"I never could see the reason for that. I have always aimed to lead a blameless life, and think I have."
"To be saved by a blameless life one must neverhave transgressed in a single point. Now you do not pretend that you never once transgressed?"
"I know it would be a lie to stand up in a prayer-meeting, and say I was the chief of sinners, as so many do."
"Did St. Paul lie when he called himself the chief of sinners?"
"I suppose he knew what he was saying. I do not pretend to be St. Paul, or saint anybody; but to pretend I am a great sinner, when I know I am not, would be mere nonsense."
"That is as far as I ever get with you. You say you believe the Bible; let us see what that says."
"Oh, I know what it says; that every man is, by nature, a great sinner; granted, but all are not equally depraved, and it has always been my nature to be upright, faithful, and true. What would you have more?"
"A great deal more. Morality is not Christianity."
"You think I am not a Christian because I never joined the church. But I consider myself a better man than half your professors. If I ever do set up to be a Christian, I mean to put most of you to the blush. The way old Mr. Whitcomb gets up and whines over his 'coldness' makes me smile."
"I don't like whines any better than you do. But I want to call your attention to a fact you overlook. Allowing that your life is blameless, let me judgeyou by that life. Its whole history isforgetfulness of God, and that issues in final condemnation, however faultless your record in regard to man. You are not honest and upright and amiable to please God, therefore He scarcely looks at this exterior, fair as it is in your eyes."
"Prove that I forget God, if you please. Is it forgetting Him to go to church twice every Sunday? I do not make the pretension that some men do, but I defy them to find me wanting in any virtue."
"Let us define the word 'forget,' before we go any farther. It implies heedlessness, does it not?"
"I suppose so."
"Then one who forgets God is heedless towards Him. You go to church every Sunday; outwardly this looks well. But the Divine eye penetrates to the heart. Does He find a true worshiper there?"
"You cannot prove that He does not."
"I cannotproveit, it is true, but I must judge of the state of your heart on Sundays, by what I see of your life on week-days. Now, I see no Christ there."
"I believe the Father judges me more leniently than you do. He finds no fault with my worship."
"Does He not? Read what is said in prophecy and afterwards repeated by Christ, of those who worship God with the lips while the heart is far from Him."
"While my outward life is spotless I am not afraidof my heart's not keeping step with it. Besides, there is nothing malicious, or unkind, or severe in my heart, that God should look upon with displeasure. It is not mere sentiment He wants. He wants a good, honest, manly life, and that He gets from me."
"If He gets from you all He wants, why does He declare you must be born again?"
"I know most men need regeneration, but I feel no need of any such change, and never did."
"My dear brother," said Mrs. Grey, with difficulty suppressing her tears, "I see that further argument is useless. You are living for yourself and not for Christ, though He has died for you. You are training your sons to outward morality like your own. But all your souls are in jeopardy. There are those who have gone far beyond you; they have prophesied in Christ's name; cast out devils in His name; done many wonderful works in His name; and He has said, 'I never knew you; depart from me, ye that work iniquity.'"
"At any rate," he returned, "you are religious enough to satisfy the most exacting Being possible. If I fail to enter heaven through my good works, I can plead yours."
"Mine!" she cried. "There isn't one on record!"
"Oh, if it pleases you to take that view of your life, well and good! It seems to be a part of your creed to believe yourself a sinner."
"It is, indeed, my creed," she replied, "and I find that creed in the Word of God. One ray from it darting through your soul would reveal to you depths of evil of which you are now unconscious."
"'Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise,'" he said, smilingly, and rose to go.
Defeated and grieved, Mrs. Grey went to the Refuge of her soul, to plead once more on behalf of this deluded man. But for a time "He answered her never a word."
Christmas came upon Greylock before they were quite ready for it; it seemed to come earlier every year. Margaret had worked very hard to get a picture done for each of the grown folks, and though she had undoubted genius, and wrote poetry with her artistic brush, of course her work was more or less crude.
Once more the house flung open its doors, and the scattered family came trooping in. They were a clannish set, wonderfully fond of each other, and willing to take any amount of trouble in order to accomplish this yearly meeting. Everybody found Frank's three elder children marvelously improved in health and behavior, and he and Lily could hardly believe that these three well-bred, gentle, and obedient young creatures were those who went forth from them like so many unruly colts. Belle's twins were now ten months old—a lovely age—and she was positive they could say "papa," a point on which the rest of the family were doubtful. Mabel was as devoted a loveras ever; there was no room for her in her mother's lap nowadays, but she still stood always close at her side, except when Margaret beguiled her away.
"How long did it take you to paint all these pictures, Margaret?" Laura one day asked.
"A long, long time, small as they are," she replied. "I can tell you, painting meanswork."
"It is a great comfort to us common mortals to see genius plodding along the highway like the rest of us," said Laura. "By the bye, that reminds me that my book, such as it is, is done, and I am going to read it aloud for your delectation the first stormy day."
"Whose? Mine?" asked Margaret.
"Not yours in particular; all you girls in general."
"And leave us boys out?" cried Frank.
"You boys won't be left out with my consent," said Harry. "Ithink it's a capital story."
"Of courseyou'dthink it capital if it was 'Mother Goose,'" said Laura. "Don't any of you believe a word he says. It isn't half so good as it ought to be."
The stormy day was close at hand, and the whole family met in the library, amused at the idea of "Oney's" writing a book, and secretly afraid they might have to quiz it. The ladies had their work, and were, therefore, out of mischief during the reading. But the gentlemen kept Mrs. Grey in a constantstate of scandal the whole time. One unscrewed her inkstand and looked in; another took up and laid down her paper-weights, and always in the wrong place; another upset a bottle of mucilage, hoped she didn't know it, and furtively wiped it up with his handkerchief; another bent a leaf-cutter Margaret had painted for her, and every moment she expected to see it snap in two. Now and then, to Laura's vexation, they whispered to each other, and now and then a mamma was called out, and the reading had to be suspended. But she kept at it manfully, and by degrees, as the "boys" became interested, they let the library-table and its contents alone.
And this is Laura's story:
Eric.
"It is of no use, I cannot stand; you see the ankle is fractured."
"But the Signor will perish if he lies here on the ice."
"Is there, then, no hope that one of the other sledges will come to our rescue?"
"None whatever. We are quite off the usual route; nightfall is approaching, and there is but one way of escape from death—if the Signor will permit me to take him on my shoulders."
"Impossible! You could not bear such a burden a single rod."
"The Signor does not know the young men of Dalerna."
"Nay, I will not suffer you to make the trial. Go, my good Olaf, and leave me to my fate. It is not needful that both of us should perish. Take my watch to my wife, and with it, present her with my parting salutations. My purse I give to you; by its means you can marry some blue-eyed maiden, and tell her Fortune had a smile for her when it played such a freak on me."
The young man colored with indignation.
"You do not know our muscles, stranger; neither do you comprehend our scorn for money won by cowardice," he said coldly.
And, without another word, he proceeded to burden himself with the disabled traveler, who, after making a feeble resistance, yielded himself to his fate.
This scene occurred on the frozen surface of the Gulf of Bothnia. A party of Italians, weary of their own luxurious clime, had come to these northern regions in hope of stirring their blood by adventures and perils. Several ladies of the party remained at Upsala in tolerable comfort, while their husbands and brothers, expecting to find the gulf a smooth and glassy expanse, hastened to cross it in sledges in pursuit of a new sensation. With great difficulty they procured sledges and horses with their drivers, from the country about Grisselhamn, a little town whencethey proposed to set out on the expedition. It was also necessary to provide themselves with huge coats of bearskin, before encountering the cutting blasts to which these foreigners were unaccustomed.
Thus equipped, the party set forth in high spirits. Instead, however, of smooth surface over which they had expected to glide as on the wings of the wind, they soon found, to their dismay, that they were toiling over a rough and dangerous series of masses of ice, by means of which they were jolted and bruised to the last degree of endurance. Again and again they were thrown from the sledges, whence they went rolling in all directions. To add to their dismay, the horses, fancying these strange objects on the ice to be veritable bears, became every moment more and more unmanageable, and one of them, wild with terror, at length took flight. Several of the occupants of the sledge drawn by this horse were scattered along the way, and were gradually rescued by their fellow-travelers. He who remained at the mercy of the terrified horse, kept his seat with the utmost difficulty, and watched, with anxiety, every motion of his sturdy young driver, Olaf Stein, whose strength seemed to be giving way. Mile after mile they flew over the jagged ice-field in awful silence; awaiting at last in breathless suspense the fate that seemed inevitable. When both were thrown violently from the sledge they lay insensible on the ice, whilethe horse, now left to himself, rushed onward and was heard of no more.
Olaf was the first to recover, and by his aid, his companion was also so far restored as to attempt to rise to his feet. But what was his distress to find that one of his ankles was fractured, and that he must sink back again to the hard and icy bed on which he had already lain until almost benumbed.
It was at this point that he was generous enough to concern himself for the safety of his guide, while hopeless of his own; and that Olaf, with equal generosity, resolved to rescue him or perish in the attempt.
The task he had assumed was severe. They were quite off the usual track; night was approaching, and the cold becoming intense. He toiled on in a sturdy kind of patience, almost instinctively taking the right direction, until at length he had the joy of finding himself on the track whence the terror-stricken horse had diverged. Very shortly, the other sledges came in sight, and the party made the best of its way back to Grisselhamn. The injured traveler was made as comfortable as was possible under the circumstances, and Olaf was sent to Upsala to bring thence his wife, with her maid. The poor fellow had himself sustained a severe injury when thrown from the sledge, and was also exhausted by his toilsome homeward route. But he set forth at once on the journey to Upsala without a word, and under his escort, thosehe sought returned with him to Grisselhamn. Fortunately, he was not as entirely ignorant of the Italian language as were his new charge of the Dalecarnian speech. He had wandered repeatedly so far as the northern part of Italy in order to dispose of various little articles of his own handiwork, as well as those of his neighbors. His share of the profits of these adventures had enabled him to purchase the horse he had just lost, and by whose means he supported himself. This, therefore, seemed an inauspicious moment for falling in love, and of proposing to himself to take a wife. But love being a sentiment not particularly subject to order and rule, poor Olaf had to yield to his fate. This fate was black-eyed, and brown, and its name was Viola, and she who possessed these attractions was the little maid whose duty it now was to take charge of her master, with such aid as Olaf could render. Nursing was new business to the hardy young peasant, but he was glad of occupation, and thankful for a task that kept him near Viola. She, on her part, felt supreme contempt for black eyes, from the moment she met the first kind glance from Olaf's blue ones; if he proved an awkward nurse, why, there was all the more for her to teach him. Besides, it was not long before she discovered the severe contusion he had received in his fall, and felt it absolutely necessary to take his aching shoulder under her charge, and to treat it with avast deal of needed and a vast deal of needless compassion and care. Though his nature was honest as the day, Olaf for once was willing to make the very most of his bruises, since Viola was thus led to pour out upon him such floods of pity as would soon lead to love. When, therefore, the fractured ankle was healed, and the Italian party ready to return home, and Olaf was pressed to ask what favor he would wish in return for his services, it is not so strange, considering what human nature is, that all he asked was permission to make a Swede of the little brown maiden who, in his eyes, was the only maiden on earth.
Her mistress, a spoiled child of fortune, received this proposal with indignation; said she could not live without Viola, who knew all her ways, and for whom she had done so much, and that, at least, she could not spare her until their return to Italy. When her husband overruled all these objections by reminding her that he owed his life to Olaf, she ceased open argument and resorted to secret strategy.
"How do you expect to live in this villainous climate, you silly child?" cried she, when Viola, with downcast eyes, owned her wish to do so. "You will absolutely perish with the cold. Then think what food you will have to eat! Instead of grapes, and melons, and figs, you will have that abominable bread made of bran mixed with bark and resin! I tasted a bit of it one day, and the verythought of it sickens me. You think Olaf will provide you with flour? Nonsense! And then to sit and spin, spin and knit, knit from morning till night! Why, even the very children in their cradles are taught to work, and I have seen them, myself, knitting all the way to school. What do you say? That you are never so happy as when at work? And that work for one you love will be sweet! You cannot really pretend that you love that great clumsy fellow with his round face like the full moon, and his breeches and knee-buckles, and odd little caps. Now, Viola, that is actually too absurd! Think, now, there was young Oglio, who had such a passion for you; think of the cruelty of forsaking him for this stranger."
"I cannot forsake that bad man, for I always hated him, and never would listen to him," cried Viola. "And if the Signora thinks I am only fit to marry such a little, idle, impertinent coxcomb, then the Signora thinks very ill of me."
"But then the conscience of the thing, Viola! To renounce your religion just to gratify a mere freak of fancy which you will outgrow in less than a month! Really, when I think of it, I feel that I ought to use the authority given me by your poor mother on her death-bed, and absolutely refuse my consent to this crime."
"Renounce my religion! Our holy mother forbid!" cried Viola. "Olaf will surely embrace it sosoon as he comes under my influence. He already says I can wind him round my finger."
"It is very silly in you to repeat such nonsense. Ah! if you but knew men as I do. The winding is all on the other side, I assure you."
"Itwassilly," replied Viola; "I hope the Signora will pardon me. But it is so long since any one was so good as to love me! It is so lonely, so sad to be an orphan in this great world, so full of fathers and mothers."
"None can be so sad or so lonely as they who peril their souls as you are about to risk yours," returned her mistress, severely.
Viola became very pale, but was silent, and at that time no further conversation took place. At her next interview with Olaf she related to him all that had passed, and begged to know if in marrying him she should be forced to renounce the religion in which she had been brought up.
"Nay," said Olaf, smiling, "I do not intend to be so hard a master, little one."
Viola was satisfied. "I shall soon convert him," she said to herself.
"I will not frighten her," was Olaf's secret thought. "The little thing loves me dearly; I shall soon hear no more of her beads and mummeries. We shall go to church every Sunday; by and by we shall have children; they shall have dark eyes and dark hair, and be Lutherans, every one of them."
So in spite of obstacles, true love ran smoothly with the twain into wedded life.
Olaf was put into a position to earn his bread and that of his wife, and after taking leave of their friends, he bore his little treasure to his home, where his aged father and mother yet lived. Viola's life had been hitherto spent in a sunny land, which had for her little real sunshine. Her parents died when she was quite a child, and the mistress into whose hands she then passed was too self-absorbed to ask the question whether this human being had emotions, and passions like her own. Now she went from seeming luxury to the real luxury of being beloved. Olaf's father and mother opened their hearts and took her in without delay; they liked her quaint, lively ways, and her foreign habits were a pleasant marvel, breaking in on the monotony of their hard lives. She, for her part, was young and flexible, and adapted herself readily to her new duties.
So their domestic life moved on harmoniously in the main, and Olaf took great delight in teaching his wife to speak the language of his own people, and in hearing her pretty, foreign accent which gave a charm to everything she said. She learned with marvelous rapidity, and the long winter evenings, full as they were of necessary work, gave leisure for reading, also. There was only one point on which the two differed seriously, and this was a vital one, their religion. At first Viola began with great zeal to use various arguments with Olaf to convince him how much she was in the right and how far he was wrong, but he would not argue; he only laughed at her, called her his little one, told her what beautiful hair she had, and the like. Then Viola would turn pale and look displeased, but soon would whisper to herself, "But he loves me!" and in that sweet conviction recover her good-humor. Meanwhile she watched his honest, Christian life with increasing respect. She could not help seeing that in his measure, religion reigned over every detail of his existence, nor fail to contrast it with that of her mistress, who, while faithful to fast and feast, and scrupulous as to prayers and masses, did not hesitate to indulge herself in falsehood and passion.
It seemed strange to her that she had been able to respect the religion of one whose violence through many years of her servitude had left visible marks on her flesh; then reproaching herself for such thoughts she did penance in secret, and redoubled her zeal on behalf of her husband.
With early May came spring, with buds and blossoms, and Viola welcomed the home of her adoption in its new dress. She surprised her husband by appearing one Sunday morning in the national costume worn by the Dalecarnians on all holidays. For the first time he asked her to go with him to church, andfor the first time she was in the mood to gratify him. Hitherto, she had resolved, come what might, never to set foot within that dangerous spot, but on this, of all days, should she and Olaf worship apart? Had she not a sweet secret to whisper in his ear that would make him love her better than ever, and would it be so very great a sin just for that once to kneel with him? So with her heart throbbing beneath her new costume, the prettiest little peasant of the whole picturesque scene, she entered the church with mingled curiosity and fear. Watching Olaf, to do as he did, she stood, with folded hands, to utter, silently, a few words of prayer, then seating herself, she cast timid glances about her. The aspect of the congregation was earnest and reverent. So many rosy, blonde children she never had seen, and coming back from higher thoughts to every-day matters, especially to the subject that at this time lay near her heart, she hoped her little daughter—for surely it was to be a little daughter—might be just like a fair, sweet child who sat opposite, with large blue eyes like Olaf's, and hair almost silvery in its soft beauty. And then she smiled to herself to think how quaint and charming her child should look in a little costume of its own, embroidered with her own hands; but after all, would it not be best to have a boy? would not Olaf like a boy? Of course he would! Then it should be a boy tall and strong and ruddy; not the slender, dark-eyedlittle fellow she had pictured to herself in years gone by, when dreaming of a home and children, but a real Swedish yeoman, with buckles on his shoes and a picturesque holiday suit like his father's. She laughed as this image presented itself to her imagination: a little low laugh, but Olaf heard it, and turned quickly and looked in her face. Tears of vexation filled her eyes. "Oh, Olaf," she whispered to herself, "you would forgive me if you knew why I laughed, I am sure you would!" Olaf's countenance was serious, but he looked down kindly on his little wife, who sat abashed beneath his glance, recalling her wandering thoughts.
"Here I have been trying so long to convert him," she said to herself, "and after all he is far better than I am. Nothing could makehimlaugh in church!" Thus humbled, Viola entered into the service with all her heart, and listened to the sermon with eager attention, striving to catch its meaning, though only able to do so in a dim and misty way, so new was the language. There were many old people in the congregation, some of whom slept through the whole service, while others coughed; there was also no small variety of babies, who cried whenever they saw fit, and were pacified with onions by their mothers.
"I never will bring my baby to church," thought Viola, "and on no account will I feed it with onions! But here I am again, as wicked as ever, and not listening to the sermon at all. Ah, I will pinch myself black-and-blue till I learn to fix my thoughts better! Oh, Jesus—the Jesus Olaf loves—come and help me to be good!"
This prayer went forth from the very depths of her heart, and an answer came at once. It seemed as if scales fell from her eyes at that moment, and she felt her soul united to Olaf's and those of the true souls about her; felt the points of union and forgot the points of difference, and with all the warmth of her nature, gave herself to Christ. Ever after, this beautiful Sunday lived in her mind and in that of Olaf's as the bright spot in their lives, for thenceforth there was no discussion, no 'my religion,' and 'thy religion,' but a gradual, quiet union of belief and practice.
"There's the lunch-bell!" said Mrs. Grey, as Laura finished the last sentence. "We'll hear the rest after we have sustained ourselves with oysters and other creature comforts. Gabrielle, my dear, please don't drag on your father so; you may love him to your heart's content, but you needn't eat him up."
Gabrielle would once have fired up at even as good-humored banter as this, and Frank was astonished to see her loosen the hold she had on his arm, and let him follow his mother's significant glance, and offer it to his wife.
After lunch there was an hour with the little ones,and any amount of fun and frolic, headed by the Rev. Cyril, whose specialty it was to be a bear, and go round, on all-fours, after a shrieking, laughing, scampering crowd.
At length, order was restored, the family group reassembled, and Laura continued her story.
Some months later, as Olaf held in his big arms his first-born son, Viola shyly whispered:
"It was to have been a girl, but for your sake I decided it should be a boy. Thinking of it on that blessed Sunday, I laughed, wicked little creature that I was. He is not like you, neither is he like me; indeed he is very ugly; but who cares? We shall love him just the same!"
"Nay, I will not have him called 'ugly,'" said his father, "for he has your hair, Viola, and my eyes, and haven't you told me a thousand times you fell in love with me on account of my blue eyes?"
"In love!" cried Viola; "now, Olaf, you are too absurd. As if anybodycouldbe in love with such a big, burly, giant-like fellow! Why, how should I, half a mile below you, see up so high as to know the color of your eyes, unless indeed I climbed a ladder on purpose?"
So saying, Viola pulled the giant down to his knees by her bed-side, laid his great head on her breast, andpatted and caressed it, while railing at him and his eyes and his baby to her heart's content. Olaf received these mingled attentions with purrs of satisfaction, and went on his way with the calm conviction that however his wife and child might look to other people, there was no doubt they were both as near perfection as need be.
In spite of her happiness and of Olaf's cares, however, Viola did not recover from her illness very rapidly. She missed now many comforts to which she had been accustomed; some dainty to tempt her appetite, or the luscious fruits of her own land. Her brave, true heart, and Olaf's affection sustained her amid these new demands on her fortitude; when strength failed her she made up for it by patience and energy, and though she accomplished it painfully, she did accomplish as much as other vigorous women of her class. Olaf worked diligently to procure for Viola such alleviations as he could think of; but always accustomed to a life of the utmost simplicity, many of her real wants, had they been expressed, would have seemed to him most puerile.
The child received the name of Eric; Viola thus honored and gratified Olaf's father; but she promised herself that her second child should bear the name of her own mother.
Little Eric, at six months old, had reversed the apparent gifts of his birthright. His dark hair felloff, and was replaced by a crown of luxurious golden curls; his blue eyes became steel-colored, then a soft brown, like his mother's; he was a marvel of the beauty of two races. And as his character developed he proved the truth of the saying, that mingled races produce the finest strain of nature.
In his very babyhood the neighbors said he was no common child, and, of course, Olaf and Viola thought so too, though they both said, as they thought they ought to say, that he was like all the other babies in the world. Viola, indeed, knew little about children. She had neither brother or sister, and the mistress with whom she had spent most of her life could not bear the sound of a child's voice. Eric was, therefore, an object of great curiosity to his young mother; a little mystery whom she was never tired of studying. She and Olaf had some pleasant strife together as to the first language the child should speak; naturally enough, he chose that which he heard most frequently, and spoke his first lisping words in her musical tongue. His grandmother thought that for a Swedish boy to speak Italian was nothing less than a miracle, and prophesied that such a child would die before its time. There was her old neighbor, Stenbock; her son died of knowing too much, and of having his hair left to grow till it hung down all over his shoulders like a yellow veil; she hoped Viola would not let Eric's hair grow in that fashion,though, to be sure, its having once been dark might make all the difference in the world.
But when Eric soon proved that he could talk Swedish almost as well as herself, the good grandmother shook her head, and hoped, with secret misgivings to the contrary, that this was not some wicked spirit come in human shape to ruin them all. Viola concerned herself very little with such fancies. Everything the child said or did amused her, but she had too little experience to know how individual this little creature was; how imitative and yet how original. As soon as he could speak plainly, Eric began to go singing about the house, as his mother did. He caught both words and air without effort, and when he sang, seemed as unconscious as a bird on the wing. Then one day, as Viola sat at work, using her needle with great rapidity, she was suddenly aroused from her absorption in it by Eric's long silence; unusual quietness in an active child usually means mischief brewing, as every mother knows. Looking up, she saw Eric seated gravely opposite her, with a bit of cloth fastened to his knee, and imitating her every motion with precision. He had fastened his thread to a pin, and was making this pin move in concert with her needle, only, of course, his movements were only a pretence, while hers were real. She threw herself back in her chair to laugh at her ease at this comic scene; whereupon Eric, with no little humortwinkling in his eye, threw himself back likewise, and laughed in unison with her.
"You little monkey, how dare you!" she cried, half vexed and half amused; but Eric looked at her with such an open, innocent face, that she saw he meant no harm, and if a monkey, was a harmless one after all.
But now the whole household was kept busy and merry with the incessant activity of this quaint child. Nothing escaped his observation. He coughed like his grandfather; he made believe knit, and took snuff like his grandmother.
When Viola shook her head at him, he would instantly turn upon her that open, honest face, free from guile and malice, and obey forthwith. No one who caught that glance could help forgiving the unconscious child and taking him into his confidence.
Viola, meanwhile, attained the desire of her heart—a little Swedish maiden with rosy cheeks and fair hair, the very funniest miniature of Olaf. Eric, of course, cried when the baby cried, or at least lifted up his voice in perfect imitation, and crept when the baby crept, as if going on all-fours was man's normal mode of locomotion. At the same time he constituted himself her guardian and protector. All the songs he had picked up he sang to her as she lay in her cradle, and as she grew older he repeated to her, with marvelous accuracy, all the tales he had heardin his short life. Then the tenderness Olaf poured out on Viola, Eric lavished on his little sister; words sacred to husbands and wives who love each other, and which they never mean to let fall on profane ears, will sometimes escape; such words and tones the boy treasured in his memory perhaps many long months, and then showered them on Carina with all manner of courtesies and gallantries. She received them without much response, but with sweet content, for her instincts told her that when Eric said he loved her and could not imagine how he ever got along without her, he was not just "making believe."
There was no school in the neighborhood, and Viola was too ignorant of the language to teach Eric to read. His grandmother, therefore, undertook this task, which proved to be only a pleasure, he learned with so much ease, and was so joyous and cheerful over his books.
His fine ear enabled him to catch her tones, so that when he first began to read aloud to his father the effect was almost ludicrous; by degrees, however, as his mind developed, he read with great spirit, like, yet unlike, all he had ever heard. By degrees the peculiarities and talents of this strange boy began to be much spoken of; strangers who passed that way made the excuse of needing refreshment, in the hope of seeing for themselves some of his performances. Viola received them with true Swedish hospitality,as her husband wished her to do, but she never could succeed in making Eric understand what was desired of him. His unconsciousness saved him from vanity; what he said and sang, and what he did, were all as natural and simple as childhood could make them.
There had been one great inconvenience in his imitative propensities; since his early babyhood they had not dared to take him to church. They knew that the whole congregation would be excited to merriment should he have the opportunity to watch the grotesque gestures of the pastor in the pulpit. Eric had already caught them, to a certain extent, when the minister made his visits at the house; but bad must not be suffered to become worse. When he was four years old, however, Olaf resolved that his boy should be cured of a habit which would make him disagreeable, now that he was ceasing to be a child. He, therefore, set himself seriously to work.
"Eric, do you know what sort of an animal a monkey is?" he demanded.
Eric began eagerly to tell all he knew, which was not a little.
"Well, and should you like to have everybody say you were a monkey?"
"I don't know," replied Eric, reflectively. "It wouldn't turn me into a monkey to have folks say I was a monkey. And if I really was one, why, then I should have a great long tail, and I could hang to thebranches of trees, this way; look, father, I'll show you how!"
"Has the boy really no sense of shame?" cried Olaf, angrily.
"Leave him to me, I will manage him," said his grandmother.
"Do you know, Eric, how nice and pleasant it is to go to church? There are all the good people together praising God. They sing like the angels, so that one actually sheds tears when one hears them. Now, would not you love to go and shed tears at church, listening to such beautiful music?"
"I shouldn't want to go there to cry," returned Eric. "I should like to go and sing like an angel, though."
"But if we let you go you will not be contented with singing. You will be getting up on the seat, making your arms go like our dear pastor's."
"Should I?" said Eric. "But, dear grandmother, couldn't you tie my arms with a string?"
"Fie! now you are talking nonsense. And great boys four years old should not talk nonsense."
"Yesterday, when I asked for another piece of oaten cake, you said I ate too much for such a little boy," said Eric, thoughtfully. "But it is a long while since yesterday; perhaps Iama great boy now."
"Well, well, child; but now suppose we take youto church with us to-morrow, will you behave yourself like a little man, and not fall into any of your tricks?"
"I don't know," said Eric, mournfully. "Maybe I should. I never do any tricks on purpose. They come and make me."
"Who come and make you?"
"The Trolls, and all of them."
"Now who has been teaching the child such wicked nonsense?" cried Olaf, starting to his feet. "Oh, mother, I would not have believed this of you!"
"Don't be angry with mother, Olaf dear," said Viola, gently. "She can't help believing things she has been taught all her life."
Olaf was silent. He felt angry with his mother, and wanted to reproach her. But that must not be in the presence of that keen-eyed child, who would remember every look and tone.
"Eric," he said at last, "you will go to church with us to-morrow, for our pastor will have it so. But there are no Trolls in God's house, therefore if you are not a good boy I shall know whose fault it is."
"You will be a good boy, Eric, won't you now?" said his mother, coaxingly.
"Yes, dear mother, I will," replied Eric, in tones so perfectly like her own, that, as usual, they all burst out laughing.
With such management the only wonder is the poorchild was not ruined at once. But He who commits little children to the hands of inexperienced and ignorant parents—and are there any earthly hands that are not such?—He overrules the mistakes and corrects the errors. Eric had been used all his life to be coaxed, threatened, laughed at, praised, and argued with, in multitudes of cases where a single word of parental authority was all that was needed.
The next day was a bright, cheerful Sunday, and the whole family set off for church in good spirits. Eric was full of curiosity to know what going to church could really mean. He helped pack the basket of dinner, and made himself useful in many ways a less-observing child would not have thought of. On entering the church he watched carefully to see what his father and mother did, and perceiving that they stood for a moment with folded hands, engaged in silent prayer, he, too, closed his eyes and moved his lips, with an aspect of great devotion. When they were all seated, his eager gaze at the unwonted scene around him repaid his mother for bringing him with her. She enjoyed his surprise and pleasure, and showed her sympathy with him by pressing the little hand she held in her own. Nothing was lost upon him, and he responded at the close of every prayer, like a veteran, until that preceding the sermon; for a moment his attention wandered, and he sat lost in thought, till suddenly arousing himself, he uttered a vigorous "Amen" thatwas heard all over the church, and which broke in upon the text which the pastor was repeating in solemn accents. Viola laughed; Olaf pretended not to have heard, but changed color in spite of himself; the grandmother shook her finger at him, and Eric, amid these contending influences, felt half pleased and half frightened. He now, however, was attracted by the sermon, and the manner of its delivery; he sat erect, silent, almost breathless, a picture of awe and of ecstacy. Gradually, seeing him so absorbed, Olaf and Viola began to feel easy about him; Olaf gave himself up to enjoyment of the sermon; Viola attended to Carina, who continually asked if service were most done, and whom she invariably answered; the old grandmother fell asleep, and the grandfather began to take snuff. Eric unconsciously rose to his feet, climbed up to the seat, stretched forth now this arm, now that, clasped his hands, looked heavenward, and, in short, copied every motion of the pastor with unerring accuracy. The pastor, instead of serious faces, saw endless smiles; he was first surprised, then displeased; his gestures became animated with these emotions, and Eric faithfully repeated them, till, by degrees, nearly the whole congregation was in an uproar. The poor little fellow was ignominiously pulled down from his throne, and borne out of church by his exasperated father, who could hardly wait till he got him to a safe distance, before he gave him a most severe thrashing. He was interrupted in this labor by a hand laid, with force, upon his arm, and turning resentfully to the intruder, was ashamed to find himself confronted by the pastor's wife.
He pulled off his cap, and saluted her, and Eric, in the midst of his pain, did the same.
The Fru Prostinna looked kindly down upon the little boy, and instantly reassured, a frank smile lighted up his ingenuous face.
"You were severe with the poor child," said the Fru Prostinna.
"It was because I forgot to have my hands tied!" cried Eric eagerly. "I brought the string, but when I got inside the church and saw so many people, all dressed in holiday clothes so gay, and the Prost with his black gown and big ruff, and heard the singing and praying; oh, I forgot my string! But here it is," he continued, drawing it from his pocket, "and next time father will tie my hands."
The Fru Prostinna smiled.
"Well, my little fellow," said she, "I think it would be better to tie your hands than to break your bones, and you may thank me for hurrying after you out of church, to see that you were not killed outright. Play about now, while your father and I have a little talk together."
As soon as Eric was out of hearing, Olaf began to apologize for his severity to the child.
"It is the first time I ever laid my hand on him," he said, "and it shall be the last."
"Do not say that, Olaf. Correction is as necessary in our days as it was when Solomon forbid the sparing of the rod. Rather resolve never to strike him again in anger."
"Why, I could not strike him at all, if I were not angry," said Olaf. "For though he is wild in his way of mocking everything he sees and hears, he is a good boy in other things; a merry, pleasant boy as need be."
"Yes, I know. I have heard all about that. And if I were you, instead of reproving or laughing at this habit, I would turn it to good account. His active nature craves employment; now the next time you manufacture any of those pretty baskets you used to make, lay materials and tools within his reach, and see if instead of imitating, in a superficial way, all your motions, he does not really produce a facsimile of your work."
This was a new idea to Olaf, and it gave him pleasure. "Ah, if Eric had the Fru Prostinna for his mother, she would train him so wisely and discreetly; whereas, Viola is never the same person one day that she is the next. She lets the children do so many things I was not allowed to do at their age. And the Fru Prostinna would have made a man of Eric. Not a hard-working peasant, a great rough fellow like myself, but, who knows? a clergyman perhaps, with his parish and his schools, and his farms and his houses!"
And Olaf began to feel aggrieved, and as if Viola, in being of his own rank in life, and uninstructed and capricious, had done him a wrong and deprived him of the chance of giving a refined and educated mother to his children.
But when she came, at the close of service, to meet him, dressed in her becoming holiday costume, her red bodice and white cap, her face looked, as it always did, home-like and very dear. He laughed at himself for the foolish thoughts that a momentary ambition had awakened, and as they sat on the grass, eating their dinner together, told her what the pastor's good wife had said to him.
"But you only make baskets and things of that sort in the winter evenings," said Viola. "And such work as you are doing now, he cannot possibly do. But my work he can learn, and that he shall do forthwith."
So the next day, when she swept her house she put a little broom into Eric's hands, saying, "Sweep now, as I do. Don't just move your brush in the air; do just as I do, and make the floor clean for mother."
Eric obeyed, and when he saw that his little brush helped to beautify the floor, he used it with delight, singing joyfully to himself the while, and doing his work with his mother's exactitude. So it was in almost all the details of the day; and when, in the afternoon, she sat in her well-ordered room, in her clean, fresh dress, and began to sew, she gave Eric, not a bit of waste cloth, but part of a little garment, saying:
"See, now, dear Eric, when I sew I join these pieces together, and make your little sleeve. But when you sew you make nothing. You only move your arms as I move mine."
Then Eric watched her more closely, and saw that she pulled her needle through her work, now in, now out; imitated her with joy, and really made the little sleeve. Viola showed it to his father in the evening, and they all thought it a wonderful affair, as it indeed was, for the stitches were not the unwilling, irregular workmanship of compulsion, but the result of a taste that must indulge itself in aiming at perfection. Eric, himself, was not satisfied with his sleeve because it was not so nicely done as his mother's, but she laughed at the idea of his expecting at his first attempt to equal her needlework, of which she was very proud.
A few weeks later, two little arms came to fill the little sleeves; the baby-boy to whom they belonged, was beautiful from his birth; even Viola was satisfied with him, though she would not own it. Eric did not cry in imitation of his brother, as he had done with his sister; he knew better, now; besides, he was too busy to waste his time in watching him, except when bidden to do so. His father had been occupiedat intervals during several weeks in manufacturing articles which Viola needed about the house: a table, two chairs, and a little bedstead for Carina, who must give up her place by her mother's side to the baby. Eric could hardly contain himself till he had made miniature furniture of the same pattern. To be sure, he pounded his fingers and cut them, and met with all sorts of difficulties, but that made no difference; chairs and table and bedstead he was resolved to make, and make them he did; and then his mother made a little doll of the right size for the furniture, and the whole establishment was given to Carina. His father was astonished at this performance, which he could appreciate better than he could the needlework. He began to find great pleasure in taking Eric with him to his work, and in answering his endless questions, which were daily becoming more and intelligent. He was obliged to work very hard, now that there were so many little children, for though the grandfather owned the house in which they lived, this was all they possessed, except the small bit of land which had been bought at the time of his marriage, when Olaf hoped to add to it; but that he had never been able to do. Shortly after the birth of the third baby, the grandfather began to suffer seriously from rheumatism, particularly in his hands, so that by degrees he became quite unable to do work of any sort.Olaf must do double duty; but it was some relief to see Eric growing every day stronger and more useful, and to look forward to the time as not far distant, when he would materially help in the support of the family.
To be sure, the neighbors all said among themselves, that Eric would be Jack of all trades, and master of none; such prodigies, they were sure, never turned out in the end to be anything wonderful; and after all, he wasn't so much of a marvel as he might be.
Olaf, however, determined to have Eric's education hurried forward as speedily as possible. But how was this to be done? Viola knew how to keep her house, to bear children, and to be a good, loving mother to them; but beyond these duties she could not go. Her education was far inferior to that of the peasantry about her; she could neither read nor write. The grandmother had taught Eric to do both, and had made him say the catechism every Sunday till he knew it past ever forgetting one of its ponderous words; but this did not satisfy Olaf; he was sure he ought to do more for this boy who had been endowed by nature with such varied powers.
While the subject was under discussion, the Prost came driving over from the village, to make known that he had secured a teacher for the neighborhood, who would collect the children together for instruction, as ought to have been the case long before. The family rejoicings were great; but the question now arose, how was the boy to get to the school? A Dalecarnian mother would easily have led him thither, with her baby strapped upon her back; but Viola was not strong enough for such an undertaking. But as the grandfather's rheumatism had only disabled his hands, he volunteered as escort, and as the old man and the child went to and fro together, many were the godly instructions that fell into the receptive, youthful soul. Not to be entirely outdone by her husband, the grandmother every morning plucked a clover-leaf for the boy, to insure good luck. She was yet in the prime of life; tall and strong and ruddy; she could work on their bit of land like a ploughman, and understood all thepetty economies peculiar to the hard lives of her country-women. Bark-bread, revolting to Viola, nourished her powerful frame, and the bracing air of her native valley gave color to her cheek. But for her, Viola could never have endured the hardships of her lot.
Olaf, meanwhile, had, during the winter evenings, manufactured a sufficient quantity of articles to justify another pedestrian trip to Italy, but when he spoke of it, Viola clung to him, with tears, entreating him not to go. But he yearned for change; the novelty of domestic life was over; the spirit that had brought Viola's master and his friends to the North, urged him to the South.
"Don't cry, little one," he said, "I sha'n't be gone long, and shall bring back what will make us comfortable for a long time. Pray for me, night and morning; take the communion faithfully; watch over the boy's soul in my place, and see that his grandmother reads the Bible to him every day."
Eric watched the parting between them with his usual keen observation. Why did the mother cry, and the father smile, he wondered; and why should his soul be watched over more than Carina's? And where was his soul, after all?
"Carina mia," he said solemnly, as he started for school next morning, "you should put your arms around my neck and weep when we part, like thedear mother. And I shall watch over your soul, as the father has watched mine."
"Was there ever such a boy?" cried Viola.
Eric gave her one of his guileless smiles, and said:
"No, never," exactly as if he were talking of some third party; and then, with the usual good-bye kiss, proceeded on his way.
Everybody they met on the way to and from school was hard at work, save very aged men and women, who, however, were not idle, but might often be seen seated amid groups of fishermen, or peasants at work in the fields, reading the Bible aloud. Eric marked, and inwardly digested, this, and though he had not yet learned to read well, could pretend to do so to perfection. In his father's absence his grandparents read a chapter to him every day; he would then take the book and, by a wonderful act of memory, with his eyes fixed upon the page, repeat word for word to the bewildered Carina.
As Olaf pursued his solitary way, his thoughts dwelt fondly on his little home, and proudly on his boy. But when he reflected that his education would, at best, be limited, and that he would grow up to a heritage of economy and care, he sighed, and wondered why nature made such mistakes—lavishing gifts upon the poor, to whom they were of no use, and often withholding them from the rich, to whom they would have been so welcome.
He made his way once more into Italy, and disposed of his wares quite readily—more so than ever before, because he now spoke Italian readily. His weary shoulders were gladly relieved of the heavy pack they had borne, and he now bethought himself that he might indulge Viola with some memento of her native land. But what should it be? It was an event in his life to make a present, and he felt almost ashamed of himself for being so sentimental. While he stood stupidly scratching his head, a merry, musical voice fell on his ear, that was so like Viola's that he started and turned, almost expecting to see her before him. It was a young girl, daughter of the man to whom he had sold his wares, and she was asking if he did not mean to carry home some gift to his wife, unconsciously hoping that he hadn't one.
Olaf felt that he could confide in one of Viola's country-women, and in a few words told her the dilemma he was in.
A quick flash of intelligence lighted the girl's face, and she began searching among the heterogeneous articles scattered about, and finally held up, in triumph, a small picture, in which Italy's beautiful blue was the color that chiefly caught the eye.
Olaf knew little about art, but had some general idea that even this small study was beyond his means. But the musical tongue ran merrily on;he should have it for her country-woman for a mere song, and it would warm her heart to see a bit of her own sky.
"Yours," she said, "is bleak and cold. I would not live there; it would kill my heart!"
At the same time she would have tried the experiment under the guidance of such a genial-looking man as Olaf, provided he had no wife.
"And now," she said, "something for the boy, with his blue eyes and rosy cheeks."
"Black eyes and olive cheeks, like thine!" cried Olaf.
The girl blushed and smiled.
"Would this please him, think you?" she asked, producing a miniature palette, on which were fastened cakes, in water colors—a cheap affair, such as, however, has gladdened many a child's heart.
"And, stay, here are brushes, likewise—a gift to the Swedish boy with my eyes and hair."
Olaf received the little gracefully-offered gift, and took leave, the young girl following his sturdy figure with her eyes as long as it was in sight.
"The saints grant that the father does not miss the picture, and beat me for as good as giving it away," she cried; "and if he does, Antonio shall paint him another. Ah, Antonio, if your eyes were but blue, and your cheeks ruddy! If you were tall, and straight, and strong, and not as black as araven, and round-shouldered, and bow-legged! And still painted divinely!"
Olaf proceeded rapidly home, and greeted his wife in a way that procured for Carina, on the part of Eric, embraces, kisses, and asseverations not a few. But when the picture was produced, and Viola saw this bit of her native land, a strange complication of emotions she could not understand made her burst into tears. A sense of the beautiful had long lain dormant in her soul amid the stern scenes about her. Now came reminiscences of sunshine, birds and flowers, and delicious fruit; of works of art seen in the house of her master at Rome, and dimly appreciated.
"Thou wicked picture, to make the dear mother cry!" said Eric, rushing at it with a stick of wood. "I'll kill thee!"
But as his eye fell upon it, his hand dropped at his side, and a new soul illumined his face. They laughed at him, they shook him, they tried in every way to divert his rapt attention, but all in vain; he stood like a devotee before a shrine, and lost to all beside.
"Let him alone," said Olaf, at last. "He has gone clean daft over a picture no bigger than my hand!"
Indeed, he and Viola had enough to talk about, for they had had no correspondence during their absence, as Viola could not write.
"I have had a strange proposition made to me," said Olaf. "Before selling my wares, who should I stumble upon but your Signor and Signora. The Signor recognized me at once, and made friendly inquiries about you. The Signora was, at first, very haughty and distant; but after a while became more gracious, and spoke of you in a way that made me proud of you. She says she is out of health, and sad, and lonely; and that if we would all come to their villa, near Rome—you to be to her what you once were, and I his valet—they would make it a great object to us."
"And I suppose our children count for nothing," said Viola, indignantly.
"Yes; they seemed to think the children could stay with their grandparents. But isn't it a pity now that we could not go just for a time, and earn money to educate the boy?"
"Olaf, I am ashamed of you," said Viola. "Leave our children, and go and live in that idolatrous land!"
"But you hate so to spin."
"I adore spinning."
"And the bark-bread is so nauseous to you."
"It is delicious."
"And you have no grapes, no peaches, no melons."
"Grapes, and peaches, and melons! Ugh! Disgusting things!"
Olaf listened, bewildered, but convinced.
"I thought," he faltered, "that you had often said you used to revel in luxuries; but it seems I was mistaken."
"Indeed you were, you bad child. Talk not to me of Counts and villas. Did I not enter Paradise when I left them?"
"Then the picture does not please you? My mind misgave me when I bought it. But the maiden who selected it was like you, Carissima, and had me round her finger."
"The picture is bewitched; it has driven the boy mad. Eric, come to me!"
The boy woke from his dream of ecstacy and bounded towards her.
"See what the father has brought thee! Put in the thumb—so; no, no, the left thumb; hold the brush thus; ah, I have seen men paint in my country. Bring me a cup of water, and a bit of paper; there, my little man, now thou art an Italian, not a Swedish boy, and shalt paint Carina."
The boy looked at her, and then at the colors, delighted, confused, trembling, as she made some inartistic dabs upon the paper; then suddenly seized the materials and began to work himself, making a rude imitation of the picture that had so entranced him. Amid their homely, hard-working life, his parents ceased to heed him. He was out of mischief, and they had much to think of and much to do. Days,weeks passed, and Eric painted on; always at the one subject, never weary, never impatient, but discarding one copy, only to begin on another.
At last the Prost drove up in great state, and was in the midst of a solemn harangue, when his eye suddenly fell upon a row of pictures pinned to the wall.
"What is all this?" he cried, imperiously.
"The boy only does it in his play-hours," said Viola, apologetically.
"The boy!" repeated the Prost. "Unhappy mother!"
Viola trembled, and caught at the nearest chair.
"What is the matter?" she gasped.
"The boy is a genius!" he hissed in her ear.
"Is it my fault?" she asked, piteously. "Did I create him? And whatisa genius? Is it anything to come between him and salvation?"
"Yes, woman, it is. Take these colors away from the child; give him no more play-hours, and set him at honest work. What has the son of a peasant to do with genius, I should like to know?"
"We will do all we can to cure him of it," said Olaf, in deep humility.
The Prost departed, leaving the frightened household fluttering behind him, like poultry besieged by a fox.
When Eric came home from school the terrific announcement was made to him that his beloved colors were his no longer; that the mother had thrown them into the fire, and the grandmother raked hot coals over them. The boy uttered not a word, and did not shed a tear. He was like one stunned. But there was something awful in his childish silence.
"Eric," said his mother, "we have not done this in anger. But the Prost willed it, and who dares resist the Prost?"
"Mother, what have I done to anger the Prost?"
"He says you are a genius."
"Is that something very bad?"
"Oh, yes! Very, very bad!"
"But you said the dear Lord would not let me be bad, if I prayed to Him. And I have prayed six times, and four times."
"Well, you must pray fifty times."
"Yes, I will."
He went and knelt down, and folded his hands, looking upward and said:
"Thou, dear Lord, I did not be a genius on purpose. It came its own self. Help me not to be one any more."
But his pale, sorrowful little face smote his mother to the heart. Her spirit rose in rebellion against the Prost. Why should he come with this terrible and mysterious accusation against her godly boy? She lay awake long that night, thinking what was to bedone, and the next morning, as soon as Olaf had gone to his work, she said to the grandmother:
"If you will take care of the little ones for me, while I go to the village, I will spin for you as long as you require."
"And what errand have you at the village, child?"
"The Prostinna is always kind; she will make me understand what is evil in the boy; as for me, I see no evil in him, and my heart is breaking."
"Yes, go, thou good child. And the dear Lord go with thee!"
The Prostinna received Viola with great sympathy, when she learned that she had come in sorrow; but when she heard her artless tale, could with difficulty repress peals of laughter.
"You do not understand the Prost, my poor child," she said, as she could trust herself to speak. "The boy is a gifted boy; he will become a great man; there is nothing to be alarmed about."
"But the Prost called me an unhappy mother," objected Viola.
"Yes, for when your son has won a name and riches, and is abroad in the world, he will despise, nay, he will forget you; you will see him no more."
"It is not true!" cried Viola, proudly. "No, thank God, it is not thus my boy will demean himself. And how should having great gifts come between him and salvation? Are not all gifts from the Lord?"
"They are; and it is their abuse, only, that makes them perilous. Now let me advise you how to manage the boy. Give him the best education you can; keep him pure, and simple, and pious; and leave the rest to God. He can take care of his future, and, if you trust Him, He will."
Viola thanked the kind lady, and went home relieved, though after such a humiliation as that of the previous day, not proud.
"Eric, my boy," she said to him, "if you trust in God, and pray to Him every day, as long as you live, it will not be an evil thing to be a genius. The Pastorinna says that to be one means nothing evil, but only that you have wings hidden away in your shoulders that will grow and grow and grow till you are a man, and then they will unfold and be two great, white, strong pinions, that will carry you all over the world, if you like; and that sounds to me like being an archangel, such as we read about in the Bible."
The boy slipped his hand under his blouse, and felt his shoulder.
"I think I feel a very, very little wing growing," he said. "But I sha'n't want to fly all over the world; I shall fly up to heaven to see the dear Lord."
Viola's heart gave a great bound of pain.
"You would fly away from us who love you so?" she cried.
"Only to see the dear Lord," said Eric, solemnly.
Then an inward voice spake to Viola, and said:
"Better that than off into the wide, wicked world; better that than name and fame and riches, and a despised, forgotten mother! Even so, Father, if so it seem good in Thy sight."
Laura stopped reading, folded her manuscript, and looked shyly about her.
"Oh, Laura! you don't mean that you killed that beautiful boy?" cried Belle.
"How could I help it?" asked Laura, the tears running down her cheeks. "Hewoulddie! I tried all I could to have him live, and so did his father and mother, and all of them. But the wings grew and grew, and he mounted upward, and passed through the golden gate; but he left it ajar for Viola."
"Mamma, you'll have to look out," said Frank. "Laura is catching up with you rather too fast."
"I like to keep step with those I walk with," she replied, with a smile. "She may catch up, and welcome."
"I never did you any kind of justice, Laura," said Belle.
"That was not your fault. Howcanone do justice to a butterfly, as long as it's an ugly chrysalis?"
"But, Laura, how could you have the heart to take both Eric and Viola away from Olaf?" asked Margaret.
"Poor Olaf, indeed?" cried Laura, "just as if men never survived the loss of their wives. I have no doubt that by the time the first year was out he trotted down into Italy and married that pretty little Italian girl who reminded him so of Viola, and who took such a fancy to him."
"But she was a Romanist," objected Belle.
"So was Viola; yet he converted her. On the whole, I think I sacrificed her in a proselyting spirit."
"Well, what put Eric into your head?" asked Cyril Heath.
"What puts anything into anybody's head?" she responded, saucily. "And when I had got him on my hands, I didn't know what to do with him, and his death was a mercy."
"I am going to have this story published," said Harry. "I'm right proud of my wife."
"Suppose I put it into my book," said Mrs. Grey.
"Would you, mamma?" cried Laura, eagerly. "That would be splendid. How can you bring it in?"
"Very easily. It is not so far off my track that it will at all interfere with it."
"Well, Miss Oney," said Belle, "so you're an authoress at last. But I don't envy you. I wouldrather be the authoress of these babies, than of any book I know."