It was very dark in the yard, so Hannah lighted the great tin lantern and went out to give it to Joseph. Presently she returned, ushering in a tall and youthful stranger, whose cheeks were aglow from the wintry air. As he entered, Elizabeth advanced to meet him with outstretched hands, as if he were an expected guest, and said: "Thou art welcome, John Estaugh."
"Dost thou remember me, Elizabeth?" replied the stranger. "It seems a wonderful thing that after so many years have passed I should find thee again. It was surely the hand of the Lord which conducted me to thy threshold. As I was on my journey, I saw a wayfarer standing at the roadside seemingly wearywith travel. I greeted the man and offered to take him to his home. He mounted the sleigh beside me, and on the way he told me of thee and thy homestead. And, as I remembered thy name and thy father and mother in England, I have paused on my journey to see thee and wish thee strength in the good work thou art doing."
At that moment Joseph came in carrying the lantern, which he carefully extinguished and hung on its nail. Then all sat down to supper together, for beneath that roof there was no distinction of person—they were one family, one household.
When supper was over they drew their chairs to the fire-place and talked, that is, all except Hannah, who busied herself in clearing the table and making ready the guest-chamber. Then Elizabeth told John Estaugh how it was that she had come to live on the farm alone, except for her two faithful servants, secure in the belief that her duty lay here in the desert.
Thus they talked till bed-time, and at daybreak Joseph cleared a pathway through the snow-drifts and made ready to conduct the stranger to his destination. Elizabeth and John bade each other farewell at the gate, the latter promising to return for the Meeting in May.
Time went on, till at length the cold winter was at an end and balmy spring came over the land, bringingthe song of birds and covering the earth with flowers. One pleasant morning in May a long procession of men and women, among them John Estaugh, came riding past on their way to the Meeting in the neighboring town. On the way they halted at Elizabeth's farm to rest and partake of the rye bread, currant wine, and honey fresh from the hives, which were offered to them in generous abundance. Then Elizabeth, Hannah, and Joseph mounted their horses and prepared to set out with the others, but when they had started, Elizabeth lingered a little behind and whispered to John, "Tarry a while, for I have something to tell thee which must not be lightly spoken in the presence of others since it concerns me and thee only."
Slowly they rode through the woods together, and the morning was so bright and fair that it was a pleasure just to be alive. Then Elizabeth said slowly, as if it were a secret she felt compelled to reveal, though she would fain have kept it hidden: "I will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell thee; I have received from the Lord a charge to love thee, John Estaugh."
Somewhat surprised at the frank words the maiden had spoken, John made answer: "All thy ways, thy words and meekness of spirit are indeed pleasant to me, but as yet I have no voice to direct me in thismatter. When the work which the Lord has appointed for me is ended, I will commune with my own heart and wait for its guidance."
Then Elizabeth said tranquilly: "It is best so. We will not speak further on the matter, but I had to tell thee this, for to-morrow thou art going away across the sea and I know not when I shall see thee again. But, if God wills, thou wilt return again to seek me and will find me still here." And they rode onward in silence to join the others and entered the town in their company.
Thus Elizabeth and John met and parted once more like "Ships that pass in the night, and speak to each other in passing." The quiet life in the homestead went on just as it had done before. Always thoughtful and kind to others, Elizabeth lived and worked on her lonely farm, ever patient and uncomplaining. And Hannah too, urged by her mistress's example, was never idle; early and late she was always to be found at work, washing, scouring, or cooking, till her cheeks grew rosy from her exertions.
She amused herself by teasing Joseph and, though at heart she was really very fond of him, whenever he attempted to make love to her, she would never listen seriously, but always laugh at him and make fun of his clumsy devotion. This was quite unlike the way a demure Puritan maiden should conduct herself, and attimes Elizabeth was obliged to chide her housemaid for her light behavior.
Meanwhile John Estaugh had sailed over the sea bearing in his heart a precious secret. He pondered over it, till at length it was borne in upon him that his duty might go hand-in-hand with his inclination, and that even if he accepted this wondrous gift of a true woman's love, he could also follow in the way he deemed the right one. So he returned from his journey, and on the first Sabbath Day after his arrival he rose in the silent assembly and holding Elizabeth's hand, which trembled a little in his strong grasp, he promised, in the presence of the whole congregation, to be true and kind and faithful in all things to his wife. Such were the simple marriage rites of Elizabeth Haddon and John Estaugh.
Then honest Joseph, who thus far had not fared over well in his wooing, ventured to urge Hannah the housemaid to join her lot with his and follow the example of their master and mistress. But although Hannah still said "Nay," she added: "Thee may make believe and see what comes of it, Joseph." So I am inclined to think that she did give in after all.
O
nce upon a time, some centuries ago, two weary Franciscan monks were wending their way, in the hot glare of the noonday sun, to their convent, whose white walls and spires gleamed like a patch of snow on the hillside some distance away.
The first of these monks was named Brother Anthony. He was a spare and silent man, much given to fasting and prayer. His monk's habit hung in loose folds on his thin body, his hair was thin and gray, and he stooped wearily as he walked along. A simple soul was the monk Anthony, accustomed only to listen and obey the commands of others.
Of a very different stamp was his companion, Brother Timothy, large and robust with rosy cheeks and bristling red hair. He was tall and broad shouldered and his robe fitted tightly round his portly form. Brother Timothy had ever a jest on his lips, and the more sober monks were sometimes scandalized at thenoise and uproar he created in the convent refectory. Moreover, it was useless to exhort Timothy to cease jesting and study his Mass-book, for the simple reason that the jovial monk had never learned to read.
It was a very hot day. The monks' dark robes were covered with dust and torn by briers, and the two holy men made slow progress owing to the heavy wallets full of provisions which they were carrying on their backs. Now, as they passed the outskirts of a lonely wood, to their surprise they beheld an ass tethered to a tree, and blinking lazily at the passers-by. This donkey was the property of a certain Farmer Gilbert, who had come thither to gather faggots. He had wandered deep into the forest to collect enough wood, leaving his donkey to rest in the shade.
No sooner did Brother Timothy catch sight of the patient animal than he cried out: "See, brother, what a piece of good fortune has befallen us! We will lay our wallets on this creature's back."
This being done, he removed the halter from the ass's neck and proceeded to tether himself to the same tree where the donkey had been tied. Brother Anthony looked on at these queer doings in great amazement, which was not lessened when Brother Timothy broke out into a merry peal of laughter and cried: "Drive the ass before you with your staff to the convent, and, when you arrive there, tell the brethren that you wereobliged to leave me at a farm, as I was worn out and ill with fever, and that the farmer lent you his ass to carry our heavy wallets, which are filled with provisions for their use."
Brother Anthony knew quite well that it would be fruitless to try and reason with Brother Timothy when the latter was bent on playing one of his mad pranks, so he made no reply but obeyed in silence. Driving the ass before him, he arrived safely with the wallets at the convent and left his comrade to his fate.
Presently Farmer Gilbert came forth from the wood laden with faggots and stood aghast to see the ponderous body of the friar fastened to the tree where he had left his ass. Dropping his load of wood, he stood open-mouthed and trembling and then hastily crossed himself, for he thought that this was the work of the Evil One.
"Be not amazed," quoth Brother Timothy, "that where you left an ass you should find a poor, half-starved Franciscan friar. Set me free and you shall hear my piteous story."
With shaking fingers the farmer unloosed the rope, and the monk continued: "Although I wear the garb of a holy friar, I am a sinful man. You imagine you have owned an ass, but it was myself, transformed into this shape for the deadly sin of gluttony, and condemned to do penance by feeding on grass and beingbeaten and starved by your household. Think of the miserable life I have endured, the windy shed which was my home, and the damp and musty straw which formed my bed; my scanty food was given me grudgingly and I have patiently endured toil and blows. But to-day my penance is at an end and I begin life as a monk again."
Simple Farmer Gilbert was conscience-stricken at hearing such words as these, and, falling on his knees before the friar, implored his pardon. The deceitful monk, rejoiced to think that his tale had been so readily believed, generously forgave the farmer for his past conduct, and even consented to be his guest for the night as it was getting late and he stood in need of rest.
The farmer led his guest to his humble white-washed cottage, which stood on a hillside covered with fruitful olive trees. Drawing near, they found the farmer's wife, comely Dame Cicely, his children, andhis old father waiting the return of the master of the house, and, when the monk's wonderful tale was told anew, they were no less penitent and amazed than the farmer himself had been. Deeply they grieved over the harsh treatment the holy man had endured at their hands, and, poor as they were, set about forthwith to prepare a grand supper to satisfy Brother Timothy's hunger after such a long and rigid fast. The good wife killed her last two fowls, and made them into a salad; then she brought out her best wine and begged her honored guest to fall to.
Brother Timothy played his part well. He ate and drank as though he had been starving for a twelve-month, and, all the while, he talked and laughed without stopping and wagged his red beard, till at length the farmer grew angry with his guest and ventured to reprove him in good round terms.
"Good father," said he, "it is easy to see that for some persons punishment is right and needful. The manner in which you have behaved to-night after your long penance clearly proves that you have but little strength against temptation and shows in what peril you stand of relapsing into your deadly sin of greediness. Take my advice; return to your convent at sunrise to-morrow and there repent, fast and scourge yourself, for you are in great danger of becoming an ass again. Be wise and remain here no longer, or else I may be tempted to use the whip to you, and I should not deal so lightly with you as you would with yourself."
Brother Timothy had the grace to blush deeply at this well-deserved reproof, but wisely made no reply, and soon the whole household sought their beds. The next morning they awoke at sunrise, at the hour when the cock should have crowed, only, as you know, they had eaten him for supper the previous evening. The monk, who had recovered his good spirits, rose betimes, and, having breakfasted, set out in haste, for he heard the distant matin bell ringing from the convent and so made his leave-taking a very brief one.
It was a balmy summer morning, filled with the song of birds and the subdued lowing of cattle; the beautiful Italian countryside looked its loveliest, but Brother Timothy cared naught for all this. His thoughts were concerned only with his own affairs, and it was not till the convent walls appeared before him that he quickened his steps and began to take an interest in what was going on.
As he entered the convent gate, he saw the ass standing patiently there just as he had found him in the wood. Brother Timothy at once hastened to the Abbot and, after telling him a plausible tale of sickness and weariness which had prevented him from returning to the convent on the previous day, he wenton to explain that the ass had been sent as a present to the Brotherhood; the owner, who was a wealthy man, had bestowed it on the convent, so that it might ease the poor monks from always carrying such heavy burdens on their journeys to the neighboring village.
Now this was a matter which required careful consideration, and for some days the Abbot thought over in his mind the difficult question of how he should dispose of the gift. On the one hand, it would be pleasant for the monks to be spared so much toil, but, on the other, it would make them lazy and self-indulgent, and the world would find reason for scandal and reproof. So finally he determined to sell the ass, in order to save the expense of his keep, and to put by the money which its sale would fetch. He would save himself from any annoyance and, in addition, gain a substantial sum of money for the Brotherhood.
The ass was forthwith dispatched to the neighboring fair, whither it happened by chance that Farmer Gilbert had come. He soon caught sight of the ass and, coming up, he whispered in its ear: "Alas, good father, I see that my warnings were useless, and that your gluttony has changed you into an ass again." The ass, feeling something tickling its ear, turned round and shook its head as if to contradict what he had just heard.
"I know you well," continued Gilbert, in a loudvoice. "You cannot deny that you are the Franciscan friar named Timothy," But the ass still shook its head, and Gilbert continued to argue with the animal till a crowd gathered round them and began to mock and jeer.
"If this ass is Brother Timothy," they cried, "you ought to buy him and feed him on the tenderest grass. It would surely be an act of charity to show some kindness to a poor unfortunate who has been transformed into an ass."
The simple farmer took their advice, bought his own ass and led him homeward over hill and dale and, as they went, he exhorted the animal to behave well and be content. The children ran to meet their father and, when they saw what he was leading, they shouted for joy, for they could not understand that this creature was a holy friar, and not their own lost donkey.
"Oh, Brother Timothy," they cried, "we are so glad you have come back to us; we were afraid that you were dead and that we would never see you any more!"
Then they wove green garlands for his neck, patted him and kissed his head, and led him back to his stable. Henceforward, the donkey, who was always known as Brother Timothy, led a life of luxury; he had little work given him to do and so much hay and corn to eat, that he grew ungrateful and vicious. At length Farmer Gilbert lost his patience and said to the ass: "As our kindness is not repaid by good behavior, I shall have to see what a sound thrashing will do."
It would be difficult to tell you of all the vices that this spoiled animal had fallen into; among others was a habit of flinging up his heels, breaking his halter, and running away through woods and over meadows, defying the efforts of everyone to catch him. But his gravest offense was breaking out of his shed at night and ravaging the cabbage patch. This was too much for even the long-suffering farmer to endure, and he determined to take strong measures to curb the donkey's wickedness, whether the animal were a holy friar or not. So Brother Timothy was sent back again to his old life of toil. He was beaten without mercy, and instead of luxuries and caresses he had to work harder than he had ever done before. And this was not the worst, for as his work grew more his food grew less, till at last the poor creature could only take his revenge on his hard taskmaster by dying.
Great was the lamentation which then uprose, and sad was Farmer Gilbert to think that the unfortunate monk had died without repenting of his sins. Dame Cicely and the children cried for a week, and Farmer Gilbert recounted all the virtues of the deceased and added solemnly: "May Heaven pardon Brother Timothy and keep us from the deadly sin of greed!"
I
n the land of Acadia, within a fruitful and secluded valley, lay the little village of Grand-Pré. Its inhabitants were a sturdy race of French farmers, hard-working, kind, and generous. The land was exceedingly fruitful, and so freely did these simple farmers give to others that poverty was almost unknown in the village. The pleasant farmhouses had neither locks to the doors nor bars to the windows, but stood open like the hearts of their owners.
At a short distance from the village dwelt the wealthy farmer, Benedict Bellefontaine, an upright and stately man, in spite of his seventy years. With him lived his only daughter, Evangeline, a lovely maiden of seventeen summers, and the pride and joy of his old age. Her black eyes gleamed brightly from beneath the shade of her brown tresses and when, on Sundaymornings she walked down the village street to church, wearing her Norman cap, blue kirtle and earrings, all eyes turned to look at her with admiration, for she was without doubt the most beautiful girl in the whole village.
Of suitors she had many, but none found favor in her eyes save young Gabriel, the son of Basil the blacksmith. Basil and Benedict were old friends, and their children had grown up together almost as brother and sister, learning the same lessons and sharing the same sports and pastimes. As they grew up, their childish love deepened and strengthened, and now, with the warm approval of their respective fathers, their marriage was soon to take place.
One evening, Benedict was sitting by his fireside, and near him Evangeline was busy spinning, for in those days it was the duty of an industrious housewife to make all the linen which would be required for her future home. Presently the latch was lifted and in came the stalwart blacksmith with his son. The two elders took their usual seats near the hearth and smoked their pipes, while the young couple stood apart by the window and talked of their future life.
Said Basil: "I do not like the look of things just now. English ships with cannon pointed against us are at anchor in our harbor. We do not yet know whether their intention be good or ill, but we are allsummoned to appear in the church to-morrow and hear his Majesty's command, which is to be made the law of the land."
"Nonsense," replied Benedict, "you look on present circumstances too gloomily. After all, since this land now belongs to the English, it is only natural that we should have to obey fresh laws. We are an honest and law-abiding people and they cannot intend to harm us."
"The English have not forgotten that we helped our kinsmen, the French, against them," replied the blacksmith. "Many of the villagers fear they mean to harm us, and have already fled to the forest, taking with them all the weapons they could lay hands on."
"Fear no evil, my friend," said the jovial farmer. "To-night, at any rate, let no shadow of sorrow fall on this house, for we are assembled here to draw upour children's marriage contract. Their house is built, the barns filled with hay, and all is in readiness for them."
As he spoke a knock was heard at the door and the worthy notary, Père Leblanc, came in. The disquieting news in the village was discussed anew, and the notary said: "Man is unjust, but God is just, and justice finally triumphs. When I was taken captive and lay imprisoned in a French fort I was often consoled by an old story which ran thus: 'Once in an ancient city, whose name I cannot recall, poised on a column, stood a brazen statue of Justice. In her right hand she held a sword, and in her left a pair of scales. The birds of the air had no fear of the sword which flashed and glittered in the sunshine, and some of the boldest among them even built their nests in the scales. Now it chanced that a necklace of pearls was lost in a nobleman's palace and suspicion fell on a young maid-servant. Although her guilt could not be proved, she was condemned to death, and her execution took place at the foot of the statue of Justice. But as her innocent spirit rose to heaven, lo! a terrible storm swept over the city and struck the statue with such force that the scales of the balance were hurled down on to the pavement. When they were picked up, in the hollow was found a magpie's nest, into the clay sides of which the pearl necklace was interwoven.'"
The blacksmith was silent, though not convinced by the notary's tale, but he said nothing further on the subject. The notary produced his papers and ink-horn and drew out in due form the marriage contract between Gabriel and Evangeline; then, pocketing the substantial fee which the farmer offered him, he drank the young couple's health and withdrew. The old men settled down to their customary game of draughts, and the lovers sat in the window-seat watching the moon rise and the stars come out one by one. At nine the village curfew rang, and the guests rose up and departed.
The next morning a betrothal feast was held in Benedict's orchard. The young men and maidens danced gayly to the sound of old Michael's fiddling, and of them all no maiden was so fair as Evangeline, no youth so handsome as Gabriel. Thus was the morning passed, and soon the church-bells and the beat of drums summoned the people to the appointed meeting-place. The women were bidden to wait in the churchyard, while the men thronged into the church. The guard came marching from the English ships, and, when they had entered the sacred building, the heavy doors were fastened and the crowd waited eagerly to hear what was coming. Speaking from the steps of the altar, the Commander said: "You are summoned here to-day by his Majesty the King's command, andhe has given me a painful duty to perform. The will of our monarch is that all your lands, dwellings, and cattle be forfeited to the crown, and that you yourselves shall be transported to other lands. And now I declare you my prisoners."
Loud was the clamor of sorrow and anger which uprose at these words and Basil the blacksmith shouted wildly: "Down with the tyrants of England!" In the midst of the angry tumult the door of the chancel opened and Father Felician entered the church. Ascending the steps of the altar, the good priest made a gesture to command silence and all were subdued by his noble words: "Even of our enemies let us say, 'O Father, forgive them!'" Then he calmly conducted the evening service, and never were prayers more earnestly said than on that dreadful night.
For four days the men were imprisoned in the church, while their womenfolk, sick with sorrow, waited in their homes. On the fifth day a long procession of women and children came, driving in ponderous wagons laden with their household goods, down to the seashore. Then the church doors were unbarred, and, pale with grief and imprisonment, the Acadian peasants marched to the harbor under the escort of soldiers. Evangeline was on the watch for her dear ones; to her lover she whispered words of encouragement, and strove to cheer her father, thoughsadly affrighted by his dejection and the way he seemed suddenly to have grown much older.
At the place of embarking the greatest confusion prevailed. Small boats plied between the shore and the ships and thus wives were torn from their husbands and mothers, too late, saw their children left behind. Half the task was not finished when night came on. Basil and Gabriel were among those who were taken to the ships, but Evangeline and her father were left standing in despair on the shore.
Fires were kindled on the beach, and Father Felician wandered from group to group, consoling and blessing the poor homeless people. As he paused where Evangeline and her father were encamped, a sudden flare filled the sky behind them. All eyes were turned in that direction, and the whole village was seen to be in flames. Overwhelmed with sorrow the priest and the maiden gazed at the scene of terror, but Benedict uttered no word, and, when at last they turned to look at him, he had fallen to the ground and lay there dead. Separated from her lover and now alone in the world, the poor girl's courage at length failed her and her grief was piteous to behold.
The next morning the old farmer received a hasty burial on the seashore, and the remainder of the exiles were carried to the ships and transported to far distant lands.
Many years had passed away since the burning of the village of Grand-Pré, and the exiles had been scattered far asunder. Among them a maiden, patient and meek in spirit, waited and wandered. Sometimes she lingered in towns, at others she passed through the country and wandered into churchyards, gazing sadly at the crosses and tombstones, but never did she remain long in the same place. It was Evangeline searching for her lover, and, though many sought to dissuade her from her quest, and urged her to listen to the wooing of her faithful suitor Baptista Leblanc, the notary's son, she only answered sadly: "I cannot, for whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand." And in all her doings she was upheld and cheered by her faithful friend, the priest Felician. Wherever she went she asked for news of Gabriel, and at last she found out that he and his father had become famous hunters, and had been met with on one of the vast prairies, but she was never able to trace his movements.
Still she journeyed onward and onward till, one May, she joined a band of Acadian exiles who were sailing in a cumbrous boat down the broad river Mississippi. They were seeking for their kinsmen who, it was rumored, had settled down as farmers in that fertile district. Day after day the exiles glided down the river, and night after night they encamped on its banks and slept by the blazing camp-fires which they kindled. One night—if only Evangeline had known it—a boat rowed by hunters and trappers, Gabriel among them, passed by close to their camp. But theexiles' boat was hidden among the willows and they themselves screened from sight by thick shrubs, so the hunters sped northward and their passing was unheeded. Only when the sound of their oars had died away, the maiden awoke and said to the priest: "Father Felician, something tells me that Gabriel is near me. Chide me not for this foolish fancy."
"Not far to the south," answered the faithful priest, "are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin, where many of our kinsfolk have settled. There in that beautiful land, which its inhabitants call the Eden of Louisiana, the bride shall surely be restored to her bridegroom."
Full of hope, the travelers continued their journey, and presently arrived at a herdsman's house which stood in a lovely garden close to the river. The owner himself, mounted on horseback, was watching his numerous herds which were grazing in the meadows around him. As he turned towards his house, he caught sight of the maiden and the priest coming toward him. With a cry of joy he sprang from his saddle and hastened towards them, and then the travelers saw that it was none other than Basil the blacksmith. You can imagine how cordial were the greetings, how numberless the questions and answers that passed between them. Only Evangeline grew silent and thoughtful when Gabriel did not appear, and at length Basil said, "If you cameby way of the lakes, how is it that you did not meet my son's boat?"
"Gone, is Gabriel gone?" murmured Evangeline piteously; she could not hide her disappointment, and shed bitter tears.
"Be of good cheer, my child," returned honest Basil, "it is only to-day he went from here. He grew moody and restless ever thinking of thee, till at length he could no longer endure this quiet existence. Therefore I let him go among the Indians, hoping thus to divert his mind from his troubles. Early to-morrow thou and I will set out after him, and I doubt not but we shall overtake him and bring him back to his friends."
A sound of many voices was now heard, and the other travelers came up joyously led by Michael the fiddler, who had lived with Basil since their exile, having no other task than that of cheering his companions by his merry music. Basil invited all the travelers to sup with them, and greatly did they marvel at the former blacksmith's wealth and many possessions. When they were seated at the table, Basil told his friends of the beauty of the country and the fertility of the soil, and, when he added that land might be had for the asking, they all resolved to settle there and help to form the new Acadian colony.
On the morrow, according to his promise, Basil set out to overtake his son, and Evangeline went with him.Day after day they journeyed onward through a wild and desolate country, but could hear no tidings of the traveler. At length they arrived at the inn of a little Spanish town, where they heard that Gabriel had left that very place the previous day and had set out with his horses and guides for the prairies.
Basil and Evangeline determined not to give up their search, and, hiring some Indian guides, they followed in the direction which Gabriel had taken. One evening as they were sitting by their camp-fire, there entered an Indian woman whose face bore the marks of heavy grief. She was returning from the far distant hunting-grounds, where her husband had been cruelly murdered by a hostile tribe. Touched by her sad story, the white people offered her food and a night's shelter, which she gratefully accepted. After the evening meal was over, Evangeline and the stranger sat apart, and the maiden, in her turn, related to the other the story of her lost lover and her other misfortunes.
Early the next day the march was resumed, and as they journeyed along, the Indian woman said: "On the western slope of these mountains dwells the Black Robe, Chief of the Mission. He talks to the people of their Heavenly Father and they give heed to his teaching."
Then said Evangeline: "Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us."
So they turned their steeds thither, and just as the sun was setting they reached a green meadow by the riverside. There the preacher knelt in prayer and with him a multitude of people. The travelers joined reverently in the prayers, and when the service was over, the priest came to welcome the strangers and offered them shelter and a share of his frugal meal of wheaten cakes and spring water. Afterwards they told the priest their story, and he said: "Only six days ago Gabriel sat by my side and told me this same sad tale, then he continued his journey. He has gone far to the north, but in autumn when the hunting is over he will return to the Mission."
Then Evangeline pleaded: "Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted." This seemed to the others a wise thing to do, so thus it was arranged. Early on the morrow Basil returned homewards and Evangeline stayed on at the Mission.
Slowly and wearily the days passed by, and Evangeline lived and worked at the Mission till autumn drew on. But still Gabriel did not come, and the maiden lived on there till the following summer. Then a rumor reached her ears that Gabriel had encamped in a far distant forest, and Evangeline took leave of her friends at the Mission and set forth again to seek her lover, but when she reached the hunter's lodge she found it deserted and fallen to ruin.
And now her weary pilgrimage began anew. Her wanderings led her through towns and villages, now she tarried a while in mission tents, now she tended the sick and wounded in the camp of a battlefield. As the years went on, her beauty faded and streaks of gray appeared in her dark hair. She was fair and young whenshe began her long journey, faded and old when it ended in disappointment.
At length poor Evangeline grew weary of wandering through strange places and resolved to end her days in the city founded by the great preacher, Penn. Here other of the Acadian exiles had settled, and Evangeline felt that there was something homelike in the pleasant streets of the little city and the friendly speech of the Quakers.
There for many years she dwelt as a Sister of Mercy, bringing hope and comfort to the poor and suffering ones. Then it came to pass that a terrible pestilence fell on the city and thousands perished. The poor crept away to die in the almshouse, and thither by night and day came the Sister of Mercy to tend them.
One Sabbath morning Evangeline passed through the deserted streets and entered the gates of the almshouse. On her way she paused to pluck some flowers from the garden, that the dying might be comforted by their fragrance. As she mounted the stairs she heard the chime of church-bells and the sound of distant psalm-singing, and a deep calm came over her soul, for something within her seemed to say, "At length thy trials are ended!"
Suddenly, as she was passing down the wards, she stood still and uttered a cry of anguish. On the pallet before her lay an old man with long gray hair, and, asshe gazed, she saw that this was none other than her lover, Gabriel. She knelt by his bedside and the dying man opened his eyes and tried to whisper her name, but his strength was spent, and with one last look he passed away from her.
Evangeline's weary quest was over; sweetly and patiently she took up her life again and henceforth lived only for others. And now, in the little Catholic churchyard of this far-away city, side by side the lovers are sleeping.
N
ot far from the fair town of Florence lived a wondrously beautiful maiden named Monna Giovanna. Of lovers she had no lack, but the two whom she most favored were gallant Ser Federigo, and his rival, Ser Enrico.
Ser Federigo had inherited a great fortune and large estates from his father, and, anxious to win favor in the sight of his lady, he lavished his wealth in costly banquets and tournaments, never stopping to consider whether she would approve of his extravagance. So reckless was Ser Federigo that at last all his fortune was spent, and in order to obtain fresh supplies he sold his estates, reserving only one small farm for himself, and wasted all that money also.
Monna Giovanna by no means approved of her wooer's extravagance—she refused his gifts, and disdained his banquets. "A spendthrift will not make a prudent husband," thought she, and so she married the morecareful Ser Enrico, and for some years lived very happily with him in a distant land.
Meanwhile Ser Federigo, become a sadder and wiser man, retired to his little farm on the outskirts of the city, taking with him his falcon, the only creature which remained true to him, for all his former friends shunned him in his poverty.
One hot summer's morning, weary from working in his plot of garden, Ser Federigo sat on a wooden bench beneath the shelter of his cottage eaves thinking dreamily of the past and of the happiness which might have been his, while the falcon by his side was dreaming also. Suddenly he started up on his perch, shook his bells, and looked eagerly at his master as if to say, "Ser Federigo, shall we not go a-hunting?" But his master's thoughts were far away, and he did not stir. Presently he looked up in amazement. Peeping through the trellis he saw a lovely child, a boy with golden tresses and large wondering eyes. Without a glance at the man, the child walked straight up to the bird and said coaxingly, "Beautiful falcon, I wish I might hold you on my wrist, or see you fly."
Ser Federigo started, for the child's voice seemed strangely familiar to him, and, laying his hand gently on the shining head, he asked, "Who is your mother, my fair boy?"
"Monna Giovanna," replied the child. "Will youlet me stay a little while and play with your falcon?"
"Indeed I will, my child, but first tell me, where do you live?"
"Just beyond your garden wall," was the reply. "In the great house hidden behind those tall poplar trees."
So the boy chattered on, and Ser Federigo took him on his knee and told him stories of the noble falcon, and soon all three became close friends.
As the days went on Ser Federigo set himself to find out why it was that his lady had returned to her native land, and he discovered that Monna Giovanna had been left a widow after a few years of marriage, and that she had come with a friend and her only child to pass the summer quietly in her grand villa overlooking the Arno. Rarely, or never, did the widow lady go beyond the grounds of her villa. Clad in sable robes she paced her stately halls, or read and worked with her friend, her one delight to see her boy growing in health and strength and watch over this treasure still left to her.
The boy loved his free country life and spent the days racing up and down the terraces, chasing the screaming peacocks or climbing the garden trellises to pluck the ripe fruit. But his chief pastime was to watch the flight of a swift falcon which sometimes soared into sight above the tall poplars, and at othersswooped down to earth at his master's call. The child had often wondered who the bird's master might be, and one morning he found out that the pair he sought dwelt in the little cottage-farm a short distance from his own home.
The child came several times to see the falcon. Suddenly his visits ceased, but Ser Federigo had no inkling of the reason. The widow's only child had fallen ill, and was pining away from some unknown malady. His mother would not be comforted; she saw her darling already lying dead before her distracted gaze, and no physician could give her any hope for his cure. Sitting by the invalid's bedside she cried to him, "Is there anything I can do to comfort thee, my child?"
At first the child remained silent, but when she besought him again and again to tell her if there was anything on earth she could obtain for him which might cause him to forget his suffering, he replied, "Yes, there is one thing I want. I pray you give me Ser Federigo's falcon for my own!"
The astonished mother could make no reply. Even for her darling's sake she felt she could not ask such a favor from the lover she had once treated with scorn. Besides, though she knew that any request of hers would be at once granted by him, she knew also that the falcon was renowned as the finest bird throughout the countryside, as well as being the joy and pride ofhis master's heart. But the boy was fretful and restless, and, fearing to thwart his whim lest his life should depend on it, the poor mother promised to go and ask for the falcon on the very next day.
"Will you promise faithfully to go, mother?" asked the boy.
"I will, indeed," replied the distracted lady, and, soothed by her words, the child fell into a refreshing sleep.
The morrow was a bright September day, and Monna Giovanna felt hope revive within her heart as she gazed on her child still peacefully sleeping. The birds were singing sweetly and the dew lay heavy on the grass as two lovely ladies, clothed in hoods and cloaks, passed through the garden-gate into the woods, where the trees had just donned their autumn dress of russet and gold. One of these ladies had her rich dark hair closely covered by her hood. Her eyes were wet with tears, but her face was only made more beautiful by its look of deep sorrow. Her companion was a young girl who walked with light steps, her hood thrown back, and her hair shining with its wealth of gold; her cheeks were tinted like the apple-blossom, and her heart full of joyous thoughts. These were Monna Giovanna and her friend, who, with thoughts intent on their errand, hastened towards the little farm.
They found Ser Federigo digging the ground likeAdam of old, and when he beheld these fair ladies, his garden seemed to become a second Eden and the river, flowing by, like the stream which watered Paradise.