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Title: School-days in 1800

or, education as it was a century since

Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Release date: March 27, 2025 [eBook #75733]

Language: English

Original publication: Philadelphia: The Union Press, 1875

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SCHOOL-DAYS IN 1800 ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

SCHOOL-DAYS IN 1800;

OR,

Education as it was a Century Since.

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY.

AUTHOR OF

"IRISH AMY," "COMFORT ALLISON," "OPPOSITE NEIGHBOURS,"

"NELLY, OR, THE BEST INHERITANCE," "TWIN ROSES," "ETHEL'S TRIAL,"

"RHODA'S EDUCATION," "THE TAME TURTLE," ETC.

——————————————

The UNION PRESS

Philadelphia.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by the

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

—————————

WESTCOTT & THOMSON,

Stereotypers and Electrotypers, Philada.

PREFACE.

—————

I HAVE tried in these pages to give a faithful record of a state of manners the memory of which is fast passing away. I have drawn my materials from original sources for the most part, and I am specially indebted to Mrs. Chloe Sheldon, an old lady who died in Rochester last summer in her hundred and fourth year. She was a woman of uncommonly acute mind, and retained her faculties to the very last. The story, such as it is, carries its own moral.

L. E. G.

GRANDMOTHER'S PREFACE.

—————

MY great-grand-daughter Alice Brown, who is at present confined to the house by a sprained ankle, has persuaded me to repeat to her some passages of my early life that she may write them down. She thinks the doing so will be an amusement both to herself and me, and she is pleased also to say that she believes a record of such early times will be worth preserving. Alice is a good child, and so kind and attentive to me when she is able to be about that it is no more than fair I should give her a pleasure when it is in my power. And Alice says also what is quite true—that the memory of those old times is fading day by day. I never was one of those who are always saying that the former times are better than these, but I cannot think it well that the young folks of the present day should think (as some of them seem to think) that their ancestors were all ignorant and half savage.

I know that a great deal more is made of education now than was ever the case in my time, but I am not sure that any more is learned. On the whole, it seems to me that people use the word "education" wrongly when it is made to mean only what is learned out of books. I think when I was teaching my daughter Rachel, Alice's grandmother, to spin wool and flax and to sew and make butter and cheese, I was carrying on her education as much, and perhaps as usefully, as if I had been teaching her geometry and metaphysics. Not that I have any objection to having girls learn mathematics and all the other sciences if they have the time and the health. When I had a young ladies' school of my own, I always tried to give my girls "hungry minds" for all kinds of knowledge. But if they must either give up the science or give up helping at home, I know which I think ought to go. But this is by the way.

I have chosen to write this introduction with my own hand, for I am thankful to say that, though I am ninety years old this very day, I can still write and sew and thread my own needle with the help of my glasses. But I find my hand somewhat stiff when I try to write long at a time, and also, I think, Alice will be amused with setting down the words as I shall dictate them to her. I have had many blessings in my long life for which to be thankful, and it is not one of the least of these that my grandchildren, upon whom I am dependent (if not for my support, yet for that kindness, care, and cherishing love without which life is worth little), have trained their children also to follow in their footsteps, and to pay me that respect which the Bible says is due to age and gray hairs.

OLIVIA BROWN.

NOTE BY ALICE BROWN.

I HAVE tried to set down this memoir or story just as grandmother dictated it to me, and on that account there will be found, perhaps, some words and expressions which, although not incorrect, are not in use at the present day. I remember when we studied grammar with our dear Miss Hilliard she made us understand the difference between words and expressions which were obsolete or old-fashioned and those which were ungrammatical or vulgar. But I have thought the story would be more interesting if I wrote it in the dear old lady's own words. I have often tried to persuade her to write a memoir of her own life or let me do so, but I do not suppose the work would ever have been commenced if I had not sprained my ankle in running across the road to save Mrs. Bell's baby, which was just under the feet of Mr. Antis's horse. I am sure I don't regret saving the baby as I did, but I was a good deal vexed about the sprain, which seemed to be one of those which grandma calls unnecessary accidents, because, if Lucinda Bell had been minding the baby instead of scolding Jeduthun Cooke because her chickens ate his tomatoes, the thing would not have happened. But I am almost reconciled to sitting still and being waited on, since my want of amusement really brought grandmamma to the point of letting me write down some of her early recollections.

ALICE BROWN.

BOONVILLE, August, 1874.

CONTENTS.

—————

CHAPTER

I.—EARLIEST DAYS

II.—EARLY RECOLLECTIONS

III.—GOING TO SCHOOL

IV.—THE TREASURE-SEEKERS

V.—SUNDAY

VI.—THE GREAT BREAK

VII.—AUNT BELINDA

VIII.—MY NEW HOME

IX.—THE DOLL'S TRAGEDY

X.—BOSTON DAYS

XI.—NEW CHANGES

XII.—ELMINA'S FORTUNE

XIII.—NEW SCENES

XIV.—NEW EXPERIENCES

XV.—ENGLISH DAYS

XVI.—ENGLISH SCHOOL-DAYS

XVII.—HOME AGAIN

XVIII.—HOME

XIX.—THE WEEKS OF SECLUSION

XX.—CONCLUSION

SCHOOL-DAYS IN 1800

GRANDMOTHER'S SCHOOL-DAYS.

—————

CHAPTER I.

EARLIEST DAYS.

I WAS born in the town of Lee, Massachusetts, on the nineteenth day of October, 1781. The day of my birth was the anniversary of my father's forefathers' landing on this continent one hundred years before, and also of the surrender of Cornwallis at Yorktown—a surrender which really closed the Revolutionary war. My father, who was a dragoon all through the Revolution, was present on that occasion, and has often described the scene to us, telling us how the Germans wept as they laid down their arms, and how the British officers showed their bitter feelings by saluting the French officers on the American side, but refusing even to return the salutes of the Americans. It was hard for them, of course, but they certainly made the matter no better by such an undignified display of temper.

My father's name was Richard Corbet. His family came from Devonshire, and was a branch of a very old family in that country, as I was told when I was in England. Our first ancestor in this country was named Richard Corbet, like my father, and came over to Dorchester in 1680, bringing with him his family and a very respectable property. He first settled in Dorchester, where he was much respected, and from thence his descendants spread over the country. It is said truly that no man's worth depends on his ancestors; but yet I think it is very natural to wish to know something of one's progenitors, and to take a little pride in them if they are respectable people. (Alice says "progenitors" is a long word, but I tell her everybody has a dictionary in these days.)

I do not know that my father's family were remarkable for anything but a kind of sturdy, determined perseverance and honesty and a somewhat warm temper, of which I inherited my full share. They were always a good deal given to both reading and writing, and we have several journals kept by some of them which are very pleasant reading.

My mother's family were also of English descent, but came over at an earlier date. My mother was a daughter of Mr. David Evans of Salisbury, in Connecticut—a gentleman who was extensively engaged in iron works in that place. Before the Revolution he was accounted wealthy for those times and that country, but he gave very largely to the patriotic cause, besides lending a good deal to the government which he never got back again. However, he was always "well off," as the saying is, and gave his children, both boys and girls, an excellent education. He had two boys and three girls, all of them rather distinguished for beauty and talent, and of these children my mother was the youngest. I have never seen a more lovely woman than my mother, nor a woman with a more cultivated mind and taste, though she knew nothing of many things which girls study nowadays. She was rather quiet and retiring—not so brilliant as her sister, my aunt Lydia. But her cultivated mind was the least of her graces. I have never known a more consistent Christian than she showed herself in every walk of life, nor one who did more to make those happy who came in her way. Her health was never good. She had worked too hard when she was young, taking care of her grandmother, who was a helpless paralytic for many years, and she was always subject to nervous attacks and severe fits of sickness. People talk a great deal of the decay of female health in these days, but I never see any one have such hysteric fits now as used to be very common when I was young. But with all her hindrances, my mother accomplished more work than a great many who have the whole use of their time.

My father settled on a farm in Lee just before the breaking out of the Revolution, and built himself a very good house. When he was married, he took his bride home directly, without any wedding journey such as is the fashion now. Her father had furnished her with everything necessary in great abundance, and nobody could begin married life with better prospects, though even then there was a cloud of war hanging low in the sky, and certain mutterings of thunder which made wise folks foretell a storm. In the second year of their marriage the storm broke and separated my father most of the time for seven long years from his wife and child, for he went into the first regiment of dragoons which was raised in New England, and continued in the same till the end of the war, only coming home now and then for a few weeks at a time. He was in a great many engagements, passed through the disastrous winter at Valley Forge, and "assisted," as the French say, at the surrender of Lord Cornwallis, which virtually put an end to the war; yet he never had a serious wound nor a dangerous fit of sickness. During his absence my mother lived part of the time in her own house in Lee, and the rest with her father in Salisbury.

When the troops were disbanded, and things were once more in a settled way, my father and mother went to house-keeping again, and shortly afterward I was born, and named Olivia, after my mother's mother, and Yorktown, after a fancy of my father's, since I first saw the light, as I have said, on the very day and hour of the surrender. My mother has told me that she wished to call me Olivia Landon, after a favourite aunt of her own, but my father would not consent, because my uncle Landon's people were Tories. Uncle Landon adhered to the English side during the war, and was so much in earnest that, rather than not live under the king, he sold all his property and moved away to Halifax, after which we lost sight of the family. It certainly showed that he was sincere in his principles, for he had a beautiful place, for which he never got half its value, and he gave up a very good business. I don't think, either, that Halifax could ever have been a pleasant place of residence. Mother was very fond of her aunt Landon, and used sometimes to say that I resembled her—a remark which always rather annoyed my father, who could see no good in a Tory.

My two Evans aunts married after my mother, and both did very well. Aunt Lydia went to New York State. Her husband was a man of great influence, a large land-owner and much respected. Aunt Roxana, who was the youngest of my aunts, went to New Bedford on a visit to some cousins, and there she fell in with Roger Swayne of Nantucket, captain of a whaler, and married him out of hand. I have heard that her father was not exactly pleased with the match—not that he had anything against Roger Swayne, who was a most respectable man and well-to-do, but he did not quite like the idea of his daughter marrying a sailor, and a Quaker, as Roger was, at least by descent. However, he made no opposition, seeing that the young people were bent upon it, but gave her the same setting-out as he had done to her sisters.

I can just remember Roger Swayne and his wife being at our house on a visit shortly after their marriage. I thought he was the nicest uncle that ever lived, because he told us sea-stories and made us many curious things with his knife—ships and boats, and some more useful articles, for he whittled out a whole set of cedar clothes-pins for my mother, and mended her spinning-wheel for her.

Shortly after Roxana's marriage, Grandfather Evans died, and the family at Salisbury was broken up. Uncle David lived in the old house, it is true, but Uncle William went to Boston, where he married a rich widow, and succeeded to her first husband's business and property. He never came to see us after his marriage, and indeed lived only a little while.

My father's family mostly lived down in Connecticut, and were well-to-do farmers and mechanics. We used to exchange letters now and then, but postage was dear and mails very irregular. Father was always talking of taking mother to visit them, but a convenient time never came.

CHAPTER II.

EARLY RECOLLECTIONS.

I THINK young children begin to notice and remember at a very much earlier age than people generally suppose. I am sure I recollect perfectly well my first going to meeting, though I was not more than three years old, from this circumstance: I was standing up during prayer, as the custom was then, on a little cricket, or foot-stool; and not being well balanced, the stool slipped from under me, and I fell, bumping my chin with considerable force on the edge of the book-board, which caused me to bite my tongue; yet I was so impressed with the necessity of not crying in meeting that I never made a sound. My mother lifted me up and pressed my head against her, and a lady in the next pew, Miss Temperance—or, as she was usually called, Miss Tempy—Hutchinson smiled approvingly, and handed me her fan, I suppose to divert me from my pain and grief. At any rate, it had that effect. It was a very splendid fan, large and wide, with gilt sticks and a painted picture of a gentleman in full court costume bowing to a lady very gayly dressed, and with real gold spangles sewed on her gown. I was so much impressed with this work of art, and with Miss Tempy's kindness in entrusting to my hands anything so valuable, that I quite forgot my grief, though I had a lump on my chin which lasted for several days. After that I went to meeting regularly; and though I often got very tired and sometimes went to sleep, I should have considered it a great punishment to be left at home.

Our house was very pleasant and comfortable. There were two rooms in front, with a hall and stairs between. In one my father and mother slept, and usually the two younger children had a trundle-bed—an article of furniture much in use in those times, but seldom seen nowadays. The room on the other side was the parlour, or keeping-room, as it was called in some places, because, I suppose, it was "kept" and seldom used except for grand occasions—weddings, funerals, and solemn tea-drinkings. It had a large fire-place, with bright brass and irons to hold the wood, a handsome striped carpet, and other suitable furniture, among which I remember specially a very tall mahogany secretary or bureau, with a book-case on the top, a desk at a convenient height for writing, and a great many drawers, both large and small, which seemed to my youthful imagination to contain untold treasures, though I believe its contents were chiefly table- and house-linen, of which my mother had great store. The book-case was well filled with valuable books, among which was that set of the "Rambler" which is still in your father's possession, and which was given to my mother for a wedding-present by that same uncle Landon who went away to Canada. Both my father and mother were reading people, and came from families who were very fond of reading and study.

At the back was the kitchen, running nearly the whole width of the house, with a small bed-room and large pantry taken off one end, and a larger bed-room and the cellar and kitchen stairs at the other. I do not know how it would appear to me now; but as I look back at it that kitchen seems to me the pleasantest room I can remember. It was floored with narrow, hard boards which were always kept white as snow, and the walls were finished to the height of one's elbow with painted woods. In the middle of one side was the great fire-place, so wide that I have often of an evening looked up through the chimney and seen the stars. Over the fire were the crane and trammels on which the dinner-pots were hung, and at one side was a large brick oven. It was quite a piece of engineering to make the fire in this fire-place. First, there was the backlog—a log indeed, so large that it often required all a man's strength to get it in place. On this was laid the back-stick, a smaller log, and in front, on the and-irons, the fore-stick. This was the foundation of the fire, to which lighter fuel was added as required; and the fire was never suffered to go out in cold weather. In summer, however, we did the cooking in an outer kitchen or shed, where there was a small fire-place, and that in the kitchen was filled with asparagus bushes and other green things. Once I remember mother made a bed of garden-mould in the hearth, and planted some nasturtium seeds, which grew and blossomed very nicely, to my great admiration. Over the fire-place always hung a gun, and some crook-necked squashes and special ears of corn reserved for planting.

On one side of the fire-place was the settle, on the other the table and sink, where mother washed her dishes and did her baking and other cooking work. There were plenty of straight-backed, splint-bottom chairs, one or two arm-chairs, and a low sewing- and nursing-chair with rockers which belonged specially to my mother. There were also the dining-table and two small stands; one was my mother's sewing-stand, while the other held the great Bible in which father read at prayers morning and evening. This Bible had pictures in it, and contained the Apocrypha, which was one of our great resources on Sundays when the weather was too bad to go to church. The rest of the house consisted of the two bed-rooms I have mentioned, the outer kitchen, two or three rooms up stairs, one of which was a spare bed-room, and a large garret or store-room.

I must not forget to mention the spinning-wheels which almost always stood either in the kitchen or in my mother's room. There were two of them, the large one for wool and the smaller for flax, and on these were spun most of the clothing of the family. Another wheel stood in the garret, and was brought down when we had a spinning-girl, for mother never liked to have any one use her wheel but herself.

Out of doors we had in front of the house a door-yard where mother always had two or three flower-beds and some lilac and rosebushes. The back yard was mostly given up to the wood-pile and the hens. There were two barns, one near the house, the other some little distance away. Back of these the ground sloped rather rapidly down to a meadow which lay along the river, and was the most valuable part of the farm. My father kept two horses and a saddle-horse, besides several cows and a good many sheep. Besides this live-stock, we had both hens and ducks in great plenty, an old yellow-and-white cat which always seems to me to have had two kittens, and a big yellow dog, named Bose. He was a fine, good-natured fellow and a capital watch-dog, but he came to a very sad end. This tragedy of Bose was my first trouble in this world.

Our family, when I first remember, consisted of my father and mother, my two brothers, older than myself, a baby sister named Ruth, and an adopted child named Jeanne Dupont. Besides these, there was an elderly coloured woman named Rose who really belonged to mother, having been left her with other property by her grandfather, but who lived sometimes with us and sometimes with Uncle David's family, as she was most wanted, or, I suspect, as the fit took her. Latterly, however, she lived entirely with us. We children were very fond of her, and were always sorry to have her go away; for though she never spoiled us, she was always contriving ways to give us pleasure, being specially kind when we were sick or in any trouble, and was one of the best storytellers I ever heard. She had belonged to my great-grand-mother, and had many tales to tell of that lady's exploits in spinning, weaving, and working generally. She always ended by telling Jeanne and me that we never should be as smart or as handsome as our mother—a prophecy which did not trouble us at all, for I think we both considered our mother too far above us for us ever to think of emulating her virtues.

But Rose did not approve of all grandmother's ways. I remember once, when Mrs. Hyde came to spend the afternoon, mother showed her a piece of table-linen which she spun and wove before she was twelve years old.

"Ah," said Mrs. Hyde, turning to Jeanne and myself, "do you think, girls, you will ever be as smart as that?"

"Not it I's 'round dey won't," said Aunt Rose, who never hesitated to put in her word. "I allers thought Miss Rachel's weak back and her nerves all came from her doing so much work when she was young, a-setting at her wheel and in the loom when she was weak and growing. That 'ere linen cost more than it come to, according to my way of thinking. Some kinds of work is all very well for girls if they don't do too much, spinning wool, and churning, and such like—makes 'em grow straight and strong; but not setting over the flax-wheel or in the loom."

Mrs. Hyde looked sober at this, I remember, and said very quietly, "I dare say you may be right, Rose."

And mother glanced at Rose in a way that silenced even her. Afterward I learned that Mrs. Hyde had a young daughter in consumption, which was brought on, as every one said, by doing so much fine work and sitting so steadily over her books. Her father was a minister and a very learned man, and he was determined she should have a boy's education, as he had no boys, while her mother was equally determined to make her a prodigy in the house-keeping line. She was to be the eighth wonder of the world, only, unluckily, she took the consumption, lingered a few years, and died.

Jeanne Dupont was six years older than I, and came into our family in an odd way. Her father was one of the French soldiers who came over with La Fayette, and a very brave man. He had only the one little daughter, who, having no mother to care for her, he had sent for to this country and placed at a convent school in the city of Baltimore, the only place in the colonies at that time, I believe, where there were any convents. Sergeant Dupont died at Yorktown from the breaking out of an old wound. He commended his daughter to the care of my father, whose life he had saved on the occasion when he got his wound (I am sorry to say I don't know when or where it was), and his last act was to write a letter to the superior of the convent authorizing my father to take the little girl away. Father said the nuns were very loath to give her up, and well they might be, since they knew nothing about him, save that he was a heretic. However, they let her go at last with many tears and blessings. My father brought her home, and I can truly say she never was anything but a comfort from the time she came into the house. She took to all our ways directly, learned English very fast, though she always spoke it with a little foreign accent, and by her winning ways took captive the hearts of all the family, even of Rose, who had begun by being very jealous of the foreign interloper. To me she was play-mate, guide, teacher, and everything; and when the great break up came of which I shall speak presently, I grieved as much in parting from Jeanne as from my parents.

Our mode of life was very simple in those days. We had breakfast at six in summer, and half-past seven in winter. This last hour was reckoned very late, but my father did not like getting up early in cold weather. He used to say he had had enough of that in the army. In winter we had prayers before, in summer after, breakfast. All who could read had Bibles or Testaments. We read each a verse or two in turn, and then my father finished the chapter and made a prayer. (On Sundays we always sang part of a Psalm or hymn.) Then my father and the boys, and the man if we had one, went about the farm-work in winter. In summer they were often out at work two hours before breakfast. My mother and Rose attended to all the kitchen work. Jeanne, with my help as soon as I was big enough, made the beds, swept and dusted, fed the hens, and brought in eggs, the latter being reckoned rather a pleasure than a task.

Mother always churned and took care of the butter herself, and now and then made a cheese. She also did the brewing, for every one in those days made home-brewed beer and drank it freely. Hence comes the saying, "As you brew so you must bake;" for if the beer turned out badly, there was no good yeast. Twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays, Rose baked—such immense bakings!—bread, both rye and Indian and wheat, pies, gingerbread, and loaf-cake, and always either a little saucer pie, a turn-over, or a cake for each of us children. The house-work was usually all done and out of the way by ten o'clock. Then, or a little before, the great dinner-pot went on the fire, with a piece of salt beef and another of pork, potatoes, beans, turnips, and all together. Sometimes we ate salt meat for two or three weeks at a time, varied only by a chicken now and then. At twelve dinner was on the table, and we all sat down, except Rose, who had an odd fancy for always eating alone, which she did sometimes in the shed, sometimes on the door-step or in the pantry, but never by any chance at the table.

When dinner was out of the way, my mother invariably changed her dress. When I first remember her, she used to wear in the morning a pressed flannel petticoat of home manufacture, a short gown, made usually of checked linen in summer and some thicker stuff in winter, and drawn in with strings or pleats, very much like what your cousin calls a "French waist." She had also a checked linen apron. In the afternoon she wore usually a petticoat of some glossy black stuff; a chintz, or on extra occasions a white short gown, and an apron and neck-handkerchief of fine linen lawn, sometimes with narrow stripes of yellow or blue. When mother was dressed, she usually lay down and rested for about an hour, for, as I said, she was never strong. This was her great reading-time, when she devoured every book that came in her way. At that hour I usually stayed with Rose or played with little Ruth if she were awake.

When she got up, mother used to go to her spinning, either flax or wool, or take her sewing, but even then she was apt to keep a book open near her and glance at its contents. In that way she stored her memory with a great deal of matter, especially of poetry. She knew Dr. Young's "Night Thoughts," his satires, and his tragedies almost by heart, and could repeat many favourite scenes from Shakespeare and more modern dramatists; and I well remember, when Rose was away and Jeanne at school, how she used to keep me quiet and contented with rocking the baby by repeating long passages from "Venice Preserved," and from "Julius Cæsar," as she paced back and forth at her wheels. Of course I did not understand a tenth part of what I heard, but the music of my mother's sweet voice, accompanied by the purring of the wheels, was a never-ending delight. I enjoyed what I did understand, and what I did not at least afforded food for my imagination.

We had supper at six, and prayers directly afterward, always singing in the evening. The ringing of the nine o'clock bell sent every one to bed; and so ended our day.

But I see Olive thinks I am running on rather too long with this chapter, so I will bring it to an end by relating the history of my first grief—the tragical end of poor Bose. It was a kind of era in my life, being, as I think, the very first occasion of my realizing the existence of trouble and evil in this world.

Bose was, as I have said, a fine dog, large and strong, with a great head and neck of a deep yellow, with a good deal of black about his muzzle. He was afraid of nothing and nobody, and had once saved the life of a woman who was attacked by our bull when crossing our pasture by actually holding down the creature's nose till some men in the next field came to his assistance; but his temper was so perfect that the youngest child might safely play with him. Our cat and he were on the best of terms, and the kittens made game of him, jumping after his tail, mounting on his back, and stealing his dinner; nor did I ever see him resent these liberties in any other way than by sometimes laying his paw on one of the little creatures and holding it down while he licked it with his great red tongue—a bit of discipline at which the old cat would look on approvingly.

Bose and I were the best of friends, and as soon as I was old enough my mother committed to me the care of feeding him. It was one of her maxims that children could not learn too early that they had duties to perform, and each of us, as soon as we were old enough to understand, had our allotted task, for which we were always held accountable. One morning, when I went to take Bose his breakfast, I found him lying at the door of his house looking very heavy and stupid, nor would he take any notice of either me or his food. His eyes were red and he had foam hanging round his jaws. Something—not my own sense, I am sure, for I had never heard of a mad dog at that time—kept me from touching him, but I went in and told mother the state of the case, adding that I believed Bose had hurt his mouth, for he kept his teeth going all the time.

I remember how my mother turned pale on hearing this news. She stopped me as I was going toward the door; and bidding me stay where I was, she went to the window and looked out. Poor Bose had left his kennel, and was staggering about the yard, now and then running against something, as if he could not see very well, and snapping fiercely. Rose came and looked over her shoulder.

"The dog is mad," said my mother, quite quietly. "Rose, what shall we do? Mr. Corbet is over on the mountain with Ulric, and the boys are at school. The poor thing must be killed, but who is to do it?"

"I had better run down and get John Schneider to come up with his gun," said Rose.

I began to cry at this, and begged my mother not to let poor Bose be killed, but to try and cure him.

"Hush, my child; you don't understand," said my mother. "Yes, go, Rose, if you are not afraid, and be as quick as you can."

At that minute Ruth, who was not well, began to cry, and my mother went to her, charging me on no account to open the door. But for once I was disobedient. I could not endure the thought of having good, kind Bose killed. I knew no meaning to "being mad" except the one in which children use it—that is, being out of temper—and I thought, if Bose were ever so much displeased, I could pacify him with a little coaxing. So I opened the kitchen door and softly called him. Miserable as he was, the poor creature knew my voice, and came staggering toward me. I should have had my arms round his neck in another minute, when I was sharply pulled back by my mother, who had heard the door opened and returned to the kitchen just in time.

"Olive, you are very naughty," said she, more sternly than I ever heard her speak. "Go into your bed-room and shut the door."

I knew there was no appeal. I rushed into my room, slammed the door, and buried my head in the pillow, but I could not help hearing Rose come back, John Schneider's Dutch accent asking, "Vere is the tog?" and then the crack of the rifle. Poor Bose gave one sharp yelp, and then all was still.

I crept to the window and looked out. John was going toward the orchard, wheeling something on the barrow which I could not distinctly see, but I knew it was the body of my poor old friend. Mother and Rose were out with the fire shovel and a pan of ashes, which they were scattering thickly wherever the dog had lain. I went back to the bed, and throwing myself down cried and sobbed as if my heart would break. People sometimes make light of the afflictions of children, but I think such people must have very short memories. If a pint cup is full, it is just as much full as if it held a gallon.

Poor Bose gave one sharp yelp.

Presently mother came in and sat down on the bed beside me, laying her hand on my head.

"Olive," said she, "don't you know it was naughty in you to open the door when you were told not to do so?"

"Yes, mother," I sobbed, "but—but you said Bose was mad, but I knew he would not be mad at me, and I thought I could make him good-natured if I coaxed him."

"You did not understand," answered mother. "If I had not come just in time to pull you back, Bose would probably have bitten you, and you would have died a dreadful death." And then she explained the matter to me and made me understand how it was only merciful to put the poor dog out of pain and out of the way of doing harm. Mother had always a very impressive way with her when she was talking seriously to us children, and as she made me see what might have happened I shuddered and laid my face on her shoulder, for she had lain down beside me on the bed.

"You see now," added mother, "how needful it is that children should do just as they are told, even when they do not understand the reason."

"Yes, mother," said I; and indeed it was a lesson I never forgot. She talked to me a long time very kindly, and then, when I had calmed down a little, she proposed that I should dress myself and go with Rose over to the carding-machine to see about some rolls which ought to have been sent home; and as it was quite a walk, we should take some lunch and eat it on the bank of the river under the trees.

I knew mother meant to divert me from my grief; and I am sure her kindness affected me more than any punishment would have done, for I began to be very sensible how naughty I had been in opening the door. I bathed my eyes and dressed myself neatly, and we set out on our walk, Rose carrying a basket containing our lunch.

The carding-machine was nearly half a mile may. We went, not by the road, which was warm and dusty, but "across lots," down to the river, and then along the bank, where grew many fine elms, all run over and tangled together by wild vines. Rose told me they bore grapes called frost grapes, because they only ripened after the frost had touched them. We had a delightful walk, for Rose exerted herself to entertain me, and I could hardly believe it when we arrived at our journey's end.

Carding-machines were rather new in those days. They took a great deal of work off the hands of the women, for before that time all the wool was carded at home and by hand, which was no joke. Some people thought the rolls made by the machine did not spin as well as those made by hand, but my mother was not of that opinion.

The man who managed the machine lived close by the mill in a little red house with white window-frames—I think the smallest house I ever saw. His wife came out to speak to Rose and me; and hearing of our trouble in losing Bose, she asked Rose some questions in an under-tone, and then, going into her house, she presently came out with a beautiful tortoise-shell kitten, the first one I ever saw, and gave it to me to keep.

CHAPTER III.

GOING TO SCHOOL.

IT was a good many days before I recovered my spirits after the shock which poor Bose's death had given me.

I suppose I was an odd child. I remember hearing father say that with nine children out of ten one could tell pretty well what they would do, but I was the tenth, of whom there was no saying how I would take anything. The truth was I had got a great shock which threatened seriously to affect my health. I moped about and could not eat, and every little thing made the cry, which was very uncommon with me. I could not bear to see a dog, and I hated the very sight of good, kind-hearted John Schneider, who had killed Bose. He was one of the Hessian soldiers employed by the English government, and at the conclusion of the war, instead of returning home, he concluded to remain in this country, bought a little piece of land, and settled down to earn his living by farming and shoe-making.

Father and mother talked the matter over, and it was finally decided that it would be best for me to go to school. I hardly know how it happened that my schooling had been put off so long, for most of the children began at five, and some a good deal younger. I had lost no time, however. Jeanne taught me my letters, and she or mother used to hear me read every day that winter, so that by spring I could manage words of two syllables pretty well. The summer school was to open the next Monday, and it was decided that I should go.

Accordingly, upon Monday morning I set off; walking demurely by Jeanne's side, my mind divided between joy and awe. I had been at the school as a visitor once or twice, and I had always retained a vast admiration for Miss Temperance Hutchinson, the teacher, ever since the memorable day that she diverted me from my trouble in church by lending me her fan; but then there were the strange girls and boys, of whom I stood a good deal in fear, for I was a shy child and but little used to mix with children of my own age. On the whole, however, I think the joy was the stronger. I remember I was dressed in a dark-red pressed flannel petticoat—home-made, of course, but by no means coarse or ugly—a short gown made of a bit of "new" chintz—a circumstance of which I was rather proud—and a blue checked linen apron. I carried a bag containing my spelling-book, my thread and thimble, and a square of patch-work ready basted, also an apple to be eaten in recess. Jeanne had a similar bag, and carried besides a basket containing our lunch of bread and butter, cheese, and dough-nuts, for we lived too far from the school-house to permit us to return home at noon.

As we came in sight of the school-house, and I saw the large and noisy group of children assembled about the door, my heart sunk considerably, and I dare say that I squeezed Jeanne's hand very tight, for I remember her saying, "Don't be scared, Olive; they won't hurt you."

"I am not scared," I answered, promptly enough; but I rather think I would have given a good deal to be safely at home. However, I was determined to put a good face on the matter, and did not tremble much when Jeanne led me up to Miss Tempy, who welcomed me kindly, and calling a pretty little girl about my own age told me that I should sit beside her.

"Cannot Olive sit with me to-day, Miss Tempy?" asked Jeanne, answering the imploring look that I turned toward her with an encouraging glance. "She is very shy."

Though Miss Tempy could be firm, and even stern, as I soon found out, she knew how to be gentle and yielding on occasion; so she answered, graciously,—

"Yes, she may do so—till recess at least. After that I will see about it."

This concession confirmed my previous notion of Miss Tempy's goodness; and being now seated at my ease, I began to look about me. I remember as if I had seen it yesterday the appearance of the school-room. It was rather a large, low room, with beams running across the ceiling. Almost the whole of one end was taken up by an immense fire-place with a brick hearth capable of receiving a quarter of a cord of wood at once. There was no fire now, however, and the space was occupied by a large broken-handled pitcher filled with green branches. This was a fancy of Miss Tempy's, who liked to have everything neat and pretty about her. The other three sides were taken up by long desks fixed to the wall, having a shelf underneath to hold books. Before these desks stood benches without backs, for the convenience of having the scholars face inward or outward, according as they were writing, studying, or reciting. These desks and benches belonged exclusively to the writing scholars. Inside of these stood another somewhat lower set of benches, and still another, these last being low enough to accommodate the "a, b, c" class. The teacher's chair and table stood in the middle of the room, the latter accommodating an ink-stand, a large work-basket, two or three books, and a ruler—all Miss Tempy's private property—and a small hand-bell. Here also was placed an object which we little ones at least regarded with peculiar veneration—namely, a silver watch which had been given to Miss Tempy's father by the great general Wolfe himself.

Miss Tempy, having consulted the watch, rang her bell, and the scholars came into the room in a very orderly manner, and took their seats according to their rank. The Testaments being produced and the places found, the boys and girls read each a verse. I remember the chapter that morning was the eighth of Matthew. When all had read, Miss Tempy finished the chapter and made a short prayer, and then school was begun.

I do not know that I remember the exact order of exercises, only that the oldest class read first in a reader called the "Third Part" —of what I don't know to this day; I suppose of some series of school-books. It was made up of selections from different English writers, papers from the "Rambler" and "Spectator," some scenes of Shakespeare, and other poetical extracts. Doubtless it contained many things far above the comprehension of its readers and altogether foreign to their experience, but at least it had the advantage of showing the boys and girls who used it that there were other worlds than the little one in which they lived, and also in many cases of waking up a degree of curiosity concerning the books from which these extracts were taken. The lesson this morning was the "Vision of Mirza," to which I listened eagerly, and was quite grieved when the lecture came to an end. I had no time to think about the matter, for the moment the class was dismissed Miss Tempy called me to her side, and opening the spelling-book and pointing with her scissors to the first column of "ba, be," etc., asked me what that was.

Was there ever such an affront? I, that could spell "baker," and even such hard words as "abase" and "abate," to be set to read in "ba!" My eyes fairly filled with tears, and I felt my face grow crimson. Nor was the matter mended by Miss Tempy's saying in the kindest tone,—

"Oh, you must not be frightened; I am sure you can tell what 'ba' spells."

I should have burst out crying in another minute had not Jeanne interposed. She had been watching my first lesson with great anxiety, and now spoke up in my behalf:

"Please, Miss Tempy, Olive can spell in two syllables and read in easy reading."

"Oh, ho! That alters the case," said Miss Tempy; and she turned over to the first reading-lesson, which consisted of such sentences as this: "No man may put off the law of God. My joy is in his law all the day."

My wounded pride being thus healed, I acquitted myself very well, to my own satisfaction, and still more to my sister's. Miss Tempy gave me a spelling-lesson to learn, and I retired to my seat very well pleased with my first experience. I studied diligently till recess, after which I was called up to spell.

"Very good!" said Miss Tempy, when the lesson was finished. "But now you must go to your own seat. Sally Millar and Jane Hyde will make room for you."

I knew Jane Hyde, who lived near us, and was not sorry to have her for a neighbour. She moved obligingly and welcomed me with a pleasant smile, but Sally Millar's lip curled with contempt, and she whispered as I took my place.

"Why don't she sit with the babies, where she belongs?"

"What did you say, Sally?" asked Miss Tempy, mildly, but at the same time placing her hand on the ruler which lay on the table.

Sarah did not answer at first; but on the question being repeated with a little more emphasis, she replied, sulkily enough,—

"I didn't say nothing."

"Is there no room for Olive?" was the next question.

Sarah did not reply in words, but she moved to accommodate me, which she had declined to do before.

"Very well," said Miss Tempy. "If you are crowded, Sarah, you can take that stool by the door."

Sarah did not answer; but taking advantage of a moment when Miss Tempy's back was turned, she whispered to me,—

"See if I don't pay you off, miss."

I did not answer except by a glance as full of contempt as her own, and taking out my patch-work began to sew very busily, though my attention was considerably diverted from my work by what went on around me.

I don't think any teacher in these days is kept so constantly busy as Miss Tempy used to be. There were no steel pens or copperplate copies, and consequently the scholars all wrote with quills, which required constant mending, and from written copies, which the teacher must supply. Then all the girls brought their sewing to school. Miss Tempy was renowned for her skill in all that pertained to the needle. No lace stitches were too fine, no patterns too intricate, for her keen eyes and skilful fingers, and she could teach the mystery of marking in all the known forms of the alphabet. If she had any favourites, it was certainly among those who were skilful with their needles, and she was said to show considerable partiality to my sister Jeanne on that account.

But she was an excellent teacher in every respect. I do not know that I have ever met with a better. She commanded to a remarkable degree the love and respect of those under her care. I never knew more than two or three who did not like her, and they were among the worst and lowest with whom she had to deal. She had several times taught the winter school when a suitable master could not be procured, and it was remarkable that, though a frail little woman, she kept better order among the big boys and girls who attended at that season than any master had ever been able to do.

Our would have supposed that, her school-duties over, Miss Tempy might have considered herself entitled to rest, but nobody in the whole town was more ready with neighbourly service to the sick and the afflicted; and amid all her other employments she had found time to teach poor Elnathan Crum to read, write, and cipher, and many of her evening hours were spent in beguiling the sick boy of his weariness by reading aloud to him. The Cruets thought her perfect, and I suppose she was really as nearly so as poor feeble mortals ever become in this life.

I must not dwell too long on this part of my history. Suffice it to say that I was soon quite at my ease in the school, and able to go by myself whenever Jeanne was detained at home to help mother. Before the end of the summer I was promoted to the Testament class; for in those days the New Testament was used in all the schools as a regular class-book. This plan had its advantages and its drawbacks; for if; on the one hand, we gained a very familiar acquaintance with the text of Scripture, there was danger, on the other, that this very familiarity might destroy some of our regard for the same. I was also placed in a spelling-class composed, for the most part, of girls older than myself; where I kept my place at the head for a fair share of the time.

My first downfall in the class was connected with a lesson which I never forgot. I had been at the head of the class for more than a week, and was straining every nerve to keep my position, carrying home my book, and even studying on my way to school. One day, however—one dreadful day—I missed—missed a word which I knew perfectly well; and Jenny Hyde went above me. This was bad enough, but it was not all; for owing to the disturbance of my spirit, I missed again, and actually went down two places.

Here was a misfortune. I returned to my place crying and declining to be comforted; and when noon came, I refused to either go out or eat my luncheon. Jeanne was trying in vain to persuade me, when Miss Tempy said gently,—

"Run away, Jeanne; I wish to talk with Olive myself."

The teacher's lightest word was law, and Jeanne had no choice but to obey; so she went away, and I prepared myself to resist Miss Tempy's comfortings as I had done those of my sister.

"Olive," said Miss Tempy, rather severely, "don't you know that you are showing a very wrong spirit?"

I looked up in such amazement that I quite forgot to cry. To be blamed for my grief was the very last thing I expected.

"You are very selfish," proceeded Miss Tempy. "Don't you think the other children like to be at the head as well as you? Why should you wish to have the best place all the time?"

This was an entirely new view of the matter, and I did not know what to say to it. Miss Tempy followed up her advantage:

"Only this morning you were reading in the New Testament that we are not to desire the highest places, but it seems you cannot be suited with any other. You pretend to love Jenny Hyde very much, but you could not cry any more if she were dead than you do because she is a little better off than yourself."

"I—I didn't mean that," I stammered.

"What did you mean?" asked Miss Tempy, severely.

But in truth I was not prepared to say what I meant. In my own heart I had thought I was doing a very fine thing in thus grieving over my downfall, but Miss Tempy had opened my eyes and made me feel very small indeed.

"Now," continued Miss Tempy, "I advise you to stop crying, wash your face, and eat your dinner; and when Jenny comes back this afternoon, tell her you are sorry you were so cross to her."

For I forgot to say that I had utterly refused to speak to Jenny when school was out.

Very much humbled, I obeyed. Jenny was a gentle-spirited little thing, and we were soon as good friends as ever; but the lesson was one I never forgot.

CHAPTER IV.

THE TREASURE-SEEKERS.

I HAD only one serious trouble in school, and that trouble's name was Sarah Millar. I cannot even now explain the influence she had over me. She was not handsome or specially bright, and certainly she was not amiable. I cannot say I ever liked her, and at times I almost hated her, yet I really think she led me into all the serious scrapes in which I was ever involved before I was nine years old. I don't think she cared a pin for me personally. I believe she took that way to annoy Jeanne, whom she hated because she said Jeanne "felt above her."

One of these scrapes I specially remember, because it was the means of breaking off my intercourse with Sarah. It came about in this way. One day late in the fall my father and mother went away on a visit to some cousins in Lanesborough, taking with them Jeanne and Ruth, but leaving my brothers and myself at home under the care of Rose. They were to be gone several days, and mother enjoined me to be very good, to go to school every day, and mind what Rose told me; promising if she heard a good account of me on her return to bring me something pretty from my cousin's store in Lanesborough.

But I did not feel at all like being good. I was vexed at being left at home, and thought myself hardly treated. True, I had my mother's promise that I should go next time she went anywhere, and I knew that mother's promises were as sure as any human thing can be; but who knew when "next time" would come? Perhaps not in all winter. It was with a very ill-used feeling that I saw my friends depart on their journey and obeyed the somewhat imperative summons of Rose:

"Don't stand there in the cold, honey, without nothing on your head. Come in and get ready for school."

"I don't want to go to school alone," I answered, sulkily enough; "I'm going to stay at home till mother comes back—or to-day, at any rate," I added, reflecting that I might, after all find staying at home rather tiresome.

"You ain't going to stay to home to-day nor no other day," was the decided reply. "Your mother told me you was to go regular every day just the same as if she was at home. So you just put all such nonsense out of your head. Go and brush your hair and lace up your boots real nice, and I'll put up a first-rate dinner for you. I baked a little pumpkin pie yesterday just on purpose, and you shall have the piece of loaf-cake that was left last night. Come, now; better be stirring before I come there."

Moved by this judicious mixture of sweet and acid arguments, I did really go and get ready for school, relenting somewhat from my sulkiness when I discovered by peeping into my basket that Rose had more than fulfilled her promise with regard to my dinner. During my long and lonely walk, however,—for Ezra and Tom had, as usual, gone off without concerning themselves about me,—the rebellious thoughts again came uppermost, and I was trudging along in a very discontented state, when I was joined by Sarah Millar.

"Seems to me you look dreadful discontented and out of sorts," was her salutation. "What's the matter?" Then, without waiting for an answer, "Pa saw your folks driving up toward Pittsfield this morning, and I supposed, of course, that you'd be along. Why didn't you go?"

"Mother said I should go next time," I answered, not very directly. "It was Jeanne's turn this morning."

"Oh!" said Sarah, in a peculiar tone. "It generally is 'Jeanne's turn,' isn't it?"

I had never thought of it in that way, but now that I was reminded of the circumstance it did seem to me that "Jeanne's turn" had come pretty often lately.

"I'm sure you are dreadful good to think so much of that French girl as you do," pursued Sarah, in whose vocabulary the word "dreadful" answered the same purposes that are now subserved by "awful." "I know 'I' shouldn't like to have a strange girl coming in and taking my place with my father and mother. Only for her you would be the eldest daughter, wouldn't you?"

It had never occurred to me that it was any hardship "not" to be the eldest daughter, but I immediately began to think of it in that light; which was no doubt just what Sarah intended, for she was a born mischief-maker.

"But never mind that now," said she. "What are you going to do while they are away?"

"I'm sure I don't know," I answered, in a melancholy tone. And then, recollecting myself and brightening up a little, "Only, Rose says she will begin to teach me to spin; and Jenny Hyde and I mean to make a new play-house."

"Dear me! I should think you'd be ashamed!" said Sarah, contemptuously—"A great girl like you to be making play-houses and rag-babies with Jenny Hyde! And I would not be in a hurry to learn to spin, either. Once you know how, they will keep you at it all the while, and you won't get any time to play at all. I'll tell you what to do: come home with me after school and stay all night."

"Rose won't let me," I answered.

"Pshaw! Who's Rose, I should like to know, that you should mind her? I guess I wouldn't be ordered by an old woman like Rose."

"Mother wouldn't let me if she were at home," said I, abandoning Rose. "She never does let me go home with any of the girls except Jenny Hyde."

"Oh yes, your folks think a great deal of Jenny Hyde. Guess, if your mother knew how Mrs. Hyde talked about her—But never mind that. Anyhow, your mother isn't at home, and she won't know it. Come, Olly; come home and stay with me, and we will have such fun."

"Well, I'll ask Miss Tempy," said I, yielding more and more.

"Ask Miss Tempy! Olive Corbet, I do think you are too silly for anything! Of course Miss Tempy won't let you go. She hates me like poison because my folks are poor and live on the mountain. But never mind! Just wait a little," said Sarah, nodding her head and compressing her lips—"just wait a while, and then see who'll have their silk dresses, and gold watches all set with diamonds, and gold finger-rings and ear-rings. She won't be so proud of her old silver watch then. Why, I wouldn't speak to her after that—not if she was to go down on her knees to me."

"After what?" I asked, very much interested, but unable to picture to myself such an event as Miss Tempy's going down on her knees to Sarah Millar.

"Never mind. It's a great secret, but perhaps I'll tell you if you'll go home with me. Come, say you will, and show that you are not afraid of an old black woman, and that you can have some good times as well as that Jeanne Dupont."

All day long as she had opportunity Sarah plied her arts of persuasion, and at last I yielded. My brothers had never taken any care as to my comings and goings, and it happened that Jenny Hyde, with whom I usually walked home, was not at school that day; so, as seems so often to happen with young transgressors, every hindrance was taken out of my way. Except, indeed, my own misgivings. These grew stronger and stronger at every step which I made away from home and in the direction of Beartown Mountain, at the side of which Sarah Millar's father lived.

It was a pretty long walk, and I was not very strong, and lagged behind in a way which caused Sarah to speak sharply to me more than once. The last time this happened I took a sudden resolution:

"I am not going any farther, Sarah; I have changed my mind. I remember something I want to do at home."

I expected Sarah would begin to urge me, and was very much surprised when she answered, coolly,—

"All right. I'm sure I don't care if you are not afraid. 'I' am in a hurry to get home before dark, and there isn't any time to spare, either. However, you had better hurry, and 'perhaps' you won't see any."

"Any what?" I asked, conscious of a certain chilliness at her words, for I was by no means distinguished for courage.

"Father heard one on the mountain last night," continued Sarah; "but maybe it won't come down—unless a storm should come up," she added, looking at the clouds, which did seem rather threatening.

"Heard what?" I asked, impatiently.

"Oh, nothing much—only a painter, that's all."

Now, painters, or panthers, were the most terrible beasts of which I had any knowledge. Many tales were told of their courage, ferocity, and cunning, and we children dreaded them with much the same kind of feeling that I suppose German children entertain toward the wehr-wolves, considering them as a kind of supernatural monsters.

"Won't you go part of the way with me?" I asked, feeling my heart sink within me at the prospect of the long, lonely walk and the painter, who might be even then lying in wait for me.

"Not I, indeed!" returned Sarah, beginning to walk on very fast. "Good-night, Olive. I hope there won't anything catch you—I 'hope' there won't."

I shall never forget how utterly despairing was the feeling that came over me there by the road-side in that lonely place under the shadow of the wild mountain, deserted as I seemed to be by all the world, even by my temptress herself. I sat down on a stone and began to cry bitterly.

"Oh, come! Don't sit there and cry," said Sarah, returning to my side. "Come along, and we'll be at our house long before dark. It is only a little farther—just past that great hollow tree where they killed the bear when I was a little girl. Come, make up your mind quick," she added, impatiently.

There seemed to be nothing left but to go on as I had begun. I arose and walked with Sarah up the road, which began now rapidly to ascend, and we soon reached her father's house. It was a low, unpainted structure, standing on the edge of a deep ravine which indented the mountain side, and through which ran a small stream. This stream was usually only a trickling, purling brook; but when swelled by rain or snow, it often became a noisy, roaring torrent.

The house consisted of only two rooms below and a garret above, and was more rudely finished than any I had ever seen at that time, the ceiling being only the rough boards which formed the floor of the garret, and all the furniture and wood-work being of the rudest description. There was no mantel-piece to the chimney, which seemed now and then to draw the wrong way, and sent great puffs of smoke out into the room. An old woman, whom I took to be Sarah's mother, but who I found out was her grandmother, sat in the chimney-corner smoking, and there were two grown-up girls in the room, one of whom was spinning and the other preparing supper.

"Now, Sally, what in the world have you brought that young one here for?" was the salutation of the elder sister, whose name I found was Melinda. Then, turning to me, with more kindness in her tone, "And how did you happen to come, child? I don't believe your mother knew it."

"Suppose she didn't?" said Sarah, pertly. "I guess my folks are as good as hers any day. Come, Olive, take off your bonnet and make yourself at home. Let's go up stairs."

Up stairs we went; but as to making myself at home, it was wholly out of my power. Though it was well on in October, the weather was sultry and close, and the garret was oppressively hot, the air therein being rendered more stifling still by the odour of various herbs hanging up to dry, and by the smell of tobacco ascending from the regions below.

"My! How hot!" said Sarah, going to the window. "Come here, Olive, and look out."

I obeyed, and started back in surprise and some alarm. The house stood on the very edge of the ravine I have mentioned, which was here very deep, precipitous, and dark, with hemlocks and other evergreens growing in the bottom below. As we looked out a screech-owl not far away set up his horrid, quavering scream, more like the noise made by a woman in a fit than anything else I can think of. I started back in alarm.

"You needn't be scared," said Sarah; "he won't hurt you. He has been here ever since we have."

"What is it?" I asked.

"Won't you never, never tell as long as you live and breathe?" asked Sarah, solemnly.

I gave the required promise.

"Well, father says, but you must be sure not to tell, that that bird—it's an owl—is a money-watcher, and not a real owl at all."

"'A money-watcher'!" I repeated. "What is that?"

"Why, a money-watcher—a thing that stays round where treasure is buried to watch it and scare folks away. Just as soon as father heard that thing, he guessed it was a money-watcher, and he went to somebody that knows about such things, and he said there was a great deal of gold and jewels buried somewhere in this ravine, and if any one should look for it in the right time and the right way, he would get every bit of it. And he told father that there were great chests full of money and pearls diamonds and great bowls and cups of gold and silver. So then we'll see who'll have the silks and satins," concluded Sarah, in a tone of triumph.

"But he hasn't found the treasure yet, and perhaps he won't," said I.

"Oh yes, he will. The wise man said he might fail a good many times, but he would come nearer every time; and so he has. But he can only try at a particular time of the moon and when everything is right."

"Suppose somebody finds the treasure before your father?" said I.

"Then father 'll kill him; or if he don't, I will," said Sarah, with sudden fierceness. And then, with a curious alteration in her tone, "Sometimes I've wished pa hadn't known anything about the treasure, because then he might have had a farm or learned a trade, and we could have lived in a nice house and had things decent. But then, when I think of the treasure, I don't care. Melinda don't believe in it at all, and says she don't expect ever to have any money but what she works for, but Malviny and granny and I, we believe in it. But mind, now, you don't ever tell. If you do, something dreadful will happen to you."

The conversation was interrupted by a call to supper, and we went down stairs. My mother was an unusually skilful house-keeper even for New England, and always took special pains to have her table neat and pleasant as well as abundant; but it may be guessed that the Millars were not so particular. There was no table-cloth, and the table itself was by no means clean, while the dishes were set on anyhow. There was nothing for supper save some very black rye-bread and very white and soft butter, till Malvina, placed before me a little cup of milk. But the table was not what surprised me most. In all my life I had never seen any one sit down to eat without first asking a blessing, and I naturally waited for the same thing to be done here.

"Come, child, sit down," said Sarah. "What are you waiting for?"

"For the blessing," said I, simply.

Malvina and Sarah first stared and then burst out laughing. Melinda coloured up to her eyes.

"Do stop your fool's laughing," said she, angrily, to the others; then, turning to me, "Come, child, sit down, and never mind them. 'You' have been brought up with Christian folks, but we ain't of that kind here. We don't have any religion in this house."

"Religion!" said Malvina, with a sneer. "What good has religion done us, I should like to know?"

"What good has the other thing done us? Perhaps you can tell," retorted Melinda, turning upon her sharply. "There, child! Eat your supper if you can find anything to eat. Here! I'll get you some maple sugar. I expect you ain't used to such butter as ours."

I felt that Melinda meant to be kind, and I tried to eat, but every morsel seemed to choke me. None of the men of the family were present, and I heard Malvina tell the old woman that "dad" had gone "over the mountain."

Every moment increased my home-sickness and added to the stings of my conscience. I pictured to myself Rose's alarm at my absence and her sending the boys out to look for me. I thought of my mother and Jeanne, and how they would suppose me safe in my own bed. I remembered how I had promised my mother to be good and mind Rose and say my prayers the same as if she were at home. To add to my distress, the wind began to rise and the thunder to growl among the hills.

Malvina went to the door and looked out.

"There's going to be an awful storm," she said, in an under-tone, to Sarah, adding, not so low but what I heard her, "You had better go to bed before it comes on. The young one will be scared to death, especially if dad comes home."

This dark hint was the drop which made the cup overflow. I burst into a flood of tears and cried with all my might.

"Oh, I want to go home, I want to go home!" I sobbed, and almost screamed. "I won't stay here! I want to go home to Rose! Oh, mother, mother!"

"Hush your noise, you little fool!" said Malvina, sharply. "Sarah, what did you bring her for? You might have known how it would be."

"Well, there! You needn't scold her," said Melinda. "Hush, hush, Olly! Nobody sha'n't hurt you. Go to bed, and you shall go home first thing in the morning. I would take you to-night, only it's going to rain in a minute."

"Take her to-night, indeed!" said Malvina. "Hush up, Olly, or I'll set the dog on you!"

"Set the dog on you, set the dog on you!" cried the old woman, in a cracked, croaking voice. "That's the way: set the dogs on 'em."

I do not think the poor thing meant me any harm—it was only a way she had in her dotage of repeating any word which happened to strike her ear—but I had not the sense to understand the matter then. I hushed my sobs and allowed Sarah to lead me to the loft where we had been before, and to unfasten my dress. When I was ready for bed, I knelt down to say my prayers—an action which produced a new burst of laughter from Sarah:

"Oh what a nice little girl! Oh what a nice little mammy-girl! Now run home and tell mummy how good she is, do!"

Timid and yielding as I was, I could fight when pushed to the wall, and Sarah's contemptuous allusion to my mother gave me the needed push. My pride and my love for my mother were both aroused at once.

"Sarah Millar, I shall say my prayers for all you," said I, looking up. "You are an awful wicked, bad girl; and if you say another word, I'll run all the way home, storm or no storm. I might just as well be caught by painters as stay with such a girl as you are. I won't speak to you again to-night—so!"

With that I put my head down and finished my prayers, certainly in no very Christian frame of mind, nor, though Sarah changed her tone and began to coax me, would I open my lips again. Tired at last, she turned over and went to sleep, but I could not sleep. The storm was in full force by this time. The lightning flashed brightly into the uncurtained window and gave me momentary glimpses of the tossing trees on the other side of the ravine. The thunder sounded louder than any I had ever heard, and the wind groaned among the trees in an appalling manner, while the brook, swelled by the pouring rain, presently added its hoarse voice to the other noises. The old house rocked and creaked, and in one of the flashes of lightning I distinctly saw a great rat run along the floor. I was almost as much afraid of rats as of panthers, and was about to spring out of bed, when I remembered that I might step on the monster, which would, I thought, kill me entirely.

But by degrees my thoughts took another turn, and from considering my danger I began to reflect how very naughty I had been, how ungrateful to Rose, who had done so much for me all my life long, how disobedient to mother, whom I had promised to be good, and to Miss Tempy, who had expressly enjoined me to go straight home from school. And I had answered, "Yes, ma'am," as if I meant to do it, when all the time I meant no such thing. Oh how mean and little and wicked did I appear in my own eyes! And all for the sake of a girl whom I did not even like.

I had been well instructed in religion, and I knew that I had disobeyed not only my earthly parents, but also my heavenly Father. Only for that, I thought, I would ask him to take care of me and bring me safe home. And then I remembered a verse I had read at prayers that very morning—that morning which now seemed so long ago:

"If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins."

I was not quite certain that those were the very words, but that was the sense, I was sure. He could hear me as much in one place as in another—as much in this miserable garret as if I were in my own neat, pretty little room at home.

A kind of solemn and quieting awe seemed to fill upon me as I remembered, and for the first time in my little life "realized," the presence of my heavenly Father. My sobs ceased, and in such words as I could command I confessed what I had done and asked for forgiveness; and then, quieted by my devotions and feeling quite sure that my prayer was heard—for did not mother and the Bible both say so?—I lay down and fell asleep, but not before I had made two resolutions—one that I would never run away again, the other that I would set out for home the minute I waked in the morning instead of waiting and going to school with Sarah, as we had planned the night before.

My bed was far from comfortable, and I waked with the first gleam of daylight. Rising softly without waking Sarah, I dressed myself with all speed, and stepped quietly down the stairs, not without some misgiving lest I should be unable to get out or should encounter the men of the family; for from some gruff voices which I had heard once in the night, I concluded that "dad," as the girls called him, had returned. But timid as I was, I sometimes had spasms, as it were, of courage and resolution, in which I think I would have faced a lion, or even a rat, without the slightest hesitation. When I reached the kitchen, however, there was no one to be seen, and the door—oh joyful sight!—was half open.

Never did I pass over any ground so quickly as over that first mile of the road that led to the village. Then my strength began to flag, and I sat down to rest. I knew where I was now, and calculated that by skirting the edge of John Schneider's wood-lot and crossing his and our pasture I should save a long distance and reach home without meeting any one. So I climbed the rough stone wall without any trouble, and struck into a path that I knew right well, for I had often passed over it on berrying and flower-hunting excursions.

I had not gone far before I found I had underrated the difficulties of my way. The wood-path was narrow and almost overgrown with blackberry and raspberry bushes, which caught my clothes at every step, and were, besides, dripping with wet. The rain had swollen two or three little brooks which could usually be crossed by a jump, so that there was nothing for it but to take off my shoes and stockings and pass over more than ankle deep in water, and the grass was so drenched that my whole progress was more like wading than walking. In the state in which I then found myself, however, I think I should have been almost as ready to face fire as I was to encounter water; and though I was ready to drop from fatigue and hunger—for I had really eaten hardly a mouthful since noon the day before—I travelled on without halting a moment till I entered our back yard and walked directly up to Rose, who was just preparing to set out in search of me.

"Oh, Rose," I exclaimed, clasping my arms round her from behind—"oh, Rose, I've been the worst girl that ever was!" And here I broke down and fell into a fit of hysterical crying.

Rose wasted no words. She first caught me up in her arms and kissed me. Being made aware by this act how wet I was, she carried me into my own bed-room, and in less time, I believe, than the operation ever was performed before or since she had stripped me of my clothes, endued me with a warm flannel night-gown, and deposited me in bed. Then at last her feelings found expression.

"Bless de Lord!" she exclaimed. "You naughty, wicked, blessed child! I never was so glad to see anybody! I'se a great mind to give you a good whipping as ever I had to eat; and I don't s'pose you've had a mouthful of breakfast, either."

"I don't want any breakfast," said I; and I really thought so.

"Don't talk to me, child," was the reply.

And Rose bustled out, to return presently with a great cup of hot tea—a luxury usually allowed only on great occasions—and a piece of toasted bread.

"There! Drink your tea hot. I 'spect you've got your very death of cold. Such a night as I've had—all alone in the house, with the dreadfullest storm I ever did see, and not a soul to send anywhere."

"Why, where were the boys?" I asked.

"Oh, they went over to their cousin Lem's after school about the hogs, and it rained so I 'spect Lem would have 'em stay. I asked Symantha Hedges, and she said she see you a-going home with Sally Millar, and that Sally said she meant to get you away down there just to spite me, for she hates me like poison because I told Miss Tempy of some of her pranks. So I knew pretty well where you was. But how did I know what would happen? None of them Millars is any better than they should be—I guess Melindy is the best of the lot—and every one says the old man was a Tory in the war and helped murder the folks at Wyoming, besides being a regular sheep-stealer, and worse."

"Melinda was real good to me," said I; "but I'll never speak to Sarah again as long as I live. It was all her fault."

"I don't see that," answered Rose. "If you hadn't been so silly as to go with her, I don't see what she could have done to you. But what do you think your ma will say?"

"Oh, Rose, don't tell her—please don't tell her, will you?" I pleaded. "I won't do another single naughty thing while she is gone if only you won't tell her about this. Now, promise you won't."

"I sha'n't promise that I won't, nor that I will," said Rose; "but just tell me one thing, Olly: what do you mean to say when your ma asks you whether you have been a good girl?"

I had no answer ready for this question, and I remained silent. Rose had unusual tact for a person in her position. She did not press me for a reply, but left me to work out the problem by myself; bidding me go to sleep, for I must not think of going to school that day. This of itself was no small punishment, for I never willingly missed a day at school; but I was too tired to argue the matter, and I soon fell asleep, to awake with aching limbs and with a sore throat and every indication of a violent cold, which grew worse so rapidly that Rose thought it necessary to send for the doctor.

Doctor Partrige was a tall, large man who always wore knee-breeches and buckles, a dignified wig, and a pair of large silver-framed glasses. My mina was somewhat divided at the prospect of seeing him; for though I felt it was a dignified distinction to have the doctor all to myself; I did not know what he might do, especially if he should hear that my illness had been brought on by my own naughtiness. The doctor was very lenient, however. He told Rose to rub my throat well with oil and hartshorn, give me a bowl of hot catnip tea, and keep me in bed for two or three days; and he presented me at parting with a large piece of liquorice—a confection which he always carried in his pockets for the benefit of his small patients.

Rose was rather affronted.

"Worth while sending for the doctor!" she said, after Doctor Partrige had gone. "Guess I could have give you a bowl of catnip without any of his help. He might at least have left you some powders."

The catnip tea and the other applications seemed to answer the purpose, however, and in two or three days I was up and about, though teased with a hard cough which Rose prophesied would turn out to be whooping-cough.

My mother went away on Thursday and returned on Monday, and all that time the question was never out of my mind, "What shall I say when she asks me whether I have been a good girl?" But the problem was solved in an unexpected way. She did not ask me. Calling me into her bed-room, she said, with more than her usual kindness, if that were possible,—

"I am sure my little Olive has tried to be good and to please mother, and so I have brought her something very pretty."

So saying, she opened her basket and put into my hands a long blue paper box, in itself a treasure in those days. With trembling fingers I raised the lid. Oh, wonder of wonders! There lay a most beautiful doll—no home manufacture, but a real Boston doll, with blue eyes and black hair and a gilt comb, dressed, too, in the height of the fashion, in a narrow-skirted, short-waisted gown, and with a string of real beads round her neck.

The sight of this inestimable treasure, such as I had hardly dared hope ever to possess, answered my mental questions at once. I dropped the box on the bed; and falling on my knees and burying my head in mother's lap, I burst into a flood of tears, and sobbed out my confession without making any attempt to extenuate my fault by blaming Sarah.

Much as I had always loved my mother, I do not think I ever felt such a kind of adoration for her as I did that afternoon. She was so kind and forgiving, while she pointed out to me the greatness of my fault and the seriousness of its consequences, that I am sure I felt twenty times more penitent than I should have done if she had punished me ever so severely; and when she told me at the end that she should not take the doll away from me—that I might keep it to help me remember all she had said to me—I was overwhelmed with shame and confusion. I took my treasure to my room. I examined its beautiful clothes, which mother told me she had made herself on the very evening that I was running away with Sarah Millar, and I resolved, with new tears and a prayer which I am sure was quite sincere, that I would never grieve or disobey mother again. That doll always possessed a peculiar sacredness to me above all my other toys, and was destined to play a somewhat, important part in my history. I kept it for many years, and lost it in a way which I shall describe hereafter.

Rose's prediction concerning the whooping-cough turned out to be correct. Ruth and I both had it—Ruth lightly and I severely, probably from the cold I had taken at the beginning of the disorder. Be that as it may, I was very unwell all winter, so that going to school was out of the question.

In the course of this winter the Millars vanished from their house on Beartown Mountain, nobody knew how or where. Probably they moved westward, as so many were doing at that time. I used to think of them many a time, and wonder whether they had found the treasure and gone to some distant city to enjoy it, and I used to try to imagine how Sarah and Malvina would look dressed in satin, with rings on their fingers, and riding in a fine coach like that of old Madam Childs in Pittsfield. I now think it more likely that some of the doings of the old man had brought him within the grasp of the law, and that he found it convenient to disappear. I suppose such characters are even now to be found in New England, and in my time it was not uncommon for persons even of considerable education to waste all their substance in the pursuit of hidden treasures supposed to have been buried by Captain Kidd or some other noted pirate.

CHAPTER V.

SUNDAY.

THE rest of the winter passed quietly, and pleasantly also, in spite of the whooping-cough, which ran through all our neighbourhood and almost broke up the school. Among the chief sufferers was poor Elnathan Crum, who died just as the spring flowers were beginning to come out in the woods and fields. Elnathan was very fond of flowers, and had them about him just as long as any could be found; and I well remember how Miss Tempy surprised and rather shocked some of the neighbours by filling the dead boy's cold hands with violets and trailing arbutus. I believe they thought the action savoured of superstition.

Emily Hyde, Jenny's sister, also died this spring. I specially recollect the fact from hearing Rose say that she thought Emmy must be glad to go where there were no lessons and no sewing.

"She was a wonderful smart girl," said Mrs. Edwards, who had dropped in on her way home to tell us the news. "Her father told Mr. Edwards that Emmy could read her Greek Testament at sixteen as well as he could, and was quite prepared to enter the Junior class at college. Only that the poor thing died so young, there is no knowing what she might have turned out."

"Yes; 'only,'" said Rose, who, as I have remarked before, would have her say on all occasions—"only that the poor thing died, the mare might have learned to live on nothing."

My own education did not suffer at all from the fact of my staying at home. I had begun arithmetic before I was taken sick, and liked it very much, and I made such progress in the science with the help of my mother and Jeanne that when I returned to school Miss Tempy placed me in a class of girls and boys two or three years older than myself. I also achieved one object of my literary ambition by being allowed to begin grammar. The manual I studied was Webster's little grammar arranged with questions and answers. The elder classes studied Murray with the exercises, than which no better book for teaching English has ever been contrived. But this was considered too hard for a beginner, though I do not really believe it was any more difficult than the one I had in hand. It is by no means the case that things are always made easier by attempts to simplify them.

Two important family events happened this spring—a new baby was born, and Ruth, now four years old, began to go to school. She was a sturdy, merry, sweet-tempered little thing, who made friends wherever she went, and she was soon quite at home in the little commonwealth, and needed no protection from me. She was a greater favourite than I had ever been, which I considered rather hard, seeing I was quite sure that she never took half as much pains to please Miss Tempy or any one else as I did; but she had an even, sunny temper and a disregard of small annoyances much more calculated to make her way smooth than were my excessive sensitiveness, my various and irregular moods and tenses. However, I can honestly say I was never for one moment jealous or envious of Ruth, but rejoiced in all her social and school triumphs as much as if they had been my own.

The new baby was a fine, bouncing boy, of a whom we were all as proud—so Rose said—as if we had made him ourselves. To Jeanne's special delight, he was named Henry Dupont, after her father. Jeanne was now toward sixteen, very sedate and mature for her age. She did not go to school this summer, but stayed at home to help mother with the work and the care of the baby; and a very efficient help she was. I missed her greatly in school, where we had always been companions, despite our differing ages, and I used regularly to tell her everything that happened—a practice which I am sure kept me out of a great many scrapes. She was a kind of outward conscience, for I was always thinking, "What will Jeanne say?"

I got on very nicely that summer. The school was small, and Miss Tempy was able to give me a great deal of individual attention, which she did, I suppose, all the more readily that I really loved learning for its own sake. I did rather grudge the time she would have me spend on fine needle-work and grew somewhat impatient under her extreme particularity. I specially remember almost breaking out into active rebellion over a night-cap ruffle which she made me take out and do over three times before she was satisfied with it.

"The time will come, Olivia," said she, in her precise way—she never called one Olive or Olly, as other people did—"the time will come, Olivia, when you will thank me for making you do your work exactly right;" and she was correct. I have thanked her many a time when I have seen what work young, and even married, women make of sewing nowadays, especially of their button-holes. I made a fine linen shirt this summer—an achievement of which I was very proud; and my father, for whose birth-day I had prepared it, gave me a dollar—not, he was careful to explain to me, by way of payment, but as a reward or encouragement for taking so much pains to improve in my sewing.

I also learned to spin wool this summer, and this learning to spin was one of the many occasions on which I got myself laughed at by my brothers and Rose. Mother often employed a spinning-girl named Lucy Cherryman, who went out spinning by the week and was famous for accomplishing her day's work in less time than any one else in the neighbourhood. Lucy had a fine voice, and always sung at her wheel. The process of drawing out the thread looked very easy to me.

"Gently, gently!" said my mother. "You will have to be very careful at first."

But I was confident in my own powers, as usual. I drew out my thread, and at the same time struck up a verse of one of Lucy's favourite songs:

"Lady Margaret sat in her bow-window

Combing out her golden yellow hair."

The consequences were what I might have expected. The thread snapped, the wheel ran back, and all was to begin over again. I was dreadfully mortified—not so much at the laugh which followed as at my own silliness—and could hardly be persuaded to try again. At last, however, the boys being out of the way, I took hold of the business once more in a more sober and careful spirit, and succeeded very well, insomuch that when I was fifteen I could despatch my day's work as well and in as short a time as Lucy Cherryman herself. I also learned the use of the little or linen-wheel, but I never spun much linen. The action of the small wheel affected my head and made me nervous, so that I could not get rid of the motion even in my sleep. So I left the little wheel to Jeanne, who was marvellously skilful in its use, and confined myself to the spinning of wool, and also of tow, which was easy, though dirty, work.

I often wonder, when I look back at it, how we used to find time for so much work, and I am almost tempted to think the days were longer eighty years ago than they are now. Besides all the household work performed by a farmer's family nowadays—the making of cheese and butter, the baking and other cooking—my mother brewed beer at least once in ten days, and usually every week. This beer was a very mild beverage, of course, and I don't know that any one could possibly have been intoxicated upon it, but it was very pleasant to the taste, being brisk and sparkling, at least when new. After a few days it began to deteriorate, and the appearance of certain white specks known as "messengers" gave warning that the time was come for another brewing.

But besides these cares, there was also the preparation of the family clothing, which was all made at home. The farmer sheared his own sheep, his wife and daughters spun the yarn, and not seldom themselves wove the cloth and flannel into which it was converted. It was the same with the flax, which was dressed in the barn and spun and woven in the house. We had some cotton clothes, but they were not very nice and were little used, and we had printed chintz, some of which came from India, for our best dresses.

I remember a story which I heard from Mrs. Sheldon concerning my Aunt Sylvia, my father's eldest sister. It seems there was to be a grand party in the town, to which Mistress Sylvia was of course invited, she being a young lady famous for both her beauty and her accomplishments. Miss Sylvia had set her heart upon a chintz dress to appear in on the grand occasion, but it was in the time of the war, and chintz dresses were not only inordinately dear, but extremely scarce. However, Aunt Sylvia was not to be foiled. She had a colour-box and was possessed of some skill in the art of painting flowers. So she took a pair of fine linen sheets; and having fastened them down on the floor, she proceeded to ornament the linen with bunches of flowers laid on with her best colours and skill. The gown thus produced was worn in triumph to the party, and was greatly admired. * But in general our clothes were nearly all home-made in every sense of the word.

* I had this tale from Mrs. Chloe Sheldon, a very intelligent old lady, who died at the "Home" in Rochester at the age of one hundred and four, retaining her faculties to the last.

With all these manifold employments, women found time for a great deal of fancy-work, especially in the way of working flounces and piecing bed-quilts, for much visiting, and also for a great deal of reading. It was a time of much interest and discussion in the theological world, and most of the neighbours who visited my mother were fully capable of taking an intelligent part in the arguments which were pretty sure to occur on the great points whereon the magnates of the said theological world were at issue. But their study was not confined to religious and metaphysical books. My mother was one of the best-read women I have ever met in classical English literature, especially in poetry, of which she was very fond; and though she knew no language but her own, at least she knew that thoroughly, and she saved many a dollar from her dress that she might spend it on books.

My father was also a reader, and took two newspapers; besides that, he rarely went to Pittsfield or Albany—whither some business concerning his father's property usually called him two or three times a year—without bringing home a new book. I shall never forget Jeanne's delight and mine when, after his return from one of these excursions, he produced Miss Burney's "Evelina" and "Cecilia." Mother at once made a law—more for my benefit than Jeanne's, who was always a law to herself in all matters of self-denial—that these charming volumes must not be touched till the work was all done and the lessons all learned—a rule which, instead of detracting from our enjoyment, only made it last the longer. We read and reread and discussed these volumes again and again; and I am sure no people I have ever met are more real to me at this moment than the characters in these stories.

For Sundays we had the Bible first of all. Grandfather had given each of his daughters at her marriage a fine family Bible with many prints and containing the Apocrypha. This book my mother wisely kept in reserve for our Sunday's entertainment; and as we were not allowed to have it on any other day, it was always new. Besides this, we had a few special Sunday books. One of these, and a great favourite of mine, was "Flavel on the Prophecies," which I used to read and dream over with great interest. "Paradise Lost" occupied a sort of debatable ground, especially after I found out that, though the book contained some of the same people who were in the Bible, yet the speeches and a good many of the stories were made up. It seemed to me, as indeed it does now, that Mr. Milton had no right to put his own words into the mouth of the Creator and Redeemer, and that the doing so was a great irreverence. Fox's "Book of Martyrs" was quite as much of a favourite and had not the same drawbacks, and I was never tired of meditating on the heroic instances of virtue and endurance recorded therein. Jeanne, however, never liked this book as well as I did. She seemed somehow to feel that the stories of Roman Catholic persecutions it contained were a sort of reflection on her own ancestors and on her kind friends the nuns of Baltimore, whom she always remembered with great affection.

We had no Sunday-school books and no Sunday-school, properly so-called, though we children learned the catechism in school, and were examined in the same by the minister in the meeting-house, usually as often as once in every month.

I don't think I ever found those old Sundays as tiresome as it is the fashion to represent them nowadays. For one thing, they were broken by the custom of keeping Saturday night, which prevailed universally at that time. Saturday morning was a time of considerable haste and bustle. There was usually baking to be done, and something specially nice to be prepared, that there need be no unnecessary cooking on Sunday. Often there was a little mystery attached to the Sunday feast, which was got ready in the buttery and committed to the big brick oven unseen by us children, that it might turn out a pleasant surprise. Our Sunday clothes were all to be looked over and got in readiness and the best shoes blacked. There were errands to be done at the store; and happy was I when these errands fell to my lot, for I was a favourite with old Mr. Clapp, who kept it, and I hardly ever went thither without receiving some little present—a piece of tinsel, an end of ribbon, a few raisins, or a lump of white sugar; or if the old gentleman had just returned from Albany or Boston, my eyes were usually made glad by the sight of a new little book.

But to return to our Sundays. As the day wore on, the bustle began to subside, and before sunset it was all over and the quiet of Sunday descended upon our household. There was often a prayer-meeting somewhere in the neighbourhood, which my father and brothers attended, but mother seldom went, and Jeanne and I had her all to ourselves for one of those precious talks which we loved so much, and to which I learned afterward to look back with an inexpressible sense of longing home-sickness and desolation. It could hardly have been so, I think, but it seems to me now as if on those evenings the sunsets were always bright and beautiful and the moon always shining. If any trouble or perplexity or wrong-doing had burdened our minds or consciences through the week, mother was sure to have it laid before her on Saturday night. Oh, they were lovely, peaceful hours!

We usually went to bed pretty early, as it was needful to be up in good season on Sunday morning in order to have the work done up in time to go to church. The breakfast was a little better than ordinary, and we children were each allowed a cup of tea; coffee had not come into general use at that time, though we sometimes had it on great occasions. A dainty specially allotted to Sunday morning was the Indian bread which had stood in the brick oven since the day before, and now came out hot and delicious, as no corn-bread can be which is not baked in the same way.

From breakfast to meeting-time was, I must admit, rather a weary interval. We children were all in our best clothes, and could not be allowed to run about for fear of spoiling them, so there was nothing for it but to sit still in our chairs, look out of the window, and fidget, while our elders did up such work as was absolutely needful. After I learned to read, I used to employ this time in committing to memory hymns and psalms; and I learned a great deal Of the hymn-book in this way.

Before the first bell had done ringing, we were all on our way to church, except when there was a little baby; then mother, Rose, and latterly Jeanne, took turns in staying at home with it. I was never considered steady enough for this office, to my great indignation—not that I desired to stay away from church, but I did not like to feel that I was not trusted.

Our pew in church was a square one, with seats which folded back as we stood up which we did in prayer-time. My own special seat was a corner one, with my back to the minister and my face to the window—a position which not seldom proved a snare to me when I grew so old that I was expected to remember and give some account of the sermon. A large tree grew before our particular window, and in this tree a pair of robins and also a pair of red squirrels made their home summer after summer, and I sometimes found it quite impossible not to be diverted from Mr. Henderson's sermons by the doings of these little people.

Mr. Henderson was considered a very fine preacher, but I do not think his discourses in general were calculated to be interesting or edifying to a little child. They were nearly always occupied with discussions of the abstruse points of doctrine which at that time absorbed so much attention in New England. I could not often follow his reasoning, or see any particular meaning or use in it if I did; and though I always remembered the text and the substance of the chapter that was read, I could make but a poor account of the sermon itself. I was always delighted when Mr. Henderson occupied himself with any subject of practical duty or gave, as he sometimes did, a lecture on the chapter he read, for at such times he was so clear and simple that any child could understand him, and his illustrations were full of point and beauty. But in general I must say it was a time of great relief when the sermon was ended and the last hymn sung. Both my brothers were in the choir, and it was always an interesting thing to see them standing in the gallery with their singing-books. I specially delighted in what were called fuguing tunes, where the different parts followed and caught and passed each other, always seeming in danger of utter confusion, but always coming out right in the end.

A good many boys and girls sat in the gallery, but mother always insisted that her children should remain with their parents, in which I think she was quite right, for such of the young folks as sat by themselves often got into sad trouble. Once I remember that two of our school-girls, Mehitabel Andrews and Abby Sheldon, behaved so badly that Mr. Henderson spoke to them from the pulpit. This was a terrible disgrace and distressed poor Abby, who was really a very good girl in general, though she had the misfortune of being very easily roused to laughter. She was forced to go and beg Mr. Henderson's pardon, as was no more than proper. The good man dealt very gently and kindly with her, pointing out the great impropriety of her conduct in disturbing public worship, etc., and concluding by the excellent advice that she should always sit with her grandmother or some elderly friend, and keep her eyes and attention fixed on the minister.

Mehitabel had nobody to control her except a very foolish and weak-minded step-mother, who, as Rose said, was always tight in the wrong place and loose in the wrong place. On this occasion Mrs. Andrews took Hetty's part against both Mr. Henderson and Miss Tempy Hutchinson, who was greatly mortified that one of her oldest girls should have involved herself in such disgrace. I am glad to say, however, that when Hetty's first anger cooled, and she had time to think the matter over, she saw her conduct in its true light, and of her own accord made proper apologies both to Mr. Henderson and Miss Tempy. The lesson was not lost on the other young folks who sat in the gallery, and for a long time the tithing-men, whose business it was to preserve order, had an easy time of it.

At noon we had an intermission of an hour between the services. This was a very pleasant, social time. Those who lived at a distance from the church—that is, at least half the congregation—stayed to the second service, and employed the time between in eating the luncheons they had brought with them and in quiet conversation. It was a place of meeting for friends and relations who, living in different parts of the town, did not see each other through the week, to detail family news and to compare notes on family affairs. Neighbourhood prayer-meetings were often arranged at this time; and if any one was sick, his or her case was talked over with friendly interest, and watchers arranged for where they were necessary.

We girls—that is, Jeanne and I—enjoyed the time of intermission greatly, chiefly because we were certain to see Cousin Lemuel's daughters Margaret and Emma, who were great friends of ours, and Myra Landon, another very distant cousin, who lived in quite another part of the town. We usually repaired to a distant corner of the grave-yard where some moss-grown stones afforded convenient seats, and clubbing the resources of our lunch-bags spread quite a little feast. We often took occasion at this time to make an exchange of books, and I particularly remember Myra's bringing with her "The Pilgrim's Progress," on which I fastened so eagerly that I had not a word for any one, thereby scandalizing Maggie and Emma, who declared it could not be a real Sunday book because there were pictures in it, and stories of giants and dragons and battles, just like our fairy-tales. Myra, on the contrary, maintained with doubtful logic that it was a Sunday book because her father read it on Sunday, and besides, it told about the "devil;" and to prove her position she turned to the picture of Apollyon, a very truculent-looking demon indeed. The matter was, as usual, referred to Jeanne, and she, as usual, advised me to wait and ask mother, to which I somewhat reluctantly consented. Highly delighted I was when mother told me that "The Pilgrim's Progress" was an excellent Sunday book, and father promised me that when I could say the whole catechism without one single mistake, I should have a copy of my own if he could find such a thing in Albany.

The afternoon session was usually somewhat shorter than the morning. Sometimes we had a catechising instead, at which time we children stood up before the minister and recited the catechism word for word; and happy was the boy or girl who by the readiness of his or her answers, and the accuracy with which the "proof-texts" were recited, won a word of commendation from Mr. Henderson. There were several negroes in our class, servants or the children of servants, and our gravity was sometimes severely tried by the oddity of their answers.

When church was out, we went home to a kind of tea-dinner which took place between four and five, at which the mysterious something which had been prepared the day before made its appearance, and when we children were again allowed a cup of well-sweetened tea if we succeeded in giving the texts correctly.

At sunset the restraints of Sunday, such as they were, ceased, but we children usually kept quiet till we could see one star, by way of being quite on the safe side. My mother and Rose took their knitting and father his weekly paper. Abner put on his best clothes and went to see his sweetheart. Tom and Ezra, and sometimes Jeanne and I, went to singing-school. The ringing of the nine o'clock bell sent everybody to bed; and that ended our Sunday.

CHAPTER VI.

THE GREAT BREAK.

MY life went on the even tenor of its way as I have described it till I was eleven years old. At this time I was large of my age, though not as strong in health as most of my school-mates, and I was farther advanced in my studies than I think most girls of eleven are nowadays. I could read, write, and spell English very well. I had gone as far as square root in arithmetic. I was parsing in Young's "Night Thoughts," and could give every rule in Murray's grammar by number and most of the notes to the same, and had written all the exercises. I had executed a marvellous sampler, and was now engaged on a fine white cambric flounce which was intended to contain a specimen of every known variety of satin-stitch, knot, and lace-stitch. I had grown rather superior to the attractions of dolls, and had made over to Ruth all my possessions in that line, always excepting my beautiful Lanesborough doll, which had to me the sacredness of a precious relic, and which I never meant to part with. I had become skilful in various house-keeping mysteries, and was considered an excellent spinner for my age.

I do not think my moral improvement had kept pace with my intellectual gain. I was very sensitive to praise and blame, very proud, and inclined to be jealous and to think myself ill-treated. At the same time, I was rather reserved; and instead of "telling everything right out," as Ruth did, I used to brood over and magnify my troubles till they assumed very large proportions.

Jeanne's absence from home was a great trouble to me. She was now a woman grown, and for the last few mouths she had been teaching very successfully in Cousin Lemuel's district, coming home every other Saturday and returning with Lemuel's family on Sunday afternoon. Ruth was a dear, sunshiny little soul, and I loved her with all my heart, but she did not in the least make Jeanne's place good. Tom was away with one of my Salisbury uncles, learning the iron business, to which he always had a great bent, and Ezra was intent on earning the means to go through college and fitting himself for the same.

Ezra had always been very good to me, and never teased me, as Tom did, but his mind was naturally very much occupied with his own studies and plans, and he had once or twice cut short my confidences and my catalogue of grievances by telling me that I thought quite too much about my little self, which was no doubt true. He also told me that I should not be all the time looking out for affronts and imagining that people meant to overlook me or hurt my feelings, but that I should busy my mind in thinking what I could do to give pleasure to others. This was excellent advice, but not much to the taste of the morbid, conceited little girl I then was. I was, in fact, just in the state of the heroine of the story-books Alice sometimes brings me home, who find themselves misunderstood and unappreciated at home and sigh for a wider career than helping their own mothers to mend their own clothes and cook their own dinners. I can't say it ever entered my mind to be dissatisfied with mother, who was still my model of all perfection, and whom I would have done well to imitate, but I did think it hard that she should have to give so much time to Harry while she had so little to spare for me.

In the latter part of this summer a change came over the spirit of our usually happy household. Father lost his accustomed cheerfulness and was absent-minded and gloomy, sometimes displaying an irritability which nobody had ever seen in him before. Ezra's face was dark as night for a few days; and when it cleared up a little, the expression was by no means what it had been before, but rather a look of settled patience and resolution. He had several private conferences with father and mother in their bed-room. I was busy in the yard one day during the last of these conferences; and though I scorned to listen, I did catch a few words.

"God help me!" said father in a voice such as I had never heard from him before. "My son, your very goodness wrings my heart and makes me reproach myself more than I did before."

"Don't say that, father," answered Ezra. "You acted for the best, and that is all any one can do."

"And it will turn out for the best," said my mother, with an evident effort to speak cheerfully. "We should never have known what good children we have been blessed with only for this misfortune."

Then there was a little silence, and presently I heard father's voice in prayer. I stole away to my own particular retiring-place in one of the little rooms up stairs, and cried bitterly, partly because I perceived that some misfortune had happened to my father or brother, I did not know which, and partly because I saw that there was a family secret from which I was excluded.

"They don't think any more of me than they do of old Rose," I thought; "and I dare say Rose knows all about it, for I know I heard her crying last night. And when Jeanne comes home, she and Ezra will go away together and talk about it, and nobody will say a word to me."

In truth, secret conferences had been rather frequent between Ezra and Jeanne of late, which was another of my grievances, for I considered Jeanne to be my own private property.

The next Saturday was not Jeanne's regular day for coming home, but Ezra harnessed up old Fanny to Mr. Hyde's little wagon, which would only hold two, and went after her. I did not see why he could not have taken our own wagon, and thus have made room for me, especially as he knew how much I wanted to see Margaret and Emma.

"Nobody ever wants me nowadays," I said to Rose; "I might as well not have a home at all."

"Look here, child! You don't know what you're talking about," answered Rose, sharply; "you'd better be thankful for your home while you've got it. Folks that don't know when they're well off, first they know their well-off-ness gets taken away, and serve 'em right too."

I was a little awe-struck by Rose's words and manner, but I had no notion of giving up my grievance.

"They might tell me what is the matter, then," said I, discontentedly. "Everybody look so miserable and talks in corners and cries, and nobody will tell me what the matter is. It's too bad!"

I did not know that my mother was in the pantry, but as I spoke she appeared at the door with a pie in her hand, which she gave to Rose to put into the oven.

"The child is right so far," said she; "it is not fair to keep her out of what concerns her as much as anybody else. Get your work and bring it into my room, Olive, and I will tell you all about it."

I obeyed with a heart beating between gratification and alarm, for I saw by my mother's face that something serious was the matter. Harry was just waking up from his nap, and mother washed his face and sent him out to play. Then she took her work and sat down, and in as plain and simple words as she could she told me the whole story. My father had been induced to go into a sort of partnership with his stepbrother, who was doing what seemed a flourishing business in Albany, and to mortgage his farm in order to furnish capital. I learned afterward that mother had been very much opposed to the plan, but she said nothing of this to me. I suppose my father must have been rather careless in making investigations into the business, or else his partner must have been a dishonest man. Anyhow, though I do not to this day understand the particulars, the end was that the concern failed, and my father found that not only must the property he had received from his father's estate be sacrificed, but he would have to sell his farm. All that remained from the wreck was a piece of nearly wild farming-land which grandfather owned in Vermont, and a few hundred dollars of mother's, which father would never consent to touch.

"Then we shall not live in this house any more?" said I, hardly taking in the extent of the calamity.

"No," answered mother; "this house is not ours any more."

"And haven't we any house at all?"

"No, no house at all of our own, and no land, unless father goes to live on his farm in Vermont. Then Ezra will have to give up going to college, for the present at least, because his help will be needed at home."

For the first time the full measure of our misfortune seemed to dawn upon me. Ezra must give up going to college and being a minister; Jeanne must give up her school. We must all go away to a strange, savage place among the mountains—such a place, probably, as the Millars used to live in—away from church and Jenny Hyde and school, and everything that made life worth having. Probably we should have to sell the cows and horses—my own cow Snowball and Jeanne's black colt; and—dreadful to think!—even my tortoise-shell cat and her kitten might have to be left behind. I burst into tears and cried bitterly.

"Oh, it's too bad, it's too bad!" I exclaimed, passionately, amid my sobs. "Father ought not to have had anything to do with that bad man. He ought to have known better. It's too bad!"

"Olive, hush!" said my mother, more sternly than she had ever spoken to me before. "Never let me hear one word of blame toward your father from one of his children. It was for their good he acted—because he wanted to give them a better education than he thought he could afford as things were. He was deceived and imposed upon, and his plans have turned out badly, but he acted for the best, and that is all any one can do. Never, whatever happens, never let me hear you blame your father."

Mother was called out at this moment to attend to some visitors, and there was no time to talk further, even if I had not been too much awed by her manner to continue the subject; but my mind was full of a kind of stunned, and at the same time rebellious, grief. I felt as a man may do who sees all his possessions swallowed up by an earthquake shock or destroyed by some unexpected attack of an enemy. I went slowly up stairs and shut myself up in the garret, and tried to think how it would seem to leave our old home and go to a new place where there was neither church nor school, nor stores nor neighbours—where there would probably be wolves and bears and snakes, and Indians too, very likely. From thinking I fell to dreaming, and was just in the midst of a night-attack of Indians when I was waked by Jeanne's gentle voice:

"Why, Olly, I have been looking everywhere for you. What made you come up to this dusty place and go to sleep on the floor? See what Margaret and Emma have been making for you." And sitting down by my side, she displayed to my view a "work-bag," curiously embroidered in what we used in those days to call queen-stitch.

Jeanne spoke so cheerfully that at first I thought she could not have heard the story, but on looking at her. I saw that, though her face was calm, and even bright, it was very pale and her eyes were red with crying: but she sought to compose herself for my sake.

I hardly glanced at the work-bag, which for some time had been the object of my most ardent desires; but throwing my arms round her neck, I exclaimed, passionately,—

"Oh, Jeanne, don't you know? Isn't it too bad—too hard for anything?"

"It is very hard for father and mother, and rather hard for Ezra, because he must put off going to college," answered Jeanne, "but I don't think we younger ones need mind it so very much. I believe, for myself, I rather like the idea of going to a new place."

"Well, I don't—I think it is horrid," said I, vehemently. "I can't bear the thought of it. To go away among the Indians, where there is no school or library or church or—"

"But, Olly, you are making up a story to scare yourself," said Jeanne. "It is not as bad as that, by any means."

"I thought it was all wild land?" said I.

"Father's farm is mostly wild land," answered Jeanne, "but it is only half a mile from a very nice little village where there is a school and a minister, and where the people are building a church. John Norris has been there, and he was at Cousin Lem's last night and told us all about it."

I began to feel a very little comforted.

"And anyhow, Olly, if it is ever so bad, we shall only make matters worse by fretting and repining," continued Jeanne. "It 'is' hard on father and mother to give up the home where they have always lived and go away among strangers, and it is all the harder for father because he thinks he has been to blame. It must be our part to make things as easy as we can for them, and not give ourselves useless trouble about ourselves."

"I don't see how we can do anything to make things easy," said I, feeling a good deal ashamed as I remembered how selfish my grief had been.

"We can do a great deal by putting a good face on the matter and not giving up to our grief," answered Jeanne; "that is one great thing. And we can remember how many things we have left, be thankful for; that is another. Why, Olly, I did not think 'you' would be the one to give up and break down," added Jeanne, in a tone of gentle reproach—"you who have always been wishing for something to happen, and feeling sorry that there were no martyrs or heroes in these days."

"I didn't mean anything like 'this,'" I answered, feeling not a little mortified. "I meant things like those that happened to John Rogers or the other people in the 'Book of Martyrs.'"

"I don't suppose trouble ever comes in just the shape we would like to have it," said Jeanne, with a very shady little smile; "if it did, it would not be trouble at all. But, Olive, you don't consider that these martyrs had all the daily troubles and trials that we have. Do you think Mistress Rogers found it any easier to see to the dinners and mend the stockings and attend to the lessons of all those ten children because her husband was in prison and she didn't know when her own turn might come to leave her little flock and never see them again? Do you think it would be one bit easier to put up with the loss of our home if we knew that any time—perhaps this very day—father and mother might be carried off and we might never see them till we saw them carried out to be burned alive?"

"No, of course not," I answered; "but all you can say, Jeanne, don't keep me from thinking it very hard that—that—" Something in my throat cut short the sentence.

"Of course it is," said Jeanne. "I don't pretend to deny it: it 'is' very hard. All I say is it is worse for father and mother and for Ezra than it is for you and me, and therefore we ought to help them to bear it instead of making it worse for them. Now is the time for us to show how we love them, and to make some return for all they have done for us."

I felt that there were both truth and consolation in this view of the case.

"I can bear anything if I can only be a comfort to mother," said I; "but how can I, Jeanne?"

"By being cheerful and making the best of everything," answered Jeanne—"by taking extra pains with your work, and by taking care of and amusing Harry, so that mother won't have so much to do. And, after all, Olive, it won't be so very bad," continued Jeanne. "We shall all be together, except Tom."

"Why, where will Tom be?" I interrupted.

"Oh, he is going to stay with uncle, where he is now."

"Why shouldn't he be the one to stay with father and help on the farm instead of Ezra?" I asked.

"Because he is younger and not so strong; and besides, Olive, you know how Tom is."

I knew very well that there was no use in trying to make Tom do anything he did not like. It cost more than it came to, and he was sure to slip out sooner or later and leave the task unfinished, or so finished that it would have been better left undone. Tom was always an odd one in our family.

"We shall all be together," continued Jeanne. "We shall have to rough it for a while, no doubt, but then we shall have the pleasure of seeing things grow better and better every year, and of doing good too, I dare say. Perhaps we might even have a Sunday-school like that one father read about in the paper Mr. Hyde lent us."

Jeanne went on talking in this cheerful strain till she had talked me, and perhaps herself, into quite a brilliant view of our prospects, and almost made it appear that breaking up our home in Massachusetts and going to Vermont was the best thing that could possibly happen to us.

That night at prayers father read the chapter which tells about Abraham's going out from his own home into a strange land, and prayed that the change which had been sent upon us might be blessed to us, "and that thy servant may be forgiven if his sin has brought about this trouble, and may it be under thy hand the means of good to those whom I desired to benefit in another way." When I heard the tremour in my father's voice as he pronounced these words, all the anger I had felt in my heart melted away, and I prayed earnestly in my turn that I might be forgiven for my undutiful thoughts, and that I might indeed be a comfort to my father and mother.

Long after all the children, and even father and mother, had gone to bed, Ezra and Jeanne sat talking by the kitchen fire, and as I lay and listened to their voices a new thought came into my mind regarding them. I lost no time in informing myself on the subject; and when Jeanne at last came to bed, I asked her, bluntly,—

"Jeanne, are you and Ezra going to be married?"

"Some time, perhaps," answered Jeanne, softly, but without any confusion. "But you must not say a word about it, Olive, for nothing is settled yet, and it may be a long time first, especially if Ezra is ever to be a minister. Now, remember, dear, I trust you not to tell!"

I promised to be faithful, and fell asleep, thinking what a grand minister's wife Jeanne would make.

CHAPTER VII.

AUNT BELINDA.

OF course the change in our circumstances soon became known to all our acquaintances in the little place, and it was no small part of our misfortunes to hear the remarks and condolences and the "I told you so's" of the less considerate part of them. I had my share of this part of our troubles at school. There were a few girls who had always accused Jeanne and myself of "feeling above them," as I dare say we did, and from them I had to hear such remarks as "Pride must have a fall," and they "guessed some folks wouldn't hold up their heads quite so high nowadays." In this last supposition they were mistaken, however, at least so far as I was concerned, for I held my head higher than ever. As for Ruth, her happy disposition never led her to think whether any one was above or below her, which was much the better for her.

But there were only a few who were thus ungenerous. Most of my school-mates pitied me quite as much as was good for me, and applauded to my heart's content my resolution to make the best of matters. Miss Tempy gave me as much of her time as possible, and only two or three girls murmured when she passed over their work or lessons for the sake of mine. I was not wanting on my own part, knowing that this summer's schooling might be the last I should ever have, and I applied myself with all my might to the mysteries of square root and Murray's "Prosody," thinking all the time how I should make the rules and explanations clear if I had to teach them. I really think I learned more in this one summer than I had done in two years before. I finished the famous flounce which, as I said, contained specimens of all the stitches known to Miss Tempy; and what she did not know in that line was not worth considering. I learned to darn linen and muslin so as to make them even better than new, and I copied out in a little blank-book which I made for the purpose all those wonderful recipes for domestic medicine and sick-cookery for which Miss Tempy was famous, and which she had inherited from her grandmother.

The summer had passed away. Our school and Jeanne's were both out, and Jeanne had come home for good, when something happened which made a great change in my prospects.

In the first part of these memoirs—if they are worthy of so grand a name—I mentioned the fact that one of my maternal uncles married a rich widow in Boston, where he shortly afterward died. None of us had ever seen Mrs. Belinda Evans, but some letters had passed, and some small presents been interchanged, as opportunity occurred. We knew that Aunt Belinda was a strictly religious woman, a great theologian, that she lived in the best society in Boston, and was very accomplished, according to the notions of those days.

There hung in our best room a framed and glazed piece of embroidery of the kind commonly known as a mourning-piece, which had been executed by Aunt Belinda and sent to my mother on the occasion of my grandfather's death—I suppose as an appropriate expression of sympathy. In the centre of this picture—for such it was—stood a monument of elaborate design, worked in white silk and decorated with a gilt inscription. The monument stood on a green cross-stitch bank variegated with certain red, blue, and yellow dots which were held to represent flowers growing in the grass. The picture was exceedingly regular in its composition. On one side of the tomb approached a train of five little boys all dressed alike in black coats, and with crape streamers standing straight out from their hats. On the other side were five girls regularly graduated in size from a grown woman down to a very little girl, also dressed in black. Each of the little boys carried a basket of flowers and a white handkerchief which he applied to his face, yet in such a way as to reveal his features and two carefully worked tears, one to each eye. Each girl also bore a handkerchief, a pair of tears, and a wreath of flowers, except the eldest, who, with bare arms, which formed a regular curve from the shoulder to the wrist, was applying her wreath to the monument, apparently expecting it to adhere by virtue of some property of stickiness belonging to either itself or the marble.

This work of art was very much admired by most of our neighbours and visitors, but my mother was rather non-committal on the subject, and Jeanne criticised the production in a manner wholly irreverent. However, it was admitted on all hands that my aunt Belinda was a most accomplished woman and had shown great sympathy by the present of this mourning-piece, and mother sent her in return some hanks of her fine linen sewing-thread, for the perfection of which she was justly renowned.

On one of his visits to Boston, which he paid every year, our old neighbour Mr. Hyde made the acquaintance of Mrs. Belinda Evans, and after that the exchanges I have mentioned took place with tolerable regularity. Mr. Hyde always spoke in terms of the highest praise of my aunt, and of the education she had given to her step-daughter and to two young nieces who now lived with her. He went to Boston, as usual, this fall, and on his return, he brought back a letter from Aunt Belinda, in which, after certain phrases of condolence on our altered fortunes and moralizings on the transitory nature of all earthly prosperity, Mrs. Belinda made a very important proposition: no less than that she should take me into her family for two or three years and give me such an education as would "fit me for any station in lite, whether I was to reside in the wilds of Vermont or the still more remote and dangerous recesses of the so-called Genesee country, or to shine in Boston society where was to be found as much of mental cultivation mingled with true religion as this continent afforded." Such were her words. She would, she said, take upon herself the whole charge of my clothes and maintenance, with the hope that my gratitude and the usefulness of my after life would more than repay her for her expense and trouble; and she closed with certain religious phrases which I will not repeat.

This letter set our family circle into a considerable agitation. Father, whose chief grief in the change he was about to make was on account of the prospects of his children, was for closing with the offer at once, saying that it was a very liberal one on the part of my aunt—which was quite true—and that I should probably never have such another chance of acquiring an excellent education. Jeanne, on the other hand, was against the plan from the beginning, but her objections, I must say, were not very reasonable, inasmuch as they were grounded on the mourning-piece aforesaid, and on her general impression that my aunt was "a poky kind of woman." My mother wavered. She did not like the idea of parting with me for two or three years, and to such a distance; for practically Boston was farther from Vermont in those days than it is now from London. On the other hand, she was very desirous that I should have such an education as my aunt described—such as her own had been; and of this she saw no chance in any other way than that my aunt proposed. We all felt that it was generous in Aunt Belinda to step forward to our assistance in the time of our distress, as we had no claim on her.

Miss Tempy Hutchinson had a plan of her own to offer—namely, that I should remain with her on the same terms which my aunt offered. But this was considered out of the question, since my father could not afford to pay for my schooling, and neither could he be willing to let Miss Temperance take such a burden on herself, since she had already the care of a widowed and helpless mother. Moreover, I believe mother secretly thought that had already pretty well exhausted Miss Tempy's capacities in the way of book-learning; and to conclude, I fancy we were all a little dazzled by the very idea of an education in Boston under the auspices of a lady so rich and so much looked up to as my aunt Belinda.

Mother asked Mr. and Mrs. Hyde to tea and questioned them very closely about my aunt, but the report was all in her favour. Mr. Hyde enlarged upon her acquirements in English and French, in history and geography and music, and, above all, in theology. He had never met with a woman so capable of appreciating the works of Doctor Hopkins and Doctor Edwards, to say nothing of the English divines, or one more free from errors and prejudices. He believed that no child could wish for more in the line of educational privileges than to be placed under the care of Mrs. Evans; and as he had just been appointed to a professorship at Cambridge, his opinion was certainly entitled to consideration. Mrs. Hyde, on her part, enlarged on my aunt's fine house, her Turkey carpets and imported furniture, her cashmere and Canton crape shawls, and her India satin and French silks, and also on her liberality to ministers and their wives and her intimate acquaintance with Mrs. Vice President Adams and other distinguished people. Mrs. Evans, she said, could paint pictures on satin, paper, or velvet, do every known kind of needle-work, and play on the spinet and harpsichord. (Pianos had hardly begun to come into use even abroad.)

It was necessary that the matter should be decided immediately, in order that I might travel to Boston under the escort of Mr. and Mrs. Hyde, who were to go thither in three weeks again, leaving Jenny and their house under the care of a sister. Besides that, our own moving must take place in a month's time. After much discussion and a very determined opposition on the part of old Rose, and one less loud but equally decided from Jeanne, it was concluded that Aunt Belinda's offer should be accepted, and mother at once began to have me got ready.

I hardly know whether I was most troubled or pleased when I knew I was to go away from home for three years. It would be a dreadful thing not to see mother or Jeanne or any of my own family for so long, but then there was the thought of beholding Boston and all its wonders, of my aunt Belinda's fine house, and, above all, her library, containing, according to Mrs. Hyde, two or three times as many books as Mr. Henderson possessed. I supposed that my cousins would probably consider me a little ignoramus, but then came the consoling thought that at least I had been well drilled in grammar and could work satin- and cross-stitch as well as my aunt herself, or better, and that what else I did not know I could undoubtedly learn; for a want of confidence in my own powers was not one of my troubles in those days. And then, with such an education as my aunt meant to give me, what might I not be able to accomplish in future for the good of my family? I might help Ezra to go to college, and educate Ruth and Harry, and support father and mother when they grew old. I might have a boarding-school of my own, perhaps, and teach young ladies in my turn. Nay, I might—so high did my fancy soar—I might even write a book like Mrs. Hannah More, whose "Sacred Dramas" my old friend Mr. Clapp had just given me for a parting present. I must say, in justice to myself, that my castles in the air were of a very unselfish kind, and built far less for my own advantage than for that of my family. I remember being very much hurt by a remark of Tom's—who, poor fellow! had always a knack of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time and place—that I might think myself lucky in getting rid of all the fuss and trouble of moving, whereas it was one of my principal causes of grief that I should not be at hand to lighten the labours of my mother and sister.

"I shall feel just as mean as can be," said I to Jeanne one day, "to think that I am having a good time in Boston while you are having such a hard one up in Castle Hill."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that, Olive," answered Jeanne, gravely. "I dare say you may have your share of trouble. You will be in a new place, among strangers, and you will find Aunt Belinda a very different person from mother, or I am much mistaken."

"She may be different from mother and yet be good," said I, sententiously. "Good people are not all alike."

"Of course; I know that," answered Jeanne; "but it is not always easy to get used to new ways. I remember, though I was such a little child, how strange this house seemed to me when I came here from the nunnery. However, I don't want to discourage you, Olive; only I do hope, dear, you will have a good time."

"But you don't expect it," said I, rather vexed.

"Well, no, not just at first. As I said, you will find Boston ways and Aunt Belinda's ways very different from ours; and unless you are more careful than you are at home, you will always be making mistakes and getting corrected and found fault with, or perhaps laughed at, which, you know, you like least of all."

"I believe you think I am a wild Indian!" said I, pettishly.

"If you were a wild Indian, you would be in less danger, because they always watch to see what other people do, and so save themselves from awkward mistakes," said Jeanne; "but you are rather apt to take it for granted that you understand, when you don't, and that you can do a thing the first time you try as well as if you had practiced it all your life."

I was just about to vindicate myself from this charge rather sharply, when I remembered the spinning-lesson, and was silent. Jeanne also seemed to think she had said enough, and changed the subject by informing me that I was wanted to rip mother's second-best black silk, which was to be made over for me, and by telling me that my new dresses were all to be long gowns—two pieces of news with which I was much delighted. But as I carefully ripped the black bilk I pondered Jeanne's words, and arrived at two wholesome and just conclusions—namely, that I "was" rather too apt to take up new things as if I knew all about them, and also that I would keep my wits about me and try, by carefully observing the ways of my aunt and my cousins, to avoid making myself ridiculous.

Never did any time pass so quickly as those two weeks. I could hardly believe it when the last Sunday came—my very last Sunday in that dear old house and in the corner seat at church, which I had occupied ever since I could remember. I was to leave Lee on Tuesday, and expected to arrive at Aunt Belinda's house on Friday, stopping on the road to visit some friends of Mr. Hyde's. As long as I live I shall never forget that sweet and sorrowful Lord's day. I had spent the evening before alone with mother, and had promised her that I would try to be a good girl and please Aunt Belinda in all things, that I would never forget to read my Bible and say my prayers every day, and, above all, that I would keep in mind that I had a Father in heaven who loved me, and who desired me to love him and serve him here that I might be happy with him in heaven. Mother impressed it upon me that heaven was my real home, to which I could look forward with joy and hope whatever might be my troubles here, and she solemnly charged me to be prepared to meet her there. I was always a religiously disposed child, I think, but certainly the eternal world never seemed so real and so near to me as it did that night.

"Do you think I shall have a great many troubles, mother?" I asked, remembering my conversation with Jeanne.

"I presume you will have your full share," answered mother, smoothing my hair as my head lay on her knee. "Your disposition is not calculated to slip through the world as easily as some other people's—that of Ruth, for instance."

"I know I am touchy," said I, humbly; "and Ezra says I think too much about my own dignity and consequence."

"That is true, but not the whole truth," said my mother; "you do think rather more of yourself and your own dignity, but you have also naturally quick perceptions and sensitive feelings."

I began to be a little uplifted, but mother quickly brought me down again:

"Now, these quick perceptions and sensitive feelings are excellent gifts if you apply them to their right use, letting them make you observant and careful of the feelings and desires of others, and particularly in not giving needless offence to their prejudices. But if you turn them upon yourself; as it were, and let them keep you constantly spying out the weaknesses and faults of others, and watching for slights and offences toward yourself, they are worse than useless."

"Jeanne thinks Aunt Belinda's ways are so different from ours that I shall not know how to behave," said I, after a little silent pondering of my mother's words. "She says I must watch and see what my cousins do and how they act."

"That is a very good rule," said my mother, sighing a little, as I thought; "but I hope my little Olive will not be found deficient in real good manners, though she may be in some customs to which she is unused. There are three good rules which my grandmother once gave me when I was going to Hartford on a visit—the first time I had ever been out from under my mother's wing:

"'If you do not know what to do, ask; If you cannot ask, watch and see what other people do; If you can find out in neither of these ways, do nothing.'"

"Mother," said I, after another little silence, "if I am very unhappy indeed at Aunt Belinda's, need I stay there?"

"We will see about that," said mother. "You must not conclude that you are going to be very unhappy indeed because you are home-sick at first, or because Aunt Belinda finds fault or your cousins laugh at you. But I wish you to write to me by every opportunity—at least as often as once every month—and tell me everything you can think of, without any reserve, and by that means I can judge whether you are doing well."

"It will seem so formal and cold to write," said I. "If only there was somebody I could go to every day!"

"I hope Aunt Belinda will be that some one," said my mother; "but at any rate, Olive, you have one such Friend always at hand, and this, my love, is what I want to impress specially upon your mind—that you are to carry all your troubles and cares to your heavenly Father and ask him to help and guide and comfort you. Don't think that anything is too little to put into your prayers: that is a great mistake."

"But suppose my troubles are my own fault?" said I.

"A great many of them very probably will be so, unless you are more unlike other people than I suppose," answered mother; "but that need make no difference. We should be badly off indeed if our sins and mistakes were to drive us away from our heavenly Father."

Many other things my mother said to me which I cannot set down here, and she ended by giving me a beautiful new Bible of my own with my name marked on the cover in gilt letters, and "The Pilgrim's Progress,"—a book I had long desired to possess.

I cannot pretend to describe the next day, nor that which followed. I had bid good-bye to all my school-mates the day before, but they almost all came for a last word; and then there were our friends and neighbours, Mr. Henderson and Miss Tempy. Many were the kind words and the little keepsakes I received from one and another, especially from my minister and my teacher, the former giving me a copy of Mrs. Hannah More's "Practical Piety,"—and an excellent book it is—and the latter a wonderful house-wife stitched in compartments and filled with skeins of different sizes and colours in silk, thread, and floss, together with a pair of scissors and a strawberry emery which had been my admiration for a long time.

On Monday came the final bustle of packing and taking leave for ever of my old home. I had found good homes for my two kittens, and father delighted me by saying he meant to carry old Tabby to Vermont with him, as well as my own pet cow Snowball, so my mind was at ease about these two favourites. All my other possessions which I could not carry with me I left to mother and Jeanne, to be disposed of as they thought best, only stipulating that none of my books should be left behind or given away.

Tuesday morning came, and with it Mr. Hyde's carriage, in which we were to travel. My little black trunk, which, I suppose, would occupy about a quarter of the space taken up by an average modern trunk, was strapped on with the rest of the baggage. Ruth, who seemed to have just realized that I was going away, was crying bitterly. Mother was pale as death, though she did not shed a tear, but father's voice broke down when he would have bid me good-bye; and holding me close clasped in his arms for a moment, he put me into the carriage without a word.

As Mr. Hyde was adjusting something about the harness, Ezra came to the side where I sat.

"Mother says you must be sure to write to Aunt Roxana at Nantucket," said he, putting into my hand a pretty little new pocket-book. "She has begun a letter which you can finish. It has the direction on the outside, and is in the inside pocket of this book, where I have put a little money for you. Don't spend it foolishly, but keep it against a time of need. Good-bye."

And in a moment we were on our way and had turned the corner, so that I could not even see our house by looking back. I have never seen it since.

Mr. and Mrs. Hyde were very kind to me. They let me cry without taking any particular notice of me; and when I began to recover my composure, they diverted me from my grief by directing my attention to various matters along the road. The morning was beautiful, the two horses went along at a good pace, and before I knew it I was really enjoying the journey.

We stopped the first night at a tavern—a circumstance which I remember from the fact that when I arose in the morning I could not make up my mind as to whether or not I ought to make up my bed. After some consideration, I decided that I ought, because whenever Miss Tempy had spent a night at our house she had always put her room in order in the morning; but after the deed was accomplished I considered further that a tavern was different from a private house, and that doubtless the chambermaid would put on clean sheets before the bed was used again. So I proceeded to tumble it up again; and, after all, I was pursued all day by misgivings lest I had done the wrong thing, and thereby let the people of the house know that I had never stayed at a tavern before. What harm I thought it would do if they did know I cannot now say, but the whole transaction was a good specimen of the way I used to torment myself about trifles in those days.

The second night was spent at the house of an elderly clergyman, an uncle of Mrs. Hyde's, who had two orphan grand-daughters about my own age. I had seen one of these girls before, when she came with her grandmother to Mrs. Hyde's, and they both made me very welcome, as did their father and mother. Mr. Edwards was a very handsome old man, of polished and kind manners, and his wife was a busy, bustling but lady-like and kind-hearted woman. When Mrs. Hyde said at the table that I was to be left with Mrs. Belinda Evans for two or three years, I saw a look pass between the two old people which I could not understand. It seemed to me to express both surprise and pity.

"Why did your grandfather and grandmother look at each other so when Mrs. Hyde said I was going to live with Aunt Belinda?" I asked of Priscilla Edwards after tea.

Priscilla and Drusilla exchanged glances in their turn, and Priscy said, rather dubiously,—

"I suppose they were sorry you had to go away from your mother, because, you know, if any one is ever so good, yet nobody can be like one's own mother."

"Unless it should be one's grandmother," added Drucy. "Come and see our rabbits, Olive. We have got six little rabbits, and one of them is black as a coal. We call him Charcoal."

The rabbits and Drucy's promise to give me a pair when I went home to Vermont diverted my mind from the subject, as I suppose the girls intended it should, but that glance often recurred to my mind afterward.

I seem to remember every incident of that afternoon and evening—all the more distinctly because it was the last really pleasant day I was destined to spend in a long time. We looked over all the girls' books, of which they had a great many for that time, and I told them of my own. We went to walk in the pasture—Mrs. Edwards considerately taking off my neat riding-suit and dressing me in an old frock of Drusilla's—where we gathered pretty leaves and mosses and waded in the brook, and "made believe" all sorts of adventures; and after supper we told each other stories till bed-time. We parted with mutual regret, and I have never seen them since, but I have always remembered the whole family with great affection.

We had made our calculation's to arrive in Boston on Friday—a point which Rose had not failed to bring forward among her other arguments against my journey. It was rather late on Friday afternoon when we arrived at my aunt's house, which was situated at the north end of the city, in what was then the fashionable quarter of the town. Her house was by far the handsomest I had ever seen; but my courage had been sinking lower and lower, and it was with anything but a light heart that I saw Mr. Hyde leaving me at last quite alone among strangers.

CHAPTER VIII.

MY NEW HOME.

WHETHER it was owing to the fact that I arrived at my new home on Friday or not I cannot say, but certain it is that I had the ill luck to displease my aunt before I had been in the house half an hour. When Mr. Hyde rose to go, after the exchange of some compliments, I naturally rose too, unwilling to lose sight of my old friend till the last moment.

"Remain seated if you please, Olivia," said my aunt.

The tone more than the words made me aware that I had somehow or other done wrong, and I shrunk into my seat, and to cover my embarrassment took up a book which lay on the table. It proved to be a volume of poems then much in vogue, called "The Muse's Companion," and containing poems by various hands. I opened the book at Goldsmith's ballad of "The Hermit," which I had never seen. A new poem was a prize. I forgot everything in the verses for a few minutes, till I was disagreeably recalled to present realities by my aunt's measured tones:

"Olivia, put down that book, and remember that hereafter you are not to open any book in this house without my permission."

Thus suddenly and sharply aroused to my present position, it is no wonder that I was rather overcome, especially as I was very tired and hungry. I tried to say, "I beg your pardon," but broke down at the second word, and burst into a flood of tears.

My aunt waited quietly with her eyes fixed upon me till my sobs had a little subsided. Then, taking me by the hand, she led me to a small room on the second floor; and seating herself on the only chair in the room, she placed me before her, and thus addressed me:

"Olivia, I pardon these tears on the present occasion, as they are perhaps only natural, but I request that there may be no more of them, now or at any time hereafter. It is certainly no cause of grief that you have been taken from a home where you must for some years to come be a burden on the poverty of your parents, and where you could receive no proper training, and placed where you will enjoy every advantage for education. Let me see by your conduct that you appreciate these advantages as they deserve."

Something in my aunt's tone and manner dried up the remainder of my tears instantly, and I felt that I would rather die than let her see me crying.

Aunt Belinda waited a moment, and then, apparently pleased with the effect she had produced, she continued:

"That is well; I see you can control yourself when you choose. I shall not expect too much of you, Olivia—I know how strongly foolishness and sin are bound up in the heart of a child—but I shall expect you to render implicit obedience to every command I lay upon you, to obey all my rules, and attend to all my regulations."

It was a way of my aunt's to say things two or three times over in different forms. I suppose she thought this custom added weight to her thoughts. It gave me on the present occasion a queer inclination to laugh, but I restrained myself and answered demurely,—

"Yes, ma'am."

"You will say 'Yes, madam,' if you please, Olivia," said my aunt.

And then she waited apparently for me to say it; so I repeated, "Yes, madam," after her.

"You will devote this evening to resting after your journey," said my aunt. "To-morrow I shall make you acquainted with my rules and what I expect of you. You will now dress yourself; and in half an hour I will send one of your cousins to conduct you to the dining-room. But remember this—that unconditional obedience, entire submission, and an exact observance of my commands are what I expect of all young persons under my roof. I will now leave you for the present."

I was thankful to be left alone, and should have been still more grateful if I could have remained so. I was utterly cast down and disheartened. I have all my life been very apt to form decided opinions of people at first sight. I had already made up my mind that I could never like my aunt Belinda, and it must be admitted that her manner of receiving me was not calculated to win the confidence of any child. I contrasted her with all my dearest friends—with mother and Jeanne, with Miss Tempy and Mrs. Hyde. I thought I now understood the glances which passed between Mr. and Mrs. Edwards at the mention of my aunt's name. I decided at once that I could never endure to stay with her, and before had finished brushing my hair I had already rehearsed the letter I meant to write to my mother on the first opportunity. At the same time I fully determined to show Aunt Belinda that my training had been as good as hers, and that I would "do just right," if it were only to disappoint her.

I was ready some time before any one came for me, but presently there was a tap at the door. I opened it and saw a girl a year or two older than myself. She had very dark eyes and very light hair, and would have been pretty only for her paleness and for a certain half-scared, half-stupefied expression.

"I have come to show you the way to supper," said she, in a set kind of way, as if she had been saying a lesson.

"Are you one of my cousins?" I asked as I prepared to obey.

"Yes; I am Amelia," she answered; and then she added, in a kind of scared whisper, "Have you come to live here?"

"Yes, I suppose so," I answered, not a little surprised at the question.

"Why—haven't you any mother?" was the next question.

"Yes, indeed—the best mother that ever was," I replied, rather indignantly. "Why do you ask that?"

"If 'I' had a mother," said Amelia, emphatically, but still in a whisper, and as it were stamping her foot softly—"if 'I' had a mother, and she lived in New Holland, I would dress myself up in boy's clothes and hide on a ship and go to her; and if I couldn't do that, I would swim all the way. But don't tell Aunt Belinda or Elmina that I said so, will you?"

"Of course not," I answered, very much surprised. "Why should I?"

"Elmina tells her everything," was the answer.

"Who is Elmina?" I asked.

"Elmina is my cousin, and I dislike her!" Again came the little stamp. "If she were in the ship and a shark were following after it, I would push her overboard in one minute. I wish an earthquake would come and swallow her."

"You should not say such things; they are wicked," said I, more impressed, however, with the oddity of the sentiment than with its unchristian character. I had always thought of cousins as very desirable possessions.

"Everything I say or do is wicked, so I may as well say one thing as another," answered Amelia. "But don't you tell."

This very queer bit of dialogue brought us to the dining-room, where my aunt and a girl whom I supposed to be Elmina were already waiting, and without any further words we took our places at the most elegantly-furnished table I had ever seen in my life. My aunt sat at the head, Elmina and Amelia at one side, and I at the other. There was a chair at the foot, but it remained empty, and was, I afterward discovered, never occupied unless the minister of the church my aunt attended or some other gentleman came to tea.

My aunt asked a very long blessing, and then we were helped by a tall coloured woman who stood behind her chair. Elmina and Amelia had bread and butter, but my aunt directed Phebe to bring some cold meat for me, saying that I should probably be hungry after my ride.

I had fully intended to behave as nicely as possible, and to show my aunt how well I had been brought up. Instead of that, I believe I committed every awkwardness of which I had ever been guilty in my life. There was something in my aunt's way of watching me which, made my knife drop out of my hand, my spoon rattle in the saucer—for we were all allowed one cup of weak tea—and which, in short, animated everything which I touched with a perverse spirit of opposition. Every time one of these little mishaps occurred Amelia started and Elmina smiled in a contemptuous fashion, which at last caught my aunt's eye and drew down what was evidently a very unexpected reproof.

"Elmina, if you cannot forbear laughing, you had better leave the table," said she as Elmina smiled again at my nearly oversetting my teacup. "Your smiles are far more ill-bred than your cousin's little mistakes. Olivia will learn better in time."

"I dare say Miss Olivia's hands are cramped with holding her basket," observed Phebe, who stood behind my aunt's chair.

"It is not needful, Phebe, to make any remark or add any comment," said my aunt, severely. "I have said all the occasion requires."

Phebe gave her head a queer little toss, but said nothing. Elmina smiled no more, but she gave me a look which did not promise very well for our future friendship.

After tea we had prayers, to which all the servants came in. My aunt read a chapter and made some remarks upon it. Then we sung a very long Psalm, and my aunt made a very long prayer, at which we all stood. My thoughts went back to my old home, where I knew father would be praying with his own family, and where they would all remember me. I had very hard work not to burst out crying again, but I put a desperate restraint on myself, and succeeded in keeping back my tears. After prayers we were left to ourselves for a time while my aunt entertained some visitors in the parlour.

Elmina would not speak a word, but went and looked out of the window. Amelia had a lesson to learn which it seemed she had failed to recite properly in the morning.

"Don't study now," said I.

"I must," answered Amelia, in a despairing tone. "If I don't say this grammar rule, I can't have any breakfast; and I don't understand it the least bit in the world. Why can't they make their books easier for children?"

"Let me see," said I, sitting down by her; "where are you?"

She showed me the rule and the notes under it. I had been well grounded in English grammar by Miss Tempy; and remembering her explanations, I soon rendered the matter clear to Amelia.

"Now study it over, and then I'll hear you repeat it," said I, quite comforted to find something to do.

Amelia did so, and at the third repetition she said it perfectly.

"There! Now don't bother with it any more to-night. You will only puzzle yourself if you do," said I, recalling Ezra's counsels to me on a similar occasion. "Let us tell each other stories about ourselves."

Amelia's tale was soon told. She had lost her mother and father so young that she could hardly remember them, and she had lived with Aunt Belinda ever since, excepting one year which she spent with a cousin in Nantucket, and which she seemed to look back to as Adam might have done to Eden. But Cousin Martha Coffin had died, and there was no one else to take her, and Aunt Belinda had brought her home.

"And ever since I have wished I had been drowned when I fell off the wharf," concluded Amelia.

"Why? Don't you have good times?" I asked.

"You'll see," was the answer. "But now tell me about yourself."

I was very willing to relate my own history, which, eventless as it was, seemed deeply interesting to Amelia, especially when she learned that I was so happy as to have an aunt living in that island of the blest, Nantucket.

All this time Elmina sat silently by the window, which looked out into a side street.

"Please don't be angry, Elmina," said Amelia, timidly, at last. "It wasn't my fault!"

"You'll see," was the only answer. "Just wait till we go to bed, that's all!"

"What does she mean?" I asked.

"She means to tell me stories and scare me," was the answer, in a low tone. "She does every night."

"But you haven't done anything to her," said I, "nor anybody but Aunt Belinda."

"It doesn't make any difference," said Amelia, shaking her head. "She always takes out everything on me."

I was prevented from making any remark by the entrance of Phebe with my aunt's command that we should go to bed directly.

"And don't you go playing any of your tricks, or you'll have me after you," was Phebe's addition as she put into my hands a candlestick containing about two inches of candle. "Just go straight to bed, and don't let me find anybody's clothes all scattered about when I come up for the light."

When I went up to my room, my first proceeding was to say my prayers, and then to get my Bible out of the box and read my five verses, as I did at home. I had promised mother never to omit this duty, and Jeanne and I had agreed that we would always read the same verses.

By the time I had finished my portion my candle was nearly burned down to the socket, so I put it out and undressed in the dark, and was safe in bed when Phebe opened the door.

"That's right," said Phebe, casting an approving glance at my clothes; "but you needn't put out the candle, child."

"I was afraid it would burn down and spoil the candlestick," said I.

"That's right too; I'm glad you can be careful. And now, child, just let me tell you one thing," said Phebe, approaching the bed and speaking in a low tone: "you'll find yourself in a place very different from what you've been used to, and it'll come mighty hard to you. But you be a good girl, and mind my mistress, and don't tell no lies nor play no tricks, and I dare say you'll do well enough. Above all, don't you let that Elmina get you into no scrapes. She's dangerous, that one is."

"I want to be good, I'm sure," said I; "but it is all so strange."

"Yes, yes, that it is, but you'll get used to it in time. I s'pose your folks acted for the best sending you here, but for my part, when the Lord gives children homes and mothers, he means they should stay there. Well, good-night, and don't cry yourself to sleep."

This well-meant advice produced the very result against which it was intended to guard. I burst into tears; and covering my head with the bed-clothes, that no one might overhear me, I did cry myself to sleep.

The next morning I was called at six by Phebe, who informed me that she should call me twice, after which my aunt expected that I would rise of myself. I was soon dressed, and hurried down to the dining-room, where my aunt was sitting by the fire.

"Good-morning, Aunt Belinda," said I, coming up to her and holding up my face to be kissed, as I was in the habit of doing with my own mother.

She looked surprised and kissed me, but said,—

"Remember another time, Olivia, that a little girl must always wait to be spoken to, and that as a general thing I do not approve of kissing."

This seemed very odd to me, but I had wit enough to make no remark.

Elmina and Amelia came next, the latter with her grammar in her hand, which she handed to my aunt, and immediately began repeating her rule, which, to my great joy, she accomplished very successfully.

"That is correct," said my aunt when she had finished; "you have said it rightly. Good-morning, Amelia."

"Good-morning, aunt," responded Amelia.

I was so amused with the notion that my aunt was, as it were, unconscious of Amelia's existence till she had said her lesson, that I fear I should have disgraced myself by laughing if Elmina had not diverted my attention by saying,—

"Aunt Belinda, Amelia did not do her lesson alone: Olivia told her."

My aunt turned to me, and with a look and tone of great displeasure said,—

"Olivia, do I understand that you have been prompting Amelia in her recitation?"

I did not at first understand what my aunt meant by prompting in a recitation, but as the idea dawned on me I answered,—

"No, aunt, not if you mean that I have been telling her while she was saying the rule. I told her last night what I thought it meant, and heard her say it over till she had it perfect."

"'Perfectly,' you should say," said my aunt, unbending a little. "Do I understand you that you merely explained the rule to her comprehension and heard her repeat it last night?"

"That is all," I answered, wondering what was the use of such long words.

My aunt relaxed still more.

"There was no harm in your doing so," said she. "Elmina, perhaps unintentionally, gave me the impression that you had been prompting Amelia upon the present occasion, which would be a dishonest, underhanded, and deceitful mode of conduct, which I should have been obliged severely to reprehend. We will now have breakfast. Afterward I will examine your wardrobe and see what additions it may require, and I will then explain to you the rules which govern my family, and to which I expect you strictly to conform."

We had breakfast accordingly, and a very nice breakfast it was; and being a little more at my ease than I was the night before, I succeeded in getting through the meal without committing any grave offence against table manners. After breakfast we had prayers, and each member of the family, servants and all, repeated a verse from the Bible. I had not been apprised of this custom, which I still think a very nice one, but my memory was well stored with Bible verses; and when it came to my turn, I repeated one which I had taught Harry only the Saturday before: "Call upon me in the day of trouble: I will 'hear' thee and thou shalt glorify me;" at which my aunt gave me an approving look. Elmina said a long verse very glibly, and Amelia stumbled painfully over a very short one, and was ordered on the spot to study it over again, at which I saw a look of triumph on Elmina's face, and jumped at once to the conclusion, which proved to be correct, that she had purposely hindered Amelia from learning her verse.

All this being got through, my aunt, according to her expressed intention, examined my clothes, which I had placed neatly in the drawers in my room, and expressed herself to the effect that I was very respectably provided, but that I needed a new hat, cloak, and gloves. She also looked over my books. It happened—probably fortunately for me—that I had left all my story-books at home for Ruth except "The Pilgrim's Progress" and Mrs. More's "Sacred Dramas." I was rather afraid of losing these as I saw Aunt Belinda looking over them, but at last, to my great relief, she laid them back upon the bureau, remarking that Bunyan was a very experimental writer and Mrs. More had evinced the spirit of vital religion.

CHAPTER IX.

THE DOLL'S TRAGEDY.

THE next morning my aunt called me into the library, a room I had not seen before. It was a handsome apartment, at the back of the house, well though soberly furnished, and lined with book-cases. These cases contained more volumes than I had ever seen together in all my life. In the one near the fire-place by which my aunt was seated I read the titles "Cook's Voyages," "Hakluyt's Voyages," "Sandys's Travels," and sundry others which made my heart beat with the anticipation of a feast—an anticipation, by the way, which was not realized till long afterward. My aunt, who had seated herself near the fire, with a small table at her side, very quickly recalled my thoughts and eyes to herself.

"Attend to me, Olivia," said she, drawing a written paper from her portfolio. "These are my rules, which I shall proceed to read to you."

There were a great many of the rules, and I was just yielding to the conviction that I should never remember half of them when my aunt concluded, and said, as she handed me the paper,—

"Your first lesson will consist in committing these rules to memory—in other words, in learning them by heart. As to your other studies, I shall decide upon them when I have satisfied myself as to the extent of your acquirements and discovered what you have already learned. What have been your studies hitherto?"

I told her that I had been quite through Murray's grammar and as far as cube root in the arithmetic. She at once proceeded to test my knowledge by giving me a sentence to parse and several sums to do, in which I acquitted myself respectably. She gave me no commendation—it was not her way to praise any one—but asked me if I had studied geography.

"No, ma'am," I answered, "but I have read almost all of Guthrie's big geography, which father bought in Albany."

"Doubtless your knowledge is quite superficial, supposing that you have derived anything but mere idle entertainment from the volume in question," said my aunt. "Do you know anything of history?"

I told her that I had read some history, but that I had never studied it. My aunt selected from the books on the table a copy of Morse's geography, which was, I believe, the first published in this country, and Pinnock's "Catechism of Ancient History," in which she marked certain portions which I was to commit to memory. She also gave me a certain number of lines of poetry out of Young's "Night Thoughts" to be learned by heart.

"These will constitute your lessons for the day and what you have to learn," said she, "and I shall expect you to be prepared to recite them immediately after dinner. As, however, you have these rules to learn, I shall excuse you from the poetry for this morning."

"Where shall I learn my lesson, aunt?" I ventured to ask as she paused.

"By a reference to your rules, Olivia, you will find that an answer is already provided to your question," answered my aunt. "As have already told you, these rules contain all the information necessary for your guidance."

In fact, by looking at my paper I found that "all lessons were to be learned in the school-room between the hours of nine and one." I was just about to ask where the school-room was, when I remembered that I could find out by asking my cousins or Phebe.

"Why do you remain?" asked Aunt Belinda, seeing that I still lingered, though she had taken up her own book and was finding her place. "Have you any further questions to ask?"

"If you please, aunt," I ventured to say, "when I have finished my lessons, may I have a book to read?"

My aunt hesitated a moment, and then said, but without any apparent displeasure,—

"I will consider that matter; and if I find it consistent, perhaps I may accede to your request. What book would you wish to read, supposing that I thought best to consult your wishes in the matter?"

"I should like a book of travels best," I answered, glad to see that at least she was not offended. "I love to read about different countries and the people who live in them and the way they act."

"The study of different manners and customs is sometimes improving us showing us the privileges we enjoy in living in even a nominally Christian land," said my aunt; "but I fear that you do not consider improvement so much as merely idle amusement."

"Don't you think amusement is nice sometimes, aunt?" I asked.

"I am not accustomed to be questioned by children," was her austere reply; "but since you have asked the question, I will say that, though a certain modicum of amusement may be desirable, and possibly even necessary, to young persons, yet there is danger at all times of its leading to sin. The mind is apt to become enervated and unfit for the stern duties of life."

I thought this reasoning far from decisive, but I made no remark. I had learned more of the wisdom of silence during the few days I had passed under my aunt's roof than in all my life before.

I easily found my way to the school-room, which was a low but cheerful and pleasant back room in the third story of the house. It contained three desks and three stools, a reclining-board, as it was called,—a piece of furniture, I believe, wholly banished from school-rooms at the present day,—a small table on which stood a work-basket, and a low chair at one end and a high stool at the other. I discovered, to my great joy, that one of the windows looked down a back street to the harbour. I was eagerly engaged in watching a large vessel which seemed to be coming up to the end of the street, when Phebe entered the room, followed by Elmina and Amelia, the latter with her eyes red with weeping.

"Breaking rules already," said Phebe as she took her place at the table I have mentioned and got out her work.

"I did not know there was any rule about looking out of the window," said I, "and I wanted to watch the ship. I never saw one before."

"There you go again," said Phebe. "Rule fifth: 'Answering when reproved and making excuses for faults are strictly forbidden.' Sit down, all of you, this minute. Olivia, that is your place by the window."

"I don't see why she is to have the best place," murmured Elmina; "but I suppose that will be the way now."

"If I can't look out of the window, I think I had better sit somewhere else," said I. "Then I shall not be tempted."

"You will sit in your own place, and no other," answered Phebe. "Take your seat directly, and learn your lesson."

I obeyed in silence, and began my task of committing my aunt's rules to memory. There was a great number of them, and they were very minute. We must not look out of the window in school-time, nor at each other. We must never excuse ourselves when reproved. We must not sit on the floor, or with our feet tucked up, or on the beds in our rooms. We must always rise when an older person came into the room, etc. Some of them were just what I had been taught at home; some seemed to me very unreasonable, as that we must never ask questions when reciting our lessons. However, I committed them all to memory, determined to observe them as well as possible.

This accomplished, I turned to my other lessons, and worked at them faithfully till half-past ten. Then we had five minutes' recess, in which we might walk about and talk in a low tone. After recess we each took our turn on the reclining-board, a slanting plank without a cushion, on which we each lay for three-quarters of an hour, studying all the time. This was supposed to be of great use in giving an erect carriage, and it certainly made a very agreeable change from the perfectly stiff attitude in which we were required to sit at our books.

At one we dined with my aunt, and after dinner came the recitation of our lessons. I passed through this ordeal quite comfortably, being accustomed to learn by heart. Elmina also did very well, but poor little Amelia was in trouble again over her grammar, and was sent back to the school-room to study in solitude, while Elmina and I went to walk with Aunt Belinda. I hoped we might get sight of the harbour and the ships, about which I was very curious, but we only walked upon the Common, where, however, I found plenty of amusement in observing the passers by, and especially the carriages, which seemed wonderfully splendid to my rural eyes, and I laid up a great many things to tell Jeanne and Ruth in the letter I meant to write to them. My aunt unbent a little from her stiffness during the walk, and she graciously pointed out to me several distinguished personages, and even condescended to answer several of my questions.

After our return we sewed an hour under Phebe's direction, and were then left to ourselves till tea-time. Elmina presently slipped away, I supposed to her own room. I chose to sit down by my favourite window and look at the water and the ship, which I could still see it the bottom of the street, while I amused myself with vague speculations as to where she had been and the wonderful things the sailors must have seen.

Presently Amelia crept to my side and put her hand in mine. It felt limp and cold as a wet rag.

"Where is Elmina?" I asked.

"She has gone and hid to read her book, I suppose," answered Amelia; "but don't you tell, or she will kill you."

"I should like to see her do it," was my defiant answer.

"But she will," said Amelia. "She has got something in a bottle which an old witch gave her, and she can kill you with it whenever she pleases by just taking out the cork."

"What stuff and nonsense!" said I. "You are a little goose, to let her scare you so. You ought to have more sense."

Amelia shook her head, as though despairing of ever having sense enough not to be scared, but she said not a word.

"What does she read?" I asked, presently.

"Books that Jane, the chambermaid, lends her," whispered Amelia—"story-books about lords and ladies, and robbers, and all sorts of things. But don't you tell, will you?"

I had no time to promise before my aunt entered the room, and we both rose.

"Where is Elmina?" was her first question.

I looked at Amelia, who answered,—"She said she was going up stairs to read her Bible chapter."

I looked up, surprised enough, for I had not heard Elmina say any such thing.

"And what are you doing, Olivia?" was the next question.

"Only looking at the ships, aunt. I never saw any before."

"I have thought upon your request concerning a book to read," said my aunt, after she had apparently considered my answer and found nothing wrong in it. "I have concluded to grant it,—to some extent, at least. From five to six you are at liberty to peruse this volume, which will afford you something more than idle entertainment; but at no other time, remember."

I thanked my aunt and examined the volume, which proved to be a life of Mr. David Brainerd, the missionary to the Indians. I was a little disappointed at not receiving a book of travels, but any book was better than none, and I prepared for a feast, when I was interrupted by the return of Elmina. Here was an end of all peace or comfort. She immediately began a series of small persecutions of myself and Amelia which effectually prevented my reading and soon set Amelia to crying. For a good while I took no notice of her tricks except to turn my back to her and try to fix my attention on my book, but at last, at a very sharp prick from a long pin, my ever-ready temper rose, and I gave her a box on the ear. This produced a slap in return, and a scuffle ensued which brought my aunt again on the scene.

Elmina, being questioned, declared that I had slapped her and pulled her hair while she was quietly studying her lesson; and appealing to Amelia, to my utter amazement Amelia supported her account. My aunt would not hear a word from me, but condemned me to a supper of bread and water, which I was too proud to eat, and therefore went to bed hungry enough, and with my heart overflowing with anger against everybody—for injustice is very hard to bear—especially Amelia, to whom I refused to speak when we met next morning in the hall.

"I couldn't help it, Olivia," said the poor little thing, imploringly. "Please don't be angry."

"Couldn't help it!" said I, contemptuously. "Couldn't help telling a wicked lie?"

"I have got to do what Elmina tells me," whispered she, with a scared look behind her. "She would kill me if I didn't."

"I'd be killed, then, and have done with it," said I, impatiently, and I dare say unfeelingly, enough. "I'd do anything before I would be so mean."

Amelia shook her head, as usual, but whispered,—

"Won't you forgive me, Olivia? Indeed, I do love you. Please forgive me."

"I suppose I shall have to, since you ask me," I answered, ungraciously enough; "but I don't care much for your love, when you tell lies about me."

This brought us to the parlour door, and ended our conversation.

The day went on like the preceding, only that my aunt took away my book, saying that I had shown myself unworthy of the privilege she had accorded to me, at which Elmina gave me a glance of triumphant malice.

The days went on one after another, and I grew more weary, home-sick, and mother-sick with every one. I missed the freedom of my country home, its large spaces and active life, and, above all, that atmosphere of cheerfulness and love in which I had lived without thinking of it, as a Highlander lives in the free air of his hills, but for which I now pined as the same Highlander might in the stifling air of a town prison. I did not mind my lessons. In the school-room, under the just and friendly if firm rule of Phebe, I would now and then forget my troubles over my books, especially after Aunt Belinda substituted Goldsmith's "Greece," then quite a new book, for the little "Catechism of History" she had given me at first. The number of little rules were a constant torment to me, and all the more because I was sincerely desirous to do right and please my aunt in all things. Still, I tried to keep them in mind, and succeeded so well that Phebe gave a very good account of me.

But there was Elmina! I have known many naughty and troublesome children, but I may safely say I never saw Elmina Vernon's equal. Others tease by fits and starts, but tormenting was her element, and she was most ingenious in it. If, as sometimes happened, Phebe left us alone for half an hour, she never lost the opportunity of interfering with our lessons, preventing our learning them by a hundred impish tricks. As she possessed a marvellous quickness of memory, she very soon made up for lost time, while poor Amelia would toil painfully after the lost half hour and never overtake it all day. She stole our pens and pencils, hid our working implements, and entangled our thread, and all with such slyness as constantly to deceive my aunt, and even to baffle Phebe, who understood her pretty well. She had tormented and terrified Amelia till the child was absolutely submissive to her tyranny, and would say or do anything she was told to. She managed to keep on the blind side of my aunt, chiefly by an affectation of seriousness and piety. One of her favourite ways of being revenged on Amelia was to bully the child into lying to conceal some prank into which she had been forced, after which she would go to my aunt and with every appearance of repentance and humility confess the whole matter. Then Amelia was severely punished for lying, while the real culprit got off with a light penalty.

Elmina soon discovered that in arithmetic and grammar I was a better scholar than herself, and before the end of the first week she ordered rather than asked me to do her sums for her. I promptly refused. She seemed surprised, and condescended to coax me a little:

"Come, now, why won't you?"

"Because it would be lying, for one thing," I answered, hotly enough. "I should be as bad as you are, and one such is enough in the family. I should think you would be ashamed even to ask me."

She still persevered and I still refused, till, changing her tone, she declared that she would make me sorry enough the first chance she had. The chance was not far-off:

It was not till my second week that I found out what a different day Sunday could be in two different places. On Saturday morning, instead of our usual lessons, we were given each a chapter or more in the Old Testament to learn, which chapters I found bore an exact proportion to the number of mistakes and faults we had committed during the week. I know no better way of making children hate the Bible than by making it an instrument of punishment. In these lessons Elmina generally came off best and Amelia worst of the three. After our dinner, and when our chapters had been recited, without comment or explanation for the most part, we gave an hour to the mending of our own clothes or sewed for some poor women over whom my aunt exercised a sort of care, while one of us read aloud a book of my aunt's selection, usually some religious memoir. Our usual walk was omitted on Saturday afternoons, and we gave instead an hour to some kind of house-work under Phebe's supervision. At sunset we were summoned to the parlour to hear a sermon read by my aunt, after which we must either read the Bible aloud for an hour or go directly to bed.

This evening I chose the latter alternative, for my heart was full to bursting, and I had an intense longing to be alone. I could see very well by the moonlight which streamed directly into my room; and putting out my candle, I sat down by the window to think of home. I have before mentioned how my mother was wont to use these Saturday evenings. As I thought them over it seemed to me that I had been the most unthankful wretch in the world—that I had never valued the privilege of having mother to talk to, and therefore it was taken from me. How I had fretted at the prospect of going to Vermont! How often I had secretly accused mother of being partial to Ruth and Harry! And how often, when she was talking to me, I had let my thoughts wander to the ends of the earth! I was too miserable to cry, but I laid my head down on the window-seat and begged that God would forgive me and let me go home to mother again; for it seemed to me that he had sent me to Aunt Belinda as a direct punishment for my wicked ingratitude and discontent.

Presently, however, I grew calmer, as if the very remembrance of those blessed hours had brought peace. I dried my eyes and began seriously to consider my present position. I had come to Boston for an education, and certainly my aunt had kept her promise so far. I had very nice studies, and she had already told me she meant I should take lessons in music if after a little trial she should find that I had any musical talent. I have omitted to say that any aunt possessed an instrument and both played and sung remarkably well for those times. After all, it would not perhaps be so very hard, and three years would soon be gone. I resolved that I would be as good as I could, and would try to please Aunt Belinda, because in so doing I should also please my father and mother as well as my Father in heaven, of whom I had lately begun to think a good deal; that I would try not to mind even if Aunt Belinda were sometimes unjust; and also that I would not be made to do wrong by Elmina, whom I compared in my mind to my first temptress, Sarah Millar.

The thought of Sarah Millar brought up the remembrance of my Lanesborough doll, which lay snugly packed in its box at the back of one of my drawers. It had never seen the light since I left home, and I was taken with a great desire to look at it, so I lighted my candle again; and opening the box, I took my cherished doll from her retirement. She was just as pretty as ever. Not a feature of her face was marred nor an article of her dress soiled. As I examined the delicate needle-work my mother's fingers had wrought my heart overflowed afresh with love, and I covered the waxen face with kisses.

I was disagreeably interrupted. I had left my door partly open for the sake of the air; and looking up, I saw the unwelcome face of my special tormentor looking in upon me. It disappeared, however, as I turned round, and I was considering how and where I would hide my precious treasure, when I heard my aunt coming up stairs, and in a moment she entered the room, followed by Elmina. My doll was still in my hands, and I had no opportunity to put it out of sight before my aunt's eyes fell upon it.

Aunt Belinda and I stood looking at each other for a moment in silence. Then Aunt Belinda said, slowly and sternly,—

"You wicked child!"

I was a good deal scared, I confess, but I was strong in the consciousness of innocence, and I was not crushed, as Amelia would have been under the same circumstances.

"I was not doing anything wicked, aunt," said I.

"You were playing with your doll on the Sabbath," said my aunt.

"No, aunt, I was not playing with it," I answered, with perfect truth, for nothing had been thither from my thoughts than play.

My aunt turned to Elmina.

"Was she playing with it when you saw her?" she demanded.

"Yes, ma'am; she was kissing it and looking at its clothes."

"Go down stairs," was the next command, addressed to Elmina. Then, turning to me, "Do you deny the truth of this charge in the face of Elmina's testimony, and of the fact that you have the doll in your hands at this moment?"

"I will tell you about it, aunt, if you will listen," I began; but I was interrupted:

"Take the doll and come with me."

She led the way down to the kitchen, where a large fire was burning on the hearth, and commanded me sternly to throw the doll into the fire.

My temper was now fully aroused.

"I won't!" said I, boldly. "It is my own dear doll that my own mother gave me, and I won't burn it."

My aunt wasted no more words; but taking my cherished treasure from my hand, she put it into the hottest part of the blaze, and holding me fast compelled me to witness its destruction, which was soon accomplished.

I would not wish the worst criminal that ever lived any keener suffering than that which I underwent on this occasion. To do my aunt justice, although I still think she was very much to blame, I believe she had no idea of the torture she was inflicting. She had almost no imagination, and to her the doll was only an insignificant toy. I felt as a nun of Henry VIII.'s time might have done at seeing a sacred image of the Virgin or a crucifix burned by sacrilegious hands. The very extremity of my distress made me dumb. I did not shed a tear even when my aunt punished me severely for having, as she said, broken the Sabbath and then told a lie to hide it. She then sent me to bed.

The next day was Sunday. I was not allowed to go down to breakfast, but my aunt sent me some bread and milk, which went down again untasted—not because I was sulky, but because I literally could not eat. I sat by the window leaning my head on my hands when my aunt came up to see me. I did not move nor raise my eyes.

"Olivia," said she, quietly, "you will prepare for divine worship, and be ready by ten o'clock."

I did not answer, and I fancy she did not care to provoke any new contest, for she withdrew without more words. I dressed myself mechanically, and was ready at the appointed time. Under other circumstances I should have been interested and delighted with the new church, whither we went on foot—for my aunt never took out her carriage on Sunday if she could help it—but in my present state of mind everything was alike to me, and I hardly noticed anything till the first hymn was sung. It was the one beginning "How gentle God's commands!" and was a great favourite with my mother. The choir, I believe, was a remarkably good one, and the words and music fell on my ear and heart with an inexpressibly soothing effect. At the line, "I'll drop my burden at his feet," a new idea seemed, as it were, to come into my mind from some source quite outside of myself. It was as if some one had whispered in my ear, "Why don't you cast 'your' burden on Him?"

The prayer and sermon which followed seemed made for me. The preacher was not the regular minister, but a stranger whose name I do not know to this day, though I shall always remember him with gratitude.

His text corresponded with the hymn. It was, "Cast thy burden on the Lord, and he shall sustain thee." He spoke of different kinds of burdens,—of care, of hard work, and of "those burdens which are laid upon us by the injustice and misunderstanding of friends, and by false accusations." I almost think he must have had some personal experience in the matter, for he spoke very severely of "those who by their haste to condemn unheard or on insufficient evidence lay one of the heaviest of burdens upon the hearts of those under their influence or charge, and cast a stumbling-block in their way."

I glanced at my aunt as these words were spoken, and met her eye. To my surprise, she coloured scarlet and looked away.

The rest of the discourse was an urgent and affectionate exhortation to cast all cares and burdens, of whatever nature, on Him who had promised to bear them.

As we came out of church we heard various criticisms on the preacher—not all of them favourable, by any means. Several persons spoke to my aunt on the subject, but she did not seem disposed for conversation, and we walked home in silence. As soon as I had put away my hat, I got out my Bible and hunted up the text, and then began a search for some verses which I remembered, and which seemed to bear upon the subject. I found them in the thirty-seventh Psalm. Yes, they were just as I remembered them:

"Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass. And he shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy judgment as the noonday."

"This must be true, because it is in the Bible," I thought. "So, if I ask him, he will find some way to help me. Perhaps, if I had asked him, he would not have let Aunt Belinda burn the doll. At any rate, I mean to ask him now."

I closed my Bible; and kneeling down by the bed, I poured out my poor little heart in prayer, appealing with strong crying unto the only Friend who could help me. When I rose, I found that I had indeed left my burden at his feet. I could not help crying when I thought of my doll, but my very tears seemed to comfort me. My heart was no more "lacerated with fierce indignation," as it had been before, against my aunt. I remembered what I had heard Mrs. Edwards say,—that Aunt Belinda had never known a mother's love and care, having grown-up from her earliest youth at an English boarding-school, and that she had never had a child of her own. "If she had only been brought up by a nice mother, I dare say she would have known better," I thought; "and anyhow, I ought to forgive her, and will try."

My meditations were interrupted by a call to dinner, at which my aunt treated me, if I may use the expression, with a sort of embarrassed kindness. She was very absent-minded, and hardly spoke except to require a repetition of the text of the sermon.

Observing, however, that I put my hand to my forehead, she asked me if my head ached.

"Yes, madam," I answered, with truth. Any excitement was pretty sure to give me a headache in those days.

"Phebe, you may tell Phyllis to make the child a cup of tea," said my aunt.

If she had told Phebe to tell Phyllis to cut off my head, I don't think Phebe could have looked much more surprised. I was very thankful for the tea, and still more when my aunt told me on rising from the table that I had better go and lie down. I was glad to obey. My head was very heavy, and I soon fell into a long and deep sleep, from which I woke to find my aunt sitting by my bed.

"I hope your head is better," said she.

I took a sudden resolution. I would make another desperate attempt to set matters right.

"Aunt Belinda," said I, "will you let me tell you about what happened last night just as it was?"

My aunt hesitated a moment, and then said, "Olivia, tell me, first, do you think that you were treated unjustly?"

"Yes, aunt, I do," I answered, frankly. "I think you ought to have heard what I had to say for myself. I don't think you did as you would like to be done by. Suppose," I continued, seeing that she did not seem as much displeased as I expected at my boldness—"suppose you had lived under one of the kings in my history—under Alexander—and somebody that he knew did not always tell the truth had told him that you were a traitor to the government: don't you think Alexander ought to listen and hear what you had to say about it before he condemned you to death?"

My aunt seemed to smile in spite of herself at this somewhat confused historical illustration.

"We will waive the consideration of any such case at present," said she, composing her countenance to its usual gravity. "You may, however, proceed to tell me your version of the events of last evening."

This was all I desired. Beginning at the beginning, I told her the history of my Lanesborough doll and its associations. I told her how I had been thinking of home, and did not conceal the fact that I was very home-sick. I also told her frankly how Elmina tormented me.

"I don't want to tell tales, Aunt Belinda, but I can't make you understand unless I do say something about Elmina."

"You are correct both in your general desire of avoiding tattling and your conduct in the present instance," said my aunt. "Go on."

I then concluded my story. I had something of a struggle with myself when I came to my resolutions about being a good girl, but my better spirit conquered, and I told her the whole.

After I had concluded my aunt was silent a few minute. Then she said,—

"Olivia, I do not often make mistakes in my management of children," ("Perhaps you make more than you think," was my inward comment), "but in this instance I think I was mistaken—nay, I will go farther: I believe that I behaved with injustice in this matter. I say I believe it, but I wish more time for consideration. We will speak of the matter again. Do you feel quite well enough to come down to tea?"

"Oh yes, aunt," I answered, much relieved.

"Very well. You will, if you please, remain here till then. You may, if able, peruse the Bible or 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' and after supper I will hear an account of what you have read."

"Please, aunt," I ventured to ask, "might I have Amelia in here and read aloud to her? She has never read 'The Pilgrim's Progress.' I used to do so by Ruth."

"You may, if you will promise not to spend your time in unprofitable conversation," was the reply, "and not to speak of what has occurred."

I gladly gave the required promise, and presently Amelia appeared. She threw her arms round my neck and kissed me.

"Oh, I am so glad!" said she. "Aunt said I was to come and hear you read, but I would a great deal rather talk."

"I promised aunt that I wouldn't talk," I answered.

"Oh, but she won't know. She is in the library, and all the doors are shut."

"We must mind just the same," was my answer; and to prevent further discussion I opened the book at the beginning and began to read.

Amelia pouted at first, but she soon became interested and began to ask questions, some of them very sensible. I did not think it would be "unprofitable conversation" to repeat to her such explanations as Jeanne had given me, and the hour to tea-time passed quickly away.

"I never had such a good time since I lived in Nantucket," said Amelia, kissing me.

"Well, then, don't forget, and don't be scared when aunt asks you about what you have heard, but tell her nicely," I answered.

And we went down to tea, my heart lighter than I thought it ever would be again.

Amelia gave a very good account of Christian's setting out from the City of Destruction, and even repeated some of the explanations I had given her without much stammering. After we had read and prayed as usual, my aunt paused a moment before dismissing the servants.

"I think," said she, "that justice requires me to say that I was mistaken in my treatment of Olivia last evening. I am convinced, on better information and after further consideration, that she intended no wrong, and therefore was unjustly punished." She paused again, and then added, with still more formality of manner, while her cheeks blushed, "I believe also that I was not only mistaken, but that I was guilty of wrong-doing, in destroying the child's property and in punishing her too hastily; and I trust this will be a warning to all of you not to do the like. Olivia, I ask your forgiveness."

I never in my life felt greater respect for any one—not even my own mother—than for Aunt Belinda at this moment. As she held out her hand to me and kissed my cheek, I could almost have fallen at her feet.

"Aunt Belinda, I will try to be very good and do everything just as you tell me," I said; and then, finding myself in danger of crying, and knowing how much my aunt disliked tears, I was silent and kissed her hand. The servants, who, I believe, had been entirely on my side, all gave me a kind look or word. Amelia squeezed my hand, and every one was pleased except Elmina.

CHAPTER X.

BOSTON DAYS.

THE next morning Aunt Belinda called me into the library and asked me what she should give me to make up for the loss of my doll.

"Please, Aunt Belinda, I don't want you to give me anything," I answered.

"Not another doll?" asked my aunt.

"No, aunt, because another doll would not be the same doll if it was ever so pretty, you know."

My aunt smiled. I never saw her smile without wishing that she would do so oftener, for she looked really beautiful at such times.

"You mean, I suppose, that another doll would not have the same associations," said my aunt. "But, Olivia, it is right that we should make restitution to those whom we have injured, and therefore it is proper that I should replace your doll or give you something in its stead. What shall it be?"

I told Aunt Belinda I would rather leave the matter to her; so the next time she went out she bought me a pretty ink-stand and portfolio.

Aunt Belinda and I got on much better after this affair of the doll. For one thing, it opened her eyes in some degree to Elmina's true character. She began to watch the girls, and thereby discovered a good many things which surprised her not a little. One day when we came home from walking with Phebe we found Aunt Belinda superintending Jane, the chambermaid, who was moving Elmina's clothes and other possessions into aunt's room.

"What are you doing, Jane?" ask Elmina, when my aunt was in the other room.

"Moving your things, as you see," answered Jane. "You are to sleep in missus's room after this, and Miss Livia and Miss Amelia to sleep in here."

Poor little Amelia uttered a cry of joy and Elmina actually turned white. For myself, I was not quite so well pleased. I was glad to have Amelia freed from her tormentor, but I was not at all fond of her. Her excessive timidity—cowardice, I called it—and her insincerity repelled me, and I regretted the freedom and quietness of my own little room, where I could sit and think my own thoughts about mother and Jeanne, and almost imagine myself at home again. I hinted as much to Phebe when I found myself alone with her, and received a very unexpected reply:

"Don't you s'pose my mistress" (Phebe never said "Missus," like the other servants) "likes 'her' room to be quiet in just as much as you do, Miss Olivia? Do you think 'she's' going to find it very pleasant to live with such a girl as Miss Elmina? If she at her age is willing to make such a sacrifice, I don't think you need complain about your part of it."

I was silenced and a good deal ashamed, for I had not thought of Aunt Belinda as making any sacrifice.

"I don't think you'll have much trouble with Amelia," continued Phebe, seeing that I did not answer. "She's a biddable little thing enough when she isn't scared out of her life; and I am sure you will be good to her. I don't believe she will trouble any one very long, poor little dear!"

"I am sure I want to be good to her," said I, "and I should like her too, only—"

"Only what?" said Phebe as I hesitated.

"Well, she is such a little story-teller, Phebe. You can't believe a word she says. She tells any lie that Elmina tells her to, just as she did the other day about the noise in the school-room. And, after all, Elmina owned up, and then Amelia was punished."

"My own notion is that Elmina has got to the end of her tether, or pretty near it," said Phebe; "my mistress is beginning to open her eyes. As to Amelia's lying, it is just as you say, and it's all a part of the same thing. She is such a little coward! You needn't feel above her, though, Miss Olivia. If Amelia had had such a home and such a mother as yours, she would have been a very different girl; and if you had grown-up as she has, you might have been different too."

I felt that this was quite true. I had been reading the "Life of David Brainerd,"—the same book which my aunt had taken away from me as a punishment—and it had inspired me with a great desire to "do good" to somebody. I had built many delightful castles in the air as to what I would accomplish in that line when I went to Vermont. But here was missionary work close to my own door. I resolved at once that I would be very kind to Amelia and do my best to teach her to speak the truth, and that I would never get out of patience with her if her fears were ever so troublesome.

To do myself justice—and I don't know but we are as much bound to do justice to ourselves as to other people—I think I kept my resolution pretty well, though it cost me a good deal of trouble. Amelia had no notion of trustworthiness. She never thought herself bound to obey when she was out of sight, or when she was, as she conceived, in no danger of being found out and punished. I had been trained in very different ways.

One of Aunt Belinda's rules—and not a bad one, on the whole—was that there should be no talking after we went to bed. The very first night we slept together Amelia began to whisper as soon as the light was out.

"Hush!" said I. "We mustn't talk."

"She can't hear us," said Amelia. "She is down in the parlour."

"That makes no difference; we are to mind just as much;" and I resolutely turned my face away and refused to answer.

"I think you are real mean," said Amelia, at last, beginning to cry. "I thought you said you would be good to me."

"It isn't being good to let you be naughty," I answered, truly enough. "Come, now; don't be silly, but shut your eyes and go to sleep."

"I can't," answered Amelia. "I'm always afraid if I don't talk. I listen and listen, and I hear people walking and whispering all round the bed."

"Nonsense!" said I. "There is nobody here. Take hold of my hand and say your prayers till you go to sleep. That's the way I do when I am afraid."

But poor Amelia had not learned to take any comfort in her prayers. They were to her only one more task,—rather worse than the others because said to a Task-master whom she could not see, but who—if indeed he were anything more than a part of the catechism—was always looking out to catch her tripping. Finding that she really was frightened, I took her in my arms, telling her that I would not talk, but I would say a hymn to her. I was glad to find that this answered the purpose. Her sobs and moanings gradually ceased, and she finally fell asleep in my arms. I was a little doubtful in my own mind as to whether this hymn-saying was an infraction of my aunt's rule, and at last I made up my mind that I would ask her. I took an opportunity the very next day when Amelia and I were out in the carriage with her.

"Aunt Belinda," said I, "Amelia was frightened last night after we went to bed, and I said some hymns to her to get her to sleep. Was that breaking the rule about talking?"

Amelia cast a glance of terrified reproach at me, and Aunt Belinda looked decidedly surprised. She considered a moment before speaking, as usual. Then she asked,—

"Are you sure you did nothing but repeat hymns, Olivia?"

It was, now my turn to consider. I did not like to get Amelia into a scrape, but I was determined to be honest with my aunt.

"I will tell you just how it was, Aunt Belinda," said I. "Only please don't be angry with Amelia. She did want to talk because she was afraid, but I told her we must mind the rule. Then she was so frightened she began to cry, and I told her I would say hymns to her, and so I did; and she went to sleep pretty soon. But I thought I would ask you before I did it again."

"You have done right," said my aunt, after another interval of consideration. "No, I have no objection to your saying hymns after you go to bed, provided you do nothing else. But how shall I know that you do not?"

"Mother always believed me when I told her what I had done," I answered, boldly. "I believe you, Aunt Belinda, because you have always told the truth ever since I have known you. I don't see why you should not believe me in the same way. I have never told you a lie yet, have I?"

If I had tried to manage Aunt Belinda—which I certainly never did—I could not have found a better method than the frankness I used toward her. She was truthfulness itself, and she appreciated truthfulness in others, though her system of management was not calculated to bring it about. I was in doubt as to the effect of my bold words on this occasion, but as I looked up at her I saw at once that she was not angry.

"No, Olivia, I have never found you out in a lie," she answered; "and as you say, I think justice requires me to trust you. If; then, you will give me your word to indulge in no other conversation, I will permit you to repeat to Amelia such hymns and verses as you already know, and also the poems you may have learned during the day."

So this matter was settled, to my great delight.

My next effort was to make Amelia as open and frank with my aunt as I was myself, but in this I never could succeed: she had been too thoroughly cowed between Aunt Belinda's strictness and Elmina's bullying. I don't think the system of education was a good one for any child, but to one like Amelia it was utterly ruinous.

The fall and winter passed away quietly enough; and though I had times of being dreadfully home-sick, I was not very unhappy on the whole. I liked my lessons better every day, and especially my music-lessons. My aunt had a harpsichord, which would be insignificant enough by the side of a modern Steinway piano, but was a very fine instrument for the time, and she played very well. She herself gave me a few lessons by way of finding out whether I had a correct ear and some musical talent, for she said—and I think truly—that where these are absent music-lessons were only time and money thrown away. Finding that I succeeded very well, she engaged for me the best master the city afforded, and after that I practised an hour and a half every day. I took great pleasure in my music, and very much delighted I was when I was able to play Handel's "Harmonious Blacksmith," then quite a new piece, so as to satisfy my aunt.

Elmina wished also to take lessons, but she had absolutely no ear for music—indeed, she could hardly tell one tune from another—and my aunt would not allow it, but said she might have drawing-lessons instead. I think she might have done very well with them if she had chosen, but she was vexed about the music-lessons, and would take no pains.

Amelia, on the contrary, seemed to find in Miss Sulley's instructions exactly the stimulus she wanted. She showed a remarkable talent for drawing, and especially for catching likenesses, and she made pencil sketches of everybody in the house, from my aunt down to the cat, some of which were extraordinary for so young a child. Of course her drawings were incorrect, but they had a surprising degree of life about them. I shall never forget her alarm when my aunt found one of these portraits of herself on a loose bit of blotting-paper, nor her change to delighted surprise when Aunt Belinda, instead of blaming her, as she expected, praised the drawing and told her if she took pains, she might perhaps become a good portrait painter, like some lady she mentioned—Angelica Kaufmann, I think it was—who was attracting a great deal of notice at the time.

Amelia worked with double diligence after this, and it happened with her as I afterward observed to be the case with others—that success in one point seemed to stimulate her powers in other directions. She began to have some confidence in herself, and to recite without stammering. She was always drawing in her hours of recreation, and she really learned to take an interest in her English history when illustrated by pictures of King Alfred burning the cake, and William the Conqueror killing Harold at Hastings in a manner totally inconsistent not only with the laws of war, but also of gravitation. My aunt was much pleased with Amelia's improvement, and I heard her remark to Phebe that her system was at last beginning to bear fruit.

Elmina did not improve. My aunt now watched her more closely, and understood her better, so she could not do quite as much mischief as formerly; but there was no amendment in her real disposition. In her heart she hated my aunt and rebelled against her rule, and yet she was jealous of any one whom she favoured or loved. She tyrannized over Amelia, and tormented her in every possible way. She liked her own comfort too well to come into open collision with Aunt Belinda, but her obedience was all outward: there was no conscience about it.

I do not think Aunt Belinda's beloved system was at all calculated to develop or cultivate the conscience. It set out with the proposition that all children were bad as a matter of course. Mother always went upon the supposition that her children meant to be good, and she was always surprised and disappointed to find them otherwise, but Aunt Belinda seemed to conclude that we meant to be naughty, and that the only way to keep us within any kind of bounds was to fence us in with endless restrictions and rules. Mother, on the contrary, had very few rules. I think she used rather to give us principles and leave us to apply them for ourselves.

It was in religious matters, however, that I think Aunt Belinda's system was the worst, and had the worst effect. Good Christian as she meant to be, she made the subject absolutely hateful to us children—at least to Elmina and Amelia. My "Pilgrim's Progress" and the remembrance of mother's teaching saved me from that extreme, but even to me the vital truths of the gospel grew more and more dim and lifeless, and my heavenly Father and my Saviour became not so much living persons taking an interest in me, and wishing me to be good and happy, as mere doctrines—things to be believed in as I believed in the rules in Murray's grammar. If God had any reality, it was as a tremendous law-giver and ruler, carrying on a system something like Aunt Belinda's, only on an infinitely greater scale, or an engineer managing some mighty machine of which I was an insignificant part which might be taken out at any time and thrown into the fire. As I said, my aunt used to give punishment lessons out of the Bible—a very effectual way of making children dislike any book whatever. Phebe disapproved of this method of punishment, and more than once spoke her mind freely on the subject, but without producing any change.

My great pleasures this winter were the few letters I had from home—not more than four or five in all, for communication was slow and uncertain. These letters were written on large sheets, and every member of the family added a little, mother's coming last of all. Jeanne told me about the house and the neighbours, the new church and school-house that were being built in the village, and the prospect there was of her teaching the school next summer. Ruth told me about the cows and sheep, the flying-squirrel Ezra had caught for her, and also of the wolves they heard howling at night and the deer whose tracks father and Ezra saw in the morning when they went out to the barn. Once she wrote that Ezra had actually shot a fat bear. They were living on his flesh, and Ezra was going to send the skin to Aunt Belinda for her carriage. But mother's was the best of all. I used to read these letters over and over till I knew them by heart. At first I was afraid Aunt Belinda would ask to see them, but she was too much of a lady to do that, nor did she ever ask any questions as to what I wrote in return. It was this lady-like spirit and her strict sense of justice which made her rule endurable.

My own letters home were very long and full, but I said very little in them of the things which annoyed me, while I enlarged upon my music-lessons, my embroidery, and the books I was reading. I told how my aunt had taken me to see a lady who had just received from England one of those wonderful new instruments called a piano-forte, how I had been allowed to play upon it, and how my aunt had promised that I should some time have one of my own if I were industrious with my music. I told how I had seen Mrs. Adams, wife of the Vice-president, how I had sat in the room with her and heard her describe the wonderful things she had seen abroad, and had had the distinguished honour of playing one of my music-lessons for her. I told of my new dresses and my drives with my aunt. In short, I told of everything pleasant, and kept my annoyances in the back-ground as much as possible. My aunt would sometimes write little notes to be enclosed in my letters. I never saw these notes, but from what I heard, I suppose they were satisfactory to mother.

Poor Amelia used sometimes to cry when she saw me reading or answering my letters from home. She was far happier since she began drawing-lessons, and she and Aunt Belinda got on better, but she still sighed for her old home in Nantucket and for her mother, and she still—which was no marvel—disliked Elmina, though she feared her less than formerly. She had acquired a new weapon of defence, and even of offence, in her pencil, and she produced some caricatures of Elmina which excited their subject fury and made Miss Sulley laugh heartily.

My aunt saw a great deal of company in a quiet way, though she never gave large entertainments. She used to have tea- and supper-parties of twenty or thirty ladies and gentlemen, at which the gentlemen rather preponderated, attracted, I fancy, fully as much by the excellence of Phyllis's cooking and the quality of my aunt's Madeira as by the charms of her conversation. We little girls were sometimes permitted to be present at these parties, and sometimes, at the intercession of Mrs. Adams or some other special friend of my aunt's, to sit up to supper.

Amelia and I enjoyed these occasions very much—Amelia because she could make studies of dresses and faces, and I because I liked listening to the conversation. The circle of society in which my aunt moved was highly cultivated, and embraced a good many distinguished people—public men, clergymen and professors, officers in army and navy, doctors, and lawyers. My aunt took great interest in all public affairs both at home and abroad, and these were freely discussed at her house. The French revolution was in progress, the royal family virtually prisoners, and every ship brought news of some new outbreak of violence on the part of the revolutionists, some new piece of folly on the part of the royalists. News was "news" in those days, and I really think people enjoyed it far more than they do now, when the queen's speech is read at half the breakfast-tables in America on the morning after its delivery. I used to drink in like water the discussions that took place every time there was a new arrival from France or England. I often longed to ask questions, but this was a liberty not permitted to little girls, so I listened in silence and formed my own theories and opinions, and laid up in my memory such pieces of news as I thought would most interest my friends at home.

Besides the French revolution and the books of the day, there were English and American politics to be discussed; and very hot discussions those were. Party-spirit never ran higher than at that day, and I used sometimes to be much astonished at the vituperative epithets applied to their opponents by well-bred and religious ladies and gentlemen. I shall never forget my amazement and horror at hearing a famous politician speak of General Washington as "a concealed traitor." I disliked these political discussions, and was always delighted when the conversation turned on books or foreign travel. Sometimes we had music, and then I would be called upon to play some of my little pieces. I don't remember being very much frightened on these occasions. I had a business-like way of looking at such things which saved me from a great deal of embarrassment.

Indeed, I gained a great deal this winter both in book-learning and in manners. I honestly tried to please my aunt, and succeeded, on the whole, pretty well. I liked my lessons better and better. I learned to love Amelia, as we almost always do love those we try to benefit, and I had the pleasure of seeing her improve in health and courage, and also—perhaps consequently—in truthfulness and honesty. She no longer told lies every day at Elmina's bidding or to conceal her own faults, and she was much merrier and better company.

CHAPTER XI.

NEW CHANGES.

LATE in March that year we began to hear that the measles were prevailing in town, and in the course of a week all three of us children and Jane, the house-maid, were taken down with them. Amelia and I were very sick from the first; the others had the disease lightly. Phebe took care of me, and my aunt of Amelia, while a woman from outside who often worked for us attended on the other two.

On the tenth day after my attack I was better, and Phebe left me to myself for what seemed to me a very long time. I heard movements in the other room, and now and then I could distinguish Amelia's voice, and a great longing seized me to see her again. I rose; and putting on such of my clothes as could find, I stole softly into the next room. At first I did not understand the state of things at all. Amelia was sitting up in bed supported in my aunt's arms. The eruption had all disappeared and her eyes looked bright and clear, and she was not much thinner or paler than usual, but I saw that she breathed with difficulty. Dr. Warren stood at one side of the bed with the sick child's hand in his, and Phebe at the other with her handkerchief at her eyes. My aunt was very pale, and now and then a tear rolled down her cheeks.

"I am not afraid," I heard Amelia say, speaking distinctly, but stopping between the words. "I think He will be good to me and let me go to father and mother. I am sorry I told lies, Aunt Belinda, but I was so weak, and it frightened me so to be punished."

I saw a spasm as of pain cross my aunt's face at these words. They were the last that Amelia spoke. She lay quiet for some time—I don't know how long—then she suddenly raised herself, with a bright, happy smile, and put out her arms like a baby which sees its mother, and the next moment she was gone.

"It is all over," said Doctor Warren, taking the little body from my aunt's arms and laying it down. "The dear child is at rest."

I comprehended then that Amelia was dead, and burst out crying. My aunt rose from the bed; and taking my hand, she led me to my own room and put me to bed without saying a word.

"Please don't go away, Aunt Belinda," I sobbed; "please do stay with me."

"If you will be quiet and try to go to sleep, I will lie down on the bed with you," said my aunt. "We must try to comfort each other Olivia."

It was a wonderful thought to me that I could do anything to comfort Aunt Belinda. She lay down on the bed by my side, and I put my arms round her and kissed her over and over again as I might have done with my own mother, and she did not repel my caresses, but drew me close to her and called me her dear little girl. It was the first time she had ever given me a pet name of any kind. I fell asleep in her arms after a while, and slept for a long time. I do not think my aunt slept, though she lay quite still. When I awoke, she kissed me again and said I had done her good, but she was very sad for a long time.

Amelia's death seemed to make a great change in our household. Both Elmina and I had weak eyes, which prevented our resuming our lessons immediately. My aunt's rules were very much relaxed; and though she never indulged us in anything wrong, she allowed us much more liberty. She even tried to make herself a companion to us, laying aside her usual employments, in which she was very systematic, to read to us the few story-books we possessed, and telling us tales of her early days in the colony and afterward in the English boarding-school where she lived for more than six years.

My enjoyment of these tales was very great especially as my aunt allowed me to ask questions and make remarks. Her school was a very strict and fashionable one near London; and when I heard her account of the way she had been trained and repressed and disciplined day and night, I no longer wondered at her ideas of education, but rather that she had lived through the process at all. And, after all, with the exception of French and music, I did not see that she had really learned much more than Jeanne and I had acquired under Miss Tempy Hutchinson.

Elmina did not like these conversations as much as I did. She thought them stupid and tiresome, and was always stealing away to gossip with Jane, and, as I suspected, to read the books with which Jane furnished her. Where Jane got them I don't know; I suppose she borrowed them among her acquaintances. They consisted of novels as novels were about the middle of the last century—stories about fine ladies who fell in love with footmen, and chamber-maids who were noblemen's daughters in disguise, or who attracted the notice of dukes and earls by their beauty; and they were not only the poorest of the poor in a literary point of view, but so utterly low, coarse, and immoral that it is no wonder serious and right-minded people of those days objected to novels altogether.

Elmina's eyes were left weak by the measles, as usually happens with that disease, and they did not improve as mine did. If they were better for a day or two, they invariably got worse again, and at last Aunt Belinda called in Doctor Warren to examine them. Elmina was very unwilling to see him, but she had no choice.

Dr. Warren looked at her eyes, and asked if she used them by candle-light.

"She uses them very little by any light," said my aunt. "She has no lessons, and is not allowed to read or do any fine work."

"They ought to be well by this time," said the doctor. "You see how much Olivia's have improved."

He made some prescription for her and sent her away; and then, turning to my aunt, he said, abruptly,—

"Madam, I am convinced that child does not tell the truth."

My aunt looked annoyed.

"I am aware that the heart of man it deceitful," said she; "but I hardly think Elmina could have imposed on me even if so disposed."

"I think you will find she has," answered the doctor. And so it proved.

Elmina and I usually went to bed at eight, unless on company nights, when we were allowed to sit up an hour longer. We usually left our candles burning; and when we were in bed, Phebe came and carried them away. Phebe, as well as the doctor, had suspicions about Elmina, and one night, instead of going directly down stairs, as usual, she quietly remained in the hall for half an hour, and then, suddenly opening the door of my aunt's room, she discovered Elmina reading in bed by the light of an end of sperm candle which she held in her hand. My aunt burned sperm candles in her drawing-room instead of wax, though she preferred the latter, because sperm candles were a New England manufacture; and there had lately been several altercations between Phebe and Jane concerning certain candle-ends which were not forthcoming.

The mystery was now explained. Elmina in her fright actually tried to hide the lighted candle in the bed, and but for Phebe's promptness and presence of mind she might have been burned to death. As it was, her hands and face were a good deal scorched; and if her sheets and night-gown had been of cotton instead of good solid linen, she would hardly have escaped.

My aunt was called directly, and made some suitable application to the burns, postponing all questions until the next day.

In the morning came Phebe with the news that Jane was missing.

"Reckon she thought it best to be out of the way," said Phebe, with a grim smile. "She knows what's good for herself. A good riddance, any way."

At first Elmina was sullenly silent under my aunt's questioning, but at last she confessed that she had bribed Jane to get her the books and hide the candles for her.

But how had she obtained the money? We each had sixpence a week for pocket-money. I had saved mine ever since I came to Boston that I might have something wherewith to buy presents when I went home, and my aunt did not disapprove of my doing so; but Elmina never had any beforehand. I was startled by the look in my aunt's face when she called me and asked me where my money was. "In a box in my drawer, Aunt Belinda," I replied. "Don't you remember the money-box you gave me?"

"Bring it to me," said my aunt.

I did so, rejoicing in my own mind at its weight.

"It feels very heavy," I ventured to say as I put it into my aunt's hand.

She poised it a moment, and then a sudden suspicion seemed to strike her.

"I must ask you to let me open this box and see what is in it, Olivia," said she.

The box had a lid with a slit in it which was fastened by a hasp and a little padlock. I produced the key, not at all unwilling to see my hoard displayed. My aunt unlocked and opened it, and turned the contents out on her lap. There was not a single silver piece in the box—not a bit of money of any kind except two English half-pennies. All the rest were bits of stone and pebbles.

I was utterly astounded, and my aunt turned absolutely white. It was plain I had been robbed, but by whom?

"When did you put the last money in your box?" asked my aunt.

"It was last Saturday," I answered. "Don't you remember you did not give me any money the week before, and last Saturday you gave me an English shilling—a new one with a hole in it?"

"True; so I did. How long is it since you opened the box?"

"Never since you gave it to me," I answered. "I meant to keep it a year."

"Where have you kept the key?" was the next question.

I told her in my work-box, tied to the key of my little writing-desk.

With all her strictness and system, my aunt was rather careless about money. She used to leave her purse on the table and in her work-box, and often forgot to lock her writing-desk. She now went to this writing-desk—it was a high, old-fashioned secretary—and opened a little drawer where I knew she kept a collection of gold and silver pieces, foreign and old coins most of them. She looked them over, closed the drawer, and returned to her seat paler than before.

"I have been robbed as well as yourself;" said she; "but I will repay your loss, Olivia."

"I don't think you ought, Aunt Belinda," I interrupted. "It wasn't your fault."

Now, an interruption was one of the worst sins in Aunt Belinda's calendar, and I expected a severe reproof as soon as the words were spoken, but I received only a very mild one:

"You should not interrupt me, Olivia. I say I will repay your loss. Meantime, I trust you will not mention this affair of the missing money to any one. I trust you, Olivia, because I believe you to be trustworthy. You have many faults, as all children have, but I have always found you perfectly truthful. God bless you, my child!"

These words and the kiss which went with them almost made amends for the loss of my money. I was allowed to read a little now, and Aunt Belinda told me I might take any book I pleased from the book-case by the fire-place and amuse myself with it for an hour. I chose "Hakluyt's Voyages," and opened to the story of the sailing and destruction of the Spanish Armada—one of the finest historical pieces I ever read—but I could hardly fix my attention on the narrative. I wondered whether Elmina had really taken the money, and if so what would be done to her. I wondered whether she would have been a better girl if she had been brought up by my mother instead of Aunt Belinda, and then I remembered how many naughty things I had done myself, and felt very much ashamed of them.

I had not read a great deal when the clock struck the hour, but I remembered Aunt Belinda's directions and put the book back on the shelf, locked the case, and, as Aunt Belinda had told me, I put the key into the drawer. I sat for some minutes looking out of the window, and then Phebe entered and called me to dinner. To my surprise, the table was set for me alone.

"My mistress has a bad headache and won't come down," said Phebe. "I have taken her some tea, and she says you can have a cup if you like."

Now, a cup of tea at dinner, unless we were ill, was an almost unheard-of indulgence.

"I hope Aunt Belinda isn't going to be sick," said I.

Phebe shook her head:

"I don't know. She feels dreadfully about this business. I never saw her so cut up about anything."

"Do you really think Elmina got the money?" I ventured to ask.

"There's no doubt about it," answered Phebe. "We searched her pocket, and there was your shilling and one of my mistress's silver pocket-pieces, and after that Elmina owned that she took them and gave them to Jane to buy her books and raisins and so on. But she says Jane got some of the money, and I think it very likely."

"What do you suppose has become of Jane?" I asked.

Jane was a slave; for there were slaves in New England in those days.

"I know what ought to become of her," said Phebe, grimly enough; "but I think it very likely mistress won't do anything—not even advertise her. You see she blames herself for putting temptation in her way by leaving her desk unlocked and her keys about; and I don't think it right myself, though I do say that folks who want to steal will steal, lock up as you may. It is all the worse in Jane because it shows such ingratitude. Jane lived with some horrid, low, wicked people that misused her dreadfully, and mistress bought her to save her out of their hands. She was only ten years old then, and she has lived here eight years, being taken care of and taught to read and sew, and everything; and now to turn out like this! It beats all how unlucky mistress is in bringing-up children, with all the pains she takes."

I had my own thoughts on this point; but if I had learned nothing else at Aunt Belinda's, I had acquired the art—and a very good one it is to acquire—of keeping my thoughts to myself.

CHAPTER XII.

ELMINA'S FORTUNE.

ELMINA stayed up stairs for a week and then resumed her place in the family and school-room. I had dreaded meeting her, thinking how ashamed and mortified she must be, but she did not seem so at first. She only looked hard and sullen. Aunt Belinda made her beg my pardon for the robbery, and she did so without any more apparent feeling than if she had been saying an ordinary lesson.

When we were left alone together, I felt very much embarrassed. I wanted to go on talking as usual, but I did not know where to begin.

"Well, don't you mean to speak to me?" asked Elmina, after a few minutes' silence. "I suppose you think yourself too nice and good to have anything to do with me, but I can tell you one thing: if you had grown-up as I have, you wouldn't be any better than I am—so there!"

I hardly knew what to answer to this.

Elmina continued, as if she found relief in talking: "Before I came here I just lived with the servants. Mother never had any time to see to me. She was always going into company and having company at home; sometimes I wouldn't see her more than once a day. Father was away most of the time. I don't know what he did; but when he was at home, he indulged me in everything I had a notion for. He used to say he had had enough of government for two, and he wouldn't have my spirit broken. I learned everything bad and nothing good in the kitchen and down at the quarters. Aunt Dinah taught me to say my prayers, to be sure, but father found it out, and he laughed at me, so I gave it up. Well, he was killed in a duel one day while mother had a young baby, and they told her so suddenly that the shock killed her too. Then it was found that mother's money was all gone—father never had any, I guess—and the house and the servants were sold, and Aunt Belinda came and brought me here; and I wish she had thrown me into the sea first."

Elmina said these words with a bitterness which I can't describe. She was silent a minute, and then added,—

"If I had had a father and mother like yours, maybe I should have been different; but as it is, I shall never be good for anything. I wish I was dead."

"You mustn't say so—it is very wicked," said I; "and you wouldn't be better off if you were. And besides that, Elmina, you can be good if you want to be, I know. Why don't you try?"

"Because there is no use in trying, I tell you," said she, almost fiercely. "I hate everything about it—Sunday and the Bible, and everything—and I don't much believe in it, either."

"Oh, Elmina, you can't hate the Lord, when he is so good," said I, horrified, but feeling more sorry for her than I had ever done before. "Just think how much he has done for us. And he will forgive you if you ask him. I am sure he will. You know he said we must forgive each other till seventy times seven, and he wouldn't do less than that himself. Do ask him, please. Oh, I am so sorry for you!"

"I do believe you are," said Elmina, looking at me with wonder, for I was crying. "Are you, really? Wasn't you glad to have me found out and punished?"

"No, indeed, I wasn't," I sobbed; "and I am truly just as sorry for you as I can be."

"I do believe you are," said Elmina, again, with tears glittering in her own hard black eyes—the first I had ever seen there. "Come, don't cry. You will make your eyes bad again. I'm sorry I got your money, and I'd pay you back if I had any."

"Aunt Belinda paid me," said I. "But please, Elmina, won't you try to be good?"

"Nobody cares whether I am good or not," said Elmina. "I'm not like you. You have got a father and mother; I haven't any one."

"I care," I answered, "and Aunt Belinda cares."

Elmina shook her head with a look of contemptuous unbelief.

"She does," I persisted. "Phebe told me she cried about you till she made herself sick, and she said she was afraid she had managed you badly, but she had meant it for the best, and she would give her right hand if only she could see you real sorry. I heard her say that myself."

"Why didn't she say so to me instead of being so hard and sharp, then?" said Elmina, relenting a little, as I thought.

"Well, I suppose she thought it wasn't the best way. Anyhow, Elmina, she did say so; and besides that," I added, reverently, "God cares, I know. Mother used to tell me so, and it is in the Bible. I can show you ever so many places. It says he gave his Son to die for us when we were sinners, and that he has no pleasure in having any one perish."

"Are you sure about that?" asked Elmira. "I don't remember any such verse."

"I can show you if you will let me," I answered, eagerly. "I found them all when I used to read the Bible with mother Saturday evenings. Oh, we used to have such nice times reading the Bible with mother."

"Then she used to read it with you—not for a punishment?" said Elmira.

"No, indeed; it was the greatest pleasure we had."

"Perhaps I should have liked it if I had read it in that way," said Elmina; "but here it seems just like any other lesson, only worse, because we have to learn it for a punishment. I don't believe any one ever 'could' like it, reading it as we do on Saturdays. But come, Olivia; if your eyes don't ache, let us take the Bible and find the verses you spoke of. It will pass away the time as well as anything."

The words were not very reverent, certainly, but I was delighted to have Elmina propose of her own accord to look at the Bible, and I was glad to find her disposed to be friendly, for I never could bear to keep up a quarrel with any one. We spent an hour looking over the Bible and finding different texts.

"If I thought he really did love me and want me to be good, I believe I would try," said Elmina, at last; "but it does not seem possible. And besides, it would make me feel so wicked. I should be ashamed."

"The thief on the cross wasn't ashamed," said I. "But won't you try?"

"There would be no use in it. Who would believe me, after all? They would think it was only pretence."

"But he wouldn't think so, because he knows all our thoughts and feelings a great deal better than we do ourselves," I persisted. "And I don't think aunt would, either. She would see after a little while that you meant it."

"Well, perhaps. Come, we ought to get ready for tea."

We went up stairs together. As we left the library, where we had been talking, and passed the open door of the drawing-room, I saw my aunt lying on the sofa by the folding-doors, and I wondered if she could have heard our conversation. I confess I hoped she had. I said nothing to Elmina, however.

When we parted at the door of my room, she kissed me.

"If you believe in praying, you may pray for me," said she. "Perhaps it will do me some good."

Now, my own prayers had lately been very much a matter of form, but I did not forget Elmina's request. I prayed that she might be made a good girl and learn to love the Bible instead of hating it. And I found, to my surprise, as I believe many Christians have found before and since, that the best way to put life into our prayers for ourselves is to intercede for others. I was led to see how I had myself forgotten my mother's lessons, how I had neglected to learn my verses, as I had promised to do, and how often I had forgotten my prayers or said them hastily and carelessly. I think that night's experience has done me good ever since.

Elmina's hand was still lame from the burns, and she needed help in dressing and undressing. That night Aunt Belinda went up stairs with her instead of Phebe, and I heard them talking for a long time. The next day, as we went down stairs to breakfast, Elmina said to me,—

"You were right, Olivia; Aunt Belinda does care. If she had always talked to me as she did last night, it would have been very different."

Certainly Elmina changed very much after this. She was far more gentle and pleasant with me; and though now and then the old teasing spirit would come up, it never stayed long. But she was very low spirited and unhappy. She could not believe that there was any use in her trying to be good after she had been wicked so long. She read the Bible a great deal, but she got very little comfort from it. Sometimes we read together, and then I used to point out all my favourite verses, but she would always shake her head and say they were not for her.

"They are for people who want to be good," she said one day.

"And don't you want to be good?" I asked.

She hesitated a little before she answered:

"I don't know. Sometimes I do and sometimes—I can't make you understand, Olivia, and I don't understand myself. I 'want' to wish to be good, and yet I don't. It seems to me as if my whole nature was against it—as if I should have to be made over altogether before I came to anything. And that can't be, you know."

"Who told you it couldn't?" asked Phebe.

She always went round as still as a cat, and had come into the room, without our seeing or hearing her, in time to hear Elmina's last remark.

"Nobody ever told me so, but I don't see how it can be," said Elmina.

"Neither did Nicodemus," replied Phebe. "He was a very learned man, I expect—as learned, maybe, as Mr. Otis or Mr. Adams; but when the Lord told him,—

"'Ye must be born again,' he said.

"'How can a man be born when he is old?' 'How can these things be?' said he.

"And yet there is a way, though we don't understand how exactly it comes about—at least I don't. Let me take the book a minute."

She turned over to the fifty-first Psalm.

"See here, child; here's the prayer you need:

"'Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.'

"That is what he'll do for you, child. He will change your whole mind and will and desires so that you'll love to please him and to do good to other folks. See here again in Second Corinthians iv. 17:

"'Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.'"

Elmina looked as if she had received a perfectly new idea.

"If that could be—But how do I know that it means me?" said she. "How do I know that he will do it for me?"

"Because he says he will do it for everybody:

"'He will have all men to be saved.'

"A good man said once that he was in that state that if he had read in the Bible, 'This is a true saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save John Nelson,' he would have thought it meant some other John Nelson, but because it said 'to save sinners' he knew it meant him. No, no, my dear! Don't ever think of doubting the mercy of your Father and your Saviour, whatever you do: you can't please the Lord better than by believing his word. I don't understand a good deal of the high doctrines the ministers preach here—I was brought up among the Moravians in Pennsylvania, where they don't make so much account of them—but I do know enough to read my Bible, and I don't find there that he ever turned any away that came to him."

Elmina did not answer except to say, "Thank you, Phebe."

After Phebe went out of the room, however, she turned to me: "Isn't she good? Just think how I used to plague her! And yet she has never given me an unkind word since—that time."

"God is a great deal better than she is," I ventured to say.

"Yes, I suppose so," she answered, thoughtfully; and that was the end of our conversation.

I noticed, however, that Elmina was a good deal more cheerful after this. She took great pains to please my aunt in everything, and Aunt Belinda, on her part, was very ready to be pleased. She had certainly relaxed her rule very much about that time. She sat with us a good deal, and not only exerted herself to tell us things which she thought would be entertaining, but she allowed, and even encouraged, us in talking to her and asking her questions—a thing never permitted under the old regime. Her "musts" and "must nots" were as imperative as ever,—they were matter of principle as well as of habit,—but were fewer in number, and a great many vexatious little rules were allowed to fall into disuse.

I think a good many changes grew out of the state of Elmina's health. She continued very delicate all through the early spring. The measles had left her with a hard, dry cough which was aggravated by the least cold or change in the weather. She grew thin and pale, and was tired out with a very little exertion. Doctor Warren said she ought to have a change of air, and my aunt was considering various plans for that purpose when a letter came from England which put them all aside.

I had learned already from Phebe that Elmina's father was an English officer who had fallen in love with and married her mother while a prisoner in Virginia—that he had been a very worthless kind of man at best, who had quarrelled with his own family and been cast off by them entirely after his marriage. It now appeared that Captain Vernon's only brother had kept his niece in sight all these years, and that he had by will left a large fortune to her on the condition that she should return to England and be educated there till she was of age, after which she was at liberty to reside where she pleased. I did not of course understand all the details of the business, but this was the amount of it: Elmina was to be sent to England under the charge of some competent person, and my aunt was to receive a fit compensation for the care and expense she had bestowed on the child.

I don't know how it happened that I was present at the interview between my aunt and the English lawyer in which this last point was brought up, but I was, and I shall never forget how my aunt drew herself up as she said,—

"When I ask for compensation, it will be time for Mr. Vernon to offer it. I took my first husband's niece out of a sense of duty and from motives of compassion when she had no other refuge, and when her father's family absolutely refused to have any charge of her. I am willing to resign her to them if it seems to be for her good, but any talk of compensation I must regard as nothing less than insulting under the circumstances."

The Englishman looked embarrassed and glanced at Mr. Otis, who was my aunt's lawyer, but Mr. Otis only rubbed his glasses on the great white silk handkerchief he always carried, and could give no help. But he was a very courtly, accomplished gentleman, this English lawyer, and got out of the scrape very well.

"It was an awkward way of putting the matter, madam, I admit," said he. "So far as the care and protection go which you have so kindly afforded to this young lady, it must be evident that no money can even begin to pay for them. In fact, they are not to be valued in money at all. But I presume—indeed, I may say that I know—my late esteemed client Mr. Richard Vernon felt that both himself and his late father were to blame in neglecting Miss Vernon and allowing the whole expense of her maintenance and education to fall upon her mother's family, and he wished to assume his share of the same, however late. I did not myself draw up the will, or I should have suggested putting the matter in a less exceptionable shape."

My aunt accepted the apology graciously enough, but she steadily refused to receive the money, and I believe the matter was dropped. The two gentlemen were often at our house after that, and my aunt invited a very distinguished party to meet Mr. Wyndham; that was the lawyer's name. The Vice-president happened to be in town with his wife on a short visit, and he came with the rest. I don't know but that the young men of the present day will grow up to be as distinguished in appearance and conversation as the circle of gentlemen I used to see at my aunt's house in those days, but I doubt it. They will certainly have to mend their manners—a good many of them at least—if they are ever as polite.

It was settled that Elmina was to go to England and be placed in a certain famous school near London; and then arose the question who was to go with her. Her health was failing every day, and she needed continual care. At last Mr. Wyndham asked my aunt herself to accompany Elmina and see her settled. My aunt hesitated. She liked the idea of seeing England once more, and she did not like to have Elmina make the voyage in the care of a servant or of any one who did not understand her. The house could be shut up and left in charge of Phyllis, as it had been before, but what was to be done with me?

"I wish Olivia could go with us," said Elmina, one day when we were talking the matter over with Phebe; "I shouldn't mind it half so much."

"My mistress would like to take her, I know," answered Phebe, "but she wouldn't want to do so without asking her pa and ma; and you see there isn't time for that, it takes so long to hear from Vermont."

"Does Aunt Belinda really want to have me go?" I asked, very much pleased.

"Yes, indeed. She says it would do you good; and besides that, she wants your company. I don't see how you are ever to be spared to go home, Miss Olivia. I never saw Mrs. Evans set so much by any child—not by her own step-daughters—as she does by you."

"Why don't my cousins ever come to see their mother?" I ventured to ask.

Phebe shook her head, and put her finger on her lip.

"You mustn't never say anything to my mistress about her step-daughters," said she; "and little girls mustn't ask questions, either. However, I don't mind telling you that for all the pains she took with their education—nursing 'em in the small-pox and everything—they didn't turn out very well. One of 'em ran away and married a miserable fellow who had been an actor in the theatre when the British were here. She went to England, and used to write to her ma for money sometimes, but we haven't heard anything of her in several years. I believe one reason why my mistress wants to go to England is that she thinks she may get some news of the poor thing. And the other daughter, she went to visit some of her father's relations in Baltimore at the close of the war, and there she turned papist and made herself a nun and gave all her money to the convent. It was a dreadful blow to my mistress."

"It was queer that she should want to go into a convent, of all things," said I. "I should think she might have had enough of rules."

"I guess she didn't know very well what she did want," returned Phebe. "But about Miss Olivia's going to England: my mistress would like to take her, I know, especially as I can't go."

"Why can't you go?" asked Elmina.

"Oh, I've got to stay and keep house. Phyllis, she wants to get married again—more fool she, not to know when she's well off!—and mistress doesn't like to leave the house alone."

No more was said on this subject except between Elmina and myself.

Elmina disliked the idea of going to England. She felt a kind of resentment, not wholly unnatural, I think, against her father's family for having neglected her so long, and she had lately grown very fond of Aunt Belinda. My lively imagination built endless castles in the air on the subject, and my mind was divided between the wish to go with my aunt and my hope of being sent to make a visit at home.

One day, to my great and joyful surprise, the matter was settled. My father walked in upon us.

At first I thought something dreadful must have happened at home, but I was soon reassured. They were all well, father said; mother's health had improved by the change, and she was better than she had been for years. Jeanne was teaching school in the village, and liked it. The children were well and happy, and the farm was going on finely. But this was not all. Father had recovered a debt of some thousands of dollars—that was about the amount, though we had not begun to reckon much by dollars and cents at that time—which he had never expected to see again. It was business connected with this which had brought him to Boston; but the matter was all settled, and on the strength of it, Ezra was going to college at last. Not, however, to Harvard, as I was sorry to hear, but to Dartmouth, in New Hampshire, which was nearer home, and where all my uncles were educated. They had all sent me letters and presents, which were in father's trunk.

Aunt Belinda made father very welcome, and was much pleased with the bear-skin which Ezra sent for her carriage and the flounce Jeanne had worked for her. Father was a very polite, well-bred man, with a soldierly air and manner, and I was proud to see how well he appeared. I was especially delighted when, on Aunt Belinda's remarking that she used to be very fond of riding, father invited her to ride with him. Phebe got out and brushed up my aunt's scarlet cloth habit trimmed with blue, and her tall beaver hat. Father was always a splendid figure on horseback, and my aunt also rode very well, so it was with great pride and pleasure that we watched them from the door. They were gone a long time; and when Aunt Belinda came home, she remarked that she felt quite young again.

That evening I spent alone with my father in the library.

"Aunt Belinda tells me she wants to take you abroad with her," said he.

My heart began to beat very fast.

"Has she said anything to you about it?"

"Phebe told me," said I; "and Elmina wants me to go."

"Yes, I dare say, poor little thing!" said my father. "It is hard for her to have to go away among strangers. Well, Aunt Belinda says it will be a great comfort for her to have you along, and a great advantage to you in the way of education and seeing the world, and so on. I don't know about that. My own opinion is that an American education is good enough for American girls, though it is well enough to see the world when one has a chance. But Aunt Belinda has been very kind and liberal in the matter of your education, and we owe her something for that; and so, as she really desires your company, I think I shall let you go—that is, if you wish to do so."

I did not know what to say.

"Aunt Belinda proposes, if you do not go with her, to leave you at boarding-school here in Boston," continued my father. "I could take you home for the time, but the journey is long and hard, and it, might not be so easy for you to come back. But what do 'you' say? Are you afraid of the sea?"

"No, indeed, father," I answered, very truly; "and if I can't go home, I would much rather go with Aunt Belinda than stay here at boarding-school. But what will mother say?"

"Of course mother would rather you should be at home with her than anywhere else," answered my father, "but she thinks your education is the principal thing just now; and as I said, we owe something to Aunt Belinda for her kindness. She seems a very fine, good lady, and rides better than any woman I ever saw except my mother."

"A fine lady" and "a fine gentleman" were words of praise in those days, though afterward they came to be terms of reproach.

Well, the matter was talked over and over, and at last it was decided that I should go to England with Aunt Belinda. She expected to be away for some months at least—perhaps all winter. My father stayed nearly a fortnight in Boston and its neighbourhood, and went away loaded with presents for the dear ones at home.

My aunt's dress-maker, Miss Jane Wallace, came to stay in the house, with another sewing-woman, and everybody was in a hustle of preparation, for we were to go in a fortnight. Never did any time pass more slowly to me than this fortnight.

CHAPTER XIII.

NEW SCENES.

THE fortnight came to an end, as all fortnights do, and the appointed day saw us on board the good ship "Speedwell" dropping rapidly down the bay with the tide, our party, consisting of Mr. Wyndham, the English lawyer, who was Elmina's guardian, Aunt Belinda, Elmina, and myself, being the only passengers. A voyage across the ocean was a greater event in those days than it is now. Three weeks was the shortest time in which it could be performed, and it not uncommonly consumed five or six. We made great provision for our own private table of biscuits, gingerbread, plum-cake, and so forth, with sundry bottles of wine and brandy. It is curious to me, as I look back at those times, to see how entirely wine and spirits were considered necessaries of life. My aunt always had decanters of brandy, West India rum, and Jamaica standing on her side-board, of which all gentleman visitors partook as a matter of course. She had some famous Madeira, which Mr. Wyndham declared to be the very best he had ever tasted, and she had presented him with a case of the same to carry home. But this is by the way.

I said our party were standing on the deck, but they did not remain there long. The wind blew fresh; and when we reached the outer harbour, and the ship began to feel the motion, to lift her head to the waves and drop again, my aunt and Elmina speedily became too sick to stand, and betook themselves to their berths in the little cramped-up state-room below. I was not sick in the least, and would have enjoyed staying on deck, but of course it was my place to wait on my aunt and Elmina. Our accommodations were no more like those even of the second cabin in an ocean steamer nowadays than a log shanty is like my aunt's drawing-room. However, my aunt, who had made the voyage several times, said they were the nicest she had ever seen, and we were content to make the best of them.

My aunt never complained, and was very kind and considerate to me, often sending me on deck in the care of the captain's wife "to refresh myself with the inhalation of the fresh air, and with such exercise as the confined space afforded," she said; for Aunt Belinda's conversational style was by no means at the mercy of such trifling enemies as winds and waves.

Mrs. Clarkson was very kind to me. She was one of the most agreeable women I ever met in my life. She had been three times married, always to sailors, and had been more than once around the world, and she had a wonderful faculty of describing what she had seen. I remember she had once been shipwrecked on New Holland, as Australia was then called, where she had all sorts of wonderful adventures, and came near being eaten up by cannibals. She declared it was a beautiful country, and would some time become a great nation. I remember that she was very much interested in the subject of foreign missions—a subject on which the American Church was just beginning to wake up. I enjoyed her society very much, but I always found Elmina so low spirited when I returned to her, and so certain that she should never live to see England, that I did not like to leave her long at a time.

After a while, however, matters improved.

My aunt and Elmina so far recovered from their sea-sickness as to be able to come on deck. Mr. Wyndham also appeared again, and resumed his animated political discussions with my aunt on the future prospects of the United States. Mr. Wyndham was quite certain that the independence of the new republic could not last, that so many discordant elements could not possibly be harmonized—that, as he expressed it, the conglomeration would fall apart by its own weight, and its elements would either go to utter destruction or be saved only by seeking the protection of that country which they had disowned. I have lived to hear similar prophecies once or twice since that day.

My aunt, who was very patriotic, and also very well informed on all political subjects, held her own very well in these discussions, and also kept her temper, which was more than Elmina and I could do. Of course we took no part in the conversation, for it was a fundamental principle of good manners in those days—and I must say one that had its advantages—that in the company of their elders little girls were to be seen and not heard; but we relieved our minds when we were alone together.

"And just to think," said Elmina one day, "that I have got to live with English people and hear just such talk for seven long years! I don't care. I will come back to America the very minute I am of age, and bring all Uncle Richard Vernon's money and plate, and everything, with me, and give it to the United States to buy ships of war with; and then see!"

I highly approved this patriotic resolve of Elmina's, but suggested that she would want some of the property to live on.

"Well, anyhow, I will give a thousand dollars," said Elmina; "and the ship shall be called the Olivia."

My aunt had many letters of introduction to ladies and gentlemen in England, both English and American. She proposed, after seeing Elmina settled in her new home, to spend some time in London, that I might take music and drawing-lessons, since, as she said, I might never have such another opportunity.

Travelling on the Continent was now out of the question even if my aunt had desired it, but I don't think she did. She said, however, that she should like to have me see the Alps, and perhaps we might visit Switzerland before our return if public affairs should become more settled.

"Yes, you will be having all the nice times travelling about with Aunt Belinda and living with her in London," grumbled Elmina, "while I shall be shut up in the country with a stupid governess whom I shall dislike—I know I shall."

"Perhaps she won't be stupid; and if she is, you needn't dislike her," said I, sententiously. "We ought not to dislike people because they are stupid. You used to think you would give anything to get away from Aunt Belinda."

"Aunt Belinda was very different then, and so was I," answered Elmina, to which I agreed.

"But just think of living in a beautiful country-house all your own," said I, "with a carriage and horses and a beautiful library and green-house, and everything such as one reads about in 'Evelina' and 'Cecilia.'"

"I never read 'Evelina' and 'Cecilia,' but I don't care a pin about all these fine things," answered Elmina; and I really don't think she did. "I mean to make an American flag and keep it hung up in my room over my picture of Washington all the time. And I 'won't' ever be an English girl!" said Elmina, vehemently. "I will be a Yankee girl just as long as I live; and the very minute I get to be twenty-one, I mean to take all my property and get on a ship and come home."

I applauded these sentiments, and we spent a long time telling each other what we meant to do when we were grown-up. I told Elmina for the first time of my favourite castle in the air—the boarding-school for young ladies which I meant to establish, and which I was never tired of thinking about.

Elmina did not altogether sympathize with me in this pet scheme. She could not imagine why anybody could want to keep a school, but she promised to buy me some nice books and pictures and a pair of globes like those we had once seen at one of the professor's houses in Cambridge. Also she meant to find all the poor little girls who had no mothers to take care of them, and send them to the to school. We used to amuse ourselves for hours with these plans for the future. I don't think they did us any harm. Certainly they were very unselfish, for the most part, however unpractical they might have been, since they were all intended for the benefit of our fellow-creatures. I have learned since then that it is by no means so easy to do good to people as those imagine who have never tried. I don't suppose, for example, that all the good influences in Boonville would make Lucinda Bell take decent care of her children, for all the dreadful warning she had in the death of her two oldest girls by the explosion of kerosene. She has had help enough and good counsel enough, if that is all, but I am afraid she will be nothing better than a scold and a slattern to the end of her days.

Our voyage went on very much like any other sea-voyage. We had very good weather, for the most part. We slept as much as we possibly could, and ate twice as much as usual, partly from idleness, partly because the air made us hungry. I had brought along books enough to last out the voyage, as I thought, only I read them every one through the first week, and had done the same by every volume on board by the second. My aunt and Mr. Wyndham played chess and discussed French; English, and American politics; with theological arguments Mr. Wyndham would have nothing to do. Elmina and I walked on the deck, and built our castles in the air, anal made friends with the captain's cat and with a pet goat who went where she liked, was a great favourite with all on board, and learned of the mate how to tie all sorts of curious knots such as sailors use about ship. Once or twice we had a heavy blow which made all the rest sick and gave me plenty of work in waiting on them, for, oddly enough, I never was sick at all.

"Little Miss Evans is sure to get on in life wherever she is," I heard the captain say once to my aunt. "She never misses learning everything that comes in her way. She knows the ropes pretty well already, and can make as neat a splice as many an old sailor. I have had plenty of lady passengers who never learned to know the difference between stem and stern, and didn't want to."

And indeed it was true that I had always a great thirst for knowledge of every sort, and I don't know that I ever acquired any which I have not some time found useful, from the studies I pursued with my aunt down to such little accomplishments as the making of paper flowers and filigree frames.

One joyful afternoon land was seen, and the captain promised to land us at Bristol, which was to be our port, in the course of forty-eight hours, if the weather held good.

"But there's just the p'int, you see," continued Captain Coffin, squinting up at the sky. "It looks a little like dirty weather; and if it comes on to blow from the north-east, it is a chance. However, we won't borrow trouble. Time enough when it comes."

The boats were lowered.

Time enough for that, indeed. That night I was sleeping soundly, when I was waked by a terrible noise, and presently I heard Aunt Belinda's voice saying quite composedly as it seemed,—

"Olivia, get up and put on your clothes as quickly as possible. The ship is in danger of sinking. Be cool and steady, my child. We are all in God's hands."

I cannot describe the scene that followed. The night was intensely dark, the wind blowing a gale, and the sea very rough. The boats were already lowered, and preparations were being made for our safety. One of the sailors was burning some kind of firework which made a ghastly blue light, and I remember in the midst of all the turmoil noticing the coolness with which this man lighted one at the other, just before it went out, so as to save his materials. But I can give very little account of the matter. All I know is that every one was got into the boats, the captain being the last man to leave the ship; that in the hurry and confusion our party was separated, my aunt and Elmina being in one boat and Mr. Wyndham and I in the other; that the sea was terribly rough, and it was very dark; that we were dreadfully tossed about and separated from our friends in the other boat, and at last thrown violently on shore. I felt a severe blow on my head, and then I knew no more till I heard a kind voice say in a very odd accent,—

"She's a-coming to herself, dear tender lamb! Try and drink this, my pretty."

I felt a cup at my lips, and drank eagerly some hot tea. It seemed to revive me, and I opened my eyes. I was laying on a poor but decent bed, in a queer low room with a brick floor, and two or three women were busy round me, rubbing my hands and feet and putting warm bricks about me.

"That's right, my lamb," said the elder woman. "Drink some more now, do! Susan, you tell father to tell the gentleman that little miss is come to herself. Can't you speak e'er a word, my precious young heart?"

"Where are my aunt and Elmina?" were my first words.

The women looked at each other, and were silent a moment; then the elder one said gently,—

"Well, we don't rightly know, dear heart. Was they in the other boat?"

I nodded, for I could not speak.

"Well, you see, dear, the boat you was in was stove all to pieces on the beach, and we haven't no news of the other one, but it's very likely she's all right and will come in yet, or maybe some one will pick 'em up. Don't you fret, now, my lamb, don't, but put your trust in the Lord. Now, do, my dear!"

"Is the child better?" said a grave, kind voice at the door.

And the women stood aside to allow a tall, handsome gentleman whom I guessed at once to be a minister to enter.

"Yes, sir, yes; she's come quite to herself, poor dear! Only wearying for her aunt, as was in the other boat, she says. Is there any news of the boat, please, sir?"

The minister shook his head.

"I fear not, nor ever will be till the sea gives up its dead," said he. "It is indeed marvellous that this should have escaped as it did. My dear child, I am very thankful that you have come to yourself."

"Was Mr. Wyndham killed?" I asked.

"No; he is hurt, but will, I hope, be quite well soon."

I could not yet realize that my aunt and Elmina were probably lost. I answered all the gentleman's questions, I believe, very reasonably, telling him who I was and how I had come abroad, and all that I knew—which was very little—about our shipwreck; but my mind was all the time in a curious state. I felt sure that it was all a dream, and that I should wake up presently and find myself, not on the ship or in Boston, but in my own little bed-room at Lee. I was quite composed. I even considered that the minister was like those I had read of in "Evelina" and "Cecilia," but still the impression remained that it was all a dream.

"She is talking too much," said a gentle voice, presently; and a lady who had come in later, and was standing beside the rector, laid her hand on mine and kissed me. "She had better be quiet now, and try to get some sleep. Do not have any fear, dear child; we will take good care of you."

"I will be quiet and do as you tell me if only you will let me see Aunt Belinda and Elmina as soon as they come; and please don't tell mother, because she will be so frightened, and it always makes her head ache to be scared," I added, for I was not quite right yet.

I saw the women wipe their eyes and the minister turn suddenly away, and I wondered what they were crying about. I had not long to speculate on the matter, for I directly fell sound asleep, and remained so for many hours.

When I waked, Mr. Wyndham was sitting by me. He was very pale and had a great cut on his white forehead, plastered up with sticking-plaster. My head was somewhat clearer now, and I felt very much refreshed, though weak and shaken. Mr. Wyndham would have evaded my questions at first; but seeing that, as I said, my mind was quite clear, he told me at last the whole story, and I learned that I was shipwrecked in a strange land and among strangers, with no friend near me but Mr. Wyndham, himself almost a stranger. So far as any one knew, we two and one sailor were the sole survivors of the wreck. Nothing had been seen or heard of the other boat, but it was not at all probable that she had lived through the gale, which was still blowing fiercely off shore.

CHAPTER XIV.

NEW EXPERIENCES.

IT was a good while, however, before I appreciated the state of the case. I understood, indeed, the words which were said to me, but they seemed to convey no real meaning to my mind. I lay still quite contentedly as long as Mrs. Lee bade me; and when, in the morning, she took me up and set me in a great chair by the window, I was just as contented there, with only one idea—namely, that the dream was lasting a long time, but that I should wake up pretty soon. The minister and his wife came to see me and were very kind, and Mrs. Lee and her daughter were unwearied in their attentions.

I believe Mr. Wyndham was much alarmed about me, but Mrs. Lee reassured him.

"It's the bump that she got on her head as has confused her and knocked all the memory out of her, poor dear lamb!" said she. "It isn't uncommon for shipwrecked folks to be that way, but they mostly come to after a good sleep, and I expect she will. Bless your heart, I've seen a plenty of 'em in my day."

Mrs. Lee was quite right. I sat in the same dazed state all that day, but at night I slept long and soundly, and in the morning I was quite myself and able to listen to and understand Mr. Wyndham. I found he knew no more than I did of the cause of our disaster. James Satterlee, the only other survivor, as far as we knew, supposed that the captain must have mistaken his reckoning. All Mr. Wyndham knew was that he was waked by a dreadful shock, and had come on deck to find the ship rapidly sinking, that he had roused my aunt and Elmina, and had been able to secure certain important papers, but that was all. He had hoped we might all be together, but the captain had arranged it otherwise. He was much effected in telling the story, and we wept together.

"Your aunt was a lady of a thousand—of ten thousand—Olivia," said he; "I have hardly ever seen her equal. I feel almost guilty of her death because I persuaded her to come abroad. But for me she might have been alive at this moment."

"I don't think you ought to feel so, Mr. Wyndham," said I. "You could not tell that the ship would be wrecked; and besides," I added, "unless Aunt Belinda had thought it right to come, all the persuasion in the world wouldn't have moved her an inch."

"Perhaps not," said Mr. Wyndham; "she was a lady of great firmness of character. But now, my dear child, we must think what is to become of you. I consider you a sacred charge, Olivia, as much as if you were an orphan sister of my own, and I assure you, you shall never want for anything which I can provide for you. You shall have the best care and education which the country affords, and it shall be my object to make up to you so far as I can for the friend you have lost."

"I am sure you are very good," said I; "but I don't want to live in England. I want to go home to my father and mother in America."

"Your father and mother!" said he. "I thought you were an orphan?"

"Oh no," I answered; "my father is a farmer, and lives in Vermont now. We used to live in Massachusetts, but father lost a good deal of money, and then he moved to Vermont, and I went to live with Aunt Belinda to finish my education. I thought you saw my father when he was in Boston just before we came away."

"I must have been in New York at that time," answered Mr. Wyndham; and I was surprised to see that he looked downright vexed and disappointed. "I never asked the question, to be sure, but I took it for granted that you must be on the same footing as Elmina. Have your father and mother other children?"

"Oh yes," I answered. "There is Ezra, and Tom, and my adopted sister Jeanne, and Ruth, and Henry. Tom is living with my uncle at Salisbury to learn the iron business, and Ezra is going to college to learn to be a minister, and then he is to marry Jeanne."

"Indeed! I had a reason for asking the question. You cannot imagine how desolate one feels who finds himself bereft of the comforts and society of a home. But, Olivia, I have been pleasing myself all day with the thought that I was going to have an adopted daughter too—a dear little girl to console me for the children I have lost. Don't you think your father and mother would spare me one out of their flock? They have so many to love them, and I have none at all."

"I don't believe they would," said I, very much moved. "You see, mother will want me to help her when Jeanne is married; and besides, I am sure they would not want me to grow up an English girl, after father fought so many years to make a country for ourselves. I am sure you are very good and kind, Mr. Wyndham, and I like you very much, but I don't think I could be anybody's daughter only my own father's and mother's. Please don't be angry or think I am ungrateful," I added, crying.

"There! Don't cry, my dear," said Mr. Wyndham, hastily; "you will make yourself ill again. There is no danger of my thinking you unkind or ungrateful; I like you all the more for your loyalty. But you see, Olivia, I had my own castle in the air, as well as you and poor Elmina; and when it fell into the sea, I thought I might keep one little wing of it. There! We won't talk any more now, for fear of making your head ache;" and so saying, he went hastily out.

I did not at the time understand what he meant by his "castle in the air;" but when I came to consider it afterward, I thought I comprehended the case. Mr. Wyndham had admired Aunt Belinda very much from the first, and I believe he hoped he might make her his wife.

In the afternoon Mr. Wyndham came in again.

"They have found the bodies of our poor captain and two of the sailors," said he. "They are to be buried in the church-yard here, and I must attend the funeral. After that I will tell you what I think we had better do for the present."

I begged earnestly to be allowed to see the funeral of my poor friends, and at last Mr. Wyndham consented. Mrs. Lee demurred, though she allowed that the wish was right and natural, but at last consented on condition that her husband should carry me up to the church.

"For I'm sure she'll never get up the stairs alone, poor dear! And you ain't able to do no more than carry yourself, sir."

I wondered what Mrs. Lee meant by the stairs, but I discovered presently. The main street of Clovelley village is neither more nor less than a stair-case, and a tolerably steep one at that—steeper than most stair-ways in private houses. The steps are cut in the rock, with frequent landings, to be sure, but it is to all intents a stair-case. The cottages are of stone, each with its little garden, where grow a great many flowers and plants that won't stand the winter here at all.

When we reached the church-yard, I thought all the inhabitants of the village must be present. Of course I was an object of great attention, and I heard many subdued exclamations of "Poor dear heart!" "Poor tender lamb!" from the kind-hearted fishermen and their wives as they opened a way for Mr. Wyndham and myself to pass to the church, where the bodies lay. They were those of Captain Coffin, his nephew David, and another Cape Cod man, Jethro Farnham.

The funeral services were very solemn and affecting. The minister—they call him the rector there—made a short address, in which he spoke of the fact that all three of those lying before them were Christian men, and no doubt prepared to go when their time came, and urging those present to be likewise ready.

It was a dreadful moment to me when the words "dust to dust, ashes to ashes" were pronounced, and I heard the hollow sound of the earth falling on the coffin-lids, and thought of my poor aunt and cousin, whose bodies were lying somewhere in the great ocean, spread out so blue and beautiful to the far horizon. It seemed as if my grief would not be so hard to bear if only I could know that their bodies were sleeping in this beautiful green church-yard, under the shadow of the gray old church, and grown over with flowers in the spring-time. I grew so hysterical that when the service was over Mrs. Carey would have me go into the rectory and lie down while she got me some restorative.

Presently Mr. Carey came and sat down by me.

"Your friends' graves shall be cared for, my dear child," said he. "We will have proper stones put up as soon as may be." He paused a moment, and then went on, speaking very gently and softly: "I dare say you are thinking of your aunt and cousin?"

"Oh," I sobbed, "if they were only buried here, it would not seem half so bad."

"I understand you," said Mr. Carey. "I have two dear brothers lying somewhere in the ocean, and many an old friend and playmate's bones rest out under those blue waters. But, my child, your friends are not there, only their bodies. They themselves—all that part of them which loved you and which you loved—are safe in heaven. And even their bodies will be kept quite safely; and when the last trumpet shall sound, they will be raised as quickly and with as much of glory and honour as those which sleep under the turf in the church-yard."

A good deal more he said in the same gentle way. There was nothing original or brilliant in his remarks; but when people are in real and great trouble, they don't seem to me to want brilliancy or originality. They want brought up and brought home those grand truths which they have heard and known all their lives, but of which they do not feel the real need till all other stays are knocked away.

I grew quite composed after a while, and was able to sit up to my tea, which I had by myself in the library, Mrs. Carey rightly concluding that I would not care to face any strangers, especially half a dozen great boys, as she said.

I had finished my meal, and was sitting looking out of the window, when Mr. Wyndham came in and took a seat by me.

"Do you think you will feel well enough for a journey to-morrow?" said he. And then he told me that he had decided as to what I was to do for the present. "I have two maiden half-sisters who live about thirty miles from here," said he. "They are excellent old ladies, and very fond of children. I think I cannot do better than to place you under their care till I can communicate with your parents and find suitable means for sending you home, if, indeed, you must go home."

I had no objection to make to this arrangement, for I had the most entire faith in Mr. Wyndham. But when the morning came, it was very rainy, and we had to wait till next day, after all. Meantime, Mrs. Carey had found suitable materials for a new frock, and some one to make it; and when the time came for me to go, I was once more arrayed in new deep mourning. I took leave of my new friends with many tears. If Alice should ever go to England, I hope she will visit Clovelley and find out the graves of her countrymen there.

We had a long day's journey in a post-chaise, stopping for dinner on the road at a place whose name I don't remember, and arriving at our destination about dark. I was very tired, and my head ached terribly. I was dimly conscious of a very light porch and entry, some dogs and servants, and two old ladies, and of hearing Mr. Wyndham say,—

"Put her to bed directly, Dorothy; she is tired out. Take good care of her, Mrs. Austin."

"But don't you think she should have some medicine, Brother Augustus?" said a sweet but high-pitched and quavering voice—"Some camphor julep, now; that is very simple, you know."

"Nonsense, Sister Angelica!" broke in another voice, also high-pitched. "The child wants rest and sleep and a good cup of tea. Put her to bed, Austin, put her to bed!"

"Yes, put her to bed, Austin, put her to bed!" chimed in the first voice like an echo. "To be sure, Sister Deborah knows best, but a little camphor julep, now, or some chamomile tea—"

These words seemed to follow me as I was taken up a short easy stair-case and into a tiny room where there was a little white bed which looked wonderfully inviting.

"Here's everything ready, miss, you see," said the respectable elderly woman who had me in charge, and who directly made me think of my aunt Phebe, though she was as rosy as a frosted Spitzenberg. "Now let me untie your gown and put you in bed like a dear, and then I'll bring a nice cup of tea. Bless me, the pretty dear!" she exclaimed as she took off my hood and saw my thick light hair all curling with the damp; "why, she's as white as I am."

"Why shouldn't I be white?" I asked, laughing in spite of my troubles. "Do you think we are all red Indians over there?"

"Well, to be sure, I might have known better, miss, but somehow—However, we mustn't talk, and your poor head ready to split, I can see," she added as I put my hand to my forehead. "There, now! I'll go and get you a nice cup of tea and a bit of toast."

She bustled away, and I took the opportunity of her absence to say my prayers. I was still on my knees when Mrs. Austin returned, and with much delicacy she set down her tray and went into an adjoining room. When she came back, I was in bed; and oh how sweet and soft and comfortable it was! (I am content and proud of my own country, and always was, but I do envy the English two or three things, and among those are the heaps and heaps of lavender and sweet wood-roots they have to put in their linen presses. To be sure we can get the dried lavender at the druggist's, but it is not the same thing at all, and sweet wood-root does not grow everywhere, even in England.)

"That's a good young lady!" said Austin, as she arranged my pillows and set my tea before me. (In England upper servants are usually called by their surnames—a thing which seemed very odd to me.) "I can see miss has been well brought up. There! Drink your tea and eat a bit, there's a dear, and it will do your head good."

I did not feel like eating, but I had been early taught that it is a part of good manners not to refuse what people have taken pains to prepare for you; and when I forced myself to taste the tea and toast, I found them so refreshing that I soon finished them.

"That's right!" said Austin. "Now lie down and sleep."

I was not long in obeying this injunction.

Austin drew the curtains of my bed and left me, telling me that she slept in the next room and should hear me if I called, and I believe I was asleep before she left the room.

I was waked next morning by the sweetest music I thought I had ever heard, which seemed to come floating through the air. I opened my eyes, but could see nothing but the white dimity curtains of my bed. Everybody used bed-curtains then, and why we didn't all get sick for want of air I don't know; but we didn't.

Putting aside my curtains, I saw that I was in an odd little old-fashioned room, all angles and corners, with no carpet on the polished oak floor save a little strip at the bedside and one before the toilet-table. There was a tall looking-glass draped with white dimity and trimmed with a great deal of daisy fringe, as were also the toilet-table and the bed- and window-curtains. At the side opposite the mirror was a long, projecting casement window with little diamond-shaped panes in leaden sashes. Some of the panes in the centre of each sash were coloured, and bore certain figures which I afterward found out were heraldic devices.

Everything seemed very still. Nobody was stirring about the house, and there were no sounds outside save the singing of birds, a distant cackling and crowing of poultry, and the beautiful music I have spoken of, which I now guessed was made by the bells of a church not far away, the tower of which I could see rising above the trees. There was a flower-garden below the window, and a field beyond, where were feeding a red and a snow-white cow. It was all very beautiful, peaceful, and lovely, but it was very strange, and made me feel more than anything I had yet seen how far I was from home—a stranger in a strange land. What would I not have given for a sight of the familiar ugly stone walls and rail fences of my old home in Lee, or the narrow Boston streets that I used so to dislike when I lived there!

I leaned my head against the side of the casement, and felt utterly forlorn and desolate—too forlorn even to cry. The bells had ceased for a minute or two, but they now struck up a familiar psalm tune—mother's favourite tune. I seemed almost to hear the words:

"How gentle God's commands!

How kind his precepts are!

Come, cast your burden on the Lord,

And trust his constant care."

I remembered vividly the time they had brought me such comfort before—the time of my trouble about my precious Lanesborough doll. I remembered how I had then been moved to cast my trouble on him, and how he helped me. I bethought myself that the distance was nothing to him, and that though the great ocean rolled between myself and my parents, yet we were all in his presence as well as Aunt Belinda and Elmina, who were probably praising him in heaven. It was his will that I should be where I was. He had given me a kind friend in Mr. Wyndham, and brought me to a pleasant place, where every one was good to me, and I hoped he would in time bring me home again. Or if he did not see fit to do that, there was that other home where Aunt Belinda was, and which my mother had charged me never to forget; and that home was as near in England as America.

Then I thought of another hymn—the very first I could ever remember learning, and which I had in turn taught Harry and Ruth:

"This God is the God we adore,

Our faithful, unchangeable Friend;

His love is as great as his power,

And knows neither limit nor end.

'Tis Jesus, the First and the Last,

Whose presence shall guide us safe home

We'll praise him for all that is past,

And trust him for all that's to come."

I said these words over to myself; and began to think of texts in the Bible which agreed with them. It is a great blessing to children when their memories are early stored with good things—with hymns, and, above all, with the very words of Scripture. For that reason I like the old-fashioned Sunday-school plan of learning seven verses a week better than any of the new-fashioned ways.

I felt that morning, as I had done before, but never so strongly, that this unchangeable, faithful, all-wise, all-loving, all-powerful Friend was my Father—my own; that he loved me—poor little lonely, shipwrecked, sorrowful girl, foolish as I was, and wicked as I was—that I was not, as I used sometimes to think at Aunt Belinda's, a part of some great machine, but a child in my Father's house, a sheep in his pasture, a lamb to be carried in his bosom. My heart rose with a great emotion of joy and thankfulness, and the words, "What shall I render to the Lord for all his gifts to me?" came of their own accord to my lips. I resolved that I would try to please him in all things, to be good and obedient to the ladies I was to live with, and to learn all that I could. How peaceful was my mind whilst, thus employed! Then I crept back to bed, and soon fell asleep again, which was the best thing I could do.

I was awakened after a while by the sound of a door shut softly, and presently I heard voices engaged in conversation, as it seemed under my window.

"She is sound asleep yet, Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Angelica, and in my humble judgment it is better to let her sleep."

"Your judgment is good, Austin, very good," said a voice which I recognized as one I had heard the night before. "Let her sleep, by all means. Sleep is the best medicine."

"Yes, your judgment is good, Austin, very good, as my sister Deborah says," chimed in another voice, which I knew must be Mrs. Angelica's; "but as for sleep being the best medicine, I am not so sure, and I 'can't' think a little camphor julep or some chamomile tea would do her any harm."

"How did she seem to sleep, Austin?" asked the first voice. "Did you hear her move at all in the night?"

"No, madam, only once that she talked a little, and called for her mother, poor lamb!"

"No wonder, poor little thing! We must be very kind to her, Austin."

"Yes, we must be kind to her, Austin, as my sister Deborah says; but talking in the sleep is a sure sign of indigestion, and so you see I was right about the camphor julep," said Mrs. Angelica's voice, in a kind of mild triumph.

"I dare say she is very ignorant," continued the first voice. "Of course we could not expect anything else, growing up in the wilds of America, as she has, and among rebels too. But no doubt she will learn. I wonder if she can read?"

"If you please, Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Angelica, I think the young lady has been well taught; because she says 'If you please' and 'Thank you' so prettily. And she washed her face and hands and rinsed her mouth of her own accord, ladies. And, more, when I came back with her tea, she was saying of her prayers—yes, Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Angelica, she was saying of her prayers, ladies. And so I think she has been well brought up, ladies."

I was rather indignant, and then a good deal amused, to think that Mrs. Deborah should doubt my knowing how to read, and in my childish vanity I wondered what she would say when she found that I had been all through Murray's grammar and could play on the piano; and then it occurred to are all at once that I was not playing a very lady-like part in listening to a conversation about myself, and that I had better get up.

When I was dressed and had said my prayers, I began to wonder what I had better do next. With all my self-confidence, I was terribly afraid of committing any breach of decorum, especially before these English ladies, who, I thought, would be sure to lay all my limits to my American bringing-up. I was determined to do nothing which should disgrace my country: so I said to myself, poor little chit that I was! But, after all, the feeling was an honest and good one. And then I remembered my first tea at Aunt Belinda's, when I had made the same resolution.

"Why shouldn't I ask help about that as well as anything else?" I thought. "Mother said I was always to ask whenever I needed it;" and I did ask it then and there.

Then I opened the door and went rather timidly down a very wide and easy stair-case of oak, which was almost black with age, and so smooth and slippery that I came very near going down the whole flight at once. The stairs landed me in a square entry—a hall, I should have called it at home—from which several doors opened, but they were all closed at present, and I was debating what I should do next and wishing I had stayed up stairs, when, to my great relief, Mrs. Austin appeared on the scene.

"Why, well done!" she exclaimed, in a cheery voice. "Here is our young lady all dressed and as fresh as a rose. Good-morning, miss."

And then, throwing open one of the doors, she led me into a very pretty room where the two ladies I had seen the night before were seated at a breakfast-table placed near a large bow-window which I perceived corresponded with the projection in my room.

"Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Angelica, ladies, here is the young lady."

I made my courtesy, as I had been taught—for children used really to "learn manners" in those days, and were not left to pick them up or not as they pleased—and then, as Mrs. Deborah held out her hand, I drew near the table.

"Very good, very well!" said Mrs. Deborah. "I hope the headache is quite gone?"

"Quite gone, thank you, madam," I answered.

"Are you sure it is gone?" asked Mrs. Angelica, with an air of anxiety.

"Oh yes, madam."

"But it might come back, you know," said Mrs. Angelica; "headaches do come back very often, I think. Now, Austin had a bad headache last Sunday was a week, and yesterday—no, the day before it was—it came back again. And I do think a little mild medicine—say some chamomile tea—"

"Nonsense, Sister Angelica!" interposed Mrs. Deborah. "Let the child have her breakfast in peace. Any one can see that she needs no medicine but rest, and I will not have her dosed."

"No doubt you are right, Sister Deborah—you are always right," replied Mrs. Angelica; "but Austin's headache did come back. Now, didn't it, Austin?"

"I don't think it was the same headache, Mrs. Angelica, ma'am; it was quite different from the other," answered Austin, with perfect gravity. "Shall I ring for breakfast, or wait for Mr. Augustus?"

"Why, I think we won't wait, Austin. You know Mr. Augustus was always a sad boy for sleeping in the morning; and I dare say he is tired. Ring the bell, Austin, and we will have prayers."

Mrs. Austin rang the bell, and presently two women and an elderly man-servant came in and sat down near the door. Mrs. Deborah read a psalm, and then some prayers. It happened to be the first time I had ever heard prayers read from a book, and the custom struck me with surprise, but Mrs. Deborah's manner was very reverent, and I could not but confess that the prayers themselves were very beautiful and suitable.

"Now, then, we will have breakfast," said Mrs. Deborah, briskly. "We must not wait longer, for fear of being late at church. Bring the tea now, Richard, and a plenty of new milk for little miss. And you may bring some honey, Richard; children are usually fond of honey."

It struck me as very odd at first that there should be no meat on the table, only toast and eggs and a great loaf of bread on a wooden trencher—a fashion which I understand has been revived of late—and the tea-things. Mrs. Deborah made tea in a little squat silver teapot which looked to my fancy like the grand-daughter of the urn, and Mrs. Austin placed before me a large basin of sweet new milk such as I had not seen since I left Lee. I made a hearty breakfast, finishing with bread and honey and a cup of tea.

The meal was nearly over when Mr. Wyndham came down, apologizing for having overslept:

"There must be something in the air of your bed-room, Sister Deborah; I haven't slept so soundly since I went away."

Mrs. Angelica struck in directly:

"Really, Augustus, I don't think it can be the bed-room, do you? You know you always were fond of sleeping in the morning, because once in your holidays when we were all going to Plymouth to spend the day with Uncle Robinson, you slept so late that you could not go."

"I dare say I did it on purpose," said Mr. Wyndham. "Sister Deborah, I shall eat everything on the table. In America they give us beefsteaks and broiled fish, and so forth, for breakfast; don't they, Olivia?"

It was plain that Mr. Wyndham was a great pet with his elder half-sisters. Mrs. Deborah sent for a cold chicken pie and hot toast directly; while Mrs. Angelica plaintively hoped that Augustus had not learned to like America better than England,—a theme which, to my relief, put the camphor julep and chamomile tea out of her head.

We went to church that day, walking through the garden and across a corner of some woods which Mrs. Angelica informed me were a part of the duke's park.

"But he kindly lets us come through by this path," continued Mrs. Angelica, "because it cuts off a long piece of the walk, especially in summer, when the leaves are on the trees. It is very good in His Grace."

"Especially as His Grace can't help himself if he would," said Mr. Wyndham. "It is our right of way, and he has no more power to shut it up than I have to shut up his dining-room."

Mrs. Angelica took this speech as a new proof that her brother had imbibed those dreadful French and American notions, as she said, and lamented over it till we came to the church door.

It was a very odd little church. The walls were so thick that it seemed as if the room inside had been hollowed out of them. There was a very fine painted window over the chancel, and some of the other windows had stained glass in them. Small as the church was, nearly a quarter of it was taken up with monuments, on several of which were statues of men in armour lying down with their hands joined and their feet crossed. There was a gallery at one end which seemed to be filled with schoolchildren, all dressed alike in green woollen gowns, with white bib-aprons and little white hoods. There were three pews, high and square, with cushions and curtains all round, which could be drawn so as entirely to conceal the occupants. The rest of the space not occupied by the monuments before mentioned was filled up with hard, rude oaken benches which at once put me in mind of Miss Tempy's school-room at Lee.

The service was unlike any I had ever attended, being that of the Church of England, and the whole place was so curious and so different from anything I had ever seen that it is no wonder my attention was a little distracted; but I tried to remember where I was, and to join in the prayers and psalms with all my heart. The psalm happened to be the one hundred and seventh, and I never hear it in church to this day without having the whole scene brought vividly before me, making me, as it were, smell the very air of that little gray church, with its queer, dusty, mouldy odour mingled with fresh, sweet air from outside, and the perfume of otto of rose which was diffused from Mrs. Angelica's dress and handkerchief.

I cannot tell anything about the sermon, for, to my great shame and confusion afterward, I fell sound asleep, and did not wake till Mrs. Deborah roused me to go home. I had never slept in church in my life before. I suppose the air and my fatigue made me sleepy. Nobody found any fault with me for it, and Mrs. Deborah said it was "only natural."

That evening I walked in the park and to the church-yard with Mr. Wyndham, and we had a long, confidential conversation. He informed me that he meant to leave me with Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Angelica till he should hear from my parents, to whom he should at once send word of my safety, or till a suitable opportunity offered for sending me home. He asked me if I thought I could content myself with his sisters.

"They are very kind ladies, though they have their little ways," said he, "as most of us have, for that matter. Deborah especially is a wise and reasonable woman, and able to teach you many things."

"I am sure they are very good, and so is everybody," said I, in rather a quivering tone; "but oh, Mr. Wyndham, I do want to go home so."

"And so you shall, my dear, if your heart is set upon it; but, Olivia, you know your aunt would have remained abroad for six months, at any rate, for the benefit of your education. Now, cannot you content yourself as long as that? I promise that you shall have every advantage for continuing your music and other lessons. By that time spring will have come round again, and pleasant weather. Of course I will send you home at once—that is, as soon as I can find a safe opportunity—if you are really going to die of home-sickness, like the poor Esquimaux the good captain was telling us of; but I think you are too sensible for that. And when you do set up that famous boarding-school," he continued, smiling, "you can apply to me for a reference and testimonial."

"Oh, Mr. Wyndham!" I exclaimed, blushing scarlet I don't know why. "How did you know about my boarding-school?"

"I used to hear you and poor Elmina talking about it on ship-board. You need not blush, Olivia. I assure you I think it an excellent thing to set such a definite plan of usefulness before yourself. I advise you not to give it up, but to take every pains to fit yourself for it, and then you will be prepared for any station in life to which you may be called. But now, in view of the boarding-school, don't you think a half year with a good governess would be a help to your plan?"

"I suppose it would," said I, feeling very much pleased at having my favourite scheme approved by one for whose judgment I had so much respect. "Mr. Wyndham," I added, after minute's silence, "I don't think I ever could leave my father and mother and my own country for good; but as for the rest, I will do just as you tell me in everything, and I will try to please Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Angelica; only I hope Mrs. Angelica won't want me to take medicine all the time," I added, remembering the camphor julep.

"Deborah will attend to that," said Mr. Wyndham. "My dear Olivia, you speak very sensibly, and justify the good opinion I had of you."

CHAPTER XV.

ENGLISH DAYS.

THE next morning, after breakfast, Mrs. Deborah established me in the library with all the materials for writing and a large sheet of thin paper, which she rummaged out of the bottom of a drawer. She stood for a moment, holding it in her hand, and I was sure I saw tears in her eyes. Then she drew a deep sigh and laid the sheet down before me.

"There, little miss! That is just what you need," said she. "I knew I had some if I could only find it, but I have not seen it for years—not since I used to write letters to India. And here, you see, is a bundle of nice pens and plenty of ink, and so I will leave you to write your letter."

I settled myself to my work with great satisfaction. The room was a very pretty one, larger than any other in the house, and containing a fine collection of books of all sorts placed in low cases between the windows. On the top of these cases stood busts of various learned and famous people, done in plaster or marble, and there were some beautiful pictures on the walls. It had been the study and library of Mr. Wyndham's father, who had once been the clergyman of the parish.

But I was not destined to be left in peace very long. I had hardly settled to my work when Mrs. Angelica came in.

"My dear," said she, "are you not afraid you will make your head ache writing?"

"Oh no, madam," I answered.

"But writing often does have that effect. I assure you I have sometimes made my head ache so, just by writing a letter, that I could hardly see out of my eyes. Don't you think you had better go and take a walk instead of writing?"

"But, Mrs. Angelica, you know Mr. Wyndham is going to-morrow," said I, "and I would rather write first and walk afterward."

"Oh, very well, dear; just as you please. I dare say you are right; but I assure you writing very often does make the head ache. I have heard my honoured father say so many a time. 'My head aches from writing,' he would say; and he ought to know, because he often wrote all night when he was engaged upon his great book. And I am sure your mamma would not wish you to have the headache."

I did not know what to answer, so I went on with my letter.

Mrs. Angelica fidgeted about a while, and then returned to the charge:

"My dear, is that a good pen? I should not wish to have your mamma think we had no good pens, or that you were careless in your writing."

"Yes, madam, it is a very good one."

"But I am sure," peering at my letter with her glass—"I am sure I see some very coarse marks. Don't you think you had better take another?"

Here, to my relief, Mrs. Deborah came to the rescue, appearing at the glass door which led into the garden:

"Sister Angelica, I want you. Come away, and let the child write in peace."

"Just as you say; you are always right, Sister Deborah," said Mrs. Angelica, obeying the call. "But, my dear, do take a new pen; and 'don't' you think you had better go out and walk?"

"Sister Angelica!"

"Yes, Sister Deborah; I am coming;" and at last she did go.

I made the most of my time, and filled my large sheet in every corner except just the place where the direction must go, for we did not use envelopes in those days. Then I folded and sealed it with a wafer which I found in the ink-stand, and directed it neatly just as Mrs. Austin called me to get ready for dinner.

"Well, little miss, have you finished your letter?" asked Mrs. Deborah as we sat down to dinner. People used to stand up till the blessing was asked in those days in England.

"Yes, madam," I answered; "it is folded and sealed, all ready to go."

"But, my dear, but, Sister Deborah, the spelling must be corrected before it is sent," said Mrs. Angelica. "Surely, Sister Deborah, you will not have little miss send her letter till the spelling is corrected?"

I dare say I coloured and looked as indignant as a turkey-cock. The idea that my spelling should need correction!

Mrs. Deborah only smiled, and answered, carelessly,—

"Never mind, Sister Angelica; I dare say the spelling will do very well, and miss would not like to have any one read her letter to her mamma. Who knows what she may have been saying about us? Eh, miss? Have you given us a fine character?"

"I am sure I should be very naughty if I didn't, Mrs. Deborah," I answered, with perfect truth; "but—"

"But you don't exactly want us to read it; that is only natural. Never fear, child; your spelling will go as it is for all me, I assure you."

"But indeed, Mrs. Deborah, I do know how to spell," said I, almost ready to cry with mortification. "Miss Tempy Hutchinson said I was the best speller in school."

"I dare say you do. There! Eat your dinner, and never mind. Nobody shall touch your precious letter."

"I dare say you are right, Sister Deborah; you are always right. Only when we were at school at Mrs. Trimmer's, the writing-master always corrected our letters and made us copy them; and Mrs. Trimmer's was considered an excellent school, and we were much improved by what was taught us there. You know that, Sister Deborah."

However, nobody corrected my letter, but it was left to go as it was written.

That afternoon I walked down to the rectory with Mrs. Deborah, and made acquaintance with Mrs. Fuller and her children. There were four of the little Fullers, two girls and two boys, all along close together from ten to fourteen, the boys being the eldest. After suitable introductions, I was sent out into the garden with my new friends, while Mrs. Deborah consulted with Mrs. Fuller on the matter which had brought her down to the rectory.

Emily and Julia Fuller were nice, pleasant, lady-like girls of about my own age, and were evidently disposed to be very polite and kind to the little stranger. They showed me their rabbits and their kittens, and promised to give me a little tabby, which I at once fell in love with as reminding me of my own dear Tabby at home.

"But I must ask Mrs. Deborah," said I. "Perhaps she won't want me to have a cat. Some people don't like them, you know."

The girls assented to the propriety of this measure, and presently began to question me about my journey and about America—a subject on which they were evidently very curious. Were there many Indians and wild beasts there? Did we have any schools or churches? Were most of the people white? Did we have any books? All of which questions I answered. They seemed very much surprised when I told them there were none but a few Christian Indians left in Massachusetts, and still more when they learned that Boston was a large city where people had pianos and books and carriages, and the other conveniences of life. Presently we began to compare the books we had read, and they were greatly delighted to find that I was acquainted with "Evelina" and "Cecilia," and they promised, if their mother were willing, to lend me another book by the same author. On the whole, we got on together very well.

Presently we were called into the parlor, and I was introduced to a prim but kind-looking gentlewoman named Miss Talbot, and informed that she was to be my governess.

"I have been arranging matters with Mrs. Fuller, as my brother desired," said Mrs. Deborah to the as we walked homeward. "You are to go to the rectory for your lessons every morning at nine and stay till two, and you will study whatever Miss Talbot thinks best. My brother would have engaged a governess for you alone and had her reside in the family, but I did not think it would answer; there were reasons against it. The fact is Sister Angelica does not get on well with everybody. She is, though one of the best women in the world, a little peculiar, as you may have observed already. But remember that I expect every one to treat Sister Angelica with the utmost respect—remember that, Olivia Corbet," said Mrs. Deborah, with grave emphasis. "There, little miss! You need not look so confused; I am not blaming you," she added, kindly. "I have no fault to find with you about that or anything else so far. But it is only natural for young people to notice such things, and I always think an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure."

The next day I went over to the rectory to begin my lessons. Emily was looking out for me, and received me kindly.

"You mustn't mind if Miss Talbot is a little prim and sharp," said she, in a half whisper, as she led the way to the school-room; "I suppose all governesses are so. Did you go to school at home?"

I told her that I always went to school till I went to live in Boston, and after that I said my lessens to Aunt Belinda.

"And was your governess good-natured?"

"Oh, you mean the teacher?" said I, after a minute's consideration. "We don't call them governesses in America."

"How very odd!" said Emily. She and Julia always thought everything "very odd" to which they had not been used. "But was she kind?"

"Oh yes, indeed; she was perfectly lovely!" said I, with enthusiasm. "Everybody in Lee thought Miss Tempy Hutchinson was just perfection. But she could be sharp too if we were naughty. I remember how she whipped Thomas Allen for tormenting his little sister by pretending he was going to drown her kitten."

"I just wish 'our' boys could go to school to her, then; they are such plagues," said Emily. "But they are going to Eton pretty soon, and then we shall have some peace."

This seemed to me an odd way to speak of one's brothers, but I said nothing.

Emily opened the school-room door at that moment with—

"Please, Miss Talbot, here is Miss Corbet."

"Good-morning, Miss Corbet," said Miss Talbot, kindly; "I am glad to see that you can be punctual. Ring the bell if you please, Emily. Your sister is late, as usual. Miss Corbet, you will take that desk by the window."

Our first exercise was reading a chapter in the New Testament. Julia came in just as we were beginning, and we had no sooner finished than Miss Talbot sent her back to her room to brush her dress and tie up her shoes properly—a direction which she obeyed pleasantly enough.

Miss Talbot then called me to her and asked me what I had studied.

"I have been through Murray's grammar, ma'am," I answered, "and I have been through the arithmetic as far as cube root twice, and I have studied geography some, and I have been through Goldsmith's 'Greece.'"

"You mean that you have studied some geography," corrected Miss Talbot. "Do you know how to work?"

"Oh yes, ma'am," I answered, promptly; "I can bake and wash and spin and help about most kinds of work except about weaving. Mother never had any weaving done at home."

Emily giggled outright, and Miss Talbot herself smiled, while I turned hot and wondered what I had said to be laughed at.

"All those are excellent things to know, and your mamma was quite right in making you understand house-keeping," said Miss Talbot, with a reproving glance at Emily; "but I referred particularly to working with the needle. Can you sew neatly?"

"Yes, ma'am, I believe so," I answered.

"You seem to have been well taught. I am quite surprised," said Miss Talbot; and I fancy she was a little disappointed also. "Mrs. Deborah told me that you were to learn music. I suppose you know nothing about it?"

"I can play a little," I answered.

There was a piano in the school-room, and Miss Talbot bade me let her see what I could do, so I played the "Harmonious Blacksmith," which was, and is, a great favourite of mine, and acquitted myself respectably.

"You must have had great pains taken with your education," said Miss Talbot. "I did not suppose that pianos had penetrated the wilds of America."

"Boston isn't wild," said I. "It is a very nice city, only I don't like cities much."

"It was the hot-bed of rebellion," said Miss Talbot, severely. "The brother of Lady Strickland, to whose children I was formerly governess, was killed at Boston."

It was on the end of my tongue to say that Lady Strickland's brother might have stayed at home and minded his business, but my good genius kept me silent.

Miss Talbot continued:

"I shall arrange your lessons to correspond as far as possible with those of your companions. You will, of course, continue your music, as Mrs. Deborah desires it, and you may as well review your other studies: I mean arithmetic and grammar. I dare say your acquirements are not as great as you fancy. People often pass over those things very superficially in schools, even in English schools."

She then showed me the lessons which Emily and Julia were studying, and also set me a task of verses to learn—a portion of Pope's "Essay on Man."

"Please, Miss Talbot, I know that already," said I.

Again Miss Talbot looked disappointed, but she changed the book for Goldsmith's "Poems," which I had never seen. Learning poetry by heart was a regular part of a girl's education then, and I don't think it was a bad one, either. It stored the mind with good and agreeable ideas, expressed in good English, and furnished subjects for thought and imagination.

My grammar lesson was soon despatched, and also my arithmetic—indeed, I knew them both already—and I turned with great pleasure to my book of poetry. I soon learned my task, and then I ventured to ask Miss Talbot if I might read the rest of the poem, as my lessons were done.

"Not now," said she; "I am going to hear you say your lessons, and after that you must practice your scales."

I acquitted myself very well at recitation, and took great pains with my practice, so that I won from Miss Talbot that qualified degree of approbation which was all she was accustomed to bestow. Then we had a recess for half an hour. I would have liked to spend it in reading, but that Miss Talbot very properly would not allow, and the girls took me out to the garden.

"Well, how do you like her?" asked Julia, when we were in the garden, out of hearing.

"I don't know much about her yet," was my remarkably prudent answer.

"You shouldn't ask her, Julia," said the more considerate Emily.

"Didn't her eyes flash, though, when Miss Talbot said that about Boston?" said Julia, laughing.

"It wasn't very polite in her," I said.

"No, I don't think it was," said Emily; "but, Olivia, you mustn't mind people's teasing you about your country. The boys will be sure to do it; and the more you mind it, the more they will keep on. All boys are that way."

At this moment the two boys made their appearance, followed by a great rough water-dog which immediately jumped upon me and licked my hands and face as if I had been an old friend. I always liked animals of all sorts, and was not at all timid, so I patted the dog and said "Poor fellow!"

At which, apparently quite overjoyed, he rushed away, and immediately returned with a large stick, which he presented to me, apparently as a token of his regard.

"Hullo!" said Jack Fuller. "She isn't afraid of dogs, anyhow. Isn't he a fine fellow?"

I agreed that he was.

"He is perfectly horrid," said Emily. "He killed my kitten, but Jack set him on."

"I didn't," retorted Jack.

"Yes, you did," said the other brother, whose name was Theodore; "but, Emily, Jack didn't know it was yours. He thought it was a stray."

"Suppose it was a stray? I don't think you need have set the dog on it," said I. "What is the use of being so cruel?"

"Oh, all girls are milk-sops," was the careless answer. "All boys do such things. It is only girls that care about kittens and can't bear to have them killed."

"Isn't he perfectly horrid?" said Julia to me. "But I suppose all brothers are just the same."

"My brothers are not," I answered, indignantly. "Ezra wouldn't kill a kitten for the world—not unless he had to."

"Then he is a milk-sop too," said Jack. "I dare say he never fired a gun in his life."

"He shot a bear only last winter, and that is more than you ever did, or will do in a hurry, I guess."

"I guess! Hear the little Yankee!" cried Jack and Julia together.

"Julia, you are very rude!" said Emily, reprovingly. "I should think 'you' would have more sense. Don't you know what mother said? Come, Olivia, never mind; let's go and see the rabbits."

"What did your mother say?" I asked as we walked away together.

"She said you were a stranger and a foreigner, and we were not to laugh at you if you did make mistakes," answered Emily. "I don't see anything more ridiculous in saying 'I guess' than in a great many words the boys use, but it sounds odd, you know."

We were looking at the rabbits when the boys came upon us again.

"I say! Don't you be vexed, Miss What's-your-name," said Jack; "I didn't mean any harm."

"I'm not Miss What's-your-name,' thank you," I answered, laughing, for his manner was so frank I could not be angry. "My name is Olivia Corbet, at your service," making him a courtesy as I spoke.

"Well, Miss Olivia Corbet, then. There's a first-rate fellow at our school named Corbet," said Jack. "Tell us about the bear your brother killed, will you?"

"I will after school, perhaps," said I. "It is time for us to go in now."

After recess, as I had no work ready, Miss Talbot allowed me to read "The Deserted Village" the rest of the morning. So I passed my time very pleasantly.

That afternoon Mrs. Deborah and I walked to the village and bought materials for a piece of worsted work—carpet-work we called it then. It was to be a cushion for mother, and I was much pleased with the idea of working it.

After this beginning, my school-days went on very prosperously for a while. Miss Talbot was an excellent teacher, and we got on well together, though I often horrified her with what she called "my American notions." Finding, what she had been rather doubtful about, that I really did understand English grammar and arithmetic, she enlarged the circle of my studies by the addition of Goldsmith's "Rome" and some "History of England,"—I don't know whose. It was not much more than a compendium of names and dates. I had soon been made free of the book-cases at home by Mrs. Deborah, and I had routed out the fine folio copy of "Chronicle," into which I plunged over head and ears. Miss Talbot insisted on my remembering the dates. I read the stories out of my "Chronicle;" and putting them together, I got a capital grounding in the early part of English history.

With the children I did very well. Julia was a careless, good-natured slattern, always in disgrace with Miss Talbot, and never caring a pin so long as she had not extra tasks to learn. The boys were rough cubs who ordered their sisters about and made them wait on them more than was at all proper, in my estimation. Me they sometimes petted and sometimes tried to tease, but I was quite a match for them; and though we now and then disagreed, we usually got on very well.

Once, however, we had a serious quarrel. Jack was teasing me about being a Yankee; and proceeding to greater lengths than usual, he declared that all the Yankees were traitors, and that Washington ought to have been hung. That was too much for my patience, and my old temper flamed up. I gave him a sound box on the ear with all my little force, and then burst into tears and ran away. Nor would I speak to him that whole day, and I was almost equally vexed with Emily, the universal peace-maker, because she said I need not have minded Jack.

I went home with a heart full of anger and a terrible headache, which sent me at once to bed. I was not able to go to school the next day, but spent the time helping Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Austin in the still-room, as they called it, a very interesting place to me, where Mrs. Deborah distilled peppermint water and lavender water and all sorts of medicines and cordials which she gave away to the poor people in the village.

By and by she asked me if I would go into the park and bring her some handfuls of ground ivy, which grew near the path by which I went to the rectory. I was gathering my ivy when Rover, Jack's dog, jumped upon me, as usual; and looking up, I saw Jack himself; looking very shame-faced indeed.

"I say, Olivia, I'm sorry I teased you yesterday," said he. "Won't you make up friends?"

"If it was only myself; Jack, I would in a minute," I answered, gravely and sorrowfully, "but I'm afraid I can't get over what you said about Washington and the Yankees. My father fought in the army seven years, and I don't think I can like anybody who says he ought to be hanged."

"Well, I'll take it back—every word of it," said Jack, earnestly; "and I like you all the better for sticking up for your own side. Come, I'll give you Beauty's black pup if you'll only be friends again."

"I don't want the black pup," said I, feeling, at the same time, that Jack must be very much in earnest to offer his chief treasure for the purpose of making amends. "If you take it back, that's all about it, and I am sorry I boxed your ears. It was very unlady-like."

"It served me just right," averred Jack; and that was the end of the quarrel.

But my school-days with Miss Talbot soon came to an end, to my great regret: My head had not been quite comfortable since the night of the shipwreck, and it began to be very troublesome. I had a headache every evening and the nightmare almost every night. I had spots before my eyes and was often giddy. Mrs. Deborah attended very carefully to my diet and exercise, but all did no good. Mr. Wyndham came down just at this time, and was so alarmed at the state in which he found me that he sent over to Plymouth for a doctor.

Doctor Selden was an elderly man, and was considered quite an oracle in those parts. He put me in mind of our own old Doctor Partrige, and I liked him at once for that reason. He questioned me very particularly about my feelings and about how long I had been ill. I told him that I had always been subject to sick headaches, but that those I now had were different and I never had them till after the wreck, adding that my head had never felt quite right since.

The doctor looked rather grave upon this, and he held a long consultation with Mrs. Deborah, from which I was excluded. At last I was called in, and heard the result of the conference. I was not to have any more lessons to learn at present, but was to run about is the open air as much as possible, and to sleep whenever I felt like sleeping. Doctor Selden did not think I should need any medicine, except, some simple tonic, perhaps, but he was quite decided about my lessons. I was dreadfully disappointed and distressed by this decision, and began to cry.

"Heyday!" said the doctor. "What sort of little girl is this who cries because she has no lessons to do?"

"Olivia is very fond of her books," said Mrs. Deborah.

"Fond or not, we must not have no more lessons at present," answered the doctor, "and Olivia must be a sensible girl and make the best of it. Is it not better to stop lessons a while than to lose your mind altogether? Come, now, let me see that you are a little lady."

I was ashamed of my tears, and stopped crying as quickly as I could, but I felt much grieved at losing my lessons and my pleasant hours at the rectory, for I had grown very fond of the family there. The girls were as much troubled as myself; and promised to come and see me as often as they could. Mrs. Fuller consoled me better than any one else. She talked to me very kindly, and told me that I must not give up all thoughts of learning because I could not use my books.

"A great many things can be learned without books," said she; "you have found that out already, I am sure, since you told me how you learned to make butter and spin, and help your mamma in other ways. If I were you, I would try to cultivate all sorts of pleasant and graceful and helpful habits. Learn to watch for chances to do small services as well as great ones—to thread a needle or pick up a spool or set a chair or open a door. Try to think of pleasant things to say, and learn to discipline that quick temper," she added, smiling, "so as not to be annoyed when Mrs. Angelica interferes. Oh, I assure you, you can make these idle hours and days among the best school-days of your life if you only take pains with them."

I felt very much comforted by Mrs. Fuller's suggestions, and determined to take her advice. And as I walked homeward through the park considered what I had better do first.

"There is my carpet-work—I think I might do a little at that every day; and I might knit some stockings. I wish I had my spinning-wheel; I'm sure I could spin. Anyhow I will Mrs. Deborah for some yarn, and I will knit some stockings for that poor old man who lives by himself near the church-yard."

Mrs. Deborah was much pleased when I told her my plan about the stockings, and promised to get me some yarn directly.

Men wore long stockings in those days—not socks, as they do now—and a pair of worsted stockings was quite an undertaking. However, thanks to mother's instructions and to lifelong practice, I was a very fast knitter, and I had no fears of not being able finish my task before cold weather.

Mrs. Deborah was very kind to me. She made a great many errands for me to the rectory and the village. She let me gather herbs and berries and mushrooms, and help her in distilling her medicines after her old-fashioned recipes; and very funny recipes some of them were. I remember one famous medicine had two handfuls of red earth-worms and half as many pounded snails in it. Others were very nice, like the rose cordial and lavender compound and the conserves of rose leaves and of hips, which are the berries of the wild rose.

I used to go with Mrs. Deborah to see the poor people; and while I acknowledge her goodness and kindness of heart, I used to wonder whether the poor women really liked to have us come in on them so unceremoniously, and to have Mrs. Deborah lecture them on their house-keeping.

One day Mrs. Angelica, who hardly ever went beyond the garden except to church, asked me if my mamma visited the poor.

"I don't think we have any poor people, Mrs. Angelica," said I—"not what we call poor people here."

"But, my dear, you must have them," argued Mrs. Angelica; "there are poor people everywhere."

I tried to think of the poor people I had known in Lee.

"There was Widow Benson; she used to have help from the town," said I; "but she lived in a nice wooden house with a board floor and a rag carpet."

"My dear, not a carpet! You must be mistaken. I don't think a poor person would have a boarded floor, much less a carpet, even if it were ragged."

"It was not ragged, it was quite whole all over, and everybody has board floors in America," said I. "I never saw a brick floor in my life till I came here. Father would hardly think his cows could live in such places as some of the poor people live in here," which was quite true. Father would hardly have kept his pigs in a hovel such as more than one decent family inhabited on the duke's estate.

"But, my dear, I am sure you said a ragged carpet."

"I said a 'rag' carpet," answered I; and I tried to explain the matter, but without much success. "Then there is Mrs. Winslow: she is pretty poor, but she is just as good as anybody. She takes tea with the minister's wife, and Mr. Henderson lends her his books and papers, I know. Sometimes mother used to send her nice things to eat when she wasn't well; but whenever we gave her anything, she used to send something back—berries or dried herbs, or something."

But I did not succeed in enlightening Mrs. Angelica very much on the state of American society. In fact, it never seemed possible to add to her stock of ideas in any way.

Mrs. Angelica was almost the only vexation I had, and she "was" a vexation; there was no denying it. Kind-hearted, lady-like, and really conscientious as she was, her "ways," as Mrs. Austin called them, were always making people uncomfortable. One of these ways was her pertinacity. She never could make up her mind to give anything up. No amount of evidence had any weight with her, and she would persist in arguing—if that could be called arguing which consisted in repeating the same assertion over and over—till every one else was tired of the subject.

Her insisting upon my taking camphor julep or chamomile tea for my headaches was just a specimen of her way of sticking to some particular point. It was utterly useless to tell her that Doctor Selden had said I did not need medicine, and indeed had forbidden my taking it.

"But then, Sister Deborah, you know it did help Austin."

"But the child's headaches are quite different, Sister Angelica, and do not proceed from the same cause."

"No doubt you are right—you are always right, Sister Deborah," she would say, quite submissively; "but my dear mother thought there was nothing like camphor julep for the headache, and I am sure it would do the dear child no harm."

Another of her "ways" was that she never could let one alone. Whatever I was doing, she always wanted me to stop and do something else. If I was knitting, she was sure I was getting a headache over it, and I ought to get up and run about the garden. If I was at work in the garden, "it was very bad for my complexion to be out in the wind." If I was reading, she thought it "such a pity I should not finish my pretty carpet-work, after all the pains Sister Deborah had been at to buy the wool and canvas;" and when the carpet-work was in hand, it was "such a pity I should not take such a fine day to walk over to the village;" and so on to the end of the chapter.

"Nonsense, Sister Angelica! Let the child alone," Mrs. Deborah would say; and then came the inevitable—

"No doubt you are right, Sister Deborah—you are always right; but I do think—" and then she would say it all over again. It really was a great trial of patience to a lively child of twelve years old—far worse than Aunt Belinda's strictest rules, for in them one could see some sense, and they were at least uniform in their action.

I had need of all my principles, and of all the love and respect which I felt for Mrs. Deborah and Mr. Wyndham, to enable me to bear patiently with the poor old lady. Mrs. Deborah herself, though she would not allow me to be "hunted about," as she said, never lost patience with her sister, not even when, as now and then happened, Mrs. Angelica had a fit of feeling abused, when she would sigh and weep for two or three days together over some fancied slight or neglect, and end by keeping her room perhaps for three or four days together. Yes, Mrs. Angelica certainly was a trial.

It was on my birth-day that Mrs. Deborah had a fall on a slippery place in the garden, and so got a broken arm and a sprained ankle, which kept her on the sofa almost all the rest of the winter. She suffered a great deal for a time, and was quite helpless still longer. It was wonderful, considering the active life she usually led, to see how cheerful she was under her confinement and pain. Mrs. Angelica was worse than nobody in a sick-room. Her only notion of usefulness seemed to consist in poking the fire till it burned furiously, in shutting out every breath of air, and in asking Mrs. Deborah once in five minutes, especially if she were trying to sleep, whether she felt better.

Mrs. Austin was an excellent nurse; but if she spent too much time with Mrs. Deborah, Mrs. Angelica was sure to feel symptoms of hysterics or headache, or something, and require her attendance; and these interruptions were another grievance. In fact, I do think she was rather jealous that Deborah should be ill at all, and it was quite impossible for Mrs. Deborah to have any ache or pain that Mrs. Angelica had not felt a dozen times, only a great deal worse.

Under these circumstances, I gradually and naturally slipped into the place of Mrs. Deborah's attendant. She would not have me stay with her at night, but in the day-time I was always at hand to read to her, to bathe her head or her ankle, or merely to sit still by her side with my knitting when she was unable to bear any noise or motion. As she got better, I used to do her errands to the poor people in the village and bring her news about them. She was very unselfish, and every day or two she would send me over to the rectory for two or three hours' amusement; but I knew that the time seemed long to her when I was away, and I never stayed long.

I count the days and weeks which I spent in Mrs. Deborah's sick-room as among the most valuable portions of my whole education. Under Austin's eye I learned to put on a bandage properly, to make a bed and put a room in order, and to arrange the fire without disturbing my patient. I learned to make broth and good gruel—a very uncommon accomplishment even among nurses—and to do those hundred little offices on which the comfort of a sick person depends. I learned, too, to bear patiently with the whims of Mrs. Angelica, and to restrain my too ready tongue and temper when she talked about "those wicked rebels in America, who wouldn't let good King George govern them," or about "dear Sister Deborah making such a fuss about her pains and keeping Austin waiting on her, when 'she' had had exactly the same, only a great deal worse, and had never told anybody."

In the hours when I was alone with her, Mrs. Deborah and I had many delightful talks. She had lived in London and known Miss Burney, the author of my beloved "Evelina," and Doctor Johnson, and all that brilliant and gay society. She had known Mrs. Hannah More, and heard her talk about education, and she amazed me very much by telling me how Mrs. More thought that, though cottage- and servant-girls might learn to read, it would be very undesirable, and even dangerous, to teach them to write.

On the whole, the fall passed very pleasantly, in-doors at least. Without, the weather seemed to me, accustomed to the autumns of New England, with their glorious woods, dismal in the extreme.

CHAPTER XVI.

ENGLISH SCHOOL-DAYS.

I DID not expect an answer to my letter for six weeks at the very least; but when eight, ten, twelve, passed, and nothing came, I began to feel very home-sick and uneasy, and Mrs. Angelica said it worried her to have the child always looking out for the postman and asking, "Is there no letter for me?"

"And really, Olivia, when we have done so much for you, and my brother is so liberal, and all, I think you might be contented and grateful, and not want to go back to that dreadful America, where there are bears and wolves, and where all the people are rebels."

"Nonsense, Sister Angelica!" Mrs. Deborah would say. "It is only natural the child should wish to hear from her parents."

"Oh, I dare say you are right, Sister Deborah; but, after all, my brother 'has' been very liberal, and there 'are' bears in America, for Olivia's brother killed one—she told us so herself if you remember; and really, I do think she might be contented."

Mr. Wyndham came down and spent the Christmas holidays with us, bringing all sorts of beautiful presents for his sisters and myself; and forgetting nobody, from Mrs. Austin down to the old man who drove up the cows. Mrs. Austin provided a plum-pudding and a piece of beef for every one of the cottagers, and the duke sent down a sum of money to be divided among them, and new cloaks and gowns to all the old women. It was very kind in him to remember them all, and they were very grateful, but I could not help thinking that it would have been kinder if he had come down himself to look after things and build some decent places for the cottagers to live in. As it was, in several of the cottages a family of a dozen, great and small, would be crowded into two rooms, neither of them fit for a human being to sleep in. But when I hinted as much, Mrs. Austin was dreadfully scandalized, and told me I must never say such things, for it was just such notions which made the French rise and murder so many people. After that I kept my ideas to myself, but, like the parrot in the story, I thought the more.

The church was trimmed with evergreens, ivy, and holly, and looked beautifully, but it was dreadfully cold and damp even in our pew, which had a fire-place all to itself; and I used to pity the old cottagers and the men and women from the alms-houses, who had to sit on the hard benches with their poor rheumatic feet on the stone floor, which was always damp. Nobody had fires in churches then, but ours at home, cold as they were, were not so utterly uncomfortable as this very picturesque and ancient little building, where the air was all the time tainted with exhalations from the vaults below. These vaults were the burial-place of the ducal family and another noble family in the neighbourhood.

We had a Christmas service and sermon, and all the family from the rectory came to dinner, except Miss Talbot. She had been summoned home in haste to see her mother, who was very ill, and, to my great regret, I heard that the poor lady was dead and Miss Talbot was not coming back. I was very sorry for her as I thought how sad she must be, and I felt that for aught I knew my own dear mother might be dead also, so that I could not help crying.

Mrs. Deborah saw the traces of my tears, and called me to herself as she lay on the sofa.

"I see what you are thinking about, child, and it is only natural." (This was Mrs. Deborah's standing excuse for every one.) "I don't blame you for thinking of home and friends, but, Olivia, try to put yourself out of your mind for to-day. You have guests to entertain, and you owe it to them and to yourself not to over-cloud and spoil their holiday by selfishly giving way to your own feelings. I know your mamma would say the same, for from what you have told me, and from what I have seen of your bringing-up, I am sure she must be an excellent, sensible lady."

Mrs. Deborah had touched the right string, as, indeed, she usually did. I was grateful for her praise of my mother, and for her reference to her as a "lady," for Mrs. Deborah did not use that word promiscuously. With her it meant a great deal. So I went and bathed away all traces of my tears, and devoted myself, as Mrs. Deborah had advised, to the entertainment of my guests.

We all sat around the fire in the twilight before dinner, telling Christmas stories, and I contributed my share, with some tales of Indians and wolves which I had heard from my father and Rose. We had a grand dinner, at which I first saw a plum-pudding served in burning brandy, and famous games of blind-man's buff; hunt the slipper, and snap-dragon in the evening. This last is altogether an English game, I believe, and peculiar to Christmas. It is played by filling a large platter with raisins and pouring brandy over them. The brandy is then set on fire, and the players try to snatch the raisins from the flames, and most commonly end by burning both their fingers and their mouths; but nobody minds that.

Christmas trees had not yet been heard of out of Germany, but we children exchanged presents among ourselves,—thanks to Mr. Wyndham, I had plenty of pocket-money,—and when I went to bed after our friends left us, I was rather surprised to find that I had enjoyed the evening, after all. I am quite sure Mrs. Deborah was right in saying that the indulgence of grief is often as selfish as any other self-indulgence.

The next day Doctor Selden came over to dinner, and, to my great joy, he said I might resume my lessons in moderation. It turned out, however, that the Fullers were going to Plymouth to school, and after some consideration it was decided that I should go too. We were all to come home on Saturday and return to school Monday morning, and Mrs. Deborah was to take me out at once if I found my headaches returning.

The school was a fashionable one in the neighbourhood, and was called a very good one. It was kept by Mrs. Williams, a widow, in a handsome old house in one of the most retired and aristocratic streets of Plymouth. I cannot say that I think it was a good school. Mrs. Williams was a kind, well-meaning woman, but, she was a perfect Queen Log. She sat all day, nicely dressed, in the parlour, receiving calls and writing letters, and hardly ever came into the school-room at all. The real authority in the school rested with the French and English teachers, who were at swords' points, and who had their separate parties among the girls. If Miss Nicholas favoured a girl, Madame de Marin was sure to spite her, and no favourite with madame could have a good word with Miss Nicholas. Between the two authorities, there were naturally a good many places where an idle or mischievous girl could slip through restraint, and among the fourteen boarders there were several of each kind.

I had never learned French, but it was decided that I should make a beginning. I must say that it was no wonder I should side with madame, for she was very kind to me, and an excellent teacher of her own language. Moreover, she had a great admiration for America and Washington and the marquis La Fayette, whereas Miss Nicholas had offended me by sneering at "the Yankees" before I had been in her company twelve hours.

Madame was really a good soul in her way, but her party in the school was a very small one. When she found that I really enjoyed my French lessons and made great efforts to please her, she was very kind to me and bestowed much pains on me in return, so that I made famous progress. Mrs. Williams was always gracious when I came in her way, which was not often, but Miss Nicholas seemed to take a dislike to me from the first. She had made up her mind beforehand that I was a dunce, and I don't think she liked me any better for being, as I certainly was, though I say it myself one of the best scholars in school. The girls sometimes petted me and sometimes snubbed me, the snubbing rather predominating, but there was one of the older girls who for a while always took my part. Her name was Isabella Peckham, and she was the daughter of a baronet of very old family, and therefore a person of great consideration in the school. Isabella was a terrible dunce at her lessons, especially at her arithmetic. It seemed as if she could not understand the simplest rules, but, indeed, I don't think it was all her fault, for our writing-master, who also taught arithmetic, was anything but clear in his explanations even when he condescended to give any.

One day I found Isabella actually crying over a sum in compound division. (American children, by the way, don't know how much they have to be thankful for in being born to a decimal currency.)

"What is the matter?" I asked.

"It is this horrid sum," said she. (We did sums in those days, and not "examples.") "It comes out different every time, no matter how I try it."

"You don't do it right," said I. "Let me see it. I don't believe you understand the rule."

"Of course I don't; there's just the trouble. I can't make head or tail of anything that horrid old Mr. Emmons says."

"Well, he isn't very clear," I agreed; "but I guess I can explain it." And so I did; and when the answer at last came out right, Isabella was so grateful that she actually forgot to laugh at me for saying "guess."

"Well, now you understand the rule, you can go on and do the rest," said I when we had proved the sum.

"Oh dear! Olivia, if you will only do them for me this time! Just think! I cannot touch another thing or go out or anything till these are finished. Please, Olivia, do them for me this time."

I refused at first, saying that it would not be right, but Isabella coaxed and cried, and at last I consented. I did the sums, and Isabella copied them into her book and went away rejoicing. It was more than I did. I knew all the time that I was doing wrong; and when I saw the book presented to Mr. Emmons, and heard his commendation of it, my cheeks burned, and I almost thought I would speak right out. But then how could I betray Isabella, who was so kind to me? The next day she came with her slate again, and again I was silly enough to yield. So it went on for a week, I all the time acting against my conscience, and making myself miserable, unable to take any comfort in my prayers, and afraid of being found out.

On Saturday we went home, as I have said. Mrs. Deborah was a great deal better now, so that she was able to go out a little, but still she lay on the sofa a good deal. On Saturday, after dinner, she was thus resting. Mrs. Angelica was sleeping in her chair, as she usually did after dinner. I crept close to Mrs. Deborah's sofa and laid my head down by her pillow.

"What ails you, child?" asked Mrs. Deborah. "You are not like yourself at all. Has anything disagreeable happened to you in school?"

I took a sudden resolution, and told her all about it.

"And the worst of it is, I don't see how to leave off," I concluded. "Isabella will be sure to be in disgrace about her lessons, and then it will all come out."

"Suppose it does; what then?" asked Mrs. Deborah.

"Then we shall both be punished, and Isabella will think that I am a mean, selfish girl, and they will all say it is because I am a Yankee."

"Which do you think will be the worst, to be punished now or hereafter?" said Mrs. Deborah. "And besides, Olivia, I think you forget that there is One who has no need to find you out—who has seen your conduct all along. What do you think he thinks of it?"

I was silent, but I knew very well.

"I shall not give you any advice," continued Mrs. Deborah, after a pause; "advice is for people who don't know what to do, and that is not your case. Let me ask you one question, and then I should like to have you go to your room and think about it: what would your mother say?"

"But the girls will all turn against me, I know," said I. "Miss Peckham is Miss Nicholas's pet, and all the others do just as she says."

"Are you a coward, Olivia Corbet?" interrupted Mrs. Deborah, more sternly than she had ever spoken to me. "Because if you are, I have no more to say to you. There is nothing to be done with a coward."

"What are you and Olivia talking about so long?" asked Mrs. Angelica, rousing up. "Oh, I haven't been asleep, but—"

I went away to my own room without waiting for the conclusion of the sentence.

Mrs. Austin had caused a bright fire to be made in the grate—an unusual indulgence—and nothing could be pleasanter than the snug little apartment lighted up by the blazing coal. I sat down on the rug in front of the grate and put my head down on my knees. I don't think I ever felt more miserable in my life. What would mother say? I knew very well, There was nothing she hated like a lie, and here for a whole week I had been lying every day, for I was altogether too well instructed not to know that there was no difference between telling a lie outright and acting one.

I remembered how I had refused to help Elmina in the same way, and I began to consider my motives for not refusing to help Isabella. It was true. I had been a coward—afraid to refuse to do a mean thing for fear of the consequences to myself. Never in all my life had I been so utterly degraded in my own eyes. I crept to bed feeling as if there was no hope for me—as if I never could hold up my head again.

Mrs. Austin roused me betimes in the morning, for it was necessary to breakfast early in order that I might go back to school in due season. When I was dressed, I opened my shutters and looked out. It was not yet sunrise, but it was light. As I stood looking out I remembered the first morning that I stood by that window. I remembered my resolutions and prayers, and how good my heavenly Father had been to me in comforting me in my trouble and giving me such kind friends to care for me. And this was the return I had made.

Before I left my room I had humbly confessed my sin and asked forgiveness and help in the future, and made up my mind what I would do. We reached school rather late, the roads being very bad, and I had hardly put away my travelling things before Isabella came to me with her books and rather peremptorily requested me to "do her sums directly." Perhaps the tone she assumed helped me a little. At any rate I answered, promptly,—

"I will show you how to do the sums if I can, Isabella—"

"I don't want you to show me; I haven't time for that," interrupted Isabella. "I want you to do them, so that I can copy them this evening."

"But I can't do them for you," I continued, with more firmness; "it isn't right, and I am not going to do it any more."

"Nonsense!" said Isabella, colouring, however. "Why is it any more wrong now than it was last week?"

"It isn't any more wrong. It was very wrong then, and I ought not to have done it. It is just the same as telling a lie."

"Nonsense!" said Isabella, again. "You never said a word, so how can it be a lie?"

"It is a deception, and that is the same thing."

"But nobody will ever know it."

"God will know it," I answered, almost involuntarily; "and you know what he says about liars, Isabella."

"Oh, you are going to set up for a Methodist, are you?" said Isabella, in a taunting tone. "Methodist" was a great term of reproach in England in those days.

"I don't know what a Methodist is," I answered; "but if it means a person who doesn't want to tell lies, then it is a very good name, and I am not ashamed of it."

"But what am I to do?" said Isabella, condescending to argue, as she saw I was not to be frightened. "I shall not have my sums done, and I shall be in disgrace, and everybody will suspect something wrong. I dare say I might have had them ready if I had not depended on you, you cross little thing!"

"I am not cross, Isabella," I said, half crying. "I will help you just as much as you please, but I can't tell any more lies."

"Well, come along, then," said Isabella, sullenly enough.

We sat down to the sum, but Isabella could make nothing of it. She had missed the preliminary steps, and I dare say my explanations were not very clear; at any rate, after half an hour's application she pushed away the slate and book and declared she would not try any more.

"You are very unkind, Miss Corbet, and very disobliging, and I sha'n't forget it," said she.

"I am very sorry, Isabella—" I began; but she interrupted me:

"I don't care for your sorrow, and I don't choose to have you call me 'Isabella,' either—a little Yankee foundling that nobody knows anything about. I might have known just what to expect from a Yankee rebel."

My blood boiled at her tone and words, and I might have retorted on her as I did on Jack Fuller had I not remembered that I had been so much to blame myself. I had certainly a hard time of it that week. Isabella lost no opportunity of tormenting me by insulting allusions to my country and to all that she knew I valued most. The other girls, especially those of Miss Nicholas's special party, were not slow in following her example. I kept out of the way as much as I could, but that was not very much, for we had no private room, but slept in two dormitories, of which one was presided over by madame, the other by Miss Nicholas. I belonged of right in madame's room, but it was full, so I was placed in the other. I could not even say my prayers in peace; for though silence was enjoined in the bed-rooms, I was sure to hear a scornful whisper from some one of "See the little Yankee Methodist!"

I don't think Miss Nicholas troubled herself about the matter very much one way or the other. I knew there would be no use in complaining to her of Miss Peckham if I had been so disposed, which I was not. Emily Fuller did not know the cause of the quarrel between Isabella and me, but she stood up for me faithfully, and shared my disgrace in consequence. Julia was too careless to trouble herself about anything which did not touch her own personal comfort.

This lasted for more than a week, with no relaxation. I had looked forward to Saturday with a longing heart; but when the day came, a great snow-storm blocked up the roads and made travelling impossible.

That evening I was sitting alone in one of the school-rooms. There was no fire, and no light save what shone in from the other room, where the girls were assembled, but I preferred the cold and darkness to the unkind remarks was sure to meet if I tried to go near the fire. Presently, Isabella came in to look for something on the table. She did not speak to me; but turning over the things on the table very hastily, she found whatever she wanted, and went out again, knocking down something—a book, as I supposed. We were presently called to supper and prayers, and then sent to bed.

On Sunday morning somebody in the town sent for Isabella to spend the day and go to hear some famous preacher—I forget his name. The little school-room was not used on Sunday; but when it was opened on Monday morning, the square of carpet under the table was found soaked with ink from a large ink-stand which was overturned on the floor. Now, it was against the rule for any one to meddle with the writing-table at all.

"Who was in the little school-room last?" asked Miss Nicholas.

"Miss Corbet was sitting there all Saturday evening," said a girl who was always courting Isabella Peckham, and who was specially forward in persecuting me.

Miss Nicholas turned upon me at once:

"Miss Corbet, did you spill the ink?"

"No, ma'am," I answered; "I never went near the table."

"Then you must know who did," said Miss Nicholas, "for the ink was not spilled at seven, and at nine I locked the door myself. So you either meddled with the table yourself or you know who did. Who was it?"

"I would rather not tell, Miss Nicholas," was my answer.

"But you must tell, or I shall believe you the guilty one," said she, sharply.

I had, however, made up my mind, rightly or wrongly, that I would not tell of Isabella; for I knew she must have tipped over the ink at the time that I heard the fall. I only repeated that I did not wish to tell.

"Then you will stand in the stocks till you do, and have a double lesson to learn," was Miss Nicholas's sentence.

"The stocks" was a machine for making people turn out their toes, and was principally employed on our dancing-days. It was by no means comfortable even for the short time for which Mr. Lightfoot always used it, but after an hour or so the constrained position became absolute torture. I felt faint and sick, but by that time my temper was roused, and I was determined not to give way.

Isabella Peckham came home in the middle of the morning session. She looked surprised when she saw my position, and at the first chance she asked some one "what the little Yankee had been about to be put in the stocks."

"She spilt the ink all over the floor in the little school-room," was the answer.

Isabella started, and I saw that her face became scarlet.

"Does she own to tipping it over?" she asked.

"No, but she was there all the time, and she owns that she knows who did do it, but she won't tell, and Miss Nicholas says she shall stand in the stocks till she confesses."

Isabella was silent, but she looked at me in a way I hardly understood. When Miss Johnson left the room, she came up to me.

"Olivia," said she, in a whisper, "did you know that I spilt the ink?"

"I knew you were looking for something on the table, and I heard something fall," I replied.

"Then why didn't you tell of me?"

"You know well enough why I didn't," was my haughty answer. "I am no tell-tale, if I did—" And here I stopped.

"If you did cheat for me," said Isabella, finishing the sentence.

But at this moment the bell was rung, and the girls came in and took their seats.

When all was still, Miss Nicholas turned to me:

"Miss Corbet, will you confess, or will you stand in the stocks the rest of the day?"

Before I could answer Miss Peckham, greatly to my surprise, spoke up in a very clear, resolute voice:

"If you please, Miss Nicholas, Olivia has nothing to confess. It was I who meddled with the table, and I suppose spilled the ink, for I heard something fall. I thought it was a book, and I was in a hurry, so I did not stop to see. Olivia was not near the table at all."

It was now Miss Nicholas's turn to look confused, but she quickly recovered herself:

"Very well, Miss Peckham. As you have made a voluntary confession, I will not punish you. Miss Corbet can also be released if she will apologize for her insolence."

"I did not mean to be insolent," I said.

"Don't say you did not mean to," answered Miss Nicholas, sharply. "You know you were; and unless you make it humble apology, you shall stand where you are till dinner-time."

"I am sorry if I was," I answered.

"'If I was' won't answer, miss. That proud spirit of yours must be humbled once for all. Miss Peckham, where are you going?" as that young lady rose.

Miss Peckham deigned no answer, but left the room, and in about half an hour, during which time I thought I should faint more than once, she returned, to the amazement of every one, with Mrs. Williams herself. There was nobody we would not as soon have expected to see in the school-room except at prayers or with visitors; for as I have said, she was usually a regular Queen Log, but Isabella had found means to rouse her for once. She ordered my instant release in a voice that made every one start. Then, giving me her own smelling-bottle, she began to inquire into the circumstances. Miss Nicholas told her own story, and then Isabella told hers, adding, with tears, that she knew she had done very wrong and had been unkind and cruel to me, but she was not so mean as to want me to be punished for her fault.

Mrs. Williams was a lady of great dignity. She drew herself up, took a pinch of snuff from her gold-enamelled box—all ladies look snuff in those days—and then delivered her judgment:

"Miss Nicholas, you have been to blame. I have often told you that no young lady must stand in the stocks more than half an hour, and that I would have no punishing to extort confessions. It is often done, I am aware, but I consider the practice a cruel one, leading often to lying. Moreover, you should have accepted the apology Miss Corbet made. It was quite sufficient."

She paused a moment and took another pinch, while Miss Nicholas turned first white, then red. I think myself that Mrs. Williams was rather hard upon her in thus reproving her before all the school, but our governess was like many other easy-going people that I have known: when she once got started she did not know when to stop. Presently she continued:

"I am also informed by Miss Peckham that both she and the other young ladies have been in the habit of teasing and affronting Miss Corbet because she is an American, calling her a 'Yankee' and other opprobrious names. I am sorry and displeased that any such thing should have happened. Miss Corbet cannot help being born an American." (As if I would have helped it if I could!) "I consider that the ladies have been very much to blame in such conduct, and I cannot think it would have gone as far as I understand it has if you, Miss Nicholas, had done your duty. I expect that proper apologies shall be made to Miss Corbet, and that no such thing shall happen in future. Miss Corbet shall have a half holiday to make up for the unjust punishment she has suffered, and she may make choice of any young lady she pleases to be her companion and to drink tea with me this evening."

So saying, Mrs. Williams gathered up her black velvet and cashmere and swept out of the room, leaving a very surprised and ashamed company.

I think Miss Nicholas was sorry as well as ashamed when she saw that I could hardly bear my weight on my feet. I chose Emily for my companion, and we passed the afternoon very happily in the parlour, I lying on the sofa to rest my swelled and aching ankles, and Emily reading or talking to me.

Miss Peckham got permission to come in and see me, and she very earnestly begged my pardon, and brought me similar messages from the other girls.

I was very happy and could afford to be magnanimous, seeing I had got so very much the best of it; but I had also, I hope, a real desire to be forgiving and kind.

"Please don't say any more about it, Miss Peckham," said I. "If I hadn't done so very wrong at first, it would not have happened."

"That is no excuse for me," she answered; and then, after a little silence, "I don't suppose you will ever love me or call me 'Isabella' again."

"I'm sure you cannot wonder if she don't," said Emily, who was not disposed to forgive so easily.

"But I will both love you and call you 'Isabella,' and I will help you about your sums too," said I, "if only you won't laugh at the 'Yankees' any more. How would you like it, if you were in a strange place, to have every one making fun of your country?"

Isabella agreed that it would be very disagreeable and very mean, and there the matter ended.

Mrs. Williams, coming in at that moment and seeing Isabella, invited her also to tea. We were regaled with plum-cake and raspberry jam, and passed a very pleasant evening. When I was going up to bed, I lingered a moment, and thus had a chance to speak to Miss Nicholas, for I could not be content without trying to be friends with everybody.

"Please, Miss Nicholas, won't you kiss me good-night?" I half whispered, going close to her. "Indeed, I did not mean to be insolent to you, only I did not want to tell of Isabella; and besides, you know, I could not be quite sure that she did it."

Miss Nicholas seemed really moved. She kissed me quite affectionately, and told me she was sure I meant to be a good girl and perhaps she had been too severe with me. I was careful to treat her with great respect ever afterward, and we continued good friends as long as I stayed at school, which was not long.

I think the poor English teacher had a very hard time of it. She was over-burdened with work, a great deal of it such as no teacher ought to be troubled with. She attended to the girls' wardrobes and mended for the little ones, besides washing and dressing them, and she had a great deal of responsibility, with very little real authority. I really think Austin's place was very much the better of the two. Indeed, it is no exaggeration to say that my mother's spinning-girl, Lucy Cherryman, was less hardly worked and treated with more consideration than our English teacher at Mrs. Williams's.

With the girls I also got on very well. I think they liked me all the better for my spirit and felt ashamed of their persecution, which, as Mrs. Williams truly said, could not have gone so far if Miss Nicholas had done her duty. No doubt, too, I owed a good deal to Isabella's friendship and protection. Anyhow, we had no more quarrels, and I had a fair share of all amusements and privileges; and as I was always ready to help in any right way, whether in fun or in lessons, the "little Yankee" presently grew to be a great favourite.

But my school-days did not last much longer. Going home one Saturday in March. Mrs. Deborah told me that a friend was waiting for me up in my room. Running up in great wonder to see who it could be, I found a nice fire made, my candles lighted, and on the toilet-table a thick ship-letter directed in my father's hand-writing.

CHAPTER XVII.

HOME AGAIN.

WHAT a time I made over that letter, to be sure! I kissed it a dozen times; and then I was taken with a cold fit of apprehension, and felt perfectly certain that it announced the death of some member of the family; and then I perceived that it was sealed with red wax; and finally I opened it. I rushed through its contents in the greatest haste, to be sure that it contained no bad news, and then I read it again more leisurely from end to end, and then I cried a little over it, and then I read it again.

It was very long. Father and mother wrote that, while they were very thankful that such kind friends had been raised up to me, and very grateful to those friends, they could not think of giving away their daughter to grow up in a foreign land and never see her parents again. They had sent Mr. Wyndham the money to pay for my homeward passage as soon as a safe opportunity should be found for me to come to New York, where my father would meet me.

So I was really going home! I had dreamed about being at home half the nights that winter, and now the prospect of going seemed a dream. I shut my eyes and tried to think how all my friends had looked the last time I saw them, and how it would seem to be living on a farm in Vermont; and then I remembered, with a pang, that going home involved parting, probably for ever, with all my dear English friends. And then I read my letter over again, and was still reading it when Mrs. Austin opened the door.

"Just as I expected!" said she. "Don't you know that the first dinner-bell has rung, miss? No, of course you don't know anything, poor dear! Only that you have a letter from home. Here, take off your slip and wash your face, and I will get out your dressing things. I hope your pa and ma are well, miss, and that all the news is good?"

All the time Austin was talking she was getting out my things, brushing my hair, and helping me to dress. My hair had grown very fast, and I now wore it in thick curls.

"I must learn to arrange my hair myself," said I, as I looked in the glass; "I shall not have any one to curl it for me when I go home."

"You are not gone yet, miss," said Austin, shortly, not to say snappishly. "Maybe there will be two words to that."

These words set me thinking, and I began to wonder whether it were possible that Mr. Wyndham might keep me, after all; but I rejected the idea as absurd, and went down to the sitting-room, where, to my surprise, I found Mr. Wyndham himself. He looked very grave, and even sad, but he kissed me kindly as usual, and produced from his pocket a beautiful little "equipage" he had brought me. A lady's "equipage" contained scissors, tweezers, thimble, tablets, and pencil, and usually a bottle of some perfume, and was meant to be carried in the pocket. Pockets were "pockets" in those days. They were made large and deep, worn in pairs, and tied round the waist with a string.

"Oh, Mr. Wyndham, you are a great deal too good to me," said I, gratefully.

He kissed me again, but said nothing.

Mrs. Deborah came in pretty soon, and then Mrs. Angelica, the latter in one of her moods, as I saw at the first glance.

"Well, did you find your company?" asked Mrs. Deborah, smiling.

"Oh yes, madam," I answered; and then I gave Mrs. Deborah a little note my mother had sent her in the letter.

"Your mother is very obliging, I am sure," said she as she read the note; "she writes a pretty hand, and expresses herself very kindly indeed. I shall make a point of answering her note when—when I have a proper opportunity. Sister Angelica, will you read Mrs. Corbet's note?"

"Really, Sister Deborah, it is very peculiar in you to ask me to read, when you know I have such a headache that I can hardly see out of my eyes," answered Mrs. Angelica, the mournful tone I so well knew. "And I don't know why I should read it, either. Mrs. Corbet is a stranger to us, and I think it peculiar in her to write at all."

"I suppose Olivia's mother does not regard us as strangers," said Mrs. Deborah. "She thinks of us as Olivia's friends, and therefore her own."

"And I don't see how she can be Olivia's mother, either," pursued Mrs. Angelica. "I am sure my brother said Olivia was an orphan—I have his note now—so how can she have a mother?"

"That was my mistake," said Mr. Wyndham. "I inferred that she was so from the fact that she was living with her aunt on the same footing as poor little Miss Vernon."

"I don't know anything about her aunt or little Miss Vernon; I only know that you said yourself, Brother Augustus, that Olivia was an orphan. And I don't see what right these people have to take her away, and I must say I think Olivia is very ungrateful to want to go back to that dreadful country."

The bringing in of the dinner diverted Mrs. Angelica, to my great relief. Fortunately, the cook had made a different kind of soup from that which had been ordered, and there was no shrimp sauce to the fish, so the poor lady had a new grievance, which took her attention off from me. After dinner she went to sleep in her chair, and Mr. Wyndham carried Mrs. Deborah and myself off to the library for a conversation on my prospects.

"So you know by this time that we are to lose you, my little Olivia," said he, kindly. "Your father and mother think they cannot give away a daughter, though they have two others and poor I have none. Ah, well! I cannot blame them."

"No, indeed; it is only natural," said Mrs. Deborah. "I am sure, Augustus, our own honoured father and mother would never have given away poor dear Charlotte even to the duke himself. I think Olivia is like Charlotte as she was when a child; don't you think so?"

"I thought so the first moment I ever saw her," said Mr. Wyndham; and then there was a little pause.

"Well, my dear, your father has written me a very fine, manly letter," said Mr. Wyndham, presently. "He need not have sent money for your passage home; that was very unnecessary, and not quite reasonable, seeing that I was the means of your coming. You know, Olivia, how very glad we should be to keep you—" Mr. Wyndham cleared his throat, and getting out his snuff-box, offered it to his sister and look a great pinch himself—"but your parents' will must of course be obeyed."

"Of course," added Mrs. Deborah. "We shall miss Olivia very much—very much; she has been a very good girl ever since she came, and was the greatest possible comfort to me while I was lame. I hardly knew what I should have done without her."

It gave me a painful pleasure to hear Mrs. Deborah speak in this way, and I could hardly keep back the tears, which I knew she disliked, as I answered,—

"Dear Mrs. Deborah, I am so glad I could be any comfort to you. You have all been so good to me."

"Nonsense, child! It was only natural to be kind to a good little girl who was shipwrecked on a strange shore."

"It would not be natural to everybody," said I, remembering Miss Nicholas. "I have been so happy here, and learned so much! I am sure I shall never forget it."

Mrs. Deborah put her hand on my head and smoothed down my hair, and I got hold of her other hand and kissed it.

"Well, well!" said Mr. Wyndham, after another little pause. "Of course Olivia must go, as I said. An American gentleman whom I have known for some years in London sails for New York about the end of April, and his wife has kindly consented to take charge of Olivia. She is an estimable lady, and I presume will take excellent care of her. I shall write to Mr. Corbet by the first mail, so that he can provide for meeting his daughter in New York; and meantime, as it is desirable that she should have a suitable outfit, and as also I want to enjoy as much of her society as possible, I propose that you all return with me to London."

I was delighted with the prospect of seeing London, and I don't think Mrs. Deborah was averse to it. Mrs. Angelica made many objections, of which one was that we were sure to be robbed on the road. But when Mrs. Deborah said, "Very well; then we will give it up," she changed her tone and thought it very hard that Deborah should want to deprive her of the pleasure of seeing London once more.

The next day we all went to church together.

Of the three large pews which I mentioned in my description of the church, only ours was usually occupied, but to-day the one opposite was filled, and Mrs. Angelica was no sooner in church than she whispered to her sister that Sir John Denham and his family were come down, which, indeed, she could have seen for herself.

Lady Denham and the Misses Denham were very fine ladies indeed, and dressed in the extreme of the fashion; and a very short and scanty and low-necked extreme it was. I do not by any means admire the dress of the present day, but I can tell the people who rail at it, and who talk about the simplicity of their grandmothers, that that simplicity was rather too much like that of Eve in the garden. If any young lady were to appear now in such a dress as perfectly modest women of fashion wore during the French Revolution, she would be in danger of being openly rebuked.

Lady Denham was a good-natured-looking woman, in spite of her finery, and spoke kindly to me when I was presented to her after church. She asked Mr. Wyndham and his sisters to dine with them next day, excusing the shortness of the notice by the fact that they were so soon to return to town.

Mrs. Angelica was delighted, and said, as we were walking home, how charming it was to have some society once more, and how very affable Lady Denham was, and how very elegant were the young ladies. She had the conversation mostly to herself, only Mr. Wyndham said he supposed there was no getting out of it, and Mrs. Deborah said it was only for once. However, they all went, and I was left at home with Mrs. Austin, for I was not to go to school any more. I ate my roasted chicken and apricot tart in solitary state, Mrs. Austin standing behind my chair and carving for me with as much ceremony as if I were a whole dinner-party. After dinner I begged her to bring her knitting and sit with me, and she consented. Indeed, she often did so with her "ladies," as she called them.

"How came Mrs. Angelica to be so different from Mrs. Deborah?" I ventured to ask, after she had entertained me with various bits of family history and tradition.

"Well, my dear, I hardly know," answered Mrs. Austin. "She was always rather delicate, for one thing, and both my mistresses—her own mother and Mr. Augustus's mother—petted her and let her have her own way. Mrs. Deborah was always active, and liked to work and wait on people, but Mrs. Angelica was excused and indulged till she came to think that everything must give way to her. 'Poor Angelica' she was always called in the family."

"I think it is 'Poor Deborah' sometimes," said I. "I can't help feeling provoked at the way Mrs. Deborah gives way and puts herself and her own pleasure aside for her."

"Well, I won't deny but I have felt the same way, Miss Olivia, scores of times," said Mrs. Austin, "specially when they were younger and going into company. It was always 'Poor Angelica' who must have the new gown, if there was but one, and the new riding-habit and the seat in the carriage, and so on, and Mrs. Deborah must give way. 'Deborah won't care,' everybody said, because she was always so sweet about it. I don't want to judge my betters, but I do think it would have been wiser in my mistresses to make Mrs. Angelica know what 'giving up' meant; and there's one thing you may learn, my dear, from her example, and that is not to let yourself get in the habit of having set ways, so as to think you must have one particular chair and place, and so on. You can see how much trouble it makes."

"Please, Mrs. Austin, who was Charlotte?" I ventured to ask, presently. "Mrs. Deborah said I was like Charlotte."

"And so you are, my dear. Charlotte was Mr. Augustus's own sister, and a very pretty young lady she was, and good too. She married an officer and went away to India, and died there. Her father and mother were opposed to the marriage. Captain Ingraham—that was her husband's name—had been very attentive to Mrs. Deborah, and every one thought it would be a match, but presently Charlotte came home—she had been away in London at a finishing-school—and it was not long before the captain took to her and left her sister. I don't know that she was to blame—perhaps she wasn't, either. It hung on a long time, and one while he was forbidden the house, but Mrs. Deborah begged for her sister that he might be allowed to come again. I think that made my master and mistress believe that Mrs. Deborah had never cared for him. Such bats as some people are!" said Mrs. Austin, indignantly—"Not that I mean any disrespect to my master and mistress. But however one may wish to 'order one's self lowly and reverently to one's betters,' one can't help having eyes in one's head, and I do say master and mistress were blind as owls in that matter."

"Well, and so Mrs. Deborah—" said I, very much interested.

"Well, and so Mrs. Deborah brought it about, and got her sister married, and was as gay as a lark at the wedding and till Mrs. Ingraham went away. But then she had a long low fever, and we all thought she would die. But she got well, and since then she has just lived for other people—for her sister and brother and the poor and afflicted. And she will have her crown in heaven, miss, you may be sure. Neither Captain nor Mrs. Ingraham lived long. They died of the fever they have over there before they had been in India a year. Oh, it's a sad story."

"I think Mrs. Deborah is just like an angel," said I. "I never saw any one so good, only my own mother."

"Ah, well! It's only natural, as Mrs. Deborah says, that you should like your own mother best. But I wish you could stay, Miss Olivia. I never took to any young lady as I have to you—not since my mistress was young; and I'll tell you what, my dear: you shall copy out my own private recipe-book for your use when you go to house-keeping; and that's what I wouldn't do for the duke's house-keeper herself, I do assure you. 'No, Mrs. Smith, ma'am,' says I; 'anything in reason, such as my almond biscuits or peppermint cordial, you are welcome to, but my lemon curds and rose cakes are my own, and I wouldn't impart them to Queen Charlotte herself;' says I."

I appreciated highly this token of Austin's regard, and really spent, the next day in copying out the recipes, which was no easy task, considering Austin's cramped hand-writing and her very peculiar views as to spelling. I have the manuscript somewhere now.

I spent a few days in Plymouth, finishing a piece of needle-work I had begun with Miss Nicholas, and, to my great delight and that of my school-mates, Mrs. Deborah provided the materials for a farewell party, at which I presided, and which was quite a grand entertainment. The girls overwhelmed me with housewives and cushions and other keepsakes. Even Miss Nicholas gave me an elegant thread-case when I took leave of her, and we parted the best of friends.

The next week we all went up to town, and were established in commodious and handsome lodgings in what was then the fashionable part of London. Mrs. Austin mourned over the bread and the dirt and the blue milk and thin cream, but I thought everything charming. We had a handsome carriage and servants at our command, for Mr. Wyndham was both rich and liberal, and we went to see all the sights—the Tower, and Hampton Court, and the exhibitions of all sorts, and Raneleigh, then a fashionable resort, and the parks, and many other fine things. We also went to Windsor, and there I saw King George III., whom I had grown-up to think a kind of monster, and found, to my surprise, to be a kindly-looking, white-headed old man, whom I instantly compared to old Deacon Bradley in Lee. Also I saw Queen Charlotte, who curtseyed politely in answer to the low reverences of our ladies, and the little princess Amelia, and, what I believe I valued more than all, I had a good look at Miss Burney, the author of "Evelina," who was then in attendance on the queen. And I saw other authors and lords and ladies, who looked very much like other people when all was done. And I had more new clothes made than I thought I should ever wear out in the world, and gloves and fans, and pretty things in plenty. And I bought presents for everybody in the family, mostly of books, only I purchased a fine large pair of ear-rings for Rose, who had a negro's fondness for gay finery.

The last day came. It was a heart-breaking day. I did not know how much I loved my friends till I came to leave them. Mrs. Deborah kissed me and held me in her arms and called me her "darling child," and Mrs. Angelica mourned alternately over my ingratitude in going and her brother's unkindness in letting me go, and gave me a bottle of her beloved camphor julep: "In case you should have a headache when you get to that dreadful America, my dear." Oh, it was a sad time.

Mr. and Mrs. Chapin, with whom I travelled, were very kind and attentive, and we had a short and pleasant voyage. I reached New York without a single misadventure or a day's sickness, and found my father waiting for me.

There was nothing to detain us in New York after father had wondered over the amount of my baggage and got it safely passed through the custom-house. We went up the Hudson to Albany in a sloop in four days, which was considered a very short passage, and travelled the rest of the way in our own wagon, which father had brought down and left with a friend in Albany. And so it came to pass that at the end of a week we reached Castle Hill, and I found myself once more in my mother's arms, after an absence of nearly three years.

CHAPTER XVIII.

HOME.

HOW strange it seemed, that first evening at home!—so strange and yet so familiar. There was all the old furniture I knew so well, and the old faces, all less changed than I should have expected after a three years' absence. Mother had grown somewhat thin, and I saw gray threads in her hair, but her colour was good, and, on the whole, she looked better than when I left her. Jeanne too looked older and graver, and Ruth and Harry had grown almost out of my knowledge, though Ruth kept her baby face, and was, if anything, prettier than ever. As to Rose, she had come to that age after which coloured women never seem to change.

How much I had to tell and to hear!—As that Ezra had entered college in the Junior year, and expected to graduate this coming commencement, when he would go back to Lee for a while to study divinity with good Mr. Henderson. (That was the way divinity was usually studied in those days. After a young man had finished his college course he went to live with some clergyman, under whose direction he pursued his theological studies, and whom he helped in the work of the parish. Mr. Henderson had almost always one or two students with him when we lived in Lee. I don't think it was at all a bad plan.) Tom was still in Salisbury with his uncle, doing very well, and likely to become a partner in due time. Jeanne still had the school in the village. She had received the offer of a better place in the Dartmouth academy, but she would not leave mother, at least not till I came home. Ruth and Harry went to school, and Ruth had learned to spin, and had worked a magnificent sampler, which was to be framed. Father's farm was improving, and he had come out of the Albany business a great deal better than he expected, so that the family were once more in easy circumstances; but he liked Vermont, and had no notion of going back to Lee.

Of course I had in my turn a great deal to tell about my travels and the people I had seen. Then my trunks were opened, and I distributed my presents, in which I had the good fortune to please everybody, especially Rose, who was delighted with her ear-rings, and Harry, to whom I had brought a grand knife with a corkscrew in it. To be sure, he never had any corks to draw, but it was a great thing to be able to do so. Mother was pleased with a fine copy of Cowper which Mrs. Deborah had sent her, and Ruth delighted equally by a great jointed doll and a well-furnished work-box. And so we sat and talked and listened and admired, till at last mother declared nobody would be up in time to milk in the morning, and sent us all off to bed.

Jeanne and Ruth slept together, and I was to have for the present a room to myself. Mother had fitted it up nicely with the Chinese linen hangings which used to decorate our best bed-room in Lee, and there were all my old valued possessions. When I waked in the morning, it seemed to me almost a dream that I had ever been so far away.

But the feeling was dispelled when I rose and looked out of the window. The outside world was all strange to me, and very dreary I must say it looked. I had left everything in blossom in England—the woods bursting into leaf and full of violets, primroses, and all sorts of pretty flowers, the turf starred with daisies, and the hedges beginning to be white with bloom. Here the spring was late even for Vermont. The trees were almost as naked as in winter, the grass, where there was any grass, had hardly started, the fields were encumbered with huge pine stumps, half-burned logs, and stone heaps, and the great hill which arose between me and the sunrise was black with gloomy spruces. I learned afterward to look upon the view from that window as a very fine one, but my taste for the picturesque was not greatly developed at that time, and I must say it looked very dismal.

"It is home—home," I repeated to myself; and I hastened to dress and to say my prayers, that I might run down stairs and milk my own cow, Snowball, which father had told me was the best cow he had. But, lo and behold! My hands had lost their old skill, and cramped dreadfully. Snowball was uneasy at the presence of a stranger, and at last I had to give it up.

I was kept pretty busy that day putting away my possessions and answering the questions and remarks of Ruth, who followed me like my shadow. I remember both she and Harry were quite indignant when I told them that King George was a nice-looking old gentleman, very much like Deacon Bradley in Lee.

"Deacon Bradley was a good man, and King George is a wicked, bad man," said he, indignantly. "He made his soldiers kill the people at Bunker Hill, and Jeanne's father. You ought not to say so, Olive."

I tried to explain to Harry that it was not King George alone who was responsible for the war, but I don't think I succeeded. I suppose nobody in these days can form a notion of the way the Americans of that time felt toward King George.

It was not till the next day, when Ruth had gone down to see some of her school-mates and to display her treasures, that mother and I had a chance for a good, long talk. I told her all my experiences and heard all that had happened at home. Mother said she had become quite contented with the change. The climate suited her and the farm was an excellent one, especially for stock of all kinds. Father had bought an interest in a saw-mill, which was doing an excellent business, and he had discovered on his farm a ledge of fine white marble which must some day become valuable.

He had improved the house, and was going to improve it still more. We had pleasant neighbours, and there was very good society in the village, and an excellent minister. Mother said kindly that she hoped I would not be home-sick, but she was afraid I would find the change very great.

I would have given all the finery with which Mr. Wyndham's kindness had endowed me to be able to say honestly that I was not home-sick, but the feeling had been growing on me for forty-eight hours. I was very much ashamed of it, and very much vexed at myself; but there was no denying the fact.

It was not that my own personal accommodations were not as good as any I had been used to at school, or even at Mrs. Deborah's, but all things out of doors—the stumps, the rail fences, the rough, half-cleared fields, the bare trees, the rough roads—were so forbidding and dismal. I thought of the garden at Melcombe, where the violets and lilies of the valley ran riot on the bank under the elm trees, where the porch and arbour were covered with sweet honey-suckle, and passion-flower and jessamine and roses seemed to grow of their own accord and blossomed all summer long; of the shrubbery, with its holly and laurestine and filberts and beautiful mossy, shady walks. I thought of the lanes protected by high hedge-rows where the rose campion blossomed till Christmas, and the periwinkle covered the banks. And then I remembered the library and the piano and pictures, and—what I was most of all ashamed of—Mrs. Austin's clotted creams and junkets and apricot tarts and almond cakes.

It was not that I wanted to go back—I don't think I should have been undecided for a moment if the offer had been made me then and there—but nevertheless the fact remained that I was unhappy. I said to myself that now I was in a free country, where every one had a chance, where poor people did not live in pigsties, and highway robberies and public hangings of a dozen people at a time were not of almost daily occurrence. I remembered the poor woman who had been hung in London while I was there for stealing ten shillings, and recalled Mrs. Tibbs, the cottager's wife with ten children, in a room where the rain made a puddle on the clay floor under the candle, and the worms dropped from the rotten thatch on her bed, and I thought of Mr. Henderson, and contrasted him with the squire of the next parish to ours, who always seemed too much absorbed in his studies to have a kind word or a smile to bestow on the children. But all would not do. My mind would go back to the pleasant things—the flowers and green fields and Mr. Fuller, who was as kind as Mr. Henderson himself. There was no denying it, and I shed tears of vexation and shame over the fact that I regretted England.

But I was never one to sit down and cry over what I could not have, and I knew what my part was. I remembered a sentence in the catechism which I had learned to please my teacher, which ran thus, after enumerating many duties of the "second table:"

"To learn and labour truly to get mine own living, and do my duty in that state of life unto which it than please God to call me."

I had admired the sentence when I first learned it. Now it came back to me with new meaning. "To do my duty in that state of life to which it has pleased God to call me." What was my duty? Clearly not to fret because I could not live in two places at once, because I could not eat my cake and have my cake, because I could not at once enjoy all the pleasures and advantages of two countries. But it "was" my duty to be cheerful and contented, to make the very best of the place where I was and the pleasures and blessings I enjoyed. It was my duty to help mother in every possible way, to set a good example to Ruth and Harry, and to show that all the kindness and petting I had enjoyed had not spoiled me. It might be hard work, I said to myself, to settle down into a plain farmer's daughter, but I meant that no farmer's daughter should be more helpful and careful than I. It might be hard, but I had not now to learn where to look for strength when things were hard.

Young as I was, I knew from experience that faithful prayer is always answered, and that "thou, Lord, hast never failed them that seek thee," was only a literal statement of a literal fact. And I found now, as I had always found before, the help I needed. I suppose the natural versatility of my disposition was an assistance to me; but however that might be, in a week's time I was as much at home as if I had never been away. I got out my old wheel, and soon recovered my old sleight-of-hand.

Miss Tabby Wheelwright, our neighbour, who was not the most amiable person in the world, coming in and finding me spinning and singing—for I could spin and sing now—remarked, with a decided sneer, that she should not expect a fine London miss to know how to use the big wheel, whereat I had the audacity to propose a trial of skill and speed, and actually beat her by three knots and a half. I am afraid Miss Tabby did not like me better for it, but I propitiated her by giving her a skein of Devonshire lace thread to mend her veil, and by showing her the real lace darning-stitch.

Of course I had to make a great many new acquaintances, and to answer a great many questions. We were about half a mile from the village, where there were now about five hundred inhabitants, a meeting-house, two or three stores, a good school-house, and the foundation of a county academy. Mr. Winslow was the minister, and he had a nice wife and three or four very pleasant boys and girls. There were a good many young people in the place; and as Jeanne knew them all, and was a favourite with all, there was no lack of society. Indeed, it was not long before mother gently hinted that I was visiting too much for my own good, and suggested that it was a pity I should forget all that I had learned.

Among the contents of the box of books which Mr. Wyndham had given me were the histories of Mr. Hume and Doctor Robertson, and mother now suggested that we young ladies should meet one or two afternoons in the week with our sewing and take turns in reading aloud, thus, as she said—mother always liked to turn a sentence well—enjoying the pleasures of society and improving our minds at the same time. Jeanne and the Winslow girls took up the idea with enthusiasm, and most of the others fell in with it after I had assured them that such reading-parties were fashionable among literary people in London, and that I had been present by special favour at one where two live authors were in the company.

The reading-circle was organized, and was a great success. Remembering Mrs. Deborah's charity work-basket, I had proposed that we should spend every other afternoon in working for the poor—a scheme which was received with great applause, and which only failed from the trifling difficulty that after diligent inquiry we could find no poor people to work for. We did not confine ourselves to history, but sometimes recreated ourselves with poetry and other lighter studies, and sometimes we discussed what we read. No doubt we branched off very considerably from our grand subjects a good many times into the lighter ones of embroidery patterns and dress fashions, but that was all very innocent and did us no harm. And often, too, we fell into graver discourse, which did us a great deal of good, and led some of our number to think more seriously than they had ever done before. I was naturally something of an oracle from the fact of having seen so much more of the world than any of my companions, though I was two or three years the youngest of them, and I might have grown very conceited but for the checks I received at home, where I was still nobody but little Olive, laughed at by my father, not seldom snubbed by Rose, and obliged to be just as obedient as Harry himself.

On the whole, it was a very pleasant summer, after all. I wrote to my English friends, and twice had a great package of letters from them all, and, joy of joys, in the fall Mr. Wyndham sent me a piano! It was a very small affair—hardly bigger than a music-box as compared to those in use nowadays—but it was a good one, and, for a wonder, arrived without any injury from the journey. It was the best piano seen in those parts, and made a great sensation. Mr. Winslow, who understood music, tuned it for me, and with what delight did I get out my music and play my lessons—my "pieces," as the girls say now—for the edification of my friends!

"Yes, it's very fine," said Miss Tabby Wheelwright, who was the kill-joy of the neighbourhood and always saw danger and sin lurking under everything that was pleasant—"yes, it's very nice, Olly, if only you can have that and heaven too."

"Why can't she, Miss Tabby?" asked Harry. "I am sure we hear about harps in heaven."

"But not pianos, Harry," answered Miss Wheelwright, severely.

"Well, harps go by strings and pianos go by strings, so what is the difference?"

Miss Tabby was not quite prepared to answer this reasoning, so she only sighed and "hoped my gifts would not prove to be too much for my grace."

I began to give Ruth music-lessons directly, and found her an apt scholar. Presently, Symantha Winslow wanted to learn, and then her uncle in New York sent her a piano also. Mr. Winslow hunted out his long-disused flute, and we used to have some very nice little concerts.

The end of that summer, however, was overclouded. The small-pox broke out in the vicinity. Very few of us young people had had the disease, for which there was then no known certain preventive but inoculation, which could hardly be called a preventive, either. Dr. Jenner was making his experiments on vaccination and trying to make people believe in its virtues, while a sermon was actually preached against him in an English cathedral, and stories were gravely printed and seriously believed of children out of whose heads cows' horns had grown, and others who had bleated and eaten grass like calves, in consequence of having been subjected to this process. It was not till several years after the time of which I am writing that vaccination became general.

In 1800 ninety-two persons out of every thousand died of small-pox in Great Britain, and of those who recovered many were made blind and others dreadfully disfigured for life. But something like half a century before—I do not now remember the exact date—Lady Montague, a lady of great talents and fashion, as the phrase was then, introduced into England the practice of engrafting or inoculating for small-pox. She had learned it in Turkey, and succeeded, in spite of much opposition and ridicule, in making it popular in England. No doubt she thereby saved many valuable lives and much suffering. It was found that persons who had the small-pox by inoculation seldom died, and not only so, but they were rarely marked or disfigured by the disease. Often they were hardly sick at all. I remember hearing mother say that when she went to the hospital with some six other girls to have the disease, the selectmen of the town promised a new silk dress to the one who should dance a reel every day during her confinement. Every one of the young ladies earned the silk dress, though my mother confessed that on some occasions the figure was rather languidly walked through.

It was now decided by the proper authorities that a small-pox hospital was to be established at Castle Hill, and all the young persons of a certain age were to go through the ordeal of inoculation, I among the rest. Jeanne had had the disease as a child, and Ruth was thought too young. The Stanley house, as it was called, was selected for the use of the girls. It was a comfortable, roomy, cheerful mansion—in fact, it was one of the best houses in the place, though it had been uninhabited for several years save by the old woman who took care of it. I believe it was some way involved in a law-suit. Mrs. Prudence Withal, a very agreeable and sensible widow lady, whose only child was one of the patients, was to matronize and superintend us, and Rose came to wait on us and to help do the work. The house was comfortably fitted up with everything necessary and desirable, and such clothes as were absolutely needful were sent thither, together with abundant stores of fuel and eatables. It happened very luckily that a parcel of books which Mr. Wyndham had sent me with the piano, but which had been supposed lost, turned up at this juncture. It contained, among other things, some of Miss Austin's and Mrs. Inchbald's tales, a chess-board, and abundance of new patterns for work which promised us much diversion.

On Sunday we were publicly prayed for and four of our number, the Winslows, Jane Withal, and myself, joined the church. It was a very solemn season with ourselves and our friends, for we all felt it might be the last time we should ever join together in public worship. I drew up a will disposing of all my little possessions, and wrote a letter to Mrs. Deborah and Mr. Wyndham, to be sent in case of my death. Not that I believed I was going to die. I was young and strong, and very few did die under the effects of inoculation, but still I knew I might be called away, and I thought it would save mother trouble if I wrote out my wishes beforehand. I don't think I was a miracle of wisdom, by any means, but I wish all grown-up people would show as much sense in that respect as I did at fifteen. It would save a great deal of vexation, injustice, and misery.

On Monday morning I bade home and friends good-bye, charging Ruth to be diligent with her music and not to forget to close the piano when she had finished her lessons. Father carried me over to the Stanley mansion, where I found my young friends already assembled; and bidding me keep up good courage, he left me to my fate.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE WEEKS OF SECLUSION.

SO here we were, eight girls condemned to spend some weeks in the same house with no society but our own, and we naturally regarded each other very curiously. Four of us, the Winslows, Jane Withal, and myself, were intimate, being all members of the reading-circle. The other four were Salome Loveland, sister to Doctor Perkins's wife, Content Hoyt, Bell Atkins, Mrs. Adams's "bound-girl," and Hannah Frisbie. Salome was a stranger to all of us. She was a serious, rather prim, but pleasant girl, the oldest of the party, and said to be uncommonly well educated and intelligent. Content Hoyt was a bright girl of thirteen; Bell Atkins was a year younger.

I had heard Mrs. Adams tell mother only the day before, between meetings, that "Bell would do more work and more play, make more trouble and be more help, than any other two girls she ever saw." Bell's mother had stopped at Mrs. Adams's house one Saturday night, very tired and very sick, and begged for a shelter, and good Mrs. Adams took her in and nursed her as if she had been a sister. She died, however, in three days' time, unable to give much account of herself save that her name was Atkins, that her husband had died in Montreal, and that she had friends in Boston who she thought would take her in if she could get there, but who those friends were Mrs. Adams could not understand. She was decently buried, and Mrs. Adams kept little Bell, having her bound by the town authorities. This was a common way of providing for orphans and forlorn children in those days. A girl was apprenticed till she was eighteen or twenty-one. She was entitled to a certain amount of schooling, and made one of the family in most cases; and when she came of age, she usually received a cow, a sum of money, and some articles of furniture.

Bell was a pretty little brown thing, with black curly hair and wide, intelligent, wistful black eyes. I took a great fancy to her directly, as we all did, indeed, and was all the time possessed with the feeling that I had seen her before, if I could only remember where.

I will not deny that there were some rather suspiciously red eyes and noses among us as we assembled in the parlour after our friends were gone, but we were all quiet and greeted each other cheerfully. Self-command was part of a New England girl's education in those days, and I think almost all children learned very early to consider crying as something rather disgraceful, to be checked as quickly as possible. The only exception to the rule was Hannah Frisbie, who was still sobbing and sniffing dolefully behind her handkerchief.

"Well, girls!" said Mrs. Withal, in her peculiarly clear, cheerful voice. "Here we are, you see, ten of us, counting Mom Rose, shut up to each other's society for some weeks. Now, it depends altogether on ourselves whether we shall have a good time or not. There is no reason why we should not have a very nice one, for the next fortnight at least, if we only make up our minds to be patient, forbearing, and pleasant."

We all agreed to this proposition except Hannah, who only wept the more.

"The first thing is to settle about our rooms," continued Mrs. Withal. "Suppose, then, we go over the house and consider it."

This also was agreed to, and we proceeded to examine the premises. There was a large bed-room down stairs, with a smaller one opening out of it, the same up stairs, with two smaller rooms and one over the kitchen, all comfortable, airy, and decently furnished. Then arose the question how they were to be divided.

"Let's draw lots," said Bell.

"A very good idea," pronounced Mrs. Withal.

Slips of paper were prepared, with the names of the rooms, and we all drew in turn. The large room below fell to Abby Winslow and myself, and the little one to Bell Atkins. Symantha Winslow and Content Hoyt had the corresponding one above, and Salome Loveland that inside of it. Hannah Frisbie had a pretty little room up stairs, and Mrs. Withal and Jane the other large room. Rose slept over the kitchen.

"But I can't sleep in that room; I shall be afraid," sobbed, or rather whined, Hannah. "It is the meanest room in the whole lot, and I think it's too bad—" The rest was lost in sobs.

"I will change with you, Miss Frisbie," said Miss Loveland, kindly—"that is, if the others are willing." And she looked at Symantha and Content.

Content made a little face. Symantha answered for both:

"I am willing, I am sure, but I don't see what there is to be afraid of."

"But I know you don't want me," sobbed Hannah. "I know you feel above me. Oh dear, oh dear! I'm so home-sick. I shall die, I know."

"Nonsense!" said Content, who knew Hannah better than the rest of us. "She won't be any better satisfied if she does change; and we agreed to go by the drawing. If Hannah is afraid, she can fasten her door, or else she can leave it open, and we will leave ours open too. Let things alone as they are, do!"

Hannah sobbed and wailed afresh.

"Well, what are you crying for now?"

"It's my feelings," sobbed Hannah.

"Look here, Hannah Frisbie," said the warning voice of Rose, speaking all of a sudden from the depths of a dark closet where she was rummaging; "are you going to stop that noise, or are you going to wait till I come there?"

Hannah jumped as if she had been shot. What she thought Rose would do to her I don't know, but she stopped crying on the instant, and we had no more feelings for the present.

"Now we will arrange our things, and after that," said Mrs. Withal, "we will consider farther how we shall occupy our time; for it won't do to be idle, you know."

"No, indeed," said the spirit of New England, responding heartily to the national sentiment; and we dispersed to our several quarters to put our rooms in order.

At noon we met for dinner. Rose was a capital cook, as I have said, and it was plain she did not mean to hide her light under a bushel.

"And now let us settle how we are to employ our time," said Symantha Winslow, who was tremendously systematic. "We all have plenty of books, especially Olivia, who has brought a whole library."

"I hope they are not all dreadfully improving and instructive ones?" said Content, half under her breath.

"No, indeed; there are plenty of story-books. Trust me for that: I am very fond of stories." I answered.

Symantha looked at us in a gently reproving manner, and continued:

"I propose that we take so much time every day for solid reading."

"Let's keep school," said Bell, in her peculiarly sudden manner, "and let Mrs. Withal be school-ma'am."

"Indeed, I don't think that a bad notion, Bell," said Mrs. Withal; "only we will all be school-ma'ams and all scholars. I dare say we can all learn something of each other. What can you teach, Bell?"

"Me? I don't know anything, only just to help about the house and do things as they come along," answered Bell. "I expect to do all the learning."

"I should say you had done some of it already," said Miss Loveland.

"And you, Olivia: what can you teach?"

"I'm sure I don't know, only music, if I had the piano," I answered, considering. "Oh yes! I know ever so many lace and darning-stitches that Mrs. Austin taught me. I have brought all my French books, and thought I would try to go on with French. I began it in England, but I only studied a few weeks."

"I have studied French in New York," said Miss Loveland, modestly. "I shall be very glad to help you if I can."

"Let's all study it," said Abby Winslow. "I'll tell you what, girls: we're going to have a good time."

"Good time, indeed!" said Hannah, with a sound between a sniff and a sob. "I don't see no good times."

After some further consultation and an examination of our resources, we settled our plans. I had brought my French books, as I said, and Miss Loveland would send for hers when her brother came that afternoon. Mrs. Withal at once laid down the wholesome law that we must all put our own rooms in order and help about the other work of the house just as long as we were able. We were to have breakfast at half-past six and prayers directly after; from this time till twelve we were to study or read some grave book: Robertson's "Scotland" was the one we pitched upon. Symantha and Miss Loveland would have preferred "Locke on the Understanding," but gave way when it was represented that such a book would be of no use or interest to Bell and Content. Every afternoon we were to walk a certain number of times round the field which was the limit of our enclosure; or if the weather was stormy, we were to take an equal amount of lively exercise in-doors. The evenings were to be spent sociably in any amusement or occupation we liked. On Sunday we would have a religious service, and a prayer-meeting one evening at least in the week.

"Capital!" said Doctor Perkins, when he heard our plan. "Couldn't be better. I tell you, girls, if you'll keep that up all through, I shall feel proud of you, and I will take you all over to Middlebury sleigh-riding the very first snow that comes."

"I sha'n't be there," sighed Hannah.

"Why not?"

"Because I shall die," returned Hannah. "I don't never expect to get out of this house alive. My feelings will kill me, I'm sure, if nothing else does."

"Fiddle-de-dee!" was the answer from the doctor, whose breeding was not of the most ceremonious kind. "Come, girls, get your arms ready, and let's have it over. Mind, Hannah, if you make a fuss, I'll give you a double dose. Come, who is first?"

Bell was first, as usual, and we were soon all inoculated. The doctor called Rose and gave her his instructions about our diet. We were to have good, nourishing food, with as little of grease and salt as possible; to which Rose replied that she guessed she knew how to cook before he was born or thought of.

"Yes, I dare say, but you'll have to obey orders, for all that," answered the doctor, good-humouredly. "Well, girls, you are all right now. Mind you keep so."

The next day we began our studies with an hour of French for those who chose it. I undertook to get Bell forward in grammar and spelling, and Symantha pored over a Simson's "Euclid" she had found among her father's books. At half-past ten we had a recess, and after that we read aloud in turn while the others worked. In the afternoon we walked or romped, or exercised in any way we pleased, for an hour or two, and then came the doctor for his daily visit, bringing notes and messages and news from the outside world. In the evening we read aloud, worked, played games, or told stories, as the fit took us, and went to bed at nine o'clock. I can honestly say that we were all reasonably amiable, unselfish, and desirous of pleasing each other to edification, and I think it speaks pretty well for us that, shut up as we were, we never for the whole time had a serious quarrel.

Hannah Frisbie was the only "contrary feather," as Mrs. Withal said. Nothing pleased her. She would not join in the French because she "didn't see no use in it," and she would not join the grammar class with Bell and Content because she said she "guessed she wasn't going to be patronized by Olive Corbet, if she had been to England to school. She guessed her folks were as good as Corbet's folks any day, for all their pianos and airs." If we tried to conciliate and coax her, we wanted to patronize her; if we let her alone, we felt above her; and when Mrs. Withal took her to task, she burst into floods of tears and declared that she couldn't help it if she had more feelings than the rest. She knew she should be miserable, and she was miserable. Worse than all, she actually tried to run away and go home.

"You wicked, selfish girl! You ought to be whipped, that you ought!" exclaimed Bell Atkins, with flashing eyes. "You ought to be shut up in prison. Just think, girls! She was actually going out of the gate when I caught her."

"You are a wicked girl, Hannah, and no mistake," said Miss Loveland, severely. "What were you thinking of? Do you wish to expose all your family to the disease?"

"I want to go home, and I will go home: so now!" bellowed Hannah. (I don't know any other word that so well expresses the noise she made.) "You ain't any of you got any feeling for me."

"And you haven't any feeling for anybody but yourself," said I. "Pretend to love your little sister, and then want to give her the small-pox!"

"Yes, very much she loves her, when she is always slapping and hustling the poor little thing," said Content. "Talking of people feeling above you, anybody ought to feel above you, you mean thing!"

"Let her alone, girls," said Salome, who was the usual smoother and peace-maker. "Since she spoils all our comfort, let's leave her alone entirely. We have tried our best to make it pleasant for her, but it does no good, and the best way is to think no more about her."

"I shall tell Mrs. Withal, though," said Bell, decidedly.

"I think you ought," said Miss Loveland.

And so we all agreed, though Hannah, scared at the probable consequences to herself, cried louder than ever and begged hard for mercy.

Mrs. Withal was very good-natured, but she was also very decided. Hannah did not appear again that day, and the next she had a private audience with Doctor Perkins. She did not try to run away again.

Bell Atkins was the pet of the house, and this again was one of Hannah's grievances—that we should think so much more of that "little bound-girl" than we did of her. But it was impossible not to love Bell, she was so pleasant, so cheerful and obliging, and at the same time so intelligent. She drank in new ideas like water, and often amused us by the oddity of her comments on what was read. She made surprising progress also in her studies, and I had to do my best to keep up with her.

I was still haunted with her resemblance to somebody I had seen, and one day, when we were alone together, I asked her if she remembered anything before she came to live with Mrs. Adams.

"Not much," said she, sadly—"nothing very nice. I can't tell whether I remember anything. Sometimes the things are so queer I think I must have dreamed them."

"What things?" I asked.

She began to consider, with an odd, far-off look in her eyes:

"I remember people in such funny dresses. There was one fat man who was always good to me, and I always think of him with a crown on his head. And there were women with spangled gowns and crowns, and wings too sometimes. I seem to remember staying all day in a little room that looked into a back yard, but at night mother used to take me to a place where there were lights and music, and queer things all about—great tall pictures and ropes hanging about, and the people in funny dresses."

I had seen a pantomime when I was in London, and I guessed at once that this description referred to a theatre or some similar place of public amusement.

"Well, what then? Don't you remember your father?"

Bell's face darkened.

"I don't want to remember him," said she. "It is all mixed up after that. I know we came on a ship—to Montreal, I suppose—and father died. Then mother said if she could go to Boston some one would take care of me, she knew. But mother was sick, and then—You know the rest."

"Yes, I know. It was very sad," said I. "But, Bell, you have a good home now."

"Yes, indeed!" answered Bell, her bright eyes growing brighter through her tears. "I don't believe any girl has a better one."

"Have you anything that belonged to your mother?"

"Mrs. Adams has—mother's wedding-ring and a locket and a book or two. One of the books has a name in it. It might perhaps have been her name before she was married, you know. I will ask Mrs. Adams to let you see it some time if you like."

"Do!" said I; and there the talk ended.

I shall not trouble you with the not very agreeable details of our illness. Suffice it to say that we all had the disorder very lightly, so that there was not a day when we were all absent from our meals or did not keep up at least the semblance of our usual employments. Hannah Frisbie was the least sick and made the most fuss, and Salome Loveland suffered most and made no fuss at all. We had the best of care. We kept a three weeks' quarantine after all were quite recovered; and when we were ready to go home, Dr. Perkins made us a little speech, in which he praised us to the skies. I am the last survivor of that family. We were drawn very close together during that period of seclusion, and kept up our friendship as long as we lived.

It is quite surprising to me, when I review it, to see how much real hard study we accomplished during the three hours a day that we devoted to our books. I am sure we learned more French in those few weeks working by ourselves, with our grammars and dictionaries, than many a girl in school learns with a good master and every other advantage in a whole school-year. I used to tell my girls so sometimes in after years, but the only answer I ever got was, "Oh, well, Mrs. Brown, you were different." I think in one way we "were" different from many girls of the present day. We were brought up to think knowledge one of the most desirable things in the world for its own sake, and to consider lessons a privilege instead of either a hardship or as just so much drudgery to be gone through before arriving at the privileges of young-ladyhood.

Of all our number, Bell Atkins I think gained most. Mrs. Adams, with whom she lived, had taken pains to give her good principles, and had indeed taught her so far as she was able, but she was uneducated as any New England woman of decent parentage ever was in those days, and the manners of the whole family were anything but elegant. When Bell first came to the Stanley mansion, she thought nothing of putting her own knife or spoon into any dish she fancied, and her other table manners were on a par with this specimen. But she soon saw that the rest of us did not do these things and were annoyed by them, and after that she was constantly on the watch to see what other people thought proper, and to conform her ways to theirs. It was the same with her manner of speaking, sitting, etc. Mrs. Withal remarked that she seemed to take naturally to good manners, but I don't think that was it exactly. She possessed quick perceptions, to be sure, but so did Hannah Frisbie, who never improved in anything. The truth was that Bell was truly anxious to make herself agreeable, and, more than that, she was truly humble-minded and ready to esteem others better than herself. Depend upon it, Mrs. Sherwood was right in saying that if you see a person associating with well-bred people, and still remaining incorrigibly awkward and ill-bred, you may set that person down as either very stupid or prodigiously self-conceited.

Nor was it only in manners that Bell improved. She seemed to have a real hunger for knowledge, and nothing came amiss to her. She listened to the history reading as she worked at her satin-stitch, and took in every word, and often while we were busy about something else she would break out with some remark which showed that she had been turning the subject over in her mind. She questioned me about my travels, and Miss Salome Loveland about New York, and Abby Winslow about New Haven, where she had been brought up.

"Just to think of the chance some folks have!" said she, with a long sigh, after hearing my account of my music-lessons in London; for I had music-lessons in London, though I forgot to mention them in the proper place.

"Perhaps your chance will come some time, Bell," said Salome, who, like all the rest of us, was very fond of the bright little "bound-girl."

"It's come now, I guess," answered Bell. "I don't know as I want a better chance than I've got now. And I don't want chances at home, neither—either, I mean. Mrs. Adams may not know much about books, but she knows about being good—all there is to know, I guess."

If Bell learned the most, Hannah Frisbie improved least—in fact, I don't think she improved at all either in book-knowledge or anything else. And the reason was as plain in her case as in Bell's: she did not see the need of any improvement. If any one suggested a change in manners, dress, or anything else, Hannah always had an answer ready: she "guessed her folks were as good as our folks, she didn't want none of our cityfied ways, or she wasn't going to be patronized by anybody." She thought she showed her independence when she put her fork into the dish instead of asking to be helped, and wiped her mouth on her sleeve or the table-cloth.

Mrs. Withal, who, good-natured as she was, could be very positive on occasion, broke her for the time of some of these tricks by threatening to send her away from the table, and actually doing it in one instance.

CHAPTER XX.

CONCLUSION.

EVERYBODY knows the pleasant feeling with which one contemplates the finishing up of a disagreeable piece of business. It was with this feeling that I returned home, to which was added the further pleasure of giving my friends a pleasant surprise by coming two days before I was expected.

Rose and I walked over from the Stanley mansion, leaving our luggage to follow us.

"They's got company," said Rose as we came in front of the house. "There's the spare-room windows open."

"I wonder who it can be?" said I. "Mother hasn't spoken of expecting any one."

At this moment Harry discovered me and ran to call the rest, and I was immediately enveloped in a cloud of welcomes and kisses.

"Who is here?" I asked as soon as I could get a chance.

"Go in and see," answered mother, smiling. "Oh, here she comes."

If I had seen a spectre, I should not have been more astonished than I was at finding myself clasped in the arms of Aunt Belinda. Yes, it was Aunt Belinda herself; thin, pale, and with gray hair, but upright and exact as ever, and dressed with her usual exquisite neatness. But it was not the Aunt Belinda I had first known who held me so tight and kissed me again and again, calling me her blessed, precious child, her own darling, and then held me off to see how much I had grown and whether the small-pox had left any marks, and then kissed me again.

"And Elmina?" I asked.

My aunt shook her head sadly:

"Dear Elmina sleeps in the Indian Ocean. She died when we were only two days out from Bombay."

"From Bombay?" I asked, in wonder.

And then I had to hear all the story—how they had been picked up, when all hope was lost, by an outward-bound Indiaman and carried off to Bombay, how Elmina had seemed better for a time, but presently sank again, and died from painless decay, happy to the last. Aunt Belinda broke down many times in telling the story, and I cried with her, for I had learned to love Elmina dearly in the last few months we were together. Aunt Belinda had found a friend in Bombay in the person of a Boston merchant with whom she was acquainted, and had come home under his escort. They were delayed by her friend's having business in Calcutta, to which place they travelled across the country.

"You must have enjoyed that," said I. "You were always fond of travelling."

"My dear, I cannot say that I 'enjoyed' it precisely," answered Aunt Belinda. "I could not enjoy seeing so many of my fellow-creatures worshipping idols and having not the slightest regard to the improvement of their minds or sense of the value of time. But I trust I have learned a great deal from the vicissitudes I have undergone. I have found out what a narrow world I had always lived in, and how closely my affections were tied to that world. I never realized, Olivia, how much I was bound up in external things till I found myself unhappy—yes, really unreconciled and rebellious—because I had no clean handkerchiefs and stockings. I hope in many things I am a changed woman, and changed for the better."

And I could not doubt the fact when an hour afterward I saw Aunt Belinda with a basket of kittens on her lap, and Ruth and Harry both descanting on their beauties with no more severe rebuke from my aunt than a mild—

"My dears, the kittens are very pretty, but I could understand you better if you did not both talk at once."

As I remembered the days when I had been sent away from the table for speaking before my aunt had quite finished, I could not doubt that Aunt Belinda was changed. She seemed to fall in with all our ways of life without the least trouble, was interested in all the farm-work and all the live-stock, from father's pet horses and colts down to the kittens, and would try her hand at the linen-wheel, saying that she had once been a famous spinner. She seemed to find especial pleasure in mother's society, who was equally pleased with her.

I had been at home but two or three days when one afternoon, as I was playing to Aunt Belinda, Rose called me out to speak to Bell Atkins. Bell looked prettier than ever, and her eyes were sparkling with more than their usual light, as she plunged at once into the business which had brought her over.

"See here, Olive," said she, taking out of her pocket a yellow, time-stained letter. "Yesterday I asked Mrs. Adams to let me look at mother's things, and she did. There was a kind of pocket memorandum-book, like the one Miss Loveland had; and when I looked it over, I found this letter between two leaves that were fastened together. It is directed to some lady in Boston. The name is the same as that written in the pocket-book, and I thought I would bring it over and ask if you ever heard of any such person."

"Mrs. David Saltonstall," said I, taking the letter and reading the direction, which was written in a neat, lady-like hand-writing. "I have certainly heard the name somewhere, but I can't tell where. I will ask Aunt Belinda. She knows every one in Boston. Come in and see her, Bell."

"Belinda is my name," said Bell as she followed me. "I remember hearing mother tell some one that I was named for the best friend she ever had."

"Aunt," said I when I had properly introduced Bell, "do you know any Mrs. David Saltonstall in Boston? I am sure I have heard of her, but I can't tell where."

"I was Mrs. David Saltonstall myself before I married your uncle," answered my aunt.

"You must remember the pictures of Mr. Saltonstall and his daughters which hung in the library at home?"

"Of course; and it is Anna's picture that Bell is so like," I exclaimed. "Then, aunt, this letter must be to yourself, and no one else."

Aunt Belinda took the letter and looked at it, and then at Bell. She was very pale, but preserved her composure.

"You are right, Olivia," said she; "your young friend is the picture of my daughter Anna. Tell me, my dear child, how did you come by this letter, and how long have you had it?"

Bell replied by relating the history of the letter. She was naturally a good deal agitated, but I could not help rejoicing in the propriety and modesty with which she expressed herself.

"That is all I know," she concluded. "Please, ma'am, won't you open the letter? I am sure it is meant for you."

Aunt Belinda opened the letter and read it through. Then she turned to Bell, who was standing leaning on my shoulder trembling like a leaf.

"There is no doubt that you are the daughter of my poor lost daughter Anna," said she. "The likeness would almost make me believe it, but this letter leaves no room for doubt. My dear child—my dear little grand-daughter—how thankful I am to find you!"

I thought I had better slip out of the room just then and leave them to themselves. I went and found mother, and imparted the intelligence to her.

"It is just like something in a story-book, isn't it?" said Jeanne.

"A great many things happen in real life more improbable than any to be found in story-books," remarked my mother; "but this matter seems simple enough. I suppose Mr. and Mrs. Atkins came to Montreal; and her husband dying there, the poor thing thought she would try to get back to Boston to her step-mother. No doubt she wrote this letter to be delivered in case of her death, and then failed to let Mrs. Adams know where it was to be found. Mrs. Adams told me that the poor woman was wandering almost all the time she was sick. But I wonder they should not have found the letter."

"Bell told me it was between two leaves that were fastened together," said I. "But isn't it nice for Aunt Belinda to have a grand-daughter?"

"'Twon't be very nice for Mrs. Adams to lose Bell just as she is getting good for something, and after she has had all the trouble and fuss of bringing her up," remarked Rose. "I always said there was something uncommon smart and genteel about that child, though, and 'twas curious to see how she took to nice, pretty, lady-like ways the minute she had a chance to see 'em—so different from that Frisbie girl."

"Oh, Hannah! She thought she knew enough already," said I. "But as Rose says, it seems rather hard for Mrs. Adams."

That very afternoon Aunt Belinda and mother called on Mrs. Adams; and when they came back, Aunt Belinda told me she was perfectly satisfied that Belinda Atkins was Mr. Saltonstall's grand-daughter. Indeed, the name of Anna Saltonstall was found in the books in Aunt Belinda's hand-writing.

"What did Mrs. Adams say?" I asked of mother afterward.

"Oh, she was very much pleased with Bell's good luck at first, and then she was sorry at the thought of losing her. Bell says she thinks she ought not to leave Mrs. Adams, but I presume that matter will be arranged."

So it was "arranged,"—to the satisfaction of all parties—and very soon every one knew that Bell Atkins, Mrs. Adams's "bound-girl," had turned out to be Mrs. Evans's daughter, and was going home with her to Boston.

"Well, Miss Corbet, I guess you've had enough of your pet," said Hannah Frisbie to me the next Sunday between meetings. "I guess you wouldn't have made quite such a fuss over Bell if you'd known how quick she was going to stand in your shoes."

"I don't know what you mean by standing in my shoes," I answered, I fear with more contempt in my tone than was quite Christian. "Of course, if I had known Bell was my cousin, I should have taken all the more pains with her."

"Yes, of course, if you had known she was going to cut you out with your rich aunt. Oh, you may put on as many grand airs as you please, but I know what I think. You won't make me believe it."

"It is a matter of perfect indifference to me whether you believe it or not," I answered, "but if it will give you any satisfaction, I can tell you that my aunt has already invited me to go home and spend the winter with her."

"And you'll go, of course. Some folks have all the luck."

"Of course I shall not," I answered. "I have been away so much I shall be glad of a chance to stay at home with mother a while. Perhaps Ruth or Jeanne may go, but it is not decided yet."

It was finally determined, however, that Jeanne was to go, and from that time it grew to be a regular thing for one of us to pass a part of the year with Aunt Belinda.

Jeanne and Ruth could not possibly understand how I could have thought her so stern and harsh; and when I visited her in my turn, I almost wondered myself. Certainly, Bell had a much easier time of it than had fallen to my lot.

The next summer I taught school for the first time, not in the village, but in what was called the Bond district, because it was principally settled by families of that name. Here I had the munificent salary of twelve "York" shillings—one dollar and a half—a week, and my board. This was considered a large salary, as most teachers only had one dollar and twenty-five cents, but there were several large boys, apprentices, who could be better spared in summer than in winter, and it was desirable to have a teacher who could carry them on in grammar and arithmetic. They were very good boys, and never made me any trouble, except that they used to be jealous of one another, so that I had to be careful not to show any preference. I boarded round—that is, I stayed a week at one house and then a week at another—and I had always a horse to go home with on Saturdays.

I had a very pleasant school. It was hard work, no doubt—much harder than the district school-teachers have now, with all the talk we hear about "drudgery,"—but I think people get in the way of calling every kind of plain hard work "drudgery" nowadays. It provokes me to hear the way Miranda Bartlett goes on about "domestic drudgery and the drudgery of married life." I guess she would be willing to try it if she got a chance.

But I am wandering, as old folks are apt to do. Anyhow, I did not make "drudgery" of my school. I knew and loved every child in the school, big and little, and they loved me. I was all the time finding out more and more in them to interest me, and trying various ways to interest them and get them on.

The sewing made me the most trouble. All the girls brought their work, and all the work had to be attended to. I had one girl who marked a sampler that summer, and I don't believe she made one stitch right unless I was looking over her. She was just as dull about everything else, but she was a good girl, and I liked her, for all.

I closed my school with great satisfaction to myself and my employers and many tears from my pupils. Jeanne and I had a nice, quiet winter over our books and making up her wedding-clothes, for Ezra had a call to a church in a place called Bloomfield, in the fast-filling-up Genesee country, and the young people were to be married in the spring. The wedding took place in April. Aunt Belinda came up to it, and spent most of the summer with us.

This year I took Jeanne's place in the village school, and the next, young as I was, I was offered the position of teacher in our county academy, now in successful operation. But Jeanne was married and Ruth was in Boston with Aunt Belinda going to school; and as there was no need of my earning money, I preferred to stay at home with mother, who needed my help. I did most of the house-keeping and a good deal of work, beside spinning, but I cannot say I ever felt myself ill-used or talked about "the drudgery of domestic life."

But I did not stay at home long. Doctor Perkins had taken into partnership a young gentleman named David Brown, a relative of my aunt Belinda's, and a very fine, steady young man. Of course we saw a good deal of him, and it was not long before he and I found out that we had a great many interests in common, and presently we discovered that we were so exactly suited to each other that it was impossible for us to live asunder. There was no objection on either side.

Doctor Brown had some little property of his own, besides the prospect of succeeding to the flourishing practice of old Doctor Perkins. My aunt gave me a handsome present in money for my own private purse, and a fine provision of china, silver, and so on, and the Wyndhams sent me a setting-out of silks, etc., so fine that I never could wear half of it.

Among the other parcels was a tin box containing a superb bride-cake which Mrs. Austin had made with her own hands. She also sent me the recipe; for as she justly observed, I might some time or other have daughters of my own to marry, and there was no harm in being prepared.

Well, we were married and went to house-keeping, and lived most happily together for twenty years. Then I was left a widow with two daughters and a son. I had a fine house and abundance of "means," as the word used to be then, and I was considered very well off. But I could not be quite satisfied to sit down and spend my life in doing no more than just what my own family required from day to day. My children were well, my own health was quite perfect. I had what in those days was wealth and an admirable education, and I could not but look on all these things as so many trusts for which I was responsible. I had never quite given up my childish idea of a boarding-school, and I now began to take it into serious consideration and to talk it over with my children. The result was that I opened a school in my own house, with my oldest daughter as assistant.

My school was successful from the first. In a few years I had increased my house to twice its original size, and had forty boarders, some of whom came from New York and Boston. I never would take more than that. I did not want any more girls under my care than I could have time to know thoroughly and to manage myself. Of course I had my share of troubles and vexations, but in general I must say I was very fortunate both in my pupils and my assistants. I continued my school for more than thirty years, and I hope did some good with it. But that is not for me to say.

Ruth married a merchant in Boston, and lived very happily with him for many years. Jeanne and Ezra were also very happy and very useful. I educated two of their daughters, one of whom went to the East as a missionary. I also had two of Tom's girls, who turned out well, though his sons never came to very much.

To everybody's surprise, Bell Atkins never married at all. She said she never found any one she liked as well as Aunt Belinda, and I believe it was true. She was a most dutiful and affectionate child to the old lady, and made her last years very happy. After my aunt died, she spent a good deal of time with me, and twice she took charge of the school for a year or more while I went abroad. She inherited my aunt's property and used her means well and wisely, and was one of those happy people who make friends wherever they go. I don't think she ever for a moment felt the want of "an object in life," though she never had anything to do with public affairs, and lived and died an old maid. She used to say that in her case that Scripture was fulfilled which says, "more are the children of the desolate than the children of the married wife." And certainly very few mothers do more for children than Bell Atkins did.

Alice says I should give some account of my friends in England before closing. There is very little to say. Both Mr. Wyndham's sisters lived to a great age, and died very close together, Mrs. Angelica first. Mrs. Austin survived them but a short time. Mr. Wyndham married a very nice young lady, and had quite a family. All the Fullers turned out well. Jack came to this country as doctor on a ship, and liked it so well that he stayed and become quite distinguished as a surgeon.

This is the end of my history. When I was young, it was the fashion to put morals to books; but I don't exactly know what use they were. It seems to me that if a story is worth much it will carry its own moral with it. I may, however, say this—that if I have ever done any good in life or been of any use I owe it to my mother. She taught me a few principles which have helped me through and over all the hard places in my life, and I may say all the easy ones as well. She taught me to tell the truth at all times, to be kind and polite to all people, whether I liked them or not, to apply myself earnestly to whatever I might be doing and make a conscience of doing it well. Above all, she taught me to believe and know that I had a Father in heaven who loved me—an all-wise, all-powerful, all-loving Friend who was more ready to hear than I to pray, and whose ear was closed to no request, however small, to no prayer, however weak and trembling, which should be offered in the name of his dear Son. I have tried him during nearly ninety years, and his love has never failed me yet, nor do I believe that it will through the long ages of that eternity to which I am soon going.

OLIVIA Y. BROWN.

My dear grandmother died in her sleep a few weeks after the conclusion of this memoir. She seemed to pass away without a struggle, and I suppose died a perfectly natural death. We carried her back to Vermont, and buried her in the old grave-yard by the church, in the midst of her own kindred and friends.

Grandmother added no moral to her story, but it seems to me that she might have found such a moral in the words she was so fond of quoting: "To do my duty in that state of life unto which it shall please God to call me." She did not waste her time or her powers in wishing for different circumstances or fretting over disadvantages, but wherever she found herself, there she went to work and made the best of her opportunities. She studied to be quiet and to do her own business (1 Thess. iv. 11), as the apostle beseeches. It seems to me that a good deal of trouble arises at the present day from the fact that so many people study to do any one's work but their own, and to make all the noise possible about it. But I suppose it must have been something so in the apostle's time, or he would not have given such an injunction to the Thessalonians.

ALICE BROWN.

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Table of Contents

SCHOOL-DAYS IN 1800;

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

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