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HOME LIBRARY
OF TALES FOR THE YOUNG,
HOW TO BE HAPPY.
J Mam age. Litheg fant
Wome Library of Tales for the Boung.
THE GREAT SECRET;
oR,
HOW TO BE HAPPY.
RY
FANNY FORESTER.
(MRS. EC. JUDSON,)
|
“ Trust in the Lord and do good.â€
London :
T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;
| AND RDINBUERGE
MDCCCLIT,
CONTENTS.
PART 1
Crap,
L An Unfortunate Child, eos
IL Early Training, aes .
IIL A Troublesome Visitor, ase
IV. More of Aunt Tacy’s Meddling, ...
V. The New Home with Its Pleasures and Troubles, 37
oe
48
65
74
82
92
100
108
VI. Endeavouring to Rise, ase
VIL Who can help those who will not help themaclvat 53
VILL The Parting, oes
IX The Trial of Florence, and its Rewult,
X An Unexpected Event, aes
XI. The Conclusion, oes wee
PART It.
L A Midnight Scene, ... see
IL A Dark Day, ove
TI. A Visit from Frank and Bessie, ...
IV. Health does not always bring Peace,
V. Lights and Shadows, ... wee
VE The Wanderer, . ~
122
1g
141
viii CONTENTS.
Cuan
VIL A Situation,
“ VIIL Mr. Elmore’s Reformation,
IX. A Trifling Incldent,
X Lightening, not Drowning Troubles,
: XL A Stranger, tee
XII. A Surprise, we .
XUL Domestic Arrangements, on
XIV. The Meeting, ose se
XV. The Conclusion, tee .
Meas
I7k
as
38)
193
196
202
206
221
FLORENCE EVELYN,
CHAPTER I.
AN UNFORTUNATE CHILD.
Fiorenck EveLYyN was a very unfortunate
child. An orphan? No, she had parents that
thought they were kind to her, and loved
her, and watched over her very closely. Nei-
ther was Florence deformed, or blind, nor
was she even a sickly chiid. Can you think
of a greater misfortune than any of these ?
Perhaps you will inquire if her parents were
not very poor? Aye, they were so; but po-
verty is not always a misfortune ; it mey be
a blessing. Yet Florence was unfortunate,
and thoughtful people used to sigh whenever
they looked upon her, and tell in whispers
how they pitied her; and some would draw
up their shoulders and laugh, whenever she
appeared ; but those were not thoughtful
10 AN UNFORTUNATE CHILD,
people. People who think never laugh at
the unfortunate. Now can you imagine how
a bright little girl, with a great share of per-
sonal beauty, and parents who love her, can
be unfortunate ? I willtell you. It is asad
misfortune to live, and be totally ignorant of
the object of existence, and this was the case
with Florence Evelyn.
I might go back to Mr. Evelyn's father,
and show you some laxity of government on
his part, that made his son so unstable in his
purposes, chimerical in his plans, and change~
able in the execution of them. Mr. Evelyn,
in his early youth, spent some time in the
study of the law ; but finding it dry and irk-
some, he changed his plan, and tried other
professions. But nothing seemed to suit his
taste, and for a very good reason. He had no
taste for labour of any kind, mental or man-
ual, and all business requires labour. He
married a poor, industrious girl, and sat down
to contrive how to live. At the end of the
year Mr. Evelyn was in the condition of a
great. many other people, who, while they sit
contriving, devour the little they had gain-
ed before. After this he became a greater
changeling than ever. He shifted from one
AN UNFORTUNATE CHILD, ll
party to another in politics for the sake of
some petty office, till he was known every
where by the appellation of turn-coat; he
procured a situation in a mercantile house,
but his employers soon found him too indo-
lent for a clerk ; and s0, asa last resource,
he turned to school-teaching. By going from
place to place in the capacity of a district
school-teacher, Mr. Evelyn contrived to ob-
tain a scanty subsistence; and he might have
done better still, if he had not been continu-
ally looking forward to the time when he
should be a great, a wealthy, and an honoured
man. This led him to embark all his earn-
ings in petty speculations, which as constantly
failed, and left his family in want of bread, ©
T have told you that Mrs. Evelyn was indus-
trious ; and if she had been pious and sen-
sible also, all might have gone well with the
little Florence. But she was not. She had
married Mr. Evelyn because she thought him
genteel; and in the midst of want her old
ideas of gentility and fashion still clung to
her. Accordingly she made it a point on all
occasions to sacrifice comfort and conve-
nience to appearances. It was early deter-
mined that Florence, having a pretty face
12 AN UNFORTUNATE CHILD.
soft, sunny hair, eyes that everybody ad-
mired, and a form that promised much when
it should be fully developed, was to be a lady ;
and so she was to be taught nothing either
good or useful ? What! a lady make herself
useful. Mrs. Evelyn could conceive of no-
thing so ridiculous: and so Miss Florence
must not assist mamma, for it would spoil
her hands ; and Miss Florence must not run,
for it would give her too much colour ; and
Miss Florence must not walk till after sun-
set, for it would imbrown her skin. Florence
was really an intelligent child, but intelli-
gence is not proof against the flattery of those
we love; and she became the easy victim of
her parents’ miserable ambition. She was
quite helpless enough to suit her mother’s
notions of gentility, and sufficiently forward,
and unnatural, to satisfy her father’s vanity.
Now you will see why I told you that Flo-
rence Evelyn was an unfortunate child ; for
she knew nothing of the greatest of all sources
of happiness. I never saw a very useful
person that was not a very happy one also ;
and I never saw one who believed, as Florence
Evelyn was taught, that it was degrading to
be active, who was not very miserable. Use-
AN UNFORTUNATE CHILD. 13
fulness, if not the very essence of religion, is
its development and its life; for “faith with-
out works isdead.†Next to our duty to God,
we are commanded to love our neighbour :
and the child or man who, neglecting the
first and second great object of existence,
lives only for self, must necessarily be miser
able.
Mrs. Evelyn named her child Florence,
because she had seen the name of “ Lady
Florence,†in an old novel which she had
borrowed from acirculating library; and she
strove very diligently to teach the little girl
towalk in the eccentric footsteps of her vision-
ary namesake. ‘True, the poor mother’s cheek
grew pale in the execution of her self-imposed
task of bringing up her child in idleness ;
and the hour of midnight often found her
bending over her needle with an aching head
and an anxious heart—anxious not for her
child’s true well-being, usefulness in the
sphere in which Providence had placed her;
but anxious lest her foolish plans, her vain
hopes for her should prove unsuccessful,
14 EARLY TRAINING.
CHAPTER II.
EARLY TRAINING,
Tax house in which Mr. Evelyn lived was a
large, old-fashioned one ; and though Mrs.
Evelyn was wont, in conversation with her
family, to denominate it “an old shell, as cold
as a barn, and dismal as @ prison,†yet she
preferred it to a smaller-sized and more com-
fortable building. She had a front and a back
parlour, and a dining-room ; and although
one neat, well-furnished, comfortable, and
pleasant kitchen would have been worth them
all, yet the name was something ; and she felt
as if really in the possession of some elegant
mansion, when enumerating her empty,
cheerless apartments. Mr. Evelyn did not
own this house, but he rented it for a large
sum, which he paid when he could, and when
he could not pay, he gave a note, the interest
upon which would have done much towards
hiring a more suitable dwelling. But it is
not our present object to recount the follies
of Florence’s parents farther than they con-
cerned herself and influenced her destiny.
EARLY TRAINING. E>)
Mr. and Mrs, Evelyn both took much pains
to teach their little girl the associates most
proper for her ; and Florence was a very apt
scholar. It was not long before she could dis-
tinguish between children belonging to gen-
teel families, and those of poorer ones, as
readily as her mother ; but not having her
mother’s pradence, she was continually mak-
ing herself an object of ridicule to her little
friends.
“ T wonder,†she said to Sophia Clark one
day, “what makes you play with Rebecca
Smith so much; I am sure J wouldn't be
seen playing with her.â€
“ Wouldn’t! why? don’t you like Re-
becca ?â€
“T don’t know much about her—I sup-
pose she is good enough.â€
“Then why shouldn’t I play with her ?â€
“ Why! sure enough—one would think
you didn’t know old Pete Smith is a shoe-
maker.â€
“ Well, what of that? he is a good shoe-
maker, isn’t he? but if he were not, you
should’t call him names, I heard father
talking to Lyman the other day about that
very thing.â€
16 WaRLY TRAINING,
“ What very thing ?â€
“ Why, calling Mr. Smith names.â€â€™
“ Well, I will not call him names if you'll
not play with Rebecca.â€
“Why, what has she done ?â€
“N—n—nothing that I know of; but
your father is s lawyer, and I shouldn’t think
you would play with shoemakers’ children.â€
Sophia Clark was a merry-hearted little
girl, that never dreamed of the station of pa-
rents making children of more or less import-
ance ; and not more than half understanding
what Florence had been saying, she laughed
heartily, and called her companions together
to enjoy the joke. The little girls formed a
circle around Sophia and Florence ; and such
a discussion as was entered into concerning
the comparative merits of shoemakers’, black-
smiths’, merchants’, and lawyers’ daughters,
would have done honour to their mothers;
inasmuch as the clear unprejudiced judgment
of youth coincided entirely with the decision
of their hearts, as yet untouched by worldly
pride, and made them say at last, “so Rebecca
Smith is as good as any of us.â€
“ And Florence Evelyn too,†added a bright
little girl, anxious to promote good feeling,
EARLY TRAINING. 17
and strangely mistaking the way, “and
Florence Evelyn too, if her father does owe
80 many people.â€
“Vie, Amanda! you shouldn’t say that,â€
said Rosa Deans, “ I am sure it is very wrong
of you to speak such unkind things to Flora.â€
“T didn’t thean to say unkind things ; but
if I did, Flora said them first of Rebecca
Smith.â€
“ Well, Rebecca don’t mind it ; see, she is
laughing with Sophia Clark now over some-
thing they have found. Let us go and see
what it is.â€
“Let's go and see!†echoed the merry
group, and laughingly they tripped away to
join their companions.
“Did you ever see such girls?†exclaimed
Florence, turning to a young Miss much
taller than herself, who had remained beside
her.â€
“No, I never did, and mamma says the
people about here are the most unmannerly,
vulgar set she ever saw. She would go away
if it were not for papa, but he only laughs
at her.â€
“T think your mamma and mine would
agree very well, then; for that is just what
B
18 EARLY TRAINING.
I have heard my mother say a great many
times.â€
The woman in whom Florence had sup-
posed her mother would find a congenial
spirit, was the wife of a broken-down trades-
man, who had recently settled in this vici-
nity, for the double advantage of cheap living
and an escape from troublesome creditors.
The history of this family was the old story
of improvidence, ambitious rivalry, extrava-
gance, rashness, a crash, a parley, and retreat.
It has often been told, and you can all re-
member the particulars; or if you cannot,
but watch a little time and you will see the
same thing acted over, again and again,
both in our cities and larger villages, Mr.
Wilson, the father of Florence Evelyn’s new
friend, was a plain sort of man, with no great
degree of talent either in the business line or
any other, yet sensible enough to see the
absurdity of his wife’s pretensions to style in
dress and living, while he had sufficient good-
nature, weakness, or whatever you may please
to call it, to humour her. Mrs. Evelyn, upon
the representations of Florence, was not long
in making this woman’s acquaintance ; and
8 friendship soon sprung up between them;
EARLY TRAINING. 19
such a friendship as a broken-down fashion-
able, desirous of living over her life again in
words to make the uninitiated stare, and an
awbitious mother, anxious for every scrap of
information on the subject nearest her heart,
would be likely to form.
This new acquaintance Mrs, Evelyn deemed
invaluable ; and Mrs. Wilson was consulted
on Florence’s style of dress, her manners, her
studies, her amusements, and her future pros-
pects, as if she had been an oracle. Mrs.
Evelyn now worked harder than ever, and
her husband speculated less ; while the chil-
dren were constantly reminded of what they
had before been told, that slight meals would
make them more delicate. All this was to
save money to purchase second-hand articles
of furniture, and dress Miss Florence. Mrs.
Wilson, from having spent a few months at
a fashionable boarding-school in her earlier
days, had gained a smattering of various
sciences; and she talked so much of a lady’s
need of an education, interlarding her conver-
sation with a profusion of French phrases,
and now and then touching the keys of her
broken piano, by way of showing her ability
to judge of such matters, that Mrs. Evelyn’s
20 EARLY TRAINING.
head became quite turned, and whether cook-
ing her dinner, mending her husband’s or
the children’s clothes, or brushing up some
finer article for Florence, her head was full of
nothing but books. Books, Mrs. Evelyn
believed, contained all the knowledge in the
world ; and not having a very intimate
acquaintance with them herself, she believed
that all were alike good and useful. Mrs.
Wilson had saved from the wreck of her
husband’s fortune, besides her piano and
harp, a plentiful supply of such reading as
was calculated to take the place of fashionable
amusements, and dispel the ennui that ban-
ishment from such scenes would produce in
a mind which had no taste for anything else.
These books, designed to furnish a fashionable
lady with the excitement which had become
necessary to her, were placed in the hands of
poor little Florence Evelyn ; thus vitiating
her mind, perverting her judgment, and mak-
ing her the resistless victim of almost every
species of folly. Florence was every day
told that she was beautiful, and the little
mirres that hung close by her bedroom win-
dow, only confirmed the fact; vet in truth
sue did not place so high a value on this pos-
A TROUBLESOME VISITOR. 21
session as might have been supposed. Her
maind was full of the representations made
by Miss Julia Wilson of what she had seen in
the city, and she dreamed by night of things
beyond her reach, and in the morning arose
to drown both memory and consciousness in
the waking dreams of the novelist. My
readers, especially my young readers, who
have active habits, and love the pure air and
green fields too well to have any sympathy
for a little girl like the one we are describing,
will think this an overwrought picture ; but
it is painted from real life. The character of
Florence Evelyn is not an imaginary one,
and our story is, in every essential point,
strictly true.
CHAPTER III.
A TROUBLESOME VISITOR.
“Ou, mamma,†exclaimed Florence one day,
hurrying into the little back kitchen where
her mother was busy at work, “who do you
think is coming now to spoil all my fun in
going to Julia Wilson’s party? I know Aunt
Tacy’s old black bonnet, for she has worn it
22 A TROUBLESOME VISITOR.
ever since I can remember, and her carriage
is just now coming down the hill. What
shall we do mamma ?â€
“ Sure enough, it is Aunt Tacy,†said Mrs,
Evelyn, shading her eyes with her hands, and
taking a leisurely survey of the road; “ she
couldn’t have hit upon aworsetime. But we
must be civil to her, Flora dear, and you can
explain it all to Juliaâ€
“Oh no, mamma, I must go to the party,
poor Julia wouldn’t know how to do without
me, and you know there are only particular
ones invited.â€
“ But, Flora’——
* But, mother !â€
“ Aunt Tacyâ€
“ Don’t say it again, mamma: do tell what
is the use of being civil to such a cross old
quiz as she is 1 If you would only just affront
her you might get rid of her.â€
Mrs. Evelyn shook her head. “It wont
do, Flora, it wont do! Aunt Tacy is not the
woman to be displeased at trifles.â€
“ It shall do,†muttered the young lady, as
she returned to her station in the parlour.
“ T can never be anybody so long as this old
woman makes mamma fear her so much ; and
A TROUBLESONE VISITOR. 23
I will go to Julia’s party to-night in spite of
her meddling.â€
Mrs. Evelyn knew Aunt Tacy Willet better
than did her would-be-lady daughter, and she
knew that it would be neither an easy nor de-
sirable task to offend her. This universal aunt
was a maiden lady of about sixty, who had
acted the part of parent, guardian, and friend
to the ambitious Mrs. Evelyn, and taught
her all the little good which she knew how
to perform. The presence of this kind friend
was always a restraint upon Mrs. Evelyn, and
she would have dispensed with it quite will-
ingly. Butthat was impossible. In spite of
hints and slights, Aunt Tacy would make her
regular visits, taking care always to bring
with her some acceptable present, and give
while there a great deal of wholesome advice.
The good old lady was particularly interested
in the well-being of Florence, who had always
been her peculiar favourite ; and the object
of her‘present visit was to gain her mother’s
acquiescence in a scheme which she proposed
for her benefit. After Aunt Tacy had in-
quired into the health of every member of
the family, from the parents and the pretty
Miss Florence, down to little Archie in the
24 A TROUBLESOME VISITOR.
cradle, she passed her snuff-box to the host-
ess, drew out her knitting, and commenced
conversation.
“That is a very pretty girl of yours, Ra-
chel, that Florence.â€
Mrs. Evelyn locked pleased, but she did
not reply. She was thinking how she might
just hint to Aunt Tacy something about Flo-
rence’s education.
“ She is quite tall of her age,†continued
the old lady, “but she looks very pale: I
hope she is not sickly.â€
“Oh no,†replied Mrs. Evelyn hastily,
“she is not sickly: rather delicate, that is
all.â€
“ Rather too delicate, I am afraid,†said
Aunt Tacy dryly, “but she may improve in
that respect. I believe she is rather clever ?â€
“ Oh, I never saw her equal ; she can’t be
easy a moment without her book ; I dure say
she has read all of fifty volumes this summer.â€
“Umph ! I rather you would tell me she
had read a dozen.â€
Mrs. Evelyn elevated her hands and eyes,
and sat in mute astonishment.
“ Not,†continued Aunt Tacy, “that I do
not approve of young people spending their
A TROUBLESOME VISITOR. 25
leisure time in useful reading, but I would
not have them read by measure. It is like
estimating one’s knowledge by the lightness
with which the tongue moves. And one
book well read is worth fifty merely glanced
at.â€
“Oh, Florence understands what she reads,â€
ssid Mrs. Evelyn, “and she will tell such
long stories of lords and ladies, and haunted
castles, and all such things, that really you
would be quite astonished at the child’s pro-
digious memory.â€
“ And are the fifty volumes you have been
telling me about of this stamp?†inquired
Aunt Tacy.
“Oh no; not all I presume, though she
reads so much that I don’t keep track of her
at all.â€
“Ts it possible, Rachel Evelyn,†inquired
the old lady, “that you allow books to go
into the hands of that child, that you have
not examined ?â€
“ Dear me! how could I?†exclaimed the
mother in a deprecating tone, “and I with
such a family.â€
“ By allowing her to bear part of the bur-
den. Then, it is not necessary that she should
26 A TROUBLESOME VISITOR.
read all the trash that is published, and vou
have time to examine a few books for her; at
least you could find a trusty friend who would
willingly make the selection.â€
“ But Florence’s judgment is far beyond
her years, and she is more to be trusted than
common children,â€
“Take care, Rachel, that you don’t trust
her to her own injury. Florence is certainly
a very handsome girl, and what is more, she
looks gentle and amiable. I think she is
clever too, It is not altogether a mother’s
partiality that makes you proud of her, Ra-
chel ; but take care I say that you don’t
trust her too far.â€
“What do you think I had better do?â€
inquired Mrs. Evelyn, timidly.
“ T have a plan in my head, that I think
you would like.â€
Mrs. Evelyn’s face brightened up, and there
was a benevolent smile playing around Aunt
Tacy’s mouth, as if she thought she was
about to confer a favour, and make a friend
happy.
“ Florence,†she continued, “is, as yuu
say, rather delicate, but I doubt not she isa
healthy child. I suppose you would be will-
A TROUBLESOME VISITOR. 27
ing to part with her if you thought it for her
advantage ?â€
“ Oh, certainly,†replied the mother, al-
ready estimating the value of Aunt Tacy’s
fortune, and confident that Florence was
about to be made an heiress. “She is quite
healthy, but rather too slender to be of much
use tome. Maria can take care of Archie,
and the other two children are not much
trouble: so although I should miss dear
Flora very much, I should feel it my duty to
part with her.â€
“T am glad to find you so willing,†re-
plied Aunt Tacy ; “mothers are apt to be a
little selfish about these things. Ifshe should
board with me, I can now and then bring
her to see youâ€
“ Board—with—you !†faltered out Mrs,
Evelyn.
“Oh, I forgot that I hadn’t told you my
plan,†said Aunt Tacy ; “I thought it would
be painful to you to send so fine a girl as
Florence out to service, for,†she added, look-
ing into Mrs. Evelyn’s face, with a good-
natured smile, “ you used to have some very
foolish notions, and I suppose you have not
become as wise as might be, yet. Well, I
28 A TROUBLESOME VISITOR.
know you will be obliged to labour very hard
to support such a family, and I have con-
cluded to take Florence off your hands.â€
“Thank you!†exclaimed Mrs. Evelyn,
grasping the good old lady’s hand. She felt
for the moment relieved from a life-long
burden.
“T have told Miss Perkins what a clever
girl Forence is,†continued Aunt Tacy, “and
she thinks her age will be no very great ob-
stacle; and so she will have her trade, and
be able to eara something all the quicker,
you know.â€
“ Miss Perkins—the trade—what can you
mean 1†gasped Mrs. Evelyn.
“ Why you know Miss Perkins, the man-
tuamakerâ€â€”—
“ Mantuamaker ? You don't suppose that
Florence Evelyn is to be a mantuamaker ?â€
“ And why not 2?â€
“ A girl like her gotoatrade ? why, Aunt
Tacy, you must be beside yourself! Only
think of it—did you ever see a handsomer
face, or more genteel form? And then such
manners—a mantuamaker, indeed !â€
Aunt Tacy sat for a moment as if uncertain
whether she rightly comprehended these
A TROUBLESOME VISITOR. 29
words ; then slowly resuming the knitting
which she had laid in her lap when about
making her unfortunate proffer of assistance,
she gave a deep sigh, shook her head omin-
ously, and put her needles into rapid motion.
“ You must not be angry with me, Aunt
Tacy,†said Mrs. Evelyn, after a moment's
pause. “You don’t know Florence ; she is
no common child. Maria shall be a dress-
maker, as soon as she is old enough, but Flo-
rence must be educated.â€
“Florence needs a different education from
that which you propose,†said Aunt Tacy,
“and I think the sooner she learns to be use-
ful to herself and to you, the better.â€
“ But Florence is framed by nature for a
different stationâ€
* She who fails in the duties of the station
in which Heaven has placed her, is fit for no
other,†interrupted Aunt Tacy; “and I warn
you, Rachel Evelyn, that if you neglect what
is necessary for the present, in the hope of
some future good, you prepare your child for
a life of misery and wretchedness. Teach
her to be active, industrious, frugal, and at-
tentive to the wants of those about her, and
above all, give her sound principles of virtue
30 A TROUBLESOME VISITOR.
and religion, and she is prepared to adorn any
station ; she may scatter sunshine in the
hovel, or shine the ornament of the proudest
mansion ; but neglect these, and she at once
becomes a burden to society.â€
“T thought,†said Mrs. Evelyn, “that you
were an advocate for education†——
“ So I am,†again interrupted Aunt Tacy,
“but it is an education suited to circum-
stances. I would not have the blacksmith
study law, nor the farmer waste his time in
learning the mechanic’s business; neither
would I have Florence, the daughter of a
poor man, cast important things aside for the
sake of becoming acquainted with those ac-
complishments which can never be of the
least possible use to her.â€
“So the poor must be content to remain
in ignorance, and give the advantages of edu-
cation to the wealthy?†said Mra. Evelyn, in
a bitter tone.
“ Pray what do you call education ?†in-
quired Aunt Tacy; “is it a bundle of know-
ledge, collected solely for the purpose of
making its possessor shine? or is it the ex-
perience of to-day, with some record of the
experience and observations of others, fit for
A TROUBLESOME VISITOR. 31
to-morrow’s use? No one is educated while
life offers the opportunity to learn, and no
one is in a proper course of education, while
fitting for a station which precludes the per-
formance of the duties of the one now occu-
pied. If Florence possessed all the book
knowledge our country affords, she would be
uneducated while she could not sweep your
floor, and prepare her father’s tea ; for these
are duties imposed by her station, which she
cannot neglect and be guiltless,â€
“ You say hard things,†sighed Mrs.
Evelyn, unable to combat longer, and un-
willing to give up her prejudices, “but I
shall try to do what I can for Florence.â€
“ Better teach her to do for herself,†re-
marked Aunt Tacy.
The entrance of Florence dressed for the
party, here interrupted the conversation, and
it was not again resumed.
32 MORE OF AUNT TACY'’S MEDDLING.
CHAPTER IV.
MORE OF AUNT TACY'S MEDDLING.
Aunt Tacy retired to her room that night
with a sad heart, She knew that it was use-
less to combat with her friend’s prejudices,
because they were the result of feeling, rather
than judgment; and though the judgment
might be convinced, a single glance at the
child was sufficient to overthrow it all. After
sitting for an unusual length of time in
thought, Aunt Tacy drew from her ample
pocket a time-worn volume, the guide-book
of her humble life, adjusted her spectacles,
placed the candle in a position where the
light might shine upon the page, and, resting
her forehead on her hand, sat for a long time.
conning the words of life. When she raised
her head the look of care had passed from
her countenance, and left in its stead an ele-
vated expression, so calm and holy that the
most careless observer could not but know
that it was the result of heavenly communion.
Avain Aunt Tacy sat in silent meditation,
and then she reverently knelt by her bed-
MORE OF AUNT TACY'S MEDDLING, 33
side, and breathed her inmost wishes in the.
ear of Him who Jover to listen to the secret
sntitioner. No wonder, after this, that Aunt
acy’s rest was calm and untroubled,—she
knew that the Father of all cared for herself
and friends. The good lady was awake as
soon as the day had dawned ; but not toe
early to hear the careful tread of Mrs. Evelyn,
as she passed and repassed her door in attend-
ingto her morning duties. This again brought
to her mind the condition of poor Florence.
“The child will be ruined here, I see it
plainly,†said the good lady to herself; “Ra-
chel will never teach her to be useful, and I
perceive she is already both indolent and seif-
ish. What can be done? She would make
a very tasteful dressmaker, and, in the mean-
time, I could give her lessons in house-keep-
ing indispensable to any woman, high or low,
while the example of Caroline Ross would
work wonders on her moral feelings. But
that is out of the question ; Florence Evelyn
must be a dady. Oh, the folly of a mother’s
rearing these air-castles, which, in their fall,
have crushed thousands no less promising
than this poor child now standing on the
verge of ruin. I must take her: and airce
q@
34 MORE OF AUNT TACY’S MEDDLING,
it can be done in no other way, on Rachel’s
own terms. Thank God, who has given me
the means! she shall be thoroughly edu-
cated, for I see that nothing else can save
her,â€
Aunt Tacy Willet’s abode was a humble
one, because she preferred comfort to show;
but she was not without the means of doing
good, as many a poor sufferer could testify,
although she seldom proceeded on so large a
scale as she now proposed. Caroline Ross
was a sister's child, whom Aunt Tacy had
taken for the mutual benefit of both parties,
and whom she intended to educate according
to her own comprehension of that abused
term. She thought, by giving Florence au
opportunity for mental culture, her moral
feelings would be more fully developed, and,
if she proved what the good old lady hoped,
she might make herself useful both to her
friends and the world as a teacher.
“Tt is a responsible station, but Florence
may be made adequate to it,†thought Aunt
Tacy, as the prospect brightened before her
imagination. “I will put the plan into ex-
ecution immediately: Rachel can have no
possible objection.â€
MORE OF AUNT TACY’S MEDDLING. 35
Mrs. Evelyn had been dreading to meet
Aunt Tacy at the breakfast table; but the
expression of stern sorrow with which she
had parted from her the preceding evening,
had vanished, and her face was again lighted
up by a benevolent smile.
Mrs. Evelyn was overjoyed at Aunt Tacy’s
generous offer ; and, after some little show of
opposition, and a few words about the weight
of the obligation, gave up her daughter to
the care of her friend. Florence did not
evince quite so much pleasure; for she had
the discernment to discover that Aunt Tacy s
intentions with regard to her were not ex-
actly in accordance with her mother’s wishes,
or her hopes; but still, she thought this
might be made the stepping-stone to some-
thing higher. Accordingly she resolyed to
sacrifice even the pleasure of Julia Wilson’s
society, and go with the old lady cheerfully.
“ You had better try to please Aunt Tacy,â€
said Mrs. Evelyn, on the evening before her
daughter's departure, “though she may have
some old-fashioned notions. I suppose things
were different in her day from what they are
now. She has a niece there; so it will not
be necessary for you to wash the dishes, or
36 MORE OF AUNT TACY’S MEDDLING.
do work that will spoil your hands, but you
can dust and doa few such things, just enough
to keep her in good-humour.â€
“I didn’t know that I was going to be her
drudge,†answered Florence, pettishly, “and
if I go to school, it will be as much as I can
attend to.â€
Mrs. Evelyn made no reply. She had long
since lost the power to exact obedience,
“It will not be necessary for you to take
any books,†said Aunt Tacy, entering in time
to catch a glimpse of a very suspicious-look-
ing volume about to be transferred from the
upper book shelf to Florence’s trunk ; “ you
will find a plentiful supply at my house.â€
“But perhaps,†said Florence, “they may
not be—that is—I shall want something to
read besides school-books, you know.â€
“And my library contains something be-
sides school-books, you will find,†said Aunt
Tacy, smiling, “at least I can supply you for
fhe present ; and when my stock fails, I will
engage to find you more.â€
Florence still hesitated, and her mother at
last ventured to suggest, that although the
library at Aunt Tacy’s cottage undoubtedly
contained a very choice selection of books,
THE NEW HOME. 37
yet as they were chosen for older persons,
they might not be exactly fitted to instruct
the young.
“In plain terms,†said Aunt Tacy, “you
are afraid my library contains no novels.â€
“T recollect you didn’t use to approve of
light reading,†remarked Mrs. Evelyn, with
some timidity.
“Florence will find as much light reading
at my house as will be for her good,†said
Aunt Tacy, resolutely, “and I shall not con-
sent to her taking any of the miserable trash
which she has spent so many precious hours
in reading.†.
Florence laid down the book with.a sigh ;
but shortly after, observing Aunt Tacy en-
gaged with something else, she slid it into
her trunk unobserved, and closed the lid.
CHAPTER Y.
THE NEW NOME, WITH ITS PLEASURES AND
TROUBLES.
Aounr Tacy Wiuer’s cottage was on the
outskirts of a beautiful village; and although,
as J have before stated, it was plain and
88 THE NEW HOME.
simple in the extreme, the location was an
exceedingly pleasant one, and it commanded
a fine prospect. A green lawn, with its neat
gravel walk stretched out in front of it, orna-
mented with nothing but a few wild rose-
bushes, and a single vine trailing over the
cottage porch. As Aunt Tacy’s carriage
paused before the gate, a buoyant figure came
bounding along the gravel walk; and Flor-
ence was introduced to her future companion,
Caroline Ross.
“ Are you really to live with us?†inquired
Caroline. “Oh, how happy we shall be!â€
and taking the hand of her new friend in
one of .hers, and Aunt Tacy’s in the other,
she led them towards the cottage door. As
they proceeded up the walk, Florence ob-
served a lad, who seemed to be at that pre-
cise point in his teens when you are doubtful
whether to consider him boy or man, hurry-
ing across an adjoining field, clearing the
fence at one leap, and then pausing awk-
wardly ; now casting side-long glances at
herself, and now at the back-door. If, how-
ever, he had meditated an escape, he seemed
to think better of it, for waiting long enough
to summon up a good degree of courage, he
THE NEW HOWE. 39
again advanced, slowly and timidly, till within
a few yards of the group, and then suddenly
came to a dead stand.
“ David!†said Aunt Tacy, looking sud-
denly around, “come, we are waiting for
you; friends should know each other. My
nephew, David Ross, Miss Evelyn; your
cousin Florence, David. If I am to be aunt
to all, I shall of course expect you to be
cousins,†added Aunt Tacy, looking smilingly
about her.
When Florence found an opportunity for
observation, she discovered that Aunt Tacy’s
cottage possessed many conveniences to which
she had not been accustomed at home; and
her rooms, though no larger, were far better
furnished. But she also made a discovery
which seemed to her then of far greater im-
portance. She had been very much afraid to
meet Caroline Ross, lest she should find her
a superior ; but if she were so, her superiority
was not at all conspicuous. Her manners
were far more child-like than those of Flor-
ence ; and she could not lay claim to so much
personal beauty. Her round, rosy cheeks,
and laughing gray eyes were admired by all,
because indicative of health, good-humour,
40 THE NEW HOME.
and intelligence; but Florence at once pro-
nounced them coarse, and concluded she had
nothing to fear from one so unpretending.
When Florence entered school she found
herself far behind her new friend in actual
knowledge ; but her course of reading had
given her that flow of words which is often
mistaken for real information, and she found
it no difficult task to conceal her deficiency.
It was said that Florence made rapid im-
provement, and she was indeed a very showy
scholar ; but her indolent habits prevented
that severe application, without which the
most gifted are only smatterers. Florence
soon stood before Caroline in her classes ; but
Aunt Tacy discovered, with deep regret, that
her acquirements were merely superficial,
and that while she was becoming qualified to
show, her intellect was in reality unimproved.
In the mean time her progress in other re-
spects was even more discouraging. Indolent
and selfish in the extreme, she would resort
to any low stratagem and petty deception, to
free herself from censure, and throw the
blame of her carelessness or neglect on Curu-
line.
Any ut one with the habits, feelings, ana
THE NSW HOME. 41
sentiments of Florence Evelyn, would have
enent the time very pleasantly at Aunt
Tacy’s cottage; for the good old lady was an
indulgent guardian where her kindness was
not abused, and Caroline was cheerful, self-
denying, and affectionate; but this was no
place for one disposed to sail along the world
in idleness, and think of self alone.
“T have a little work for you in the
kitchen, Florence,†said Aunt Tacy, one
morning ; “but you can easily finish it in
time to dress for school, and in the mean
time Caroline will dust the parlour.â€
“ Please, let Florence do the dusting,†said
Caroline, in compassion to her friend, who
manifested her dislike for kitchen-work, by
drawing down the corners of the mouth, and
lowering the eyebrows ; “she prefers it.â€
“She must learn to prefer what is neces-
sary to be done,†said Aunt Tacy.
“Flora is not quite wel} this morning, I
am sure,†returned Caroline in a kind tone,
and laying her arm across her friend’s neck,
“she looks so sad and sorrowful ; you know,
Aunt Tacy, she is not so strong as I am.â€
“ Activity has much to do with streugth,â€
was the reply. “But do as you please this
42 THE NEW HOME.
morning, girls ; only I must hereafter insist
on Florence’s performing her share of house-
hold duties.â€
“Thank you, Car’y,†said Florence, as soon
as Aunt Tacy was beyond hearing, “I can’t
bear washing dishes, and such work. I
should think your aunt would keep a ser-
vant.â€
“ Servant, Flora? do tell what we should
do with a servant? Aunt Tacy is our ser-
vant, and we are hers; David is servant to
all of us, and we all serve him. Four ser-
vants, Flora, is a pretty good number for an
establishment like ours.â€
“You know what I mean,†said Florence,
pettishly ; “every body with your aunt’s
means has a hired servant.â€
“We are bound together by dove, and that
is better than money,†said Caroline, with a
smile. “Aunt Tacy says we value those
free-will offeringg much higher than the paid
service of a stranger; and I amsure we have
no more than we can do with ease.â€
“ But, Car’y, it is not genteel for—for†——
“For what?’ inquired Caroline, with a
iaugh ; “ for young ladies, like you and me,
to go into the kitchen ? eh, Flora ?â€
THE NEW HOME. 43
“You may laugh as much as you please,
but if we are to be educatedâ€â€”—.
“This is a part of our education ; and I
like it,†said Caroline, as she tripped out of
the room.
“T hate it!†muttered Florence, flinging
herself into a cushioned rocking-chair, and
looking sullenly down upon her hands,
“Dear me! IJ wonder how I shall get that
wart off my finger! it is as big as a pin-
head!†Florence’s mind was for a long time
occupied by the wart, and then it branched
out upon a variety of other topics. Visions
of silk hats, and flowers, and feathers, and
ribbons, and laces, passed before her mind,
and she wished she could get her fingers on
some of Aunt Tacy’s cash—only a very little.
O what a fine figure she would cut! And
she arose and paced up and down before the
mirror. Another half hour passed unnoted,
in wondering why some people must be rich
and others poor, and thinking over the stories
she had read about sudden changes of fortune ;
and then Aunt Tacy entered the room.
“T hope you have arranged things in the
parlour very tastefully,†she said, “as I ex-
pect company.†Florence smiled and nodded.
44 THE NEW HOME.
“T must attend to it now,†she said to
herself, with an indolent yawn, as Aunt Tacy
disappeared through the opposite door, “or I
shall be too late. Heigho! I am sure Car’y
was right. I don’t feel quite well this morn-
ing,†and again she flung herself into the
chair.
“Tf you are not engaged, Flora dear, please
mark these pocket-handkerchiefs for me,â€
said Caruline, entering the room; “I will
bring the ink ina moment. You know your
writing is prettier than mine.â€
The last words decided Florence. She
was a prettier writer than Caroline, and she
would do any thing to prove it. The pocket-
handkerchiefs were just finished, when Aunt
‘acy, duster in hand, and displeasure on her
Lrow, stood before her.
* Oh excuse me!†exclaimed Florence, in
confusion. ‘“ I—I—Car’y wanted me to do
a little job for her, and Car’y is always so
kind.â€
“ And so because Caroline is kind, my re-
quirements are to be disregarded !â€
“Why, I thought you had done the dust-
ing,†said Caroline, reproachfully ; “you
know that I wouldn’t wantâ€â€”—
THE NEW HOME. 45
“Oh no! I know you wouldn't want me
to do any thing wrong, but you assist me so
much that I couldn’t refuse.â€
“What were you doing previous to Caro-
line’s coming in 1†inquired Aunt Tacy.
“ JI believe I was thinking about some-
thing, and forgot.â€
“But you were reminded of it when I
passed through the room.â€
“Tt was only a few minutes after that,
that Caroline came in, and I have just now
finished the handkerchiefs.â€
“You gave me to understand you had
done the room.â€
“I did not say so.â€
* What is the difference, Florence, betweer
a falsehood acted and a falsehood spoken 1â€
Florence hung her head, and a tear, part
of mortification, and part of vexation, stole
down her cheek, Tears possess a magic that
can soften sterner hearts than that of Caro-
line Ross, and her own flowed in unison, as
she said, softly, “ Please, dear Aunt Tacy,
forgive Florence ; she will be more attentive
another time, I am sure she will.â€
“Be quiet, Caroline,†said Aunt Tacy.
* You mean well, my dear,†she added in a
46 THE NEW HOMR,
softer tone, “but you cannot adjust this
matter. Go and dress yourself for school.
Florence will be late.â€
Caroline left the room reluctantly, and her
quick light step sounded slow and heavy as
she ascended the staircase. When we do
wrong we not only make ourselves miserable,
but every one about us. A cloud, not of
anger, but of sorrow, rested on Aunt Tacy’s
brow as Florence went sobbing to the parlour ;
and Caroline, who had seldom felt sadness,
now sighed heavily as she drew on her deep
cottage bonnet, the more effectually to shade
her eyes. Even David looked troubled, for
he discovered signs not to be mistaken of
trouble within. He saw his sister go away
to school alone, and watched by the corner
of the fence for Florence, who, notwithstand-
ing she ridiculed his awkwardness, and
laughed in his face when he was embarrassed,
had now become with the shy boy quite a
favourite. In about an hour she came in
sight ; but her face was red and swollen, and
her shoulders drooped, as though not strong
enough to keep their proper position.
“ What is the matter, Flora?†exclaimed
David, jumping over the fence, and standing
THE NEW HOME, 47
beside her, “do tell what is the matter, Has
any thing happened ?â€
Florence drew off her glove, and, holding
out her hand, discovered two or three blisters
on the palm.
“That’s too bad! what did it?†inquired
the boy.
“IT did it with the broom,†replied Flor-
ence, renewing her tears. “ Aunt Tacy made
me.â€
“Why, Caroline sweeps !†exclaimed David,
in amazement.
“She is used to it, but I—I never did such
things till I came here !â€
“Well, it is too bad, Flora—I’m sorry for
you. Tell Aunt Tacy how it hurts your
hands; she is very kind.â€
“She is kind to you and Caroline, but not
to me,†said Florence. “She is your aunt,
but I am poor and friendless,—I have no one
to care for me.â€
“ You forget Caroline and me, Flora ; be-
sides I know Aunt Tacy loves you ; she said
as much the other day when we were walk-
ing, and you and Car'y went forward after
flowers. ‘David, says she, ‘David, don’t
you think I have two of the finest girls in
48 ENDEAVOURING TO RISE.
the world ?†Don’t ery, Flora, don’t—I am
sure you have a great many friends.†The
kind-hearted boy paused from a certain chok-
ing sensation in his throat, and he drew the
cuff of his coat across his eyes. “I will
speak to Aunt Tacy about it,†he said to
himself, as he watched Florence’s receding
figure, “every girl can’t work like Car’y.
What a little, white hand! It is too bad,
too bad !â€
Perhaps David would have spared his pity
if he had known that Florence, in a fit of
anger, had performed three times the amount
of service required.
CHAPTER VI.
ENDEAVOURING TO RISE,
Our of school Florence professed a great deal
of friendship for Caroline Ross; but when-
ever she could find a companion that she
thought a little detter, poor Caroline was
quite thrown into the shade. The school at
Wilton was patronized by some half a dozen
families, perhaps in no way superior to the
ENDEAVOURING TO RISE. 49
humbler inhabitants of the village, yet on
account of wealth and fashion forming a
circle of their own, quite too select to admit
of the intrusion of their supposed inferiors.
In this circle it was Florence's entire aim to
be admitted, and she could not stoop too low
to win the favour of Miss Matilda Graham,
or whisper too many silly flatteries in the ear
of Miss Araminta Coleson, or assist too much
Migs Clarissa Derby in her tasks; for the
Misses Graham, and Coleson, and Derby,
were genteel young ladies, and although not
half so sensible as Caroline Ross, it was an
honour to be counted among their friends.
One day, Florence would be sure that her
distinction was fixed on a firm basis: and the
next, Miss Derby having no need of her
services, she would see ber “dear Clarissaâ€
pass her with scarce a nod of recognition.
Poor Florence! A crooked road was she led
by her desire for distinction, and a thorny
one too, but she was too blind to be sensible
of her error, She pursued the lightest of all
phantoms, and it led her a weary way.
Florence had been in school two years
before: Miss Selwyn could decide that sha
was unfit for a teacher ; but Aunt Tacy had
D
50 ENDEAVOURING TO RISE.
feared long before, what was the true state
of the case,
“T must not send her back upon her
parents,†thought the good old lady, “they
would foster the wrong, and darken the little
good in her: nor must I keep her in idle-
ness.†Florence was now almost sixteen,
yet young as she was, and dependant on the
bounty of a friend for bread, she affected all
the airs of a high-born beauty. Caroline had
gained discrimination enough to be sensible
of her friend’s faults, and she pitied her
sincerely, while she tried to direct her to the
only true source of happiness. But David,
the honest, simple-hearted David, could see
no wrong in pretty Flora Evelyn, and he was
almost angry with his sister for her superior
discernment. He was sure that Aunt Tacy
and Caroline were both prejudiced, end he
did not blame Florence for not wanting to
be a drudge. At least he was sure that a
place in the parlour was very becoming to
her, and if he could have his way, she should
always occupy it. But Aunt Tacy knew
Florence Evelyn better than did her doating
parents, or kind David Ross. She knew that
she had some good traits of character, but
ENDEAVOURING TO RISE. 5}
deceit and falsehood were at the base, and
indolence hung like a leaden weight upon
her energies, damping the slightest hope that
might be formed of her future usefulness.
“TI suppose Aunt Tacy will take me out
of school soon,†said Florence one day to her
friend David, “and then I shall very likely
be obliged to go home; and oh, I can't
imagine what will become of me! It is a
hard thing, David, to be dependant.â€
“It is so,†said the youth, “and if I were
you, Flora, I wouldn’t bear it any longer.
It may be a hard thing, too, for one like you
to go out among strangers, but I should
rather do it, than bear what you are obliged
to do here.â€
“Go out among strangers, David! what
do you mean? Would you too make me a
servant?â€
“¥ didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,
Flora, you know I would help you if I could.
Perhaps you might get sewing—that I am
sure is respectable employment.â€
“ And’so I am to be only respectable / a re-
spectable tradeswoman! I see that you too
have joined with them against me. Well, it
is what I might have expected.â€
52 ENDEAVOURING TO RISE.
“Forgive me, Flora, I don’t well under-
stand these things, but I am sure that I am
anxious to serve you in some way; and I
wish I could do it with something more
valuable than mere words. Perhaps the
day will some time come that—but—I have—
almost forgotten what we were talking about,
Flora—Oh, your leaving school! I hope
Aunt Tacy will keep you there yet. We
should be very lonely if you should go away.
You are about old enough to commence teach-
ing, and I am sure know quite enough.
Florence shook her head mournfully. “I
don’t think I was ever calculated for a
teacher, David; and both Aunt Tacy and
Miss Selwyn think so now. For my part I
never intended to become one.â€
“Do you really think you'll not make a
teacher, Flora?†asked David, in astonish-
ment. “Aunt Tacy told me so the other
day, and I got very angry with her, for I
thought she was prejudiced against you.â€
“ And Car’y, what did she think ?â€
“T don’t know; Car’y feels dreadfully
about something ; she seems to pity you as
much as though you were her sister.â€
“T don’t need her pity!†said Florence,
ENDEAVOURING TO RISE. 53
with unusual energy, “I don’t need her
pity ; and she may yet see the dayâ€â€”—
The young lady paused, and bit her lips
until they were scarlet ; then picking up a
book, she leaned her head against the wall,
and seemed busily engaged in examining the
title-page, although it was upside down.
David looked at her a moment, wonderingly ;
then his eyes falling on a very showy ring
that encircled her finger, he began in his
turn to gnaw his lips, and finally his thumb,
till, quite forgetting where he was, he began
promenading Aunt Tacy’s rag carpet with
peculiar energy, and whistling “ yankee
doodle.†Could it be that he had got any-
thing of an insight into Florence Evelyn’s
character! We shail see.
CHAPTER VII.
WHO CAN HELP THOSE WHO WILL NOT HELP
THEMSELVES ?
“ Bring your guitar, Florence, and play to
me,†said Aunt Tacy, a few evenings after
the conversation recorded in the last chapter.
o4 WHO CAN HELP THOBE
“Let Caroline sing, for her voice goes to my
heart, and I am sad.â€
“Sad, dear Aunt Tacy ?†inquired Caro-
line, “let me wheel round your rocking-chair
towards the fire—its blaze will make you
cheerful.â€
The old lady gave her niece a grateful
glance as she leaned over her chair, but shook
her head. “It is of no use, Caroline; my
trouble is not light enough to be easily dissi-
pated. But I would hear Florence play once
more, and see her too. Come and sit before
me, child,—there, that is right,—now let us
have some music.â€
Florence touched the strings of the guitar.
The air was a sad one, but Aunt Tacy’s brow
grew gradually lighter, and lighter, till at
last an expression of pleasure, if not one of
joy predominated. The song ceased, and
then she bowed her head upon her bosom,
and seemed in a state of entire abstraction.
She was thinking of Florence.
Aunt Tacy had not remained stationary
during the time that she had had our two
young friends under her entire control ; for
what heart so withered, or what will so stern,
as never to yield to the impressions of youth
WHO WILL NOT HELP THEMSELVES! 655
and beauty? She was still the same simple-
hearted, right-minded being; but much of
her homeliness of manner and of thought
had passed away. She was interested in the
personal, as well as intellectual and moral
improvement of her charge; and she found
her taste not only for music, but for birds
and flowers, and all the beautiful things
spread out so lavishly for man’s enjoyment,
materially improved. The young cannot
know the extent of their power to make the
aged happy. They may beguile the passing
moment, but that is not all ; they have power
to recall thoughts and feelings long since for-
gotten; and impressions quite obliterated by
the touch of time, they may again revive, so
that the heart which has been too much —
thrown upon itself for enjoyment, may awake
to half the freshness of earlier days. Such
was the influence exerted by Florence and
Caroline over Aunt Tacy. They had shed
light in her hitherto solitary abode, and
made themselves almost necessary to her.
True, Florence had caused the old lady much
trouble, but she now looked upon it all as a
mere trifle, while her solicitude was awak-
ened for the welfare of the child she loved
56 WHO CAN HELP THOSE
so well, yet found herself unable to be-
nefit.
“Oh, Florence!†she at last exclaimed,
raising her head, “why must so much beauty
and grace be confined to the mere exterior,
while there is no corresponding quality
within ?â€
Florence tossed the shining hair from her
flushed brow, and allowed her fingers to
wander carelessly over the strings of her
guitar, but she manifested no other emotion ;
and Aunt Tacy continued. “Two years ago,
I took you from,â€â€”(she paused as consider-
ing whether it would be best to speak in
plain terms, and then went on,) “I took you
from a humble home, hoping to make you
useful, â€-———~
“ Yes, it was a humble home,†interrupted
Florence, in a bitter tone. “I was the
daughter of poor parents, and for that acci-
dent must I suffer while I live. I did not
think you would be so unkind as to reproach
‘me with that, Aunt Tacy.â€
“T have not reproached you with it, Flor-
ence, and I have only mentioned it to remind
you of-something which it would be for your
-interest to remember,—but listen now. I
WHO WILL NOT HELP THEMSELVES? 57
have placed you in an excellent school where
you have had the benefit of the best of
teachers, and I have endeavoured myself to
teach you the necessary duties of home. I
now find you at the age of sixteen, with
many personal advantages, and many accom-
plishments, unprepared for any of the active
duties of life, unfit for any position, either
high or low, in this world, and alarmingly
careless of your eternal interests. By sup-
porting you in this indolence, I am doing
injustice to you, and to many more needy,
not to say more deserving ones. It is pain-
ful, but it is no less a duty, for me to send
you back to your parents, and Heaven grant
that you may yet become a blessing to them.
You may do much good, by instructing your
little brothers and sisters; but oh, beware
how you infuse into them any portion of
your own spirit, or expose to them your sin-
ful lack of principle.â€
“Qh, Aunt Tacy, you do not mean it—
you do not mean to send me back—my edu-
cation unfinished—and—oh, who is there to
care forme? ‘Tell her, do tell her, Caroline,
that I will do right. I cannot go home, in-
deed I cannot.â€
88 WHO CAN HELP THOSE
* Be calm, Florence, and listen to me,â€
said Aunt Tacy, her own voice trembling
with ill-suppressed emotion, “I cannot keep
you any longer for the present. You have
often promised amendment, and as often
broken your promise ; you have wilfully de-
ceived me on numberless occasions, and I
cannot trust you.â€
“Think, Aunt Tacy,†said Caroline, speak-
ing with difficulty through her tears, “our
dear Flora is very young yet, and I am sure
you love her too well to do any thing that
will injure her. She may ao much better
when she is a little older.â€
“Yes, she is young, and that is my only
hope. I will give her a trial.â€
“Thank you, dear Aunt Tacy,†exclaimed
Florence, springing forward joyfully. “Oh,
you are so good not to send me to that dismal
place.â€
“Your home, Florence? But I did not
promise not to send you there. It is indeed
necessary that you shquld go, for that will be
your place of trial. If you make yourself
useful to your brothers and sisters,—if you
perform well a daughter’s part, at the end of
the year I will receive you back again, and
WHO WILL NOT HELP THEMSELYHS? 59
place you under Miss Selwyn’s care for as
long a term as she shall think necessary,
My principles of jystice will not allow me to
do more, nor the feelings of my heart less.â€
Florence made no reply, for she did not
well know what to say; but she snapped one
of the strings of her guitar, then allowed the
instrument to slide down from her hands
upon the floor, and without looking at either
Aunt Tacy or Caroline, she hurried out of
the room. She met David in the passage,
but did not allow him to speak to her, and
sought her own apartment. This gained,
she sat down on the bedside, and endeavoured
to bring her thoughts under sufficient con-
trol, to look upon her situation as it really
was, and arrange some plan for future action.
If her friends at the cottage had ever treated
her unkindly, she might have called some
pride to her aid; but her heart was not made
of materials very much differing from the
generality of human hearts, and she felt it
considerably softened by the evident sorrow
of Aunt Tacy, and the sympathy of Caroline,
Yet, although the blinding tears were con-
stantly gushing to her eyes, her thoughts
were far from being right, and her plans for
60 WHO CAN HELP THOSE
the year at home were all deeply tinged by
the selfish, deceitful spirit, which seemed to
have become part of her nature. She had
not sat long in this position, when the latch
was lightly lifted, and she was joined by
Caroline.
“Oh, I am so sorry, Flora,†and she sat
down beside her, and passed her arm around
her waist; and Florence leaned her head
upon her friend’s shoulder, and gave free vent
to the bitter, scalding tears. She was the
first to speak. This was the holiest, the most
unselfish moment of her life.
“Oh, Caroline,†she said, “ it is hard that
we must be separated now, when we might
be so happy, and all for my fault. I almost
wish that I had died before I had made you
and Aunt Tacy so much trouble.â€
“Oh no, don’t say so, that is wrong. You
have it in your power to be very useful yet,
and I hope we shall all see brighter days. 1
came from David now. Poor fellow ! he feels
sorrowful enough, for he loves you, Flora, as
if you were his sister; and he told me to
tell you, you should never, while he lives,
lack a friend.â€
“You are all very good,†said Florence,
WHO WILL NOT HELP THEMSELVES? 61
listlessly, “but it cannot benefit me now.
Oh, what a miserable life this is !â€
“ Your’s ought to be a happy one, Flor-
ence; I think if any persons in the world
have cause for gratitude, it is ourselves.
Aunt Tacy has been more than a mother to
us.â€
“ But now she casts me off, and what am I
to do?â€
“ Oh no, she does not cast you off; if yon
do right, you may return in a year. But oh,
Florence, do not think that I do not love
you when I say you have a great deal to re-
form.â€
“T mean to be industrious, Caroline, when
I get home, and assist mother, and instruct
the children. I know I have not done quite
as well as I might since I have been here,
but it is hard to break off old habits, and
form new ones. Don’t you think so, Caro-
line? But then I have no need to ask you
—you were always orderly and industri-
ous.â€
“That is not what I mean, dear Flora, or
at least not all. You know why Aunt Tacy
is unwilling that you should teach? She
thinks you too little under the control of
62 WHO CAN HELP THOSE
principle; you are not self-denying, self-
sacrificingâ€â€”—
“ How could I be, Caroline? One of the
first lessons my mother taught me was, to
look out for my own interests in preference
to anything else. She made me believe that
poverty is a great curse, and I cannot think
otherwise. If I were rich I should be loved
and respected, but now†and Florence
again leaned upon the friendly shoulder and
wept.
“Poor Florence ! but how mistaken !†said
Caroline tenderly. ‘“ You are loved now,
and might easily make yourself respected. Do
not dwell upon this point so much. He who
has said, ‘ As thy day is so shall thy strength
be,’ will also prepare us for any situation in
life, in which it is his will to place us.â€
Florence remained silent, and after a short
pause Caroline again began. “I had one
word more to say to you, and you must not
think me unkind. You know I would not
pain you unnecessarily, but you have got one
great fault, Florence, that even Aunt Tacy
knows nothing about. She knows that you
have often deceived her, but she does not
know that you are capable of wilful falsehood.â€
WHO WILL NOT HELP THEMSELVES? 63
“ And who dares say that I am?†ex-
claimed Florence, dashing off the tears, and
fixing her angry eye steadily on her friend,
“Who dare say that I was ever guilty of
anything so mean ?â€
“No one that I know of, but myself,†re-
plied Caroline calmly, “and this is the first
time I have ever spoken of it ; but when you
think of the representations you have made
to David, will you call the charge unjust ?â€
“T will; I have never told David a single
falsehood.â€
“Tt is strange ; he seems to have received
from some one distorted accounts of every-
thing that has ever occurred among us.â€
“Tt is not from me ; I have related simple
facts, and allowed him to draw his own in-
ferences. If his generosity has led him to
give me undue credit, surely the fault is not
mine.â€
“Was it generous in you to allow him to
draw false inferences, especially as the credit
he gave you was at Aunt Tacy’s expense ?
O Florence! it is not sufficient that we do
not speak falsehood, but we must learn to
speak truth.â€
“YT am sorry, Caroline, if I have given
64 WHO CAN HELP THOSE, 40
David any wrong opinions of Aunt Tacy or
of you. Everybody was blaming me, and it
was not natural for me when I found that
he was blind to my faults, to spread them
all open to him. I know you would have
done it, but I have not so much magnani-
mity.â€
“That seems to me mere justice, not mag-
nanimity; yet I do not know what I might
do if I had been tempted. You have re-
lieved me of quite a burden, Florence ; for
although I cannot look upon the deceit you
have practised as a very light thing, yet it is
not wilful falsehood.â€
“Toes David think I have told him un-
truths ?â€
“No; I felt unwilling to expose you, and
now I am sure my heart led me right, for you
are not 80 guilty as you appeared.â€
“Your heart always leads you right,â€
sighed Florence: “I wish it was so with
mine,â€
A wish to do right is the first step in the
path of reformation; but unless another
follow soon, we insensibly slide backward and
lose the little advantage we had gained. Oh
for the truthful simplicity of character re-
THE PARTING. 65
commended by our Saviour !—the humble,
trusting, loving nature of the “ little child.â€
We follow his precepts nearest, we approach
nearest his guilelessness, when, like him, we
forget self, and “ go about doing good.â€
CHAPTER VIII.
THE PARTING.
Iv Florence had ever imagined herself not
loved, she would have been undeceived when
she saw how pained her friends were at part-
ing with her. Caroline’s little keepsakes
were stowed away in her trunk by the side
of Aunt Tacy’s more substantial gifts; the
carriage was at the door, and her bonnet and
shawl lay upon the table. Aunt Tacy and
Caroline, uttering now and then a word of
advice or encouragement, stood beside her ;
but there was one missing. David had not
been seen since the evening previous. No
one mentioned his name, and Florence did
not venture to inquire for him.
“ Do not follow me,†she at last said, rising
and throwing on her bonnet; “I have not
5
66 THE PARTING,
taken leave of my little bower ; it may be de-
stroyed before I return again.â€
She slipped out of the door, and passing
down a narrow lane, turned into the field,
and was soon lost behind a hill that border-
ed the stream dignified by the name of river.
The bower was formed of a few tall saplings,
interspersed with viburnum, witch-hazel, and
wild-roses, and bound together by the wood-
bine which had been taught to clamber over
them. A rude seat had been constructed
beneath this shelter, and a stone covered
with rich, brown moss, soft as the finest er-
mine, lay beside it, forming as pretty an o¢to-
man as @ lady’s foot would care to press.
At a little distance, a wild grape-vine, loaded
with its purple burden, twined itself about
an old oak tree, and a few autumn flowers
nodded over the border of the river, or sway-
ed to and fro in the light breeze. Florence
looked on all these things and sighed, then
flung herself on the seat.
“T thought you could not go away without
coming here,†said David, stepping out from
behind the shrubbery, “and I have been
awaiting you since daylight.â€
“Well, the carriage is at the door now, and
THE PARTING. 67
I must soon be gone. This is a pretty spot,
but you will forget to take care of it when I
am away.â€
“No, Florence, you cannot think that I
will. I may not train the woodbine so taste-
fully as you, but it shall not want for care.
I will visit it every day, and keep the snow
from it in winter.â€
“ And go let all the roots die for want of
their proper protection,†said Florence,
laughing ; “is that a specimen of your care,
David ?â€
“You are right, too much care is more
dangerous than too little,†replied the youth
in a sad tone.
“You look serious, David ; has anything
happened ?â€*
“Tt may be nothing to you, Florence, to
go away from your friends, but it is some-
thing to them to see you go, however lightly
you may regard their feelings,†said David,
tossing, one by one, the flowers he had been
gathering into the river.â€
“Stop, David! what are you doing!†said
Florence, playfully arresting his hand, “spoil-
ing that pretty bouquet ? Now confess that
you gathered it for me.â€
68 THE PARTING.
“What if I did? you would have langhed
at me for giving it to you; would you not?â€
“No, I would have kept it until I came
back again. Have you no other keepsake for
me? You ought to be as generous as Aunt
Tacy and Caroline. See, I have netted you
a purse of green; my favourite colour you
know ; and here is the ring James Elmore
gave me: I know you dislike James, and
have never loved to see me wear his gift, so
I will leave it with you.â€
“No, thank you, Flora; you make me
ashamed of myself now ; keep your ring, and
think as often of James Elmore as you
please. Here is my remembrancer.â€
“Oh, thank you! how natural! who
sketched it?â€
“ Caroline.â€
“ And was it her thought ?â€
“No.â€
“ Did she know you intended it for me ?â€
“ No, somehow I did not like to tell her.â€
Florence was very glad, although she could
scarce have told why, that Caroline did not
know of her brother’s gift; but this she
kept to herself, and turned again to the
bower. “The leaves are fading,†she said,
THE PARTING. 69
“but the witch-hazel berries will be red all
winter. We ought to have had an evergreen
transplanted here.â€
“Tt can be done yet,†said David, joyfully ;
“TJ will set about it to-morrow, and when you
come back again, you shall praise my skill in
spite of my overmuch care. I will make it
as beautiful as any bower you tell of in your
songs.â€
“Then you are sure I will come back ?â€
“ Why shouldn’t I be sure 2â€
“ Because Aunt Tacy says it depends upon
my own conduct.â€
“ And that is why I know that you will
come.â€
“Thank you ; I will endeavour to deserve
your confidence,†said Florence, for the first
time allowing a tear to steal out from be-
tween her half-closed lids ; “ you shall find
me as good as Caroline when I come back.â€
“T think you are now,†said David, ear-
nestly ; “not quite so thoughful perhaps, but
always meaning well.â€
“J ought to undeceive him,†thought
Florence, “and that would be beginning my
new life ; but if I should, then there would
be no one to think well of me. No, that is
70 THE PARTING.
3 little too much, I cannot give up his con-
fidence ; I shall succeed better if I know
there is any one to trust me.â€
Florence forgot that the very foundation of
trust is an ingenuous confession of error; but
the deception she was practising made her
feel exceedingly uncomfortable, and sadly
she turned towards the house.
“You are not going yet, Flora ?â€
“TI must go; the carriage is waiting, and
Aunt Tacy will be impatient.â€
“ Aunt Tacy! Now you remind me of it,
T never could imagine why Aunt Tacy, who
is always so kind to everybody else, should
be so unreasonably severe with you.â€
“T don’t knowas she has been,†said Flor-
ence, slightly colouring.
“Don’t know! ah, Flora, it is for you to
forgive; and J am glad you do, for I am
sure she loves you after all.â€
“T hope she does,†said Florence, with a
sigh indicative of doubt ; “but,†she added,
her old propensity to deceive returning
upon her, “I never could understand such
love.â€
“NorT either. Aunt Tacy must be grow-
ing childish, and that is why——but Caro-
THE PARTING. 71
fine, what makes her fall m with every-
thing !â€
“Don’t let us talk of this, David, it is all
past now.â€
“ Yet if Caroline is so much to blameâ€â€”——
“ Oh, it is natural enough for one that has
so few faults as she, to—to see all mine, and
not to forgive them ; but I hope I shall be
better when I come back. Don’t forget the
evergreens ; and now I think of it, this seat
might be a little improved. Oh, how long!
One whole year before I visit my dear, dear
bower again, and then the leaves will be fad-
ing as they now are—see, I am getting quite
as sad as you.â€
“ Florence, will you tell me one thing be-
fore you go ?â€
Florence looked up. “ Why, how serious
you are ; is it a matter of life and death ?â€
“T can’t help being serious, Flora; for
you cannot imagine how miserable your dis-
agreements with Aunt Tacy and Carcline
have made me.â€
“Oh, you take everything so to heart!
Why, nothing is more common than for
people who are always together, to have dif-
ferent opinions on some points.â€
72 THE PARTING.
“But this is not mere difference of opinion.â€
“ Oh, well, it is of no consequenceâ€.
“ Perhaps not to you, who can forgive and
forget so readily ; but to me it seems no light
thing.â€
“ Well, your question ?â€
“T wish you to tell me (for I can believe
whatever you say), if my aunt and sister are
really as much to blame as they appear.â€
“ Oh, nonsense !†said Florence, playing
carelessly with the woodbines hanging down
from the trees above her head, “how soon a
mole-hill swells into a mountain in your
hands. One would think that we had quar-
relled every day since we had been together.â€
“ You do not choose to be serious, Flo-
rence ?â€
“ Your face is long enough for both of
us.â€
“ Perhaps I am impertinent, but it is very
hard to think ill of those we love. I know
there is wrong somewhere ; everything about
me shows it, and you all acknowledge it, yet
when I try to know where, you all evade my
questions.â€
“ Does Caroline ?â€
“ Yes.â€
THE PARTING. 73
“ Then why should I be more communica-
tive than she ?â€
“ Pardon me, Florence, I did not intend to
question you beyond what your were willing
to answer, I had thought all along that this
might be a misunderstanding ; but now I see
that it is even worse than I had supposed.â€
“ Seriously, David, you put too solemn a
face upon this matter. Car’y and I are not
exactly what might be called congenial
spirits, and Aunt Tacy prefers her nieceâ€â€”—
“That is not like Aunt Tacy.â€
“ You interrupted me. Prefers her neice’s
manners to mine.â€
“ And that is all?â€
“ That is—oh, you must judge for your-
self.â€
“ How can I when I see only half?â€
“ Why, you must judge of what you see.â€
“ And put my own construction upon —
that ?â€
“ Ye—es—why shouldn't you ?â€
“ Because it makes my friends appear un-
juet.â€
“ Then disregard it all.â€
“ T cannot be blind at will, or stop think
. â€
ing
74 THE TRIAL OF FLORENCE
“ Come, come, we are talking foolishly.â€
“ Don’t go yet, Florence.â€
“ T must go ; remember, I say, disregard it
all, and forget every thing that seems not
right. Good bye !â€
“ Disregard — forget !†muttered David,
walking slowly around the hill, that his eye
might follow Florence towards the house,
“ Disregard—forget—she may do it, but-~
can it be possible that she is in the wrong ?
It is very strange that Caroline should be
envious, and Aunt Tacy unjust. It cannot
be. They are all right, and it must be some
mistake. Poor Flora ! but how generous she
is!†and thus throwing the light of his own
kind heart around every thing, he strode over
the hill and down into the valley beyond, to
look for evergreens tv adorn the bower.
CHAPTER IX.
THE TRIAL OF FLORENCE AND ITS RESULT.
Frorence had resolved when she went home
to set about the work of reformation immedi-
ately, but she found this a more difficult task
AND ITS RESULT. 75
than she supposed. No one there seemed
sensible of her faults, and she was flattered,
and encouraged in indolence, until each day
it became more and more difficult to com-
mence a new course. She was sensible of the
defects in her character, and anxious to cor-
rect them ; but she lacked the resolution to
begin now. “To-morrow, to-morrow !†she
each day repeated, but to-morrow never
came; and the longer she remained with her
weak mother, the less need she saw of refor-
mation, till the end of her probationary year
found her scarce improved in her habits of
action, and none at all in those of thought.
Day after day was spent to little purpose, and
old feelings were revived by the sight of fa-
miliar objects, till the work of the few past
years was entirely lost. Yet so completely
had she succeeded in deceiving herself, that
she intended no falsehood when she wrote to
Caroline, “I have thought every day of what
you and Aunt Tacy told me before I left, and
have endeavoured to profit by it. You will
doubtless find in me faults enough to call all
your charity into exercise ; but I have im-
proved what I could, and intend the coming
year to do better still, Ask Aunt Tacy if
78 THE TRIAL OF FLORENCE
she will not allow me the benefit of your pre-
cepts and example.†Such a request, so hum-
bly made, good old Aunt Tacy had no heart
to refuse, and the note of welcome was sent by
return of mail.
“ Good news, mother!†exclaimed Flo-
rence, joyfully displaying Caroline’s letter,
“ Aunt Tacy will be here in a few days to
take me back with her.â€
“ And must I be a dressmaker, mother ?â€
inquired Maria with a yawn ; “ you know
you promised Aunt Tacyâ€
“ Oh, that was nothing; she has forgotten
it by this time.â€
“ Aunt Tacy never thinks promises no-
thing,†said Florence.
“T don’t believe I should like dressmak-
ing,†said Maria, folding her arms and lean-
ing back in her chair ; “it must be dread-
fully tiresome.â€
“ T hope Aunt Tacy will not think of tak-
ing you to Wilton to learn,†remarked Flo-
rence ; “it would be rather mortifying.â€
“Oh, never mind,†said the mother, “I
will manage it right. I will say Maria is
needed at home, and so she is, if she would
do any thing but mope about here from
AND IT8 RESULT. 77
morning till night. At any rate, needed or
not needed, no daughter of mine shall ever
be a dressmaker.â€
When Aunt Tacy went for Florence, Mrs.
Evelyn had much to tell of her doings for the
past year. Here was a cushion she had em-
broidered, and there a cap which she had
made for her mother, or a dress for one of the
children, She had taught the little ones to
read, and Maria, through her instructions,
could play some half dozen tunes on the
guitar. Aunt Tacy thought it would have
been quite as well if Maria’s lessons had been
of another character; but she remembered
Florence’s fondness for music, and pardoned
her.
It was a merry circle, and a happy one,
that gathered around the fire on the evening
of Florence’s return.
“ Now it begins to look like old times,â€
said Aunt Tacy, putting a few pine knots
upon the fire to make a cheerful blaze, “but
I expect there will be better days soon: we
have missed you sadly, Florence.â€
“Tt has not seemed like home since you
went away,†whispered Caroline.
David said nothing, but he looked as though
78 THE TRIAL OF FLORENCE
he might have said more than either. How-
ever, it is to be presumed that his time had
not passed quite so lonely as that of the ladies ;
for it had so happened that he had met his
cousin, as he was very fond of calling Miss
Evelyn, at her father’s house a number of
times during the year.
Florence entered school again, but Caroline
did not accompany her; for Aunt Tacy’s
health had become so much impaired, that
she needed constant attendance. As winter
came on, she was confined to her room ; and
Florence, being beyond the reach of her ob-
serving eye, became more careless than ever ;
for Caroline seldom remonstrated ; and she
regarded the old lady’s peace of mind too
much to complain.
The state of affairs at the cottage during
this winter, may be learned from the follow-
ing extract of a letter from Florence to her
mother,
“Aunt Tacy,†she wrote, “is too ill to
think much of my affairs at present. I be-
lieve the ride when she went after me, was
too much for her, and she has been growing
worse ever since. She has a dreadful cough,
and grows thin every day; but her cheeks
AND ITS RESULT. 79
have a higher colour than usual, and her eyes
are very bright. People seem to be very
much concerned about her, but she does not
appear tobedangerous. Caroline is very at-
tentive, and I think she must be a patient
nurse, for I never heard her complain. I do
but little now besides going to school, for
Caroline is very good to me ; and you know,
since she is obliged to be at home to take
care of Aunt Tacy, she may as well manage
the domestic affairs as not.
“ Thave been thinking a great deal of that
little affair that David spoke to you and
father about, when he called on me last, and
I do not know how to decide. Aunt Tacy
and Car’y seem to take it for granted that I
am to be Mrs. Ross (by the way, I imagine
they are not very glad about it), but I think
with you, mother, that I may do much bet-
ter. I suppose David is a fine farmer, and
Aunt Tacy will probably do well by him, but
I do not feel inclined to become a farmer's
lady. Besides, David is so simple-hearted,
and his honest speeches are so ridiculous,
that [am sure I should tease his life out of
him ; and that you know wouldn’t be at all
pleasant. David is good, and if he were only
80 THE TRIAL OF FLORENCE
8 little more genteel, I should like him better
than any one else ; but I don’t think we are
quite suited to each other.
“ James Elmore has been here often since
I came back, and it makes David look cross
enough I can assure you, but he don’t ven-
ture to say a word ; he has too much sense
for that. You saw James when you were
here two years ago. That tall, handsome
clerk that was so polite to us in Mr, ——'s
warehouse. JI am glad, by the way, that
he couldn’t find our house last summer ;
I should have been ashamed to have him
know where we lived. James thinks a great
deal of style. Don’t you think he is finer
looking than David ? I don’t mean his eyes,
of course, nor the expression of his face ; but
his hair (I wish David would employ a hair-
dresser!) and then he has such beautiful
mustaches. He has an air of gentility about
him that David could never acquire; and his
hands (a farmer's hands always betray him)
are as small and delicate as Caroline’s. He
is Mr. "s head clerk now, and will pro-
bably be his partner soon. What do you
think of him, mother? He has been quite
troublesome of late, and I have almost con-
AND ITS RESULT, 81
eluded to send him to you. Only one thing
makes me hesitate. He does not yet know
how poor we are; and evidently thinks that
I am co-heiress with Caroline to Aunt Tacy’s
wealth, I may be unjust, but it seems to me
that he admires the expected fortune, and my
pretty face, which he deigns to compare to
that of an Houri, more than he does myself.
Now you must know that this is not very
agreeable to a young lady’s vanity; and our
good David Ross has spoiled me on this
point. I verily believe he is glad that lam
poor, and would be willing to see me as ugly
as Holofernes for the sake of proving his
sincerity. There is no need of that, it is writ-
ten on his face. I have as yet come to no
decision on the subject ; but if James writes
to you, you may say, yes.â€
I give Florence’s letter without comment,
and my readers may judge for themselves of
the genuineness of her reformation.
K
82 AN UNEXPECTED EVENT.
CHAPTER X.
AN UNEXPECTED EVENT.
Ir was a cold morning in April, and a dense
fog circled the hills, and settled upon the
valleys in massy, leaden folds, as if pressed
down by the weight of the damp atmo-
sphere.
Florence had wrapped herself in a warm
shawl to protect her from the chill air, and
was descending the stairs, when she was met
by Caroline.
“You had better stay at home to-day,â€
she said in a low, hurried tone.
“ Why?†asked Florence.
“Oh, I cannot bear to think why,†ex-
claimed Caroline, bursting into tears, “ Aunt
Tacy—you may be wanted.â€
Florence gave Caroline a look of alarm,
and exclaimed, “It cannot be! I didn’t dream
of her being s0 low.†Then taking off her
bonnet, and slowly folding her shawl, she
ascended the staircase, and sat down by her
window. “It is selfish in me to leave Caro-
line alone,†she thought, but she had a great
AN UNEXPECTED EVENT. 83
horror of a sick-room ; and she felt a secret
consciousness of having, for a few months
past, neglected her duty to the kind friend
who had done so much for her. “Jt cannot
be that she will die,†thought Florence, as
she summoned courage to descend. The door
of Aunt Tacy’s room was ajar, and with a
stealthy step she entered the apartment.
The good old lady was in a quiet slumber,
and a thin, pale woman, who sat at the bed-
side, motioned Florence not to disturb her.
Florence’s heart smote her, when she saw
that Caroline was not there, for she knew
that the poor girl would not leave her aunt
at such an hour, except in a case of absolute
necessity; and, the tears streaming freely
down her cheeks, she turned from the sick-
room to the kitchen.
“ Tet me attend to these things,†she said
to Caroline; “I was very thoughtless, or I
should have known before, that I was
needed.â€
“Thank you,†returned Caroline, “I have
nearly finished ; but if you are willing to sit
in the parlour and answer people that call,
you will oblige me very much. Aunt Tacy
was 60 kind, that every body is anxious to
34 AN UNEXPHCTED EVENT.
hear from her. Tell them she is almost
gone.â€
Caroline could not keep back the tears, but
her grief was of a far more quiet nature than
that of Florence, who, as she proceeded to
her place in the parlour, sobbed aloud. “ Oh,
if she might but live, I would never be un-
kind again,†she often thought, as she took
a retrospect of her past life ; and all the little
disobliging things she had ever said and done,
with her cold neglect, and secret murmur-
ing, rose before her. “Aunt Tacy has been
my guardian angel, and I—oh, how ungrate-
ful!’ she mentally exclaimed.—Florence
had but little time for thought, for the raps
at the door were almost constant, each one
being unwilling to trust a neighbour’s infor-
mation when it was found to savour so little
of hope.—First came a young woman in
comfortable apparel, and bearing a healthy
infant in her arms; the same that two
months previous had appeared at that door,
sick, faint, and weary, and said she had no
wish to live. Aunt Tacy had relieved her,
and told her how she might make life useful.
—Next appeared a very aged man, with only
a few silvery hairs crowning his head ; and
AN UNEXPECTED EVENT. 85
he begged to be admitted to the apartment
of death ; “for,†said he, “ it would fill my
heart with the blessedness of heaven, to wit-
ness the departure of one of its holiest
saints.â€
Florence was obliged to refuse the appli-
cation ; and the old man, shaking his head,
and dashing off the tears, exclaimed, “ Well,
well! it will all be over soon! she first fed
me with the bread of life; and although she
may go home before me, yet it will not be
long before I shall follow, and meet her
there.†If the bloated, red face, and bleared
eyes spoke truth, the-next that came was
the victim of intemperance ; but he was not
intoxicated now.
“Please tell her,†said he, “that Simon
Brown has reformed at last. I know it would
make her heart glad even in the hour of her
death, for she has done ail she could to bring
me back to reason.â€
As they came, one after another, manifest-
ing the most touching sympathy, and eager
anxiety, and each with some little tale to
tell of kindness shown them by her who now
lay hovering on the verge of another world,
Florence could scarce forbear exclaiming
86 AN UXEXPECTED EVENT.
aloud, “ Oh, I will live Aunt Tacy’s life, that
I may die her death !â€
It was about noonday, when Florence was
summoned to the sick-room, A few neigh-
bours had gathered there, and David held
the old lady’s head upon his bosom ; while
Caroline stood beside the bed clasping the
almost pulseless wrist.
“Come hither, Florence,†said the dying
woman, in a whisper, “I had hoped to live
a little longer for your sake, but Heaven has
otherwise ordained ; and perhaps my death
will effect what my life could not.â€
“ Oh, I will he all, all you could wish,â€
- sobbed the poor girl; “I will remember all
you have tried to teach me, and I will take
your life as my pattern.â€
“ Not mine, dear Florence; but follow in
the footsteps of our blessed Redeemer, and
you are safe. I hope, I believe that you will
do this ; and David has promised to be your
earthly guardian, to watch over, and guide,
and cherish you while he lives. Dear Caro-
line, too, will not lack a protector. Oh, my
children, it is hard to part from you, but it
is not hard to die. I am going home, to live
in the presence of the unseen Friend, who
AN UNEXPECTED EVENT. 87
has been my support through darker scenes
than this. Florence, your mother—tell her
Aunt Tacy thought of her in her dying hour,
and has often prayed that she, too, might be
prepared for the last great trial.â€
‘Don’t tire yourself, Aunt Tacy,†whis-
pered David, scarce knowing what he said,
but feeling that such an effort must be
painful.
“T must speak all now—it is my last—
there is a strange feeling about my heart,
and the room grows every moment darker,
Clasp my hand closer, Caroline, I cannot feel
your touch. Qh, my children, may I not
meet you all there? Jesus is ready to re-
ceive and love you. Heaven is a glorious
place! Kiss me, my children! Now sing,
for I am going !â€
Florence was sobbing with unrepressed
grief, and David and his sister felt their
voices choked by emotion ; but the group of
neighbours, who had been silent witnesses of
the scene, understood the request, and com-~
menced in a low, soft tone,—
“ Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are;
While on his breast I Jean my head
And breathe my life out sweetly there.â€
88 AN UNEXPECTED EVENT.
They paused when the first stanza was
finished ; for Aunt Tacy’s pure spirit had de-
parted, and left only the soulless clay. David
closed the eyes, and laid the head upon the
pillow as softly as though she had only slept;
then taking his sister and Florence by the
hand, he led them from the room.
This was Florence Evelyn’s first moment
of real trouble ; but even in her grief she was
selfish, for she forgot that there were other
mourners, that she was not the only sufferer ;
and David and Caroline were both obliged to
restrain their own sorrow and comfort her.
But when the calm, still evening came, and
she went alone to her chamber, and thought
of the lessons she had received from the de-
parted, of her kindness and unceasing love,
her sobs ceased, and she secretly resolved to
become all that Aunt Tacy had desired to
make her. “To-morrow I will begin—Oh
no, to-night /†and she flung herself upon her
knees and prayed long and fervently.
When Florence appeared in the morning,
Caroline observed that there was a sweet and
holy calm upon her countenance altogether
unusual ; and a tenderness and forgetfulness
of self in her manner, that was as new as it
AN UNEXPECTED EVENT, 89
was pleasing. She had spent the live-long
night in self-examination ; and yet the ex-
amination had not been a thorough one, for
repentance was followed by a proud self-de-
pendence, and the strong resolve to be hence-
forth humble, generous, and truthful, was
weakened by a false estimate of the nature
of the task. It was to be content with her
situation, to speak gentle words, do friendly
deeds ; and nothing seemed easier—she knew
nothing of the difficulty of perseverance, nor
of the necessity of Divine assistance.
As, on the third day from Aunt Tacy’s
death, Florence stood beside the newly-made
grave, and looked down into its solemn depths,
her thoughts recurred again to the past, and
again she resolved to make amends for it by
constant watchfulness, One thing in parti-
cular pressed heavily upon her conscience, the
deceit she had practised towards David.
“My confession cannot benefit the dead,â€
she thought, “ yet I will tell him all. Strange
that he could ever believe Aunt Tacy was
unkind.â€
That evening, as soon as Florence could
escape from her parents and other friends
who had come to attend Aunt Tacy’s funeral,
90 AN UNEXPECTED EVENT.
she threw a shaw] about her shoulders, and
wandering forth in the clear moonlight, bent
her steps to the little bower by the river’s
side. She had much cause to love this spot ;
and besides, she longed for solitude, and every
room in the house was occupied by guests.
She went out to be alone; but she was not
sorry, on reaching the bower, to find it occu-
pied by David Ross.
“This evening is too cold for you, Flor-
ence,†he said, almost unconsciously folding
her shaw] more closely about her ; “ sit down
a few moments to rest yourself, and we will
return together.â€
“No, David, I have something to say to
you—something very important.â€
* To-morrowâ€â€”—
“ No, to-morrow I may not have the cour-
age.â€
“Then as we walk home.â€
“ No, here in this very spot; there is no
better, no more fitting place.â€
“ The air is so chill, dear Floraâ€
“ But it cannot hurt me—at least not half
so much as this load that presses on my
heart. It isa long story, David, yet sit down
anc I will for once be frank and truthful.â€
AN UNEXPECTED EVENT. 91
David sat down upon the mossy stone, and
locked up into the troubled face of his com-
panion as if he doubted her sanity.
“Don’t sit there !—here, beside me-—you
must not look at me, or I shall be tempted
to deceive.â€
David took the proffered seat without a
word, and Florence commenced her story.
She told of her early life, the first impres-
sions she had received from her mother ; she
unfolded the source of each vain thought and
feeling, and told how they grew to become
part of her nature ; she painted Aunt Tacy’s
disinterestedness in language too eloquent to
come from any but a feeling heart, and then
paused to give vent to her sobs and tears.
David, too, wept, but his were tears of sym-
pathy alone. He did not speak, for there was
no need of that, but the hand of the erring
girl lay in his, and as she felt a firmer clasp
about it, she knew that she was forgiven.
“You are too kind!†she murmured, but
she had never been happier. Oh, if there
be joy in heaven over one repenting sinner,
there is also joy in the heart of the penitent,
a deep, abiding joy, a subdued happiness,
that none but an erring one, forgiven, ever
92 THE CONCLUSION.
felt. Firm were the resolutions passed by
Florence that evening, and kind and encour-
aging were the words of David Ross. This
was the first step in the path of right, and
nobly taken, but it was not the only one
tiecessary.
CHAPTER IX.
THE CONCLUSION.
Tr waa found on examining Aunt Tacy’s will,
that she had left only a marriage portion to
Florence, while David received a small but
well-improved farm, and Caroline a hand-
some legacy, including the cottage and fur-
niture. To other friends small presents were
bequeathed ; but the bulk of her fortune was
to be appropriated, as much as it had been
during her lifetime, to charitable purposes.
The repentance of Florence was genuine,
and her reformation, while it lasted, unfeign-
ed. But her character had been weakened
by indulgence ; and although fully capable
of a momentary effort, however great, she
lacked the strength necessary for the con-
THE CONCLUSION. 93
tinued one she was obliged to make. The
temptations constantly cast in her. way at
home were irresistable, and the influences
thrown about her there palsied her energies.
She was at first deeply affected by Aunt
Tacy’s death; but the impression was too
new and solemn to be lasting, and it gradu-
ally yielded to other ones of a brighter and
more pleasing cast. ‘True, the tear-drop
would glisten in her eye when the name of
her departed benefactor was mentioned ; but
this was not always, as at first, accompanied
by a renewal of the resolution made beside
her grave. She was the idol of her parents,
and sufficiently imitated and envied, flattered
and depreciated in the neighbourhood, to
arouse all those trivial feelings which assume
a strange importance when influencing action.
As for her parents, they looked to her future
establishment in life, as the consummation of
their wishes, and could scarce endure the
mention of the name of David Ross. David
and Caroline both returned home, and in
less than a twelve month Florence was called
to officiate as bridesmaid to the latter. As
for herself she remained undecided. Aunt
Tacy’s dying words still sounded in her car,
O41 TUE CONCLUSION.
and she was confident that no one, particu-
larly James Elmore, would so occupy her
heart, strengthen and cherish the germs of
good, or support her weakness of character,
like David.
“He is a noble fellow,†she said to her
mother; I wish you knew what an excellent
heart he possesses.â€
“ He is not the only good man in the world,
Florence.â€
“He has but few equals; I have never
seen any.â€
“He is poorâ€â€”—.
“Not so very poor, mother,â€
“ Well, he is uneducated.â€
“ Aye, that is it—a mere farmer! Oh, if
he only had a little ambition !â€
“ You would never be happy, as the wife
of a farmer, Florence, or any labouring man.
I have seen what it is to marry foolishly,
and be a drudge for life.â€
“But Aunt Tacy used to say if we would
be contentâ€
“There are but few Aunt Tacys in the
world, my dear; you and I are neither of us
one. What objection can you have to James
Elmore? He has found out we are poor,
â€
THE CONCLUSION. 95
and you without a fortune ; so he cannot he
after money now.â€
“No, mother, perhaps I wronged him
there, but I cannot feel safe to trust him.
He makes strong professions, but somehow
they do not seem to come from the heart,
like David’s simple promises.â€
“That is only prejudice, Florence.â€
“Perhaps it is, but one thing is certain.
You will never see my faults, mother, but I
see them myself; and I feel as though my
whole destiny depended on this step. David
knows every error of my life, and loves me
in spite of them, and he would make refor-
mation comparatively easy, butâ€â€”—.
“No mortal is perfect, Florence, and I
think I should prefer a husband not quite so
clear-sighted to my faults. But do as you
please.â€
“Provided my pleasure coincides with
yours,†said Florence, with a melancholy
smile, “Oh, mother, it is very strange that
you decide for me as you do.â€
“Js it so very strange that old people
should have more discretion than young ?â€
“ Tam not sure that it is discretion ; but as
I am no advocate for love in a cottageâ€
36 THE CONCLUSION.
“Oh, love in a cottage is something worth
talking of, but think of love in a farm-house.â€
“It may be the more valuable of the two.â€
“ And the pigs and poultry, the butter and
cheese——How would you like to milk half-
a-dozen cows, Florence 1â€
“Oh, don’t say any more, mother ; I will
consider.â€
Florence did consider, and with her mother,
her indolence, her pride, and early prejudices,
arrayed against David’s simple truthfulness
and her own predilections in his favour, to-
gether with her declining sense of right, the
former were victorious and she consented to
become the wife of James Elmore. Mr.
Elmore was a fashionable young man, well
spoken of by the society at Wilton, and
reckoned as a good fellow by his companions.
But we will not describe him now, as the
reader will know more of him anon. As
some excuse for Florence and her parents, it
is sufficient to say that his character before
the world was fair.
A few select friends only were invited to
be present at the nuptials; as Mrs. Evelyn
was afraid of displaying her poverty by mak-
ing a party such as she would otherwise have
THE CONCLUSION. 97
lixed ; but all was done that ingenuity could
invent to make every thing show to the best
advantage,
In a few days Mr. Elmore returned to
Wilton, proud of his beautiful and accom-
plished bride ; and rented an elegant man-
sion in the vicinity of the cottage now occu-
pied by Caroline.
The disappointment to David at first
seemed more than he could bear ; and Caro-
line exerted herself in vain to soothe his
wounded spirit.
As the cold winter came on, his health
seemed to decline, and he at last announced
his intention of seeking a milder climate.
In his first letter to hia sister he said, “I
have had a severe struggle, but have at last
gained the mastery over my spirit, and in
the spring you will see me quite restored.
It would have been easier to bear, if Florence
had married any other man, but I very much
fear Elmore is not worthy of her.â€
Time sped onward, and all seemed to go
pleasantly with Florence. Her husband
treated her with unmeasured kindness, and
as she looked about upon her rich furniture,
and thought over the names of her morning
@
98 THE CONCLUSION.
visitors, she said to herself, “Surely now I
ought to be content.â€
The record of those few months of happi-
ness should be traced in golden characters,
for, alas! they had an end.
It was evening. The clock had told the
hour of eleven, and Florence rose from the
sofa and approached the window. The stars
were smiling in their dark, blue depths, and
the moon, shining out from behind a few
white, fleecy clouds, rendered objects plainly
visible. It shed a soft, pure light upon the
narrow river that wound its way past the
cottage, and rested with peculiar brightness
on the bower that David had two years since,
in accordance with his promise, made so
beautiful. The evergreens looked stern and
solemn; the rose and viburnum had long
since scattered their blossoms; and the wood-
bine, torn from the place where it had been
taught to twine, was trailing on the ground.
Florence sighed. Old remembrances will
often call up a sigh, even though unaccom-
panied by regret. For a few moments she
seemed lost in thought, and then turned im-
patiently from the window. She listened—
no sound was heard She flung open the
THE CONCLUSION. 99
door, and looked out upon the village. A
light was here and there visible, but she
could nowhere see him she sought. Again
she sighed, and returned to her seat on the
sofa. Another hour passed, a long and dreary
one, and she heard a step. It was too slow
and irregular for her husband’s; but it could
be no other, and she arose to meet him. He
flung open the door, but staggered as he was
about. to enter. For a moment he stood
reeling to and fro, then stumbled and fell
headlong across the threshold. Florence in
alarm knelt beside him, and lifted his head
to her bosom. She raised the damp masses
of hair from his flushed brow, but when she
felt his hot, noisome breath upon her cheek,
she started.
“Don’t be afraid, Flo—Flora—it isn’t—
the—the wine !â€
Florence started to her feet; and as her
husband’s head dropped heavily upon the
carpet, he muttered a fearful oath, and en-
deavoured to rise. She stood a moment gaz-
ing at him with a strange wildness in her
eye, then uttered a deep groan, and covering
her pale face with her clenched hands, she
rushed from the apartment, A strange light
100 A MIDNIGHT SCENE.
had broken in upon her, and anguish was
busy at her heart. Sue was THE WIFE oF
4 DRUNKARD.
PART IL.
FANNY ELMORE.
CHAPTER I.
A MIDNIGHT SCENE.
Ir was late one evening, and the people of
the neighbouring towns, that in the morning
had congregated at Wilton, had mostly dis-
persed to their several homes ; although noisy
groups were still collected about the publie-
houses, from which now and then a waggon
would proceed, crowded with merry roister-
ers, who with oath and song aroused the
peaceful slumberers on the road. Towards
midnight one of these vehicles drew up before
a small, brown, wooden building, about a
mile from the village. After hallooing two
or three times, two men, with long white
A MIDNIGHT SCENE. . 101
feathers, and shining cockades in their soiled
hats, descended fromthe waggon, and placing
a shoulder under each arm of a third, bore
him to the door.
“ Halloo there, /tss Elmore !—not mov-
ing yet?†said one of the men, as they de-
posited their burden on the floor. ‘“ Well, I
wish you joy of your night’s rest ; and I
guess he won't be likely to disturb it, any
how.â€
“T guess not, either,†muttered the other,
as they again came into the moonlight,
“ Miss Elmore isn’t the woman to be dis-
turbed by trifles.â€
Scarce was the door closed behind the men
who had borne in the body of the inebriate,
when a little girl, some twelve years of age,
crept down the ladder into the corner where
he lay, and softly pressing her hand over his
face to ascertain the extent of his intoxica-
tion, turned from him, and proceeded to open
the ashes on the hearth, for the purpose of
procuring light. The red coals sent out a
sickly glare; and the child shrunk back,
half-terrified, as she saw it resting on her
father’s motionless face, giving him a death-
like appearance, that to one so young was
102 A MIDNIGHT SCENE.
perfectly appalling. The little girl, shiver-
ing with fright and the chilliness of the
night air, was crouching over the embers
upon which she had laid a few pine sticks,
and attempting to blow them into a flame,
when she was joined by a boy, apparently
about the same age, but smal], thin, and care-
worn.
“Ts he as bad as ever ?†whispered the lad,
nestling down by her side, and glancing fear-
fully at the unconscious man.
“ Worse, Willie,†responded the girl, in
the same tone; “he don’t move at all.â€
“ Let’s wake mother,†said Willie, again
glancing over his shoulder ; and then cling-
ing to his sister’s arm, as he observed a con-
vulsive movement in the frame of his miser-
able father, indicative of still remaining life,
“ Oh no, don’t !†remonstrated the trem-
bling girl, “dont wake her, Willie; we can
take care of father just as well, and she don’t
like to be disturbed. You know she has the
work to do, and us to take care of †——
“ T know she don’t !†said the little fellow,
forgetting in his earnestness his cautious
whispering, “she don’t do half so much
work as you do, Fanny; for you get us all
A MIDNIGHT SCENE. 103
the victuals, and go out with me to pick
wood†——
“ Hush, Willie! you are very wicked to
talk so of mother ; you forget that she has
the baby to take care of, and then she isn’t
so healthy——— there, father moved again, and
opened his eyes! You sit here and keep the
fire blazing, while I get something to wet
his forehead,—it looks red, and hot. I never
saw him so bad before.â€
It was long before James Elmore became
sufficiently conscious of his situation, to know
that his children were about him ; and even
then his reason was not restored, for he spoke
to them harshly ; and ordering them to quit
his presence, attempted to rise.
The children looked on each other sorrow-
fully, and crept softly up the ladder, without
uttering a syllable.
“ You had better go to bed,†whispered
Fanny, when they had reached the top, “ and
I will watch here, so that if any thing hap-
pens, I can tell you.â€
“ No, no, Fanny, just let me stay by you.
How awfully father looked at us! dear me !
I could hardly help screaming !â€
Poor children ! who would not pity them !
104 A MIDNIGHT SCENE.
They were trembling with horror at a glance
from the eye that you, my dear young reader,
50 love to meet; and watching at midnight
over a wicked parent ; while you have that
kind friend to hover near you when you are
sick, and in health to steal away to your bed-
side, lest something should occur to disturb
your slumbers. I presume you pity the
drunkard’s children, but you do not know
how much they suffer.
I wish I could tell you all; not because
mere pity, without corresponding action, will
do any good; but because I wish to teach
you to be kind to those who stand so much
in need of friends, A little girl first led
Fanny Elmore to the Sabbath school, and
there she learned all her lessons of usefulness,
You may do the same, or more. You may
teach some poor child to read the Bible,
which I hope you love to read ; you may
supply those who are less favoured than you
are, with useful books; or if you can do no
more, you can speak kind words to all, and
thus lighten the burden from many an aching
heart.
Willie and Fanny Elmore were twins, but
they were not much alike, either in mind or
A MIDNIGHT SCENE. 105
person. Willie, as I have before told you,
was small and thin, and had a very care-worn
look, which appeared strange on so young a
face; while Fanny’s full round cheek and
bright eye showed, in spite of the serious,
thoughtful expression they sometimes wore,
a cheerful and happy disposition. Fanny
was strong and healthy, and could endure
cold and fatigue much better than her
brother ; and for that reason, as well as be-
cause her judgment was more matured,
Willie always allowed himself to be guided
by her. Perhaps some of my readers will
conclude, from this, that Willie was what
children usually call mean-spirited; but
nothing could be farther from the truth.
He was a fiery-tempered little fellow, feeling
keenly every insult as well as favour—just
such a boy as in some circumstances is a
general favourite, and in others is disliked on
account of his great sensitiveness, which de-
generates into ill-humour. Willie was always
either very happy orvery miserable, very plea-
sant or exceedingly petulant ; yet notwith-
standing all this, he possessed a loving heart,
and would do anything in the world for “sister
Fanny.†Perhaps there was originally a dif-
106 A MIDNIGHT SCENE.
ference in the dispositions of these two chil-
dren, yet I think that circumstances had
much to do in making Fanny what she was.
When she was very little, she was sent to the
district-school which is opened to all, the
poorest as well as the richest; but there
were children there (thoughtless ones, I pre-
sume, who if they had waited to consider,
were quite incapable of such cruelty) who
laughed at her old calico bonnet and ragged
dress which she was not then big enough to
mend ; and made fun of her blunders when
she read, instead of assisting and encouraging
her; and so Fanny cried, and told her
mother she would rather stay at home. Mrs.
Elmore, since her marriage, had become
even more careless and indolent than before,
and very much disliked trouble ; so she yield-
ed to Fanny’s wishes. There were a few
girls in school, however, that never ridiculed
the poor drunkard’s child ; and among these
were Amy Ross and Bessie Stewart. The
latter was near the same age as Fanny El-
inore ; and when the children made Fanny
ery, she would wipe away the tears with the
corner of her apron, and tell her pleasant
stories, and try to make her feel comfortable
A MIDNIGHT SCENE. 107
and happy. Amy was a few years older ;
and when Fanny left the district-school, she —
tried to devise some other means by which
the poor child might be benefited. She
was assisted in those plans by an excellent
counsellor—her father. I hope none of our
readers have forgotten our old friend, David
Ross ; nor like him the less for a few grey
hairs, a fatherly look, a farm comprehending
many broad acres, the title of Squire, and
that richest of all possessions, some half
dozen children, whose honest, affectionate,
simple hearts, were complete mirrors of his
own. Amy told to this good father her so-
licitude for Fanny, and received his advice.
After this she used every Sabbath moming
to stop at Mr. Elmore’s door, and lead her
little friend to the village Sabbath-school,
where the children were taught to be good
and happy. But Amy did more than this.
She taught Fanny to write and cipher, and
carried books to her; and then she showed
her how to mend her clothes, and the other
children’s, and to keep the house in order ;
till, at the time our story commences, but
few persons of double Fanny's years could
have done so well on so small means as she
108 A DARE DAY.
did. There was but one room in the house
besides the loft; but this, in spite of her
mother’s careless habits, and her father’s vi-
cious ones, she managed to keep tolerably
clean. Fanny had a brother younger than
Willie, and two little sisters; and of these
she had almost the entire care; but yet she
seldom became weary, or complained of her
unusual task.
CHAPTER IL
. A DARE DAY,
As soon as the first ray of light passed
through the solitary window of the loft where
Fanny Elmore slept, the little girl arose and
crept down the ladder, to kindle a morning
fire. This done, she returned again to awaken
Willie.
“Fanny, is father up?’ whispered the
boy. “ Then hold down your ear close to me
——closer, Fanny, I have something to say to
you.â€
“ Well, let us say our prayers, Willie ; and
then you may tell me afterwards.â€
a DARK DAY. 109
“No, I must say it now. I thought about
it all the time you were sleeping. J couldn't
sleep, for my father’s red eyes were glaring
at me all the while, and they looked like
coals of fire. I would shut my eyes, but I
could see them just as much ; and they made
me tremble as the cold did, when we went
down in the night. Oh, Fanny ! it is dread-
ful to have a drunkard far a father !â€
“Well, Willie, don’t talk about it now,
you tremble yet ; but when the bright warm
sun is shining upon us, and we are too tired
to gather wood, then we will sit down and
think it over, and talk about it ; and perhaps
we shall find that we have a great deal more
to be thankful for than many other children.â€
“J have nothing but you, Fanny,†said
the boy, clinging to her, “ nothing in the
world but you.â€
“Oh, Willie, you mustn’t say this; it is
wicked I am sure, for God has given us a
great many kind friends. Did you ever ob-
serve it, Willie? just when we get so hungry
that we think we are almost ready to starve,
either Amy Ross, or Bessie Stewart, or Frank,
comes to bring us the very thing we need.
Tam sure we ought to be thankful.â€
110 A DARK DAY.
“T suppose you are right, Fanny; but
what shall we do when winter comes ?â€
“Do you remember last winter, Willie ?
“Yes, I remember you froze your fingers
digging wood out of the snow, and I re-
member your old torn mantle†——
“T didn’t mean that.â€
“T know it, but I can’t forget it.â€
“TI meant that we got along very well last
winter, and J hope we shall this. Amy
showed me a text the other day, and I love
to repeat it. Perhaps it would make you
feel better, Willie. ‘When my father and
mother forsake me, then shall the Lord take
me up.â€
“ May be if I had been to Sunday-school,
I might feel as you do, Fanny ; but I thought
the other day, when they buried Lizzy Farn-
ham’s baby away down in the dark, cold
grave, and put the earth upon the coffin,—
and then when I saw it all covered by the
soft, green sods, Fanny, I couldn't help wish-
ing they had put me there, and then I should
be happy in heaven, instead of going about
here†——
“Oh, don’t say any more, Willie, don’t !â€
said Fanny with a shudder.
A DARK DAY. MW
©T cannot help thinking it.â€
“T am sure it is wicked to say, or think
so either.â€
“J suppose it is; but Fanny, you don’t
know how I feel sometimes, And then if
you could see the boys slip away, as if they
were ashamed to be seen playing with me—
‘Jem Elmore’s ragged Willie’-—and see them
laugh, and point their fingers at me——Oh,
IT cannot bear it, Fanny !â€
“Don’t say any more, Willie, pray don’t!â€
exclaimed the girl, taking his hot hand be-
tween her own, and then laying it gently
beneath the covering, “lie still, and sleep a
little while.â€
“No, Fanny, I can’t sleep.â€
“Fanny! Fanny!†called out a harsh
voice from below.
“Yes, father, in a minute—Do try to
sleep, Willie.â€
“A minute, you hussy! you are never
ready when I bid you—Down here, quick, I
tell you !â€
“Do go to sleep, won't you, Willie ?â€
“T can’t, I can’t,†sobbed the boy.
“ Come along here, Fanny !†again shouted
the father; but the poor girl, glancing av-
112 A DARK DAY.
prehensively at the top of the ladder, still
lingered by her brother’s bedside. Willie
was not wont to be so selfish; but now he
twined his arms around her neck, and begged
her not to leave him alone.
“TI must go, Willie, father will be angry if
I don’t; but do tell me that you will try to
sleep.â€
“T will, I will try; but when I shut my
eyes I see such frightful things !—there,
father called again—go, Fanny, but run back
as quick as you can, for I forgot to tell you.â€
“ When Fanny reached the top of the lad-
der, she glanced back upon her brother ; he
was tossing restlessly about upon his little
bed, and the increasing light enabled her to
discover the deep scarlet on his cheek, and
the wild glare of his eye.
“ Father,†she said, not giving the angry
man time to complain of her tardiness, “ I
am afraid Willie is sick.â€
“Sick! Oh yes, that is always the cry ;
he'll be sick all his days if you make such a
baby of him. I'll soon make him well, for,
he has got to go to Jewett’s, after the coat I
left there last night.â€
© Please father, don’t !†said the little girl,
A DARK DAY. 113
grasping his hand as he was about to ascend
* the 1adder, “* Willie is sick, I am sure he is ;
but if you will wait till I get the breakfast,
I will run down to Wilton while you are all
eating. Then you know I can call on the
way at Dr. Stewart’s, and ask him to come
up and see Willie.â€
“mph!†said the father, surlily, yet a
little softened by Fanny’s gentleness. “But
what’s to pay the doctor’s bill? can ye tell
me that?â€
“ Willie can pay it himself when he geta
well enough to work, and Dr. Stewart is very
kind ; I know he will wait.â€
“No such thing, Fan; it’s a selfish, a
horrid selfish world,—there isn’t an honest
man in it—not one.â€
Fanny prudently forbore to answer, now
that she had gained her point, and set herself
about preparing breakfast. In a few mo-
ments a groan from the loft attracted her
attention—another, and another succeeded ;
and she dropped the iron spoons she was
bringing to the apology for a table, which
she had spread, and hurried up the ladder.
The moment the poor boy saw his sister, he
sprung into her arms, and laying his cheek
u
114 A DARK DAY,
close beside hers, gave utterance to a few low
moans, and then was still.
“What is the matter, Fanny?†inquired
Mr. Elmore, ascending so as to bring his head
even with the top of the ladder. “What
ails the boy ? he isn’t in a fit, I hope?â€
“No, father, but please come and take him
down ; it is very damp up here, and he bet-
ter be laid on mother’s bed. Dear Willie,
just unlock your hands from my neck; I
can’t carry you, I am not strong enough.
Hush, Willie ! don’t say a word, father won't
hurt you,†she whispered.
“What! does he refuse to go?†inquired
Mr. Elmore, as the poor boy shrunk from his
touch, and nestled in his sister’s bosom.
“Let father take you, Willie, and I will
walk beside and hold your hand—there, so.
See how hot his hand is, father.â€
“ It’s a cold, nothing but a cold, Fanny ;
but I suppose you may as well run down for
the doctor.â€
Mrs. Elmore bustled about a little, when
she found her child was sick, and at last con-
cluded that she could look to him while
Fanny was gone to Dr. Stewart’s, “Run
quick, child,†she added, “ for if Rosa should
A DARK DAY. 115
ery, there would be nobody to dress her.
Jack and Mary have gone to gather sticks for
the fire.â€
She had gained the door when her father
called, “Don’t forget, Fan, to run down to
Jewett’s, and get my coat. It’s ——â€
“ Father !â€
“ Well, Fanny ?â€
“ You said you wouldn't swear any more
if I didn’t worry you about Willie and Jack’s
going to Sunday school.â€
“ So I did, Fan ; and I won’t—only I for-
get sometimes.â€
Again Fanny turned to go, but her eye fell
on Willie, and she turned back to give him
one more kiss.
“Be as quick as vou can, Fanny,†he
whispered, “for my jead aches dreadfully,
and I want you to hold it as you did before,
between your hands.â€
Dr. Stewart was the husband of Caroline
Ross, and occupied the cottage which had
been left her by Aunt Tacy. He was a kind,
a benevolent man, possessing a flexibility of
manner that made him a general favourite
with both rich and poor, yet accompanied
by sound principles, and an almost unerring
116 A DARK DAY.
judgment. If he had not the openness and
simplicity of David Ross, yet there was
quite as deep a love for his fellow-men seated
in his heart ; and his superior discrimination
enabled him to distinguish the deserving from
the worthless.
“T will go to your brother directly, my
dear,†he said to Fanny ; “ stop a little while
and warm your hands, and I will take you
back in my carriage.â€
“ Thank you, I would rather not,†said the
child, hurrying out of the door, for she was
ashamed to tell her errand to Wilton.
“ Now what can be the matter with Fanny
Elmore ?†exclaimed Bessie, “she didn’t
even wait to speak to me.â€
* She’s going to the village,†said Frank,
looking out of the window, “ to Jewett’s, Pil
warrant ; for Jem Jones said her father staid
there more than half of the night. Hadn't
I better run and overtake her, father ? she
must hate to go to the tavern.â€
“ No, I think not, Frank ; she may be un-
willing to tell you her errand. I'll not wait
for the carriage now, but will step over to Mr.
Elmore’s directly, and when I come back,
you may have it ready for me.â€
A DARK DAY. 117
“T have put up a basket of things that
may be needed, if they are sick,†said Mrs,
Stewart, now coming forward, “but if you
are not going with the carriageâ€â€”—.
“Oh, let me go with them, mother !†ex-
claimed Frank.
“ Please let me !†said Bessie,
“They may want some wood,†said her
brother ; “ Willie always picked up the wood
and cut it.â€
“They may want somebody to tend the
baby,†urged the little girl.
Dr. Stewart looked pleased with his chil-
dren, and promising they should both go if
needed, he hurried away towards Mr. Elmore’s.
A stove rusted by exposure to the air lay
outside the door, and a potash kettle, with
one side broken in, lay beside it, but the yard
was carefully swept, so that it had almost
the smoothness and hardness of the house
floor. As high as Willie could reach by the
aid of a chair, the crevices in the wall had
been mended; but above, the clap-boards
were loosened, and the shingles clattered on
the roof at every gust of wind. There were
no old clothes, or rimless hats in the win-
dows ; for Fanny had supplied the lack of
118 A DARK DAY,
glass by oiled paper neatly pasted down, and
8 branch of cedar, hanging against the win-
dow looking out upon the street, answered
instead of a curtain. When Dr. Stewart
opened the door, he did not wait to observe
the clean, though broken floor, the fragments
of a scanty breakfast scattered upon the
board, nor even the broken pitcher with its
nosegay of marigolds, china-asters, and gay
cardinal flowers which Willie had brought
his sister the day before, telling her they
were the last blossoms of the season. Poor
Willie was shrieking in the arms of his terri-
fied parents, and Dr. Stewart hastened to the
bedside.
“ Willie !†he said gently.
“ No, no, no, sir! I will not stop, not even
for you. Three miles have I come, since I
jumped out of the window in the cold, dark
night, and they have been kindling a fire
under my feet every step until I am almost
burned up. But I will never go home again
—never !â€"
“ Poor little fellow !†said the doctor, “his
brain is disordered—will you bring me a bow],
Mrs. Elmore ?â€
“You're not going to bleed him, doctor !
4 DARK DAY. 119
no, that will not do, I can’t see Willie mur-
dered,†replied the mother.
“ But he must have immediate relief ; loss
of time will be attended with great danger.â€
“ T can’t, oh, I can’t bear it—my nervesâ€â€”-
One would think Mrs. Elmore’s nerves had
been sufficiently tried by harder things, to he
proof against the simple process of bleeding,
but it seemed not so.
“ Now don’t be a fool, wife,†said the hus-
band roughly, “Stewart knows well what
he is about. Go and sit down in the corner,
you're used enough to it.â€
The miserable woman slunk away to her
accustomed seat in the corner ; and taking
her baby on her knee, commenced a rocking
of the body to and fro like one in a reverie.
A shriek from Willie first startled her. The
vein had been cut, but the sight of blood
frightened him, and he was struggling in the
arms of the two men.
“Jtis too bad to murder him,†said the
mother, still continuing her rocking.
“Be quiet, Willie, be quiet!†said Dr.
Stewart kindly.
“ Why, what ails the silly boy 3†exclaim-
ed the father.
120 A DARK DAY.
“ Willie!†said a soft familiar voice, and
instantly the bleeding arm was thrown around
Fanny’s neck. “ Take it off, Willie, and let
sister hold your hand—there, so. The bieed-
ing don’t hurt you, does it, Willie ?â€
“No; but they mean to murder me,
Fanny—mother said so.â€
“Well, nobody shall hurt you now—you
may put your other arm around my neck
while Dr. Stewart takes care of that, and then
you will be quiet, won’t you, Willie ?â€
“Dr. Stewart ! I didn’t know that it was
he cut my arm. I wish you would just tell
Frank—what was I saying 1—O yes, tell
Frank I got three miles, and father and mo-
ther came and dragged me back. Wasn't
that pitiful, doctor ?â€
“ A sad thing, my son,—there, let your arm
lie still.â€
Fanny looked at the doctor inqntiringly ;
he nodded and touched his forehead. “ Poor
Willie!†sighed the girl, “I thought so this
morning.â€
Dr. Stewart now produced a paper of me-
dicine. “ Have you some sauce, or an apple
that you could roast ?†he asked Fanny.
“ No, sir.â€
A DABK DAY. 121
© Any molasses ?â€
“No, sir; but if you will just keep an eye
upon Willie, I will go over to "Squire Ross’s
and get some.â€
“ No, we can’t spare you,†said he, glanc-
ing at Mr. Elmore, “ one of us could go much
better.â€
“Ts the medicine very bitter, sir? Willie
would take it in water, I am sure; he is so
good.â€
When the medicine was prepared it was
given into Fanny’s hand. “ What is it?â€
asked the boy drawing back hishead. “ You
needn’t raise me up, Fanny, I don’t want it.â€
“Tt is nice and good, Will,†said the fa-
ther. “ Come, take it, that’s a man.â€
“ It is medicine, Willie,†said Fanny, “ it
will taste very bitter, but Dr. Stewart thinks
you had better take it. If it makes you well
you won’t mind the taste.â€
“ Y don’t like bitter things, Fanny.â€
“ What made you tell him it was bitter ?â€
asked Mr. Elmore.
“ Because it is,†replied the girl ; “and if I
had deceived him, he would never huve be-
lieved me again.â€
* No, Fanny never deceives me, fair ;
122 A VISIT FROM FRANK AND BESSIR.
but you do, you do, for you said I might live
with ‘Squire Ross, and then you wouldn't let
me go. Give me the medicine, Fanny, I
don’t care if it zs bitter; for you never
cheated me.â€
Willie’s brain was disordered by the fever,
or he would not have dared to speak so, but
he told truth. It is difficult to believe those
who have once deceived us.
CHAPTER III.
A VISIT FROM FRANK AND BESSIE.
Soon after the departure of Dr. Stewart,
Frank and Bessie made their appearance,
bearing between them the basket of fresh
linen and other things which Mrs. Stewart
knew very well how to prepare for the sick.
Frank was a bold, spirited lad, just such a
one as humble children, like Fanny and
Willie, always fear until they know him
well; and then he is very apt to prove their
ablest champion. When Fanny went to
school, she had owed much to Frank’s kind-
ness ; and he had always volunteered to settle
A VISIT FROM FRANK AND BESSIE. 123
the little quarrels into which Willie’s spirit
of retaliation was continually leading him.
He was therefore looked upon by the two
children as a benefactor ; and Bessie they
considered the dearest little friend that ever
lived. Bessie, as I have before stated, was
near Fanny Elmore’s age ; and although she
could not plan and execute with the decision
and judgment of Amy Ross, vet her heart
“was constantly overflowing with affection ;
and she evinced by the thousand little kind~
nesses that we do not love to enumerate, yet
can never forget, that she prized the happi-
ness of those about her far above her own, or
rather that she found her own only in theirs.
Bessie’s smiling face was sure to bring sun-
shine wherever it went ; and it was well for
the unhappy that she loved to carry it, where
I fear many children do not, into the abodes
of want and misery. I would not have my
readers suppose that Bessie liked such places.
It was not for this that she denied herself
the French flowers for her summer bonnet,
in order that she might purchase a frock for
& poor child to wear to Sunday school, nor
that she stayed at home from the children’s
pleasant pic-nic party, to watch a sick child
124 A VISIT FROM FRANK AND BESSIE.
whose parents were too poor to hire a nurse,
She did like them, but she liked them only
for the good she could do; and everybody,
from the proud lady that vouchsafed a smile
as she dashed past her in a gilded carriage,
to the poor, half-famished creature led by
pain and sickness to solicit her father’s atten-
tion, loved Bessie Stewart. Yet Bessie did
not always do what was best ; but she always
followed the dictates of her generous heart,
and did something—something that would at
least bring present relief. Frank’s benevo-
lence was Jike hers, somewhat swayed by im-
pulse ; but trouble or sorrow of any kind
always had power to awaken it. The chil-
dren had often been to Mr. Elmore’s before
on errands of charity; and the old stove and
pot-ash kettle never escaped comment ; but
“ Willie is not to blame,†“nor Fanny either,â€
was always the generous conclusion ; and
then pity was sure to follow,—pity for the
poor children, who had no one to teach them
what was right, and to watch over them when
they were too young to take care of them-
selves. This time, however, the outside of
the miserable dwelling that sheltered the
Elmores was forgotten ; for they knew that
A VISIT FROM FRANK AND BESSIE, 125
there was trouble-within, deeper at least than
one kind heart had ever known before ; for
Fanny loved her brother dearly, and would
cheerfully suffer pain and sickness herself, if
she could shield him by so doing.
It is strange how gentle natures will grow
strong beneath affliction. Fanny, who was
ever alarmed by the Jeast thought of injury
to her favourite brother, now sat beside his
bed, anxious it is true, but calm as an older
nurse ; and held his thin wrist, counting its
quick pulsations, as if she could judge from
that his danger. The two visitors stood look-
ing on the scene a moment ; and then the
tears came gushing into Bessie’s eyes, and
even Frank was obliged to turn away his
head, and ask Mrs. Elmore some unmeaning
question. Fanny now arose and came forward
to meet her visitors.
“ Can we do any thing for you?†whispered
both the children, in the same breath.
It was no time for idle compliments, and
Fanny was not accustomed to them. “If
you will sit beside him, Bessie, and now and
then bathe his forehead—we have nothing
but waterâ€.
“ Mother sent some vinegar.â€
126 A VISIT FROM FRANK AND BESSIE.
Fanny’s lip quivered, and her eye moist-
ened. “ How thoughtful !—dear Willie !—
he will thank you himself when he gets bet-
ter ; now he knows nothing about it. He
will think it is I that holds hishand—see, he
is getting uneasy. He don’t know youâ€â€”—
“ No matter, poor little fellow! his hand
is almost burning.â€
“The whispers over him aroused the suf-
ferer, and he opened his eyes. He first gave
his sister a look of alarm, and gazed wildly
upon Frank ; but Bessie Jaid her cold hand on
his forehead, and he smiled and closed his
heavy lids.
“ Can’t I do any thing for you ?†inquired
Frank.
“ You are very kind, butâ€-——— Fanny
glanced at the expiring embers on the hearth,
and hesitated.
“ Some wood !†whispered Frank ; “ father
will send you some. But don’t you want
any thing else ? any thing that I can get at
Wilton or home ?â€
“ Tf you would just step over and ask Amy
Ross to come ; she always knows just what
to do when any one is sick.â€
“ No,no, Fanny,†said Mrs, Elmore, taking
A VISIT FROM FRANK AND BESSIE. 127
little Rosa in her arms, and bustling about
the room, “ you needn’t send for Amy; we
can take care of Willie ourselves ; there’s no-
thing to do, nothing at all, only the baby to
dressâ€â€”—
“ And the dishes to wash, and the floor to
sweep, and————oh, how could I forget the
hens and ducks ! Willie loves them so weil,
and takes such good care of them.â€
“ J will feed them, Fanny.â€
“Thank you, that will seem like taking
care of Willie, for they are his. Jack might
do it, but we sent him and Mary away, for
the least noise troubles Willie.â€
By this time Mrs. Elmore had reached the
bedside and dislodged Bessie; but one of
Willie’s sudden starts, followed by a violent
coughing fit, which made it necessary to raise
him up, showed her the necessity of exer-
tion, and she was very glad to retreat.
And this careless mother, this miserable
woman,—this degraded, worthless, wretched
being, was the once beautiful, accomplished,
and ambitious Florence Evelyn. Her des-
tiny was not a strange one ; it was of her own
hand’s fashioning. I doubt not but my read-
ers can go back and trace her, step by step,
128 A VISIT FROM FRANK AND EESSIE.
down to her final lot ; and see that it was
but the natural result of her folly. Oan they
think of any means by which this lot might
have been softened,—by which Mrs. Elmore
might have more than half escaped her des-
tiny 1 True, she was a drunkard’s wife, and
that is woe enough for one poor stricken
being ; but from the evening she first learned
the sad truth, she made not the least attempt
to lighten the chain that was about her and
hers. She knew little of a wife’s duties, or a
mother’s responsibilities ; but, her dreams of
greatness departing, a love of ease succeded ;
and instead of making her little home plea-
sant, and exerting herself to supply her hus-
band’s deficiencies by superior care and atten-
tion to her children, she sat from morning
till night in idleness, believing herself unable
to mitigate the evil which she could not era-
dicate. What now cared she that hers had
been the fairest face in Wilton, that she had
stood high in Mrs. Selwyn’s fashionable
school ; excelled her friend on the guitar,
and been called asylph inthe dance? What
cared she now that she had once clasped the
meteor of wealth and station, for which she
had so long toiled, now that it had turned to
HEALIA DOES Nor ALWays, &. 129
ashes in her hand? The sallow, care-worn
face, surmounted by locks too early gray,
now bore nv trace of beauty; nor the bent
form of grace ; and if her language evinced that
she had ever been more than she was at pre-
sent, she stood a living demonstration of the
truth, that a cultivated intellect, without cor-
responding feelings of the heart, is a worthless
thing—as worthless as the miser’s hoarded
gold.
CHAPTER IY.
HEALTH DUES NOT ALWAYS BRING PEACE.
Ir was many long and wearisome days before
little Willie could look about him, and talk
cheerfully, as he had formerly done; and
then weeks passed away before he became
well and strong, so that he could go out with
Fanny to gather wood, or bring water from
the spring on the hill-side, and perform his
many accustomed duties. Before this the
winter snows had covered the earth, and the
cold winds whistled through the crevices of
the little hut which he called home, notwith-
5
130 HEALTM DOES NOT ALWAYS
standing the attempts of busy hands to make
it comfortable. Frank had, from his weekly
allowance, paid a carpenter for nailing down
the loose boards and shingles; Amy had
shown Fanny how she might nail bits of
cloth around the door, and in the crevices of
the window frames ; and Bessie had brought
some of her old frocks to make curtains for
the windows in order to keep out part of the
cold ; but yet the wintry blasts, that came
eddying around the little dwelling, found
their way to the interior, and made cold
fingers, though, at least among the younger
members of the family, they could not make
cold hearts. Fanny had watched over her
brother through long days and nights of ill-
ness, and she prized his returning health
more than she had ever prized it before ;
while the little fellow in his turn looking on
her as his protector, called her his “ mother
sister.†Ifthe two children had loved each
other before, they were doubly affectionate
now, and yet poor Willie was far from being
happy. Often would he crawl from his bed
in the dead of night, and laying his head upon
his sister’s pillow, sob himself to sleep ; and
Fanny would try in vain to learn what
BRING PEACE, 131
troubled him ; for, herself content with little,
and finding real happiness in making the
most of it, she could not understand why
Willie should be more miserable than she.
“Tt must be some of the remains of the
fever,’ she would say, and then she would
take double care of him, lest he should be
ill again. Willie went to school during the
greater part of the winter, and when spring
came he seemed even more restless than be-
fore. One evening in the beginning of April,
Willie coaxed his sister away from the rest
of the family at an early hour; for he said
he had something to tell her. It was a still
and cloudless evening; and the moonlight
crept into the one little window of the loft
as cheerily as it rested on the crimson cur-
tains and soft carpets of prouder man-
sions.
“ Amy has been telling me how rich we
are,†said Fanny, “ but she forgot the wealth
of moonlight. Isn’t it beautiful, Willie 7â€
“ Yes, butâ€
“But what Willie? I am sure you love
the bright moonlight.â€
“ Yes, I was not thinking of that, Fanny,
I can think of only one thing now.â€
132 WEALTH DOES NOT ALWAYS
“ What is it? tell me, and if I understand,
I will help you.â€
“You don’t understand,—that is, I am
afraid you'll not see it just as I do. You
don’t guess what I am thinking about, and
what has troubled me all winter ; though I
thought you must know, and all of them,
when Frank told me how much I said about
it when I was sick. I don’t want to live
here any longer, Fanny.â€
“ Willie!â€
“Don’t look at me, Fanny, don’t; I know
you think I am wicked, but I can’t stay.â€
“Oh, you have stayed through the long
cold winter ; and now spring is coming with
its warm showers, and the fields will soon be
green, and you can gather violets and spring
beauties for me, and get home your hens and
ducks from ’Squire Ross’s barn ; and we will
go out on the sunny hill-side, and you will
read to me while I make clothes fur Jack
and Mary. Don’t say you want to go away.â€
“‘T can’t help it, Fanny,—oh, if you could
know how unpleasant it is to be in my
place.â€
“T know it is hard; but we can make ail
ylaces pleasant.â€
BRING PEACE, 133
“Fanny, are you ever ashamed of father
and mother ?â€
“Don’t ask me,—it is wrong to talk about
it, if we are.â€
“ But this onceâ€â€™â€”—
“ Amy says, by talking, or even thinking
over troubles, we make them worse.â€
“We can’t make this worse. Last winter,
when I went to school, I used to see father
come staggering into Wilton, with a whole
troop of boys hooting and yelling at his heels,
flinging snow-balls and apple-cores at him ;
and then I used to crawl away into a corner
of the fence, or behind a wood-pile, until he
had gone. The boys wouldn't play with me
because my father was a drunkard ; but that
didn’t make much difference ; J couldn’t play.
Then the master scolded me, and the boys
laughed, because I read so poorly ; but I
couldn’t help it, Fanny, for the tears would
come into my eyes, and almost make me
blind. And when I got home after school, I
couldn’t torget; may be you thought me
cross when I didn’t use to answerâ€
“No, Willie.â€
“ Well, 1 wasn’t ; but I used to dream al}
night ebout the things I had seen in the day-
134 HEALTH DOES NOT ALWAYS
time ; and that was what made me cry so
much,â€
“What did Frank Stewart do when the
boys plagued father ?â€
‘Nothing, without he saw me hiding ; and
then he would run in among them, and try
to make them stop; and sometimes I could
hear him say, they ‘ought to have more pity on
poor Willie.†Oh, it made me feel wretchedly.â€
“To have Frank take your part ?â€
“No, but to have father turn round and
swear at him so dreadfully, when he was do-
ing all he could for him.â€
“ Well, you won't go to school this summer,
Willie.â€
“No, but I shall see the boys.â€
“Don’t mind it; they will learn better
when you are a little older, and they find
how good you are.â€
““T must mind it, Fanny ; but the boys are
not all. Mr. Evarts calls me a little vaga-
bond ; and farmer Jones said he meant to
put me into his cornfield for a scarecrow ;
and Mr. Martin asked me what right I had
to steal Joseph’s coat—you know what he
meant, Fanny, that in the Bible about the
coat of many colours.â€
BRING PEACE, 135
“ Yes, but I am sure I mended your coat
very neatly, and the pieces are as near alike
as I could get. It ds strange. I thought
Mr. Jones and Mr. Martin were very good
men; you remember the nice joint of mut-
ton and the shoes they sent us ?â€
“ T remember, Fanny, but everybody laughs
at us, and I cant bear it any longer. There !
—father comes swearing along the road now
—hear him, Fanny—he has got to the door
now. Don’t go down, don’t—I have not told
you yet.â€
“J know what you want to tell. You want
to go away ; and I suppose it would be best
if father would let you, and you could get a
good place.â€
“But he won't let me; he said once that
I might live with Squire Ross, you know ;
and then he broke his word. He likes to
have me here to run of errands and wait
upon him, and I cant do it any longer,
Fanny.†There was a bright red spot on
each of Willie’s cheeks, and his deep blue eye
grew almost black with the emotion that
shook his little frame, and made his teeth
clatter as they had often done during the
preceding winter.
136 HEALTH DOES NOT ALWAYS
“ What will you do, then ?†asked Fanny,
fearfully.
© Run away !â€
For a moment nothing could be heard in
the loft but the hard breathing of the two
children, till Fanny, in a faint low voice,
whispered, “ where will you go, Willie ?â€
“T don’t know; God will take care of
me.â€
“Tf you do wrong ?â€
“Tt isn’t wrong, I know it isn’t. You
don’t need me in the summer, and when cold
weather comes I will come back again.â€
“ Have you talked with Frank about it ?â€
“Yes; and he says he will supply me with
a decent coat, and a little money, so that I
shall not have to beg, if you will only say I
may go.â€
“J can’t say so, Willie; I am afraid it is
wrong.—May I ask Amy ?â€
“Wh no; Frank said it mustn’t go any
farther ; it wouldn’t be safe to tell so many.â€
“ But our friends, Willie ! they might help
you to get a good place.â€
“T am afraid they wouldn’t think it
right.â€
“Well, it seems to me it is not, Willie
BRING PEACE, 137
We had better try to bear these evils, and
that will make them seem lighter.â€
“T can’t bear them, it will kill me, Fanny.â€
“Oh no. You are tired, and that makes
everything seem worse to you. Now let us
kneel and say our prayers, and then I will go
down to father ; and you, Willie, had better
go to bed.â€
“T can’t sleep, Fanny, till you have said I
may go.â€
“T am afraid to say so, for it may be wrong.
There are a great many wicked people in the
world ; and if you should live with any of
thoseâ€
“TJ have a Bible, Fanny.â€
“ Well, we will talk of it to-morrow ; but
you must try to sleep, for I know that every-
thing will be for the best.â€
As soon as his sister had gone, Willie
opened the little wooden box that contained
his simple wardrobe, took from it a few ar-
ticles of clothing, coarse and mended, and
folding them together, laid them in a faded
cotton pocket-handkerchief ; then placing his
Bible, the gift of Frank Stewart, beside them,
he tied the four corners together, and laying
the bundle beneath his scanty pillow, pre-
138 HEALTH DOES NOT ALWAYS
pared himself for rest. It was late before
Fanny was ready for bed; and then sie
crept softly to her brother’s side to see if he
slept. His eyes were still open and he put
his arms around her neck, and drew her faca
to his.
“ Have I ever been cross to you, Fanny 1â€
“ Never, that I remember.â€
“ But I have made you unhappy ?â€
“Oh no; I shouldn't have been half so
happy without you.â€
“Do you believe I lova you, Fanny 1â€
“Why, yes, I know you do.â€
“ But will you always think so 1â€
« Always —Why, what de you mean Wil-
lie ?â€
“Oh, I am afraid you will not think so
some day—but I do, I do—don’t forget that.
—Kiss me again, Fanny—what made the
moon stop shining? I want to see your face
—there, it is out again !—Remember, Fanny,
I shall love you always—Good night !â€
“Qood night, Willie ; you must try to go
to sleep.â€
“T wonder what can ail Willie, he is so
wildlike ?†thought the good girl, as she laid
her head upon the pillow ; “he has never
BRING PEACE, 139
seemed like himself since that dreadful fever.
I will go down and ask Dr, Stewart in the
morning :†and with this determination she
drew little Mary nearer to her—and dropped
to sleep. Poor Willie! there was no sleep
for him. His sister's unexpected disapproval
of his plan had, instead of convincing him of
his error, only determined him to put it into
execution immediately. “I should like to
tell Frank,†he thought ; but he was afraid
to wait lest he should lose the opportunity of
going, for he knew that Fanny would never
consent, and Frank would not assist without
her acquiescence. He waited for a long time
after his sister’s breathing assured him that
she was asleep ; and then arose, and keeping
his eye fixed on the sleeping Jack, dressed
himself; then taking his bundle in one hand,
and his shoes in the other, he went on tiptoe
to her bed. At first he held his breath for
fear he should awaken her ; but she lay so
motionless, with her arm around the neck of
little Mary, that he ventured to kneel beside
her, and then to touch his lips to hers,
Fanny moved and whispered something in
vin her sleep, but he could only distinguish
the words, “dear Willie!†The heart of the
149 UBALTH DORs Nor ALWays, &,
little boy swelled till it seemed ready to choke
him; but be pressed his lips together, and,
sheltering his eyes with his hands, crept
softly down the Indder. Willie had told his
sister that he was ashamed of his parents ;
and he had indeed but little of their kindness
to remember, but that all arose before him
now, every gentle word, and every affec-
tionate glance, and he could not help feeling
that it was ungrateful to leave them. As he
stood before the bed where they were sleep-
ing, he almost abandoned his plan; but a
single glance at his mother’s seat in the
corner, and the neck of the brown earthen
jug, peeping from his father’s pocket on the
chair, restored his resolution. With a heavy
heart he turned from the bed, and glancing
around the room, upon each familiar article
of furniture, proceeded to the door, then
raised the latch, and stepped out into the
cold, still moonlight.
LIGAIS AND SHADOWS, 24
CHAPTER Y.
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.
Great was the distress of Fanny, and the
astonishment of the whole family, when it
was discovered that Willie was missing. The
neighbours, too, had much to say; some
wondering if he had not been led away by
wicked boys, others declaring that he was
ruined, and others again, rejoicing thet the
little fellow had so much spirit, and express-
ing their firm belief that he would do well.
All speculated, but few felt ; and after a lit-
tle bustle, a slight movement like pursuit,
the whole affair seemed forgotten. But there
were those that could not forget. Fanny,
notwithstanding her kind intentions, could
not help regretting her prudent counsel ; for
she thought of a great many things she
might have ¢o~pared to make him more
comfortable. She remembered, too, the coat
and money Frank had promised ; and she
thought all day of Willie begging for bread ;
but in the night, she dreamed that he came
back to her, and she fed him. She, how-
142 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.
ever, applied herself with as much assiduity
as ever to the duties before her; and she
began to give Jack lessons in reading, and to
teach Mary to knit, in place of assisting Wil-
lie in his tasks. But if Fanny was disturbed
about the part she had taken, much more so
was Frank Stewart, who, as he himself ac-
knowledged, had advised Willie to go.
“T never thought that he would go with-
out consulting me,†said the poor lad, “and
I had a whole decent suit of clothes ready
for him, and the money I had been saving
for so many weeks; and then I meant to
have told him to write to us, and how to
address his letters, so that no one should
know where he was.â€
Frank and Bessie had always been Fanny’s
friends ; but now they were kinder to her
than ever; and many a long weary hour
was shortened by their presence. But Amy
Ross was, after all, the best friend, for she
was older than the others, and she had been
educated in the school of usefulness, and
brought all the knowledge she had gained to
her assistance. Sometimes Fanny (for she
was not faultless) would grow weary of her
task, and then Frank would try to contrive
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 142
some way of lightening the burden, and Bes-
sie would pity her; but Amy would teach
her how to bear it all with patience, and
make her know that happiness does not con-
sist in freedom from duties, but in the right
performance of them.
“ *Squire Ross is coming up the street, and
I believe he means to call,†said Fanny, one
day, to her mother.
Mrs. Elmore involuntarily shrunk back in
her chair, and drew her baby close to her.
*Squire Ross, although the kindest of neigh-
bours, did not often call at Mr. Elmore’s,
perhaps because he was not fond of frequent
visits, and perhaps that he liked not to awa-
ken old remembrances, He sat down in the
chair that Fanny offered him, but very awk-
wardly ; and dull as Mrs. Elmore was, she
could not but be alarmed at the unusual agi-
tation of her visitor, and the uneasy glances
that he now and then gave the door.
“ Have you bad news?†she at last ven-
tured to inquire.
“Tt is hard, Mrs. Elmore, for one neigh-
bour to be the bearer of evil tidings to
another.â€
Fanny caught the words “ evil tidings,â€
144 LIGHTS AND SITADOWS.
and it seemed to her that they could apply
to but one person in the world.
“Do tell us, Squire Ross, do,—have you
heard from Willie ?â€
“No, child; my errand concerns your
father.â€
Both Fanny and her mother were silent,
for neither dared ask the nature of the in-
formation.
“ He is on his way from Wilton now; but
you must prepare to see him badly injured.
They are bringing him on a litter, and I was
afraid it would frighten you, so I just came
forwardâ€-——
“ Ts—is he dead ?†asked Fanny.
“No, not dead ; and I believe Dr. Stewart
thinks it is possible he may recover. If you
need anything, send to me,†he whispered in
Fanny’s ear. The girl looked her thanks,
and poor Mrs. Elmore’s lip quivered, and her
cheek grew pale with apprehension.
In a few moments a company of neigh-
bours came bearing in the wretched man,
and laid him upon the bed prepared for him.
They spoke kindly to his wife and children ;
for there is something in human suffering
which affords a key to the sympathies of the
LIGUTS AND SHADOWS. 145
roughest hearts, and softens stern natures,
however unused they are to feel. One by
one the men withdrew, with sad counte-
nances, and each first making some proffer of
assistance, till none were left but “Squire
Ross and Dr. Stewart. Mr. Elmore seemed
insensible, but every now and then he uttered
a deep groan, and his breast. would heave
convulsively, and his head would turn from
side to side upon the pillow, as if in the
most intense pain. We can bear to see a
child endure suffering, for it softens the
heart, and the pity we feel bears with it its
own balm; but when the strong frame of
man is bowed, and made weak by the hand
of disease or pain, we look upon him with a
sensation bordering on awe, and feel that the
sympathy we would bestow upon the child is
all too weak to reach his case. It was thus
with Fanny, as she stood by her father’s bed-
side, and longed to do something to relieve,
yet was rendered inactive by the thought
that it was not her brother Willie.
Mrs. Elmore sat weeping by the side of
the bed, and Jack crouched timidly at its
foot; while little Mary, with her armz
clasped around the neck of Frank Stewart's
k
146 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.
dog, would sometimes entertain the good-
natured animal by whispering in his ear, and
then rest her chin upon his shaggy head,
and whimper, as though tired of being so
little noticed.
"Squire Ross was a religious man; and
while Dr. Stewart spoke as encouragingly as
he could of the condition of his poor patient,
he tried to lead the minds of those present
to the great Disposer of human events, and
to teach them submission to His will. Though
Mrs. Elmore seemed to hear, the words
touched only the surface of her heart, mak-
ing no permanent impression; but Fanny
was an eager listener. It was a long time
before Mrs. Elmore summoned up courage
to inquire the cause of the accident ; and
then neither of the men seemed willing to
speak of it, but evaded her questioning. It
is indeed a hard task to carry to a wife a
husband’s delinquencies; and neither Squire
Ross nor Dr. Stewart were men capable of
performing such an act.
Mr. Elmore, as was not unfrequent with
him, had spent the day and night at Wilton ;
and having drank as deeply as usual, became
troublesome to Mr. Jewett, and was turned
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 147
out of doors ; for the drunkard when intoxi-
cated, is, to him who made him so, an object
studiously avoided, being the very imper-
sonation of the guilty conscience that haunts
him. There were several miserable wretches
about the door when Mr. Elmore was dis-
edged ; and the wrath excited by the land-
lord, exploded with double force on them.
A quarrel was the result ; and the father of
poor Fanny, being the weaker party, was
soon overpowered, and his life saved only by
the interposition of more peaceful citizens.
Two of the principal actors in the fray were
secured; and Mr. Elmore, after having been
found to be dangerously wounded, was borne
home insensible, while Mr. Jewett still stood
bowing and smiling behind his counter, en-
ticing new customers.
It is not in human nature to part willingly
from those with whom we have associated
for years, even though no strong cords of
love bind them to us; and Mrs, Elmore’s
heart seemed touched by some remains of
youthful feeling, as she locked upon her
husband, now hovering doubtfully between
life and death. As for Fanny, she had never
known her father any otherwise than misera-
148 LIGHTS AND &HADOWS.
ble and degraded, and yet she loved him—I
do not know how much, but it may be as
tenderly as happier children love their pa-
rents. She watched anxiously by his bed-
side for many days, and when at last reason
dawned, she felt all her care rewarded by a
look of pleased recognition from him, and
the simple exclamation, “ Poor child!†whis-
pered, but in a voice so altered from its
former harsh tones, so earnest and yet so
touching, that she could scarcely recognize
it.
“ Father, you will get well,†she said joy-
fully ; and smoothing the black, crisp hair
back from his brow, “Oh, we shall be so
glad!â€
The heart of the wretched man was
touched as he looked upon his simple, suf-
fering child, suffering for his unworthiness,
and loving him still; and her earnest, fond
look, was harder for him to bear than the
bitterest reproaches. He was weakened by
pain; the unnatural stimulus that had mad-
dened him for years, was removed; and,
yielding to the better impulses of his nature.
he drew his child to his bosom, and promised
kenceforth to be a kind and watchful parent,
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 149
and to strive, by the performance of every
duty, to redeem the dark past.
“Oh, father, do you mean it all? and will
you neverâ€â€”—
“Never, Fanny, will I touch another drop
of that which has made me a cruel, neglect-
fol†——-
“Don’t say it, father; it was the drink
only that made you unkind, and now let us
forget it all.â€
“ Yes, Fanny, if we can; but your mother,
I am afraid, will not forget so easily. Ah, it
takes the innocent to forgive and forget.â€
The child slid away from the bedside, and
opening the door of a cupboard, produced the
self-same brown earthen jug that had hur-
ried poor Willie from home, and held it up
before the sick man.
“ May I break it, father 1â€
Mr. Elmore’s face grew white, and his
whole frame shook convulsively, for now the
importance of his promise rose before him,
and he doubted his power to abide by it. He
felt that without more stern resolve, more
strength of purpose, and greater self-control
than he possessed, he could not uproot the
confirmed habit of years, and overcome the
150 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.
burning thirst he felt from the intoxicating
cup. He drew the sheet over his head, and
groaned aloud.
“Father !—Are you worse, dear father ?â€
inquired Fanny, in alarm.
Mr. Elmore made no reply ; for the soft
touching tones of his child’s voice went to
his heart, and aroused its deepest feelings.
“Leave me now, Fanny,†he at last said,
without raising the covering.
“ Please, father, don’t send me away till
mother comes in from the spring, so that she
can watch beside you. Let me bathe your
forehead, for it is growing red again, and I
am afraid the fever is coming on.â€
Mr. Elmore drew back as far as possible,
as he felt the gentle pressure of Fanny's
hand upon his brow, and the big tears burst
from his eyes, and dropped one by one upon
the pillow.
“T am no worse, Fanny,†he exclaimed.
“Don’t stand over me any longer; my head
aches some, but my heart—that is a pain
which you, child, cannot reach. It is aching
at the remembrance of the past, and trem-
bling for the future——Fanny, I cannot trust
myself, I feel too weak, too irresolute, but—
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 151
yes, you may destroy the bottle, and I will
—I will live a temperate life—so help me
God 1â€
“God will help you, father,†whispered
the child, pressing her soft lip to the rough,
hard cheek of the sick man. Mr. Elmore
was completely subdued, but his answer was
prevented by the entrance of his wife. Would
that he had still spoken on—for it is scarce
supposable that at a moment like this any
woman could have spoken a chilling, or dis-
couraging word—and had the confession
been thorough, and the resolution strength-
ened by further confidence, the reformation
might have been enduring. As it was, how-
ever, Fanny was completely happy. She
looked at her father again and again, and
her pensive blue eyes assumed a more than
usual brightness ; and danced and sparkled
with the exhilarating nature of her feelings.
“ Oh, we shall be so happy !†she exclaim-
ed, clasping her hands with delight, as she
went bounding along the road to tell Amy
the joyful news. “ Willie will come back,
he won’t be ashamed nor hide any more—
and father will stay with us evenings. And
he will bring home all his earnings, so that
152 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.
the neighbours won’t have to help us any
more,â€â€”and visions as simple and innocent
as her own pure heart passed rapidly before
her, while the warm tears streamed down her
face unheeded. She was hurrying on, too
happy to hear the voice of Frank Stewart,
who was calling eagerly from behind, until
he laid his hand upon her shoulder.
“ Why, Fanny Elmore! what is the mat-
ter ? you are as deaf as old Aunt Bridget. I
thought I should never make you hear.â€
“Oh, Frank, I was thinking of father,
he†——.
“Don’t mind him now—he’s no worse
though, I hope ?â€
* No, but I care more for him thanâ€â€”—
“ Willie 2â€
“Frank, you haven’t heard from Willie ?
Oh, tell me quick! Where is he? is he
coming home ?â€
* T don’t know anything about him, Fanny,
but here is a letter father took from the
post-office, and it would be a pity if I didn’t
know that ugly E, when I took so much
pains to try to teach him to make it better.â€
Fanny did not wait for Frank to prove the
identity of the letter, but hastily broke the
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 153
seal and glanced at the signature. She knew
it must be Willie’s, but she felt surer after
having seen his name. A bank note dropped
from between the folds of the letter, and
Frank held it impatiently between his fingers
while Fanny was reading. The letter bore
no date, but it said the writer was well, and
that was something ; then there were a few
lines blotted out, and lastly the poor expect-
ing sister was told not to expect him at least
before another year. The tears of gladness
were scarcely dry on Fanny’s cheek ; and
they afforded a channel to the bitter ones
which followed.
“Don’t ery, Fanny,†said Frank, sooth-
ingly, when he had learned the contents of
the letter; “I hope Willie will come back
soon, but if he don’t, you must let me be
your brother.â€
“Tt seems as though you were almost a
brother now,†said Fanny gratefully, and
examining the back of the letter.
Tt has no post-mark,†observed Frank,
“and that made me think at first that
Willie might be in the neighbourhood. I
suppose he is afraid to let us know where he
13.
154 THE WANDERER.
“Do you think he is here ?†inquired the
girl, with trembling eagerness.
“No, it would not be like Willie to do
such a thing. I think it is more likely he
sent his letter to Wilton by some traveller,
so that the post-mark should tell no tales of
him.â€
CHAPTER VI.
THE WANDERER
Wuen Willie Elmore left his home at mid-
night, his young heart aching with the pain
of separation from those he loved, he felt as
though the whole broad earth was hence-
forth his home; and he had little care or
thought for what might be his future destiny.
He walked on swiftly, not minding in what
direction, and for the present only anxious
to escape pursuit. He felt almost benumbed
by the chilliness of the night-air, and the
white frost grew thick upon his scanty cloth-
ing ; but he heeded it not, for his heart came
swelling up to his throat as though about to
burst from its confinement. And still he
THE WANDERER, 155
walked briskly forward, crushing the brittle
blades of grass, that the warm sun and genial
showers had nursed into being to be withered
by the earliest frost, and now and then look-
ing up at the bright stars above him, and
wondering if those sparkling things were in-
deed worlds, as he had been told, and
above all, wondering if they could be the
abode of worthless parents and unhappy chil-
dren. It seemed to him that morning would
never come, and the solemn stillness of every-
thing about him made him tremble; but
still he dared not stop, for who could tell but
his father or some one else was close behind
to drag him back to his wretched home? At
last the morning began to glimmer in the
eastern sky, and then to dim the stars with
ita broader light, and Willie stopped to look
about him. A tall, red, wooden building,
surrounded by a dozen smaller ones of the
same colour, was before him, with a pond,
and a long narrow dike above it, and a noisy,
wrangling stream below. This he judged
might be a manufacturing establishment.
No one was yet astir, but the hope of obtain-
ing employment made him stop; and, fa-
tigued with his long walk, he crawled into
156 THE WANDERER.
a corner of a crooked fence, and, placing his
bundle under his head, attempted to rest.
He was not conscious of sleeping ; but when
he again aroused himself the day was con-
siderably advanced, and the dry frozen road
hy which he came, looked moist and muddy.
It was several minutes before he could re-
member where he was; but the high, red
factory, now seemingly alive with the noise
of its machinery, reminded him of his object
in waiting. It looked dismal to him, but he
was not at liberty to choose his employment,
and went cheerfully to the door.
He looked on for a while, and then ob-
serving a man older and apparently more
staid than the other workmen, he inquired
of him the probability of obtaining employ-
ment.
“Not much, I fear, boy, for the like of
you,†he answered, glancing at his mended
and thread-bare garments, “I am overseer,
and I shouldn’t like to engage you ; but Mr.
-——~, the proprietor, lives a mile down street,
and you can go to him if you please.†This
speech was followed up by a wink to a man
beside him; and poor little Willie, quite
frightened by the winks of the overseer, the
THE WANDERER. 157
grins of the men, and titters of the girls in
the place, hurried out as fast as possible.
‘* About a mile down street,†said he to him-
self, as he gained the open air; “ that would
take me back, and there is no knowing who
may be following me ;†and on he trudged,
with quite as much cheerfulness as could
be expected of a homeless, friendless child.
When he was tired of walking, he would sit
down by the road side, and amuse himself by
digging springs in the damp soil ; and once
he stopped to gather a cluster of violets that,
sheltered by a broad burdock leaf, had escap-
ed the previous night’s frost.
“{ wish that I could give these to Fanny,â€
he thought ; and then his distance from her
came into his mind, and he thought of the
long, long time that would intervene before
they could meet again, and his heart began
to swell as it had done in the night time,
and his eyes grew dim with tears. He passed
many people on the road, but none spoke to
him, and he at last began to think of enter-
ing some farm-house. Still the idea of beg-
ging was too humiliating; and it was near
night before, urged on by hunger and weari-
ness, he came toa decision. Tle paused be-
158 THE WANDERER.
fore a farm-house a few miles from a small
village, and endeavoured to gather courage to
call. This awelling-house, with the front
and one end painted white, and the remain-
der red, had a very comfortable air; while
the ample barns and out-houses spoke of the
thrift of the occupants. Willie had scarce
given a hesitating rap, when he heard the
loud “Come in!†shouted by some dozen
voices, and then the exclamation, “ Chil-
dren !†in a displeased tone followed, and
produced immediate silence. As Willie hesi-
tated whether or not to enter, the door was
opened by a boy about his own age, who said
good-naturedly, and casting a sly look back
into the room, “ May be you didn’t hear us
bid you come in?†Willie was too tired
and hungry to notice the joke, but the boy’s
smiling face was like the sunshine of the past
to him, and he trembled.
“What is the matter ?†inquired the lad.
“ Father, come here, do, father ; for here’s a
boy as big as I am, crying like a baby.â€
“ Bring him in, Sam.â€
“A pretty good load for me to carry,â€
muttered Sam, humorously. “ Can’t you
come in alone, Mr. Cry-baby ?â€
THE WANDERER. 159
“ T can’t help crying,†said Willie, “for I
am hungry, and cold, and tired.â€
“ Oh, if that is all,†answered Sam, “ we'll
soon cure you, for there’s plenty of mush
in the kettle, and milk on the table, and a
grand fire, warm enough for winter, and—
but the beds belong to mother.â€
“And the mush, and milk, and fire?
Sir Chatterbox ?†inquired the father, as
the boy entered, dragging Willie by the
hand.
“To all of us, I should think,†returned
Sam, glancing around the table, and noting
the clatter of iron spoons against the bowls,
“to all of us, I rather think; we work hard
enough for them.â€
“Sam, be quiet,†said the mother, “and
finish your supper; itis almost dark. Did
you say you were hungry, little boy ?†she
inquired in a kind tone of Willie.
“Yes, ma’am, I am very hungry ; I have
eaten nothing since last night.â€
“Last night!†was repeated by a variety
of tones at the table; and a dozen spoons
went down, and two dozen hands went up
with astonishment in a twinkling.
~ Poor child!" said the mother. “ Betsey,
160 THE WANDERER,
bring a bowl; sit round there, Levi—what
are you doing with the boy, Sam ?â€
“Only helping him to ery, mother,†re-
plied Sam, laying the shoes which he had
been taking from Willie’s feet in the
corner.
“There, you needn't come to the table ;
stay here and warm you, and I will bring
your supper to you.â€
© Pooh! this warm day, Sam ?â€
“ His feet are wet, father, and he trembles
like a leaf. I tell you the weather's a little
different from what it was an hour ago, when
you were out making fence.â€
“The good-natured Sam, who, it seemed,
imagined himself something of a wit, soon
brought Willie’s bowl of mush and milk, and
sitting down on the floor beside him, seemed
endeavouring to say funny things to make
his guest laugh. Whatever was their effect
upon Willie, they seemed to produce the one
desired upon the circle about the table ; and
the rude bursts of merriment from the chil-
dren were now and then joined by a long
loud peal of laughter from the father. The
repast was at last finished by a pie of dried
fruit ; and then the old farmer, drawing his
THE WANDERER. 161
chair alongside Willie's, asked him if he had
ever seen such noisy boys before.
“J think they are very happy, sir,†replied
Willie.
“ Ay, the lazy dogs! they will always be
happy, while they live as easy as they do now;
they'll see harder times yet.â€
“To-morrow, when they go to building
fence, father.â€
“ Stop, Sam, you make the boy Jaugh when
he hasn't half finished his supper. If you
had fasted twenty-four hoursâ€
“I should want something heartier than
mush and milk.â€
“Sam is right; wife, bring some of the
cold meat and a slice of bread—Where are
you going, boy, and what is your name ?â€
“ My name is Willie, sir.â€
“ Willie? Willie what ? maybe you don't
want to tell the other, though. Where did
you say you were going ?â€
“T do not know, sir.â€
“ Don’t know ! now that is queer. Have
you no friends 1â€
“Not many.â€
“ And no home ?â€
The tears were now rolling down Willie’s
L
162 THE WANDERER.
cheeks in torrents, and he pushed away the
food which the farmer's wife was offering
him. “See, husband,†said the good woman,
“how you have made him ery. I doubt not
but he is some orphan child, without a home.
Poor little fellow ! I hope he will find one.
Won't you take the victuals dear ?â€
Willie extended his hand for the plate.
“Thank you, ma’am, but I don’t like to
have you think anything wrong about me,
for I know it is as wicked to act a lie as
to speak one. I am not an orphan.â€
“Then you must be going home ?â€
“No, ma’am, I am looking for a place.
Do you know of anybody that would hire
me ?â€
“Bless me, no!†answered the farmer.
“The folks in these parts are pretty well
supplied with boys of their own. For my
own part, I have about as many as I can
manage, and my neighbours’...
“ Have enough, and a few to spare, unless
they are better,†interrupted Sam. “ Don’t
look so cross, father ; I heard old Uncle Jake
suy so the other day, and I am sure he
knows ; for nobody has such a lot of boys as
he.—Bless me !â€
THE WANDERER. 163
“ Sam !â€
“You said it a minute ago, father.â€
“Did I, Sam? well, I oughtn’t to have
used it; and youâ€â€”——
“Won't say it again, father, if it is wrong.
Have some more pie, Willie?â€
“No, I thank you,†returned the boy, tak-
ing up his little bundle, and beginning to
put on his shoes.
“Why, you don’t mean to say you are
going ?†exclaimed Sam.
“T thought I could walk a little farther
to-night†-——
“Then where would you stop ?â€
“T don’t know; I suppose it is cold
beside the road, but maybe I could find a
barnâ€=
“A barn!†exclaimed all the children,
gathering round him.
“Did you ever try it?†inquired Sam.
“No.†-
“Then you would freeze to death; and
what’s more, take cold, and have a shock-
ingly hard bed into the bargain.â€
“No, no, my boy,†said the good old
farmer, patting him on the head, “ you mav
be driven to the barn to-morrow night, but
104 THE WANDERER,
to-night you shall have a better shelter, and
a nice warm bed—eh, wife!â€
“To be sure; we never sent any one away
at this time of night, not even when we were
poorer than now, and didn’t know to-day
what we should have to eat to-morrow ; and
pity for us to begin now.â€
“« Ah, it takes those who have been pinched,
to know what pinching is, Polly,†replied the
old man; “I don’t see how our children will
ever learn charity.â€
“TY should think they would take it the
natural way,†answered Sam,
“Good, Sammy!†shouted the merry
group.
“T should think we had been long enoush
exposed, to be at least partially infected,†re-
marked the elder son, a broad-shouldered,
thick-set fellow, with a frame like iron, and
cheeks like the crimson side of a winter
apple. “ But isn’t it time to commence our
reading, father 1â€
“Yes; what books did you draw to-
day 7â€
“T have brought home a book of travels,
because mother and the girls didn’t like the
last we had; you know they thought it was
THE WANDERER, 165
dull. Then for the other, I drew a volume
or Sammy’s favourite—Peter Parley.â€
“Oh, read Peter Parley to-night!†ex-
claimed the younger children, “ andâ€
“ Willie would like to hear it,†added Sam.
The reading continued for about an hour,
interspersed with plain, but sensible remarks
from the old farmer, or questions from the
children, and then the book was laid aside,
though with evident reluctance.
If Willie had been a few years older, he
might have speculated on Farmer Sloane’s
mode of government, but now he only won-
dered at it. That there was some defect in
it, he was certain, though he observed that
in the main never was there a more obedient
family of children, The true secret of the
case was, neither farmer Sloane nor his wife
were persons capable of inspiring fear ; but,
as Jerrod and Sam had observed, their good-
ness was infectious, and their children were
deeply imbued with its spirit. Then they
possessed those advantages of education which
are open to all classes in the present day ;
and the parents were often heard to say, that
they too were atoning for the deficiencies of
their younger days, by listening to the even-
166 THE WANDERER.
ing readings which the whole family found
so interesting and profitable. In the winter
the children attended the district-school, and
Jerrod was president of a debating society ;
while Betsey was acknowledged to be the
best singer in the neighbourhood, and indis-
pensable in every singing-school. Farmer
Sloane subscribed for, and not only read, but
often re-read two newspapers, the one religi-
ous and the other political ; he also owned a
share in the town library, and took care that
the books in it should be of the right charac-
ter; and so, although the family could boast
of no refinement, no artificial polish of man-
ner, yet they were laying the foundation of
an excellent character, one of unyielding
integrity and virtuous independence.
After spending some time in conversation,
more serious and profitable than that previ-
ous to the reading, the father took his seat
by the table, and Betsey brought out the
family Bible with its covering of green baize
cloth, and laid it before him. Willie ob-
served that each member of the family was
furnished with a Bible, which was laid open
while the father read ; and every two had a
hymn-book, out of which they sung their
THE WANDERER. 167
evening song of praise, and then they all
knelt, while the good old man offered his
humble petition to their heavenly Pro-
tector.
In the morning Willie was awakened by
singing like that he had heard the previous
evening, and hurrying down to the kitchen,
he found the table spread for breakfast, and
the family about to gather around it.
“Mother wouldn’t let us call you up,â€
said Sam, “for she thought you were too
tired. I wish,†he added, glancing archly
at the good matron, “ she was as careful of
me.â€
After breakfast, Willie found his bundle
increased by a quarter of a brown loaf, and a
slice of dried ham, which good Mrs. Sloane
told him would not come amiss during the
day.
“ Father, don’t you owe me a sixpence ?â€
asked Sam, resting a hand on each of the old
man’s knees, and looking into his face.
“No, not that I remember—do I ?â€
“May be you have forgotten what you
promised me for picking up stones, down in
the meadow, while you were building fence
yesterday ?â€
168 THE WANDERER.
“Ah, but you have not finished thr job
yet,†said Jerrod, laughing.
“He is a good paymaster who pays when
the work is done,†added the father.
“Well, what difference does it make?
‘You know I will finish it; I can get it done
in two hours.â€
“ Four, you mean,†said Jerrod.
“No, two, I tell you. But what if I
don’t, father? there’s the whole day before
me.â€
“And to-night I will give you the six-
pence.â€
“Oh please, father, to let me have it
now.â€
“ What will you do with it ?â€
“Just give it to me, father, and then in
the afternoon I will pick the stones from
mother’s clothes-yard, and I won’t ask for
another sixpence.â€
While Sam had been speaking, Mr. Sloane
had taken his leathern wallet from the pocket
of his best coat, and fumbled till he found
the sixpence, which he dropped into his
son’s hand. Sam's eyes glistened with
pleasure, and he instantly turned with his
prize to Willie.
THE WANDERER. 169
“Uncle Elliot told me that one could get
a night’s lodging at a private house for a
sixpence, and it is too bad for such a nice
little fellow as you to have to sleep in a
barn.—You needn’t draw back your hand ;
for father lets us do just what we've a mind
to with the money we earn; and I had to
work hard enough for this I can tell you.
My shoulders ached like anything for as
much as ten minutes.â€
“Then,†said Willie, smiling in spite of
the tears which were gathering in his eyes,
“ you ought to keep it to yourself.â€
“ Dear me, no! I shouldn’t know what to
do with it; for I have everything I want,
and something to spare.â€
“ Bravo, Sam!†cried the father, who had
been looking on with a glowing countenance ;
“this is what I call beginning the world
aright. He who has everything he wants,
always has some to spare to those less fa-
voured, and let him have ever so little, he is
the richest and happiest man in the world.
Sam deserves another sixpence for that,
wife.â€
“That would be an easier way of earning
money than picking stones,†said Sam, ev-
170 THE WANDERER.
deavouring to put on an air of carelessness,
though evidently very far from being un-
mindful of his father’s praises.
The remainder of the children, at Sam’s
first move, had grouped themselves together
at the other side of the room, and were en-
gaged in a consultation on the propriety of
making out a little purse for Willie. There
seemed to be an objection on the part of
Jerrod and Betsey, the latter of whom mo-
tioned her father to join the circle. After
listening for a few moments the old man
shook his head: “God bless you my chil-
dren, for the heart, but this evening I will
tell you why it isn’t best.â€
I doubt not but farmer Sloane gave his
family a lesson on prudence and economy
that evening ; I do not mean that kind of
prudence that would prevent their giving
until all their own wants were supplied, but
that which would lead them to adspt their
generosity to the wants of the person relieved,
and always to reserve a little for a future
time. The young person who will empty
his purse into the lap of a beggar may be
generous; but his generosity is not tem-
pered by thoughtfulness, because he thus
A SITUATION. 171
deprives himself of the means of benefiting
another sufferer who may be still more in
want of assistance.
After taking leave of the good family
where he had been so kindly entertained,
Willie wandered on, now stopping at a farm-
house, and now at a mechanic’s shop to ask
for employment, until the elevation of the
sun told him it was noon. He then sat
down by a little brook that ran along the
side of the road, and, taking out the humble
fare furnished by good Mrs. Sloane, made
him a hasty meal, scooping up the clear,
sparkling water in his hands to drink; and
then kneeling down, he thanked his hea-
venly Father for the blessings already given,
and asked his guidance for the future. After
this he arose, and pressed onward with re-
newed cheerfulness.
CHAPTER VII.
A SITUATION.
Ir was the evening of the third day from his
leaving home, and Willie Elmore was yet
172 A SITUATION.
a wanderer. Worn, weary, and discouraged,
he found his way into a muddy, dirty-looking
village on the border of the E—— canal, and
looked about him for a place where he might
pass the night. He bent his steps to a low
wooden building, where little knots of men
were collected on the outside, some denounc-
ing, and others defending some new political
movement ; some were wrangling in the por-
tico, others haranguing their comrades in a
boisterous tone of voice, and others saunter-
ing about, striking their hands against their
pockets with wonderful importance, and now
and then challenging a passer-by to bet. It
was a public-house, and Willie found his way
into the bar-room as soon as possible. There
a man of diminutive stature stood behind a
counter, quietly mixing threepenny glasses
for the customers that came thronging around,
while some were smoking, others drinking,
and others engaged with cards. Willie slunk
away to the darkest corner of this room, and,
resting his head upon both his hands, thought
of the home he had so foolishly left, his quiet
little bed in the loft, his gentle, patient sister,
the playful Jack, the noble Frank and sym-
pathizing Bessie; and tears of vain rezret
A SITUATIOM. 173
gushed through his fingers, and fell unheeded
upon the little bundle in his lap. His feel-
ings grew every moment more and more bit-
ter, and he was wondering if the great God
indeed cared for a wretched little being like
him, when some one jogged his elbow.
“ How are ye, friend !â€
This was spoken by a boy several years
older than Willie, with a cigar in his mouth,
an oilcloth cap, painted in alternate stripes
of red and green, stuck on one side of his head,
and a threadbare fustian jacket.
“Did you speak to me ?†inquired Willie.
“ Yes ; you seem to be a stranger in these
parts, and so I thought you mightn’t have no
objection to a little company. What makes
you crawl off in the dark so, like a sheep-
thief !â€
“T am tired.â€
“ And hungry.â€
“ Not much.â€
“ And thirsty ?â€
“Not a bit.â€
“Ha, ha—I thought I’d have you there—
a green’un, eh? But lookee, boy, you’re
sorry as well as tired; may be you'd take
a drop witn a friend, just to ‘liven your
spirits 2â€
174 A SITUATION.
“ No, I thank you,†returned Willie, with
a shudder, for his father’s example was yet
fresh before his mind, and he would sooner
have laid his hand upon a poisonous serpent.
His new companion only laughed again,
and telling him he would soon get over that,
inquired his name.
“ Willie.â€
“ Willie ! oh, nothing else, of course 7 ha,
ha! I see—I see how it is. Slipped out doors
one o’ these dark nights, and cut stick. Bits
o’ baggage like that,†pointing to the light
bundle containing Willie’s little all, “never
leave home by daylight. Maybe you haven't
hired out yet.â€
“ No, I could’nt find a place,†returned
Willie, wondering how this strange compa-
nion could have guessed so well his situation,
and thinking that he might be of some aasist-
ance in advising him.
“ A place! oh, that’s easy enough,—just
nothing at all. The canal opened last week,
and boat-drivers are pretty skurse this year.
Sure pay, and jolly times, my boy ; will you
try it?â€
Willie had heard that the canal was a very
dangerous place for boys ; but he forgot that
A SITUATION. 175
he had that very morning prayed, “lead us
not into temptation ;†and he told his new
friend (who gave his name as Ephraim Green)
that he would gladly engage as 8 boat-driver.
* You had better not act so anxious about
it,†replied Green ; “if they think you want
a place very much, they'll try to get you
cheaper. You must say you know all about
taking care of horses†——
“ No, I can’t say that; I used to drive
*Squire Ross’s team sometimes, and to feed
old Roan, but I don’t know how to take care
of horses.â€
“ Never mind, you can pretend you do, and
if you're handy, they'll never know the dif-
ference.â€
Willie shook his head. “ I have nowhere
to stay another night, and don’t know how I
shall get my breakfast in the morning ; but
I’d rather not get a place than tell a lie.â€
“ Well, suit yourself,†replied Green coolly;
“but you'll soon be sorry you were so
squeamish. I shouldn’t wonder if they should
dock your wages 8 whole quarter.â€
Willie however persisted in his determi-
nation to tell the truth ; and Green, who in
spite of his vicious habits seemed to be a good-
176 A SITUATION.
tempered lad, promised to assist him in the
morning in making a bargain.
“ As for to-night,†said he, “ you'd better
go down to the station with me, and I'll try
to find a berth for you. The old man may
scold some, but you needn’t mind him; I'll
make it all right ; and the boys———but they
won't dare to cut up any of their shines when
I am with you.â€
Again Willie took his little bundle in his
hand, and waiting at the door for Green to
take another glass, accompanied him to the
canal, and along the bank for a short dis-
tance, until they came in sight of a large
barn. A stern-looking, hard-featured man,
was standing in the door, with a very ugly
scar on the left cheek; dark, shaggy eye-
brows, overshadowing small, malicious-look-
ing eyes, a forehead that wore a perpetual
scowl, and an enormous pair of whiskers.
“That is the station-keeper,†observed
Green ; then seeing his companion draw back
as though in fear, he added, “Come on, my
man, and you'll like him better; he isn’t so
bad as he looks,â€
“ Do you stay in this barn ?†whispered
Willie,
A SITUATION. 177
“ Yes, to be sure we do; and a nice place
it is too; only, as I told you before, we don't
always get enough to eat ; and sometimes the
boys kick up a row, and fling their beds into
the canal, but they don’t gain much by that ;
only the privilege of lying on the bare floor.â€
“ But to sleep ina barn ?â€
“ Not so bad an idea, I can tell you. Why,
you see, only one part is for the horses, and
the other for us, with the berths all in a row
as they are on the boats. But here's a piece
of gingerbread in my pocket that I got up at
the grocery. You'd better eat it now, or the
boys will get it away from you ; they’re up
to all sorts of mischief, but there’s some good
fellows among them for all that.â€
After the gingerbread was finished, and
Green had given Willie many directions for
conducting himself, they proceeded together
to the barn. The strong light from thence
had before enabled Willie to gain a glimpse
of his future companions, moving about the
door ; and his opinion of them was not im-
proved by joining the circle. The station-
keeper at first refused to admit a stranger
without orders from the proprietors ; but his
objection was overruled by some whi-pered
x
178 A SITUATION.
words from Green, and Willie was allowed to
enter the dirty, dismal-looking place that was
henceforth to be his home. He could not
bear to look about him, but sat, with his
forehead resting on his hand, away in the
darkest corner, until shown to his berth, in
which he was glad to hide and then he sob-
bed himself to sleep.
Our young friend was both shocked and
astonished at the effrontery of his new com-
rade, who, when they stood before one of the
proprietors in the morning (a tall, bony-look-
ing man in gray satinet), talked of his friend
Willie Elmore’s qualifications, as though he
he had known him from the cradle. In con-
sideration of Willie’s acknowledged igno-
rance, the man in satinet refused to pay him
the usual wages, at which Green seemed very
much surprised, and talked of those who
would be glad to get such an active little
fellow at any price. After a great deal of
higgling about the wages, in which Willie
took no part, and Green seemed as much in-
terested as if the business had been entirely
his own, it was settled that the former should
receive for his services, only twenty-five shil-
lings per month.
A SITUATION. 179
“ Scandalously low !†Q@reen muttered ;
and the next moment he had Willie by the
shoulder, chuckling over his successful bar-
gaining.
Willie saw in the beginning of his ac-
quaintance with him, that Ephraim Green
was a dangerous companion ; but he felt
grateful for the little service rendered him,
and in spite of his new friend’s bad qualities,
there was something about him that he could
but like. We are never in danger of being
injured by those who have no pleasing quali-
ties ; it is only when we find something to
admire in wicked people, that we learn to
imitate them. Green was good-humoured and
generous, and was a general favourite among
the class of people with whom he associated.
My readers will see at once why Willie’s new
friend was a very dangerous one, inasmuch as
they have already discovered his Jack of both
moral and religious principle, and his fondness
for practices the most vicious and degrading.
Poor Willie! it was not long before he forgot
to shudder when he entered the bar-room.
Willie had once said to his sister, “I have
a Bible ;†and for a little time he read it
every day; and how could he go from that
180 A SITUATION,
smoky bar-room, from the midst of low mirth,
and unholy revelry, and have a taste for any
thing pure and sacred 1 The contrast was too
great ; and after a while he wrapped his Bible
in o paper, and laid it carefully away. His
prayers were dropped at the same time he
left off reading ; and then it was an easy
thing for him to join with Ephraim Green in
every thing but drinking. That was not
learned so easily; but it was learned at last.
I would not have my readers to think that
Willie Elmore could, in one short summer,
become so entirely changed, as to sin with-
out caring ; fur, in truth, his conscience trou-
bled him sorely, and there were moments
when he thought he would give all the world
for but a single hour of innocence, such as he
had known before he left his quiet home.
Thus he went on, gradually increasing in
wickedness, and each day sinning more
easily, until autumn came, and he remem-
bered his promise to Fanny. But how could
he go back, miserable as he had now become?
how could he kneel beside his sister at even-
ing, or recount to Frank Stewart the deeds of
that fatal summer? Well would it have beea
if he had gathered courage to go home, and
A SITUATION. 181
once more return to his former simple and
honest mode of life.
It was to silence the upbraidings of con-
science in some degree that Willie one day
collected what small portion of his wages he
had still remaining, enclosed it in the unsa-
tisfactory letter of which we have already
noticed the receipt by Fanny, and finding a
traveller who was intending to pass through
Wilton, he asked him to leave it at the post-
office in that place. After this, when the
canal was frozen over for the winter, he went
by the direction of Ephraim Green far into
the country, where, for foddering “oattle,
building fires, and milking the cows, he was
to be allowed his board ; and Green told him
that, once established, he could attend school
or not as best suited his inclination.
Willie had contracted a fondness for books
while at home, and being removed from tho
influence of his vicious companions, his time
this winter was spent to better advantage than
might have been expected. He boarded in
a well-governed and orderly family, where
(lod was professedly worshipped ; but they
seemed to care little for the welfare of the
stranger boy farther than his food and lodg-
182 MR. ELMORE’S REFORMATION.
ings were concerned, and it was very seldom
that he was present even at evening or morn-
ing devotions. Had he met with a family
like the Sloanes, his heart might have been
won back again to innocence ; but as it was,
the winter school closed, spring came, and
found him still utchanged.
CHAPTER VIII.
MR. ELMORE’S REFORMATION.
Wuen Mr. Elmore again recovered his health
and went abroad among men, he avoided his
former companions, and for a long time never
went in sight of Jewett’s tavern. The good
people of the neighbourhood said, “ Poor El-
more has reformed!†and Fanny repeated
right joyfully, “ He has reformed !†but there
were gay and dissipated men that laughed at
what they called a sick-bed reformation, and
would have laid a wager if there had been
any one to take it up, that this was no radi-
eal change.
When Fanny heard of such doubts she
seemed for a few moments sad, and then siie
MR. ELMORE’S REFORMATION. 1§3
would crawl into the loft to pray that her
father might not be led into temptation.
Sometimes Mrs. Elmore would evince some
anxiety for her husband’s well-being ; but,
more generally, she seemed utterly careless,
telling Fanny that it made but little differ-
ence now, it was “ too late to try to be any-
body.â€
*Squire Ross and Dr. Stewart, and even
the Mr. Evarts that laughed at Willie, with
several other neighbours, did all they could
to encourage Mr. Elmore, and make him
recover his self-respect. *Squire Ross offered
him a small, but comfortable dwelling-house
on his farm at a very low rent, and gave him
constant employment; while Fanny spun
the good farmer’s wool to purchase clothing
for her mother, herself, and little sisters.
Thus passed away the autumn, and never
were the snows of December so little dreaded
by Fanny Elmore, for never before was she
so comfortably situated.
Tt was a Sabbath morning in winter. The
crusted snow crackled beneath the tread, and
glittered like one broad diamond surface in
the cold, but beautiful sunlight. It was a
calm, still, delightful morning, as quiet as the
184 MR, ELMORE’S REFORMATION.
sabbath of our dreams; and Mr. Elmore’s
family, sitting before the blazing hearth,
seemed prepared to enjoy it.
Little Rosa sat on her father’s knee, and
played with his hair; Mrs. Elmore having
placed her younger infant in the cradle was
gazing abstractedly into the fire; Jack was
teaching Mary to repeat a text he had just
been learning ; while Fanny, seated on her
stool, was turning over the leaves of a book,
and now and then giving an earnest but
timid glance to each of her parents. “ Father,â€
she at last ventured to say, “you haven't
been at church this winter.â€
Mr. Elmore’s face grew a shade redder, and
he leaned over to pick up something that
Rosa had dropped, but made no answer.
Fanny waited for a few moments, and then
taking her father’s hand, she looked up into
his face and said softly, “ Won’t you go 7?â€
“T will think about it, Fanny.â€
“Then it will be too late to go to-day.â€
“No matter, another Sunday will do.â€
“Qh, father, please to go to-day ; 1 know
that Mr. C. will say something you will love
to hear.†Fanny could have said much more
and told her parent that danger was not yet
MR. ELMOKE’S REFORMATION, 185
passed, and how to obtain the strength he
needed ; but she remembered it was her
father ; and when he at length refused to go,
she went into a little bed-room to hide the
tears which she could not forbear to shed.
Mr. Elmore sat in his chair very uneasily
after Fanny had left, and finally putting
down little Rosa, he walked several times
across the room, and then paused before the
fire, and spread out his hands as if warming
them. Again he traversed the floor, stood
for several minutes looking at the window,
and at last turned to his wife.
“Tt is a fine day, Florence.â€
“Very pleasant.â€
“ T—I—What a good girl Fanny is !â€
“Yes, as good as richer people’s children,
I think.â€
“T—] like to please Fanny, that is, when
I can consistently.â€
Mrs, Elmore did not answer.
“Don't you think it is best to humour the
children, Florence, when they take so much
pains to please us? I declare I don’t know
what makes our children so good, without it
is——Oh, that Amy Ross, she is a blessing
tu any neighbourhood !—I declare I’ve half
186 MR. ELMORE’S REFORMATION.
a mind to go to church just to please Fanny,
It is cold, but as pleasant as summer, and if
you would go†——
“Tf? James Elmore! Have you lost your
senses ? J goto Wilton! Shall I see David
Ross in his cushioned pew, and crawl off to
take my own seat with the town’s poor ?â€
“Don’t say any more, Florence, don’t—It
may be I who have done it allâ€
“ Who else could have done it?†Mr. El-
more looked sadly upon his wife, and again
turned to the window while she continued,
“T should think it would be rather unpleas-
ant to be a gazingstock for a whole house full
of people, as you would be if you were to go to
church ; but you had better go forallthat. For
my part I never expect to be anybody again.â€
Mr. Elmore sighed as he dropped himself
heavily into his chair ; and his wife conti-
nued, “No, the day is past when we can be
respectable, and for my own part, I feel no
inclination to give people, no better than we
might have been, an opportunity to triumph
over our degradation. It is well enough for
you to go to church—all things considered, I
suppose it is best—I would advise you by al
means to go.â€
MR. ELMORE’S REFORMATION, 187
Mr. Elmore looked straight into the fire,
but made no answer.
“Oh, do go, father!†exclaimed Fanny,
entering in time to catch the last words,
‘‘ Being as it is, I think you had better go,â€
added the mother,
“ No, Florence, answered Mr. Elmore, with
an air of dogged determination ; “if you are
ashamed to be seen beside me, I am ashamed
to go. Ifthe day is past when we can be
respected, I feel no inclination to be pitied.â€
“ Oh, father,†interposed Fanny, “if we do
rightâ€
“Yes, if you do right, Fanny, you may one
day rise above it. You are but a child now
—a drunkard’s child it is trueâ€
“ Father, you’re not a drunkard !â€
“T was—I—yes, J am /†and taking his
hat from the nail on which it hung, he hur-
ried out of the door, and strode off towards
Wilton,
“ He is going to church,†said Fanny.
“ Tie never had much spirit,†remarked her
mother.
That night Mr. Elmore was borne home by
two of his former companions, too much in-
toxicated to walk; and his wife, forretting
188 MR. ELMORE’S REFORMATION.
that her own voice had spoken the words of
discouragement, her own hand had quenched
the flame so partially kindled, spoke of her
sagacity in foreseeing this, lamented the
weakness of human resolutions, concluded
herself the most unhappy woman living, and
fell asleep.
Poor Fanny! How did she bear this new
disappointment? She had often wept over
the sad condition of her little brothers and
sisters. She wept when Willie went away ;
and when she thought her father would die,
she wept most bitterly, but she had never
shed tears like these before. Oh, it was sad
to hear the poor girl’s sobs through all that
long, dreary night, when there was no one
near to comfort or pity her. In the morning
Bessie Stewart came, for the whole neigh-
bourhood was alive with the news; but she
could only weep with her, and did not offer
a word of consolation. To be sure Fanny
felt a little comforted to find sympathy ; but
it required a long conversation with Amy
Ross to restore her to herself again. Amy
told her that in doing all she could for her
father, she had perfoymed her duty ; and then
she pointed out her little brothers and sisters,
A TRIPLING INCIDENT. 189
all dependent on her, and told her that her
father might not yet be entirely lost ; but
above all, she taught her to lay her troubles
at the feet of that heavenly Friend who
cares for all. Frank Stewart did not forget
to be near in this sad hour; but he was half
angry, and half sorrowful, and so but a poor
dependence. ‘Squire Ross assured Fanny
that her father should not want for counsel,
and that the family might remain in the
comfortable house they then occupied, rent-
free ; and after a while, though she did not
smile as often as formerly, she was quite
cheerful and happy in performing her daily
duties. Again must we repeat the remark
so often made before—the idle only can be
miserable, for industry is grief’s best medi-
cine,
CHAPTER IX.
A TRIFLING INCIDENT.
From the time that Fanny’s ragged frock
had been ridiculed by her thoughtless achool-
mates, she had bestowed a great deal of cara
190 A TRIFLING INCIDENT,
upon her dress ; and it was always neat and
clean, and as tastefully arranged as though
made of the costliest materials. She had
saved enough in autumn to purchase a white
muslin frock, when spring should open; and
the pretty pink scarf which she had worn
for two summers, was scarcely soiled, and
might still be worn a long time. Her straw
bonnet was coarse, but very neat and be-
coming, only that it now needed bleaching,
and a new ribbon, The old ribbon was
faded by the sun, and the bonnet was very
yellow; but Fanny, after seeing Jack in his
new suit of striped blue and white, and the
little girls in their neat calicoes, had almost
nothing left. True, she could work and earn
more, but the season for spinning wool had
not yet come, and she was rather slow at
needle-work ; besides, the sum to be appro-
priated to dress, was expended, and the rest
must be saved to purchase food. Fanny hesi-
tated a little between the bleaching and rib-
bon, and finally decided in favour of the
former. The faded ribbon was placed on the
neat whitened bonnet, not without a sigh ;
but after it was once on, Fanny forgot te
mourn over it, and consoled herself with the
A TRIFLING INCIDENT. 191
reflection, that it did “ not look so badly after
all.â€
One day after the flowers began to blossom,
Jack went out to gather some for the bro-
ken-nosed tea-pot; and, as Fanny was ar-
ranging them, she discovered something that
seemed to afford her much pleasure.
“Oh, mother,†she exclaimed, “can’t I
dye the ribbon on my bonnet with balm
flowers? How pretty it would be! such a
fine match for my scarf!â€
Immediately Jack was dispatched to gather
all that he could find of the blossoms in
question ; and Fanny, with her new vision of
a bright-coloured ribbon in her mind, sat
down to put the finishing touch to a dress
that she was altering for Mary. Let those
smile who will at the simple anticipation
that can make a child’s heart lighter. Ay,
smile on—be ye philosopher, scholar, or
divine—be ye wise or simple,
smile on! And yet do ye not remember a
lighter bauble, ora like, that once made your
own hearts bound? The child and the old
man, the beggar and the prince, each has his
toy; and with it sports away the golden
sands of his existence, or judiciously using
192 A TRIFLING INCIDENT.
it, places it as a barrier between himself and
darkness,
Jack had collected a handful of the flowers,
and was placing them in his cap for the
greater convenience of carrying, when Frank
Stewart crossed the log bridge, and made his
way up the stream.
“How now, Jacky? you seem to take a
great fancy to red posies !â€
“Tt isn’t I that likes them, Mr. Frank ;
Fanny gets all these posies.â€
“ But Fanny don’t want these—come down
to our gardenâ€
“Fanny does want these. She says she
can dye the old ribbon on her bonnet, and
make it bran new again; and she is going
to colour Molly’s gloves she knit last
winterâ€
“ Dyed ribbons are not pretty, Jack.â€
“ Oh but Fanny knows what is pretty.â€
“ So she does ; but if you will wait a little
while, I will bring you something prettier
than adyed ribbon, Only wait—you may
keep Rover with you, and then you will
have something to play with.
Jack made Rover give him his paw, then
etand up and beg fora mock dinner, and then
LIGHTENING, NOT DROWNING TROUBLES. 193
he bade him watch his flowers, and the next
moment called him away to follow a squirrel,
and so the time seemed very short till
Frank’s return. He was all out of breath
with his exertion ; and thrusting a paper
into Jack’s hand, he bade him carry it to
Fanny, and on no.account to tell from whom
it came. Jack went home wondering what
prize was in the paper, and thinking how
hard it would be not to tell Fanny that it
was the gift of Frank ; but great was his sur-
prise, when his sister opened the parcel, took
from it a beautiful pink ribbon, blushed a
much deeper pink herself, and laid it care-
fully away without a single question. The
next Sabbath, Frank had the satisfaction of
seeing his new ribbon on Fanny’s bonnet ;
and the dyed one looked exceedingly pretty
as it tied down Mary's.
CHAPTER X.
LIGHTENING, NOT DROWNING TROUBLES,
Troves a tear was ever ready to spring into
Fanny’s eye when her brother's name was
N
194 LIGHTENING, NoT
mentioned, yet hope, that ever present in-
mate of the young and guileless heart, held
out bright prospects to her view, and made
her, even while she spoke of fear, confident
that he was doing well. “ Poor Willie!†she
often repeated ; but even then a smile would
gleam out through her tears, like sunshine
on the summer rain-drops ; for hadn’t Willie
promised that he would always love her ? and
then he had sent her money, so he could not
be suffering from want, and he was quite too
good (alas for the confidence of a loving
heart) to be injured by the example of
wicked people. But why didn’t he return,
as he had promised ? Why didn’t he write
again and tell her where he was? Surely he
knew that neither his sister nor Frank
Stewart would betray him. This troubled
Fanny; but she was patient and enduring,
as well as full of the hopes of a young heart ;
and she would not allow it to weigh upon
her spirits. But she had another source of
trouble, deeper (if deeper could well be) than
this. Mr. Elmore, after his relapse, grew
daily worse and worse. No constitution,
however strong, can withstand the action of
poison each day administered; and Mr.
DROWNING TROUBLES. 195
Elmore’s hand had already become tremu-
lous, and his face, at evening red and bloated,
bore in the morning a desth-like hue, and
was cold and clammy to the touch, almost
like the face of a corpse, They said it was
consumption.
Notwithstanding her father’s danger, and
her absent brother’s doubtful fortunes, Fanny
spent a really happy summer ; for Jack, the
veritable “ Jack of all trades,†made himself
very useful, and reminded her each day more
and more of Willie; and Mary was learning
to sew and knit ; and Rosa could just lisp a
few words, smong which the most prominent
was “Sisy:†so she had enough to occupy her
mind; and, as I have before said, constant
employment is the main-spring of happiness.
True, she had some dark moments, and wept
bitterly when a mild-looking, fair-haired
stranger, that every body said was to take
Amy away, appeared in "Squire Ross’s pew
atchurch ; but Bessie was kinder, and Frank
more attentive than ever; andthe very next
day Jack read a whole chapter in the Bible
without miscalling a word, and fixed a seat
for her and Bessie under the shade trees by
the river's side ; and Mary finished a stock-
196 A STRANGER.
ing; and Rosa, in addition to her other stock
of words, succeeded in pronouncing “ Willie;â€
and so she forgot to be sad. Some of her ac-
quaintances were very much inclined to pity
her ; for they could not imagine how one in
her situation could be happy, while Fanny
could not imagine how one could fail to be
happy. Fanny looked on the bright side of
the picture, and her friends on the dark.
Which think you is the wiser course ?
Oh, our heavenly Father, who sends trials
for our good, hedges these trials round with
pure pleasures, which our perverse eyes too
often refuse to discover. Continued unhan-
piness involves the sin of ingratitude to God.
CHAPTER XI.
A STRANGER,
Wuen spring came Willie Elmore and young
Green revisited their old haunts. Willie,
however, was not happy, and no wonder, for
he had once known the way of right, and
could not, like Ephraim Green, sin igno-
rantly, Yet by constantly violating con-
A STRANGER. 197
science, its voice becomes weaker and weaker;
and it was not many weeks before Willie
Elmore learned to disregard it entirely.
It was on a dark, rainy evening in the
middle of summer that Willie Elmore en-
tered the tavern we have before mentioned,
and made his way to the bar. The room was
somewhat dark ; and in passing a stranger,
he stumbled and fell headlong on the floor.
He picked himself up with an oath, and was
about proceeding on his way, when a low,
mild voice arrested his attention.
“ Boy,†said the stranger against whom he
had fallen, “you but now asked God to curse
you; did you ever ask him to bless 1â€
The stranger was a pale, serious-looking
man, with the top of his head bald, and the
locks still remaining, plentifully sprinkled
with white, a mild bluc eye, a benevolent
mouth, and a cheek bearing the wrinkles of
many years of toil, Willie, taken by sur-
prise, gave a sudden start, and glanced timid-
ly at him; then shrinking beneath the
mournful, pitying gaze of the eye that was
bent on him, he hurried out of the room.
“ Did you ever ask him to bless?†How
often, often had the petition been on his
198 A STRANGER.
lips ; and now the voice that awakened this
remembrance, sounded in his ears as though
from another world ; and more than once as
he ran towards the boat, his eye glanced over
his shoulder as if in fear of something—he
knew not what. His heart grew faint. and
his limbs trembled as though unable to sup-
port his weight. He thought of Fanny. It
was she who had first taught him to pray.
He thought of those days of innocence when
he dared not to lie down to rest without ask-
ing the blessing of God upon his slumbers ;
and then he hummed a tune, and tried to
whistle, and gazed upon the dense clouds of
iron-gray that covered the sky, and longed for
midnight when he might seek his pillow.
It was about midnight when he arrived at
the next station, and he plunged into the
middle of his bed, and drew the clothes over
his head, and shut his eyes, and tried to
sleep. But a guilty conscience will not be
hushed into repose, and the poor boy tossed
about upon his couch, and trembled and
groaned till daylight, when he went to sleep.
The morning was considerably advanced
when he went out, and walked along the side
of the canal, and gazed into its still blue
A STRANGER, 199
waters. He walked on some distance, and
fear, that midnight visiter, yielded to tender-
ness, and tears began to gather in his eyes,
and to drop one by one into the path before
him.
“ Oh, that I had never come to this dread-
ful place !†he suddenly exclaimed.
“The merey of God reaches even here,â€
said the same low, earnest voice, that he
had heard on the evening previous; and
Father Harris, the old missionary, stood be-
fore him, “Nay, boy, do not fear me,†he
continued, laying his hand on Willie’s shoul-
der, as he started and seemed ready to run
away, “you will find me a friend ; and if I
were to judge from what I saw last night,
you need a friend.†You have been taught
better things than those in which you are
now engaged, and it is not yet too late for
you to turn back,â€
“Tt is, oh, sir, it is!†exclaimed Willie
with energy ; “I know that I shall never be
any better, and I never can be worse. Pray
leave me, sir, you cannot do me any good.â€
“No, not I, butâ€â€”—
“No, no, sir ; I know what you would say
but I am wickeder than you can think. I
z00 A STRANGERS.
had a good sister, and she taught me to read
the Bible, and say my prayers ; and a boy 1
loved gave me a Bible—I have got it now,
but I don’t read it. I shall never be any
better, sir, never. When I first began these
courses, I used to look up at the stars in the
still nights, and wonder if there were wicked
people there, and wish that I could die and
go there, to get out of the way of things that
were wrong ; but now it is not so. Oh, sir,
it is an awful thing to die.â€
“For one that is unprepared, it is ; but for
the righteousâ€
The appearance of a third person who
seemed inclined to listen, made Willie rise
from his seat ; and the good old missionary,
commending him to the care of Heaven in a
few low words, turned away. Willie was
rallied by the boatman who had interrupted
the conversation, on the company in which
he was found; but although he joined in
the laugh, nothing could banish the serious
thoughts that had taken possession of his
mind. Several weeks passed and Willie’s
associates thought he was sick, for he was
strangely sad, ate but little, spoke less, and
never joined them in any of their frolic.
A STRANGER. 201
One Sabbath morning, as several of the boats
were entering one of the larger towns, situ-
ated on the E—— Canal, the sound of the
church-bells ringing out their invitation in
the spirit of, “ Ho, every one that thirsteth!â€
seemed to arouse all on board. People from
every direction were pouring into their differ-
ent places of worship, and Willie began to
think he might mingle in the crowd, and
escape notice. The heads of the congregation
were bowed in prayer when he entered;
and having little inclination to gaze about,
bent forward, until his forehead rested upon
his hands folded across his knee. The prayer
ceased, and the song of praise arose to Hea-
ven; but the poor heart-stricken boat-driver
did not move from his position. A moment
of bustle followed the song, and then a voice
of peculiar melody read the words, “Come
now and let us reason together, saith the
Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they
shall be white as snow; though they be red
like crimson, they shall be as wool.†Willie
half started from his seat, and fixed his eyes
on the speaker. There was no great display
of genius or learning in the sermon; it was
simple affectionate and touching, and oom-
202 A BSURPRIBE.
ing from the heart, found its way to the
heart of at least one individual in the con-
gregation. Willie wept, but they were no
longer tears of bitterness; with much of
sympathetic feeling mingling, true penitence
was their source. He went from the house
in a state of mind very different from that in
which he had entered it.
CHAPTER XII.
A SURPRISE.
Ir was past noonday; and the bell of one
church in Wilton was sending forth slow,
solemn peals, a language which all but too
well understand.
It was a humble funeral; but any one
that had looked upon it would have seen
that it was also a solemn one. After the
train had reached the sacred ground, a vener-
able old man, the good Mr. C. whom Fanny
Elmore loved, placed himself at the head of
the coffin; and lifting his hat from his brow,
20 that the long white hair waved to and fro
in the wind, prayed that the Father of the
A SURPRISE, 203
fatherless, and the widow’s God, would look
upon that circle of mourning ones, and con-
vert the affliction to a blessing. There was
a solemnity in the scene which made the
movement of a hand or foot seem almost like
sacrilege. At length his voice died away ;
and then there was a movement in the outer
circle of spectators, and then the next; anda
young lad, pale and languid, gained the centre
of the group, and spreading out his hands,
leaned imploringly over the grave into which
the coffin was now descending. It was Willie
Elmore. He had that moment learned that
he had been following the corpse of his father.
There was a momentary buzz among the
spectators; and Frank Stewart, who was
close by, laid his hand on Willie’s arm ; but
the place was too solemn for any emotion save
that of sorrow, and it instantly subsided. In
the meantime, those nearest concerned knew
nothing of the occurrence ; and Willie was
too much shocked, to give them any intima-
tion of his presence. Shrinking backward
as the first heavy clod struck upon the coffin,
he buried his face in his hands, and suffered
himself to be led away by Frank Stewart.
They went together across a new-mown field,
204 A SURPRISE.
and down by the river’s brink, to a thick-
wooded dingle, where in other days they had
sat together, and recounted poor Willie’s
troubles, or arranged some new plan for boy-
ish amusement. Neither of the boys spoke
until they had seated themselves in this
secluded spot.
Frank turned his eye full upon his com-
panion, and noticed the sad change that had
taken place on Willie. Harsh words started
to his lips, but they were instantly sup-
pressed, and he extended his hand.
Let the past go, Willie; you have been in
bad company, I see, but I am glad you have
left them and come home—all will be right
now.
“ Frank, Frank, you used to pity me—but
I deserved it then.â€
“You know we are old friends, Willie,â€
said Frank, “and now you shall tell me all
your troubles, for I see this last is not the
greatest—all, remember; for it was I that
advised you to go away, and I have a right
to know.â€
The heart of the poor wanderer seemed
almost bursting ; and sitting upon the ground
beside the log, with his head bowed upon
A SURPRISE. 205
Frank's knee, he sobbed out a few inarticu-
late words of gratitude and affection, and then
commenced the story of his errors. Frank
heid the poor boy’s hand, and wept at the
simple recital, so eloquent and yet so truth-
ful, and so sad; but as Willie went on to
paint his meeting with the old missionary,
and its happy results, the expression of the
listener’s countenance changed from one of
pitying interest, to one of pleased intelli-
gence, and he exclaimed, “It was you then,
Willie, it was you!â€
“ What, Frank 1â€
“There came an old man along here last
Sabbath, and he told so sad a story about a
boy he found on the canal, that everybody
cried ; and now I know he must have meant
you. Who would have thought it? Fanny
gave her last sixpence because she pitied
boat-drivers so— only think —if she had
known it was you!â€
“T am glad she didn’t.â€
“ Well, let us go now; Fanny will be ex-
pecting us, for Bessie went to tell her the
news.â€
Fanny met them at the door; and the
house of mourning was changed to one of
206 DOMESTIC ARRANGEMENTS.
subdued and chastened joy. Sweet are the
dreams of innocence, and doubly sweet those
of the erring one restored at once to light,
and love, and home.
CHAPTER XIII.
DOMESTIC ARRANGEMENTS.
Wate Mr. Elmore lived, but for Willie, the
family would have remained unbroken ; but
now it seemed necessary to make some pro-
vision for their future support. Jack was
an active lad ; and if he could be placed in
the family of some kind farmer, where he
would acquire industrious habits, he might
gain an honest livelihood ; and even Mary,
in a proper place might make herself useful.
Fanny considered the subject seriously ;
and then consulted Willie before making her
plans known to her mother. His consent
being gained, Mrs. Elmore made only a few
objections, and then consented, saying it was
preferable only to beggary. ‘Squire Ross
engaged Willie to cut wood for him, and
draw it to the village for sale; and this
DOMESTIC ARRANGEMENTS, 207
would detain him at home, so that Fanny
might go out to service, and leave her
brother to assist her mother in the care of
the two younger children. But this was a
more difficult point to manage, for Mrs. El-
more well knew the value of Fanny’s services
at home; and the care of even a small family
seemed to her a responsibility greater than
she was capable of assuming. She objected,
and raised difficulties, and argued, and at last
entreated ; but Fanny met her at every turn
with gentle firmness.
The conclusion to all conversations on the
matter was by Mrs. Elmore saying, “ Well
Fanny if you are determined to leave me, I
must submit,†and at last, Fanny, in despair
of gaining a more gracious consent, set about
arranging things in the house comfortable
for the winter, and preparing her wardrobe
for departure. After a considerable time a
situation was obtained for Jack at a place
about five miles distant. Amy Ross, now
the wife of a clergyman residing in a village
about ten miles distant, wrote to Fanny,
proposing to adopt her little sister, Rosa.
The thought of leaving Rosa, and little Ned,
the baby, with her careless mother, had been
208 DOMESTIC ARRANGEMENTS.
the greatest of Fanny’s trials; the more so,
that it was one of which she coua aot wik ;
and this offer of her kind friend, was calcu-
lated to obviate every difficulty. Manny had
received all her early impressions from Amy
Ross, and she knew that no fitter instructor,
no truer guide, no kinder friend could be
found. By this arrangement, Mary might
be allowed to remain at home, and through
Fanny’s instructions she had already become
quite a competent house-keeper.
Fanny found no difficulty in getting a
good situation for herself; but it was no
easy matter to gain the acquiescence of her
friends. They all loved her dearly, and
thought there was no place good enough for
her, Fanny, although sadly perplexed, and
sometimesAven pained by their objections,
evinced, for one so young, 4 singular degree
of fitness and independence.
After a short time she engaged a situation
in a quiet, orderly family, in Wilton; and
although she made no stipulation to that
effect, she was often allowed to make short
visits at home, which proved very profitable
to Mary as a young housekeeper, as weil as
pleasant to all, As Fanny did not change
THE MEETING, 209
her place of residence, her life for several
vears might seem monotonous to the reader,
howeyer full of interest to herself; and we
will pass it over, presenting only one more
scene, to show that some of our young friends
were, during this interval, materially changed.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE MEETING.
Ir was a starless evening in autumn, and a
smiling circle had gathered around Mrs.
Elmore’s pleasant fire. It may be thought
strange, that, being only a family party,
Frank and Bessie Stewart should be there ;
but whether by invitation or accident, there
they were, and seemingly as happy as their
friends, and as uneasy.
“ Jack ought to have been here, at least
an hour ago,†said Mary, rising and walking
towards the window.
“ Remember he has five miles to come,â€
said Fanny, quietly.
“But Joseph Ross went to meet him with
the waggon.â€
°o
210 THE MEETING,
“Tt is strange to me what keeps Willie so
long,†said Frank, joining Mary at the win-
dow. “Uncle David is pretty slow in his
settlements; but I should think his whole
estate might have been appraised and dis-
posed of by this time. It would be a story
worth telling, if he and Willie should dis-
agree.â€
“Oh, they can’t do that,†said Fanny,
quickly.
By this time the little circle had become
quite uneasy ; and all but Mrs. Elmore were
on their feet, walking about the room, and
now and then taking a peep from the win-
dows; from which they could see about as
much as is generally seen from the window
of a lighted room on a cloudy evening. They
had promised themselves a season of plea-
sure, and now the evening was fast passing
away, with two of the expected number
missing,
Frank proposed going in search of Willie.
“No, wait a little longer,†said his sister,
“T am sure he will be here soon,—there, I
hear a step now,†and before any one could
gain the door, Willie entered, followed by his
brother Jack.
THE MEETING. 211
“ Good news!†whispered Bessie in Fan-
ny’s ear.
“* | knew by the tear scarcely dry on the cheek,
And the flash of the eyes that true gladness bespeak.’
S0 the song goes—he looks as happy as a
king.â€
“ Happier, I hope,†said Fanny, laughing.
Willie, however, was not the hero of the
moment; for Jack had not been home in
three long weeks, and it had been months since
he had seen Rosa ; so there were kisses, and
shakes of the hand to be exchanged, and fifty
questions to ask, and some half dozen to an-
swer. People never expect an answer to all
the questions they ask when meeting friends.
“Now for the news, Willie,†said Frank,
when they were all again seated; “ we had
about concluded that you and Uncle David,
being such mettlesome blades, had quarrel-
led on this business of—what is it ?â€
“ What is it, Willie? do tell us about the
settlement!†exclaimed Fanny anxiously.
“Well, "Squire Ross refuses to take pay-
ment for the rent previous to the time I came
home ; and he offers the house and garden
for sixty pounds, and says if we will take it,
212 THE MEETING,
the money we have paid him for rent the
two last years he will consider the first pay-
ment: ten pounds, you know, Fanny.â€
“ Good !†exclaimed Frank.
“He is the best man in the world!†said
Willie, warmly.
“ One of the best, you mean,†interposed
Jack,
“No, the best !â€
The tears which had been gathering in
Fanny’s eyes, now rolled slowly down her
cheeks; but she did not speak, for her
thoughts went back to the days of her child-
hood, and rested on the little ragged girl that
ridicule had driven from school; and she
remembered her first lesson in the Sabbath
school, and could scarce forbear repeating
aloud the text she had once learned of Amy
Ross—“ When my father and my mother
forsake me, then shall the Lord take me up.â€
Then she thought of watching for her father
in the night, lest he should suffer on the
vold bare floor; and the little loft where the
snow used to drift upon her scanty bed in
winter; and then her mind went to Willie,
arrested in a course of vice by the old mis-
sionary ; and she thought, “surely we have
THE MEETING. 213
been watched over and guided, by a hea-
venly Friend as well as by earthly ones.â€
“ Why don’t you speak, Fanny ?†inquired
her brother. “You act sorry for what I
have told you; but if you don’t like the
plan†-——
“T do, Willie—how could I help it? But
*Squire Ross is too kind. It seems not right
for him to do so much for us.â€
“So it does, Fanny; and that was the
ground of what Frank calls our quarrel.
*Squire Ross tried to make me believe that if
we bought the house, it didn’t make any
difference when we took possession of it,—
three years ago or to-day. I know very well
that it was all for our sakes he made the
offer; but T didn’t know what to say, and
so I told him if you thought bestâ€â€”—
“Tt is certainly best for ws, Willie,
butâ€â€”—
“ And best for him too, interrupted Frank
Stewart.
“ Perhaps so, but it don’t seem quite
rightâ€
“Tt is not right to refuse such kind
offers.â€
Fanny hesitated a long time, and Willie
214 THE MEETING.
had to repeat again all that "Squire Ross had
said, and Frank defined the limits of inde-
pendence, telling where it degenerated into
downright pride, and Bessie thought that
she should never desire to be independent of
such people as Uncle David, while Jack and
Mary stood anxiously waiting the final de-
cision,
“What do you think of it, mother?†in-
quired Fanny.
Mrs. Elmore, at the first mention of
*Squire Ross’s proposal, had withdrawn her-
self from the circle, and was now sitting
with arms folded, and brow bent, as if in
deep thought. She started at Fanny’s ques-
tion. “Me, child! Oh, I—I think nothing
about it. Settle it yourselves, and that will
suit me. Don’t teaze me, Fanny,—I say,
settle it yourselves,â€
Fanny hesitated 2 moment, and then said,
“Do as you think best, Willie ; youand Frank
understand these things better than I do.â€
“ And then you will come home and live
with us again 7†exclaimed Mary; no longer
doubtful as to how the matter would be de-
cided,
“Oh yes, you will,†added Willie, “for
THE MEETING. 215
Jack will work on the farm with me, and
there will be enough for us all to do.
“Hurrah!†exclaimed Jack, cutting a
caper on the floor, and then tossing his hat
to the ceiling, “hurrah for the good times
when we'll all live together again! Fanny
and Willie, and Rosa and all! Why, I don’t
know how to be half glad enough !â€
“You manage it pretty well, though,†said
Frank, laughing, as if to rid himself of some
unaccountable embarrassment.
“ You will come home 7†whispered Mary,
leaning over Fanny’s chair.
“ Yes.â€
“ And live with us always?†|
Fanny arose and walked to the window.
It was no lighter than when she watched
there for Willie; but she peered out upon
the darkness as intently as if it had not
shrouded the beautiful prospect which she
had loved of mornings to contemplate. Bessie
Stewart smiled archly, and commenced whie-
pering to Mary ; while Frank looked at one
and another of the group, and then with an
air of unusual embarrassment, arose and join-
ed Fanny at the window. They might have
talked, and they might not ; at least if they
216 THE MEETING.
did, no one at a yard’s distance would have
been the wiser for it ; yet Fanny must have
known that some one was beside her, for
Bessie and Mary both remarked that the
shadow of her muslin collar on the wall
quivered as if its wearer was extremely agi-
tated, and her hand resting on the window-
sill was covered by one much larger. Frank
stood for a few moments by the window, and
then drawing a chair close to Mrs. Elmore,
he commenced talking to her in a low, earnest
tone, that sounded sometimes like reasoning,
sometimes expostulation, and sometimes en-
treaty. Each voice in the room became
gradually hushed, while Frank’s grew mo-
mentarily Jouder, until, seemingly half angry,
he arose and stood proudly before Mrs, El-
more.
“Do you refuse us, mother ?†said Fanny,
softly.
Mrs. Elmore looked upon the fine, manly
form, and handsome face of the youth before
her; and the kindling fire of her dark eye,
and the flush on her sunken cheek, showed
that there still remained within her, some
portion of the proud spirit of Florence Eve-
lyn.
THE MPRTING, 217
“ Ves. I refuse !†she said, in a tone of the
greatest bitterness,
“ Mother !†exclaimed Willie, starting sud-
denly forward.
“Do as you list in other things, Fanny,
but here I will be obeyed. You have re-
ceived obligation after obligation from those
to whom, of all others, I should be the last
to be indebted ; you have voluntarily made
yourself a menial, and I have never interpos-
ed my authority ; but nowâ€â€”—
“ Dear mother !â€-———
“Nay, Fanny, words are useless; you do
not know——But I will tell you, and then if
you have the meanness to urge a word, you
are no child of mine. Caroline Ross knows
that I once refused her brother because he
was not a gentleman, and now she may add
to it, that I refused her son because he is
my daughter’s superior.â€
“Mrs. Elmoreâ€â€”—
“Nay, Francis Stewart, it is of no use to
speak ; my determination is unalterable. The
family that I refused to enter from motives
of ambition, shall never be degraded by a
child of mine’â€â€™â€”—
“ Degraded, Mrs. Elmore ! why, one would
218 THE MEETING.
think that you were talking of lords and
vassals, instead of plain people like us,
The disgrace you talk of is the very thing
that most ennobles Fanny,†he continued,
warming with his subject; “if heaven had
assigned to her a higher station, if she had a
mother that—thatâ€
“Say on, Mr. Stewart ; never hesitate in
so good a cause.—A most dutiful son, indeed !â€
Frank was silent from very consternation.
“ Listen a moment, mother,†said Fanny.
“TJ will not listen, You have heard my
decision.â€
“Yet one word, Mrs. Elmore,†said Frank,
partially recovering; “I am not Fanny’s
superior†——
“Except in the politeness of which we
have just had a specimen,†said Mrs. Elmore,
scornfully.
“ You will pardon,†said Frank, “ the pas-
sionate language into the use of which I was
hurried by your own self; and allow me to
say a few words concerning the ground of
your refusal. In your acceptation of the
word, I am not even a gentlemanâ€
“ You are the son of a professional man.â€
“ And what is a professional man more
THE MEETING, 219
——But Iam not one myself; I am a la-
bourer. My hands, and a small farm which
I am about to purchase, are what I have at
present to look to for support.â€
“ You, Mr. Stewart!†you a farmer, and
in such a small way too—with all your per-
sonal advantages, your talents and educa-
tion? Why, they told me you carried away
the prizeâ€â€”—
“No matter, Mrs. Elmore, I am neverthe-
less to be a farmer. I do not intend to lay
aside my books or pen ; labour will only fit
me for the better use, and higher enjoyment
of them ; and I prefer the activity and inde-
pendence of a farmer’s life, to the anxiety
and thousand vexations attendant on profes-
sional men.â€
Mrs. Elmore gazed about her for a moment,
as if half bewildered ; then shook her head.
“ Garoline—your mother, Frank†——
“My mother knows all, and nothing could
please her more.â€
“ And Bessieâ€â€”—
“Oh, Mrs. Elmore,†said Bessie, springing
forward, “ Fanny has always been the sister
of my heart.â€
“ Your father, ton, I presumeâ€â€”-—
220 THE MEETING.
“ My father,†interrupted Frank, not ob-
serving the angry curl of Mrs. Elmore’s lip,
knows but little difference between Fanny
and Bessie.â€
“ Then it seems that I am the last to learn
these plans, and the last to be consulted.â€
“ We have formed no plans,†said Fanny,
taking her mother’s hand.
“In all my plans for years,†said Frank,
“ Fanny has had a place ; indeed, I cannot
remember the time when she had not, and
my parents have always read my heart, so
there was no need of consultingthem, But
definite plans we have never laid, until to-
night, when I accompanied Fanny from Wil-
ton. If we had spoken on the subject, you
would undoubtedly have been one of our first
confidants.â€
Mrs. Elmore uttered a few more complain-
ing words, and then folded her hands in
silence ; while Frank and Bessie, accompa-
nied to the gate by all their friends, whis-
pered their sad good-night, and proceeded
homeward.
The next morning Mrs. Stewart was seen
entering the dwelling of Mrs. Elmore at a
very early hour; but the conference was
THE CONCLUSION. 222
private one, and those who looked on could
only guess the subject of it.
CHAPTER XV.
THE CONCLUSION.
“No ‘strange eventful tale,’ for no light hand
Tn Fancy's gilded loom the fabric wove.â€
Mas. Srewart’s visit, and after intimacy
with Mrs, Elmore, as it could not have been
causeless, was not without an effect, which
soon became apparent by means of certain
mysterious proceedings at the house of the
widow, and confusion, blushes, jokes, winks,
smiles, and new dresses, among the young
people. The marriage of Frank Stewart and
Fanny Elmore took place in due time, and a
small, neat dwelling in the vicinity of Wil-
ton, fitted up with many conveniences and
some of the luxuries of life is now their
home.
Bessie Stewart is still the idol of the neigh-
bourhood, and wears her honours very mo-
destly.
222 THE CONCLUSION,
Mary Elmore, finding herself very lonely
without her sister Rosa, Amy (we love the
name of Amy Ross and prefer to retain it)
was prevailed upon to waive her claim.
Willie got a deed of his house and garden
last January, and, with Jack and one hired
man, carries on quite a profitable business.
And who think you is his hired man? I hope
you have not furgotten Ephraim Green, the
poor boat-driver.
The old Bethel missionary is still pursuing
his labours of love, and I doubt not could
point you to many cases of reformation as
interesting as those of Willie Elmore and
Ephraim Green.
A few weeks ago, Willie found out the
residence of Samuel Sloane, and sent him
his sixpence, principal and interest, in the
form of a box of valuable books, in plain,
strong bindings, a gift of which he will
doubtless know the worth.
Sometimes Mrs. Elmore prophecies that
Fanny will yet see reverses of fortune, but,
be that as it may, we have no cause to trem-
ble for her. Nothing can shake her con-
fidence in Heaven, or make her forget the
duties she owes to her fellow beings, and so,
THE CONCLUSION. 293
in whatever situation she is placed, she will
be happy.
Mrs. Elmore is sometimes good-humoured,
and at others very peevish, but always indo-
lent and selfish. She who contracts bad
habits in youth very seldom shakes them off
in after life, and poor Mrs. Elmore will pro-
bably never change.
If I thought my readers would feel as
much regret at closing the book, as I do at
laying down my pen, I should hope that my
plain picture of life might benefit them, but
without knowing how that will be read,
which I have taken so much pleasure in
writing, I extend it timidly to their hancs,
and can only hope that it may find a place
in their hearts. I shall not point the moral
to my tale, for it has been in my eye while
writing every sentence, and if it has not ap-
peared, then have I fallen short of my ob-
ject. If, however, I have succeeded, and
scattered any truths upon these pages worth
the gathering, my readers will find them all,
and I have no need to give them my assist-
ance.
Yet a word concerning the great secret, in
the discovery of which men, ever since the
224 THE CONCLUSION.
foundation of the world, have wasted trea-
sure, talent, integrity, and even lite itself.
From the merest child in the nursery, or the
beggar in the kennel, to the movareh who
wields his sceptre over half the globe, all have
engaged in the general search, and all, or
nearly all, have failed of success. Where
then is happiness ? and how are we to make
the treasure ours? Where! why, where no
search is necessary—within the reach of
every created thing. Its elements are in
every human bosom, and it is but the vain
grasping after shadows that turns them to
bitterness and woe, “Trust in the Lord
and do good,†is the direction of a wiser than
ourselves, and the child, or man, who im-
plicitly obeys this precept, has discovered the
Ganat SEcRET.
THE END.
EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY T. NELSON AXD 80%3,
baad
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12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00031.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00032.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00032.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00033.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00033.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00034.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00034.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00035.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00035.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00036.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00036.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00037.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00037.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00038.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00038.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00039.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00039.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00040.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00040.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00041.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00041.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00042.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00042.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00043.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00043.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00044.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00044.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00045.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00045.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00046.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00046.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00047.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00047.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00048.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00048.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00049.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00049.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00050.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00050.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00051.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00051.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00052.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00052.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00053.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00053.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00054.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00054.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00055.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00055.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00056.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00056.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00057.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:27 PM 00057.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00058.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00058.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00059.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00059.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00060.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00060.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00061.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00061.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00062.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00062.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00063.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00063.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00064.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00064.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00065.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00065.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00066.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00066.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00067.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00067.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00068.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00068.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00069.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00069.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00070.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00070.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00071.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00071.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00072.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00072.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00073.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00073.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00074.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00074.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00075.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00075.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00076.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00076.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00077.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00077.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00078.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00078.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00079.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00079.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00080.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00080.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00081.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00081.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00082.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00082.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00083.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00083.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00084.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00084.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00085.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00085.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00086.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00086.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00087.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00087.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00088.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00088.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00089.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00089.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00090.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00090.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00091.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00091.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00092.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00092.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00093.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00093.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00094.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00094.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00095.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00095.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00096.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00096.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00097.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00097.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00098.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00098.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:28 PM 00099.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00099.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00100.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00100.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00101.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00101.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00102.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00102.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00103.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00103.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00104.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00104.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00105.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00105.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00106.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00106.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00107.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00107.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00108.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00108.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00109.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00109.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00110.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00110.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00111.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00111.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00112.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00112.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00113.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00113.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00114.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00114.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00115.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00115.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00116.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00116.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00117.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00117.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00118.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00118.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00119.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00119.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00120.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00120.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00121.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00121.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00122.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00122.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00123.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00123.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00124.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00124.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00125.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00125.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00126.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00126.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00127.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00127.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00128.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00128.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00129.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00129.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00130.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00130.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00131.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00131.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00132.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00132.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00133.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00133.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00134.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00134.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00135.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00135.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00136.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00136.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00137.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00137.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00138.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00138.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00139.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00139.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00140.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00140.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00141.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00141.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00142.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00142.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00143.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00143.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00144.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00144.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00145.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:29 PM 00145.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00146.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00146.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00147.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00147.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00148.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00148.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00149.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00149.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00150.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00150.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00151.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00151.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00152.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00152.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00153.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00153.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00154.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00154.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00155.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00155.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00156.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00156.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00157.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00157.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00158.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00158.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00159.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00159.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00160.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00160.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00161.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00161.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00162.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00162.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00163.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00163.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00164.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00164.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00165.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00165.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00166.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00166.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00167.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00167.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00168.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00168.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00169.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00169.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00170.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00170.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00171.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00171.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00172.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00172.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00173.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00173.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00174.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00174.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00175.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00175.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00176.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00176.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00177.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00177.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00178.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00178.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00179.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00179.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00180.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00180.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00181.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00181.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00182.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00182.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00183.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00183.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00184.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00184.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00185.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00185.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00186.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00186.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00187.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00187.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00188.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00188.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:30 PM 00189.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00189.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00190.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00190.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00191.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00191.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00192.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00192.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00193.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00193.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00194.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00194.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00195.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00195.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00196.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00196.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00197.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00197.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00198.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00198.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00199.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00199.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00200.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00200.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00201.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00201.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00202.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00202.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00203.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00203.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00204.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00204.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00205.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00205.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00206.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00206.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00207.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00207.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00208.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00208.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00209.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00209.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00210.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00210.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00211.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00211.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00212.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00212.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00213.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00213.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00214.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00214.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00215.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00215.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00216.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00216.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00217.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00217.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00218.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00218.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00219.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00219.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00220.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00220.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00221.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00221.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00222.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00222.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00223.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00223.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00224.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00224.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00226.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:31 PM 00226.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:32 PM 00227.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:32 PM 00227.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!
12/15/2014 12:52:32 PM