  “’Lisbeth, ’Lisbeth, what ye doin’ out there?” It was a sharp, high-strung voice, yet not loud nor ill-natured. The speaker stood at an open door between the kitchen and an outer porch, the latter built of rough boards and showing little wet streaks on the floor, where the storm had thrust in its snowy fingers the night before. The silence of the place was broken at intervals by a regular series of dull blows, lasting two or three minutes and interspersed with muffled splashings. “’Lisbeth, can’t ye leave off churnin’ a minute? I want my specs.” “All right, father, I’ll find ’em for ye: ’s—almost—come!” The last words were emphasized by such an energetic pounding that the window-sashes, with their small, old-fashioned panes, rattled like cymbals. “There! there! ye needn’t knock the bottom out’n the churn,” said the first speaker, with a movement among the wrinkles of his face that betokened a smile. “I c’n hold on a spell longer, I guess. A few moments later the door opened and showed a quiet little figure and a cheery face that irresistibly suggested Thanksgiving, Christmas, comfort, and reliableness, all in one. It was evident that if her forty years or so had brought her many sorrows they had given a wonderful inward peace and strength that is not afraid of evil tidings. She was dressed plainly, with her sleeves rolled up to the elbows. “Here’s your milk, father; and there’s your glasses now, right on top of your head,” she said, stooping forward a little and speaking in loud, clear tones. “Lor’ sakes! so they be. I declare, I’m gittin’ “Well, grandfather, we’ve got a ‘spell o’ weather’ this time,” he shouted. “Old Bonny Beag has her nightcap on, and I saw two or three flakes as I came in. ’Lisbeth,” he continued, “the visitors up at the Hill won’t any more than get there to-day, I guess. Sam Fifield, down at the depot, says he has orders to have a pung ready for a lot of boxes and a sleigh for the women and children that are coming down to Christmas. I’ve broken out as far as the Corner; beyond that it’s good roading for quite a piece. The steers are as near being tired out as ever I saw them. Breakfast ’most ready?” In a few minutes more the table was pulled out from the wall, and a chip thrust under one of its feet to offset the unevenness of the floor. Upon the spotless cloth were set three blue china plates, with pictures of stately castles rising from lambent seas and numerous swans disporting themselves therein; then came brown-jacketed potatoes, a big pot of coffee, a pile of yesterday’s doughnuts, an apple pie with one piece cut out, a plate of smoking hot biscuit, and a dish of golden butter. A small Meanwhile, the starry flakes came faster and faster. Some of the more adventurous alighted on the kitchen window and gazed in until they were finally melted at the sight. A few ventured down into the well, and, drifting against the mossy stones, gave to the slender ferns that peeped from the chinks the food they had gathered in the skies; others found their way through a broad crack into the barn and fell noiselessly upon the floor with its hayseed carpet, thereupon causing much wonderment and grave discussion among the fowls, who were exchanging views in low tones on the topics of the morning. If you had been in the woods, you would have heard the tick-ticking of the tiny crystals, like the dancing of myriads of fairy feet, upon the dry leaves which still clung to the oak and beech. So fell the snowflakes over meadow and fallow, wood and hill, bringing the materials that should be built up into corn and wheat during the coming year and thus provide food for thousands who would then be reciting their prayers for daily bread, without a thought that the answers had begun so many months before. Now, either by a preconcerted plan or by an impulse of the moment, one of the most daring of the advance guard of the storm resolved to have a wild ride before he gave up his substance to winds and earth; and so it came about that a chubby nose, which had previously been flattened against one of “Yes, dear; yes, dear,” said the quiet lady in the next chair, glancing up from her “Seaside” pamphlet. “Only don’t speak so loud, Maurice. You will disturb the other people in the car.” “Miss Amory,” persisted the boy, but in lower tones, “won’t you go out and coast with me, and take a great, long, long sleigh-ride to-morrow?” “Yes, Maurice, if mamma would like me to,” replied the one addressed, a little wearily. She had not yet quite schooled herself to her position, this young governess, and the constant reference of even such trifles as the boy’s request to a higher authority still jarred on her spirits. She had not, indeed, like most paper heroines, been accustomed to the luxuries of wealth, with phalanxes of servants devoting themselves exclusively to her service and amusement, but she had enjoyed the comforts of a well-to-do New England home, the independence of American girlhood, and the priceless blessing of a mother who understood her thoroughly and was always ready to sympathize with her daughter’s pleasures and troubles alike, to counsel or remain silent, as the case might be, and to help her out of At first she had been uncertain at what door she should knock of all those opening into the tower named Self-Support, but, as she approached, one of them flew open before her hand was raised. A lady who was spending the summer near by gave out word that she wished for a governess to take charge of her two children and accompany them to the city in the autumn. Miss Amory’s bright face and gentle ways won the children at first sight. She was retained on trial, and had proved too great a treasure to be relinquished. Mrs. Walton had been more than kind and considerate, but her very effort to offer attentions and induce the new governess to forget her position only made it more marked, like an erasure upon white paper. Miss Amory scolded herself twenty times a day, and devoted herself more and more to her duties, but still she could not help looking forward to next summer, when—when—well, beyond that it was all vague. At any rate, there might be some change for the better. Perhaps she could give music-lessons, or could teach school; something she would do where she was her own mistress. The train rumbled on, and the storm increased. Twice they had to stop and back before they could push their way through a narrow cut where the huge drifts were wedged in solidly from brim to brim. At last, just as the December light was fading from the sky, hurried by the whirling snow-mist, the cars came to a standstill beside a long, low building, and the conductor shouted, “Haybrook! Haybrook!” Ten minutes later, two sleighs, one in advance loaded with boxes and parcels, the other with the ladies and the two children, crept slowly up the hill that led from the little brown station to the main road. For a while the houses on each side and a few half-obliterated tracks made navigation comparatively easy; but once out of the village it became a matter of nice calculation. The sleet stung the faces of the drivers and formed little icy crusts over the eyes of the patient horses, who struggled on, setting their hoofs down firmly into the smooth, unbroken sheet of snow and sending it out on either side like foam. Suddenly there was a creak, a lurch, and then a dead stop. The drivers consulted in muffled tones as they examined the harness. “Broken jest above the buckle; nothing to hitch to.” “Better call up the old man, ’n’ get Wesley to help. ’S only a step further ’n the Corner.” In the sleigh, Mrs. Walton and her governess, covered with heavy buffalo-robes, waited patiently. The children fidgeted. “I want to get out and wade.” “No, Morrie, you just keep still, and perhaps Santa Claus will come along and help us. He must have started by this time.” “H’m! guess reindeers wouldn’t do much good. I wish I had my pony here. Why, Miss Amory, how cold your hand is! Why, you’ve been keeping that robe over me, and you’re right out in the cold. See the snow on her sleeve, mamma.” “Oh, I don’t mind,” interposed the little governess; but her teeth chattered, and it was an intense relief when she heard a new, strong voice just outside: “Where are they, Marston? In that heap of buffaloes?” After a moment’s pause, the robes were lifted, and before she could say a word the girl felt herself raised from the sleigh and borne along through the storm in a pair of stout arms, while the same cheery voice said: “Beg your pardon, miss, it’s the only way. The house is but a few rods from here.” “Thank you,” she answered smiling, in spite of the cold, at her situation: “but I’m afraid I shall tire you!” The young man said nothing, but gravely picked his way between drifts and treacherous hollows. Once he staggered, and nearly fell with his burden. She instinctively threw her arm round his neck like a child, to save herself, withdrawing it quietly a moment after. He plodded on in silence. “He’s a gentleman,” she thought, “or he would have laughed or joked about it.” Close behind them the men were following with “Just like a desert island,” whispered Maurice. “Only savages don’t have doughnuts and milk,” returned Edie, helping herself liberally. The fire leaped higher and glowed more and more ardently in its efforts to warm the castaways, until they were glad to draw back their chairs from the hearth,—all except the little governess, who was still chilled through and through, although she meekly drank three cups of hot tea in succession, and crouched as near the friendly fire as she could without scorching the pretty dark-blue traveling dress. Little ripples of shiver seemed to run over her from head to foot, like a cold breeze. “I think, if you please, I’ll go to my room,” she said at last, with a grateful look at ’Lisbeth, who was watching her anxiously, and who doubtless supposed her to be a relative, probably the children’s aunt. “Governess” was an idea that had not struck Haybrook, except through the medium of an old English novel or two. “Well, just step right in here,” she said, sympathetically; “and don’t you get up till ye’re called in the mornin’.” As she spoke she opened one of the little, gray, uneven doors behind her guests, and lighting a tallow candle in a knobby brass candlestick, placed it upon some article of furniture within. “Good-night,” she said again, kindly. “Don’t let me disturb ye by my travelin’ round the kitchen gettin’ breakfast. You can leave the door open a crack for company, if you’re lonesome.” IIWhen Florence Amory opened her eyes the next morning, she was at a loss for some minutes to determine her own position in the great white world that lay around her. Then the events of the preceding night marshaled themselves into line one by one, and at the same time came the consciousness that she possessed a head,—a most unmanageable one, too. It danced and whirled in such an uncomfortable way that she was glad to shut her eyes once more. Presently the sound of an old-fashioned coffee-mill, with its unwilling halts and sudden compliances, fell upon her ear in such close proximity that there was no mistaking the character of the adjoining room. A moment or two later the crushed berries sent through the keyhole a delicious whiff of aroma that spread itself through the room. Encouraged by this appeal to two of her senses, the girl once more took a survey of her quarters. A narrow bedroom, with just space enough beside the high-posted bed on which she lay to permit one person to pass; a chest of drawers, with shining brass handles that tinkled faintly in response to footsteps in another “How’d ye sleep?” she inquired, softly brushing aside a stray lock or two of brown hair, as a mother might have done, from the tired young forehead. “Not very much, I’m afraid. I’m not much rested: my head doesn’t feel quite right;” and she tried to smile. “Well,”—this woman had a strong, comfortable way of beginning her sentences with that monosyllable, which seemed to put quite out of sight all doubts and difficulties in the way, and carried with it a conviction that everything was coming out just right,—“well, there’s nothing in the world to do but to stay just where you be. Your folks ain’t up yet, and won’t be this two hours. I’m goin’ to brown ye a piece of bread, and the tea’ll be ready by the time that’s done: it’s drawin’ now, front of the fire.” “Oh, indeed I must get up. The children”— “Land, the children can dress themselves, or their The firm steps turned away and again began their journeyings up and down the floor of the adjoining room. Florence closed her eyes willingly enough, and lay perfectly quiet, with a sense of being cared for, such as she had not felt since she left her own home. The morning light showed dimly through the frosty little panes behind the green curtain. Upon the old-fashioned bureau she could just see, as she glanced up wearily now and then, the shape of her tall brass candlestick, with its long stalactites of tallow hanging from the upper rim. The footsteps plodded to and fro. Pots and pans occasionally interjected a staccato note above the soft purring of the fire and the hum of the teakettle. Then another pair of boots joined the first,—evidently a man’s, but managed with wonderful care so as not to disturb the visitors. Pretty soon the door opened once more, and ’Lisbeth entered, bearing a small japanned tray, upon which were set a plate of toast in tiny slices, a steaming cup of tea, and a sugar-bowl with its pair of silver tongs, slim but solid. “Now, dear, a bit of this will do you good.” “But I’m not hungry.” “No, poor child, I didn’t suppose you would be. “If ye can jest ketch a nap now,” said ’Lisbeth in a whisper, as if her charge were already in danger of being waked, “it’ll do ye lots of good.” The toast and the hot tea and Lisbeth’s whispers must have had a soothing effect, for Florence soon dropped into an uneasy slumber, throughout which, however, she had a continual sense of heat and discomfort. When she awoke, it was broad day. The world was as silent as a dream. To ears accustomed to the roar of a city and the cries and laughter of children at play, the stillness was not a mere negative quality of the air,—an absence of sound,—it was an almost tangible thing, and Florence felt smothered beneath its folds. She pressed her hand to her head, and found it burning hot. Her pulse was throbbing fiercely through her slender wrists. “Mrs. Eldridge!” she called faintly. She had heard ’Lisbeth so addressed by the driver the night before. The soft rustle of a woolen dress, and the firm, now familiar footfall, were heard at once. In a moment more the elder woman was holding the hand of the younger. “I believe—I am afraid—I am going to be ill.” “Well, Miss Amory, ’f you be, you shall be well “And is there a physician?” “Oh, yes’m; Elsie’s gone for one now. They’ll be here in an hour or two.” “In all this snow?” “Oh, we don’t mind that, ma’am. Get used to it, you know. The road’s been broke out clean up t’ the village, they say, so ’s ’t the pung’ll go well enough.” “Where are Mrs. Walton and the children? And—please don’t call me ma’am.” ’Lisbeth smiled good-humoredly: “I won’t, if you won’t call me ‘Mis’ Eldridge.’ ’T always makes me feel ’s if I must talk just so straight when anybody calls me that. My name’s ’Lisbeth; and if you’ll call me so, why, I’ll call you Florence,—the boy told me your name,—and so we’ll feel better acquainted. Oh, the others? Why, they went along up t’ the Hill, to spend Christmas with their folks, about noon to-day. She said you was to stay here till you felt better, if we could keep you. And we can.” That night Florence was worse, and the succeeding days and weeks were but so many chapters of feverish fancies and hot, throbbing pain. The sun climbed higher and the snowbanks sank lower day by day, but she knew nothing of them. Her world was square, her sky a dingy white, her surroundings the changing forms of a disordered dream. The It was a warm, delicious day in early March,—one of those foretastes of spring which in New England match the Indian summer of late autumn. The green curtain swayed slightly back and forth as the sweet south wind crept in through the crannies of the old, warped window-frame. A song-sparrow, perching on the fence just outside, sang his contented little Easter hymn over and over, until the sick girl felt herself being drawn back to life once more, and life seemed beautiful. ’Lisbeth was sitting in the kitchen, with the door half open between, and Florence could hear the soothing creak of her chair as she rocked gently to and fro at her knitting. Presently she called, “Mrs. Eldridge!” The creaking stopped instantly, and health and life, embodied in ’Lisbeth, entered the room. “Well, dearie, feelin’ a little better, ain’t you?” “Yes, ma’am,”—gratefully. “I want to know, if you please, about things that have happened since I have been ill.” “Oh, that’s a short story. Mrs. Walton ’n’ the children went back t’ the city six weeks ago, and Florence smiled faintly. Then she said, “I haven’t heard so many footsteps in the kitchen lately. Have any of your family gone?” “Bless you, no. That’s only because Elsie’s made a pair o’ slippers to wear about the house, so ’s not to wake you when you’d caught a sleep.” “How very kind! Can I see Elsie soon? I should so like to be read to a little bit.” “Why, yes, I s’pose so,” said ’Lisbeth rather doubtfully. “I d’ know ’s there’d be any objection. Oh, that reminds me. Elsie was over t’ the Corner early this morning, and brought these flowers. There’s a greenhouse there, where they keep ’em growing right through the winter. Seems ’s if they might have been a little brighter, now, don’t it?” While she was talking, she stepped into the next room, raising her voice as she went, and returned with a china vase painted gaudily on one side and containing a loose cluster of cut flowers. Florence noticed at the first glance that they were so arranged as to bring the unpainted side of the vase in front; at the second, that they had been chosen thoughtfully. One or two dark heliotropes, white pinks, and a creamy, half-opened rose, with slender ferns for a background: that was all. “I was going to tie the stems up with a piece of string, but Elsie would have it they’d wilt quicker, So the dainty blossom, with its folds within folds of whiteness, was held between the slight girl-fingers, in no way less dainty and delicate than itself. By a sudden impulse Florence pressed it to her lips like a child. “You are all so good to me!” she said, with quivering lips. “I’m not used to being taken care of. Please thank Elsie for me, and ask her to come in when she can spare the time.” Mrs. Eldridge had been stooping to pick up a shred from the neat carpet, and but half caught the words. “Who d’ you say? O, Elsie! Well, I’ll give your message just ’s you put it.” But Elsie did not come the next day, nor the next. She began to seem to Florence like some beneficent brownie, doing all her good deeds before the household was awake, and then disappearing until her services were again needed. At last came the eventful day when the invalid was to be allowed to sit up for half an hour. She had looked forward to the time with eagerness. The old doctor, who had a vein of grim humor under his white beard, gruffly called her his little im-patient. But, to tell the truth, the stiff-backed chairs which she had thus far seen were hardly suggestive of luxurious rest; they were built for well people. Men and women in that part of the country make but little reckoning upon sickness. When it comes, “Why, where did you find that lovely chair?” cried Florence delightedly. “I thought I should have to sit up just as straight!” “Oh, we jest made it up out of one of the old armchairs in the best room,” said the other, surveying the luxurious piece of upholstery with pardonable pride. “You see, Elsie thought it all out, and put us to work, when you said you wanted to set up: so we jest stuffed the back an’ arms, and Elsie sawed off the hind legs an’ fixed that place for your feet in front, and there you be!” Five minutes later, Florence sat, weak and trembling after her long inactivity, in the comfortable chintz-covered chair, with a great sense of achievement and a new hold on the realities of life. “Now, if I could only see Elsie, and thank her.” “And—what?” “Why, tell her how much I thank her for all the trouble she has taken for me.” A queer look came into ’Lisbeth’s face, and her “But why not to-day?” persisted the other, with a convalescent’s freedom. “Well, to tell the truth, Elsie’s busy to-day outdoors, and won’t be in till you’re abed again; and then you ought to rest.” “Out of doors?” “Oh, she’ll tell you all about it to-morrow,” said ’Lisbeth, pursing up her mouth in the same funny way as before. Florence was too weak to pursue the subject further, and presently was glad enough to lay her tired head upon the pillow once more. The next morning the first object that caught her eye was a bunch of slender willow-wands, with their soft, clinging “pussies,” such as she had not seen since she was a child running about under the elms in the old, quiet town by the sea. The fresh, sweet sunlight peeped through the window and rested on their gray fur, creeping down from one to another and dancing in and out in the merriest manner possible. As Florence lay there beneath the old patchwork quilt, watching this pretty play of sunshine and kittens, and listening to the soft bustle of the morning’s work in the next room, a sense of great comfort and rest stole over her, and in her weakness her eyes filled with happy tears. Whatever was troublesome in the past she forgot: the future seemed as bright and yet as intangible as the sunbeams. She Then she began to wonder how it would seem to meet the other members of the family. The shrill voice of the old man she had often heard, but she had listened in vain for some snatch of song or girlish footfall which might belong to the gentle “Elsie” whose unseen ministrations were always attending to her comfort. As for the sturdy young fellow who had borne her so lightly through the snow, she had heard him once or twice only, speaking to ’Lisbeth in low tones, or calling cheerily somewhere outside to a passing neighbor. “He must at least live near here,” she thought, “but has probably forgotten all about me. Breakdowns are common enough in the country, and the ‘women-folks’ always have to be carried through the drifts.” Still, she could not help wondering a little who he was, and where he learned that slow, quiet speech, with its correctly-placed adverbs and adjectives, She at last concluded that he must be a neighbor in rather better circumstances than her hostess,—perhaps one of the proud “Hill-folks” whom Mrs. Walton was to visit. How they must have laughed over the adventure as they sat about their loaded “Now, dear, for breakfast. The pullets have just begun to lay, an’ Elsie’s been out and found a nest in the haymow where that little Plymouth-Rock was a-cacklin’ yesterday. Look!” She held up the warm, coffee-colored egg as she spoke. “How’ll you have it cooked? Boiled? Well, I’ll do it just right, and show ye how to take off the lid with a knife and eat it out of the shell. Father always has his that way.” Florence smiled in spite of herself at being treated so like a child. “That’s right,” continued Lisbeth briskly: “don’t ye go to feelin’ solemn, for it’s goin’ to be a grand day. And as for time to come, why, all I say is, don’t worry. You’re as welcome as the flowers of May, and I love to have ye round. You remind me of a little sister I had once, and—and—Yes, I’m comin’!” And ’Lisbeth, guilty, for the only time in her life, of a downright deception, hurried out Breakfast over, and the ceremony of enthronement in the easy chair performed, Florence, with spirits quite recovered, again recurred to Elsie. “Now, ’Lisbeth,” she said gayly, “please hand me the longest pussy-willow stem for a scepter, and I will give audience to my subjects. Where is Elsie?” III’Lisbeth stepped to the door and called through it: “Come in: she’s ready to see ye now.” Florence waited, with a bright smile dawning on her face for the kindly little spirit who handled pussy-willows and armchairs so deftly. The next minute she heard a light, firm step upon the kitchen floor. It hesitated at the door, and a gentle knock followed. “Come right in, Elsie,” cried Florence, pleased again by her delicacy. “I shall be so glad—” She paused abruptly. The door had swung open, and there stood a tall, well-built young man, an amused twinkle in his clear gray eyes, and the corners of his mouth just failing of that demureness they aimed to achieve. Without, however, appearing to notice any element of embarrassment in the situation, he stepped forward quietly and laid in her lap a glorious bunch of roses, saying, as he did so, “I happened to be at the Corner this morning, “Indeed, you were,” returned ’Lisbeth, with a beaming face that flatly contradicted her words. “What with you and the two blue kittens, it’s a wonder we ever got anything but skim-milk for our butter. Them roses do look something like cream too.” By this time Florence had recovered her self-possession: “Is it possible that this is the kind fairy who has done so much for me?” She held out her hand with a frank smile as she spoke. He stooped, not ungracefully, and took the offered hand, then laid it, almost reverently, upon the heap of roses. “Hardly a fairy,” he remarked gravely; “a gnome or a goblin, perhaps. It was very pleasant service. Are you really better, Miss Amory?” “Thank you; I feel almost too well to be treated as an invalid. Will you not be seated? And then please tell me how—how—I could have—thought”— “Oh, I’ll tell you all about it,” broke in ’Lisbeth, with a mischievous look at her tall nephew, who had obediently seated himself on one corner of the bed, that being the only unoccupied portion of the room. “You see, when Wesley”— Florence flushed slightly; she had thought she recognized the voice, though she had heard it but “—Wesley, he used to call himself ‘Elsie’ when he was a little trudge an’ couldn’t speak plain. So we got into the way of callin’ him that ourselves an’ it’s stuck to him ever since. I’d no notion ye didn’t know who I meant, till you said ‘she’ yesterday. Then, thinks I, I’ll have a little surprise for her, and a good laugh won’t do the child no harm, bless her!” Harm! Why, the most cynical, crabbed, disappointed old soul in the world must have brightened up at the merry little ripple of laughter that followed. The responsibilities and struggles of the last two or three years had left their trace in the gravity of Florence’s young face when in repose. It had begun to have the American tired look, and it needed excitement or a quick emotion to show to best advantage the intelligent deep-brown eyes, the wavy hair across the strong forehead, and a complexion, naturally fine and clear, rendered even more delicate by her long illness. As she looked up now, with the quick pleasure of a child, and the light of careless merriment in her eyes, her face was very sweet and winning. Wesley was regarding her intently, his features relaxing pleasantly at her happy laugh. “No doubt you consider us all as arch-conspirators, Miss Amory,” he said; “but I assure you I knew nothing of this until half an hour ago. Aunt ’Lisbeth is the Guy Fawkes.” “And I had no idea she could be so deceitful,” replied Florence solemnly. “Have you any gunpowder in your apron pockets, ma’am?” “Land sakes! no,” said ’Lisbeth, with a puzzled look. “What d’ you s’pose I want with powder? I guess likely Elsie’s got some up ’n his closet; though what on airth”— Then they all laughed again: they were so simply happy that it did not take much to amuse them. But Florence soon began to feel her strength failing in the unusual excitement, and was glad to be left alone with her patchwork quilt and her pussy-willows. She did not see Wesley again until several days later. He was busy mending fences, ’Lisbeth said, “and in the evenin’ he had to do his writin’.” Florence secretly wondered what his writing could be; but, as ’Lisbeth did not seem disposed to explain, she said nothing. She had noticed the carefulness of the sturdy young farmer’s speech, the final g’s on his present participles, and the even, firm pronunciation of his vowels and consonants, so different from the drawling, carelessly-clipped words of the country-people about. He must have studied hard at some village “academy,” she thought. People now began to drop in, after the neighborly St. John fashion so out of use in cities. They would settle themselves comfortably in the kitchen rocker, which was usually brought into the front room for company, and, taking a roll of knitting from bag or Florence learned that her mother, who was herself in feeble health, had been from time to time informed of her condition, and, as the sickness had never been considered dangerous, had contented herself with writing, at first to ’Lisbeth, afterward to Florence, who was now well enough to answer. In the pure country air she gained rapidly, and before long was enabled to take her seat with the rest at table, on which occasion, be it said, her only anxiety was lest the family should go to bed supperless, with such eagerness did they devote themselves to superintending her own plate. By this time, too, she had learned to say “’Lisbeth” and “grandfather” without hesitation. As to the third member of the family, she compromised with her sense of propriety by addressing him as “Mr. Wesley.” His last name she had not heard. She was sitting by her window one bright, warm afternoon in April, watching the portly robins, now hopping about after their extraordinary food, now pausing to glance up wisely at the sky or at her window with an air half suspicious, half friendly. Their neat orange-colored waistcoats showed prettily against the fresh-tinted grass, just beginning to spring in velvety patches through the brown, unmown aftermath of the preceding fall. On the shady side of the old stone wall that ran along the road toward the railway-station, a narrow, irregular snowbank, its surface fantastically carved Wesley looked straight into the brown eyes a moment in his grave, silent way, then reached out his hand, filled to overflowing with long trailing vines and fragrant pink-and-white blossoms. “They told me they missed you in the woods,” he said, “and begged me to carry them to you.” Florence took them in her hands and bent her face over them. She could not speak for a moment, the flowers were such a part of what she had been thinking. “I thank you,” she said at length, tremulously. “They are far too beautiful to claim companionship with me. It is I who should go to them and kneel while I picked them.” “I always think of them as in ‘Miles Standish’: Children lost in the woods and covered with leaves in their slumber. It is as if they were the pure in heart, who had ascended into His holy hill.” “Where did you find them, Mr. Wesley?” “Under the pines, by the brook. It is hardly time for them, but that is a sheltered spot, where the sun shines all day. I will take you there as soon as you can go with safety.” “Do you know,” mused Florence, “it seems odd that the first English ship anchoring in Plymouth “No, Miss Amory. It would perhaps sound strange to you to hear people speak of a ‘branch of mayflowers,’ but by that name the English usually mean the hawthorn, which flowers in May. And it is a wonderfully beautiful sight, for England seems at that time to be fairly covered with blossoms, the hawthorns are so plentiful.” “This is ‘trailing arbutus,’ is it not?” “Yes; except—pardon me—with the accent on the first syllable. But I am becoming pedantic,” he added, with a smile. “Miss Amory, you once told Aunt ’Lisbeth you would like to be read to, did you not?” Florence felt the color in her cheeks, but said simply, “Yes, I should enjoy it very much.” “Here is a bit that I came across a day or two ago.” He took a printed slip from his pocket and began to read: “Little pure-hearts, nestling shyly On the cool, pine-shadowed slope, Filling all the gloomy forest With the very breath of hope, “Whence hath come your wondrous patience, In the dark to wait so long,— Faith, to venture forth so bravely At the first wee sparrow-song? “All your alabaster boxes, With their store of ointment sweet, You have offered to the Master, Humbly kneeling at his feet, “And his gentle hands in blessing Rest upon you day by day, While the precious fragrance rises Like a prayer to him alway.” Florence sat in absolute stillness while he read, just catching her breath slightly at one of the lines. She looked very much like a mayflower herself as she sat there, her hands crossed in her lap, and her face upturned to the reader. When he had finished, she was silent for a moment. Then she asked, “Who wrote that, Mr. Wesley?” “Oh, the author’s name wasn’t mentioned,” he replied carelessly. “It was some anonymous magazine-writer who was fond of flowers and the Gospel of St. John, and chose to tell in this way what he thought about it all.” “Mr. Wesley”— “Miss Amory?” “Is there an institute—academy—of any sort at the Corner? I have thought of teaching, you know.” Florence flushed as she spoke, and looked intently out of the window. “There is something of that sort there now, I believe. It was started only a year or two ago.” “Why, then you”—The words came before she could check them. “No,” he answered, smiling, “I was only able to attend the district school that you passed between here and Haybrook Station.” “But—you have learned somewhere?” She was in for it now, though her face burned as she asked the question. “I studied at home,” he replied quietly. “Then I worked for a man at Haybrook Center, and he helped me with my Greek and Latin until I was able to enter Bowdoin. I graduated five years ago.” “Thank you,” she said heartily. “I’m afraid I have been unpardonably inquisitive; but you must accord a certain indulgence to invalids, which, I believe, they are usually not slow to claim. If you had not criticised my pronunciation of this little flower’s name, I should not have taken such a liberty. Am I forgiven?” she concluded, looking up brightly into his face again. “I have passed harder examinations in history,” he said good-humoredly; “and some day I may retaliate by examining you to even better purpose. Will you answer all my questions then?” Florence laughed outright: “How solemnly you speak! To be sure I will. My story will be even shorter than yours. I think one answer will be enough for the whole.” “Yes, I think it will,” he said slowly, then checked himself, and, remarking soberly that “her little forest children would be none the worse for wetting their feet,” turned, without further words, and left the room. IVA few days after this conversation, ’Lisbeth entered the kitchen waving an envelope over her head. “It’s accepted,” she cried; “I know by the feel of it! It’s a money-order or a check,—it don’t make no difference which. Abner Slack was just comin’ back from the Corner, so he called in t’ the post-office an’ brought it along.” “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Florence, who was the only other person in the room. “Whom is it from, and to whom is it addressed, please?” “Why, to Elsie, of course. Look there!” She pointed to the name of a well-known periodical, printed in an upper corner of the envelope. “He’s been trying to get something into that for these six months past, and nothin’s ever come back but those old circulars, telling how the editor’s feelin’ so bad, because the piece is a leetle bit too long, or not quite suited, or better for some other magazine! Poor boy, he’d got so discouraged and put down ’bout it that I didn’t know but he’d give up for good.” “Then that’s why he writes so much. Oh, but are you sure he wouldn’t mind your telling me?” “Bless you, no; he don’t make no secret of it. He got into the way of writin’ for the papers while he was schoolin’ at Bowdoin, and when he came ’Lisbeth’s kind face fairly beamed as she spoke, and her eyes were moist. “If you’d known,” she went on, wiping them with the corner of her apron, “the setbacks that boy’s had, and the big pack of them old printed things he’s got saved up—he’s the most perseverin’ critter—There! here ’m I standin’ talkin’, instead of givin’ the letter to him this minute!” She ran up-stairs in her quick, nervous way, and, as they all sat round the uneven table that night, the light in the young man’s eyes showed that ’Lisbeth had not mistaken the contents of the mail. “I’m trying to do my duty on the farm,” he told Florence afterward, “and at the same time to find whether I really have a message to the world, or a part of it, however small. I always have to remember the reply of the old Scotch minister who was asked by an anxious young pulpit aspirant whether he thought he had a call to preach. ‘Try it, mon,’ he said; ‘try it, an’ dootless ye’ll succeed, gin ye find oot ’at onybody has a ca’ to hear ye.’ I shouldn’t want to be ‘stickit,’” he added, smiling. “But—pardon me, Mr. Wesley—what kind of writing do you mean to do? There are so many “That is just what I must discover. The main thing is not the form, but the substance. I want to write that which shall comfort and strengthen people, help them when they are in trouble, give them rest when they are tired, make life bright and cheery for them when the world seems gray.” He spoke with kindling eyes. “If I have ever written—if I shall ever write—a line that does not, in some poor way, however feeble, tend to this result, I pray that it may be blotted out, destroyed with the paper on which it is printed!” This talk was followed by others of like nature. By degrees Wesley, finding a sympathetic listener always ready, and a kind but firm critic as well, fell insensibly into the habit of reading, at first passages here and there, afterward whole articles, to the gentle, dark-haired girl who was so quick to catch the deeper significance he had intended in this or that turn of thought and reflect it in her intent brown eyes. So the spring wore on, and then came summer, with its long, fair days, its fragrant hay-fields, its never-ceasing chirp and whir of insect life. Month after month passed, and still Florence lingered with her kind friends. With the oppressive heats of August the old man had felt his strength fail rapidly, and spent much of his time within-doors, lying upon the lounge or in the stuffed rocking-chair, and needing many little offices from those around. This As the flowers in the little garden fell before the early frosts and the maple boughs began to kindle through the mellow autumn haze, the life of the old man, weary with its long stay upon earth, was plainly preparing to lay aside its worn-out garments; and one bright September morning when the first rays of the sun found their way through the little window-panes of the low-browed east chamber, Florence knew that the moment had come. She had been sitting up all night, and now stepped quickly across the kitchen to call the other members of the household. They came, and the final long, tired breath was drawn at last. They waited, but no more came. Wesley turned to Florence, took her hand and held it silently for a moment, and then, in the quiet country way, went out to give notice of the death, have the bell tolled, and arrange for the funeral. In the loneliness that fell upon the old house during the next few weeks, Florence made no effort to go. It was plain that she was needed, for death, no Once her mother came down for a visit of a day or two, which lengthened into a fortnight. She had offered to pay for her daughter’s accommodations, to the intense astonishment and displeasure of ’Lisbeth. “She earns her board, every bit of it,” said that lady with energy. “I don’t know what I should do without her workin’ and singin’ round the house. You jest let her stay till she wants to go,—that is, ma’am, if you can spare her yourself. She’s gainin’ in health every day of her life, and when she’s ready she’ll take hold as she never did before, I can tell you.” So matters were left as they were, until, with a start, Florence remembered, one bright, cold afternoon, that it was just a year since she had been carried in through the front door that bitter night. Wesley had come in from his work a few moments In gayest mood, therefore, Florence stood upon the broad door-stone in front of the house when, a few hours later, the colt came jingling up from the barn with a light step, plainly considering the sleigh and its load the most stupendous joke conceivable, really nothing at all for a strong young fellow like him; it was difficult for him, on the whole, to realize that he was in harness at all. That his driver, however, was hardly inclined to allow him to forget that fact was evident from the even, steady rein and the firm voice behind it. For a few moments, as Florence took her place beside Wesley, she felt unaccountably shy; this soon wore off in the rush of sweet, cool air past their cheeks and the wonderful beauty of the night. How the starlight twinkled and danced from each little bright point above the white, silent world, waiting for the far-off chords of angel music! Christmas Eve. No sound in the air but the silvery voice of the bells and the murmur of the pines, “Peace, peace on earth.” Wesley stooped to arrange the heavy fur robe more warmly about his companion. Then he turned and looked into her earnest, upturned face. “Do Florence laughed a little: “I was only thinking how very contented I was, and how much more happiness this Christmas looks back upon than the last.” “Miss Amory, are you in a mood for answering questions to-night?” He felt her start slightly under the robe. “Because, you know, you have never passed that examination.” There was something in his voice, an earnestness underlying his light words, that made her turn her head quickly to meet his glance. At that moment they were passing through a belt of woods where the brightness of the sky and the faint light of the rising moon made the shadows cower thick and black beside every log and snowy mound. Whether the young horse had spied one of these stretching into the road, or she had jarred the reins by her involuntary movement, Florence never knew. It happened like a lightning-stroke,—the sudden quiver of the colt from head to foot, and at the same instant the sharp word of command from Wesley, then the plunge ahead. In one terrified glance at the half-maddened animal she saw a fragment of leather hanging from the foam-covered bit. The rein had parted under the strain, and the remnant lay loose and worse than useless in the driver’s hand. The horse was bounding wildly along the icy road, with the light sleigh swaying from side to side, half the time upon one runner, threatening every moment to overturn. “Florence, will you do what I say?” “Yes.” She did not mind the name. Were they not together in the shadow of death? Oh, that awful whirl of hoof-beats! the utter helplessness of it all; the mockery of the cushioned seats and warm wraps! But there was no time for thought. Wesley was taking the heavy buffalo-robe and turning it with quick, skillful hands, as she had seen him turn a paper at home when he was reading aloud to them all in the quiet evenings around the old brick fireplace. His calmness gave her strength. “Take this corner,” he said. “Hold it with the fur up. Now let the rest of the robe fall slowly over the dasher in front of the whiffletree. When I give the word, lower the whole instantly, as I do, keeping your hold of the upper corner, so that the lower part will clog the runners. Do you understand?” She nodded. There was little time now to spare. They knew the road well enough to remember the clump of oaks just ahead of them. There was a sudden turn there, to avoid a ledge where the workmen had blasted for the bridge last summer. Florence crouched in the bottom of the sleigh, The ledge came in sight, ugly and black. “Now!” For an instant it seemed as if the slender wrists would break, or that she must be drawn over the dasher and thrown under the horse’s hoofs. She never thought of letting go her hold. All her New England heroism came to her aid, and the robe did not gain an inch. Gradually the tired horse felt the heavy drag, aided by a slight ascent in the road. His speed slackened; the wild run became a clumsy gallop,—slower,—slower. Then came the soothing tones of his driver, and he turned his ears back to listen. In another moment Wesley was out of the sleigh and at his head. The danger was over. The full moon was now looking down from the eastern sky, and pouring its flood of dreamy light over the cruel ledges. Wesley led the trembling horse, now wholly subdued, to an oak beside the road, and fastened him securely enough this time. Then he went back to the sleigh. He had not spoken before. She was still crouching in front of the seat, with her pale face resting against the cushions. It was a very white little hand that was held out in the moonlight to meet his. He took it, and did not let it go. “Florence!” He felt the little hand flutter in his own, but still he did not let it go. Half turning, he drew the torn robe about her, his hand It was a wonderful ride back, over the gleaming road, with that tall, silent figure walking before. As they turned aside into the little open space in front of the gray old house, and halted once more by the door-stone, he came quickly to her side and held out his arms as he had a year ago. Only this time he said simply, with a great gladness in his voice, “Come, Florence; we have reached home!” |
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