"Emily will help me!" Oh, how those words haunted me! I would help her; yes, if I could, but when should I ever stop making blunders, when should I lose the impetuous nature that drove me too often on the beach of thought, with shipwrecked sentences that fell far short of my thought, and expressed nothing of my real self. Why was it, as I grew older, I came to realize, that if I had been born a little later, it would have been easier? I was standing on tip-toe trying in vain to touch that which lay beyond my reach; of course I must be constantly falling, and the security of growth I could not then wait for. I must keep reaching and falling, covering myself with disappointments, while in the hearts if not on the lips of those about me must rest the same old words, "Emily did it."

Clara says I can do something, and having grown to feel that her words were almost prophecy, I felt sure there was something ahead, and repeated again and again, "Emily will do it." Mr. Benton was looking beyond his depth, and still did not hesitate to try and swim across the difficult waters that lay between himself and Clara, and before Louis left us, something occurred which I must tell about. I had been called over the hill on an errand, was obliged to go alone, and was then detained somewhat, and when I came back, Louis met me, and taking my arm, said:

"Walk slowly, I have something I must say."

I thought of Clara at once, and it was a true impression, for he said:

"My little mother is in trouble; I have heard what I would never know if I could avoid it—Professor Benton has been telling her that he loves her. He has forced this upon her, I know, for these are his words to which I unwillingly listened: 'Why, Mrs. Desmonde, do you shun me, why turn you eyes whenever they meet my own, why call Miss Minot to your side when an opportunity presents for us to be alone together? I cannot be baffled in my love for you; no woman has ever before touched the secret spring of my heart, no voice has ever reached my soul—yours is music to me; and, Mrs. Desmonde, I need great love and sympathy; I am not all I want to be; my lot in life has been in some respects very hard to bear; I never knew my mother's love, and when old enough to desire the companionship man needs, I had an experience which killed the flower of my affection—I thought its roots were as dead as its leaves, until I met you. Oh! Mrs. Desmonde, do you not, can you not return this feeling? My life is in your hands.' It was hard for my little mother, and I stood riveted to the spot, Emily, expecting to be obliged to enter and catch her fainting form, for I knew in my heart each word was a thorn, but here is her reply:"

"Professor Benton, I had hoped to be spared this pain, I have avoided you, because I could do no other way. I am so sorry! I can never, never love you as you desire! I have a husband—my Louis Robert waits for me in heaven, and he is my constant guide here. He will always be near me while I tarry, and I have no love to give you in return for yours. I can be your good friend always, I can help you as one mortal helps another. I can call you a brother, and I can be your sister; but do not dream falsely. I shall not learn to love you; my heart is full, and it is through no fault of mine that you have raised false hopes in your bosom, but I am very sorry—more sorry than I can tell you."

"Is that all, and is it final?" I heard him say.

"It is all that I can ever say," she said.

"I drew back from the door, and, passing through your middle room, came into my own, in time to see Professor Benton step into Halbert's studio. I entered then the room where little mother sat, and held her in my arm awhile, saying no word to her of what I had heard. She was not exhausted, and after a little time I left her to come and meet you. Tell me, Emily, if you know about it—has she said anything to you?"

Of course I told him all, and then added her, "'Say no word to Louis,' but under these circumstances she could not blame me, could she, Louis?"

"No, no, Emily," he replied, "but what can we do?"

"I do not know," I said, and he added:

"Do you like Professor Benton?"

"I cannot see anything in him to like very much, Louis," I replied; "when I met him in Hal's sick-room, he seemed really beautiful. His eyes looked so large and dreamy, and he had such sympathy for Hal, and I like him now, for that, but otherwise he jars me so I say all sorts of uncomfortable things, and his talk always irritates me. No, I could not imagine your mother loving him, for she is so much better than I am, and I could never love him in the world."

Louis' hold on my arm tightened, and he said:

"Ah! Miss Emily, you are beginning to know yourself, you are learning to understand others, and I am glad," and to his eyes came again that earnest look, "for I long to be known by you; I have brought you a Christmas present, and the New Year is at hand before I give it to you—wear this in the dark, until your heart says you love me, then let the light fall on it."

He put a box in my hand, and when I opened it in my own room I found a small and finely linked chain of gold, and attached to it a locket holding Louis' picture. One side was inlaid with blue enamel in a spray of flowers, and on the other the name "Emily." My heart told me that I did love Louis, and then there came so many changeful thoughts, that I felt myself held back, and could not express myself to Louis.

This evening was spent in our middle room, and Mr. Benton, being obliged to write letters, was not with us. Of this I was glad, for it gave relief to the three who were cognizant of what had passed. The subject of universal salvation was again brought before us, and this time my mother expressed herself greatly in favor of giving the new thoughts a hearing, and to my utter astonishment and pleasure, my father proposed going sometime to hear the Reverend Hosea Ballou, who was then preaching over his society in Boston, and came sometimes to preach for the few in a town lying to the north and east of us. There were no houses of worship dedicated to the Universalists nearer than the one I speak of, and though it was a ride of ten miles, that was nothing for a span of good horses.

"When can we go?" rose to my lips quickly.

"Are you also desirous of hearing him, Emily?"

"Oh, father!" I said, "I want something beside the fire of torment to think of. You know the Bible says, 'He that is guilty in one point, is guilty of the whole.' If that is true, father, I am not safe; but if these new thoughts are truths, I am; and can you blame me if I want to know about it. I am afraid I knew very little of what I needed when I was united to our church."

"It is not singular, Emily," my father said, "and I desire only to help you, if you really want to know. We need not fear to investigate, for if the doctrines are erroneous, they are too far below our own standard of truth to harm even the soles of our feet, and if they are true, it must be they lie beyond us, and we shall feel obliged to reach for them, and be glad of the opportunity. Halbert, have you nothing to say? are you to go with us? the three-seated wagon will hold us all."

"Yes," added mother, "and we will take our dinner and go to cousin Belinda Sprague's to eat it."

Halbert looked a little puzzled and then replied:

"I guess the rest of you may go the first time, and I will stay at home with Will (Mr. Benton), for I know he would as soon stay at home as go."

Then said Ben, "Let me go, father, I'm young and I need starting right; don't you think so?"

We all laughed at this, and my father looked with fondness at his boy, as he answered:

"Ben, it shall be, and a week from next Sabbath, the day, if nothing happens."

I believe it was a relief to my father, this hope that there might be something more beautiful beyond than he had dared to dream; and Clara was absorbed with the prospect of his getting hold of the truth, which, though unnamed by her, had always been, it seemed, her firm belief. She said nothing to me of what had occurred, and the days wore on until the morning came when Louis said "good-bye," and left us for school.

Directly after his departure, Aunt Phebe (mother's sister) wrote us she was coming to visit us for a few days. Of this I was glad, and I rehearsed to Clara her virtues, told her of her early years, the sorrows which she had borne, the working early and late to maintain the little family of four children (for at the age of twenty-eight she was left widowed and alone in a strange city). Her native town was not far distant from the one in which we lived, and when she came I expected a treat, for together these two sisters unshrouded the past, took off the veil of years that covered their faces, and walked back, hand in hand, to their childhood—its years, its loves, its friends, its home—and it was never an old tale to me.

I loved to hear of grandfather Lewis, who went as minister's waiter in the War of Seventy-six, going with old Minister Roxford, whose name has been, and is still to be handed down through generations as a good old man of Connecticut. Grandfather was only sixteen years at that time, and though he saw no hard service, but was dressed up in ruffled shirt, etc., received through life a pension of ninety-six dollars per year, having enlisted for a period of six months, whereas some of his friends, who saw hard service, and came out of the contest maimed for life, received nothing.

Grandfather was of French extraction, and he boasted largely of this, but I could not feel very proud of the fact that he traded with the British, carrying to them hams, dried beef, poultry, and anything in shape of edibles, receiving in return beautiful silk stockings, bandanna handkerchiefs, and the tea that the old ladies were so glad to get. Several times he was nearly captured, and once thrust into a stone wall, in the town of Stratford, a quantity of silk stockings, with which his pockets were filled. He was so closely pursued at that time, that he lay down close to a large log and covered himself with dead leaves, and one of his pursuers, a moment after, stood on that very log and peered into the distance, saying, "I wonder which track the scamp took."

I must not tell you more about this grandfather, whose history filled me full of wonder, but must hasten on to meet Aunt Phebe, who came according to appointment, and found a warm reception. She had a fine face, was tall and well-formed, her hair was a light-brown, and her eyes a bright, pure blue; she had a pleasant mouth and evenly set teeth, and she was a sweet singer. She is yet living, and sings to-day a "Rose tree in full blooming" with as sweet a cadence as when I was a child.

Clara was drawn toward her, and brought some of her best thoughts to the surface; read to her some of her own little poems, and wrote one for her, speaking tenderly of the past and hopefully of the future. Aunt Phebe had a nature to appreciate the beautiful, and ought herself to have been given the privilege of a later day, that she might have expressed her own good and true thoughts. She was a member of the Baptist church, and while we had no fear of condemnation from her lips, we knew she had not as yet tested this new thought that was now agitating our minds. She said she would like to go with us to hear "Father Ballou," as he was called by the Universalist people, and Clara, said:

"Well, Mrs. ——, the day is coming when all shall see and rejoice at the knowledge they have long desired; this will be the real fruit that has been promised by the hope of the soul for years; and it is not new, it is an old, old truth, and for this reason there will be less preparation needed to accept it. The soil is ready, and the hand of the age will drop the seed in the furrows which the years have made."

"This talk is as good as a sermon," said Aunt Phebe, "I would like to hear you every week. Learning the work of wisdom is not an easy task, and all these thoughts come as helping hands to us; we are never too old to learn."

Aunt Phebe was free from all vanity; she dressed simply, and was truly economical. Her hands were never idle; she had always something to do; and during the few days she spent with us she insisted on helping. A huge basket of mending yielded to her deft hands, and patches and darns were made without number. These were among our great necessities, for, as in every other household, garments were constantly wearing out, and stitches breaking that must be again made good, and nothing could be appreciated more than her services in this direction. Mother felt, however, that she was doing wrong to let her work at all.

"Phebe," I heard her say one afternoon, as they sat in our middle room together, "you have stitches enough to take at home, and I feel condemned to see you so busy here. You should have every moment to rest in; I wish you could stay longer, for I believe when these carpet rags are cut you will find nothing more to do, and then we could rest and talk together. How I wish Sally and Polly and Thirza could be with us, and our brothers too! Have you heard from Peter lately?"

"I heard only a few days before I left; one of the girls came down, and she said Peter was well, but oh, how they miss their own mother! Peter's first wife was the best mother I ever knew; those little girls looked as neat as pins, with their blue and iron-rust dresses, and she taught them to do so much—not half do it, but to finish what they began. I think of her with reverence, for her ways were in accordance with her ideas of duty, and she was no ordinary woman. It seems too bad she could not have lived."

And Aunt Phebe sighed, and then added:

"You ask what makes me work? Work has been my salvation. In the needs of others I have forgotten my own terrible experiences, and although the first time I washed a bedquilt I said 'I can never do that thing again,' I have since then washed many; and done also the thousand kinds of work that only a woman can do. Force of circumstances has made me self-reliant, and so long as I can work I am not lonely, and if there comes a day when the labor of my hands is less needed, I shall be only too glad to take the time for reading I so much desire."

"Oh, Phebe!" said my mother, "I often think of you as you were when young; slender and lithe as a willow, with a cheek where the rose's strength did not often gather; and then I think of all you have done since, and looking at you to-day, you seem to me a perfect marvel; for you have lived, and borne hard work and sorrow, and your face is fresh, your fingers taper as of old, and on your cheek is the tinge of pink that becomes you so well. You are only five years younger than I, and you look every day of twenty; you may outlive me—yes, I'm sure you will."

There was silence for a few moments, and then Aunt Phebe said:

"Speaking of work makes me think to tell you about an old colored man who came to my door last winter. He was so cold he could hardly talk, but seeing some coal before the door wanted to put it in for me. I asked him in, and he grew warmer after a little. I made a cup of hot composition tea for him, and while he was putting in the coal hunted up an old coat that one of our neighbors had given me for carpet rags, and when the poor old man told me his story I felt like proclaiming it to the city. Never mind that now. He lived through the winter and did not freeze, and last summer found considerable work, but I have thought for some time how valuable his help would be to William, my father, and I wonder if he could find a place to live in here among you. His name is Matthias Jones, and he is faithful though slow, but the constant dropping, you know, wears a stone. I like the old man, and you would, for he is honest and ambitious. He might have owned a farm himself if the evil of slavery had not crushed under its foot the seeds of growth that lay within him. Mr. Dutton has helped to get him work."

"Phebe," said mother, interrupting her, "are you going to marry that Mr. Dutton?"

"I can't say," said Aunt Phebe, and their conversation closed, for father came in and supper-time drew near.