Pass we by the scenes of the few succeeding days. In them, however, Maria was all efficiency. Her cheerfulness and the buoyancy of her spirits seemed never to forsake her, at least in her husband’s presence. She had determined that no act, nor look, nor word of her’s should add to the poignancy of the regret, almost remorse, which agitated him. When alone, the serenity of that young brow might be clouded; but it was more from anxious thought for the future, than from regret for the past; or a tear might dim the brightness of her eye, as she bent over her sleeping children, and thought of their altered prospects.

Fortunately there were no debts, and, best of all, no small debts. No tradesman, no mechanic suffered from this mishap. There was enough left to settle all these accounts, and the stock contracts had all been “met;” but there was nothing left, save the furniture of the two mansions. How rapid was her decision on this point. All, every thing, save the most necessary articles, were to go—satin, damask, and velvet, were to be replaced by chintz; rosewood by pine; lounges, and ottomans, and presentation chairs were to be as if they never had been; and if a few good engravings were laid aside with a few cherished family portraits to humanize their new home, wherever it might be, costly paintings were parted with without a sigh. The rich China and costly plate—“Why, certainly, my dear; I am sure things will eat just as well off of Liverpool ware; and as for all that glass, I shall be glad to be rid of the constant dread I had of having it broken, and the set ruined.”

And thus did Maria meet all the objections of her husband as they rose one by one. Two things, however, she determined to keep to the last—one, her husband’s books—the other, her own piano. She knew that be where they might, they would be a constant source of comfort to him; and in time, when, perhaps, they could not be conveniently replaced, they would be needed for the children.

But after all these things had been parted with, how were they to live. To live on the proceeds would be madness, as that would in a short time exhaust every thing; they neither of them had any expectations of future fortune, save from their own exertions. Dawson had been educated to no business, nor any profession; and that he had escaped being a mere profligate “about town” was regarded almost as a wonder by all. His refined native taste had alone saved him. Mere dissipation in its unrefined, undraperied vulgarity, had no charms for him; and he had sought refuge when very young in female society, and the indulgence of an unrestrained taste for general literature. He had never been a student—rather a literary epicure—tasting a mouthful here, and sipping a few drops there—but nowhere sitting down to that hearty meal of solid food by which alone true students are made.

It was, however, necessary that a decision of some kind should be made. On one thing he was resolved, and with a determination which nothing could shake. It was to leave the place where his former life had been passed. His pride was yet unbroken; he could not endure the thought of sinking back from that position in society which he had formerly filled. He could not endure the thought that his bright, his beautiful wife should be exposed to mortifications which always fall to the lot of those from whose side fortune has departed. He knew full well that the before concealed envy of many would now show itself at her expense—that she should be an object of affected pity and compassion from those who had greeted her appearance with applause, and had been followers in her train. Were they to seek a new home, they would be spared a thousand and one of those petty annoyances which none but those who have experienced them can appreciate. In a new sphere, they would start in an humble way, but then there would be no by-gones connected with their history. Come what else might, do what else they would, on this point he was unalterably determined; the what that was to be done, and the where it was to be, could not, however, be definitely determined upon until the results of the sale were known. He inclined for the west. To this his wife, backed by the influence of her own family, opposed a decided negative. The iron horse did not then course its way over the lofty mountains and through the dense forests and across the almost boundless prairies on which it now pursues its daily career. She dreaded the deadly sickness to which all settlers in new countries are subject—the isolation from all society, which she knew must fall with such crushing weight upon one so long accustomed to it as was her husband—the want of schools, at which her young family could receive proper instruction—and, we must confess, she shrunk somewhat from the thought of being her own sole “help.” She did not count upon having about her, go where she might, a train of servants, but she knew herself physically incapable of being the sole servant to her family. She would, she knew, have to work, literally and physically, with her own hands—be, in all probability, her own nurse, seamstress, chamber-woman, arrange and manage all within doors—take care of the children, set out the table, keep the house in order, and superintend the cooking; but beyond this she knew herself unable to the task, and she was unwilling to undertake what she felt she could not accomplish. And then, too, should the dreaded sickness come on—but here the dismal prospect fancy conjured up before her did not assume so distinct a form—it was a dark, confused picture, like those of some of the so called “old masters,” in which the dark shadows are so deep, that they throw into complete obscurity all the light—if, indeed, there ever was any. And so two things were determined on. First, they would leave their former place of residence. And, secondly, that they would not go to the west.

But what was to be the pursuit? That was the rub. As we have said, Dawson had neither a professional nor a business education. The universal refuge for man, that of a tiller of the soil, was open to him; but then what knew he of farming pursuits? It is true he knew the difference between wheat and rye when he saw them in full head, but it is doubtful if he could distinguish either of them from grass or oats before they had reached that state. He could tell a scythe from a cradle, or a plough from a harrow; but how to use one or the other was to him a most profound mystery. What kind of a hand could he make at farming? There seemed, however, no other resource. He must make up his mind to do something; and no matter at what he went, he must be a beginner—a student. He was sickened of what is termed business, and he did not think it would be more difficult to learn to be a farmer, than it would be to become a lawyer or a doctor. Then, too, whilst the process of acquiring knowledge was going on, he would be acquiring something for the support of his family. It was true that whilst studying the law, the paths of literature were open to him, and he might do something with his pen. But then he was entirely a novice at writing for the public, and he had judgment sufficient to know that to succeed either as a lawyer or a literary man, he must devote himself exclusively to one or the other. The only resource, or at least the most available, seemed to be to await the issue of the sale, and invest the proceeds thereof in purchasing and stocking a moderate farm.

The day at last came; the fashionable world, and the unfashionable, too, flocked in crowds to those halls where taste and elegance had so long reigned. The examination of the various articles was over, and the stentorian lungs of the auctioneer were heard announcing,

“Ladies and gentlemen, the sale is about to commence, and we will begin, if you please, with the chamber furniture, and finish with the drawing-rooms and the glass and china.”

His skillful experience had taught him to reserve the more costly and rarer articles until the excitement of competition had warmed the bidders up to the necessary pitch. Dawson and Maria were neither of them present; but the watchful eye of her legal brother-in-law saw to every thing. There was much competition to obtain many articles; by some, as mementoes of the pleasant hours passed within those walls; by others, as anxious to exhibit them in their pretending but less fashionable saloons as articles of decided taste and elegance, from their having once belonged to the fashionable leader, Mrs. Dawson.

The sale was over—the sum total footed up—commissions and expenses deducted, and a very comfortable sum deposited in bank to the credit of Mr. Dawson. To this was to be added the amount derived from Maria’s jewels, which she actually succeeded in selling at about one half their original cost. This he wished her to keep as her own—but she refused; a common purse must be theirs—all, she said, but just a little, which she had, and which she intended to keep for “shoe and stocking” money, so she told him, adding playfully,

“You must let me have one secret from you, dear; and so don’t ask me, I beseech you, where my shoe and stocking money comes from.”

As she has no secrets with us, courteous reader, we may as well know. She rightly argued that satins, and brocades, and velvets, and such like, would be worse than useless to a farmer’s wife—and so she quietly disposed of them at a considerable sacrifice, but still for a very comfortable sum. She also argued that a suit of common fur would keep her quite as warm as her splendid set of marten, the envy of one half the town, and much more appropriate—and so the martens followed the brocades, and the velvets, and the jewels. From these resources she was enabled to realise enough to keep herself and her children not only in shoes and stockings, but also in all other clothing for a considerable time after the stock at present on hand was exhausted, without drawing on the resources of the farm.

The next thing was to purchase the farm. There were certain requisites which it might perhaps be difficult to find. At last, however, a place was hit upon. It was not exactly in its appearance what either our hero or heroine would have selected with an eye to picturesque beauty. There was no varied hill or dale—no high hill here from which such a beautiful view of such a lovely valley could be seen there. It was in a flat country, without the slightest claims to beauty; but then it was healthy, the water good and pure—the fields well fenced and well watered—the soil of a fair natural character, in a very tolerable state of cultivation. A landing-place where a steamboat touched daily, affording ready communication with the city—a village at the landing, where a store, a good doctor, and a church were to be found. These were considered as a most excellent substitute for the want of the picturesque. The house was in the prevailing style of the neighborhood—without, plain clap-boards, from which the white-wash in many places had worn or washed off, leaving the dark boards below visible in their native beauty. The windows of a small size, with close wooden shutters, which had been, years since, painted of a color intended to be green, but which now was decidedly nondescript. A low porch covered the two or three steps that led to the front door. The court-yard was a small inclosure, through which a path led from a gateway in the fence by one side of the house, and which opened into a lane which led into the high-road. Within, a hall ran through the middle of the house. On either side were doors, leading on one hand into two rooms, called the front and back parlor; and on the other, into a room called the dining-room, and also into the kitchen. From the door of the kitchen the stairs ascended, leading to two or three tolerably comfortable rooms above, and to as many as intolerably uncomfortable, at least in the eyes of the new occupants. Beyond the kitchen was a shed, which was intended to be shut in by large wooden shutters, in which was the pump, and where the washing and other heavy kitchen-work could be transacted. This was certainly a change for both from their splendid town-mansion and luxurious villa.

The interior of the mansion was no more prepossessing than its exterior; and Maria shrugged her shoulders and looked round with a face of dismay as she contemplated the dreary prospect before her when she arrived to take possession of her new home. There was no time, however, to waste in repining. Boxes were to be opened, trunks unpacked, and places prepared in which to sit, eat, and sleep for the next few days, until things could be got somewhat to right. As for Dawson, he muttered some not very inaudible imprecations on the madness and folly which had brought them to this.

“Now, Henry, do, dear, just take a hatchet and pry off the top of that box. It has the matresses in it, and I’ll just get them out and you shall fix up the children’s bedstead, and let them and the baby have some place to lie down upon. I do declare,” she added, laughing, “nature must have intended you for a carpenter, you have gotten it off so nicely,” as, after some desperate struggles with the nails, he at last succeeded in prying off the top of the box.

“And there,” she added, “are the bedsteads tied up yonder; no fear of their being damaged by exposure, which is a great advantage. Do, dear, just carry them up stairs, whilst I get the bed-linen out of this great trunk in which it is packed up”—and Dawson, stimulated by the example of his wife, gave up something which sounded very like an occasional objurgation of a certain fool, meaning thereby himself, and took to working. The bedsteads were soon carried to their sleeping chamber and set up—the matresses laid on them, and the nimble fingers of our heroine soon covered them with their snowy linen. All was in readiness for the time when the “Sandman” would come round among the children. In the meantime, with the aid of the assistants on the farm, the rest of the things had been unpacked, and chairs and tables stood in a confused medley about. They were all of the simplest and least costly kind, and formed a strong contrast to the splendid piano which, in all the glory of its rich rosewood case, now occupied its destined position in the front parlor.

Maria looked with a wistful eye on the scene of confusion. To attempt to reduce it was, she thought, like producing order out of chaos. It was unnecessary to attempt it to-day; and so she determined to rest for the residue of it, and take a view of the exterior. As she passed out of the front door for this purpose, holding little Maria by the hand and carrying the baby in her arms, she was met by Master Harry, as he was termed, to distinguish him from his father. His cap was gone, his nicely combed curls were in a glorious state of dishevelment, his clothes evinced a most intimate acquaintance with mother earth, as did his face and hands.

“Oh, mamma!” he exclaimed, his whole face glowing with excitement, “oh, mamma, do come and see what a nice pond there is out here to sail boats in. And see, mamma,” holding up a “mud-cake” as he spoke, “see what a nice cake I have made!” Although vexed that her darling, of whose locks, and clean complexion, and trim dress she had always been so proud, should present such an appearance, she yielded to his entreaties, and followed the child without the gate into the lane, where a mud-puddle of formidable dimensions at once explained the mystery of the pond and the beautiful cakes he had been engaged in concocting.

“And see, mamma,” he added, clapping his hand, and pointing to a swarm of yellow butterflies which were settling round the edge of the puddle, “see what bootiful birds, and whenever I get close up to them to catch them, they just fly away.”

“Happy child!” thought his mother; “to you the cares of life are unknown. Happier, doubtless, will you for some time be here, chasing your butterflies, careless of all else. But your time, too, must come”—and our heroine found herself almost sighing.

“But, Harry, my boy, listen to me. Mamma would rather you should not play out in this lane, and by this dirty puddle. See how dirty your hands, and face, and clothes all are; and it will give mamma a great deal of trouble to keep you clean if you do so.”

“But, mamma, I don’t care about being clean. I am sure it’s a great deal nicer to be dirty and play about this nice pond, than to be dressed up to go out and walk with Mrs. Harris, and Janey, and Maria, and the baby.”

“Yes, my dear, but you wont have Mrs. Harris and Janey to dress you, and keep you clean, and take you to walk any more.”

“Wont I? Oh, I’m so glad! Then I can run out here and get as dirty as I please—can’t I mamma?”

“I hope you will not—for you have nobody else now to wash you and keep you clean but mamma; and you don’t want to give her so much trouble, do you?”

“No, mamma; but I’m so glad you’re going to wash me, for you wont scrub so hard as Mrs. Harris did—she used to hurt so, sometimes.”

“I am afraid, my dear, I shall have to scrub a great deal harder than Mrs. Harris did, if you play out here and get so dirty.”

“Well, mamma, I’ll try not to; but say, mamma, I may come out and play here sometimes; it’s so nice.”

“I will see about it some other time; but come in with me and get ready for supper.”

——