Bays Hollowstands on the very boundary line which separates Connecticut from New York. Half the valley was in one State, half in the other; but the minister's house, in fact the whole village, lay in Connecticut. Persons acquainted with the geography of that part of the country, will understand that the easiest mode of access to this place before railroads threw their iron belts from State to State, was by the Hudson river. Indeed, between New York and the minister's house, there was scarcely half a day's land travel, and that was easily accomplished in a stage-coach that ran twice a week from the river.
One night, it was late in the autumn, this stage-coach stopped at the minister's house, and after great trampling of horses, crashing of iron steps, and unhooking of straps, a lady was assisted out. Her trunk was set on the turf, a basket, and after that, a charming little girl was lifted through the door; bang—crash—a shout to the horses, and off the stage thundered, arousing the whole neighborhood with its noise.
Mrs. Prior came out with a white sun bonnet shading her modest face, and a tidy, black apron tied over her calico dress. The rich travelling costume of the lady, her stately beauty, joined with a haughty pride of carriage, impressed her greatly. The little girl was, no doubt, to be her pupil. What a lovely little fairy she was, with her blue eyes so full of light, and her curls falling in waves and dancing in ringlets over her shoulders.
"Is it Mrs. Prior?" inquired the traveller, with a sort of unpleasant politeness. "Your friend in New York recommended this as a quiet place where I and my daughter could be made comfortable for a few months."
"Yes, madame," said the lady, somewhat disturbed; "I desired scholars, not boarders only."
"And I bring you scholars, madame."
"One—yes, I see, and a sweet creature she is," said the minister's wife, looking at the little girl, who was drawing slowly toward her.
"More than one," answered the lady, blushing crimson; "I wish to study myself, partly to encourage the child, partly because I require lessons almost as much as she does."
"You, lady?"
"No matter about explanations. I have really come to be your pupil with my daughter; my education is deficient—I wish to learn. I am a widow, and quiet is good for me. I am quick, have a fine memory, and am willing to study hard. This is my object in coming—will you take me?"
"If you wish it, certainly; but we are plain people—the minister and I; our way of living may not suit you."
"Do not trouble yourself about that. I shall content myself with anything; it is knowledge I came after."
"I—I suppose my friend said something about terms," faltered the minister's wife, blushing.
"Certainly; but that was for children; of course I shall be more trouble. If I pay you just as much again will it answer?"
"It would be wrong to take it."
"Not at all; so if you will have the trunks carried in we can settle the terms comfortably. I am ready to pay half the sum in advance, and commence study at once."
Mrs. Prior called the hired girl to help carry in the trunks, and led the way into the parlor. Mr. Prior passed them in the hall and made one of his solemnly polite bows. The visitor answered it with a sweeping salutation, and entered the parlor a little discomfited.
"Your husband is a clergyman, as I understand?"
"Yes, he is the minister here; I hope you will like him."
"Oh, certainly."
The lady placed her travelling basket on the table, and opening it took out a heavy purse. Pouring out a quantity of gold she divided it without counting and pushed it toward Mrs. Prior.
"This will be sufficient to commence with, I fancy."
Mrs. Prior looked at the little pile of Louis d'or in absolute consternation. In her whole life she had never seen so much gold.
"It is good money," said the lady.
"Yes, doubtless," answered the minister's wife, examining a piece of gold. "French coin."
"You read French, then?"
"Oh, yes."
"And can teach it?"
"I think so."
"And how long will it take me to learn?"
"That depends on the—the powers of application you possess."
"Oh, never fear, I accomplish all I undertake—music too?"
"I have no instrument."
"But you can teach music?"
"Yes."
"Then if there is an instrument to be got we will have it. This is a nice, airy room, and a little more furniture would not hurt it."
Mrs. Prior was busy counting the gold; her face flushed, and she made sad mistakes.
"This is too much," she said. "It would cover board and tuition for a year."
"Well, perhaps we shall stay so long."
"But even then——"
The lady made an impatient gesture.
"Pray don't trouble me about the money. If it is enough, well—if not, I will give you more."
Here the minister came in. His wife moved toward him with the gold in her hands.
"See what the Lord has done for us through this lady," she said.
He glanced at the gold, smiled benignly, and with gentle politeness inquired the lady's name.
"Mrs. Mason—Ellen Mason, of South Carolina," she answered, coloring as she spoke. "Rose, my dear, come and shake hands with the gentleman."
Rose shut the fanciful little basket that she carriedon her arm and came forward smiling in all her features; but as she stood on tiptoe pursing her pretty mouth like a rosebud, her mother took up the basket. The little girl saw it, broke away from the minister's hold and ran back, crying out:
"Oh, ma—ma! take care or you'll break my string of robins' eggs!"
Snow! deep, deep snow everywhere! It lay three feet on a level in the river vale. It spread a shining crust over the hills. It lodged in the branches of the densely green pine woods, and whitened the roof of every house in the neighborhood. The burying-ground on the hill, was wrapped so deep in a fleecy shroud, that you could hardly distinguish the marble grave-stones from its white surface, and the church, always a beautiful object, with its slender steeple and white walls, looked like a temple wrought from the snow itself—something that the angels had visited overnight, and left spotless as themselves.
With all this depth and volume of snow, crusted over as it had been by a sharp frost, it was almost impossible that the roads could be broken in a single day. Still, a few ox sleds had marked out the line of the turnpike, and some sleighs had followed in their track, with a wrangle of bells that told of the struggle made by thesmoking horses which drew them. On the bank of the river, on the Chewstown side, the highway runs along the side of a hill, which terminates abruptly at the bridge, where the New Haven turnpike intersects it.
There is nothing very beautiful about the spot now, for the hemlocks, and young tamarisks are all cut down, the dog-wood and shad-blossoms cleared away, and the hill is almost left without a shade. But at the time of this snow-storm, the naked boughs and evergreens proved how thick and green the summer shadows must be, and if the "Rock Spring" sent its waters flashing through the snow, melting it softly away, you could, at least, imagine how cool and bright they were when ferns, mosses, and violets crept into the turf, and covered the rocks with the green and azure of a spring birth.
This road was not generally so much travelled as the one across the sand banks, but two or three loads of wood had passed that way, revealing the depths of the drifts without rendering them much more passable. Still a "solitary horseman" came out from the shelter of the hemlocks, and made his way very slowly toward the bridge. His horse, a stout animal, with any amount of mane and foretop streaming in the wind, came tramping heavily through the snow, emitting clouds of steam from his sides, while each labored breath bearded his under lip with icicles, and fringed his dilating nostrils with quivering frost-work.
The man who had braved that almost impassable road and cold day, was one of the most remarkable personages known in that portion of the country. His very eccentricities gave force and vitality to the general regard. Singular in person, singular in character, unlike all other men in almost every particular, he was, perhaps,somewhat for this very reason, looked up to and reverenced as the peculiar property of the neighborhood. Learned he certainly was; and neither before or after has another man been found who could, in all things, pretend to fill his place.
This man was the village doctor; no, the district doctor, rather, for his ride extended over thirty miles, and as a consulting physician over the whole State. With a huge bear-skin cap upon his head, and an ample brown overcoat, girded to his waist by a broad leather belt, and falling low on each side of his horse, he issued from behind the trees. Two crutches, worn smooth as glass, were crossed before him on the saddle bow. He held the bridle loosely in his hands and encouraged the horse with many a droll saying, as if the animal were human and could enjoy his quaint humor. At the "Rock Spring" there was a struggle between the doctor and his steed. For an unknown number of years the horse had invariably quenched his thirst in that particular place, and he was determined not to make this day an exception, though a deep round hole, scarcely larger than the doctor's cap, and a moist sinking of the snow across the road might have deceived a less sagacious animal into a belief that this old drinking place had been swallowed up by the storm.
There was no deceiving our doctor's brown horse in any thing, much less in a case of appetite like that. He was a dainty animal in the matter of drink, and water so pure and crystaline as that which lost its smothered music in the snow, was not to be found within twenty miles.
The doctor was in haste, or he never would have dreamed of contesting any thing with his faithful steed.Indeed, the case must have been one of life or death which could bring any man on the highway at a time like that. He began to protest and reason with the horse after his eccentric fashion, and finally went so far as to gather up the bridle and tighten the bit, a procedure which so astonished the horse that he backed sideways into a drift, viciously slanted his ears, and subsided into a state of masterly inactivity, the most difficult thing to conquer that we know of, either in statesmanship or horseflesh.
The doctor chuckled, laid the bridle down caressingly on the neck that had made a lamentable failure in striving to arch itself, and folding his hands in the loose sleeves of his overdress, waited. Obstinate animals and obstinate men are apt to feel as if fighting the air when no one opposes them. The horse began to realize this sensation. The snow-drift into which he had backed was cold and deep. The waters of the spring murmured a soft enticement. First, he pointed one ear and turned his head with sly, compunctious timidity, as if ashamed to enjoy his own triumph. Then he pointed the other ear, shook himself a little, tramped heavily toward the spring, and thrusting his head deep into the snow, began to drink.
The doctor indulged in a laugh, and when the horse withdrew his head, shaking a storm of drops back into the spring, he patted him softly, called him a good fellow for having his own way, and appeared so much like the obliged party that the animal, to his dying hour, was never quite certain of his own triumph.
After all, this struggle had taken but little time. The horse breasted his work with fresh vigor after it. He pushed through and trampled down the snow until hereached the bridge, stalked over it, toiled through the valley and up Falls Hill, never stopping till he reached the huge willow tree which stood on the crossroad that led to Bungy. This was a farming district, back of Castle Rock, where the Thrasher farm and Mrs. Allen's place lay.
While the doctor was breathing his horse under the willow, a teamster passed with a large sled, on which some bags of grain were piled. He stopped his oxen with a flourish of the goad, and a storm of who—who-o-as, while he held a little conversation.
"Tough teaming this!" he said. "Hard on young cattle; but somebody must go first. Any of the neighbors dangerous out this way, doctor?"
"No," answered the doctor, with a twinkle of the eye.
"Then what on arth brings you out?"
"Wanted a ride, and thought perhaps I could hunt up a patient."
"Wal, now I shouldn't a thought it! Which way are you a going, if I may be so bold?"
"Haven't decided. If you've got a copper in your pocket, toss up. It's all the same to me."
The man took a new cent from his pocket, and balancing it on his thumb nail, he called out——
"Which'll ye have, doctor?"
"Heads."
Up flashed the cent into the sunshine, then down to the teamster's feet, where it made a deep, round hole in the snow.
"Heads it is, doctor," cried the man, fishing his coin up in a handful of flakes.
"True enough! then I will ride over the hill. That toss up decides it."
"You'll never get there, doctor; drifts over your head."
The doctor was ploughing his way up the Bungy road, and did not seem to hear this prediction. He was evidently very anxious to go forward, and encouraged his horse with sharp ejaculations, as they approached the hills. The animal understood it all, and lending himself to the work, stamped and pursued his way onward with the perseverance of a veteran; but his progress was necessarily slow, and the doctor's broad forehead gathered into an anxious frown under his cap.
"Poor thing—poor thing—she may be dead before we get there," he muttered more than once, and then he would commence expostulating with the horse, who, good fellow, was doing his very best. Just as they were ascending the brow of the hill, a woman was seen in advance, wildly pushing her way through the snow. She saw the doctor, and waved her arms in distracted haste, beckoning him to come on.
The doctor must have been insane with anxiety to have ventured on it. But he seized one of his crutches and gave the horse a back-handed blow. A plunge that almost unseated the imprudent man—a storm of snow about his ears, and the animal broke into one of the most extraordinary gaits that ever a horseman experienced—backing down, rushing forward, and making side movements that came very near landing the doctor head foremost in a huge wave-like drift that covered the fence close by to its topmost rail.
At last, with great coaxing and expostulation, this state of things was reduced to the most awkward attempt at a trot, which the exasperated animal persisted in, though his efforts were broken up at every other step.
The woman stood for a minute knee-deep in the snow. She only ceased wringing her hands to beckon him forward. When certain that he was doing his best, she turned and walked quickly up the road, and entered Mrs. Allen's house.
"I thought so—I feared it," muttered the doctor, "but who ever saw riding like this? It's like wading through a desert of cotton wool. Don't you think so, old fellow?"
The horse was indignant yet, and scorned to give any sign that he understood those conciliatory tones, even by a twinkle of the ear. On he scrambled, deeply injured in his feelings, but resolved to do his duty, and leave the rest on his master's conscience.
At last they reached the gate which led to Mrs. Allen's house. With his crutches making deep holes in the snow at every step, the doctor made for the door, which was opened hurriedly, and Mrs. Allen stood pale as death, with a wild light in her eyes, waiting for him to come in.
The door was closed, and only opened for a moment for the pale, stern woman to come forth, with a blanket in her arms, which she threw over the smoking horse, and went in again.
Then a dead, heavy blank came upon the house, and all that surrounded it. The horse fell into a doze under his blanket. Not a living thing was in view, nothing but the dreary white bosom of the earth, and a soft curl of smoke that rose from the Thrasher homestead, which was itself invisible, a little farther over the hill, though the naked twigs of the poplar trees in front could be seen against the sky. Once, the horse started, and pointed his ears, as if some familiar sound had reachedhim, but his head drooped again directly. The sound, if any had troubled him, was so indistinct that he rejected it as a delusion. When the doctor came out, it was with a thoughtful, anxious look that seldom visited his face. No one followed him to the door, and he sighed heavily while climbing to his seat on the saddle.
On his way home the doctor met several persons, who in the kind-hearted curiosity usual to the place, inquired who was sick enough to call him out in such terrible weather. He answered, with quizzical gravity, that he had been to visit old Mr. Lane over the hill, a man of ninety, who was suffering dreadfully with the whooping-cough.
"The whooping-cough, and he full ninety—why I never heard of such a thing," said one of the questioners; "I thought nothing but children ever had that disease."
"True enough; but you forget that old Mr. Lane is in his second childhood," answered the doctor.
The man's face brightened.
"Yes, yes," he said, "that accounts for it. I never thought of the second childhood. Does the old chap whoop much?"
"Awfully, awfully! Good-day!" and the doctor rode on, chuckling pleasantly to his horse; but the gleam of humor soon died from his features, and they grew anxious again—so anxious, that you might have fancied that his visit had been to a death-bed.
Thewidow Allen sat by her kitchen fire, and a sterner, sadder woman never drew breath than she appeared on the day after that stormy visit from the doctor. She was waiting for him now. Her eyes, full of sullen thought, dwelt on the fire. Her feet were planted hard on the hearth—every thing about her looked unyielding and stiff—the high-backed chair, the full borders of her cap, and the white kerchief folded over her bosom—the very grief in her features seemed frozen there.
"Mother!"
This voice came from an inner room, the one which Mrs. Allen had occupied during her sickness. Its faint sweetness drew the old woman from her sombre mood. She arose and entered the apartment where her daughter lay.
The room was dimly lighted, for besides the usual blinds, a patch-work quilt, glowing with gorgeous colors, had been stretched across the only window it contained. As a great proportion of scarlet and green predominated in the quilt, it gave a richness to the atmosphere somewhat like that which streams through stained glass in a chancel window.
Katharine lay upon the bed among pillows, white as the snow drifting outside, and with a pretty cap shading her delicate features.
"Did you call, Katharine?" questioned the mother, in her clear, cold way.
"Yes, mother; my head begins to ache. A little while ago I was cold, now hot flushes are running all over me. Is this fever, do you think?"
The old woman lifted a corner of the quilt from over the window, and looked in her daughter's face.
Katharine shrunk from the glance.
"Oh, mother, don't look at me so—it makes me tremble!"
Mrs. Allen dropped the quilt, and, ignoring the fears of her child, answered to the first question.
"You are getting excited, but I think not feverish."
"Mother."
"Well, Katharine."
"I want—I wish—"
The poor thing made an effort to pull down the bed-clothes, but her hand trembled so violently that she could only make a faint signal before it fell.
The mother was touched. What woman, however aggrieved, would have resisted those mournful eyes? She went close to the bed, and turned down the blanket. A babe lay sleeping on that young creature's bosom, its little hand resting like a rose leaf, on her neck. A cloud of soft, golden hair covered its head. Mrs. Allen turned her face away, but the magnetism of those blue eyes drew it softly toward the child.
"You are its grandmother—and oh, tell me if I am your child yet?"
The young creature began to tremble as she uttered these words. This disturbed the infant, and the grandmother found a pair of soft, dreamy eyes looking into hers. The angels who guard little children may have thrown a heavenly earnestness into the child's look; I do not know—but it touched that stern heart more thanthe young mother's appeal had done. She stooped and took the babe in her arms; a thousand sweet, maternal recollections rose in her bosom as she pillowed it there, and laid her face against its velvet cheek.
Katharine smiled. "Mother, is it like me—like what I was once?"
"Yes."
The woman could not utter another word. When a rock is cleft, the fragments half choke up the waters that gush through them.
"Mother, my head troubles me, and I'm afraid if fever comes I may lose my senses; but I know every thing now, and want you to believe me. All that I have told you is true. It isn't because I am ashamed, but he will be here in a few days—I am sure of that. It is now more than three months, and he promised solemnly to come by that time. This is why we must not say any thing to the neighbors; they might not credit me, you know; but when he is here, who will dare turn against me? You believe that we are married, dear mother?"
"Yes, I believe it, Katharine."
"If I should be worse, you will find the paper in the garret, between one of the rafters and the shingles. Nobody must be allowed to say a word against this child when I am dead."
"Nor againstmychild while I live!" answered Mrs. Allen. "For this reason, it must be made known in the neighborhood that you are that man's wife."
"Not quite yet. It will be time enough when some one comes," pleaded the young creature. "Nelson may be on the road now. The doctor won't tell, he promised me."
She was getting excited with opposition; her cheeks were scarlet. The soft blue eyes began to glitter.
"Promise, mother! It kills me to think what the neighbors will say; but when he comes, I shall be so proud to take my baby in my arms—and—and—" She broke off, and lifting one hand to her head, began waving it to and fro.
Mrs. Allen saw that there was great danger in this agitation, and attempted to soothe it.
"Promise not to tell! promise not to tell!" cried the invalid, panting for breath, and moving restlessly on her pillow.
"Yes, Katharine; I promise not to say any thing for a week at least."
"He will be here in a week! he will be here in a week."
Katharine kept whispering this over and over again, until she fell asleep from pure exhaustion. It was some time before the crimson flush left her face, or the quick breath subsided to the calm respiration that followed; but at last she slept tranquilly as the infant which still lay on its grandmother's bosom.
Mrs. Allen sat down by the kitchen fire. She could not find it in her heart to put the babe away after its little face had once touched her own. Seating herself in the high-backed chair, she began rocking to and fro—and as the love of that little child crept, like a perfume, to her heart, hatred to its father slowly disappeared, as a kingly essence destroys all evil odors. She began to think how pleasant it would be to live in closer connection with the good old couple over the hill, and how much she had to be thankful for, that her daughter was not, in fact, the outcast she had almost believed her. As this spirit of gratitude took possession of her heart, she began to hum over a cradle song, which had almostdied out of her memory, and tender dews stole into her eyes, of which she was quite unconscious, until the fire began to look hazy under her steady glance.
Our God uses little children as instruments of great tenderness. They want no key to the hardest heart; but go in, without knocking, and nestle themselves like birds in a strange nest, carrying gentleness and blessings with them. So it was with this little mite of humanity. In the helplessness of its animal life, it appealed to the stern woman's heart without challenging the stubborn pride that nothing could conquer. So she softened down, and from touching the little face, began to kiss it, and finally converted her lap into a cradle and commenced trotting the baby on her knees with the most womanly gentleness.
The doctor found her in this condition when he came in the afternoon. Katharine was still asleep, and the two held a confidential talk on the hearth-stone, in which the young creature's condition was thoroughly discussed. When told of the great dread which the young mother felt regarding any present publicity being given to her marriage, or the existence of the child, the doctor rather sided with that view of the question.
"The truth is," he said, "we should have gossip and questions, guesses and scandal, running through the neighborhood like wildfire. Let the young fellow come back and settle the whole matter for himself. There is no reason on earth why you should see company. Besides, the state of the roads will keep everybody away."
"I never have much company, and don't want any just now; as for explaining what——"
"Is nobody's business; why, it's just what you dislike, and the thought of it has, by your own account,driven the young creature half beside herself. Just let the thing alone, Mrs. Allen; where there is no one to talk with, there is nothing to tell."
"I will neither seek my neighbors, nor withhold the truth if they demand it of me," said the widow.
The doctor gathered up his crutches, with a show of impatience, and muttered something not over complimentary to the sea, and all that followed it.
His voice aroused the patient in the next room, who called out:
"Who is there, mother? Has he come?"
The doctor stumped across the room, and stood balanced on his crutches looking at her.
"Oh, is it you, doctor?" she said, in a voice that plainly spoke the disappointment that she felt.
"Well, it seems impossible to mistake myself for anybody else, or I should deny being fool enough to come this road twice."
"But you are here. It is very, very kind. You don't know how much I feel it; besides, I want to say something."
"Never mind, I know what it is; have been talking it over in the next room. Want to be quiet, natural; sick people always do. Hate to have a lot of old women screeching over the baby, and asking questions enough to drive a Christian mother into Bedlam—natural again, why not? nuisance—women ought to be prohibited as a sex by act of Congress—a few exceptions, no doubt; but patriotic women are ready to be flung overboard for the general good."
Katharine looked a little bewildered, and quite weary. She was thinking about her own troubles, and had not strength enough for any thing else.
"Did any one ask you about us, doctor?"
"About you? no—about where I was going, fifty."
"And you told them?"
"Yes, of course I told 'em; why not?"
Katharine turned very white, and gasped for breath.
"You told them about me—about my baby?"
"Bah child, no; but I told 'em old Lane had caught the whooping-cough, and that will keep the whole town in gossip at least a week."
Katharine began to laugh—she was but a young thing, and the idea amused her excessively.
"Stop that, or it'll end in hysterics," he said, frowning upon her with comical affectation; but she smiled yet, and her pale cheek flushed. Still, the anxieties that pressed upon her were too real, and she became grave again.
"You wont say anything about it, please," she murmured. "The minute he comes, they shall know everything. I'm not very strong; if it wasn't for that you should read the certificate now; but it's up-stairs, and so we must wait."
"Never mind, my little Katy-did, I can wait, and so shall the rest of them; never fear."
"You're very good!" murmured Katharine, faintly; "I shall sleep without dreaming such frightful things after this."
She closed her eyes a moment, and then opened them with a start.
"Where's the baby?"
"In your mother's lap—don't you hear her buzzing over it like a bumble bee?"
"Is it—is that her?" whispered the young mother, and a beautiful smile stole into her eyes. "I don't remember ever hearing her sing before."
"Oh, she'll soon break in—no fool like a grandmother."
"How pleasant it sounds," murmured the young mother, listening to the low hum which came from the next room, and ignoring the doctor's speech entirely. "I didn't know mother's voice was so sweet. It makes me sleepy."
"Then shut your eyes and go to dreaming at once; a good sleep will do you more good than I can," said the doctor, wheeling round on his crutches, and stumping off into the next room. Here he gave Mrs. Allen a quaint reprimand for allowing her patient to put herself into a fever, and warned her that the next excitement might go to the brain and raise the mischief. Then he chucked the baby under its mite of a chin, which the little thing returned with an incipient hiccough instead of a smile, which was altogether beyond its powers, after which he mounted his horse and rode off, chuckling over the mystifications which all questioners were sure to get, on his way home.
Itchanced, during the week, that another fall of snow blocked up the roads just as they were getting well trodden down. This kept the people in-doors, and Mrs. Allen was left to the entire solitude she so much desired. The doctor only came once after the visit we have mentioned.That time Mrs. Allen had been compelled to leave the house. Her firewood was out, and she had gone in search of a neighbor who had promised her to haul a load from the forest back of Castle Rock. The distance was considerable, and the walking toilsome, beside the neighbor she sought had gone out after his team and she was compelled to wait.
It was during her absence that the doctor went to the house. He found Katharine improving; still excitable on the subject of her husband's return, and listening for his step at every movement, but apparently so happy with the growth of her child, that even this craving wish could not materially impede her well-doing.
The doctor had a tedious ride before him, and only remained long enough to be sure that there was really nothing to require his stay, and rode off. He was in the more haste because dull, leaden clouds were gathering in the sky, and fine snow came down at intervals, threatening a heavier fall.
On his way down the hill he met the town carrier, a man who distributed papers, and transported parcels for the whole neighborhood, to and from New Haven, twice each week. Sometimes he brought letters from the post-office. Indeed, from a three cent whistle to a dressed pig in killing time, he refused nothing that came within the capacity of his one-horse wagon, or could be sheltered by its oil-cloth cover. This man nodded to the doctor, and after passing him, gave a little blast from his tin horn to notify the next house that he was about to stop there.
This house was Mrs. Allen's. Katharine was in her room, and was ignorant that her mother had not returned. She started up in bed at the first sound of the horn, and cried out:
"Run, mother, run. It is the carrier, he may bring news. Nelson has come passenger. I'm sure of it!"
The carrier drew up before the house, and waited a minute for some one to come forth. But no oneappearedand with an impatient growl at the delay he jumped out of his wagon, opened the street door, and flung a letter through, muttering that he would call for the postage some other time, a storm was coming on, and he was late already.
Katharine saw the letter, gave a cry of joy, such as those humble walls never heard again, and sprang to the floor, leaving her child asleep in the bed. She seized the letter and tore it open; three or four bank notes fluttered around her, falling unheeded, about the room. She strove to read, but the paper rattled in her hands—dizzy and weak she could not distinguish a word of the few that danced before her eyes. She went back to the bed, seized one of the posts of the bedstead, and steadied herself desperately.
"Katharine, it cannot be helped, I am going on a whaling voyage; nothing better presented itself, and I must not be idle. The ship will be gone three years at least, perhaps more, but there is a chance for making money. I send you all that has been advanced to me; when that is gone go to my father, as I told you."Nelson Thrasher."
"Katharine, it cannot be helped, I am going on a whaling voyage; nothing better presented itself, and I must not be idle. The ship will be gone three years at least, perhaps more, but there is a chance for making money. I send you all that has been advanced to me; when that is gone go to my father, as I told you.
"Nelson Thrasher."
She grew blind. A dull, sickening weight fell upon her. She strove to creep into bed, clambered to the edge upon her knees, and fell forward, with her face pressed to the pillow, which settled slowly down, and buried the sleeping child—a struggle—a faint, stifled sound—a scarcely perceptible upheaving of the pillow, and all was still.
There was no change in the mother; white as marble, she had fallen upon her face—lifeless as marble she lay until the great clock in the kitchen tolled the hour.
The struggle of her coming misery was terrible. She turned and sat upon the bed, with her white feet hanging over the edge. The shawl which Mrs. Allen had folded over her shoulders from fear of cold, hung loosely adown her long night robe. She began to shiver, and drew it around her, hugging it to her bosom, but some idea of its emptiness seized upon her. She opened the shawl and looked down upon her flowing night dress wonderingly, as if she had lost something. Then her eyes were turned vaguely around the bed. She lifted a corner of the blanket, and finding nothing, impatiently pushed the pillow aside.
There it lay—her little babe, asleep, and yet not asleep. Insane fire flashed to her eyes; fever leaped, and burned in all her veins; angry defiance blazed in her face. She was stunned before, but maddened now. Somebody had been trying to kill her babe with too much warmth. Her mother had done it. Her stern mother, who never would forgive, and had always hated the Thrasher blood. She would come back and try again. How flushed and hot its little face looked. How menacingly its tiny fist was clenched. Something very cruel must have been done before it came to that. How soundly she had slept to know nothing of this. But her mother should never harm it again. She knew of a nice cool place under the great butternut where it could have a beautiful blanket of snow, with light icicles shimmering over it from the branches. Nobody could find it there, and that strange look of pain would change to quiet sleep.
Prompted by these insane thoughts, the young mother seized her child, folded it closely to her bosom, under the shawl, and fled from the house. She hurried on, her white feet sinking in the snow at every step. The crust cut her ankles, but she was unaware of the pain. The wind whistled through her night dress, but she only laughed—its sharpness would drive that terrible red from her baby's face. She clambered the stone wall twice, into the orchard, and across another lot, until she reached the rock beneath the butternut branches, now without a leaf.
A shelf of the rock shot out from the drift that almost buried it. She took off her shawl, wrapped it tenderly about the child, laid it on this shelf, and began to work. She tore the glittering crust away, fell upon her knees, and commenced hurling the loose snow out with her hands, until a cradle was scooped in the drift. Then she gathered up an armful of the flakes, moulded and patted them into a pillow, and hushing the baby in her arms a moment, laid it down. She covered it with a soft blanket of snow, placed the icy crust carefully over it, and then stopped, and looked about bewildered, as if wondering what she could do next.
By this time the cold had pierced her to the vitals, but the fever met it fiercely and shook that delicate form like a reed. She sat down on the rock, gazing at the little white grave, as if she had just buried her heart there; and was afraid that some one would trample on it. The cold was doing its work; a few moments more and she would never have left the rock again. But some imaginary noise frightened her. She started up, forgot every thing, and flew toward the house—the light hair floating back from under her cap, and her thin garments flutteringthrough the atmosphere like shadows. The door was partly open—she darted in, crossed the kitchen, and springing to the centre of her bed, covered herself up with the clothes, shuddering and laughing in the same breath.
Atlast the old woman came in. With the sly instincts of insanity, Katharine lay still, holding the blankets over her head, pretending to be asleep.
The old lady did not attempt to disturb her, but merely looked in to see that all was quiet, and went to the kitchen. To her surprise, she found the outer door open. The wind had swept in, scattering snow and ashes over the floor. This had produced a draught down the wide-mouthed chimney, and filled the room with smoke. Mrs. Allen threw up a sash, which produced an eddy of wind and sent some loose papers flying toward the hearth—one, which seemed to be a letter, floated by her and was drawn up the chimney, catching fire as it went; another was following, but she grasped it in time, and found that the flimsy bit of silk paper was a bank bill of considerable amount. Two others she picked up from the floor.
Who could have been in her house? How was it possible for so much money to have found its way there? She went into the bedroom, resolved to question Katharine,who heard her coming, and crouched under the bedclothes.
"Katharine! Katharine!"
No answer.
The old lady, fearing she scarcely knew what, went up to the bed and turned down the clothes. There was a little resistance, and then Katharine looked up with a frightened smile, trembling terribly either with dread or cold.
"Who has been here since I went away, Katharine?"
"I don't know."
"But look! Where did all this money come from?"
"I don't know."
And, indeed, she did not know, never having taken a thought of that portion of Thrasher's letter; even the epistle itself only whirled through the chaos of her mind, like dead leaves in a tempest.
Mrs. Allen examined the money again, while Katharine eyed her with the sharp cunning of insanity.
"How you shake, child? The open door has given you a chill."
"It was too warm! too warm!" muttered the poor creature; "crimson hot, crimson hot!"
Mrs. Allen was so surprised with the money that she did not heed the strange murmur of her daughter. She put the bills away in an old teapot in the corner cupboard. Then something struck her as unnatural in the stillness of the room, and she went back again.
"Is the baby asleep yet?" she inquired, sitting down by the bed.
Katharine shrunk away from her; but answered in a quick, eager way:
"Yes; it sleeps sweetly, sweetly, sweetly."
This strange repetition of one word drew Mrs. Allen's attention more closely to the invalid. There was something strange in her face—a gleam of vigilant cunning in the eyes that made the mother anxious.
"How soundly the little thing sleeps," she said.
"Yes, soundly," was the answer.
"Move a little, and let me take it up."
"No!"
A look of defiance came into that beautiful face. Katharine was resolved to defend her secret to the last moment.
Mrs. Allen became frightened; forced the bedclothes from that feeble grasp, and stooped down to search for the child.
It was gone!
"Where—oh, Katharine—where is the baby?"
A gleam of infinite craft stole into those blue eyes.
"What baby?"
"Yours, yours—our own little child! who has taken it away?"
"Nobody."
"Then where is it?"
"Asleep; didn't I tell you so?"
Mrs. Allen rushed into the kitchen and searched it in every corner. The smoke had cleared away, and she discovered tracks of a small, naked foot in the loose snow that had drifted into the room. Where was the child? what could have happened? Mrs. Allen rushed distractedly into the street, just as the neighbor whom she had been in search of drove up with a load of wood on his sled.
"Hello! what's the matter, Mrs. Allen?" he called out, as she came toward the gate, pale as death, and wringing her hands.
"Our baby—my little grandchild—it is gone!"
The man stopped and emitted a low whistle.
"So there was something in all that talk," he muttered, "hard as I stood up for her."
"I only left to run down to your house—we hadn't another armful of wood. When I came back, the outdoor was open, the room full of smoke, and she all alone! Oh, God help me, what can I do!"
"Just go into the house, and let us talk it all over," said the kind-hearted farmer, leaving his oxen; "I don't understand."
"Oh, we cannot stop to talk—the child must be found. Isn't that Mr. Stokes coming up the hill? Call him—we must search—we must find it."
The farmer called out for Mr. Stokes to hurry forward, and at the same time ran to meet him. The two men stood talking together some minutes, then came toward the house in company.
Mrs. Allen had gone back to her daughter, and with tears raining down her face, was pleading with her. Poor woman! it was many years since she had cried like that, but when an infant comes to a lonely house, the fountain of tears is sure to swell afresh in the most stern bosom. The sweet word, "grandmother," had been applied to her. The baby's little heart had stirred against her own; without that child, all the stern desolation of her life would come back again.
But Katharine could not answer.
The two men came in, looking curious and excited; their presence seemed to strike Katharine dumb. She lay with her eyes wide open, staring at them. A vague smile wandered on her lips as they questioned her, but no words.
Baffled and still anxious, the men went into the kitchen again, leaving Mrs. Allen behind. They saw the tracks still imprinted on the floor, and followed them with keen observation. The tracks continued out into the yard, turned there, and led toward the orchard. One naked footprint was stamped on the top of the stone wall, as if a leap had pressed it deeply there. After this there was little trouble—broken places in the snow crust led them on till they stood by the rock under the butternut tree.
It is strange how soon a crowd will collect, if any thing unusual is going on, even in the remotest places. A good many people were on the road, some going to the stores at Chewstown or Falls Hill, some taking grists to mill, and others loitering on their way to the tavern, whose red sign swung on the river road a little beyond Rock Spring.
Before the two men, who tracked that terrible path, had touched the little white grave by the rock, some half-dozen persons had collected around it. A feeling of awe kept the first comers from touching the broken snow-crust; but now, a man in the crowd thrust it aside with his foot, and the rest set to work.
It took but little time to remove the white covering beneath, and, after a moment's work, the dead infant was found wrapped in a shawl, which was recognized by more than one present as belonging to Katharine Allen.
A feeling of profound consternation fell upon the little group of farmers, as they lifted the infant from its grave. The face, now pale and cold, was all uncovered, flakes of snow trembled in the golden hair, and the winds blew over it so sharply, that one of the men putforth his hand, and drew the shawl softly over its head, muttering, "God forgive its mother!"
No funeral ever was marked with more solemn faces than those which followed the dead infant back to the house. No word was spoken aloud, but hoarse whispers passed from lip to lip, and the hardiest man there shrunk from carrying that mournful burden into the presence of its grandmother.
A terrible presentiment of the truth had fallen upon the old woman. She had failed to win any thing from her daughter, and, with a sinking heart, listened to the men crunching the snow under their feet, as they went toward the orchard. For the world she could not have gone to the door or remained upright upon her feet. The old high-back chair stood on the hearth; she sat down. The fire flamed up and flickered over her white features. Those little tracks upon the floor fascinated her gaze. They melted and run into each other, taking uncouth shapes, but, in her eyes, there had been no change. These two little footprints, in disappearing from the floor, seemed to burn themselves into her heart.
She sat still listening, but there was no sound except the soughing of the wind among the naked apple trees. Katharine lay still in her bed, exulting in the safety which she had secured for her child, but craftily silent lest some one should find out her secret. Filled with this idea she held her breath, as if that would betray her.
Thus the stillness was profound. There was no confusion in the woman's mind now. Her quick, clear intellect had seized upon the broad facts of the case. She struggled against them, but the child was gone, and those footprints on the floor were obliterating, but notdried out. After a time she heard a strange sound in the road—the heavy tramp of feet, followed by suppressed voices near the gate. With a prayer to God she arose, walked to the door, cast it wide open, and stood on the threshold with her arms extended. It was like laying a dead child into a dead woman's bosom when the man placed his burden in those arms.
Inone of those common hotels, frequented by the better class of seamen who enter New York, David Rice had taken up his quarters, accompanied by little Paul and Jube. With the bravery of a Nelson, he had carried the disabled brig safely into a Southern port, with her cargo all safe; an act of heroism that had secured the warmest approbation of her owners, and what was far better, an appointment to the command of the craft he had saved.
While the repairs were going on, David, exultant and happy, had proceeded with his two friends to the commercial emporium, where he became sadly puzzled what course to take next, for two more simple hearted and helpless creatures never existed.
"Now," said David, going into a select committee of one on the subject; "now when a chap saves the life of another chap, big or little, and turns his face about from a long voyage, where all is provided for, he's induty bound to adopt that other chap, and take good care of him so long as he can't take care of himself. Now that's just your case, David Rice. What on arth can these poor critters do without you? Nothing—that's sartin. What can you do for them?—there's the puzzler. As for work, the nigger is strong as a lion; but he's used to hot weather, and a cold snap curls him right up. As for the boy—poor little soul—no Yankee baby was ever half so helpless; and yet, how brave the little chap is! What am I to do with 'em? They can't live here when I'm away to sea; and as for working, why the nigger himself hasn't the least idee what work means!"
This consultation was held in English, while its objects sat close together, looking at the sailor as he laid down the case and expostulated with himself, pro and con, with considerable energy.
"Jube," he said, in broken French, feeling in sad want of counsel, "Jube, what do you say to living in the country?"
"Oh, anywhere Jube is ready to live—anywhere that little masser and you like!" cried the negro, eagerly.
"Well, say in a nice, cosy place up in Connecticut, with plenty of chores to do, and no hard work."
"Yes, masser Rice," said Jube, attempting English.
"Then, our little Paul, he ought to go to school—capital district school on Shrub Oak—beautiful red school-house, with the turnpike running in front, and a river back of it. You can hear the water sing all day long, behind the hemlock bushes. Besides, there's an apple tree at one end that bears splendid green apples, and a bell pear tree, that the scholars are forbid to look at. Then—keep that to yourself Paul, no one but Kateever found it out—but, there's a hollow at one end of the school-house, and the banks are covered with strawberry vines, white in the spring, and red all under the grass where the sun has shined on 'em long enough—sich strawberries, plump as a baby's mouth, and sweet as its kisses. What do you think of that, Paul?"
The little fellow did not quite comprehend what Rice was talking about, but the subject seemed a pleasant one, so he replied, in broken English, that he should like it very much indeed.
"Yes," said Dave, kindling into enthusiasm by a remembrance of his own school days, brief as they had been, and spent in a much less pleasant place than the one he described. "Yes, I kinder see you now, with yer dinner basket on one arm—the squaws, back of Chewstown, make scrumptious little baskets, now I tell yer—and Webster's blue-covered spelling book under t'other, a marching off to that ere seat of larning which I've been telling you about. The picter is so enticing that I'm in a hurry to begin. Have you ever been to school?"
The boy looked at Jube in doubt what to answer.
"District school, I mean," said Dave, with a flourish of the hand. "Where the master or mistress boards about, and ferrules the children with a pine ruler, if they don't toe a crack every spelling time."
"No," said Paul, meekly, "I never did."
"Nor you nuther, Jube?"
Jube opened his great eyes in wonder at the question. It seemed too astonishing for any other reply.
"Then you hain't neither of you got a bit of larning?" continued Rice, patronizingly, "can't read nor write, I reckon."
Paul understood this, and brightened up.
"Oh, yes, Monsieur Rice, I read and write, and do much things in French. All my life the tutor has taught me how."
"You can, eh! then jist show us what kind of a fist you make of it. Hallo, here, waiter, bring up pen and ink, with some paper. I want to see how far this little chap has got along in his eddecation."
The orders were obeyed, and Paul sat down to the rickety table, smiling as he began to write. Rice stood with his feet wide apart and a hand in each pocket, looking over the boy's shoulder.
"By jingo, you write like a lady!" he cried, filled with exultation; "and hain't never been to school! it's 'stonishing. Now let me hear you spell. We'll skip over the abs, and plunge right into deep larning at once. Now spell Baker."
Rice plunged his hands deeper into both pockets and shook himself like a mastiff, satisfied that the boy had got a puzzler now. And so he had, for it was his first effort at English, and the word, as he tried to syllable it, was so sweetly broken that Dave shook his head.
"Isn't it right?" inquired Paul, anxiously.
"Well, no, not exactly; but don't be down-hearted. It's a tough word. I remember studying it over and over again. So keep a stiff upper lip."
"But I shall learn English?" said Paul.
"In course you shall. There's a seat in Shrub Oak school-house waiting for you now—the very one sister Kate used to set in, bless her purty face—won't she knit woollen comforters for you. The old woman, too. I say, look a here, shaver, you never saw such a home as you'll find with my women folks. No skim milk about them, now I tell you."
"Is there good fire," inquired Jube, shivering with the cold, though a bright blaze flamed on the hearth.
"A good fire? Well I should think so—back logs as big as porpoises, and fore sticks to match, trust the old woman for that."
Jube rubbed his hands, and displayed the edge of his firm, white teeth in a satisfied smile. Warmth was the thing he pined for just then.
"Now that it's settled, supposing we go out and get some good thick clothes for the shaver, Jube; them silk stockings and finefied shoes aint the thing, though you do wash and brush them when he's asleep. We must have socks and boots, and a good thick overcoat, with a seal-skin cap that turns down at the ears, and yarn mittins. But them, the old woman will knit, striped two and two, with red and white fringe around the wrist—don't I remember the pattern. Come, old chap, it aint far from here to Catharine street, we'll soon have a full rig."
Of course Jube made no objection; indeed, such was his devotion to Rice, that it is doubtful if he would have resisted any behest of his. They went out, looking weather-beaten and shabby enough, shivering with cold, and sallow from the privation of a hard sea voyage. But after a visit first to a barber's shop, and next to a clothing store, the whole aspect of things was changed. Little Paul came forth in a fur cap and an overcoat, so heavy and thick that even his movements, usually graceful as an antelope's, became a little awkward. Jube was also warmly clad, and muffled in a comforter, striped with red, green, and yellow, which had won his extremest admiration.
After providing for the comfort of his friends in thisway, Rice took them to one of the East river wharves, where a sloop, bound for the mouth of the Housatonic, lay waiting for passengers, and placed them in charge of the captain. Both Paul and Jube had learned a little broken English by this time, upon which Rice depended greatly. Besides, he sent a letter to his mother, beseeching her to receive his friends and preservers, as he named them, in her own house, and treat them as if Jube were his brother, and the boy his son—an adopted son, in every sense of the word, he certainly was. In a few crude lines he gave his mother to understand how helpless the child was, and how manfully the African had stood by him when deserted on the disabled brig, and ended by promising to come home before the vessel sailed again.
With this letter Rice gave Jube some gold pieces, which made the negro's eyes sparkle, for he recognized them as the coin circulated in his own country. Thus having provided for his friends, Rice took his way back to the disabled ship, and the sloop spread its white wings up the sound.
The deep snow, the skeleton trees, and scattering evergreens that lined the banks of the Housatonic, struck our poor fugitives from the tropics with a sense of absolute desolation. But the captain was kind, and this stood in place of sunshine and warmth with them. At the head of navigation, which brought the sloop to the mouth of the Naugatuc, the captain sent them forward with a return team, which, having deposited its load of produce, was ready to proceed up the river road, which led from Darby to the long wooden bridge below the falls.
Alas! it was an unhappy house. Poor Katharine! when the dead child was brought to her, wrapped in the gorgeous shawl which had been her brother's gift, she uttered a low wail, so prolonged and mournful that it never left the memory of those who heard it. As the moan died on her lips, it seemed to carry her life with it, for she fell into a state of dumb apathy, and lay for hours together gazing on the wall without a sign of animation. Then she would mutter, in a low, terrified voice, "They have found it, they have found it."
The magistrates came to the house and examined the evidences of the case, but she took no heed of them. The doctor was summoned, but his opinion, as far as it went, was all against the probabilities of a natural death. He made every exertion in his power to win the poor mother to a state of consciousness, but all in vain; she only looked in his face and muttered, "They have found it, they have found it."
Mrs. Allen was called forward. She had grown old since the day before. The hair on her temples was white as frost now, and her figure stooped, as if some ponderous weight had been laid upon it. Yet the old woman was calm and still. Had the truth struck her dead at the magistrates' feet, she would, nevertheless, have spoken it. Her old neighbors knew this, and refrained from pressing her too far. It would be hard enough, they whispered in consultation, when she wasbrought into court; why should they torture her when the evidence was so conclusive.
So the magistrates sat all day with the dead infant lying in its little coffin on the table before them, deliberating solemnly together; while that poor mother in the next room, harassed and demented, lay with her face turned to the wall, muttering beneath her breath, "They have found it, they have found it."
Mrs. Allen sat on the hearth in her own high-backed chair, gazing with heavy eyes on the magistrates. She was chilled and shocked to the soul. The stiff pride of her nature was broken in twain, leaving her body bent, and her soul inert. Still, such is the indomitable power of household routine, in a woman of New England, that she replenished the fire from time to time, and prepared drink for the poor creature in the next room. But no food appeared in that dwelling during forty-eight hours. The cow moaned in its stable from the pain of its abundant milk, and the pigs, in a pen back of the house, thrust their noses between the boards and begged for food, with uncouth noises that penetrated into the house without arousing the mistress. A flock of hens huddled about the door, pecking at each other and raking up the snow with their claws.
All this made no impression on the woman. When the ashes grew deep in the fireplace she mechanically shovelled them behind the back log and sat down again, unconscious of the act; when a stick of wood broke into brands on each side the andirons, she lifted the massive tongs and placed them in the midst of the fire again, but with this action her soul had no part; that seemed dead within her.
At last the magistrates brought in their verdict.The infant had been murdered by its mother, and she was bound over for trial at the county court.
Mrs. Allen drew a deep breath when the verdict was announced, and that was all the sign she gave. The magistrates retired, leaving the house in charge of the constable. From that hour Katharine Allen was a prisoner and under arrest. Poor soul, she knew nothing about it. The officers walked in and out of her room, but she neither spoke nor looked at them. They stooped over the bed and questioned her persistently, but she took no heed; a regiment might have tramped through that little room and she would not have known it.
All that night Mrs. Allen sat by the little coffin in which the babe lay smiling in its eternal sleep. Nothing but the form of a guard was wanted for those two helpless women, so the man left in charge fell asleep upon the hearth, with his head bowed forward and his feet extended. Thus the night wore on. The grandmother never closed her eyes, and scarcely moved, but a dead numbness was closing around her heart; she began to feel the terrible position in which her child was placed—to feel that the beautiful babe which had crept into her heart, awaking all its pristine tenderness, was nothing but cold death.
As these thoughts crowded to her mind, a world of anguish gathered over that old face, 'till every feature quivered with awakening pain.
As if the anguish of this strong woman had struck some electric spark in the bosom of her child, a faint moan was heard in the next room. But that gray head had fallen forward, and the face was buried in her locked hands. The old woman was trying to pray. But she could not even send up a moan to the Almighty. Forthat moment she had no faith. The anguish of a great trouble was upon her which shook her whole being; but the tenderness that leads to prayer had not yet descended upon her grief.
Under these awakening feelings, she began to be sensible of all the gloomy surroundings that had helped to oppress her. The tallow candle upon the table was surmounted by a long wick with a death blossom trembling at the top, which smothered half its feeble light. Thus the little coffin was filled with shadows, through which the white face gleamed mournfully.
Mrs. Allen was all alone. The officer sat sleeping soundly in his chair—the young mother lay insensible in the next room. The old woman was, nevertheless, alone, for such companionship was an added misery. She could not endure to sit still with that mournful little face reproaching her from its coffin for its mother's sin; for, as yet, its death took that shape in her mind. She had no courage to get up and search for the snuffers, wherewith that ill-omened crest could be separated from the ungainly wick. An empty cradle stood in one corner of the room. She took the coffin in her arms, and sat it reverently into this cradle, spreading the patchwork coverlet over it, thus removing the pale reality of death from her sight. This done, she sat down by the table, and let the candle smoke on, indifferent to what it revealed, so long as the thing was not death.
It is possible that she may have dropped to sleep after this, for nature was sinking within her; certain it is, her face fell upon the locked hands, while profound quiet reigned for a little time throughout that miserable dwelling.
While her face was bowed thus, a frail figure, clad inwhite drapery from head to foot, came out of the bedroom and glided up to the table. She wavered in her walk, and leaned both hands on the table, or she must have undoubtedly fallen, in feeble helplessness, to the ground.
Mrs. Allen looked up and saw her daughter, worn and trembling, gazing wistfully upon her.
"Mother, what have you done with it? Who has taken my baby away?"
The voice was sweet, but troubled; the face innocent as an angel's.
"Katharine, oh, Katharine!"
It was all the poor woman could say; but the first gleam of hope shot athwart that gloomy face and thrilled through the voice. From that moment the mother felt that her child was innocent.
"Oh, Katharine, my child! my poor, poor child!"
She held out her arms, while great tears rained down her cheeks.
Katharine tottered around the table, and falling on her knees, leaned heavily on the mother's lap, lifting her face full of wistful tenderness to the troubled countenance bent over her.
"Tell me what you did with it, mother."
Mrs. Allen trembled under the wistful earnestness of those pleading eyes. She had no power of speech in her voice. It was choked up with sorrow for her daughter's inevitable anguish, with thanksgiving that she was innocent. With a tenderness which is the gift of true Christianity, link it with the sternest nature you may, she reached forth her arms and gathered the young thing to her bosom.
"Do tell me, mother, what you have done with my baby?"
"Rest a little, my child. That's right—keep your arms around me. How weak you are; and it is cold. Shall I carry you back to bed, my poor darling?"
"When you have told me. I want the baby, mother; my heart aches for it; my bosom is full of pain. If we only had it here between us, mother. Do, do tell me where it is?"
Mrs. Allen bent her face and kissed her.
"Isn't it pleasant to kiss one's own child, mother? I never thought what a comfort it was to you before."
Mrs. Allen could not answer; she only bent her withered cheek to the sweet face on her bosom, and sighed heavily.
"Come, mother."
"One minute, Katharine."