——“with burnished neck of verdant gold, erect
Amid his circling spires, that on the grass
Floated redundant,—she busied heard the sound
Of rustling leaves, but minded not, at first.”—Milton.

Helen recovered, and the agitation caused by her sickness having subsided, everything went on apparently as it did before. While she was sick, Mrs. Gleason resolved that she would keep her as much as possible from Miss Thusa’s influence, and endeavor to counteract it by a closer, more confiding union with herself. But every one knows how quickly the resolutions, formed in the hour of danger, are forgotten in the moment of safety—and how difficult it is to break through daily habits of life. Even when the pulse beats high with health, and the heart glows with conscious energy, it is difficult. How much more so, when the whole head is sick, and the whole spirit is faint—when the lightest duty becomes a burden, and rest, nothing but rest, is the prayer of the weary soul!

The only perceptible change in the family arrangements was, that Miss Thusa carried her wheel at night into the nursery, and installed herself there as the guardian of Helen’s slumbers. The little somnambulist, as she was supposed to be, required a watch, and when Miss Thusa offered to sit by the fire-side till the family retired to rest, Mrs. Gleason could not be so ungrateful as to refuse, though she ventured to reiterate the warning, breathed by the feverish couch of her child. This warning Miss Thusa endeavored to bear in mind, and illumined the gloomy grandeur of her legends by some lambent rays of fancy—but they were lightning flashes playing about ruins, suggesting ideas of desolation and decay.

Let it not be supposed that Helen’s life was all shadow. Oh, no! In proportion as she shuddered at darkness, and trembled before the spectres her own imagination created, she rejoiced in sunshine, and revelled in the bright glories of creation. She was all darkness or all light. There was no twilight about her. Never had a child a more exquisite perception of the beautiful, and as at night she delineated to herself the most awful and appalling images that imagination can conceive, by day she beheld forms more lovely than ever visited the poet’s dream. She could see angels cradled on the glowing bosom of the sunset clouds, angels braiding the rainbow of the sky. Light to her was peopled with angels, as darkness with phantoms. The brilliant-winged butterflies were the angels of the flowers—the gales that fanned her cheeks the invisible angels of the trees. If Helen had lived in a world all of sunshine, she would have been the happiest being in the world. Moonlight, too, she loved—it seemed like a dream of the sun. But it was only in the presence of others she loved it. She feared to be alone in it—it was so still and holy, and then it made such deep shadows where it did not shine! Yes! Helen would have been happy in a world of sunshine—but we are born for the shadow as well as the sunbeam, and they who cannot walk unfearing through the gloom, as well as the brightness, are ill-fitted for the pilgrimage of life.

Childhood is naturally prone to superstition and fear. The intensity of suffering it endures from these sources is beyond description.

We remember, when a child, with what chillness of awe we used to listen to the wind sighing through the long branches of the elm trees, as they trailed against the window panes, for nursery legends had associated the sound with the moaning of ghosts, and the flapping of invisible wings. We remember having strange, indescribable dreams, when the mystery of our young existence seemed to press down upon us with the weight of iron, and fill us with nameless horror. When a something seemed swelling and expanding and rolling in our souls, like an immense, fiery globe within us, and yet we were carried around with it, and we felt it must forever be rolling and enlarging, and we must forever be rolling along with it. We remember having this dream night after night, and when we awakened, the first thought was eternity, and we thought if we went on dreaming, we should find out what eternity meant. We were afraid to tell the dream, from a vague fear that it was wrong, that it might be thought we were trying to pierce into the mystery of God, and it was wicked in a child thus to do.

Helen used to say, whenever she fell asleep in the day-time under a green tree, or on the shady bank of a stream, as she often did, that she had the brightest, most beautiful dreams—and she wished it was the fashion for people to sleep by day instead of night.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly Mrs. Gleason’s strength wasted away. She still kept her place at the family board, and continued her labors of love, but the short, dry, hacking cough assumed a more hollow, deeper sound, and every day the red spot on her cheek grew brighter, as the shades of night came on. Mittie heeded not the change in her mother, but the affectionate heart of Louis felt many a sad foreboding, as his subdued steps and hushed laugh plainly told. He was naturally joyous and gay, even to rudeness, always playing some good-natured but teasing prank on his little sister, and making the house ring with his merriment. Now, whenever that hollow cough rung in his ears, he would start as if a knife pierced him, and it would be a long time before his laugh would be heard again. He redoubled his filial attentions, and scarcely ever entered the house without bringing something which he thought would please her taste, or be grateful to her feelings.

“Mother, see what a nice string of fishes. I am sure you will like these.”

“Oh! mother, here are the sweetest flowers you ever saw. Do smell of them, they are so reviving.”

The tender smile, the fond caress which rewarded these love-offerings were very precious to the warm-hearted boy, though he often ran out of the house to hide the tears they forced into his eyes.

Helen knew that her mother was not well, for she now reclined a great deal on the sofa, and Doctor Sennar came to see her every day, and sometimes the young doctor accompanied him, and when he did, he always took a great deal of notice of her, and said something she could not help remembering. Perhaps it was the peculiar glance of his eye that fixed the impression, as the characters written in indelible ink are pale and illegible till exposed to a slow and gentle fire.“You ought to do all you can for your mother,” said he, while he held her in his lap, and Doctor Sennar counted her mother’s pulse by the ticking of his large gold watch.

“I am too little to do any good,” answered she, sighing at her own insignificance.

“You can be very still and gentle.”

“But that isn’t doing anything, is it?”

“When you are older,” said the young doctor, “you will find it is harder to keep from doing wrong than to do what is right.”

Helen did not understand the full force of what he said, but the saying remained in her memory.

The next day, and the bloom of early summer was on the plains, and its deep, blue glory on the sky, Helen thought again and again what she should do for her mother. At length she remembered that some one had said that the strawberries were ripe, and that her mother had longed exceedingly for a dish of strawberries and cream. This was something that even Louis had not done for her, and her heart throbbed with joy and exultation in anticipation of the offering she could make.

With a bright tin bucket, that shone like burnished silver in the sunbeams, swinging on her arm, she stole out of the back door, and ran down a narrow lane, till she came to an open field, where the young corn was waving its silken tassels, and potato vines frolicking at its feet. The long, shining leaves of the young corn threw off the sunlight like polished steel, and Helen thought she had never seen anything so beautiful in all her life. She stopped and pulled off the soft, tender, green silken tassels, hanging them over her ears, and twisting some in her hair, as if she were a mermaid, her “sea-green ringlets braiding.” Then springing from hillock to hillock, she reached the end of the field, and jumped over a fence that skirted a meadow, along which a clear, blue stream glided like an azure serpent in glittering coils, under the shade of innumerable hickory trees. Helen became so enchanted with the beauty of the landscape, that she forgot her mother and the strawberries, forgot there were such things as night and darkness in the universe. Taking off her shoes and tying them to the handle of her bucket, she went down to the edge of the stream, and dipping her feet in the cool water, waded along close to the bank, and the little wavelets curled round her ankles as if they loved to play with anything so smooth and white. Then she saw bright specks of mica shining on the sand, and she sprang out of the water to gather them, wondering if pearls and diamonds ever looked half so beautiful.

“How I wish strawberries grew under water,” cried Helen, suddenly recollecting her filial mission. “How I wish they did not grow under the long grass!”

The light faded from her face, and the dimness of fear came over it. She had an unutterable dread of snakes, for they were the heroes of some of Miss Thusa’s awful legends, and she knew they lurked in the long grass, and were said to be especially fond of strawberries. Strange, in her eager desire to do something for her mother, she had forgotten the ambushed foe she most dreaded by day—now she wondered she had dared to think of coming.

“I will go back,” thought she; “I dare not jump over that fence and wade about in grass as high as my head.”

“You must do all you can for your mother,” echoed in clear, silver accents in her memory; “Louis will gather them if I do not,” continued she, “and she will never know how much I love her. All little children pick strawberries for themselves, and I never heard of one being bitten by a snake. If I pick them for my mother instead of myself, I don’t believe God will let them hurt me.”

While thus meditating, she had reached the fence, and stepping on the lower rails, she peeped over into the deep, green patch. As the wind waved the grass to and fro, she caught glimpses of the reddening berries, and her cheeks glowed with excitement. They were so thick, and looked so rich and delicious! She would keep very near the fence, and if a snake should crawl near her, she could get upon the topmost rails, and it could not reach her there. One jump, and the struggle was over. She plunged in a sea of verdure, while the strawberries glowed like coral beneath. They hung in large, thick clusters, touching each other, so that it would be an easy thing to fill her bucket before the sun went down. She would not pick the whole clusters, because some were green still, and she had heard her mother say, that it was a waste of God’s bounty, and a robbery of those who came afterwards, to pluck and destroy unripe fruit. Several times she started, thinking she heard a rustling in the leaves, but it was only the wind whispering to them as it passed. She stained her cheeks and the palms of her hands with the crimson juice, thinking it would make her mother smile, resolving to look at herself in the water as she returned.

Her bucket, which was standing quietly on the ground, was almost full; she was stooping down, with her sun-bonnet pushed back from her glowing face, to secure the largest and best berries which she had yet seen, when she did hear a rustling in the grass very near, and looking round, there was a large, long snake, winding slowly, carefully towards the bucket, with little gleaming eyes, that looked like burning glass set in emerald. It seemed to glow with all the colors of the rainbow, so radiant it was in yellow, green and gold, striped with the blackest jet. For one moment, Helen stood stupefied with terror, fascinated by the terrible beauty of the object on which she was gazing. Then giving a loud, shrill shriek, she bounded to the fence, climbed over it, and jumped to the ground with a momentum so violent that she fell and rolled several paces on the earth. Something cold twined round her feet and ankles. With a gasp of despair, Helen gave herself up for lost, assured she was in the coils of the snake, and that its venom was penetrating through her whole frame.

“I shall die,” thought she, “and mother will never know how I came here alone to gather strawberries, that she might eat and be well.”

As she felt no sting, no pain, and the snake lay perfectly still, she ventured to steal a glance at her feet, and saw that it was a piece of a vine that she had caught in her flight, and which her fears had converted into the embrace of an adder. Springing up with the velocity of lightning, she darted along, regardless of the beauty of the stream, in whose limpid waters she had thought to behold her crimson-stained cheeks. She ran on, panting, glowing—the perspiration, hot as drops of molten lead, streaming down her face, looking furtively back, every now and then, to see if that gorgeous creature, with glittering coils and burning eyes were not gliding at her heels. At length, blinded and dizzy from the speed with which she had run, she fell against an opposing body just at the entrance of the lane.

“Why, Helen, what is the matter?” exclaimed a well-known voice, and she knew she was safe. It was the young doctor, who loved to walk on the banks of that beautiful stream, when the shadows of the tall hickories lengthened on the grass.

Helen was too breathless to speak, but he knew, by her clinging hold, that she sought protection from some real or imaginary danger. While he pitied her evident fright, he could not help smiling at her grotesque appearance. The perspiration, dripping from her forehead, had made channels through the crimson dye on her cheeks, and her chin, which had been buried in the ground when she fell, was all covered with mud. Her frock was soiled and torn, her bonnet twisted so that the strings hung dangling over her shoulder. A more forlorn, wild-looking little figure, can scarcely be imagined, and it is not strange that the young doctor found it difficult to suppress a laugh.

“And so you left your strawberries behind,” said he, after hearing the history of her fright and flight. “It seems to me I would not have treated the snake so daintily. Suppose we go back and cheat him of his nice supper, after all.”

“Oh! no—no—no,” exclaimed Helen, emphatically. “I wouldn’t go for all the strawberries in the whole world.”

“Not when they would do your sick mother good?” said he, gravely.

“But the snake!” cried she, with a shudder.

“It is perfectly harmless. If you took it in your hand and played with it, it would not hurt you. Those beautiful, bright-striped creatures have no venom in them. Come, let us step down to the edge of the stream and wash the stains from your face and hands, and then you shall show me where your strawberries are waiting for us in the long grass.”

He took her hand and attempted to draw her along, but she resisted with astonishing strength, planting her back against the railing that divided the lane from the corn-field.

“Helen, you will come with me,” said he, in the same tone, and with the same magnetic glance, with which he had once before subdued her. She remained still a few moments, then the rigid muscles began to relax, and hanging down her head, she sobbed aloud.

“You will come,” repeated he, leading her gently along towards the bank of the stream, “because you know I would not lead you into danger, and because if you do not try to conquer such fears, they will make you very unhappy through life. Don’t you wish to be useful and do good to others, when you grow older?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Helen, with animation—“but,” added she, despondingly, “I never shall.”

“It depends upon yourself,” replied her friend; “some of the greatest men that ever lived, were once timid little children. They made themselves great by overcoming their fears, by having a strong will.”

They were now close to the water, which, just where they stood, was as still and smooth as glass. Helen saw herself in the clear, blue mirror, and laughed aloud—then she blushed to think how strange and ugly she looked. Eagerly scooping up the water in the hollow of her hand, she bathed her face, and removed the disfiguring stains.

“You have no napkin,” said the young doctor, taking a snowy linen handkerchief from his pocket, which emitted a sweet, faint, rose-like perfume. “Will this do?”

He wiped her face, which looked fairer than ever after the ablution, and then first one and then the other of her trembling hands, for they still trembled from nervous agitation.

“How kind, how good he is!” thought Helen, as his hand passed gently over her brow, smoothing back the moist and tangled hair, then glided against her cheek, while he arranged the twisted bonnet and untied the dangling strings, which had tightened into a hard and obstinate knot. “I wonder what makes him so kind and good to me?”

When they came to the fence, surrounding the strawberry-field, Helen’s steps involuntarily grew slower, and she hung back heavily on the hand of her companion. Her old fears came rushing over her, drowning her new-born courage.

Arthur laid his hand on the top rail, and vaulted over as lightly as a bird, then held out his arms towards her.

“Climb, and I will catch you,” said he, with an encouraging smile. Poor little Helen felt constrained to obey him, though she turned white as snow—and when he took her in his arms, he felt her heart beating and fluttering like the wings of a caged humming-bird.

“Ah, I see the silver bucket,” he cried, “all filled with strawberries. The enemy is fled; the coast is clear.”

He still held her in his arms, while he stooped and lifted the bucket, then again vaulted over the fence, as if no burden impeded his movements.

“You are safe,” said he, “and you can now gladden your mother’s heart by this sweet offering. Are you sorry you came?”

“Oh! no,” she replied, “I feel happy now.” She insisted upon his eating part of the strawberries, but he refused, and as they walked home, he gathered green leaves and flowers, and made a garland round them.

“What makes you so good to me?” she exclaimed, with an irresistible impulse, looking gratefully in his face.

“Because I like you,” he replied; “you remind me, too, of a dear little sister of mine, whom I love very tenderly. Poor unfortunate Alice! Your lot is happier than hers.”

“What makes me happier?” asked Helen, thinking that one who had so kind a brother ought to be happy.

“She is blind,” he replied, “she never saw one ray of light.”

“Oh! how dreadful!” cried Helen, “to live all the time in the dark! Oh! I should be afraid to live at all!”

“I said you were happier, Helen; but I recall my words. She is not afraid, though all the time midnight shadows surround her. A sweet smile usually rests upon her face, and her step is light and springy as the grasshopper’s leap.”

“But it must be so dreadful to be blind!” repeated Helen. “How I do pity her!”

“It is a great misfortune, one of the greatest that can be inflicted upon a human being—but she does not murmur. She confides in the love of those around her, and feels as if their eyes were her own. Were I to ask her to walk over burning coals, she would put her hand in mine, to lead her, so entire is her trust, so undoubting is her faith.”

“How I wish I could be like her!” said Helen, in a tone of deep humility.

“You are like her at this moment, for you have gone where you believed great danger was lurking, trusting in my promise of protection and safety,—trusting in me, who am almost a stranger to you.”

Helen’s heart glowed within her at his approving words, and she rejoiced more than ever that she had obeyed his will. Her sympathies were painfully awakened for the blind child, and she asked him a thousand questions, which he answered with unwearied patience. She repeated over and over again the sweet name of Alice, and wished it were hers, instead of Helen.

At the great double gate, that opened into the wood-yard, Arthur left her, and she hastened on, proud of the victory she had obtained over herself. Mittie was standing in the back door; as Helen came up the steps, she pointed in derision at her soiled and disordered dress.

“I couldn’t help it,” said Helen, trying to pass her, “I fell down.”

“Oh! what nice strawberries!” exclaimed Mittie, “and so many of them. Give me some.”

“Don’t touch them, Mittie—they are for mother,” cried Helen, spreading her hand over the top of the bucket, as Mittie seized the handle and jerked it towards her.

“You little, stingy thing, I will have some,” cried Mittie, plunging her hand in the midst of them, while the sweet wild flowers which Arthur’s hand had scattered over them, and the shining leaves with which he had bordered them, all fell on the steps. Helen felt as if scalding water were pouring into her veins, and in her passion she lifted her hand to strike her, when a hollow cough, issuing from her mother’s room, arrested her. She remembered, too, what the young doctor had said, “that it was harder to keep from doing wrong, than to do what was right.”

“If he saw me strike Mittie, he would think it wrong,” thought she, “though if he knew how bad she treats me, he’d say ’twas hard to keep from it.”

Kneeling on one knee, she picked up the scattered flowers, and on every flower a dew drop fell, and sparkled on its petals.

They had a witness of whom they were not aware. The tall, gray figure of Miss Thusa, appeared in the opposite door, at the moment of Mittie’s rude and greedy act. The meekness of Helen exasperated her still more against the offender, and striding across the passage, she seized Mittie by the arm, and swung her completely on one side.

“Let me alone, old Madam Thusa,” exclaimed Mittie, “I’m not going to mind you. That I’m not. You always take her part against me. Every body does—that makes me hate her.”

“For shame! for shame!” cried the tall monitor, “to talk so of your little sister. You’re like the girl in the fairy tale, who was so spiteful that every time she spoke, toads and vipers crawled out of her mouth. Helen, I’ll tell you that story to-night, before you go to sleep.”

Helen could have told her that she would rather not hear any thing of vipers that night, but she feared Miss Thusa would be displeased and think her ungrateful. Notwithstanding Mittie’s unkindness and violence of temper, she did not like to have such dreadful ideas associated with her. When, however, she heard the whole story, at the usual witching hour, she felt the same fascination which had so often enthralled her. As it was summer, the blazing fire no longer illuminated the hearth, but a little lamp, whose rays flickered in the wind that faintly murmured in the chimney. Miss Thusa sat spinning by the open window, in the light of the solemn stars, and as she waxed more and more eloquent, she seemed to derive inspiration from their beams. She could see one twinkling all the time in the little gourd of water, swinging from her distaff, and in spite of her preference for the dark and the dreadful, she could not help stopping her wheel, to admire the trembling beauty of that solitary star.