no digressions,” said Abel, waving his hand. “But come back now to where we started from—namely, how to make the frog business pay.” Here he gave another cough. “In the first place, my young friend, this booth is altogether too small. It not only doesn’t allow your frogs half a chance to be seen, but you yourself are almost hidden inside of it. And, speaking of yourself, do not be offended if I observe that you have wonderfully attractive eyes, and a charming voice, and spirits which keep bright and cheerful no matter how cloudy the sky is. Yes, this much I know, though I never met you before. Well, now, here is the advice I give: Hire a small store close by; then have an immense sign-board hung over the entrance, with Frog Emporium painted on it in twelve-inch letters, and let every letter be of a different color, so that people will be attracted by it when they are a good block off. Then beneath the words Frog Emporium, and on the left-hand side, you must paint a fat, contented old mother frog, squatting, at the edge of a pond, watching a lot of merry tadpoles swimming about. This will represent maternal felicity. At the other end of the sign you may paint a hungry-looking man with mouth wide open, and Mr. Bullfrogtaking a header down his throat, and screeching out as he goes down, ‘This fellow knows what’s good!’ You should likewise get a cooking-stove, so as to have a dainty dish of frogs all prepared for anybody who may come in and wish to taste them. There, now, is my plan; I submit it to your consideration. Carry it out, and you’ll soon find it difficult to supply all your customers.”
“Well, indeed, sir,” answered Marguerite, “I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the interest you take in me. But, alas! I am too poor to pay the rent of ever so small a store; why, I couldn’t even pay for such a sign-board as you describe. In fact, if you knew how very narrow my means are, you would wonder that I can manage to keep alive.”
“Is that so?” said Abel, in a tone of compassion. “Well, then, leave the sign to me; I will order it this very day, and the moment it is ready it shall be brought to you. I’ll also go security for your rent.”
At these words Marguerite’s eyes filled with tears, glad tears, and, clasping one of his hands, she pressed it warmly; while Abel thought to himself, “How full of sentiment she is! Poor creature!”
“Oh! what a blessed thing it is to be rich,” exclaimed the girl presently. “But all rich people, sir, are not like you—no, indeed.”
“Never mind my wealth,” said Abel; “we’ll talk about that some other time. Go ahead, now, and carry out my notion; put implicit trust in me. Everything will come out right in the end.”
Again Marguerite pressed his hand—her heart was too full for words—after which Abel Day went away, promising to return before the week was ended to see how shewas getting on. The girl followed him with her eyes until he was lost to view, wondering who he could be. “Well, whoever he is,” she thought to herself, “he is a real gentleman. True, his clothes are rather worn; but we cannot judge a man by his clothes. Yes, he is a real gentleman, and different from any other that I have ever seen. He didn’t beat me down in my price; no, he bought all my frogs and paid me what I asked. Anybody else would have forced me to take three dollars and a half or three dollars. I might even have let them go for two and a half. But no, he isn’t like other rich persons. And, oh! may God bless him and make him happy; for I am sure from his looks there is something weighing on his heart.”
During the next few days Marguerite’s thoughts constantly turned upon her strange friend, who had evidently been in downright earnest and kept his word; for the sign-board was promptly sent to her, and she could not contain her delight when she saw it hanging above the doorway of the little store which she hired.
True to his promise, Abel Day came soon again to visit Marguerite, bringing money wherewith to pay her month’s rent in advance. It seemed to do him good to talk to her, and his face brightened when she told him how many people had already entered the Frog Emporium. “And every one, sir, who eats a plate of my frogs declares they are better than an oyster-stew. And they say, too, that the sign-board makes them roar with laughter and entices them in whether they will or no. O sir! how can I thank you enough for what you have done for me?”
“Don’t speak any thanks,” repliedAbel. “No, don’t speak any; but show your thanks by being good and virtuous. ’Tis getting down in the world leads so many to the bad. Ay, misery is the devil’s best friend. Therefore, my dear girl, improve your condition as fast as you can. Put money in the savings-bank; then when you meet any poor wretch hard up, and you have the means to help him, do it.”
“Oh! indeed I will,” said Marguerite. “But now please, kind sir, let me know the name of my benefactor. I wish to know it, that I may tell it to the only other friend I have on earth—Mother Catherine. She’ll be sure to ask me who you are.”
“My name is Abel Day,” he replied.
“And you live—? Well, perhaps I shouldn’t ask that, sir. Though if I did know your address, I’d slip into your kitchen some morning bright and early, and cook you a nice mess of frogs for breakfast.” Then, arching her pretty eyebrows: “You live in Fifth Avenue—beautiful Fifth Avenue?”
“I do, and yet I don’t,” answered Abel. “I often see myself there, dwelling in a marble mansion; ’tis sure to happen—so sure that I may consider myself already in Fifth Avenue.” Here, observing a puzzled look upon Marguerite’s face, “Ah!” he added, “you do not understand me. Well, nobody else does, either. But never mind. The world will wake up some fine morning and find the name of Abel Day on every lip. And ’tis all coming out of here—here.” At these words he tapped his forehead. “My fortune will not be built on other men’s misfortunes; ’twill not come through gambling in stocks, through swindling, through falsehood,through dishonor. But out of my brain the great thing is slowly but surely taking shape and form which ere long will astound the world.”
“Well, truly, sir, I believe you. Oh! I do,” exclaimed Marguerite, who felt herself carried away by his own enthusiasm. “I knew from the first moment I laid eyes on you that you were an extraordinary man.”
“’Tis often thus,” pursued Abel musingly. “Genius is not seldom recognized by the humble ones of earth, when those who dwell in high places, with ears and eyes stuffed and blinded by prosperity, have only fleers and gibes to give.”
“And would it be showing too much curiosity,” inquired Marguerite, “if I were to ask what is this wonderful thing which I doubt not will bring you in riches and renown? And certainly no one deserves these more than yourself; for but for you, oh! I shudder to think what might have become of me. My future was dark—dark—dark.”
“And I have brightened it a little. Yet what is what I have done compared with what remains to be done!” said Abel, speaking like one who thinks aloud. “O mystery of life! Why is there so much misery around me?” Then, addressing Marguerite: “Well, if you like, I will be here at four o’clock this afternoon, when I shall make clear to you what now you do not comprehend. But, remember, it must be a profound secret; no other human being except yourself must know what I am inventing—no other human being.”
“You will find, sir, that I can keep a secret,” said Marguerite. “So please come at the hour you mention.”
Punctual to the minute Abel Day was at the Frog Emporium, which was so thronged with customers that he had to wait half an hour for the girl. But at length, the last frog being sold, off they went together; and as they took their way along the streets Marguerite wondered whither he would lead her. Would it be to some fashionable quarter of the city—to some place where quiet, well-mannered people dwelt? And as her companion did not open his lips, she was left to her own hopes and conjectures, and kept wondering and wondering, until by and by she found herself, with a slight pang of disappointment, in Tompkins Square. A few minutes later the girl was following Abel Day into a third-class boarding-house, and, observing several scrawny females making big eyes at her as she mounted up to his room, which was on the top story, he whispered: “They are jealous of you, my dear; but pay no attention to them, and above all do not reveal to any of these Paul Prys what I am going to show you.”
Presently they reached the door of his chamber, which he hastily unlocked, saying to Marguerite: “Pass in quick—pass in quick”; for Abel fancied he heard footsteps and voices close behind him.
Marguerite obeyed and made haste into the room; then, while Abel was stuffing paper into the keyhole, she threw her eyes about her in utter astonishment.
The apartment was barely half the size of her own at the tenement building; nor could it compare with it for order and neatness. Indeed, ’twas in the greatest disorder. Numberless slips of paper were strewn over the floor, with queer pencil-marks upon them, and the wall was covered by the same odddrawings, especially near the bed, as though Abel did most of his brain-work after he retired for the night and before he arose in the morning. On a shelf by the window lay a dust-covered manuscript, and beside it a cigar-box half full of buttons, dimly visible through a spider’s web.
But where was the wonderful machine he had told her about?
“Here it is,” spoke Abel in a semi-whisper and drawing something out from under the bed.
“Really! Oh! do let me see,” cried Marguerite, flying towards him.
“It is almost finished,” added Abel. “But pray lower your voice, for there are listeners outside—vile eavesdroppers.”
He now went on to explain what this curious object was, which looked like nothing so much as a big toy; for all the girl could perceive was a stuffed chicken sitting in a box, gaudily painted red, white, and blue.
“You must know,” said Abel, “that every time a hen lays an egg the very first thing she does is to turn and look at it, as if to make sure it is really laid. Well, now, this machine which you behold is the Magic Hen’s Nest. There is a spring bottom to it, so that the instant the egg is dropped it will disappear. Then, when the fowl turns to see if it is there—lo! she’ll find it isn’t there. Whereupon, concluding she must have made a mistake, like a good creature she’ll sit down again, and presently out’ll come egg number two, which will likewise vanish through the trap. And so on and on and on, until—well, really, I can’t tell what may happen in the end, for of course there is a limit to all good things: the hen may lose her wits.But if she doesn’t—if she keeps her senses, and if I can force her to continue laying and laying—why, my fortune is made sure, and I’d not change places with old Howe and his sewing-machine—no, indeed I wouldn’t.”
“Well, I declare!” ejaculated Marguerite when Abel was through with the explanation. “This is certainly a grand idea. Why, one hen will do the work of a score of hens.”
“Of five hundred,” said Abel solemnly. “And I wrote some time ago to a couple of my acquaintances on Long Island, advising them to sell off every hen on their farm except one. But they are not willing to follow my advice; and, what’s more, they both came here last week when I was out, and asked all kinds of questions about my health. The fools! But never mind; it’s all the worse for them, for just as soon as I get out my patent down will go the price of hens to zero.”
“Well, upon my word, this is wonderful, wonderful!” said Marguerite, kneeling and stroking the back of the stuffed chicken.
“Ay, and I am filled with wonder at myself for having invented such a thing,” continued Abel. “But it only shows what the brain of man can do. And yet what man is able to accomplish now is nothing compared with what he will accomplish in the ages to come.”
“Well, what is needed, sir, to make this Magic Nest perfect? It seems to me to be in good working order.”
“Nothing remains to be done but to get a live hen and put it to the proof; though I have no more doubt of its success than I have of my own existence.”
“Well, do let me be presentwhen you make the trial. Will you?”
“Yes, you may come, for you do not laugh and jeer at me like the rest of the world; and, moreover, there is something soothing in your presence. Oh! I believe if I had had you always by my side this Magic Nest would have been ready long ago.”
“And when I come again,” said Marguerite a little timidly, “I’ll put the room in order—may I?”
Here Abel’s brow lowered; but quickly the dark look passed away, for she was gazing so sweetly at him, and he said: “You perceive, then, that it is not in order? Well, you are right. I live all by myself and have no time to sweep and dust—no time.”
“All by yourself!” repeated Marguerite compassionately.
“Yes; and when evening comes round I light my candle and play at solitaire, and listen to the cats caterwauling on the roof.”
“How lonely!” exclaimed the girl.
“Perhaps it may be. Yet in solitude one hears and sees strange things. I love solitude.”
“Really?”
“I do; nevertheless, I own ’twould be better in some respects not to dwell so much by myself. Therefore I give you leave to come here whenever you please; yes, come and sweep and rummage and turn things topsy-turvy, if you like.”
At this Marguerite burst into a laugh.
“Ha! probably you think my apartment is already topsy-turvy? Well, it only seems so to you; to my eye there is perfect order in all this chaos.”
“And the buttons, sir, in yonder cigar-box—”
Marguerite did not end thephrase; she hoped he would understand her, and Abel did.
“Humph! you have discovered those buttons, eh? Well, they came off my clothes. And here let me observe, my young friend, the next important thing to invent is a suit of clothes without any buttons.”
“Well, until you invent one, please allow me to sew those buttons on again. Will you?”
“Alas!” replied Abel, “the shirts and coats and trousers to which they once belonged are long since worn out; and now I have no clothes left but the clothes I have on.”
“This was a very fine suit once,” said Marguerite. “The cloth is excellent.”
“Yes, I had it made by a fashionable tailor; for I intended to wear it when I went to visit influential people, and try and interest them in my—in my—”
Here Abel heaved a sigh, while a look of deeper gloom shadowed his face than the girl had yet observed upon it.
“Pray tell me what troubles you,” said Marguerite. “Do tell me. Perhaps I may be able to comfort you.” Then, as he made no response, she went on: “Have those of whom you sought aid turned a cold shoulder upon you? Have they refused to help you with this Magic Hen’s Nest? Why, I thought, sir, ’twas a profound secret; that you had told nobody about it.”
“No, no; I don’t allude to this, but to something else—to something which I cannot think of without an agony of mind I hope God may spare you from ever suffering. I had forgotten all about it; I had not thought of it for ever so long, till our conversation brought it back to me. Oh! do let me forget it—forget it for ever.”
“I guessed when I first saw you, poor dear man, that there was a heavy burden on your heart,” spoke Marguerite inwardly. “Now your own lips have confessed it to me. Oh! if I only knew you better, I might be able to console you.”
She refrained, however, from asking again what his cross was; but little doubting that ’twas connected in some way with another invention, she determined on a future occasion to ask him to tell her the history of his life. “And who knows but I may find the means of bringing back the smiles to his mournful visage. If I do, ’twill be a slight return for all the kindness he has shown me.”
Here Marguerite cast another glance about the forlorn-looking chamber, and wondered how he had been able to pay the first quarter’s rent of her store. “He must have pinched himself to do it,” she thought to herself. “Oh! what other man in New York with only one suit of clothes would have been so generous?”
And now, ere she withdrew, her feelings got the better of her judgment, and she burst into a fervent expression of thanks for his great benevolence and sympathy, and hoped that for her sake he had not deprived himself of money which he really needed. But Abel sharply interrupted her.
“Do not talk thus,” he said, “if you have true faith in my Magic Nest. Poor I may seem, but I consider myself rich—ever so rich; a mountain of gold is within my reach. You ought to be convinced of it, yet still you doubt.”
“Oh! no, no; I don’t doubt it for one moment,” answered Marguerite, very much confused. “Pray, sir, be not offended at my words—I forgot”; then, looking up in hisface, “But I cannot help speaking what is in my heart. O sir! you are the dearest person to me in all the wide world.”
“Well, come here some evening and play at solitaire with me,” said Abel in a milder tone. “But no, it won’t be solitaire with you—it will be two-handed euchre.”
“Oh! I’ll come most willingly. True, I know nothing about cards, but you can teach me.”
The girl now bade him adieu, and his parting words to her were:
“I will inform you when I am ready to experiment with the live hen. But, remember, breathe not a syllable of it to any human being.”
During the week which followed this visit to Abel Day’s den—as the other boarders called his room—Marguerite did not see her benefactor. But daily she looked for him, and he was seldom absent from her thoughts. He was so vastly unlike other people—the selfish, deceitful herd around her; loving solitude, yet evidently glad to have her with him; poor, yet calling himself rich; full of bright hopes, yet a prey to melancholy. His very singularities possessed a charm for the girl and made her long for his coming.
“He brings me into quite another world,” she said; and while she was selling frogs (business at the Frog Emporium was increasing rapidly) Marguerite would indulge in pleasing reveries about good Abel Day. She almost hoped that his fortune might not come too soon.
“Yes, I should like him to stay awhile longer in his humble home, so that I might have a chance to make it snug and cosey for him. We might pass happy days there together—happy days.”
And every morning and evening she knelt before her crucifix and prayed for Abel.
But if Marguerite often thought of Abel Day, he did not think of her; no, not once during these seven days. Her presence had indeed flashed a ray of light into the darkness of his soul; but it was like the coming and going of a meteor, and the instant she left him he relapsed into his sombre mood. The paper remained stuffed in the keyhole; ever and anon he would utter a word to himself, but ’twas in a whisper; and thus from morning till night, solitary and silent, he passed the time, seated on a bench with his hollow eyes fixed upon the Magic Nest—inventing, inventing, inventing; for, although Abel had not told Marguerite, there was still one little thing wanting to make the invention absolutely perfect.
Then, when dusk approached and the first cat began to caterwaul, he would get into bed, and there rack his brain for hours longer and until the candle went out. People wondered how he managed to live without eating; but a few crusts of bread sufficed to keep Abel alive, and ’twas one of his odd fancies that we might in time bring ourselves to live without nourishment.
“Oh! he is thinner than ever, poor dear man,” exclaimed Marguerite, when she saw Abel entering her store the next Monday afternoon; and he was carrying a hen under his arm. Then, after the first warm greeting was over, she made haste to prepare a nice dish of frogs, which she invited him to partake of. But Abel shook his head, and it was not until she had almost gone on her knees that he finally placed the hen in her safekeeping and sat down to the savory repast.
“Oh! I’m so glad you relish my frogs; everybody declares I cook so well,” said the girl, as she stood watching him.
“The world thinks far too much about eating,” returned Abel. “It is the grossest act humanity can perform; and I believe if we tried we might exist without food.”
“Well, I hope that day is far off,” said Marguerite; “for when it arrives I’ll have to close my business.”
“Ah! true, I didn’t think of that,” said Abel, rising up from the table. “But now are you ready to accompany me and witness the triumph of my Magic Nest?”
“Yes, indeed I am; I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” answered Marguerite; and so, telling a customer, who appeared just at this moment, that the last Emporium frog was sold, not a single one left, she closed the store and they departed.
“You are happy to-day,” observed the girl when they had gone half-way to Tompkins Square, and hearing Abel give a laugh. “Oh! I’m so glad. Let us always try to be happy.” But even as she spoke his countenance settled once more into the old look, and, bending down (for Abel was rather tall), “Learn this truth, my young friend,” he said: “Nothing lies like a laugh.”
“Oh! no, no,” exclaimed Marguerite, making bold to disagree with him; “people only laugh when they feel happy. Laughter always tells the truth. And since I have known you, sir, I laugh ever so much; for I have now a good thick pair of shoes, and the water cannot soak in and wet my feet. And don’t you see, too, I have a new dress? And I am already laying by money in the savings-bank; and it all comes from your brilliant ideaof setting up a Frog Emporium. Oh! yes, yes, I laugh a great deal now—a very great deal.”
Then, as he made no response, she went on: “You are a genius, sir, a genius!”
“Ah! you recognize in me the divine spark?” murmured Abel, his visage faintly brightening. “Well, you are the first who has done so—the very first—and you shall share in my triumph; ay, half the gold-mine shall be yours.” Then, after a pause, “Do you know,” he added, “you may ere long be dwelling in Fifth Avenue and wearing diamonds and silks; though, if you follow my advice, you will always dress plainly and never change your pretty French cap for a fashionable hat full of feathers and ribbons.”
“Really!” cried Marguerite, whose faith in Abel Day was unbounded. “Living in Fifth Avenue, beautiful Fifth Avenue!” And she clapped her hands and skipped merrily along in front of him.
But presently from Abel’s lips burst another laugh, and this time there was something strange and wild about it which caused Marguerite to pause and look around; then, taking his hand, they walked on side by side in silence, and oh! how much she wished that he might not appear so unhappy.
At length they reached Abel’s home; and if Abel’s fellow-boarders had stared with astonishment the first time they saw him mounting to his room accompanied by a strange young woman, they made bigger eyes now as he ascended the stairway with a hen under his arm; nor was it easy for Marguerite to keep a grave countenance when presently the chicken began to cackle; and the cackling of the chicken and the giggling of the inquisitivefemales, who were following at a proper distance, made a very queer chorus.
“Let ’em laugh,” growled Abel after he had entered his chamber and fastened the door—“let ’em laugh; my day of triumph is nigh, and then they’ll be the veriest sycophants at my feet. But I’ll spurn them all; let ’em laugh.”
And now began the trial of the Magic Nest; Abel first cautioning Marguerite to speak in an undertone, if she had anything to say. Gently, as tenderly as a mother might handle her baby, the fowl was placed in the box; and forthwith she ceased to cackle, while the others ceased even to whisper. Then, motioning the girl to sit down on the bench, Abel stood beside her, awaiting with intense excitement the laying of the first egg. In a couple of minutes his brow was wet with perspiration, then his whole face became moistened; and when, by and by, after what seemed an age—’twas only a quarter of an hour—the hen did lay an egg, then rose up to look at it, Abel trembled so violently that Marguerite inquired if he were ill. But without heeding her question he went on trembling and saying, “The egg has vanished, vanished! and she can’t believe her eyes—she can’t believe her eyes!” And now for about a minute and a half it did really seem as if the hen, concluding she had made a mistake, was going to proceed and lay another egg, when, lo! she coolly stepped out of the box, and, after shaking her feathers, commenced pecking the bits of paper scattered over the floor.
When Abel Day perceived this his head swam a moment; then clenching his fists, and his cavernous eyes flashing fire, he sprang towards the chicken, and, forgettingall about eavesdroppers, he screamed loud enough to be heard from cellar to garret: “I’ll force you to do your duty! I will, I will!”
But, as ill-luck would have it, the window was open, and out of it flew the hen, so hotly pursued by Abel that he came within an ace of passing through it too; which had he done, his neck would certainly have been broken, for Abel had no wings.
Then, as if to make sport of him, the perverse creature perched herself on a neighboring chimney, where she set up a loud cackling.
“Hark, they are mocking me again! Hear them, hear them!” groaned Abel Day, clapping his hands to his head. “And the horror, too, is coming over me again: it always comes with those jeering voices.”
“I hear nobody. Oh! I beg you to be calm,” said Marguerite, now thoroughly alarmed on Abel’s account. Then, leading him to the bench, “What agitates you so, dear friend? Oh! do, do calm yourself and tell me what you fear.”
Abel sank down on the bench, and, after groaning once more, “Hark! hark! They are mocking me,” did not utter another word, hard though she urged him to speak; but, with eyes glued to the Magic Nest, he remained dumb and motionless.
Then by and by evening came, and the twilight deepened into night, yet still Abel moved not, nor opened his lips, unless occasionally to heave a sigh. Then the moon rose, and as its pale rays streamed into the room and fell upon the sufferer’s face, it assumed an expression so unearthly that Marguerite was filled with awe.
And now a dreadful, startling thought occurred to her: her dearfriend might be mad! What a pang this gave her tender heart! What bright, new-born hopes became suddenly blasted. How many fair castles in the air crumbled away into ghostly ruins at the thought that Abel Day was mad!
“Is it possible,” she asked herself, “that this good man—he who has been so kind to me, whom I looked up to as one far, far above the cold, heartless world—is it possible that he is bereft of reason?” And even as Marguerite breathed these words she for the first time grew conscious of something glowing in her bosom more ardent than friendship for Abel Day.
“I love him,” she murmured—“I love him. And no matter what people may think of me, I’ll stay by him and nurse him; I’ll be his servant and truest friend as long as he lives.”
Trying indeed was this night for Marguerite—oh! very, very. It seemed as if it never would end. Nor did day bring any relief to her anxiety. The blessed, life-giving sunshine shimmered in; the chimney-swallows twittered by the window; a stray bee, blown away by the morning breeze from his far-off hive, flew in and buzzed about the chamber; still Abel remained like one turned into stone, except for the deep-drawn sighs which ever and anon escaped his lips.
And so this day passed, and so day followed day, without bringing any change in his mysterious condition.
Of course Marguerite was not with him the whole time. But she took care whenever she quitted the room to lock the door; then she would hasten with winged feet to the Frog Emporium, where she would spend four or five hours; then back Marguerite hurried, hopingand praying that no ill had befallen Abel during her absence. But while she was with the poor man she did more than simply watch him. The ugly pencil-marks were rubbed off the wall; the floor was thoroughly swept; the cobwebs were brushed out of the corners; and many another thing which only woman’s hand can do Marguerite did. On a little table, too (the only piece of furniture besides the bench and bed), was spread a good, substantial meal for Abel to eat the moment he felt hungry; and it amazed her to see him fasting so long.
We need not say that everybody in the house had his curiosity now raised to the highest pitch; and the gossiping, prying females shook their virtuous heads and muttered no complimentary things of Abel’s faithful nurse.
“Well, they may say of me whatever they like,” said the brave girl. “My conscience doesn’t reproach me; it tells me I am doing right. When I was down Abel Day helped me, and now, when he is down, I’ll help him.”
At length, one afternoon, weary of the long, unbroken silence of the chamber, Marguerite began to sing. The song was one she had learnt from her mother, and was called “Normandie, chère Normandie.” She had a rich contralto voice, and the effect which the melody wrought upon Abel was something perfectly marvellous; and as her face happened to be turned towards his, she noticed the change at once, and her eyes filled with glad tears.
“Glory! glory! I am escaping from the infernal regions; the darkness and the voices are leaving me. Thank God! thank God!” he cried. And Marguerite, only too happy torouse him out of his lethargy, continued singing for well-nigh half an hour. Then, placing herself beside him on the bench, she gave way to her joy in laughter and merry talk, while Abel’s countenance wore an expression almost radiant, and, resting one of his hands on her head as a father might have done, “All is blue sky at last,” he said. “I feel as I have not felt in many a day. Oh! had I had you always with me, the demons would never have shrieked in my ears; your angelic songs would have driven them away.”
“Well, you can’t imagine,” returned Marguerite, “how happy it makes me to make you happy.” Then, after a pause: “But now, dear friend, I have a favor to ask: I wish you to tell me the history of your life; for there is a mystery in it—I am sure there is. Do tell it to me. Not that I am curious, but I firmly believe ’twill do you good to let me carry a part of the burden which has almost crushed you down.”
“Fool, fool that I was to live all by myself so many years!” spoke Abel in a musing tone, and paying no heed to her request. “The mocking voices cannot abide cheerful company; it frightens them off.” Then, turning to Marguerite: “You’ll not let them come back, will you?”
“You are dreaming,” answered the girl, patting his hand. “Why, this room was still as the tomb until I began to sing.”
“No, no, it wasn’t; I heard them all the while.”
“Well, don’t fear them any more. I’ll stay with you; I’ll be your canary, your nightingale, your musical box,” she said with a merry laugh. “So pray begin and give me a little of your past history; forthe sooner you begin the sooner you’ll end, and then I’ll sing another song.”
“Well, well, to please you I’ll do anything. Therefore learn that I was born in Massachusetts. But of my early years I need say very little. My father died when I was a child; at the age of fourteen I had to shift for myself, and from that time on it was a hard struggle against poverty. Somehow I didn’t succeed in anything I put my hand to. I tried this thing and that; I tried everything almost, but was always unfortunate. And, do you know, I believe in luck. Oh! I do. Some are born with it, others are not; and these last will turn out failures, be they ever so honest and hard-working. Well, undoubtedly I belong to the unlucky ones; and, what’s more, I verily believe there is such a thing as having too much brains. Why, many a pumpkin-headed fellow I used to know is to-day a millionaire—can’t explain it, but there’s the fact; while I am—well, you see what I am, and I have reached middle life; and my miserable home”—here he threw a glance around the room; then, clasping his hands: “But dear me, what has happened? Is this my den? Why, how changed it looks!”
“I have been turning things topsy-turvy,” answered Marguerite, with a twinkle in her eye. “But pray don’t stop to admire the change. Please go on; I am so interested.”
“Well, finally, after trying everything,” continued Abel, “and, as I have observed, failing in everything I tried, I one day bethought myself of turning inventor. And the more I thought about it the more confident I felt that I should succeed; indeed, I passed a wholeweek in a delightful reverie, wherein I saw myself wealthy and famous, and all from one single invention. Then, when this dreamy, happy week was gone by, I set about inventing a Patent Log—a thing very much needed by mariners; for the present method of determining the speed of a vessel is both clumsy and unreliable. ’Twas here in this chamber, on this bench, I began my brain labor, and for a while I made excellent progress. But after a couple of months I got tired of sitting up and took to my bed, where I used to lie inventing—inventing all day long, and even all night too. I seemed to be able to do without sleep; until one evening—oh! I’ll never forget it”—here he paused and shuddered—“one evening the room became suddenly full of voices. From under the bed, through the keyhole and window, down the chimney, on every side of me these horrible voices were yelling and screeching, ‘He’ll never succeed—never succeed’; ‘Born to ill-luck’; ‘All time wasted’; ‘He’ll go to the dogs and hang himself!’ What happened after this terrible moment I can’t say; I must have gone off into a fever. I remember nothing. All I know is that one day—but how long afterwards I cannot tell—I became, as it were, alive again, and found myself inventing quite a different thing—namely, the Magic Nest, which, as you know, has once more proved that I am born to fail in whatever I undertake. And now, alas! I don’t see how I’ll be able to earn a living; to confess the truth, I have not one dollar left in the world.”
“Bah! Don’t be down-hearted on that account,” said Marguerite. “My Frog Emporium is a little gold-mine, and you shall need fornothing. Why, as I have already remarked more than once, I’d have been ere now in a wretched plight but for you. You stretched out a helping hand; and whatever the world may think of you, and whatever you think of yourself—I—I call you a genius.”
When Marguerite had delivered this speech, so full of balm to poor heart-broken Abel, she rose from the bench and flew to the old, neglected manuscript. A bright idea had flashed upon her—’twas an inspiration. She had already turned over its pages and found them covered with drawings as unintelligible to her as Egyptian hieroglyphics; but she remembered that in one place, written in pencil, were the words, “This is Abel Day’s Patent Log.”
In a moment she was back at Abel’s side, and, holding up the manuscript before him, “I do believe,” she said, “had I been with you when you were laboring on this invention, that you would not have fallen ill, for I should not have let you overtask your brain; and by this time ’twould have been quite finished, and you’d have been in the eyes of the whole world what I know you to be—a great, great, great man.”
But Abel, instead of replying, put his hands to his ears and shivered as if he were stricken with cold.
“O dear friend! what is the matter now?” exclaimed Marguerite.
“The very sight of that manuscript makes me dread the voices—the horrid voices. Hark! one is beginning to yell again. It says I must hang myself in the end. Hark! Don’t you hear it?”
“Listen to me, and not to the voice,” said Marguerite, still holding before his eyes the page whereonwas written, “This is Abel Day’s Patent Log.” “Take courage and look bolder at this manuscript, while I sing for you.”
It was a cheery, jovial song she sang. She threw her whole soul into it, and it wrought upon Abel the happy effect she hoped it would. When the song was ended, he bowed his head and murmured: “O my blessing! my good angel! How much sunshine you bring to me! Already the voice is gone. You have indeed power to drive the fiend away.”
“Well, now, Abel,” answered Marguerite, “you whom—whom I—I—” Here her tongue faltered.
But as mother earth cannot restrain the crystal waters murmuring within her bosom, so it was impossible for the girl to hold back the words which were bubbling up from the pure fountain of her heart; and presently, with a blushing rose on each cheek, she spoke out and said: “You whom I love, let me ask you to kneel with me and offer thanks to Almighty God that I am able to drive away your melancholy. Yes, let us say a prayer of thanksgiving.”
Abel did as she wished, and they knelt and prayed together.
Then, when they had risen from their knees, “And now,” added Marguerite, “I hope you will set courageously to work at this Patent Log, and while you are thus engaged I’ll play the nightingale and sing my very best; will you?”
Abel’s eyes were swimming with tears, and, taking her hand in his, “You love me?” he said in tremulous accents. “Oh! how kind, how good it is in you to love me. I have been alone since my boyhood—all alone. Nobody since the far-off day when I parted from my mother ever spoke to me as you do.The world appeared like a desert to me. I cared very little for life. All was a barren waste on every side of me until this hour. But now I would not die for anything. I wish to live because you live; and, O Marguerite! my heart would stop beating if you were to leave me.”
“But I never will leave you.”
“No, don’t. Let us live together, Marguerite, always together; be my wife.”
“Well, now,” answered Marguerite, her heart overflowing, yet at the same time speaking with firmness and decision, “you must set immediately to work; a quarter of an hour will be enough for to-day. To-morrow you may labor half an hour, and perhaps next day an hour, until this invention is completed; and, remember, all the while you are inventing I’ll play the lark, the canary, or whatever you choose to call me.”
Abel listened to her words, and, albeit weak and hardly in a state to use his brain, he actually made a little progress with his invention during the brief space she allowed him to work. What unspeakable joy it gave Marguerite to think that she might be able to restore him to full mental health! “And when he does become entirely himself—oh! then—then—” Here her song waxed louder and more melodious; for her heart was thrilling with a rapture which only the voice of music can express.
Yes, Marguerite, ’twas verily an inspiration that caused you to direct Abel’s mind anew to the Patent Log; for this is a sane and wholesome object whereupon to exert his faculties, and not a madman’s dream like the Magic Hen’s Nest.
Day by day Abel gained in health; his appetite and sleep returned;he laughed as merrily as Marguerite; and people could scarcely believe he was the same man. But the girl never relaxed her vigilance. So passed away the spring and summer; and when autumn came round not the fairest castle in the air which Marguerite had built for herself did surpass the bright reality which opened before her vision. For, lo! the Patent Log was patented, and its success went beyond Abel’s most extravagant hopes. A mass-meeting of ship-owners and merchants was held at the Cooper Institute to do him honor; the press lauded him to the skies; the tongue of Fame was chiming his name far and wide. But, better than all, a cataract of gold was rolling into his pocket.
Of course before long our friend changed his quarters; and, in his new and elegant home, right above the bed Marguerite hung the crucifix which Mother Catherine had given her; then she and her betrothed went to the Convent of Mercy to visit the good nun, whowept glad tears when she heard their story.
“Well, I lean upon her as much as she leans upon me; we love and help each other in all things,” spoke Abel.
“And always, always will,” continued Marguerite.
“God bless you, my children!” said Mother Catherine.
A fortnight later the happy couple were married; after which they sailed on their wedding tour across the sea to Normandy. And one day, as they were leaving the beautiful church of Saint-Ouen, whither they had gone to give thanks to God for their great happiness, Marguerite spoke and said: “I once thought there was no country in all the world like France; but now, my dear husband, I love America more.”
“And I,” returned Abel, “love France as much as I do America; for, although I believe good wives may be found everywhere, it was this sunny land which gave me my pretty Marguerite.”