Chapter II: Part 2

Having said thus much of my kind friend and preceptor, I must take some notice of the other tenant—the only other tenant of the house. This was the good priest’s housekeeper, who was probably some four or five years older than himself; but yet as busy, bustling, active a little body as ever was seen, doing every thing and trying to do more. What were the qualities for which Father Bonneville originally chose her to superintend his domestic affairs, I really do not know; but it certainly was not for her beauty—perhaps it might be for the reverse. Nature intended evidently, at first, to cast her in what I may call the pippin-headed mould; for her head was as round as a ball, furnished with two eyes like sloes, and not much larger; but by some freak of nature, the nose had been infinitely projected. It always seemed to me as if her parents, or nurses, had been in the custom of lifting her up by it, as a sort of handle, and it certainly had not decreased in volume in latter life. She was a little woman too, hardly fitted to carry such a burden, but strong, well-formed, and neither lean nor fat. Her excellent health and spirits, she attributed to never having drunk any cider, though she had lived in the cider provinces.

“No, no,” she said, “I always knew better than that, if cider is dear at three sous, wine is cheap at ten. It is not much of either that I drink, as heaven knows and Father Bonneville, but when it is not water, it shall be wine.”

I must point out to the reader more particularly her manner of connecting heaven and Father Bonneville together; for it was very characteristic of her mind, and she did it on all occasions. Indeed the two ideas seemed so intimately blended in her mind that they could never be separated. She was a good creature as ever lived, and looked up to all that was good, and it is probable that as, in her humility, she put both heaven and Father Bonneville very, very far above herself indeed, the two objects got confounded in the distance.

She was a very good creature indeed, as I have said, and oh, how I used to teaze her! She bore it with wonderful patience and good humor, sometimes laughing with me, sometimes laughing at me, sometimes affecting to be very angry, but still mending my clothes, setting my little room to rights, giving me any good thing she could lay her hands upon, and showing me all the kindness and tenderness of a mother. I am afraid, however, that there was a more serious storm than usual brewing about the period I speak of; for I not only continued to teaze poor Jeanette with my boyish fun, but I had added a great deal to her labors and embarrassments by leaving fish-hooks, and bits of line, and broken rods—some of the fish-hooks covered with worms too, in her kitchen, and her pantry, and the most sacred places of her own particular domain. But just at that time, came the catching of the trout I have mentioned, and that immediately cured all grievances. Not that I mean to say, that the good woman was moved by any peculiar passion for fish herself; for she would not have deprived Father Bonneville and me of a morsel of it for the world, but from that moment she became aware that there was some utility in fish-hooks—that they were made for some other purpose than running into her hands, or littering her table. I provided in short something which could gratify the good Father’s taste, and that was quite sufficient apology for all offenses in the eyes of his worthy housekeeper.

With these two, such as I have depicted them, I passed several years of my early life. I must have been about nine when I caught the trout, and if I ever had been a weak or sickly boy, I certainly was so no longer. I could not have been ten, I am sure, and I must have been there at this time for some years—sufficient at least to let the memory of other scenes fade away. My time passed sweetly and pleasantly. I had plenty of wholesome food. I had exercise for the mind and exercise for the body. Quiet and still, the place certainly was. Amusements, for persons of my age, there were none in the town itself, except when there was some great Church fete, or when some Italian led through the town a bear or a monkey, or carried a marmot, or an instrument of music, and when once in the year the great fair took place, which brightened up the town for three whole days. Nevertheless, I was very contented. I loved Father Bonneville sincerely. I loved good Jeanette, too, sincerely; but with another sort of love—rather, I suspect, with that peculiar kind of affection with which a child regards a doll, the head of which has been knocked upon the door till it has neither nose nor eyes. Assuredly I had not deprived the good housekeeper of those serviceable features, but I had misused her tenderness, and teazed her till I loved devotedly that which I teazed. I loved them both, then, and well I might; for two better people never existed.

The reader, perhaps, may ask, “are we to have nothing but good people in this book?”

Let him wait a little. We shall find their foil presently, and pray do not let any one fall into the mistake of supposing that there is any thing inherently monotonous in goodness. Far from it. It has as infinite variety as evil. Its scope is as extensive, from the most sublime deed of devotion or self-sacrifice, to the smallest act of kindness. Nay, it is more vast than evil; for I cannot but think that goodness embraces all things, while evil only touches a part. It is because the mind of man is too small to comprehend the magnitude of goodness that he fancies it limited, as a child gazing at the sky, thinks that there is a blue wall to space. It is because his mind is too dim and feeble, too much accustomed to struggle with impurer things, that he cannot reach its heights or penetrate its depths, and conceive the infinite variety it affords. The salmon can leap up the cataract, or dart against the current of the turbid stream, but he cannot soar into the sky like the eagle, and at one glance take in a world below. The most sublime thing in the whole universe is goodness, and it is the sweetest too.

Happy, right happy do I believe myself to have been thus, in youth, associated with two such good and kindly beings. At that period of life, the plastic nature of the child receives, in a great degree, its future shape and form. The impressions are deep, and, once hardened, ineffaceable: the character receives its bent, the mind its tone and coloring, and although I may have done many things in life which I regret, and which they could not have approved, yet their goodness has been always in my memory as a light-house to show me the way across the dark and struggling waters of life, and to welcome me home to port, however far I may have wandered astray.

I cannot conceive any greater blessing can be bestowed on youth than the companionship of the really good. I speak not of the stiff and rigid. I speak not of the harsh and the severe. I speak not even of the self-denying, the sober, and the circumspect. The example of anchorite or puritan, never effected much upon the heart of youth. But I speak of the really good, and they are not good if they are not gentle; for the reverse of gentleness is wrong. I speak of the good who learn from the fountain of all goodness to be happy, and to make happy; and who know that it is part of the commandment, to enjoy.

THE FIRST ADVENTURE.

One of the most remarkable epochs of a man’s life is when he first begins to think. Philosophers suppose—at least many have supposed—that what is called thinking, goes on from birth, or very nearly so; but either this is a mistake, or they and I are talking of different things. What I mean by thinking is not the process of putting two or three ideas together, which commences with a child as soon as it has two or three ideas to put, but an operation of the mind, in which all the mind’s servants are called upon to bear a part—where imagination comes to aid reason, and memory and observation bring the materials, and judgment measures the work. We all must have felt, in looking back upon our past life, that there has been a certain period at which flood-gates, as it were, have been opened suddenly, and a torrent of thought has flowed in upon us. The period itself will generally be somewhat indefinite to remembrance; for we none of us mark this new thing at the time that it occurs. We feel—we know—we enjoy; but we do not sit down to chronicle the moment when the new world of thought burst upon our sight. All any man can say, is, “About such and such a time, I began to think”—he generally adds, “deeply”—to contrast that period, with the period of _impression_ gone before, which he confounds with _thought_. In fact it may be very difficult—for I do not wish to dogmatize—to say where thought exactly begins, and mere reception of idea, in either a simplex or a complex form, ends. It may be that thought is as a mighty stream, beginning in a very minute rill; but there certainly is one place where the river suddenly swells tremendously. I cannot say that I thought much, if at all, on any subject till I was more than ten years old. In conversing with Father Bonneville, who tried hard to teach me to think without appearing to do so, my answers were more pictures of my impressions than of my thoughts; but about twelve years old, thought began to come upon me fast and strong. I can remember quite well many a time, on the Tuesday and Thursday evenings, in the spring time of the year, sitting by that little lake, or wandering by the banks of the river, and falling into deep and even sombre reveries, in the course of which I tried every thing that I had learned or knew, by faculties which seemed to have sprung up suddenly within me. The world seemed full of wonders that I had never seen before, and I began to take interest in things which before had been to me flat and unprofitable enough. It was not alone the aspect of nature, the lake, the stream, the wood, the field, the rock, the mountain, the blue sky, the passing cloud, the rising and setting sun, the wandering moon, or the bright eyes of the twinkling stars, nor the flowers and shrubs, nor the birds of the bough and sky, nor the beasts of the field and plain, that gave me matter for thought, but man came in for his share, and man’s doings—and I am afraid woman’s, too. I would listen to the political talk of the day, which, God help me, I had cared naught about before, although there were events passing which influenced the fate of even children. I would hear of the strife of parties, and of the rise of new opinions, which shook the world to its foundation, and I would marvel and wonder at all I heard, and meditate over it in my solitary seat by the lake. If I could not understand, it mattered not; the subject was all the more a plea for revery.

I could not help remarking likewise, that Father Bonneville was a good deal affected by the tidings which arrived from time to time. He became very thoughtful, too—nay, very sad. There was a look of anxiety—of apprehension—about him. His cheerful moments were few, and he would often shake his head slowly in melancholy guise, and sigh profoundly.

One little circumstance, which occurred at this time, gave me cause to think that the good Father, besides his general regret for various violent scenes which were occurring at the time, had some cause for personal dread. I have mentioned that he was well acquainted with several languages, and from the earliest period I can recollect he had read with me at least one page of English every day. It was our custom, too, to frequently talk in English. How I first learned the language I do not know, but it seemed to me then, as I am now well aware is the case, that I spoke it with more ease and fluency than he did, though, perhaps, with not so much accuracy. At the period I am speaking of, however, he discontinued our English readings, and I could perceive that all the English books had been put away out of sight. Moreover, he gave me a hint that it might be better not to converse in English any more, for a little time at least; and though I sometimes forgot myself, I obeyed his injunctions tolerably well.

All this gave me matter for thought, and now the stream and the tank were not sufficient for me. I must walk far away into the woods: and I fancy that my long absence, even in my play hours, gave some uneasiness to the good priest. He was fond of taking me with him through the streets of the town, and thus detaining me from my solitary walks, when at length he began to doubt whether the town or the country was the best school for my leisure hours. I remember on one occasion, when he went to visit a man of the parish, who was lying sick, though not mortally ill, he made me go with him, and after keeping me some ten minutes in the house, we took our way back again, passing across the market-square. A number of men with bare arms were busily engaged in the middle of the open space erecting a curious-looking instrument, consisting of a little platform, and some raised pieces of timber, the use of which I could not conceive. A little crowd of men, women, and boys were gathered together round—and I would fain have stood and gazed likewise. But Father Bonneville hurried silently on, with his eyes bent upon the ground. It was not till I plucked him by the _soutane_, and pointing to the spot, asked what that could mean, that he took any notice of what was going on. I could see his face turn a shade paler, and he gave a slight shudder as he replied, “mean, my son?—that is the guillotine.” Without another word he pursued his way, and I accompanied him. On the following day I heard from good Jeanette, that a man was to be executed at noon; and I confess I had the strongest inclination in the world to go and see. The desire arose from no cruelty of disposition—no taste for blood—but it arose in mere curiosity. Youth very seldom attaches any definite idea to death. It is an acquired dread that death inspires. Others tell us about its being terrible, till we become convinced it is so; and the sight of the dying or the dead fixes the gloomy terror forever in our minds. No one had ever talked to me about death at this time; and in wishing to go to the execution, it was with no desire to see a man die, and still less suffer. I only looked upon him as a person about to exhibit himself in new and strange circumstances, and a rope-dancer or a conjuror would have answered my purpose quite as well—perhaps better. However, I was not destined that day to see one or the other. Long before noon, Father Bonneville ordered the windows to be shut up, as if there were a death in the house. He staid at home himself, and passed the time in prayer, in which Jeanette and I joined him; after which he read two penitential sermons as soon as he thought the execution was over, and then ordered the windows to be opened again, after a new rush of feet past the house had announced to us that the blood-loving populace were going down to the suburbs at the foot of the hill.

If good Father Bonneville had kept up the same practice, his house would have been shut up, before long, five days out of seven in the week, and his domestic prayers would have occupied at least one-quarter of his whole time. Executions became numerous, agitation of the public mind, disquietude, tumult, violence, followed rapidly. No man felt himself safe: every one dreaded his neighbor; each hour had its peril; the meanest act of life became of consequence. There was no free-hearted easiness, no social cheerfulness; all the amenities of life were banished, till despair supplied a gayety of a chilly and a death-like sort, to cast an unwholesome blaze upon the darkening times like the lights that flit about the graves of the dead. The spirits and the energies of Father Bonneville fell completely for a time. He a good deal neglected my instruction during a couple of months—strove to give it, but could not fix his attention. At other times when I was not sitting with him, I was left to do much as I pleased, and my wanderings were now prolonged. Sometimes I would extend them five or six miles beyond the foot of the hill, especially toward the north and west, where a number of objects of great interest, as they seemed to me, lay concealed in the depths of a country, not fully populated and very little explored by the traveler. There was a curious old house there, completely in ruins—nothing in fact but the shell—with the doors gaping like dead men’s jaws, and the windows mere eyeless sockets. The outside, however, had once been very beautiful, richly arabesque, and ornamented with small pillars of a dark-gray marble, in a style which, I believe, belonged to the early part of the fifteenth century. The interior was crowded with young trees, rooted amongst fragments of decaying joists and roofing, while the windows were all trailed over with brambles and self-sown climbers. The jackdaws nested in the tall towers, and the owls slept till nightfall in the undisturbed chimney; but the social swallows built no habitations beneath those eves.

Farther on, there was an older building still, mounted on its little rock, with a small, but deep tank on one side, a river on the other, and a foss once traversed by a drawbridge, running round the rest of the base, and joining the river at the pond. I once waded through the stream, for the drawbridge had long returned to dust, to see what was in the house above. I was ill repaid for my pains. All was vacant and in ruin. There was a large, tall, square building, two lesser towers and a wall, but not a vestige of wood-work remaining. It must have been long completely dilapidated; for in the great-court, with one of its gnarled roots knotted round a fragment of masonry, was an oak which must have taken more than two centuries to grow. The two buildings were strangely contrasted in style: the gay, airy lightness of the one: the stern, heavy simplicity of the other, were the records of two past ages; but they, the ages which brought them forth, the people which had built them, and the feelings which lent them their characteristics, had all passed away. The epitaph for the grave-yard of all terrestrial things should have been written on both their fronts—“_Fuimus_.”

It was one day in the autumn time, when the leaves were brown, and the light mellow, and the birds had ceased their song, but the grasshopper still prolonged his chirping, that I had wandered out in this direction an hour or two after noon. It is a very pleasant land that Antoumois—for I am certain that it was there, although I have no proof of it—with its vineyards and its corn-fields, and its woods interspersed, and here and there wild, ill-shapen rocks starting up in one’s way, and presenting strange, unusual forms and clefts and caverns innumerable. There had been a good deal of rioting in the town in the morning. In fact the regular municipal government might have been considered as almost at an end, and anarchy was advancing with rapid strides. I no longer wanted to see executions: the turbulence of the people did not amuse and did not frighten me, but it annoyed me. My ears were tired of shouts and screams, and I was sick of the Marseillaise to my very heart. I longed to see the old town in its clear, calm, sober light again, with the streets uncrowded by victims, and unpolluted by the disorderly rabble of the suburb. Gladly I escaped out into the country, and I believe good Father Bonneville was glad to see me go. I had walked on past the first house I have mentioned, and was about mid-way between it and the second. I was wandering on along a little foot-path, not sufficiently frequented to prevent the velvet moss from growing quickly upon it, and had very nearly arrived at a spot where one of those bold, rugged and fissured rocks which I have mentioned, rose up in the midst of the wood, and forced the path to take a turn. Suddenly, when near the angle, a woman and a child turned the corner advancing with wild and rapid steps. The child, a beautiful little girl, of some seven years old, dressed in a costume of the higher classes, but with nothing but her own beautiful curly hair upon her head, was crying bitterly. The woman—evidently a lady of some rank and station—shed no tears; but there was a look of wild, anxious terror, almost amounting to frenzy, on her face. The moment she beheld me she started back, dragging the child with her, and uttering a low scream. But an instant’s thought made her pause again; and she fixed her deep, inquiring eyes upon me when she saw that I was but a boy and alone. She was very beautiful, though very pale, and her face was in some way familiar to me. As I gazed at her with some surprise, and not untouched by the fear which she evidently felt herself, I saw that various parts of her dress were dyed and dabbled with blood. I had stopped when she stopped, and remained somewhat bewildered while she fixed upon me that earnest, penetrating look. Suddenly, some thought or remembrance seemed to strike her, and letting go the child’s hand, she darted forth and grasped my arm.

“Are not you the boy whom I saw some months ago at Father Bonneville’s?” she asked in a low and hurried voice.

“I live with him, madam,” I replied; “but what blood is that upon your dress?”

“My husband’s,” replied the lady, in a tone so low, so icy, so full of deep despair that it seemed to freeze my very heart. “They have just murdered him before my very face, because he would not give them powder when he had none to give.”

Then she put her hand to her head for a few moments, and the little girl, still weeping bitterly, crept up to her side, and took hold of her gown.

“Here,” said the lady, disengaging the child’s hand and putting it in mine, “take her to Father Bonneville—tell him what has happened—beseech him to keep her in safety for two or three months. I will come and claim her if I live so long. If not, let him send her to England and think me dead. You will take care of her—you will be kind to her—you will guide her safely?” and she fixed her large, dark eyes full upon me, seeming to look into my soul.

She had taken little notice of the child, who was now crying more bitterly than ever, and murmuring that she would not go. For my part, I promised all that she desired, but she hardly listened to me, exclaiming, almost immediately I began to speak—

“Stay! she must have some means. Here, here,” and she took from her pocket two rolls of coin, wrapped up in paper as was much the custom in France in those days. One of these she gave to me, enveloped and sealed as it was. The other, she broke as one would break a stick, and I perceived it contained louis-d’ors, by one of them falling out upon the ground. I stooped to pick it up, but she said in the same hurried tone—

“Never mind, never mind. Speed is worth all the gold in the world. Here, take this half and go.”

Then stooping down, she kissed the little girl a hundred times, pressed her to her heart, laid her hand upon her head and looked up to heaven; and now the tears fell plentifully. From time to time, however, she whispered a few words in the child’s ear, and they seemed to have a great effect. She wept still, and somewhat clung to her mother; but when, at length, the lady replaced the child’s hand in mine, saying, “Now go, go, and God Almighty be your God and Protector,” she made no further resistance; but with bent head, and eyes dropping fast, ran on beside me.

Suddenly I heard a voice cry, “Stop, stop!” and turning round, saw the lady running fast after us. She caught the child’s hand and mine with a quick, eager grasp, and looked up on high, seeming to consider something deeply, and I could see the pulse beating in her beautiful neck with fearful force. At length, however, she dropped our hands with a deep, heavy sigh, and murmured, “They will never hurt two children—surely, they will not hurt two children. Go on—go on—”

She turned sadly away, and walking on, I was there in the forest leading the little girl by the hand, and with a walk of more than four miles before us.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

THE KISS.

BY E. ANNA LEWIS.

Two lovely beings near me stood,
The one a tall and blooming youth,
The other in sweet maidenhood,
All wreathed with smiles, and love, and truth.

He gazed upon her beaming face,
As if his soul lay mirrored there,
Then drew her close to his embrace—
But shrinking back, she said—“_Take care!_”

“It never gave me joy,” he sighed,
“The dew from saintly lips to sip—
I’d rather quaff the lava tide
That flushes Passion’s burning lip.”

“Then go,” she said—“I spurn thy kiss—
Go, kneel at glowing Venus’ shrine,
And drink thy fill of wanton bliss—
Thy lip shall never feed on mine.”

* * * * *

THE CLOSING SCENE.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Within his sober realm of leafless trees
The russet Year inhaled the dreamy air,
Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease,
When all the fields are lying brown and bare.

The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills
O’er the dim waters widening in the vales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills
On the dull thunder of alternate flails.

All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued;
The hills seemed farther and the streams sang low;
As in a dream, the distant woodman hewed
His winter log with many a muffled blow.

The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Now stood like some sad beaten host of old
Withdrawn afar in Time’s remotest blue.

On slumberous wings the vulture held his flight;
The dove scarce heard his sighing mate’s complaint;
And, like a star slow drowning in the light,
The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint.

The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew—
Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before;
Silent, till some replying warder blew
His alien horn, and then was heard no more.

Where erst the jay, within the elm’s tall crest,
Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young;
And where the oriole hung her swaying nest,
By every light wind like a censer swung:—

Where sang the noisy masons of the eves,
The busy swallows, circling ever near,
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and a plenteous year:—

Where every bird that charmed the vernal feast,
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn,
And warned the reaper of the rosy east—
All now was songless, empty and forlorn.

Alone from out the stubble piped the quail,
While croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom;
Alone the pheasant drumming in the vale
Made echo to the distant cottage loom.

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers,
The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night,
The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers,
Sailed slowly by—passed noiseless out of sight.

Amid all this, in this most cheerless air,
And where the woodbine shed upon the porch
Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there
Firing the floor with his inverted torch;—

Amid all this, the centre of the scene,
The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread
Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien,
Sat, like a Fate, and watched the flying thread.

She had known Sorrow: He had walked with her,
Oft supped and broke the bitter ashen crust;
And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom
Her country summoned, and she gave her all;
And twice War bowed to her his sable plume—
Re-gave the swords to rust upon her wall.

Re-gave the swords; but not the hand that drew,
And struck for Liberty its dying blow;
Nor him who, to his sire and country true.
Fell ’mid the ranks of the invading foe.

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone
Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.

At last the thread was snapped—her head was bowed,
Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene—
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud,
While Death and Winter closed the Autumn scene.

* * * * *

LINES.

BY JAMES M’CARROLL.

How oft, while wandering through some desert place,
I’ve met a poor, pale, thirsty little flower,
Looking toward heaven, with its patient face,
In dying expectation of a shower.

And when the sweet compassion of the skies
Fell, like a charm, upon its sickly bloom,
Oh! what a grateful stream gushed from its eyes
Toward Him who cared to snatch it from the tomb.

And, oh! when all its leaves seemed folding up
Into the tender bud of other days,
What clouds of incense, from the deepening cup,
Rolled upward with the burden of its praise.

And then I thought, in this dry land of ours
How few, that feel affliction’s chastening rod,
Are like the poor, pale, thirsty little flowers,
With their meek faces turned toward their God.

How few, when angry clouds and storms depart,
And all the light of heaven reappears,
Are found with incense rising in a heart
Dissolved, before His throne, in grateful tears.

* * * * *

A GOOD INVESTMENT.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

“That’s a smart little fellow of yours,” said a gentleman named Winslow to a laboring man, who was called in, occasionally, to do work about his store. “Does he go to school?”

“Not now, sir,” replied the poor man.

“Why not, Davis? He looks like a bright lad.”

“He’s got good parts, sir,” returned the father, “but—”

“But what?” asked the gentleman, seeing that the man hesitated.

“Times are rather hard now, sir, and I have a large family. It’s about as much as I can do to keep hunger and cold away. Ned reads very well, writes a tolerable fair hand, considering all things, and can figure a little. And that’s about all I can do for him. The other children are coming forward, and I reckon he will have to go to a trade middling soon.”

“How old is Ned?” inquired Mr. Winslow.

“He’s turned of eleven.”

“You wont put him to a trade before he’s thirteen or fourteen?”

“Can’t keep him home idling about all that time, Mr. Winslow. It would be his ruination. It’s young to go out from home, I know, to rough it and tough it among strangers”—there was a slight unsteadiness in the poor man’s voice—“but it’s better than doing nothing.”

“Ned ought to go to school a year or two longer, Davis,” said Mr. Winslow, with some interest in his manner. “And as you are not able to pay the quarter-bills, I guess I will have to do it. What say you? If I pay for Ned’s schooling can you keep him at home some two or three years longer?”

“I didn’t expect _that_ of you, Mr. Winslow,” said the poor man, and his voice now trembled. He uncovered his head as he spoke, almost reverently. “You aint bound to pay for schooling my boy. Ah, sir!”

“But you havn’t answered my question, Davis. What say you?”

“Oh, sir, if you are really in earnest?”

“I am in earnest. Ned ought to go to school. If you can keep him home a few years longer I will pay for his education during the time. Ned”—Mr. Winslow spoke to the boy—“what say you? Would you like to go to school again?”

“Yes, indeed, sir,” quickly answered the boy, while his bright young face was lit up with a gleam of intelligence.

“Then you shall go, my fine fellow. There’s the right kind of stuff in you, or I’m mistaken. We’ll give you a trial at any rate.”

Mr. Winslow was as good as his word. Ned was immediately entered at an excellent school. The boy, young as he was, appreciated the kind act of his benefactor, and resolved to profit by it to the full extent.

“I made an investment of ten dollars to-day,” said Mr. Winslow, jestingly to a mercantile friend, some three months after the occurrence just related took place, “and here’s the certificate.”

He held up a small slip of paper as he spoke.

“Ten dollars! A large operation. In what fund?”

“A charity fund.”

“Oh!” And the friend shrugged his shoulders “Don’t do much in that way myself. No great faith in the security. What dividend do you expect to receive?”

“Don’t know. Rather think it will be large.”

“Better take some more of the stock if you think it so good. There is plenty in market to be bought at less than par.”

Mr. Winslow smiled, and said that, in all probability he would invest a few more small sums in the same way and see how it would turn out. The little piece of paper which he called a certificate of stock, was the first quarter-bill he had paid for Ned’s schooling. For four years these bills were regularly paid, and then Ned, who had well improved the opportunities so generously afforded him, was taken, on the recommendation of Mr. Winslow, into a large importing house. He was at the time in his sixteenth year. Before the lad could enter upon this employment, however, Mr. Winslow had to make another investment in his charity fund. Ned’s father was too poor to give him an outfit of clothing such as was required in the new position to which he was to be elevated; knowing this, the generous merchant came forward again and furnished the needful supply.

As no wages were received by Ned for the first two years, Mr. Winslow continued to buy his clothing, while his father still gave him his board. On reaching the age of eighteen, Ned’s employers, who were much pleased with his industry, intelligence, and attention to business, put him on a salary of three hundred dollars. This made him at once independent. He could pay his own boarding and find his own clothes, and proud did he feel on the day when advanced to so desirable a position.

“How comes on your investment?” asked Mr. Winslow’s mercantile friend about this time. He spoke jestingly.

“It promises very well,” was the smiling reply.

“It is rising in the market, then?”

“Yes.”

“Any dividends yet?”

“Oh, certainly. Large dividends.”

“Ah! You surprise me. What kind of dividends?”

“More than a hundred per cent.”

“Indeed! Not in money?”

“Oh no. But in something better than money. The satisfaction that flows from an act of benevolence wisely done.”

“Oh, that’s all.” The friend spoke with ill-concealed contempt.

“Don’t you call that something?” asked Mr. Winslow.

“It’s entirely too unsubstantial for me,” replied the other. “I go in for returns of a more tangible character. Those you speak of wont pay my notes.”

Mr. Winslow smiled, and bade his friend good-morning.

“He knows nothing,” said he to himself, as he mused on the subject, “of the pleasure of doing good; and the loss is all on his side. If we have the ability to secure investments of this kind, they are among the best we can make, and all are able to put at least some money in the fund of good works, let it be ever so small an amount. Have I suffered the abridgment of a single comfort by what I have done? No. Have I gained in pleasant thoughts and feelings by the act? Largely. It has been a source of perennial enjoyment. I would not have believed that, at so small a cost I could have secured so much pleasure. And how great the good that may flow from what I have done! Instead of a mere day-laborer, whose work in the world goes not beyond the handling of boxes, bales and barrels, or the manufacture of some article in common use, Edward Davis, advanced by education, takes a position of more extended usefulness, and by his higher ability and more intelligent action in society, will be able, if he rightly use the power in his hands, to advance the world’s onward movement in a most important degree.”

Thus thought Mr. Winslow and his heart grew warm within him. Time proved that he had not erred in affording the lad an opportunity for obtaining a good education. His quick mind acquired, in the position in which he was placed, accurate ideas of business, and industry and force of character made these ideas thoroughly practical. Every year his employers advanced his salary, and, on attaining his majority, it was further advanced to the sum of one thousand dollars per annum. With every increase the young man had devoted a larger and larger proportion of his income to improving the condition of his father’s family, and when it was raised to the sum last mentioned, he took a neat, comfortable new house, much larger than the family had before lived in, and paid the whole rent himself. Moreover, through his acquaintance and influence, he was able to get a place for his father at lighter employment than he had heretofore been engaged in, and at a higher rate of compensation.

“Any more dividends on your charity investment?” said Mr. Winslow’s friend, about this time. He spoke with the old manner, and from the old feelings.

“Yes. Got a dividend to-day. The largest yet received,” replied the merchant, smiling.

“Did you? Hope it does you a great deal of good.”

“I realize your wish, my friend. It is doing me a great deal of good,” returned Mr. Winslow.

“No cash, I presume?”

“Something far better. Let me explain.”

“Do so, if you please.”

“You know the particulars of this investment?” said Mr. Winslow.

His friend shook his head, and replied,

“No. The fact is, I never felt interest enough in the matter to inquire particulars.”

“Oh, well. Then I must give you a little history.”

“You know old Davis, who has been working about our stores for the last ten or fifteen years?”

“Yes.”

“My investment was in the education of his son.”

“Indeed!”

“His father took him from school when he was only eleven years old, because he could not afford to send him any longer, and was about putting the little fellow out to learn a trade. Something interested me in the child, who was a bright lad, and acting from a good impulse that came over me at the moment, I proposed to his father to send him to school for three or four years, if he would board and clothe him during the time. To this he readily agreed. So I paid for Ned’s schooling until he was in his sixteenth year, and then got him into Webb & Waldron’s store, where he has been ever since.”

“Webb & Waldron’s!” said the friend, evincing some surprise. “I know all their clerks very well, for we do a great deal of business with them. Which is the son of old Mr. Davis?”

“The one they call Edward.”

“Not that tall, fine-looking young man—their leading salesman?”

“The same.”

“Is it possible! Why he is worth any two clerks in the store.”

“I know he is.”

“For his age, there is not a better salesman in the city.”

“So I believe,” said Mr. Winslow, “nor,” he added, “a better man.”

“I know little of his personal character; but, unless his face deceives me, it cannot but be good.”

“It is good. Let me say a word about him. The moment his salary increased beyond what was absolutely required to pay his board and find such clothing as his position made it necessary for him to wear, he devoted the entire surplus to rendering his father’s family more comfortable.”

“Highly praiseworthy,” said the friend.

“I had received, already, many dividends on my investment,” continued Mr. Winslow; “but when that fact came to my knowledge, my dividend exceeded all the other dividends put together.”

The mercantile friend was silent. If ever in his life he had envied the reward of a good deed, it was at that moment.

“To-day,” went on Mr. Winslow, “I have received a still larger dividend. I was passing along Buttonwood street, when I met old Mr. Davis coming out of a house, the rent of which, from its appearance, was not less than two hundred and twenty-five dollars. ‘You don’t live here, of course,’ said I, for I knew the old man’s income to be small—not over six or seven dollars a week. ‘O, yes I do,’ he made answer, with a smile. I turned and looked at the house again. ‘How comes this?’ I asked. ‘You must be getting better off in the world.’ ‘So I am,’ was his reply. ‘Has anybody left you a little fortune?’ I inquired. ‘No, but you have helped me to one,’ said he. ‘I don’t understand you, Mr. Davis,’ I made answer. ‘Edward rents the house for us,’ said the old man. ‘Do you understand now?’

“I understood him perfectly. It was then that I received the largest dividend on my investment which has yet come into my hands. If they go on increasing at this rate, I shall soon be rich.”

“Rather unsubstantial kind of riches,” was remarked by the friend.

“That which elevates and delights the mind can hardly be called unsubstantial,” replied Mr. Winslow. “Gold will not always do this.”

The friend sighed involuntarily. The remarks of Mr. Winslow caused thoughts to flit over his mind that were far from being agreeable.

A year or two more went by, and then an addition was made to the firm of Webb & Waldron. Edward Davis received the offer of an interest in the business, which he unhesitatingly accepted. From that day he was in the road to fortune. Three years afterward one of the partners died, when his interest was increased.

Twenty-five years from the time Mr. Winslow, acting from a benevolent impulse, proposed to send young Davis to school, have passed.

One day, about this period, Mr. Winslow, who had met with a number of reverses in business, was sitting in his counting-room, with a troubled look on his face, when the mercantile friend before-mentioned came in. His countenance was pale and disturbed.

“We are ruined! ruined!” said he, with much agitation.

Mr. Winslow started to his feet.

“Speak!” he exclaimed. “What new disaster is about to sweep over me?”

“The house of Toledo & Co., in Rio, has suspended.”

Mr. Winslow struck his hands together, and sunk down into the chair from which he had arisen.

“Then it is all over,” he murmured. “All over!”

“It is all over with me,” said the other. “A longer struggle would be fruitless. But for this I might have weathered the storm. Twenty thousand dollars of drafts drawn against my last shipment are back protested, and will be presented to-morrow. I cannot lift them. So ends this matter. So closes a business life of nearly forty years, in commercial dishonor and personal ruin!”

“Are you certain that they have failed?” asked Mr. Winslow, with something like hope in his tone of voice.

“It is too true,” was answered. “The Celeste arrived this morning, and her letter-bag was delivered at the post-office half an hour ago. Have you received nothing by her?”

“I was not aware of her arrival. But I will send immediately for my letters.”

Too true was the information communicated by the friend. The large commission-house of Toledo & Co. had failed, and protested drafts had been returned to a very heavy amount. Mr. Winslow was among the sufferers, and to an extent that was equivalent to ruin; because it threw back upon him the necessity of lifting over fifteen thousand dollars of protested paper, when his line of payments was already fully up to his utmost ability.

For nearly five years, every thing had seemed to go against Mr. Winslow. At the beginning of that period, a son, whom he had set up in business, failed, involving him in a heavy loss. Then, one disaster after another followed, until he found himself in imminent danger of failure. From this time he turned his mind to the consideration of his affairs with more earnestness than ever, and made every transaction with a degree of prudence and foresight that seemed to guarantee success in whatever he attempted. A deficient supply of flour caused him to venture a large shipment to Rio. The sale was at a handsomely remunerative profit, but the failure of his consignees, before the payment of his drafts for the proceeds, entirely prostrated him.

So hopeless did the merchant consider his case, that he did not even make an effort to get temporary aid in his extremity.

When the friend of Mr. Winslow came with the information that the house of Toledo & Co. had failed, the latter was searching about in his mind for the means of lifting about five thousand dollars worth of paper, which fell due on that day. He had two thousand dollars in bank; the balance of the sum would have to be raised by borrowing. He had partly fixed upon the resources from which this was to come, when the news of his ill-fortune arrived.

Yes, it was ruin. Mr. Winslow saw that in a moment, and his hands fell powerless by his side. He made no further effort to lift his notes, but, after his mind had a little recovered from its first shock, he left his store and retired to his home, to seek in its quiet the calmness and fortitude, of which he stood so greatly in need. In this home were his wife and two daughters, who all their lives had enjoyed the many external comforts and elegancies that wealth can procure. The heart of the father ached as his eyes rested upon his children, and he thought of the sad reverses that awaited them.

On entering his dwelling, Mr. Winslow sought the partner of his life, and communicated to her without reserve, the painful intelligence of his approaching failure.

“Is it indeed so hopeless?” she asked, tears filling her eyes.

“I am utterly prostrate!” was the reply, in a voice that was full of anguish. And in the bitterness of the moment, the unfortunate merchant wrung his hands.

To Mrs. Winslow, the shock, so unexpected, was very severe; and it was some time before her mind, after her husband’s announcement, acquired any degree of calmness.

About half an hour after Mr. Winslow’s return home, and while both his own heart and that of his wife were quivering with pain, a servant came and said that a gentleman had called and wished to see him.

“Who is it?” asked the merchant.

“I did not understand his name,” replied the servant.

Mr. Winslow forced as much external composure as was possible, and then descended to the parlor.

“Mr. Davis,” he said on entering.

“Mr. Winslow,” returned the visitor, taking the merchant’s hand and grasping it warmly.

As the two men sat down together, the one addressed as Mr. Davis, said—

“I was sorry to learn a little while ago, that you will lose by this failure in Rio.”

“Heavily. It has ruined me!” replied Mr. Winslow.

“Not so bad as that I hope!” said Mr. Davis.

“Yes. It has removed the last prop that I leaned on, Mr. Davis. The very last one, and now the worst must come to the worst. It is impossible for me to take up fifteen thousand dollars worth of returned drafts.”

“Fifteen thousand is the amount?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Davis smiled encouragingly.

“If that is all,” said he, “there is no difficulty in the way. I can easily get you the money.”

Mr. Winslow started, and a warm flush went over his face.

“Why didn’t you come to me,” asked Mr. Davis, “the moment you found yourself in such a difficulty? Surely!” and his voice slightly trembled, “surely you did not think it possible for me to forget the past! Do not I owe you every thing?—and would I not be one of the basest of men, if I forgot my obligation? If your need were twice fifteen thousand, and it required the division of my last dollar with you, not a hair of your head should be injured. I did not know that it was possible for you to get into an extremity like this, until I heard it whispered a little while ago.”

So unexpected a turn in his affairs completely unmanned Mr. Winslow. He covered his face and wept for some time, with the uncontrollable passion of a child.

“Ah! sir,” he said at last, in a broken voice, “I did not expect this, Mr. Davis.”

“You had a right to expect it,” replied the young man. “Were I to do less than sustain you in any extremity not too great for my ability, I would be unworthy the name of a man. And now, Mr. Winslow, let your heart be at rest. You need not fall under this blow. Your drafts will probably come back to you to-morrow?”

“Yes. To-morrow at the latest.”

“Very well. I will see that you are provided with the means to lift them. In the meantime, if you are in want of any sums toward your payments of to-day, just let me know.”

“I can probably get through to-day by my own efforts,” said Mr. Winslow.

“Probably? How much do you want?” asked Mr. Davis.

“In the neighborhood of three thousand dollars.”

“I will send you round a check for that sum immediately,” promptly returned the young man, rising as he spoke and drawing forth his watch.

“It is nearly two o’clock now,” he added, “so I will bid you good day. In fifteen minutes you will find a check at your store.”

And with this Davis retired.

All this, which passed in a brief space of time, seemed like a dream to Mr. Winslow. He could hardly realize its truth. But it was a reality, and he comprehended it more fully, when on reaching his store, he found there the promised check for three thousand dollars.

On the next day the protested drafts came in; but, thanks to the grateful kindness of Mr. Davis, now a merchant with the command of large money facilities, he was able to take them up. The friend, before introduced was less fortunate. There was no one to step forward and save him from ruin, and he sunk under the sudden pressure that came upon him.

A few days after his failure he met Mr. Winslow.

“How is this?” said he. “How did you weather the storm that drove me under? I thought your condition as hopeless as mine!”

“So did I,” answered Mr. Winslow. “But, I had forgotten a small investment made years ago. I have spoken of it to you before.”

The other looked slightly puzzled.

“Have you forgotten that investment in the charity fund? which you thought money thrown away.”

“Oh!” Light broke in upon his mind. “You educated Davis. I remember now!”

“And Davis, hearing of my extremity, stepped forward and saved me. That was the best investment I ever made!”