Chapter XXI (2)

And now began a game of romps, which lasted for an hour or more, and then little bodies began to be stumbled over, and were found under tables, and on sofas fast asleep, and were taken off to bed. Mrs. Ellison’s baby being roused by the noise, had awaked, and persisted in keeping awake, and his mother came back to the parlor bringing him in her arms, with his night-gown on, and his cheeks as red as roses.

“Isn’t he a splendid fellow?” said she, holding him up before cousin Tom.

“A very comfortable looking piece of flesh certainly,” he answered; “but then they are all alike. I think you might divide all babies into two class, the fat and the lean; otherwise, there is no difference in them that I can see.”

“Pshaw, how ridiculously you talk; there is a great deal more difference between two babies, than between you and all the other young dandies who walk Broadway. They are all alike, the same cut of the coat and collar, and whiskers; the same tie of the neck-cloth, and shape of the boot: when you have seen one, you have seen all. But now just take a good look at this magnificent baby, and confess; wouldn’t you like to kiss him?”

“Excuse me, my dear aunty, but that is a thing I haven’t been left to do very often. I’ve no fancy for having my cheeks and whiskers converted into spitoons. It is really astonishing now,” continued cousin Tom, “what fools such a brat as that will make of very sensible people.”

“Are your allusions personal, sir?” asked Mrs. Ellison, laughing.

“No, not just now; but I was thinking of a man in our place, who used to be really a _very_ sensible fellow; and though quite an old bachelor, he was the life of every party he attended, and more of a favorite than most of the young men. Well, when he was about fifty years old he got married, and he’s got a young one now about two years old. And what kind of an exhibition do you suppose that man made of himself the other day. Why, this refractory young individual couldn’t be persuaded to walk towards home in any other way, when they had him out for an airing, and what does this old friend of mine do, but allow a handkerchief to be pinned to his coat-tail, and go prancing along the street like a horse for the spoiled brat to drive. The calf! I declare, before I’d make such a fool of myself as that, I’d eat my head! What are you writing there, uncle?”

“Only taking notes of these remarks, Tom,” answered Mr. Wharton, “for your benefit on some future occasion.”

There was only one in that Christmas party who could not heartily join in the glee; it was poor Emily, to whom this scene brought back so vividly other holiday seasons passed with those who had “gone from earth to return no more,” that only by a strong effort could she prevent her own sadness from casting a shade over the happiness of others; for they all loved cousin Emily so dearly, that they could not be merry when she was sad. Emily was usually so quiet, that in their noisy play they did not miss her as she retired to the sofa and shaded her eyes with her hand; but her kind uncle noticed her, and readily understood the reason of her sadness. Taking a seat by her he put his arm around her, and took her hand in his. This act of tenderness was too much for poor Emily’s already full heart, and laying her head on her uncle’s shoulder, she sobbed out her grief unchecked.

IV. Cousin Betty.

“Come, wilt thou see me ride!”—HENRY VIII.

Cousin Betty was a little bit of a woman, with a face as full of wrinkles as a frozen apple, and a pair of the busiest and most twinkling little black eyes you ever saw, a prominent and parrot like nose, with a chin formed on the very same pattern, only that it turned up instead of down, the two so very nearly meeting that the children said they had “to turn their faces sideways to kiss her.” She had some very unaccountable ways too, which no one understood, and which she never made any attempt to explain, perhaps because she did not understand them herself.

For instance, whenever meals were ready, and the family prepared to sit down, though cousin Betty might have been hovering round for an hour or two before, she was often missing at that very moment, and when a search was instituted she was sometimes found taking a stroll in the garret where she could have no possible business, and sometimes poking about in the darkest corner of the dark cellar, without the slightest conceivable object. If her thimble or spectacles were lost, she has often been known to go to the pantry and lift up every tumbler and wine-glass on the shelf, one after the other, and look under it as if she really expected to find the missing article there; and to take off the cover of vegetable dishes to look for her snuff-box, or open the door of the stove, if her work-bag, or knitting were missing, apparently with the confident expectation of finding them unharmed amidst the blazing fire.

Cousin Betty had a very uncomfortable fashion of _dying_ too, every little while, which at first alarmed her friends so much that restoratives were speedily procured; but as she never failed to come to life again, they became, after a time, accustomed to the parting scene, so that there was great danger that when she really did take her departure, nobody would believe it.

“My dear,” said she one night to Effie, “I feel very unwell; very unwell, indeed; I think it’s more’n likely I shan’t last the night through. I wish you wouldn’t leave me alone this evening, and then if I’m suddenly taken worse, you know you can call the family. I should like to see them all before I go.”

Effie promised she would not leave her, and bringing her book, she seated herself by the stove in cousin Betty’s room. In about a hour she appeared in the parlor, her face purple with the effort to suppress the inclination to laugh, and said, “Oh, do all of you please to come to cousin Betty’s room a few moments.”

“What, is she dying?” they asked.

“Oh, no! but just come; very quietly; there’s a sight for you to see.”

Cousin Betty always tied a large handkerchief about her head when she went to bed, and on the night in question, the two ends of the handkerchief being tied in a knot stood up from her head like two enormous ears. She was bolstered up by pillows, as she declared she could not breathe in any other position, and at every breath she drew she opened and shut her mouth with a sudden jerk. Effie had looked up from her reading suddenly, and caught the reflection of cousin Betty’s profile, thrown by the light, greatly magnified upon the wall, and stuffing her handkerchief in her mouth to prevent a sudden explosion of laughter, by which cousin Betty might be awakened, she ran to call the family. No pen-sketch but an actual profile would give the slightest idea of the extraordinary and most ludicrous appearance of the image thus thrown upon the wall; with the enormous ears standing up, and the mouth and chin snapping together like the claws of a lobster. One by one they rushed from the room, till at length a smothered cacchination from one of the little ones awoke cousin Betty, who exclaimed:

“Who is sobbing there? My dear friends do not distress yourselves, I find myself considerably more comfortable.”

This “clapped the climax,” and the room was unavoidably deserted for a few minutes; but at length Effie found courage to return, and, by placing the light in another position, was enabled to keep watch for the remainder of the evening.

There were some very amusing stories told in the family of cousin Betty’s adventures, one of which I will relate here. She was at one time making one of her long visits at Mr. Wharton’s, when, getting out of yarn, and not being willing to remain long idle, she began to worry about some way to get over to the village. The horses were all out at work upon the farm, except Old Prancer, a superannuated old horse, who was never used except for Mrs. Wharton or the girls to drive; for, whatever claims “Prancer” may once have had to his name, it had been a misnomer for some years past, and no one suspected him of having a spark of spirit.

When Mr. Wharton came in to dinner, and cousin Betty consulted him as to the best means of getting over to the village, he told her that the best thing he could do for her would be to put the side-saddle on to Old Prancer, and let her ride over. To this cousin Betty consented, not without a slight trepidation, for she had never been much of a horse-woman, but still, as she had known Prancer for many years, and he had always borne the character of a staid, steady-going animal, she thought there could surely be no risk in trusting herself to him.

Soon after dinner, cousin Betty, with a very short and very scanty skirt, was mounted on the back of Old Prancer. She felt quite timid at first at finding herself upon so lofty an elevation, (for Prancer was an immense animal;) but when she found how steadily and sedately he went on, and that neither encouragement nor blows could induce him to break into a trot, she lost all her fears, and began to enjoy her ride saving that the pace was rather a slow one.

But just as cousin Betty began to ascend the hill leading into the village, the sound of martial music burst upon her ear, and she remembered hearing the children say that this was “general training day.” Cousin Betty did not know that Prancer had once belonged to a militia officer; and if she had, it would have made no difference, as all the fire of youth seemed to have died out with Prancer years ago. But early associations are strong; and as the “horse scenteth the battle afar off,” so did Prancer prick up his ears and quicken his pace at the spirit-stirring sounds of the fife and drum; and now he began to make an awkward attempt to dance sideways upon the points of his hoofs; and as he neared the brow of the hill, his excitement became more intense, and his curveting and prancing more animated. Cousin Betty was almost terrified to death. Throwing away her whip, and grasping the reins, she endeavored to stop him; but he only held in his head, and danced sideways up the street with more animation and spirit than ever. She thought of throwing herself off, but the immense height rendered such a feat utterly unsafe; she endeavored to rein the horse up to the side-walk; but now he had caught sight of the motley array of trainers, and of the gay horses and gayer uniforms of the officers, and, regardless alike of bit and rein, he started off at full speed, to join the long-forgotten but once familiar spectacle.

Cousin Betty had by this time dropped the reins, and was clinging with both arms to Old Prancer’s neck; and as he turned his face to the company, and backed gallantly down the street, the sight was too irresistibly ludicrous. Shouts and laughter, and expressions of encouragement to poor cousin Betty, were heard on all sides; till at length a militia officer, taking pity upon her helpless condition, led the unwilling Prancer to the tavern, and assisted her to alight. Here cousin Betty remained till sun-down, and all was quiet; and then, requesting the tavern-keeper to lead the horse out of town while she walked, she again, with much fear and trembling, mounted when beyond the precincts of the village.

Prancer, however, walked slowly home, with his head drooping, as if thoroughly mortified at the excesses into which he had been betrayed; and cousin Betty, when she once got safely home, declared that she’d go without yarn another time, if it was a whole year, before she would mount such a “treacherous animal as that ’ere.”

But, with all her oddities, cousin Betty was sometimes a very amusing companion. She had many stories of her youth stowed away in her memory, which, when wanted, could be found and brought to light much more readily than the articles she was so constantly missing now; and though these stories were not told in the purest English, they were none the less interesting to the children for that.

There came, early in February, some pleasant, mild days, which soon made a ruin of the boys’ palace of snow; and though cousin Betty had been in a dying state for an hour or two the night before, she was so far revived that morning, that she was easily persuaded by the children to go over with them to the farm-house, and tell them the story of their great-grandfather, and his capture by the Indians; which same, though a very interesting story to the children, might not be so to my readers; and after changing my mind about it several times, I have concluded to leave it out, as having nothing to do with the rest of my story.

V Home Again.

“Deal very, very gently with a young child’s tender heart.”

With a face beaming with joy, little Agnes took her place in the cutter by her uncle on Christmas morning, and nodded good-bye to her cousins, who were crowded at the window to see her off.

“Mind you come back to dinner!” screamed little Grace, knocking with her knuckles on the window pane.

Agnes nodded again, and they were gone. Many a time during the short ride did Agnes take out of her little muff the paper in which her needle-case for her mother was rolled up, to see if it was all safe; and she never let go for a moment of the basket in which were some toys for Lewie, which she and her cousins had purchased at the village. As she drove up the road from the gate to her mother’s house, it seemed to her so long since she had been away, that she expected to see great changes. She had never been from home so long before, and a great deal had happened in that fort night.

Mrs. Elwyn was reading again; indeed, she had resumed that very yellow-covered book, the reading of which Lewie’s sickness had interrupted; so she had not much time for a greeting for Agnes, though she did allow her to kiss her cheek, and of course laid aside her book, out of compliment to Mr. Wharton. But little Lewie, who was sitting in his cradle, surrounded by toys, was in perfect ecstasies at the return of Agnes.

He stretched his little arms towards her; and as she sprang towards him, and stooped to kiss him, he threw them around her neck, and clasped his little hands together, as if determined never to let her go again.

“Sister come! sister come!” he exclaimed over and over again, with the greatest glee; “sister stay with Lewie now.”

“Sister will stay a little while,” said Agnes, kissing over and over again her beautiful little brother.

“No, sister _stay_!—sister shall not go!” said Lewie, in the best manner in which he could express it; but exactly _how_, we must be excused from making known to the reader, having a great horror of _baby-talk_ in books.

“But I _must_ go, darling; all my things are at uncle’s, and I want to get some books cousin Emily is going to give me; but I will come back very soon to stay with Lewie.”

“No! sister _shall_ not go!” was still the cry; and Mrs. Elwyn settled the matter by saying:

“Agnes, if Lewie wants you here so much, you may as well take off your things; you cannot return to Brook Farm; besides, I want you to amuse Lewie.” Agnes thought of some of the consequences of her endeavors to amuse Lewie, and sighed.

“If your mother insists upon your remaining, Agnes,” said her uncle, “I will bring over your things, and Emily shall come with me, to bring the books, and tell you how to study.”

“Oh, thank you, dear uncle!” said Agnes, her face brightening at once.

In the first scene in which our little hero is introduced to the reader, he certainly does not appear to advantage, as few persons would in the first stages of a fever. He was not always so hard to please, or so recklessly destructive, as he was that day; and had an intimation ever been conveyed to his mind, that it was a possible thing for any desire of his to remain ungratified, he might have grown up less supremely selfish than he did.

But the natural selfishness of his nature being constantly fed and ministered to by his doating mother, led the little fellow to understand very early that no wish of his was to be denied; and before he was two years old, he fully understood the power he held in his hands.

He was a beautiful boy; “as handsome as a picture,” as Mammy said; but, for my part, I have seldom seen a picture of a child that could at all compare with Lewie Elwyn, with his golden curls, and deep blue eyes, and brilliant color. He was warm-hearted and affectionate, too, and might have been moulded by the hand of love into a glorious character. But selfishness is a deformity which early attention and care may remedy, and the grace of God alone may completely subdue; but, if allowed to take its own course, or worse, if encouraged and nurtured, it grows with wonderful rapidity, and makes a horrid shape of what might be the fairest.

Upon this text, or something very like it, Mr. Wharton spake to Mrs. Elwyn, when Agnes had carried Lewie into the next room to spin his top for him.

“Lewie is a most beautiful little fellow, certainly,” said he; “but, Harriet, take care; he is getting the upper hand of you already. It is time already—indeed, it has long been time—to make him understand that his will is to be _subservient_ to those who are older.”

To which Mrs. Elwyn replied, “How absurd, Mr. Wharton, to talk of governing a child like that!”

“There are other ways of governing, Harriet, besides the whip and the lock and key, neither of which do I approve of, except in extreme cases. Lewie could very easily be guided by the hand of love, and it rests with you now to make of him almost what you choose. A mother’s gentle hand hath mighty power.”

“Well, Mr. Wharton, to tell you the truth, nothing seems to me so absurd as all these ideas of nursery education; and the people who write books on the subject seem to think there is but one rule by which all children are to be governed.”

“I perfectly agree with you, Harriet, that it is very ridiculous to suppose that one set of rules will answer for the education of all, except, of course, so far as the Bible rule is the foundation for all government. I think the methods adopted with children should be as numerous and different as the children themselves, each one, by their constitution and disposition, requiring different treatment; but still there are some general rules, you must admit, which will serve for all. One of these is a rule of very long standing; it is this—‘Honor thy father and thy mother;’ and another—‘Children, obey your parents in the Lord.’ Now, how can you expect your son, as he grows up, to honor, respect, or obey you, if you take the trouble to teach him, every day and hour, that _he_ is the master, and you only the slave of his will. There is another saying in that same old book from which these rules are drawn, which tells you that ‘A child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame.’”

Mrs. Elwyn, during this conversation, kept up a series of polite little bows, but could not altogether conceal an expression of weariness, and distaste at the turn the conversation had taken. She had a sincere respect, however, for Mr. Wharton, who always exercised over her the power which a strong mind exercises over a weak one, and she felt in her heart that he was a real friend to her, and one who had the interests of herself and her children at heart.

As Mr. Wharton rose to go she said, laughingly:

“I thank you for your kind advice with regard to Lewie, Mr. Wharton, but in spite of it, I do not think I shall put him in a straight-jacket before he is out of his frocks.”

“No straight-jacket is needed, Harriet; you have often written in your copy-book at school, I suppose, ‘Just as the twig is bent the tree’s inclined.’ You remember that strange apple-tree in my orchard, which the children use for a seat, it rises about a foot from the ground, and then turns and runs along for several feet horizontally, and then shoots up again to the sky. When that was a twig, your thumb and finger could have bent it straight; but now, what force could do it. If sufficient strength could be applied it might be _broken_, but never bent again. Excuse my plain speaking, Harriet, but I see before you so much trouble, unless that little boy’s strong will is controlled, that my conscience would not let me rest, unless I spoke honestly to you what is in my mind.”

“I must say you are not a prophesier of ‘_smooth things_’” said Mrs. Elwyn, “but still, I hope the dismal things you have hinted at may not come to pass.”

“I hope not too, Harriet,” said Mr. Wharton, “but God has now mercifully spared your little boy’s life, and it rests with you whether he shall be trained for His service or not.”

Then calling for Agnes and Lewie, Mr. Wharton kissed them for good-bye, telling Agnes that he would bring Emily over the next day.

Mrs. Elwyn looked infinitely relieved when Mr. Wharton drove off, and returned to her novel with as much interest as ever, and in the very exciting scene into which her heroine was now introduced, she soon forgot the unpleasant nature of Mr. Wharton’s “lecture,” as she called it.

Agnes was contriving in her mind all the morning, how she should present the needle-case to her mother, and wondering how it would be received. It was such a great affair to her, and had cost her so much time and labor, that she was quite sure it must be an acceptable gift, and yet natural timidity in approaching her mother, made her shrink from presenting it, and every time she thought of it her heart beat in her very throat.

At length the novel was finished and thrown aside, and Mrs. Elwyn sat with her feet on the low fender gazing abstractedly into the fire. Now was the time Agnes thought, and approaching her gently, she said:

“Mamma, here is a needle-case I made for you, all myself, for a Christmas present.”

The _words_ could not have been heard by Mrs. Elwyn, she only knew that a voice _not_ Lewie’s interrupted her in her reverie.

“Hush! hush! child,” she said, waving her hand impatiently towards Agnes, “be quiet! don’t disturb me!”

Oh, what a grieved and disappointed little heart that, as Agnes turned away with the tears in her eyes, and a lump in her throat.

The next voice that disturbed the young widow was one to which she always gave attention:

“Mamma! mamma!” cried Lewie, pulling imperiously at her gown; “mamma! sister feels sorry, speak to sister.”

“What is it, dear?” his mother asked.

“Speak to sister! sister crying,” said Lewie, pulling her with all the strength of his little hands towards Agnes.

“What is the matter, Agnes? Why are you crying? What did you say to me a few moments ago?” asked her mother.

Agnes tried to say “It is no matter, mamma,” bet she sobbed so bitterly that she could not form the words. But Lewie, who had seen and understood the whole thing, pulled the needle-case from his sister’s hand, and gave his mother to understand that Agnes had made it for her, and then he struck his little hand towards her and called her “naughty mamma, to make sister cry!”

More to please Lewie than for any other reason, Mrs. Elwyn took the needle-case, and said:

“Why Agnes, did you make this yourself, and for me? how pretty it is; isn’t it, Lewie? Now Agnes, you may fill it with needles for me.”

Agnes wiped her eyes and began her task, but that painful lump would not go away from her throat. Ah! if those kind words had only come at first!

How much suffering is caused to the hearts of little children by mere thoughtlessness, sometimes in those even who love them; by a want of sympathy in their little griefs and troubles, as great and all-important to them, as are the troubles of “children of a larger growth,” in their own estimation.

VI. The Tableaux.

“A mournful thing is love which grows to one so mild as thou, With that bright restlessness of eye—that tameless fire of brow Mournful! but dearer far I call its mingled fear and pride, And the trouble of its happiness than aught on earth beside.” —MRS. HEMANS.

Lewie recovered rapidly; and by the time that “the singing of birds had come,” the roses bloomed as brightly as ever in his cheeks; and, with his hand in that of Agnes, he roamed about the woods and groves which surrounded their home, gathering wild flowers, and watching with delight the nimble squirrel and the brilliant wild birds, as they hopped from limb to limb. The children were always happy together; Lewie was more yielding and less passionate when with his gentle sister than at other times; and it was only when again in the presence of his mother that his wilful, fretful manner returned, and he was again capricious and hard to please.

Thus, while he was still almost in his infancy, his mother began to reap the fruit of her sowing; for, while to others he could be gentle and pleasant, with her he was always fretful and capricious. Already her wishes had no weight with him, if they ran counter to his own, and commands she never ventured to lay upon him; already the little twig was taking its own bent.

The birth-days were all rigidly kept in Mr. Wharton’s family, and some little pleasant entertainment provided on every such occasion. Thus, while Mr. and Mrs. Wharton failed not to make every proper and serious use of these way-marks on the journey of life, they loved to show their children how pleasant to themselves was the remembrance of the day when one more little bright face had come to cheer and brighten their earthly pilgrimage. Miss Effie was the important character in commemoration of whose “first appearance on any stage” a pleasant party had collected in Mr. Wharton’s parlor, one evening in May. Mrs. Elwyn and her children were spending a few days at Brook Farm; and the family of Dr. Rodney, and a few other little folks from the village, were invited, on Effie’s birth-day, to pass the afternoon and evening.

Great had been the preparations, for they were, for the first time, to have an exhibition of the “tableaux vivants” in the evening. Mr. Wharton had constructed a large frame, which, covered with gilt paper, and having a black lace spread over it, made the illusion more perfect. Many pretty scenes had been selected by cousin Emily, who was mistress of ceremonies; and that no child’s feelings might be hurt, a character was assigned for each one, in one or other of the pictures. A temporary curtain was hung across the room, which was to be drawn whenever the pictures were ready for exhibition.

Agnes had been as busy as anybody in bringing down from a certain closet devoted to that purpose old finery, and other things which belonged to days long gone by, and her anticipations of pleasure for the evening were raised to the highest pitch. But just when all were assembled in the darkened parlor, the lights all being arranged behind the curtain so as to fall upon the pictures, Master Lewie, who was up beyond his usual bed time, and who was hardly old enough to take much interest in what was going on, declared that he was sleepy, and would go to bed. Neither Mammy nor Anne were with them at Brook Farm; and as Mrs. Elwyn seemed as much interested as any one in seeing the tableaux, Agnes knew what the result would be, if Lewie insisted upon going to bed; so she endeavored to amuse him and keep him awake till she had seen at least one tableau.

“Oh, Lewie, wait _one_ moment!” said she; “Lewie will see a beautiful picture.”

“Lewie don’t want to see pictures; Lewie wants to go to bed. Sister, come! sing to Lewie.”

“In one moment, then, little brother. Let Agnes see one picture. Won’t you let sister see _one_ picture?”

“No; Lewie must go to bed. Mamma, tell sister to come with Lewie.”

The result was, of course, in accordance with Master Lewie’s wishes, and Agnes was directed to take him up to bed. “He will very soon be asleep,” her mother added, “and then you can come down.”

This Master Lewie heard, and it put quite a new idea into his head, it never having occurred to him before that the person who sang him to sleep left him alone, after her task was accomplished. That was a thing he was not going to submit to, and he was so determined to watch Agnes, lest she should slip away from him, that all sleep seemed to have deserted his eyes, which were wider open, and more bright and wide awake, than ever.

Agnes laid down beside him, and, patting him gently on the cheek, she sang in a sleepy sort of way, hoping the tone of her voice would have a somniferous effect.

“Sing louder!” shouted Master Lewie.

Agnes obeyed, and sang many nursery songs suggested by Master Lewie, hoping, at the end of each one, that there would be some signs of drowsiness manifested on the part of the little tyrant; but the moment it was finished, brightly and quickly he would speak up:

“Sing that over again!—sing another!—sing ‘Old Woman!’—sing ‘Jack Horner,’” &c., &c.

And Agnes’ heart died within her as question upon question would follow each other in quick succession, suggested by the lively imagination of Master Lewie, as to the name and parentage of “the little boy who lived by himself;” and the childless condition of the man whose “old wife wasn’t at home;” and where the dogs actually _did_ take the “wheel-barrow, wife and all;” he feeling perfectly satisfied of the accurate information of Agnes on all these important topics.

Several times the little bright eyes slowly closed, and Agnes thought he was fairly conquered. Slowly drawing her arm from under his head, she began cautiously to rise; but before she had stolen a foot from the bed, he would start up and stare at her in amazement, exclaiming, “Where going, sister?” and then he seemed to learn by experience, and to determine that he wouldn’t be “caught napping” again that evening.

In the meantime, the fun was going on below, and several beautiful pictures had been exhibited and admired before Agnes was missed from the darkened parlor. But now came the cry, “Agnes! Come, Agnes! Where’s Agnes? She is to be in this picture.” To which Mrs. Elwyn replied, that “Agnes was putting Lewie to sleep.”

“And hasn’t she been here at all, Aunt Harriet?”

“No,” answered Mrs. Elwyn, “Lewie takes a long time to get to sleep to-night.”

“That is _too bad_, I declare!” said little Grace, her cheeks reddening with vexation, “Agnes did want to see these pictures so; can’t I go up and see if Lewie is asleep, Aunt Harriet.”

“Better not,” said Mrs. Elwyn; “you may disturb him just as he is dropping asleep, and then Agnes will have to stay much longer.”

The exclamations of indignation were loud and furious from the whole party of little folks, when it was found that Agnes had been all the evening banished from the room, and they were ready to go up to Lewie’s room in a body and take possession of Agnes, and bring her down in triumph. But Emily said, “stop children, and I will go.”

Very quietly Emily stole into the room and up to the bedside. The children were lying with their arms about each other, Agnes’ little hand was on her brother’s cheek, and both were soundly sleeping. Emily touched Agnes gently and whispered in her ear, but her slumber was so very sound that she could not arouse her. “Better to let her sleep on now,” said Emily, “and if Agnes only knew it, she has helped to make the prettiest tableaux we have had this evening.”

Thus early was little Agnes learning to give up her own gratification for the sake of others, while the strong will of her little brother was strengthened by constant exercise and indulgence, for this was but one of many instances daily occurring, in which Agnes was obliged to relinquish her own pleasure in order to gratify the whims and caprices of her little brother. Lewie had so often heard such expressions from his mother, that almost as soon as he could speak a connected sentence, he would say, “Lewie must have his own way; Lewie must not be crossed,” and in this way did his mother prepare him for the jostling and conflicts of life.

VII. The Governess.

“An ower true tale.”

Mr. Wharton was one day writing in his study, for though a practical farmer he devoted much of his time to literary pursuits,—when there was a knock at his door, and on opening it he saw there a young woman of delicate appearance, and of so much apparent refinement and cultivation, that he was quite taken by surprise when she asked him the question, “if he had any wool to be given out on shares?”

Mr. Wharton replied, that he had had so much trouble with those to whom he had given out wool in that way, and had been so often cheated by them, that he had said he would give out no more, but he believed he must break through his rule for once, in her favor. She seemed very grateful, and said she hoped he would have no reason to regret his kindness in giving her employment. And so it proved; Miss Edwards, (for that was her name,) gave such entire satisfaction as to her work, and the share of it she returned, that Mr. Wharton kept her for some time in constant employment. Every time she came, he was more and more pleased with her gentle and unaffected manners, and with the style of her conversation, which showed without the slightest appearance of effort, a person of great intelligence and good breeding, while an air of subdued melancholy excited an interest in her, which increased with every interview.

“She is an unmistakable lady,” said Mr. Wharton to his wife, “but how she came to be living in the village, without friends, and as I believe in circumstances of great necessity, I cannot imagine. There is a slight reserve about her,” he added, “which may be difficult to penetrate, but if I mistake not, she is much in need of a friend, and I think she will not long resist the voice of kindness.”

Accordingly, the next time she called, Mr. Wharton, in his kind and sympathising manner, led her to speak of her own peculiar circumstances; and at length drew from her this much of her history: She was the daughter of a plain New England farmer; had had a good common school education; and was expected to devote the rest of her life to the making of butter and cheese, and to the other occupations carried on in a farmer’s family. Everything that she could do to aid her father and mother she was willing and ready to perform, but she sighed for knowledge; she had learned enough to wish to know more, and she felt that there was that in her, which properly cultivated, might fit her for something higher than the making of butter and cheese. Thus, when the day’s labor was ended, and the old people, as was their custom, had retired early to rest, their dutiful daughter, her work for the day well done, sought with delight her little chamber, and her beloved books, in whose companionship she passed the hours always till midnight, and sometimes till she was startled by the

“Cock’s shrill clarion,”

and reminded that body and mind alike needed repose.

In her studies, and in the choice of her reading, she was guided by her pastor; and a better guide, or one more willing to extend a helping hand to the seeker for knowledge she could not have found. With such a teacher, and with such an eager desire for improvement, she could not fail to progress rapidly. On the death of her parents, both of whom she followed to the grave in the course of one year, the kind pastor took her to his own home; but not being willing to be even for a time a burden to him, she immediately opened a small school in a village near them. Now her kind pastor too was dead; and having heard that a teacher was wanted in the village of Hillsdale, she had come there in hopes of getting the situation. Here she was doomed to disappointment, the vacant place having been supplied but a day or two before she reached the village; and now, among entire strangers, heart-sick with disappointment, and with no friend to turn to in her distress, she was taken down with a fever. It was a kind-hearted woman, in whose house she had rented a small room, and she nursed her as if she had been a daughter, without hope of remuneration. As soon as she was sufficiently recovered to think again of work, she began to inquire eagerly for employment; and her landlady having directed her to Mr. Wharton, she had taken that long walk from the village, while yet very feeble, which resulted in the accomplishment of her wishes.

There had been a brother, she told Mr. Wharton, an only child besides herself; but, as Mr. Wharton inferred from what she said, he was a wild, unsteady youth, and he had wandered from his home some years before, and gone far west towards the Mississippi. For some time they continued to hear from him, but he had long since ceased to write. She feared that he was dead; but sometimes she had a strong hope, which seemed like a presentiment to her, that she should yet look upon his face on earth; and in this hope, she continued still occasionally to direct letters to the spot from which he had last written.

When Mr. Wharton had repeated to his wife the story of Miss Edwards, she said immediately:

“Why, is she not just the person for a governess for our younger children? No doubt, too, she might aid Emily in her studies, for the child is too delicate to send away from home.”

“Well thought of, my dear wife,” said Mr. Wharton; “and if we could persuade Harriet to let poor little Agnes join us, what a nice little school we might have. It is strange the idea has not occurred to me before, for I have thought, a great many times, what a pity it was that such a woman as Miss Edwards should spend her life in spinning wool.”

“When do you expect her again?” asked Mrs. Wharton.

“She will probably be here this afternoon.”

“Let us save her the long walk, by driving over to see her this morning: perhaps she can return with us.” And in less than an hour, Mr. and Mrs. Wharton were seated in the widow Crane’s neat little parlor, in earnest conversation with Miss Edwards.

I need not say that the offer made by Mr. and Mrs. Wharton was unhesitatingly and gratefully accepted by Miss Edwards. Those only who have felt as utterly forlorn and desolate as she had done for the last few weeks, can understand with what joy she hailed the prospect of a home among such kind and sympathizing hearts.

And a _home_ indeed she found. From the time she entered Mr. Wharton’s hospitable door, she was treated as companion, friend, and sister. No more sad, lonely hours for her, so long as she remained under that roof. There were plenty of happy, bright little faces around her; there were kind words always sounding in her ear; there were opportunities enough to be useful; there were rare and valuable books for her leisure hours. With all these sources of enjoyment, could she fail to be happy?

And if Miss Edwards esteemed herself most fortunate in having found so delightful a home, Mrs. Wharton was no less so in having secured her invaluable services.

“How have I ever lived so long without Rhoda!” she often exclaimed; for the new governess, by her own earnest request, soon lost the formal title of Miss Edwards in the family, and was simply “Rhoda” with Mr. and Mrs. Wharton, and “Miss Rhoda” with the children.

“I think there is nothing that she cannot do, and do well,” she added. “She is a most charming companion in the parlor, with a never-failing fund of good humor and cheerfulness; a kind and patient, and in all respects most admirable teacher, for the children; an unwearied nurse in sickness; a complete cook, if for any reason her services are required in the kitchen; and perfectly ready to turn her hand to anything that is to be done.”

“And now you have not mentioned the crowning excellence of her character, my dear,” said Mr. Wharton; “she is, I believe, a sincere and earnest Christian; and, as you say, I think we are most fortunate in having secured her as an inmate in our family, and a teacher for our children.”

Mr. Wharton, who had unbounded influence with Mrs. Elwyn, had no great difficulty in persuading her to allow Agnes to become a member of his family, that she might with his children enjoy the benefit of Miss Edwards’ instructions. Indeed, so long as Mrs. Elwyn had her darling Lewie with her, it seemed almost a matter of indifference to her what became of Agnes; and thus the neglect and unkindness of her mother were overruled for good, and Agnes was placed in the hands of those who would sow good seed in her young heart, while improving and cultivating her mind. Happy would it have been for poor little Lewie, could he have been taken from the indulgent arms of his weak and doating mother, and placed under like healthy training, where his really fine qualities of heart and mind might have been cultured, and he might early have been taught to curb that hot and hasty temper, and to restrain those habits of self-indulgence, which finally proved his ruin.

Miss Edwards remained six years in her happy home at Mr. Wharton’s, and had become as they all thought essential to their comfort and happiness, when she one day received a letter, which agitated her exceedingly. She was sitting at the dinner table, when the letters were brought from the village. One was handed to her; she looked at the superscription, at the post-mark, which was that of a town far to the south-west; her cheek flushed, and with trembling fingers she broke the seal. She glanced at the signature, and turned so pale they thought she would faint, but in a moment she was relieved by a burst of tears.

Her long lost brother was alive! he wrote that he was married, and settled in that far distant State. One of his sister’s letters (for she still continued from time to time to write to him) had lately reached him, he said, and he wished her to come to him. Her mind was immediately made up to go; she dearly loved her sweet pupils, and the kind friends who had given her a home, and a place in their hearts, but the ties of kindred were stronger than all other ties, and they drew her with resistless force towards the home of her own and only brother.

There was something about the tone of this letter which Mrs. Wharton did not like, and she had a foreboding that this journey would not be for the happiness of her friend, and tried to dissuade her from undertaking it. And in this she was entirely disinterested; for great as would be the loss of this gifted young lady to her, Mrs. Wharton was not the one to put a straw in her way, if she felt assured the journey would end happily for her.

All that she said, however, was of no avail; it had been the hope of Miss Edwards’ life, once more to see this darling brother, and nothing could deter her from making the attempt. Her preparations were made in haste, and with many tears on her part, and on that of the kind friends she was leaving, and amid loud sobs and lamentations from her dear little scholars, they parted, never again to meet on earth. A tedious and perilous journey she had, by river and land, but she seemed to bear all the discomforts of the way with her own cheerful, happy spirit, and the letters she wrote to her friends from different points on the journey were exceedingly amusing and entertaining. One of them, and the last she wrote before reaching her point of destination, I will transcribe here in her own words:—

“Springdale, Oct.—”

“My beloved pupils,—I am going, in this letter, to tell you a ghost story, and a murder story, of both of which your humble servant was the heroine. But before your little cheeks begin to grow white, and your eyes to open in horror, let me tell you that the ghost was no ghost at all, and in the murder scene, nobody’s life was in danger, though both matters at the time were very serious ones to me.”

“I wrote you last from a little tavern in the northern part of Virginia, while I was waiting for a conveyance to continue on my journey, the stage passing over these unfrequented roads only twice a week. It has always been my lot to have friends raised up for me when friends were most needed; and while sitting in the little parlor of the tavern, feeling very desolate, and very impatient, a gig drove up to the door, from which an old clergyman alighted. He soon entered the parlor, and in a few minutes we were engaged in a pleasant conversation, in the course of which I mentioned the circumstances of my detention in that place, and my extreme anxiety to progress in my journey.”

“The old gentleman, it seems, had been on a three days’ journey to a ministers’ meeting, and was now returning home, and as he was travelling in the same direction in which I wished to go, he said it would give him great pleasure if I would take a seat in his gig, in case my heaviest trunks could be sent on by stage. This the good-natured landlord very willingly consented to attend to. The trunks were to be sent to the care of the old clergyman, who was to ship me for my destined port, and send my trunks on after me.”

“You may be sure I did not hesitate about accepting the old clergyman’s offer, for after jolting along with rough men, over rough roads, as I had done for many days, I anticipated with much pleasure a ride of two or three days in a gig, with the kind, pleasant old gentleman. And now comes the ghost story.”

“As we were riding along through this thinly settled part of Western Virginia, I noticed occasionally large, dark, barn-like looking buildings, with the wooden shutters tightly closed. After passing two or three of these buildings, I at length asked my companion for what purpose they were used.”

“‘Why, those,’ said he, ‘are our churches. I had forgotten how entirely unacquainted you were with this part of the country, or I should have pointed them out to you.’”

“‘Is it possible,’ I exclaimed, ‘that you worship in those dreary, dark-looking places! I must go inside of one of them on the first opportunity.’”

“Soon after I spoke, as we were ascending a hill, some part of the harness gave way, and we were obliged to alight from the gig, while the old gentleman endeavored to repair the injury.”

“‘How long will it take you, sir,’ said I, ‘to set this matter right?’”

“‘Oh, some time—perhaps a quarter of an hour,’ he answered.”

“‘And cannot I help you?’ I asked. ‘I believe I can do almost anything I undertake to do.’”

“‘Oh, no, no,’ he answered; ‘you had better not undertake to mend a harness, or you will be obliged, after this, to say that you have failed in one thing; besides, I can do this very well alone.’”

“‘I have a great mind to take hold and mend it, just to show you that my boast was not an idle one,’ said I; ‘but if you are determined to scorn my offered assistance, I will run back, and take a survey of the interior of the old church we passed a few moments since.’”

“‘You will not see much,’ the old clergyman called out after me; ‘for, as you see, the wooden shutters are kept closed during the week, and it is almost total darkness inside.’”

“However, on I ran down the hill, and was soon at the door of the old barn-like building. The door was not fastened, and I opened it, and entered the church. At first, the darkness seemed intense, broken only by little streaks of sunlight which streamed in through the small, crescent-shaped holes in the shutters; but at length my eye became accustomed to the darkness, and I could begin to distinguish the rude seats and aisles, and even to see, at the end of the church, an elevation which I knew must be the pulpit. Determined to see all that was to be seen, I made my way along the aisle, ascended the pulpit stairs, and had just laid my hand on the door, when a tall, white figure suddenly rose up in the pulpit, and laid a cold hand on mine. I believe I shrieked; but I was filled with such an indescribable horror, that I know not what I did, when a hollow voice said:”

“‘Don’t be afraid; I will not harm you.’”

“I snatched my hand from the cold grasp which held it, and fled from the church. I remember nothing more, till I opened my eyes, and found the old clergyman bathing my face with water. He had become alarmed at my long absence, and, on coming back to seek me, had found me lying on my face, on the grass, in front of the old church. We had been riding again for some time, before I summoned resolution to tell the old gentleman what I had seen in the church. He complimented me by saying, that though his acquaintance with me had been short, he was much mistaken in me, if I was a person to be deceived by the imagination; and he said he much regretted that I had not mentioned the cause of my fright before we left the old church, as it was always best to ascertain at once the true nature of any such apparently frightful object.”

“‘We have no time to turn back now,’ said he, ‘as we have already lost more than half an hour; but the next best thing we can do is to stop at the first house we come to, and see if we can find out anything concerning the apparition which appeared to you in the church.’”

“We soon stopped before the door of a small log house, and at our summons a pleasant-looking woman appeared. To the inquiries of the old clergyman as to the appearance by which I had been so much alarmed, she replied:”