Chapter XIX: Part III

One summer we lived in a villa a short distance outside the gates of Florence. For Florence had gates in those days, and was a walled city, kept by Austrian sentinels. That was the time of the Austrian occupation. Since then, Solferino and Magenta have been fought, and the treaty of Villafranca has been signed, and now, “Italy’s one, from mountain to sea!”--

“King Victor has Italy’s crown on his head,
And his flag takes all heaven with its white, green and red.”

But then the Florentines bowed their necks under a hated foreign yoke, scowling when they dared at a retreating “maledetto Tedesco” (cursed German).

The phrase “white, green and red” recalls to me the fire-balloons we used to send up from our villa garden, on the summer nights of long ago. We had, for our Italian tutor, an enthusiastic patriot, who had fought in the Italian ranks in ’48, and who was looking forward to shouldering a musket soon again. It afforded him intense gratification to send the national colors floating out over Florence. Our villa was built on a hill-side, commanding a fine view of the Val d’Arno, and of the City of Flowers herself, domed, campaniled, spired. The longer the voyages made by our balloons, the higher rose the spirits of our Signor Vicenzo. He regarded these airy nothings, made by his own hands, of tissue paper and alcohol, as omens of good or ill to his beloved country.

I suppose he was a fair type of his countrymen intensely dramatic, with a native facility of expression. One notices this facility of expression among all classes. The Italians have an eloquent sign-language of their own, in which they are as proficient as in the language of spoken words. It is charming to see two neighbors communicating with each other across the street, without uttering a syllable, by the means of animated gestures. It seems a natural sequence that they should be a people of artists.

Such long rambles as my sisters and I and our maid Assunta took, starting from the villa! Assunta was the daughter of a neighboring countryman of the better sort, who cultivated a grape vineyard and an olive field, besides keeping a dairy. We had a way of happening by in the evening in time for a glass of warm milk. Assunta’s mother supplied our table with milk and butter daily, moreover; butter made into tiny pats and done up daintily in grape leaves, never salted, by the way; milk put up in flasks cased in straw, such as are also used for the native wine. Was it the unfailing appetite of childhood, or was that milk and butter really superior to any I have ever tasted since? What charming breakfasts recur to me! _Semele_, as we called our baker’s rolls; a golden circle of butter on its own leaf; great figs bursting with juicy sweetness; milk.

How good those figs used to taste for lunch, too, when we would pay a few _crazis_ for the privilege of helping ourselves to them off the fig-trees in some _podere_ (orchard, vineyard), inclosed in its own stone wall, on which scarlet poppies waved in the golden sunlight, beneath the blue, blue skies. Am I waxing descriptive and dull? Well, dear girls, I wish you could have shared those days with me. Roaming about those hill-sides, my sisters and I peopled them with the creatures of our own imaginations, as well as those of other people’s imaginations, to say nothing of veritable historical characters. We read and re-read Roger’s _Italy_. Do you know that enchanting book? Can you say by heart, as Millie, Eva and I could, “Ginevra,” and “Luigi,” and “The Brides of Venice”? I wonder if I should like that poetry now? I _loved_ it then. Also, I date my knowledge of Byron to that same epoch. We children devoured the descriptions in “Childe Harold,” and absorbed “The Two Foscari,” which otherwise we would perhaps have never read. Byron was the poet of our fathers and mothers; but in these early days dramatic and narrative poetry was more intelligible than the mysticism of Tennyson and the Brownings, so enchanting to me now.

One evening, some friends who occupied a neighboring villa invited mamma to be present at the reading of a manuscript poem by an American poet, Buchanan Read. I was permitted to go, too, and was fully alive to the dignity of the occasion. Mr. Read was making a reputation rapidly; there was no telling what might be in store for him. The generous hand of brother artists in Florence all cheered him on his way, and accorded to him precisely that kind of sympathetic encouragement which his peculiar nature required. The group of interested, friendly faces in the _salon_ at Villa Allori rises up before me as I write, on the evening when Mr. Read, occupying a central position, read aloud, in his charming, trained voice.

I remember that, in the pauses of the reading, Mr. Powers, who was present, amused one or two children about him by drawing odd little caricatures on a stray bit of note paper, which is, by the way, still in my possession. Doubtless Mr. Powers’ reputation rests upon his statues, not his caricatures; yet these particular ones have an immense value for me, dashed off with a twinkle in the artist’s beautiful dark eyes.

There was also present on this occasion a beautiful young lady, for whom Mr. Read had just written some birthday verses, which he read to us, after having completed the reading of the larger manuscript. Those birthday verses have haunted me ever since, and this, although I cannot recall a word of the more ambitious poem.

Mr. Powers had lived for so many years in Florence that he was by right of that, if by no other right, the patriarch of the American colony there. He and his large family were most intensely American, in spite of their long expatriation. His was emphatically an American _home_, as completely so as though the Arno and the Appenines had been, instead, the Mississippi and the Alleghanies. This was no doubt due to the fact that Mrs. Powers was preëminently an American wife and mother, large-hearted and warm-hearted. She never forgot the household traditions of her youth. She baked mince-pies and pumpkin-pies at Christmas and Thanksgiving, and dispensed these bounties to her countrymen with a lavish hand. Then, too, the Powers lived in a _house_, and not in an _apartment_, or, as we say, on a flat. The children ran up and down-stairs, and in and out their own yard, which lay between the dwelling-house and the studio, just as American children do. And in this genial, wholesome home an artist grew up in the second generation. A son of Mr. Powers is now making name and fame for himself in his father’s profession.

It has been said that the beautiful face of the eldest daughter of this family is suggested in her father’s “Greek Slave.” I looked up to her then with the respect which a child feels for an elder girl, “a young lady in society.” I can appreciate now and admire, even more than I did then, the extreme simplicity and unconsciousness which so well accorded with her grand, classic beauty. She was the good fairy at a Christmas Tree Festival, to which all the American girls and boys in Florence were bidden, on the twenty-fifth of December. We were all presented with most exquisitely made _bonbonnieres_, chiefly of home manufacture. We were feasted on doughnuts which brought tears to some of our eyes; dear American doughnuts, that _might_ have been fried in the land of the free. We had French candy _ad libitum_; but there was also on exhibition a pound or so of genuine American stick candy, such as we see by the bushel in this country, and which had been brought over from the United States by a friend recently arrived, at Mrs. Powers’ special request We examined this stick candy with patriotic enthusiasm. We ate little bits of it, and thought it infinitely better than our candied fruits and chocolate creams. Doubtless this little incident here recalled will account for the fact that I always associate peppermint stick candy with the flag of the Union. It is an unfortunate caprice of mind; but, nevertheless, the national stripes always rise before me when I see these red and white sticks.

I am inclined to the belief that exiles make the best patriots. We American children stood up fiercely for our own native land, whenever the question as to national superiority arose between ourselves and English, French, or Italian children,--especially the English. With these we fought the Revolutionary war all over again, hotly, if injudiciously. And I am confident that we had a personal and individual sense of superiority over them. No doubt we were endowed, even at that early age, with the proverbial national conceit. Some one had told me that every American was a sovereign, and that I was consequently a princess in my own right. This became a conviction with me, and greatly increased my self-importance. How glorious to be the citizen of a country of such magnificent gifts of citizenship!

But to return to Mr. Powers. His statue of California was on exhibition at this time. This is, to my mind, the most noble and impressive of his works. The strong, resolute face, of classic outlines, and of the sterner type of beauty, bears a distinct resemblance to the sculptor’s second daughter, although by no means a portrait. It has been told me that one of the fathers of our American church, traveling in Italy, suggested an important alteration in this statue. California originally carried in her hand a bar, supposed to represent a bar of solid gold. The idea occurred to the bishop that were this smooth bar--which might mean anything--made to represent a nugget of gold in the rough, the point of the story would be far more effectively told; and on this idea the bishop spoke. The sculptor was impressed directly, and with all the unaffected simplicity of real genius he thanked his critic for the hint. California now displays her symbolic nugget; and, moreover, about her head is designed a fillet of bits of ore in the rough.

The America of Powers is another impressive and beautiful female form. A vision of the sculptor comes before my eyes, standing in front of this statue, and talking it over with a party of visitors. Such a beautiful, simple-mannered man--with his mild dark eyes and serene face! He wore the usual blouse and linen apron, and the cap of the sculptor. He held his chisel in his hand as he conversed. Some of his audience did not agree with him in the peculiar political views he held. But Mr. Powers would not argue, and what need? Had he not preached his sermon in stone and eloquently!

The wisest Child in the village in school
Was walking out in the evening cool
When she spied an Owl in a tulip-tree,
So a civil “Good evening, sir” said she,
Bu it gave her a shock (as it might give you)
When he solemnly answered “To wit:--to who?”

“Why, to you, to be sure!” said the little maid:
“But you’ve made a mistake, sir, I am afraid.
I don’t know what you mean by ‘to wit’
But objective is ‘whom’, I am sure of it.
The story-books say you’re a very wise fowl,
But that was a blunder, Mr Owl!”

SEEING THE POPE.

BY MRS. ALFRED MACY.

It is only the young people of America who, in this age of the world, have not been to Europe; therefore to them and for them I have written down, in journal form, a few incidents of travel; among them, a brief account of an evening spent with La Baronessa Von Stein, and a presentation to the Pope.

_Wednesday._ This evening we have spent, by invitation, with the Baroness Von Stein, widow of Baron Von Stein of Germany. The Baroness, a German by birth, passed much of her youth in Poland. Skilled as a horsewoman, she often joined her father in rural pastimes, shooting, hunting etc. Being perfectly well, and of great mind, she acquired, as do all the noble women of Europe, a thorough knowledge of the ancient classics in their originals; also a familiarity with nearly every spoken language of the Old and New World. Well comparing with Margaret, Queen of Navarre in fluency of tongue, she readily changes from Italian to French, from French to Spanish, quotes from Buckle, Draper, etc., in English, is quite at home on German philosophy, notwithstanding her devotion to the Catholic Church. A singularly attractive old lady is she now; rather masculine in manner, exceedingly so, in mind; a fine painter in oil to whom the Pope has sat, in person, for his portrait. We have seen the likeness. It is pronounced perfect. She is very anxious for us to see his Holiness, and we certainly shall not leave Rome without so doing. The Baroness has an autograph note from Pio Nono, which is a rare possession. This she displayed with far more pride than was apparent upon showing her own handiwork. When the Holy Father sat to her, in order to get the true expression, conversation was necessary and she repeated, with much satisfaction, snatches therefrom, which were of the brightest nature. However learned _he_ may be, in the Baroness Von Stein he meets no inferior.

As we entered her room, she was smoking: she begged pardon, but continued the performance.

The cigar was a cigar, no cigarette, no white-coated article, but a long, large, brown Havana, such as gentlemen in our own country use.

“You will find no difficulty,” said she, between her whiffs, “in seeing ‘Il Papa,’ and then you will say how good is his picture.”

During a part of our interview, there was present a sister of a “Secretario Generalissimo to the Pope,” who told us the manner in which the Popeship will be filled--she talked only in Italian, but I give a literal translation. “The new Pope is approved by the present Pio Nono. His name is written upon paper by the present Pope and sealed. The document is seen by no one, till after the death of ‘Il Papa,’ when it is opened, as a will, by the proper power. Unlike a will, it can not be disputed.”

Pio Nono certainly had his election in a far different way, according to the statements of the Roman Exiles of that day.

As the life of his Majesty hangs upon eternity, the matter of a successor will soon be decided. “Antonelli gone, where will it fall!” said I, but at once perceived that I was trespassing and the subject was speedily changed.

We left the Baronessa, intent upon one thing, viz., a presentation to the Pope, as soon as practical. Our Consul being no longer accredited to this power, but to Victor Emanuel, we must apply elsewhere.

_Thursday._ Started early this morning, from my residence corner of Bacca di Leone and Via di Lapa (doubtful protectors), for the American College and Father Chatard, in order to get a “permit” to the Monday Reception at the Vatican. On my way (and those who know Rome as well as we do will know how much on the way) I took, as I do upon all occasions, the Roman and Trajan forums, always walking when practicable; by the above means, I am likely to become very familiar with these beautiful views. They are so fascinating that I can not begin any day’s work without taking these first. The Trajan is my favorite. It may not be uninteresting to mention here that, on my circuitous stroll to the said College, I saw, and halted the better to see, one of those picturesque groups of Contadini and Contadine who frequent the towns of Italy. There were, first the parents, dressed in the fantastic garb of their class of peasantry, i.e., the mother with the long double pads, one scarlet and one white, hanging over her head and neck, while the father wore a gay slouched hat; then three girls, severally garbed in short pink dress, blue apron embroidered with every conceivable color simple and combined, yellow handkerchief thrown over the chest, long earrings, heavy braids, bare-footed or in fancifully knit shoes.

Two boys in equally remarkable attire, and a baby that looked like a butterfly, completed the domestic circle. They did not seem to mind my gaze. The father continued his smoking, the mother her knitting, the girls their hooking, the boys their listless lounging, and the baby its play in the dust. There was a charm in the scene. One sight however (to be sure mine was an extended opportunity) is sufficient. A few steps beyond this gathering, I found photographs colored to represent these vagrants, and at one store pictures of the very individuals--I purchased specimens to take to America, a novelty the other side of the Atlantic.

After an hour or two, I reached the American College, was met by the students who very politely directed me to the Concièrge, and my name was taken to the learned Father. The students all wore the long robe, though speaking English.

Being a Quaker by birth, therefore educated to respect every man’s religion, and to believe that every man respects mine, nevertheless I felt misgivings incumbent upon the meeting of extremes. I was ushered into a large drawing-room and was examining the pictures, which generally tell the character of the owner, when Mr. Chatard entered. As he asked me to be seated, I thought, as some one has expressed it before me, “the whole world over, there are but two kinds of people,--‘man and woman.’”

The youth of this college may thank their stars that America has given them one of her most learned and worthy sons, though the sect to which his mother once belonged must deplore his loss.

In conversation with this Reverend gentleman, I obtained the requirements necessary to an introduction to the Pope, and was a little surprised that he should question my willingness to conform to the same. It was however, explained. He had been much embarrassed by the demeanor of some of the American women. Seeking the privilege of meeting the Pope in his own palace, where common courtesy and etiquette naturally demand a deference to the Lord of the Manor, yet these ladies, having previously guaranteed a compliance with the laws of ceremony, after gaining admission refused to obey them.

Seeing the Pope was not, to me, a religious service and is not generally so considered.

My only fear was that my plain manners in their brusqueness, would have the appearance of “omission.”

But the requirements are simple. Bending the knee, as a physical performance, was a source of anxiety. I at once called to mind the great difficulty which, as a young girl, I had in the play:

“If I _had_ as many wives
As the stars in the skies,” etc.

Notwithstanding the person who had to kneel in the game had a large cushion to throw before her to receive the fall, I always shook the house from the foundations when I went down. I can hear the pendants now, of a chandelier in a certain frame house in my native town ring out my weight, as I flung the cushion in front of a boy that knew “he was not the one,” and took to my knees. True, the Vatican is not shaky in its underpinnnings, and faithful practice upon the floor of my apartment in Bocca di Leone, I thought, would be productive of some good. Quickly running through this train of reflection, and finally trusting that the gathering would not be disturbed by any marked awkwardness, I returned home to await the tidings.

_Monday Evening._ Have seen Pio Nono--have committed no enormity.

According to directions, in black dress, black veil, _à la_ Spanish lady, ungloved hands (what an appearance at a Presidential reception!) we were attired. Took a carriage for the Vatican. Before we left home the padrona viewed us, pronounced us all right, and earnestly sought the privilege of selecting a coach for us. She had an eye to style. Is it possible that she did not give us credit for the same “strength,” and we traveling Americans? It is to be confessed that the horses were less like donkeys than otherwise might have been. Trying the knee the last thing before leaving the house, there was certainly reason for encouragement, though still a lingering humility.

Our ride was subdued, but we reached St. Peter’s, passed through the elegant halls of the Pope’s Palace, surpassed only by those of the Pitti at Florence in their gold and fresco, and were ushered into the reception room of Pio Nono.

This apartment, long and narrow, seemed more like a corridor than a hall. Its beauties are described in various guide books, so that “they who read can see.”

We were the only Protestants. The other ladies were laden with magnificent rosaries, pictures, toys, ribbons, etc., for the Holy Father’s blessing. Even I purchased one of the first, viz., a rosary, to undergo the same ceremony, as a gift to a much-loved servant girl at home.

We sat here many minutes in quiet (inwardly longing to try the fall.) At length the Pope was led in. We forgot our trials. A countenance so benign, beaming with goodness, spread a cheer throughout the assembly. We took the floor naturally and involuntarily. Except in dress, he might have been any old patriarch. The white robe, long and plain, gave him rather the appearance of a matriarch.

It chanced that his Holiness passed first up the right side of the hall. We sat _vis à vis_, so that we had the benefit of all that he said before we came in turn. While addressing the right, who continue on their knees, the left rise. As he turns to the latter they again kneel, whereas those opposite change from this posture to the standing.

The Pope talked now in French, now in Italian mostly in the former. As he approached our party, we were introduced merely as Americans, but our religion was stamped upon our brows. Turning kindly to my young daughter, who wore, as an ornament, a chain and cross, he said, as if quite sure of the fact, “_You_ can wear your cross outside, as an ornament; I am obliged to wear mine inside as a cross;” whereupon, with a smile, he drew this emblem from his wide ribbon sash, showing her a most elegant massive cross of gold and diamonds, probably the most valuable one in the world. As he replaced this mark of devotion, his countenance expressing a recognition of our Protestantism, perhaps a pity for our future, placing his hand upon our heads, he passed on. The blessing of a good old man, whatever his faith, can injure no one, and may not be without its efficacy, even though it rest upon a disciple of George Fox.

I shall never cease to be glad that I have seen Pio Nono.

FAYETTE’S RIDE.

BY CLARA F. GUERNSEY.

“Hello, girls! I say, hello!”

This polite salutation was addressed to two young girls who were standing at the parsonage gate in the little village of Valery’s Corners. The taller of the two colored with vexation, and looked back to the house as though she hoped no one had seen or heard.

The second answered in a clear, rather peculiar voice, “How do you do, Carlos?”

“I say,” returned Carlos, “I was up to your place, and seen your folks to-day.”

“I hope they were all well,” said the girl who had spoken before, while the other took no notice of Carlos whatever.

“Well, no, they wasn’t, jest. I thought I’d tell you--”

“O, what is it?” cried Fayette Locey, running out to the wagon, while her companion followed more slowly, looking rather annoyed than anxious.

“O, it ain’t nothing to be scared at, only Mr. Ford and Dick ain’t to home. They’ve gone over to the cattle sale at Elmira, and young Mis’ Ford she’s there alone, with only your aunt, and the hired man, and the baby.”

“Is the baby sick?” asked Fayette, troubled.

“No, not the baby.”

“Will you be good enough to tell us at once what _is_ the matter?” said Helen Ford, speaking for the first time with a sort of cold irritation and a certain dignity which Carlos, though it rather awed him, resented as “stuck up.”

“Ye see,” said Carlos, letting the reins hang loose over the backs of the two old farm horses, “I was a-going past your house this morning, and I knew you was down here, and I thought your folks might have something to send.”

“You were very kind,” said Fayette; but Helen made no sign.

“I see young Mis’ Ford, and she said the old lady was kind of ailin’, and the men folks being away, and no one but Hiram, she felt kind of lonesome.”

“Did she send you for us?” asked Helen.

“No, not jest. She said the old lady might be going to have one of her bad spells, and as I was coming down to the corners I might tell you, and you could act your judgment, though she didn’t want to disappoint you of your visit. I could see she was consid’rable anxious.”

“Are you going back soon?” asked Fayette.

“’Bout half an hour or so. Tell ye what. I’ll call when I’ve done my arrands, and then you’ll have your minds made up.”

“O, thank you, Carlos,” said Fayette, gratefully. “I wish you would.”

Helen said nothing; but as they walked back to the house, she looked perplexed and annoyed. “So provoking of Sue,” she broke out at last. “If there was anything really the matter, why couldn’t she send a note? But she is so nervous and fanciful.”

“Sue’s not very strong, and you know Hiram is no one to depend upon. I hope Mrs. Allison and Eleanor will be back before we go.”

“So you are going?” said Helen, as if the idea vexed her.

“Why, Helen, I think one of us should go. If aunt had such an attack as she had in the winter, what could Sue do?”

“I dare say it is only her fancy,” said Helen. “But you are as ready to fancy things as she is, Fayette. If there were any reason for anxiety,” she continued in the even tones which had contributed to establish Helen Ford’s character as a “superior girl,”--“If there were any reason for anxiety, don’t you suppose I should be as anxious about my mother as you can be, who never saw her till you came to live with us three months ago?”

There was a covert sting in these words which Fayette felt and resented, but she held her tongue.

“Then I don’t want to miss this lecture,” Helen resumed. “It is the last of the set, and I feel it my duty to improve every opportunity that is offered me.”

Fayette slightly raised her black eyebrows. She knew her cousin’s way of squaring her duty with her inclination.

“I presume, too, that the boy has quite exaggerated the case. Persons of that class always like to make a sensation, and I dare say Sue only meant that mother had a little cold. She has such a habit of talking to all sorts of people as if they were her equals.”

“Yes, I think Sue does rather look upon human beings as if they were her fellow-creatures,” said Fayette.

“I don’t profess to understand sarcasm,” said Helen, setting her rather thin lips very straight. “Papa and Dick will be at home to-morrow, and one night can make no very great difference to Sue. It would be a serious disadvantage to me to lose this lecture. I have the notes of the whole set, and this is the last, and I should never be satisfied to leave them in that unfinished state.”

“And suppose you were not satisfied? What then?” said Fayette.

For a moment Helen had an odd sensation, as though some one had suddenly lifted a curtain and given her a glimpse of an unsuspected near and unpleasing region; but the feeling passed, and left behind it a sense of vexation with her cousin.

“Persons who do not care for intellectual pleasures can never understand what they are to others,” said Helen, with a superior and pitying smile, which provoked Fayette. “As the professor said last night, it is the first duty of every one to develop his or her nature to its highest capacities, and to seize every opportunity for mental enlargement.”

“Fiddlesticks!” thought the irreverent Fayette; but she did not say it, and that at least was something.

“Then it would not be polite to the Allisons to go off in this way, and when company is coming to tea, too. Mr. Allison is gone, and the ladies won’t be home till nearly tea time. How it would look to go off!”

“We could leave a message; and, Helen, if Sue were nervous and fanciful,--and I don’t think she is,--it would only be one more reason for not leaving her alone. I shall go,” concluded Fayette, with sudden decision.

“You will do as you please, of course,” said Helen, coldly, but secretly not ill pleased. “But it will look very strange.”

“I can’t help it. You can tell them all how it was;” and Fayette ran up stairs to pack up her things.

She had hardly done so when Carlos came back. “I wish you joy of your companion,” said Helen to her cousin, with something very like a sneer.

“I might easily have a worse one,” said Fayette, who liked the big, simple young fellow. “One of us is enough to go, and it may as well be I as you. I hope you’ll enjoy the evening. Remember me to Miss Fenton and the others.”

It was with a little pang that Fayette spoke. She had been quite as much interested in the lectures as her cousin, and she had found herself very much at home with the Misses Fenton, the granddaughters of Mrs. Lyndon, at the Hickories.

“Well, of course one is enough, and more than enough,” said Helen; “but I suppose now you have alarmed yourself so, you will not be satisfied to stay here. I shall come home with Mr. Allison Sunday. Good-bye.”

Helen went back to the house, and laid out her dress for the evening.

The party from the Hickories, and the stray professor, who had given four lectures on geology in Valery’s Corners, were coming to tea at the Parsonage.

Helen had met the professor before, and had been complimented on the interest she displayed in science, and she felt, as she said, that she could not be satisfied without putting down the notes of the last lecture.

Helen was an intellectual girl--so said her teachers, and so she believed. She liked to acquire facts, and rules, and classifications, and dates, and range them all nicely away in her mind, as she put her cuffs, and collars, and laces, and ribbons in her boxes; as she saved odds and ends of silk and linen, and put them into labeled bags.

As it pleased her to look over her drawers, and count up her possessions, so she liked to review her stock of knowledge gained from text-books, and say, “All this is _mine_.”

She told Mrs. Allison that her sister-in-law had sent a message by Carlos, and that Fayette had gone home.

“Sue is a little nervous sometimes,” said Helen, in her most superior manner.

Helen’s evening was very successful. She was invited to the Hickories by Mrs. Lyndon. She talked to the professor. She took her notes, but some way, even when she had neatly copied out the names of all the saurians, she did not feel as well “satisfied” as she had expected.

It was not till between seven and eight that evening that Carlos set Fayette down at her uncle’s gate.

The roads were rough, and they had been a long time coming the nine miles. Carlos lived at Scrub Hollow, a very forlorn hamlet, three miles further away.

It was a wild March night, with a loud-sounding wind rushing through the upper air. Fayette, as she stood at the gate a moment, and looked out over the confused mass of rounded, rolling hills that formed the dim landscape, felt lonely and half frightened.

Everything was so dim and gray, and seemed so full of mysterious sound! The low roar of increasing streams, the multiplied whisper and rustle of the woods, made the world seem something different from the ordinary daylight earth.

She shook off the fancies that crowded upon her, and walked quickly up to the house, which stood at some distance from the road--a pile of gray buildings, with sharp, many-angled roofs rising against the sky.

A light shone from the “living-room” window.

Fayette opened the door, and was greeted by a cry of joy from young Mrs. Ford.

“O, Fayette! I’m so glad it’s you!” and there was an emphasis as, if the speaker were rather glad it was not some one else.

“I thought I’d come,” said Fayette, kissing her. “How’s aunt?”

“I think she is pretty sick,” said Sue, lowering her voice. “She’s gone to bed.”

“Have you sent Hiram for the doctor?”

“Hiram has gone. I’m all alone. Word came over from Springville, just after Carlos was here, that his father had broken his leg, and he had to go, of course.”

“But why didn’t you tell him to send Dr. Ward over?”

“Mother wouldn’t let me. You know how she hates to send for a doctor, and she thought she’d be better.”

A voice from the next room called to know who was there, and Fayette went in.

Mrs. Ford was in bed, her face drawn and pinched. A look of pain crossed her features as her niece entered. There was disappointment in her voice as she said,--

“Is that you, Fayette?”

“Yes, aunt. I thought I’d come.”

There are women who, in Mrs. Ford’s place, would have been angry with the girl for doing what one dearer had left undone; but Mrs. Ford, if she had such a feeling, was too just to visit it upon Fayette.

“You are a good child,” she said, with uncommon softness, but with a sigh. “Don’t be troubled. I shall get over it by and by.”

But Mrs. Ford did not get over it. The trouble was furious and intense neuralgia; not such as young ladies have when they suffer “awfully” in the morning, and go to a party at night, but blinding, burning pain, reducing the life power every minute, and threatening the heart.

Sue and Fayette tried in vain every remedy in their power. Even Mrs. Ford’s favorite panacea of seven different herbs, steeped in spirits with pepper and spice, utterly failed.

The patient grew worse and worse, and at midnight it was evident that, unless help came speedily, her hours were numbered.

The farm was not on the high road, and their nearest neighbors were two old maiden ladies, a mile away, neither of whom could have been of the least use.

Scrub Hollow lay three miles to the south. A nurse might have been found there, but no physician. Springville, where Dr. Ward lived, was a little further off in the opposite direction.

The road to Springville was rough and lonely, and lay over wind-swept hill and through dark valley, by woods and swamps; for this portion of the southern frontier is even now but thinly settled.

“What shall we do?” said poor Sue, wringing her hands. “What shall we do?”

“There’s only one thing to do,” said Fayette, desperately. “I shall go for the doctor.”

“O, Fayette! Walk all that way alone!”

“I shall ride Phœbe. I can saddle her myself. Father taught me how. I must go, Sue. I can’t let aunt lie here and die, and never try to save her. It’s hard to leave you alone, but it won’t take long. Baby hasn’t waked up once. What a mercy! Don’t say a word, Sue: I must go.”

“O, Fayette!” cried Sue, helplessly; but she made no further objection, and Mrs. Ford had not heard the hurried consultation.

Fayette would give herself no time to think. She was a nervous little thing, and she dreaded the long ride through the windy night more than she had ever feared anything in her life.

She was not a very daring rider, though at the little frontier post where she had passed two years with her parents, her father had taught her to manage a horse with reasonable skill, and she had ridden many a mile with him over the prairie.

“O, if father were here now!” she said, a sob suddenly rising.

Then she was doubtful about her own power to manage Phœbe, the great chestnut mare, the pride of her uncle’s heart, strong, swift, spirited creature that she was.

For two years Phœbe had borne away the prize at state and county fairs, and the horse-racing world had tempted her owner in vain. Fayette had mounted her more than once, and ridden around the yard, and up and down the road, but always with some secret fears. She had never dared even to try a canter; and now to mount at “mirk midnight,” and go, as fast as might be, off into the darkness alone on Phœbe’s back, seemed an awful thing to poor Fayette.

She knew that the mare was gentle, and she had often petted her, and fed her, and led her to water. She did not much doubt but that Phœbe would submit to be saddled and bridled by her hand, but still it was with many a misgiving that she put on her hat and jacket. She did not take time to find her habit, and, lighting the lantern, went out to the barn.

Phœbe was not lying down. Disturbed, perhaps, by the loud-blowing wind, she was wide awake; and as Fayette entered with the light, she turned her head with a low whinny, as though glad to see a friend.

Fayette went into the stall in fear and trembling; but she loosened the halter, and led Phœbe out unresisting.

The mare was so tall, and Fayette was so short, that she was obliged to stand up on a box to slip on the bridle; to which Phœbe submitted, turning her soft, intelligent eyes on the girl with mild, wondering inquiry. The saddle was harder to manage, but Fayette strained at the girth till her wrists ached, and hoped all was right.

Some faint encouragement came to her, as she saw how gently the mare behaved. “O, Phœbe, darling,” said Fayette, “you will be good--I know you will. You are the only one that can help us now.”

Petted Phœbe, used to caresses as a house cat, rubbed her dainty head on Fayette’s shoulder, as if to reassure her.

Poor Fayette put up one brief wordless prayer for help and courage, and then she led Phœbe out of the stable, mounted her by the aid of the horse-block, and rode away into the night.

Sue, watching forlorn, heard the mare’s hoofs beating fainter down the road; and relieved that at least Fayette had got off without accident, listened till the last sound died away on the wind.