"You must start to-night, my dear, and I must get all the little medicines I can think of ready for you to take, and as soon as he is able he must come home. If it is a fever, I fear for his lungs."
Clara waited until our talk was over, and then came and said Louis must go with me; put into my hands a well filled purse, and said:
"Bring the brother back, dear cousin; don't wait for him to get well; bring him back on a bed if necessary; he will never get well among strangers."
When father came he was pained beyond expression, and his first thought was for means to do all that must be done.
"Clara has provided that, father," and he was too thankful to reply.
Everything was ready; Louis and I said "good-bye"to all, and drove rapidly away, for in order to reach the station below ours, where we could take a night train West, we must ride thirty miles. The train was due at eight-forty-five, and it was four o'clock when we started; a neighboring farmer (Mr. Graves), who had a span of fleet horses took us, and we dashed over the ground rapidly, having full five minutes to breathe in at the depot ere we took the train. No luxurious palace cars in those days, you know, just the cushioned seats, but that was enough for me; I thought I could have sat on a hard wooden seat, or on anything if I only could reach that suffering boy. Louis tried to arrange our baggage so that I could sleep.
"Sleep will not come to my eyelids to-night, Louis, I shall not sleep until I see Halbert, and know how he is and is to be."
"Now, Miss Emily," he said as he took my hand in his, "I say you must sleep. Watching will do him no good until we get there, and more than this, it may do him much harm, for if you get so tired, you will be ill yourself when you arrive and then he will have no sister. For Hal's sake, Miss Emily, you shall go to sleep; lean on my shoulder, and I believe I can help your nerves to become quiet."
I knew he was right, and yielded myself to the strong control he possessed over me, and I slept I know not how long. When I awoke Louis said we were getting along at good speed.
"Day will break soon, and then comes a change of cars, and in a little while we shall see the great city."
I was for a few moments at a loss to realize everything; when I did I said:
"Selfish girl to sleep so long, and you have sat here watching me, and now you are so tired."
"Not so tired,—so glad for your rest—I can sleep to-morrow, and when we get to Chicago you shall watch him days and I will watch nights; we shall go to him armed with strength, which is more than medicine; I told you long ago I had something to do for Hal, you see it is coming."
The whole journey was pleasant, and sometimes it seemed wicked when Hal was so sick for me to feel so rested and peaceful, but here I was controlled, and it was blessed to be. I might never have come back to my mother had it not been for the power of Louis' strong thought and will.
The journey accomplished, it was not long ere we saw the dear face of my blessed brother. I will not detail all the small horrors that met me in the house where we found him. It might have seemed worse to me than it really was, but oh! how I needed all the peace that had settled upon me, to take in the surroundings of that fourth story room. Soul and sense revolted at the sickening odors of the little pen, where, on a wretched cot, my brother lay. I thought of our home, and drew rapid contrasts between our comfortable beds, and the straw pallet before me; our white clean floors, home-made rugs, and,—but never mind. Then I said in my heart, "God help me to be more thankful," and with brimming eyes I caught both Hal's hands in my own, and looked in his flushed face, trying vainly to catch a look of recognition. He did not know me. Louis had kindly stepped aside to give me all the room, but he watched meclosely, and caught me as I staggered backward feeling all the strength go suddenly from my limbs, while from my lips came the words which burned into my soul, "He will die." I had never in my life fainted, and did not now. Louis drew a little flask of brandy from his pocket and forced a few drops into my mouth. My will came back to me, and in a few moments I could think a little. "A doctor, Louis, oh! where is there one—what shall we do?" Even as I spoke, Hal's employer entered and with him Dr. Selden. The merchant did not come as near to me as did the old doctor with his good-natured, genial face, and quiet but elastic step. I forgot everything but the sufferer, and turned to him with upraised hands and streaming eyes, saying:
"Oh! tell me quickly what to do, don't let him die, he has a good home and friends, we love him dearly, help me to get him there," adding, in answer to his look of inquiry, "I am his sister, and this gentleman," turning to Louis, "is our friend Mr. Desmonde."
The doctor laid his hand on my head and said:
"I have not seen the patient before; an examination will doubtless help me to answer your question, and to give you the help you ask. Rest yourself, Miss, you will soon need a physician's aid yourself," and he drew a chair close to the foot of the bed for me. Then he felt Hal's pulse, stroked his head a little, and sat quietly down at the foot of the bed just opposite me, and laid one hand over Hal's heart, leaning forward a little, and looking as if half mystified. The few minutes we sat there seemed to me an hour, waiting, as it seemed, for decision between life and death. Suddenly Halbert sprang up and shouted:
"Here! here! this way, almost finished—hold my heart—hold it still; I'll make Emily's eyes snap when I get home, ha, ha!" and then a sort of gurgling sound filled his throat, and he placed both hands over his chest, and sank back, while for an instant all the blood left his face. I put my hand into Louis', and groaned, trying hard to control myself, for I knew we were close to the shadows, and perhaps, "Oh, yes," I comfortingly thought, "perhaps we need not pass through them all."
Doctor Selden moved to the head of his bed, and held both hands on Hal's temples; for a few moments it seemed as if no one breathed, then Hal drew a long breath as if he were inhaling something, and whispered:
"That feels good; my head is tired, tired, tired."
This gave me courage. It seemed then as if he were feeling the power of an uplifting hand, and soon—
"Emily, Emily!" passed his lips. "Tell her to come to me, she will help me, tell her to come." Then for a few moments all was still, and he slept. Dr. Selden looked at me with hope in his eyes, and tears of gratitude gathered to run like a river of rain drops over my cheeks. He slept twenty minutes, and as he stirred the doctor motioned me to come where he could see me. His eyes opened and met mine.
"Emily!" he said, and putting both arms around my neck, drew my head down to his pillow, and whispered:
"Don't cry—I'll go home with you—all right, the end will be all right." Fearing for his strength, I said softly:
"Don't talk, you're too weak, Hal; lie still for a little while and shut your eyes." I raised my head and put my hand on his forehead, and soon he was asleep. Thenin a low, kind tone the doctor told us the crisis was past, and now we must wait for the changes, which were one by one to fall on him. Hal's employer urged me to go to his house, and let Louis remain with Halbert, and at last it was arranged that at night I should sleep there, and Louis stay with Hal. Several hours would elapse, however, before night, and during this time Dr. Selden, Louis and I would stay with Hal.
I had time during his long sleep to think of something to be done for him, and realized, as I recovered from the first shock his situation gave to my nerves, the importance of a different room, better ventilation, etc., and when Dr. Selden motioned to Louis to take his seat near Hal's head, where he could lay his hand upon him when he woke, I whispered to him my thoughts. His answer, though somewhat comforting, bade me wait until he could decide what was best. He took my hand in his and called me "little girl,"—just think of it, I was five feet six inches high, my face looked every day of forty that minute,—told me I was too tired to plan, and he would attend to it all, adding, at the close of his dear good talk:
"His artist soul has nearly used up his physical strength. I feel there has been great pressure on the nerves. If so there must be, according to the course of nature, rapid changes up to a certain point, and then there will be a thorough change slowly wrought out. Do not doubt my skill, 'little girl,' he will come out all right; you and I have a sure hold on his heart-strings."
I could hardly wait to ask the question, "What do you mean by his artist soul? what is he doing? and the doctor's eyes were looking in wonder at me, and his lips parting with a word, when Hal's voice startled us with:
"Emily, who is this?" and we turned to see him looking at Louis, whose hand was on his head.
I answered, "The dear friend Hal who brought me here."
"What a beautiful hand he has. Oh! how it rests my tired, tired brain," he said. "Water, Emily, sister, a little water."
Dr. Selden gave him a glass, saying, "Drink all you like."
"I am faint," said Hal.
"Take this, my good fellow," and the doctor held a glass of cordial to his lips.
He was perfectly lucid now, and his voice natural. Dr. Selden, anticipating questions from him, answered them all; told him I had come to stay until he could go back to the old home with me, and of Mr. Hanson's kind tender of hospitality to both Louis and myself, and settled every vexing question for the patient, who looked a world of thanks, and with "God be praised" on his lips passed again into unconsciousness, with Louis' hand still passing over his head. I thought then if Louis should ask me to jump into the crater of Vesuvius for him I could do it out of sheer thankfulness; and I marvelled at him, the child of wealth and ease, only a boy in years, here in this miserable room a strong comforting man, seeming as perfectly at home as if always here. Then the thought of the artist came back to me and I leaned forward to ask Dr. Selden what it all meant.
"Why, little girl, your brother is a sculptor born. He has sat up nights working hard to accomplish his work,and has succeeded too well in his art, for unconsciously he has worn his nervous power threadbare. You will see one of his little pieces in Mr. Hanson's library when you go down there. He has a friend here who—Ah!" said the doctor, turning at that very moment toward the slowly-opening door and grasping the hand of a tall stately man with dreamy eyes, who seemed to be looking the question, "May I come in."
"Yes, yes; come in, professor," whispered the doctor, and he introduced me to Hal's teacher and friend, Wilmur Benton. Then offered him the only remaining chair.
The professor seated himself quietly, and raising his dreamy brown eyes said, "Will he live?"
The doctor smiled and bowed a positive "yes" as he said:
"The crisis is past, care and patience now."
At this moment Hal awoke, and this time more naturally than before. He was quiet, looked upon us all with the clear light of reason in his eyes, and would have talked if it had been allowed. He wanted us all close to him, and smiled as he held tightly Louis' hand in one of his, and with the other grasped that of Professor Benton, to lay both together in a silent introduction. I think Hal felt that Louis had saved his life, and he clung to his hand as a drowning man would to a life preserver. One sweet full hour passed over us, and the doctor made preparation to leave him, whispering to me:
"The young man you brought to your brother is giving him wonderful strength, and he must leave him only long enough to rest a little. The crisis is past and the victory won."
And here began and ended a wonderful lesson in life.
The details of our stay in Chicago as a whole would be uninteresting, and I would not weary the reader with them. Hal improved so rapidly that on the fourth day after our arrival, he was carried in comparative comfort to Mr. Hanson's residence, and placed for a few days in a pleasant chamber to gather strength for our journey home. One little incident I must tell you, connected with my introduction to Mr. Hanson's family. We were seated at the supper table, talking of Hal, his sickness and the cause of it, when Daisy, a five-year-old daughter, spoke quickly, "Mamma, mamma, she looks just like the 'tree lady,' only she don't have her sewing."
I did not realize it as the child spoke, but when Mrs. Hanson chided the little one, saying, "Daisy must learn not to tell all her little thoughts," it all came so clearly, and I trembled visibly; yes, I guess it was rather more than visible, since an unfortunate tilt in my chair, an involuntary effort of trying to poise brain and body at once, upset cup and saucer and plate, and before I knew it Mrs. Hanson had deluged me with bay rum. They said I nearly fainted, but I realized nothing save the ludicrousfigure I presented, and I thought desparingly "Emily did it." After supper I went to the library, and there it was—this piece of work which Hal had done, representing me sitting under that old apple tree, hemming and thinking. It was so perfectly done, even to the plain ring on my middle finger, a wide old-fashioned ring which had been my grandmother Minot's, and bore the initials "E.M." I could not speak when I saw it, and if I could I should not have dared to for fear of some unfortunate expression. I wished in my heart it had been any one else but me.
"If my face had been like Hal's," I thought, and I stood as one covered with a mantle and bound by its heavy folds, until the gentle voice of Mrs. Hanson roused me, saying:
"Take a seat, Miss Minot, you are very tired." Yes, I was tired, though I did not know it, and taking the chair she proffered, I covered my face with both my hands and drew long breaths, as if to deliver myself from the thoughts which overwhelmed me. Mrs. Hanson's womanly nature divined my feelings, and she left me to myself, but after a while Daisy drew an Ottoman near, and seating herself on it put her little hands in mine and whispered:
"I think you're awful pretty. Don't you?"
I drew her into my lap and kissed her, and my dreams that night were hope and peace. Louis was with me there, and although constantly attentive to Hal, he gave no signs of weariness, and Hal would look into his eyes, as he sat beside him, with a look of perfect devotion. I thought so many times, as he lay back among his pillows looking at Louis, he was mentally casting his features,and how nice it would be when his deft hands moulded the clay with face and form like that of our beautiful Louis Desmonde. What a joy to Clara's heart, and my own would beat like a bird in its cage, thrilled with rapture at the prospect of deliverance! Had he not saved the life of my darling brother, and in my heart down deep, so deep I could bring no light of words upon the thought, I felt that I loved them both. The tenth day (since our removal to Mr. Hanson's) arrived, and then came our departure. I cried every minute, and only because I was glad. Mr. and Mrs. Hanson and Louis thought it due to over-exertion, and when I tried to explain I made an unintelligible murmur, and only succeeded in bringing out one thought—my gratitude to them and the hope that I might one day repay it. Oh, how kind they were! Everything to make the transit easy for Hal was cared for, even to the beautiful blanket Mrs. Hanson gave him, which was doubly precious since her grandmother span the wool and colored and wove it with her own hands. It was a happy party which left Chicago on that memorable morning, and our journey was delightful. Father was waiting for us at the old home station, and instead of the old stage we rode home in an easy carry-all behind our own horses. Mother and Clara met us with outstretched hands, and the latter, as she stood in the doorway, looked a perfect picture.
Hal was very tired, and for days after our return was threatened with a relapse, which was averted only by the unvarying care and strength of Louis. When this risk was over and he was fairly started on the road of recovery, came the departure of our friend and his return to his studies. Oh, how we dreaded it! Hal said afterward the thought of his going sent a chill to his head. The evening before his departure we walked over the hill through the pleasant path his mother and myself always chose when we walked and talked together. I said:
"Go with us, Clara," as we sauntered along the yard path toward the gate, but Louis looked at her and she turned gaily from us with the words:
"I will look after the invalid."
It seemed to me I was made of stone that evening, and we walked long before the silence was broken. At last Louis stopped, and taking both my hands looked into my heart (it seemed so to me) and said:
"I leave to-morrow."
My eyes grew moist, but only a sigh escaped my lips. I did not even say I was sorry.
Then we sat down on the mossy trunk of our favorite tree, and he said:
"Are you sorry, Emily? Will you miss me, and will you write to me, and will your dark eyes read the words I send to you?"
Dumb, more dumb than before, I sighed and bowed my head, and again he spoke, this time with that strange, terribly earnest look in his eyes I had seen before.
"Oh, Emily! my dear Emily! I am only a boy in years, but I love you with the strength of a man. I have saved the life of your brother because I loved his sister; and," he added in a low tone, "I love him too, but not as I do the dark eyes of his sister. Oh! Emily, do you love me? Can you and will you love me, and me only?"
And he drew me to him almost fiercely, while I quivered in every nerve, and answered:
"Louis, do you know me well? Can you not understand my heart? How can I help loving you?"
He loosened his grasp about me, and as his arm fell from my waist, tears fell at his feet. Oh, what a nature was his! Then turning again to me—"Will you wear this?" and a ring of turquoise and pearls was slipped on my finger, while in his hand he held a richly-carved shell comb.
"This is for your midnight hair Emily, wear it always," and he placed it among the coils of my hair.
Silence followed for a little time, and then Louis with his soulful eyes fixed on something afar off, spoke with great fervor of the life he longed for.
"Emily, you do not know me yet," he said.
"I know you better than you know yourself, but I am to you a puzzle, and oh, if I could skip the years that lie between to-day and the day when you and I shall really understand each other! Perfect in peace that day I know will come, but there are clouds between. My father willed that I should have this education I am getting. I need it, I suppose, but I have greater needs, and cannot tell you about them till I am free."
"Two years—twenty-four months;" and his eyes fell, as he added despairingly, "What a long time to wait." Then turning to me, "But you will love me, you have said so?"
I looked my thoughts, and he answered them.
"Do not ever think so of me, I am only too sane, I have found my life before the time."
"Oh! Louis," I cried, and then he answered with the words,
"My little mother knows it—she knows I love you. She knows my inmost soul, and answers me with her pure eyes. But ah! her eyes have not the light of yours; I want you to myself, to help me, and I will love you all my life."
I was amazed, and wondered why it was—this strange boy had been much in society, and why should I, an unsophisticated, homely girl, bring such a shower of feeling on myself.
"Could it be real and would it last?"
He comprehended my thought again and replied:
"You are not homely; I see your soul in your eyes; you are younger than I am; I have never seen your equal, and I know years will tell you I am only true to my heart, and we will work together—ah! we will work for something good, we will not be all for ourselves,ma belle," and on my forehead he left a kiss that burned with the great thoughts of his heart.
I could only feel that I was in the presence of a wonderful power, and at that moment he seemed a divinity. The moon came over the hill, and with his arm in mine we turned our steps homeward, and Clara met us half-way, and putting her hand fondly in Louis' said:
"My boy is out under the moon. I feared he was lost."
"My little mother!" and he gathered her under his wing, as it seemed, and we were soon at the gate of home. Louis and his mother passed in at the side door. As they did so, I fell back a step or two, turned my steps towardthe old apple tree, and there, sitting against its old trunk, I talked aloud and cried and said:
"Have I done wrong, or is it right?"
Oh! what strange thoughts came over me as I sat growing more and more convinced that Louis' talk to me was a boyish rhapsody, and yet I knew then, as I had before known, that my own heart was touched by his presence. If he had been older, I should have felt that heaven had opened; as it was, I longed to be full of hope and to dream of days to be, and still I feared and I said aloud, "I am afraid, oh, I am afraid!" and at that moment Louis stood before me, and in quiet tones spoke as one having authority:
"Emily, you will get cold, you should not sit here."
And as I rose the moonbeams fell on my tear-stained face, and he said as if I were the merest child:
"Why do you fear I shall ever be different toward you; but you need not feel bound even though you have said you will love me."
"Louis," I cried, "you are cruel; you trouble me; I can't tell how I feel at all," and then realizing his last sentence I took off the ring, but ere I could speak he put it back, saying:
"No, no, Emily. I will wait one year, and then if you are afraid I will go away; but keep the ring, for that is yours, and yours alone."
I went up to my little room without bidding any one "good-night," and thought those old three words right over, "Emily did it." I had covered myself up because I dared not be known, and if, after all, it was right, how good it would be to be loved by one capable of such wondrous love as he possessed.
I dreamed all night that I was alone and ill, and in the morning I dreaded to meet Louis, but he gave no sign of any troubled thought, and when the stage came was ready with his bright "good-bye." He folded his little mother to his heart and held her there for a few seconds. When he came to me his hand's grasp was firm and strong. His kiss and whisper came together, "I will write." A moment later and he had gone. Clara went to her own room, to cry a little softly as she afterward said, and so the time wore on till the evening found us again all around the table, and old grey Timothy, our cat, had the boldness to sit in Louis' chair, which made Clara laugh through her tears. Joy and sorrow go hand in hand, and while we felt his loss so keenly, his letters were a great pleasure.
Hal had his share as well as Clara and I, and mother used to read every one of Hal's. It seemed strange to me to have anything to keep from mother, and had she opened the door I would have told her all, but she never asked me about Louis' letters, and until I overheard a conversation between my father and her I was held in silence; then the ice was broken, for father said:
"I do not know what to do. It is possible that this bright young fellow will play the part that so many do, and our innocent Emily be made the sufferer. When he comes again we will try and manage to have her away. She is a good girl and capable beside. Her life must not be blighted, but we must also be careful not to hurt Clara's feelings. Clara is a good little woman, and how we should miss her if she left us!"
"Well," said my mother, "I do not feel alarmed aboutour Emily, but, of course, it is better to take too much precaution than not enough," and their conversation ended.
When an opportunity presented I talked with mother, told her what I had heard, and all that Louis had said to me, almost word for word, and the result was her confidence. When our talk closed, she said in her own impressive way:
"I will trust you, my daughter, and only one thing more I have to say: Let me urge upon you the importance of testing your own deepest, best feelings in regard to this and every other important step—yes, and unimportant ones as well. There is a monitor within that will prove an unerring guide to us at all times. If we do not permit ourselves to be hurried and driven into other than our own life channels we shall gather from the current an impetus, which comes from the full tide of our innate thought. Such thought develops an inner sense of truth and fitness, which is a shield ever covering us, under any and all circumstances. It holds us firmly poised, no matter which way the wind may be, or from what quarter it strikes us."
This thought I could not then appreciate fully, but I did what I could toward it, and it was, in after years, even then, an anchor. My mother's eyes were beautiful; they looked like wells, and when thoughts like these rose to mingle with their light, they seemed twice as large and full and deep as on ordinary occasions. I never wanted to disobey her, and in those days we read through together the chapters in life's book that opened every sunrise with something new. Our soulswere blent as one in a delightful unity, that savored more of Paradise than earth, and now with Hal's returning strength, there was a triple pulsation of mingled thought. Oh, Halbert, my blessed brother, no wonder my eyes are brimming with tears of love at these dear recollections! Louis had sent him a large box of material for doing his work, and Clara had insisted on his having one of her new rooms for a studio, and everything was as perfect as tasteful appointments could make it, even to the dressing-gown she had made for him.
She made this last with her own hands, of dark blue cashmere, corded with a thread of gold. He had to wear it, too, for she said nothing could be too nice to use.
"Why, my dear Halbert," she added, "the grass is much nicer and you walk on that."
The rich rosy flush came slowly enough into his pale cheeks, but it found them at last, and I do believe when we saw the work grow so fast under his hands, we were insane with joy. To think our farmer boy who followed the cows so meekly every night had grown to be a man and a sculptor, throwing such soul into his work as to model almost breathing figures! His first work was a duplicate of the piece at Mr. Hanson's, and was made at Louis' especial request. His next work was a study in itself. It was an original subject worthy of Hal's greatest efforts, a representation of our good old friend Hildah Patten, known to all our village as "Aunt Hildy." We called her our dependence, for she was an ever-present help in time of need; handy at everything and wasteful of nothing. Her old green camlet cloak(which was cut from her grandfather's, I guess) with the ample hood that covered her face and shoulders, was a welcome sight to me, whenever at our call for aid she came across lots. She lived alone and in her secluded woodland home led a quiet and happy life; she was never idle, but always doing for others. Few really understood her, but she was not only a marvel of truth but possessed original thought, in days when so little time was given in our country to anything save the struggle for a living. It is only a few years since Aunt Hildy was laid away from our sight. I often think of her now, and I have in my possession the statuette Hal made, which shows camlet cloak, herb-bags and all. I desire you to know her somewhat, since her visits were frequent and our plans were all known to her.
The fall is a busy time in a farmer's household—with the gathering of grain, clearing up of fields, and making all due preparations for the coming winter; and it is beautiful also. This year, however, the many colored leaves had sought the ground unnoticed by me; for my days had been absorbed in thought and, instead of looking at things about me, if I had a spare moment I wandered in the realms of feeling.
November had come to us with Louis' departure, and the weeks between his coming and going seemed, as I looked back, like a few hours only, crowded together as a day before me with the strange events, and stranger thoughts, whose existence from that time onward has forced me to own their supremacy and power. Hal's artist friend, Professor Benton, was coming to see him—and I wished it were May instead of November, for it seemed to me the outer attractions of our country home were much greater than the inner, and I could not see how he was to be entertained. Clara's side (as we called the four rooms she had added) would be the only attraction, and since Hal was domiciled there, that would be the right place. Many paintings adorned the walls, andto me there was such a contrast between our middle room and its belongings, and the sunny chamber occupied by Hal, that whenever I looked on the massively-framed pictures there, they seemed out of place. Clara was fond of having them in sight, and labored hard to have her loves ours. Every other evening we were forced to occupy that side of the house and I wonder, as I look back, that my father could have been so obedient to her wishes. She would sit on an ottoman between him and my mother and often with her head resting against the arm of his chair, talking with us of our farm, the plans for winter, and the fences to be built with the coming spring; and she was never satisfied unless allowed to be really one of us. The building she had done was accredited to my father, for she would not have it otherwise, and when his spirit of independence prompted him to refuse her board-money afterward, she looked at him with tears in her eyes and said:
"Why must I be repelled, Mr. Minot? Please let me stay here always. I have no comfort if I have no one to be happy with, and you must take this from me."
She was no trouble, and such a small eater that she must have paid us four times over for all she had. Father thought at first her impulsive gifts would be of short duration, but months had revealed her to us, and we realized that she was a marvel of goodness. Not only interesting herself in us but in others. Weekly visits were made by her to the poor in our parish, and blessings fell on her head in prayers rising from the lips of her grateful friends. The semi-monthly sewing circle she caused tobe appointed at our house (her side), and with her own hands made all the edibles necessary on every occasion. She shrank from making calls upon those who were not in need of her services, and never went willingly to any public gathering. I never knew why, but she was morbidly sensitive on this point. Once she was over-persuaded, and went to an old-fashioned quilting party with mother, and she came home in a fainting condition, and we worked over her until after midnight.
"I am so cold here," she said, placing her hand on her heart—"I will not go out any more, Mrs. Minot; it hurts me."
We never afterward urged her, nor explained her suffering to the friends who inquired. She exacted a promise to that effect.
What a strange being our lovely Clara was! She grew to our hearts as ivy to the oak, and the tendrils of her nature entwined us, creeping a little nearer daily, until the doors of our hearts were covered with their growing beauty. I should be writing all about her, and not bring myself into my story at all, but the promise I made you must be fulfilled. At some other time I may write out for you the life and work of this beautiful friend. My own experience seems to me only a background against which her picture ought to rest. I have been rambling, for you remember I began to tell you about the coming of Hal's artist friend from Chicago. I believe it was the fifteenth of November when he came, and his presence was not a burden as I feared, for he found and filled a place held in reserve for him, and all united with me in saying: "What a splendid man he is!"
Brother Ben, who was now at an interesting age, called him "a man to study," and he seemed to be fascinated by him. His eyes followed every motion, and his ear was keenly alive to every expression of thought. I sometimes thought Hal wished Ben did not like him as well, for he was constantly availing himself of his society. Some work fortunately had to be done, else Hal would have been very much troubled to gain an audience. Clara did not like the artist quite as well as I did, though she said with the rest, "What a splendid man!" and betrayed by no word or act any disregard for his feelings, still I intuitively felt a something she did not say; and when I told her he had made an arrangement to stay all winter, she clasped her white hands together tightly, and between two breaths a sigh came fluttering from her lips, while tears gathered in the blue of her eyes, as the white lids fell to cover what she would not have me notice. Although a pain and wonder filled my heart for a moment, I knew if Clara wished me to divine her feelings she would explain herself, and her silence left me to my own conjectures. I said to myself "Some thought of the past has come over her," for I could not see how the stay of Wilmur Benton could affect her happiness. He treated her with great deference and seemed to realize with us that she had a rare organization. His stay was a matter of great interest with Hal, as Hal was to gain from him the instruction he needed, and they expected to get much enjoyment from working together. Louis would be with us through the holidays, and Mr. Benton would, I knew, enjoy that, for he insisted that it was the magic of his hand that had saved Hal's life, and helooked on him as a real blessing. The two artist souls blended as one, and drank daily deep draughts from the fountain of an inspiring genius, and as I watched the work grow under their hands, and the plastic and senseless clay become a fair statue, lacking nothing save breath and motion to reveal an entity, I questioned if the power was really theirs, or if their hands had touched a secret spring and were guided outside of themselves. It really never seemed like exertion, and to sense this wondrous art was to me the asking of questions deeper than any among us could answer.
Hal's statue of dear Aunt Hildy was copied, and improved also by Mr. Benton, who considered it a masterpiece, and the respect we bore our friend was not lessened, even though there were those among us who might speculate as to the motive that prompted it.
We never called her funny, but original, and good as gold. Our family numbered now seven people, and with the farm work in addition to the daily preparation of meals, the clearing up and upsetting again of things, there were many steps to take, and Aunt Hildy was installed as our help in need.
These were the days of help—not servants—when honest toil was well appreciated by sensible people, and no hurried or half-done work fell from their hands, but the steady doing resulted in answering the daily demands.
"It's a bunch of work to do; it is, indeed, Mrs. Minot," said Aunt Hildy.
"But we'll master it."
"I ain't never going to be driven by work, nor aristocracy neither. It's a creepin' in on us, though, like thesnake in the garden, just to make folks think they can get more comfort out of fixin's than they can out of the good old truths. I can't be fed on chaff; no, I can't."
And her sleeves would go up to her elbows, and she would march through work like a mower through a field.
Her coming gave me a chance to do some sewing, and with Clara's help about cutting (and she sewed with me), the needed spring and summer apparel and house linen were fashioned and made ready for use. The days passed pleasantly to us all, and though I had watched Clara closely, she betrayed neither by word nor sign anything that savored of dislike toward Professor Benton; and still, sometimes, I felt that unexplainable something that once in a while tried as it were to shape itself before me, and as often vanished in mist. We had long evenings, and many new topics were introduced and discussed. I had access to Clara's large and well selected library, and I improved every opportunity to inform myself on doubtful subjects. Sometimes I despaired of knowing anything new, and again my brain would seem clearer, and would take in the new thoughts with keen perception. When, however, we came to talk upon these same subjects, I sat nearly dumb; I could summon no thoughts nor words to frame them. Even this stupidity had its advantage, for Mr. Benton (Hal called him Will) was a good talker, and had, as all talkers have, a great respect for a good listener, and he often said to me:
"You have a heart to appreciate rare truths, Miss Minot."
Clara was gifted in conversation, but did not always express her sentiments with great freedom.
If we touched on things nearest her heart, and I believe the doing of good each to the other was her highest thought, she was at home, and her blue eyes would glow with light, as in her own sweet way she talked long and earnestly. I shall never forget the first time Mr. Benton noticed this point in her organization. The newsmonger of our town had been to see us, had spent the afternoon and taken tea, and while it was amusement for me to hear her gossip incessantly about this thing and that, this person and the other, Clara was greatly annoyed by it. It caused a righteous indignation to rise within her, and when after the visit we were seated by the antique centre table in her sitting-room, the conversation turned upon the peculiarities of this scandal-loving Jane North.
Clara expressed herself freely on the subject of small talk, as she termed scandal. Her eyes dilated, her small hands were folded tightly, and when she closed it was with this last feeling sentence:
"I can only say, 'Father, forgive them, they know not what they do,' who scatter the theme of contention where roses should appear, and in tearing down the habitation of their neighbors lose also their own; for they who have respect for themselves will have respect for their neighbors. May we yet live to understand the meaning of the words, 'Love ye one another.' When this shall be, oh, my more than friends, when this shall be, we shall know each other, even as we are known! No secret blight shall cover any life, no worm of regret gnaw at the tree of our unfolding lives! We shall all be as a unit, and our Father who seeth us in secret shall then reward us openly! Yea, more, for are not we ourselves capable of holding communion with this part of God within us? We know our souls are with us to-day, and it is only because the roots of thought are covered, and the feet of envy, hatred and malice are pressing, the hard soil against them, that the tendrils of our loving natures are never asked to climb, and the eternal ivy of our great love reaches not the windows of expressed thought, else our hands would be made strong to do daily that which is found to do with all our might."
Her last beautiful utterance finished, she closed her eyes as if covered with the mantle of her holy thoughts, and we all sat in a breathless silence. Aunt Hildy who sat in the corner (by preference) stirred not a muscle from the beginning to the close of her talk, and Mr. Benton looked first in wonder then in admiration, and when our silence was broken by a fervent "Amen" from Aunt Hildy, he added:
"'Even so let it be.' Those thoughts are beautiful."
Clara looked at him with an almost reproachful glance, the import of which I could not understand.
I was not sensitive like Clara; perhaps intuitive would express it better. She seemed to understand every one's nature on the first meeting, and I had marvelled many tunes at her accuracy in reading character.
She told me that her heart went out to Aunt Hildy at their first meeting, and I felt convinced now there was something about this new friend that no one save herself could detect, and whether it had shape with her or not was a question.
Three weeks of Mr. Benton's stay had passed when this incident occurred, and from that hour there was amarked change in his manner toward her. I could see, ignorant as I was of the phases of life, how he was attracted to her. This glimpse of her wondrous nature had opened his eyes, and perhaps touched his heart. His age must be about hers, I thought, and how strange if it should be that he loved her. But here I run into a mist where nothing was plain. Days will tell the story, I thought, and we were sure of days and changes while life lasted. It became plain to me after a little that Clara felt the change in his manner toward her, and in every quiet move of hers I detected the disposition on her part to repel any advances. She gave him no opportunity to be with her alone, and if by chance this happened, her sweet voice would call "Emily, come in this way, we are lonely without you," and her eyes would turn on me when I entered with a sort of wistful glance. It always reminded me of a child looking confidently into the eyes of its mother, expecting the help it was sure to find. I hardly enjoyed this, for I knew Mr. Benton thought me old enough to discern a little, and he must have believed us to be in league together, whereas no word had passed between us on the subject until just before Christmas, when Louis was expected.
Clara and I were sitting busily sewing and talking of the coming of "her dear boy," when she let her sewing fall and sat as in thought a few moments before she spoke.
"Emily (and she spoke slowly and with earnestness. I felt frightened for her cheek grew white as the words fell from her lips), when Louis comes keep close to me all the time, will you? Oh! I know you will, and sinceI ask such a favor, it is only right I should tell you all about it. I know, for I feel it in here (and she laid her hand on her head), that Professor Benton desires to talk to me. He must not be allowed to, Emily, for if he does it will hurt me so much. I will tell you why, and I know you will tell it to no one."
I looked an assent and she continued:
"He thinks that he might like me so well that he would wish me near him for ever. But he does not know that I cannot let him say this to me. It would be hard to make him understand me; he never could. And then if he should know me very well, it would be all wrong. I love my Louis Robert, and he is waiting on the hills for me. Yes, my dear Emily, he waits for me there. Did he not say so when he died, and will he not come for me some day when I shall be a little more weary, and this beating heart grows colder? He says he will and I am always with him in my thoughts. It almost hurts me to live at all. Can you see, Emily, can you know how it is because I need you allsomuch that I must stay with you? Professor Benton has a good heart, but it feels cold to me. His art obscures from him all else; he can love no one as he loves a picture. Now you will promise me, no not with words—I would only feel your arm around me, and with my hand in yours feel you are my trusted one—my soul friend and my great help."
Silence was ill suited to my feelings at that moment. I gathered her gentle form to me, and held her tight while those ever ready tears of sympathy filled my eyes full, and I spoke honestly when I said:
"I don't care a fig for Mr. Benton, and if he troublesyou I will send him back to Chicago, and I wish he had never come at all."
"Oh! oh! do not say it; I shall fear to have you know my heart, it makes you rebellious. It is well that he came, as your brother needs him, and you do wrong to say such words. Wait, Emily, keep quiet, you are like a wind when your thoughts are stirred, and time, my love, will help you to make your hand strong, and your heart also. It is on a full tide and with a steady wind that vessels find the sea, while changeful blasts will shipwreck them, and then cast their wrecks upon the shore. And so it is with mortals; we have to keep saying, wait! while we pray to be guided aright."
"I am always running off the track, Clara, I know; teach me to know myself and let me help you; you are so different; I shall never be like you," I said.
"And you do not wish to be, I hope," was her reply.
"I would like more of your quiet spirit, but that belongs to you, and if I wait and work hard to do it, I shall always be upsetting what I wish to do, and plaguing others instead of helping—" Mother came in and our talk was at an end.
Many thoughts filled my mind after what Clara had said, and I thought much of her beautiful faith as to her husband and his waiting for her; of her trust in his coming, and of the reality with which came into her existence this wonderful future that waits for us all if (and sometimes this little conjunction assumed wonderful proportions) immortality really be ours. My heart told me we were to live, and in my higher thoughts I could sometimes see the light that flooded those old hills near our home, reaching far on to where all those of our household were waiting. I never at these times could think of our beloved friends, my blessed grandmother, of whom we did not even possess a daguerreotype, as an angelic and unearthly something with wings, but rather as a real being, whose face I should recognize, whose hands should touch my own, while her lips would move, and in her dear old way she would say "Come in, Emily," just as she used to when I went as a child to her door, and looked in at her, as she lay on her bed, partly paralyzed. Her hair was white with the cares of seventy-four winters, and her eyes filled then with such a pleasant light. She had lived with us, this dear Grandma Northrop, for years.Hal had always been her special charge; she called him her boy, and up to the last month of her life mended his stockings first; she would go to the door and watch him go for the cows, and when he came back over the west meadows, would say with admiration:
"That boy is worth a dozen such as Ben Davis; he'll do something great before he dies."
My mother spoke often of her, and also recalled her saying, "I hope angels can see men," meaning that she could not bear the thought of leaving Hal.
I was only five years old when she left us, still her memory was sacred to me, and through the summer days I covered her grave with everlasting flowers and daisies. I remembered her as genial, though somewhat peculiar in her ways; she had a warm appreciation of wit, and was ever ready with answers. Mother remembered and told me so many of her happy sayings that it kept her memory fresh among us all, and if angels could both see and hear men, she must have felt grateful that we remembered her with such pleasure. I treasured the hoop ear-rings which she wore, and which bore her initials, "E.L.N." Her name was Elizabeth, but she was called by all "Betsey." To Hal she had left two silver spoons and her snuff-box. He had it among his little treasures, and kept the same bean in it that was there when she died. I wished a thousand times and more that my name might be Elizabeth, but Emily was given me by a sister of father's who desired me to be her namesake, and if I had been more like her in my young years I should never have been likened to a "fierce wind," as Clara so truly termed me. This Aunt Emily had gone to herheavenly home, as had many of my mother's family. She was one of eleven children, and at this date only one brother, Peter, and a sister, Phebe, were living. Mother had a beautiful sister, Sallie, who died young, and whom I loved to hear about. She painted her picture in words for me, and I could see her dark blue eyes, her brown hair that looked like satin, and her pink cheeks, almost as if I had really seen and known her. And when this heaven, that sometimes seemed so like far off mist, grew nearer, I imagined the meeting of them all, and enjoyed the pleasant picture which lay before my mind's eye like a waiting promise of whose fulfillment I felt sure. Clara and Aunt Hildy had long conversations on these subjects, and Aunt Hildy said to me when speaking of these talks:
"Oh! I love her white soul, Emily; she allus brings heaven right down to airth, and even when she don't talk I feel so kind of blessed when I sit near her. Few such folks are let to live, and somehow I'm almost convinced she can't stay long," and the corner of her blue-checked apron would touch her humid eyes, as she turned again to her work.
Work was a matter of principle with her, and to neglect one duty unnecessarily, no light offense. She was as true to her highest conviction of right as the needle to the pole, and held the truth close to her heart—so close that all her outer life was in correspondence with her interior perceptions. Truly her light was not under a bushel.
I hoped her fear of Clara's death would not soon be realized, for it did not seem as if we could bear to loseher presence. Never in any way could she intrude herself, for her nature moved her in perpetual lines, whose shadow never fell on the path of another. I felt sorry that she should be troubled, and I fear my dark eyes now and then shot telling glances at Mr. Benton.
The more she tried, even in her graceful way, to repel his advances, the more determined he was to gain access to her heart. In this I could detect the selfish part of his nature, and while I could not blame him for loving her, I knew that my love for her was so great that I would not knowingly give her any pain, and it seemed to me his love must be less than it should be, for he could not fail to know it troubled her and should have desisted. In a few days after our conversation Louis came.
Clara had, since she realized Mr. Benton's feelings toward her, been very careful in the selection of her wearing apparel, choosing for her daily use the plainest dresses. But on the day of Louis' arrival she said to me, as we went up stairs after dinner was cleared away:
"Emily, will you put on the dress that becomes you so well?" It was a garnet merino she alluded to, a gift from herself.
"We should make a pleasant picture for Louis when he comes; the dear boy loves to see his little mother in blue, and our royal Emily in becoming colors."
"Of course I will," I said, and as I fastened the lace collar, whose pattern was roses and leaves, with the pin she gave me, and looked in my little glass, I thought what a poor resemblance to royalty I bore, and laughed at the appellation.
Supper was ready, but we waited for the stage, and when it came we were all at the door. Hal met Louis first and then came Mr. Benton; Clara kept drawing me back with her, and he was obliged to greet mother and father and Aunt Hildy also, ere we were visible.
"Little mother! blessed little mother!" and he held her close, kissing her with passionate fondness, then turning to me he took both my hands and whispered softly:
"Last but not least," and we followed the rest to the supper table.
Mr. Benton was more than polite during the meal, and afterward delighted Louis with showing him an unfinished portrait of Clara, which he had commenced painting on canvas.
This information was conveyed to me at the first favorable opportunity, and when Louis enjoined secrecy upon me, he expressed great pleasure with Mr. Benton, and said:
"Oh! Miss Emily. Little mother is so beautiful; she is always a picture. When the artist adds to the charming portrait the dress and the little pearls she wore to receive me, it will be so real I shall want to ask it to speak to me, and when she leaves me I can look at it, and in my heart hear her say 'Louis my dear boy.' You love her very much, do you not, Emily?"
"Oh, Louis!" I cried, "do not talk so, everybody says she is too good and beautiful to live, and it is a thought too bitter, I cannot bear it."
He turned the conversation into another channel, and talked so strongly about his great desire to master this art of painting, while I wondered to myself how it hadhappened that these hearts were gathered to our own and had become members of our household, coming, as they did, like rare exotics, to live and blossom among us plain hollyhocks and dandelions. Hal I could liken to a rare flower, but then he was only one among our number, and in all our family and friends there were none possessing the gifts of these two souls which had come to us so strangely.
Aunt Hildy said, "The ways of life are past all comprehending." I thought so too. Christmas came on Sunday in this year of our Lord eighteen-hundred-and-forty-two, and for this I rejoiced and was glad. When it came on a week-day, it seemed like Sunday, and although now and then we had some really interesting sermons, there was not enough to fill two sabbaths coming so near together, and it gave me a restless sort of feeling, especially so, when I knew how quiet and solemn my father used to be all day, and also his great desire that we should imitate him.
I had been a member of our old church three years, and while I desired to live a Christian life, I could never feel that a long face, and solemnly pronounced words made any difference in my real life. Father did not believe any more in long faces than I did, still, I think from fear of neglecting any part of his duty, he maintained a serious demeanor from the break of our Sabbath days to their close. He had an unusually beautiful way of asking a blessing that always gave me a happy feeling. He merely said in a pleasant way, and with open eyes: "We should be very thankful for this meal; may we have wisdom to prepare no unsavory dishes, and strength toearn for ourselves, and others if necessary, the bread we daily need." This gave us a thought (that never grew old with me) of the needs of our neighbor, and also seemed so rational, and fitted our needs so perfectly. Aunt Hildy called it a common-sense blessing. I remember well how she spoke of it, in contrast with Deacon Grover's long-drawn-out table prayers, saying with emphasis; "The man, if he is a deacon, has a right to grow better, and we know he asks God to bless things cattle couldn't eat."
Christmas, we all went to church, and although it was more than a mile, aunt Hildy refused to ride.
"Let me walk as long as I can, time enough to ride by and by, and I'm only fifty-eight years old, Mr. Minot," she said.
It was useless to urge her, and she came into church a few minutes later than we did, and sat in her own pew next ours. This church was an old-time affair, having been built by the early settlers. It had, as all those old churches had, square pews, a stove in its central portion with huge arms of pipe that stretched embracingly in all ways; and its pulpit was so high that I prevailed on father to sit back from the centre as far as we could and be comfortably warm, for it was breaking ones' neck to look at the minister, and the sermon was half lost if you could not see the play of his features. Our worship was of the Presbyterian order, and our present pastor a worthy man. This was all the church that belonged to us really. In the village which nestled in the valley two and a half miles south-west of us, like a child in the lap of its mother, there were three churches, Baptist, Methodist, andPresbyterian, and many who attended our old church would have liked better to go to one of those, and at times did so, but it was quite a ride in winter, and for this reason our church was better filled at this season than in the summer days.
A new branch of belief had latterly developed itself somewhat in our neighborhood, and this embraced the thought of universal salvation. There had been meetings held at the houses of some of our friends, and once or twice mother and myself had attended.
The sermon on this Christmas day did me no good, for our minister chose for his subject false doctrines, and the pointed allusions and personalities savored greatly of a spirit that was not calculated to remind us of the humble Nazarene and his lowly spirit.
Tearing the roof down over our heads would not give one an idea of a comfortable home; and surely charity's mantle should at least cover the sins of ignorance, and that certainly was the hardest verdict we could render against those of our number who had become interested in these ideas, for that they were good and true people appeared from their doctrines. The only difference was this: That the love of God was so great for his children that not one of them would be lost or cast into the terrible fires, which, according to our old belief, burned for the guilty through endless time. And now as I reflect I can surely see it was more through fear of being thus cast off, and not because I could put my hand on anything so terribly wicked in myself or my acts, that I early desired and had communication with the church. Somehow I felt more secure to know I was approved of bymen, and my name enrolled on the church list. As I grew older this was a troublesome thought that now and then, asked for a hearing. As we came out of church, Deacon Grover with his small black eyes peering into aunt Hildy's face, said to her:
"Smart sermon; good talk, Miss Patten, how did you enjoy it?"
"Well as I could," and I nearly laughed in his face, although I knew he did not realize what she meant. She never liked fiery sermons, as she called them, and believed that the only way to heap coals of fire on the head of the unrighteous, was by living so rightly as to make them ashamed of their ways and do better. Mr. Benton and Louis walked with Ben and aunt Hildy, and our ride home was a nearly silent one. I knew my father had not been any more edified than myself, but it was not his way to talk of it, and not until the next evening was the subject mentioned. The fire of reproof was begun by your humble servant, and I said many things which were unnecessary, and expressed my determination to investigate the new doctrine. If father had been with us I should have spoken less freely, and as it was I shocked my mother and almost myself, so severely did I denounce the minister. Louis sat in silence, also his mother, but aunt Hildy spoke as follows, after waiting a few moments to see if any one else had pent up wrath to give vent to:
"Well, as the youngest has spoke, I suppose I may express my feelin's, and I must say I never heerd a worse sermon. I have been a steddy meetin-goer for forty years, and have tried to hold a peaceful spirit that would be jest such as the Master would recommend if he wasamong us; but I believe we all allow we are sinners more or less, and after all do daily the things we should not do. Still if anybody wanted my help, I should hate to have 'em chase me with a broomstick, for I couldn't do a thing for 'em if they did; and if we think anybody is going into a ditch of a wrong idee, we'd better not scare 'em to death hollerin at 'em, it would be apt to send 'em in head first, while if we could kinder creep along behind, and speak a few words kindly, they would turn round, and we could tell 'em of their danger." Her similes were original, and we involuntarily smiled an approval of her sentiment, when Mr. Benton said:
"Do you not think the fear of hell helps to hold people in the right path sometimes, Mrs. Patten?" Aunt Hildy looked at him with a wondrous light in her eyes, as she answered:
"No, sir, I don't; my Bible says perfect love casteth out fear. The woman that's afraid of her husband can't love him if she dies for it, and the boy who hates his father through fear, can't muster up respect enough to love him if he tries." And her knitting needles clicked again as if to say, "that's the truth."
A few moments and then Clara spoke (Aunt Hildy stopped knitting the moment she began, as if expecting a treat). "We are taught," she said, "that our Father loves us; that he rejoices with great joy in the return of a prodigal to his fold. The truth that he loves us better than we can ever love each other here, that none of us shall ask for bread and receive a stone, neither fish and receive a serpent, was spoken to us from the ages past. Christ came into the world as the bearer of all essential truths. His enemies, the Jews, knew he told the truth and hastened to crucify him, saying in plain words—'If he live, all men will believe on him, crucify him, crucify him,' and it was done, but he left behind him the great token of his love, and he hath said, 'Whosoever believeth on me, even though he were dead yet shall he live,' etc. If we can understand him, he means us all, every child of our Father, and are we not all his? The law of Moses was buried when the law of Christ was given, which is the law of our omnipotent Father. I am ready," and down her cheeks tears coursed their way; "I do so want to know more of this beautiful faith, for it has ever been my own; I say to you to-night and I have already said it to my heavenly Father, I will yield my life, if I can help the poor, tired hearts, the needy souls of men, to embrace this glorious truth, 'Love ye one another.'" Tears filled the eyes of all save those of Wilmur Benton, who sat as if covered with astonishment, and I could see that he was puzzled; and if he spoke his thought might have said, "What manner of woman is this, and how can I touch the strings of her heart."
Clara's eyes grew large and full of light as she continued:
"I care not for the name, for what manner of difference can that make—we are to be known and know each other by and by; we can and should have our heaven below; we can and should have love for one and all; and while my loyal friend Emily speaks harshly of the minister, who, fearing a new path before some of his people, feels it his duty to not only call, but drive them back into the square pen of the old ideas; yet we mustnot condemn him, neither measure his heart exactly by the words of his text or sermon. The circumference of the tree is more than three times its diameter, and yet we know the width of the board we use is found in the diameter. Words are a circumference which encircle the breadth of a diameter, and we may feel and know that this man, standing as he does within the bounds of a belief whose main foundation embraces the two thoughts, heaven and misery, cannot, if he believes this to be true, do less than urge it upon us all. But if we stop and think, we can say, perhaps the heart of this religious tree he represents may not be sound, and when the axe of advancing ideas trims its branches and buries its blade within its trunk, we shall, as I believe, have proof of this; and then, perhaps his eyes will turn with ours to the outstretched arms of a noble oak, whose leaves are green, whose heart is sound, and at whose base we all may gather, against whose sides we all may rest. It has waited long, and grown in our father's forest until at last its giant dimensions have been apparent. The leaves of its upper branches caught the eye of a ranger on truth's high mountain, and the underbrush must now be cut away to make a path for our feet. Let the winds annihilate the dogmas of a creed, let our hearts open to all good thoughts, and let this one also be as the anchor of our souls, this glorious thought of our Father's love, this binding together of his children. Patience and work both are needed: will not my dear boy help me? I know he will, and our Emily; God give to me the help I need from these two young hearts," and she held out her hands to us.
I said "Oh, Clara!" and sank on the floor beside her, put my head in her lap, and let the tears fall as they would, unmindful of all else save my dear, beautiful friend. Louis sat on the other side of her with his arm around her waist, and her head lay on his shoulder. The curtain of the evening slowly fell, and in slumbers I drew her thoughts close to my heart, Aunt Hildy's "God help us" floating like music through my dreams.