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Cora and The Doctor; or, Revelations of A Physician's Wife

by Madeline Leslie · English · Gutenberg #35526 · 727,541 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Cora and The Doctor; or, Revelations of A Physician's Wife

Author: Madeline Leslie


        
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                Most recently updated: June 7, 2026

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CORA AND THE DOCTOR; OR, REVELATIONS OF A PHYSICIAN'S WIFE ***



CORA AND THE DOCTOR;

OR,

REVELATIONS OF A PHYSICIAN'S WIFE.

FOURTH THOUSAND.

BOSTON:
PUBLISHED BY JOHN P. JEWETT & CO.
CLEVELAND, OHIO: JEWETT, PROCTOR & WORTHINGTON.
NEW YORK: SHELDON, LAMPORT & BLAKEMAN.
LONDON: TRÜBNER & CO.
1855.


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by
JOHN P. JEWETT & CO.
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of
the District of Massachusetts.

ANDOVER: W. F. DRAPER,
STEREOTYPER AND PRINTER.




TO

DOCTOR JOHN JEFFRIES,

MY HIGHLY ESTEEMED PHYSICIAN,

THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED,

IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF HIS PROFESSIONAL SERVICES,

BUT WITHOUT HIS CONSENT,

FROM A DESIRE OF THE AUTHOR

TO REMAIN STRICTLY

INCOGNITO.




CORA AND THE DOCTOR.




CHAPTER I.

     "Dear Mother--between friend and friend,
     Prose answers every common end;
     Serves in a plain and homely way,
     To express the occurrence of the day,
     Our health, the weather, and the news,
     What walks we take, what books we choose,
     And all the floating thoughts we find
     Upon the surface of the mind."  SOUTHEY'S COWPER.


_Ship Castor and Pollux, off Staten Island, 9 o'clock, Monday morning,
June 1st, 1835._

DEAREST MOTHER,--We are fast nearing land. The pilot is already on
board; and I shall soon set my foot upon the new world which is
henceforth to be my home.

In fulfilment of my promise, I begin thus early my journal of daily
events, which I shall transmit to you from time to time as opportunity
shall offer.

A torrent of emotion rushes through my mind, pleasure mingled with
pain--pleasure at the prospect of the happiness, I may reasonably expect
in the society of a beloved husband--and pain at the thought of the long
time which will probably intervene before I shall see the loved members
of our home-circle, and also from the assurance that when I set my foot
upon the shores of the Western continent, the broad Atlantic will roll
between us.

But I must turn from these sad musings to the scene around me. The
passengers are all wide awake; Some are hurrying to and fro in search
of baggage, while others, having succeeded in getting their trunks
brought on deck, are sitting upon them and awaiting their search by the
Custom House officers. But by far the greater part are standing in
groups, leaning over the railing of the ship, eagerly gazing at the
shore, talking earnestly of friends whom they expect to meet, or
expressing curiosity at the sight of America, the birth place of the
immortal WASHINGTON.

My dear Frank pointed out to me the harbor with the skiffs flying in
every direction--the forest of masts with their national flags--the
lofty spires pointing heaven-ward--and the stately domes looming up to
view, while directly before us are the wharves lined with extensive
ware-rooms and store-houses. But I must close the first page in my
journal.


_Crawford, Tuesday, June 2d._

We reached New York in season for dinner at the Astor House, and for the
evening boat to Providence, from which place we took the stage-coach for
Crawford; and arrived here about noon. At the public house, which I
should judge was a mile distant, we alighted; and I saw a
broad-shouldered, well-dressed colored man come eagerly forward and
seize the Doctor by the hand, while he cast a glance of curiosity at me.

"This is your young Mistress, Cæsar," said Frank.

Cæsar took off his hat, bowing and scraping in the most approved style;
and when I gave him my hand, he exhibited a splendid set of ivory,
extending almost from ear to ear.

My husband went with me into the public house, where I remained until he
and Cæsar had attended to the baggage. I spent the interim in picturing
to myself a rural cottage with a luxuriant vine running over the door.
This same vine had always figured largely in my imaginary home, but my
fancy had not advanced to the interior, when Frank came to call me.

I cannot account for the impression I had formed, that the Doctor was
not a man of wealth; I had even pleased myself vastly with plans of
industry, prudence and economy, by which I intended to provide
necessaries and even luxuries for the family. The Doctor had carefully
avoided all description of our future home, answering me only by smiles,
if I ventured to point out a pretty cottage, and to ask whether it
resembled ours.

During the drive, Cæsar was eager to tell all the news. He said, "I'se
driven de carriage down to meet Mass'r Frank ebery time de stage hab
come in for two days. I told Missus," he continued, "better go ebery day
for a month, than have young Missus come, and nobody pear dere to
welcome her to dis yer home."

Frank laughed heartily as he said, "Your young Mistress will be obliged
to you for sustaining the honor of the family."

I was so much interested in looking about me, and in listening to
Cæsar's talk with his master, that I had no time to reconcile the idea
of a handsome carriage, span of horses, and colored driver with my
husband's supposed circumstances--a train of thought which had been
started before I left the Inn. But now we were drawing near my new home;
and my heart began to beat very fast. I put my hand into Frank's, who
pressed it tightly in his.

I was about to go through a very trying scene, to meet a mother and
sister, while yet a perfect stranger to them, I feared they would deem
me unworthy of their son and brother. My color came and went, if I can
judge from the burning of my cheeks. It was with great difficulty, I
could keep from weeping. I am sure Frank understood my feelings, for he
very gently kissed my forehead, and whispered, "Cora, you will love my
mother, and I am very sure she will love you."

I forced back my tears, and tried to show him that I meant to deserve
their love. I gave such a start of surprise, when the carriage stopped
at the door of a noble mansion that Frank laughing asked, "What?"

"Surely, this is not your house," said I.

"It is _our_ house," he replied in a low tone, as he handed me from the
carriage. I had hardly reached the ground, before I was caught in the
arms of one of the loveliest girls I ever saw. She kissed me repeatedly;
and then sprang to her brother, saying, "now, Frank, that's just like
you, not to tell us what a darling she was!"

By this time we had ascended the steps leading from the front entrance,
where stood a fine looking woman, (of course she is, for Frank is the
image of her), who folded her arms about her new daughter with such a
motherly embrace that my heart was at rest. The tears filled my eyes at
the melting tone in which she said, as she held our hands joined in
hers; "Welcome, my dear son and daughter!"--as if she would fain have
blessed our union. She evidently restrained her feelings, and taking my
hand under her arm, led me into a large parlor, where there had been a
fire on the hearth.

"We hardly expected you to-day," she said, after we were seated; "but
Emily would not rest until we came over here from the cottage."

"Don't you reside here?" I asked in surprise.

Mrs. Lenox smiled, and looked at her son, who said pleasantly, "You see,
mother, there is very little of Eve about her."

"More than you imagine," I replied; "but I was constrained to suppress
my curiosity, as I received such indefinite replies to my questions."

"After to-morrow," added he, "I will answer as many as you please; till
then I see one who is ready to answer before she is asked."

Just then, Emily had stolen beside me, and putting her arm around my
waist said, "Come with me, if you are not too tired; and I will show you
your room."

I went with her; and, my dear mother, I ought to be very happy, and
grateful to God for casting my lot in such a pleasant place, and among
such kind friends. As soon as we were alone, Emily again embraced me,
and said, "I shall love Frank better than ever, for bringing me so dear
a sister; now he will be contented to remain at home, instead of roving
all over creation." She spoke of her brother with great affection, and
said with enthusiasm, "Everybody loves Frank!"

She then pointed out one thing after another, each dear to me as an
expression of his love, and his desire to render me happy in my new
home. To-morrow I hope to give you a description of the house and
grounds, over which, after dinner, I was duly installed mistress.

I have written a long time; but my heart is full, and I find it a relief
to tell you how kind my Heavenly Father has been to me.




CHAPTER II.

     "Here blend the ties that strengthen
       Our hearts in hours of grief,
     The silver links that lengthen
       Joy's visits when most brief."  BERNARD BARTON.


_Wednesday, June 3d._

DEAR MOTHER,--I have just returned from a pleasant drive with Mother,
Frank and Emily. You will wonder that I can so soon address any other
but yourself by that endearing word, _mother_; indeed it cost me an
effort. But this morning, she came in soon after breakfast, and when I
said, joyfully, "good morning, Mrs. Lenox," she kissed me tenderly and
said, "can you give me no dearer name, my child?" I looked up in her
face, and felt that I could call her "mother." I wish, I could describe
to you the impression, she makes upon me. She is very gentle and tender
in her manner, particularly so to her only son. She is also cheerful;
but I think she must have known what sorrow is, heart-felt, abiding
sorrow. Though the expression of her countenance is placid and
touchingly sweet, yet, as I watched her yesterday, I could see her eyes
fill with tears as she looked at Frank.

I never saw a son more affectionate and respectful to his mother. There
is a perfect understanding between them. It was his earnest wish to have
her and his sister live with him, as the house is very large; but she
thought it not best. The property was left him by his father, and he has
put up for her a beautiful English cottage, separated from his dwelling
only by the garden, while the carriage drive passes from one to the
other.

I promised you a description of my new home. Imagine yourself entering
from the street an avenue lined with trees, (linden I think) and winding
for about twenty or thirty rods up to a stately mansion. From the
carriage drive, you ascend ten or twelve steps to the front entrance,
over which is a very fine portico supported by large pillars which are
completely covered with a running-rose vine. Entering the outer door,
you stand in a spacious hall, which runs directly through the house and
opens in the rear upon a piazza extending the entire length of the
building. From this piazza there is a most enchanting prospect. Blue
mountains skirt the horizon, while a beautiful lake nestles in their
bosom.

There are four large rooms on the ground floor, two parlors in front, a
dining-room and a sitting room in the rear. In addition to these there
are wings on each side of the house. One is entered from the
sitting-room, and is devoted to Frank's library and cabinet; the other
enters from the dining-room and is occupied by Mistress Phebe Lenox in
her culinary department.

In the second story there are five chambers, together with two in the
attic. Cæsar has a neat room finished off over the carriage house, which
he and Phebe appropriate to themselves.

The fifth room on the second floor I shall not forget to describe. It is
over the rear hall, opening from our room; and my kind husband has
fitted it up as my boudoir. I can't conceive how he knew so exactly what
I should like. Emily says he selected everything himself, and that it
has been a subject of mirth for her that he should know the minutiæ of a
lady's toilet. There is one large French window which opens like a door
upon the balcony over the piazza. Rose-colored curtains are draped from
it, so that I can be secluded at pleasure. Before the window stands an
elegant easy-chair, large enough for both of us, and near it a table
holding a desk, with every convenience for writing. At this I am now
sitting, and I prophesy it will be a favorite resort.

Two-thirds of the length of the room opposite the window is occupied by
a wardrobe of the most convenient kind, containing fixtures for hanging
dresses, also shelves and drawers.

Opposite the door leading from my room, is a dressing table standing
before a long mirror. This table is furnished with everything which even
a French lady can wish in the making of her toilet, and is equally
tasteful and convenient.

In the corner beyond the wardrobe, stands a beautiful piece of Italian
statuary, representing a young girl bearing a basket of fruit. She has
such a touching expression upon her lovely countenance that I can hardly
persuade myself she is not imploring my sympathy.

I have described my own little boudoir more particularly than any other
apartment, that you may be able to think of me where I shall spend most
of my time.

Here I may court the muses. Indeed, I feel more than half inspired
already, by the magnificent landscape before me.


_Afternoon._

I didn't quite understand, yesterday, what Frank meant about answering
my questions to-day; but while I was busily writing this morning, I
heard a gentle knock at the door. I sprang up and opened it for my
husband.

He smiled when he saw how I was engaged, and wheeling the chair from the
table to the window, sat down and took me on his knee.

"Well, Cora, how do you like your new home? Phebe has just expressed her
opinion that 'you'll be wonted soon.'"

"Oh, it's beautiful!" I exclaimed, "why didn't you tell me, that I might
have the pleasure of anticipating these beauties?"

"I could not be quite sure what fancies floated in your mind, and I had
rather surprise than disappoint you."

"Oh, Frank, you surely know me better than that! but look there," said
I, pointing to the beautiful lake before us. We looked in silence for a
moment, when he laughed, and inquired if I had no questions to ask him.
"I am ready," said he, "to undergo a regular catechising."

In an instant all my former fancies of my husband's poverty, and of my
assisting him darted through my mind. I suppose, I looked rather sober,
for he turned my face toward him with a questioning look.

"I imagined, you were poor," said I, hesitatingly.

Oh, what a merry peal of laughter rang through the room! It was a minute
or more before he could recover himself, while I didn't know whether to
laugh or cry. But laughing is contagious, and soon the absurdity of
crying because I had the best husband in the world, and with him
everything that heart could desire, caused me to join cordially with
him.

However, he soon took both my hands in his, in a manner peculiar to him
when he has anything special to say, and resumed, "It is high time, my
love, you should know _who you are_." I will give you the substance of
his story.

His father was a man of independent fortune, who died about eight years
ago, soon after Frank reached his majority, and a few months subsequent
to his graduation from college. Frank had always desired to be a
physician, though his father and mother had hoped he would become a
minister. The property was by will equally divided among the three, his
mother, sister and himself.

Five of the years since his father's death he has spent in Europe,
studying his profession, and travelling. During this time he returned
twice to see his mother, and to direct about the estate. After this he
passed eighteen months in one of the southern cities, practising
medicine. Then determining to go abroad again, he passed the winter in
Paris, where you remember, I first met him.

"I hardly know," said he, "where I should have been now, if you had said
_nay_ to one question, I asked. But I thank God for giving me my sweet
wife." This, he said so seriously that I hid my face in his bosom to
conceal my tears.

Then in a few words he delineated the person and character of his
father, who was a very godly man, distinguished throughout the country
for sound judgment, patriotism and benevolence. Frank described the
heart-rending affliction of his mother, the asperities of which time had
somewhat softened. She is but forty-eight years of age, though I had
supposed her much older. She has received frequent proposals for a
second marriage; but never for a moment could think of entering the
matrimonial state, while her heart was so full of precious recollections
of her deceased husband.

The Doctor looked quite serious, as he always does when his countenance
is not lighted with a smile. But I diverted his thoughts with the
request, "tell me about Emily."

"She is in temperament like my father," he replied, "full of life and
spirit; ever ready to weep with those that weep, and to rejoice with
those that rejoice; she is just one month older than you, Cora; time
will prove," he added pleasantly, as he smoothed back my hair, "which is
the wiser."


_Thursday, June 4th._

This morning, invitations have been sent to friends of the family for a
levee at mother's cottage, in honor of the bride. Frank says my
associates in town will be likely to be of a very promiscuous character.
To-morrow evening I am to be introduced to the aristocracy, and
afterwards to my husband's poor patients, of whom Emily affirms there
are no inconsiderable number.

This is a shire town, and a court is in session here, which brings many
distinguished members of the legal profession to the place. I am told it
contains from eight to ten thousand inhabitants. I have seen some very
beautiful country seats; and I should think it well laid out.

There is a principal street running through the centre, lined with
houses. Upon it private dwellings are interspersed with shops, stores,
ware-rooms, and other places of business. The main street is very wide,
and at this season looks finely, with its splendid rows of shade trees.

Within a few years many persons have left their residences in Broad
Street, and have built cottages and villas on the forest heights
overlooking the village and the surrounding country.

The Doctor was summoned this morning to a sick woman. This is his first
professional call since his return; but now I must be reconciled to his
leaving me often, as he has a very large practice.

There are more than half a score of regular practitioners in the place,
all of whom are invited to mother's levee. Oh, if my friends from home
could be there! I find writing a very poor substitute for talking with
you. With what delight shall I read your letters. Isabel and Nelly must
write about everything, as they promised. Beloved home, parents and
sisters, how my heart longs for one more look, one fond embrace.


_Friday, June 5th._

My services have been put in requisition at the cottage, or rather my
_advice_ (don't laugh, Bell!) has been requested with regard to the
arrangements for the table, fruits and flowers. Emily says, I know
everything, or ought to, as I was educated in France.

I told her, all I knew was heartily at her service; and straightway the
lively girl pulled off my bonnet and gloves, and set me to work, making
bouquets for the table.

After this, we entered right merrily into the preparations for the
evening, while mother was busily engaged with the cook. We had all
things arranged to our minds, and had resolved ourselves into a tasting
committee of the various luxuries for the entertainment, when Frank came
in and took me home with him.

I had been deliberating about my toilet for the occasion, when he
presented me an exquisite bouquet of white flowers, together with some
beautiful white moss-rose buds for my hair. I fairly clapped my hands
with delight, they reminded me so much of home. I could say nothing in
reply but "dear Frank!"




CHAPTER III.

     "If ye court society for pastime,--what happier recreation than
       a nurseling.
     Its winning ways, its prattling tongue, its innocence and mirth."
       TUPPER.


_Saturday, June 6th._

Oh! Mother, if you could sit by me for an hour it would be so
delightful, for I have much to tell you, and my pen will not move fast
enough. But I will begin my story. I dressed in due time. The girls will
be pleased to know that I wore my white lisse crape, with no ornaments
but the flowers in my hair, and a small bunch in my bodice. When I
descended to the parlor, Frank was awaiting me, and his eyes expressed
satisfaction with my toilet.

We repaired to the cottage early, by mother's request. Soon after
carriages began to roll up to the door. I was presented first to the
clergyman, Mr. Munroe, who has been settled in Crawford but a short
time. He is very free and social in manner, dignified and graceful in
person; I think he will prove an agreeable friend. Mother says, he loves
the work in which he is engaged.

There was also a younger minister present, from an adjoining parish,
about whom I must make some farther inquiries. He was quite too devoted
in his attentions to my fair sister Emily; and when I asked of her an
explanation, a blush was her only reply.

I cannot begin to describe one half the persons who were present, but I
will mention a few, who, from different causes, interested me.

A tall portly man, hardly a gentleman, with a self-important air, a very
large pattern to his vest, with heavy chains and seals, which he
dangled incessantly, addressed me in a patronizing manner. He asked me
how I liked "living among Yankees," and said I must come round to his
place before I made up my mind about it. He then bowed himself away.
Emily said, in a low voice, "that is our nabob, Squire Lee."

Next came an elderly gentleman, who, in figure and conversation, formed
a striking contrast to the one who preceded him. This was Mr. Marshall,
a distinguished attorney. He was accompanied by his wife, a very
handsome lady considerably younger than her husband. They both expressed
much kind interest in the young stranger.

Then came a lovely young lady with her brother, children of Squire Lee,
the distiller. The young man seemed cast in the same mould as his
father. He was dressed in the height of fashion, but without taste, with
a flaunting neck tie, a gayly embroidered vest, and full pantaloons. He
was rather below the medium height, but of very full habit. His face was
flushed, and when he bowed the blood rushed violently to his head,
rendering his face red as crimson. But his air was so consequential, and
his talk in a style so pompous and imposing, I could scarcely suppress
my mirth. This was the more noticeable by the contrast of his whole
appearance with his sister, a very modest, amiable looking girl, who
evidently feared lest her brother, in his desire to impress me with his
_dignity_, should disgrace both himself and her.

After these, came the Mansfields, the Harrisses, Justice Wilson and
family, the Johnsons, Mr. Willard, Dr. Clapp, Mr. and Mrs. Morris
Whitney, and a great many whom I cannot remember.

When this procession had passed with a word of salutation from each,
with now a bow, and then a smile, Mrs. Marshall introduced to me a lady
whose countenance I shall never forget. I should think her near fifty
years of age, not handsome, but with a kind expression, full of mildness
and benevolence. Frank addressed her very cordially, saying to me, "Miss
Proctor is my particular friend." I gave her my hand again, and asked a
share in her friendship. She was evidently much pleased, and pressed my
hand at parting.

Near the close of the evening, I met Mr. and Mrs. Russell, a very
delightful couple. His manner reminded me of Frank's; dignified and
rather reserved, yet easy and graceful in conversation. His wife, on the
contrary, was full of life and spirits, original and witty.

While we were in the refreshment room, I overheard several persons,
talking about a woman lately deceased in the village. She was a French
woman, and by her death her child was left without protection. I became
quite interested for the poor foundling, and was glad to learn that Miss
Proctor was to pass the night, in the hope of being able with mother, to
provide for the little orphan.

It was quite late; but Frank stopped at my request to hear more of her
history. On Tuesday of this week, the day of our arrival, the French
woman called at the public house, saying, in broken English, that she
was ill and wished for a bed. The landlady attended her, and soon found
it necessary to summon a physician. She grew rapidly worse and died the
next evening. She had informed the landlady that the child was not hers,
but entrusted to her care by its mother, to be conveyed from France to
England. The vessel in which they sailed was wrecked. But they, with a
few other passengers and some of the crew, were taken on board an
American vessel and brought to New York. Beyond this nothing is known.

I have quite an idea of adopting the foundling if Frank will consent.


_Evening._

_Dear_, DEAR MOTHER.--On my way to see the little French girl, I told
Frank it would please me to take the orphan. He smiled as he replied, "I
shall certainly make no objection."

I expected to see a poor, disconsolate child, weeping for its mother.
Judge then of my astonishment, and delight, when I found a perfect
little fairy. She is a brilliant brunette, with magnificent eyes,
fringed with long black lashes, which rested on her cheek as she looked
timidly down when I entered. I was so impressed with her appearance that
I instinctively held out my arms, and said "_viens à moi, ma chère_!"

The blood rushed to her face, as with a bound she sprang toward me, and
laying her curly head on my breast, said, "_ma chère maman, je t'aime
beau coup, beau coup_."

This decided me; and I adopted her in my heart. Frank was desirous to
ascertain all that was known about my little protege. Mrs. Morrison, the
landlady, left me holding "Ina," as she called herself, tightly in my
arms, while she led my husband to the room where the body of the woman
was decently laid out for burial. He told me when he returned that the
child bore not the slightest resemblance to her attendant.

After looking at the corpse, the landlady gave him a small packet, which
she had found in the pocket of the deceased; also a necklace and locket
taken from the child's neck. The locket contained a miniature to which
Ina bore a close resemblance. Frank looked eagerly for an inscription,
but found only the words "_Maman à Ina_."

"I think these ought to be preserved for the child," said Mrs. Morrison.
"Who knows but they may bring out some day who her parents were?" Frank
assented, and assured her that the articles should be sacredly
preserved.

"Your wife seems to take a great liking to her."

"Yes," replied the Doctor, "as they are both strangers in this country,
she thinks the little girl has rather a claim upon her."

"Is she a Frencher too? I always heard she was English."

"Mrs. Lenox was educated in Paris," he replied.

"La now!" exclaimed the woman, covering the face of the corpse, "I
didn't think of her being so learned."

Frank then inquired whether the deceased woman left any property, and
offered to pay the expenses they had incurred. Mrs. Morrison brought
forward an old pocket-book containing a few dollars, which she said
would cover all the expenses. "As to the child," she continued, "I
couldn't think of charging anything for her. Somebody may one day have
to be looking after my little folks;" and this thought brought a tear to
her eye.

I was talking merrily with my sweet charge, when they returned to the
parlor, and having thanked the warm-hearted landlady for her kindness to
the child, we took our departure.

I was so impatient to go home, and show my treasure to mother and
sister, that I begged to be excused from a drive, Frank had promised me.
Emily was quite as enthusiastic as I wished, in her praise of my Ina,
and tried playfully to induce me to resign my _protegé_ in her favor.
The little one, however, was fully persuaded I was her mamma; and I felt
no desire to undeceive her.

She is now safely asleep in her crib; the same in which Frank and Emily
were rocked. I have crept softly into the room two or three times. The
whole affair appears like a pleasant dream. Miss Proctor has made a
night-dress; and Monday I must commence vigorously upon her wardrobe.
Emily has promised to assist me.


_Sabbath evening--June 7th._

This is my first Sabbath in America. It has been a delightful day to me;
and I think I can say, it has been blessed to my soul. Though far away
from country, home and friends, yet I could meet you all at the throne
of Grace. I prayed for every dear member of the home-circle, and for my
beloved husband, myself and my precious charge.

I went to church morning and afternoon, and was much impressed by the
services. There is a seriousness and solemnity about the audience, which
I have seldom witnessed. The sermons were chaste and in some passages
even elegant in style. But what pleased me more than all, was the fervor
with which Mr. Munroe delivered them, and the love which he manifested
for the souls of his people.

In the morning the text was 1 Cor. 15, 22: "For as in Adam all die, even
so in Christ shall all be made alive." He dwelt upon the death which
reigns in consequence of Adam's sin; and in the afternoon, upon the
resurrection-life which all receive from Christ.

The singing was performed by a choir in the orchestra, accompanied by a
variety of instruments.

When I returned from Church this morning, my little Ina was still
asleep, as I had left her. But this afternoon as I went in, she came
bounding toward me, clapping her hands, and saying "_chère maman! chère
maman!_" I had to take her to my boudoir to put off my bonnet and shawl,
for she would not leave me. She was willing while in my arms to play
with Frank; but if he attempted to take her from me, she hid her face in
my neck. I like to have her call me _mamma_ when we are alone; but it
makes Emily laugh, and I see Frank is inclined to follow her example,
only that he sees it makes me blush, and embarrasses me. Sweet child! I
wish she were my own; I cannot bear the thought of parting with her. Yet
it may be that her mother is mourning her loss.

Do you remember Pauline De Lacy, my dear friend and school-mate, in
Paris? Ina looks so much like her, one would think they must belong to
the same family; indeed, sisters seldom resemble each other so exactly.
To-day, this has occurred to me so many times, that, with the consent of
all parties, I have decided to call her Pauline De Lacy Lenox. "Quite a
romantic name," Frank says, gravely; "but as you are a very romantic
lady, it will be in good taste."

I looked up quickly, intending to deny the charge, when I saw that
roguish twinkle in his eye, which I begin to understand.

After an early tea, the servants were called to family prayers, mother
and Emily being present, who are hereafter to return from church and
spend Sabbath evening with us. In addition to the usual services at the
domestic altar, the good old Puritan custom of catechising the household
is observed. It was truly a _family_ service. The scene was novel and
interesting to me. All joined in singing a hymn, and then the Doctor
expressed our individual wants in prayer. I was a little fearful that
Pauline would not be quiet; but there was a charm in Cæsar's devout face
which occupied all her attention. Perhaps a very little fear was mingled
with her wonder, as she nestled herself very close to me. But the good
man took no heed of the large eyes fixed on him with such seriousness.
His soul was drinking in the Word, while he regarded his young master
with fond respect.

When the rest of the servants retired, he remained, and the Doctor asked
him, "Well, my good Cæsar, how have you enjoyed the day?"

"Oh, Mass'r! dis yer pears like good old times when old Mass'r live. Dem
good old days, berry!" Cæsar wiped his eyes with his coat sleeve as he
left the room; and his was not the only eye moistened by this allusion
to the past.

I don't know as I told you that Cæsar and Phebe were purchased by Squire
Lenox from the south, where they were about to be sold separately. He
brought them to the north, where, of course, they are free; and they
have ever since constituted an important part of the family. Taught to
read and write, they have for many years been members of the same church
with their master and mistress.


_Monday Morning, June 8th._

Frank has just left me for his morning calls. He came in from the garden
when Cæsar brought the carriage to the door, and not finding me below,
he sprang up the stairs to bid me good bye. Pauline looked up quickly
and pointed with her finger to direct my attention, saying, "dere
Frank."

We both laughed heartily. He patted her cheek, "So little miss, she's
mamma; and I, only Frank. I rather think you'll have to take me for a
papa for want of a better;" then turning to me, "it would sound oddly
enough. Now to you the name mamma seems natural as life, only it makes
you rather rosy." He bade mother and daughter good bye, and ran away in
haste.

I am constantly haunted by the thought that she is in some way connected
with my school-mate Pauline De Lacy. I have in vain tried to remember if
she had a married sister whose child this may be.

But I must leave this subject and finish my story about Cæsar and his
wife. It was a great trial to them when mother and Emily left the old
homestead, even to go across the garden to their cottage-home, and they
desired to go with them. But mother overruled their objections and
retained Ruth, their only child, a capable girl of twenty.

I believe Cæsar trembled not a little at the idea of a new mistress, who
he feared would disturb the harmony of the family. I have, however,
gained his good will. He treats me like a toy which he is exceedingly
apprehensive of injuring.

As for Phebe, such is her pride in the glory of "our folks," that as I
am a Lenox, the wife of Mass'r Frank, nothing can be too good for me. I
think, she likes me better because I am young and inexperienced in
household affairs, and, therefore, shall not be likely to interfere in
her department. There is, indeed, no occasion for me to do so. She has
been well and thoroughly trained by mother, and is fully competent to
perform the duties of her station, while Ann, the chambermaid, is
equally so in her appropriate sphere.

To tell you the truth, I did not know exactly what was expected of me.
One day last week, I waited upon madam in the kitchen and in a very
hesitating manner began to say something about dinner, when she soon
interrupted me, "Laws, missus, don't you, honey, trouble your precious
head 'bout sich kind. I'se feel shamed to look Mass'r Frank in de face,
and den pears like make me blush to have it told down town; little young
missus spending her blessed time in de kitchen."

I presume, I looked, as I felt, delighted to be relieved, and was
running away, laughingly, when she continued, "Dere missus, go long,
please, and play on de pianny." I came gladly away, but spent the time
writing in my journal. Now I have enough to occupy me in the care of my
little Pauline.

After Ann had put her to bed last night, Frank showed us the little
parcel given him by the landlady. It contained part of a letter
addressed to a domestic, giving strict directions concerning the child.
It was written in French, in a delicate female hand, but gave no clue as
to the name or place of the writer. A mother's heart evidently dictated
it, from the numerous directions about clothing, diet, and the like. The
packet contained, in addition, a child's dress, with elaborate
embroidery upon the neck and sleeves; also a pair of coral and gold
sleeve clasps to match the necklace.

Many conjectures were formed by Emily, respecting the parentage of the
child, after which the articles were returned to Frank to be locked up
safely among his treasures. His sister mischievously recommended him to
deposit them in a certain trunk, containing nothing but old letters,
saying, with an arch look at me, "I suppose now they are worthless."

The Doctor deigned no reply. This amused Emily so much that she
whispered to me, loud enough for him to hear, "Oh, the deceitfulness of
man! He tries, beneath that solemn look, to make you believe that he
doesn't value those letters above rubies. I'll manage very differently
if I ever get in love, which to be sure, is very unlikely. I should wish
my husband to tell me once in half an hour that I was dearer to him than
all on earth. I've no doubt Frank feels as I do, for each one of those
letters used to make him bright for a week; and he hurried the poor
carpenters and masons, as if his very life depended on our moving away
from the house as soon as possible."

"Emily," called Frank in a serious tone, looking up gravely from the
book he was reading, "did I not hear something of an exchange of pulpits
between Mr. Munroe and Mr. Benson?"

It was now Emily's turn to be silent. She hesitated, blushed, and
finally retired from the room. After she left, Frank asked mother, "Do
you think Emily loves Mr. Benson?"

She replied, "I really cannot tell. Beyond his coming often to the
house, and Emily seeming rather pleased with his visits, I know
nothing."--

Sister has just returned from town, where she has been to make purchases
for Pauline's wardrobe. Now I must drop my pen, and go to work with my
scissors and needle.


_Tuesday, June 9th._

Though very busy, I must write a few lines while Pauline is asleep.
Emily and I went to the garret this morning--the receptacle for all
things not in use, and found a great supply of playthings for Miss
Pauline. Among them are a large wax doll, and her furniture, which with
sister's permission, I shall lay by for future use. With a basket of
these toys, the dear child has amused herself on the floor, while
mother, Miss Proctor, Emily and myself have been plying our needles. We
have one suit nearly completed, and shall take her to ride in it this
afternoon. We are to go in the double carriage, and after procuring the
young Miss a suitable covering for her curly head, we are to drive as
far as Waverley, the parish of Emily's friend, though this part of our
plan has not yet been disclosed to her ladyship.


_Evening._

The doctor was summoned to a patient after tea, but will, I think, be
back soon, when I must devote myself entirely to him. Do you know, dear
mother, he is trying to make me think him jealous of the young lady I
have honored with my protection; really, he says my thoughts are so full
of Pauline that I have hardly looked at him for two days. I believe
after all he is as bad as Emily, and wants me to tell him "every half
hour what a darling he is." I must look to this, for I think I have been
to blame, and he shall see my heart is large enough for both. He knows,
however, he occupies his full share in my affections.

I remember once before my marriage hearing him say to a lady in England,
he would never accept half a heart; no, hardly one that had loved
before. He wanted the fresh and warm gushings of affection. She inquired
if he had such a heart to give in return. He answered proudly, "I shall
ask for no more than I can bestow."

I hear the carriage, and will run to meet him.


_Wednesday, June 10th._

Last evening, Frank laughed, as I stood at the door, and said jocosely
"I suppose Miss Lenox is asleep, and that you are glad even of my
company when you have no other."

Though he was laughing, the tears instantly filled my eyes, and I said,
"Oh, Frank! you know how much more I love you than all the Paulines in
the world." I spoke earnestly for I thought his words implied a distrust
of my love.

His manner changed at once, and very tenderly taking my hand, he led me
to the sofa. He turned my face to his, which I had vainly endeavored to
conceal. "Now, my love," said he, when he had kissed away the tears,
"let us have a full understanding."

"Yes, but I want you to forgive me first, if you think I have been too
much absorbed with Pauline."

"My sweet wife, you have never offended me. It is I who ought to ask
forgiveness for making you weep. Perhaps you will think me selfish; but
I want you to promise to ride with me every day when I can be at
liberty, and to leave Pauline with mother, or with Ann. When I am not
at liberty, Cæsar will take the large carriage and drive you all, Miss
Lenox junior among the rest. Will you promise this?"

"With great pleasure; but why not take her with us; she would be quiet?"

"Because, I want to take you to visit my poor patients. I have laid out
a great work for you, Cora, and if I do not mistake, you will love it.
Then it will be a good discipline for Pauline, to have you leave her
occasionally. By the way, have you settled the question with her who
shall be mistress?"

I looked at him in wonder. "I have noticed several times," said he
pleasantly, "when your wishes and hers were at variance, that you
yielded to her, instead of insisting that she should yield to you. Now,
my dear Cora, as we have taken this child, we are responsible to God for
her proper government and education. She is not a mere plaything which
can be thrown aside at pleasure. She has a soul to be fitted for
happiness or misery. Have you thought of this? Have you counted the
cost, the care, and effort, and patience which all this requires?"

"Yes, Frank, and I have prayed for wisdom to guide me. I know well I am
not fitted for such a charge."

"Then, dear wife, I have no more to say. I will do anything to cooperate
with you; and if you enter upon it with such a spirit you will have both
Divine help and reward."

I thank God, dear mother, for such a kind husband; so faithful to point
out my faults, and so ready to help me overcome them. He feared I did
not realize the care and responsibility of the work I had undertaken. I
intend at once to commence a course of reading on education. Heretofore
I have thought little upon the subject; only that children should be
taught to be obedient, truthful and affectionate. Now I understand why
Frank wished me to allow Ann to put Pauline to bed. The child cried
every time I left her, and would only be satisfied with my waiting upon
her in person. I had in two or three instances yielded to her for the
sake of peace, without realizing that the principle was wrong, or that
she was forming a bad habit. Frank saw she grew more and more imperative
in her demands and hence thought it necessary to speak to me of the
exposure.

I believe I have not given you an account of our ride to Waverley. We
were about a mile on our way, when, whom should we meet but the very Mr.
Benson on horse-back, and going to the cottage. I whispered to Emily
that we could easily return and leave her at home while we continued our
ride. But to this she would by no means consent, and turned
indifferently to the window the opposite side of the carriage, where she
was intently occupied with the prospect, which in that place consisted
of a fine growth of forest trees.

Mr. Benson addressed some words to me, and then rode round to ascertain
what was so charming in the opposite view. I really pitied the poor man,
for Emily was almost rude to him. I don't yet understand them; but I
think I can see that he is a little wanting in tact, and does not quite
understand all the crooks and turns in a woman's heart.

Frank very politely invited Mr. Benson to accompany us, who said it
would give him pleasure to do so, if agreeable to our company. He looked
at Emily; but she deigned no reply, appearing wholly engaged in a frolic
with Pauline.

I began at once to be very polite, determined to do my part toward
making amends for Emily's indifference, which I saw pained him. It is
difficult conversing from a carriage with a gentleman on horse-back; but
as we rode slowly, I endeavored to be very interesting, until after a
time the young clergyman, perceiving he had no attention from the object
of his special regard, resumed his place at my side.

I really like Mr. Benson, and should be glad of him for a brother. I
cannot help thinking sister likes him too; when he is not talking with
her; for I noticed she kept Pauline very quiet and listened with
interest to our conversation. When we returned home, I earnestly
invited the gentleman to remain and take tea with us, and had to bite my
lips to keep from laughing to see Emily's amazement at the turn affairs
had taken.

The suitor, after looking very much embarrassed, as if expecting an
invitation from another, accepted mine, and we entered the house. Mother
stood quietly by. I suppose she is determined to leave Emily to act for
herself. When he consented to remain, she said, "now you will excuse
us;" but I insisted they should fulfil their engagement to tea, when, at
least, one of the company became decidedly more cheerful. "I wish he
wouldn't speak to Emily again this evening," was my thought, as he
continually tried to engage her in conversation.

Notwithstanding all my efforts, the evening passed away slowly; the
Doctor having been called out soon after tea. The occasion ended sadly
for the poor suitor, who, toward the close of it, requested a few
moments' conversation with Emily. In this interview, she decidedly
refused him, and then cried all night after it.

Foolish girl! But I persuaded her to unburden her heart to me. She
confessed, she did not know whether she loved Mr. Benson or not. Many
traits in his character she admired; but others suggested serious
objections. The latter, however, I could not induce her to name, and
indeed, I doubt whether she had herself any distinct idea of them.

After a pause, during which I tried in vain to think of something which
would comfort her, she looked at me earnestly and said, "Cora, tell me
truly, don't you think he's rather _soft_?" "I think," I replied, trying
to conceal my mirth, "that he has a very strong affection for you; and
that sometimes it would be more pleasing to a delicate, modest girl, if
he did not exhibit it so openly."

"That is exactly my feeling, but I couldn't express it. Yet what is the
use of talking?" she asked, with a profound sigh; "the question is
settled, and there the matter rests."




CHAPTER IV.

     "From the light ills of infant age.
     Up to the plague's destructive rage,
     Pains come and go at thy command,
     True to the sceptre of thy hand."  EAST.


_Thursday, June 11th._

When the Doctor left for his morning duties, he said, "Please bear in
mind, Cora, that you have engaged yourself to me for the afternoon."

"For _life_, I understood it," said I, trying to speak gravely.

He was much pleased, and turned back to give me another embrace, and
whispered, "my darling," in such a loving tone, that my heart felt very
warm all the forenoon.

I wish I could describe to you the view from my window. It rained all
night, and this morning was very foggy; but now the sun is beginning to
dispel the mist; and the mountain--oh, it is beautiful! I keep stopping
to look, and to inhale the balmy air. Now I can see the summit quite
distinctly; the sun is shining upon it, while the fleecy clouds roll off
and settle on the lake, from which they arise in thick mist.

Before we left our room this morning, Frank gave me a subject for
thought which rather troubles me; but I think I know what you and dear
father would advise; I know also what is right; but courage, _courage_
is wanting. We are constantly liable to be interrupted while engaged in
family devotions; or Frank is away at the regular time. He asked, this
morning, as a great favor to himself, that I would, in such cases, call
the family together and read prayers.

I started at the proposition, and was about to say, "I cannot," when he
said, "do not decide hastily. Think upon the subject, and tell me
to-morrow." After a pause, he continued, "the time of a physician is not
at his own command. I may be called away day after day; and our family
services lose half their interest and profit through the want of
regularity."

"How was it before I came?"

"Mother always conducted the service in my absence."

My mind was in a perfect tumult. At breakfast I thought I had found a
good excuse; at least, it then appeared so to me; and I tried to be
cheerful and to dismiss the subject. After prayers, as my husband was
leaving the room, I detained him; "Frank," I asked, "don't you think I'm
too young?--Cæsar, Phebe and Ann are so much older than I am. Does it
appear to you quite proper?"

"Well," said he, coming back and shutting the door, "I didn't think of
it in that light. You _are_ rather young, to be sure; only eighteen the
fourth day of February." I was surprised that he remembered the exact
day. "How soon do you think you will be at the proper age?"

I had thought, when he commenced, that he certainly considered this a
valid excuse; but the moment he asked that question, though there was
not the slightest touch of irony in his tone, yet I felt mortified in
the extreme, and the blood rushed to my very forehead. I turned quickly
away, as Emily entered the room.

And now what can I do? My heart almost stands still at the bare thought
of it; _I_, who have never audibly lifted up my voice in prayer to God,
save only in the presence of my little Pauline. _I cannot do it_; and I
think my husband almost hard to ask it of me. He is always so calm and
self-possessed, he little knows how my heart throbs.


_Noon._

As Frank has not returned, I will add a few lines. I have taken Pauline
for a walk through the garden, and made a call upon mother and sister.
How we all laughed when the little thing lisped "grandmamma," in
obedience to my wish. Before we came out, mother remarked that I looked
quite pale. I longed to ask her advice, but conscience whispered, "you
already know your duty;" and I concluded to say nothing about my
trouble. "Emily," I replied, "can sympathize with me; she is looking
very unwell."

As I spoke, her face and neck were covered with a burning blush. "Emily
is not well," said mother gravely; "She scarcely eats at all."

"O, mother!" exclaimed Emily, "I'm well enough, only a head ache," and
she went to the closet to get seed cakes for Pauline.

As I returned home through the kitchen garden, to give the child a
longer walk, I heard Phebe, who stood at the back door, call to Cæsar.

"Look dere now! see de young Missus. It's enough to do your old curly
pate powerful sight o' good just to see her a leading dis yer baby."


_Evening._

I obtained permission from mother this morning to leave Pauline with
her, while I rode with Frank. When the time arrived, Ann put on her
bonnet, and then it was very easy to induce Miss to have hers put on for
a walk to grandmamma's.

It has been a delightful day after the rain; and if my heart had been at
rest, I should have enjoyed the ride. I imagined my looks troubled Frank
a little, for he said he had intended taking me with him to visit one or
two families in the outskirts of the town; but if I did not feel
inclined, he would postpone it until another day. I assured him my
health was perfectly good, and I had anticipated the calls with much
pleasure. So we rode on through the village, he being more than usually
social and interesting, and giving me no time to think of myself until
we came to the border of the town, near the lake I have mentioned.

Here stood a number of small cottages, one story in height, with the
grounds about them enclosed with low fences. I noticed one of these bore
marks of more taste and refinement than the others. It had a pleasant
little patch of flowers along the side of the beaten path to the
entrance, while a beautiful rose bush was trained upon a trellis by the
side of the door, which run upon the house nearly to the roof, and
furnished a complete shade to one of the windows.

This was the home of the Doctor's patient, and I followed him to the
door, which stood hospitably open. A light knock brought a modest woman
to the entrance, who, in her tabby muslin cap, and her clean checked
apron, appeared very neatly. She courtesied as the Doctor introduced me,
and invited us to walk in. The patient is a young girl in her sixteenth
year, who is gradually wasting away with consumption. Never shall I
forget the bright expression of love and respect which beautified her
countenance, as Frank took her hand, and tenderly inquired how she had
passed the night. "I have brought you another friend," he added; "one I
am sure you will love. I think I can safely promise she will be happy to
do anything for your comfort." This promise I cheerfully confirmed.

Hers is a case requiring little medicine. Her sufferings are
comparatively slight, except from exhausting fits of coughing. She
appears to be passing gently away. The bright color which burned in her
cheek had now faded, leaving her face perfectly colorless. The only
relief to the marble whiteness was the long black lashes which lay upon
her cheek when she closed her eyes. Propped up in her bed by pillows,
she looked with her whole soul at the Doctor, who sat at her side,
speaking to her of God's rich mercy. She assented to what he said by a
slight inclination of the head, and sometimes repeated after him part of
the verse of Scripture, he quoted, as if to impress it upon her own
mind. But I could see plainly that she was under restraint by the
presence of a stranger.

When he arose, she held out her hand and whispered, "will you please to
pray with me?" Frank immediately reseated himself; and taking a little
pocket Bible from his coat, read a few verses from the fourteenth
chapter of John; and then prayed. I felt borne on wings of faith to
heaven as my dear husband praised God for the love which had sent the
Saviour into the world, that we might have pardon and eternal life; that
we might be elevated to seats at his right hand in heaven, and be joint
heirs with Christ to immortal glory and honor. He besought Jesus to
bless and comfort with his Divine presence, the dear child who was
approaching the dark valley; to give her the victory over sin, and
death, and to receive her through faith in him into the kingdom of
heaven, where her eternity might be spent in singing "Worthy the Lamb
that was slain."

As I approached the bed to bid her farewell, I was struck dumb, with the
heavenly smile of peace and joy which shone in every feature. Surely,
thought I, she has the seal upon her forehead; she already breathes the
air of heaven. I lifted her thin white hand to my lips, and bowed my
head in silence; I dared not trust my voice to speak.

The Doctor called Mrs. Leighton aside and gave her a few simple
directions before we left. He conducted me silently to the carriage,
turned the horse down a shady lane toward the water, and drew me to him
until I could lay my head upon his shoulder, when my excited feelings
found relief in tears.

When I had become more composed, Frank asked, "Is she not to be envied?"

"Oh, yes! _yes!_" I replied, "Would, I could feel the assurance of faith
and love, which lit up her face like that of an angel!"

He then, at my request, told me something of her history. Her parents,
Mr. and Mrs. Leighton, are respectable, pious people, who have been
deeply afflicted by the loss of two daughters and one son by the same
disease which is now wasting the frame of their only surviving child.
Naturally amiable and intelligent she has been too much indulged by her
fond parents, who cling to her as their last and best beloved.

So insidious was her disease, that, when summoned to her sick bed, Frank
found no skill could save her. He therefore endeavored to direct her to
the great Physician, to cure the disease of her soul.

"What was the state of her mind at that time?" I asked.

"Very rebellious. She was unwilling to hear a word of discouragement,
and talked constantly of pleasures and parties, in which her mother had
allowed her to mingle. She was a very handsome girl, lively and
agreeable in conversation, and had excited unusual attention for one so
young."

"How soon did she become reconciled to death? She seems now to look
forward to it, as the consummation of her hopes and joys."

"Not for many months; but she will give you an account of the change in
her feelings. I hope you will soon see her again; she has not long to
stay with us."

As we passed the house on our return, we noticed Mrs. Leighton at the
door watching for us. Frank, thinking she wished to call him, sprang
from the carriage. But she only put into his hand a little bouquet,
saying in a suppressed voice, "Caroline," at the same time waving her
hand that it was intended for me. I was very much affected at the simple
gift, and sent my thanks to the sweet girl. There was exquisite taste in
the selection--a moss rose bud--a white rose half blown, with dark green
myrtle leaves,--and a sprig of mignonette.

"It must have been hard for her," I said, "to give up this beautiful
earth, she is so fond of flowers and everything tasteful."

"Ah! but she gains heaven," was Frank's reply. This suggested to me the
following lines from a favorite poet, which I repeated to my husband.


     "Once when I look'd along the laughing earth,
     Up the blue heavens, and through the middle air,
     Joyfully ringing with the sky-lark's song,
     I wept, and thought how sad for one so young,
     To bid farewell to so much happiness.
     But Christ doth call me from this lower world;
     Delightful though it be."


We next stopped at a house of moderate size, in which the Doctor told
me, four families found their home. Having tied the horse by the little
gate, we entered a room on the right, where a poor man lay on a bench,
or, as I afterwards saw, a long chest, upon which some quilts had been
spread to make it soft. The chest was pushed to the corner of the room,
so that, with pillows behind him, the invalid could sit almost upright.

Watching by his side was a very pretty woman, who, from her dialect, I
perceived was Welsh. Near her was a small boy of about three years of
age, sitting on a low cricket; while in a shed, opening directly out of
the room, there stood a young girl of eleven, washing.

After putting two chairs near her husband, Mrs. Lewis resumed her seat
and her sewing, as it was only by _her_ industry, the family were
supported.

Frank inquired particularly about the symptoms of his patient, and
prescribed for his relief. He then said, "I have brought my wife, as I
promised to introduce her to you." Here Mr. Lewis put out his emaciated
hand, and expressed pleasure at seeing me. Frank continued, "Mrs. Lenox
will come and read to you, if you wish, while your wife is busy."

The sick man regarded me with a look of gratitude, while his wife
replied, "I am sure t'would be a great comfort to us both, to hear a bit
of the Word. My man," she continued, "is not able to read; it makes his
eyes ache badly. I have so little time, I can only repeat a verse now
and then, to give us something to think of."

The Doctor asked Mr. Lewis if he had enjoyed more peace of mind since
his last visit.

"Sometimes," he replied in a whisper, "I can feel willing to trust
myself in the hands of God; but again all is dark, and I can't come nigh
to him. He appears a great way off, and I seem to be praying into the
air." As he closed, his breast heaved a deep sigh.

I became so much interested in him; and he so exactly described my own
feelings, at times, that I forgot any one else was present, and said,
"Oh, sir! I have often felt so; and the only way I can do, is to keep
praying, until God reveals himself to me. He does hear, and he will
answer if we keep asking, and if he sees we are in earnest."

I stopped suddenly, in great embarrassment, when Frank immediately
added, "This is the case with most Christians. Sometimes while we are
yet speaking God hears, and grants an answer of peace. Again he delays,
to try our faith and patience."

"But the prayers of the wicked are an abomination," said Mr. Lewis
feebly. "I can't feel sure that he has accepted me."

"Has his promise ever failed?" inquired the Doctor. "He says, 'call upon
me and I will answer; knock and it shall be opened.'"

The poor man put his hand to his breast, as if in great pain. Frank
feared lest we were prolonging the interview beyond his strength, and
rose to leave.

"Surely you won't go without praying for me," said Mr. Lewis.

"If you feel able to attend, I will do so with pleasure," replied the
Doctor. I was very much affected to see the sick man rise feebly, and
kneel during prayer. He wept much, and when we arose he was so exhausted
by his emotion, the Doctor and his wife were obliged to raise him to
his feet. But when he had taken some drink, he became more composed, and
said, "Thank you." "Come soon," he said to me, with a smile.

Mrs. Lewis followed us to the door, where Frank put into her hand a bank
bill; and in addition, requested her to send to our house in the morning
for some chicken broth of which he wished her husband to partake freely.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she could only look her thanks.

It was now becoming late, and we returned home. I cannot help thinking
how much good a pious physician has it in his power to do. He gains the
affections of his patients; and they will listen to religious
conversation which they would not hear from a stranger. Frank cares for
their souls as well as their bodies, especially as the one commonly
affects the other.




CHAPTER V.

     "Wretch that I am, what hopes for me remain,
     Who cannot cease to love, yet love in vain?"  COWPER.


_Sabbath morning, June 14th._

DEAR MOTHER,--I must write you a few lines to tell you how happy I am.
Yesterday, you remember, I was to decide whether I would conduct the
family devotions when Frank is absent. My mind was so much occupied
during the afternoon, I hardly thought of it; but in the evening, I
retired to my closet, determined to ask for strength from one who is
ever ready to help the weak in the performance of duty.

When I arose from my knees, my fear was all dispelled. It appeared
almost like a privilege to do what I had so much dreaded. While I was
yet speaking, God answered.

This morning, when I was dressing my little daughter, an employment in
which I delight, Frank came in and inquired, "Have you thought upon the
subject I proposed yesterday?"

"Yes," was my reply.

"And what have you decided?"

"I will, at least, attempt the duty." My hand trembled so much, I could
scarcely button Pauline's dress; but I think he did not notice it, for
he walked quickly out of the room. I was taking her to Ann for her
breakfast, when he returned, and with such evident marks of strong
feeling on his countenance, I looked at him anxiously.

He took my hand, and pressed it to his lips, saying, "Will you soon
return to your boudoir?" I rang for Ann, and then followed him. He
clasped me in his arms, as he exclaimed, "my own Cora, you were never
before so dear to me. You little know what a struggle it has cost me to
see the conflict in your mind, and neither say or do anything for your
relief. I have blamed myself severely for expecting so much of you, my
dear child. Many times yesterday I was on the point of withdrawing my
request; but I hesitated. I felt sure you would decide aright, and that
I should rest satisfied with your decision. It is not the first time you
have set me an example. When I heard your decision, I considered it a
great triumph of duty over inclination."

"But you do not know all the naughty thoughts I had," said I, raising my
eyes for the first time. "I even wished,"--

"My own wife," said Frank, pressing me to his heart!--"And have all
these hard thoughts of your husband gone? Did you wish," he asked,
turning my face to his, "that you had never left home to live with such
an exacting man?"

"Oh, Frank! I never wished so; I did not say that. How could I be happy
as I am, if I felt thus? I wished something worse; which I had rather
not tell."

"You had better make a clean breast of it," said he, smiling.

"I wished," said I in a low tone, "that you were not quite so good; and
then you would not expect so much of me."

Frank looked very much amused. "That's the last thing in the world, I
expected my wife to complain of. But seriously, Cora, I have learned
many a lesson from you. One of your looks of wonder, a year since, upset
my favorite theory, and in the end secured to me the most precious wife
in the world."


_Monday, June 15th._

Poor Emily! I wonder if she knew Mr. Benson was to exchange with Mr.
Munroe, yesterday. If so, she did not speak of it. I never saw a man so
changed; he looked as if he had had a severe fit of sickness.


     "He withers at his heart, and looks as wan
     As the pale spectre of a murder'd man."


But his sermon was really sublime, and lifted me above myself. The text
was the last verse of the forty-second Psalm: "Why art thou cast down, O
my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I
shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God."

Trust in God, was his subject. Amid all the trials and vicissitudes of
life, trust in God is the only sure source of happiness for the
Christian. Trust him to bring good out of seeming ill; to make these
very trials "work out for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of
glory." If he withdraws the light of his countenance; if our beloved
friends sicken and die before our eyes; if our worldly estate takes to
itself wings and flies away; if our fondest hopes are suddenly dashed to
the ground; if we are ever left to call out in agony of spirit, "Why art
thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me?" we
may, by Divine grace, also exclaim, "hope thou in God, for I shall yet
praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God."

In the pale countenance of the speaker, I could read the struggle, and
the victory. I was actually startled at Emily's looks, as we turned to
come out of the pew. She caught my hand to save herself from falling;
and from the motion of her lips I understood her to say, "_faint_"
though no articulate sound came forth.

I whispered, "Dear Emily! lean upon me; don't faint here; try to arouse
yourself."

Never was I more thankful than when we reached the carriage and had
assisted the poor girl into it, without attracting notice. There was not
a particle of color in her face or lips. I drew off her gloves, and
chafed her hands, while mother loosed her bonnet strings, and applied
the smelling drops to her nose.

With a deep sigh she recovered her consciousness, and was ashamed and
mortified that her feelings should have been betrayed even to her loving
friends. She tried to conceal them with the flimsy excuse, that she
arose in the morning with a head-ache, and the heat of the house had
overcome her.

I wonder if Emily thinks, she really deceives us, or is she deceiving
herself? In the afternoon, she declared that she was fully able to go to
church; and when, at the last moment, she was forced to acknowledge
herself sick, and mother was removing her own bonnet to remain with her,
she insisted that she had rather be left alone, and mother very
reluctantly left her.

"Poor girl!" I exclaimed, as mother related the circumstance, "my heart
aches for her."

"I never saw a child so changed," said mother sadly; "I cannot but
think, she regrets her hasty decision. I have never before known her to
be irritable. It seems to annoy her exceedingly to have me notice her
languor or want of spirits. Frank," she continued, "I wish you would
persuade Emily to take an anodyne. I think the want of sleep is partly
the cause of her head ache." Frank asked if she would be likely to come
over to the house to tea; but mother could not tell; she was so
changeable in her feelings.

I could not help thinking, Mr. Benson noticed sister's absence. He
looked very sad. I was so anxious about the poor girl, that I must
confess, I could not confine my thoughts to the discourse. Frank, too,
was called out; and mother looked pale and troubled. Altogether, I
worked myself up into quite a fever of excitement; and was glad when the
services were through.

While we waited a moment in the porch for Cæsar to bring the carriage to
the door, Mr. Benson passed down from the pulpit and came out. He would
evidently have avoided the meeting, if possible; but mother stepped
forward with much kindness and thanked him for his faithful discourses.
He unbent at once, and inquired for my health and that of the family.

I told him, I was well, but quite anxious about my sister, as she had a
severe head-ache which detained her at home. What could have come over
the man to look so pleased that she was ill?

Fearing I had said something to compromise her delicacy, I added, "she
has had the head-ache for several days." Now I think of it, I only made
it worse. He spoke, as he conducted us to the carriage, of his sorrow at
the intelligence, while he looked perfectly delighted.

When we reached home, Phebe met us at the door, and said "Misse Emily
here, and my pinion is dere's mighty smart chance for her to have a
fever if Mass'r Frank don't doctor her."

As we entered the parlor, sister started up, and looked eagerly for a
moment as if expecting some one with us; and then sank back again on the
sofa pillow, evidently disappointed. Could it be that she thought Mr.
Benson would return with us?

Cæsar went toward the village to meet his master, and soon returned with
him. The Doctor had been called to a child in a fit from indigestion.
That reminds me to tell you that in accordance with his wish, I have
restricted Pauline's diet to bread and milk, which she eats heartily,
sitting in Ann's lap.

Emily's sickness touched the little girl's heart; I held her in my arms,
and let her put her soft-hand on "Aunty's head to make it better." Frank
came behind and put his on too, with the tenderness of a woman. He sat
down by her side and held her head while she covered her eyes as if she
feared, he would read her thoughts.

"Emily," said he, gently, "you have too much heat; I fear you and Cora
have lately been unduly excited. I thought yesterday, she was going
beyond her strength; and such is also the case with you. I must give you
a little powder, which, I hope, will soon afford you relief; does it
ache less when I hold it so?" he asked, as he pressed the throbbing head
between his hands.

"Oh, yes! sometimes it feels as if it would fly to pieces."

"Poor girl! how it throbs. Cora, will you hold her head while I prepare
something for her?"

He soon returned with a wet bandage, which he bound tightly around her
head, and then gave her ammonia. I had finished my tea and was
returning through the hall, when Cæsar answered the door bell, and to my
amazement announced "Mr. Benson."

In my confusion, I ushered him into the parlor where Emily lay upon the
sofa, with her face toward the wall. I hoped, she was asleep, and was
just coming to my senses, and intending to invite him into the library,
when he asked, "Is she then _so ill_?"

At the sound of his voice, Emily sprang upon her feet, tore the bandage
from her head, while the light actually flashed from her eyes at what
she fancied an intrusion. But perceiving his ghastly pallor, she sank
back upon her seat, saying, "Frank has been making a great fuss over me,
as if I were sick." Truly, one would never have thought so at that
moment. She was perfectly brilliant with excitement. The fever lit up
her cheeks, while her eyes even dazzled my sight.

How I pitied the young suitor! He stood where he did upon his first
entrance, with his hat in his hand. His countenance changed as he gazed
at her until her eyes fell; then with an air which was almost haughty,
he said "Farewell! FAREWELL, FOREVER!!" and left the room.

I followed him silently to the door, my heart being almost paralyzed. He
stopped, took my hand in both of his, pressed it warmly and said, "I
appreciate your kindness, but you are mistaken." The last words he
uttered in a cold, bitter tone, and was gone.

I started to run to my chamber, but remembering my poor, strange sister,
I turned back to the parlor, where I found her prostrate upon the floor.
I screamed, "Frank! mother!" and soon the whole household came rushing
into the room. The Doctor dismissed the servants, and taking Emily in
his arms carried her up stairs to the room, she formerly occupied.

It was some time before she revived. When she perceived where she was,
her woe-begone look penetrated my heart. Poor mother! How quietly she
goes about everything that ought to be done, with an expression of
patient suffering! How can Emily make herself and all of us so unhappy!
She lies this morning in a deep sleep, and, I hope, will awake
refreshed. I have been sitting by her while mother went over to the
cottage on some business. She has now returned, and I have persuaded her
to lie down on the couch in sister's room. She was so anxious, she
scarcely slept at all.

Dear Pauline, what a comfort she is to me! She is the most affectionate
little creature I ever saw, and has already woven herself closely around
our hearts. Even Frank laughs merrily at her cunning ways.

Phebe wears a turban, generally made of a bandanna handkerchief, or
something equally bright. Miss thought, she too must wear one. So she
watched her opportunity when Ann laid down her duster, which happened to
be an old silk kerchief of similar colors to madam's turban, and tried
to weave it round her head. Ann observed her unsuccessful efforts with
silent amusement, and perceiving that when one side was arranged, the
other came tumbling down, offered to assist her.

Pauline shouted with delight: "Mamma, see! mamma, see!!" The kind
hearted girl brought the child to me. I laughed well at her grotesque
appearance. Her head was top-heavy with the turban, while the dark short
curls peeping out here and there made her look like a boy. She evidently
thought it a good joke, and was unwilling to have it taken off. You see,
we make a great pet of her; but since I began to manage her aright, she
obeys instantly. Sometimes her lip quivers a little, and she looks as if
she were about to burst into a hearty cry; and then, with a sigh,
restrains herself.

Almost every morning, from eleven till two, I have received calls; and
shall have business enough for the fall and winter if they continue.
Many of them are formal and ceremonious; others, I suppose, are prompted
merely by curiosity to see the stranger. I find the report of my three
years' residence in Paris creates quite a sensation. People look at me
as if I ought to be something more than Americans who have never been
out of their native land, and appear somewhat disappointed to see in me
nothing more than a simple, frank girl, just like their daughters or
sisters at home.

A few have called whom I like exceedingly; who entered into conversation
upon subjects profitable and interesting. You, my dear mother, have
spoiled me for enjoying the society of persons who cannot talk, except
of individual character and conduct; as for instance: "I suppose, your
husband has told you of the trouble in Squire Lee's family. He attends
there, I believe."

"No," I replied.

"Ah, indeed! Well, Lucy has had to break her engagement with young
Mansfield just to please her brother, who is no better than he should
be." I remained silent simply because I had nothing to say, and was glad
when the entrance of other company put a stop to such gossip.

Of the more select class, are Mr. Munroe, Mr. and Mrs. Marshall, Miss
Proctor,--Frank's favorite,--and I must not forget Friend Estes, who
frankly said, "I came, my dear, to see thee out of the regard I have for
thy husband."

I rather think, she was well enough acquainted with human nature to
know, that she was making her way directly to my heart.

"How is Susan, thy mother?" she asked. I stopped and hesitated a moment,
before I remembered that the Friends always use the first name. She was
overflowing with love and good-will to everybody; and before she went
away we grew so friendly, that she kissed me twice and said, "I must
bring Jotham to see thee, my dear"--"Cora," I said, seeing she hesitated
for the name,--"and thou wilt come with thy husband for a visit to our
house." She warmed my heart finely by her praise of Frank.

After all, there are a great many pleasant people in the world. I wish,
you could see how kindly her deep blue eyes looked out from her drab
poke upon your Cora. Your heart would come across the water to meet
hers.

The more I see and hear of Miss Proctor, the better I love and esteem
her. She is truly a "Dorcas," in whom the sick and afflicted always find
a friend and helper. She has been an efficient aid and cooperator with
Frank in his gratuitous practice.

Speaking of this class, I must relate to you an incident, Emily told me.
A short time since, when Frank had fairly established himself in his
profession, and had collected a good practice, a young physician came to
the place, rather to the annoyance of some of his brethren of the
profession, who took no pains to call upon him. The Doctor, however,
embraced the first opportunity to visit him at his office, to which
there was little more than a showy sign, announcing to the public that
"Dr. Clapp, Physician and Surgeon, was ready to extract teeth and cut
off legs at the shortest notice, and for the lowest price imaginable."

Frank entered into conversation with this young son of Æsculapius, and
found, he was well learned in his profession, and had high
recommendations from his professors as to his qualifications for his
office. My good husband encouraged him to persevere, and offered to
recommend him wherever it was in his power.

"I shall never be displeased," he added, "if I hear, you are taking my
practice, except in the case of my poor patients. Most of these have
grown up with me, and I flatter myself, I am, with them, an exception to
the general rule, 'a prophet is not without honor, save in his own
country.'"

The sequel to this visit is quite romantic. Dr. Clapp, who is about
twenty-four years of age, walked to the window, where he vigorously
plied his handkerchief, as if afflicted with a sudden cold. After this
operation he was relieved, and came back offering his hand to Frank. He
said, or tried to say, for his voice was rather husky, "Your kindness,
Dr. Lenox, inspires me with new life and courage. I am yet waiting for
my first patient." Then, encouraged by Frank's kind interest, he
unburdened his heart, and asked advice with regard to a little private
affair of his own.

It appears that, like a great many foolish young men, (I don't say it
was foolish in _his_ case, not knowing the circumstances,) he had fallen
in love, while in college, with "the most amiable girl in the world."
That was five years ago, so that their courtship had been quite
protracted. To the ardent lovers, at least, it had seemed sufficiently
so.

Harriet Phillips, who, at the time of their engagement, was but
fourteen, had now arrived at the mature age of nineteen years,--"Quite
old enough," he added, with an inquiring look at the Doctor, "to take
charge of a family."

The decided tone in which Frank replied, "_Certainly_," gave the suitor
new courage. To marry, or not to marry, that was now the question; and
the judge who was to give the important decision, acknowledged that he
found himself in rather a novel predicament. However, he shielded
himself as many judges do, behind general principles. He acknowledged
the great propriety of a physician being a man of family, and as soon as
he could support a wife in comfort, he certainly advised him to marry.

"This," said Dr. Clapp, "is exactly the way I view the subject."

The young man soon after returned the call in the Doctor's absence. With
a frankness which seems rather peculiar to him, he told Emily all the
first part of the interview, and more than hinted at the latter; so that
she, who has a considerable share of curiosity, coaxed Frank to tell her
the rest, saying, "I'm sure Dr. Clapp wants me to know about it."

Now she says, "I shall advise him to bring his Harriet without delay. I
fancy, he thought her old enough when he saw you at mother's levee.
Besides Frank is so much older than he is."

Emily insists that I do not look more than sixteen, and that I keep
blushing like a girl of twelve. I wish I could break myself of this
habit; but the more I try, the more the blood will rush to my face. It
is very disagreeable, and sometimes places me in awkward situations.

But to return to my story, Dr. Clapp intends to profit by the excellent
example set him by an elder brother of the cloth, and will soon be
joined in the bands of Hymen to his beloved Harriet,--when he will bring
her to the goodly town of Crawford, here to make up to her, by every
means in his power, for the trials and sacrifices, she has, for a series
of years, been called upon to make as the eldest sister in a large, and
not very prosperous family.

Poor Emily, I wonder when she will laugh again, as she did when she
related that to me. I must go and see if she is awake. I have not heard
the least sound from her room all the time I have been writing. Ann
carried Pauline about the garden until she went to sleep, that the house
might be quiet.




CHAPTER VI.

     "Nought shall prevail against us, or disturb
     Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
     Is full of blessings."  WORDSWORTH.


_Tuesday, June 16th._

Last night when I sat writing busily, a hand was put upon my paper.
Starting up, I saw Frank with one of his very grave looks. I hastily
shut my desk. "How is Emily?" I asked quickly.

"Emily is asleep; and I thought you were, long ago. I really must
restrict you to certain hours of writing. Do you know how late it is?"
He held his watch toward me, and to my amazement it was near midnight.

"I took no note of time," I replied, "I was so absorbed in writing. It
is almost like talking with my own dear mother."

"Well," said Frank, touched a little, I suppose, by my sad tone, "you
shall write as much as you please, only don't take the time from your
sleep."


_Tuesday Noon._

Dear, _dear_ father, mother and sisters, how happy you have made me by
writing so soon. Frank came home in the middle of the forenoon, and
beckoning me out of Emily's room into my own, stood with his hands
behind him, and asked, "How many kisses will you give me for something I
have brought you?"

He looked so pleased and mysterious, I couldn't think for an instant
what it could be. When I did, I gave a bound behind him, and caught the
letters before he was aware. "But," he said, "I won't be cheated in that
way. I'll sue you." I told him, I would give him a thousand kisses
after I had read my letters. My hands trembled so much with joy and
excitement, that I had difficulty in tearing off the covering; when such
a dear packet presented itself, I almost danced with delight.

Frank looked as pleased as I did. I made him sit down while I read dear
father's letter, the last in order; when I had finished, Frank said, "I
must tear myself away, and hear the rest after dinner. My patients will
wonder what has become of me."--"But," he added with a very demure look,
"can't you pay me part of my bill, and let me endorse it on the
account?"

I sprang up, and with my arms around his neck, gave him such a shower of
kisses, as certainly he never had from me before; and I sat down quite
out of breath.

"There, now, I've found out what you can do!" he said, laughing merrily,
"you have kept me on very short allowance heretofore; I never supposed
you capable of such exertions." He then slipped quietly into Emily's
room, and soon I heard him drive away.

Isn't he a darling, mother? though I fear, it won't do to tell him so,
for he is getting really to think too much of himself. He used to be so
grateful for the least favor shown to him; and thought it such a
privilege to be allowed to kiss my hand. Now he grows more exacting in
his demands; and nobody knows what he'll expect after this.

He heard of the arrival in New York of the packet ship "Eleanor," and
has been watching the mail for my letters.--Cæsar happened to-day to go
to the office before him; but Frank drove rapidly home to have the
pleasure himself of giving them to me. All this Cæsar was delighted to
tell me, while his eyes shone like two stars through a cloud.

The whole family sympathize with me in my joy at hearing from my dear,
sweet home. Even Emily brightened up a little, as I read mother Lenox
part of Bell's letter. She lies quietly in bed, and says she is free
from pain; but she cannot make the least exertion without fainting.
Frank says, she has a slow fever. The cottage is shut up; and Ruth has
come over to aid Phebe while mother and sister are here. I feel very
glad that Emily's sickness occurred here. Mother says, it was all wisely
ordered. I know, she feels relieved at night by this arrangement.


_Tuesday evening._

Frank says, I may write half an hour, to pay for my liberality to him
this morning; and he will sit up and read his papers. This has been an
eventful day to me;--first my letters from home;--then I had a note from
Mr. Benson, informing me, that, situated as he was, (with regard to
Emily I suppose), he could not give proper attention to the duties of
his profession, and that as tutor and companion, he had accepted an
offer made him some months ago, but then declined, of going to Europe
with a young man.

What will Emily say? _I_ shall not be the one to tell her. I read the
letter silently, and then passed it to my husband. He looked very,
_very_ grave, almost stern.

"Cora," he asked after a long pause, "do you think, Emily has trifled
with the affections of this young man? Women seem to have an intuitive
perception on such subjects."

"I think that she loves him far more than she will acknowledge; but I
don't believe, she ever gave much encouragement to his suit. When I have
been present, she has treated him with indifference, almost with
rudeness. Perhaps I ought not to express a mere suspicion; but I have
thought, Emily's conscience troubled her on account of the manner in
which she treated him. From her casual remarks, I fear, she dismissed
him rather haughtily."

"Worse and worse," exclaimed Frank, with such severity, I was almost
frightened. "For one situated as she is, with regard to wealth, to
conduct herself in such a manner toward a gentleman of his worth and
education is really unpardonable. It would sting him to the quick; and I
respect him all the more for the course he has pursued. If she were
poor and friendless, it would not be half so censurable. But for her to
take advantage of her station to insult him--pshaw--I cannot bear to
think of it."

"Oh, Frank! don't speak in such a severe tone. I was wrong to say what I
did."

"Well," said he, hastily withdrawing his hand from mine, "I wish, she
were as ready to acknowledge her faults as you are."

"But it may be all my suspicion. I may not have understood her aright."

"What did she say?"

I replied reluctantly, for he was already much excited. "She did not say
so in words. Only I received the impression, that she had given him to
understand, she was astonished, he should presume to think, she would be
the wife of a poor country clergyman."

"Cora," exclaimed Frank, starting up and walking across the room.--I
burst into tears. I had never before seen him so excited; and I had no
idea, he could look, or speak, so severely. It makes me almost cry even
now to think of it.

Frank just now says, "my love, you've exceeded your time;" so good
night, dear mother.


_Wednesday, June 17th._

My husband told me last night that a packet was advertised to sail for
Liverpool, and that probably it would need ballast, and therefore it
would be a good opportunity for me to send my journal. It amuses him
that I find so much to write about. He little imagines how much I write
respecting him, my lord and master. He has never asked to see it; he has
too much delicacy to do that.

Emily had a comfortable night; and mother slept quite well, and feels
refreshed. I asked Frank, if Cæsar would be at liberty to take me to
ride this morning.

"Certainly," he replied, "I hope you will call upon him whenever you
wish. He will be proud to drive you." So I dressed my little miss in her
best suit, and having taken her in for a morning call upon aunt Emily,
we started off in the cool of the day. I wanted to return before the
time for Pauline's "_siesta_."

As we drove down the hill, I asked Cæsar if he knew where Caroline
Leighton lived.

"Oh, yes Missus! I goes dere berry often for Mass'r Frank."

"And do you know where Mr. Lewis lives?"

"De man what's dying wid consumption?"

"Yes."

"Well den, I knows dat too. Where you go first, Missus?"

"To see Caroline." As we rode on, I asked, "Can you spare the time from
your work to wait for me, and let Pauline sit in the carriage? I don't
like to be in a hurry when a person is sick."

Good Cæsar's face fairly shone as if freshly anointed; and he replied,
"I 'spects so, Missus. Mass'r Frank told me, allus leave ebery ting,
when young Missus wants to go. Mass'r Frank sets mighty store by young
Missus."

Just then we stopped at the gate; and I was prevented the necessity of
replying to the complimentary speech, which, however, being the
conviction of his large, honest heart, gave me more pleasure than almost
any one, I ever received. He let down the steps and lifted me out as if
I were a wax doll. I verily believe he wanted to take me in his arms and
carry me to the house, as he would Pauline. She wished to go with me;
but he sat in the carriage holding her in his arms, saying, "mammy come
back."

I had brought with me two beautiful bouquets, one for each of my sick
friends. With Caroline's in my hand, I knocked gently at the door of her
apartment, though I could have entered, as the doors were open to admit
the fresh air. She turned her head at the sound, and was very much
pleased at my early call. She said, she would ring her little bell for
her mother; but I told her on no account. Indeed, I was glad, she was
alone.

I laid off my bonnet, saying as I did so, "You see, I intend making a
long call." I then took a tumbler, and having filled it with water from
the pitcher on the table, I put the flowers in it and set them near her.

She smiled, and seemed pleased that I made myself so much at home. I
drew a chair to the side of the bed, and taking her thin white hand in
mine, asked, "do you feel strong enough to talk with me a little?" She
bowed assent.

"Does it not seem hard for one so young to be called to die? Do you feel
willing to give up this beautiful world, your mother and friends?"

"Heaven is far more beautiful;" and she added, with a devout expression,
"my Saviour is there."

"How long, dear Caroline, have you loved the Saviour?"

With a deep sigh, and a look of profound sorrow, she replied, "Only a
few months. Oh, what a hard heart mine has been!--to turn for so long a
time from a loving Saviour."

"Can you, without exerting yourself too much, tell me about the change
in your feelings?"

"Hasn't the Doctor told you?"

"No, he said perhaps you would do so."

She closed her eyes for a moment, and then gave me the following
account. "I lived a life of gayety and pleasure. The world looked
bright; not only the things of nature, to which you referred, but gay
people, fashion and pleasure in every form. I suppose it will do no harm
for me to say now, that I was praised for my personal beauty, and for my
graceful manner. But I forgot that "we all do fade as a leaf." Yes, I
forgot it, though I had lost two sisters, since my remembrance.

"In the unwearied pursuit of worldly enjoyment, all other things faded
from my mind. Yet there were times when conscience sounded an alarm, and
the thought that perhaps I too should be cut off, as my sisters had
been, in the morning of life, made the blood stagnate in my veins, and
my heart cease to beat.

"I was a regular attendant at church, and one of the prominent members
of the choir. But I never listened to the sermons. I studiously avoided
hearing them; especially when they treated of death, the judgment, and
eternity. I have often sat in church, very devout in the eyes of those
about me, but engaged in making all my plans for the coming week; and
then quieted myself with the thought that I had not sinned half so much,
as if I had heard the sermon, and not profited by it. I was often
praised for my regular attendance. Alas! He who looks into the heart
knows I went to the sanctuary far more to exhibit myself, to hear people
say of me, 'how handsome! what a fine voice!' than to worship my Maker,
who had bestowed these gifts upon me.

"About a year since, I took a violent cold upon my lungs. I had
previously felt languid and unwell, but would not acknowledge it to
mother, lest I should be kept from singing school, and places of
amusement. Soon after this, the Doctor was called, and never was there a
harder or more rebellious heart than mine, when he, in the kindest, most
fatherly manner, told me that the disease would probably prove fatal. It
was not in the power of man, he added, to effect a cure. He said that
possibly I might be better, and live for years; but the disease was upon
me and could not be shaken off.

"That was the thought that twinged every nerve in my body. I hated my
Creator for making me sick. I hated my physician for telling me of it. I
hated my parents and every one who believed it. But oh! I hated myself
more than all, when I began to see a little into my own heart.

"I had always been called amiable; and I believed myself to be so. But
now I was actually frightened at the tumult of hard and angry thoughts
in my awakened soul. In the night, I frequently awoke, trembling with
affright; an angry God seemed ready to consume me with his fierce wrath.
This state of mind continued with some abatement for several months; and
the conflict of my feelings operated injuriously upon my health.

"One day your husband came in, when he could stop longer than usual. He
sat down by my bed and tried to talk with me. But I would not speak. I
pretended not to hear what he said. Some of his words, however, arrested
my attention, and without intending it, I turned my face toward him. He
understood the whole of my hardness and guilt. He asked me if I had ever
realized how great was the love of Jesus, who left the blessedness of
heaven, to suffer and die for us, and who having made atonement, now
endures neglect and reproach from the guilty souls, he came to save. It
is human, said he, when man offers a favor to his fellow, and is treated
with neglect and scorn, to withdraw the offer. But the Divine Lord who
endures indifference, ridicule and contempt, still says, 'Come unto me
all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'

"Oh, those blessed, _blessed_ words! I listened as if I had never heard
them before. Was I not weary with wrestling with the Almighty? Oh! was I
not heavily laden with sins, more than I could bear? Why may I not come?
For the first time, tears of real penitence filled my eyes, and with a
subdued voice, I said, 'Will you pray for me?' He did pray, as he had
done many times before; but I never heard till then. He wept as he
besought God earnestly in my behalf. God in mercy answered.

"When he arose, Christ had taken my burden, and I was at rest. I had
never disbelieved the Bible. But now its truths came home to my heart,
and I was made free.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, almost in rapture, "the goodness and long suffering
of God, to me a poor lost sinner."

The excitement of speaking had carried her beyond her strength; and as
she lay with her hands clasped, and eyes closed, she looked so pale, I
feared she had fainted. But she presently opened her eyes, while a
heavenly smile played around her mouth. I kissed her forehead; but I
could not speak.

Her mother, not hearing the bell for some time, looked into the room to
see if she were asleep; but perceiving me, she returned to her work.

"Dear Mrs. Lenox," said the sweet girl, "you'll pray with me." I
hesitated. "For your husband's sake, please."

I could not deny her, but saying I would return after a moment, I left
the room. I had seen from the window that Cæsar had difficulty in
keeping the horse quiet on account of the heat and flies. I told him to
ride on a short distance and call for me in about ten minutes.

When I returned, and was about to close the door, Caroline said "no one
will disturb us, and the room is very warm."

With my hand in hers, and my face on her pillow, I for the first time
addressed my Heavenly Father in presence of a fellow creature. But I was
not embarrassed. He who looks from above, put words in my mouth and was
near me.

As I arose and stood by the bed, I was startled by the moving of a
shadow; and turning quickly to the door I saw my husband standing on the
steps with his face buried in his handkerchief.

Passing through this part of the town to visit a patient, he had stopped
this morning instead of returning here this afternoon. I do not think he
heard me; and if he did, I ought not to feel ashamed, when I dared speak
in the presence of the High and Holy One. But I must confess it. I felt
for the first time in my life sorry to see him.

"How came you here?" he asked in surprise.

"You forgot you gave me permission to ride out."

"And Cæsar, where is he?"

"There," said I, pointing to the carriage, which was just stopping at
the gate. "You must not talk much with her," I said smiling. "But you
may talk a little _to_ her if she will be very quiet. I fear she has
already had too much company." Promising to visit her again as soon as
possible, I went with Frank to the carriage, when he returned to his
patient. I found Pauline struggling hard to keep her eyes open, and on
consulting my watch, concluded to postpone my call upon Mr. Lewis until
another day. So I merely left the flowers in passing, saying to his
wife that I would endeavor to make him an early call.

"He has been lotting upon seeing you, maam. He says of the two, you
better understand his feelings, seeing you've had the same." We hastened
home, where the sleepy girl was glad to drink some milk and go to bed.

And now, dear mother, with remembrances of affection to the dear
home-circle, I close this part of my journal, which I hope will interest
you. I intend writing to Bell and Nelly in answer to theirs just
received.


_Thursday, June 18th._

I gladly resume my journal; I feel lost without my writing. Emily
appears really better. Of course she knows nothing of Mr. Benson's
intended departure. I have not been able to learn when he sails. He only
says in his note, "as soon as his arrangements can be made." Emily seems
indifferent to every thing; and, when mother and I talk cheerfully,
turns her face away. But I have seen the tears trickle through her
fingers when she thought herself unnoticed. To-day, however, she is
brighter, and though not by any means as she once was, she appears to
have made her mind up to some course; and to feel better for her
decision. But this is mere suspicion. Time will show whether I am
correct. This afternoon she sat up in the easy chair more than an hour,
and amused herself with Pauline, who looked at her very seriously at
first, as if she did not quite understand all these changes.

Early this morning, I begged a ride with Frank as far as Mr. Lewis's,
and told him my intention was to walk back. To the latter part of my
proposition, he very unwillingly consented, as it is half a mile, and
the heat is great. But with my parasol I thought I might venture.

Mrs. Lewis came into the little entry to receive me, and told me in a
low tone, her husband was failing fast, and she thought, could not live
many days. "He will be right pleased to see you. He has set his heart
upon it." I then followed her up-stairs to the room. He is now wholly
confined to the bed.

Every article of furniture, I observed, was scrupulously neat; and
something in the appearance and conversation of the family reminded me
forcibly of the household of the Dairyman, as described in Legh
Richmond's well known tract entitled "The Dairyman's Daughter." There
was an air of respectability, which is often felt, but which cannot
easily be described.

Mr. Lewis was sitting bolstered up in bed. He could not breathe when
lying down; and could only speak in a broken whisper, with long
intervals between his words. Sitting with him was a married sister, who
had followed him to this country, and who had now come to remain with
him until after the closing scene.

I took my seat near the bed, and begged Mrs. Lewis to allow me to pass
him the cordial with which he was constantly obliged to wet his lips.
With a courtesy she thanked me and resumed her sewing, while I addressed
a few words to the poor sufferer.

"I am afraid you are too sick to hear me talk, you seem very ill this
morning."

"All--peace--here," he whispered, laying his emaciated hand upon his
breast.

I expressed very great pleasure that God had heard his prayer, and asked
whether he felt any of the fears with which he was troubled at my last
visit.

He shook his head; and when I held the cup to his mouth said,
"I--can--trust--him. He--will--do--right."

This, then, was the source of his peace. My eyes filled with tears as I
quoted the passage of Scripture which came into my mind. "Thou wilt keep
him in perfect peace whose soul is staid on Thee." I noticed that he
looked exceedingly faint, and motioned to his wife, who immediately held
some camphor to his nostrils, saying as she did so, that he could take
no nourishment.

When he revived, I thought I had better retire; but he looked wistfully
first at me, then at his wife, who caught his meaning and said, "He
would like to have you read and pray with him as the Doctor does."

I made no reply. What could I say? She arose and gave me an old,
well-preserved family Bible; and turning to the fourth of Hebrews, I was
just commencing to read about "the rest that remaineth to the people of
God," when a gentle knock at the outer door called Mrs. Lewis from the
room. I went on, however, in compliance with a wistful look from the
invalid, and read through the chapter, having in the mean time come to
the conclusion, that if the sister would leave the room, I would try to
comply with the dying man's request. Just as I closed the book, she
stepped softly behind me, and desired me to go below for a moment.
Explaining this in a word to Mr. Lewis, I complied with her wish.

Entering the lower room, I found Mr. Munroe, who had been requested by
the Doctor to call. I was much interested in the account given by Mrs.
Lewis to her pastor; and which she narrated in language above her
station. I have often noticed that persons in humble life when speaking
upon religious topics, are elevated by their theme, and by their
familiarity with the language of scripture.

Mr. Lewis was born of pious parents who early dedicated him to God, and
sought prayerfully to educate him in the fear of his Maker. He had lived
a perfectly moral and peaceful life, having been able to support his
family at least in comfort, until laid low by disease. When he was
unable longer to work, they had moved to Crawford, as a place where his
wife could find employment for her needle.

They had three children, the girl and boy I mentioned, and one between
the ages of these two, who was at school. Mrs. Lewis felt that her
husband was a Christian, and had been, for many years. But he was of an
eminently timid spirit, distrustful of himself, and as he could not tell
the exact time of his conversion, not having been exercised in mind like
his wife, and many others whose experience he had heard or read, he had
been unwilling to make a public profession of religion. He had, however,
been in the daily habit of secret prayer, and of reading the scriptures;
had taught his children faithfully, not only the practical duties of
religion, but had endeavored to instil into their young minds the sacred
doctrines of the gospel, as he had been taught them by his parents.

During the visit of the Doctor on Tuesday, the patient had given
evidence of a saving change; and he had urged the sick man to give glory
to God, and to hope in his mercy. This view of his case led the poor man
to a train of reflection, which ended in the calm but complete trust he
put in his Heavenly Father.

He had none of the rapture with which Caroline was sometimes borne as on
angel wings, to heaven; but there were reasons to hope he was as truly a
monument of grace. At the Doctor's last call, he had humbly but
earnestly expressed a desire to unite himself to the people of God, and
to taste, at least, once on earth, of that feast of which our risen Lord
has said, "Do this in remembrance of me."

The Doctor had requested our pastor to call and converse with him upon
this subject. I expressed my fear that the invalid was too much
fatigued; but Mr. Munroe said he should be very brief.

I waited below for about ten minutes, when Mrs. Lewis invited me to go
up and join them in prayer. The regular season for the administration of
the ordinance here will be the first Sabbath in July, but as Mr. Lewis
will not probably live so long, it was concluded to have the service
privately administered to him next Sabbath afternoon. Mrs. Lewis invited
me to be present with the Doctor, which I promised to do, and left
accompanied by Mr. Munroe, whose house lay in the same direction.

Mrs. Munroe has been absent ever since my arrival in Crawford, on a
visit to her father's. I told her husband, I anticipated much pleasure
in her acquaintance.

He says, he is under great obligation to the Doctor, for informing him
of such cases as the one we had just witnessed. He is still so much of a
stranger in the place, he has not found out who are the members of his
parish. He enlarged particularly upon the great aid it was to a
clergyman, as well as upon the great advantage it was to the town, to
have a pious physician. He said it was often the case when physicians
were otherwise, that they were unwilling to have a pastor visit their
patients, vainly imagining that they might frighten and injure them.
Here he said, he everywhere met with evidence of the Doctor's
faithfulness to the souls as well as to the bodies of those to whom he
was called.

This exactly accords with my own observation. I thank God that he has
made my dear Frank an instrument of good.

As we were approaching Mr. Munroe's house, he said, "I have been much
surprised to hear that our neighbor Mr. Benson intends to leave his
people, and to go to Europe. He said nothing to me upon the subject," he
added, "when I met him on Sabbath morning. I should have supposed that
he would have wished to spend the last Sabbath among his own people.
There is some mystery about it."

I made no reply; and after a pause, he inquired "Is he out of health?"

"He certainly appeared so the day he preached," I replied. I did my best
to appear unembarrassed, but cannot say that I entirely succeeded. He
looked intently at me for a moment, but said no more.

When I left him, he added, he should not be surprised if Mr. Lewis did
not live until the Sabbath, but he thought him prepared to die.




CHAPTER VII.

     "Give him not all his desire, so shalt thou strengthen him in hope;
     Neither stop with indulgence the fountain of his tears, so shall he
       fear thy firmness.
     Above all things, graft on him subjection, yea in the veriest
       trifle."  TUPPER.


_Friday Evening, June 19th._

Emily continues convalescent, and her eye begins to have its former
lustre. She has sat in the chair nearly all the afternoon, while mother
and I were sewing and Pauline played with her toys upon the floor. I am
more than ever convinced that Emily's sickness is connected with her
mental trouble.

I am likely to have full employment for my needle. Little girls need so
many changes, and Miss Pauline had none, on her arrival, however large
her wardrobe may have originally been. Mother wishes to assist me; but I
declined her kind offer.

Poor little Pauline! she had a hard time this morning, and so did her
mamma. We had quite a controversy; but I will explain. Cæsar was going
to market in the village; and I told him if he would take the carriage,
I would ride with him, as I wished to make a few purchases.

It is very warm; and I did not think it best for Pauline to accompany
me, as she had generally done of late. She thought this very hard, and
began to cry. I stepped back, and said, "Aunty sick; Pauline mustn't
cry," when she fairly screamed, and showed a very naughty temper. I saw
there was to be a contest; and I told Cæsar not to wait. "I must
postpone my ride until another time." Then taking her in my arms I
carried her to a room the farthest removed from Emily's, and laying off
my bonnet, attempted to take her into my lap.

But no, she would not come to me. She ran across the room and threw
herself down on the floor, kicking and screaming. I was astonished, and
did not know what to do. I was afraid if she cried so, she would make
herself sick; at the same time I knew that she ought to be made to obey.
It was in my heart to take her up and coax her to be good; but this I
knew would injure her, and destroy my authority. In a low firm voice I
said, "Get up, Pauline, and come to mamma." She only kicked the more,
and screamed the louder. I had not supposed the child had half the
strength of limb or lungs. This was her first exhibition of temper. Till
now she had been uniformly yielding and mild, though to be sure, as
Frank says, this was the first time her wishes were ever crossed.

I never was so perplexed; and if Frank had been in the house I should
have left her with him, and ran off where I couldn't hear her scream. I
kept repeating my commands; but she paid no attention, though I spoke as
gently and caressingly as I could, and asked her to be mamma's dear
little girl. She would stop screaming a moment and look at me; and when
I thought she was going to yield, she would begin afresh.

I tried to think she did not understand me, and was thankful for any
excuse for her. But in this I soon found I was mistaken; for I told her
to pick up a block and put it in the chair. This she did readily; then
when I told her to come to me, she lay down and began to kick and scream
with all her might.

I left her on the floor, and calling mother out of Emily's room, told
her in a whisper my trouble, and asked her what I could do. I even
begged her to go in, and try her skill. But she said that would not
answer the purpose; Pauline must be made to submit to me, as her parent.
She encouraged me by saying, "I once had just such a contest with Frank;
but when he yielded, it was for life."

I therefore returned to the room, with a heavy heart, where the noise
had entirely subsided. Finding, however, that she was no more ready to
obey, but had stopped from sheer exhaustion, I kneeled by the chair, and
asked God to give me wisdom and strength for this emergency. And if
chastisement were necessary, I prayed that it might be administered in a
right spirit.

I arose and took my seat. "Pauline," said I, "if you do not come to
mamma, she will have to punish you." She looked at me earnestly,
attracted by the tone of my voice, which was very decided; but she did
not seem to know what punishing meant. "Will you come?" I repeated. She
shook her head decidedly. I went to her and taking her hand struck it
with mine. Oh, dear, how it made my heart ache! Her lip quivered, and
then she burst out afresh. Both the command and the punishment, I had to
repeat five or six times; but at length, when I resumed my seat and
asked, "Now will my little Pauline come to mamma?"

She ran and threw herself into my arms. The contest was over. I carried
her back two or three times, and then called her, when she readily
obeyed. Now I could act out the impulses of my heart; I kissed her, and
wept over her. Then I pressed her tightly in my arms, while I told her
mamma was sorry, her little girl had been so naughty. She took her apron
to wipe away my tears, and seeing me still weep, she sobbed aloud.

When she became composed, I carried her to mother, where, though her lip
still quivered, she was Pauline again. She kissed them all, and told
them, "mamma sorry," which she repeated to papa, and Ann. My grief made
a great impression upon her tender heart.

I know, dear mother, you will sympathize with me in this trial. I think,
however, it will do the child good. Frank remarked at dinner, that I
looked very pale, and I certainly felt worse for the excitement; but he,
and all the rest, rejoiced with me in the happy termination. Pauline
sobbed a long time after she was asleep; but this afternoon she has been
like a little lamb, coming every time she looked up from her play and
met my eye, to give me a sweet kiss.


_Saturday, June 20th._

This morning I went to the village, and though I trembled for my
daughter, lest the scene of yesterday should be repeated, she behaved
well; and I promised her a ride this afternoon with papa. Did I tell
you, I had taught her to say "Papa?" I had no idea of being her _only_
parent.

During the forenoon, I received a very pleasant call from Lucy Lee, the
daughter of Squire Lee, our richest citizen, who made his money, as I
have told you, by his distillery. She is a beautiful girl, modest and
sweet in her manners, but looked to-day very pale and careworn. My
thoughts recurred to what I had heard of her domestic trials. I was glad
she was unaccompanied by her brother, who is very disagreeable to me
with his talk of "_our_ place, _our_ horses, _our_ store." It seems
hardly possible that he can be her _own_ brother.

Lucy is said to be like her mother, now deceased. Joseph is like his
father, and has been so much indulged, especially since his mother's
death, that he is now the master. Emily says the whole family are afraid
of him; and that Lucy, with whom she is intimate, lives a very sad life
in the midst of all their splendor.

I invited the dear girl to come to tea next week, to which she
cheerfully consented. I hope, by that time Emily may be down stairs.

This afternoon I persuaded mother to take my place with Frank for a
drive. She has confined herself closely for the last week. Pauline was
delighted to accompany them, though she did not like to leave mamma. I
took my sewing into sister's room, where we were soon busy in
conversation. After a little time, she interrupted me, as I was
beginning a remark, "Cora, I want to say something to you while mother
is gone. I wish your advice and assistance."

"Well, dear Emily, it is very easy to give advice;" but while I spoke,
my heart began to beat very fast. I feared it would be something about
Mr. Benson, and then the truth concerning him would have to be told.

Emily suddenly covered her face with her handkerchief, "I have treated
him shamefully."

"Who?"

She looked at me as if she wondered that I should not know of whom she
was speaking, and could not bear to mention his name. As I still looked
inquiringly, she added, "Mr. Benson," and blushed crimson. "He made
proposals of marriage to me the evening after our ride to Waverley, and
I indignantly refused him. I treated him as no lady should treat a
gentleman under such circumstances, even if she cannot love him. But I
_did_ love him! I _do_ love him _now_!" she repeated earnestly, again
hiding her face.

"Then why, dearest Emily, did you treat him so cruelly? I think you were
very much in the wrong."

"I know it, I confess it," she replied, beginning to weep.

"I can't understand you, Emily. You loved him dearly?" She bowed her
head; "and yet refused him with scorn?" She bowed her head still lower.
"Why?" I again asked.

"Because," she said passionately, "he seemed so certain I should make a
courtesy, and say 'Yes, sir, I thank you.' I suppose he expected I
should fall right into his arms the moment he gave me leave. I loved him
when he was away, yet there was something in his manner toward me which
roused all my pride, and more ugly feelings than I knew I possessed. He
showed his love too openly, as if he were sure of success."

"I thought," said I with a smile, "that you wished the one you married
to be very loving and often assure you of his love."

"Pooh!" said she, trying to laugh, "that was all my nonsense. I would
rather a dozen times, that he would be like Frank. Now he almost
worships you; but he is not always talking about it, and showing it in
such silly ways." I now began to blush in earnest. "But it is foolish to
talk of all this now. The die is cast, and I have no one but myself to
blame. I have been thinking it all over, and have brought down my pride
to asking his forgiveness for my haughty manner; mind, I say for the
_manner_ of my refusal. But it has cost me a hard struggle."

"What made you treat him so the night he called when you were sick?"

"I don't know," she replied, sadly; "I believe I was possessed with some
evil spirit. If he had come in an hour earlier, he would have found me
humble enough."

"Did you expect him?"

"I half expected he would call," covering her face to hide her blushes.
"But my mind was all worked up, and my head ached so, and--and I thought
he'd think I was mourning for him. But I've suffered enough for my
foolish pride."

"Poor girl!" I thought; "if she knew what I do, she would suffer more."
"Emily," said I, rising and taking her hand, "I pity you sincerely; but
I cannot help telling you, I think you have been greatly to blame."

"Well, I'm willing to hear that from you; and I have acknowledged it."

"In the first place," I continued, "it was entirely your imagination
with regard to him. His manner, as far as I saw it, was uniformly
respectful and tender, perhaps too openly the latter to suit my taste;
but not the least bordering on undue confidence in your attachment.
Indeed, I thought he did not sufficiently respect himself, and was too
distrustful. Then I can't understand how you could love him, and yet
give him such pain. You saw how very pale he looked."

"Oh, don't repeat it! I have thought of nothing else;" and the poor girl
wept bitterly. Suddenly she looked up, as she heard the carriage, and
trying to wipe away her tears, said quickly, "Not a word of all this for
the world. I want you to take charge of a note from me, and send it to
him."

"When shall you write it?"

"Some time next week," she answered, putting her finger on her lip, as
she heard mother at the door.

I was glad to escape from the room; and ran down to take Pauline from
papa. My head was all in a whirl. I am glad I did not promise secrecy,
for I must tell Frank the first chance I get. He will know what to do.


_Sabbath Evening, June 21st._

I remained at home with sister this morning, while mother went to
church. It is a rainy day. I suppose we ought to be thankful, for the
earth was very dry and dusty; but I do love a pleasant Sabbath. This
afternoon I went with Frank to church, and from thence to the house of
Mr. Lewis. Mr. Munroe and Deacon Jackson rode with us, and after the
horse had been driven under a shed, we all proceeded to the sick room,
the deacon carrying with him a basket containing the sacred elements.

One of the tenants of the house had opened her room opposite, for the
convenience of the company; and I was surprised as I passed up the
stairs to see that it was crowded with people; many of them, I suppose,
members of the church who came in to unite in the ordinance.

A clean white linen cloth was spread over the table at the foot of the
bed, upon which Deacon Jackson placed two cups of wine and a plate of
bread, covering the whole with a napkin. In the midst of intense
feeling, I noticed all this, with pleasure, as evidence of the reverence
and awe with which he handled the elements which were to represent the
body and blood of our Lord.

The poor dying man, in clean clothing, lay on his bed with everything
about him spotless and white as snow. Though he looked exceedingly pale,
yet there was an elevation and glory in his face, which showed that his
soul had communion with his Saviour, and that the gracious Spirit was
strengthening him for this solemn occasion.

Though it rained very hard, yet the window near the bed was open to give
the poor man fresh air, while his wife stood near him with a fan. I was
affected to see that she had reserved two seats near the bed for the
Doctor and myself. Mr. Munroe occupied a place at the door that he might
be heard in both apartments. Frank gently moved one of the chairs toward
her, motioned her to sit in it, and stood by my side.

The solemn service commenced with an invocation, after which the
covenant and creed of the church were read, and heartily responded to by
the invalid, if I may judge from his rapt attention; then a short prayer
consecrating the elements, which were distributed. The Doctor took the
cup from Deacon Jackson, and gently raising the sick man, held it to his
lips. There was truly a sublime expression on his countenance. With
uplifted hands, he whispered,
"Dear--_dear_--Jesus--died--for--me--glory--_immortal_--GLORY!!"

In a moment the expression changed, and Frank, who was closely watching
him, stepped to Mr. Munroe, and told him he feared Mr. Lewis would
faint. The clergyman immediately pronounced the benediction, and
requested the friends quietly to withdraw.

I stepped to the backside of the room, while the Doctor opened the other
windows for a moment to change the air, and with the help of strong
restoratives, the patient soon revived, and was able to swallow a little
of the wine and water the Doctor had prepared. I went toward the bed to
bid him farewell, doubting whether I should ever see him alive again. He
looked at me affectionately and gratefully, and pointed up, as if he
would ask me to meet him in heaven. I pressed his cold hand to my lips
and silently left the room.

Mrs. Lewis followed us to the door, where she took Frank's hands in
both of hers, and burst into tears. The most ardent desire of her soul
for her poor dying husband had been realized; her prayers for years,
answered; and though he was to be taken from her, she trusted she should
meet him in a better world, to part no more.

I was deeply solemnized and impressed by this scene. It is the first
time my dear husband and I have together tasted the memorials of our
Saviour's love. I think I shall not soon forget it.


_Monday Morning, June 22d._

Mr. Lewis breathed his last this morning soon after eight o'clock. The
Doctor reached there a few moments after, and made all the arrangements
for the funeral, which is to be on Wednesday afternoon in the chapel
near the church.




CHAPTER VIII.

     "Oh! 'tis the _heart_ that magnifies the life,
     Making a truth and beauty of its own."  WORDSWORTH.


_Monday Evening._

Emily is so much better, we think she can go down stairs to-morrow. As I
have had no suitable opportunity to talk with Frank, I have avoided,
when with her, the subject of our late interview.

I went with my husband this afternoon to visit the most charming old
lady I have ever seen. I wish you could see her; she is over eighty, but
just as fair as a young girl, and from her being of full habit, she has
scarcely a wrinkle on her face. She has the most gentle, loving blue
eyes, and her gray hair is nicely combed down under a plain muslin cap.
Many a young girl might be envious of the beautiful peach bloom of her
cheeks. But these are not her greatest charms. It is her manner, her
heart overflowing with love to all. I believe everybody loves her,
because she loves everybody; and she doesn't hesitate to show it. She is
the mother of Mrs. Squire Wilson, to whom the Doctor was called for a
sprained ancle. I could soon understand why he was so pleased to take me
there with him.

When she heard the carriage, Mrs. Low, or "Aunt Susy," as every one
calls her, came to the door, and shading her eyes from the sun with her
hand, stood looking until the Doctor alighted.

"Well now, Dr. Frank, that's you," (she had known him from a baby,) "I
reckoned you'd be here before long."

Frank led the horse to the steps and lifted me out.

"Who's that, now, you've got with you?" she asked, looking at me.

"Somebody else for you to love," said he laughing, for she had taken
possession of his hands.

She started, and holding me by the shoulders in a most loving way, said,
"La, now, Doctor! this 'ere little thing don't b'long to you, does she?
Is she your wife, I heard tell about?" at the same time she gave me a
most hearty squeeze.

Frank laughed as he bowed his assent.

"I reckoned," she added, "you'd pick'd out one a proper sight older'n
this little gal, you was allus so stiff."

As she continued to press me in her arms, and then push me off to look
again, my husband began to look as if he was afraid he never should get
me away again. All this time with a true delicacy, she had not kissed
me, as if she were not sure I would like to be kissed by so old a
person. But I soon relieved her on this point, and then we all walked
into the sitting-room where her daughter, who was evidently used to such
scenes, was patiently awaiting us. After being introduced to Mrs.
Wilson, whom I recognized, (as I had met her at mother's levee,) the
Doctor proceeded to examine her ancle. Aunt Susy and I took seats on the
little sofa which was covered with bright chintz. She sat very close to
me, and with a press of my hand which she held, she motioned with her
head toward the Doctor, saying in what she meant for a whisper, "he's a
real nice man to live with, I'll be bound." I only laughed and nodded.

"Them stiddy ones, sometimes turns out the greatest rogues," she
continued in a comforting tone, "now I calculated, he'd court a prim,
proper kind of a woman, a reglar old maid, that'ud be company for his
mother; but there's no telling what people will do, times changes so,
since I was a gal."

I was well convinced by the spasmodic motion about Dr. Frank's mouth,
that he was not so absorbed in the examination of Mrs. Wilson's foot
that he did not hear every word of this _confidential_ talk, I therefore
thought, I would try to change the subject of conversation. As I could
think of nothing else, I told her what a dear little girl I had found.
She was almost breathless with interest, and when I stopped she said:--

"Now I never heard the cap to that! Now do tell if you're gone to keep
her for your own, or if you're gone to kind o'make a servant of her?"

"Oh, no indeed!" I answered quickly, "Frank loves her as well, or almost
as well as I do, and we have adopted her for our own."

"And she's nothin to you, by blood I mean?"

"Oh, no, we don't know whose child she is."

"Well, that is the beater!" she exclaimed, and for the child's sake I
suppose, gave me another squeeze and kiss.

"Betsey," said she to her daughter, "Did you ever hear tell what Dr.
Frank's been and done?"

"No, mother."

"Well, he'd no more'n got his little young wife safely housed, than he
was so impatient for a darter, that he went and picked up one out of the
streets, and gin to her to take care on."

The Doctor and I laughed heartily at this curious exposition of our
domestic affairs, while she evidently thought she had stated the case
exactly. She ended with, "There now, I never was so beat. To think of
Dr. Frank starting off on sich a rig. However, I hope good luck'll come
on't, and mabby you'll soon find out who the child b'longs ter."

"Oh! no," said I, interrupting her, "that is the only thing I'm afraid
of, I couldn't give her up."

"Look there, now!" said Aunt Susy, turning in surprise to the Doctor,
"an't it mazin how these young critters takes to children."

We both rose to go; but she just took my hands, and set me down again.
"Sit right there, till I bring you some luncheon."

I told her I preferred not taking any; but she would hear no excuse. She
went out into the kitchen, and very soon brought a waiter, covered with
a clean napkin, holding two tumblers of rich milk, and some nice sponge
cake. It was really delicious. Mrs. Wilson addressed a few words to me;
but I was not at all drawn to her as to her mother. The Doctor says she
is a woman possessed of a very good mind, and has been a great reader,
but has never had children to develop her affection and modify her
character.

When we had disposed of the lunch, and Frank had given his directions to
his patient, we prepared to take leave, receiving one or two extra
kisses, and a good squeeze of the Doctor's arm for his part.

"Bring her here when you come again," said the old lady, pointing to me.
"She's a pootty critter." Aunt Susy is a little deaf, and seems to think
everybody else so. "I think so too," whispered Frank in her ear, loud
enough for others to have the full benefit, when, after receiving a
loving pat on his arm, he jumped into the carriage.

I told the Doctor on our way home, how disappointed his old friend was,
that he had not married a more suitable person,--one that could be a
companion both for him and his mother. He laughed so heartily, that I
had to hush him several times, for fear some one would hear.

"Yes," he said, when he could speak, "I know who the old lady wanted me
to have; but in the choice of a wife I intended to suit myself. So if
you are satisfied, I prophesy she will soon be reconciled."

Now, my dear mother, if you have any idea from what I have written, that
Aunt Susy has anything coarse about her, I have not described her well
at all. She is truly refined in her feelings. I wish all the ladies I
have met in high life were as much so. She is a dear, old-fashioned,
warm-hearted woman; and it makes one's heart warm just to hear her name.
Mother says, her husband was one of the most highly respected men in the
state,--a justice of the peace, and lived independently on his farm,
where he was monarch of all he surveyed. Mrs. Low had considerable
property which she has made over to her daughter, who takes care of her.


_Tuesday, June 23d._

This has been a very warm day, and I have not been out of the house,
though I wished much to see Caroline Leighton. She is quite comfortable
again, and sits in her chair two or three hours at a time.

Last night after we retired to our room, I told Frank I wanted to ask
his advice upon a very important subject. So we sat down in the bright
moonlight, while I told him about Emily. He said not a word, but heard
me with interest. I fancy he controlled his feelings, as he frightened
me so much the other night. "Now you see, Frank," I said, "you did Emily
injustice. She has acknowledged she did wrong; and she intends to
confess it to Mr. Benson."

"Ahem!" was all the reply.

"What can I do?" No answer.

"After all," said he, starting up to walk across the room, "it is quite
a triumph for Emily to confess her error to him. She has her full share
of the Lenox pride; and we all have enough of it. It must have cost her
a great struggle. But that doesn't help the poor fellow. I should wish
no farther acquaintance with a lady who had treated me so rudely."

Frank seemed to be soliloquizing, and I interrupted him by asking again,
"My dear _husband_, what shall I do?"

"I can tell you, my love, what I shall do, very quickly," he replied,
coming and taking my hand, while he kissed me repeatedly. "I shall love
you with all my heart for calling me by so dear a name." I had never
before addressed him as my "husband."

I felt very courageous in the moonlight, and said, "Why, Frank, I
understood you to say nearly a year ago, that you had lost your heart.
Have you found it again?"

"Not exactly; but I've found the warmest, largest, most precious heart,
to put in its place."

"But," said I after a moment, "to return to Emily. She intends writing a
note, which she wishes me to send."

"I don't see how that can be done. We don't know where to direct. Did he
mention the name of the family he was going with?"

"Yes, Mr. Karswell, a merchant in New York. Mr. Benson goes with his
son, who has just graduated, or is about to graduate."

"Then I think we might reach him through his patron. Address it to the
care of C. M. Karswell--I know the firm. Charles does not leave college
until sometime next month. I suppose arrangements will be made for them
to sail soon after his graduation. I will confess to not a little
curiosity to read Emily's epistle. Will she show it to you?"

"I think it doubtful," I replied.




CHAPTER IX.

     "He loved--loved keenly; and he could not bow
     To what seemed tyranny, and so he sought
     His wonted happiness, at least the bliss
     Of mutual tears, and vows of tenderness,
     Never to leave their loves, but always cling
     To the fixed hope, that there should be a time,
     When they could meet unfettered, and be blest
     With the full happiness of certain love."  PERCIVAL.


_Wednesday, June 24th._

I forgot to mention last night that the services of the Doctor had been
requested at the Nabob's mansion, or "Lee Hall," as Joseph styles it. In
other words, when Frank went to his office in the village yesterday
morning, he found the following request upon the tablet. "Will Dr. Lenox
call at Squire Lee's residence this forenoon, to afford medical advice
and relief?" This was written by Joseph in a bold flourishing hand.

The Doctor called, and found Lucy was the patient. _Patient_, she
certainly was in one sense of the word, though not much sick. Frank
says, her trouble is beyond his reach. It is sorrow of heart. Lucy has
from a child been intimate with sister, and is of course well acquainted
with the Doctor. When he kindly enquired the symptoms of her complaint,
she did not speak, but just placed her hand upon her heart with a
sorrowful expression. He asked if there was nothing he could do for her
relief. She shook her head with such a woe begone look that he was
deeply moved. He could do nothing but recommend nourishing food, and
free exercise in the open air. He did not leave until she promised to
fulfil her engagement to take tea with us on the morrow, when he wishes
us, if possible, to cheer her spirits as the best means of restoring her
health.


_Thursday, June 25th._

Directly after breakfast I went with the Doctor to see Caroline, and
spent a delightful hour in reading to her, and in conversation on
religion. The Bible and subjects relating to it are her meat and drink.

Directly after my return, I wrote a note to Lucy Lee, begging her to
come to us at an early hour; and in consequence of my invitation, she
made her appearance about three o'clock. We were all moved by the
expression of meek and patient endurance upon her lovely countenance.

I purposely left her alone with Emily, for I thought that she might talk
more freely with her, and perhaps find relief from her sympathy and
affection. I had just returned from the cottage with Pauline, where
mother was occupied with Ruth in preparing for their return, when Emily
requested me to go into her room, to which she had invited Lucy, that
they might be free from interruption.

I found Emily in a state of great excitement, and poor Lucy with her
handkerchief to her face silently weeping.

"I say," exclaimed Emily passionately, "it's a disgrace to the town, for
such a system of persecution to go on, as has been, and is still pursued
toward her," pointing to Lucy, who had not looked up, "and not have it
inquired into and prevented." Emily had, for the time, forgotten her own
trials, in her indignation at the greater ones of her friend.

I sat down by the weeping girl, putting my arm around her waist. She
thanked me by a press of the hand, while Emily, who sat in a
rocking-chair opposite, (she was too excited to keep still a moment,)
continued, "Only think, Cora, of that rascally fellow Joseph." Poor Lucy
looked imploringly.

"Excuse me, poor girl; but much as I love you, I have always detested
your brother. He has nothing of the gentleman about him. But I never
could have believed he would have acted so cruelly."

I had been waiting in vain to hear the occasion of this ebullition of
feeling; and I interrupted my indignant sister, by saying, "You forget,
Emily, that I know nothing of the circumstances."

She then gave me, in substance, the following narrative:

From a child, Lucy has been attached to Allen Mansfield. In fact, they
can hardly remember the time when they did not love each other. While
Mrs. Lee lived, all went on well; and although a very gentle, loving
woman, she exerted a considerable influence over her husband, and
persuaded him to consent to their early betrothal. Allen's father, Mr.
Mansfield, is a merchant in this place, carrying on a prosperous
business; and, at the time of their engagement, his son was considered,
in point of wealth, a suitable match for Lucy. Allen was everything her
mother desired; honorable, upright and virtuous, of generous heart, and
noble principles. More than all, he and his beloved were united in the
most enduring tie of Christian friendship, and had together made a
public profession of religion.

Since that time, however, Squire Lee, by means of his horrible traffic
in ardent spirits, has added house to house and farm to farm, until he
has been easily persuaded by his son, that his only daughter ought to
look higher in her choice of a husband. Not that brotherly affection was
so strong in Joseph. Dislike to Allen was his ruling motive. They had
been schoolmates; and though from love to the gentle sister, Allen had
tried to show, at least, kindness to her brother, yet he could not
always conceal his displeasure at Joseph's conduct. A slight or neglect
this haughty young man never forgot. He only waited his time to make
sure his revenge. Since Allen's intimacy with the family, he had indeed
treated him with outward politeness; yet he hated him on account of his
strong, and oft expressed disapprobation of the course he was pursuing,
and the character of his companions. In this way he had gradually worked
his mind into such a state, that there was no calamity too great for him
to visit upon Allen, had it been in his power.

Such was their relation, when it occurred to the poor drunken creature,
(for no less was he a drunkard because his wines were imported from
Europe at four dollars a bottle; and his Cogniac the best which could be
obtained,) to revenge himself upon Allen by depriving him of Lucy. He
neither thought, nor cared for the sorrow it would cause her loving
heart. He went to work with a zeal worthy of a better cause. By speaking
in a disparaging tone of him to his father, he gradually led him to view
the young man as no longer suitable in rank or station to be allied to a
daughter of their house.

Poor Lucy! At first she gently tried to defend her lover from inuendoes,
and insinuations which her brother took care should be in such general
terms, they could not be met and refuted. Every one is aware how much
worse than an open accusation are implications like the following:--"If
I were to tell what I know, Allen Mansfield would be hooted out of good
society. He is called clever, but I wouldn't ensure his honor nor his
virtue."

It was not strange that Squire Lee, who had long suffered himself to be
guided; nay, almost governed by his son, and who was much enfeebled in
mind by the free use of brandy, determined to break the match, nor that
he one day, when he had drunk so much that he could hardly stand, almost
broke her heart by commanding her to dismiss Allen, or he himself would
do it.

The wretched girl had had many doubts and misgivings whereunto these
things would grow, and had shed many bitter tears in secret; but as she
had no idea of the extent of her brother's malice, nor of the strength
of his determination upon revenge, she had never conceived so dreadful a
result.

For a week, she was obliged to keep her bed, being almost overwhelmed
with sorrow. Dear girl! the thought never entered her mind that it could
be possible to resist so unjust a sentence. Allen, however, was of
different temperament. Naturally gentle and kind, yet when his
indignation was roused, he had the courage of a lion.

Having heard that Lucy was sick, he hastened to inquire for her. It so
happened that he went to the house when Squire Lee was alone, and more
than usually under the influence of reason. Though he forbid his
visiting Lucy, or having anything more to say to her, as he expressed
it, yet he did so in a less offensive manner than on the occasion of his
interview with his daughter.

The consequence was that the young man did not feel called upon to obey
him, but in a day or two called again, having waited in vain for an
answer to several letters, he had written to Lucy. On this occasion,
however, his visit was not so well timed. Joseph was with his father,
who had not yet recovered from his heavy potations of wine and brandy at
dinner, and who, therefore, was easily strengthened by his son in his
cruel purpose.

A dreadful scene ensued. Allen, whose heart-interest was at stake,
determined, for the sake of her whom he loved, to be respectful to her
father. But he was not prepared to withstand the perfect torrent of
wrath which burst upon him. When he entered and inquired for Lucy,
Joseph sneeringly said, "My sister shall never marry a mean scoundrel
like you."

Paying no attention to this, which, however, made his blood boil, he
turned to the old gentleman, saying, "You surely cannot be in earnest in
trying to separate your daughter and myself. Your deceased wife was my
friend; and she as well as yourself gave a ready consent to our union."
In the midst of his wrath Squire Lee was a little softened by the tone
and manner of the young man, as well as by the mention of his wife,
whom he had loved next to himself. He was about to speak more kindly,
when Joseph, perceiving his intention, interrupted him.

"Lucy Lee will be an heiress; no wonder you are loath to give up her
wealth."

Allen turned deadly pale from suppressed emotion, but controlling his
feelings, said, "Squire Lee, I ask again the hand of your daughter. I
will gladly take her without one farthing of your hoarded wealth."

Joseph whispered something in his father's ear, who replied, "all very
fine, young man--_very fine_ talk" (hiccough) "indeed; but you--can't
have her. You see" (hiccough) "we've," with a cunning look at Joseph,
"other views for her."

Allen could contain himself no longer, and in a terrible voice denounced
both father and son as inhuman and brutal in their conduct. "The time
will surely come," he added, "when you will bitterly regret your cruelty
toward her, and your abuse of me."

Were these prophetic words?

Joseph, who was beside himself with rage, flew at Allen, and aimed a
violent blow at his head, which the young man dexterously warded off.

Poor Lucy, who had been attracted by the noise below, sprang from her
bed, and having thrown on a loose robe, rushed wildly into the room. All
stood for one moment speechless with astonishment at her presence, and
frightful pallor. She threw herself at her father's feet, begging him
not to break her heart. She frantically invoked the spirit of her
departed mother to intercede for her, but alas! to no effect. Squire Lee
sat motionless while Joseph in a fury rang the bell, and said to the
porter, "turn that rascal out of the house."

Allen, seeing there was no hope for him or his dearly beloved Lucy,
suddenly caught her in his arms, held her for one brief moment to his
breast, bade her farewell, and left the house. There was a sincerity in
his grief, a dignity in his manner, which made even the hard hearts of
both brother and father quail.

Here at Emily's request, Lucy continued the narrative. "I cannot
remember what immediately followed; but when I recovered my
consciousness, I was in my own room. Mrs. Burns the house-keeper, almost
my only friend and confidant, stood bathing my hands and face. From that
time I gave up all hope of happiness with Allen, though he has never
ceased to write me the most tender letters, urging me not to despair,
but to hope on, and hope ever."


     "Love in the earnest mind is not a dream,
     To fade in sorrow, or grow dim by age,
     But a most true outpouring of the soul;
     A pledge of faith, that looking from the past,
     And through the present--sees beyond it all
     Hope unaffected by earth's weary change."


"I have never written in reply, but have sent messages of unchangeable
and undying love. I begged Mrs. Burns, through whom alone we could
communicate, to tell my dear Allen, that though I could not marry him in
defiance of my father's command; yet I would not marry another. He would
never cease to be dearer to me than life."

The distressed girl wept so much, that Emily resumed. Weeks passed on,
and Joseph encouraged by her passive obedience, began to think he could
now bestow her hand to his own advantage.

Among the vile acquaintances which he had formed in a neighboring city,
was Mr. William Arnold, a man about thirty years of age, of whose
elegant dress and accomplishments Joseph was never tired of talking. He
was often at the house, and Lucy from an instinctive feeling of dislike
avoided him as much as possible. She was obliged to meet him at the
table, and to treat him with civility as a guest. She says she has
sometimes questioned herself as to the ground of her prejudice against
him. He is tall, of an elegant figure, and very free, easy manners. He
converses well, and has rendered himself a favorite with the old
gentleman; but there is a look in his eye which she says cannot be
trusted. Then the fact of his being so intimate with her brother is
strongly against him.

But when Mr. Arnold began to exhibit a fondness for her society, and
whispered soft nothings in her ear, she says "she absolutely loathed
him."

"His passionate eye," exclaimed Lucy, starting from her seat in great
excitement, "actually makes all my bones to shake. I would willingly
have confined myself to my room; but this I was not allowed to do. My
father," she added with a deep sigh, "no doubt instigated to such a
course by my brother, commands me to appear, as he says whatever company
he chooses to invite to the house is only too good for me. I pined and
wept in secret, but was required to appear cheerful in the presence of
my now avowed admirer."

With a look of horror, the wretched girl said "I had rather die than
marry him." She acknowledged, however, that she dared not openly resist
her brother's wishes. "When he has been drinking he is--" she checked
herself, "very unlike a brother," and she shuddered with fear at the
thought.

"I am willing to give up Allen, though he is so _very_ dear to me; but
why need they force me to marry this vile man." She said when the Doctor
called she longed to ask his advice; but fear restrained her; and then
she knew it could do no good. This was said almost in a tone of despair.

In her indignation, Emily was for sending a police officer to take
father and son and lock them up in jail. I was silent from astonishment;
I had known of cases in France where children were forced to marry
against their will; but can it be so, thought I, in this free country?
Why then this boast of liberty? I am so much interested in this sweet
girl that I have given you a full account of her trials, embracing what
was told me during this interview, and what I learned from mother and
Frank after her departure. I gave the poor girl all my sympathy, while
Emily was very free with her advice, some of which from Lucy's shake of
the head, I foresaw it would be difficult, if not impossible, for her to
follow. But we both urged her to be firm in refusing to give her hand to
one whom she did not respect, and therefore could not love. In this
advice we were joined by my husband and mother.

After she left, we sat late talking about Squire Lee. I gathered from
what they said, that when the old gentleman first came to the village,
he was a poor boy, and was employed as a clerk in a grocer's store.
Being a shrewd, active lad, he had worked his way up to be a partner in
the firm. Then he married his partner's daughter, at which time they
increased their business, and built their distillery. This proved so
much more profitable than their grocery, that they sold out their store
and devoted themselves entirely to the manufacture of New England rum.

When his father-in-law died, the whole manufactory and trade fell into
his hands; and now he is possessed of great wealth. It was certainly
known that many houses and farms had passed into his hands; and that a
large number of families had been reduced from independence and comfort
to beggary through their connection with this ruinous business; this
soul-killing establishment.

Frank said his father had often remarked the deplorable effect this
traffic had upon the mind and character of his neighbor. From being
apparently a kind hearted man, he had gradually become hard, unfeeling
and inhuman. Mammon and Bacchus were his gods. Personal ease and
domestic tranquillity, neighbors and friends, family and home, his body
and his soul, he had sacrificed to these divinities.


_Friday, July 3d._

Great preparations are making for the celebration of the Fourth of
July, which is the anniversary of the national independence.

I really think Lucy's visit has been of service to Emily by taking her
mind from herself. She gave me a sealed note to-day directed to Rev.
Frederic Benson, which Frank has enclosed in a wrapper to Mr. Karswell.


_Saturday, July 4th._

On many accounts this has been a trying day to me. I suppose I do not
yet feel patriotic enough to bear the noise patiently. This morning we
were awakened with the first streak of light, by the booming of cannons
on a neighboring height. My poor little Pauline screamed and cried. When
I took her from her crib into my bed, her teeth chattered from her
affright. I tried to talk with her and soothe her; but in truth I had as
much as I could do to calm myself. The continued roar made me tremble so
much that I could easily sympathize with the frightened girl.

Doctor Frank expressed much sorrow for us, and would gladly have
prevented it, if possible; but he said there was no help for it but
patience. He comforted both Pauline and myself, by saying he would hurry
through his morning calls, as he has no very sick patients, and take us
all out into the country beyond the reach of the noise.

After an early dinner we started to rid ourselves of the noise of
cannons and bells, which were to commence again their tumult at noon. We
had a delightful ride and picnic in a grove. We carried cold chicken,
ham and condiments in a basket, and spread them out on a cloth under the
trees. Pauline forgot all her troubles, and amused us much by her
gayety. She danced and tried to sing in her delight.

When she was tired, she went to Frank and turned her back for him to
lift her up. He pretended not to know what she wanted, so as to have the
pleasure of hearing her say, "please, papa, take Pauline." It is really
amusing to watch them together. She goes quite as a matter of course to
him when he sits in the library, and asks him to "take her," waiting
patiently for half an hour, it may be, for him to finish reading his
paper. Then she is sure of a frolic.

It often makes me laugh till the tears run down my cheeks, to see him
dancing about the room, with Pauline perched upon his shoulder, holding
tightly to his hair. It is fortunate for the young miss, it is curly,
else her hold would not be quite so firm. I wonder what Madame Le Row or
Mademoiselle Blanche would say to see Dr. Lenox, "the graceful, refined,
but rather too serious Dr. Lenox," capering about the room in that
style.


     "He will not blush that hath a father's heart,
     To take in childish plays a childish part."




CHAPTER X.

     "If a soul thou would'st redeem,
     And lead a lost one back to God;--
     Would'st thou a guardian angel seem
     To one who long in guilt hath trod,--
     Go kindly to him,--take his hand
     With gentlest words within thine own,
     And by his side a brother stand,
     Till all the demons thou dethrone."  MRS. C. M. SAWYER.


_Monday, July 6th._

This afternoon, I rode out with Frank to visit an elegant residence,
about three miles distant. The house stands on an elevation, and has a
beautiful lawn in front, descending toward a small lake or pond; on the
shore of which stands a neat but tasteful boat-house, with
accommodations for boating or fishing.

I saw a young girl rowing herself in a light skiff. She appeared to me
to be about to upset every minute; but Frank told me it was an Indian
canoe, which, being very light, can be paddled about with great ease and
safety.

On our return, a woman came to the door of her house and requested the
Doctor to call at Jones's, where a child was sick, intimating that she
wished to say something more, but did not like to do so in my presence.
I immediately proposed to alight from the carriage and proceed to the
house of the patient, which was but a few steps distant.

Both the outer and inner doors were open, and nothing could be more
appalling than the sight presented to my view. The room itself was
capable of being made comfortable, if proper care had been bestowed
upon it. But at present poverty and filth ruled without restraint.

The sick child lay upon a tottering bedstead, which was covered with
pieces of carpet, torn quilts, or anything which could be procured from
the floor or elsewhere. A part of an old rag-mat was fastened by two
forks to the window at the side of the bed, to serve the double purpose
of keeping out the wind and light, as there was hardly a whole pane of
glass.

Chairs without backs, and a table under which a barrel had been pushed
to serve in the place of a missing leg, made up the inventory of the
furniture. On the floor, in the farther corner, lay the remnant of an
old straw bed, and upon it was stretched in brutal unconsciousness of
all around him the father of the family; the husband of the woman who
was weeping over the sick child.

I announced myself as the wife of their physician, and was received by
her in a way which led me to suppose she had seen better days. I felt of
the little hand, lying over the side of the bed, and found it burning
with fever. The sufferer lay with her eyes and mouth partly open, and
her hair in a tangled mat about her face and neck.

"How long has she been in this stupor?" I asked, as the child took no
notice of me.

"Since early in the morning."

"And have you given her no medicine?"

"Oh, yes! I have tried to force down a little spirit; but her teeth
seemed set, so that she could not swallow."

I was never more rejoiced than to see Frank enter, as he did at this
moment. He bid the woman get him a clean cloth, and some warm water. The
latter she procured from a neighbor's kitchen, while a part of an old
apron sufficed for the former.

The Doctor then proceeded to bathe the face, neck, and arms of the
child. Afterwards he administered a cooling draught, which the poor,
parched mouth eagerly swallowed. He forbade Mrs. Jones to give her any
spirit, and left, promising to bring powders for the night.

As we rode home, my heart was full of admiration of my husband, while
shame, that disgust had rendered me useless, and pity for the suffering
family, alternately occupied my mind. At length, sympathy prevailed, and
I said, "Frank, I shall watch with that sick child to night."

"Not for the world!" he replied, quickly; and then continued, more
calmly, "The child will do well enough; or rather, she will not be the
one to require most attention. I wish she were away from there; but I
hardly think," he added, after a pause, "it will do to remove her."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Did you not see the man lying in the corner? He is a poor drunken
fellow; and, if I'm not mistaken, will require more care than the child.
I shall engage Mr. Ferris, a kind neighbor, to watch with them."

Perceiving my interest, my husband gave me a short account of the
family, which he had known from childhood. "When Esther Holmes was
married, her father furnished everything necessary for comfortable
housekeeping. She had received a good common education, had been a few
terms to an academy, and every one thought her well and happily settled
in life.

"Her husband, Thomas Jones, is the son of pious parents; a capable man
at his trade, and fully equal to supporting his family in comfort. He
earns, at times, a good deal of money; but it is all spent for rum.
Never was slave more under the influence of a tyrannical master, than he
is under the power of his incessant appetite for intoxicating drink.

"In his Bacchanalian revels and fits of fury, he has broken and
destroyed the furniture until now scarcely a piece remains. Sometimes,
after an attack of delirium tremens, he endeavors to reform, and works
steadily for two or three months. But then he is again overcome, and
drinks worse than ever. His wife has gradually lost all hope, and seems
to give up and let everything go. I fear she does not try to make home
comfortable and pleasant to him, when he is himself. Everything is
filthy in the extreme. It is only as a matter of stern duty that I can
sit down in the house.

"For a day or two Jones has been sick, but he drinks all the time, he is
awake; and I fear he will be wild to-night. It makes me sick at heart to
think of him. He has some noble traits; but rum, _rum_, has changed him
from a kind husband and a tender father into a creature worse than a
brute."


_Tuesday, July 7th._

About midnight a messenger came for the Doctor to hasten to Jones. The
watchers could do nothing with him. He raved and swore that devils were
at the foot of the bed, waiting to catch his soul, and carry it to hell.
Frank went at once and did not return until near daylight. At breakfast,
he relieved my anxiety for the sick child, by saying, she had been
removed to a room in the other part of the house, and was now much
better. But Thomas, he said, had passed a dreadful night. He had seemed
to suffer the torments of the lost. He enumerated his sins from his
childhood, disobedience to his parents, Sabbath breaking, profanity,
intemperance, and almost every form of iniquity. These came up to his
remembrance with the distinctness of the judgment. Then he told how he
had turned from the Saviour, refused His offers of mercy, quenched the
Spirit's influence, ruined his own soul, and the souls of his wife and
children, _all_, ALL _for_ RUM!!

This he screamed out; and when those around tried to soothe him, he said
that he would scream so loud that every drunkard in town could hear. "If
ten thousand devils pursue me," shrieked the insane man, "I will warn
all to beware of RUM!!"

His attendants listened in wonder, and even Frank was astonished, as he
had never heard him talk in this way before. Nor could he understand it
until this morning, when Mrs. Jones told him that they had been to hear
the new minister preach; and it appears their consciences had been
aroused by his faithful presentation of truth.


_Afternoon._

As Frank would not consent to my visiting little Susan, I contented
myself with making her some nice porridge which Ann carried to her. My
husband came in soon after, and told me two men could not hold Thomas in
bed; and they had been obliged to confine his arms. He knows no one but
his physician; and this afternoon appealed to him in a hoarse whisper,
"take them off," pointing to the men who stood at the side of the bed.
"Oh, hide me! _Hide me!_ they tear my soul!"

The Doctor motioned them out of sight, and tried to soothe him.
"Thomas," said he in a calm voice, "do you remember when you and I went
to the Sabbath school?"

"Yes, oh _yes_!" gasped the poor fellow.

"Where did Mr. Goodrich tell us to flee for safety?" Thomas looked up
eagerly, but made no reply.

"He told us to go to Christ. He would save us from all our enemies."

"If he would but take me; but oh, he wont; _he wont_! I've been too
wicked ever to expect that," and hiding his head under the clothes, he
cried aloud. Frank succeeded in persuading him to take some medicine,
which the attendants could not do, because he thought they meant to
poison him. He was calmer before Frank left.


_Thursday, July 9th._

Last evening, my dear husband hurried through his calls, and took Mr.
Munroe with him to see poor Thomas. He found him so exhausted by the
violence of his fits, that, unless soon relieved, he cannot live long.
The agony of his mind makes him much worse than ever before. When they
went in, he had fallen asleep, and they sat down quietly to wait until
he awoke. Frank says, as he sat by the bed and looked at the miserable
man, so haggard and ghastly, he prayed that God would have mercy upon
his soul, even at the eleventh hour.

When Jones awoke, he stared around him a moment, as if trying to
remember where he was, while the Doctor quietly liberated his right
hand, with which he immediately covered his face. After he had taken
some gruel, he sighed, but would not speak.

Frank told him Mr. Munroe had come in as a friend to see him. He
suddenly pulled away the clothes, and said, "No, he'll mock me! He knows
how wicked I am! The last time I went to meeting he told over all my
sins. He knows I can't be saved, and he'll only mock me." Here the poor
creature burst into loud crying.

Mr. Munroe moved nearer, and took Thomas's hand in his; "My poor
friend," said he, in a very gentle voice, "It would ill become me, a
sinful creature as well as yourself, to make a mock at one for whom
Christ died. I have come to remind you of his love, of his desire for
your salvation. He has knocked at the door of your heart again, and
again, and you have turned away from his pleading voice. Will you?--dare
you turn from him now? When the Holy Spirit is striving with you, will
you resist his gracious influence?"

He was interrupted by loud sobs, and Mrs. Jones, whom they had not
perceived, hastened from the room, holding her apron to her face. Thomas
had not noticed the interruption, but was looking so intently at Mr.
Munroe that the Doctor almost feared the excitement, and placed his
fingers on the brawny wrist.

But our good pastor perceived the workings of the spirit, and hoped and
prayed that peace and joy might take the place of the dark despair which
was killing body and soul.

No one spoke, but still Thomas gazed. His whole mind was filled with
wonder. At length, he gasped, rather than spoke, "I will, _I will_
receive Him as my Saviour, but oh, it is too late!"

The last words were spoken in such a tone of utter wretchedness and
despair, that his hearers could not refrain from tears.

"Thomas," asked Mr. Munroe, "Do you remember the thief on the cross? Up
to the moment of his conversion he had probably reviled his Lord. Take
care then that you do not limit the power of the Almighty, whose voice
of mercy saith 'He will save to the uttermost all that come unto Him.'
He also adds for your encouragement, 'though your sins be as scarlet,
they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall
be as wool.'"

The poor man looked from one to the other, as if exhausted by the
dreadful conflict within him, and said in a broken voice, "you will not
deceive me with hope, when God has left me to despair."

Frank said, "While there is life, there is mercy if you will believe;"
and not wishing to prolong the interview, they knelt in prayer. The poor
wife came in and threw herself down at the foot of the bed. Mr. Munroe
in a fervent manner commended them to God.

He prayed that from eternity they might look back upon this hour as the
most blessed of their lives, as the hour when they had chosen Jesus for
their Saviour, and heaven for their everlasting home. Before he arose
from his knees, the poor humble penitent said, in a voice choking with
tears, "Lord, I believe. Have mercy upon my guilty soul!" Mrs. Jones
sobbed aloud.


     From earth to heaven the tidings flew,
     Two guilty souls are born anew.


_Friday, July 10th._

This morning Doctor Frank has been to see Thomas. I waited with no
little impatience for his return. He found his patient decidedly better,
though very weak. He had but one fit during the night, and that much
less severe in its character. He had a touching expression of humility
which made him look like a different man. He has most clear views of the
sinfulness of his own heart; and of the abounding grace of God in
providing a Redeemer for one so vile.

Frank was much pleased with one expression he used; "I dare not hope
that God has accepted me; but I feel willing to be in his hands. He
knows what is best for me. I feel safe to trust him, and think when he
sees how strong my desire is to do right, he will help me."

Oh, that Thomas may be able to withstand temptation, and to bring forth
fruits meet for repentance. I hope Christians will encourage him and
pray for him. I was grieved this morning to hear a professing Christian
speak distrustfully of the change in poor Thomas, and say, "persons in
delirium tremens, are often very pious, but when they recover, their
goodness vanishes like the morning cloud, and early dew."

Surely it is infinite condescension in God to visit the abode of
drunkenness and filth with the rich blessings of salvation; but who can
doubt his ability, and willingness to do it?


_Monday, July 13th._

I have not been quite well for a day or two, and have only received
permission to write a few lines. Frank blames himself for allowing me to
do so much; but I have really done nothing which could injure my health.
The weather was very warm yesterday. I lay upon the bed the greater part
of the day. Frank insisted upon staying from church to nurse me in the
afternoon. He was obliged to visit his patients in the morning. It is
quite sickly now in the town, especially among children. May God
preserve our dear little Pauline!

After her return from church in the afternoon, madam Phebe came to my
room to make inquiries about my health.

"Well, Phebe," I asked, "Did you enjoy the sermon?"

"Oh, yes, missus, ole Phebe hab blessed time. Mass'r Munroe quite undo
hisself dis yer day."

"_Out do_ you mean," said I laughingly.

"Laws missus! dere aint no kinder difference. He go long farder in the
broad road dan I eber heard him afore. I 'spects, I'se can stand de
meanin if I'se don't use de right words."

"What was the text?"

"Dere now, I'se can't jist tink ob de text all in a minit. It has popped
right off all in a suddent, but 'twas a blessed un, all bout God."

"Well, Phebe, if you can't remember the text, you can tell me about the
sermon,--it pleased you so much."

"Oh, yes, missus, pleased me berry much, powerful good discoors dat ar.
Wall now, how kinder curis dis yer chile, can't jist tink ob nothing,
only jist when don't want ter. Now I declar," said the perplexed woman,
putting her hand to her head, "when I'se getting de supper de hull
discoors 'ull come pouring into my ole brain, when I can't no way stop
to 'tend to it."

"Can't you tell me the subject?" I asked, trying to repress my mirth.

"Oh, laws, yes, missus, 'twas all bout piousness, and serousness, dat's
de idee. I'se glad," she added complacently, "I'se got some o' my senses
left, 'twas a blessed discoors dat ar."


_Tuesday, July 16th._

Dear Mother, I am up and dressed for the first time since Monday. I feel
a general prostration of the system. My husband ascribes it to over
excitement. Nothing could surpass the kindness of every one in the
house. I fear Frank will make himself sick from anxiety. He returns home
once or twice in the forenoon, runs to my chamber for a few minutes, and
then off again to another part of the town. Phebe does wonders in her
line, trying to make something "Missus will relish a bit." She complains
that I do not eat enough to keep a canary bird alive, and indeed I have
not much appetite. Frank would not allow me to arise until after dinner,
when Ann came in with a dish which would be very tempting to a person in
health. I readily recognized the kind hand which selected it for me.
The breast of a fat pigeon, with a nice slice of crisp toast, and an
excellent cup of tea. I almost relished it.

While I sat in bed bolstered by pillows with the waiter before me, madam
Phebe came from the kitchen to pay me a visit. She wished to see with
her own eyes why I did not eat.




CHAPTER XI.

     Low at his feet his daughter lies;
       Dear father, let me stay!
     But no, the cruel wretch replies,
       Away, begone, away!

     His heart was crusted o'er with years
       Of guilt, and shame, and sin;
     But still his wretched daughter cries
       Oh! father, turn again!

     I'll give up all I've dearly loved,
       On thee my cares bestow;
     With scorn the gray-haired sire thus proved
       His hate. Go, daughter, _go_!


_Friday, July 17th._

I feel a little stronger to-day. My husband came in yesterday while I
was writing, and put his lordly veto upon my penning another word. I
asked him if he had heard anything more from Lucy, or had received an
answer from Mr. Benson.

He shook his head and said, "your first business is to get well." I
think Emily is disappointed in not hearing from him; and she must be
surprised that he does not write, as she supposes him to be only three
miles distant. She asked me in a whisper yesterday if I had sent her
letter. I told her, I sent it at once, and asked, "Has he replied?"

She shook her head.

"He may be away, and not have received it," I suggested. "I think," I
added with hesitation, "I remember to have heard he was going on a
journey." She brightened at once, and I turned away from fear lest she
should ask more. I am glad to have escaped her scrutiny.


_Friday, July 24th._

It is a week since I wrote you, dear mother. How I have longed to have
you with me! I shall soon begin to expect another packet of letters. I
desire to tell you about poor Emily; but my hand trembles so much, I
don't know that I ought to enter upon it.

On Monday last I felt stronger than I had done for a week or two. Frank
lifted me in his arms, and carried me down stairs for a short drive. The
air was delightful, and I returned much refreshed, and invigorated. I
wanted to walk up stairs, for fear Frank would injure himself carrying
me. Cæsar stepped eagerly forward; but the Doctor only laughed, and
said, "No, Cæsar, I claim this privilege, I can carry her as easily as I
could carry a child."

I felt quite an appetite for my dinner, and was resting in my easy chair
after it, when Emily came up to my room and walked toward me in such a
calm, unnatural manner, I looked at her in alarm.

She seemed to be changed into marble, so colorless and rigid were her
features. She silently put an envelop in my hand. I did not recognize
the writing, but opened it, and took out a note, which, though written
almost illegibly, either from emotion or haste, I saw was from Mr.
Benson. It contained but few words, which were exactly these:--


     "Miss Lenox,[crossed through.--Transcriber.]

     "Beloved Emily,--

     "I have this minute received your note, which has completely
     unmanned me.

     "I am already on my way to Europe, where I shall probably stay
     several years; and where, until the last few minutes, I had hoped
     to spend the remainder of my life. It is only by the kindness of
     Captain B---- I am permitted to detain the pilot, while I write
     these few words.

     "We are already out of the channel. May God bless and forgive us
     both! Dearest, _farewell_!

     "FREDERIC BENSON."


_Saturday, July 25th._

I must finish telling you about my dear sister. Frank told mother as he
came into my room, he should have thought that I was the one who had
received sad tidings; for I sat holding Emily's hand tightly in mine,
while the tears were streaming down my cheeks. Emily was calm and
unmoved. I don't know how she feels; but she appears to be petrified.
This appearance made such an impression upon me, that I had a dreadful
dream after it. I sprang out of bed with a horrible shriek, thinking my
distressed sister was insane, and I was trying to save her from some
impending danger.

The next morning Frank looked very grave, and I heard his voice in the
next room conversing with mother. The result of which conversation is,
that she and Emily have gone for a few weeks to a town about a hundred
miles distant, to visit some relatives.

In all the arrangements, sister was entirely passive, exhibiting neither
unwillingness, nor interest. I hardly thought she could have left me so
coldly. Not a muscle in her face moved as she kissed her farewell. Her
hand remained passive in mine, and was cold and clammy. I know her
brother is very anxious about her; and I expressed my fear that he had
sent her away on my account.

"The journey will do her good," he replied.


_Monday, July 27th._

Pauline is taking nice care of me, while Ann is busy about her morning
work. The dear little thing is so proud to do anything for mamma.
Sometimes she tries to help too much. After Ann curled her hair this
morning, she accidentally left the brush on the dressing table. Pauline
soon espied it, and stepping softly across the room made herself look
like a fright. Her hair needs to be wet before it can be combed, and now
being brushed when dry, it stood out like a broom all over her head. I
told Ann not to laugh so much, lest the child should be encouraged to do
it again, and should give us great trouble.

I asked Frank this morning, if he thought Lucy would come and sit with
me. I feel rather lonely without mother or Emily, as I can neither read
nor write but a few minutes at a time. He answered, "No!" decidedly.

"I want to see somebody," I said.

"How should you enjoy a visit from Aunt Susy?"

I almost jumped from my chair. This made him decide at once that she
would not do. He said "You must rest, mind and body, in order to get
well."


_Tuesday, July 28th._

Yesterday afternoon I had arisen from my bed after a refreshing nap, and
was seated in my easy chair by the window, when Frank came up stairs
talking with some one whose voice I did not recognize, until she said,
"I had hoped ere this to see thee at our house. Thee must come before
Elizabeth goes;" and Friend Estes kindly advanced toward me, "I am truly
sorry to see thee ill, my dear."

I tried to rise, and take her bonnet; but Frank said, she was his
company, and he would do the honors. He took the friendly "poke," and
carried it to the bed, where he spread a napkin carefully over it.

I looked in surprise; but the good lady smiled as she said, "Thy husband
is well acquainted with friendly ways."

"I am sorry to leave such good company," he said, "but I have work
enough for the afternoon." He was just leaving the room, when she
detained him a moment, to ask whether Thomas Jones had recovered, and
whether his family were in need of assistance. Frank replied that Thomas
would soon be able to go to his work; until then, they were supported by
charity.

There is something composing and soothing in the very voice and manner
of the Friends. Certainly this is true with regard to my dear Friend
Estes.

"Does thee like to have thy hair smoothed, my daughter? because I should
love to do it for thee."

I said, I should like it very much, if she would let me sit before her,
as I used to sit before my dear mother. She brought me a cricket, and I
sat down and laid my head in her lap, where, for nearly an hour she
passed her smooth hand lovingly across my forehead and hair. At the same
time she discoursed so sweetly, that the afternoon passed too quickly
away. If her conversation had not been so interesting, I should
certainly have been lulled to sleep.

She told me of her daughter Elizabeth, who is soon to be married to a
worthy young man every way approved by her parents, and the meeting.

"Is she to marry a Quaker?" I asked.

"Yes. He is now of our persuasion; but he was not educated so. He became
a Friend by 'convincement.' The wedding is to take place in P----." And
she invited us to be present, kindly offering me a seat in her carriage,
if Frank could not spare the time to accompany me.

Before she went, she said something which sent the blood to my cheeks,
but which makes me so happy I must tell you about it. I was sitting with
my head in her lap, looking up into her kind face, when she remarked,
"Thee has a kind, loving husband."

"O yes! I cannot think of one thing in which I should wish him to be
different." She smiled a moment, and then said, "I am pleased thou art
so well suited. Would thee like to hear what he said of thee?"

"O, please tell me!" I said, before I thought, and then my cheeks
burned. I hid my face and added, "If you think it would be proper, and
he would like it."

She laughed merrily at my embarrassment, as she said: "I presume, dear,
he has told thee the same, many times. He said, 'If I had searched the
world through, I couldn't have found one so exactly suited to my idea of
a true wife.' He concluded, being quite warmed with his subject, 'She is
a perfect little darling, and I thank God for her every day of my
life.'"

O, mother, you can't tell how happy she made me. I couldn't lift up my
head for a long time, for fear she would see the blissful tears. She
kissed me tenderly, and when she left, my mind was fully determined on
one point,--if I ever am sick and need a nurse, I shall desire of all
others a Friend, if I can get one anything like her.

I know, dear mother, you will be glad that your Cora has not so far,
disappointed the expectations of her husband.


_Friday, July 31st._

Miss Proctor is here, spending a few days with me. I enjoy her society
exceedingly. As we sat together in my room, I did not like to spend the
time in writing. This afternoon Cæsar has driven her in the carriage to
Lee Hall, and Pauline accompanied them.

I sent Lucy a magnificent bouquet, which Cæsar made me for the occasion,
with a little note expressing my affection and sympathy.

I had a call from Mrs. Jones this morning. Frank sent her here to see
Miss Proctor, who is making some clothes for the children.

She appears truly humble and devout. Thomas has not tasted a drop of
spirit since he recovered, and is now beginning to work. She took Miss
Proctor's advice very kindly with regard to neatness and economy; that
her husband might feel that he had a respectable and decent home. She
said, "I have now more heart about him than I have had for many years,
because he distrusts himself and looks above for help and strength."


_Monday, August 3d._

Lucy Lee sent by Miss Proctor a note requesting me, if able, to call
upon her in the course of a few days; and if unable, begging me to ask
the Doctor to call. He went early this afternoon, when she showed him a
letter, she had received from Allen, and asked him what she should do.

The letter stated that Allen, feeling a strong desire to know the
character of the man, rumor had affianced to his Lucy, had placed
himself in the way of one of Joseph's associates, an old schoolmate, who
had told him some astonishing facts. These, Frank only related to me in
brief, and, indeed, would have wholly kept from me if possible.

When Mr. Arnold was first introduced to Lucy, it had not occurred to her
brother to force him upon her acquaintance. But when that gentleman told
him of his love for his beautiful sister, and solicited his cooperation
and influence in winning her hand, he had willingly consented, out of
hatred to Allen. While, however, Arnold's passion increased, her
aversion became every day more evident, until, in a fit of exasperation,
he had made a contract with her brother, that on the day she became his
wife, he, as her husband, would make over to him one half of his
property. This contract Allen's informant was called upon to witness.

The reason of Joseph's cruel determination to force Lucy to a marriage
with his friend was now evident. Allen begged her to be firm in refusing
to be sold in so vile a manner.

The Doctor requested to see Joseph, being determined to appeal to his
affection as a brother, and his honor as a gentleman, if, indeed, he had
any such feelings. But he was informed that he had gone with Mr. Arnold
to the city. Frank then advised her to embrace this favorable
opportunity to impart to her father her decided refusal to marry Mr.
Arnold. With this advice poor Lucy, with a shudder, promised to comply.
She is too fearful.


_Tuesday, August 4th._

I long to hear from Lee Hall. If I do not in a day or two, I will try to
persuade Frank to allow me to call there.

To-day we received wedding cards from Dr. and Mrs. Clapp. I shall take
an early opportunity to visit them. We also received a letter from
mother, and can you believe it? Frank almost refused to let me read it.
I felt so hurt, I could only say, "Dear husband, would you like me to
conceal anything from you?"

Without another word, he read it aloud. Emily remains exactly as she was
when they left; neither better nor worse; she talks, walks, and acts
like an automaton.

Mother fears insanity. She says this state cannot last much longer,--a
reaction must take place. She closed with the kindest messages to me,
and particular inquiries about my health.

"Frank," I said, when he had finished, "will you please to do me a great
favor?"

"Certainly, my love, I shall be most happy to do so."

"Well then, please write to mother at once, and ask her to bring Emily
home. I know she longs to do so; and I am almost well now." He hesitated
what to reply. "You have promised," I said.

"Well, be it so," he answered, "but I am convinced that it is not safe
for a man to promise so blindly."

"_Blindly!--a wife!_ oh, Frank! I would promise to do any thing in the
world, you might ask. I have such entire confidence in you, I _know_ you
would not ask me to do wrong."

He looked very, _very_ much pleased and drew me to his side. "Dear Cora,
you have unconsciously given me the strongest proof of entire love; but
I do not deserve it, though I shall endeavor not to forfeit so precious
a token of your affection. This is the feeling, sweet wife, we should
cultivate toward our heavenly Father. He knows what is best for us; and
it is safe for us to confide in him. He sometimes leads us through
dangerous paths. Let us trust Him, though clouds gather and break over
our heads."


_Thursday, August 6th._

We were aroused from sleep last night by a thundering knock at the door.
Frank threw up the window, when a man called out, "Doctor, won't you
come as quick as you can to Squire Lee's. He's had a fit, and they think
he is dying." Frank dressed and was gone in a moment. I could not sleep,
but lay revolving in my mind Lucy's situation. I thought how I should
love to offer her a home, where Allen Mansfield could come to see her. I
went through all the marriage ceremony, thinking what a lovely bride
Lucy would make when the heavy cloud had passed away, and her heart was
free from sorrow or care.

Frank did not return until after I was seated at the breakfast-table. He
looked very serious and only shook his head in answer to the question,
whether the old gentleman was better. "He will probably never be
better." I was shocked. "And Lucy?" I inquired.

"She has passed from one fainting to another."

"Horrible! But how is she now?" I really shuddered at the thought that
she might not be living.

"She is conscious, but very much exhausted." After prayers he took my
hand as he sat by me on the sofa. "Cora," he asked, "can you control
your feelings?"

I quickly answered that I could, and would.

"Squire Lee received a letter from his son which so enraged him against
his poor innocent daughter, that he sent for a lawyer to his office and
disinherited her unless she would consent to marry Arnold, and that too
without delay. With this legal document in his hand he summoned her
into his presence, where with horrible oaths, he told her what he had
done.

"She begged him to allow her to take care of him in his old age. She
would promise never to see her dear Allen; but she could not consent to
marry Arnold. She had rather die. She threw herself at his feet, when he
cursed her and spurned her from him with scorn. A heavy fall caused Mrs.
Burns to rush into the room. She had followed her dear young mistress to
the door and had heard all that passed.

"The sweet girl was insensible. The kind woman rang for Jacob the
porter; and they lifted her gently, and carried her to her bed. Her
father soon after was seen going to his room.

"About eleven o'clock, one of the servants was passing through the
apartment next that which he occupied, when she was startled by loud
snoring. She stopped to listen, when finding it continue, she hastily
called the housekeeper, and together they entered the room. The Squire
lay in what seemed to them a heavy slumber; but they could not arouse
him. The sound was like the snorting of a brute, more than like the
breathing of a human being.

"By this time they were thoroughly frightened, and sent in haste for the
Doctor."

Immediately after he had told me this, he returned to the wretched
house, _wretched_ in the midst of luxury and splendor! I waited in vain
for him to return to dinner, but received a note toward night, telling
me not to be alarmed, if he did not return until morning. Lucy was
rather better, but would not consent to his leaving the house, while her
father lived. He would probably not survive many hours.

Dr. Clapp called in the evening, and told me he had received a hasty
note from the Doctor, requesting him to take the care of his other
patients, with a list of those upon whom it would be necessary to call.


_Friday, August 7th._

Contrary to the Doctor's expectations, Squire Lee is still living; and
there is slight hope that he may be better. Frank pursued the most
vigorous course of treatment; applying cups to the temples, and blisters
to the back of the neck. He left him in a natural sleep.

Lucy has been carried to the room where she sits near the bed. She
wishes to be near him when he recovers his consciousness, hoping before
his death that he may revoke his dreadful curse.


_Tuesday, August 11th._

Mother and Emily returned last Saturday, and as mother feared, a
terrible reaction has taken place. Sister is now as excitable as she was
impassive. She laughs so merrily that the sound rings through the house.
Then with as little reason, she weeps violently. I led Pauline to the
cottage to try and amuse the poor girl; but the little creature was
afraid of her aunt, and clung convulsively to me, if Emily tried to
force her from my arms. There is a dreadful wildness in her eye, which
alarms me.

Squire Lee is so much better, Frank is of opinion that, if he has no
relapse, he will soon be able to leave his bed. Lucy is with him
constantly; indeed he cannot bear her out of his sight a moment.
Sometimes he mistakes her for her mother, and calls her "_wife_," and
"_Mary_!"

The Doctor has insisted that he shall have watchers, so that she may
have regular sleep; and that she shall take exercise in the open air, at
least an hour every day. Joseph returned Saturday, but as the Doctor
would not allow him to go into the sickroom, telling him he would not be
responsible for the consequences, the young man left again for the city
early Monday morning.

Frank also told him, Lucy had informed her father of her determination
not to marry Arnold. Joseph swore dreadfully, that she would be the
death of her father yet. All his object now was to see if "the old
fellow," as he called him, had acted upon his suggestion.

Mrs. Burns had picked up the paper which lay upon the floor, after the
dreadful interview between father and daughter, and having glanced at
its contents, and seen that he had indeed left every cent of his
property to Joseph, was strongly tempted to destroy it; but knowing she
had no right to do this, she carefully locked it in a private desk where
she had sometimes seen her master put his papers, and kept the key. She
told Frank of the fact, who strengthened her in the resolution to
restore it to no one but her master.

After Joseph's departure on Monday, however, it was ascertained beyond a
doubt, that he had taken the desk with him.




CHAPTER XII.

        .   .   .   .   "No, I'll not weep;
     I have full cause for weeping; but this heart
     Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,
     Or ere I'll weep;--O fool, I shall go mad!"  SHAKSPEARE.


_Thursday, August 13th._

DEAR MOTHER,--Yesterday was a fearfully exciting day. About noon mother
Lenox came over from the cottage to go back with Emily.

I asked where sister had gone. She looked at me with fright and wonder.
"Emily," she exclaimed, "started for the house early this morning,
purposely, as she said, to see her brother before he went out upon his
calls."

"She has not been here to my knowledge," I replied. We instantly went to
the kitchen to ascertain whether Phebe or Cæsar had seen her. Cæsar was
absent; but neither Ann nor Phebe had seen anything of their young
mistress. We were now really alarmed, and waited with impatience for
Frank's return, while the women searched the house and grounds.

Cæsar was soon heard coming up the hill with the wagon, when his wife
ran to meet him. He stopped the horse to hear what she was in such a
hurry to say, but mother beckoned for him to come to the door. He said
"I'se heb seen missus 'bout seven or it might be nigh upon eight. She be
all dressed out for de walk, and was g'wine down de hill. I'se stopped
de wagon, and axed missus if I'se go back and take de carriage and carry
her where she was g'wine. But missus say no, she only g'wine on a piece
for ole missus. She 'peared in mighty hurry," ended the old man.

Mother went back to the library, sat down in a chair, and covered her
face with her hands. "I will send Cæsar to find his master," said I,
earnestly.

Phebe, however, had anticipated me, for when I heard Cæsar, as I
thought, drive to the barn, he had only turned back and gone to the
office in the village. In a very few moments, we heard Frank's welcome
voice. I sprang to meet him and led him to our distressed mother.

"Emily is gone!" she repeated after me; but oh! I cannot describe the
mournfulness of the tone.

"Dear mother, don't be alarmed," he said, in a cheerful voice, "I will
soon find the runaway and bring her back." I looked earnestly at him to
see if he really were so hopeful, but could detect nothing to make me
think otherwise, except that he was very pale about the mouth. He then
ascertained from Cæsar the direction she had taken, and rode hastily
away.

In about two hours, which had seemed equal to a whole day, I received
the following hasty note by a messenger:--


     "DEAR CORA,

     "I regret to say that I have so far been unsuccessful in my search.
     Let Cæsar procure men and horses from the village, and start off in
     every direction. I am on my way to Waverley, where I have slight
     encouragement to hope I may find her. A young woman was seen
     hastily running in that direction, and was observed to look
     frequently behind her, as if apprehending pursuit.

     "May God in mercy grant this to be our dear distracted sister. Pray
     for us; but this I know you will do. I am stopping for ten minutes
     to rest and water my horse. Sweet wife, take care of yourself and
     our dear mother.

     "YOUR FRANK."


I instantly rang for Cæsar, and gave him his master's orders, directing
him to send in every other direction except that taken by the Doctor,
and make inquiries at every house. Mother was so distressed, I felt that
I must not give way to my feelings. So I walked the room holding Pauline
tightly in my arms, or leading her by my side.

Not a tear did mother shed. She knelt by the sofa, with her face buried
in her hands, for half an hour at a time. At the least noise, she would
start up and look eagerly for a moment, and then relapse into her former
state.

I tried to pray, but could not command my thoughts; I could only lift up
my heart, as I walked the room. "O God! restore unto us our dear, lost
one!"

I cannot describe to you the intense grief of mother, as hour after hour
passed away, and we still heard nothing from the fugitive. By this time,
the whole village was aroused, and messengers were continually coming to
the house to report their want of success, or to make inquiries whether
the poor girl had been found.

From the remark of one of them that they had been "_dragging the pond_,"
I for the first time realized what must be the agony felt by my dear,
distracted mother, who with a low wail put her hand suddenly to her
heart. I sprang to her side, and clasping my arms around her neck, wept
bitterly. That dreadful thought had never before entered my mind. But it
was what had distracted her.

Alas! what torment in that fear! I trembled at every sound. Dear, kind
Miss Proctor, who instantly came to us in our sorrow, begged us to go up
stairs, where we could be more retired. She promised to come to us with
the first intelligence.

Ann came to put Pauline to bed, and brought tea on a waiter; but I
shook my head, I could not swallow. Mother seemed not to see or hear
her.

It must have been nearly nine in the evening, when I heard a faint sound
in the distance. I listened eagerly, and then again I heard a shout.
This time it aroused mother, who looked at me with dreadful apprehension
and horror of the cause.

"Hark!" said I, as the sound was again borne on the breeze, "what do
they say?" and now, as they approached nearer and nearer, we distinctly
heard the words, "_She's found!_ SHE'S FOUND!!"

We stopped but for one convulsive embrace, and then started quickly to
go below; but the sudden relief was too great for mother's overborne
heart; and she fell prostrate upon the floor. Miss Proctor, with Ann's
assistance, raised her, and soon restored her to consciousness, having
motioned me to go below.

The carriage stopped at the door. A boy was sitting on a cricket
driving, while Frank held his unconscious sister in his arms. With
Cæsar's assistance he carried her to her bed, from which I fear the poor
girl will not soon rise. She was very wild all night, during which her
devoted brother never left her. This morning he pronounces her suffering
from the worst form of brain fever. God only knows the result.

Dear mother shared my room with me, and in compliance with Frank's
earnestly expressed wishes, forced herself to remain in bed. But I
hardly think she closed her eyes. This morning he has procured an
excellent nurse, and will himself remain most of the time with her.

He will not allow me to be in the room, and says he has no desire to
multiply such patients. He confessed to me this morning that for many
hours yesterday he feared a more dreadful result; and added, "God only
knows what I suffered in the thought that she had rushed into eternity
unprepared."

I will go now and see if I can prevail upon mother to eat something and
lie down. "For Emily's sake," is the only successful plea.


_Wednesday, August 19th._

This is truly a sad house. Scarcely a sound is to be heard in it from
morning to night. The door bells are muffled, and the outer gates are
barred; no carriage enters the enclosure, and even neighbors and
friends, who come to inquire, tread lightly as they pass round to the
back door. We meet and pass each other in the halls, or sit at table one
at a time, often in the vain attempt to eat; but we dare not trust
ourselves to speak, our hearts are too full. Each of us pour out in
secret the overflowings of a burdened heart. We cannot even meet around
the family altar. God, who reads our thoughts, knows our only hope is in
his rich mercy, and that, from morning till night, our desires go forth
to Him in whose hand life and death are.

For several days our darling, precious sister has lain at the point of
death; and we have no well-grounded hope of her preparation to meet her
God. Oh, dreadful thought! It is this which makes our hearts sink within
us. Surely, "the sting of death is sin." If we could feel that Emily,
_dear Emily_, was prepared to die, I think I could say, "it is well;"
but my heart cries out with Esther, "How can I endure to see the
destruction of my kindred!" O, may God, in infinite compassion, restore
our darling to reason, ere she goes hence to be here no more! She has
lain for two days unconscious of all around her. I dare not ask Frank
whether there is hope. There is none in his pale, mournful face.


_Friday, August 21st._

Dearest mother, rejoice with us! We are permitted to hope. My own dear
Frank, who had not left the sick room for many weary hours, came
noiselessly out of it this morning; advanced toward mother and myself
who sat silently hand in hand, awaiting the long feared, and long
expected summons.

"Can you command your feelings?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. We bowed
our assent. He led us to the bed-side of the pale sufferer, where, with
emotions of joy and gratitude which I cannot describe, we saw her,
ghastly and pale indeed, but in a calm and natural slumber.

With a finger on his lip, Frank pointed to the sweet expression of the
mouth, and the calm serenity of the brow, which had taken the place of
the previous signs of intense suffering. Leaving the sympathizing nurse
with her, we stole softly from the room. I wanted to get into the air.
My heart was swelling within me, and the tears, which I had forced back,
were choking me. Frank accompanied us to the library, where we knelt
together to express our gratitude and praise.

How easy now to feel submissive to the will of God! When we arose,
mother clasped her son's hands in hers, and burst into a flood of tears;
the first she has shed. I know they will relieve her poor bursting
heart. I feel that if Emily is restored to health and reason, I can
never again be unhappy. I love every body. I want to sing--I want to
scream for joy! I must have my sweet Pauline home, and relieve myself by
embracing her. She has been with Miss Proctor every day for a week, only
returning at night.


_Saturday, August 22d._

Emily recognizes us. We have been in one at a time. She looked at us
sweetly, and smiled. "O, Emily!" I even carried Pauline to her room, who
just pointed her little finger at aunty, but did not speak.

The Doctor allows not a word of conversation. Now mother has been in,
she will not leave, though Frank tells her the nurse can do much better.
Her pale, anxious countenance will do his patient no g

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