Somefour or five miles from that lovely spot, where the Housatonic and Naugatuc join their waters, stands a large manufacturing village of no inconsiderable importance. Iron foundries, paper-mills, India rubber and silk manufactories cluster around one of the finest waterfalls of New England. That waterfall is picturesque even now, spite of the cottages, boarding houses,hotels, railroad station, and tanneries, that have taken the place of green woods, richly clothed hills, and a valley so fragrant with wild flowers, that it was happiness to breathe its very air.
But it is hardly worth while to describe this town as it is. Every thing, even the name, derived from an old Revolutionary officer, is changed. My object carries me back to a time when it was indeed one of the loveliest spots in the world—a rich, deep valley, with a noble waterfall thundering at its heart. High, curving, and broken banks, almost mountainous in places, looming up or sloping back on either side, and two lovely brooks pouring their bright, fresh waters into the river above the falls.
One came winding around Rock Rimmond, softened and shadowed by its grim heights. The other, pretty, sparkling Bladens Brook, ran laughing and dancing through the Wintergreen woods, on the opposite shore, with a gush of cheerfulness that seemed like sunshine, and leaped into the river just where it began to gather up its waters for a plunge over the great falls, in one broad, rushing cataract of crystal. From the falls downward, the valley was choked up with noble forest trees, through which the river ran slowly and grandly till it swept around the shadowy base of Castle Rock, and disappeared on its way to join the Housatonic. This rock, high, precipitous, and picturesque, terminates all that we have to do with the valley, for its high cliffs cut off the prospect in that direction, and all the level space between it and the falls was one vast grove of white pines, which formed the grandest masses of trees I ever saw in my life.
A few hemlocks, a white poplar or so, with now andthen a magnificent oak variegated the woods, but great pines predominated everywhere. The earth was littered with their sharp leaves; the wind sighed among their branches as if it never could win a free passage through their greenness. As for the sunshine, it only reached the forest turf and velvet moss in a golden embroidery—seldom with broad gleams. Never were there such cool, green shadows as hung about those woods. The noises that floated through them were strangely bewildering; there was the roar and dash of the falls—the clatter of machinery—for even in that day one factory, among the first ever established in New England, stood by the falls, and the sound of flying shuttles and the beat of heavy looms, held a cheerful rivalry with the flow of the waters and the rush of the winds. Then came the bird songs, wild, clear, and ringing, lost outside of the woods, but making heavenly music if you but listened under the trees.
Just below the falls, so near as almost to be sprinkled with the spray, and to gather foam wreaths about its timbers, was a long, low, wooden bridge, linking two villages together.
These villages crowned the two lofty banks overlooking the falls, from which one took its name. Fall's Hill was rendered most conspicuous by a pretty, white church, with a tall, symmetrical spire, cutting sharply against the sky, added to a cluster of superior dwelling houses, and a country store. In front of this store, just on the fork of the roads, stands, I hope to this day, a magnificent old willow tree, under which people who came from afar sometimes tied their horses, while they went up to worship in the church, which stood on the very highest point of land to be found till you came to Rock Rimmondon one hand, or Castle Rock on the other. These crossroads cut in two directions, one led to the Bungy hills, and the other toward a red school-house and some straggling dwellings in shrub oaks: beyond this, the geography of the country is lost in a confusion of green hills and woodlands, which form a pleasant and prosperous farming country.
From Shrub Oak, the turnpike leads directly down Fall's Hill with precipitous steepness, across the old bridge, and through a sand hill, with a wall of white sand thirty feet high on either side, directly into Chewstown, on the opposite hill.
This cluster of houses took its name from some old Indian, forgotten by his tribe, who lived and died in a hut somewhere in the neighborhood, and at this day is probably forgotten in a town where a change of time-honored names seems to be a political fashion. At any rate, it was called Chewstown then, and a smart, active little village it was. For it had two crossroad taverns, a great, barnlike Presbyterian meeting-house, and a dashing, new Academy, which boasted of a pretentious little cupola with a bell in it, mounted on the highest point of land that side of the river, and contrasting itself saucily with the spire of the church on the opposite bank. Any number of roads crossed and recrossed over the hill at Chewstown. There was the Derby road, running along the banks of the river; the New Haven road, cutting through the sand banks in a parallel line, and crossroads from the farming districts intersecting them both. The fact is, Fall's Hill had a little more than its share of the aristocracy. Chewstown made up for that, by broader commercial opportunities. The taverns were always in a flourishing condition, and ablacksmith's shop, that looked like a foundry, brought the farmers from far and near to get their horses and oxen shod. Besides, there was a country store on the corner, and three white cottages with basements, built in a line like city houses, and the farmers on that side of the river were often heard to say that Chewstown could pull an even yoke with Fall's Hill any time of day, if they had not got a steeple to their meeting-house.
In this village, Captain Mason had left his wife and child, and here, also, Thrasher, the mate, was born. Down in the outskirts of the pine woods, on the Fall's Hill side of the Naugatuc, a river road ran along the curving base of the hill, and wound seaward with the stream. On this road, between the bridge and Castle Rock, there was but one house, a low, white cottage, with peach trees behind it, and lilac bushes in front. A great tulip tree sheltered the low roof, and behind the garden rolled the green billows of the pine woods. It was a lonely, but very beautiful spot, such as a man like Mason would be likely to select as a home for his beloved ones.
Here, in fact, this good man had left his wife and only child, the latter a charming little golden-haired creature of four years old, when he sailed for St. Domingo in the brig Floyd, which we know to have been left disabled and drifting on the ocean. The vessel had been absent six weeks beyond its time, and no intelligence had yet reached her owners or that anxious woman, regarding her fate. This voyage had been Mason's first experience as captain; his little savings had been invested in a private venture, out of which he hoped to provide something—beforehand, to use his own words—for his wife and little one.
Mrs. Mason was both sad and anxious—sad from the gloom of hope deferred, and anxious because the little provision made for her support had melted away, leaving her almost in want. She was sitting in her neat parlor, with one of the little girl's garments in her hands, sighing heavily with each drawing of the thread, when a knock sounded at the door.
She stopped, with the needle half through her work, and listened. Of course,hewould never have paused to knock at his own door, but then, the very thought of this wild possibility suspended her breath.
Again the knock sounded, and the young wife called out with her usual hospitable voice,
"Come in."
The door opened, and a female entered, wrapped in a dark red cloak—the hood of which she put modestly back, revealing as fair a face as you often look upon in an entire lifetime.
"Oh,Katharine Allen, is that you?" said Mrs. Mason, with a touch of disappointment in her voice, which the girl noticed with a pang.
"Yes, Mrs. Mason, I had got through my day's work, and so ran down once more to see if—if you had heard any thing yet."
"Yes, I thought so—it must be a comfort to have some one to run to—I haven't a living soul!" said Mrs.Mason, a little petulantly, for Katharine had been at the house more than once to ask these same questions, and the young wife always shrank from acknowledging that she had no good news. This feeling became more and more painful as the time wore on, and her own heart grew faint with apprehension.
"Not a word? Haven't you heard any thing?" faltered the young girl, sinking into a chair, and turning her great blue eyes on Mrs. Mason, with an intensity of suffering that startled the unhappy woman into a momentary forgetfulness of her own anxieties.
"No, Katharine, not one word. It breaks my heart to own it, but not a breath of news has reached me since the brig sailed."
"And she ought to have been in weeks ago! What can be the matter, Mrs. Mason? tell me, oh do tell me, if you have the least idea!"
"I can only guess like yourself, Kate. The ocean is a treacherous thing to trust those you love with. The storm of a single night may have made little Rose an orphan."
The poor woman began to cry as she said this, and calling the little girl to her knee kissed her with mournful tenderness.
"How fond you are of the little girl—it must be a great comfort to have his child looking into your face! One could endure almost any thing for that!" said Katharine, evidently trembling as she spoke.
"A comfort and a pain, Katharine, for if he never comes back—"
"Oh, don't—don't say that," cried the girl, shivering. "The thought is enough to kill one: words—I could not put that into words."
"I wish you would not take on so," said Mrs. Mason, sharply. "It's bad enough to wait and wait, and—oh dear, oh dear, what will become of us?"
Here the poor woman burst into a flood of tears, wringing her hands passionately.
"Mother," said little Rose, "are you crying because pa hasn't come back with my pretty dress?"
The mother could not answer for her sobs; as for Kate Allen, she sat looking at them with cold tears dropping down her white cheeks, as if she longed to fall upon her knees and ask them to pity her a little.
"What do you cry for, Katy Allen?" said the child, rather jealous that any other one should weep but her mother. "You have not got no pa, nor no husband out to sea."
"Oh, God help me! God forgive me! I haven't, I haven't," sobbed the beautiful girl, rocking to and fro on her chair.
Mrs. Mason checked her tears and looked on wonderingly. This strange outburst of grief almost irritated her, for, like her child, she rather craved a monopoly of suffering. All at once a wild apprehension seized upon her. What if Kate had heard—what if she knew that the brig had gone down with every soul on board, and had no strength to speak it out! Frightened by this new dread she started up and stood over the weeping girl.
"Tell me—tell me all you have heard," she almost shrieked. "If you don't want to see me drop dead at your feet, before the face of my child, speak out!"
Katharine looked up; amazement checked her tears, and the pupils of her beautiful eyes dilated.
"I have nothing to say, Mrs. Mason; I have not heard a syllable, how could I?"
"And are you so very sorry for us?"
"Does it make you angry, because I can't keep back the tears? Oh, it seems as if I could die, if any one would feel for me."
"Why, Katharine, what is your trouble?"
"Nothing—nothing—I'm not in trouble."
Mrs. Mason began to look serious, an old suspicion flashed across her mind. She was not a woman of much natural refinement, and the innate vanity of her nature more than compassion spoke out in her next words.
"Katharine, speak out—is it about Nelson Thrasher you are taking on so?"
The blood rushed over that white face like a sudden sunset, then the poor girl grew pale again, and purplish shadows came out under her eyes, leaving them, oh, how mournful.
"You need not look so frightened, Kate—there's no harm in it if you do love him, only you haven't got my spirit, that's all."
"What!—what do you mean, Mrs. Mason?"
"What do I mean? why nothing worth mentioning." A peculiar curve of the handsome lip, as Mrs. Mason said this, made the young girl shiver from head to foot.
"Yes, but you have a meaning when you speak of my not having a spirit. Oh, tell me what it is!"
"Why nothing, Kate, only I thought you would have more pride than to take up with another woman's leavings."
"Another woman's leavings!" repeated Kate, all aghast; "another woman's leavings!"
"That was what I observed," answered Mrs. Mason, with a slight toss of the head. "Boasting isn't in myline, or I could point out a certain person who gave Nelse Thrasher his walking papers more than once, as if I would condescend to him, when his superior stood hat in hand."
"You—you—was it so? when, when?"
"Really, Miss Allen, you take away one's breath; of course it was before I married John Mason, as if there could be a choice."
The poor girl was thunderstruck—that beautiful face drooped slowly to her bosom, and she seemed to be shrinking into a shadow. At last, she lifted her head with a wan smile.
"That was four long years ago, more than four years ago," she cried—"Four years ago."
"Well, what of that; four years does not destroy the truth."
"I don't believe it," said Katharine, very quietly, "there's some mistake."
"Mistake! what does the girl mean? as if I didn't know when a man persecutes me with his love. Makes me a point blank offer, and goes off to sea in despair when I marry his superior. Mistake, indeed!"
"No," persisted the girl, "I don't believe it; no woman could refuse him if he once offered. No woman on earth; it isn't in nature."
"Indeed, you have a mighty high opinion of Nelse Thrasher, as if he was fit to be mentioned in the same day with Captain Mason. I wonder at your daring to say these things to me."
Katharine did not hear her; she was searching the past, urged and goaded in her memory by keen pangs of distrust.
"Besides," she exclaimed, "he has been home since then, and never come near you, not even as a friend."
"I'd like to see him have the impudence," was the angry rejoinder.
Katharine seemed bewildered a moment, and then clasped her hands in passionate despair. "What's the use—oh, what's the use of saying this! It's terrible, and they both in the deep, deep sea."
Here Mrs. Mason's vanity broke down, and her true womanliness asserted itself.
"God forgive us for quarreling about them," she said, really penitent. "If they only come back, I shall be as glad for your sake as you will be for mine. Don't mind what I said, Katy, it isn't worth remembering. Tell me now, are you really engaged to Thrasher?"
"Yes." This little word came faltering through lips as cold and white as snow.
"And you never told of it?"
"What did I say—engaged! No, we are not engaged. How could I tell you so!"
"Well, well, there's no harm in it if you are. God send the Floyd and all hands safely back."
Those large eyes were lifted—oh! how pleadingly—to heaven, and then Katharine began to gather her cloak more closely around her.
"You're not going!" said Mrs. Mason, ashamed of her unwomanly outbreak. "Just take off your cloak, and have a cup of tea. Rose and I haven't had ours yet; I fell to thinking over my work, and forgot it."
"No," said Katharine, more quietly, "I must go now; mother will be anxious to hear. You forget, Mrs. Mason, that my half-brother is on board the brig."
"Well, true enough, my head was so full of that fellow, Thrasher, that I forgot that it might be some other person you were crying about. It's hard, waiting andwaiting in this way; but we must have patience, I suppose."
"I'll go now," said the girl, rising.
Little Rose, with the sweet instinct of childhood, came up to where the young girl stood, and lifted up her arms for a kiss.
Katharine bent down, with a flutter of the heart, and left a kiss on the little rosebud of a mouth, but her lips quivered, and the child grew sad under the mournful caress.
When Katharine Allen was gone, Mrs. Mason sat down to her work again. She was a vain, self-sufficient woman, but not in reality an unkind one. The distress which she had just witnessed left her in low spirits. She was naturally of a hopeful disposition, and, in truth, was quite incapable of the deep feeling which had disturbed her in Katharine. Something would turn up and set all things right, she was sure of that; contrary winds, heavy freight—there was some such reason why the brig did not come to port; what was the use of fretting while these chances remained. As these consoling thoughts passed through her mind, she plied her needle with increasing diligence. Rose must have her new frock embroidered before her father came home. A few more leaves in the vine that enriched the skirt, and it would be completed. Mrs. Mason was almost out of bread, or any thing from which bread is made, but she was a woman to cover unsuitable garments with useless embroidery, rather than turn her hand to any thing by which her necessities could be supplied. She would rather have seen little Rose hungry a thousand times than ill dressed.
WhileMrs. Mason sat plying her needle, little Rose wandered about the room, wondering what made pretty Katharine Allen so very sorrowful, but keeping the thoughts to herself. In the stillness, she heard a step on the gravel walk outside the house. Then a white lilac bush near the window was disturbed, and she saw a man's face close to the glass. The child would have cried out, but the tongue clove to her mouth, and she stood transfixed with fear. She saw the door softly opened, and a strange man step to the threshold. Then her voice broke forth, and pointing her finger at the stranger, she cried out:
"Mother, mother! it's somebody from the sea!" Mrs. Mason dropped both hands in her lap, and gazed breathlessly on the man. Every tint of color left her handsome face; she tried to speak, but could not. The man was so pale and so wild of countenance that she might well have been stricken with deadly fear.
"Nelson Thrasher," she faltered at last.
He took a step into the room, but did not speak.
"Nelson Thrasher!" she almost shrieked. "If you are a living soul, speak. Where is my husband?"
The man recoiled a step, and well he might. The question came on him so suddenly, it might have startled the boldest man on earth. It absolutely seemed to terrify him. He stood a moment staring at her, then answered in a low, hoarse voice:
"I come to tell you about him."
The little girl caught the meaning of his words, rose up and seizing his hand between both her dimpled palms cried out:
"He comes to tell about pa! Oh, please sir, where is he? Why don't he come home?"
Thrasher looked down in her face, and met the glance of those eyes—her father's eyes. He instantly shook her hands off as if they had been vipers, and with a gesture which seemed to cast aside some terrible feeling, threw himself on a chair.
"My husband!" said Mrs. Mason. "Tell me, is he coming?—is he well?"
"Your husband, John Mason, is dead!"
"Dead! dead!" The poor woman grew faint under the suddenness of this solemn announcement, and dropped helplessly into her chair.
Thrasher sprang up, and stretching out his arms, received her head on his bosom.
Little Rose stood in silent fear, watching them. After a moment she went close to Thrasher, and pulled at his coat.
"Let me hold mother—I don't want you there."
Thrasher pushed her away with one hand. The woman lay as if she were dead against his heart, which beat with iron heaviness, like the trip-hammer of a foundry.
Again the child pulled at his skirts. She was crying now.
"What is dead? I say, man, what is dead? I want to know!"
"See!" answered Thrasher, lifting the woman's white face from his bosom. "See!"
"And is that it?" whispered the child, through her hushed tears. "Mother! mother!"
The shock and suddenness of Thrasher's tidings had overcome Mrs. Mason, but she was not entirely unconscious. When the child called out in her sweet, pathetic voice, she staggered from Thrasher's hold, and falling back into her chair, held out both arms for Rose. The little thing sprang to her lap with a cry of joy, and instantly covered the troubled face with kisses.
"Now," she said, turning her face toward Thrasher; "now tell me about him, my dear, dear pa."
"Send the child away, while I tell you," said Thrasher.
Rose clung to her mother's neck.
"No," said Mrs. Mason, "she must learn all sometime, and I am stronger with her near."
There was a moment's silence, then Mrs. Mason said very faintly,
"Was the ship lost?"
"Almost—but it was not then it happened. We were on shore at Port au Prince. The blacks had risen, and a horrid murder of the white inhabitants was going on. Mason would go on shore. I warned him, but it was of no use. One night, when the massacre was at the highest, he took all hands except one or two, and left the ship. The negroes were hard at work, murdering and burning like demons. Hewouldventure among them. It was dangerous—I told him so. Well he came back at last with a woman and little boy."
"A woman!"
"Yes, a beautiful woman, one of the handsomest you ever saw."
"Indeed!"
"He had saved her from a swarm of blacks, who hadbrought her and her son out for a carouse, under the palm trees. The boy was brought on board, but they carried the lady off to one of the little islands in the harbor. Mason, with some of the men, went down the ship's side at night, and rowed off with her. After that Mason was never at rest, always going off on private expeditions. I did not like it, so one night, when he was determined to go, I insisted on taking a turn on shore myself. To own the truth, I had a little curiosity to see the house where the lady had lived, and to be certain that she was not there still. Well, he consented, and I went.
"It was a splendid house; covered an acre of ground. Such rooms, such gardens—I never saw any thing like it. The house was so large that we could not tell if it was inhabited or not, but while we were wandering around, a great noise in the lower rooms alarmed us; we hurried through the long halls down to the underground cellars.
"The negroes had been there before us. Every thing was in confusion; we waded ankle deep in red wine. The cellar was half full of negroes who had been wallowing there, and were now fierce with drunkenness. There was not much light, for the negroes dropped their torches, one by one, and the lees of the wine put them out. How your husband came there, I do not know. He must have followed us in one of the small boats. Certain it is, when I was half down the steps his face was the first I saw; he was struggling for his life—a dozen sooty rascals were tearing at him. I gave the cry and sprang down, cutlass in hand, but before I reached him it was all over."
"And they killed him? Oh, father of mercies, they killed him, and you saw it?"
"I have told you all."
The child had been growing pale as she listened, not that she quite understood, but because of the deadly whiteness which settled on her mother's face, and the hoarse voice of the man who was speaking. Mrs. Mason sat still. The shock of this wild story left her dumb. Thrasher cast anxious glances on her face, but if the child looked at him his eyes fell. At last, the woman found the power of speech:
"He sent no word—he died without thinking of us!"
"I cannot tell what his thoughts were, or any thing except that we found him fighting, and saw him fall."
"And who else saw him?"
"No one. My men went into another section of the cellar. The wine was good, and they were in no hurry to follow me."
"But some one saw him after—you did not leave the dead body of my husband to be trampled on by a band of negroes?"
"We could not help it—the blacks were ten to one."
"But did no one see him but yourself? Did no one try to help him?"
"Yes, one man."
"And who was he?"
"A fellow by the name of Rice."
"What! Katharine Allen's half brother?"
Thrasher turned paler than he had done before that evening. "Her brother—I did not know that," he muttered, uneasily.
Mrs. Mason did not heed this; the conviction of her great loss grew more and more distinct to her mind; all the desolation that must follow the cruel news of thatevening crowded upon her. She folded the little girl close to her heart, and began to weep over her in bitter grief.
"Are you sure that Rice is connected with Katharine Allen?" asked Thrasher, taking advantage of a pause in her sobs.
"Old Mrs. Allen was married twice," she answered, impatiently, for grief made her restive. "He was her only son by the first husband. Tell me where he is; I want to see him. I want to know every word and look of my poor, poor husband. Where can Rice be found?"
"I don't know; he kept with the ship. I came directly home, fearing to let any less friendly person tell you the sad news."
"You were very kind," sobbed the poor woman, "very kind; I shall never forget it."
"I always wished to be kind to you, Ellen," was the almost tender reply.
"I know it, I know it; but he always stood between me and any other man."
Thrasher arose, and would have approached Mrs. Mason; but Rose clung to her neck with one arm and waved him away with the other.
"She is my mother—you shan't touch my mother!" she cried, flashing angry glances at him through her tears. Thrasher looked upon the child with mingled hate and fear. It was wonderful how much power those deep blue eyes, sparkling with a thousand childish emotions, possessed over the strong man. There was something spirituelle in her loveliness that impressed him, as if an angel had been reading the record of his life, and rebuked him with those violet eyes.
Thrasher arose hesitating, and almost timidly; hestood expecting Mrs. Mason to notice the movement; but she was occupied with her grief, and did not observe him.
"Mother," said little Rose, smiling through her tears, "look up, mother; the man who makes you cry is going away."
Mrs. Mason wiped her eyes, and strove to appear interested.
"Hush, Rose, hush, he has been very kind to come with this sorrowful news."
"Yes, mother, he's going right off, so don't cry any more."
Mrs. Mason reached forth her hand; she was a tall, fine woman, with bright eyes, that tears only softened; these eyes full of touching sorrow were lifted to his. All that was good in the man's nature arose in response to this look. His hand trembled as it grasped hers. He could have fallen on his knees and wept over it, so great was the power of love in a nature that had little else to soften it. But the eyes of the child followed his movements vigilantly, and he dropped the mother's hand with a deeply drawn breath.
"Give the gentleman a kiss, my little Rose," whispered the mother, touched by his humble demeanor.
Rose turned her face squarely upon him and lifted her eyes. He met their clear glance and dared not kiss her.
"Good-by," he said, standing before them uneasily.
"Good-by," answered Rose, eagerly.
"When you are better—when you are a little reconciled, Ellen, may I come again?"
"No, no," shouted Rose, waving her hand, "no, no, no."
"Be still, Rose, this is naughty. Remember he was your father's friend."
Rose hid her face and began to cry. Thrasher took the mother's hand again, dropped it, and went away, softened and almost remorseful.
A footpathintersected the highway some few rods below Mrs. Mason's cottage, and ran off among the hills that lay behind Castle Rock. At this point, Thrasher paused. He had only reached town that day, and his first visit had been to the white cottage. Now, he thought of his parents, who lived on a farm among those hills, and of another person whose home he must pass in going there.
"I must see her, of course," he said, mentally; "but not at once. I have no heart for another scene. But the old folks—that will be all joy—no rebukes or entreaties ever came from that quarter. They will be hurt, too, if I sleep at a tavern, and the homestead so near."
With these affectionate thoughts urging him forward, he turned up the foot path and walked slowly on, wondering at the tender feelings that rose and swelled in his heart as he drew near the family home.
You would not have believed that the man who walked so quietly along the greensward with the moonlight on his face, could have been the same person who stood onthe deck of that brig and superintended the number of lashes that should be dealt on the back of a human being. Once or twice, as his glance fell on some familiar object, a sweet brier bush, perhaps, or a cluster of tall mulleins that had grown by the footpath since he was a child, his eyes would fill with tears. There was something holy and homelike in the stillness that made a child of this cruel man.
The footpath led Thrasher into the Bungy road. He had mounted one hill and was descending into the valley which lay between it and another, when he saw some dark object sitting on a pine stump, from which he had gathered moss years before. His step was smothered on the sward, and the night wind, which made a rustling sound among the leaves of a neighboring wood, rendered his approach inaudible.
It was a woman shrouded in a cloak, but the light was so clear that he could see the outlines of her person, though her face was bent down and her limbs were drawn together as if she suffered from cold or sorrow.
Thrasher's heart told him at once who the woman was, and the knowledge made a coward of him. He hesitated, turned to go back, but resumed his course again, ashamed of so much weakness. The woman's face was bent down, her hands were locked around her knees, and he could hear the swell of her sobs as she rocked to and fro, as if the motion gave relief to some great pain.
Thrasher stood close by the unhappy creature, but she was lost in grief and did not look up.
"Katharine!"
She started to her feet with a cry that haunted his memory years after, and stood before him, shaking in all her limbs. Why did she not fling her arms about hisneck as she had done at parting? Why did she shrink and gather the cloak so timidly around her? Did the shadow of some great wrong fall upon her with its sundering power?
"Katharine, you know me, but don't seem glad that I have come."
"Not glad—oh, my heart is dumb with joy! I thought—I feared that you were dead, Nelson, and the idea was driving me crazy. I was trying to pray when you came up."
She stole timidly toward him and held out her hand.
"Is it real—are you alive and here? Oh how good you are, coming to our house the first moment to see me, for I know well enough you did want to see me—while I was doubting if you would care about me after being away so long, and wondering what I should do. You are not changed, Nelson; you love me yet as well—better than ever."
There was something in the girl's manner that Thrasher did not understand. She seemed frightened, and shrunk from approaching him. This was so unlike the childlike affection with which she had hitherto met him, that he stood looking upon her in surprise, mingled with a little irritation.
"Why, Katharine, what is the matter? You are so changed—it may be the moonlight, but your face seems thinner and less rosy."
She turned her eyes upon him with a wan smile, but did not answer at once.
"You have changed, perhaps, and found some one you like better."
There was something in his tones that stung her; a hopeful questioning as if he wished rather than dreadedthis change. She looked at him reproachfully, and her blue eyes floated in tears.
"Oh, Nelson!"
The words were uttered in a very low voice, but in their quietness lay deep pathos. She moved close to his side and laid one hand on his shoulder, waiting for him to return the caress. He placed his arm lightly, and it seemed half reluctantly, about her waist. She felt the chill at her heart.
"Youare changed!" she said, in a loud, clear voice, that sounded to his ear like a challenge. "You come here not to meet, but to abandon me."
Thrasher tightened his arm around her.
"Is this the way I abandon you?" he said.
She withdrew herself quietly from his arms, and fixing her eyes on his face gave him a long, sorrowful look.
The moonlight lay full on his features. His dark eyes looked into hers; a smile, half mocking, half pleasant, hung on his lip. He was a tall, handsome man, and the moonlight refined his face into remarkable beauty.
"Are you trying me, Nelson?" she said, half returning the smile. "Don't—don't—I have trouble enough without that."
"Trouble—was there ever a girl of your age without it, I wonder? Come, take my arm, and as we walk along you shall tell me what great misfortune sent you here crying and rocking yourself like an old woman turned out of doors."
Katharine tried to laugh and took his arm, leaning on it with that half caressing, half dependent grace which a woman who loves from her soul assumes unconsciously. Formerly, when her arm touched his, he had, at a time like this, taken the willing hands in his clasp, butthe touch of Ellen Mason's fingers thrilled his nerves even yet, and Katharine's hand drooped helplessly over his arm.
"Now tell me what this great, great trouble is?" he said, walking forward.
"Wait until we get into the shadow of the woods, and I will," she replied, in a low choked voice.
They walked on in dead silence, entered the shadow of the wood, paused in the darkest spot, and talked earnestly together. When they came in the moonlight again, Thrasher looked pale and angry. He walked fast, sometimes forcing her on beyond her strength, and cutting up the silk weed and mulleins in his path with fierce dashes of his walking-stick. Katharine made no resistance, for a cold, dead silence, which shut out all joy, had fallen on her.
They came to a little brown house, under the shelter of a hill, and half covered with morning-glories—a pretty, rustic place in which Katharine lived alone with her mother. A board fence ran along the front yard, hedging in some lilac bushes and a huge snowball bush. A flower bed ran along each side of the walk, from the gate to the door. All this looked pretty and cool, in its night dew, and Thrasher recognized the familiar objects with something like a pang.
Katharine withdrew her arm from his at the gate; she tried to speak, and ask him to go in, for a light shone through one of the windows, and the old lady was evidently waiting for Katharine to come home before she went to bed; her lips trembled, but refused to utter the invitation; he read it in her eyes, however, and shook his head.
"Not to-night—another time we will talk this over."
They parted with these words, and Thrasher walked on at a more rapid pace than he had yet used. Katharine watched him mournfully as he disappeared, then, with a deep sigh, she entered the house.
A littleway over the hill from Mrs. Allen's dwelling, stood a low, red farm house which covered a good deal of ground, and possessed many pleasant surroundings, such as marked the more thrifty class of farmers in those days. Rows of stiff, Lombardy poplars stood in lines before the house, looking more like mammoth umbrellas, verdant in color, and shut up for the season, than any thing else. Tall, cinnamon roses clambered up the front, while a whole forest of lilac and snowball bushes cast their shadows on the rich sward of the door yard. At the back was a fine apple orchard which filled the air all around with the delicate perfume of its blossoms in the spring-time, and gave out a rich, fruity odor in the autumn. A well sweep pencilled its slender shadow along the plantain leaves that grew rank at the back door, and beyond that, the distant outlines of a cider-mill could be imperfectly seen through the orchard boughs.
Every thing seemed natural to the stern man, as he drew near the homestead. He could not remember a time when the old place did not look thrifty and comfortable,as it appeared then. A few dry branches bristled here and there among the poplars, speaking of progressive age, like gray hairs in the head of a strong man, but they were scarcely perceptible in the moonlight, and Thrasher could see no change since the years of his boyhood.
The family sitting room was back of the house, and through the windows a gleam of light shot along the grass. Thrasher passed through the yard, and, pausing beneath the window, looked in. The paper blind was partly rolled up, and he thus commanded a view of the entire room.
Two old people sat together on the hearth, where a few embers lay smouldering. A round, cherry wood stand stood between them, from which towered a massive brass candlestick, supporting the only light that burned in the room.
The old lady was knitting. What a sweet, benign expression slept on her face! How softly the white hair was folded under her cap! The pure, healthy bloom on her cheek was something wonderful. It made you in love with the beauty of old age.
The old man was reading aloud; the great family bible lay open before him, and his deep, reverential voice could be distinctly heard through the imperfectly closed window. As Thrasher looked, the old man removed the spectacles from his eyes, and laid them on the page he had been reading, while he listened smilingly to some observation that his wife had made, but which, with her lower and softer tones, Thrasher had lost.
"How many times have we read this chapter together, Eunice—so many that neither you nor I can remember them; but every reading brings out something new—somethingmore holy than we ever found before. Isn't that your experience?"
"Yes," answered the old lady, taking a seamstitch with serene precision as she spoke. "It seems to me, husband, that one never learns really what is in the Bible till old age comes on. When we were young, I can remember being so tired when the morning chapter was read, and full of other thoughts, that I am sorry to remember now. That is the reason I always had so much charity for our Nelson. Poor child, he never could sit still through a whole chapter—boy or man!"
"I'm afraid," answered the old man, with a heavy sigh. "I'm a'most afraid, Eunice, that we neglected to perform our whole duty to the boy at the start. He was such a bright child, that we wandered off into ambition and worldly pride where he was concerned. Now, that we are getting old, and a'most as good as childless, this idea troubles me more than a little. Maybe, if you and I had been a little more strict with the boy, he'd have got over them roving notions, and stayed at home."
"I don't know," said the old lady, putting on her glasses to loop up a stitch, while a shade of trouble came to her face. "It seems to me as if nothing would ever have kept Nelson on the farm. He was too high strung for that. But what then? Every body isn't of the same idea, you know; and if the education we gave our son helped to unsettle him for our way of life, it fitted him for another. Remember, he went out first mate this time."
"He's a brave boy, any way," said the old man, kindling with the subject; "and if the season of grace has not reached his soul yet, we must only pray the more earnestly."
"Yes," whispered the mother. "Pray without ceasing, and in every thing give thanks!"
"If we did not kneel to the throne of grace in his behalf so often as we might have done in our younger days, we must make up for it now, for our son will some day make a shining light in the house of the righteous," continued the father. "I feel it. I know it, Eunice."
The old lady sighed.
"I'm afraid that even now I pray that he may come back to his home, before I think of his eternal salvation, for that wish is always uppermost with me."
The old man smiled reprovingly, and shook his head.
"Ah, Eunice!"
"I can't help it," sighed the mother, confessing her weakness, with a deprecating smile. "He is my only child—all the precious, earthly blessing we have. I can't help being proud and fond of him."
"How could you, when I, a strong man—one that the brethren sometimes look up to, as all the church members will admit—can't keep back the pride of having a son like that. There's no denying it. Nelson is a young man that must put a temptation of pride into his parents' path. It seems to me as if I were a stronger man and you a handsomer woman for having a son like him."
"So honorable, so handsome," murmured the old lady.
"So strong and energetic," responded the father.
"Ah, if he would but come once more to see his old father and mother."
The old lady bent over her knitting, and pretended to search for a false stitch, but it was only to conceal the tears that swelled tenderly into her eyes.
Thrasher could bear no more. The man loved his parents, and those soft tears in his mother's eyes broughtmoisture to his own. How innocent and childlike the old people were, in comparison with him. Satan, when looking over the flow'ry walls of Paradise, must have felt as he did, listening to that household conversation.
The old man took up his glasses again, and began to read. The mother kept on with her work, listening, with meek faith, to the holy words that fell from her husband's lips. All at once she started, dropped the knitting in her lap, and listened.
"It is his step!"
The old man raised his face from the Bible, and listened, also.
"Yes, Eunice, it is!"
The door opened, and their son stood on the threshold—a strong, handsome fellow, such as the father had described him. There was no outcry of joy, no wordy demonstrations; but a tender gladness possessed the old people. The mother kissed him, almost timidly. There was something that awed her tenderness in this powerful young man, though he did tremble in her gentle embrace.
"My son, you are welcome home—oh, my son!"
There was something hearty and patriarchal in this welcome of the father. The noble old Christian that forgave his prodigal son must have spoken much after the same fashion.
They shook hands—the father and son—with a firm, lingering clasp, while the mother looked on, smiling through her tears. With your genuine New England housemother, hospitality is always the servitor of affection. The night dew lay heavily on her son's garments. He looked pale and tired. The mother's heart rose pitifully in her bosom; she insisted upon raking open thefire, and getting a warm cup of tea; even went so far as to offer a cider-brandy sling, with toasted crackers floating on the top.
Thrasher yielded himself to her tender care. It was wonderful how submissive and grateful that strong-willed man had become under womanly influences. He declined tea, but accepted the glass of smoking drink which the mother prepared. Soon the old man took a tumbler, also, and praised it greatly; for religious men and elders of the church, in those times, thought it no sin to make themselves comfortable with a glass of hot drink before bedtime, never dreaming that their limited indulgence might lead to excess in the coming generation—excess which even legal enactments have failed to remedy. Having no fear and no conscientious scruples on the subject, the old man enjoyed his glass, and filled that of his son more than once; for, somehow, the color would not come genially to the young man's face, and after the first glow of his reception had passed off, he seemed depressed, almost gloomy.
The old lady took her seat again on the patchwork cushion of blue and red cloth which Thrasher could remember from his childhood, and attempted to resume her knitting; but the plump little hands trembled so much that she gave it up, and drawing back into the shadow, had a sweet, motherly cry all to herself. It was pleasant to hear those two voices blending together in their talk. It was heaven to know that the whole family sat on one hearth again. She could not be thankful enough. What had she done to merit so much happiness at the hands of the Lord.
This pious under-current of feelings mingled with the conversation as it went on between the two men, leapingrapidly from subject to subject, as always happens when members of one family have been long separated. While the mother was wrapped in dreamy thanksgivings, the old man, not less grateful or affectionate, fell to questioning his son about his voyage, the fate of the ship, and the terrible scenes which had been enacted at St. Domingo, while she lay in the harbor of Port au Prince.
Thrasher went into the thrilling details. He was naturally eloquent, and the intense interest manifested by his parents, made his pictures as graphic as the reality; but another person might have remarked, though his parents did not, that he avoided mentioning either his own share or that of Captain Mason in these exciting events.
"But how long did this last, Nelson? Was the brig kept in harbor all the time? Some of the neighbors began to fear that she was lost; but your mother and I hoped and prayed, didn't we, mother?"
The mother smiled on her son, answering:
"Nelson always knows that we hope and pray when he is upon the great deep."
"But where is the brig now; at her port?" questioned the father, after a brief pause.
"No, we were compelled to abandon her; one of the most terrible storms I ever faced on sea or land, took us unprepared. It swept us clean from stem to stern. Another hour and we should have gone down like a handful of drift wood—for days and days we floated on the ocean, no sails, our masts gone, nothing to rig new ones with. The men were discouraged, some of them threatening mutiny; for a negro and a little boy that came on board at Port au Prince, the only creatures that I know of who escaped the massacre, were missing justafter the storm, and the fellows would believe that I had something to do with it, so they sulked and threatened until I began to fear for my life. Nothing but our own great peril prevented them rising.
"At last, the brig sprang a leak, and what with working at the pumps night and day, hard commons and no drink—for I staved the casks in—they had plenty to do without turning on me. It was enough to put down any rebellion to hear the water rushing and gurgling into the hold, faster, a great deal, than all hands could pump it out. So while working for their own lives, they forgot to take mine."
"Thank God for this great deliverance," said the old man, solemnly.
The son paused an instant, and then went on.
"The water gained on us; we worked desperately, but the brig sunk lower, and lower, till we had scarcely a hope left."
"Then," whispered the mother "you thought of us, my son."
"Of his God," said the old man, devoutly; "he prayed to God and so found safety."
Thrasher was no hypocrite; he remembered how different the scene had proved to any thing his parents imagined, and felt rebuked by their simplicity.
"Yes, mother, I did think of you both with an aching heart. As for prayers, we sailors have little time for them. But I was telling you of our condition; it was forlorn enough. The men gave out and refused to work. Persuasions went for nothing—threats were of no use. They were tired out and wanted to die. You have no idea, father, how reckless such men are."
"No, son; I couldn't imagine it."
"At last, when all was given up, and we had nothing to do but die, a sail hove in sight."
"Thanks be to God!" ejaculated the old man, lifting his clasped hands, while tears stole softly down the mother's cheek.
"'Sail O!' That was a shout which filled us with new life. We tore off our jackets, we searched for fragments of the old sails, our voices rose in wild, hoarse shouts, that sounded awfully along the waters. At first, she did not see us, but seemed steering another way. Our despair broke forth in one mighty shriek! It reached them—we could see a commotion on the deck. Breathless with expectation, grouped together like so many ghosts, we watched her slacken sail, and bear down upon us. Then the strongest man among us burst into tears! That moment I shall never, never forget!"
"Not while there is a merciful God to thank!" said the father, shaking the tears from his cheek as a lion flings dew-drops from his mane. Low sobs broke from the darkened portion of the room. During her son's narration the good mother had sunk unconsciously to her knees, and lay prostrate before her God, trembling with thankfulness.
Thrasher went on:
"We took to the friendly vessel, all but three persons. They would not leave the wreck. No persuasion could move them. It was a terrible thing, but the ship sailed away, leaving them to their fate!"
"And who were these men, my boy?"
"Rice, old Mr. Allen's son."
"God help the poor woman."
"With the negro and boy I told you of. They had taken the boat and put out to sea alone—after driftingfive or six days hither and yon, they were taken up by the vessel that afterward saved us. They saw the wreck and came to her in the first boat. When Rice refused to abandon the brig they sat down by his side, and so we were compelled to leave them."
"And is this all?—did you never hear of them again?" inquired the mother, rising to her feet.
"No; we never heard of them after that. They drifted off with the wreck, and what became of them no one can tell."
"This will be sorrowful news for our neighbor. Husband, I wish some other person than our son had brought it."
Thrasher arose hastily.
"Good night, mother. Shall I sleep in the old room?"
His voice shook, and he seemed greatly disturbed.
"Yes, yes, my son. You are tired out. Go up to your old room."
Nelson Thrashercould not sleep under his father's roof. The neat, high posted bed, with its blue and white coverlet that he had slept under in boyhood, was so familiar that it seemed to reproach him in its homeliness for the great change that had fallen on himself. The little looking-glass over the cherry-wood dressing stand, flashed upon him like a human eye angry and fierce at the intrusion of a guilty man where an innocent boy hadslept. As his foot touched the rag carpet, worn smooth by his light tread, years ago, the breath paused on his lips, and the stern face softened into sadness so deep, that his worst enemy might have pitied him.
That instant the old man's voice rose solemnly through the stillness of the night. From the depths of his heart, he was thanking God that his son had returned. Every word of that prayer rose to the son, rebuking him to the soul. He fell upon his knees, unconsciously occupying the very spot on which his first prayer had been learned from his mother's lips. Bitter repentance swept over him for the minute, and covering his face with both hands, he cried like a child.
But such feelings could not hold that stern nature long. When the old man ceased, Thrasher shook the tears from his eyes, and stood up, turning his face away from the glass, hating that it should reflect the workings of which he was even then ashamed. It was useless; the familiar things around him were full of associations that would make themselves felt. He put out the candle, and got into bed, his eyes filling in the darkness as he lifted the coverlet.
Still he could not sleep. The dear old objects were all shut out, but the home feeling was too strong. For that one hour he was almost a good man.
As he lay in the darkness, a soft tread came on the stairs, and the door of his room swung open. He knew all about it. The footsteps were his mother's. How often he had heard them, in childhood, coming up, because the kind woman fancied that he might be afraid, or ill, or that the coverlet had slipped from over him. Just as of old, she glided through the door and close to the bed. He feigned sleep, that she might not guesshow much he had been acting like a child. She stood beside him, full of motherly tenderness, yearning for a few last words before she went to rest; but with gentle self-command, waiting for some sign that he was awake. When she found that his eyes were closed and his breath came evenly, she bent down and kissed him on the forehead more than once, whispering his name to herself, as she had done a thousand times over his cradle.
Still he did not move; the kiss stole like an angel's whisper through his heart. For the moment, it sanctified him, even in his own eyes. This did not appear to awake him, and the mother could attempt no more. Still she lingered, settled his pillow, delicately as a bird smoothes the plumage of its young, and tucked up the bed, blessing him the while. It was not chilly, but the action put her in mind of old times, and she loved it.
At last that gentle mother glided out of the room, and he drew a deep breath, longing to call her back, confess how far he had gone astray, and become as a little child again.
The night wore on, and he had not slept a moment. Many thoughts came crowding over the holy ones that possessed him, and finally overpowered them. He thought of Mrs. Mason—his first, his only love—for this truth he confessed to himself over and over again, in the stillness of that night, when the difficulties of his position crowded close upon him. He thought of Katharine Allen, not with solicitude, such as the poor creature's fate should have inspired, but bitterly, harshly, for she was a stumbling-block in his way, an object almost of dislike. Though a cruel man, Thrasher was not recklessly so to women—thoughts of his mother always kept him from that. Still, he almost cursed Katharinein the struggles of that night, for she stood between him and the great desire of his life—John Mason's widow. But for her, he could make a brief wooing, settle down by his old parents, and without temptations to evil courses, become a man of power, for he possessed that which enabled him to accomplish almost every thing, an unlimited control of wealth. But with this young creature in the way, what could he do but plunge into schemes that brought sin and peril with them, such as he shrunk from encountering. Abandon his father and mother—go off to some unknown country with the woman of his love—cast off all duties—leave that beautiful girl to die of grief—could he do that?
Thus the good angels and the evil spirits struggled over that man all night long. In the morning, neither had the mastery. On ship-board, the guardian angel would have been driven forth at once; but under his father's roof, there was something of heaven which would not let the seraph go.
After daylight the young man fell asleep, weary with thoughts that still left their shadows on his forehead. The mother came up twice to call him, but seeing the weariness in his handsome face, went away, holding her breath, and walking on tiptoe.
At last he came down-stairs, and found the old people, with the table spread and the breakfast dishes standing on the hearth, patiently waiting till he should join them.
It was of no use struggling. Over a breakfast table like that the good angels held control; nothing worse could hover near those blessed old people upon their own hearth-stone. There every thing spoke of the old time—the round table, covered with bird's-eye linen, homemade, glossy as a snow crust, and as white. Thesame sprigged china and quaint teaspoons. The silver teapot—old-fashioned even then—had been brought out for the first time in years, and stood emitting dainty puffs of steam between the andirons. The old lady looked at her son and at the teapot with conscious smiles, which said plainly as smiles could speak, "You see that I keep nothing back when my son comes home, not even that!"
Thrasher smiled as he gathered in this picture. It was the smile of a stern character, and changed his whole face. Rare must be the smile which makes a human heart leap. You never heed perpetual sunshine, but that which flashes through clouds makes itself felt and remembered.
"How much he looks like his father now," thought the mother, while the old man held out his hand, and grasped that of his son with a hearty "good-morning."
"Son," said the old lady, as she took up the teapot, with a little flutter, like that of a bird pluming itself, "now that we are all together—the whole family, you know—supposing we sit down at once. Your father usually goes to prayers before breakfast, Nelson, but we'll just put it off till afterward—don't you think so, husband?"
A strong sense of duty alone kept the old man from saying yes, at once; but he wasn't to be led into temptation by the fond designs of that precious little woman, not he; nor by the fear that his son would rather not. Morning prayers didn't happen to be duties so lightly disposed of, in his estimation. He motioned the old lady to leave the breakfast where it was, on the hearth, and taking the great Bible from its stand, began to read with solemn deliberation.
Thrasher liked this; had his father varied in any thing from the steady goodness of his character, it would have been a sad disappointment to the son; for such persons are generally the most keen-sighted in detecting the weakness of good men. Besides, there is something holy in the religious associations of an early home, which no man or woman can see disturbed without pain.
I am afraid that the old man, in compunction for a momentary impulse to yield, made his prayer a little longer than usual, and dwelt elaborately on that point which asked deliverance from temptation. Certain it is, that according to the habit of the times, he spoke of himself as a hardened sinner, and confessed to shortcomings and taints of original depravity that must have made the recording angel—who had set down nothing but good deeds to his account for many a long year—smile in benign patience.
Once, as the good Christian gave signs of prolonging his devotions, the old lady turned softly on her knees and pushed the dish, which contained a choice delicacy for her son, close to the fire; but she blushed in the act, and covering her face the instant it was accomplished, whispered "amen" at the end of a sonorous sentence in which her husband acknowledged the native depravity of every soul within the created world.
Still Nelson Thrasher was not impatient. Every word of the old man's voice thrilled him through and through. It would have taken something more than that to upheave the stern selfishness of his character to any purpose; but many a good feeling rose to the surface which, for the time, made him a better man.
They sat down to breakfast at last, and a right heartyNew England breakfast it was. The old man talked pleasantly on every subject that came up. He possessed a clear, energetic mind, and had read a great deal more than was common to his class. His intelligence was active to seize on any food that presented itself, and his son's adventures by sea and land, were as exciting as a romance; not that old Mr. Thrasher knew what a romance was, or would have allowed one to enter his door if he had. Indeed, the Pilgrim's Progress had disturbed his mind a good deal from the fact that it was not an actual, instead of an ideal truth. As a great many conscientious people condemn the theatre, but fill the boxes of an opera, every night, this old-fashioned Christian listened to his son's spoken romances with infinite zest. They appealed keenly to his imagination, which found little aliment in any book he read, except when it seized upon the grandest of all poetry—that of the Bible.
So the father asked questions, the son answered them pleasantly, and that dear old lady sat smiling upon them both from behind her silver teapot; convinced from the depths of her heart that she was the happiest and most good-for-nothing old mother that ever drew the breath of life, and ought to be ashamed of herself for not deserving all this joy more thoroughly.
After breakfast, Thrasher took his hat, and prepared to go out. The old gentleman, in the innocence of his heart, proposed to accompany him, but Mrs. Thrasher began to nod and signalize him across the table, and he sat down rather bewildered.
"Don't you see," said the old lady, with a sweet, knowing smile, "Nelson is sure to find his way down to Mrs. Allen's—he must have loved us very much to come by without stopping last night. I shouldn't wonder if that girl kept him at home?"
"You don't say so!" exclaimed the father, in blank astonishment; "well, I never thought of that."
"Why, don't you remember how often he used to go there the time he came home before this, and how he went to York State to see her when she was out there with her uncle that winter, going to school."
"Well, wife, I shouldn't wonder if there was something in it," said the old man, going to the window and looking after his son.
The mother emitted a low, mellow laugh; she was rather proud of her quicker penetration, and patronized the old gentleman accordingly.
"Why of course there's something in it," she said, nestling herself up to his side, and putting a lock of gray hair back from his temples with her finger. "He'll hang round her a little while—go down the hill two or three times a day likely, while we don't seem to know any thing about it—and then think he's surprising us, when he says that he's going to marry Katharine Allen, if we've no objections. Of course we shan't have any—for she's a nice girl and handsome as a picture. Then there'll be a wedding down yonder. You'll buy the wine, and I'll find the cake. Mrs. Allen has got lots of homespun, and Nelson won't want much for a setting out, for this house isn't badly off for furniture, and I've been thinking of a new cherry-tree chest of drawers some time."
The old man laughed pleasantly.
"My wife, you've got them married and to housekeeping before he's crossed the top of the hill."
"But wouldn't it be nice? She's a smart girl, and might take a great deal of care off me. As for Nelson, if he once took to farming what a hand he would make at it!"
"And you believe all this?"
"Why shouldn't I? there's nothing unnatural about it, nor wrong either—besides I am sure Katharine likes him."
"Well, wife, any thing that keeps the boy at home will satisfy me. Marriage is an institution of the Lord, and no good man should say a word against it."
"Of course not, for that would be to slander our own youth. See, there is Nelson now, looking down toward Mrs. Allen's house. That's him under the but'nut tree. He's just stepped on the rock—you remember it. I wonder what he's flirting out his silk handkerchief for?"
"It's to scare off the crows, I reckon," answered the father, watching the movements of his son with some curiosity, "they're greater pests than ever, this year."
"No," said the old lady, "it's more than that. See, something moves on the other side of the stone wall. It's a woman—she's climbing over. Why don't he help her, I wonder? Yes, just as I thought, it is Katharine Allen. What do you say to that?"
"Well," answered the old man, flushing around the temples. "I say it isn't likely the young folks think that we are spying after them. If they want to have a talk by themselves, I'm sure we've no objections. You and I have been but'nutting together in our lives, haven't we?"