C. H. Pearson “The hearth is swept, the fire is made, The kettle sings for tea.”

It was the clear, honest voice of Deacon Palmer that fell on Tom’s ear, and which he now heard for the hundredth time. Year in and out, at morning and night, the good man had sung this, his favorite song,–bachelor though he was, with silver-streaked hair,–as if his heart yearned for the wifely waiting, and the sweet home-joys it pictured. Why were they not his? Do all have their longings for something brighter and better than the present brings? something for which they must wait and wait, and perchance never attain?

Tom knocked modestly at the storekeeper’s door. A moment, and the money-lender opened it, saying, heartily,–

“Walk in; walk in!”

“No, I thank you,” answered Tom; “I called to say, that as I am to start on Monday to begin study at the east,”–and the young man’s tones grew tremulous,–“General and Mrs. McElroy 296 and mother are to be at the missionary’s to-day, and they desire the pleasure of your company at dinner.”

“Well, well, young man, you have brought a message–haven’t you?” exclaimed the grocer, fidgeting about. “A pretty mixed-up company that would be–wouldn’t it? Old Cowles sitting down to table with a minister of the gospel, and a student for that sacred calling, and such like folks. No, no; that wouldn’t be consistent. Tell them that I am much obliged, but–”

“Now, Mr. Cowles,” exclaimed Tom, seizing his hand, “you must come. I shall feel dreadfully hurt if you refuse,–and they all want you to so much. And, you know that if it was not for your kindness–”

“There, there, boy,” interrupted the storekeeper, his black eyes flashing through tears, “don’t talk in that way. All is, if it will please you, I’ll come. But how do you go to the river, Monday?”

“O, the missionary is to get a team.”

“Well, just say to him that my horses are at his service.”

We will not dwell upon the dinner in the log-cabin parsonage, during which “irrepressible” Bub–his clerical tastes sharpened by Tom’s example–took clandestine possession of the attic study, and, constituting himself preacher, 297 audience, and choir, undertook to conduct divine service. Having given out the first hymn, he drowned the missionary’s words, as the latter said grace, by stoutly singing,–

Neither may we linger amid the tender, solemn scenes of the Sabbath following, the last Tom was to spend in the rude frontier sanctuary.

It was evening of a beautiful day in May, when the money-lender’s capacious carriage, drawn by his trusty grays, deposited its passengers at the landing, to await the steamer. What a lifetime of thought and emotion seemed crowded into that interval of waiting, as Mrs. Jones stood with Tom clasped closely, whispering words of mingled foreboding, hope, and caution!

“To be a good minister of Jesus Christ, how glorious, how sublime!” said she. “There is nothing I so much desire for you. But you are going into scenes very different from those in which you have been reared–scenes which will have their peculiar and insidious perils. I foresee that you will rise to distinction in your studies. But do not seek high things for yourself. Be not anxious to become what is called a great preacher, nor aspire to a ‘brilliant settlement.’ Sacrifice not conscience for place and power and the applause 298 of sect. Keep humble. Keep Christ ever before you; and may he watch between me and thee while we are separated from each other;” and she kissed him a fond farewell. Tom stepped aboard the steamer, which rapidly bore him away, carrying in his heart the images of the godly missionary, fair-haired Alice, and his mother–the little group that stood on the shore gazing so lovingly after him. The young man wept freely as they faded from sight. But, happily, the magical splendor of night on the Mississippi broke in on the tumult of his feelings. Hundreds of lights gleamed from the shore in every direction; from village, and city, and town; from cottage and homestead; while steamer after steamer, illuminated within and without, came sweeping, sounding, thundering on, like some monster leviathan spouting fire. It was as a dream of enchantment to him, and soon stirred his brain wonderfully. With singular vividness the eventful past of his pioneer life flitted before his mental vision, and again he experienced the terrible anxieties and thrills of horror and of heroic resolve connected with the Indian uprising. And now his tears flow as he revisits in imagination the lonely grave of his father on the far-off prairie. Would the dear ones that survived the fearful outbreak be long safe? Might they not soon need his aid once more? And the glowing future 299 for which he had so panted, would it be to him all he had fancied? Would he pass safely the dangers his far-seeing mother had sketched? Would he realize her ideal? And the kind missionary and the eccentric money-lender, they had high expectations of what he should become. Would he disappoint their hopes? Tom, wearied with thought, sought his state-room, and fell asleep, dreaming that he was hearing, as on the morning of his first visit to the fort, the bird-like notes of the song that then floated through the open window, and that fairy Alice looked out and said,–

“Don’t forget me, Tom, while you are away.”

Thus does divine and human love ever intertwine. How strange, how unvarying the experience! Farewell, Tom! Farewell, Charlie! Good by, Bub! Perhaps we may meet again.