Chapter VIII: Part 8

In the year which she had spent in school, Olive had learned to have not only a great respect, but also a really friendly regard for her partner in the institution. It is said that we are apt to like those whom we have benefited, and if so, it is no wonder that Olive liked Mr. Prendergrass. She had certainly, done him a great deal of good. She had coaxed him out of his seclusion, and persuaded him into society; she had made him laugh heartily, more than once. She knew, too, how to draw out his vast and miscellaneous stores of thought and information, so as to make him an entertaining companion. But it was not merely his learning that commanded admiration. He was so thoroughly good, his feelings were so elevated and dignified, his piety so earnest, every thing about him so sincere and true, that Olive had a hearty reverence for him, and looked up to him with an almost daughterly regard, at the same time that she could not help being sometimes amused and sometimes annoyed by his eccentricities, and she now and then laughed at him a little, when she was with Ruth or Augusta. In what light he regarded her, we shall soon see.

One Wednesday evening Olive did not go to church, as usual. She was not very well, and had had a fatiguing day in school. She would not allow any one to stay at home with her, and they all went, leaving her to enjoy that not unpleasant degree of indisposition which may be defined as too unwell to work and not too unwell to enjoy a new book. In this peaceful state, she had established herself upon the sofa, and given herself up to the fascinations of the "Princess."

It was not a very pleasant interruption to hear Mr. Prendergrass's voice, inquiring if Miss. McHenry was at home. But she put down her book, turned her feet off the sofa, and prepared to be gracious, wondering all the time what had kept him from church, when the clergyman himself was hardly more punctual than he.

The fact was, that Mr. Prendergrass had, for a long time, been trying to work his courage up to the point necessary for making a declaration of love to Miss McHenry. He lived, in general, so entirely out of the world, and was habitually so abstracted, that the report of Olive's engagement to Walter had never reached him, or had fallen upon unheeding ears. For the first time in his life, he had fallen into the society of a pretty, cultivated girl. The teachers before Olive had made no more impression upon him than the desks, or other furniture of the school-room. In fact, he had looked upon women in general as necessary evils, to be endured and made the best of.

Olive was entirely different. She had begun by a tacit but decided declaration of independence. She was clearly not afraid of him, though she treated him with respect. She often disagreed with him, and sometimes laughed at him. The consequence of all which was, that Mr. Prendergrass, before he knew what he was about, fell violently in love with Miss McHenry. It was a long time before he would acknowledge the fact to himself, and still longer before he could make up his mind to inform the object of his affections. But when he saw the Felton family going to church without her, and ascertained that she was at home, alone, he thought it would never do to allow so good an opportunity to pass by unimproved.

Olive never knew, exactly, how he contrived to make her understand the matter. She was so utterly astonished, so shocked and grieved at having unwittingly led the good man into an error that for a moment she could not say a word. Mr. Prendergrass evidently took her silence for encouragement.

"May I hope, Miss Olive," he said, in a trembling voice, and changing his first seat for one upon the sofa, at her side, "that you will listen to my humble suit with favor? I am aware of my unworthiness, and your exalted merit, but if the devotion of so humble an individual as myself can make you happy—"

"Stop, pray stop, Mr. Prendergrass!" exclaimed Olive, finding her voice at last. "I am so very sorry. I am afraid I have been very much to blame." And girl-like, she burst into tears.

Poor Mr. Prendergrass was inexpressibly shocked and alarmed.

"Don't weep, pray don't, my dear Miss McHenry! What have I said to cause you a moment's grief?"

"It is not what you have said," replied Olive, recovering her calmness, "but I fear I have been very much to blame. I looked up to you so much, Mr. Prendergrass—I felt you were so much above me, and so much older that I never thought of your caring any thing more for me than as a friend."

Mr. Prendergrass felt his heart sink fathoms deep, but he did not mean to give it up quite yet. "Respect is an essential agreement in the marriage-covenant. Do you not think so, Miss McHenry?" he asked timidly.

"Yes, sir, certainly, but something more than respect is necessary."

"You refer to love, Miss McHenry! Is that entirely out of the question, madam? So far as I myself am concerned, I repeat that life itself is not dearer to me than my Olive."

The dignity and earnestness with which the good man spoke, brought the tears again to Olive's eyes, but she forced them back, and determined to put an end to the scene at once.

"You will see that it is quite impossible, Mr. Prendergrass, when I tell you that I have been engaged to Mr. Landon ever since my return. I regret, very much, that any thing in my conduct should have led to such a mistake on your part, and I fear I have been to blame in not foreseeing it. But, as I said, I have been in the habit of looking up to you so much that it never struck me as possible."

Her tone, even more than the words, convinced Mr. Prendergrass that his visit was hopeless. He rose and walked up and down the room a few times.

"Miss McHenry," he said at last, stopping before her, "why did you ever come here? I was happy before that. I lived in my duties and my books, contented in solitude. I felt the need of nothing. You drew me out of myself, and away from my studies. You, first of any woman in the world, commanded my respect. You made me perfectly happy for a time, happier than I ever knew any one could be, only to plunge me in utter misery. Why did you not leave me alone?"

He walked once more the length of the room.

"Now what am I to do? I can not go back to my old way of life, and be happy in it, after the year of enjoyment I have passed. I can not forget you, even if it were possible to myself, since I must meet you every day. I have given you every thing, and left myself poor indeed, only to contribute to your amusement, and be cast aside for a younger man, who, whatever may be his merits, never can love you better than the poor awkward school-master with whom you have diverted yourself, without a thought of the mischief you were doing."

"Mr. Prendergrass, I can not permit this," said Olive, with dignity. "I make great allowances for your disappointment, but you do great injustice, both to me and to yourself, when you accuse me of trifling with you. I found you, as you say, shut up with your books, and I thought it a great pity. I tempted you from your seclusion, not to amuse myself with you—such a thought never entered my mind—but because I thought it would be much better for you, while your society would be pleasant to others. You have never given me the least reason to think that I was more to you than any other young lady in the village. I have no more to say, except that when you are more yourself, I am sure you will do me justice."

Mr. Prendergrass stood a moment. "Forgive me, Miss McHenry. I have spoken improperly, and you are right, as you always are. Good-night."

"We part friends, at least, I hope," said Olive, offering him her hand.

He took it in a grasp which almost crushed it, pressed it to his lips, and pulling his hat over his eyes, he left the house, passing Mrs. Felton at the gate, without even a sign of salutation.

"What on earth ails the man?" said Mrs. Felton to her daughter. "I should not wonder if he had got the neuralgia again. Why, where's Olive?" she continued, as she entered the sitting-room, and found it vacant. "I don't believe but that she is real sick. Hadn't you better go up and see?"

Ruth went up, but did not go in. She had an inkling of the state of the case, and she thought Olive would prefer to be alone, so she contented herself with asking, at the door, if Olive wanted any thing, and then went to her own room.

Olive would have given a good deal if she could have avoided meeting her rejected lover the next morning, but there was no help for it. And she determined to put the best face she could upon the encounter.

Mr. Prendergrass rose and bade her good morning, as usual, when she entered the large room, following her train of girls.

Glancing at him, after she was seated, she was shocked to see how he was altered. He looked ten years older, at least. His eyes were hollow, and there was an expression of forlorn wretchedness about him, which went to Olive's heart. His voice, however, was full and firm as ever in going through the morning prayers.

When school was out, at noon, Mr. Prendergrass entered the library, where Olive was, searching for something in one of the book-cases.

"Allow me a moment, Miss McHenry," he said, in his formal way, and closing the door. "I made myself very ridiculous last night," he continued, "and I fear gave you great pain."

"On the contrary, you never commanded my respect more," said Olive warmly, "and the only pain I felt was for your disappointment, and the fear that I had lost your friendship."

"You are very kind to say so." He paused a moment. "From henceforth let the whole matter be forgotten, so far as possible. I entirely acquit you of any wrong in the matter, and blame only my own folly and vanity."

Olive would have interrupted him, but he waved his hand, and proceeded. "We will say no more about it, if you please. I believe Mr. Landon to be a worthy and excellent young man, and I greatly respect him for the course which I understand he has lately taken. I hope you may both be happy, and so long as I know 'you' are so, I can never be quite wretched. God bless you!"

He bowed, and was gone, leaving Olive to wonder whether, if she had never seen Walter, she might not, in the course of time, have fallen in love with this honorable, noble, kind-hearted, formal, eccentric piece of humanity.

School was out at last, and us the scholars assembled once more to receive their prizes and to bid good-by, Olive felt sadly at leaving them, even for the vacation. She had expected when she returned for the summer term, to give up her charge entirely at this time, and to return to Basswoods as Mrs. Landon. A great change had passed over her prospects. She was none the less happy, but it was a calm and subdued happiness. Those who saw only the outside pitied her disappointment, but she told Augusta that if she could, by turning her hand, reverse the whole matter, she would not do it.

"I respect and love him more than ever, when I see him making such sacrifices to what we both feel to be paramount duty," said she, "and I never think of it but with a thankful heart that we are both of one mind."

"Mr. Prendergrass is going to travel this vacation; only think of that!" said Ruth. "He has not been out of Basswoods before, except to York to buy books, for ten years. He says he is going to the White Mountains, and up the St. Lawrence, and so home by the way of Niagara. I only hope the poor man will not get lost."

"Perhaps he will only get married," said Augusta. "You look quite indignant, Olive, but let me tell you, my dear, there is truth in the saying that 'many a heart is caught in the rebound.'"

"I was not aware that I looked indignant," replied Olive, coloring. "It is nothing to me, of course, but it does not seem very probable."

The girls smiled and turned the conversation, leaving Olive wondering why she should have felt a little vexed at the idea of Mr. Prendergrass being married.

She had expected to go alone to B., but when the day came, she found Walter prepared to accompany her.

"I can afford myself so much of a holiday," he said, in answer to her remonstrances, "and I do not choose to have you travel alone, if it can be helped. Besides, I want to see your sister and Forester. You know he was a classmate of mine. We used to be thought very much alike."

Olive wondered where the resemblance could have been, as she contrasted the high-flown æsthetics and refined selfishness of her accomplished brother-in-law, with the hearty, manly energy, and determined self-sacrifice of her lover: the one pampering his mind and indulging his taste for idleness with all sorts of pretty and petty amusements which he dignified by the name of intellectual pursuits; the other devoting all his energies to the profession he had chosen, and only relinquishing it at the call of a still higher duty. She did not express her thoughts to her companion, but perhaps he guessed them, for he said presently:

"You must not judge Forester too harshly. He has been a spoiled child all his life; petted, waited on, and admired by father and mother, brothers and sisters. He had talent, and they thought it genius, and accordingly humored him in all his pursuits, and gratified all his desires. After living upon his father till he was nearly five-and-twenty, it was naturally not easy for him to settle down to business at once. He was admired and courted in society, and that finished the spoiling."

"All that need not have made him dishonorable and false," said Olive, "as he certainly was, so far as Abby was concerned."

"Perhaps it need not, but I think you will find that idleness and self-indulgence are very apt to have that effect after a time. We will not despair of him, however, my dear Olive. The fact of his having a wife dependent upon him may force upon his mind the necessity of exerting himself."

Olive tried to hope so, but it must be confessed she did not feel very sanguine. They arrived in B. in the afternoon, and after some little trouble, succeeded in finding the house—a small brick cottage in a retired street, and Walter left her at the door, promising to return in the evening.

Her sister met her with open arms, and then followed the usual amount of tears, laughter, clapping of hands, and other demonstrations, common to all Abby's great occasions.

"You are just as much of a child as ever, Abby," said Olive, when she was finally settled in the parlor.

"Why, no, I think not quite," replied Abby, sobering down a little. "I have learned some things since I saw you. Only think, Olive, I have been a wife almost six months, and you are not married yet, nor likely to be very soon."

"I am very well contented as I am," said Olive.

"Yes, I dare say; you always are, you know. But how do you like our house? You see it is not in a fashionable neighborhood, and the house is not large nor splendid, but it is comfortable."

"It looks so," said Olive, looking round. "I see you have a piano."

"Yes, Mrs. Forester sent me that. Wasn't she kind? So different from—"

"Hush! Abby," interposed Olive, "I will not hear one word against uncle or aunt Merton. They have been kinder to you than you deserve, and you know what I thought from the beginning. You have never, so far as I know, intimated a wish to be forgiven."

"William says it is not my place to do so," said Abby. "He says they ought to make the first advances, and that uncle has insulted him. Not," she added hastily, "that I should do so, even if he would let me. But we had better not talk about that! Let me take you up to your room: you must be tired, and when William comes in, we will get your trunks up. I used to wonder how people kept house without a man, but I am finding out."

Olive begged her sister not to trouble herself, and accompanied her up-stairs to the bedroom destined for her. It was small, but well-furnished, and tolerably neat, though showing signs of needing the dusting-brush.

"The dust settles on every thing so," said Abby. "I can't think why it is. We did not use to see any dust at aunt Merton's. I hope you will not laugh at my housekeeping, Olive! I do my best, but I know very well things do not go on as they used to at home."

"Aunt Merton has excellent servants, and plenty of them," said Olive, encouragingly, "and she has kept house a good many years, while you are only a beginner. You will soon learn."

"I hope so," said Abby, "for I do hate to have things go wrong. Emma Forester was here the first fortnight, and you don't know how nice it was. She is not a bit like William—not at all a genius, though she is cultivated. William says she cares for nothing but sewing and Sunday-schools, but she is a real housekeeper, and I am sure Katy did better for her than she does for me."

"Why did she not stay?" asked Olive.

"Oh! Her mother and Emmeline wanted her, and she had to go home. But there comes William, and I must go down and have the trunks brought up."

Olive heard, accordingly, an argument down in the hall, which ended in the trunks being dragged up-stairs by a stout, good-natured English girl.

"I am afraid they are rather too heavy for you," said Olive kindly.

"Oh! No, indeed. I'm very stout, you see, and Mrs. Forester is far too delicate to put her hand to such a thing."

Olive wondered whether that were the only alternative but she dressed herself and went down-stairs.

Mr. Forester, in dressing-gown and slippers, was stretched upon the sofa in the parlor, reading a newspaper. He rose, however, when she entered, and greeted her with his accustomed easy cordiality.

"So you have come to see how far we have gone in the way of destruction you so kindly prophesied to us!" said he, after a few common-place inquiries.

"I don't remember expressing any such prophecy," replied Olive.

"Ah! Well, you thought so, and your pattern uncle thinks so still."

"Perhaps we had better let that branch of the subject rest," said Olive. "We shall not be likely to agree any better than we did before, and I can not consent to hear my uncle spoken of, except with respect."

"Very well," said Mr. Forester good-naturedly, "there are enough of other subjects to talk about. What has become of Landon, and why did he not come up with you?"

"He is in town," replied Olive, "and will be here this evening. I learned this morning, for the first time, that you were class-mates."

"Yes, surely. We never were very intimate, though. Landon was one of those plodding fellows, who give their whole energies to the daily routine of study, and are great favorites with faculty and tutors in consequence. He is just the man to make a lawyer or a minister."

"Walter is very industrious," replied Olive. "I think sometimes he hardly allows himself as much recreation as he needs, but his health is good, and he always gives himself up entirely to every thing he undertakes."

"Yet he has given up the study of law as well as William," remarked Abby, who had just come in.

"No one can say that he has consulted his ease in so doing," replied Olive, smiling, "since the one he has chosen is much more laborious, besides being worse paid."

"I can not conceive why he should have made the exchange," said William; "he always seemed to enjoy the idea of studying law."

"He thought it was his duty to do so."

"His duty! Yes, that sounds just like him," laughed Mr. Forester. "'My duty' always settled every thing for him. But, Abby, is not tea ready? I am sure it is past the time."

"It is just ready," was the reply; "I came in to tell you so."

"I don't remember hearing any thing about it. Abby is not much of a housekeeper, Miss McHenry. I wonder your good aunt did not give her lessons."

"Girls of seventeen are not apt to be good housekeepers," was the reply that rose to Olive's lips, but she checked herself, and said simply: "Abby has been a great deal in school, and she has had very little experience. She will do very well, I dare say."

"Oh! Yes, of course. Don't color so, little wife: you know you said as much yourself this morning."

The tea was very nice and abundant, though plain. The biscuits especially were very nice, and Olive noticed them.

"I made them myself," said Abby, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. "Emma taught me while she was here."

"You were an apt scholar, certainly," replied her husband, helping himself to another. "But, my love, I should rather you would try your skill in teaching Katy, than in doing such things yourself. A good housekeeper directs, instead of doing—is head, and not hands."

Abby looked mortified, and Olive felt indignant.

"I am inclined to think, if you were to try it, you would sometimes find it necessary to be head and hands too," said she: "at least, I never saw a housekeeper who did not."

Mr. Forester smiled and turned the conversation, but poor Abby's spirits had received a check. She evidently felt a good deal like a child who has taken a good deal of pains in preparing a present, and then hears it criticised by the person for whom it is intended. Mr. Forester seemed quite unconscious of having said any thing unkind, and continued to make himself very gracious to Olive, and to Mr. Landon when he appeared.

"How do you like your new business?" asked Walter.

"What do you mean, the nursery business? Oh! I gave that up, long ago. My partner, who was a stupid fellow, thought I ought to take half the labor of superintendence; and it did not suit me to be out in all weathers. Besides, I did not like his ideas. I wanted to make the grounds picturesque and pretty, but he had a notion that it was much more convenient to plant the trees in straight rows all of a sort, with a stake at the head of each. There was no beauty or grace in that! Then, it really seems a very heartless thing to sell for money, a tree or shrub which one has raised and nourished. So I gave it up, and lost some money by it. I am keeping books now, till something better comes along."

"Play something, Abby," said Olive. "Have you learned any thing new?"

"Not very lately; my hands have been too full."

She played and sung better than ever, Olive thought, but Mr. Forester thought she did not give exactly the correct expression.

"I really wish my ear was not so fastidious, Miss McHenry. It deprives me of any pleasure in ordinary music, and has prevented me from practising enough to make a good player myself."

Once more Abby looked uncomfortable, and Olive felt indignant. She persuaded her sister to sing again and sang with her, Mr. Forester talking all the time to Mr. Landon of the comparative merits of Jenny Lind and Sontag. So the evening passed.

Mr. Landon took his leave early, promising to call the next morning before he left town.

And Olive retired, feeling more than ever anxious about Abby's future. She could see, now that she looked at her, that Abby was thinner than usual—that she had lost much of her animation, and looked careworn. She thought she saw in Mr. Forester the beginning of what she feared he would become, when the first novelty of getting a wife and having his own way about it was worn off—a selfish, exacting, careless husband, seeking his own ease, and troubling himself very little about the comfort of his wife. There were no signs of God being acknowledged in the family—no grace at table, no evening prayers, not even a family Bible in the parlor. She went to sleep at last, so full of sad forebodings for Abby that she almost forgot to be thankful for herself.

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

EVERY day that Olive spent in her sister's house, convinced her more and more that Abby, in her hasty and ill-advised marriage, had made shipwreck of her life's happiness, and roused her indignation more and more against her brother-in-law. She acquitted him of deliberate tyranny and unkindness, but she could not help seeing how systematically selfish he was—how he would let Abby go to market in the rain, rather than take the trouble to order the dinner himself on his way to his place of business. How he regularly took the best place in the room, the best light by the window, the new book or newspaper as soon as it came in. He would sit by the grate and let the fire go entirely out, while Abby and Olive were shopping, or busy in the kitchen, and he would never stir to make it up again unless he was particularly requested to do so.

On Sunday evening he would not go with them to a church at some little distance where a clergyman was officiating that Abby particularly desired to hear, playfully excusing himself upon the ground of always being sleepy at evening service, and disliking the style of music. But the next day but one, he dragged them out to a picture-exhibition quite at the other end of the town, though the day was damp and unpleasant, and Abby had a bad cold. In short, he always considered himself first of any one.

Olive could not guess whether Abby was at all aware of her husband's failings. Of course she could not say a word about them, even if it would have done any good. Several other things were very apparent. One was, that Abby was not strong. She got very tired with her household cares, few as they were in comparison with those of many people, and the unaccustomed responsibility weighed on her mind. She really too great pains to learn, and Olive assisted her as much as she could, but many times did she see the tears start to the poor child's eyes after she had taken great pains in the concoction of some dish for dinner or tea, to hear some careless criticism from her husband, or his often-repeated remark:

"I do not want you to do such things, Abby. Leave them to Katy. How often must I tell you, my dear, that it is the part of a good housekeeper to direct and not to work herself? You are getting really quite coarse from working in the kitchen."

Then Abby's color would rise, and she would be unable to eat a mouthful, while Mr. Forester would complacently enjoy the fruit of his wife's labors.

"I do wish Abby were not so sensitive and touchy," he said to Olive one day.

"We always thought she had a remarkably serene temper at home," replied Olive. "You should remember how young she is—only seventeen now, and the cares of life weigh heavily upon her."

"I do not think she has so very much to do," said Mr. Forester, in a tone of injured innocence. "I take all I can upon myself; and I have often seen women with much larger families who got on much better than Abby does."

"I do not think Abby is very well," remarked Olive. "She looks very pale oftentimes, and has not a particle of appetite in the morning."

Mr. Forester seemed rather alarmed, and for some days was so attentive and considerate that Abby was quite happy, and Olive almost began to like him.

But it did not last long; he soon became as careless as ever, and the cloud settled again upon his little wife's spirits. It was touching to see how she endeavored to deceive herself and Olive, how much she made of every kindness, how proud she was of his accomplishments, and how anxious to conceal his deficiencies. In all that related to her affections for her husband, she was a woman: in every thing else, she was a child.

She confessed to Olive after a while that she was often very home-sick, and longed to see her uncle and aunt, and that she would have written to beg pardon long before "if William had thought it best; not of course that I would say I was sorry for having married him, you know, but sorry that they were displeased at it. I can not bear to think of their being angry," she said, her eyes overflowing. "I never could endure to have even one of the girls in school put out with me."

"I do not think uncle would require you to say any thing more than that you were sorry for having displeased him, but he thinks you ought to make some acknowledgment of error, and indeed so do I."

"Do they ever talk of me?"

"Aunt does very often. She never writes without asking me whether I have heard from you, and how you are. I can tell you, Abby, there are not many orphan girls who have kinder friends than we have been blessed with."

"Yet you were very anxious to make yourself independent of them."

"In a pecuniary point of view—yes! I felt as if it were wrong to be dependent upon uncle for a living as long as I could support myself. But I have never made myself in any way independent of their authority, and have no wish to do so."

"Well," replied Abby, "what is done can not be helped. Perhaps matters will take a turn before I see you again, if I ever do. Sometimes I think I never shall."

"That is a foolish thought, my baby," said Olive, taking her sister's head upon her lap as she used to do in school, to soothe Abby's troubles; "why should you think so?"

"I don't know; I am not very well, and—you know mother died that way."

"But just think, Pussy, how many children are born every year, and people get well directly; and as for mother, I don't think she would have died but for the other troubles, father's death and the poverty and all. You must not encourage these gloomy fancies indeed, my love. It is worse than foolish, it is downright wrong. It is a want of faith in God."

Abby sighed again deeply. "Dear Olive, I am very much to blame, I know, about that and many things. I can not go to church as I used to. William does not always want to attend, and I hate to go alone; and even if I do, it does not seem to do me much good. I wish I were a little girl again, as I was when I first went to uncle's to live, or else I wish I had not been so happy all my life."

"But you must rouse yourself, Abby, my child," said Olive, cheerfully; "you have never known care before, and you are very young indeed to have the responsibility of a family upon your shoulders. But if you keep up good courage and do your best, the hardest parts will soon be past, and you will go on easier. Every one has some trouble at first."

"If I could only ever do right."

"I think you do wonders, both in cooking and housekeeping."

"William thinks I might get along with directing Katy, and doing nothing myself," said Abby, "but I have tried and I can not. She is good-natured, and willing to do any thing she can, but she is not much of a cook, and she is careless unless I stand over her. I think she has learned good deal, though."

"Oh! Yes, she has improved since I came. If you keep her a few months longer, she will turn out an excellent servant, I am sure."

"But Olive, when I am sick will you come and be with me if you can? I think I shall die if I am left alone."

"I promise you, baby. Keep up good courage, have faith in God, and I am sure all will go well."

The vacation lasted six weeks, and Olive spent four with her sister. She would willingly have devoted to her the whole six, but Mrs. Merton would not hear of it. And she reluctantly took her leave.

"Olive has promised to come to me next winter if I want her," said Abby to her husband after she had done crying.

"Has she?" replied Mr. Forester absently, and working busily at a sketch of "the East Wind," that had occupied him and the only table in the room for several evenings. "But don't you think after all, my love, that it is pleasanter to be by ourselves? Olive is very nice, but she is a little severe, a little trying, with her extremely practical ways. But never mind," he added, seeing Abby's eyes ready to overflow again. "You shall have her if you want her, my dear, if she were ten times as practical. Only, I hope you do not mean to cry so every time she goes away, or I shall wish her somewhere else. I can't bear to see women cry, and you of all others. Come now, don't shed any more tears, but look at my head of the east wind, and tell me how you like it."

Abby dried her eyes, looked at the picture, and was duly interested. She tried to keep from crying afterwards, and sustained her spirits wonderfully, considering how much she was alone.

Mrs. Granger interested herself much in the poor child, as she called her, and went to see her as often as she could, giving her many useful hints about household management, etc., but she was of course much engaged.

Abby had many lonely hours, when it was very hard not to dwell upon the dark side of the picture, when she could not help seeing that her idol was not a god—that even marriage with a man she loves is not enough to make a woman happy.

But in these very lonely hours she found comfort after a while. The lessons she had learned ever so long ago at her mother's knee began to come back to her; many a passage learned in Sunday-school invested itself with a new meaning. The little Bible she had brought away with her came to lie in her work-basket, and chapters which used to be only tasks now became full of divinest comfort. The poor child crept timidly near, and laid her weary head on her Saviour's arm. Thus she grew happier by degrees, and wrote so much more cheerfully that Olive was quite encouraged about her.

Olive's vacation at home was very pleasant. No one could be kinder than Mrs. Merton, though the sight of her niece seemed to renew her indignation at Mr. Landon's eccentricity, and Olive had to summon all her philosophy to meet the expression of it.

Charlotte, for a wonder, supported Olive, against her mother, and declared that Mr. Landon was right and consistent, and that she respected him for the course he had taken, though she was sorry for Olive's disappointment about getting settled in a home of her own.

Mrs. Merton was vexed, then laughed, called them a pair of romantic girls, and declared they would know better when they were older.

"Of course you think every thing Walter does is just right, now. But wait till you have been married ten years."

"Or till I have been married as long as aunt Rebecca," Olive ventured to say laughingly. "Now tell me honestly, aunt, don't you think uncle Merton is about as perfect as human nature allows any one to be?"

"Oh!—Well, yes, perhaps so. But your uncle would never do any thing so romantic."

"That depends upon what you call romantic. Some people would have thought it a very romantic proceeding to adopt two orphan girls, and give them an expensive education."

"Yes, I know many people did say so, but I assure you, my dear, we have never regretted it—not even when poor Abby disappointed us so sadly. And now, Olive, tell me all about the poor child. I have had no opportunity to ask you. Does she seem comfortable? Is her husband kind to her?"

"I do not think he means to be unkind, aunt. I believe he loves her as well as he can love any one but himself. But he is selfish in little things, and not very considerate, and I think Abby feels it."

"Of course she must," said Mrs. Merton emphatically. "A constant display of small selfishness will do more to render a household uncomfortable than even very serious faults of temper. And how are they situated in a pecuniary point of view? Do they seem to have enough?"

Olive thought they seemed comfortable for the present, but she had doubts for the future. "Mr. Forester has given up his nursery business, and says he has lost money by it."

"Why did he do that?" asked Charlotte.

"So far as I could find, his only reason was that he discovered it to be work instead of play. He said his partner cared for nothing but making money, and persisted in planting all the trees in straight lines. He is keeping books, now. But I don't believe he will persevere in it long. Abby tries very hard. It is really affecting to see the pains she takes to learn to cook and to sew. I am certain she never worked so hard at any school-lesson as she did to learn to make soda-biscuits."

"Poor, dear child!" said Mrs. Merton. "Only to think of her little hands doing such things. And does her husband appreciate her efforts?"

"I don't believe he does. He does not think there is any need of her working, herself, and I have heard him tell her, two or three times, that if she only knew how to direct, there would be no need of her putting her hand to any thing."

"How absurd!" said Charlotte. "I wonder how my father would get on in his office, on that principle, or a merchant in his store?"

"It troubles Abby very much, and discourages her, too," said Olive.

"And how do you think Abby felt about us?" asked Mrs. Merton. "Do you think she ever feels as if she would like to see us again? I don't want you to betray confidence, my dear," she added, seeing Olive hesitate, "but I feel anxious to know."

"I do not know that I shall betray any confidence in telling my own thoughts, aunt," said Olive. "I think Abby would very gladly ask to be forgiven, if Mr. Forester would let her. She would not say that she was sorry she married him, of course."

"Certainly not," interrupted Mrs. Merton. "We should never ask that."

"But I do think it makes her very unhappy to be so entirely separated from the family. She made me promise to be with her at the time of her confinement, if I could, but I shall not be surprised if Mr. Forester contrives to prevent it, for I know very well he does not like me. Abby is very low-spirited about it, and thinks she shall never get well. I am afraid she is sad enough, when she is alone, as of course she must be, a great deal of the time."

"Poor child!" sighed Mrs. Merton again. "How I do wish I could send and have her here, at home! If she would only take one step toward a reconciliation, I am sure your uncle would forgive her at once."

"I am sure he would, if he were to see her."

"Well, my love, we will have patience; all will be brought round yet. I am sure I wish poor Abby well, with all my heart!" A fact which Olive did not in the least doubt.

Laura seemed to be going on in much the same way as ever, but Olive did not see her. Mrs. Dimsden had taken her down to the sea-shore, and from there to Saratoga, where her dazzling beauty and sweet manners attracted much attention. Laura seemed to be in Paradise, to judge from her letters, which were very long, and so filled from end to end with descriptions of dances, parties, and every thing of that sort, that Olive hardly had patience to read them through. Now that Abby was in some degree separated from her, she felt more and more painfully the distance between herself and Laura. They did not seem to have one thought in common.

Charlotte was much more of a companion to her, though they differed so widely upon many points. She was at least serious and thoughtful. She was not impatient of half an hour's grave conversation, and she had a thorough respect for goodness in others.

Laura valued people by their dress, their station, their fine houses, and above all, by their degree of fashion. It was respectable to go to church, and besides, it was a good place to see and be seen, so she went regularly, and knelt gracefully at all proper places, but she did not like the preaching, especially Doctor Eastman's preaching, and she wished they would leave that out. She thought his personal appeals to the hearts and consciences of his flock very Methodistical, such being the title given by a great many people to any thing like earnestness.

She could understand, or thought she could, the motives of Miss Eustace, an heiress, and a very beautiful and dignified person, in presenting a superb altar-cloth and set of cushions to the church, but she could not comprehend why the same Miss Eustace should sit back with her Sunday scholars, every Sunday, and find all their places for them, or why she should spend a great deal of her time in working for them, when no one would know it, unless by accident. Laura lived entirely in and for this world, and thought or cared no more for any other than if she had had no soul.

Olive returned to Basswoods, feeling as if the winter would be rather a long one. Walter was not there. He had gone, after a short visit in M., to pursue his studies at a distance. He was to return at Christmas for a week, and to this week she looked forward as a weary passenger on shipboard looks for the land.

The school filled up at once, and so many large girls came in, that Olive, after a good deal of consideration and consultation, came to the conclusion that it would by necessary to have another teacher for the little ones. Mrs. Tucker and a few of her special adherents, who had formed a sort of party against Olive, manœuvred greatly to get this appointment into their own hands. Mrs. Tucker wished to give it to a young friend of her own, and, by what she considered a master-stroke of policy, she invited that young lady to come and make her a visit during the vacation. Miss Lambert was really a nice sort of girl, and would have answered Olive's purpose very well, but Mrs. Tucker had reckoned without her host, and like some other great generals, had out-manœuvred not her adversary, but herself. Mr. Jones heard his sister-in-law's innuendoes and suggestions very patiently, for some time.

"Sister Tucker," he broke out at last, "do you really think the trustees are going to do such a mean and uncivil thing as to put an assistant into the school without consulting Miss McHenry's wishes about it?"

"I don't see the incivility," replied Mrs. Tucker, a good deal alarmed, but standing her ground. "If Miss McHenry did not like it, she could leave."

"Yes, and that is what you want. Because she checked Melissa in her tattling when she first came, as you ought to have done yourself long ago, you have always been against her. Now, listen to me. These insinuations against Miss McHenry must be put a stop to, at once and forever. They do you no credit, let me tell you, either as a woman or a Christian, and you do Miss Lambert great harm. She seems a pretty good girl, and if Miss McHenry approves of her, there may be no objection to having her. But not one step shall be taken without her concurrence."

Mrs. Tucker could only murmur something about "not meaning any harm."

"Then be careful you don't do any harm. I have seen so much malice, and so much mischief under that cloak of not meaning any harm, that I don't think much of it."

In effect, Miss McHenry, understanding the state of the case, willing to conciliate, and having seen Miss Lambert and conversed with her away from her champion, Mrs. Tucker, was very well pleased with her, and signified to the trustees that she had no objection to their giving her the vacant place.

Mrs. Tucker exulted greatly, but her triumph was of short duration. For Miss Lambert, being really an honest, good-hearted, affectionate girl, and positively declining to tell tales out of school, and submitting herself entirely to the guidance of her principal, Mrs. Tucker considered her as having gone over to the enemy, and quarrelled with her, accordingly. It became necessary for her to seek a new boarding-place, and as she had abundance of room, Olive persuaded Mrs. Felton to take her.

Maria was young, and her opportunities had not been great. She delighted to read and study under Olive's direction, and she, on her part, grew very much attached to her, and so ended an affair which might have been a very serious one for our heroine, had her friends been one whit less straightforward or sensible.

But Miss Lambert did not remain through the year, for a very good reason—an excellent reason, indeed, since it was no other than Mr. Prendergrass. That gentleman had fallen into the habit of visiting at least once a week at Mrs. Felton's, and to him habit was second nature. So he kept on visiting there, as usual, after Olive returned. And now that there was no farther danger of mistakes, Olive was very glad to see him.

But after Miss Lambert came, she began to perceive, with much amusement, that she was not the principal attraction. He talked to her, indeed, but he looked at Maria. She was very glad to observe, after a little, that Maria herself had no objection to have Mr. Prendergrass look at her, that she was glad to see him when he came, and low-spirited if he went away early, or failed to present himself at the usual time.

At last, one day, not long after the holidays, Maria came to Olive's room, and with blushes, and smiles, and tears, and much pretty confusion, acquainted her with the fact that Mr. Prendergrass had offered himself to her, and wished to be advised.

"About what does Maria wish to be advised?" Olive asked.

Maria wanted to be advised whether she should marry Mr. Prendergrass or not.

"That depends entirely upon circumstances, my dear. If you do not love him, you ought not to marry him."

"But I am afraid I do love him," sobbed Maria.

"Then you had better marry him, by all means, my love, if there is no other objection. He is a most excellent man, and no doubt will make you very happy."

"You know I have neither father nor mother," said Maria. "I have hardly a friend in the world but you."

"Don't think of marrying simply for a home, Maria. I would rather you did almost any thing else."

"I don't indeed, Miss McHenry. I would rather go to the poor-house. But I do like him so very much, and he is so good—that—that—"

"That you can not help crying about it," said Olive smiling, and kissing her. "My love, I think you could hardly have done better, and I wish you joy with all my heart. Now then, dry your eyes and answer Mr. Prendergrass's note and don't keep the poor man in suspense any longer."

"Poor man," she thought as Maria left the room. "I need not have distressed myself so much about breaking his heart and all that. I do not believe men's hearts are so easily fractured after all."

Olive felt some awkwardness upon meeting and congratulating her former lover upon his approaching marriage, but there was no necessity for any embarrassment upon her part, for he evidently felt none. The fact that he had once cared himself to Olive seemed to have passed entirely from his mind, and he could think of nothing and look at nothing but his dear Maria.

There was no reason why the marriage should be delayed, as Mr. Prendergrass beside his salary had a comfortable little property, the result of his savings for many years.

Augusta and Ruth helped Olive to put Maria's wardrobe into a state befitting so grand an occasion. She had many presents, indeed quite a setting out of plate and china from those who took an interest in the motherless girl. The wedding took place at Mrs. Felton's and was quite a splendid affair. Contrary to the forebodings of those who knew his habits, Mr. Prendergrass was not late and did not forget the ring. Maria looked very lovely, the bridegroom very manly and sensible, and every one was pleased except Mrs. Tucker.

That lady was not pleased. She thought Mr. Prendergrass ought to be ashamed of himself to marry such a little chit of a girl as Maria Lambert—a man of "his" age! It was all an affair of Miss McHenry's getting up, and just like her. Maria had been a good girl before she fell under that woman's influence—but she had shown the disposition of a serpent in going to Mrs. Felton's, as if that lady was in the habit of taking reptiles to board, and she would have no more to do with her: so she would not go to the wedding, though Maria invited her, and would not call upon her, though they lived very near—a circumstance which probably did not detract in the least from the happiness of Maria's married life.

It was wonderful and exceedingly pleasant to see how Mr. Prendergrass improved under the influence of his young wife. He learned to dress, talk, and comport himself much like ordinary mortals, discovered that there were other objects in life besides books, and entertained company at home with great propriety. Maria was as happy as the day was long, thought her husband the most wonderful of men, and herself the happiest woman in the world, especially after Olive consented to take her younger sister in her place. She insisted upon Olive's coming to make them a visit.

And Olive accepted the invitation and enjoyed it greatly, thinking at least once every day how much Mr. Prendergrass was superior to Mr. Forester though he could not have told a Claude from a Turner—and his musical knowledge, like the western gentleman's, only amounted to two tunes, one of which was Old Hundred and the other wasn't; and how much happier Maria was than poor Abby.

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

OLIVE was not with Abby at her confinement, after all—not from any fault of her own, but because Mr. Forester had very clearly intimated that he did not want her, and preferred even his own sister Emma, whom he did not seem to like very well either. But though Olive was not with her, Aunt Merton was—to explain which, we must go back a little.

As the time of trial drew near, Emma Forester, who was staying with Abby, saw that there was something which weighed upon her mind and disturbed her very much.