Chapter VII: Part 7

They went to church in the evening, and walked round by Mrs. Dimsden's to leave Laura, who complained of headache. That young lady had to undergo a severe cross-examination from her excellent aunt, but as she had sedulously avoided finding out any thing, she had very little to tell, except that she believed Mr. Landon was a young lawyer from the country, who did not seem to have any distinguished connections.

"Your aunt is always inviting such persons. I do wonder she should. Even the clerks in the office are very often there, I am told."

"Yes, indeed," said Laura; "aunt makes a point of asking some of them to tea almost every week, and I never saw her or Charlotte take more pains to entertain any one. I remember how aunt set down Morgan Spencer once, for putting on airs to one of them. The sweet youth was nearly frightened out of what little wit he has."

"Well!" sighed Mrs. Dimsden. "I don't pretend to understand Rebecca Merton. She is beyond me. I knew her pride would have a fall, though, when she used to make such a display of Abby and Charlotte last winter, and if it does not have another, I shall miss my guess. If you will be a good girl, Laura, I will have you at the head of an establishment of your own long before Charlotte, with all her beauty and talent. Now go to bed, child, and put on your best looks to-morrow, for I think we shall have some company that you will like to see. And pray don't be perverse and romantic, my dear, for you know the only object I have is to see you settled in life."

Laura was delighted to see her aunt again in good humor. She promised that she would eschew romance and perverseness, and went to bed, feeling quite happy.

"Olive," said Mrs. Merton, "will you stay at home, and keep house this morning? Charlotte and I have shopping to do, and shall probably not be at home till luncheon-time?"

Olive assented, of course. There was something a little peculiar in her aunt's manner, she thought, and she found herself speculating over it more than once in the course of the long letter that she was writing to Augusta and Ruth, which was to be sent by Mr. Landon. She had just finished it, when the Black Prince ushered Mr. Landon himself into the drawing-room with the information that Madam and Miss Charlotte were out, but Miss Olive was at home.

Mr. Landon seemed to think that Miss Olive would answer every purpose, and the Prince retreated to his own dominions, apparently greatly amused with something in his own mind.

Mr. Landon did not converse with his usual freedom and elegance. On the contrary, he seemed a good deal embarrassed. Indeed, after a while, he was quite at a loss, and did not speak a word for all of five minutes, during which time he cut, ripped, twisted, and otherwise destroyed almost half a yard of elaborate tape trimming, besides dulling the little scissors in a very distressing manner. Strange to say, Olive had not the presence of mind to stop the mischief or, perhaps she was too much engaged on that camellia flower, whereof the pattern seemed to have become very difficult all at once.

"Olive!" said Walter at last.

Well, perhaps it is not necessary to tell the rest. I suppose these things are managed very much alike, all the world over. Of course, Mr. Landon did not fall on his knees, or conduct himself in any such absurd manner, because he was ordinarily a very sensible, practical young man, and not quite a fool, even in love. We may conclude, from what we know of the gentleman, that he told his love in a very manly, earnest fashion, and that Olive answered in the same way. If he kissed her hand, and—and so on, why, that is nobody's business.

Whether the Black Prince had his own thoughts about what was going on, I can not say; though, if he did not, why should he have made such a clatter in setting down the luncheon-tray outside the door, when there was no need to set it down at all, the said door being ajar? And why should he have indulged in a private and respectful giggle, when he went back for the pickled oysters?

Mrs. Merton and Charlotte came in almost as soon as luncheon was ready, and Mrs. Merton was graciousness itself, both to Mr. Landon and to her niece. Mr. Landon had quite recovered his fluency, and never appeared to better advantage, while Olive was silent and abstracted, though she did not seem particularly miserable.

By and by the gentleman took his leave, and Olive escaped to her own room. We will not follow her, for she needs solitude, wherein to collect her thoughts—to think what she has done and said—to wonder whether any one was ever so happy or so thankful before.

It would be paying a poor compliment to Mrs. Merton's care and discernment to imagine that she did not understand the whole matter. She was a woman of great penetration, and very much accustomed to judge of character. And, moreover, she was very skillful in drawing people out, and making them display their true colors. She saw nothing to object to, but very much to approve in the young lawyer, though she believed he might be a little Quixotic in his ideas of duty. She was very much pleased that he had, in a manner, referred the matter to her, even before speaking to Olive. His character as a lawyer was high—very high for so young a man, and he had a respectable property, and no vulgar relations. She would, indeed, have preferred to have Olive settled nearer home, and she could not help pitying her for being, in all probability, condemned to spend her life in a country village—a fate which seemed to her very deplorable, though Olive professed to like it.

Still, Olive was not a belle; she did not care very much for society and style, and all that, and she was not the kind of girl likely to make a brilliant match. On the whole, as she said to Charlotte, Olive had done quite as well as she expected—so different from that poor, foolish child, Abby, whom they all thought would have turned out so much better.

Olive was quite happy, when she received the congratulatory kiss of her aunt and uncle, on coming down to dinner. Mr. Merton had seen and talked with Walter, and expressed himself quite satisfied with the young man's views. It was all talked over in the family council that evening. Olive had quite made up her mind to return to Basswoods, and fulfill her engagement there, and Mr. Merton supported her in this resolve, against the opposition of his wife and Charlotte. The term would be out in the middle of July, and she could then come home to stay till she left it for good. The only other stipulation which Olive made was that the engagement should be kept a secret.

"But what will you do about Laura?" suggested Charlotte. "You must tell her."

"Yes, I suppose so, and perhaps it will be best to tell aunt, too, but I dislike having such an affair the theme of conversation. And then, if any thing happens—"

"I will manage that," said Mrs. Merton; "leave it to me, my dear." And to her, Olive was quite content to leave it.

Finally, the matter was thus settled. Olive was to return to Basswoods and finish her term there, giving Mr. Jones timely notice of her intention to resign, and Mrs. Merton was to use her own discretion about keeping the matter a secret. Olive tried timidly to bring in a word in favor of Abby, but was stopped at once by her uncle.

"Not a word about that, Olive! I have conceded much—more, perhaps, than I ought—in allowing you to visit her and correspond with her, and that is all you must ask. She shall never enter this house again, till she has, at least, expressed some sorrow for her misconduct, and a desire to be forgiven."

Olive sighed, but she could only submit, in the hope that her uncle would relent, or her sister come to her senses some day.

CHAPTER ELEVENTH.

SCHOOL was to begin on Wednesday as usual, and Olive arrived in Basswoods on Monday evening at dusk. She found several people waiting to welcome her—Mr. Gregory and Augusta, Mr. Landon and Mr. Jones, and last not least, Mr. Prendergrass. As Olive shook hands with the last named gentleman, and received his half-formal, half-embarrassed greeting, her mind adverted for the first time to what Mrs. Dimsden had so elegantly said, about her setting her cap for the school-master, and she wondered whether there could be any possible danger of his making a mistake—of his fancying that she was giving him encouragement, but she dismissed it as too absurd to deserve consideration.

Ruth was not at the station, but was waiting for her at the door of the old house which Olive was quite surprised to see looking as usual, forgetting that houses do not generally change very much in the course of four weeks. It seemed like home to be again in her comfortable, cheerful room, which was just as she left it, except that a beautiful bouquet stood in a little vase of biscuit-ware on the table.

"Louisa Landon brought that over," said Ruth, seeing that Olive's eyes were fixed upon it, the moment she entered the room.

"Did she?" asked Olive, taking it up, to examine it.

"Why of course, you know she did," retorted Ruth shortly, but not unkindly. "What is the use of pretending you don't? Don't you think I have guessed all about it by this time?"

"I am glad you have, I am sure," said Olive, laughing and blushing; "for it will save me the awkwardness of telling you, which I have been dreading all the way. Well, what do you think about it?"

"Me! I don't know any thing about such things. I think Walter is a very nice young man, and you are a very nice young woman, and I dare say you will be as happy as most people. I hope so, I am sure."

Olive glanced at Ruth in surprise, and saw that she seemed a good deal agitated, though she was stooping over Olive's trunk, as if to hide her face from observation. The expression passed away as she looked, and she was as calm as ever. Olive remembered the same look once before, when Ruth had spoken of Augusta's brother, and she had wondered at the time, but now something in her own feelings gave her a clue to her friend's.

"Don't think I am cross, Olive," said Ruth presently. "Sometimes I remember things I would rather forget, and it upsets me for a moment. Cool as you think me, I was not always so. Augusta can tell you—she is the only one who knows. I never speak or think of it, if I can help it. I wish you every happiness, my dear, and I think your prospects are as fair as any one's. I have known Walter from a child. Don't talk to me now—I shall get quiet presently."

And when Olive met her a few minutes afterwards, she was as composed and cheerful as usual, nor did she ever again advert to the subject.

From Augusta she afterwards learned part of the story. Frederick Gregory was a young man of promising talents, and, as every one thought, of good principles, but he went to college, so often only another name for going to destruction. He was treated with a great deal of attention, and often invited out, and at last fell into the hands of one of those gangs of fashionable rascals, some of whom are to be found in almost every city, who think it an excellent joke to draw in a young man, first to drink, then to gamble, and so on, to utter ruin, and when it is accomplished, hold up their hands in astonishment that any one could be so weak.

Into such a set did Frederick Gregory fall. Mr. T's game-suppers and little dinner-parties (for men only) were very pleasant, and his vanity was flattered in being distinguished by such a fashionable man, albeit he did not think Mr. T. as elegant as his father, or old Judge Landon of Basswoods. One thing led to an other—"champaigne" to brandy-punch, punch to clear brandy: which led to betting on the players, and that to playing on his own account. Why pursue the story?

Frederick Gregory was expelled from the college for gross misconduct in his third year. He went home for a short time, but life in his father's house and under his mother's eye was unendurable to him. Fresh disgrace and exposure followed, and at last he went to sea, and was never heard of again.

Frederick and Ruth had been lovers almost from childhood, and though their parents refused to recognize any engagement till Frederick should have finished his college career, they considered themselves none the less bound to each other. It was very long before Ruth could believe that Frederick was as degraded as people said, but she was at last convinced in a way not to be mistaken. The young man visited her one evening when he was too far gone in intoxication to know what he was about, and absolutely insulted her. Once convinced, her course was taken.

The next morning she sent him a letter, breaking off the engagement, and refusing to see him again, till he could give proof of his reformation. He made no attempt to overcome her resolution, for he had for some time felt his engagement to be only a restraint and an annoyance. Before leaving Basswoods, he sent her a seal-ring which she had given him before he went to college, with a note, thanking her for having taken the first step towards a separation, and bidding her an eternal farewell.

What Ruth felt on this occasion, nobody knew, unless it were Augusta. She kept about her duties as usual, for two or three months. Then she had a long and tedious fit of sickness, from which she rose up, cured in body and mind. After a long storm, she had found a calm; she had conquered in deadly strife, and was henceforth at peace with herself and the world. She was sometimes haunted, as all of us are upon dark days, with the ghosts of the enemies she had slain, but they were only ghosts, and fled at daylight.

She lived for duty, and with the duties came many pleasures, but her home was not here, "and all her heart was fixed above." Love and marriage were things utterly out of the question with her, and though she might have been comfortably established more than once, she dismissed all her suitors with an indifference nowise flattering to them, and very provoking to her mother, who could not see why Ruth should be so foolish as to refuse such an excellent man as Mr. Brown, the largest merchant in the place. She might have annoyed her daughter not a little, had not Mr. Felton, for the first and last time in his life, asserted his individuality, and forbidden her to say another word on the subject, declaring that in this and all other matters, Ruth should do just as she chose, a proceeding which besides silencing his wife, amazed her to such a degree that she actually forgot to be lone and low for as much as three days afterwards.

Olive was warmly welcomed by all her pupils, most of whom declared that they were tired of vacation, and quite ready to begin school again. The drawing-class had each a picture or two to show her, the results of her holiday labors, and they were all delighted to find that they could draw at home as well as in school. Miss Tucker was gone, her aunt having concluded to send her to a seminary at a distance, where her talents would be appreciated, and her feelings respected; such at least was the reason she gave Olive, with an emphasis intended to be very cutting, and Olive accepted it politely, glad to be rid of her on any terms.

The school was smaller than it had been in the winter, as many of the country pupils had returned to their homes to assist in the summer labors of the dairy and the farm. Olive found some of her best pupils missing, but she felt herself in some degree compensated by being able to bestow more time and attention upon the rest. As she thought how much she might do for them in a few years, she could not help feeling a pang of regret at being obliged to leave them so soon. She had not yet said any thing to Mr. Jones about her intention, nor did she mean to do so, till about a month before the summer vacation, as that would afford abundance of time to procure another teacher.

After she had been in Basswoods about two weeks, Olive received a letter from Helen Monteith, and one from Abby at the same time. Helen had been visiting Mrs. Granger, and had been to see Abby. She wrote to Olive that they were comfortably established in the principal hotel of the place, and that Abby liked it very much, but Mr. Forester was discontented and talked of going to housekeeping as soon as he could find a house.

"I think Abby dreads it," she said, "but she talks cheerfully about it, and is quite sure she can learn. She seems rather subdued, and I think feels very much the separation from her family. She thinks her uncle and aunt are very hard-hearted to treat her with so much severity, and really, I do not think she has the least idea of having done wrong. A good many people have visited her, and some of Mr. Forester's relations have sent her very handsome presents. I think they cherish the hope that William may settle down and be steady now that he has a wife on his hands; and perhaps he will. He certainly seems very fond of her."

Abby wrote in good spirits. She adverted to the housekeeping scheme, and said they had been house-hunting several times, but rents were high, and they had not found any thing desirable.

It was evident that Abby was coming to the conclusion that it cost money to live, a fact of which she had never been in any degree sensible before. She spoke of the kindness of Mr. Forester's relations, and contrasted it with the sternness of her uncle and aunt Merton, by whom she evidently felt herself very much abused. She exulted greatly over Olive's engagement, and said she supposed her sister would now be willing to admit that she had not been so very much to blame. She was mistaken, however.

The more deeply Olive loved, the more she wondered at Abby's course. The effect of her own attachment was to make her more and more anxious to do her duty in every respect, to correct her faults, and to render herself worthy of her lover, and her destiny as a wife and mother. Her conscience had never been so quick to feel the first approach of wrong, her thankfulness had never been so deep, or her desire of self-consecration so entire as since she had been engaged.

She did not consider how different all this might have been, if Walter had not had the deepest sympathy in all her religious feelings; if he had not been her superior in religious experience; if he had regarded the whole matter with indifference, or at best with a careless respect as an institution very well suited to women and clergymen, and such narrow-minded people; if he had gently laughed at her scruples, and intimated that conscience was all very well, but there were instincts and feelings of our nature much higher, and better guides, etc., etc., the cant of a certain fashionable school very much in favor with such gentlemen as Mr. Forester.

Contrary to the well-known prediction, the course of Olive's true love seemed likely to run very smooth indeed. Walter's business was very prosperous, he had no debts, and he had sufficiently demonstrated the fact of his being able to make a living. Olive's little property was in an excellent shape, and she thought the proceeds of her year's labor would go far toward fitting her out comfortably and respectably.

There seemed no reason why the young people should wait longer than the first of October. Aunt Merton and her prime minister, Mammy, had already begun to calculate how much sheeting, toweling, etc., etc., would be wanted, when an event happened which changed the face of affairs very considerably.

Olive had been in school about eight weeks, when one Sunday, on taking her seat in church, she found the desk occupied by a stranger, and she was not long in recognizing the peculiar features and bearing of the Rev. Dr. V., a gentleman well-known for his talents, both as a speaker and a writer. She had heard him once before, and prepared herself for a treat. She was not disappointed.

The Doctor's subject was the lack of young men for the ministry, and most splendidly was it handled. There was enough of originality to keep the attention awake, without any of that straining after effect so painful and disgusting in some popular preachers. Every one in the congregation was made to feel that the subject was an important one, and one in which he or she had a share of responsibility. Chancing for a moment to look away from the preacher, Olive met Walter's eye, filled with an expression that thrilled to her very heart. She knew what he was thinking of as well as though he had spoken.

"How do you like Dr. V.'s sermon?" he asked as they met after Sunday-school in the porch.

"Very much," replied Olive, hardly knowing what she said; "it was a powerful appeal, certainly."

They walked a little way in silence, and then Olive said earnestly: "Walter, tell me what you are thinking of."

"I am thinking, Olive, whether this is not an appeal to me. Young men are wanted, and I am young and strong. Who is there that can go better than I?"

"It would be a great sacrifice," said Olive presently.

"Yes, a sacrifice to both of us—to me of wealth, fame, and almost all the earthly objects I had set my heart upon; not to mention the fact, that our marriage must be put off at least a year, and possibly longer. Yes, it will be a sacrifice."

"Perhaps we ought not to take that so much into the account, as the simple matter of what our duty is," said Olive gently. "Nothing, no sacrifice can be so painful to me, Walter, as the idea of being a clog upon you. I could bear any thing better than that."

"I am sure you never will be so, Olive," replied Waiter, earnestly. "You have done me far too much good already for me to imagine such a thing possible. But we will not be hasty. I will revolve the matter in my own mind, and do you do the same. Perhaps I ought not to mention it yet, but I can not bear to have a thought that you do not share."

The girls thought they had never seen Miss McHenry so absent as she was in school, next day. She became aware of it herself after a little, and exerted herself to be attentive to her duties, but it was hard work, and she was glad when school was out.

A long solitary walk helped to compose her thoughts, but she still felt almost as though she were dreaming.

"Olive looks tired to-night," Mrs. Felton remarked in her general way, addressing no one in particular.

"I have taken a long walk," said Olive, trying to rouse herself from her abstraction. "I have been up past the old red house on the banks of the river."

"Do tell!" exclaimed Mrs. Felton. "That lonesome road, and so far too! But you didn't go alone?"

"Yes, why not."

"Well, I declare! I wouldn't have done it for any money when I was your age, and I don't know that I would now. Why, the old Vander Heyden vault is on that road!"

"Well!"

"And the graves of the family that was murdered by the Indians, in the old red house!"

"I never heard that," said Olive, with some interest; "what was it?"

Mrs. Felton loved nothing better than to tell a story, and moreover, she had some talent for narration.

"A family of the name of Munn formerly lived in that house," she began. "They were not much respected, and the man used to come up to the village and get drunk, leaving his family alone for two or three days at a time. Basswoods was a little place then, and this house was more lonely then, than it is now. His wife was rather a violent-tempered woman, but she worked hard, and was in a manner fond of her children. One afternoon in sleighing-time, Munn started for the village, and as usual his wife scolded him for it.

"A neighbor (that is, he lived three or four miles off) was passing, and heard them using very high words, and he said to Munn, half in joke, 'You had better not leave your family alone to-night, Jacob; there is talk of Indians up the river.'

"And so there was, though nobody thought much of it.

"'Indians!' said the brute, with an oath. 'I only wish they would come and carry off this one!' pointing to his wife.

"The man said no more, but went on his way, and Munn came up to the village. He did not go home till towards dark the next day, and the first thing he saw was his own baby lying with its brains dashed out in the snow by the gate. The woman and the other two were lying scalped and dead inside the door, and the house was robbed. It was the only one in the valley which was attacked, which made it the more singular.

"Most likely," said Mr. Felton, "the mischief was done by a small party of Indians who knew Munn's habits. They had their spies all through the country at that time. I can remember seeing him round the village when I was a boy—a miserable, crazy creature, always talking to himself about the Indians."

"But why should I not walk there?" persisted Olive. "The Indians are all dead long ago."

Mrs. Felton had no very satisfactory reason to give, only that the place had a bad name, and no one would live there. Strange things had happened in the house.

"But what things?"

Well, she could not exactly say, only that queer things had been seen there at might, and people did not like to pass it. Some thought it was not altogether the Indians.

"And if I were you, Olive, I would not walk that way towards night. It is as well to be on the safe side, you know."

This reminiscence produced others, and Olive was surprised to find how many such traditions attached to the place. In one house there had been a murder committed. From another, a young girl had mysteriously disappeared one evening, and never was heard of again. In another, the watchers by a dead body had been alarmed by footsteps in the room, and sobs and sighs sounded near them, though nothing was to be seen. Olive had never heard so many ghost stories in her life. They had, at least, the good effect of arousing her attention, and turning her thoughts for a time away from the subject was engrossing them, perhaps more effectually than any thing more sensible would have done.

The next day found her much more composed. She had made up her mind entirely to the sacrifice, feeling her own share to be nothing to Walter's; and, girl-like, she even began already to find some pleasure in the prospect of the quiet parsonage and useful life, which lay beyond that long separation which she would not look at. She was detained an hour after school by an extra class, and then went round to the parsonage to tea.

"Where is your father?" she asked, after a while. "He did not come round to hear my class in Latin, as he promised."

"He has been closeted with Walter almost all the afternoon," replied Augusta; "I can not think what they are so earnestly engaged about. Walter looked as though he had the weight of nations upon his shoulders when he came in. And you, too, look anxious, Olive! I hope there is nothing wrong."

"Oh! No!" replied Olive, earnestly. "Nothing wrong. Something very right, I hope, but something which will make a great difference in our plans, if we decide upon it."

Augusta looked at her inquiringly, and they were silent for a while.

"After all, Olive, putting aside gratified ambition, which is perhaps but a questionable good, there are few happier lives than a clergyman's," said Augusta. She spoke rather to what she supposed were her friend's thoughts, and so Olive answered her.

"People have a great deal to say of a clergyman's trials, you know."

"I know, and doubtless some have more trouble than others. One can only speak from one's own experience and observation, of course. I have lived in a parsonage all my life long, you know, and I do not know that my father has been especially favored, except that he has remained a long time in the same place. We have had some hard times, and some sad times. There have been troubles, and now and then hard feeling and discontent in the parish. Once my father had no salary for three years, and we were poor enough. But the people have always come round after a while, and we have been as comfortable as ever. I am sure my father has enjoyed pleasures which more than counterbalanced his trials, and just think how it will be in the next world, when he shall come to know the full fruition of his labors!"

"But it must be hard, Augusta, for a man like your father to labor Sunday after Sunday, month after month, without seeing any fruit of his toils."

"Yes," replied Augusta, "and a minister undoubtedly needs faith, more than almost any one else in the word. But then, what state of life is there, which has not its trials? I remember well how my husband used to come home at night, especially in court-time, so worn out and disgusted with the meanness and villainy with which he was obliged to come in contact, the double-distilled lies and inveterate malice with which he was obliged to come in contact, even among his own clients. I have asked him sometimes, why he did not abandon his profession, and take up some other line of business, and his answer always was that there was no profession in the world which had not its drawbacks and its annoyances; and that, in laying down one burden, of which he knew the weight, he might take up another still heavier."

"Walter loves his profession," said Olive, sighing. "I do not think any thing but a certain sense of duty would make him dream of resigning it."

"I hope he will not be hasty."

"He is not apt to be hasty, I think," observed Olive. "Do you know, Augusta, that when I went away from here, I thought he was engaged to Annette Vander Heyden."

"I thought you did," said Augusta, smiling; "I knew very well he was not."

"Why did you not—?" Olive stopped, suddenly coloring as deeply as the crimson cushion she was working.

"Why did I not tell you? Because I thought it better both for your dignity and his, to let him tell his own story. I felt pretty sure that he would do so, and if he did not, the least said was soonest mended."

"I assure you, Augusta, I never was more astonished than I was when I discovered that I cared any thing about him." Olive made this declaration with great seriousness, and looked rather indignantly at Augusta for receiving it with a hearty laugh.

"Well, my dear child, what of that? You do not suppose that people in general go and fall in love of malice prepense, do you? To be sure, I have known cases where men, and women, too, set themselves about getting married as they would take steps to buy a cow or a horse, but I never heard of any one's making a deliberate calculation to fall in love."

"I do not know that I ever thought of it in that way," said Olive, joining in the laugh, "but I do assure you I was surprised."

"And you thought nobody was ever so unhappy before, I dare say."

Olive nodded.

"Whereas, your experience was that of at least eighty out of every hundred sensible and reasonable people, who marry at all, and perhaps as large a proportion who never do. But here are my father and Walter, coming back from the orchard. Walter looks as though his heart was lighter, does he not?"

He did, indeed, and, as Olive observed him, she thought he must have made up his mind to something certain. He looked pleased at meeting her, and his cheerful greeting and warm hand-pressure made her heart feel ten pounds lighter. The subject was not adverted to during the evening, but when they were walking homeward, Walter told her that he had been discussing the matter the whole afternoon with Mr. Gregory, and that he felt his mind quite made up to the step.

"Mr. Gregory advises me to let the matter rest for a month," said he. "And, of course, I shall do so, if only in deference to his opinion, trying meanwhile to gain all the light I can upon the matter. The only thing that really troubles me, Olive, is your sacrifice. I had enjoyed so much the prospect of our having a home of our own this fall, and having Louisa with us. I had built so many castles on it that—" Walter's voice faltered: he could not complete the sentence.

"We will not think about that," said Olive, cheerfully, though she felt a moisture rise to her own eyes as she spoke. "Our engagement has been a very short one, and we shall be none the less happy in the end, for knowing each other better. I believe you have full faith in me, Walter; you have no doubt of my constancy—there, that will do! And I have not a shadow of distrust for you. We can afford to wait."

"And what will you do meantime?" asked Walter.

"Go on teaching here as long as they want me," replied Olive. "I am thankful that I am not dependent on any body for a house or a living. It is pleasant at Mrs. Felton's, and I like the school very much—more than I ever expected to do, when I begun. I do not think three or four years of such discipline will do me any harm."

"You are determined to see only the bright side, my love."

"I am, in this case, because the dark side is most prominent, and speaks for itself," replied Olive.

"What will your uncle and aunt say?" asked Walter.

"Frankly, I do not think they will be pleased. Uncle—I wish to speak with all respect—is proud of his profession, and considers every slight offered to it as an insult to himself. I believe, to speak the truth, that they will be likely to consider you a very visionary and enthusiastic person, in making such a sacrifice. My aunt has, of course, renounced the world and its vanities, but she thinks it no harm to give up the most of her time and energies to what she and others call the requirements of society. I hesitate to say this, lest I should seem lacking in respect and affection, but I know that the inconsistency used to strike me when I was quite a child."

"But what does she make of such texts as—'Be not conformed to this world,' 'The friendship of the world is enmity towards God,' and others of like character?" asked Walter.

"I suppose she thinks they applied only to the time when they were written, and have nothing to do with people nowadays."

"Yes, that is a convenient way of dispensing with inconvenient precepts."

"You must not understand me to say that she always does it, Walter, by any means. In many things, I think my aunt is guided by truly religious motives. For instance, she never invites company on Sunday, unless it is some person to whom it will be a real kindness. She is careful to see that the servants go to church regularly, and that they are provided with proper books, both of instruction and amusement; and she is very kind to the poor, and to all sorts of forlorn and friendless people. I think this is her one great inconsistency."

"It is so with many excellent people, I know," said Walter; "and, after all, Olive, we all have our own pet failings. Perhaps this is no worse than many things in us, which we never think of as faults. But do not say any thing to them of the matter till it is settled, one way or other. As Mr. Gregory says, a distance of time makes a great difference in our feelings, and it is possible that I may see grounds for changing my mind. We will wait a month, and then decide."

They waited a month accordingly. Walter now and then adverted to the subject, but he said very little. At the end of that time, he informed Olive that his mind was settled, if hers was. He intended to devote himself to the ministry, and to commence his preparatory studies at once. Olive had no objections to offer, and in a few days, all was settled.

Walter would not have as much to do as many young men in the same circumstances, inasmuch as he was an excellent classical scholar already, and had read a good deal of Church-history, and of other matters which would come into the course.

Of course there were a great many different opinions expressed in Basswoods when the matter came to be generally known. Some people thought it a very foolish, romantic move, for a young man already in good practice as a lawyer, to exchange a lucrative profession, which offered so many chances of rising in the world, for one which held out no promise, either of wealth or of gratified ambition. Others thought it was very hard upon poor Miss McHenry, as of course her marriage must now be put off indefinitely, if not broken off entirely. But when Miss McHenry appeared just as good spirits as ever, and upon the same terms with her lover, they had nothing more to say, except that it was a queer world, a proposition which, if you regard it in some lights, hardly admits of a denial.

There were many who gave an unqualified approval, and wished that more young men would follow such a good example, and among them were Olive's fast friends, Mr. Jones and Dr. Gordon, the two acting members of the board of trustees, who were, moreover, much pleased at the idea of keeping their favorite teacher two or three years longer.

When Olive announced the change of plans to her aunt, Walter wrote a long letter to Mr. Merton, in which he gave a full account of all the motives and reasons which had influenced him.

Mr. Merton replied very soon. As a general thing, he said, he could not approve of a young man's changing his profession when he had once set out in life, and he really thought that, with Mr. Landon's talents, he might do as much good as a Christian layman, as in the character of a clergyman. Still, it could not be denied that there was a great want of young men for the ministry. He desired his young friend to do nothing hastily, but consider well what he was going to relinquish, and also what he was going to take upon himself before making any decided move, and enjoined it upon him not to enter the work of the ministry, unless it was his intention to devote to it all his energies of mind and body. On the whole, the letter was quite as satisfactory in its character as Olive expected.

Aunt Rebecca's was not quite so much so. She evidently regarded the whole scheme as visionary and fanatical, and fully believed that Olive's apparently cheerful concurrence in it was only a freed and sorrowful acquiescence to the whims of her enthusiastic lover. She seemed indeed to place Walter's conduct upon a par with William Forester's relinquishment of the study of law, because he could not bring his mind down to such narrow limits. She concluded by expressing, in most affectionate terms, her sympathy in Olive's sad disappointment, and reminding her that she had always a home at her uncle's, independent of any one's caprice.

The kind tone of the letter brought tears to Olive's eyes, even while she half-laughed and was half-vexed at the determination to think her a martyr, in spite of herself. Since she had had the charge of young people upon her own hands, she had learned to appreciate, more than she had ever done before, how much she owed to aunt Rebecca's kindness, and how many times she had tried it, sometimes unwittingly, sometimes through willfulness and selfishness. She wrote again, to assure her aunt that she was not suffering and to beg her not to be uneasy, as she was perfectly well, and about as happy as she could be, inclosing, at the same time, a little sketch of her own face, in order to demonstrate, clearly, that she was not pining away.

The next letter was still more kindly expressed towards herself. Mrs. Merton had read Walter's letter to her husband, and admitted that his arguments were strong, but still she thought he might have been contented with doing all the good he could in his own profession. She sent him a very affectionate message, however, and Olive had no fear but that, in course of time, he would be fully taken into favor again.

Charlotte's letter was concise and to the point, like almost every thing she said. "You know very well that I do not pretend to be governed by your motives, or even to understand them, always. But I must say I think you have done right. You have acted consistently with your own views and professions. If I believed as Walter does, I should act just as he has done. I am sorry, on some accounts, that your marriage is put off, but I think perhaps it will be as well in the end."

Olive thought so, too, and she settled herself to her work with fresh patience and hopefulness, now that there was a chance of her seeing something of the fruit of her labors. People gradually ceased talking about it, and busied themselves with other matters, and by degrees Olive became as much accustomed to the thought of spending her life in a parsonage as though she had never had any other prospect before her.

"Aunt Dimsden was right," she said to herself, sometimes; "I shall be a minister's wife, after all."

CHAPTER TWELFTH.

THE summer term passed rapidly, unmarked by any particularly startling incident. The Basswoods people had become accustomed to the idea of Olive's engagement and Walter's change of profession, and troubled themselves very little more about the matter. The school prospered, and was larger than usual in summer, and Olive had her hands full of employment,—so full, indeed, that the trustees began seriously to talk of giving her an assistant the next term.

Olive hoped it would not be necessary. She liked to have the management in her own hands, and feared that some one might be appointed who would not work with her, and might, perhaps, thwart her plans.

She was the more solicitous on this point, as she knew very well that she had an enemy in the amiable Mrs. Tucker, who had never forgiven the summary setting down of the sensitive and conscientious Melissa, and who had never since hesitated to use all her influence against Olive, both secretly and openly. She talked of mercenary motives, and drew touching contrasts between people who taught only for money and those who taught for the love of it, though who these last were, she did not think it necessary to state. She intimated that Olive was fond of society, and went out a great deal, that her connections in M. were very fashionable people, that Miss McHenry paid a great deal of attention to the manners of her pupils, and even advised them about their dress, etc., etc.

Olive heard very little of these speeches, and troubled herself not at all about them. She had early discovered Mrs. Tucker to be a meddling, vulgar woman, very fond of having her own way, and considering herself a model of solid education, though upon what she founded her claim it would be difficult to say, except it were upon the fact of her having no accomplishments.

The school was full, the girls loved her, and the trustees were quite satisfied. Walter was every thing she had believed him to be, and now she had kind friends, and her own relatives, if they did not entirely approve of Walter's course, were at least satisfied with her. She was happier than she had ever been before in all her life, and she would have been quite happy, but for her constant feeling of anxiety about Abby—an anxiety to which she could attach no definite shape, but which haunted her continually, and made her heart beat fast at sight of a letter with the B. post-mark.

After a longer interval than usual, she got a letter, saying that they were at housekeeping, and that Abby liked it very well, "so far." The next letter was not quite so cheerful. They had not a good girl, and Abby had so much to do that she got tired to death. She supposed it was all her own fault, in not knowing how, but thought if they could only get competent servants, they would do better. She was very anxious to have Olive stop and pay them a visit on her return to M., if not to spend the whole vacation with them, and Olive fully intended to do so.

Olive, herself, was learning a good deal about work, from Ruth, who excelled in all that constituted a good housekeeper. Every Saturday she took a lesson in baking, and she felt more proud of her first fair, light loaf of bread, than she had ever been of a fine drawing.

Aunt Merton, to whom she wrote an account of her exploits, commended her highly for taking pains to acquire a practical knowledge of such things—"a knowledge, my dear, which can never come amiss in any station. At the same time, I can not but hope, notwithstanding Mr. Landon's eccentric course, that you will never be placed in circumstances which will render it necessary for you to bake your own bread."

It was plain that aunt Rebecca had not quite forgiven Walter yet, for what she considered his romantic folly. Yet Mrs. Merton regretted, extremely, the great want of young men for the ministry, and was in favor of having it made an especial object of prayer in the churches. She admired, too, the heroism of missionaries, and gave liberally to the cause.

Olive was not at all disturbed by her aunt's letter. She appreciated the kindness, and only smiled at the inconsistency. She had learned away from home, what, when at home, she had never fully realized—that, taking them all in all, there were few better people in the world than her uncle and aunt Merton. And many times did she feel herself shamed and humiliated, as she looked back on her own conduct, and thought how illy she had often requited their kindness.

The time sped on, and the summer term was near its close. Olive had made all her preparations for the long vacation, and Walter had wound up his business, except what had gone into the hands of his successor, and was giving his whole attention to some preparatory studies, under the direction of Mr. Gregory.

At the earnest petition of a number of the girls who had hitherto considered themselves quite too old to go to Sunday-school, Olive had taken a Bible-class, in which she found, both pleasure and profit. Julia Goodrich stood at the head of this class, as she did at the head of the day-school, side by side with her fast friend, Anna Jones. She never missed a lesson, was apparently very much interested in the information she acquired, and was regular in her attendance; yet Olive could not flatter herself that she was making any decided impression upon her. When the subject of personal piety was pressed upon her attention, she treated it with respect, but frankly owned that she had no interest in it, on her own account. She seemed to have an idea that she should some time or other, be converted, without any special agency of her own, and that all would be right, as a matter of course.

Olive was very much in doubt what to do with these girls during her absence. She had asked, as a personal favor to herself, that they would continue to meet, and they had promised to do so, but she could think of no one to whom to commit the charge of the class. Augusta and Ruth had their hands full, the one with the infant-school, the other with a class of large boys from the country which she had taught for several years.

She was talking the matter over with Augusta one day, when Mrs. Vander Heyden came in. She was a pleasant woman, and rather remarkably well-informed, and Olive had more than once thought of her. But as Mrs. Vander Heyden had never had any thing to do with the school, she did not venture to propose it.

In the course of conversation, however, it came out, incidentally, that Olive was looking for some one to supply her place during her absence.

"If you will trust them to me, Miss McHenry," said Mrs. Vander Heyden, "I will do as well as I can by them. I have very little experience in teaching, but perhaps I can keep them together."

"I could ask nothing better," replied Olive, equally surprised and pleased; "and I shall be very much obliged to you. I did not think of asking you, as you have never been in Sunday-school."

Mrs. Vander Heyden sighed. "Perhaps I have been wrong in keeping so much aloof from such things," said she, "but we have had such a pleasant circle at home, and I found it so easy to occupy myself fully there that I shrank from any thing which should take me out. We are sadly broken up," she added, with a sigh.

"Is Agnes going south?" asked Augusta.

"Yes, we shall take her to her aunt, in Georgia. I hope the change and the journey will do her good, for she is still sadly delicate. Jenny will be very lonely without her, I fear."

"Poor Mrs. Vander Heyden! How very sad she seems," said Olive, after the lady had gone. "I was very much surprised at her offer, were not you?"

"Not so much as I should have been a year ago," replied Augusta. "The family have lived, hitherto, almost entirely within themselves, and I believe, felt themselves quite beyond the need of neighborly sympathy. But the death of poor Annette, and the long-continued illness of Agnes and Jenny, have taught them a good lesson. I do not know what would have become of them, if they had been done by as they have been in the habit of doing to others. It shows what a really noble nature the woman has, that she has learned the lesson, and is ready to repair and acknowledge her error."