Read Ebook: Walter Harland Or Memories of the Past by Caswell Harriet S

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Good old Grandma Adams rose from her seat and, walking with uncertain steps to the table were I sat, placed her hands upon my bowed head, and repeated the following words from the Psalmist: "Commit thy way unto the Lord, trust also in him and he shall bring it to pass." "And he shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light and thy judgment as the noonday." "Rest in the Lord and wait patiently for him, fret not thyself because of him who prospereth in his way, because of the man who bringeth wicked devices to pass." "Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down, for the Lord upholdeth him with his hand." These verses from Scripture, repeated as they were by my aged grandmother had the effect to soothe my mind. It was so like what my own mother would have done under the same circumstances; and, raising my head I tried to be hopeful, and trust to time to prove my innocence. With all my resolves to be patient I found it very hard to bear up as day after day glided by and nothing took place to throw any light upon the matter. I could never have borne it, but for Mr. Oswald's assertion that he believed me innocent. He exercised the utmost vigilance to obtain some clue to the mystery, but two weeks glided by and nothing was gained.

There were two boys among the pupil, named Reuben Mayfield and Thomas Pierce, they were both older than I and for a long time had evinced toward me a strong feeling of dislike. From the first Mr. Oswald had suspected these two boys of having a hand in the affair, but said nothing to any one of his suspicions; but he never for a moment gave up the idea that, sooner or later, the truth would come to light. It was nearly three weeks from the time the affair happened that these two boys entered the school-room a full half-hour before the usual time for school to open. No other pupil was present, and they felt free to indulge in a confidential conversation, which I copy for the benefit of the reader. "I wonder," began Thomas Pierce, "what Mr. Oswald expects to gain by waiting. I know his eyes are pretty sharp, but hardly sharp enough to see to the bottom of this affair. It takes you to plan Reuben. I was as willing as you to do any thing to bring Harland down a peg or two, for he has carried his head rather high this winter, and walked into Mr. Oswald's good graces in a way that was wonderful to behold. You were always good at planning, and it was you who did the most difficult part of the business, which was getting the money into his pocket. It was very easy to get the money out of the desk. The way I hurried through my dinner that day wasn't slow I can tell you. I ran every step of the way that I might reach the school-room before the other boys; and it took but a moment for me to secure the bill, and I am sure no one saw me slip it into your hand, and you know when the other boys came we were busy skating, so of course no one could suspect that we knew any thing about it."

"Ha, ha," laughed Reuben, "Walter thought I was very kind, and even thanked me with that high-bred manner of his when I spent so much time helping him to fix on his skates, and when you directed his attention to a team passing on the street, he little thought that while you were both admiring the fine horses, I generously slipped a ten-dollar bill into his vest pocket, for his future wants. Wasn't it fun though. But we'll see now who'll be invited to tea at Mr. Oswald's so often, and spend the evenings, studying with Rose and Willie." "But I can tell you one thing," replied Thomas, "we've got to be on our guard, Mr. Oswald is very sharp-sighted, and a word, or even a look, would put him on our track, and then it makes me tremble to think of it. The afternoon he talked to us and sent those searching glances round the room I could hardly draw my breath for terror lest he should detect us in some way. You know I always feared those searching glances from Mr. Oswald." "I have no fears" replied Reuben. "We can surely keep our own secret, and, as no one else knows any thing about it, we are safe enough." Poor misguided youths, they did not pause to think that their guilt was already known to Him without whose notice not even a sparrow falls to the ground, much less did they think how near they were to detection and exposure. The plot by which they hoped so deeply to injure another was made instrumental in exposing the baseness of their own characters. The two boys had a listener to their conversation whom they little suspected. Mr. Oswald, having some exercises to correct, went to the school-room very early and shut himself in his private room, which opened out of the large class-room, that he might be free from interruption, and by this means lost not a word of the conversation which took place between the two guilty boys. The color receded from their faces, and as quickly came again, when Mr. Oswald at nine o'clock coolly walked out of his room and called the school to order. They at once knew by his grave and stern countenance that he had heard all that had passed between them; and they knew him too well to doubt that their guilt would be brought to light in a most humbling manner. Had they paused before committing the act to consider the possibility of detection it is probable they would never have done the deed; but it was too late now, and they must meet the consequences of their own wrong-doing. After offering the morning prayer, by which our school invariably opened, Mr. Oswald addressed us, saying: "I happened this morning to overhear a conversation between two of my pupils, which I wish to repeat in presence of you all." Mr. Oswald then repeated, word for word the above-related conversation, without giving the names of the boys, till he said by way of conclusion, "If I have made a wrong statement, or varied in the slightest degree from the truth, Reuben Mayfield and Thomas Pierce will please come forward and point out my error, for it was between them the conversation took place." It would take a more able pen than mine to describe the countenances of those boys as Mr. Oswald ceased speaking. Reuben did attempt to stammer out a denial, but Mr. Oswald silenced him at once. "I will not allow you, in my presence, to add to your sin, by repeating a denial. So base an action never before came under my notice. You must surely have forgotten the overruling Providence which allows no sin to go unpunished. Had your plot succeeded according to your wishes you would have ruined as fine a boy as ever entered this school, both in my eyes, and his fellow pupils, as well as the community at large. But, from the first, something seemed to whisper to me that he was innocent of the crime of which, to all appearance, he was proved guilty. When I listened to your conversation this morning I fully decided in my own mind to expel you both from school in disgrace; but I have since reflected that even justice should be tempered with mercy; and, if you are willing both to come forward in presence of all the school and ask my pardon, as well as that of your deeply-injured school-mate, and promise good conduct for the future, we will allow the matter to rest, and you can remain my pupils. I would, if possible, spare your parents, as well as yourselves, the disgrace which would follow your being expelled from school under such circumstances, and I would also grant you the opportunity to prove the sincerity of your promises of good conduct for the future."

There was a severe struggle in the breast of the two boys; they were aware of the justice of their teacher's decision, but pride pled for them to brave the matter out in bold defiance. But their hearts were not entirely wicked and the good in them finally triumphed. Coming forward they craved Mr. Oswald's forgiveness in a truly humble and penitent manner. Then, turning to me, who felt truly happy that my innocence was thus proved beyond a doubt, Reuben addressed me, saying: "Can you forgive us, Walter. It was envy which first caused us to dislike you and we cherished the feeling till it led us to commit this wicked action; but that feeling has all passed away. You never injured us, and I know not what spirit of evil tempted us to injure you as we have done. We feel thankful to our teacher for the lenity he has shown us, and I hope our future conduct will bear witness that we appreciate his kindness, and, if you can forgive us and be friends again, I hope you will find that we are not altogether bad."

I had no inclination to withhold the forgiveness so humbly sought. I shook hands warmly, with both the boys, saying, "I forgive you with all my heart, let us be friends. I am proved innocent, and am too happy to cherish anger towards any one." When order was again restored Mr. Oswald made some instructive and useful remarks upon the folly and sin of harboring a feeling of envy and ill-will toward others. "I advise you," said he, "when you detect a feeling of envy and malice rising in your heart, to remember the sin and wrong, to which the indulgence of this feeling led these two boys, and pray to your Heavenly Father to preserve you from a bitter and envious spirit. We will talk no more of the unhappy affair at present; it is my wish that each one of you treat Reuben and Thomas the same in every respect as though this circumstance had never taken place. I intend retaining them still as my pupils, and they must be treated as such by you all. I trust this lesson will not be lost upon any, for it speaks loudly of the necessity of guarding our own hearts from evil, and it also teaches us how to exercise a spirit of forbearance and forgiveness, and now we must proceed to the work of the day."

Time, with his noiseless step, glided on, till but a few weeks remained before the school would break up for the midsummer vacation. Happy as I was at Uncle Nathan's, I looked eagerly forward to the holidays, for I was then to pay a visit of several weeks to my home at Elmwood, having been absent nearly a year, and, as this time drew nigh, every day seemed like a week till I could set out on the journey. Added to the joy of again meeting my mother and sister, I would also meet Charley Gray, who was also to spend his vacation at home. We had kept up a regular correspondence during the past year. I could always judge of Charley's mood by the tone of his letters. Sometimes he would write a long and interesting letter, in such a glowing, playful style, that I would read it over half-a-dozen times at the least, and perhaps his very next letter would be just the reverse, short, cold and desponding. Any one who knew Charley as I did could easily tell the state of mind he was in when he wrote, but so well did I know the unhappy moods to which he was subject, that a desponding letter now and then gave me no surprise. In fact, had the style of his letters been uniformly gay and lively, I should have been more surprised, so well did I understand his variable temper. But we both looked forward to our anticipated meeting with all the eagerness and impatience of youthful expectation. For, as I said near the opening of my story, I loved Charley as a brother, and so agreeable and pleasant was his disposition when he was pleased, you quite forgot for the time being the unhappy tempers to which he was subject.

There is ever a feeling of sadness connected with the closing of school. Owing to the excellence of the institution, there were pupils attending Fulton Academy from many distant places. But with the coming of the holidays this youthful band, who had daily assembled at the pleasant old Academy would be scattered far and wide. Probably never all to meet again on earth. Many of the youths who had studied a sufficient time to obtain a business education were the coming autumn to go forth to make their own way in the world. The only intimate friend I had made among these was a youth whose home was two hundred miles distant from Fulton; his name was Robert Dalton, and he had studied at Fulton Academy for the past three years, and, having obtained an education which fitted him for the business he intended to follow, he expected to return to Fulton no more. His father was a merchant in one of the cities of the Upper Province, and in the fall Robert was to enter the store, in order to obtain a practical knowledge of business, as his tastes also led him to mercantile pursuits. When I entered the school, a stranger to all, Robert Dalton was the first youth who bestowed kind attentions upon me, and we soon became firm friends; together we studied and mutually assisted each other, and always shared in the same sports and recreations. I could not help sometimes thinking it was well that Charley Gray was attending another institution, for I felt certain that the friendship existing between myself and Robert would irritate his fiery and jealous nature beyond measure. Poor Charley, it was a pity that he possessed that unhappy temper; for there was much suffering in store for himself and others arising from this source. Much had he yet to endure before that jealous, exclusive spirit would be brought under subjection. During the summer evenings a ramble to "Beechwood" had been a favourite recreation with Robert and I, and thither we took our way the last evening we expected to spend together at Fulton. We lingered long there that evening, and, seated upon a mossy rock beneath the shade of those old trees, we talked of our coming separation, as well us of our individual plans for the future, till the gathering darkness hastened our departure. The next morning we parted, each to meet the friends who were looking for us with the anxious eyes of love.

It must be confessed that my aunt's quaint style of dress contrasted somewhat strongly with many of the fashionably attired lady passengers in the same car. I presume this gave her little uneasiness, for she cared little for the opinion of others in matters pertaining to dress; and she regarded the slightly quizzical glances of some of the passengers with cool indifference. Her apparel was of quite rich material, but the style dated backward for many years, and the bonnet she wore was quite too large to be considered fashionable. Directly in front of us were seated two young ladies, dressed in the extreme of fashion, who seemed to consider it their privilege to amuse themselves by observing and passing remarks to each other, in an undertone, upon the dress and appearance generally of the other passengers. When we took the vacant seat behind them, we were subject to a prolonged stare from the two young misses, and we distinctly heard one of them address the other, saying with a sneer, "I wonder how much that old lady's bonnet cost, when new, I would ask her only it must have been so long ago, I am sure she has forgotten by this time." Aunt Lucinda was not one to let this pass unnoticed. Touching the young lady lightly on the shoulder, to attract her attention, she said in a voice loud enough to be heard by several of the other passengers near us, "I believe, miss, you are anxious to learn the price of my bonnet when new, I have forgotten the exact sum, but you may be sure of one thing, I paid more for it than your good sense and good manner are worth both together." These two ladies had made themselves so disagreeable by their silly and vain manners that this "cut up" from my aunt was greeted by a burst of laughter from all near enough to hear it, and the laugh was evidently not against my aunt. The two girls blushed crimson, but made no reply, and as soon as possible changed their seat to a distant part of the car, possibly they might, for the remainder of their journey, be more mindful of the courtesy and respect due to a fellow traveller.

So swiftly had the time passed away, that, till Aunt Lucinda made this remark, my mother had failed to notice the lateness of the hour, and, obeying the hint, she at once offered to conduct her to her room with an apology for having failed to remember that she must be very much fatigued. My aunt was very willing to retire, saying she would be bright enough in the morning, but for to-night she did feel about done out. As for Charley and I, we had so much to say that sleep was out of the question, and, after retiring to our room, we sat for a long time at the open window, enjoying the beautiful moonlight which fell upon the familiar scenes of Elmwood, and talking of all that had befallen us during the past year, till Aunt Lucinda called at our door saying, in a tone which Charley thought decidedly cross, "Do you shut that window this minnit, boys, and go to bed; here it is nearly midnight, and not a wink of sleep has there been in this house. How do you expect we shall all feel to-morrow morning I should like to know? and besides you will take the awfulest cold that ever was heard of, if you sit there by the open window, in this night air." To please my aunt I closed the window, and Charley and I retired, and if we talked longer our conversation was carried on in a whisper, so fearful were we of again disturbing Aunt Lucinda. I doubt very much if there was that night a happier family in Elmwood than the one which rested beneath the roof of our little brown cottage.

Happy days pass swiftly. The meeting of the friends at Elmwood was indeed a joyful reunion and each one seemed anxious to do their utmost to contribute to the enjoyment of the other. My mother suspended all regular employment and gave her undivided attention to the entertainment of Aunt Lucinda, and she fully appreciated the kind attentions of my mother and little sister Flora; for, notwithstanding her seemingly cold and crusty exterior, she had really a kindly heart, and real affection from others ever met with a hearty response: although one to whom she it was not well-known would have set her down as a hard, unfeeling disposition; and I am inclined to think my Aunt Lucinda not the only one who is regarded by the generality of people as cold and unfriendly, for the simple reason that they do not take the trouble of looking beyond their often rough exterior, and discover the kindly feelings which remain hidden till called forth by the voice of sympathy and friendship. Although in very moderate circumstances my mother often assisted those who were less favoured, especially when the sick and suffering required care and attention. Aunt Lucinda often accompanied her in these ministrations, and seemed to take pleasure in rendering her assistance in the chambers of sickness which my mother visited. My mother seldom visited in a social way but to add to the enjoyment of her sister she at this time accepted numerous invitations to visit friends, accompanied by my aunt. Scarcely a day passed that failed to bring something in the way of recreation and amusement. There were picnic excursions, drives and walks, in which both old and young participated--even Aunt Lucinda often making one of the company, and enjoying it too--although she was sometimes heard to wonder, what Deacon Martin's wife over at Fulton would say if she saw an old woman like her take such an active part in the pastimes of the young. It would seem that Deacon Martin's wife felt it her duty to be the first to point out any delinquency among those in her immediate sphere. Aunt Lucinda fearful the good Deacon himself would be inclined to think she was evincing a spirit of too much conformity to the world, by joining so frequently in the amusements of the young, and gay. "I think" said my mother, "your best way is to consult your own conscience, instead of the opinion of either Deacon Martin or his wife; and I am sure your conscience can accuse you of no wrong in joining the young people in their innocent amusements." Advised by my mother my aunt purchased a new bonnet of quite modern style and a shawl to match, both to be worn to a picnic which was to be held in a beautiful grove near our village. When she brought home her purchases I laughingly told her if any young lady we might meet on our homeward journey should enquire their price she could easily satisfy her curiosity, as the purchase was of such recent date. "I am sure of one thing," replied my aunt, "if we meet the same young lady we met on our way here, she won't ask me the price of my bonnet. I don't know after all but her remark did me good, for it set me thinking how long I have had this old bonnet, and I believe it was time for me to buy a new one."

The holidays were nearly over and we must soon return to our respective duties. Charley Gray and I had fully enjoyed the time we passed together. I fancied that contact with the world had blunted the keen edge of Charley's nature; for, during all the time we passed together, I saw nothing of the peculiar disposition which had so often been a source of trouble, even when we were mere children. I suppose it must have been that nothing called it forth, for his old enemy still remained in his heart, but so genial and pleasant was he that I really indulged the hope when we parted that his nature was undergoing a change.

During my visit at Elmwood I once met with Farmer Judson. Any resentment I might once have cherished toward him had long since died out, and, having lost all fear of the crusty farmer, I accosted him pleasantly, and offered him my hand. The man felt ashamed to refuse taking the hand so freely offered; but his grasp was certainly not very cordial; and, with a few words, which, if they had meaning, were uttered in too low a voice to be intelligible, he passed on his way. As I gazed after his retreating form I could not fail to mark the change which a year had wrought in his appearance. His step was far less brisk than formerly, his hair was fast turning gray, and I fancied that his countenance wore even a more unhappy and discontented look than usual. I was then too young to understand what I have since known that his dissatisfied expression was caused by his having failed to find happiness in the possession of worldly wealth, and as yet he had not learned to seek happiness from any other source.

The time soon came when we must bid a reluctant adieu to our friends at Elmwood. It was decided that I was to spend another year at Fulton. Charley Gray was to return to his studies for an indefinite time, and sad enough we all felt when the morning of our separation came. The steam-cars soon bore us from the pleasant village of Elmwood where we had spent six happy weeks. Aunt Lucinda allowed that she felt herself ten years younger than before she left home and declared her intention of accompanying me on my next visit to my mother.

Very welcome was the first view we gained of the old red farm-house upon our return, and still more welcome was the cheerful and mild countenance of Grandma Adams who, as soon as Uncle Nathan set out to meet the train, had taken her place at the front door to watch for our arrival. It was many years since she had been so long separated from her daughter, and the six weeks which had passed seemed to her more like six years. For so long had my aunt toiled on at the old homestead, "year in and year out" without scarcely bestowing a thought upon the world beyond, that the kindly spirit of sociality had nearly died out within her; but this visit with its many scenes of enjoyment, as well as the kind attentions of her friends, had again called into action that spirit of friendly intercourse with others without the exercise of which the warmest heart is prone to become cold and selfish. She seemed hardly like the same one who left home six weeks ago, as she presided at the supper table with such a cheerful, even lively, manner on this first evening of our return. The Widow Green insisted that my aunt should take no part in the household cares that evening, but advising her to sit idle when there was work to do, was throwing words away, and she was soon busy clearing away the supper table, and, as she said, "setting" things to rights generally. The lamps were soon lighted, and, though it was only the middle of September, a wood fire blazed in the fire place, and shed a ruddy glow upon the brown ceiling and whitewashed walls of the large clean kitchen which when there was no company, answered the purpose of sitting room as well. Uncle Nathan said he thought they should treat Aunt Lucinda as company for that one evening and occupy the parlor, to which kind offer she replied by begging of him "to try and be sensible for one evening at any rate." "Well" said Uncle Nathan, "remember when I go off and visit about for six weeks, as you have done, I shall expect you to have the parlor warmed and lighted on the first evening of my return, for I am sure I could not settle down to every day life all at once." "Well," said Aunt Lucinda, as she seated herself by the lamp, and took up the knitting-work which was ever at hand, to fill up the "odd spells" which she called a few minutes of leisure, "I have made up my mind that in the future I will sometimes enjoy myself a little, and visit my friends, instead of staying at home till I forget there is any other place in the world but this farm, with its dingy old red house and weather beaten barn." "I am very happy to find," replied my uncle, "that you have finally come to the conclusion that we have but one life to live, for by the way you have worked and drove ahead for the last fifteen or twenty years, one would think you had half a dozen ordinary life-times before you and if you have come to the conclusion that you have but one, and a good share of that gone already, perhaps there will be some peace in the house for the time to come." My aunt always complained that her brother had one very serious fault, he was prodigal of time, and took too little thought for the future, and on this ground she replied in rather a snappish voice: "Well, at any rate, if every one was as slack and careless as you, they would hardly survive for one life time; and I can tell you one thing Nathan Adams, this old house has got to be painted, and that right away, for it is a disgrace to be seen. I didn't think so much about it till since I saw how other folks live. You needn't begin, as I know you will, to talk about the expense. You may just as well spend a little money for this as for any thing else; and if as you say 'we have but one life to live,' we will try and spend the remainder of it in a respectable looking house." "What color would you prefer Lucinda," replied my uncle, "I suppose it will have to be of the most fashionable tint. Ah me, this is what comes of women folks going to visit, and seeing the world; I wonder," continued he, with a roguish look at me "if Aunt Lucinda isn't expecting some gentleman from Elmwood to visit her shortly, whom she would dislike should find her in this rusty-looking old house. There's no telling what may grow out of this visit yet." "There's no use in expecting you to talk sensibly," replied my aunt, "but the house will have to be painted, and that's all about it." "Any thing to keep peace," replied Uncle Nathan; "and if you are really in earnest we will see what can be done about it next week, if this fine weather continues, for the old house does need brushing up a little, no mistake." And this was the way matters usually ended. To confess the truth, Uncle Nathan was inclined to be rather careless in matters requiring extra exertion and confusion; but when my aunt once took a decided stand, the matter was soon accomplished, for much as my Uncle enjoyed teasing her, he entertained a high regard for her opinion, and was often willing to trust matters to her judgment as being superior to his own. As they were all busy in various ways, Grandma motioned me to take a seat by her side, and read to her, saying in an undertone, she had had no good reading while I was away, for Nathan reads too fast, and the Widow Green speaks through her nose, "and you don't know how much I have missed your clear voice and plain pronunciation." "What shall I read Grandma," said I, as I turned the leaves of the large Bible. "Oh, first read my favourite psalm which you know is the thirty-seventh, and then read from St. John's Gospel." For an hour she seemed filled with quiet enjoyment while I read, till, becoming tired, she said "that will do for this time, Walter, for you must be tired after your journey." The few days which remained of the week after our return were busy ones; school was to open on the following Monday and there were many matters requiring attention. The painting of the house was begun in due time, and Uncle Nathan thought "Lucinda was going a little too far" when she first proposed adorning the house which, instead of a dingy red, was now a pure white, with green blinds, but she soon talked him over to her side, and the first time Deacon Martin's wife passed the homestead after the improvements were completed, she remarked to a friend, that she almost felt it her duty, to call and ask Uncle Nathan if he were not evincing too much love of display, by expending so much money on mere outward adornings. Somehow or other it came to Aunt Lucinda's ears that the good Deacon's wife thought they had better give their money to the cause of, "Foreign Missions" than spend it in so needless a manner. My uncle's family did give liberally when called upon, in this way, and, more than this, they were not inclined to make remarks upon the short-comings of others; but, upon this occasion my aunt replied with much warmth: "If the Deacon's wife has any thing to say to me upon the subject let her come and say it, the sooner the better, and I'll ask her if she remembers the year I was appointed as one of the collectors for the Foreign Missionary Society, and when I called upon her, after she had complained for some time of hard times and the numerous calls for money, put down her name for twenty-five cents, and did not even pay that down, and I had to go a second time for it; if she knows what's for the best she won't give herself any further trouble as to how we spend our money." On the whole I presume it was all the better that the Deacon's wife never called to censure Aunt Lucinda for extravagance in spending money.

"I wish you would go over to the post office, Nathan," said my aunt one evening in the latter part of winter; "none of us have been over to Fulton this week, and who knows but there may be letters," "Who knows indeed!" replied Uncle Nathan, "I am as you say a careless mortal, and never inquired for letters the last time I was over, so I'll just harness up and drive over this clear moonlight evening." He returned in an hour's time and soon after entering the house, handed a letter to my aunt saying, "read that and see what you think of it." Seating herself and adjusting her glasses, she unfolded the letter, and perused it carefully; but any one acquainted with her would at once have been aware, by the expression of her countenance, as she read, that the communication, whatever it was, was not of an agreeable nature. The letter was from a cousin residing in the State of Massachusetts whom they had not seen for many years, but who used in his youthful days to be a frequent visitor. Indeed it would seem, by all accounts, that he was fonder of visiting than of any regular employment. This cousin, Silas Stinson, had grown up to manhood with no fixed purpose in life. As a boy he was quick at learning, and obtained a fair education, which, as he grew older, he was at much pains to display by using very high-flown language, which often bordered upon the flowery and sublime. I believe in their younger days Aunt Lucinda used to allow "it fairly turned her stomach to hear the fellow talk." He was a dashing, showy follow when young, and was soon married to a delicate and lady-like girl, just the reverse of what his wife should have been. A woman like Aunt Lucinda would have given him an idea of the sober realities of life, but the disposition of the wife he chose was something like his own, dreamy and imaginative, with none of the energy necessary to face the trials and difficulties which lie in the life-path of all, in a greater or less degree. He had tried various kinds of business but grew weary of each in its turn. At the time of his marriage his father set him up in a dry-goods store, and, had he given proper attention to his business, would probably have become a rich man. For a time things went on swimmingly, but the novelty of the thing wore off, and he soon felt like the clerk who told his employer "he only liked one part of the business of store-keeping, and that was shutting the blinds at night." After trying various kinds of business, with about equal success, he got the idea, and a most absurd one it was, that farming "was his proper vocation." His indulgent father again assisted him, by purchasing for him a small farm, thinking he would now apply himself and make a living. His father maintained a kind of oversight of matters during his life-time, but in process of time he died, and Silas was left to his own resources. His father's property was divided among the surviving children, and it was found that Silas had already received nearly double his share of the patrimony, so, of course, nothing remained for him at the time of his father's death. Necessity at length drove him to mortgage his home, and he never paid even the interest on the claim, and when the above mentioned letter was written, the term of the mortgage was nearly expired, and he must soon seek another home for his family. Such was the idle whimsical being who now wrote to these relatives to know what they thought of his removal to Canada, and only waited, as he said, to see what encouragement they could give him adding that he was willing to work and only asked them to assist him in getting his family settled till he could look about him a little and see what was to be done, signing himself their attached but unfortunate cousin. But the professed attachment of her Cousin Silas failed to call up a very pleased expression of countenance as my aunt refolded the letter, saying, "Well if this isn't a stroke of business, then I'm mistaken. What are you going to do about it Nathan Adams?" "I can't answer that question just yet," said my uncle, reflectively. "I think we'd better all have a night's sleep before we say any more about it." They felt in duty bound to reply to the letter, but what reply to make was an unsettled question for several days. They were aware that, for all their cousin's professed willingness to work, the care of his family would in all probability devolve upon them, for some time at any rate. But Grandma Adams had tenderly loved her brother, Silas' father, and at length by her advice a favourable reply was written. "I can tell, you one thing," said Aunt Lucinda, after the letter was sent away, "I cannot, and will not have Silas Stinson's family move in here, for if he has no more method in governing his children than in other things we might as well have as many young Indians right out of the Penobscot Tribe brought into the house. I am willing to help them as far as I can, but bringing them into the house is out of the question." "I'll tell you what you can do, Nathan," said grandma, "you know there's an old house on that piece of land you bought of Squire Taylor last fall, and you just fix it up as well as you can, and let them live in it this summer, and by the time another winter comes you can see further about it; perhaps by keeping round with Silas you may get some work out of him on the farm this summer, and his family must have a home of some kind. Providence has been very kind to us, and we must lend them a helping hand." "I dare say," replied my aunt, in her usual sharp manner, "that Providence has done as much for Cousin Silas as for us, only while we have toiled early and late, he has been whiffling about from one thing to another, trying to find some way to live without work; but I guess he'll learn before he's done that he'll have to work for a living like other people. But I suppose, Nathan as they've got to come you'd better see about fixing up that old house right away. If there was only himself and wife, I'd try and put up with them here for a while, but with their five wild tearing children--it makes me shudder to think of it!"

When the matter of Cousin Silas' removal to Canada became a settled thing it appeared less terrible than upon first consideration. April arrived, bringing it's busy season of sugar-making, and it's mixture of sunshine and showers. Amid the hurry of work Uncle Nathan found time to give some attention to the matter of repairing the house, for the reception of the expected new-comers. Aunt Lucinda said she supposed her mother was right, and it was their duty to extend a helping hand to Cousin Silas, but at the same time it appeared to her that the path of duty really did have a great many difficult places, and she supposed as we could not go round about them we must keep straight forward and get over the hard places as well as we could. Preparations went on apace, and before the last of April the repairs on the house were completed. I was still studying hard, expecting this to be my last year at school. Of all the family I had become most attached to my aged grandma, whose life was evidently drawing near the close. She liked to have me near her, and, to her, no other reading was like mine; and the best which any one else could do, fell far below my services in waiting upon her; and my uncle and aunt often wondered what mother would do when the time came that I must leave them. Considerate ones, spare yourselves these forebodings, for, before I shall have left your family-circle, your aged mother will have been called to enjoy that rest which remaineth to all who live the life she has lived. It was thought by many to be somewhat singular that a youth of my age should have been so happy and contented in the quiet dwelling of my uncle, whose youngest occupants were middle-aged, and they could not be supposed to have much sympathy with the thoughts and feelings of youth. I had gone there in the first place merely to obey the wishes of my mother, which had ever been as a law unto me. I loved my uncle from the first, and, instead of feeling anger at the distrust with which my aunt was inclined to regard me, I felt a sort of pity for the lonely woman, and resolved, if possible, to teach her by my conduct that I was not altogether so bad as she supposed; and my kindness to her soon softened a heart which had become somewhat unfeeling, from having so few natural ties, as well as for want of intercourse with the world at large; and I learned that my attempts to please her, especially when they involved self-sacrifice, made me all the happier, so true it is that "it is more blessed to give than to receive."

Winter had gradually melted away before the genial sun and warm rains of spring, till the snow had entirely disappeared, and the fields began to wear a tinge of green, with many other indications that summer was about to revisit the earth. There is something very cheering in the return of spring after enduring for a lengthened period the rigors of winter. The waters are loosed from their icy fetters, and sparkle with seemingly renewed brightness in the glad beams of the sun, and all nature seems to partake of the buoyant spirit called forth by this happy season. The song of birds fill the air, and they seem in their own way to offer their tributes of praise to the kind and benevolent Father, by whose direction the seasons succeed each other in their appointed order. All were busy at the farm. Uncle Nathan was beginning to look up his "help" for the labors of the summer, and my aunt was equally busy within doors. Grandma is still there, always contented and always happy, for the old-fashioned leather-covered Bible, which lies in its accustomed place by her side, has been her guide through the period of youth and middle-age, and now, in extreme old age, its promises prove, "as an anchor to her soul, both sure and steadfast." The Widow Green is at present an inmate of the dwelling, as she often is in busy seasons. A letter has lately been received from Cousin Silas, saying he hoped it would afford them no serious disappointment if he postponed the proposed journey to Canada for a time, and added, by way of explanation, that his wife was anxious to revisit the scenes of her childhood in the State of Maine, before removing to Canada, and, as he considered it the duty of every man to make the happiness of his wife his first consideration, he was for this reason obliged to defer the proposed removal for the present. Had he seen the look of relief which passed over my aunt's countenance as she read the letter, he certainly would have felt no fears of her suffering from disappointment by their failing to arrive at the time expected. "I only hope," said she, "that his wife may find the ties which bind her to the scenes of her childhood strong enough to keep her there, and I am certain I shall not seek to sever them." "I am afraid Lucinda," said her mother, "that your heart is not quite right." "Perhaps not mother," she replied, "I try to do right, but I can't help dreading the arrival of that lazy Silas Stinson and his family; he was always too idle to work and when they are once here we cannot see them suffer, so I see nothing for us but to support them." "Let us hope for the best" said the old lady, "he may do better than you think, and it's no use to meet troubles half way."

The preceding winter had been one of unusual severity, and, as is often the case in the climate of Canada where one extreme follows another, an early spring had given place to an intensely hot summer. The school had closed, but I was to remain with Uncle Nathan till autumn, when I was to return to my home at Elmwood for a short time before seeking a situation. It was the tenth of August, a day which will be long remembered by the dwellers in and around Fulton. For many weeks not a drop of rain had fallen upon the dry and parched ground, and the heat from the scorching rays of the sun was most oppressive. Day and night succeeded each other with the same constant enervating heat. Sometimes the sun was partially obscured by a sort of murky haze, which seemed to render the air still more oppressive and stifling, and all nature seemed to partake of the universal languor; not a breath of air stirred the foliage of the trees, and the waters of the river assumed a dull motionless look, in keeping with the other elements. "This day does beat all," said the Widow Green as she came in, flushed and heated from the dairy room. "I thought," replied my aunt, "I could bear either heat or cold as well as most people, but this day is too much for me. I cannot work, and I would advise you to give over too." "I remember a summer like this thirty years ago," said Grandma, "the same heat continued for nine weeks, and then we had a most terrible storm, and after that we had no more to say very warm weather the rest of the season; and I am pretty sure there is a tempest brooding in the air to-day, by the dull heavy feeling about my head, which I always experience before a thunder-storm."

The heat had become so intense by noon that Uncle Nathan and his hired men did not attempt to go back to the fields after dinner, but sat listlessly in the coolest part of the house; they made some attempt to interest each other in conversation, but even talking was an exertion, and they finally relapsed into silence, and, leaning back in his chair, Uncle Nathan's loud breathing soon indicated that in his case the heat as well as all other troubles were for the present forgotten in sleep. A change came over the heavens with the approach of evening, a breeze sprung up, scattering the misty haze which had filled the air during the day, and disclosing a pile of dark clouds in the western sky, which seemed to gather blackness as they rose. "It's my opinion," said Grandma, who had carefully observed the weather during the day, "that the storm will burst about sunset," and true enough it did burst with a violence before unknown in that vicinity. I had gone to the far-off pasture to drive home the cows at the usual time for milking. The huge pile of clouds, which for hours had lain motionless in the west, now rose rapidly toward the zenith, and hung like a funeral pall directly over our heads. The tempest burst in all its fury before I reached home, clouds of dust filled the air, which almost blinded me, and almost each moment was to be heard the crash of falling trees in the distant forest. The thunder, which at first murmured faintly, increased as the clouds advanced upward, till by the time I reached home it was indeed terrific. They were all truly glad when I burst suddenly into the house drenched with rain, and completely exhausted. The cows remained unmilked for that night, a thing which Aunt Lucinda said had never happened before since her recollection. Flash after flash of vivid lightning filled the otherwise darkened air, succeeded by the deep heavy roll of the thunder. It was noticed by those who witnessed this storm, that the lightning had that peculiar bluish light which is sometimes, but not often, observed during a violent summer tempest. The inmates of our dwelling became terrified. The Widow Green crept to the darkest corner of the room and remained with her face bowed upon her hands. "I am no safer," said she, "in this corner than in any other place, but I do not like to sit near a window while the lightning is so bright and close at hand." Even my aunt, self-possessed as she usually was, showed visible signs of alarm, and truly the scene would have inspired almost any one with a feeling of terror, mixed with awe, at the sublime but awful war of the elements. The wind blew a perfect hurricane, and the rain fell in torrents, and, quickly succeeding the flashes of forked lightning, peal after peal of thunder shook the house to its foundation. Grandma Adams was the only one who seemed to feel no fear; but there was deep reverence in her voice as she said, "Be not afraid my children; for the same Voice which calmed the boisterous waves on the Sea of Galilee governs this tempest, and protected by Him we need not fear." The storm lasted for hours and increased in violence till Grandma said, "the storm of thirty years ago was far less severe than this." The rushing of the wind and rain, the deep darkness, except when lighted by the glare of the vivid lightning, with the awful roll of the thunder, altogether formed a scene which tended to inspire a feelings of deep awe mingled with terror. There had been a momentary lull in the tempest, when the air was filled with a sudden blaze of blinding light, succeeded by a crash of thunder which shook the very ground beneath our feet. "That lightning surely struck close at hand," said Uncle Nathan, as he opened the door and looked out into the darkness, and a few moments after the cry of "fire" added to the terrors of the storm. A barn belonging to a neighbor who lived a mile distant from us, had been struck by that flash, and was soon wrapped in flames. It was a large building, with timbers and boards like tinder, and was filled with hay, and it was well-nigh consumed before assistance could reach the spot, and it was with much difficulty that the flames could be kept from the other buildings on the premises, indeed several of the neighbours were obliged to remain on the spot most of the night. The storm continued with unabated fury till after midnight and then gradually died away, and from many a home a prayer of thanksgiving ascended to Heaven, for protection amid the perils of that long-to-be-remembered storm.

I believe there is a power and solemnity in the near approach of death which often makes itself felt even before it invades a household; and something of this kind was experienced by the change which came over Grandma Adams about this time. It would have been difficult for her dearest friends to have explained in what the change consisted; but a change there certainly was which impressed all who saw her. She still sat in her arm-chair, she suffered no pain, and her countenance was cheerful and happy, and her intellect seemed unusually strong and clear; but to the eye of experience it was evident that this aged pilgrim, who for more than eighty years had trod the uneven and often toilsome journey of life, would soon be forever at rest. The Widow Green remarked to my aunt one day in a mysterious whisper, "that she was sure grandma was drawing near the brink of the dark river, and the bright expression of her countenance was but a reflection of the happiness in store for her on the other side." Strong and self-reliant as was my aunt, the death of her mother was something of which she could not bear to speak, and the widow was one who so often talked of dreams and mysterious warnings, that my aunt usually paid little heed to her remarks in this respect. But she could not reason away the change in her mother's appearance. Her mother had been so long spared to her that she had almost forgotten that it could not always be thus, and the All-wise Father, who sees the end from the beginning, willed it that the sudden death of her aged and pious mother should in a great measure be the means of preventing her from placing her affections too much on the perishable things of earth. One evening, when I closed the Bible after spending the usual time in reading to grandma, she said: "If you are not tired, Walter, read for me once more my favorite psalm." I read the psalm from the beginning in a clear distinct voice as I knew pleased her best, and when I had finished she said: "You have often, dear Walter, during the two past years forsaken your books or your play to read to me, and you have been to me a great blessing, and you will be rewarded for it, for respect and veneration from youth toward age and helplessness is a noble virtue, and the youth who pays respect to the aged will be prospered in his ways." There was something in the look and manner of my aged relative which affected me strangely. Her countenance looked unusually bright and happy, and her words had an earnestness of expression which I had never noticed before. At the time I knew but little of the different ways in which death approaches, and was not aware that with the very aged the lamp of life often burns with renewed brightness just before it goes out forever. After a short silence, grandma spoke again, saying, "Have you ever read Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, Walter?" I replied that I had, and she continued: "You may remember that when an order was sent for one of the pilgrims to make ready to cross the 'dark river', the messenger gave him this token that he brought a true message, 'I have broken thy golden bowl and loosed thy silver cord.' I think I have the same token, Walter. I feel that the golden bowl is well-nigh shattered, and the silver cord of my life is loosening, and soon the last strand will be severed, and to me it is rather a matter of joy than of sorrow. I know in whom I have believed, and all is peace. Continue, my child, as you have begun in life, and should you be spared to old age you will never regret following my advice. And now I must go to rest, for I am weary, and would sleep." Her words awed me deeply; but surely, thought I, grandma cannot die while she seems so well and so like herself. The words she had spoken so agitated my mind that it was long after I retired to rest, before I slept, and when at length slumber stole over my senses, I dreamed that a being beautiful and bright stood at my bedside, who was like Grandma Adams, only decrepitude and age had all disappeared, and a beauty and brightness, such as I am unable to describe, had taken their place. A smile rested upon her countenance, as she seemed in my dream, for a moment, to raise her hands above my head in blessing, when she disappeared from my view, and I awoke. But even while I dreamed, the angel of death came with noiseless step, and severed the last strand in the cord of grandma's life, and who shall say that her spirit was not permitted to hover for a moment, in blessing, over the youth so dear to her, before taking its final leave of earth.

Upon going to her mother's room the next morning, my aunt found that she had passed from the sleep of repose to the deeper sleep of death. Thinking that possibly life still lingered, they immediately summoned the physician, but after one glance at the still features, he addressed my aunt, saying, "Your mother has been a long time spared to you, but she has gone to her rest." Even death dealt gently with the aged one whom every one loved. There was no sign of suffering visible, for as she sank to sleep, even so she died without a struggle, and a smile still seemed to linger upon her aged but serene countenance. I believe there are few who have not at some period of their life been called to notice the change which a few short hours will bring over a household. A family may have lived on for years with no break in the home circle, and every thing connected with them have moved on with the regularity of clockwork, when some sudden and unlooked-for event will all at once change the very atmosphere of their home. Owing to her advanced age, Grandma Adams' death could hardly be supposed to have been unlooked for, yet so it was.

But they verily believed their own statements, having listened to stories of a similar kind since their own childhood; a belief in them almost formed a part of their education, and having never set reason at work upon the subject, they were sincere in their belief that events are often foreshadowed by those superstitious signs which formed the topic of their conversation.

The funeral was over with its mourning weeds and solemn burial service, and all that was earthly of Grandma Adams rested in the grave; but what shall we say of those she has left in their now lonely home? My uncle and aunt were still as deeply attached to their mother as in the days of their childhood and youth, and her age and utter dependence upon them for years past had all the more endeared her to their hearts, and when she was thus suddenly removed a blank was left in their home which they felt could never again be filled. But the affairs of life do not stand still, and we are often obliged to take up again the realities of life, with the tears of bereavement and anguish still upon our cheeks, and even this may be wisely ordered to prevent us from indulging our grief, even to a morbid melancholy. But lonely enough seemed the house when the kind friends and neighbors had all again departed to their homes, and we were left alone. There was grandma's arm-chair with the little stand for her large Bible, her glasses lay upon its worn cover, even as she had laid them aside on the last night of her life. Many had offered to remove them, but my aunt would not allow them to be disturbed, and it was several days after the funeral that I quietly removed them to another room while my aunt was busied elsewhere, and she never questioned me as to why I had done so. From the day of her mother's death my aunt was a changed woman, her disposition seemed softened and subdued, and if, from long habit, she sometimes spoke in sharp quick tones, she was gentle and far more forbearing with the failings of others than formerly. Uncle Nathan said but little, but it was easy to see that the loss of his aged mother was much in his mind; and often was he seen to brush away a tear when his eye rested upon the vacant corner. It was not long after this that they received a letter from cousin Silas, informing them that he expected to arrive with his family in a few days. Aunt Lucinda never uttered an impatient word, but began quietly to make preparations for their reception. Very likely she remembered what her mother had said sometime before. It is very often the case that advice which we give little heed to while the giver is in life and health becomes a sacred obligation after their death. Almost every day she went over to the house which was to be their home, and spent several hours in putting it in order, and when they arrived, a comfortable home awaited them. Cousin Silas was, as may be supposed, a much talking, do-nothing kind of a man, his language was plentifully adorned with flowery words, to which he often added scripture quotations, although seemingly he took little pains to inculcate in his own family the principles taught in that sacred volume. When, soon after his arrival, he was informed of their late bereavement, he made a long, and I suppose very appropriate speech, but I am inclined to think, it failed to carry much consolation to his listeners. It would be difficult for one to imagine a more disorderly family than was that of Cousin Silas, and yet strange to say he seemed to regard his wild unmanageable children as models of perfection. His own imagination was very fertile, and he really indulged the illusion that they were all he would have liked them to be. His wife, her spirits broken down by poverty and care, had long since ceased to make the best of the little left in her hands, and her family government was also extremely nominal in its nature, so that their arrival at Uncle Nathan's, to say the least of it, was not a desirable affair. There were five children altogether. I believe it would have been hard to find a worse boy than their eldest son Ephraim, aged about fourteen. The next in age was George Washington, but I am certain, had he lived in the days of that illustrious man, he would have looked upon his namesake with any other feeling rather than pride. Ephraim had one way, and George Washington had another. The eldest was noisy and boisterous and delighted in malicious fun, and was continually, as the neighbors said, "up to some kind of mischief;" while the other was too indolent even to do mischief; he had one of those disagreeable sulky natures which we sometimes meet with always grumbling and out of humor with himself and every one else. Then there were three little girls, and all that caused them to be less troublesome than the boys, was, that they were younger; the youngest was little more than a babe and gave the least trouble of either of the five. They remained at Uncle Nathan's for two or three days before removing to the home prepared for them; and they certainly were not an agreeable addition to our quiet household. I could not have believed it possible that my aunt could have borne the annoyance with so much patience. She went about quietly and made the best of the matter, altogether unlike my Aunt Lucinda of two years ago, and I believe she had a feeling of pity for the weary-looking mother of this disorderly family; she did remark to the Widow Green, on the day of their removal, that "she believed if they had staid much longer, her head would have been turned with their noise and confusion." But they were gone at last, and assisted by the Widow Green my aunt went from room to room, and endeavored again to bring order out of the mass of litter and confusion; remarking that the house looked as though it had been turned upside down, and it did really seem pleasant when, after two days' labor, the rooms were again put to rights, and the dwelling brought back to its usual state of cleanliness and order. My aunt said, "it seemed a waste of labor to fit up a home for a family who didn't know how to take care of it; but then," added she, "if we do our duty, it wont be our fault if they fail to do theirs." In a few days she went over to see how they were getting along, and allowed upon her return that she had serious fears the children would pull her in pieces. In spite of their mother's feeble attempts at authority, the little girls pulled at the ribbons on her cap, picked at her cuff-buttons, and one of them made a sudden snatch at her brooch, my cherished gift; the mother ran to the rescue, but not till the pin attached to the brooch was first bent, then broken. "What shall I do with these children," said the mother. Provoked by the injury to her much valued brooch, my aunt replied, hastily: "I know what I would do, I would whip them till they'd learn to keep their hands off what they've no business with." But when she saw how grieved the woman seemed to be, she felt sorry she had spoken so hastily. My aunt said it seemed as though night would never come, when I was to drive over to take her home, for there was not, she said, a minute's peace in the house during the whole afternoon, and glad enough was she to return at night to her own quiet home. It was a severe trial to one of my aunt's orderly habits, to be daily subjected to the visits of the noisy mischievous children of her cousin, and although she bore it with more patience than might have been expected, it was a serious annoyance. More than all, she dreaded the eldest son Ephraim. From the first there had existed a kind of feud between them. The boy was quick to notice the love of order so observable in my aunt, and took a malicious pleasure in studying up ways and means to annoy her in this respect. Articles of daily use were misplaced, and many an accident occurred in the household which could be traced in an indirect way to Ephraim; but the fellow was shrewd as well as mischievous, and took good care that not a scrap of direct evidence could be brought against him.

His father was for a time to assist Uncle Nathan upon the farm; and under pretence of performing some of the lighter work Ephraim usually came to the farm with him, but it was very little work which his father or any one else got out of him; but it seemed an understood thing that Cousin Silas and his family were to be borne with, and they endeavored to bear the infliction with as good a grace as possible. My aunt was put out of all patience, by finding one day, upon going to the clothes' yard to hang out her weekly washing, the clothes-lines cut in pieces and scattered about the yard. She knew at once that this was some of Ephraim's handiwork, and when the men came home to dinner she taxed him with the crime in no very gentle tones. As usual he declared himself innocent, even saying that he did not know there was a line in the yard. Then, as if a sudden thought had struck his mind, he said with the most innocent manner imaginable, "I just now remember that when we went out from breakfast this morning, I saw Tom Green coming out of the yard with a jack-knife in his hand, and it must have been him who cut up the lines." This was rather too glaring a lie, and Ephraim must have forgotten for the moment that Tom Green had been absent from home for several days; and cunning as he was, for once he had, as the saying is, "overshot his mark." "Silas Stinson," said my aunt, "will you allow that boy to sit there and tell such lies in your hearing?" His father saw that there was no help for it, he must at any rate make a show of authority; and looking at his hopeful son with a very solemn countenance, he addressed him in the language of Scripture, saying "O! Ephraim what shall I do unto thee?" "It wouldn't take me long to find out what to do, if he was mine," said Aunt Lucinda. "I'd take a good birch rod, and give him such a tanning, that he wouldn't cut up another clothes-line in a hurry, I'll promise you." "Upon the whole I think your counsel is wise, Cousin Lucinda," replied his father, "for the wisest man of whom we have any account says, 'Foolishness is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him,' and the same wise man adds in another place: 'He that spares the rod spoils the child.'" I know not whether he acted from a sense of duty, or to appease the anger of my aunt; but, for the first time in his life, I believe he did use the rod upon his son Ephraim. He provided himself with a switch, the size of which satisfied even Aunt Lucinda, and, taking him to the back-kitchen, if we could judge by the screams which issued from thence, the whipping he bestowed upon Ephraim was no trifling affair.

Autumn again came, with its many-hued glories, and I must bid adieu to the uncle and aunt who had been so kind to me for the two past years. Looking forward two years seem a long period; but, as memory recalled the evening of my first arrival at Uncle Nathan's, I could hardly believe that two years had since then glided away. I had bid my kind teacher and his family good-bye, and in the morning was to set out on my homeward journey. I accompanied my uncle and aunt to grandma's grave--a handsome head-stone of white marble had been erected, and I enjoyed a melancholy pleasure in reading over and over again the sculptured letters, stating her name and age, with the date of her death. Eighty-five years, thought I, as my eye rested upon the figures indicating her age, what a long, long life! and yet she often said that, in looking back over her long life, it only seemed like a short troubled dream; but it is all past now, and she rests in peace. We sat long at the grave and talked of the loved one, now sleeping beneath that grassy mound; till the deepening twilight hastened our departure. I could not check the tears which coursed freely down my cheeks when I turned away from the grave. Seated around the fireside that evening we talked of the coming morrow when I was to leave them for an indefinite time, and they both spoke of how doubly lonely the house would seem when I should be gone. It hardly seemed to me that the aunt I was leaving was the same I had found there, so softened and kind had she become. "It's not my way," said she, "to make many words; you have been a good, obedient boy Walter, and I am sorry, that you must leave us, but we could not expect to keep you always. Always do as you have done here, and you will get along, go where you will; always look upon this house as a home, and if you ever stand in need of a friend remember you have an Aunt Lucinda, who, if she does fret and scold sometimes, has learned to love you very dearly, and that is all I am going to say about it." It was well that she had no wish to say more, for her voice grew tremulous before she had finished; and these few words more than repaid me for the endeavours I had made to please her during my stay with them. "My boy," said Uncle Nathan, "you are now leaving us. I am not going to spoil you, by giving you money, for if you wish to ruin a boy there is no surer way than by giving him plenty of money; and I want to make a man of you, and have you learn to depend on yourself and save your money: so at present I only intend giving you enough money to bear the expenses of your journey home, and buy any clothing you may require before going to a situation; but I have deposited a sum of money, to remain on interest for six years; if your life is spared, you will then be twenty-one years of age, and if you make good use of your time, may save something yourself. I will not say how large a sum I have deposited, but at any rate it will help you along a little, if you should wish to go into business for yourself at that time; and now you had best go to bed and sleep soundly, for you must be up bright and early in the morning."

The good-byes were all said, and I was seated in the train which was to convey me from Fulton. As the train passed out of the village I rose from my seat to obtain a last look at the Academy whose white walls shone through the trees which surrounded it. I suppose if the Widow Green had been there she would at once have said I would never see the Academy again, it being a saying of hers, "that to watch a place out of sight was a sure sign we would never behold it again." I certainly tested her saying upon this occasion, for I gazed upon the dear old Academy till it faded in the distance from my sight, and since then I have both seen and entered it. When my mother met me at the depot at Elmwood, I could hardly believe the tall girl who accompanied her was my sister, Flora, so much had she grown during the past year. I did not expect to meet Charley Gray, as the holidays were all over long ago, but the good Doctor and his wife were kind and friendly, indeed they had ever been so to me. "Charley went away in the sulks because you failed to come home during the holidays," said the Doctor with a good-humoured laugh, "but a fit of the sulks is no very uncommon thing for him;" and then he added, while a grave expression rested for a moment upon his face, "poor Charley I hope he will get rid of that unhappy temper of his as he grows older, if not it will destroy his happiness for life." "I am sure," replied I, "that Charley could not have been more anxious about it than I was myself, but I could not leave Uncle Nathan till the fall." "So I told him," said the Doctor, "but would you believe it, the fellow for a while persisted in saying, you knew he was at home, and so stayed away purposely, till he finally became ashamed of himself and owned that he did not really think so, and only said it because he was provoked by your not coming home; you see he is the same unreasonable Charley that he ever was, but it is to be hoped he will in time, become wiser."

I was glad to find myself again at home; much as I might love another place, Elmwood was my home. My favorite tree in the garden looked doubly beautiful, clothed as it was with deep green, while the foliage had long since been stripped from those surrounding it by the frosts and winds of November.

About two weeks after my return home, Dr. Gray called one evening, and informed my mother that he had that day received a letter from an old friend of his, who was a merchant doing an extensive business in the city of Montreal, requesting him, if possible, to find him a good trusty boy, whom he wished to give a situation in his store. "Mr. Baynard prefers a boy from the country," said the Doctor, "as he has had some rather unpleasant experiences with city boys; and it occurred to me that you might be willing your son should give the place a trial. I wish not to influence you too much: but I know Mr. Baynard well; and if I wished a situation for my own son I know of no place which would please me better." "Did my circumstances allow of it," said my mother, "I would gladly keep my boy at home, but, as it is necessary for him to seek employment, perhaps no better situation will offer, and as you, in whose opinion I have much confidence, speak so highly of Mr. Baynard, if Walter is willing we will at once accept of the offer, and you may write to your friend, accepting the situation for my son." Of course I had no objection to offer, and the Doctor wrote, informing Mr. Baynard that I would be there in two weeks time.

The time passed quickly away, and I again left home. The Doctor had written to my employer informing him on what day he might expect my arrival. The train reached the city about two o'clock in the afternoon, and, stepping from the car I became one among the crowd upon the platform. During the journey I had many times wondered to myself whether Mr. Baynard would meet me himself or send some one else. I supposed he would send one of his clerks. Dr. Gray had arranged that I was to board in Mr. Baynard's family, as my mother objected to my going to a public boarding-house, and in this, as in all cases the good Doctor was our friend; old as I am now I cannot recall Dr. Gray's many acts of kindness to me when a boy without a feeling of the deepest gratitude.

To a boy of fifteen, whose life has mostly been passed in a quiet country village, the first sight of the city of Montreal is somewhat imposing. Presently I noticed a gentleman who appeared to be looking for some one, and I felt sure it was Mr. Baynard. He appeared to be about forty years of age and during the whole course of my life I have never seen a more agreeable countenance than he possessed. I felt attracted toward him at once. I stood still watching his movements, as with some difficulty he made his way through the crowd, and soon his quick eye rested upon me; approaching and laying his hand on my shoulder, he said "Is your name Walter Harland, my boy? My name is Mr. Baynard, and I drove round by the depot to meet a boy I was expecting to arrive on this train." "My name is Walter Harland," I replied, "and I am the boy of whom Dr. Gray wrote to you." He shook hands with me, speaking a few kind and encouraging words at the same time. After giving orders concerning my trunk, he told me to follow him, and we soon reached his carriage, and telling me to jump in he drove to a beautiful residence, sufficiently distant from the business centre of the city to render it pleasant and agreeable. Mr. Baynard's family consisted of his wife, two daughters and one little boy. They all treated me with much kindness, and seemed anxious that I should feel at home with them. I arrived at Montreal on Thursday, and Mr. Baynard said I had best not begin my regular duties in the store till the following Monday. I shall long remember the first Sabbath I spent in the city, for on that day I suffered severely from an attack of home-sickness. Mr. Baynard's eldest daughter, Carrie was twelve years old, her sister Maria was ten, and their little brother Augustus was only seven years old. In the morning I attended church with the family, and a very lonely feeling came over, as I looked around over the large congregation and among them all could not discover one familiar countenance. The most lonely portion of the day was the afternoon; we did not attend church, and feeling myself as a stranger in the family I spent most of the time in my own room, and naturally enough my thoughts turned to my far distant friends, and I must confess that, although a boy of fifteen, I shed some very bitter tears that lonely Sabbath afternoon. In the evening I again attended church, and after our return spent the remainder of the evening in reading, and so passed my first Sabbath in the city of Montreal. I rose the next morning determined to be hopeful and look upon the bright side.

As time passed on, I became accustomed to the duties of my position, and performed them much more easily than at the first. The feeling of diffidence with which I entered Mr. Baynard's family soon wore-away, by the kindness extended toward me by every member of the family. I spent no money needlessly, being anxious to lay by as much as possible. I wrote often to my friends at Elmwood as well as to Charley Gray, and received long letters in return which afforded me much pleasure. My mother's letters often enclosed one also from my sister, which gave me many choice scraps of news concerning my old school-companions, and many trifling matters which doubtless possessed more interest for me than they would have done for any one else. I presume Charley felt our separation more keenly than I, our natures were so unlike.

Hurrying along Great St. James Street one afternoon with a heavy package of goods under my arm, I struck against a youth, who was walking in the opposite direction, with such seeming rudeness that I paused to apologize, and when I raised my eyes found myself standing with my old friend and companion at Fulton Academy, Robert Dalton. Our meeting was not more unexpected than joyful: he had been in Montreal for the past six months, but had failed to inform me, indeed Robert was not a good correspondent, it was no lack of friendship but for some reason or other, writing letters was always a task to him. Meeting unexpectedly as we did our former intimacy was soon renewed. He was employed in a large druggist's shop in Notre Dame Street, and boarded with another clerk whose home was in the city, and we were much together when released from the business of the day. Learning from Robert's employer that he was a young man of good principles, Mr. Baynard did not object to our intimacy, indeed he looked upon him as a kind of safe-guard to me, owing to his being three years my senior and possessing more experience and knowledge of the world; and from what he had learned of the young man, he was aware if he exercised any influence over me it would be for good; and many pleasant evenings we passed together in Mr. Baynard's family; Robert was fond of music, and was considered a good singer and often his rich voice mingled with the notes of the piano in Mr. Baynard's parlor. Since then, in looking back to that time, I have often thought if business men, who often have young men in their employ whose homes are far distant, would be at a little pains to afford them social pleasures of an elevating nature, it might have a decided effect for good upon their characters, in after life.

It is unnecessary and would prove tedious to the reader as well as to myself, were I to give a detailed account of the two first years of my residence in the city of Montreal. It had been understood that I was to remain two years, before visiting my friends at Elmwood, and although I became happy and contented, I looked forward with impatience to the time when I could visit my mother and sister. The two years was nearly past, and I began to count the weeks and days as the time drew nigh for the expected visit. I had become as one of the family in the house of my employer, and had enjoyed much pleasure in the society of my friend Robert Dalton; the more I saw of him the more I valued his companionship, indeed he had become to me as an elder brother. He often amused me by relating incidents of his childhood, and in my turn I talked freely to him of my distant home and friends.

If Charley Gray left home two years ago in a fit of the sulks, it did not interfere with our correspondence which had been sustained regularly on both sides. It was now nearly three years since we had met, and I looked forward eagerly to our expected meeting, for he was to spend the holidays at home. When I reached my native village, Charley was the first to welcome me, having begged the privilege of driving to the depot to meet me. He had changed much during the two past years. He had grown tall and manly looking, and a glance at his broad full brow at once told one that he possessed a powerful intellect; but he was pale and thin from close application to study, for from a mere boy Charley was a hard student. As we rode homeward we had much to tell of what had taken place since our last meeting. I received a joyous welcome from my mother and sister, and with a feeling of pride I placed in my mother's hand a considerable sum of money which I had saved carefully for her use, hoping it might enable her to live without the unceasing toil which had been her lot for several years. The month I was to spend at home sped swiftly away, and we all made the most of each passing day. Charley Gray seemed so cheerful and happy that I began to hope he had outgrown that jealous and unhappy temper which had formerly been so characteristic of him; but in this I was mistaken as I soon had abundant cause to realize. That serpent in his bosom was not dead, but only slumbered till aroused by some slight provocation. We were one evening engaged in a long and familiar conversation, he related many incidents connected with his school-life, and I also spoke of many things concerning my home in Montreal; among others I mentioned Robert Dalton, and spoke of the friendship between us which began at Fulton Academy and which was so pleasingly renewed in the city of Montreal. I had for the moment forgotten Charley's peculiar and exclusive nature, and dwelt at considerable length on the good qualities of my absent friend, till checked by the dark frown which suddenly gathered upon Charley's countenance, and the angry flash which shot from his eyes. Rising to his feet, he said in a voice of deep displeasure: "Since you are so fond of a new friend, I suppose you no longer consider an old one worth retaining, so I will trouble you no longer." I attempted to reason with him, saying I could not see why a new friendship should alienate us who had been friends from our childhood; but by this time he had worked himself into a fearful passion and made use of very violent language. I had learned long ago that when his anger was excited, he was not master of either his words or actions. I stepped forward, and laying my hand upon his shoulder tried to recall him to himself, but he threw off my hand as if my touch had been contamination, and without another word walked from the room. As I looked after his retreating form as he walked hastily down the street I could not help a feeling of pity for him, that he should suffer himself to be governed by such an unhappy temper, for I knew that when his anger became cooled he would bitterly repent of his conduct. To the reader who has never met with one possessing the unhappy disposition of Charley Gray, his character in these pages will seem absurd and overdrawn; but those who have come in close contact with a like nature will only see in this sketch a correct delineation of one of the most unhappy dispositions which affect mankind. Charley was endowed with rare gifts of mind and intellect, and was manly and sensible, and setting aside this one fault it was hard to find a more agreeable and pleasant companion. His absurd conduct was often a matter of after-wonder to himself, and he made frequent resolutions of amendment, which only held good till some cause roused his old enemy. I suppose no more proper name could be found for this unhappy disposition than exclusiveness, for what ever or whoever he liked, he wanted all to himself. He was respectful and courteous to all, but intimate only with a very few, and for those few his affection went beyond the bounds of reason, inasmuch as it was a source of unhappiness to himself and all connected with him.

About the middle of October, Robert Dalton was taken ill. His disease seemed a kind of low fever, and in a short time he was completely prostrated. All the leisure I could possibly command I spent at his bedside, and many hours did I forego sleep that I might minister to his wants. The family with whom he boarded were very attentive, but I knew he was pleased with my attention, and exerted myself to spend as much time with him as possible. Several days passed away with little apparent change in his symptoms, but he grew extremely weak. His physician was of the opinion that he was tired out from long and close application to his business; but thought he would soon recover under the necessary treatment. One evening, when he had been about two weeks ill, I went as I had often done to sit by him for a portion of the night; after the family had all retired, I administered a quieting cordial left by the doctor, and shading the lamp that the light might not disturb him, I opened a book, thinking he would sleep. He lay very quiet, and I supposed him to be asleep, and was becoming interested in the volume before me when he softly called my name. I stepped quickly to his bedside, he took my hand saying, "sit down close to me Walter, I have something to say to you." I took a seat near him, and after a few moments' silence he said: "You may perhaps think I am nervous and fanciful, when I tell you I feel certain I shall never recover from this illness; the physician tells me I will soon be up again, but such will not be the case." Observing that I was much startled, he said, "Do not be alarmed Walter, but compose yourself and listen to me. My parents and one sister live at a distance of four hundred miles from here. I have deferred informing them of my illness, as my employer, who has much confidence in the skill of my physician, thought it unwise to alarm them needlessly, and I now fear that I have put it off too long, for I think I shall not live to see them. I intend in the morning requesting my employer to send a message for my father to hasten to me at once, but I fear it is too late." Much alarmed, I enquired if he felt himself growing worse, or if he wished me to summon his physician. He replied, "I feel no worse, but from the first I have had the impression that I should never recover; and should I not live to see any of my friends. I have one or two requests to make of you, knowing that you will attend to my wishes when I shall be no more." I became so much alarmed that I was on the point of calling some of the family; but he arrested me saying: "I am quite free from pain, and when I have finished my conversation with you shall probably sleep." He continued, "I know my father will hasten at once to me when apprised of my illness, but should I not live till he arrives, tell him I have endeavored to follow the counsels he gave me when I left home; for I know it will comfort him when I am gone to know that I respected his wishes. Tell him, also, he will find what money I have been able to save from my salary deposited in the Savings Bank. Tell him to remember me to my mother and sister Mary, and could I have been permitted to see them again it would have afforded me much happiness, but that I died trusting in the merits of my Redeemer, and hope to meet them all in Heaven, where parting will be no more." His writing-desk, which was a very beautiful and expensive article, he requested me to accept of as a token of affection from him. I promised faithfully to obey all his wishes should his sad forebodings prove true, yet I could not believe he was to die. At the close of our conversation he seemed fatigued, I arranged his pillows and gave him a cooling drink, and I was soon aware by his regular breathing that he slept soundly. As he lay there wrapped in repose my memory ran backward over all the happy time I had spent with him; he was the only one outside of Mr. Baynard's family with whom I was at all intimate, and the bitter tears which I could not repress, as I gazed upon his changed features, made me sensible how dear he had become to me. A hasty letter was written next morning to Mr. Dalton, informing him of his son's illness, and of his urgent request that he should hasten to him as soon as possible; but poor Robert lived not to see his father again. The next day after the letter was written a sudden change for the worse took place in his disease, and it soon became evident that he could live but a few hours. He expressed a wish that I should remain with him to the last, and before another morning dawned Robert Dalton had passed from among the living. A short time before his death, his eyes sought my face, and his lips moved as though he wished to speak to me; I bowed my ear to catch his words, as he said in a voice which was audible to me only: "When my father arrives remember all I said to you, and tell him I died happy, feeling that all will be well with me." After this he spoke no more, and an hour later he died with my hand clasped in his own. When, two days after, his father arrived, and found that he was indeed dead, his grief was heart-rending to witness. Never before did I see such an agony of grief as was depicted upon his countenance as he bowed himself over the lifeless body of his only son. As soon as circumstances permitted, I repeated to Mr. Dalton the conversation Robert had held with me a short time before his death. Among other things I gave him his watch which he had entrusted to my care. He pressed me to keep the watch, saying, "From the frequent mention my son made of you in his letters, I almost feel that I know you well, and knowing the strong friendship he entertained for you, I beg of you to accept of his watch for his sake as well as mine, and should we never meet again, bear in mind that I shall ever remember you with gratitude and affection." It was a small but elegant gold watch which to Robert had been a birthday gift from an uncle who was very fond of him, and to this day it is to me a valued keepsake.

When Mr. Dalton left the city, bearing with him the lifeless remains of his son, for interment in the family burial-place, a deep gloom settled over my mind, and for a long time, I could hardly rouse myself to give the necessary attention to my daily duties. Since that period I have made other friends and passed through many changing scenes, both of joy and sorrow; but I have never forgotten Robert Dalton, and his image often rises to my mental vision, as memory recalls the scenes and friends of my youthful days.

With the reader's permission I now pass over a period of six years. I am still residing in the city of Montreal, as Mr. Baynard, when I reached the age of twenty-one, saw fit to offer me a partnership in his business, which the fruits of my former industry, added to a generous gift from my Uncle Nathan, enabled me to accept. Many changes have taken place in my early home in the village of Elmwood. Many old friends and neighbors have been laid to rest in the quiet churchyard, and many with whom I attended the village school have gone forth from their paternal home to seek their fortune in the wide world. The cottage home of my mother has undergone many improvements since we last looked upon it. It has been enlarged and modernized in various ways, and its walls are no longer a dingy brown, but of a pure white, and its windows are adorned with tasteful green blinds. From a boy it had been my earnest wish to see my mother placed in a home of ease and comfort, and that wish is now gratified. Time has not dealt severely with my mother, for she looks scarcely a day older than when we last saw her six years ago. My sister Flora is finishing her education at a distant boarding school, where I am happy to say my brotherly affection and generosity placed her. Good Doctor Gray and his kind wife are still alive; but they are really beginning to grow old. But what of Charley, for surely the reader has not forgotten Charley Gray; he graduated from College with the highest honors, and is now studying medicine in the city of New York, as, agreeable to the ideas of his boyhood, he has decided upon becoming a physician. I have met with him only twice during the past six years. Does his old unhappy disposition cling to him still? we shall learn that bye and bye.

During all the years of my residence in Montreal, Mr. Baynard had enjoyed uninterrupted health, but he was now seized with a sudden and alarming illness; his disease was brain fever in its most violent form. His physician found it impossible to break up the fever, and with his afflicted family I anxiously awaited the result. A deep gloom overshadowed the dwelling, the family and servants moved with noiseless steps and hushed voices through the silent apartments. He was delirious most of the time. The doctor often tried to prevail upon Mrs. Baynard to leave him to the care of some other member of the family and seek rest, but she could not think of leaving his bedside even for a short time, and only did so when rest was an absolute necessity. The two daughters had been absent at school for two years, and just at this time they returned to their home, having finished their term of study, and they were almost heart-broken thus to find their father stretched upon a bed of sickness, and could not but entertain fears as to the result. All my attention during the day was required at the store, as the whole oversight of the extensive establishment devolved upon me.

The days that Mr. Baynard lay prostrated by suffering passed wearily by: the frequent visits of the physician, the perpetual silence, and the air of gloom which prevailed through the dwelling, told but too plainly that there was sorrow and suffering within its walls. His wife would often bend over the suffering form of her husband, and her tears would fall fast while he still lay unconscious of her presence or watchful care; and she feared he might in this state pass away and leave no token of recognition or remembrance. At length the time allotted for the disease to run its course arrived. This time had been anxiously waited for by the physician, and with much greater anxiety, by his sorrowing family. On the night of the crisis of the disorder, Mr. Baynard was so extremely weak that the question of life and death was evenly balanced, and it was hard to separate probabilities of the one from the other. Mrs. Baynard requested that I would not return to the place of business after tea, but remain with them. The physician never left the room during all that night; and O! what a long and dreary night it was: the house was silent as a tomb, even the ticking of the watch which lay upon the stand seemed too loud. Finally the breathing of the sick man seemed entirely to cease. The doctor stepped hastily forward, felt his pulse and placed his hand over his heart. "Is he dead?" said Mrs. Baynard, in a calm voice, but her face was pale as marble. The doctor made no reply but raised his hand as if to enjoin silence, and he quickly applied powerful draughts to the soles of his feet: if these took effect they might have hope. In a short time the patient made a slight movement as if from pain, and the physician hastily called for wine, saying, "Life is still there, and if it can for a short time be sustained by stimulants, he may rally." Ere the morning sun rose, the doctor expressed a hope that the crisis was past, and that he would recover. For several days, he lay weak and helpless as an infant; but the doctor assured us that he was slowly but surely recovering. Soon after he was so far recovered as to spend a portion of each day at our place of business.

Two days after my arrival, Charley Gray came. Our meeting could not be otherwise than happy. He was, I believe, the most changed of the two; and I thought at the time I had never before seen so perfect a type of manly beauty. "What a pity," thought I, "that one so highly gifted, and noble looking, and whose manner was at times so attractive and winning, should allow himself at other times to be so morose and disagreeable from a foolish and unreasonable temper." He had now completed his studies, and had come home for a short time before entering upon the practice of his profession. When I left the city, Mr. Baynard advised me to spend at the least two or three months at home, for so long and industriously had I applied myself to business, that he thought a season of rest and recreation would be very beneficial to me; and all our old friends at Elmwood seemed anxious to add to the enjoyment of Charley Gray and myself during our stay. My mother was one who seldom left her home, and she surprised me one day by saying, "If Charley and I would take a journey to Uncle Nathan's, she and Flora would accompany us," and that very evening I wrote to my uncle and aunt informing them of our proposed visit, and asking them if they would be willing to entertain so large a party; and an answer soon arrived informing me that nothing would afford them more pleasure than our visit, and "they were very sure they could find room for us all." I had only paid one hasty visit to Fulton since I left it, and I anticipated much pleasure from again meeting my uncle and aunt with many old friends of my school-days at Fulton.

I did not intend writing a long story, and will not trouble my readers with the particulars of our journey, nor of the hearty welcome we received when we arrived at the old farm house of Uncle Nathan. Let it suffice that nothing was wanting to render our stay agreeable. My uncle and aunt looked scarcely a day older than when I left them eight years since. Upon my remarking how lightly time had set on them, my uncle replied with his old manner of fun and drollery, "Don't you know, Walter, that old bachelors and old maids never grow old, they get kind o' dried in just such a way and keep so for any length of time," and I could not help thinking there was some truth in his remark. I enquired with much curiosity for Cousin Silas and his family. "O!" replied Aunt Lucinda, "upon the whole they have done better than one could have expected when they first came here. Silas will never do much anyway, they still live on the Taylor place, and Nathan manages one way and another to get some work out of him. Nathan intends at some time to deed the place to the family in such a way that Silas can't squander it away; but he has never told them so yet. Somehow or other, after mother's death, I felt drawn toward the family, and did all I could to help them along. I kept the little girls with me by turns, and encouraged them to attend school, and took pains to learn them habits of order and industry, and I found after a time that my labor was not entirely thrown away, for as they grew older they carried the habits which I tried to teach them into their own home, and to say the least of it, they live much more like other people than they used to; and I begin to think that even an old maid can do a little good in the world, now and then, as well as any one else. Of course you remember the boys, and what an awful trial it used to be to have Ephraim about the place; well, he settled down after a while, he always said the whipping his father gave him for cutting up my clothes-lines and then lying about it was what made a man of him. He attended school for three years, and then not wishing to work on the farm, he struck out into the world for himself; he obtained a situation in a mercantile house in Toronto, and I hear bids fair to make a successful business man. George Washington has not entirely ceased to grumble and look sulky; but there has been a wonderful change in one respect, for there is now no harder working youth in the neighborhood; he likes farming, and early and late may be found at his work. I don't know but Nathan may have given him a hint that the old Taylor place may one day be his own. I don't know how it is, the neighbors say it was your Uncle Nathan and I who ever made any thing of those children. Nathan said: 'Silas would never do much any way, and we had better try and make something of the children,' and I certainly have done my best; but it was uphill work for a long time; and I am glad that they have profited by our efforts for their good."

I was summoned from my pillow at midnight to stand by his death-bed. His death was calm and full of hope; but, to the last, it was to him a matter of regret, that he had neglected, through life, those things which afforded him any hope in death. Among his last words to me, he warned me against setting my heart upon riches, in a way that would prove a snare to any soul. "Riches," said he, "are a great blessing when rightly used, but ought not to be the chief aim and object of life." Before the morning dawned, his spirit passed away, and it was my hand that closed his eyes in the dreamless sleep of death. The next day I called, in company with my mother, and entered the darkened room where lay his lifeless remains, now habited for the grave. I gazed long and silently upon those features now stamped with the seal of death. Reader, if there lives one against whom you cherish angry and bitter feelings, pause a moment and consider what your feelings would be if called to stand by their coffin; for, be assured, your anger will then give place to sorrow that you ever indulged anger toward the poor fellow-mortal now extended before you in the slumber of death. I attended the funeral of Mr. Judson, and saw his body consigned to the grave. He sleeps in the village churchyard at Elmwood, and a marble slab marks his resting-place. When, after the funeral, his will was read, the large amount of the property left was a matter of wonder to many. In his will he gave largely to several benevolent and religious institutions, and to me he left the sum of one thousand dollars. I could see no reason why he should have done this, but as his will was drawn up in legal form and properly attested I thought it right I should accept of the generous gift; and, indeed, it was but a small sum out of the large property left by Mr. Judson. Besides his liberal gift to me, he also gave largely to different benevolent and religious causes. Half the remainder of his large property was to go to his surviving widow, and the remainder was to be equally divided between the two sons. Before his death it was settled that Reuben, the youngest son, was to remain on the home place to care for his mother in her old age, while the eldest was to return to their former business; and thus Mrs. Judson's declining years were rendered happy and contented through the care and love of her favorite son. And so Rose and I at length bade adieu to our friends, after a protracted visit, and returned to the city, where, by my direction, a pleasant and tasteful house already awaited us. Rose liked not to reside in the noisy city, so our home is in one of the most pleasant suburbs in Montreal. Should any of my readers be curious enough to enquire if Rose and I are happy, I would cordially invite them to pay us a visit, and judge for themselves, the first time they pass our way. The evening before we were to leave Elmwood, I was seated beneath my favorite tree in my mother's garden, and leaning backward against its grey trunk, with its thick and wide-spreading canopy of green branches above my head, I indulged in a long and deep reverie. Memory ran backward over the careless happy days of my childhood, the struggles of my youth, and the exertions of mature manhood; and although bereft, at a very early age, of my earthly father, I could not fail to observe the guiding hand of a Heavenly Father who had smiled upon my youthful efforts to assist my widowed mother, and had prospered my undertakings, and crowned my mature years, by giving me, as a life-partner, the one who had been my first and only choice, and almost unconsciously to myself, I repeated aloud the following verse from what was Grandma Adams' favorite psalm: "Commit thy way unto the Lord, trust also in Him; and He shall bring it to pass."

So busily was my mind occupied that I failed to notice the approach of my sister Flora, till she seated herself close to my side, and leaning her head upon my shoulder said in a constrained hesitating voice: "There is one thing I must tell you, Walter, before you go away: Charley Gray has told me he loves me, and asks me to be his wife." This did not surprise me much for I had noticed with secret anxiety the growing intimacy between Charley and my sister. "What shall I tell him, Walter," said my sister, "for I must not, dare not act without the counsel of my only brother?" I looked up in my sister's face with all the affection which welled up from my heart and said, "you love him then, Flora?" "How can I help loving him, who is so gifted, so noble," was her reply. "And," continued she, "on account of his reserved nature, I believe few give him credit for the real goodness of heart he possesses." As Flora had said, Charley possessed a kind heart, and was just and honorable in every respect, but I trembled for the woman who placed her happiness in his keeping; and how much more so, when that woman was my beloved and only sister. "You do not answer me," said Flora; "mamma would give me no reply till I had consulted you." "My dear sister," said I, "Charley is all that you say, just, honorable and good; but with all this he has qualities which, if not brought under subjection, will sadly mar his own happiness and that of all who love him. He is exclusive and jealous even of a friend, how will it be with a wife? Suspicion and jealousy is inherent in his very nature, for did not Doctor Gray tell me years ago that a suspicious, jealous nature was hereditary in the family of Charley's mother and he therefore begged me not to blame Charley too severely for a fault which he could not help saying 'he feared the cloud which hovered over Charley's cradle would follow him to his grave.' I doubt not Charley's affection for you, Flora; but the very depth of his affection will, I fear, prove a source of unhappiness to you both, for you are aware as well as I that Charley's affection, like his anger when roused, goes beyond the limits of sober reason. From your childhood, Flora, you have been petted and indulged, and a life of continual watchfulness and restraint will be something entirely new for you; for I never knew even a friend of Charley's who could act themselves when he was present, and unless there has been a wonderful change, as his wife, you will be forced to guard your every word and look lest you offend him; you must be pleased only with what pleases him, in short his will must be yours in all things." "You are my brother," said Flora, "and I need not blush to tell you I love Charley Gray better than I once thought it possible for one to love another, and I know from his own lips that he loves me equally in return, and as his wife the confidence between us will be so full and entire, there will be no room left for doubt and suspicion." "Well, little sister" said I, "knowing Charley as I do, I could not help uttering those warning words, but I shall not seek to hinder your marriage. I love and respect Charley more than any other friend I have, but I am very sensible of his faults. A heavy responsibility will devolve upon you as his wife, but love works wonders, and all may be well; but remember, Flora, you have a most peculiar nature to deal with, but it may be your privilege to exorcise the dark spirit from the breast of Charley Gray." That same evening the engagement ring glittered upon Flora's finger; and six months later, amid a small company of friends, they uttered their marriage vows in the old church at Elmwood; and by many they were called with truth a beautiful and noble looking couple; and immediately after their marriage they set out for their new home in one of the large cities of the Western Provinces, where Charley was to begin the practice of his profession. They left us under seeming summer sky, and I breathed a prayer, that no cloud might arise to mar its serenity.

About a year after Flora's marriage I received a letter from Aunt Lucinda with a pressing invitation that we should go at once to Fulton; she wished me also to write, requesting my mother to join us at Montreal and accompany us. This letter surprised me not a little, but I was well aware that Aunt Lucinda must have some particular reason for this sudden and unexpected invitation; and I at once wrote to my mother, informing her of her request, and two days later she arrived at my home in Montreal. We enjoyed a pleasant journey, and again my eyes rested with delight upon the familiar scenes of the village of Fulton. Uncle Nathan met us at the railway station, looking as hale and hearty as ever. On our way to the farm I ventured to inquire what had caused our invitation to visit them at this particular time; he answered me only by repeating the old saying, "Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies," and so we made no further inquiries. When Aunt Lucinda came forward to welcome us, I at once noticed the remarkable change in her appearance; one would have supposed that at least ten years had been taken from her age since I last saw her, and her whole manner was so cheerful and sprightly that I was at a loss to understand what could have happened; but I never dreamed of the truth till after tea, when Aunt Lucinda rose and said: "I want to see you, Walter, alone in the parlor." I followed her, secretly wondering what wonderful revelation I was to listen to. When we were seated, she said with her old abrupt manner, "Well, Walter, you have heard Nathan talk about Joshua Blake, he has come back and we are going to be married to-morrow and I have sent for you to attend the wedding. You may well look astonished to hear an old woman like me talk about getting married; and the land knows what Deacon Martin's folks will say; but as long as they have liberty to say whatever they please, they needn't complain. You remember hearing Nathan laugh about Joshua Blake and his red hair years ago, perhaps you thought there was no such person in the world but there was. Joshua was an only child, his parents lived over at the village, and we went to school together. His hair was not a real blazin' red but only a dark auburn, for all of Nathan's nonsense about it. Well, we loved each other, when mere children. As we grew older I could see but one fault in Joshua, he was inclined to be unreasonably jealous, and that was the beginning of our trouble. I was young and giddy, and much as I loved him rather enjoyed teasing him, and doing trifling things which I knew would vex him, while at the same time I cared for no one else in the world; and I am now ashamed to say I often accepted of the attentions of others for the mischievous delight I took in making him angry and seeing him look cross, and it may be there was a lurking pride in knowing that I had the power to make him jealous. Truly, Walter, the human heart is a singular compound of good and evil. I shall ever remember the last evening we spent together, it was at a party. I know not what spirit of mischief possessed me, but I took particular pains to annoy Joshua by my giddy and frivolous conduct. When we were ready to return home he offered me his arm without speaking, this made me angry and I walked proudly by his side. We walked on in silence till we reached the gate at my own home. As he was turning away he said, 'I suppose, Miss Adams, it will cause you no sorrow if I tell you this is probably the last time we shall ever meet.' I know that even then, had I answered him differently the matter would not have ended as it did, but my spirit rose proud and defiant, and I said with a tone of mock levity, 'How long a journey do you purpose taking, Mr. Blake? is it to the grist-mill, or to the sawmill, which is a little farther away?' 'You may make light of my words, if you choose,' replied he; 'but I am in no mood for jesting. The truth is, Miss Adams, that I can no longer endure this life of suspense and torture, and it is evident you care more for a giddy throng of admirers than for the love of one who has loved you from childhood. I leave here to-morrow morning, trusting to time and distance to assist me in forgetting you.' He looked earnestly in my face, in the bright moonlight, as he said these words, but could read there nothing but self-will and defiance. It is even now a matter of wonder to me what caused me to act as I did, against my own feelings. He held out his hand, saying: 'Let us at least part as friends, Miss Adams.' I gave him my hand, saying lightly: 'I hope, Mr. Blake, you won't be like the boy who ran away from home and came back to stay the first night.' I turned and walked toward my own door, and he went away without speaking another word. I watched him in the clear moonlight till a turn in the road hid him from my view. Had I entertained the slightest idea that he would fulfil his threat of going away, I know I should have acted differently; and it was not till I learned, the next day, that he had left Fulton and gone no one knew whither, that I realized what I had done. I knew not whether his parents had a suspicion of the cause of his sudden departure, if they had they never named it to me. I told my sorrow to no one but my mother, but Nathan always said he knew well enough without being told by any one. I can tell you, Walter, my sin did not go unpunished; for, inconsistent as my conduct has been, I loved Joshua Blake with a deep affection, and when my tortured mind pictured him as a wandering exile from his home, through my absurd and foolish conduct, you may be sure he did not suffer alone. And if I hadn't turned kind of cross and crusty, I am afraid I should have gone crazy, and it was certainly better to be cross than crazy. That is twenty-five years ago. As I was employed in the garden one morning a few weeks ago, an acquaintance from the village passing by said to me: 'Have you heard the news, Miss Adams, that has almost turned every one's head over at Fulton: Joshua Blake, whom every one had given up for dead years ago, has come home.' I grew cold as ice, and I never could tell how I reached the house. I could hardly believe it, and yet something told me it was true, and that very evening he came over here; but, instead of the youth who went away, I saw, a middle-aged man with gray-hair, which Nathan said was an improvement, allowing that some gray looked better than all red. It sounds foolish enough for young people to talk love, but for old people like Joshua Blake and I, it is unpardonable. He told me he had resolved never to return to his native land again, till, by the merest chance, he met a man in Australia who informed him of the death of his father, and that his father had said upon his death-bed, that all that gave him the least anxiety was his aged partner, who, at his death, would be left quite alone in the world. 'Then,' continued he, 'I thought of the sin I had committed in so long neglecting my parents, and I resolved to atone for my past neglect, by hastening home to care for my mother, should I find her still alive; and the happiness is yet left me of watching over the declining years of my aged mother.' For awhile I refused to listen to him when he spoke about marriage, and told him it was better we should remain only as friends; but he talked and talked, and kept saying that, as we loved each other in youth, we could yet spend the evening of our lives together; and I at last said yes, only to stop his talking, and if we should happen not to agree, we shall have less time to quarrel than if we had got married twenty-five years ago; but, I rather think we have both got sobered down, so we can get along peaceably. And now, Walter, you go right off to bed, for you must get up bright and early to-morrow morning, to assist in the preparations for the wedding." Aunt Lucinda looked very becoming in her bridal dress of gray silk with its rich lace trimming, and she looked younger and handsomer than I had ever seen her before, when Joshua Blake placed the marriage ring upon her finger; he was a fine-looking man, but I could not help thinking that the mixture of gray in his auburn locks was more of an improvement than otherwise. He had returned to Fulton a rich man, and on the same spot where stood his father's old house, he erected and furnished a beautiful residence, which every one allowed was an ornament to the village; and removed thither with his wife and aged mother a short time after his marriage. My aunt's marriage made quite a change in the home arrangements at Uncle Nathan's, but he finally persuaded my mother to sell her old house and Elmwood, to come and reside with him. It was some time before my mother could make up her mind to leave her old home, hallowed by so many associations of the past; but, judging the lonely situation of the brother, who had done so much for me, she at length consented; and my uncle's home is now presided over by my mother, who was always his favorite sister. Cousin Silas's eldest daughter, now an intelligent girl of eighteen, stays with my mother, as an assistant companion; and the summer gathering of friends from the dusty city is now held at Uncle Nathan's farm-house instead of my mother's old home at Elmwood.

Some of my readers may inquire what kind of a husband my old school-mate Charley Gray made; some will be ready to suppose that his young and light-hearted wife at once worked a great and wonderful change in his disposition; others, that failing in her endeavors to do so, she became disappointed, sorrowing and unhappy. Neither of these conclusions is entirely correct. Flora did not all at once change her husband into a genial and social being; but her affectionate devotion inspired a confidence in her which gradually extended to others, and has now strength to say to the tumultuous waves of jealous passion "Thus far shalt thou come, and no further," and I am happy to say that my sister's cheerful and happy countenance does not indicate a sorrowful and disappointed heart. Yes, Charley Gray is a changed man, and there are deep lines of thought in his face, and a serene expression on his brow, and a clear happy light in his eye, which all speak of the battle fought and the victory won over the dark passions of his own heart. This summer we are all together at Uncle Nathan's, and our time is about equally divided between the old farm-house and the more elegant home of Aunt Lucinda. All the usual accompaniments of such a season of joy and festivity are here but the tremblings of emotion, the out-gushings of the heart, the thanksgivings and gratitude, as we blend the sometimes dark past with the bright present, and the rosy hue of the future, I am quite unable to describe. Years have come and gone with their scenes of sunshine and shadow since that glad reunion, we have each grown older and I trust wiser. Sorrow has been experienced and tears shed, but gentle hands have wiped away our tears and loving voices soothed our sorrows, and now, dear reader, I leave the actors who have appeared in the simple scenes of my story to pass onward, and perform their allotted parts in the great drama of life.

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