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I BELIEVE I am going to realize some of the dreams I used to have, after all," Flora said to herself, as she laid her head upon her pillow that night.
She was right. The first step had been taken by her in the path of becoming an earnest worker, and to influence those about her as she had planned she would like to do, although not in such a way as this, nor in such surroundings. Her cherished dream of being instrumental in leading others into a higher and better life was now, she began to realize, leading her into the lines of duty in her own home, and among her own people. She could not wish for more.
She would not be like so many others, who in their desire to do great things, neglect the opportunities near at hand, and who, in longing to lead the heathen to a higher plane of life, forget those at home, who possibly for want of a word or act, have slipped, stumbled, and fallen on life's pathway.
Flora was growing, and with an earnest prayer to the Christ for guidance, strength, and tact, she cheerfully assumed more duties in the home, and greater responsibility. Her bright, sunny disposition, her pleasant face, her extreme willingness to respond to requests, gradually won a place for her in the hearts of those in her home.
The class in Sunday-school was assumed with a feeling of great apprehension. It was composed of five girls between the ages of ten and twelve. At first sight of their youthful teacher, these girls had been inclined to be displeased, but when they grew to know the sunny, sweet good-nature, born of the great desire to do them good, and which shone out of the earnest eyes, they loved her dearly. The teaching of this class was fraught with great good, both to the teacher and scholars, and this meeting with the eager, bright girls was soon eagerly looked forward to by Flora from week to week.
"How things have improved at Mr. Hazeley's!" soon grew to be a common remark among the neighbors.
"Yes, since Flora came home, it has become very different from what it formerly was," would be the spirit, if not the words of the reply.
Flora overheard a similar remark one day, and it gaveher a feeling of great joy to know the change was becoming apparent. Her resolution was strengthened to sustain this newly made reputation.
It must not be supposed that she always had an easy time. This was not so, for as she often said to Ruth, "When mother and Harry are not in a good humor, things do become tangled."
However, to do the family justice, they were beginning to see and to more fully appreciate the changes made in their home since Flora, who had left them a small maiden, had returned with her thoughtful ways and mature manner. They forgot sometimes that she was but sixteen, and would fancy she was older than she really was. In fact, almost imperceptibly, she assumed all responsibility, and they deferred to her judgment in many things. Best of all, however, they began to love her.
Her younger brother Alec seemed to have entirely surrendered to her gentle, loving rule, and was ever willing to listen to her advice. He was always ready to help her by running errands, chopping wood, drawing water, and performing a dozen other little tasks quite new to him, for he had never aided his mother in any way. In fact she had never asked her boys to assist her,or to save her extra steps or work, forgetting it ought to be required from them.
Mrs. Hazeley also had changed under the magic wand of Flora's sunny influence and determination to win the love of all. She had become at least a willing agent to the general change taking place in her home, and which recommended itself to her because her responsibilities were lightened and carried by other shoulders.
The house itself was transformed. Even cynical little Jem was becoming satisfied with it. It still contained the same furniture, but there was an air of comfort and home life about it never there before, but introduced by the magic of Flora's presence.
Lottie's sweet potato added its share to the general improvement which was going on. The long thread-like roots looked very white in the jar of water in which they were growing, and the graceful tendrils and light-green leaves were quite refreshing to the eyes. Flora had trained the vine about the window on small cords, and already it had nearly covered the lower part with its delicate branches. Flora would have felt lonely without it to care for; especially after being accustomed to have plants in profusion around her at her old home. Thentoo, it carried her back to the happy days at Aunt Bertha's, bringing a feeling of joy that she had been permitted to live there so long, and to be trained in such a gentle, firm, loving manner. Frequently she mentally contrasted her care-free life there, and her life of responsibility now, and she determined, with the help that is from above, she would not sink to her surroundings, but would elevate them to her level. Bravely, patiently, hopefully did she go forward with this end in view.
She was really surprised to find how fond she had grown of her brothers, and they of her. She could think of her mother very differently now, and she in turn began to show signs of an awakening affection for her daughter.
As to Ruth, she was ever the same, a quiet little home body, whose hands were always too full to allow her to come to Flora, but whose demure little face never failed to smile a welcome to her friend, and whose wise brain could turn over Flora's tangles and straighten them.
The two girls loved each other dearly; and no safer, truer friend and guide could Flora have found than Ruth Rudd, who, although no older than she herself,was very mature in thought, manner, and speech. Her face however, was childlike and innocent, reflecting the pure soul within. Flora was fortunate indeed in having her for a friend and confidante.
Harry Hazeley was a manly fellow with fine qualities. He had been allowed to do as he pleased, and had not been greatly benefited by this freedom. No restraining hand or guiding voice had been held out to him, or to cheer him on his way. Not being evil minded, he had taken but few wrong steps, and now his attention had been attracted to higher and better things.
As I have said, Harry had good qualities; one of which was a kind disposition, and although it was not always apparent to his every-day associates, was brought into play whenever he met any one who seemed in need of assistance.
One morning, as he was walking through the market on his way to school, his attention was attracted by an old man. One of his feet was swathed in bandages, and he was hobbling painfully back and forth, from his wagon to the stall, where he was trying to arrange a quantity of vegetables and some flowering plants which formed his stock in trade.
Harry had a quarter of an hour to spare, and he immediately offered to help the old man, who was only too glad to accept the proffered assistance, and who introduced himself, between the journeys from stall to wagon, as "Major Joe Benson, a gardener on a small scale."
Major Joe was an old ex-soldier, who had been wounded, and later imprisoned. The title "Major" was only a nominal one, and not indicative of any rank. His name, as he informed Harry, was Joseph Major Benson, Major being his mother's maiden name. He preferred to transpose this and call himself Major Joseph Benson, shortened for convenience to "Major Joe."
"It sounded sort of big, you know," he said, drawing himself up and looking dignified, until reminded by a sharp twinge in his foot that "rheumatiz" and dignity did not agree.
Major Joe was very talkative, and would not cease his persuasions until Harry had promised to drive out to his home with him some day, and see his nice little farm and Mrs. Benson, and he added:
"She will be delighted to see you, because you possess such a kind heart, and because you helped me. You must come."
"Yes, I will," returned Harry, "but I must be off to school now. Good-bye." And away he went, mentally pronouncing the major "a jolly old chap."
The visit was made, and strange though it seemed, a fast friendship sprang up between the two, and the visits became quite frequent. Harry had taken Alec with him several times, and he too had greatly enjoyed the trip. Major Joe could tell any number of quaint tales and reminiscences of interest to the brothers. Mrs. Benson, who was more active than her husband, was always desirous for Harry and Alec to remain to tea. Her heart had been reached by the kindness of Harry to her "Major," as she lovingly called him, and she could not do enough for them.
Harry had passed his old friend's stall a number of times since Flora's return, and had of course told him about his sister. The major had a strong desire to see this wonderful girl, as he deemed her to be, from the glowing descriptions that came to him. Finally he insisted, and Mrs. Benson sent in a kind invitation that the three, Harry, Flora, and Alec must come home with him to spend the afternoon and take tea.
He chose a beautiful day in early summer for thevisit, and Flora was anticipating it with no small degree of pleasure, for it would be the first real holiday she had had since coming home. The thought that the boys cared enough about her to plan a trip for her was a very pleasant one. Her mother seemed as much pleased with the idea as the rest, and had insisted upon her going, so Flora felt warranted in thoroughly enjoying her new experience. Mrs. Hazeley was daily becoming more energetic, and seemed really arousing to the fact that she had a place to fill in her home.
Major Joe was to call for his three young friends on his way home from market. He had promised to be on hand by noon, and as punctuality was an economizer of time, in the old gentleman's opinion, it was barely twelve o'clock when he drew up with a great attempt at flourishing before the Hazeleys' door.
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QUITE an effort was necessary in order to arrange the board for an extra seat for Flora and Alec. At length it was made ready, and Flora was helped in, and Alec followed, while Harry took his place beside the major, who commented as follows:
"So this is your sister, Harry? Well, well, she's a sister to be proud of; and I haven't a doubt but you are proud of her. Here, you Jacob, git up, will you?" and he shook the reins vigorously over his horse's back. "You never do come to a standstill but what you think it's meant for you to go to sleep."
Jacob, roused from his intended doze, lazily shook his fat sides, and slowly moved along. It was a lovely June day, and the little party had a very pleasant ride of about an hour and a half, Jacob not being inclined to hurry.
Major Joe was conversationally inclined, and nothing pleased him more than to hear the sound of his own voice. He chatted continually: now about the orchards theypassed, and their probable yield of fruit; now about the styles of the houses, as they came into view, and interspersed these remarks with reminiscences of the time when he was in the army.
The ride seemed quite a short one to Flora, who had enjoyed it thoroughly.
Mrs. Benson stood at the gate, watching for them; and in her white kerchief and neat cap, looked good-natured and comfortable. A saucy little spaniel sat in the middle of the road, watching too; and he was the first to catch sight of the wagon. He gave notice of the same by a sharp bark, and springing to his feet, doubled himself together, and bounded away, raising a cloud of dust in his haste to reach and greet his master. How happy he was when he reached the carriage! He sprang up at old Jacob, who paid no attention to such a small animal, but merely turned away his head with an air of supreme indifference.
"Jump, Dolby, jump!" said Major Joe. After several ineffectual trials, and two or three hard falls into the dusty road, Dolby landed beside his owner, who had made room for him, and gave himself a vigorous shake, which sent the dust he had gathered in his long hair, overFlora's clothes and into her face, causing her to choke, and a moment later to laugh. Dolby concluded this was in recognition of himself, and turning around, eyed Flora quizzically, and gave a satisfied little friendly bark.
The garden and nursery belonging to Major Joe were not large, but they were very fruitful, enabling him to realize considerable from the sale of his flowers and vegetables. He did not carry on his trade in a scientific manner, but merely for his love of the beautiful and useful things of the vegetable kingdom, and because to be inactive was for him to be unhappy. His receipts from the sale of the products of his land, together with his pension, enabled himself and Mrs. Benson to live very comfortably in their own snug little cottage, and, in addition, to lay aside something for a rainy day.
"Well, mother, here we are," said Major Joe, throwing the reins over Jacob's back.
"So I see," answered Mrs. Benson, nodding smilingly to the entire party. "Just come right in," she added, as Alec sprang out on one side of the wagon, and Harry helped Flora from the other.
The young people followed their hostess through the gate, and up the box-bordered walk into the cosy littlecottage. Flora was soon seated in a low rocking-chair by the window, whose broad sill was filled with potted plants.
There Harry and Alec left her in good Mrs. Benson's care, while they went for a walk over the place.
Flora soon discovered that her hostess was as sociable as the major, and but a short time passed before they were chatting like old friends.
By-and-by, Alec thrust his merry face in at the door, and said:
"Come out here, Flora; the major wants you to see his garden."
"Yes, dear, go, if you are perfectly rested," said Mrs. Benson. "I will stay here, and see about preparing our early tea."
Flora joined her brother out of doors, and found Major Joe and Harry waiting.
"Come and see my little green-house," said the old man, waving his hand, and looking at them from over his spectacles with an important air. Flora complied quite willingly, for she was very fond of flowers, and immediately won the major's good opinion with her enthusiasm over his pet plants, and the interest with which shelistened while he enlarged upon his management of them. The care of his garden was a tax upon his time, and really constituted quite a little labor. Then, outside, it was so pleasant to walk up and down among the neat flower-beds, in the small, but nicely kept orchard; and in the kitchen garden, for the major prided himself on his choice vegetables, some of which frequently took prizes at the county fair.
The major himself was in his glory, for he had someone to whom he could talk. Talking was an occupation of which he never wearied, and now he chatted about the various departments of his labors, and how pleasant it was to watch the growth and development of the plants.
His tongue was still going very fast, when Mrs. Benson appeared in the doorway, and called to them that tea was ready. Reluctantly the old gardener relinquished his young listeners, who were, however, quite willing to vary the program, for they were hungry. The sight of the pleasant room, neat tea-table, and their genial, motherly hostess, was a very inviting one. In a lull of the conversation, during the progress of the meal, Mrs. Benson remarked, with a sad little smile, that Flora reminded her of her Ruth.
"So she does," exclaimed her husband. "I knew she made me think of somebody, but couldn't make it clear who it was."
"Is Ruth your daughter?" asked Flora.
"She is, or leastways she was," said Mrs. Benson, heaving a sigh, and adding, in a low voice, "She's dead now."
"I am very sorry," said Flora, with ready sympathy.
"Yes, our Ruth was a fine girl, but a little headstrong. We did all we could to make her happy and contented at home, but it seemed as if we did not succeed, and so, one day she ran off to marry a man we couldn't care for, because we were sure he wouldn't treat our girl kind—not that there was anything against him, but he was so cold and unfeeling. But she wouldn't listen to us, and went off, and we never saw her again."
"How sad!" said Flora; "but couldn't you go to see her?"
Mrs. Benson shook her head. "No; he said we were not to have anything to do with Ruthie, after he married her, and they moved away somewhere, we never knew where, until we heard in a roundabout way that she was dead." Here Mrs. Benson paused to wipe away a tear. "I had hoped she would at least have stayed near home,and been a comfort to us in our old age; but, I suppose it's all right, and for the best. But excuse me for telling you so soon of our great sorrow. I should not have done it. Have you ever heard," she continued—and soon all were laughing heartily at her quaint sayings.
Flora, however, could not send from her thoughts this sad story. When the pleasant visit was drawing to an end, and they all were bidding Mrs. Benson good-bye, promising to come again, it still lingered with her. As old Jacob was soberly and deliberately trotting homeward, she revolved it over and over in her mind. Somehow it fastened itself upon her in a way she did not understand, and not until she was home, and had retired to her room for the night, did she arrive at even a partial solution of the perplexing problem. Then it dawned upon her with surprising clearness, that it certainly was because of the similarity of names in Mrs. Benson's daughter and her friend and adviser, Ruth Rudd.
This was very slight ground on which even to build an air-castle, but Flora did not stop to consider that, but in the midst of her dreaming resolved to go the next day, and rehearse to Ruth the story she had heard from Mrs. Benson.
Accordingly, next morning, after the work was done, and her mother was seated with her sewing, Flora donned her hat, and went to see her friend, expecting to find her busy as usual. She was, therefore, very much surprised to be met at the door, even before she had knocked, by Ruth herself, whose gentle face wore a troubled, anxious look, and she spoke in a low tone, as she responded to Flora's query:
"What is it, Ruthie?"
"Father is very sick."
"Oh, I am so sorry! What is the matter? When was he taken ill? Was it suddenly?"
"Yes and no," said Ruth, answering simply the last question put by Flora. "He was compelled to stop work yesterday, and come home. He has been in poor health for a long time. I have been afraid, for quite a while, that he would break down."
"The doctor does not think he will die, does he?" whispered Flora, in an awed tone.
"Yes, he does," said Ruth, as she wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron.
The two girls, with their arms entwined, and a deep tenderness in their voices, then went into the littlekitchen, where Jem sat, holding her beloved kitten close to her for comfort.
"Yes, the doctor says that he cannot last long. But what bothers me is, there seems to be something on his mind, and I can see he is worried."
"What about? Do you know?" asked Flora, sympathizingly.
"Well, I can guess," Ruth answered, taking from a work-basket a stocking of Jem's, and beginning to darn it in an abstracted, mechanical way.
"You see," she continued, "father married my mother—my own mother, I mean—against her parents' wishes—she was young—and he never would be reconciled to them, because they had objected to him. Neither would he allow them to have anything to do with each other afterward. He was very stern, and it all made mother so unhappy it just broke her heart, I am sure. She died when I was very small. He has told me, since Jem's mamma died, he wished he had tried to pacify my grandparents. But he had moved far away from them, and now, if he should die, he has nobody with whom to leave Jem and me. But he was always so proud; and now we shall be all alone," and she gave a sorrowful little sigh.
"See here, Ruth," exclaimed Flora, a sudden thought flashing across her mind. "What was your mother's name?"
"Ruth, it was the same as mine," was the reply.
"Yes, but what was her last name?"
"Benson, I think."
"Well, then, I think I know your grandparents," cried Flora.
"You do? How? Where?" returned Ruth, in a puzzled, disjointed way.
"Wasn't, or isn't, your grandfather named Joseph Benson?" asked Flora.
"Yes, Joseph Major Benson; but how did you know?"
"Oh, I found out," was the answer. "And they live just a little way out in the country."
"But, how do you know all that?" persisted Ruth, incredulously.
"Because I was there yesterday."
"Oh, Flora, are you sure? Don't raise my hopes and then disappoint me."
"My dear, you will not be disappointed; I should not like to do that," said Flora, gravely; "but let me tell you, and you can see for yourself." And then she told the storyMrs. Benson had told her, ending with, "So, you see, there can be no mistake."
Ruth was delighted, and thanked her friend again and again.
"Just see how God works," she said. "Who can tell what he will bring about. How glad I am! I must not tell father anything about it just yet. We must manage to send word to grandfather, and have him here before we tell. It would not do to excite father unnecessarily; he is so very weak."
"That is so, Ruthie," said Flora; "you are wise, as usual, in thinking of that. I should have done quite differently. I should have rushed right in at once and told him."
"Not if you had been in my place," was the gentle answer. "You see, I have been accustomed to think about such things ever since Jem's mother died, as father never took much interest in the management of our household affairs."
After some more talk, it was arranged that Flora should go and bring Major Joe to see his son-in-law in the morning, and then the friends parted, Flora to hurry home and enlist her brothers' aid in her new project;and Ruth to return to the bedside of her father, with the pleasant hope of not only easing his mind, but the feeling that should he die, she would not be left entirely alone in the world; a possibility which she had dreaded more because of her little sister, than on her own account.
WHEN Flora entered the house she found her brothers there before her, and both very quiet. It had grown to be such a pleasant thing to find their cheery sister at home when they came in, that they had almost unconsciously commenced to look forward to seeing her, and hearing her merry voice. They hastened home from school, and felt, but never expressed, disappointment when she was not there.
Flora, while not yet so wise and thoughtful as her friend Ruth, was daily learning lessons of usefulness, and continually using and developing new powers heretofore latent, and with her natural tact refrained from commenting upon many changes easily observed, going on in the habits of her brothers. And now she simply smiled at Harry, and pinched Alec's ear playfully, as she passed him.
Then she went to her room to remove her hat, and hastened back to help her mother with the dinner.While putting the dishes on the table she imparted her news to Harry and Alec, between her trips from table to pantry. They were both well pleased to have the prospect of being able to brighten the lives of Major Joe and Mrs. Benson. They considered Flora very bright to come to the conclusion she did.
"I forgot all about that story soon after I heard it," said Alec, conscious stricken. "Didn't you, Hal?"
"I am afraid I did," laughed his brother. "But what else was there for me to do? I knew no way in which I might help, as Flora did."
"That's so," rejoined Alec, in a relieved tone, willing to share in his brother's self-absolution.
"Of course neither of you could have done anything, for you did not know Ruth. But tell me, what will be best to do?" asked Flora, pausing with a dish she was carrying to the table.
"I know," said Harry. "To-morrow is Saturday and market day also, and we all can go and see Major Joe in his stall, and tell him what we have heard, and what we think. If he is interested, one of us can stay at his stall while he goes and sees Ruth."
"How glad he will be; and how glad I am," saidFlora. "It would be dreadful for Ruth and poor little Jem to be left with no one to take care of them."
Thus the question was decided.
The next morning Major Joe was surprised by a visit from all three of his young friends, and none the less delighted to see them, however, because they came unexpectedly, and he gave them a hearty welcome. It was understood beforehand that Flora was to be the one to open the subject, and explain matters. She did not tell everything at once, as Alec thought she ought to do, but approached the object of their visit in a delicate way.
"Major Joe; guess what brought us here to-day."
"I'm sure I can't say," answered the old man, rubbing his rough hands together, with a beaming smile. "Maybe to see your old friend?"
"To be sure; we're always glad to do that," replied Flora, as she placed the little bunches of parsley and thyme in more perfect order. "We have come for something else. Something very important," she added, seeing that Major Joe had no curiosity as to the nature of their errand with him.
"What would you say if I told you we had found somebody who belongs to you?"
"To me?" queried the puzzled man. "I don't see how you could do that."
"Yes, but I have," said Flora. "I am sure of it."
The old major shook his head doubtingly.
"And I want you to come with me and see if what I said is not true," persisted Flora, coaxingly.
"But how can I?" questioned Major Joe in reply. "I cannot leave my stall—who would wait on my customers?"
"Why not let me take charge until you return," asked Harry, speaking for the first time.
"And I can help," added Alec.
"Now you see it's all fixed," said Flora.
"Surely you're not afraid to trust us, are you?" asked Harry, as he saw his old friend still undecided.
"No, no; it's not that, my boy; only——"
"Only nothing," interrupted Flora, laughingly. "You must come, so say no more about it." And she caught his arm and led him away, an unwilling and unbelieving captive.
Ruth opened the door in answer to Flora's gentle tap. The latter could no longer restrain her impatience.
"Now, Major Joe," she exclaimed, softly, for fear ofdisturbing the sick man, "whom does this little sobersides remind you of?"
At first the old man looked from one to the other in a bewildered manner. Then his eyes rested on Ruth's face long and attentively. The tears gathered, and he involuntarily held out his hand, and said, softly, "Ruthie."
Scarcely realizing what she was doing, Ruth, probably drawn by the tender, loving tone that touched her heart, put her own in it.
"Who is she? What does it all mean?" asked the major, looking helplessly at Flora.
"It means," answered Flora, softly, "that this is truly Ruthie. Not your own Ruth, but her daughter and namesake—your grand-daughter Ruth."
"Is that so? Are you sure? Don't say so if you ain't," pleaded the old man. And then the thought flashed across Flora's mind that perhaps after all she was mistaken, and had only brought her old friend there to be disappointed.
"Ruth dear," she said, dropping into a chair, weakened by the very thought, "tell him—tell him all about yourself; your mother's name, and everything. Do, please, quick!"
Ruth told the history of her dead mother's life, as she had heard it from her own lips.
Eagerly Major Joe listened, and when she was through, he held out his arms to her, saying:
"You are my poor Ruth's daughter," and the tears prevented him from adding more. Ruth and Flora wiped their eyes in sympathy: Ruth rejoicing in the possession of a grandfather; Flora, that provision was thus made for Ruth.
This tearful trio was interrupted a moment later by the entrance of Jem, carrying her doll under one arm, and her beloved Pokey under the other.
"Why, Ruth Rudd, I'm extonished at you, hugging a old market man!" and Jem looked at her sister with unbounded disapproval.
"Hush Jem, you must not talk so," said Ruth. "This is our grandfather."
"Not mine," returned matter-of-fact Jem, standing still in the middle of the room, and looking suspiciously at the visitor. "Not mine. I never had any, and don't want one."
"Who is this?" asked Major Joe, looking at the defiant little figure dubiously.
"She is my half-sister," answered Ruth.
"Well, well," said her grandfather, "she ain't Ruth's child, so I've no call to take her when I take you, Ruth. Her father can send her to his own people."
"Then, grandfather, I cannot go with you," said Ruth, sadly, but firmly. "I will never leave Jem."
"Ruth, you're not going to leave me, are you?" cried the little girl.
"No, indeed, dear, I shall not leave you. It was not very nice for you to speak of grandpa as you did just now. You should always be polite to an old person. Remember this, Jem."
"I don't care," said Jem, defiantly. "He's horrid. He wants to take you away, and you're all I've got 'cept father, and—and he's going to die," she sobbed, hiding her face in Ruth's arms.
"Don't cry, Jem. I will not leave my little sister. What could I do without you?"
"No, no, little one, Ruth's grandfather won't part you, if you're so fond of each other." And the major came over and patted the sobbing child's head, soothingly. His was too tender a heart to withstand the sight of a child in distress, so it was soon settled that he was to be Jem'sgrandfather also, which arrangement was accepted by the little girl as readily as she had rejected the idea a moment before.
Then the major, his heart made very tender by memories of the past, was ready to visit the invalid.
John Rudd had always been a quiet man, but willful and determined to succeed in whatever he undertook. He was not bad at heart, and when a wrong act was committed it was invariably caused by obstinacy. He usually quickly repented of his course, and made all reparation in his power.
Knowing that Mr. and Mrs. Benson did not like him as well as he had hoped, he determined to marry Ruth, and to prohibit all intercourse with her family. In everything else he was thoroughly honorable, but he tenaciously held to this point. Ruth Benson, loving him devotedly, and believing all he said or did was infallible, implicitly obeyed this strange request without a question, and neither did she hear of or from her parents.
That the unnecessary sacrifice did not add to her happiness, was proven by the fact that she lost her free, light-hearted ways, and became quiet and melancholy, after a year or two of married life. Her husband wasproud—too proud to admit that he had made a mistake, until it was too late for such an admission to do any good, and so after a few years she died, leaving behind her little namesake, Ruth. She seemed to have transmitted to the child in a large measure her own disposition, for Ruth was always a grave, silent, little thing, entirely unlike other children, and quite old for her years.
It was nice too, she possessed such a sweet disposition and even temper, for when her father brought home a new mother for the little Ruth, many changes were made in the home, and great would have been the discord but for Ruth's peaceful characteristics. Shortly after his second marriage, John Rudd moved to Bartonville, whether for business openings, or to be near the early home of Ruth's mother, no one ever knew.
Ruth knew the story of her mother's married life, of the home of her girlhood, and of the kind parents, but she did not know where the home was.
Whatever the reason for his coming, it was well for Ruth and Jem, for as I have said, provision was now made for them both at Major Joe's farm.
Ruth's life thus far, since the cares of the home were put upon her at the death of Jem's mother, had been anuneventful one. She had no companion but her little sister, who so filled her brain, and heart, and time, that she had no opportunity to grow lonesome. Personally, Ruth would have felt happier if her father had allowed the love, she doubted not he held for her, to find expression in a word of praise, a tender kiss, or appreciation of her efforts. But her father never thought of this longing of his daughter: he was so self-contained himself, and unemotionally inclined, that he could not have understood this craving, even had he known of its existence, which it is needless to say, he did not.
It was rather hard for so young a girl to persevere in her home-making with such a singleness of purpose as Ruth displayed, to give up her beloved studies without a sigh of regret, and to strive to train her younger sister, knowing she would receive no word of approbation from her father.
FLORA was very glad to know that at last her tender-hearted, patient Ruth had found some one to love her as well as to require of her duties. Love is a lightener of labor, and Flora felt that, in this respect at least, she was more fortunate than her friend. She felt sure, moreover, she was fast gaining the affection of her brothers and of her mother, who was gradually awaking to love for Flora and the desire to make the home attractive. She had something to work for. But Ruth—she had no one to whom to look for love, except Jem, as it was impossible to think of their quiet, undemonstrative father ever expressing any of his love for his daughters. One could only judge from his manner, for he never said much, and that was the same as when she first knew them.
John Rudd apparently took it as a matter of course that Major Benson came to see him as he lay ill, and expressed neither pleasure nor displeasure when he statedthat should he not recover Ruth and Jem would be well cared for. He accepted, without feeling, the heartily expressed forgiveness from the major, thinking that perhaps it was due in some degree to the presence of two faces standing near by with earnest, pleading looks at the newly found grandfather, who, deprived of his daughter, would fill the vacancy in his heart with Ruth and Jem.
It was very difficult for Major Joe, with his tender heart, to leave his grandchildren. At last, however, he did, promising to return in the afternoon with Mrs. Benson, who would be overjoyed to see them, especially Ruth, who was so like her mother at her age.
As they returned to the market, Major Joe was prolific in his expressions of gratitude to Flora for her part in bringing about this delightful re-union, for had this not been done, Ruth and Jem would have suffered, and would have been left without parents or home.
Harry and Alec were well pleased with their new position, and because trade had been very flourishing during their period of power. Major Joe heartily thanked them all for their kind help to him this morning. Flora then returned home, but Harry and Alecremained to do anything else possible for Major Joe, as he wished to go home at once, and must pack his wares.
It is neither necessary to recount in detail all that pertained to the last hours of John Rudd, nor how attentive Grandfather Joe was to his newly found grandchildren; nor how overjoyed Mrs. Benson was when she first saw them. It will be enough to say that all that could be done toward rendering the dying man's last moments peaceful was done. Toward the last he roused, and in a simple, but earnest way, expressed himself content to die. He said that, although he had not spoken of the matter for fear of distressing the children, he had known for some time that it was to be so, and that long ago he had made his peace with God. He regretted his past careless life, both as to his duty to his Maker and to the children intrusted to him; "but," he continued, "God is good, and ever willing to forgive, and to accept a truly contrite spirit, and my trust is stayed on him." He expressed himself as very grateful to him for his goodness in providing for his children. He blessed them all with his last breath and passed peacefully away.
When the last sad rites had been performed, Ruth'sgrandparents immediately began preparations to take her and Jem home.
The modest furniture of her home was entirely removed, although it somewhat crowded the cottage, but Ruth could not now part with these mementos of her former life, which had been her mother's.
At last, everything was ready, the little house was given up, and Ruth was spending a few moments with Flora, who, although instrumental in finding a new home for Ruth and Jem, was full of sorrow at the prospect of her loss in the parting with her friend.
"Don't look so sad, Flora dear," said Ruth. "Think what a blessing it is that poor little Jem and I have not been left altogether alone in the world. Had God not led you to find our dear grandparents, how very wretched we should be now. Besides, you know, we are not to be so far away; we can see each other often."
"That is true," returned Flora, brightening up; "I am glad of that; but it will be so lonely not to have you near me. Besides, I don't know any other girl as intimately as I do you."
"Oh, you will," said Ruth. "I am sure you will meet and become acquainted with some one as you did me.I hope, if you do, you may be permitted to do them as much good as you have done me."
"And me too, Ruth," said an unexpected voice behind them.
Both turned, and saw Mrs. Hazeley standing in the doorway with a smile upon her lips and tears in her eyes.
"I used to be very unhappy, as you both know, and it was because I expected life to form itself for me—either for pleasure or unhappiness. Then Flora came," and she went over to her daughter and placed an arm about her, and looked lovingly in her eyes; "I watched her closely, and I soon discovered that she had determined to make this house a home, and a delightful one. No untoward circumstances seemed to discourage, but she was ever cheery and sprightly. We have gained by her home-coming—how much I cannot tell. She seems to have the mere power of will to mold circumstances as she chooses——"
"Not my will, mother," softly interrupted Flora, her face suffused with happy smiles; "it is God's will."
"Yes, yes, my dear," said Mrs. Hazeley, "I believe it. I want his will to mold my life too. A godless life is a wretched life, my children."
Harry and Alec had entered during the conversation, and were standing listening in amazement to what they heard from their mother.
"And the boys too," continued Mrs. Hazeley; "I am sure they have been helped by their sister's example."
"I know I have!" exclaimed Alec. Harry's only reply was to remark that the major was at the door waiting for Ruth. Then he turned and went out.
Flora felt a strange mixture of feelings at that moment. She was glad to know she had helped Ruth; unutterably grateful for her mother's words; and hurt at the seeming indifference of her brother. It was not her way, however, to dwell on what she could not prevent, so she only determined to strive harder than before to penetrate the armor of cold indifference worn by Harry of late.
As Harry left, they all went to the gate to wave a good-bye to Ruth. In the wagon was Jem, perched on a seat beside her grandfather, to whom she had clung with all the strength of her loving little heart. Immediately after the funeral she had gone home with him, taking "Pokey," and leaving Ruth in peace to pack.This was really a comfort to Ruth, as Jem's presence would not have been of any great assistance.
Soon everything was settled, and with many injunctions to come soon, the party drove off, little Jem holding the reins with a steady hand, and a determination to drive all the way home.
A new life thus opened for the orphans, Ruth and Jem—a life of freedom from care, of joyous liberty to run at will in the garden of their grandfather, who delighted in the company of Jem, and who returned his affection in full measure. The life at the cottage was blessed by the loving guardianship of the grandmother, who saw in Ruth her own daughter of long ago.
Under this beneficent influence Ruth lost some of her seriousness, becoming more like other girls, and grew rosy and stout.
The life at the farm had so absorbed Jem's mind and time that, for the time being, "Pokey" was forgotten, much to the latter's satisfaction, for now she could lie in the sun and sleep in peace without fear of being unceremoniously awakened by her erratic little mistress.
Flora watched the wagon containing Ruth and Jem until it was out of sight, and then went into the house.Alec and Harry had gone away. Mrs. Hazeley was sewing, and Flora, having no especial duty, and caring for none, went over and stood at the window, listlessly gazing into space. Her eyes soon dropped, and her attention was attracted by the yellow leaves on the sweet-potato vine. Flora felt as if all to which she had clung was leaving her in her loneliness. She looked closer. The potato was still firm and hard, and the jar was quite packed with roots, but the leaves on the vine were dying.
FLORA had stood for some little time, mechanically caressing the vine, when she was surprised to hear near at hand, in a voice strangely familiar, the words:
"Well, I declare!"
Looking up quickly, but scarcely crediting her own eyes, she exclaimed:
"Lottie Piper!"
"Flora Hazeley!" returned the voice, and in a moment the friends were locked in each other's arms.
"Where did you come from? What are you doing here?" asked Flora, eagerly, in her desire to account for Lottie's presence in the village.
"Only one question at a time, if you please," laughingly returned Lottie. "Can you not guess?" she added, glancing at her gown, and for the first time Flora noticed it was black.
The quick tears sprang to Flora's eyes.
"Oh, Lottie, who is it? Not your mother?" she said,sympathetically, her arm tightening in its grasp, and her thoughts running back to her sorrow when Aunt Bertha passed away.
"Yes," returned Lottie, sadly, "mother is dead. Father felt that he could not be happy at home, and so he went away out West, and left me with my aunt, Mrs. Emmeline Durand. And Flora, if you want to know what misery is, just you come and take my place for a while." And she looked at Flora with such a mingled expression of regret at her lot, and assumed resignation, that Flora was tempted to laugh, in spite of her sorrow in learning of the death of Mrs. Piper.
"If you want to laugh, you may," said Lottie, seeing her difficulty, and appreciating it, as was shown by the merry twinkle in her bright black eyes.
"No, no, I must not laugh," said Flora, squeezing her friend's arm affectionately. "I'm so sorry that your mother is dead. Where does your aunt live? I will come and see you."
"No, you—I mean you—can't—that is, she won't let you," stammered Lottie, blushing hotly.
"Yes, I understand. It is all right. It is not your fault," said Flora, hastily, appreciating the situation; andwishing to relieve the embarrassment of the other, she added, "You can come and see me."
"I don't know," answered Lottie, glad to find that Flora understood. "I hardly think she would let me come. I have not asked her to go anywhere, as yet. I have been with her about five weeks, and this is the first time I have been out, except on an errand. She says she doesn't approve of girls 'gadding the streets.' I must go now. I have stayed longer than I ought to already, for I had a long walk before I saw you. Flora," she added, an instant later, as she glanced at the window, "isn't that a potato in that jar?"
"Yes," answered Flora, "it is the same one you gave me when I was leaving Brinton."
"Really? The very same?"
"Yes. You know you told me not to eat it, and I didn't know what to do with it at first. Then I thought it would look very nice if I put it in the window; I did, and it has grown splendidly and has kept green all winter."
"I am so glad you thought of that, Flora, because that was what I first noticed as I passed. And I thought it looked like a sweet-potato vine. And then, you know," Lottie continued, "if you hadn't I should not have stopped or seenyou ever, because I did not know where you were going when you came away. But what will my aunt say? I guess I'll not get anything for supper but a bit of tongue, and I don't fancy that, I can tell you. Good-bye." And with a hurried kiss, and a warm embrace, Lottie hurried down the street.
She was sorry to go, as it was so good to meet somebody she knew—somebody connected with the old, happy home-life, for while Lottie's mother lived, she had been very happy. But now she was so lonely.
She hurried along the streets until she came to one near the suburbs of the town. This street had trees on either side, and was very quiet. The houses were small and nearly all set back from the street.
Lottie walked along briskly, turning deftly in and out, and at length arrived safe and sound at the little gate leading into her aunt's yard. This gate opened upon a small space, which doubtless had been intended by the builder of the house to he beautified with flowers; but Mrs. Durand's front yard was closely paved with red brick. Not a flower, or a vine, or a bush broke the monotony, which, however, was not wearisome, as the yard was small.
A high board fence enclosed the little yard on each side.Close to the gate stood a large, old poplar, strangely drawn toward the quiet narrow street, as if weary of the unattractiveness of the house.
Lottie was nervous; she dreaded the reception she felt sure awaited her. The only thing that occurred to her to do was to knock, and she did so.
Receiving no response, she knocked again and waited. There was still no response, and thinking she had not been heard, she knocked again and again.
At length, just as she had decided that her aunt must be out, a calm voice from behind the door said in deliberate tones:
"If you will take the trouble to turn the knob, the door might open."
This idea had not occurred to Lottie, and the knowledge that the door was not locked somewhat confused her. However, she opened the door, and went in.
"There is a mat in front of the door," suggested the voice in the same slow, measured tones.
After wiping off the infinitesimal amount of dust from her shoes, Lottie timidly ventured into the room.
"Go to your room, if you will, and lay aside your wraps," came the voice, in an authoritative way.
Without speaking, Lottie obeyed. She felt as she slowly climbed the stairs that she had become a veritable automaton, without volition or energy, and compelled to do certain things. This grated on the sensitive nature of the girl, to whom, in the happy days that had passed, freedom to live in and enjoy the open air was everything. And now—and Lottie inwardly groaned at the thought—her actions were directed by one who seemed to forget her own girlhood, or that she had ever enjoyed the bright blue sky, the green fields, the merry, twittering birds, or the companionship of those who were of her own age.
Lottie had often wondered in her own mind if her aunt had ever been young, and if she had enjoyed her youth. There was no one to whom she could go for an answer. Had there been, Lottie would have been surprised to learn that she had been full of bright, merry fun, and had enjoyed life as she had at home.
"At home," Lottie thought, and paused, thinking of her mother, of the comforts and freedom of home, and then she looked in the glass to see if she was not old, for those happy daysdidseem so far away.
Mrs. Durand had met with many disappointments and a great deal of trouble in her life, of which Lottie knewnothing, and which had embittered her disposition, making her crabbed and disagreeable. As she now was, Lottie supposed she had ever been.
For some moments Lottie had looked in the glass, musingly. Now, as her thoughts returned to herself and her surroundings, she saw a dreary, woe-begone face looking at her from the quaint, cracked, old-fashioned mirror on her bureau. It was so doleful and forlorn, that Lottie nearly cried in sympathy with the miseries of the face before her. In a moment, realizing that it was her own reflection she saw, and enjoying her mistake, she laughed heartily, whereat the face in the mirror smiled pleasantly in return.
"Humph!" said the voice downstairs.
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Lottie softly; "I have made her think that I don't care about staying out so long." And she slowly turned from the bureau and her mirth-provokingvis à vis, and leaving her room, slowly descended the stairs to her aunt.
The room in which her aunt sat was furnished very plainly. Some cane-bottomed chairs, a black horse-hair sofa, a small wooden stand, adorned with a red cloth on which was the family Bible; two or three pictures upon thedingy walls, a pair of tall lamps with a bit of red flannel in the bottom, graced the mantelpiece. A dull ingrain carpet, and some home-made mats covered the floor. These, with a cloth-covered brick used to keep the door open, completed the furnishing of Mrs. Durand's parlor.
Mrs. Durand herself was a small, thin, wiry woman. Her features could hardly be called attractive; her lips were thin and tightly shut; her eyes were colorless, and she wore three stiff, little curls on each side of her face. She wore a dark gown, over which was a black apron, and on her head was a black lace cap. She was busily engaged in making another mat to adorn the floor, from long, bright-colored strips of cloth.
For some time she continued her work in silence. Lottie would have spoken had she had anything to say.
Presently, to Lottie's great surprise and relief, her aunt remarked:
"You may as well set the table, as you are here."
Lottie was glad to have something to do, as she was so much happier when employed.
"She hasn't scolded me yet, but it will come, that's certain," she said to herself, as she placed the dishes onthe little round table in the back room which answered for both kitchen and dining room.
While at supper, Mrs. Durand questioned her niece about her walk, and Lottie told her, not forgetting the chance meeting with her friend, Flora Hazeley.
After supper, as was her duty, Lottie washed and put away the dishes, without further conversation with her aunt. That done, she took up a book and began to read.
TIME passed on, and with it as usual came changes. The summer was gone and it was November, and the weather was cold and dreary.
Lottie's life was much the same from day to day; there was little variety to make the life of the young girl pleasant. True, she did not have a hard time, nor was she overworked, nor did she ever go hungry; but the atmosphere of the house was always chill and drear, and Mrs. Durand was as unsociable and unsympathetic as ever.
It was perhaps true, that Lottie was somewhat prone to slightly exaggerate her unhappiness, and to dwell upon it until it seemed almost unendurable.
One morning, as she was dressing, she heard her aunt call, and upon going to her room, discovered that she was suffering from an attack of acute rheumatism. Then, indeed, Lottie was sure her misery was at such a height, that it could go no further.
As may be supposed, the sharp pain she endured did not render Mrs. Durand a more pleasant companion, and Lottie found that while it had been difficult to please her before it seemed utterly impossible to do so now.
Lottie did her best, with a determination pleasant to witness, and with the knowledge that it was her duty to care for her aunt under such painful conditions.
Lottie was lonely; she seemed to be entirely cut off from everybody she knew and cared for. She seldom heard from her father, and never from her brother, who had left his home when she was quite a little girl. She sometimes wondered if he was dead. She was industrious, and soon learned to keep house for her aunt very acceptably. She was not hard to please and was of a loving, sociable disposition. If her aunt had only made an effort to be agreeable and interested in her, Lottie would have been perfectly content.
If the months had brought but little change to Lottie, they had wrought a number of very important ones in the life of our friend Flora.
First, the news had reached them one day that the husband and father was killed in a railroad accident.This, of itself, completely revolutionized affairs at the Hazeleys'. And then, just as they were trying to become a little accustomed to the sad change in the household, Harry disappointed them.
This was indeed a great blow, for Harry was, in a large measure, their main dependence. He was now about twenty years old and had been steadily at work for some time, and seemed on a good road to a successful business career. At first, he gave his earnings to his mother, only reserving enough to clothe himself neatly and comfortably, for he felt anxious to supply, as far as he could, her loss in the death of his father. This money, added to what Mrs. Hazeley and Flora made by doing plain sewing, and what Alec could earn out of school hours by keeping his eyes open, and his willingness to be of assistance to any one, was a great help toward keeping things going. For, although the little home was their own, of course there were the extra incidental expenses.
Mrs. Hazeley and Flora soon grew to depend on Harry, far more than they realized, until taught by his increasing fondness for remaining from home in the evening, and not unfrequently, all night. Great, indeed,was their sorrow when they learned how these evenings were spent—in the gambling house and the saloon. Had it not been for their hope in the Christ and his saving power, they would not have seen the faintest brightness in this cloud, which was a great burden to each, a sorrow about which they hardly dared speak.
Flora spoke earnestly and lovingly to her brother several times about the way he was conducting himself, but, as we have seen, he was not one to take this kindly, and knowing this, Flora felt she could do nothing but pray for her erring brother, who was so young, and yet so willful.
She never lost hope, nor did her firm belief that his better, nobler nature would prevail, weaken through those long, dark, hard days.
Mrs. Hazeley and Flora were compelled to devote all their attention to their work, as Harry could no longer be trusted to aid them financially; and, despite their brave, uncomplaining efforts, it was ofttimes difficult to make both ends meet.
Aunt Sarah had not visited them for some time, in fact, not since Flora came home, nor did they hear from her; and though knowing she might help them in theirneed, they could not bring themselves to inform her of their condition.
At length, one night they watched and waited for Harry to come home.
He did not come that night, nor the next, nor the one following; nor could they hear anything of him, except that he had not been around for days.
Where had he gone and what would he do? These were questions that Flora asked herself with a sick heart.
Mrs. Hazeley, with her naturally weak disposition, would have given way to despair under this new trouble and drifted back into the same condition in which we first found her, had it not been for her newly found trust and hope in her Heavenly Father, and the inspiring example of her courageous, self-reliant daughter. Flora seemed to grow stronger and more dignified under the added trials, and her mother, now a true Christian, was to her a great help and comfort; in fact, the two were all in all to each other, and the home that had at one time appeared to Flora most miserable, was now a haven of rest; and the mother from whom she had once turned away coldly, was now warmly lovedand loving. Truly, there was sweetness mixed with her cup of bitterness.
Major Joe Benson, who had kept up his acquaintance with his young friends whom he greatly admired, and who by this time was considered quite a friend of the family, offered to take Alec to live with him. There was a very good school, he said, at no great distance from his home, and he would be glad to have the boy's help on his little place, especially now that Zeke was getting on in years, and had gotten above doing the many odd jobs he had performed when a boy, which state, while it was not many years distant, sufficed to make Zeke act, as Major Joe said, "very mannish."
No sooner was the proposition mentioned in Alec's hearing, than he was all enthusiasm, for nothing did he desire more than to live in the country. His mind was fully made up to become a farmer, and no recital of the hardships connected therewith, could divest such a life of its charms for him.
So it was settled, and it was really a great comfort to have at least one of the family well provided for, with the prospects of seeing him an upright and industrious man.
Now that provision was thus made for Alec, and he was but little expense to them, Flora and Mrs. Hazeley could manage very well by practising strict economy.
Life progressed very evenly and uneventfully, we might almost add happily, except for the sorrow caused by their ignorance of Harry's whereabouts.
One day, into their quiet and peaceful lives, very unexpectedly came Mrs. Sarah Martin, who was surprised at their comfortable surroundings.
She was greeted pleasantly by Flora and Mrs. Hazeley, who were determined to forgive and forget her treatment of them, but the warmth, which affection gives, was lacking. This did not fail to make itself manifest to Mrs. Martin, and, strange to say, instead of displeasing her, it seemed to have quite a softening effect upon her callous heart. The memory of this visit, and the picture of her niece's heroic efforts to keep her mother and herself from want, proved a veritable ever-present and sharp thorn in the side.
"Here I am, alone in the world, with plenty to supply all my wishes and some to spare," she thought one evening. We must do her justice; she was not miserly, butshe was selfish—she wished to insure for her lifetime comfort for herself, and the gratification of her desires. "Here am I with plenty and to spare, while those of my own flesh and blood are struggling to keep the wolf from the door," she mused.
Having commenced to reproach herself she did not hesitate, for at every step seeing herself as others saw her, she discovered more cause to regret her attitude toward her sister.
"Have I been false to my trust?" she soliloquized, questioningly. "No—not exactly—because I gave no promise. And yet—Bertha supposed I would follow her request. However, I am not bound to do as she wished.
"Bertha would not have left me in charge had she supposed I would not carry out her wishes," she continued. "Probably she would not have given her property to Esther. She is so careless and extravagant that such a course would have been equal to her throwing the money away. Suppose the money had been left in trust to Flora? Would Esther have done more than I have done? No, she would have wasted it. What is the difference? Nothing; I am doing as Esther would havedone. Anyway, I will leave all to Flora, who will enjoy it after I am dead, and that will make it all right."
Another thing Mrs. Martin tried to argue in support of the idea that she had done all for the best, was that Flora had developed such astonishing qualities of self-government and ability. "She has almost made another woman of that mother of hers," she said to herself. "One can easily see that the material for a real, sound, sensible, practical woman is not in Esther, and if Flora were not there with her she would be the same as before, only worse."
There was a good deal of truth in what Mrs. Martin said. Some people cannot do or be anything without a definite motive, or an active example. But what did all this arguing amount to? Nothing at all, save to keep her mind in a constant state of turmoil, by her efforts to ease her conscience.
At last, with the constant strain she became mentally exhausted, and in spite of her efforts to the contrary for a long time lay upon the bed, a sufferer from nervous prostration. Her brain was unnaturally active, and she gained but little benefit from her enforced quiet. A neighboring physician was called, but found it impossibleto benefit her in her present condition. He might prescribe medicines to meet certain symptoms in her case, but he could not reach the seat of the trouble. She did not consider that it was her business to add a description of her mental condition to that of her physical one. She grew no better, and finally she decided to take a course of heroic treatment.
First, she proceeded to pay her physician and to inform him that she had no further need of his services, much to that gentleman's disgust, who left muttering that it was queer that the patient should be the one to decide whether or not the doctor had been of service to her.
Next, she wrote in a feeble, trembling, and unintelligible way, the following short, blunt note:
"Niece Flora:—I am sick. I want to see you."S. Martin."
"Niece Flora:—I am sick. I want to see you.
"S. Martin."
Flora and her mother were sitting sewing very busily that afternoon when the postman rapped on the door.
The sun was streaming in at the window, no longer adorned by the sweet potato, which was long since dead, but touching brightly the green leaves and scarlet blossomsof some geraniums—some of Ruth's "gerangums," according to Jem, that held the place of honor.
"From Aunt Sarah, mother," said Flora, carelessly, handing it to Mrs. Hazeley, who in turn read the short note.
"Well, Flora dear; what will you do about it?" she questioned, resuming her work.
"Oh, I guess I had better go and see her; hadn't I?" asked Flora, as she cut her thread.
"You may do as you please about the matter," returned Mrs. Hazeley, and there the matter dropped.
They continued their work in silence, their thoughts as busy as their fingers.