They were soon made aware of the joyful fact that a plentiful breakfast would be served in all haste, and meanwhile set about reconnoitering the castle. The antiquated furniture, with well-worn linen covers, chairs with only three feet, rickety tables, and the discordant sounds of a piano which had lain neglected for twenty years, furnished a thousand subjects for pleasant jokes. Their gayety returned, and it was agreed that instead of fretting at the inconveniences of their uncomfortable abode, they would laugh and joke at every thing. Besides, for this young and thoughtless company, this day was an event, a campaign, almost a perilous one, the originality of which began to appeal to the imagination. A fagot had been lighted in the large hall chimney, but puffs of smoke filling every nook, they made their escape into the garden. Here, too, the aspect was strange: the stone seats were covered with moss, the walls of the terraces in many places crumbling in, had left space between the ill-joined stones, where a thousand wild plants were growing, now shooting up straight and tall, now bending over to the ground like flexible vines; the walks were hidden beneath the green turf, and the parterres reserved for cultivated flowers had been invaded by wild ones, which spring up wherever the skies let fall one drop of rain or the sun sheds a ray. The white convolvulus twined round and choked up the monthly rose, the wild mulberry mingled with the red fruit of the currant, and the long fern, the sweet-scented mint, and the prickly thistle grew by the side of some long forgotten lilies. The minute the party entered the garden, innumerable little insects, frightened at the unusual noise, took refuge under the grass, and birds quitting their nests flew from branch to branch. The silence which had reigned for so many years in this peaceful spot gave place to the hum of voices and merry bursts of laughter. None of them appreciated this solitude, none even meditated on it, it was disturbed, profaned without respect. Numerous anecdotes were related of the different episodes of the most pleasant of their winter soirÉes, anecdotes mingled with agreeable allusions, expressive glances, hidden compliments; in fine, with all those thousand nothings that accompany the conversation of such as seek to be pleased, not yet claiming the right to be serious.

The steward, after having vainly searched high and low through the whole castle to find a bell which might be heard at some distance, at last decided on calling out from the top of the steps, that breakfast was served up, while the half smile accompanying his words, showed that he, as well as his superiors, had made up his mind for that day at least to dispense with his ordinary habits of etiquette and propriety. They sat gayly down to table. The old castle was forgotten, the deserted condition in which they had found it, and the sadness that reigned around. All spoke at the same time, and they drank to the health of their hostess, or rather of the fairy whose presence alone made of that decayed habitation an enchanted palace. Suddenly every eye was turned toward the dining-room window.

“Heavens! what is this?” they exclaimed.

Before the castle windows a small cariole of osier, painted green, with large wheels, as high as the body of the vehicle itself, was seen to drive up and stop; it was drawn by a short gray horse, whose eyes seemed to be endangered by the shafts of the cabriolet, and were constantly turned upward. The drawn curtains of the cabriolet only disclosed a pair of arms covered with the sleeves of a blue surtout, and a whip that tickled the ears of the gray horse.

It was this singular arrival which caused the exclamation of surprise related in the commencement of our story.

“Gracious! ladies,” said Madame de Moncar, “I had forgotten to tell you that I was absolutely forced to invite the village doctor to breakfast with us; he is an old man who formerly rendered services to my uncle’s family, and whom I have seen once or twice. But be not alarmed at this new guest, he is very silent. After a few words of common politeness we may act as though he were not here—besides, I do not think he will stay long.”

At this period the door opened and Doctor BarnabÉ entered. He was a little feeble old man, with a mild and calm countenance. His white hair was tied behind in a queue of the old style. A sprinkling of powder covered his temples as well as his forehead, which was furrowed with wrinkles. He wore a black coat, and breeches with steel buckles. On one arm hung a great-coat, lined with puce colored taffeta. The other hand held a large cane and his hat. The toute-ensemble of the toilette of the village doctor gave evidence that he had that day taken great pains with his dress; but his black stockings and coat were covered with large splashes of mud, as though the poor old man had fallen into some ditch. He stopped short on the threshold of the door, astonished at finding himself in so large a company. A slight embarrassment was depicted for a moment on his features, but he recovered himself and bowed without speaking. At this strange entrance the guests were seized with a great desire to laugh, which they repressed as well as they could. Madame de Moncar alone, who could not, as the mistress of the house, be wanting in politeness, remained serious.

“Goodness! doctor, have you been upset?” she asked.

Doctor BarnabÉ, before answering, glanced at the company around him, and however plain and naÏve his countenance might be, it was impossible for him not to detect the hilarity caused by his arrival. He answered tranquilly,

“I was not upset. A poor wagoner had fallen under the wheels of his car, I was passing by and assisted him.”

And the doctor made toward the chair which had been left empty for him. He took his napkin, unfolded it, passed one end through the button-hole of his coat, and spread the rest over his breast and knees.

At this dÉbut, numerous smiles played on the lips of the guests, and some titters broke the silence. This time the doctor did not raise his eyes, perchance did not notice.

“Are there many sick in the village?” said Madame de Moncar, whilst the new comer was being helped.

“Yes, madame, many.”

“The country, then, is unhealthy?”

“No, madame.”

“But from what do these diseases proceed, then?”

“From the great heat during the harvests, and the cold and damp in winter.”

Here one of the guests, assuming great gravity, mingled in the conversation. “Then, sir, in this healthy place they are sick all the year round?”

The doctor raised his eyes to his questioner, looked at him, hesitated, and seemed to be suppressing or seeking for an answer. Madame de Moncar kindly came to his assistance.

“I know,” said she, “that you are the savior here of all who suffer.”

“O! you are too good,” the old man replied, and he appeared deeply occupied in a slice of patÉ he had just helped himself to.

Doctor BarnabÉ was now left to himself and the conversation went on as before.

If their eyes fell by chance on the peaceful old man, it was to glance a slight sarcasm, which, coupled with the conversation, might, they thought, pass unnoticed by him who was the object of it; not that these young persons were habitually impolite, and possessed no goodness of heart; but the occasion itself, the journey, the preparation for breakfast, their meeting, the smiles which commenced with the events of the day, all led to an unseasonable gayety, an infectious spirit of ridicule, which rendered them relentless to the poor victim whom chance had thrown in their path. The doctor appeared to eat tranquilly, without raising his eyes, without even seeming to listen, or uttering a word; they began to treat him as one deaf and dumb, and the breakfast was finished without restraint.

When they rose from the table Doctor BarnabÉ stepped back a little, allowing each gentleman to choose the lady he wished to escort to the parlor. One being left alone he timidly advanced and offered her, not his arm, but his hand. The young lady’s fingers were scarcely grazed by those of the doctor, who, with an inclination of respect, proceeded with measured steps to the parlor. New smiles awaited this entrance, but no frown was seen on the old man’s brow, and they now declared him blind as well as deaf and dumb.

Dr. BarnabÉ, leaving his partner, sought the smallest and plainest chair in the room. He drew it apart from the rest of the party, seated himself, placed his cane between his knees, crossed his hands upon the pommel of the cane, and leaned his chin on his hands. He remained silent in this meditative posture, and from time to time closed his eyes, as though a sweet sleep which he neither courted nor shunned was about to overcome him.

“Madame de Moncar,” said one of the party, “you surely do not intend to reside among these ruins?”

“No, indeed, that is not my intention; but here are tall trees and dense forests. M. de Moncar might easily be tempted to pass some months here in the game season.”

“But then you would have to pull down, rebuild, and clear away.”

“Come, we will think of a plan,” said the countess, “let us go out and trace the future garden of my domains.”

The pleasure party, however, seemed doomed to ill luck. At that moment a heavy cloud burst overhead, and a fine thick rain beginning to fall, it was impossible for them to go out of doors.

“Gracious! what are we to do?” said Madame de Moncar, “our horses need several hours rest—it will evidently rain for some time—the grass is so wet that we cannot walk a step for a week—the wires of the piano are all broken—there is not a book to be obtained for miles round, and this parlor is as chilly and gloomy as death. What will become of us?”

In truth, the company but late so merry was imperceptibly losing its cheerfulness. Titterings and laughter gave way to silence. They went to the windows and looked at the sky, which remained dark and cloudy. All hopes of a walk were now put an end to. They seated themselves as well as they could on the old furniture—they tried to revive the conversation, but there are thoughts which, like flowers, need a little sun, and droop when the sky is dark. Those young heads seemed bent by the storm, like the garden poplars which we see wave before the wind. An hour passed tediously away.

Their hostess, a little discouraged by the failure of her pleasure party, leaned languidly against the balcony of a window, and gazed on the country before her,

“There,” said she, “down there on the top of the hill is a small white house which I shall have pulled down, it obstructs the view.”

“The white house!” exclaimed the doctor. For more than an hour Doctor BarnabÉ had remained motionless in his seat. Joy, listlessness, the sun and the rain had followed each other without exciting one word from him. His presence had been entirely forgotten; so that when he pronounced those three words, “the white house!” all eyes were immediately turned upon him.

“What interest have you in this house, doctor?” the countess asked.

“Mon dieu! madame, do not mind what I said. It will be torn down, doubtless, since such is your wish.”

“But why do you regret this decayed old building?”

“Because—alas! because it was inhabited by those I loved, and—”

“And do they intend to return to it, doctor?”

“They are dead—long since, madame—they died when I was young.”

And the old man gazed sadly at the white house, which rose from the woods on the hill like a daisy springing mid the grass.

There were some moments of silence.

“Madame,” said one of the party, aside to Madame de Moncar, “there is a mystery in this: see how sad our Esculapius has grown; some pathetic drama has taken place down there; a youthful love perhaps. Let us ask the doctor to tell us the story.”

“Yes, yes,” was whispered on all sides, “let us have the narrative. A tale, a tale, and if there is no interest in it, we shall have the eloquence of the orator to amuse us.”

“Not so, gentlemen,” Madame de Moncar answered, in a low tone, “if I ask Dr. BarnabÉ to tell the story of the white house, it is on condition that no one shall laugh.”

Each having promised to be polite and attentive, Madame de Moncar drew near Doctor BarnabÉ.

“Doctor,” said she, seating herself near him, “I perceive some remembrance of former times is connected with this house, which is dear to you. Will you tell it to us? I should be very sorry, indeed, to cause you a grief that it lay in my power to spare you. I will allow the house to remain if you will tell me why you cherish it.”

Doctor BarnabÉ appeared astonished, and was silent. The countess drew still nearer to him, and said—

“Dear doctor, see what bad weather it is, how dull every thing looks; you are older than any of us, tell us a tale, that we may forget the rain, the fog and the cold.”

The doctor seemed more astonished than ever.

“This is no idle tale,” he said. “That which transpired in the white house is very simple, and can have no interest for any one but myself. Strangers would not credit such a story. And then I cannot descant at length when there are listeners. Besides, what I have to recount is sad, and you have come here to be amused.”

And the doctor again leant his chin on his cane.

“Dear doctor,” returned the countess, “the house shall stand if you will only narrate to us what has caused your love for it.”

The old man seemed moved; he crossed and uncrossed his legs, felt for his snuff-box, replaced it in his pocket unopened, and turned to the countess.

“You will not tear it down,” he said, pointing with his thin and trembling hand to the dwelling which was seen in the horizon.

“I promise it you.”

“Well, be it so then. I will do this much for them—I will preserve the house where they were happy. Ladies, I am no orator, yet I think the least learned may make himself understood, when relating that which he has seen. I tell you beforehand the story is not gay. We call a musician when we would dance or sing, a doctor when we are suffering or about to die.”

A circle was formed round Doctor BarnabÉ, who, with his hands still crossed over the head of his cane, calmly began the following narrative, in the midst of an auditory that all the while fully intended to laugh at his recital.

It was long ago, it happened when I was young, for I too have been young—youth is a possession that all enjoy, the rich and poor, but which remains to no one. I had just passed my examination, having become a doctor; and well persuaded that, thanks to me, men would now cease to die, I returned to my native village to display my great talents. My village is not far from here. From my little chamber window I saw this white house, on the opposite side from that you are now gazing on. My village would certainly have no great beauty in your eyes, but to me it was superb. I was born there and loved it. Each one sees in his own particular manner the things he loves, and adapts himself to continue this love. The Almighty permits us at times to be somewhat blind, for he knows that to see every thing clearly in this lower world is not always desirable. This country then appeared smiling and animated to me, for I could live happily here: the white house alone, each day when I rose and opened my shutters, struck disagreeably on my sight—it was always closed, noiseless and sad, like a deserted thing. Never had I seen its windows open and shut, its door ajar, or the garden-gate give entrance to any one. Your uncle, who had no use for a dwelling by the side of his castle, endeavored to let it, but the price was rather high, and there was no one near wealthy enough to reside in it. Thus it continued tenantless, whilst in the village, at the slightest noise which made the dogs bark, the forms of two or three happy children might be seen at every window, putting aside the branches of the gilly-flower to look into the street. But one morning on awaking I was agreeably surprised at seeing a ladder against the walls of the white house, a painter was painting the window-shutters green; a servant was cleaning the panes of glass, and a gardener digging the garden.

“So much the better,” I said, “a good roof like that sheltering no one is so much lost.”

From day to day the house changed its appearance, boxes of flowers concealed the nakedness of the walls; a parterre was laid out before the steps, the walks, cleared of their weeds, were graveled, and muslin curtains, white as the driven snow, glittered in the sun when his rays shone in the windows. Finally, one day a post-chaise passed through the village and stopped before the enclosure of the little house. Who were these strangers? none knew, though every one in the village was longing to ascertain. For a long time nothing was known of what took place within the dwelling, but the roses bloomed and the green grass on the lawn grew. How many conjectures were made on this mystery—they were adventurers who were concealing themselves, perhaps a youth and his mistress; in fine, every thing was guessed but the truth. The truth is so plain that often we do not think of it; for when once the imagination is set to work, it seeks right and left, nor dreams of looking straight forward. As for me, I troubled myself but little about it.

What matters it, thought I, who they are, they are human beings who must undergo sickness before long, and then I shall be sent for. I waited patiently.

In reality, one morning I was sent word that Mr. William Meredith desired to see me. So I dressed myself with great care, and endeavoring to put on a gravity fitting my station, I passed through the whole village, not a little proud of my importance, and many envied me that day, they even stood at their doors to see me pass, saying, “he is going to the white house;” and I, to all appearance disdaining a vulgar curiosity, walked slowly along, nodding to my neighbors, the peasants, with an “au revoir, my friends, I will see you again later on; this morning I have business on hand.” And in this manner I reached the abode there on the hill.

When I entered the parlor of this house I was pleased at the sight that presented itself; all was at once plain and elegant. The handsomest ornaments of the house were the flowers, which were so artistically arranged that gold could not have adorned it better. White muslin festooned the windows, and there were white coverings on the arm-chairs, this was all—but there were roses and jessamines, and flowers of every kind, as in a garden. The light was softened by the window curtains, the air was filled with the delicious perfume of flowers, and reclining on a sofa a young girl, or rather a young woman, fair and fresh as all that surrounded her, welcomed me with a smile. A handsome young man, who was seated on a stool near her, rose when Dr. BarnabÉ was announced.

“Sir,” said he, with a strongly marked foreign accent, “your skill is so highly spoken of here that I expected to have seen an old man.”

“Sir,” I replied, “I have studied deeply, and am convinced of the importance of my station. You may place reliance in me.”

“Very well,” said he, “I commit my wife to your care, her present situation calls for some advice as well as precaution. Born far from here, she left home and friends to follow me, and I to guard and repay her have nothing but love—no experience. I rely upon you, sir, to keep her if possible from every suffering.”

And the young man as he spoke cast on his wife a look so full of love that her large blue eyes glistened with tears of gratitude. She dropped a child’s cap she was embroidering, and with both hands pressed the hand of her husband.

I beheld them, and should have found that their lot was enviable, but did not. I had often seen persons weep and called them happy. I saw Mr. Meredith and his wife smile, and yet could not repress the thought that they had their sorrows. I took a seat near my charming patient. Never have I seen aught as beautiful as that face covered with the long ringlets of her fair hair.

“How old, are you, madame?” I asked.

“Seventeen years.”

“And this distant country in which you were born, is the climate there very different from ours?”

“I was born in America, at New Orleans. Oh! the sun is brighter there.”

And fearing, doubtless, that she had expressed a regret, she added—

“But every country is beautiful when it is the abode of one’s husband, and we are near him, expecting the birth of his child.”

Her eyes sought those of William Meredith, then, in a language I did not understand, she spoke some words, in so sweet a tone, they must have been of love. After a short stay I left, promising to return soon.

I did return—and at the end of two months was almost a friend for this young couple. Mr. and Madame Meredith had no selfish happiness, they could still spare the time to think of others. They could understand that a poor village doctor, having no other society than that of peasants, would deem an hour well spent that was passed in listening to polished conversation. They attracted me to them, told me of their travels, and soon, with the frank confidence that characterizes youth, they related to me their story. It was the young wife who spoke—

“Doctor,” she said, “beyond the seas I have a family, father, sisters and friends, whom I long loved till the day when I loved William; but then I closed my heart against those who spurned my friend. William’s father forbade him to love me, because he was too noble for the daughter of an American planter; my father forbade me to love William, for he was too proud to give his daughter to a man whose family would not have welcomed her with love. They would have separated us—but we loved! For a long time we implored, wept, asked forgiveness of those to whom we owed obedience, but they were inflexible—and we loved each other! Doctor, have you ever loved? I hope so, that you may be indulgent to us. We were privately married and fled toward France. Oh! how beautiful the sea appeared to me the first days of our love! It was hospitable for the two fugitives. Wandering in the midst of the waves, we passed happy hours seated in the shade of the large sails of the vessel, dreaming of the pardon of our parents, and seeing nothing but joy in the future. Alas! it did not come to pass thus: they wished to pursue us, and by the aid of some irregularity of form in our clandestine marriage, William’s ambitious family harbored the cruel idea of separating us. We have taken refuge in these mountains and woods, under an assumed name, and live unknown. My father did not pardon me, no, he cursed me! this is the reason, doctor, why I cannot always be gay even with William by my side.”

Good God! how they loved. Never have I known a soul given to another, like that of Eva Meredith to her husband. Whatever employment she chose, she always placed herself where she might see William on raising her eyes. She read no book but that he read: with her head reclining on her husband’s shoulder, her eyes would follow the same lines that his traced; she even wished they both might have the same thoughts at the same time; and when I crossed the garden to reach the house, I could not sometimes refrain from smiling at seeing on the sand the traces of Eva’s little feet beside the foot prints of William. What a difference, ladies, between that solitary old house you see before you, and the pretty dwelling of my young friends—how flowers covered the walls and bouquets rested on all the tables, how many pleasant books of love tales resembled their love, and blithe birds sung around them. Oh! it was something to live and be beloved by those who loved so well. But mark how much reason we have in saying that our happy days are not long on this earth, and that God, who creates happiness, bestows but little here.

One morning Eva Meredith seemed to be in pain. I questioned her with all the interest I felt for her, but she said hastily—

“Hold, doctor, do not seek so far for the cause of my affliction, do not feel my pulse, it is my heart which beats too quick. Ascribe it to what you will, but I am vexed this morning. William is about to leave me, he is going to the next village, on the other side of the mountain, to receive some money sent to us.”

“And when will he return?” I asked.

She smiled, blushed slightly, and then with a look that seemed to say, do not laugh at me, answered, “this evening.”

I could not help smiling, in spite of her imploring look.

At this moment a servant brought to the steps the horse that Mr. Meredith was going to ride. Eva rose, went down into the garden, approached the horse, and playing with his mane, leaned her head on the animal’s neck, perhaps to hide her tears. William came, and springing on his horse, gently raised his wife’s head.

“Child,” he said, whilst he fondly gazed on her and kissed her forehead.

“William, it is because we have not yet been separated so many hours together.”

Mr. Meredith bent forward, and again impressed a kiss on her forehead; he then put spurs to his horse and rode off at full speed. I am confident he, too, was somewhat affected. Nothing is so contagious as the weakness of those we love; tears beget tears, and he has self command, indeed, who can look on a weeping friend and resist their influence.

I left the spot and entered my own little chamber, where I began to think of the great happiness of loving. I put the question to myself whether an Eva would ever partake of my humble dwelling. I did not consider if I was worthy of love. Good heavens! when we look on beings devoted to each other, we can easily see that it is not on account of certain reasons and things they love so well—they love because it is necessary for them, inevitably so; they love on account of their own heart, not that of others. Well, this happy chance, which brings together souls that have need of love, I sought to find, even as in my morning walks I would seek for a scented flower. And thus I dreamed, although it is a culpable feeling which, on seeing the happiness of others, makes us regret our own want of it. Is it not partly envy? And if joy could be stolen, like gold, should we not be tempted to possess ourselves of it?

The day slipped away, and I had just finished my frugal supper, when a message came from Madame Meredith, imploring me to come to her house. In five minutes I was at the door of the white house. I found Eva still alone, seated on a sofa, unemployed, without even a book, pale and flurried. “Come in, doctor, come in,” she said, in her sweet manner; “I cannot stay alone any longer. See how late it is; he should have been here two hours ago, and he has not yet returned.”

I was surprised at the protracted stay of Mr. Meredith, but in order to cheer his wife, I answered, without evincing any emotion, “What can we know of the time necessary to transact his business in when he reached the town? He may have been compelled to wait, or perhaps the notary was absent; papers may have had to be drawn and signed, and—”

“Ah, doctor! I knew you would speak consoling words to me. I did not hesitate to send for you. I needed to hear some one tell me it was foolish in me to tremble thus. How long the day has been. Great God! are there persons who can exist alone? Do they not die at once, as though you were to take from them one half the air they breathed. But it is striking eight.”

In truth it was eight o’clock. I could not understand why William had not returned. At all events I answered;

“Madame, the sun is barely gone down; it is still daylight, and the evening is beautiful; let us inhale the sweet scent of your flowers; let us go to the spot where we are likely to meet him—your husband will then find you on his path.”

She leant on my arm, and slowly walked toward the garden-gate. I endeavored to draw her attention to surrounding objects. She answered me at first as a child obeys, but I felt that her thoughts were far away. She gazed uneasily on the green gate which still remained half open as when William left, and leaning against the trellis, listened to me with now and then a smile of acknowledgment, for in proportion as it grew later did she lose the courage to answer me. Her eyes watched in the heavens the setting sun, and the gray tints that followed the brilliancy of its rays, gave certain evidence of the progress of time. Every thing grew dark around us. The turnings of the road, which till then had been visible through the woods, now disappeared beneath the shade of the lofty trees, and the village clock struck nine. Eva trembled; as for me, every stroke seemed to reach my heart. I felt for the sufferings of this poor young creature.

“Remember, madame,” I said, (she had not spoken to me, but I read her uneasiness in every feature,) “remember that Mr. Meredith can only return slowly; the roads through the woods are continually over rocks, which do not admit of a quick passage.”

I spoke thus to remove her apprehensions; but the truth was, I could no longer account for William’s absence. I, who was so well acquainted with the distance, knew that I could have been twice to the town and back since he had left. The evening dews began to moisten our clothes, and especially the thin muslin that Eva wore. I drew her arm within mine, and led her toward the house. Hers was a gentle disposition—all submission, even her grief. Slowly she walked, her head bowed down, her eyes riveted on the marks which her husband’s horse had left on the sand. Good heavens! it was sad, returning thus at night, and still without William. In vain did we listen, all was silent—that grand silence of nature, which, in the country, at nightfall, nothing disturbs. How every feeling of restlessness is increased at such a time. The earth looked so sad; in the midst of the obscurity, it seemed to remind us that in life, likewise, all at times becomes clouded. It was the sight of this young woman which caused these reflections; had I been alone, they never would have entered my mind.

We re-entered the house. Eva sat down on the couch, and remained motionless, her hands clasped on her knees, and her head sunk on her breast. A lamp had been placed on the mantle, and the light fell full on her face. Never shall I forget its expression; she was pale—pale as marble; her forehead and cheeks of the same deathly hue; the dampness of the evening had lengthened the curls of her hair, which fell in disorder over her shoulders. Bright drops trembled beneath her eye-lids, and the quivering of her livid lips, but too plainly betrayed the effort to restrain her tears. She was so young that her countenance seemed rather that of a child forbidden to weep.

I began to feel disturbed, and did not know how to conduct myself toward her. Suddenly I recollected (it was truly a doctor’s idea) that amid her grief Eva had taken no nourishment since the morning; and the situation she was in rendered it imprudent to prolong this privation of all food. At the first mention I made of it, she raised her eyes reproachfully to mine, and this time the motion of her eye-lids caused two hot tears to course down her cheeks.

“For your child, madame,” I said, respectfully.

“Ah! it is true!” she murmured; and she rose and went into the dining-room. But in the dining-room there were two plates on the little table; this, for the moment, appeared to me so afflicting, that I stood still without uttering a word. The uneasiness that was creeping over me made me quite awkward. I was not even skillful enough to say things which I did not believe. The silence continued; and, nevertheless, I would say to myself, I am here to console her—it was for this she sent for me. There are, doubtless, a thousand reasons that might explain this delay; let me think of one—but I sought, and sought in vain. I then remained silent, inwardly cursing the little wit of a poor village doctor.

Eva did not eat any thing, but leaned on her hands. Suddenly she turned toward me, and bursting into sobs, said,

“Ah, doctor! you also are disturbed, I see it.”

“No, madame, no, indeed,” I replied, speaking at random; “why should I be uneasy? He has, no doubt, stopped to dinner with the notary. The country is safe, and beside, no one knows that he has money with him.”

One of my presentiments had thus unconsciously escaped me. I knew that a company of strange reapers had passed through the village that very morning, on their way to a neighboring district.

Eva gave a shriek.

“Robbers! there are robbers, then. Oh! I never thought of that danger.”

“But, madame, my only mention of them was to tell you there were none.”

“Oh! you would never have thought of it, doctor, had you not supposed this misfortune possible. William! my William! why did you leave me!” and she wept.

I stood there, vexed at my blunder, hesitating before every thought, stammering out some disconnected words, and feeling that to cap my misfortune, my eyes were filling with tears. At last a thought struck me.

“Madame Meredith,” said I, “I cannot see you thus, and stay by your side without a consoling word. I will go in quest of your husband; I will, at all risks, take one of the roads leading through the woods; I will search every where, will call him by name, and go, if necessary, as far as the town itself.”

“Oh, thanks! thanks, my friend!” Eva cried; “take with you the gardener and the servant, search in every direction.”

We quickly returned to the parlor, and Eva rung the bell loudly several times. All the residents of the little house hurried into the room.

“Follow Dr. BarnabÉ,” said Madame Meredith.

Just then, the gallop of a horse was distinctly heard on the gravel walks. Eva uttered a cry of happiness that reached every heart. I can never forget the divine expression of joy which instantly lit that face, still bedewed with tears.

We both rushed to the steps. The moon at this moment broke forth from the clouds, and shone full on a horse, covered with foam, and riderless, whose bridle dragged the ground, whilst the empty stirrups beat against his dusty sides. Another cry this time, a dreadful one, burst from Eva’s lips. She then turned toward me, her eyes fixed, her lips parted, and her arms dropping listless by her side.

“My friends,” I said, to the frightened domestics, “light torches, and follow me. Madame, we will return soon, and, I trust, with your husband, who may be slightly hurt—a stumble, perhaps; do not despond, we will soon return.”

“I will follow you,” murmured Eva Meredith, in a choking voice.

I told her that it was impossible. “We must go swiftly,” I said, “perhaps a great distance; and in the state you are in, it would be risking your own life as well as your child’s.”

“I will follow you,” she replied.

O! then I felt how sad was the loneliness of this woman. If a father or mother had been there they would have commanded her to stay, they would have detained her forcibly; but she was alone on earth, and to my earnest entreaties, she still answered hoarsely, “I will follow you.”

We set out, but clouds now hid the moon; there was no light in the heavens, nor on the earth, and we could scarcely grope our way by the unsteady blaze of our torches. The servant led the way, and waved the torch he held from right to left, to light the ditches and streams by the road-side. Behind him Madame Meredith, the gardener, and myself watched the glare of light, seeking with anguish for some object to present itself. From time to time we raised our voices, and called on William Meredith, and after us a stifled sob murmured the name of William, as though her heart depended on the instinct of love to make her sobs heard sooner than our shouts.

We reached the woods. The rain began to fall, and the drops pattering on the leaves sounded so mournful, it seemed that all was weeping around us.

The thin garments Eva wore were soon saturated by the cold rain. The water streamed from the hair and forehead of the poor young woman. She bruised her feet against the stones in the road, and frequently tottered, and was on the point of falling; but she sustained herself with all the energy of despair, and continued on her way.

It was a mournful sight. The red glare of our torches lit in turn each rock and leafless trunk. Occasionally, at a bend in the road, the wind would almost extinguish this light, and we stopped, lost in darkness. We had called on William Meredith till our voices became so tremulous that we ourselves shuddered at them. I did not dare to look at Eva; in truth I feared she would fall dead before me. At last, at a moment when worn out and discouraged we were moving silently along, Madame Meredith suddenly pushed us aside, and darting forward, sprung across a heap of brush. We followed—as soon as we could raise a torch to distinguish objects, alas! we saw her on her knees beside the body of William; he lay stretched on the ground motionless, his eyes glazed, and his forehead covered with the blood that trickled from a wound on the left side of his head.

“Doctor?” said Eva.

That single word said—does he still live?

I leaned forward and felt his pulse; I put my hand on his heart, and stood silent. Eva had watched every movement I made, but when I continued silent, the awful truth flashed upon her—she spoke no word, she uttered no cry, but fell in a swoon on the dead body of her husband.

“But, ladies,” said Doctor BarnabÉ, turning to his audience, “see, the sun is shining; you can now go out. Let us leave this mournful story.”

Madame de Moncar drew near the old man; “Doctor,” said she, “pray be good enough to finish. Look at us, and you will not doubt the interest with which we have listened to you.”

And it was so, there were no more smiles of derision on those young faces that were gathered round the village doctor. Perhaps even tears could have been detected in some of their eyes. He resumed his narrative.

Madame Meredith was carried home, and lay for several hours senseless on her bed. I felt that it was at the same time a duty and a cruelty to lavish on her the assistance of my art to recall her to life. I dreaded the heart-rending scenes that would follow this state of immobility; and I bent over her, bathing her temples with cooling water, and anxiously awaiting the grievous, but happy moment when I should see the breath of life issue from her lips. I was deceived in my anticipations, for I had never before seen a terrible misfortune. Eva opened her eyes, and closed them again instantly; the lids were not even moistened by a tear. She lay cold and silent, without motion; and I should have thought her dead, had I not felt her heart begin to throb beneath my hand. How mournful it is to witness a grief we know to be beyond all consolation. I felt that to remain silent seemed a want of pity for this unhappy woman, but that to speak consolingly were not to appreciate the depth of her sorrow. I, who was unable even to soothe her uneasiness—how could I hope to be more eloquent in the face of such an affliction. I adopted the safest plan, that of a complete silence. I said to myself that I would remain and take care of the physical evil; so I stood by her side as a faithful dog would have couched at her feet. My resolution once taken, I was calmer. In the course of a few hours I put a spoonful of a beverage that I deemed necessary to her lips. Eva slowly turned her head to the other side. In a few minutes I again attempted it.

“Drink, madame,” I said; and I gently raised the spoon to her lips, but they continued closed.

“Madame, for your child,” I said, in a low voice.

Eva opened her eyes, and raising herself with difficulty, rested on her elbow, leaned over toward the drink I presented, and took it; she then fell back on her pillow.

“I must wait till another life is separated from mine,” she murmured.

From that time Madame Meredith spoke no more, but she followed my prescriptions mechanically. Stretched on her bed of grief, she seemed to sleep eternally; but whenever, in my lowest tone, I said to her, “raise yourself and drink this,” she obeyed at the first word, which proved to me that the soul was ever awake in that body, and found no moment of forgetfulness or repose.

There was no one but myself to attend to William’s funeral. Nothing positive was ever known as to the cause of his death. The money that he was to have brought from the town was not found upon him; perhaps he had been robbed and assassinated; perhaps this money, given in notes, had fallen from his pocket at the time when his horse might have stumbled, and as they never thought of looking for it till some time afterward, it was not impossible that the rain had buried it in the muddy ground and wet grass. Some inquiries were instituted, but without result, and all search was soon given over.

I endeavored to learn from Eva Meredith if it was not necessary to write some letters to inform her family, or her husband’s, of what had taken place. It was difficult to obtain an answer from her; but I succeeded at last in finding out that I had only need to acquaint their agent with it, and he would do all that was requisite. I hoped, then, that from England at least some news would come to decide the future of this unfortunate young woman. But days passed on and no one on earth appeared to know that the widow of William Meredith was living in utter solitude in a poor country village. Soon after this, in order to recall Eva to the feeling of existence, I expressed a desire that she would rise. The next morning I found her risen, and dressed in black; she was but the ghost of the beautiful Eva Meredith. Her hair was parted over her pale forehead; she was seated near a window, and remained motionless as when she had been in bed.

And thus I passed long evenings near her. Each day I would accost her with words of condolence; but her only answer was a look of thanks, and then we sat still without speaking. I patiently waited for some opportunity to exchange a few thoughts with her; but my awkwardness and respect for her misfortune either could not find one, or if it occurred, let it pass by. By degrees I became accustomed to this absence of all conversation, to this reserve; and beside, what could I have said? It was of consequence she should feel that she was not absolutely alone in the world; and the support that was left her, humble though it might be, was still a consolation. I only visited her to say by my presence—I am here.

It was a strange episode in my life, and had a great influence on the rest of my destiny. Had I not evinced to you so much regret at the thought of the white house being torn down, I would quickly pass to the conclusion of this recital; but you wished to know why this house was to me a consecrated place. It is necessary, then, for me to tell you that which I thought and felt beneath its humble roof. Ladies, you will excuse some serious reflections; it does the young no harm to be made sad at times, for they have plenty of time before them to laugh and forget.

The son of a rich farmer, I had been sent to Paris to complete my studies. During the four years that I lived in that great city, I retained my awkwardness of manner, and my simplicity of style, but I had rapidly lost the ingenuousness of my sentiments. I returned to these mountains almost learned, but at the same time nearly incredulous as to every thing calculated to make us live happily beneath a thatched roof, surrounded by a family, with the prospect of the grave before us.

When Eva Meredith was happy, her felicity began to afford me useful lessons. “They deceived me there,” I said. “There are true hearts, then; there are souls as pure as these children. The pleasure of a moment is not every thing in this life of ours; there are feelings which do not expire with the year; we can love for a length of time, perhaps forever.”

And whilst I contemplated the love of William and Eva, I recovered my former artless peasant’s nature. I began to dream of a virtuous, sincere woman; one who was industrious, and would adorn my home by her diligence and solicitude. I saw myself proud of the sweet firmness of her countenance, disclosing the faithful and even austere wife. Certes, these were not my dreams at Paris, at the end of a boisterous evening passed with my comrades. But a terrible misfortune had fallen like a thunderbolt upon Eva Meredith, and this made me slower in understanding the great lessons each day unfolded to me.

Eva always sat near the window with her eyes sadly fixed on the heavens. This position, which is peculiar to those who indulge in reveries, attracted my attention but little at first, but before long it created a deep impression. Whilst my book lay open on my knees, I watched Madame Meredith, and being sure that her eyes would not detect me, I observed her closely. Eva gazed up to heaven, and my eyes followed the same direction as hers. “Ah!” I said, with a half smile, “she thinks that she will rejoin him above!” and I would turn to my book, thinking how happy it was for the weakness of woman, that such fancies came to the aid of her grief.

As I told you, my sojourn in the midst of students had filled my head with notions of an evil tendency. But each day I saw Eva in the same attitude, and each day my reflections were recalled to the same subject. By degrees I began to think that hers was a pleasant dream; and I even regretted that I could not believe it a true one. The soul, heaven, an eternity, all that my curate had formerly impressed on me, passed through my mind, as I sat at eve before the open window, and I said, “What the old curate taught me is more consoling than the cold realities which science discloses;” and then I would look on Eva, who still gazed on the heavens, whilst the bell of the village church sounded in the distance, and the rays of the setting sun shone brightly upon the cross of the steeple. And often did I return and sit near that poor widow, firm in her grief as in her holy hopes.

What! thought I, is so much love no longer attached but to a little dust already mingled with the earth; do these sighs all tend to no good?

William is gone, in the flower of his youth, and with him his strong affections, and his heart where all was still in bloom; she loved him but a year, one little year, and all is told. There is naught above us but the air—love, that feeling so deep within us, is but a flame placed in the dark prison of our body, where it shines and burns, but dies away when the frail wall around it crumbles! A little dust is all that remains of our loves, our hopes and thoughts and passions, of all that breathes and moves and elevates within us!

And there was a long silence in my breast.

In truth, I had ceased to think. I was as one stupefied, between that which I no longer denied nor yet believed. At last, on a beautiful starlight evening, when Eva clasped her hands in prayer, I could not account for it, but my hands too closed, and my lips opened to breathe a prayer. Then, through a happy chance, for the first time, did Eva Meredith see what was passing around her, as if a secret instinct had warned her that my soul was united in harmony with her own.

“Thanks,” said she, extending her hand to me, “remember him, and pray for him sometimes.”

“Oh! madame,” I cried, “may we all find a better world, whether our lives be long or short, happy, or sorely tried.”

“The immortal soul of William is on high,” she said, in a grave tone; and her gaze, at once sad and bright, was again fixed on heaven.

Since that day, in accomplishing the duties of my profession, I have often seen men die, but to them who survived, I have ever spoken consoling words of a better life—and those words I truly felt.

A month after these silent events, Eva gave birth to a son. When, for the first time, they brought the child to her, the widowed mother pronounced the name “William,” and tears, ready tears, too long refused to her grief, gushed in torrents from her eyes. The infant bore the beloved name of William, and its little cradle was placed close by the bed of its mother. Then Eva’s gaze, which had been directed to heaven, returned once more to earth. She now looked on her son as she had on heaven. She would bend over him to trace the likeness to his father, for God had permitted a perfect resemblance between William and the son he was never destined to see. A great change took place. Eva, who had consented to live till her babe was born, I could see wished still to live, since she felt how much it needed the protection of her love. She passed whole days and nights by its cradle, and when I came to see her, O! then she spoke to me, questioned me as to the duties requisite for her son; when he suffered told me of it, and asked me what ought to be done to spare him the smallest pain. She feared for the babe the heat of a ray of the sun or the cold of the least breeze. She would hug him to her bosom and warm him with her caresses; once I even thought I perceived a smile on her lips, but she never would sing to him while rocking the cradle—she called the nurse and told her to sing his lullaby, during which time her tears would flow over her darling William. Poor babe! he was beautiful, mild, tractable, but, as though his mother’s grief had even before his birth had an effect on him, he rarely cried and never smiled. He was calm, and calmness at that age makes us think of suffering. It seemed to me that the tears shed over his cradle had chilled his little soul. I wished that his caressing arms should already be thrown round his mother’s neck; I could have wished him to return the kisses lavished on him. But what am I dreaming? thought I, can one expect that this little creature, scarcely a year old, should have an idea that it was born to love and console this woman?

It was, I assure you, ladies, a touching sight to look upon, this young mother, pale, exhausted, having renounced all the future for herself, returning as it were to life for a little infant which could not even say “thanks, mother.” What a mystery is the human heart! that of so little it can make so much! Give it but a grain of sand, it will raise a mountain; or in its last throb show it an atom to love, and it again commences to beat; it does not cease its pulsations forever till nothing is left around it but space, and even the shadow of what was dear to it has fled from earth!

Eva placed her child on a rug at her feet, then looking at it, she would say to me—“Doctor, when my son is grown up I wish him to become distinguished, and when once taught I will choose for him a noble career. I will follow him everywhere—on the sea if he is in the navy, in India if in the army: he must win glory and honors; and I will lean on his arm and proudly say—I am his mother! Will he not let me follow him, doctor? a poor woman who needs but silence and solitude that she may weep, can incommode no one, is it not so?”

And then we would discuss the different pursuits to be chosen; we placed twenty years on that infant’s head, both of us forgetting that those twenty years would make us old. But, alas! we rarely dwell on ourselves, and never think of being otherwise than young and happy, when youth and happiness abide within us.

In listening to those bright anticipations, I could not help regarding with fear the child on whom another’s existence so materially depended. An indefinable dread crept over me in spite of myself; but, thought I, she has shed tears enough, and God, whom she implores, owes her some happiness.

Things were in this situation when I received a letter from my uncle, (the only surviving relation I had.) My uncle, a member of the faculty at Montpellier, sent for me that I might in that learned city perfect myself in the secrets of my profession. This letter, worded like a request, was in fact a command, and I was forced to go. The next morning, with a heart swelling at the thought of the isolation in which I should leave the widow and orphan, I repaired to the white house, to bid adieu to Eva Meredith. When I told her that I was about to quit her for a long time, I scarcely know if a shade of sadness passed over her features, her beautiful face since William’s death had worn a look of such deep melancholy, that it was impossible ever to trace on it more than the faintest smile; as for sadness, it was always there.

“Are you going to leave us,” she said, “your services were so beneficial to my child!”

The poor woman had no word of regret for her only friend who was leaving her, the mother alone grieved for the doctor so useful to her son; I did not complain. To be of use is the sweetest recompense for our devotion to others.

“Farewell,” she said, giving me her hand. “Wherever you may be, may God bless you; and if at any time it is his will that you should be unhappy, may He provide you a heart as compassionate as your own.” I bent my forehead to her hand and retired deeply affected.

The child lay sleeping on the lawn before the steps, I took him in my arms and embraced him over and over again; I gazed on him for a long time attentively, and sadly, and a tear dimmed my eye. “Oh! no, it cannot be, I am deceived,” I murmured, and hurried from the house.

“Heavens! doctor,” simultaneously exclaimed all the listeners of the village doctor, “what then did you fear for this child?”

“Allow me, ladies,” replied the doctor, “to finish this narrative in my own manner—every thing shall be told in its place; I am relating the events in the order in which they happened.”

[Conclusion in our next.

———

BY CHARLES STREET.

———

In the first place we must have a Legislature to make up a batch of laws to keep on hand ready for use, for the regulation of society, and the punishment of wrong-doing. After that, the Legislature has no more care over the laws than the ostrich has over her eggs, but leaves them to hatch out as they may. Then we must have a judiciary; and the culprit who has committed a crime or misdemeanor, must be carried into court for trial. After the matter is clearly proved out, fair and square, the court hunts up the laws that the Legislature has made, and if there is one that exactly applies to the case in every point and tittle, the fellow may stand some chance of being punished. If the law does not so apply, he is told he may go. When the law suits the case, the court orders the delinquent to be punished; and he is then handed over to another set of officers, who belong to the executive branch of the government; and if these all happen to do their duty throughout, and no mistake, punishment after a while follows the crime.

Two hundred years ago, in the New England colonies, things were not left at such loose ends. Then the work of government was bound up in a snug bundle. The legislative, judicial, and executive powers were all vested in the same body, who, of course, always knew what they had to do, and could always tell when that work was done. This omnipotent body in a number of instances was styled the General Court; an appellation which is applied to the legislative department in the old Bay State unto this day.

When a fellow was found committing depredations of any description whatever upon his neighbor, or upon the peace and good order of society, he was taken before the court, and the witnesses were examined; and if the thing was proved, and there was no law at hand that told how the fellow should be punished, the court instantly made one on the spot, and ordered its officers to carry it into execution.

It may not be amiss in this place to go a little more into detail, and trace one of these General Courts from its origin, and show how it was constituted and made up.

After the failure of Sir Walter Raleigh’s attempts to colonize Virginia, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, the spirit of discovery and settlement of the New World was greatly revived under the reign of King James. In the year 1606, that monarch granted two charters to companies of gentlemen, who united for the purpose, dividing the country into two districts, called North and South Virginia. The limits of the northern district were within thirty-eight and forty-five degrees of north latitude. This charter was granted to gentlemen of Plymouth and other towns in the west of England, who were denominated the Plymouth Company, and afterward, under a new modification of their charter, “The Council of Plymouth.”

Some of the first attempts by this company to colonize New England were very unsuccessful; the company soon grew discouraged, and were inactive a number of years. One member of the company, however, Sir Ferdinando Gorges, never “gave up the ship.” He alone remained undiscouraged by their ill success, and when the company would do nothing, he kept at work upon his own hook. He sent out vessels several times at his own expense, to explore the coast of New England with a view of making settlements. In 1616, one of his vessels, under the command of Richard Vines, wintered on the coast at the mouth of Saco river in Maine. The harbor which gave them shelter was afterward called Winter Harbor.

In 1620, the Plymouth Company received a new impulse. Their charter was renewed, their powers enlarged, and their boundaries extended from the fortieth to the forty-eighth degree of north latitude, and from sea to sea. This year the first permanent settlement was commenced in Massachusetts by the pilgrim band at Plymouth.

In 1622, the Council of Plymouth, as the company in England was now styled, made a grant to their active member, Sir F. Gorges, in company with John Mason, of all the territory between the Merrimac and Kennebec rivers, and under their auspices settlements now began to be scattered along the coast. In 1629, Mason and Gorges divided their possessions, and, like Abraham and Lot, one went to the right and the other to the left. Mason took that portion of the territory lying west of the Piscataqua river, to which he gave the name of New Hampshire, while the country east of the Piscataqua remained in the possession of Gorges, and was called for some years New Somersetshire, and afterward the Province of Maine.

After this, various grants were made along the coast of Maine to different individuals and companies, and the limits of these grants, often being very indefinite, led to many long and bitter controversies. In 1635, Gorges attempted to establish a General Court for the government of his province, and sent over commissions to several persons for that purpose. Understanding, however, that affairs were not well managed, a year or two after he sent over an order to the authorities of Massachusetts Bay “to govern his province of New Somersetshire, and to oversee his servants and private affairs.”

The authorities of Massachusetts Bay, however, declined interfering in the matter, and the province remained without a good and efficient local government till 1640, when Sir Ferdinando commissioned the following persons to be his counsellors for the administration of the government of his province: viz. “his trusty and well beloved cousin, Thomas Gorges, Esq., Richard Vines, Esq., his steward-general, Francis Champernoon, his loving nephew, Henry Jocelyn and Richard Bonython, Esqrs., and William Hook and Edward Godfrey, gentlemen.”

These persons constituted a General Court, with legislative, judicial, and executive powers, and in the name of “Sir Ferdinando Gorges, Knight, Lord Proprietor of the Province of Maine,” exercised entire control over all the affairs of the province. The first court was held at Saco, on the 25th of June, 1640; and another was holden in September following.

Among the earlier weighty matters that came under the cognizance of this court was the affair of Jane Andrews and her firkin of butter. The General Court was in session, and the judges, or the counsellors, as their commissions styled them, were seated round a long table, looking over some accounts that were in dispute between two neighbors, when Mr. Nicholas Davis came in, with a look and air of unusual agitation. He stood for a minute looking round the room, which was pretty well filled with spectators, and then he looked at the judges with an earnestness that showed he had something uncommon on his mind.

Mr. Davis was a short, thick man, inclined to be fleshy; the day was warm, and large drops of sweat stood upon his face. He drew a checked cotton handkerchief from his pocket and wiped and rubbed his face till it was as red as a boiled lobster. Then he stepped up to one of the judges and began to whisper in his ear. Presently the judge rolled up his eyes and looked astonished. Mr. Davis put his hand down into his right-hand coat pocket and pulled out a stone as large as his two fists. And then he drew another from his left-hand pocket, a little larger, and handed it to the judge. And then they whispered together again. The people looked wild, and the rest of the judges impatient. At last the judge turned round and whispered to the rest of the court for the space of two minutes. And then they called Mr. Constable Frost and told him to show Mr. Davis into the room with the grand jury.

After Mr. Davis had retired into the jury-room, the court seemed restless and unfitted to go on with business. One of the judges got up, and putting both hands into his coat pockets, walked gravely back and forth from one end of the table to the other. Two more sat whispering very earnestly to each other; and the rest were tipped back in their chairs, with a settled frown upon their brows, and looking unutterable things upon the multitude in the court-room. The people in low whispers began to speculate upon the mysterious business of Mr. Davis in the grand jury-room.

One guessed somebody “had been throwing stones at him, and he was going to bring ’em up to the ring-bolt.” Another “didn’t believe but what somebody had been breaking his windows, and if they had, they’d got to buy it.” And some guessed that “somebody had been stoning his cattle; and if they had, they’d got to hug it, for there was nothing would rouse Mr. Davis’ dander quicker than that, for he was very particular about his cattle.” In all their speculations, however, the imaginations of none of them reached the height of the enormity that had occurred.

After the lapse of about half an hour, the door of the grand jury-room was opened, and Mr. Davis walked out and took a seat on a bench in front of the court. In about three minutes more the grand jury came out in a body, with long and solemn faces, and arranging themselves upon the benches appropriated for their use, the foreman rose with a piece of paper in his hand and read as follows:

“We present Jane, the wife of John Andrews, for selling of a Firkin of Butter unto Mr. Nic. Davis; that had two stones in it, which contained fourteen pounds, wanting two ounces, in weight.”

This came upon John Andrews, who was sitting there right in the middle of the court-room with the rest of the folks, like a heavy thunder-clap. Everybody turned and looked at him, and in half a minute his face turned as red as a coal of fire.

“Mr. Andrews,” said the first judge, “is your wife at home?”

“Well—ah—I don’t know,” said John; “yes, I believe she is; I’ll go and see;” and he rose to leave the court-house.

“No, you needn’t go and see,” said the judge; “come back to your seat again.” John returned to his seat.

“How far is it to your house?” said the judge.

“About four miles,” said John.

“It is too far,” said the judge, “to bring her into court this afternoon. Which will you do, come under bonds of ten pounds to bring her into court to-morrow morning for trial, or have two constables go and take charge of her to-night?”

“I’ll come under bonds to bring her into court, if she’ll come,” said John.

“But you must bring her, whether she will come or not,” said the judge; “or else the officers must go after her immediately, and put her into confinement to-night.”

“Well, then,” said John, “I’ll come under bonds; rather than have the constables going to the house to frighten the children.”

The bonds were accordingly taken, in the sum of ten pounds, and acknowledged by John, and he was ordered to have his wife in court the next morning at nine o’clock. Mr. Nicholas Davis was ordered to be present at the same hour with his witnesses.

After adding up a few more accounts, the court adjourned till next morning. In the meanwhile John Andrews went home to break the matter to his wife.

“Now, Jane,” said he, “here’s a pretty kettle of fish we’ve got to fry. What under the sun could induce you to put them stones into the firkin of butter you sold to Mr. Davis?”

“Hang his old picter,” said Jane, “I don’t know any thing about the stones.”

“Now, what’s the use of denying it?” said John; “you know you did it. You know I see you putting of ’em in once, and made you take ’em out again and throw ’em away. And you went and put ’em in again afterward, I know, or else he’d never gone into the General Court about it, and swore to it.”

“He haint been into the Gineral Court though?” said Jane, rolling up the white of her eyes.

“I guess you’ll find he has though, by to-morrow,” said John; “and you’ve got me into as bad a scrape about it as can be, and yourself into a worse one.”

“But if there was stones in the butter,” said Jane, “he can’t prove that I put ’em in, and he can’t swear that I put ’em in.”

“Well, he can swear that he had the butter of you, and that he found the stones in it; and that’ll be enough to fix your flint for you. And you’ve got to go to court to-morrow morning and have your trial.”

“I swow I wont go into court,” said Jane, “for nobody; if he wants to settle it he may come here.”

“But he wont come here,” said John; “he has carried it into court, and the grand jury has presented you, and the judges say you must be there to-morrow morning at nine o’clock for your trial.”

“I don’t care for the grand jury, nor none of ’em,” said Jane; “I wont go to court; I’ll go off into the woods first, and stay a week, or stay till the court is over.”

“But you can’t do that,” said John. “I’m under bonds of ten pounds to carry you to court to-morrow morning.”

“You under bonds!” said Jane; “I should like to know what business you have to be under bonds to carry me to court?”

“I had to,” said John, “or else the constables were coming right over here to take you and put you into confinement to-night. So I had to give a bond of ten pounds that you should be there to-morrow morning.”

“Well, I can’t go,” said Jane; “you may pay the ten pounds.”

“But I can’t pay it,” said John; “I could not raise it any way in the world.”

“Well, what’ll they do if you don’t pay it?” said Jane, “and I don’t go to the court?”

“They’d put me in jail,” said John, “till it was paid; and that would be longer than I should want to stay there. So you’ve got to go to court to-morrow morning, and that’s a settled pint.”

When John said any thing was “a settled pint,” Jane always knew the thing was fixed, and it was no use to have any more words about it. So she sat down and gave herself up to a hearty crying spell.

When morning came, John tackled up his wagon and took Jane in and carried her to the General Court. When he arrived, the court-room was already full of spectators; the judges were seated by the long table, and Mr. Davis was there with his wife and daughter and hired girl. The case was immediately called, and the prisoner, being put to the bar, was told to hearken to an indictment found against her by the grand jury.

The clerk then read the indictment, and ended with the usual question; “Jane Andrews, what say you to this indictment, are you guilty thereof or not guilty?”

“I don’t know nothin’ at all about it, sir,” said Jane, “any more than the child that’s unborn; as for that are firkin of butter that I sold to Mr. Davis, if there was any stones in it, they must be put in by somebody’s else hands besides mine, for I packed it all down myself, and—”

“Stop, Mrs. Andrews,” said the first judge, “you must not talk; you must give a direct answer to the question; are you guilty or not guilty?”

“I’m as innocent as the man in the moon,” said Jane; “I never was accused before; I can bring folks to swear to my character ever since I was a child; I think it is too bad—”

“Stop,” said the judge; “if you don’t give a direct answer to the question immediately, you shall be sent to prison; are you guilty or not guilty?”

“No, I aint guilty,” said Jane.

“She pleads not guilty,” said the judge; “now let the witnesses be sworn. Mr. Davis, you take the stand, and tell the court and the jury what you know about this affair.”

Mr. Davis was sworn and took the stand.

“Whereabouts shall I begin?” said he, hesitating, and rubbing his sleeve over his face to brush away the perspiration.

“Tell the whole story just as it happened,” said the judge, “from first to last: that is, what relates to this particular transaction about the firkin of butter.”

“Well, it was a week ago last Saturday mornin’,” said the witness, putting one foot up upon the bench that stood before him, “I’d been down to the mill with my wagon, and was going home, I should say about nine o’clock in the mornin’; it might be a little more, and it might be a little less, but I should say it wasn’t much odds of nine o’clock, judging from my feelin’s, for I hadn’t been to breakfast; I generally go to mill before breakfast, when I go, and I commonly get back about nine o’clock; but I judged I was about half an hour later that mornin’ than common, owing to a kind of warm dispute I got into with the miller about his streakin’ the toll-dish. I told him he ought to streak it with a straight stick, but he always would take his hand to streak with, and always kept the roundin’ side of his hand up, and that made the dish a little heapin’—”

“But I don’t see what all this has to do with the tub of butter, Mr. Davis,” said the judge; “you must confine yourself to the case before the court. What was this transaction about the tub of butter?”

“Well, I was coming along to it byme by,” said the witness.

“But you must come along to it now,” said the judge; “relate what you know about the case presented by the grand jury, and not talk about any thing else.”

“Well,” said Davis, “I should judge it wasn’t much odds of nine o’clock, when I come along up by Mr. Andrews’ house, and I see Miss Andrews out to the door feedin’ the chickens; and says I, ‘good mornin’, Miss Andrews;’ and says she, ‘good mornin’, Mr. Davis;’ and says I, ‘how’s all to home?’ and says she, ‘middlin’; how does your folks do?’ ”

“But that isn’t coming to the butter,” said the judge, with an air and tone of great impatience.

“Yes ’tis,” said Davis, “I’m close to the butter now; for then says I, ‘Miss Andrews, have you got another firkin of butter to sell?’ And says she, ‘yes.’ I said another firkin, because I bought one of her last winter, that weighed about twenty pounds, and it turned out to be a very good firkin of butter, though it was rather hard salted; but I think that’s a good fault in butter; it makes it spend better, and I like the taste of it full as well, though my wife doesn’t. That firkin of butter lasted us—”

“No matter how long it lasted,” said the judge; “that is not the firkin with which we have to do now. You must come right down to the particular firkin that was the cause of this trial.”

“Well, I’m jest agoing to take hold of that now,” said Davis; “and so, says I, ‘Miss Andrews, have you got another firkin of butter to sell?’ And says she, ‘Yes, I have.’ And says I, ‘How big is it?’ Says she, ‘It weighs thirty-six pounds, and the firkin weighs six pounds, and that leaves thirty pounds of butter.’ And says I, ‘How much is it a pound?’ Says she, ‘Tenpence.’ So, after I went in and looked at it, I agreed to take it. It come to one pound five, and I took out the money and paid her, and put the firkin in my wagon and carried it home. Well, we never mistrusted there was any thing in the butter; and we went right to using of it; I guess we had some of it on the table that very night for supper; didn’t we, Judy?” turning to his wife.

“You needn’t ask your wife any questions,” said the judge. “Tell what you know yourself about the matter, and then she may tell what she knows about it.”

“Well, what I know myself about the butter is, we eat out of it about a week, and then Judy comes to me, and says she, ‘Mr. Davis, the first layin’ is all out.’ Says I, ‘It can’t be out so quick, it aint but a week since we had it.’ ‘Well, ’tis out,’ says she, ‘every morsel of it; but the layin’ wasn’t more than half as thick as it was in t’other firkin.’ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘Judy, if the first layin’ is out, you must dig into the second, that’s all.’ So off she went to get some butter for supper, and we was jest a setting down to the table, and byme by back she comes, all in a fluster, her eyes staring out of her head half as big as saucers, and she sot a plate on to the table with a great stone in it, half as big as my head; and says she, ‘there, Mr. Davis, if you’re a mind to eat such butter as that, you’re welcome to, but I shall wait till I get a new set of teeth before I try it.’ Says I, ‘Judy, what do you mean? where did that stone come from?’ Says she, ‘It came right out of the middle of the butter tub.’ ”

“You may be a little particular along here,” said the judge, “for you are getting into the very marrow of the subject now. What happened next?”

“Well, says I, ‘Judy, I should like to see the hen that lays such eggs as that; let’s go and look at it.’ So we went to the firkin, and, sure enough, there was the hole in the middle of the butter where she took the stone out. Says I, ‘Judy, I guess it’s best to probe that are wound a little more, as the doctors say.’ So I took a knife and run down into the butter a little further, and struck on another stone; and we went to work and dug that out; and after we cut round enough to be satisfied there wasn’t any more, we took the two and weighed ’em, and found they weighed fourteen pounds lacking two ounces. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘Judy, this matter aint agoin’ to stop short of the Gineral Court.’ She thought I better hush it up, cause it would hurt Miss Andrews’ feelin’s; but I told her no, honesty’s the best policy, and fair play’s a jewel, and if Miss Andrews isn’t old enough to know that yet, it is time she was larnt it, and if I don’t carry her into the Gineral Court, it’s because my name isn’t Nicholas Davis. And that’s pretty much all I know about it.”

“The case is every way clear,” said the first judge; “it seems to be hardly worth while to go any further. But Mrs. Davis may take the stand a few minutes; the court would like to ask her a few plain questions.”

Mrs. Davis was accordingly sworn, and took the stand.

“How do you know,” said the judge, “that the stones were not put into the butter after the tub was brought to your house?”

“Because they couldn’t be,” said Mrs. Davis. “I didn’t do it, and Hannah didn’t do it, and Polly didn’t do it; and there wasn’t nobody else that could do it.”

“Well, how do you know that Mrs. Andrews did it?” said the judge.

“Because,” said Mrs. Davis, “it’s jest like her. She loves fine clothes, and fine clothes costs money; and so she always will have money; and so I know as well as can be she did it.”

“Very true,” said the judge, “this love of finery is the cause of a world of crime. You may describe a little more particularly how you first found the stones.”

“Well, we sot down to the table; I guess the sun was about an hour high, we commonly eat supper this time of year about an hour before sunset; Mr. Davis always wants his supper airly, because he don’t think it’s healthy to eat jest before going to bed; he says it gives him the nightmare. Well, Mr. Davis he looks round upon the table, and says he, ‘Judy’—he always calls me Judy, ever since we’ve been married, which I don’t think is exactly the thing for a person of my age, but he seems to like it, so I don’t make a fuss about it—says he, ‘Judy, here isn’t butter enough for supper on the table, you better get some more.’ Says I, ‘I hate to disturb that are second layin’ to-day, it’s packed down so nice.’ But he insisted upon it, there wasn’t enough on the table for supper—Mr. Davis eats a good deal of butter, and he doesn’t like to see a scanty plate of it on the table. So I took a knife and a plate and went into the buttery, and took the kiver off the firkin and sot it down on the floor; and then I was een a most a good mind to go back without any, when I see how smooth the second layin’ looked, for I do hate to cut into a new layin’, it seems to go away so soon. But I knew Mr. Davis would have some, so I took the knife and begun to cut down into the middle of the butter, and instead of cutting through, as it did in the first layin’, it come down chuck on to a stone. And that’s the way I found it.”

“It’s a very clear case,” said the judge. “It is unnecessary to proceed any further with witnesses.”

And then he turned to the jury and charged them, that the guilt of the prisoner was fairly made out, and they had nothing to do but bring in a verdict of guilty. Accordingly the jury retired, and having staid out just long enough to count noses and see that they were all present, came in with a verdict of guilty.

The court then went into deep consultation with regard to the sentence; and after a half hour’s whispering, and talking, and voting, the first judge rose and pronounced the sentence as follows:

“The court doth order, that Jane Andrews shall stand at the public town-meeting which is to be held on Monday next, and in the most conspicuous part thereof till two hours time be expired, with her offence written in capital letters and fastened upon her forehead.”

This sentence was duly executed, according to the letter and spirit thereof, on the following Monday. But it must be left to the imagination of the reader to portray the scenes that occurred on that occasion. We may simply hint, however, that the meeting was unusually thronged, being more, numerously attended than any town-meeting in the place for three years previous. Some old people, who had not been out on any public occasion for half a dozen years, came now several miles to see the crime of Mrs. Andrews justly and properly punished.

Everybody, as they went into the town-house, turned square round, and stood and looked Mrs. Andrews in the face several minutes, and read the inscription on her forehead. Old Deacon White, who was rather long-sighted, put on his spectacles and stood facing her, about a yard off, and read the inscription over three times, loud enough to be heard all over the room. And long-legged, razor-faced Peter Johnson, who was very short-sighted, put on his spectacles and stood so near her to read the inscription, that his nose almost touched hers, causing some rather rude and irreverent laughs among the younger portion of the multitude. In short, the punishment was effectual, and the sin of selling stones for butter was not repeated again by the housewives of New Somersetshire during the life-time of that generation.