Opposite neighbours
Date: 2025-01-24T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction; Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Sunday school literature; Cousins -- Juvenile fiction; Women -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Opposite neighbours
or, The two lives, and their end

Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Release date: January 24, 2025 [eBook #75191]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: American Sunday-School Union, 1867

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75191

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OPPOSITE NEIGHBOURS ***

Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

Opposite Neighbours.—Frontispiece.
"And so, Letty, you are really going to be married?"

OPPOSITE NEIGHBOURS;

OR,

The Two Lives, and their End.

[BY]

[LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY.]

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PHILADELPHIA:

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,

NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.

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NEW YORK: 599 BROADWAY.

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by the

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for

the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

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CONTENTS.

—————

CHAPTER I. GOING TO BE MARRIED

CHAPTER II. PREPARATIONS

CHAPTER III. NUMBER NINE

CHAPTER IV. AUNT EUNICE'S VISIT

CHAPTER V. NEW NEIGHBOURS

CHAPTER VI. THE WILL

CHAPTER VII. LOSSES

CHAPTER VIII. BABY

CHAPTER IX. CHANGES

CHAPTER X. RESTITUTION

CHAPTER XI. FURTHER CHANGES

CHAPTER XII. THE WILL [Part II]

CHAPTER XIII. MISCHIEF-MAKING

CHAPTER XIV. A REMOVAL

CHAPTER XV. AGNES

CHAPTER XVI. MRS. VAN HORN AGAIN

CHAPTER XVII. PEACE AT LAST

CHAPTER XVIII. A LAST GLIMPSE

OPPOSITE NEIGHBOURS.

—————

CHAPTER I.

GOING TO BE MARRIED.

"AND so, Letty, you are really going to be married?"

Nobody could have mistaken Mrs. Trescott for any thing but a lady, though she was dressed in a very ancient calico wrapper and a gingham apron, and though her sleeves were turned up to her elbows, and her hands stained with the fruit she was paring. Mrs. Trescott was, in housekeeping phrase, "getting ready to do up her quinces," and had chosen that opportunity to hold a little confidential and friendly chat with her chambermaid, Letty Bright, about her future prospects. Letty had lived a long time with Mrs. Trescott, and had won her great regard.

"And so you are really going to be married?"

Letty hung down her head, blushed and smiled, and said she supposed there was no use in denying it.

"No use, indeed!" said Mrs. Trescott. "You silly child, don't you suppose I have had my eyes open for the last six months and more, while John Caswell has been coming and going about the house? No, indeed. And if I had not known John to be a good, steady young man, in every way worthy of you, do you think I would have allowed matters to go so far without at least trying to keep you from throwing yourself away?"

Mrs. Trescott paused a moment, and then continued, in a graver tone:—

"You see, Letty, you have been with me now a long time; and I should naturally take an interest in you, if only for that reason; but that is not all. You have been a very good girl. You have stayed with and helped me in some very trying times, and I have always found you a comfort and a support. It will be hard for me to part with you, Letty; and I should not be at all reconciled to doing so, if I did not think that you were going to settle in life with as reasonable prospects of happiness as fall to the lot of most people. Now, you needn't cry," added Mrs. Trescott,—while her own eyes were full,—"but tell me when this great event is to take place. Next month, I suppose?"

"Oh, no, ma'am," replied Letty, eagerly. "Not before next spring. You see, we want to have a house of our own to go into, and so begin as we mean to keep on."

"A very good plan," said Mrs. Trescott. "Have you any house in view?"

"Why, yes, ma'am; at least, John has,—for I have not seen the place yet. It is on Myrtle Street."

"Myrtle Street? That runs out through the Bronson property, I believe. Rather a new street, isn't it?"

"Rather new," replied Letty; "though there are some pretty places on it already, John can get a double lot there at a very reasonable price, by paying down one-third of the purchase-money. The house is very nice,—or will be when it is finished; and so we shall go at once into a home of our own."

"Do you know any thing of your neighbours?" asked Mrs. Trescott.

"Our opposite neighbour will be my cousin Agnes," said Letty. "She is going to be married very soon, and they have bought Number ten,—directly opposite. Our house is Number nine. I don't know any thing about our next door neighbours, except that John says they have a beautiful garden. He tells me that he never saw so many plants and flowers crowded into such a small space."

"That is a good sign," said Mrs. Trescott. "I like to see people fond of flowers."

"Another reason why I was willing to wait till next spring," continued Letty, "was that I thought I should like to have a little money beforehand,—at least enough to lay in a little stock of sheets and towels and such things, besides my own clothes. You know I haven't been able to save a great deal, so far."

Mrs. Trescott assented. Letty had almost entirely supported a helpless little sister for several years. It had cost her no small degree of self-denial; but she always said the time would come when it would be made up to her: she was not afraid of losing by it. So she went on for several years, buying none but the cheapest bonnets and dresses, and keeping them in wear so long that her cousin, Agnes Train, said she was really ashamed to be seen in the street with her. But little Sally was dead at last, released from a life short indeed in years, but long in suffering; and Letty had the comfort of thinking, as she followed her sister's remains to the grave, that the poor child had never wanted any thing which care and affection could provide to lighten her burden.

"How much have you beforehand?" asked Mrs. Trescott.

"Only ten dollars, ma'am; but with what you owe me I will have fifteen."

"Well," said Mrs. Trescott, "even fifteen dollars will go a good way, when properly managed; and I have a plan in my head which, if you approve, will enable you to earn more."

Letty looked a little alarmed. "I should not like to think of going to another place, Mrs. Trescott, as long as you are suited with me."

Mrs. Trescott smiled. "I am not so unselfish as that, Letty," said she. "But what I was thinking of is this. You know Mrs. Davis is going away next week. We are only two in the family, now that Mr. Trescott is gone; and I have been thinking that we might manage with one girl. Do you think you could undertake the work?"

Letty did not know. She thought she might.

"Of course I shall not expect you to sew," continued Mrs. Trescott, "and I shall help you a good deal myself. You shall have your evenings to yourself; and I will pay you two dollars a week. That will enable you to lay up a nice little sum against the spring; or you can be buying and making up your household linen as you go along. Moreover, you will be learning to cook, and so be better prepared for housekeeping."

Letty considered a little. The work would not be so very hard, after all, and the house was extremely convenient. She would not have so much time to go out; but she did not care about that, so long as she had the evenings to herself. She made a little calculation in her own mind. Two dollars for twenty-five weeks would be fifty dollars. She need be at no present expense for her clothes, since she had bought plain, respectable mourning when Sally died, which she meant to wear all winter. Fifty dollars, with the fifteen already in hand, would do a good deal towards buying the respectable "setting-out" on which she had set her heart. Moreover, as Mrs. Prescott said, she would all the time be acquiring knowledge which would be useful to her as the mistress of a family.

Letty did not look forward to keeping a girl. She knew she should have her own work to do; and she very sensibly thought that the more she knew about housekeeping beforehand, the easier it would be to take the whole responsibility. So she accepted the proposal, with the stipulation that she should be allowed to go to church on Sunday, and to Bible-class, as usual,—to which Mrs. Trescott very readily agreed; and it was understood that she should enter upon her duties the next Monday.

When Letty mentioned this new arrangement at her aunt Train's, whither she usually went to tea every other Sunday afternoon, there was a great outcry. The Trains thought it rather derogatory to their dignity that a niece of theirs should "live out" at all; and they had made many attempts, both direct and indirect, to induce Letty to leave her place and learn a trade, or at least work in the shop, as Agnes did.

But Letty knew when she was well off. She had a comfortable home at Mrs. Trescott's,—far more comfortable, to her mind, than her aunt's house; where, except in the one front room kept for company, nothing ever seemed to be in its place from one year's end to another. She was sure of her wages the year round; whereas Agnes was often out of work for weeks at a time. Moreover, she had a feeling that the company with which Agnes was associated in the rooms where she worked would not please her at all. Mrs. Train said to herself that Letty was a strange girl,—a very obstinate girl, with very little self-respect and many queer notions,—and saved the family dignity by always speaking of her niece as Mrs. Trescott's seamstress. And now here she was actually turning herself into a maid-of-all-work! It was too bad!

"Letty Bright, a'n't you ashamed of yourself?" she exclaimed. "Why, you will be neither more nor less than a kitchen-girl,—a regular drudge! You had better go out to washing, and have done with it!"

"There is no use in talking to Letty, mother," said Agnes. "She will have her own way, you know. But I must say, this is too bad; and all for such a paltry sum, when you might make three times that by working in the shop. Why, I earned six dollars only last week."

"Out of which you had to pay for your board," said Letty,—"to say nothing of streetcar tickets, which use up money very fast. Take out your expenses, and how much are you better off than I am, after all?"

"Nonsense!" said Agnes. "I hate such close calculations. At least I have the pleasure of spending it, and a home of my own."

"So have I," replied Letty,—"and a good home, too."

"Yes,—in a kitchen," sneered her aunt.

"As to that," said Letty, "you and Agnes always sit in the kitchen; don't you? I never remember finding you anywhere else, except when you had company."

"And washing, too!" continued Mrs. Train, not finding it convenient to notice Letty's remark.

"How finely you will feel when John Caswell comes in some morning and finds you up to your elbows in the wash-tub!"

"John never comes in the morning: he is always busy in the shop," said Letty, laughing; "and, besides, he will have to get used to seeing me with my arms in the suds, sooner or later, you know. I don't expect to hire my washing done out of the house: do you, Agnes?"

"John won't care," said Agnes. "He is just such another humdrum body as Letty herself. I don't believe he ever took a holiday, or went to the theatre or circus, in all his life. Only think, mother! He told Joe that he was willing to consent to Letty's notion of putting off their marriage till next spring, because he did not mean to put an article of furniture in his house that was not paid for; and he wished to use what money he had by him in making his payments on the place. There is a romantic lover for you!"

Letty only laughed. She knew very well where John's romance lay; but she did not care to speak about these affairs to her aunt and cousin; and they, seeing that she was not to be moved, began to talk of something else. The new topic, however, was not more fortunate than the other.

"Have you begun to think about winter clothes yet, Letty?" asked Agnes. "I suppose you will wear black, as you don't mean to be married till spring. What bonnet do you mean to have? I saw one which would just suit you, at Smith's,—made of black mode, with beautiful black-and-white flowers, all for five dollars. Wasn't it cheap?"

"Yes, I dare say, if one wanted it," said Letty; "but I don't mean to buy any thing new this fall. I bought two nice new dresses when I put on black; and the black-and-white checked shawl I bought new last winter is perfectly suitable for mourning."

"Well, if ever! And so you mean to wear that black alpaca dress and blanket shawl to church, and everywhere else, all winter!"

"I have a merino, too, you know," said Letty; "and I think the shawl is very nice. It is just like Miss Catherine Trescott's. Mrs. Trescott said she thought it as suitable as any thing I could have."

"Miss Trescott? Yes; but you don't find her wearing hers to church."

"Yes, she does, very often,—in damp and cool weather. And, besides that, Agnes, there would be no sense or propriety in my trying to dress like Miss Trescott. It would not be at all suitable."

"I don't see why. You are as good as she is, any day in the week."

"I am not so sure of that," replied Letty smiling; "but, even if I were, I could not afford it. Miss Catherine's father gives her three hundred dollars a year just for her dress and spending money."

"Does he?" said Agnes. "I never should have guessed that. I am sure that I could dress better than she does, for that money. She is always as plain as a Quaker, when in church. I hardly ever saw her wear any thing but a black silk or a merino."

"Miss Catherine has some beautiful dresses," said Letty; "but both she and her mother always dress plainly in church, because they think it right. I have heard Mrs. Trescott say that she did not like to wear a new dress or bonnet to church, if she could help it. But Miss Catherine does not spend nearly all her money in dress. She buys a good many books and pictures, and spends money on her painting,—besides what she gives away. She made each of her girls in Sunday-school a new cape and hood last winter, all alike, and of new stuff. You don't know how nicely the little things look. But, as I was saying, there would be no sense in my trying to dress like Miss Trescott; and it would be wrong, besides."

"Wrong!" repeated Agnes. "Do you think it any more wrong to wear a pretty dress than an ugly one?"

"No; certainly not. But I think it is always wrong for people to spend so much in dress as to have nothing to spare for any other use. Besides, Agnes, that is not a fair way of putting it. We need not wear ugly or unbecoming things because our dresses are cheap. Pretty calicoes and delaines cost no more than ugly ones."

"But what use have you for money except for dress?" asked her aunt. "You often boast that you have no other expenses."

"Why, you know, while Sally lived I had to care for her—"

"I am not talking about Sally," interrupted Mrs. Train, rather peevishly. "She is dead and gone, poor thing!—all the better for her and for every one else. Moreover, there was never any need of that, either. You might have got her into the Home, or the Hospital, as well as not. It was not as if she had been your own sister. She was no relation to you at all,—only your step-mother's child."

"She was the child of the only mother I ever knew," returned Letty, warmly, "and of one who never let me miss a mother's care so long as she lived; and I would not have left her to be dependent on the charity of strangers,—no, not if I had gone in rags all my life, and worked my fingers to the bone besides. I wish you would not talk about Sally in that way, Aunt Susan. And, now that she is gone, I like to have something for those who are poorer than I am, if it is only for her sake."

"Well, for my part," said Mrs. Train, "I think charity begins at home."

"So do I," replied Letty; "but it need not end there."

"But your bonnet, Letty!" urged Agnes. "Surely you do not mean to wear that black straw, trimmed with bombazine, to church all winter? Do have a new one of some sort."

"I cannot afford it, Agnes; and that is all about it," said Letty, decidedly. "Don't let us talk about such things any more. I do not think it is a very good way of spending Sunday evening. Did you go to church this morning? Dr. Burton preached for us. How did you like him?"

Mrs. Train had not been to church. Agnes had been; but she did not know whether she liked the preacher or not,—though she noticed that he wore a seal-ring, which seemed odd for a minister. She thought the service very long, and the singing not so good as usual. She believed that Mrs. Sampson had on a new India shawl. She thought it looked very odd and affected for Miss Patterson to sit with her Sunday-scholars every Sunday, just as if she wanted every one to see how good she was. The Brown girls had all got new dresses alike,—real Irish poplins, she verily believed. Pretty well, that, for girls who got their living by keeping school. Were their mantles of the same, or of corded silk? She supposed Letty must know, as she sat just behind them.

But Letty did not know. She had been thinking of something besides the Miss Browns. She felt vexed and uncomfortable at the turn the conversation had taken in spite of her remonstrance, and thought she never would come to her aunt's on Sunday evening again. But they were her only surviving relations, except an old grand-aunt who lived in the country; and she did not like to quarrel with them, though they had so little in common.

Presently John Caswell came in, to go to church with Letty. She had not seen him since she had made the new arrangement; and she had, therefore, told him nothing about it. Mrs. Train, however, pounced upon him at once.

"Well, John, Letty has been promoted. I expect she will soon be too grand to speak to any of us. You did not think you were going to make such a great match as to marry a kitchen-girl, did you?"

John looked somewhat surprised, and turned to Letty for an explanation.

"You have not left your place, have you, Letty? I thought you liked Mrs. Trescott too well to leave her for any one,—"

"Except me," he mentally added.

"I have not left her, and do not intend to leave her at present," said Letty, quietly. "I will tell you all about it, presently. It is time for us to go, isn't it? You know we have a long walk."

John thought it was; and Letty went up-stairs to put on her bonnet. When she came down, she heard her aunt talking very earnestly, and she caught the words "strange, foolish notions," and "drive them out of her," which showed her that her own peculiarities were still the theme of discourse.

"What's the matter, Letty?" said John, as they walked away through the quiet, shady streets. "Your aunt seems to be quite excited on the subject of your misdoings, and declares that you will bring disgrace on the family by your notions. What have you been doing?"

Letty laughed. "Nothing very bad, John. Aunt Train is offended because I have undertaken to do all Mrs. Trescott's work, instead of part of it, as heretofore. She seems to think there is a certain disgrace attached to working in the kitchen, and especially to washing; and she asked me how I thought you would feel to come in, of a morning, and find me with my arms in the wash-tub."

John did not seem to think it would be an unbearable calamity to see Letty at any time of day. He could not perceive that any more disgrace attached to washing than to ironing; and as to cooking, he seemed to consider that a desirable accomplishment. "But what about your dress?" he asked. "Mrs. Train says you do not dress fit to be seen."

"What do you think about it, John?" asked Letty, turning upon him with a grave face, but the least little bit of a laugh in her eye.

John's answer is not recorded; but it may be presumed that Letty was satisfied with it.

Then the two fell into a discourse about their future prospects. Letty often thought how happy it was that she and John were like-minded upon the most important of all subjects. They were sure to draw together there; and, that being the case, she could not fear that they would ever be in danger of serious disagreements.

Indeed, their acquaintance had begun at Mrs. Willson's Bible-class, two years before. They had gone together from Mrs. Willson's Bible-class to the doctor's class, had joined themselves to the people of God at the same time, and still went to church together every Sunday; though John had taken a Sunday-school class, which Letty could not conveniently do. Letty looked forward with pleasure to setting up her household in the fear and love of God,—to daily morning and evening prayers, and Sunday readings of good books, and grace said at a table neatly set for two persons. By the time they reached the church-door, the unpleasant impressions left by her aunt's remarks had passed away, and she felt fully in tune for the sacred services.

Agnes did not go to church; Joseph was not much of a church-goer. Indeed, it may be doubted whether he had been within the walls of any place of worship a dozen times in six years, till he was engaged to Agnes,—when he went sometimes, to please her. Agnes had been a Sunday-scholar as well as Letty, and at one time Mrs. Willson thought her very hopeful; but of late she had grown giddy and careless. She became very irregular in her attendance at Bible-class; and more than once Mrs. Willson had seen such behaviour in church as gave her great pain. At last she spoke to Agnes about the matter,—very gently, indeed, but plainly, as was her duty.

Agnes first denied the charge, and then grew angry; declared she would not be watched and made to give an account of herself like a baby, and at last left the Bible-class altogether. Mrs. Willson was very sorry; but there seemed no more to be done; and she waited and prayed, hoping that Agnes would see the impropriety of her conduct and return to her duty.

In reality, Agnes meant no particular harm; but she was giddy and easily influenced. She was rather unfortunate in being thrown among such a set of girls as those with whom she worked at the shop. There were two or three who took the lead in every thing; and they were extravagant, showy girls, caring for nothing but dress and company, and vying with each other as to who could get the greatest amount of finery out of their limited earnings, and make the gayest appearance in the street. They affected, too, a great deal of independence,—discussed all sorts of subjects with the greatest freedom, not to say flippancy, and had books circulating among them which were any thing but desirable reading.

Agnes used to be shocked, at first, by many things which she saw and heard; but she soon grew accustomed to them, learned to join in the laugh, even when the joke was by no means a delicate one, and to read books in her own room which she was very careful to hide from her mother. She would have liked to go out in the evenings with her companions, running about from store to store and flirting with the shop-boys, or joining in frolics of a still more questionable nature; but this her mother would not permit.

Mrs. Train was not a very wise woman, but she had sense enough to know that it is a great deal easier for a young girl to get a stain upon her reputation than to wash it off again, and that simple imprudence and giddiness may lead her to do things which she will bitterly repent all her life afterwards. So she looked sharply after Agnes's associates, and, in general, kept her pretty well under her own eyes. It was this very care of her mother's, at which Agnes often grumbled and repined, which won the girl her husband, after all.

Joseph Emerson worked in another department of the same factory where Agnes was employed. He was struck at first by her rather quiet manners; and then he began to observe that he never saw her running about in the evenings with the other girls, and discovered that she went to church with tolerable regularity. Joseph was not always perfectly steady himself, and he made no pretence to religion; but, like many other such men, he admired piety in women, and he thought, too, that it was a very good thing for them to stay at home evenings, instead of running about the streets. So he began to pay Agnes various little attentions; and in process of time they were engaged to be married.

Joseph had a good trade; he was a skilful hand, and earned large wages; but he had never laid by a dollar in his life. He was as fond of dress, in his way, as Agnes was in hers. He liked to smoke, and to drive horses, and a visit to the theatre now and then; and thus, without any thing which could properly be called dissipation, his money melted away about as fast as it came, sometimes, indeed, a little faster. He said to himself that he had now a motive for saving, and he meant to be very careful. He really did economize so far as to be able to make a small payment upon his house, and he hoped before spring to be able to furnish it comfortably. He meant that they should board through the winter and go to housekeeping in the spring. So they were to be married the next month; and Agnes was already buying her wedding-dresses.

CHAPTER II.

PREPARATIONS.

A FEW days after this Sunday visit, Agnes came round to see Letty, and informed her that the day was set for the wedding.

"I was going to ask you to be bridesmaid, Letty; but mother thought you wouldn't like it, on account of your being in mourning, and all that."

"I understand," said Letty, quietly, as Agnes made rather an awkward pause. "Aunt was quite right. I have no nice dress but a black one,—which would not be at all suitable for a bridesmaid, you know."

"To be sure," said Agnes, briskly, as though relieved from some embarrassment. "That was what we thought. So I have asked Martha Allen. When will you come up and see my dresses, Letty? They are all done,—wedding-dress and all. Mother has been really liberal, I can tell you. She says she is determined that I shall be as nice-looking as a bride the doctor has married this year; and my wedding-dress is lovely,—light blue silk, with short sleeves and a low neck,—blue is so becoming to me, you know,—and a veil, and white flowers for my hair. Won't it be splendid?"

"Very pretty," replied Letty; "but, after all, Agnes, I should rather have bought something which would be useful afterwards. What can you do with such a dress as that?"

"Why, you know, it will do nicely for an evening dress, for a long time; and then it can be coloured. One must have evening dresses, you know."

Letty did not answer. She did not see the necessity of evening dresses for any person in Agnes's position.

"Then I have a black watered-silk, and a plaid silk, and a merino, and a travelling-dress—"

"Travelling-dress!" repeated Letty. "Are you going to travel?"

"Yes; to be sure, child. We are going down East, to see Joseph's friends. When we come back, we are going to the 'Oak House,' to board for the winter. Two weeks from to-day, and then good-by to the old shop forever! But tell me: when will you come up and see my dresses?"

"Saturday afternoon or evening, perhaps," replied Letty. She continued her sewing, thoughtfully, while Agnes chattered on about all sorts of things,—principally about her dresses, and the furniture for their two rooms at the "Oak House," which Joseph had already purchased, and the fine times she expected to have,—boarding, with nothing to do but to amuse herself all day long. Presently she noticed Letty's work.

"What a pile of new muslin!" said she. "Some one has a good piece of work cut out, to make up all this. What very nice cloth it is! I wonder how much Mrs. Trescott gave for it?"

"Fourteen cents a yard," answered Letty. "She bought it for me a few days ago."

"For you!" repeated Agnes, in surprise. "Does Mrs. Trescott do your shopping for you?"

"Sometimes, when I ask her," replied Letty. "She is a better judge than I am, and purchases so much that she gets things to advantage. So, when I need any thing of this kind, I generally ask her to buy it for me. I think this is very nice indeed."

"What is it for?" asked Agnes.

"Pillow-cases," replied Letty, colouring a very little.

"Well, I declare, you are prudent, Letty," said Agnes, laughing. "You mean to begin in good time. I have not bought an article of that kind, yet. I shall have plenty of time when we are boarding to make up such things. How nice and pleasant your kitchen looks! You will make a real good housekeeper,—that's a fact."

"It will not be for the want of good training if I don't," said Letty. "Mrs. Trescott has taken a great deal of pains to teach me; and she is the nicest housekeeper I ever saw."

"I have heard that she was close," remarked Agnes.

"She is economical, but not stingy," said Letty. "She makes the most of things, and will not allow a bit of waste; but she always buys the best, and plenty of it."

"Well, come up on Saturday and see my things," said Agnes.

Letty promised,—and went accordingly. She found her cousin in a bad humour.

"Only think, Letty!" said Agnes. "Martha Allen has gone and bought a blue silk, just the colour of mine, and a great deal handsomer! Hers is corded, and cost two dollars a yard; while mine is only plain silk. She will put me out entirely. Every one will think she is the bride. Isn't it vexatious? I declare, I have a great mind not to be married at all."

"I am glad Joseph does not hear you," said Letty.

"It must have taken all her wages, so that she won't have any thing else decent to wear all winter: that is one comfort," said Agnes, spitefully. "But isn't it vexatious? Now, wouldn't you be vexed, if you were me?"

"I think I should," said Letty; "not for fear of being outshone, but because it does not show a very kind spirit in Martha, after you have been intimate so long. But I am sure, Agnes, your dress is pretty enough for any thing, only so very delicate."

"It is delicate," said Mrs. Train, with something like a sigh. "I was rather unwilling to buy it; but Agnes had set her heart upon it; and, after all, girls don't often get married but once, and I want her to look pretty. You would have looked out for something more useful, I dare say."

Letty thought she should, but said that people must be their own judges in such matters.

"Here is something which will please you better:—this plaid silk," continued Mrs. Train. "Try it on, Agnes, and let Letty see how nicely it fits."

But Agnes would not try it on. Martha's corded silk had put her out of humour with all her own things. She declared that the plaid silk was poor, thin stuff, and looked more like domestic gingham than any thing else; the black silk was only fit for an old woman; and as for the blue, she hated the very sight of it. She wished she had never seen it. She wished she had laid out her money for useful things, like Letty. Where was the use of trying to dress, when some one else was perfectly sure to go beyond you?

"Where, indeed?" said Letty. "But, Agnes, some one is always sure to go beyond you, dress as much as you will. I know I thought Mrs. Trescott's cashmere shawl the very handsomest thing I ever saw till old Mrs. Trescott came; and hers was so much better that it made her daughter's look positively ordinary. I had the curiosity one day to ask Miss Catherine how much it cost; and she said she supposed about 'a thousand dollars.'"

"A thousand dollars!" echoed Mrs. Train and Agnes, in tones of amazement; and Mrs. Train added, "I wish I had half as much as that in the bank, for these children to begin the world upon."

"Yes, indeed: it would be a nice little fortune for one of us," continued Letty. "You know I went to Saratoga once with Mrs. Trescott and Miss Catherine, when Miss Emily was alive. Miss Catherine was anxious—as any young girl would be—to have pretty things to wear; but Mrs. Trescott only laughed, and said, 'You will see so much more dress than you could possibly put on, Kitty, that you will care nothing at all about your own.' And so it proved. Some of the ladies must have spent their whole time in dressing, I think; for they never wore the same dress twice. I heard one lady's maid say that her mistress had brought forty different dresses."

"Only think!" said Agnes. "I always envied you that time."

"You needn't," said Letty, sighing; "for it was a very sad time. We all hoped the water and the pure air would do Emily so much good;—and for a few days she did seem to revive; but she soon was down again, and there was the last hope gone. One could not care much for fine dress and display, with such a sufferer all the time before one's eyes. It used to seem cruel to me, sometimes, to see the people so gay, and hear the band playing, when that dear child was lying almost senseless for hours, or only reviving to fall into another convulsion.

"Some of them were very kind, too. That very lady who had the forty dresses, and who you would think, to see her, cared for nothing else, came to ask Mrs. Trescott if there was any thing she could do to help her; and she cried over Emily as if her heart would break. She told Mrs. Trescott that she had lost two little girls, about Emily's age, three or four years before."

"But do you think, Letty, that people who dress so much really think more about it than others?"

"Yes," replied Letty. "I know they must, unless they are very rich indeed. It takes all their time and thoughts. We had two young ladies staying at our house last winter, who went out a great deal. They were not rich, and made their own dresses; and I never saw them busy with any thing else as long as they stayed. It was a pair of undersleeves to be trimmed, or a flounce to alter, or a thin jacket to be made up,—from morning till night. I know they kept me busy doing up and ironing out, till I wished they were gone. Mrs. Trescott used to try to get them to read, and to be interested about poor people, and so on; but no: they never had any time! Mr. Trescott said, once, it was a pity they had not been apprenticed to a milliner, so as to turn their love of finery to some good account."

Agnes had recovered from her ill humour by this time. She now insisted on trying on all her dresses,—for Letty to see. Letty tried to enter into the spirit of the occasion,—admired and criticized, was laughed at for her ignorance of the fashions, and laughed in her turn.

She finally left Agnes in high spirits, well pleased with every thing, and, apparently, fully convinced that marriage was going to be a cure for "all the ills that flesh is heir to," and looking forward to nothing but sunshine for the rest of her life. No thought of responsibility, no consideration of the sacredness of the engagement into which she had entered, seemed able to divert her attention for a moment. She especially exulted in the idea that she—the youngest of her set—was to be married first of all. "It will be a long time before Martha Allen will get such a good-looking husband, for all her corded silk," were her last words to her cousin.

Letty walked homeward, feeling rather sadly. She had seen too much of fine dresses to be dazzled by Agnes's preparations. She was sorry to see her spending money so foolishly; and she had a feeling that such an expensive wedding was not a very good beginning for two young people who had nothing in the world beforehand. She was sure all this must straiten her aunt very much, with her small income. She was oppressed, too, with Agnes's giddiness. It seemed to her that if ever a girl ought to think seriously, to review her own faults and deficiencies, to feel the need of divine guidance and support, it should be in the week before her wedding-day. She had tried to say something of this kind to her cousin; but Agnes cut her short with a laugh.

"Come, now, Letty; don't preach! You are as bad as Mrs. Willson herself; and I dare say you will look just like her when you are as old,—spectacles and all. One would think I was going to be buried, instead of married."

"I think one is nearly as serious a matter as the other, for my part," said Letty.

"Well, I really believe you do. I wouldn't be so solemn for any thing. I should have no comfort in life if I were always looking at every thing on the shady side. That is always the way with you religious people. You don't take any comfort yourselves, and you don't mean any one else should take any, if you can help it. For my part, I mean to enjoy life all I can, while I have a chance. Trouble comes soon enough, without making it for oneself."

This seemed rather absurd, coming from one who a few minutes before had wished she was not going to be married at all, because Martha Allen had a more expensive dress than her own. Letty saw, however, that it was of no use to try to make any impression upon her cousin at present, and so abandoned the attempt.

"It isn't worth while to talk to her, Letty," said Mrs. Train. "Girls will be girls. She will get sobered fast enough when she comes to know a little of the real cares of life."

The wedding took place at the time appointed, and was a gay affair. Letty wondered, as she looked round upon the dresses of Agnes's companions, how much money they could have left for necessaries. Agnes looked very pretty, and was wonderfully serious for her,—which Letty was very glad to see.

She hoped her cousin realized at last what she was about to do. But Agnes's seriousness proceeded from a very different feeling. She was annoyed and mortified past all endurance. In fact, she was the victim of a conspiracy as spiteful as it was silly. She had boasted a good deal of her wedding preparations; and half a dozen of her companions had determined to revenge themselves by playing her a trick and outdressing her even on her wedding-day.

Martha Allen's corded silk was the beginning of her troubles. But there was Julia Jones in white silk, and Amelia Riley in a beautiful silk-tissue robe with flounces to the waist, and Jane Wilkins in moiré antique (it was not absolutely genuine, perhaps, but looked just as well by candle-light), and half a dozen others, all better dressed than the bride! After all her pains and all her talk!—that was the worst of it. Agnes was quite eclipsed, and that at her own wedding!

To every one but Agnes, the evening seemed to pass off very nicely. The supper was abundant and handsome,—far too much so, Letty thought, as she remembered how her aunt would have to pinch her already spare housekeeping to pay for all these nice things.

Joseph appeared remarkably well. He was good-looking and well dressed, and had very good, though rather stiff, manners; and Letty was especially pleased with his politeness and kindness to his mother-in-law.

Mrs. Train looked tired and sad, as though she found it hard at last to give away her only child; but when any one spoke to her on the subject she expressed herself perfectly satisfied—not to say delighted—with the match.

Letty felt herself, in her plain black dress and crape collar and sleeves, almost out of place in the midst of all this gayety, and was tempted to wish she had not come, especially as she knew very few of the guests. She determined, however, not to be a damper on any one, and exerted herself to talk and be agreeable; in which she succeeded so well that a good many people asked Agnes who that pretty girl in black could be, with such pleasing manners.

Martha Allen took pains to whisper to a number of her friends that Letty was only a servant-girl at Mrs. Trescott's; but this information did not prevent her from receiving a great deal more attention and admiration than she cared for,—especially as she saw that John was looking glum and uncomfortable. Mrs. Train begged her to stay as long as possible; and she could not well refuse.

But as all things come to an end at last, so did this evening; and Letty and John set out for a quiet walk homeward through the moonlight. John was rather silent; and Letty, after two or three attempts to talk, became silent too. At last John roused himself, and asked Letty how she had enjoyed the evening.

"Not very well," said Letty. "I was glad when it was over."

"Were you?" said John. "I thought you seemed to be having a very lively time."

"Of course I felt obliged to exert myself to entertain aunt's company," said Letty. "What else could I do?"

"It seemed to come uncommonly easy, I thought," returned John. "I never saw you so lively. I hardly knew you."

"I don't think you did," said Letty, dryly. "What would you have me do?"

John was not prepared with an answer.

"John," said Letty, "we have never had a quarrel,—have we?"

"No."

"Then do you think it best to begin?"

"I am a fool, Letty! That is the long and short of the matter. But tell me: do you like such a fuss about a wedding?"

"No, indeed!" replied Letty, with emphasis. "I think the more quietly such an affair is managed, the better. I should never wish to have company on my hands at such a time. I should want all my thoughts about me. But people have their own ideas about such things; and, so long as there is nothing really wrong in it, one likes to help them enjoy themselves in their own way. For my part, I should like to go to church and be married in the morning, go straight to my own house, take off my wedding-dress, and begin getting dinner."

The picture conjured up by Letty's words entirely dissipated the remains of John's ill humour. He amused himself with imagining all sorts of difficulties and disasters to Letty's first dinner, until she cut him short by reminding him that she was serving an apprenticeship under an excellent teacher, and might therefore be considered as fully prepared to set up for herself as soon as she should be out of her time.

They parted as good friends as ever; and John went home congratulating himself on his good fortune, and wondering what he had ever done to deserve such a girl as Letty for his wife.

Mr. and Mrs. Emerson departed on their bridal tour, and were gone a week. On their return they went to their lodgings at the "Oak House," where Letty went to see her cousin. She found Agnes in a room in the third story, which looked over a back-yard, and had a little dark bedroom adjoining it. The room was well furnished with a haircloth-covered sofa, and chairs, a showy centre-table, and a dressing-bureau,— whose presence in the parlour Agnes explained by saying that there was no room for it in the bedroom.

Agnes was in high spirits, and expatiated on the delights of boarding, where she had no cares, and nothing to do from morning till night, except to please herself.

"It must seem odd to have so much time upon your hands," said Letty. "You will certainly be able to accomplish a great deal of sewing."

"Not I!" said Agnes, laughing. "I have done sewing enough lately to last me all my life. Joe was talking about some new shirts yesterday; but I begged him, for goodness' sake, not to begin about them yet. I hate the very sight of a needle!"

"Do you read, then? Surely you don't sit here all day and do nothing?"

"Yes, I read a good deal, of one thing and another. Mrs. Smith has lent me 'The Black Robber;' and she is going to let me have the 'Red Bandit,' when she has finished it."

Letty laughed. "Then I suppose you will have the 'Blue Corsair;' and what next? The 'Pink Shoplifter,' or the 'Straw-coloured Pickpocket'?"

Agnes laughed too. But she seemed somewhat annoyed when her cousin added, more soberly,—

"But really, now, Agnes, do you think it a good plan to spend one's time in reading such books?"

"You don't mean to say you think it wicked to read stories: do you?"

"No," replied Letty. "Of course not. That would be entirely too sweeping. But there is as much difference in stories as in people; and, seriously, I do think that a great many of these trashy novels, especially those translated from the French, are hardly fit to light the fire with. They mix up right and wrong, good and evil, till one cannot tell which is which, and make heroes out of men who, in real life, one would wish to have sent to the State prison or the workhouse as quickly as possible. Moreover, a great many of them are positively shameful and indecent."

"Oh, Letty! You are so precise! I do believe you never do the least thing without stopping to consider whether it is right or wrong. What is the comfort of living in that way?"

"What is the comfort of living in any other way?" asked Letty. "Even if this world were all, I believe it would be the best plan; but when one reflects that it is only the preparation for another—"

"Now, Letty, you know I won't stand preaching. I have had enough of that from Mrs. Willson. Do you know, she and the doctor came to see me, and gave me such a lecture on my duties as scared me half out of my wits? One would have thought, to hear them, that I had taken more responsibilities upon myself than if I had been made President of the United States. I am sure I never should have dared to be married, if I had thought of all he said beforehand. I was glad to see them, too; and the doctor made me a beautiful present,—that Bible there on the stand; but they made me so low-spirited that I almost wished they had stayed away."

"But, Agnes, did you never think of these things before you were married?"

"No, indeed; and I don't mean to do it now. Time enough for trouble when it comes, I always say; and so does Joseph. He says he intends to live his life as he goes along. The world owes him a good time, he says; and he means to have it."

Letty sighed, and took her leave, not very well satisfied with the result of her visit. Agnes seemed more giddy than ever; and Letty thought the idle life she was now leading a poor preparation for the cares of a family.

She saw little of Agnes through the winter; but she heard from Mrs. Train of her being out a good deal, though she seldom found time to visit her mother.

Mrs. Train looked thin and worn; and Letty feared she was working too hard, and living too sparingly, trying to save the cost of the wedding-party.

Her own winter passed very quietly. She was kept pretty busy, between her work for Mrs. Trescott and her own sewing, and went out but little. John, too, was very closely employed. Business was flourishing, and he often worked over-hours: so that he had not as many evenings to spend with Letty as formerly. But Letty knew these busy evenings were all for her sake; and she was not inclined to complain.

One afternoon early in spring, Agnes came in to see Letty, and found her busy ironing.

"How pleasant this room is!" was her first remark. "I never saw any one keep a kitchen as nicely as you do. I have seen many a parlour not half so comfortable."

Agnes was right. Many a splendidly furnished drawing-room is not half as inviting as Letty's kitchen was. A bright fire was burning in the stove, the doors of which were open. Letty's plants in the window were in a state of bloom and verdure which seemed something wonderful as contrasted with the wintry landscape outside. Not an article was soiled or out of place; not a speck showed itself upon the painted floor. A superb tortoiseshell cat sat dozing before the fire.

Letty herself, in her lilac calico and white apron, neat from top to toe, looked just fit to be the presiding genius of this temple of peace and good will. She welcomed her cousin warmly, and displaced Mrs. Trescott's Skye terrier to give her a comfortable seat.

"What a washing you have!" said Agnes, looking at the well-filled baskets, and then at the neatly folded towels and sheets on the bars. "Washing on Friday, too!"

"Our people are away; and I thought it would be a good time to wash and do up my own things."

"You don't mean to say that all these things are your own!" said Agnes, in surprise. "All these sheets and things! How many are there?"

"Six pairs of sheets, and as many pillow-cases, besides the towels and my own underclothes," replied Letty, with some pride. "See what nice sheeting."

"It is nice," said Agnes, examining the quality. "These sheets will last a lifetime. Mrs. Trescott must be very generous to give you such a setting-out."

"She has been very generous," replied Letty; "but she did not give me these things. They were all bought and paid for out of my own pocket."

"Why, Letty Bright!" exclaimed Agnes, in amazement. "Where in the world did you get the money?"

"I earned it," replied Letty, smiling. "There was not so very much, after all; only it makes a good deal of show, laid out in such things. That whole pile of sheets did not cost as much as your blue silk dress."

"My dress cost only seventeen dollars," said Agnes.

"Well, those sheets cost nine dollars, and the pillow-cases four;—that is thirteen dollars. That piece of huckaback cost two dollars, and the crash one:—sixteen dollars in all." *

* These were current prices at the time of our story.

"But these fine towels, Letty; I am sure you never got them for any such sum!"

"Oh, those were a present," said Letty. "I should never think of buying such for myself. You see they are not quite new. A very old lady, an aunt of Mrs. Trescott's, was here in the winter. I used to wash and starch her caps (she was very particular about her caps), and do a good many other things for her; and, hearing that I was going to be married, she sent me these towels and two nice table-cloths. See what beautiful old-fashioned damask they are,—all marked with her maiden-name in cross-stitch."

"I see," said Agnes. "But you must have laid out your money to good advantage, Letty, to get so much out of it. John won't have to buy any thing of the kind."

"I felt as though that was my part."

"Well, I suppose it is a good plan. But has not Mrs. Trescott given you any thing?"

"Oh, yes. She gave me a nice broché shawl, which was Miss Maria's, and two of her dresses,—a black silk and a French calico,—besides some handkerchiefs, and things of that sort. Miss Catherine gave me a beautiful all-wool delaine, with the things to make it; and I am to have it made up at her dressmaker's. Mrs. Trescott says she means to give me my wedding-dress; and I suppose she will bring it from the city with her. They have gone down to meet Mr. Trescott. She has given me a nice set of white china tea-things, too,—nice enough for any one,—which she says I am to consider as a legacy from Miss Emily. Let me show them to you."

Agnes looked on and admired, perhaps envied a little, as Letty displayed her treasures, which were indeed very handsome. She was especially delighted with the shawl.

"It is a perfect beauty,—almost as handsome as a cashmere, and as good as new. I should not think it had been worn at all. But, I must say, I wonder at her giving away Miss Maria's things, even to you. I should think Miss Trescott would have them."

"You know I was here all the time Miss Maria was sick, and helped take care of her," said Letty; "and Miss Emily was almost like my own."

"How much trouble they have had!" remarked Agnes. "After all, riches don't save people from sorrow: do they?"

"No, indeed; but the Trescotts have had something better than money to comfort them. Nobody could see Miss Maria for two hours and not know that she was fitter for heaven than earth. And when she came to die, she had no more fear than if she were just going from one room into another. I think they feel about her more as if she were gone on a journey, than as if she were dead. Their religion is more real to them than that of any one I ever saw, except Aunt Eunice. I shall always feel thankful that I was directed to such a family. If I ever come to any good, it will have been through their means."

"You have lived here a long time," remarked Agnes. "How many years?"

"Eight years this spring."

"That is a long time for a girl to live in one place, now-a-days; but every girl does not get such an easy one."

"I don't think it would be called an easy place by most people," said Letty. "We have always had a great deal of sickness and a great deal of company; and Mrs. Trescott is very particular. She will have every thing done just exactly right. Many a time I have had to wash the windows over after I thought I had done them to perfection; and many a shirt and tablecloth she has put back into the wash because it was a little wrinkled or had a speck ironed into it. It was very vexatious at first, I must say; but I fell into her ways after a while, and found it just as easy to do my work well as to slight it."

"A great many girls would not have borne it," remarked Agnes. "They would have got mad and gone home."

"Perhaps I should, if I had had any home to go to," replied Letty; "but, then, there was Sally. What would have become of her if I had left my work for every trifle? So I stayed on, and I had my reward. I have learned to do every thing about the house in the very best way. And, then, I am like one of the family. No own father could be kinder than Mr. Trescott. I am so glad he is coming home in time!"

"Well," said Agnes, with a sigh, "I am sure I hope you will be happy; but, I can tell you, you will have trials. Marriage is not a state of perfect blessedness, by any means."

"I never supposed it was," said Letty. "There is no such thing as perfect blessedness in this world. But I should think you had gone on so far with as few trials as fall to the lot of most people."

"I never knew what trouble was when I was at home," replied Agnes, with another deep sigh.

"I fancy you don't know a great deal about it now."

"Only think! Here is Joseph insisting on our going to housekeeping next month!" continued Agnes, disregarding the interruption. "He says that he wants a home of his own, and that boarding as we do costs too much. And we cannot afford even to keep a little girl: so I shall have every bit of the work to do myself. I might as well be a kitchen-girl at once."

"But, Agnes, what did you expect, when you married a poor man, but to do your own work?" asked Letty, surprised. "I never looked forward to any thing else."

"Well, I did. Just look at Grace Lennox! She keeps a girl all the time; and her husband gets no better wages than Joseph or John."

"Grace has property of her own," said Letty. "Her grandfather gave her a thousand dollars and the place they live in. That makes a great difference. With only his wages to depend upon, I don't wonder that Joseph does not feel like hiring anybody. I should think you would like the idea of having a house and managing every thing in your own way. I am sure I do. When I sit here alone in the evening, I imagine myself in my own house, washing up the breakfast things after John has gone to his work, and then putting on my bonnet and running up to market, till I grow quite excited about it."

"You were brought up to work," said Agnes, peevishly. "That makes all the difference in the world."

"And weren't you?"

"Not to that kind of work. Mother always did every thing about the house. I want her to break up housekeeping and come and live with us; but she won't. She talks over some nonsense about young folks being best by themselves; but I know that is not the reason. She thinks Joe doesn't want her; and that is true, too."

Letty thought it possible that Mrs. Train might decline upon other grounds,—as, that she knew very well that if she lived with Agnes, she would have all the work of the house to do; but she did not say so. She applied herself, instead, to the task of inducing Agnes to look on the bright side of her lot; but she did not succeed very well.

Agnes had another grievance. She had made Joseph a set of new shirts, and Joseph declared that they did not fit at all. Only that morning he had thrown one down and declared that nobody could wear it. Agnes thought he would never have done so if he had had any regard for her feelings, and avowed her suspicions that he did not love her, after all.

Letty could hardly keep from laughing.

"You should have made one first, to try the pattern," said she. "Men are always desperately particular about their shirts. Even Mr. Trescott frets about his, sometimes;—but he never scolds at any thing. Cannot you alter them?"

Agnes did not know how she could improve them. She had no courage to try. Where was the use, when one was found fault with?

Letty asked her if she remembered how she had found fault with her wedding-dresses, after her mother had taken so much pains with them.

Agnes thought that was different. She would not be comforted,—and at last departed with red eyelids and a martyr face, to meet her husband after his work.

And Letty returned to her ironing, feeling thankful that she had been so brought up as not to consider the prospect of having her own work to do a hardship.

CHAPTER III.

NUMBER NINE.

LATE in April, Letty was married. Her house was all in order beforehand: so that, as she said, she had nothing to do but to begin living directly. John had bought good and substantial furniture for kitchen and bedrooms. Mr. Trescott gave Letty, for her parlour, a carpet, some cane chairs, a chintz-covered sofa or couch, and—better than all—a neat little book-case, half filled with books, all of a kind to bear reading once and again.

Mrs. Trescott and Catherine went over, the evening before the wedding, to see that every thing was in order, and to make some little additions of sweetmeats and other good things to Letty's larder; while Catherine deposited in the little private drawer which John had contrived in the pantry, half a dozen silver teaspoons. There was no risk in leaving them there; for John was to sleep in the house, and Agnes promised to have an eye to it next day. Agnes had been housekeeping in Number Ten since the middle of March, and already considered herself a person of experience.

Letty had all along intended to go to church and be married, and from the church straight to her own home; but there had been a little change in the programme. Aunt Eunice, who lived on a farm in the country, sent Letty word that she expected her to come out and spend the day with her. She had always been kind to Letty; and, now that she was left alone in old age and infirmity, both Letty and John felt disposed to afford her every satisfaction in their power. She promised to send in for them, and bring them back at night. So it was settled that they should be married at nine in the morning, and set out from the church-door.

Letty had no bridesmaid but little Alice Trescott,—a pretty child seven years old,—who was delighted with the honour, and went through her duties with a dignity and gravity truly edifying.

Letty's dress was a brown checked India silk, with a bonnet and mantle of the same. Agnes laughed when she heard of it; and Mrs. Train said she really thought Mrs. Trescott might have done more than that, considering how rich she was. But they were obliged to admit that Letty looked perfectly like a lady, in her simple attire; and Agnes thought with something like disgust of her light blue silk dress, which was already too stained and shabby for evening, while it was not fit for any thing else.

Letty was pale and somewhat agitated, and John made two or three little mistakes; but, on the whole, the ceremony went off very nicely.

Mrs. Train lingered at the church-door, to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Trescott.

"I feel as though I wanted to thank you for all your kindness to Letty," she said. "You have, as she says, done every thing for her."

"I assure you, Mrs. Train, the obligation has been mutual," said Mrs. Trescott, kindly. "Letty has been my faithful friend for eight years. She has made my interest her own, and my sorrows as well." Mrs. Trescott's voice faltered, and she paused a little. "I feel as though I could easily be very selfish, when I think of losing her; but I am sure she is going to do well. Mr. Trescott has kept his eye on John Caswell ever since we first began to suspect how matters were going; and he is quite sure that there is not a better young man in town."

"His principles are excellent, and his practice is equally so," added Mr. Trescott. "He has been a member of our church for four years; and one more useful or more consistent it would be hard to find. He has been very economical, too: so that they have a nice little sum on hand with which to begin housekeeping. I assure you, Mrs. Train, that Letty's best friends could wish her no brighter prospects than she has before her. Of course, we do not know what calamities Heaven may see fit to send; but, after all, there is every thing in beginning well."

Mrs. Train sighed as she turned away. She began to fear that her own daughter had not begun in the best way. Agnes had expensive notions; so had Joseph; and she believed they had spent more than they could afford, all the time they were boarding. How would it be now that they were keeping house?

Agnes really knew very little about housekeeping. She had been kept in school till she was sixteen, and she had worked in the shop ever since. Mrs. Train herself had done every thing about the house, from cooking and marketing to sweeping and dusting, because, she said, Agnes must keep her hands nice for her work,—but really because it was less trouble to do things herself than to teach her daughter. She was afraid they would not be able to save much, if indeed they could avoid running into debt; and she did not see how she could help them, either. Her own income was very small, and barely sufficed for her daily wants, even when eked out by the profits of her sewing; and she had anticipated it for the expenses of Agnes's wedding outfit and party: so that, save as she would, she must be behind-hand for at least a year.

Mrs. Train sighed again, and passed the butcher's without going in, as she had intended, to buy a beefsteak,—but went home and made her solitary dinner on potatoes and a bit of cold pork, with a cup of tea without milk by way of dessert.

When our young friends arrived at the farm, they found Aunt Eunice standing at the door to receive them, dressed in her very best brown India satin, her crape kerchief and cap, and clear muslin apron. Aunt Eunice had been brought up among Friends, and, though she had married "out of meeting," she still adhered to her plain dress and habit of speech. She welcomed her guests with affectionate warmth.

"I hesitated," she said, "about asking thee to spend thy wedding-day with me; but, after all, I am growing an old woman. I have passed my fourscore years, and am living as it were upon borrowed time, which may be recalled at any hour. So I thought I would use the day while it was my own."

"I think you are looking very well, Aunt Eunice," said Letty. "Don't you feel as strong as usual?"

"Yes, my dear; I am very well for fourscore and two. Nevertheless, in the course of nature, I cannot continue much longer; and it is borne in upon my mind that my death may be sudden. But we won't talk of that now. Come into my room and take off thy bonnet. How nicely thou art dressed, my child!" she continued, when they were alone together. "So exactly in thy dear mother's taste. I could almost wish she were here to see thee."

"I have felt all day as though she did see me, Aunt Eunice," said Letty, in a low tone.

"It may be so, my dear, for all we know. I suppose thou dost not remember her?"

"Sometimes I think I do," said Letty; "but it may be only because mother Esther used to tell me so much about her. Am I like her?"

"Very much," replied Aunt Eunice. "Thou hast just her complexion and eyes,—though thy hair is not so dark,—and very much her expression. I hope thou mayest be like her in other things. She possessed, in greater perfection than any one I ever saw, the 'ornament of a meek and quiet spirit.' From the time that she was ten years old, I hardly ever heard an impatient word pass her lips; and, though she had many things to try her at home, nothing ever seemed to ruffle the sweet inward peace of her spirit. She appeared as one who walked, like Enoch, with God. She was always ready to promote and sympathize with the innocent merriment of others; but it was in the presence of sickness and sorrow that she shone pre-eminent. I used to think she was well called 'Comfort.'"

"I am afraid I am not much like her in meekness," said Letty. "Mother Esther used to call me a little tinder-box, sometimes."

"That comes from thy father," said Aunt Eunice, "and may perhaps be accounted for in other ways. Esther, though I verily believe meaning to be a true Christian, was something of a tinder-box herself. She had not the knack of going smoothly through the world. She was like an unshorn sheep in a brier-patch: every thorn gave her a pull. But she was always kind to thee, in her way; and I am glad thou hast been able to return her kindness, in some measure, by thy care of her orphan child. It must be pleasant for thee to think on, now that thou art setting up in life for thyself."

"Yes, indeed!" said Letty, warmly. "Aunt Train used sometimes to scold about my keeping myself so poor for Sally's sake; but I always told her I should never miss it."

"If I had been situated then as I am now, I should have offered to take the care of her off thy hands, at least so far as to give her a home. But thou knowest I have had my hands more than full till very lately. I must not keep thee here any longer, however, or John will be jealous. Let us go and see what he is about."

The day passed off very pleasantly. Aunt Eunice was a woman of a good deal of reading and experience, and her conversation was as agreeable and lively as it was instructive. She entertained the young people greatly by giving them an account of the way in which weddings were managed down on the Hudson among the Dutch colonists, where she had passed the first years of her married life.

Then John and Letty rambled all over the farm, looked at the cows and sheep, admired the early chickens and ducks (for which Aunt Eunice was quite famous), petted the new kittens, and searched the grove for early hepaticas.

Just before it was time to go home, Aunt Eunice called Letty into her bedroom.

"I have laid by a few things for thee, such as I think thou wilt prize," said she. "Thy grandmother and I had each a large stock of home-spun linen to begin housekeeping with. Thy grandmother's was mostly worn out and scattered in the second marriage; but I have always been careful of mine, and I have the best of it now, besides my own spinning. I have laid out for thee three pairs of my linen sheets, and the same of pillow-cases, and half a dozen napkins, all spun by my own hands,—and—now, thou needn't laugh—a bundle of old linen, both coarse and fine."

"Indeed, I don't laugh, Aunt Eunice. I know how useful old linen is, and how hard is to get it, too; for almost every one cotton now-a-days. But I am afraid you will rob yourself, Aunt Eunice."

"I have plenty more," said Aunt Eunice smiling. "I fell heir to all my husband's mother's spinning; but I thought thou wouldst prefer the work of my own hands."

"Yes, indeed," said Letty. "I never aspired to have linen sheets,—though I have plenty of cotton ones, which I bought myself. I shall keep these for grand occasions, I assure you."

"That is what I would advise. It is always a good plan to have a reserve put away to fall back upon in case of emergency. Linen sheets are much more grateful than cotton to a sick person in a fever. Indeed, I have never brought myself to using any other though I know cotton is considered wholesome. Well, to go back to thy bundle. Here are a couple of table-cloths which thy great-grandmother spun. Thou must take great care of them, and leave them to thy eldest daughter. Here is something else,—a bag of holders for thee. I dare say thou hast never thought of providing that."

"Indeed I have not," said Letty. "I wonder at it, too; for I always use them at home,—I mean at Mrs. Trescott's."

"Then it is well I thought of them. Now thou wilt not burn thy hands with thy new teakettle. Finally, I have knitted thee three or four dish-cloths of linen twine which thou wilt find far superior to the common sort. I want to trouble thee with a little bundle for Agnes. I have put up for her the same number of sheets and pillow-cases as for thee. I thought at first I would not give them to her unless she came for them; but, after all, she is my sister's grandchild; and, though she is rather giddy at present, I hope she will mend. And now, children, I must bid you farewell. I have not troubled you with much advice. I have never found it do so very much good. People must mostly find out for themselves as they go along. I hope, John, that thou intendest to set up thy household in the fear of God?"

"I mean to do so, Aunt Eunice. It is the way in which I was brought up myself; and I hope to train up my children, if God them to me, in the same course."

"That is right. I have lived a longer life than is allotted to most people, and, though I do not mean to complain, I have had my share of this world's sorrows and troubles; but, now that I look back, as it were, from the opening of another world on the road I have been over, I can see much more sunshine than shadow upon it. Try, children, to live close to God, and he will be close to you. You must expect now and then to find some roots of bitterness springing up to trouble you, even between yourselves; though I dare say you think that is impossible. Keep it to yourselves, and it will die the quicker.

"Never allow yourselves to talk of each other's faults to any one else. Letty, thou lookest indignant at the very idea; but I can tell thee, my child, that it is the rock on which many married woman wrecks her happiness. Whatever troubles thee, be the same great or small, take it at once to God. Don't fall into the mistake of thinking that any grief is too small for prayer, or any pleasure too little for thankfulness. Never run into debt. If you have not the money to pay for what you want, do without till you get the money. A debt is an ever-increasing leak. Is thy house paid for, John?"

"Not entirely," replied John. "About a third of the purchase-money remains as mortgage."

"Then thou wilt have an object in saving. Let that be thy first worldly care, so that, whatever happens to thee, thy wife will have a home. Don't, however, be so set upon saving as to go without the reasonable comforts of life or the pleasure of assisting others poorer than thou art. That is bad economy. Finally, if trouble comes, meet it with courage, and trust in God. I am glad to have had thy company for this day; and I hope it may be a pleasant remembrance to thyself as long as thou livest. Now, once more, farewell, and God bless you!"

"Won't you come and see us, some time, Aunt Eunice?" said Letty.

"Why, I am growing rather old to travel, dear; but perhaps I may some day look in upon thee, if I am spared till warm weather comes. Give my love to Agnes and Joseph, and tell them I shall be glad to see them whenever they can make it convenient to come."

"How good and kind she is!" said Letty, as they drove away. "I should love to be just like her when I am as old."

It was nearly dark when they reached Number Nine. Agnes had promised to have a fire for them; but there were no signs of any such thing, and the door was fastened. Fortunately, however, John had the key of the side door in his pocket. A light was soon obtained, and he set about making a fire, Letty changed her dress and prepared to get their supper. Presently Letty came out of the pantry.

"Where have you put the flour or the bread, John? I cannot find any."

John laid down the coal-shovel and looked aghast. "I declare, Letty, I forgot all about it! I meant to order some yesterday; but, somehow, it went out of my head. How stupid! What shall we do?"

"I can step over to Agnes's and borrow some bread," said Letty, smiling at John's expression of consternation. "She will have a fine laugh at us."

"I would rather go up street and buy some bread," said John. "There is a bakery not far off."

"I think that will be the best way,—unless you mean to make your supper on cake alone. There is some one coming in. Who is it?"

There was a gentle knock at the door as she spoke. John opened it, and saw a small, middle-aged woman, plain, and plainly dressed, but with an expression of kindness and gentleness which made Letty like her at once. In one hand she held a bouquet of early flowers, and in the other a large plate full of something neatly folded in a white napkin.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Caswell,—I suppose it is Mrs. Caswell?" said the stranger. "My name is De Witt, and I live next door. I hope you will excuse my taking such a liberty, but I thought may-be you hadn't made any calculations for supper: so I just baked some short-cakes and brought them over. I hope you won't be offended, now."

"No, indeed," said Letty, cordially. "I am very much obliged to you. I was just wondering what we should do; for we forgot to order any flour."

"There! That's just what I thought," said Mrs. De Witt, setting down the plate. "I says to Mr. De Witt, says I,—

"'Mr. De Witt, I don't believe them young things have thought to get any flour;'—for, you see, I sit right by the front window with my work, and I hadn't seen no flour-wagon come here.

"And Mr. De Witt, he says, 'Oh, Ruth, you are always so observing.'

"'I don't care,' says I. 'I'm going to bake 'em some biscuits; and if they don't like 'em they needn't eat 'em,' says I—"

Mrs. De Witt stopped for want of breath.

"You were right," said John. "I did forget the flour at last,—though I thought of it time enough beforehand. It was very kind in you to remember us."

"Well, I think it is best to do kind things when one has a chance," replied Mrs. De Witt. "Not that a plate of biscuits is any thing. I've brought a bunch of flowers, too. Flowers make a room look kind of cheerful: don't you think so? Though I'm sure you look cheerful enough already. I noticed your things when they was coming in. I do like to see furniture neat and substantial to begin with. A great many young folks begin very grand, and then kind of taper off, you know. I don't believe you will do that way. Well, I must go. Now, if there's any thing I can do for you, you must just let me know: won't you?"

Letty promised she would; and Mrs. De Witt departed, putting her head in at the door, a moment afterwards, to ask if they had milk for their tea. Agnes had thought of that; and Mrs. De Witt bade them goodnight.

"What a nice woman!" said Letty.

"She lives next door, where I told you they had so many flowers," replied John. "I cannot help being amused at her finding out that we had no flour, when I did not think of it myself. She must have observed our affairs pretty carefully."

"After all, it is natural enough to speculate on one's new neighbours, especially when they are just married," remarked Letty. "She knows how to make biscuits; that is plain to be seen," she continued, lifting the napkin and disclosing the delicate little flaky tea-cakes. "See here what a treat! Now I am going to give you another treat, in the shape of some of Miss Catherine's plum-cake; but you must not expect that every day. I mean to keep it, like Aunt Eunice's linen, for grand occasions."

They sat down to tea, and, with a thankful heart, almost too full for utterance, John said grace at his own table.

Before the tea was poured out, the front door was unlocked, and Agnes appeared, out of breath, and considerably fluttered.

"Dear me!" she began. "What a start you gave me! When I saw a light in the window, I thought the house must be on fire. So you had to make your own fire on after all! I fully intended to have the kettle boiling and the table all set for you; but I ran into a neighbour's for a minute, and the time get away so, it was seven o'clock before I dreamed of such a thing. How nice and home-like you look! Why, dear me, Letty! You have not baked biscuit already?"

"No: these came from next door," replied Letty. "It occurred to Mrs. De Witt that we were new beginners at housekeeping; and so, out of the kindness of her heart, she baked a plate of biscuits and brought them over by way of introduction."

"How very unceremonious!" said Agnes. "Carrying biscuits to a perfect stranger!"

"Doing an act of kindness is a good way of getting acquainted," said John. "Won't you sit down and have some tea with us, Agnes? The biscuits are very good, notwithstanding they came without ceremony."

"Oh, no, thank you. I must hurry home and get tea for Joe. If he comes before it is ready, there will be such a fuss! How did you find Aunt Eunice?"

"As well as one could expect at her age," replied Letty. "She sent you her love, and something else. That smallest bundle belongs to you."

"Of course the smallest bundle belongs to me. That is always the way," said Agnes. "However, I don't blame Aunt Eunice for being offended. I want to go out and see her; but I cannot get Joe started. Well, goodnight. I expect to get my head taken off when I get home."

While Letty washed up her few tea-dishes, John went up street to order his flour and meal to be sent the first thing in the morning.

"What a busy day this has been!" said he, as he hung up his hat and coat. "Let us remember what Aunt Eunice said about beginning in the right way, and have prayers, Letty."

CHAPTER IV.

AUNT EUNICE'S VISIT.

FOR three or four days Letty found it very odd to be alone in the house from morning till night, with nothing to do, after she had washed up her few breakfast things, till it was time to get dinner ready; and the hours threatened to hang heavy on her hands. John's clothes were all in perfect order, thanks to the care of the good old lady with whom he had boarded for the last four or five years: so she had not the young wife's usual task of shirt-making. The house was all in holiday trim; and, spin them out as she would, she could not make her sweeping and dusting last more than an hour.

Finally she bethought herself of the garden. It was a nice, mellow piece of ground, which had been thoroughly dug over and manured in the fall, and was, therefore, in a fine state to begin operations upon in the spring.

John had set out thrifty young cherry and pear trees, and had planted two or three grapevines and a row of gooseberry and currant bushes, taking care to procure the best sorts of each; but he knew nothing about flowers.

Letty was exceedingly fond of flowers, and always had great success in their cultivation. At Mrs. Trescott's, the geraniums and fuchsias in the kitchen-windows quite outshone those in the greenhouse; and her flower-borders were always a mass of colour, from tulip-time till the frosts came in the fall.

John fully intended to have a nice garden; but his ideas extended no farther than to fruits and vegetables. He was, however, quite willing that Letty should follow her own devices in the matter of flowers, and laid out her verbena-beds with great neatness.

Mrs. De Witt saw them at work together in the evenings,—which were now growing long enough to allow them to be out after tea,—and rejoiced that she had found a neighbour after her own heart. One morning she came over, trowel in hand, and a basket of plants on her arm.

"Well, here you are at work! I'm so glad to see you take to gardening! There's nothing more healthy or more diverting, if one has troubles, whether they are little or great. I tell Mr. De Witt,—

"'Mr. De Witt,' says I, 'I dig half my worries into them flower-beds.'

"And he says, 'I guess you dig 'em all in, Ruth; for I don't see any of 'em lying loose,' says he.

"But, la bless you! that's just his way of talking. He thinks I'm the best woman in the world; but it's only because he is so good himself. Well, I see you working out here; and so I've brought you some roots of snap-dragons and carnations and pansies,—real fine sorts, I tell you, from imported seeds. The carnations are all good, I know, because they blossomed last year; but the snap-dragons are new."

Letty gratefully accepted the present. "I am sure I am very much obliged to you," said she; "but I am afraid you are too generous."

"Oh, no, I'm not. There's plenty more. I mean to give you some of my purple and white foxgloves, when you get a place for them. Our garden is so full, it will be all the better for thinning out a little. It a'n't quite time to plant out salvias and scarlet geraniums; but, when it is, I'll give you some nice ones."

"How in the world do you contrive to get so many flowers together, Mrs. De Witt?" asked Agnes, who had come in and was languidly looking on at the planting of the carnations. "It must cost a great deal both of time and money."

"Oh, Mr. De Witt is a florist. That's his business. He works for Segur & Tryon, the great nursery-people:—herbaceous plants and bulbs, his department is. I expect you must have been up that long, green walk in their garden, with the flowers on each side. Well, all that is under his care. He used to work in the greenhouse; but it injured his health."

"It must be terribly hot, disagreeable work," said Agnes.

"Oh, he don't mind. He was brought up to it in the old country from the time he was a boy,—and his father and grandfather before him; though he says it a'n't so hot there as it is here. You couldn't hire him to do any thing else. He says people who never work in their gardens don't have half the comfort that those do who take all the care themselves; and I believe that is so."

"So do I," said Letty. "But is Mr. De Witt English?"

"Dutch," replied Mrs. De Witt,—"Holland Dutch; but he speaks English so well that hardly any one guesses it. That's the way my little girl comes by her odd name,—Gatty. Her name is really Gertrude; but her father calls her Gatty: so every one else does the same. I'd set the carnations a little deeper, Mrs. Caswell, if I were you."

"Don't you mean to make a garden, Agnes?" asked Letty.

"No. Joe says it costs more than it comes to, and that it is cheaper to buy what one wants at the market. He laughed the other night when John brought home his seeds, and said he might expect his cucumbers to cost him a shilling apiece when they were done."

"I don't see how that can be," said Letty. "What expense is there after the first cost of the seeds?"

"Why, they must be kept in order, you know."

"Well, he doesn't intend to hire a gardener to do that," said Letty, smiling. "I expect most of the weeding will fall to my share, with what John can do before and after work."

"But, Letty, if any one came to call, you wouldn't like to be caught on your knees weeding an onion-bed, would you?"

"Why not?" asked Letty.

Agnes had no answer ready, only that "it would be odd."

"But, Agnes, I think some things—cucumbers and tomatoes especially—taste so much better when you pick them fresh from the vines than they do when you buy them at market. Peas, too. Come and see our peas. They are four inches high already."

Agnes languidly admired the peas, and then announced her errand. She had come to borrow a cup of molasses. Joe had promised to send some down, but it hadn't come; and she wanted to make some gingerbread.

Agnes was somewhat given to borrowing, and did not always remember to pay.

While Letty was getting the molasses, Mrs. De Witt came bustling back with the foxgloves, and set about planting them herself.

"I don't believe in taking so much pains about flowers," said Agnes. "I should rather plant something good to eat, seems to me."

"Well, I don't know," replied Mrs. De Witt. "When the first gardener planted his garden, he did not think so; for you know the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden, and set in it not only every tree that was good for food, but every tree that was pleasant to the sight. I don't think he would be likely to throw away any work. Do you?"

Agnes found herself at a loss for an answer, and put on an air of dignity. "I don't think it right to use the Bible in speaking about a little common thing like that."

"I have noticed that people generally say that when the quotation happens to go against them," said Mrs. De Witt. "Common folks have common things happen to them, mostly; and if they can't go to the Bible for directions about them, they might almost as well not have any. Now, for my part, I think it is one of the greatest beauties of the Bible that it does suit all sorts of every-day matters, and tells about them too. I dare say if you and I had been to write the history of Abraham, we should have left out how he ran and picked out a calf and got hot cakes and butter for his visitors. I've often wondered what those cakes were like."

"And you know Solomon was a great botanist," said Letty, who had returned in time to hear the end of the conversation. "And no one can read Isaiah without seeing that he was fond of flowers."

"Oh, well, I give in," said Agnes, with a sigh. "I am wrong, of course. I always am. I hear that twenty times a day: so I ought to know it by this time. Letty, if you can spare time from more important matters, I wish you would come and see me now and then. I don't pretend to be very good company, of course; but—"

"Nonsense!" said Letty. "Don't be silly! Of course I shall come,—and do come, whenever I can. You don't want me to live in the road between here and your house, do you? I will come over this afternoon and see how the gingerbread turns out."

The days went on to weeks, and the spring passed into summer, and still Letty's garden grew and flourished, and waxed gay with flowers and green with spreading cucumber-vines and rows of goodly pea and tomato plants and stately ranks of sweet corn. The little territory was a wonder of productiveness; and many an hour of cool morning and evening did she and John spend hoeing and weeding there.

Agnes declared that Letty would never have the heart to eat one of those onions, after the labour she had bestowed upon them.

In all these horticultural pursuits John found a most kind and efficient advisor in his next door neighbour. Mr. De Witt had been bred to the business of a gardener, as I have said, and so had his father and grandfather, and their ancestors before them, as far back as any one knew any thing about the family. It seemed rather a pity that he had no son to keep up the line; but Gatty was at present the only child. She was now ten years old,—a pretty, quiet child, who carried in her chubby face a curious reflection of her father's gravity.

Mr. De Witt and John soon fell into a warm friendship. Mr. De Witt was exceedingly intelligent and well informed, especially upon the subject of European politics, both English and Continental. He had also picked up a good deal of theology and metaphysics; and endless were the discussions he and John held while smoking their pipes, sitting under the large apple tree in Mr. De Witt's garden, or on Letty's back steps.

This smoking did not please Letty at all. She disliked the smell of the pipe, and thought it an expensive and an unhealthy habit; but she wisely declined to interfere with her husband's tastes, feeling satisfied if he would smoke only at home.

Agnes came in one evening, and found Letty sitting with her work at the front window.

"How you smell of tobacco-smoke!" said she. "Do you like it?"

"No," replied Letty; "I cannot say that I do; but the men seem to take such wonderful comfort in their pipes that I have not the heart to say a word against it; though I must say I think it's a very bad habit."

"So you do find that there are some trials in married life?" said Agnes, significantly.

Letty laughed. "You don't call that a trial; do you? I wish he would give it up; but if I never have any thing more to complain of in John than his pipe, I think I shall be a happy woman."

Agnes looked a little vexed at this rejection of her condolence. She was very fond of sympathy, as she called it,—that is, of being pitied on all subjects and occasions. She wanted to be pitied because she lived in a small house,—because she was not rich,—because Number 6 had new worked-muslin curtains,—because Joseph smoked, and liked johnny-cake better than milk-toast. All these were trials, in her estimation; and she was fond of talking them over in low and confidential tones with any one who would listen to her.

This "maundering"—as the Scotch call it—was very distasteful to Letty, and she did not think it good for Agnes: so she discouraged it by every means in her power.

Agnes was not only fond of making the most of her own trials, but she was benevolently anxious that all her friends should do the same. At present, however, she abandoned the subject of the pipe, and fell upon something else.

"How they do prose and prose!" said she, looking over to the apple tree where the men were sitting. "What can they find to talk about so everlastingly?"

"Oh, they are never at a loss. Mr. De Witt thinks a certain doctrine is in the Bible, and John thinks it is not; and when every thing else is exhausted, they fall back upon that. I cannot say I am much the wiser for their discussions; but they seem to enjoy them wonderfully. I don't think John ever conversed so much in his life before; for he is not a great talker; but he and Mr. De Witt seem to suit each other exactly."

"And so they go by themselves and talk, and leave you to amuse yourself the best way you can. Very kind and considerate, certainly!"

Letty winced at this; for the truth was, she had not always been able to help feeling a little jealous of these conversations, from which she was in a great measure excluded simply because she did not understand what they were about. The knotty points of theology and metaphysics in which the two men took such interest were not of much interest to her, and seemed to be disputes about words more than any thing else; and the mysterious diagrams in the "Scientific American," over which they poured for hours sometimes, were so much Greek to her. Agnes saw her advantage, and pursued it.

"The fact is, Letty, say what you will, all men are selfish. They think their wives are just made to wait upon them and take care of their homes, and that they ought to be thankful for any crumbs of comfort the men choose to bestow upon them. Now, there is that 'Scientific American:' it is of no earthly use to you. Why couldn't he just as well subscribe to some paper that you would like to read as well as himself? What is that but selfishness?"

Agnes had made a mistake. She should not have attacked John directly. It roused Letty's wife-spirit in an instant.

"You are very much mistaken, Agnes. John is not selfish. He is always thinking what he can do to please me and to save me trouble. Look at all the little contrivances he has made about the house for my convenience. The very first thing he thinks of when he comes in, and the last thing before he goes out, is whether he can do any thing to help me. As for the 'Scientific American,' it is a great assistance to him in his business; and, if he takes that for himself, he takes the Magazine expressly for me,—for he hardly ever looks at it. He doesn't care for that sort of reading."

"That is just what I say," persisted Agnes. "If he were not selfish, he would care, just because it interested you. And there is Joseph, just the same. He laughed at my worsted-work last night, and said my dog squinted, and my dog's nose was like a pair of stairs; and he would not hold my worsted for me, just because he was whittling something."

"Whittling what?"

"Oh, I don't know. He wanted to explain it to me; but I couldn't pay attention enough to understand. Some trumpery model or other, I suppose."

"Well, but, Agnes, I think it is a poor rule that won't work both ways. Why should not Joseph complain of your selfishness and want of love for him because you would not be interested in his models? It was as important to him as your worsted-work to you;—rather more so, probably. I should think, for my part, there was some selfishness in requiring a man to lay down such a piece of work to hold worsted, which might just as well be wound off of a chair."

Agnes could not see the matter in that light. She never could see that any of her requirements were selfish. She had all her life long acted on the principle (though probably she had never avowed it once to herself) of putting her own fancies and desires before those of any one else. If people gave way to her and waited upon her, well and good: it was no more than their duty. If they did not, they were hard-hearted, selfish and unkind, and she was the most abused of all her race. She habitually put herself first, and measured all other things by that standard. Even her mother had said, with some bitterness, in Letty's hearing, that there was no use in expecting Agnes to put herself out of her way for any one.

Joseph, a careless, good-natured fellow for the most part, was also fond of consideration and attention. He was fond of having things comfortable about home. He wanted his meals ready at the minute, and well cooked; and he expected his house to be in order when he entered it. But he was not as ready as he should have been to make allowance for his wife's inexperience in housekeeping. Hence, he sometimes spoke more hastily than was desirable, and made trifling matters of more importance than was necessary.

But Agnes, instead of striving to avoid those things which annoyed him, chose to consider that her own way was right, and perversely did the very same thing over again merely for the sake of having her own way. They had had no serious disagreement as yet; but she was laying up trouble for the future.

Just then John looked in. "Come, Letty; come out, and bring your work. Mr. De Witt is describing the Cathedral at Nuremberg, of which we had a picture in the paper, you know; and I am sure you would like to hear him. Besides, I like to have you near. Come, Agnes."

Letty cast a glance of triumph at her cousin, and prepared to obey. Agnes, with a demonstrative sigh, excused herself. She must go home, she said,—with a look which would have conveyed to a stranger the idea that she was going straight to martyrdom.

Towards the end of August, Letty was one day very much surprised to see a carriage stop at her gate, and the well-preserved figure of Aunt Eunice stepping from it, with two baskets and a pail. She ran out to welcome the good old lady and relieve her of her parcels.

Aunt Eunice was soon sitting on the sofa,—she had no love for rocking-chairs,—with her fine lawn and crape as unruffled as though she had just stepped out of her bedroom at the farm.

"Well, and how dost thou get on, dear? Every thing looks so neat and so comfortable about thee that it is hardly worth while to ask. I ought to apologize for coming on washing-day; but neighbour Jones offered to bring me in his easy carriage, and I thought I might never again have so good a chance. Don't let my coming put thee aback, now."

"Oh, my washing is all done and out long ago," said Letty, smiling. "These long hot days I like to get up and wash before breakfast, while it is cool and comfortable. I was up by four o'clock this morning."

"That's a good housewife!" said the old lady, approvingly. "But bring me that small basket, my dear. I have brought thee a small addition to thy family. Thou rememberest the yellow kitten thou admiredst so much? I have kept him on purpose for thee; and here he is."

Letty was delighted. The basket was untied, and the yellow kitten appeared, somewhat ruffled by the journey, and very much amazed to find himself in a strange place. However, a saucer of milk and a bit of raw meat served to convince him that he had fallen into good hands; and he began at once to make himself at home in his new quarters.

"I have brought thee something else, which thou must divide with Agnes," said Aunt Eunice,—"a basket of eggs, and a pail of fresh butter, part of my last churning. And how is Agnes? Does she live near thee still?"

Letty pointed out the house, and said she would run over and call her; but Aunt Eunice stopped her.

"Let me rest a few minutes, and we will step over and see her. I should like to look in upon her unawares, as I have upon thee."

Letty consented,—rather unwillingly; for she knew what washing-days were to Agnes, and she thought it was hardly fair to take her at unawares. However, after a few minutes, spent in conversation or in silence, while Letty put away her share of the eggs and butter, Aunt Eunice was ready; and they crossed the road to Number Ten.

Agnes was certainly in no condition for visitors. In the course of her washing she had wetted herself from head to foot, and splashed the water from one end of the kitchen to the other. The breakfast-table had not been cleared away, but stood as used, with the remains of the morning's meal, and black with flies.

Agnes was attired in what had been her travelling-dress when she was first married,—a gray-and-purple valencia, which had once been very pretty, but was now torn, burned, frayed and worn in a manner really surprising. She never wore an apron about her work. Her hair was straggling about her ears, her shoes were down at the heels and out at the sides. A more forlorn figure it would be hard to imagine, especially in contrast with Letty in her neat pink calico and white apron and collar.

"Dear me, Aunt Eunice! Is this you? What cloud did you drop from? Do come in and sit down. I am all upside-down, washing, as you see; but you won't mind that, I am sure. You know poor people have to get on as they can. Do walk into the other room, out of this mess."

When Letty reached the other room, she could not think it such a great improvement over the kitchen. The furniture, bought in the fall to furnish the rooms at the boarding house, had already assumed the indescribably forlorn appearance which belongs to cheap neglected haircloth. Scratches appeared here and there, bits of veneering were knocked off, and each button was surrounded by its own little circle of dust. Dust had made a lodgment under the sofa, under the little corner-shelves filled with knickknacks, in which Agnes took especial pride,—on the skirting-boards and the window frames and ledges. Three or four highly-coloured French prints decorated the walls, and some gilt books, whose showy bindings and coarse paper were emblematic of their contents, lay on the table.

All this, however, was at first concealed by the judicious expedient of darkening the room till it was difficult to tell a table from a chair: so that Aunt Eunice had nearly sat down upon a shelf of the corner cupboard. It was a cardinal article of faith with Agnes that sunshine was vulgar and darkness genteel; but she so far relented as to turn the slats of the blinds, that her visitors might find their way to seats.

"Well, and how dost thou get on at housekeeping?" asked Aunt Eunice. "I should say thou hast a nice, convenient house."

"It is very small," said Agnes, sighing. "I think it's very hard to keep such a little place in order. Don't you?"

"Well, perhaps so; but I should say the house was large enough for thee and thy husband. How many rooms has it?"

"Only six,—five, that is, besides the kitchen; and two of them are little more than closets."

"That gives thee two bedrooms, besides kitchen and parlour, and abundant storeroom. When I first went to housekeeping in this part of the country, I had only one room for kitchen, parlour and bedroom."

"How did you ever live?" asked Agnes.

"Oh, nicely. I don't know that I have ever enjoyed myself more in my life than when I lived in that log house; though the wolves used to come unpleasantly near, the first winter or two. I remember once I was alone in the house. Thy uncle had been called away to watch with a neighbour who was very sick, and I sat knitting by the fire-light, when a slight noise at the window caused me to look round, and there I saw the eyes of a wolf glaring at me out of the darkness."

"Horrible!" exclaimed both the girls. "What did you do?"

"I raised my heart to God for protection; and, having quieted my first fears in that way, I threw a quantity of dry light wood on the fire, so as to make a great blaze, and then took down my husband's gun, which was always loaded, and hung near the bed. Then—now, don't look for any thing very heroic—I snatched up an iron hook and a tin pan which stood near, and ran towards the window, drumming with all my might and making a frightful noise. The wolf, who I suppose had never heard such music, turned and fled, and I did not see him again. But you can imagine that I did not sleep much that night. My great fear was that the brute might be the advance-guard of a pack, and that my husband, coming home in the gray dusk of the morning, might encounter them.

"We found afterwards there were really more than a dozen of them; but the neighbour was so low that Jacob did not leave him till after sunrise, when he died. He told me that when he came across the lot and saw the creature's footsteps in the snow, his heart died within him, and he had hardly strength to reach the house. Indeed, I think he was the palest man I ever saw, when I opened the door."

"Dreadful!" exclaimed Agnes. "I should never have dared to stay there another night."

"Oh, we were not so easily scared as that. We had several acres under improvement, and considerable wheat in the ground; and it would never, have answered to move away and leave it all to destruction for one fright."

"But to live all in one room! And I dare say you had no comforts, or any thing!"

"We were as well off as our neighbours in that respect,—which was all that was necessary. Half the furniture people purchase is for others, rather than for themselves. We were all friendly and social, and did a deal of visiting. I thought nothing, in those days, of riding ten miles on horseback to go to a quilting. Most of the women and girls used to ride behind their husbands or their beaux; and there was as much contriving to get the pairs properly assorted as takes place in a modern ball-room. I had a saddle-horse of my own: so I was independent of the men-folks in that respect."

"Well," said Letty, "while you are chatting with Agnes, I will run home and see to my cooking; for you must all come to our house to dinner. I have been contriving how I can send word to your mother, Agnes. I believe I will ask Gatty De Witt to go over and carry a note."

"I shall be glad to see Susan, if thou canst manage it without too much trouble," said Aunt Eunice. "But dost thou not want some help about getting dinner for so many?"

"Oh, no," replied Letty. "I can manage it well enough; but I must run up to market first."

"Letty is used to work," said Agnes, as her cousin left the room. "Do you know, Aunt Eunice, she actually did all the work at Mrs. Trescott's for six months before she was married,—cooking, washing and all? I was just as vexed at her as I could be. It was bad enough to have her living out at all; but that was a little too much."

"Why?" asked Aunt Eunice.

"Oh, really, aunt, you know we must pay some attention to the opinions of the world in such matters; and with Letty's family it did not sound very well to say that one's cousin was a kitchen-girl."

"And how much of the world dost thou think concerned itself in the fact that thy cousin worked in the kitchen instead of the shop? Or why is one more genteel than the other? Canst thou tell?"

Agnes did not know, only every one thought so. She was willing to drop the subject; for she had, as usual, a host of grievances for the ears of anybody who would listen to them; and this morning she was especially afflicted. Joseph had called her extravagant! He declared that they never had any thing in the house fit to eat, with all the money they spent, and said he would make the purchases himself; and he had actually bought a cook-book, and asked her to study it.

"Did not thy mother teach thee to cook?" asked Aunt Eunice.

"No. I never learned to cook. Mother did all that."

"But surely thou didst not leave it all to thy mother? Didst thou not help some times?"

"Why, you know, Aunt Eunice, I had to keep my hands nice for my work; and when I was in the shop I had no time. Besides, I never looked forward to having such work to do. And I really think, now, that Joe might keep a girl, if he only thought so. If it was any thing that affected his own comfort, he would do it quickly enough, no doubt; but as long as it is only his wife that suffers—"

"Thou shouldst not speak of thy husband in that way. It is very wrong," said Aunt Eunice, gravely. "As to thy not being brought up to work, that is a great misfortune,—perhaps more thy misfortune than thy fault. I am surprised that thy mother should have let thee grow up so ignorant."

"She did not think I should ever have it to do."

"That makes no difference, my child. If thou hadst ten servants at thy command, thou wouldst never be well served unless thou understandest something of their work thyself. The best advice I can give thee is, go to work and learn as fast as possible the best way of doing every thing about the house. Letty, I am sure, would be glad to show thee; and, from what I have seen already, as well as what I know of Maria Trescott, I should say she was perfectly competent to do so. Then make up thy mind to try and please thy husband. Learn to put thy own tastes and wishes aside, if necessary, and interest thyself in his."

"I think that is a hard case, aunt," interrupted Agnes, indignantly. "If I had looked at marriage in that light, I am sure I never should have tried it."

"My child, it is no more true of marriage than of any other state of life. If thou wouldst be happy or useful in any position whatever, thou must learn self-denial. I tell thee, Agnes, it is the key of life, and of happiness, too. No one who has nothing to do but to please himself, ever succeeded in doing so for any length of time. Self-denial is the law of God, and whoever fights against it is sure to come by the worst. And He has not disdained to set us an example.

"'Ye know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that, though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, that ye through his poverty might be rich.'

"'Let every one of us please his neighbour for his good to edification,' says Paul, and adds, 'for even Christ pleased not himself.'

"If thou wilt only try and do so for the love of God, my dear, in time it will become easy to thee, and thou wilt find many sweet flowers of pleasure growing where thou didst not look for them."

Agnes did not reply. She did not relish this kind of doctrine at all. She had professed to ask for advice, but what she really wanted was pity. Her appetite in this respect was fast becoming morbid. She sighed, and was silent; and Aunt Eunice, thinking she had said enough, turned the conversation to something else.

Joseph came home a little before noon, and looked very much annoyed as he entered the disorderly kitchen. "All in the suds, as usual!" he said, bitterly. "I wish there were no such things as washing-days!"

Agnes sighed again as she went to meet him, and cast a glance at Aunt Eunice, as much as to say, "You see how I am treated."

Joe smoothed his ruffled brow as he saw who was their visitor, and welcomed her with great cordiality, hinting plainly to Agnes at the same time that she had better go and make herself decent. When she had gone, he began to apologize for the state of the house. It soon appeared that he too had a train of grievances to relate. Agnes was extravagant and self-willed; she spent money foolishly on expensive provisions, and then wasted what she bought, because she did not know how to cook it; he was afraid they should never make both ends meet, at the rate they were going on, &c.

Aunt Eunice dealt still more plainly with him than with his wife. She told him that it was the man's place to comfort, to support and help,—that he must not expect to receive all and give nothing in return. It was true that Agnes was ignorant; but a good deal of her trouble arose from inexperience, of which she would get the better every day; and she warned him against forfeiting his wife's and his own respect by fretfulness and fault-finding and by indulging in little acts of selfishness.

On the whole, Joseph was not displeased. He had really been very much in love with his wife,—more so, it is to be supposed, than she with him, since her heavy bread had failed to have the same disenchanting effect upon him which his cookery-book had exercised upon her. He said to himself that it was very natural and proper for the old lady to stand up for her niece, and he liked her the better for it. He was in a very good humour when Agnes appeared, and with a great deal of politeness gave Aunt Eunice his arm as she crossed the street.

As they passed out through the kitchen, the old lady's smooth brow was contracted for a moment with something like a frown. She had caught sight of one of her fine home-spun linen sheets lying on the floor among the other clothes, torn and stained, and with the marks of flat-irons burned into and out of it. She said nothing; but, before she reached Letty's door, her mind was made up as to a subject upon which she had been for some time in doubt. What that subject was we shall find out by-and-by.

Letty's dinner was an entire success. Aunt Eunice herself praised the brown stew made of a round steak, and noticed the variety and freshness of the vegetables. Accustomed to the space of a large farm, she could hardly believe that all she saw before her—the tomatoes, the potatoes, the beans and corn—came from their own little garden.

"Really, now, that is something to be proud of!" said she. "Thou must have been very industrious, John."

"Much of the praise belongs to Letty," replied John,—a little flush of gratification shining in his dark cheek. "If I planted, she watered and weeded, and, above all, cooked; and, I take it, the excellence of vegetables depends much upon their cooking."

"That's so!" said Joseph, emphatically. "I wish, Aggy, you would get Letty to show you how to cook tomatoes like these. Ours always taste raw and watery."

"I guess you do not cook them long enough," said Letty. "They require more time than people generally think."

"Perhaps so. Some people have a knack of doing things right:—that's all I know," replied Joseph.

"Some people have a knack of liking any thing better than what their own wives do," said Agnes, bitterly. "If you are so desperately particular, it is a pity you did not marry a kitchen-girl."

It was now Joseph's turn to colour; and he looked heartily ashamed.

John turned his black eyes upon Agnes with a look which made her own colour rise, and she subsided into a sulky silence, which she maintained during the remainder of the meal.

Aunt Eunice, with ready tact, turned the conversation; and Letty was too well accustomed to her cousin's ways to trouble herself about them. She did think Agnes might have offered to help her with the dishes after dinner; but she made no move to do so. There was no particular bad temper in the omission; it simply never occurred to her. She had, not been taught the invaluable habit of helpfulness. As Letty was putting her plates together, however, Mrs. De Witt tapped at the door, coming in, as usual, before any one had time to open it.

"Now, look here!" said she. "Gatty and I are going to wash up these dishes. You go right in the parlour and sit down and chat with your aunt. We can do it just as well as not, and we'll have 'em all done in less than no time."

"I am sure you are very kind," said Letty; "but it is giving you a great deal of trouble."

"Oh, don't you think that! You'll do as much for me some time, I dare say. What's neighbours for, only to help one another? That's my idea, at least."

"It is mine, too," said Letty. "But every one doesn't think so."

"More's the pity! It's Scripture doctrine, anyhow. Now, you go right in and sit down with your aunt. I'll do every thing just as well as you can. La! What a pretty kitten! Look, Gatty! A'n't it cunning?"

"My aunt brought it to me," said Letty. "But, Mrs. De Witt, you must come over to tea and see Aunt Eunice: I am sure you will like her. John and Joseph are coming home at five o'clock, and we shall have tea early."

Mrs. De Witt promised to come, and immediately began making a great clattering among the dishes, while Letty returned to the parlour. Agnes looked rather surprised to see her so soon.

"Finished already?" she asked.

"Oh, no; but Mrs. De Witt has kindly taken my work off my hands."

Aunt Eunice involuntarily looked at Agnes; but Agnes made no sign. "That is always the way with Letty," she said pettishly. "Every one helps her."

"Perhaps because she always helps everybody," said Aunt Eunice, significantly.

Agnes understood what she meant, and felt it.

"I don't see how you can bear to have that woman so familiar with you," she said, with a disdainful toss of her head. "She runs in at all hours, and seems to think herself as good as anybody."

"Why shouldn't she?" asked Letty, dryly.

Agnes did not seem to know, exactly, only she didn't like "that sort of people." De Witt was only a working gardener, and his wife, a tailoress. She did not wish to associate with everybody, for her part. She thought it must be a much pleasanter state of society where people had their own stations and kept them.

"And what dost thou think thine own position would be in that case?" asked Aunt Eunice. "Dost thou suppose that the wife of a working chemist and perfumer would associate with dukes and earls?"

Agnes had not thought of that; but she believed that, at any rate, a perfumer's wife was a good many degrees above a working gardener's.

"Oh, Agnes, Agnes, how very silly thou art!" said Aunt Eunice, with a sort of groan. "Where didst thou pick up such absurd notions? Thou art nearly as bad as the grocer's wife who refused to associate with her neighbour on the ground that her husband sold single candles, while she sold only by the pound."

Letty laughed heartily. "You will have to put up with the society of the gardener's wife a little while, Agnes; for I have asked her to tea, to meet Aunt Eunice. I am sure they will suit exactly."

"Aunt Eunice must be flattered!"

"I consider it a compliment to both of them," said Letty. "Here is your mother coming at last."

Letty's prophecy proved true. They did suit each other exactly. Aunt Eunice had penetration enough to understand perfectly the kind spirit which lay under Mrs. De Witt's bad English and unceremonious ways. And Mrs. De Witt, on her part, was charmed with the old lady's manners and dress, and the gentle wisdom of her conversation. As she afterwards said, it was as good as a picture to look at her, and better than a sermon to hear her talk. They found a common subject in their love of flowers; and nothing would do but that Aunt Eunice must come over and look at Mrs. De Witt's dahlias and snap-dragons, and then at the beautiful old-fashioned egg-shell china, and the tiny silver spoons,—so heavy in proportion to their size,—as well as the little silver cream-jug, marked with a coat-of-arms, which Mr. De Witt's father had brought from Holland.

"They have been in his family,—oh, I can't tell you how long! Mr. De Witt knows. He knows all about his family. There was a very great man in it once, who was torn to pieces by the people for something he did,—Grand—something,—I forget what."

"Grand-pensionary, perhaps," said Aunt Eunice. "And so the famous De Witt was an ancestor of thine. I should like to see thy husband and talk some Dutch with him,—that is, if I have not forgotten all I ever knew."

"Do tell!" exclaimed the good woman. "Can you talk Dutch? Mr. De Witt would be ready to stand on his head."

Letty could not help laughing heartily at the ludicrous idea of the grave, sober Mr. De Witt in such a position. "Do send for him," said she. "Let Gatty go and bring him here to tea. I am so glad I thought of it."

"Why, you'll have quite a tea-party," said Mrs. De Witt. "He'll be delighted, I'm sure, if it won't be too much trouble for you. But then I know you don't mind a little trouble. Mrs. Caswell, here, is like the woman in Scripture, Mrs. White:—she 'worketh willingly with her hands.'

"There's a great deal in that working willingly. That's what I always tell Gatty; because children don't always like to take hold of work, you know.

"'Gatty,' says I, 'work willingly: the willing mind is half the battle.'"

Agnes made no objection to this addition to the tea-party. The old china and silver, the coat-of-arms and the grand-pensionary, had worked a great change in her feelings and manners towards Mrs. De Witt, and she was very gracious all the rest of the evening.

Mrs. De Witt insisted on lending Letty her spoons and china, and gathered a dish of her precious early apricots to add to the entertainment. Aunt Eunice was as much pleased with Mr. De Witt as she had been amused with his wife. He was a slow-spoken, serious man, who seldom laughed, and almost always had his head full of some great subject, which he pondered as he worked at his carnation and verbenas. No one would have taken him for a Hollander, except for the extra exactness of his English,—which he certainly had never learned from his wife. He and Aunt Eunice fell into conversation directly, and kept it up briskly in Dutch, much to the amusement of Mrs. De Witt, who was delighted to see her husband appreciated.

"Well, children," said Aunt Eunice, as she looked at her watch after tea, "I expect neighbour Jones will soon be here. Let us have family worship together before we separate."

All were pleased with the proposal, and John brought the great Bible from its stand, Aunt Eunice remarking, with approbation, that the good book showed signs of daily use.

After the prayer, they sat a moment in silence, and then Aunt Eunice spoke. She said she should probably never see so many of her family together again, and she felt impelled to say a few words to them on the most important subject of all. She urged upon them the importance of a personal, vital faith,—a faith which should pervade and sanctify all their actions and make their daily life and conversation a continual praise-offering to God. In this way of living, she said, they would, in the darkest hour, find light in their dwellings, and God would always be with them. It might be sometimes in the cloud and sometimes in the pillar of fire; but he would always be there, and the one would guide them as surely as the other to the promised land. The old lady spoke with authority and solemnity, and her countenance seemed to glow with more than mortal light as she entreated her hearers, by the mercies of God, to serve him and to honour his name in their daily life and conversation.

Even Agnes was touched, and forgot all her grievances for the time. Tears filled all eyes as Aunt Eunice bade them what they all felt might be a final farewell; and Mrs. De Witt, always impulsive, sobbed aloud. She declared afterwards to her husband that such a season of worship was like a well in the desert. It would do her good all her life; and she felt thankful that she had thought of giving her a basket of her best apricots to carry home. It was a privilege to be allowed to do any thing for such a saint.

CHAPTER V.

NEW NEIGHBOURS.

THE summer and autumn passed quietly away with our friends; and October saw a goodly supply of vegetables stowed away in John's cellar for winter use. The garden had paid for itself many times over, not only in solid comforts, but in pleasant and healthful amusement; while Joseph's equally good piece of ground had produced nothing better than docks and thistles.

Letty's flowers had done wonders; and her south window in the kitchen was filled with hardy plants in pots, looking rather paler just now in their transition from out-door to in-door life, but which might be expected to produce an abundance of flowers towards the end of winter.

Agnes wondered how Letty could bear to have the sunshine blazing in all day, showing every thing so plainly; but Letty loved sunshine, physical as well as mental; and indeed, her housekeeping could bear the full daylight better than that of her cousin.

November saw two important additions to the neighbourhood in Myrtle Street. Mr. and Mrs. Van Horn moved into Number Four, and Agnes's first baby was born. It proved a fine, bouncing little girl, black-eyed and dark-skinned,—exactly the image of its very good-looking father. Agnes had hoped for a boy, and that it would look like her; but she could not allow her disappointment to embitter her against the little, helpless being which drew its life from her. She even submitted without a murmur to its being called Margaret,—after Joe's mother,—and only made a wry face when he persisted in nicknaming it Peggy, and Madge, and Magpie, and every thing else which could be twisted out of the name of Margaret.

Agnes recovered soon from her confinement, and, Joseph getting an advance of wages about the same time, she hired a nice little English girl to assist her in taking care of the little Madge, as the child came finally to be called. She seemed more placid and contented, and also much more serious and thoughtful, than she had ever done since her marriage; and Letty believed that (as it often happens) the baby was going to make a woman of its mother.

As for Joseph, his admiration of the little stranger was almost painful to witness. The baby was never out of his arms while he was in the house: he built endless castles in the air as to its future, and was terrified at every one of its little ailments. He called Letty up one cold, rainy morning at two o'clock to come and see it expire in convulsions, and ran off a mile for Dr. Woodman before she could dress herself,—somewhat to the disgust of the good doctor, who had been up all the night before, and arrived to find Madge fast asleep in her mother's arms,—the disease having readily yielded to three drops of paregoric!

The other arrival made much more noise and stir in the neighbourhood. Number Four was the only house in the street which made any pretensions to gentility; and it was very genteel indeed. It had a tower, and a bow-window, and a veranda, and a gabled porch, and dormer windows, and every thing else which a house could have outside. And it had a drawing-room, and a parlour, and a dining-room, and a sitting-room, and a library, and every thing else which a house could have inside. And it was painted a delicate peach-blossom colour; and it had a varnished front door, and inside blinds, and various scollops and points and apertures about the roof, and looked just fit to hang up in a tree with a pair of white mice in it. So John said; but Joseph, whose imagination was dazzled with all this show, ascribed this remark to envy, and began to consider the possibility of converting his own dwelling into something similar.

The whole neighbourhood was kept in a state of excitement, for some time, by the arrival of Mrs. Van Horn's furniture. Some people admired the splendour of the carved rosewood sofa, the marble tables, and the pictures,—which seemed to be all gilt frames; and the excitement reached its height when it was discovered that Mrs. Van Horn actually had a piano! For Myrtle Street had hitherto been unblessed or unannoyed by the presence of any musical instrument except Mr. De Witt's fiddle.

But when Mrs. Van Horn made her appearance, the wonder and admiration were transferred from all other things to herself. It was during the time of the first great expansion of skirts; and Mrs. Van Horn's crinoline exceeded every thing that had heretofore been seen in Myrtle Street. Her basque was the longest, her sleeves the richest, her bonnet the most fashionable, that could be imagined. She was a pretty little woman, with pleasant features, long fair curls, a great deal of colour, and very lively manners. Her husband was a dark-whiskered, black-haired man, who dressed as extensively in his way as his wife did in hers. He wore a seal-ring on his finger and a heavy chain on his watch,—quite a contrast to the hard-working men who daily went up and down Myrtle Street with their dinner-pails and baskets.

Agnes was greatly taken with the new-comers, especially with Mrs. Van Horn. She thought the squirrel cage they occupied every thing that could be desired in the way of a mansion, and was really angry with Letty for wondering where they would put all their clothes and furniture, and, that being disposed of, where they would live themselves. What Letty thought of the new-comers may be gathered from a conversation she held with her husband the evening after she had been with her cousin to call on them.

"Have you seen any thing of our new neighbours?" he asked, as he composed himself in his favourite chair after supper.

"I have seen all I want to see," replied Letty, promptly.

It was seldom that she spoke so decidedly about any one; and John looked up in surprise. Letty set up her last dishes, gave a final brush to the stove-hearth, and sat down with her knitting on the other side of the fire. John waited quietly, knowing that Letty would begin to talk of her own accord by-and-by.

"So you didn't particularly like Mrs. Van Horn?"

Opposite Neighbours.
"I have seen all I want to see."

"No," replied Letty, "I did not; and I will tell you why. I went with Agnes to call on her,—as was only civil, you know, and I dressed myself all in my best, to do honour to my first call. Well, we got in, and were taken into the parlour, which is very handsomely furnished,—only so crowded that there is no room to turn round. Presently the lady came sailing in, in a very gracious and polite way. She is really very pretty;—I will say that for her.

"She was not backward to enter into conversation. She didn't know how she should like Myrtle Street,—it was rather out of the way of her acquaintances. Most of the people she visited lived in Clay Avenue and Webster Park. She didn't seem to have any place to run into just when she liked, as she did into Dalton's and Trescott's. You may imagine I opened my eyes a little at this; but I said nothing, and she went on. The Dalton girls, she said, were her most particular friends; they were just as intimate as sisters; and Bessie Dalton said she didn't know what they should do without her. As for Kate Trescott, she had cried like a child; and Mrs. Trescott said, 'Really, Mrs. Van Horn, I don't see but you will have to take Kate to board;' and truly she believed Kate loved her better than her own mother. And so she ran on about all sorts of fashionable people, calling them by their Christian names and by nicknames,—a great deal more familiarly than I should speak of Mrs. De Witt to a stranger."

"That was bad taste," said John, as Letty paused, rather out of breath. "But I don't see that it could be called any thing worse: could it?"

"But, John, it isn't true. Haven't I opened the door at Mrs. Trescott's for three years, ever since Davis went away? And shouldn't I be likely to know it, if she had been so intimate there as she says? And I don't believe it's any more true of the Daltons."

"She may have become intimate with them since you came away."

"Not she! Mrs. Trescott never has such intimacies with any one. It is not her way. I never knew her to be on any but good terms with her neighbours; but none of them were in the habit of running in, in that unceremonious way,—not even the Miss Daltons, who were Miss Catherine's most intimate friends,—and cousins beside.

"Then she told how she went out shopping with Kate Trescott and Bessie Dalton, to buy the very dress she had on, and how Kate had said she liked such a thing as that, because very few people fancied it: it was not a thing that every servant-girl would be getting. (Miss Catherine making such a speech as that!) Then she talked about the style of housekeeping among these grand friends of hers, little thinking whom she had for an auditor;—and certainly she told me some news. She said the Trescotts kept two man-servants all the time; and four girls, and that Bessie Dalton kept a carriage and footman of her own. I am sure I may say that she does not tell the truth; and I believe that a person who will lie about one thing will lie about another. Besides, she told scandalous stories about other people that I don't believe she ever spoke to in her life, as though the circumstances had occurred within her own knowledge."

"How did Agnes like her?"

"They seemed very much taken with each other, I thought. Agnes, you know, cares a great deal for dress and such matters. I foresee that they are likely to become very intimate."

Letty's prophecy proved true. Agnes and Mrs. Van Horn were always running backward and forward across the road, bareheaded, leaning over each other's gate, to gossip confidentially about various matters, and going shopping together. Mrs. Van Horn spent a great deal of money, and never hesitated to use her credit when her purse failed; and Letty found she was leading her cousin into expensive habits. Agnes discovered that her last winter's shawl was not nearly warm enough, and that she must have a new cloth cloak,—a circular cloak being, as every one knows, warmer than a shawl. Her bonnet, too, was remodelled and retrimmed with new and very expensive feathers and flowers; and then a new dress became imperatively necessary.

Joe grumbled a little at these expenses; but he had a strong desire that his wife should be genteel; and he was much flattered by her intimacy with Mrs. Van Horn. So he was easily brought to see that she must dress in such style that her new friends need not be ashamed of her. Mr. Van Horn, too, was very affable, and now and then invited Joe to smoke one of his fine cigars with him, and sometimes condescended to borrow a dollar of him when they met at the market.

The little English girl found more and more work put upon her shoulders every day; and Letty really pitied the patient creature. Her mother lived in the neighbourhood; but Agnes seldom found that she could spare Sally to run home even for a few minutes on Sunday, she had so much to do. Letty saw very little of Agnes now; but she ventured to remonstrate one day, when she saw Sally lifting a large kettle off the fire.

"You shouldn't let that child lift such heavy weights alone," said she, when Sally left the room. "Such young girls are easily hurt by overdoing their strength, and the injury may last for a lifetime."

"I don't think Sally hurts herself," said Agnes, carelessly. "She must expect to work if she lives out at all. I suppose you used to do such things when you lived at Mrs. Trescott's: didn't you?"

"Not at her age," replied Letty. "Mrs. Trescott was always very careful about such matters. Sally is growing very fast, and—"

"Really, Letty, I don't think I need your advice in managing my household," interrupted Agnes, warmly. "When I do, I will ask for it. I don't want any one interfering in my family."

"I have no desire to interfere in any way," said Letty.

"Then don't do it! Mind your own affairs, and I will mind mine!" said Agnes, tartly.

Letty left the room without speaking. She felt very much hurt. Agnes had always been in the habit of coming to her in the most unceremonious way whenever she needed assistance. Letty had made half her baby-clothes for her, and had washed and dressed Madge every morning till she was two months old.

Agnes came to her to borrow ever thing she wanted, and often to her no little inconvenience; and Letty really thought she might venture a word of advice without being considered as taking a liberty. She went home fully determined never again to intrude herself on Agnes in any such way. In the course of the same afternoon, Agnes came over with her hands full of work.

"Just look here, Letty, how I have burned the front breadth of my plaid silk! What in the world shall I do with it? Would you try to mend it, or would you take it out altogether?"

"Really, Agnes," said Letty, "I could not venture to advise you, after what you said to me this morning. I don't like to be told to mind my own business."

"Nonsense, child!" said Agnes, assuming an air of superior wisdom. "Don't be so touchy."

"I am not touchy, as you very well know," replied Letty, with spirit. "If I had been, I should have quarrelled with you long ago. I gave you a simple piece of advice about your girl, and in return you insulted me. If John were to know what you said to me this morning, he would never let me go into your house again."

"But, Letty, when I am willing to forgive and forget, why should not you be willing also?"

"What had you to forgive?" asked Letty. "You must not think that you are going to say just what you like to people, and nothing be said in return. I am willing to advise you about your dress, if you wish it; but you must make up your mind that, if we are to continue friends, you must do your share. People who would have friends must show themselves friendly."

Agnes protested that was what she wished,—that she was sorry she had hurt Letty's feelings,—but no one ever minded her; and, besides, she had so many troubles of her own, she added, with a sigh, that she supposed they did make her irritable sometimes. She concluded by again asking Letty's opinion about the dress.

"My first advice would be, not to wear silk dresses about the kitchen-stove, and to wear an apron when you are about your work," said Letty. "You will never keep any thing decent till you learn to do that."

Agnes came very near again telling Letty to mind her own business; but she thought of the burned silk, and refrained.

"If I were you," continued Letty, "I should cut out this burned part, match a piece on, and then turn the skirt round. By taking pains enough, you can mend it so that it will never show."

"What a piece of work!" exclaimed Agnes. "Can't you take it and mend it for me, Letty? You sew so much faster and better than I can; and I want to go down street with Mrs. Van Horn."

"I have no time," replied Letty. "I have begun to cut out some shirts, and I cannot leave them till they are finished; and I have my own mending to do. Besides, I want to go and walk myself. Dr. Woodman was here yesterday, and he says I stay in the house more than is good for me, and that I ought to walk every day."

"Of course!" said Agnes, pettishly. "Any thing rather than help me!"

"That is unjust, Agnes, and you know it. How many days have I spent in sewing for you in the course of last summer?"

"Dear me! You need not fire up again. You are growing so particular, one cannot speak to you!"

Letty did not answer, but set about her own work in silence. Agnes fidgeted a while, now taking up a book and reading a little, now looking out of the window, and now gazing hopelessly at the unfortunate dress. Finally, she took a pair of scissors from Letty's basket and began slowly ripping off the skirt.

"I wonder why Mrs. Trescott did not call on Mrs. Van Horn when she was here yesterday?" she said, presently.

"Mrs. Trescott does not know Mrs. Van Horn."

"Why, Letty, what do you mean? Mrs. Van Horn says that family are her most intimate friends; she is always talking about them."

"I know that. I heard all she said the day we called there. I did not believe it then, because I know it is not Mrs. Trescott's habit to form such sudden and violent intimacies with any one. Still, I did not wish to say any thing till I knew certainly. So, yesterday, when Mrs. Trescott was here, I asked her if she was acquainted with Mrs. Van Horn."

"Well," said Agnes, eagerly, "and what did she say?"

"She said she believed she had seen her," replied Letty, laughing. "The people who rented the brown-stone house took boarders, and she had heard Mrs. Van Horn mentioned as one of them. At first she thought that was all she knew; but, when I described her, she said she thought Mrs. Van Horn called one day to inquire about the rent of one of Mr. Trescott's houses on the Avenue."

"Well, I declare!" ejaculated Agnes. "So all that was made up! Why, she told me only last night that she had taken a long walk with Miss Charlotte Dalton, and had gone there to dinner."

"Worse and worse!" said Letty, laughing, "Why, Agnes, Miss Dalton has not walked farther than across the road to Mrs. Trescott's since I knew her; and that is seven years this fall. She was hurt somehow in the riding-school when she was quite a little girl, and has never walked since. It is only at her best that she can go as far as Mrs. Trescott's."

"Well, if ever! I thought there was something odd about her always going out of church before the sermon."

"Yes; she cannot sit up long on a seat with a straight back. But you would be surprised to see how much work she accomplishes. She has a Sunday-school class,—only the girls always come to her at home—"

"But to think Mrs. Van Horn should have told such a story!" interrupted Agnes. "What do you suppose she could be thinking of?"

"Not of telling the truth, certainly," said Letty. "But I suspect that is the last thing she troubles her head about. You know now why I would not say I liked her."

"After all, Letty, it was only a little bit of romancing," said Agnes, after a pause. "It was not telling a lie, exactly."

"I don't know what you mean by romancing. It seems to me that when a person says what is not true, with the intention of deceiving, that is nothing less than a lie."

"Then you think the intention makes the lie?"

"Of course it does," said Letty. "If I tell Gatty a story about how Ginger went to visit another cat, and what they said to each other, and what a dog said to them, there is no lie in that. Gatty knows very well that kittens and dogs cannot talk. But if I were tell her that some great lady gave me Ginger,—intending thereby to show that I was on very intimate terms with that great lady,—that would be a lie."

"Well, I must say, I wonder how you held your tongue that day," said Agnes. "I should have spoken right out."

"What good would that have done?"

"I don't know that it would have done any good; but it would have mortified her. Besides, it might have made her more careful another time."

"True, it might have had that effect; though I think it doubtful. A person who carries such a habit to Mrs. Van Horn's age is not easily cured. But you must remember, Agnes, that I was not quite sure. I had been away from Mrs. Trescott's almost a year, and I could not tell what might have happened in that time; though, from what I knew of the habits of the family, I thought the story very improbable."

"Well, Letty, I must say, it would be a good thing if every one in the world were as careful in speaking about people as you are," said Agnes, feelingly. "See, I have ripped all that, as you told me. What shall I do now?"

"Put it away, and go to walk with me," said Letty, "and to-morrow I will show you how to match the plaids."

"I don't see how I can; though truly I should like it, Letty. You see, I promised to go shopping with Mrs. Van Horn, and she will expect me and wait for me."

"Of course you must keep your engagement," said Letty. She longed to add a caution against being led into extravagance by her companion's example,—but refrained. She felt that such a caution might do harm rather than good.

For a little while the intimacy between Agnes and her new friend seemed to be cooling off; but it soon became warm again. There was a fascination about Mrs. Van Horn's society which Agnes found it impossible to resist. In truth, she was a skilful flatterer, and exercised her talent even where there was nothing to be gained by it, merely, as it appeared, "to keep her hand in." They soon came to calling each other by their Christian names, to exchanging embraces and kisses, and holding long, confidential conferences.

Agnes now seldom came into Number Ten, except when she had a favour to ask; and both she and Joseph assumed a certain air of superiority, which annoyed John and amused Letty exceedingly.

Shortly after the holidays, little Sally's mother took her home.

"I am sorry to do it, ma'am," she said Agnes; "but the work is altogether too hard for the child. She grows pale and thin, and has a pain in her side and shoulder all the time, and I think she is growing crooked. I cannot well afford to keep her at home; but I can still less afford to have her sick,—perhaps for life."

Agnes was very much annoyed, and had something to say about the impertinence of the "lower classes." She did not find another girl immediately, and was, consequently, obliged to be more at home.

At last she fell into the habit of carrying little Madge over to Number Ten and leaving her with Letty, while she went down-town, or to a concert or other evening entertainment.

Letty was fond of the baby; and, though it necessarily made her some trouble, she did not complain; but after she had twice been kept up till two o'clock in the morning, once while the parents were out on a sleigh-ride, and again while they were at a party,—John rebelled.

"I am not going to have this any longer, Letty!" he said, decidedly, next morning, when Letty's pale cheeks and untasted breakfast showed the headache she would fain have concealed. "Agnes is as well as you, and stronger; and there is no sense in your wearing yourself out in doing her work."

"But, John—"

"But, Letty, I won't; and that is just all about it. If Agnes wished you to take Madge now and then while she went to church, or out to take the air, I should say nothing against it. Such things are all fair and proper between friends and relations,—not to say neighbours; but as to your holding and carrying that fractious baby till two o'clock, that her mother may figure at a ball, where, in my opinion, she has no business to be at all,—there is no sense nor reason in it. You need not disturb yourself," he added, smiling. "I take all the responsibility. Just say, when she asks you, that I have forbidden it."

And Letty did say so, the very next week, when Agnes wished to go to a concert. And Agnes wondered that people could be so selfish, and wondered what she should do, and wondered that Letty could say John was not tyrannical when he laid his commands on her in that way, and finally went over to tell her sorrows to Mrs. Van Horn. That lady exclaimed and sympathized and pitied; but she never offered to let her girl take care of Madge, as Agnes had hoped: so Agnes, for once, had to stay at home.

The next week she found another girl, not so promising in appearance as Sally, but stronger; and after that she felt herself at liberty to run abroad as much as she pleased.

Letty often wondered how she dared to leave the child; but the time was past when she could venture to remonstrate with her cousin.

One day, when Letty was very busy looking over her domestic affairs and putting them in perfect order, Mrs. Van Horn came in. The little parlour was occupied with various pieces of work; but Letty made room for her visitor, and sat down to entertain her. Mrs. Van Horn had something on her mind, and, after several hints and innuendoes, delivered herself to this effect:—

She thought Mrs. Caswell ought to know what people said about her. She had thought it her duty as a friend to come and tell her. Not that she believed it, of course,—she had told everybody so,—but—and here she stopped, and looked more mysterious than ever.

Letty was rather weak and nervous, and this sort of communication agitated her considerably. Her colour changed, and her hands trembled, as she begged Mrs. Van Horn to explain.

That lady, delighted to see the effect of her words, kept her auditor in suspense some time longer, as she declared that she would not hurt Mrs. Caswell's feelings for the world. It was very unpleasant for any one in her situation; she was rather sorry she had said any thing; but every one was talking—and here she made another pause.

Letty was now on the verge of tears; but she restrained herself, and waited in silence for the mystery to be explained; and it came at last.

Mrs. Van Horn had actually heard it said that Mrs. Caswell, before her marriage, was a servant—neither more nor less than a common servant—in some family in the upper part of the city!

Letty could not restrain a laugh, which had, perhaps, something nervous in it; and Mrs. Van Horn looked rather uneasy, but laughed in her turn.

"Of course I knew you would be amused: that is always the best way to treat these things," said she. "I assure you I shall contradict the story everywhere."

"Pray, don't," said Letty, partly resuming her gravity. "It would not be at all worth your while."

"Oh, but I assure you it is no trouble; and, if it were, I do not mind trouble where my friends are concerned."

"But, Mrs. Van Horn, there is another reason for not contradicting the story:—it is quite true. I did live put for some years. I went to Mrs. Trescott's when I was fourteen, and stayed there till I was married; and I am quite sure no one could have a better home. Mrs. Trescott is the kindest friend I have in the world."

It was now Mrs. Van Horn's turn to look blank; but, like a skilful strategist, she determined to make the best of a very awkward position.

"Dear me! Who could have believed it? Not but that I always thought there was something familiar in your face and manners. I dare say I have seen you there; or perhaps it is only because you have caught some of Mrs. Trescott's ways, as you naturally would, living there so long. Poor woman! I am afraid she is not as happy in her family as one could wish. Perhaps you can tell me about the matter. It was commonly reported that Mr. and Mrs. Trescott had a grand quarrel, which was the occasion of his going off to Europe so suddenly a year ago. It was said that he objected to her spending so much on her poor relations, and declared that he would not be burdened with the support of the whole Dalton tribe: they might take care of themselves. I believe, too, she objected to his running after mediums so much. I have heard, on the best authority, that he is really a spiritualist, and goes to a clairvoyant for advice as to all his business matters. I understand that when his nephews want to get money out of him, they go and bribe this woman; and Mr. Trescott does just what she tells him."

Letty indignantly denied the truth of all these stories. She wondered how such scandals grew up.

Mrs. Van Horn wondered too, and related several more of the same sort, just to show what people would say. She then asked if Letty would be so very kind as to give her a glass of water. Her sharp eyes had caught sight of something which she wished to examine a little more closely.

Letty was not gone quite so long as she was expected to be, and returned to find her visitor closely examining the marks of a pile of rather fine handkerchiefs,—a part of Maria's wardrobe which Mrs. Trescott had given her.

Mrs. Van Horn looked confused at first, but soon recovered herself; while Letty coloured at the impertinence,—a circumstance which Mrs. Van Horn did not fail to observe.

"What beautiful marking!" said she, coolly holding the handkerchief to the light. "I never saw any thing nicer!"

"It is very neat," said Letty; "but here are some which are more curious still:" and she showed her one of the fine towels before mentioned, and marked with the name of Anastasia Burchell in most elaborate cross-stitch. "One does not often see any thing like that now-a-days."

"No, indeed! Nor such superb damask, either!" exclaimed Mrs. Van Horn, with enthusiasm. "I declare, they are the handsomest towels I ever saw! And such an immense size! How beautifully they are done up! They look like new!"

"They have never been used since I had them," said Letty, glad to divert the woman's attention to something which was not slander. "Here are some table-cloths of the same sort." And she displayed her treasures to the admiring eyes of Mrs. Van Horn, who observed every thing closely and went away with her head full of a new idea.

"It is a likely story that any one ever gave her those things!" she said to herself. "People don't make such presents to kitchen-girls. I dare say she knew how to help herself. After all, she did not deny, in so many words, that Trescott and his wife quarrelled. I dare say it is true. People that pretend to such wonderful goodness are just the ones to be up to all sorts of mischief."

CHAPTER VI.

THE WILL.

MRS. VAN HORN did not call upon Letty again; and, when she went to return the visit she had received, the lady was not "at home." But she continued upon the most intimate terms with Agnes. Letty was more than ever convinced that she was not a safe person; but she was grieved at the change in Agnes's feelings, and made several attempts to regain some influence over her. Letty fancied, too, that several of her neighbours looked coolly upon her and once, as she passed a knot of them, there was a laugh and a significant whisper that she could not overlook. She could not help suspecting that Mrs. Van Horn's influence lay at the bottom of the matter; nor was she mistaken.

Letty's baby was born in May. Her confinement was attended with much suffering, and she was considered in some danger for several hours. Mrs. Trescott came down early in the morning, and stayed the whole day, greatly to the comfort of Letty, who regarded her as an infallible oracle in all cases of sickness. In the afternoon, when Letty was comparatively comfortable and had fallen asleep, Mrs. De Witt, who had been with her from the beginning, beckoned Mrs. Trescott out of the room.

"I wish you would come over to my house," said she, rather mysteriously. "I have something to say to you, and I don't want any of 'em to hear a word,—particularly Mrs. Caswell. It's been on my mind a good many days," she continued, opening the door for her visitor, "and I wanted some one's advice that knows more than I do; for I really don't think such things ought to be allowed to go on,—only one don't know how to stop 'em, always."

"Well," said Mrs. Trescott, surprised, and somewhat amused, "I will advise you to the best of my ability. What's the matter?"

"It's about Mrs. Caswell herself," said Mrs. De Witt, sitting down, and, in her extraordinary earnestness, coming to the point at once, without any of her customary circumlocution. "You see, she has a good many handkerchiefs and things marked with your daughter's name, and some very fine towels and table-cloths marked with another name,—Anastasia something."

"Anastasia Burchell? Yes. Those things were given her for wedding-presents, by my aunt and myself. My daughter was very much attached to Letty, and at the time of her death I laid by a number of articles of her wardrobe, such as I thought would be useful to Letty, meaning to give them to her whenever she should leave me."

"Exactly," said Mrs. De Witt. "I understand. Well, Mrs. Van Horn was in there one day when Letty was pulling out all her drawers and putting her things in order, and she got hold of some of these very articles. So, what does she do but go all around the neighbourhood, telling every one that Mrs. Caswell stole those things from you, and that you told her yourself that you knew Letty stole, but, as she was a member of the church and going away so soon, you thought you would take no notice!"

"That I told her!" exclaimed Mrs. Trescott, in profound amazement. "Why, Mrs. De Witt, I never spoke to the woman more than once in my life. I hardly know her by sight."

"Do tell!" said Mrs. De Witt. "Why, she is always bragging how intimate she is at your house,—and so on," remembering in time that all Mrs. Van Horn's stories would not bear repetition. "Anyhow, she has told this story about Mrs. Caswell all over the neighbourhood, and a good many people believe it."

"Where does this person live?" asked Mrs. Trescott, with a flash in her eyes which, to those who knew her, betokened mischief. "I should like to see her."

Mrs. De Witt pointed out the house. "See, there she is now at the gate, talking to Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Clarke and Martha Wilbur. She has got some new story in hand, I'll be bound, by the way she nods her head."

Mrs. Trescott had laid a light scarf over her head to come through the garden. "Come with me, Mrs. De Witt," said she, decidedly.

The two crossed the road, and stood in the midst of the gossiping group almost before they were seen.

"Mrs. Van Horn, I believe?" said Mrs. Trescott, addressing the woman,—who looked as if she did not know whether to be pleased or frightened, as she bowed her head.

"I understand," said Mrs. Trescott, in clear, quiet tones,—"I understand that you have spread a report about this neighbourhood, to the effect that Mrs. Letitia Caswell, who formerly lived with me, stole certain articles, marked with my daughter's name, now in her possession."

"I'm sure I don't remember," stammered Mrs. Van Horn. "I only said it was odd how she came by them,—or something like that."

"Why, Mrs. Van Horn, how can you say so?" exclaimed Martha Wilbur, a pert girl of fifteen, who was rejoicing in the prospect of a scene and very ready to help it on. "I am sure you said at our house that Mrs. Trescott told you herself how Mrs. Caswell stole those things, and about all the other trouble she had made in the family. It was the same night when you told us how you had just been out riding with Mrs. Trescott in her new carriage, and how she asked you to go to Washington with her."

"Martha is right," said Mrs. Clarke. "I heard Mrs. Van Horn say all these things myself."

"I have only to say," said Mrs. Trescott, turning to the bystanders, "that the story is perfectly false from beginning to end. Letty lived with me eight years, and was to me more like a younger sister than a servant. I would have trusted her with any amount of money. She is beyond all question one of the most truthful, faithful persons I ever had any thing to do with. The articles in question were given her by me, as a kind of legacy from my daughter Maria; and the damask towels which excited so much attention were a present from my aunt, Mrs. Burchell. As to this person," she added (turning to Mrs. Van Horn), "I do not know her, nor, may I add, have I any desire to make her acquaintance." And, with a dignified bow, Mrs. Trescott turned away, and walked back to Number Ten, followed by Mrs. De Witt.

"Well, if ever!" exclaimed Martha Wilbur.

"Oh, you needn't mind what she says," said Mrs. Van Horn, recovering herself a little, and the instinct of lying, as usual, coming uppermost. "Mrs. Trescott is queer at times," she added, in a mysterious whisper. "Very likely she will be all right to-morrow, and as good friends as ever. There is insanity in the family; and she has so many domestic troubles, it is no wonder."

"Well, now, I think I wouldn't say any more about Mrs. Trescott, if I was you," said plain-spoken Mrs. Clarke. "I have known all about her family for years, and there never was any such thing the matter with them. For my part, I take shame to myself for ever having listened to such stories about Mrs. Caswell; though I never did believe half of them. Suppose she had died this morning: how should some of us be feeling now about the way we have treated her lately,—a woman who has never done any thing but good to one of us? It will be a lesson to me for my whole life; and I hope, Martha, it may be the same to you."

It was so far a lesson to Martha that she lost no time in spreading the story of Mrs. Van Horn's defeat from one end of the street to the other, and several doors round the corner. A good many people chuckled over the lady's discomfiture, and declared that it served her right. Others felt sorry for her, and thought the lesson a severe one; as indeed it was.

Agnes declared that it was a shame all round, and that she did not believe Mrs. Van Horn meant any harm, or ever said half of what was attributed to her. She insisted that it was Mrs. De Witt who had made all the fuss, by telling Mrs. Trescott, and that it would have died out of itself if she had only held her tongue.

Letty heard nothing of the matter till very long afterwards; and John never heard of it at all.

Mrs. Van Horn kept herself very quiet for some time, and was never afterwards heard to boast of her acquaintances on the Avenue. She confided to Agnes that she would never speak to Mrs. Trescott again, as long as she lived,—a resolution which she was not likely to have much difficulty in keeping,—and that she would never again have any thing to do with the Myrtle Street people. It served her right for mixing herself up with such a low set, she said,—adding, pathetically, that she never did try to do people good without having cause to be sorry for it.

Letty's boy was rather a delicate little fellow, and was, indeed, not nearly so fine a baby as Madge; but, then, he was a boy, and Agnes thought she was somewhat injured. But Joe avowed himself perfectly satisfied, and declared, as he tossed the sturdy little thing up to the ceiling, that he would not change his Magpie for all the boys in the world,—all of which Agnes set down as want of sympathy.

But as the weeks went on, the little boy improved; and at two months old, though still small, was as plump and rosy as a mother could wish, while he already displayed, according to Letty, unusual sagacity.

Gatty De Witt was half out of her senses with delight. She had always longed for a little brother or sister; and Letty gave her full permission to call the new-comer her brother. She spent half her time out of school by his crib or holding him in her arms; and the daily task of sewing or knitting, which her mother rigorously exacted, no longer seemed tedious, if she might only sit where she could see the baby. Then came the grand question of his name. Gatty proposed all sorts of names; but Letty had long ago made up her mind that if a boy were given to her, he must be called Alexander Trescott, and Alexander Trescott it was.

"But that is such a long name for such a short baby," said Gatty.

"You know we can call him Alick till he grows longer," suggested John, gravely,—"or Sandy, if you like it better."

"Sandy!" exclaimed Gatty, indignantly. "Mr. Logan's Scotch terrier is named Sandy; and he is an ugly little thing. I don't mind Alick, though."

Alick was born on the second day of May, and Letty was growing quite strong and well again, when a neighbour of Aunt Eunice's called one day with sad news. The old lady had been found dead in her bed that morning. The funeral was appointed for the next day, and one and all the relations were asked to attend it. John went out at once to assist in the necessary arrangements, and the others were to go on the day of the funeral. Agnes came over in the afternoon to talk about it.

"I suppose you will go, of course?" said she, after a little pause.

"No," replied Letty. "John does not think it best. You know I have not been very strong lately; and he is afraid of my making myself sick. I am very much disappointed; but I suppose he is right."

"I don't believe it would hurt you," said Agnes.

"Nor I; but still it might."

"And so kind as Aunt Eunice has always been to you, too!" continued Agnes. "It will look very odd for you to stay at home. If I were you, I would set my foot down and go, whether or not."

"You don't know John, or you would not talk in that way. When he once makes up his mind, that is all about it. However, I do suppose he would let me go, if I really insisted upon it, this time; but I don't like to take the responsibility; and, then, I don't want to worry him. Suppose the baby should be sick after it: how should I feel!"

"Nonsense! It won't hurt him. Babies are not so easily made sick as men suppose. If you were to listen to Joe, you would think that Madge ought to be kept under a glass case and only taken out upon fine days. For my part, I believe in making them hardy. Here comes Mrs. Trescott. Now, I shall just ask her; for I really do not think it looks decent for you to stay at home."

Mrs. Trescott was appealed to accordingly. Much to Agnes's disappointment, and perhaps a little to Letty's, she sustained John's decision. "It is raw, damp weather, and Letty has not been well. A little cold might easily make her sick; and there is not only her own health, but the baby's, to be considered. Ask yourself, Letty, what Aunt Eunice would say."

"Oh, I know you are right," said Letty; and the tears filled her eyes. "But I did feel as though I wanted to see her once more."

"The feeling is a natural one," said Mrs. Trescott; "but look at it in another way. Aunt Eunice is not there,—only, so to speak, the cast-off clothes which she has worn and done with. You will now remember her as you saw her last,—well and happy, with the light of a loving spirit in her eye and the hue of health on her cheek. Is there not some comfort in that?"

"I think she was one of the most beautiful old women I ever saw," said Agnes.

"Her beauty came from within," replied Mrs. Trescott. "It was the spirit which shone in her eyes and smiled in her mouth that gave her face its charm. She always seemed to live, as it were, in the sunshine of God's presence. I never spent an hour in her company without feeling myself the better for it. She seemed to carry about with her an atmosphere of peace and truth, which did good to all who came within its influence."

"Yes, indeed," said Agnes, rather to Letty's surprise. "If one could always live with such people, it would be easy to be good; but when one's daily companions are the very reverse of that, one cannot help being influenced by them. I am sure I feel it so every day of my life," she added, with the usual sigh.

"Yet some of the most lovely Christian characters have grown up under just such influences as those you describe," remarked Mrs. Trescott.

"May-be so; but it is very hard work," said Agnes. "Well, Letty, I must go home and get ready. I am sorry you cannot go; but perhaps it is for the best. John is so indulgent and kind that you must not mind his setting up his will against yours once in a while. It is daily contradiction and selfishness which wear one out."

"What does Agnes mean by talking in that way?" said Mrs. Trescott, after she had gone. "Doesn't she live happily with her husband? Is he an irreligious man?"

"I believe he is rather the more serious of the two,—though that is not saying much," replied Letty; "but he and Agnes have taken up an unfortunate way of talking about each other. They are always complaining,—especially Agnes. I think Mrs. Van Horn encourages her to do so. I always stop her short as soon as I can; but she thinks I have no sympathy with her."

"I wonder if Aunt Eunice made a will?" said Joseph to his wife, as they were riding out next day. "She must have been pretty well off."

"You know she had the farm only for her lifetime," replied Agnes.

"Yes; but I understand that all the furniture and stock were hers; and one would think she must have laid up money."

"She always gave away a good deal," said Agnes. "And if she had any property, I dare say it is left to some institution or other,—very likely to the 'Old Ladies' Home.' She was always sending them butter and other things. But it's hardly right to be talking of such matters now."

"Only it's as well to think about them,—and natural, too."

"Natural to some people," said Agnes; "but not to me, I am sure. I never thought of speculating on the poor old lady's property. But you are so worldly, Joseph! You never seem to care for any thing else."

Joe muttered that he didn't think he any worse than other people in that respect, only he never set himself up to be much.

It turned out that Aunt Eunice had something to leave, and also that she had made a will. Her personal property amounts to more than five thousand dollars. Of this, nine hundred was left to each of the girls, and the use of the remainder to Mrs. Train for her life, to be divided at her death between Agnes and Letty.

The furniture, linen, china, &c.—all the contents of the house, in fact—were left to Letty; "as I am well assured," the testator went on to say, "that she will value them as they deserve." That unlucky ironing-sheet! Aunt Eunice had always intended to make an equal division of all these matters between her two grand-nieces; but the sight of her fine linen reduced to such base uses at last, changed her mind.

A gray crape shawl was left to Mrs. De Witt, and to her husband, a venerable Dutch copy of Calvin's "Institutes," which would have been a prize to any book-collector in the land. Even little Gatty received a remembrance, in the shape of a shepherd and shepherdess of Dutch china, the admiration of several successive generations of children.

Agnes was very much annoyed. Not that she cared so much for Aunt Eunice's quaint, old-fashioned furniture, or her Indian-chintz bed and window curtains; but there were certain spoons and ladles of heavy, solid silver, and a teapot of the same metal, which, transformed into more fashionable shapes, would have been a great ornament to her tea-table. Agnes's spoons were only plated, and, as she pathetically expressed it, it did seem mysterious that Letty, who had a dozen of real silver spoons already, should get so many more. It was always the way in this world, she added, with a sigh, as though longing for a world where spoons should be more equally distributed.

Joe was very provoking, too. He did not care any thing about the spoons,—Letty was welcome to them and to all the rest; and he even said that he didn't wonder at it, for Letty did know how to take care of her things,—a great deal better than they did. He didn't wonder, either, that Aunt Eunice thought so, seeing what a mess Agnes was in the day she came to see them; and then he put on a grave expression, and reminded Agnes that some people never seemed to care for any but worldly things, and that she ought to be thinking of something better.

In a short time the furniture was brought into town and set up in Letty's parlour and front chamber,—the latter apartment never having been furnished before. Very snug and comfortable it looked, with its old, carved mahogany bedstead and bureau, its chintz hangings, and chairs covered with birds and flowers unknown to science, with little Chinamen in attitudes anatomically impossible, and landscapes utterly inconsistent with the laws of gravitation.

Agnes contrasted all this with Mrs. Van Horn's new green-and-gold chamber set, and declared the room was horrid,—enough to give one the nightmare but Catherine Trescott was in ecstasies, and declared that she should come and stay with Letty for the mere pleasure of sleeping under those curtains.

The tall clock also arrived safely. A wonderful clock it was, endowed with surprising powers, of which Gatty was half afraid; for it not only struck the hours and half-hours and the quarters, but it also showed the age of the moon, by means of a great face which looked through a kind of window; and—wonder of wonders!—it had a glass case at the top, under which was a ship in full sail, which actually rose and fell on a wave,—just like a real ship, said Gatty, whose knowledge of maritime affairs was quite limited. This precious clock was believed to have come from Holland in some unknown age before the Revolution.

The store of household linen was really very valuable; for Aunt Eunice had inherited, as I said, the spinnings and weavings of two or three generations of thrifty Dutch and New England women. A good deal of it was of very fine quality; and Letty certainly felt a considerable accession of respectability as she put away the carefully assorted piles in Aunt Eunice's bureaus and clothed the pillows on her own bed with linen. A closet opening out of the parlour held the old-fashioned Canton and Dutch china, as well as the queensware bowls and jars filled with various sweetmeats which had fallen to her share.

When all was arranged, Letty took a pot of preserved peaches and another of raspberry jam, and set out to carry them over to Agnes. As she reached the half-open door, she paused a moment to shake down her dress, which she had held up in crossing the street; and, as she did so, she heard Mrs. Van Horn's voice say, in a decided manner,—

"Oh, yes: you may depend upon it, it was her doing. She got round the old lady in some way or other. Very likely she told her stories about you. Those pious people are always up to such doings."

Letty heard no more. She opened the door, and confronted the speaker with the words on her lips. Both Mrs. Van Horn and Agnes looked confused, and the latter coloured deeply. She had a trick of blushing which made some people think she was very modest and sensitive.

"Dear me, Letty! How you do come in on one, like a spirit!" said Agnes, peevishly. "Why couldn't you knock?"

"For a very good reason:—because I had both my hands full, and the door was open," replied Letty, smiling. "Pray, when did you begin to be so ceremonious, Agnes? If you make a point of it, I will set down my jars, go back and perform the ceremony properly. Perhaps you would like to have me send in a card!"

"Nonsense! What a fuss you make!" (It was always somebody else who made the fuss, according to Agnes.) "What have you there?"

"I have brought you some of Aunt Eunice's sweetmeats," replied Letty. "They are very nice; and I know Joe likes such things."

"I think Aunt Eunice might have left me part of them herself," said Agnes. "It is very odd that she should have left every thing to you. I believe some one must have prejudiced her against me."

"Who?" asked Letty, looking her cousin full in the face.

Agnes was not prepared with an answer to such a direct question. She was fond of dealing in hints and innuendoes; but she rather shrunk from an open war with Letty, who, gentle as she was, had a straightforward way of standing her ground, not very easy to encounter.

Mrs. Van Horn came to her help.

"Now, dear Agnes, pray don't disturb yourself! So nervous and sensitive as you are, you ought to be careful. I don't wonder you feel keenly the injustice of your aunt's will. Of course it is not the value of a parcel of old rubbish, which no one with a particle of taste would have in the house; but no one likes to be treated with unkindness. No doubt, however, the old lady was quite childish when she made that addition to her will,—if, indeed, she ever made it at all." And with this parting shot, Mrs. Van Horn sailed away.

"How can you endure that woman?" said Letty, looking after the retreating figure some disgust.

"You don't like her, that is clear; she is rather too much for you," said Agnes, with an ill-natured laugh.

"Naturally I don't," replied Letty. "When a woman calls me a thief, and tells several lies to sustain the accusation, it does certainly give me a prejudice against her."

"Mrs. Van Horn was wrong the other day, I admit," said Agnes. "She was a great deal too hasty; and she is apt to embroider a little,—that cannot be denied; but, after all, she is very kind-hearted."

"I don't understand the kindness of heart which allows people to slander their neighbours and to try to set relations against one another," said Letty. "As to Aunt Eunice, she had a right to make her will as she pleased; and, considering what she has done for your mother, I think it is not very gracious in you to find fault with her."

"Well, well, who cares?" said Agnes, impatiently. "You have got the things, and you are welcome to them. What are you going to do with your money?"

"We have not quite decided," replied Letty. "I think, however, we shall pay up the mortgage on our house and lot; then we shall be sure of a house, whatever happens; and with the rest of the money we may get the house insured, or we may let it lie by against a rainy day."

"Is that your plan, or John's?"

"Mine. I have always told John that I should not be easy till the place was paid for. 'Out of debt, out of danger,' you know."

"Well, but what danger, Letty?"

"Danger of having the mortgage foreclosed, and so losing the house and all we have laid out upon it," said Letty. "You know Mr. Grayson has the reputation—whether justly or not—of being a hard man in such matters. They say he has made a great deal of money in that way,—by allowing people to go on and make improvements, and then taking advantage of some unfortunate time to foreclose."

"But so long as you pay the interest,—"

"We may not always be able to pay the interest. Times may be bad; or John may be sick; or a dozen other things may happen."

"You are always borrowing trouble, Letty," said Agnes. "Does not the Bible say, 'Take no thought for to-morrow'?"

"Yes; and the way to avoid doing so is to take thought for to-day," said Letty, smiling. "The house once our own, there will be no more thought needed, except to pay the taxes and the insurance. The Bible says, too, 'Owe no man any thing.' And, since we are upon quotations, I will give you another,—a wise one, too, though not from the Bible:—'He that buildeth his house with other men's money is like one that gathereth together stones for his own tomb.'"

"I don't know what you mean by that," said Agnes. "The money is our own."

"Not while we honestly owe it, Agnes."

"That may be your doctrine, but it is not mine," said Agnes, lightly. And then she added, as if to turn the conversation, "Shall I turn these things out of the jars, or keep them till I want to use them."

"Keep them altogether," said Letty. "I meant you should. They are handsome old jars, and will be useful for a good many purposes."

Agnes expressed herself much obliged, and the cousins parted.

A few days later, John came home, looking both annoyed and amused.

"Has Agnes said any thing to you about their notion of building?" he asked.

"Nothing whatever," replied Letty, surprised. "What do they want to build?"

"Oh, Joe says they want another parlour. He has found out that it is very ungenteel to eat in the kitchen, and that a dining-room is a necessary of life: so they are going to build on a wing north of the entry for a grand large parlour."

"I believe they think nine hundred dollars is a perfect mine of wealth," said Letty. "Did Joe talk to you about building it for him?"

"Yes; he has been up at the shop this afternoon. I could not help advising him against it. You see, he has only made one payment on the place, and that not a large one. Joe has been behind-hand with his interest twice; and, without thinking Grayson such a sharper as people call him, he is a hard man, and I should not like to be in his power."

"Nor I."

"This addition, as they propose to finish it, will cost three or four hundred dollars, at the least calculation; then they will want new carpets and furniture, and so on."

"Exactly," said Letty. "One expense leads to another. What did you say to Joe?"

"I advised him strongly to see Grayson and pay up the mortgage before he did any thing else. He objected that it would use up nearly the whole of Aunt Eunice's legacy, and they would have nothing left for themselves."

"Nothing for themselves!" exclaimed Letty. "Why, won't they have the house for themselves?"

"So I told him; but Joe said he had that now. He believed in people enjoying themselves as they went along, and not borrowing trouble. In short, I believe the only effect of my advice will be that Joe will give the job to some one else."

"He may at least give you credit for being disinterested," said Letty. "But have you seen Mr. Grayson yourself?"

"Yes; I spoke to him to-night. He was very civil,—said there was no hurry; he thought it would be better for me to lay out the money on my business; but I told him the money was yours, and you preferred to have it used in this way.

"'What!' said he. 'In paying debts rather than in buying new furniture or finery?'

"And then he wiped his glasses a while, and said he,—

"'My good friend, let me give you one piece of advice. You make your will and leave this place to your wife; or, better still, deed it to her now: she is a woman who can be trusted; and you won't die any the sooner for having your affairs arranged.'"

John concluded rightly. The only effect of his advice was that Joseph gave his building to some one else,—a Mr. Carr. John had not a high opinion of the man, but, of course, said nothing about him. Materials were soon collected, and the work of building began. They had at first intended only to make one large room for a parlour; but Mr. Carr suggested that it would be very convenient to have a nursery down-stairs; and, now that they were about it, it would not cost much more: so the nursery was added to the original plan.

A good many little variations were made,—such as a door here and a closet there. Mrs. Van Horn thought the parlour should have a cornice; and Agnes, of course, agreed with her. Then Joe came to the conclusion that windows down to the floor were absolutely necessary. John took the liberty of reminding him that every one of these additions to the original plan was an added expense; but Joe did not take the hint in very good part. He drew himself up, thanked Mr. Caswell for his advice, but believed he knew what he was about.

Meantime, John had paid up his mortgage. It was a happy day when he brought home his papers and announced to Letty that the house was all her own. Letty made a little feast on the occasion, and invited Mr. and Mrs. De Witt, Agnes and Joseph to tea.

Joe, who had quite overcome his fit of ill humour, made himself very agreeable, discussed flowers with Mrs. De Witt, and chemistry with her husband, and praised Letty's biscuits and cakes, till she, laughingly, told him he would incite her to set up a bakery. Joe said that a school for instruction in the art would be more to the purpose, and declared he would endow a professorship for her when his ship came home.

Agnes, who chose to take all this as an imputation on herself, sighed, and took occasion to remark that, if girls only knew half of what was before them, they would never be married. She appealed to Mrs. De Witt for confirmation.

But that lady, perhaps partly actuated by a spirit of perversity, declared that she had been a great deal happier in marriage than she ever expected to be.

Thereat Mr. De Witt smiled calmly; and Agnes remarked that the ways of Providence were mysterious. Agnes's religion mostly spent itself in little expressions of this kind; which had caused Joe to remark, upon one occasion, that she was never very pious except when she was very cross.

It now became a question what was to be done with the rest of the money (about three hundred and fifty dollars) which remained after the mortgage was discharged and a few little improvements made about the place; and, after various consultations, it was concluded to deposit it in the Sixpenny Savings-Bank, to be ready against the time of need.

CHAPTER VII.

LOSSES.

THE new building was finished towards the autumn,—at least two months later than was promised; but who ever knew a building finished at the time appointed?

The parlour was really a very pretty room, well proportioned, high and airy. The bedroom, too, was very nice and convenient, with its shelves and cupboards, and a light closet which Agnes dignified with the name of a dressing-room. Letty almost envied her cousin that bedroom, and began to look forward to the time when she should be able to have one like it. As John had predicted, new furniture was bought for the drawing-room, and a new carpet for the bedroom,—all good and expensive; and Joe purchased at an auction a French clock, some vases for the mantelpiece, and some pictures for the walls,—oil paintings, Agnes proudly declared,—as if being oil paintings they must necessarily be all right.

When all was complete, they had a party, which was quite the most imposing affair of the sort ever witnessed in Myrtle Street. Letty remonstrated a little; but, finding that Agnes was bent upon it, she assisted her as much as she could. The supper was mostly due to her skill; and a very good supper it was, and gained a great deal of praise,—all of which Agnes accepted as though it had been justly her due.

Mrs. Van Horn was there, beautifully dressed, all blushes and smiles,—a very agreeable person to look at. She went about telling everybody how much she had helped dear Mrs. Emerson, and how nothing could have been done right but for her. To be sure, dear Mrs. Emerson had not much notion of how things ought to be done at such times; and that cousin of hers was a plague,—so conceited and stingy. She really supposed dear Mrs. Emerson had never seen much of good society; but she certainly appeared wonderfully well, considering.

"To be sure," said Martha Wilbur, who had lately devoted herself to the extinguishment of Mrs. Van Horn upon all public occasions, "she has never had the advantage of an intimate acquaintance with Mrs. Trescott and the Miss Daltons, as you have, Mrs. Van Horn!"

Letty was there, of course, dressed in her plain black silk, with a bit of old lace round the neck, which she had found among Aunt Eunice's hoards. A little pearl pin, containing Sally's hair, was her only ornament; yet, somehow (as Mrs. Van Horn confessed to herself in vexation of spirit), she looked more like a lady than any one else in the room. Graceful in manners, yet always lively and cheerful, she glided here and there,—always just where she was wanted, talking to people who seemed likely to feel neglected, making strangers acquainted with each other, and acting generally the part of the few drops of oil in a large machine, which cause every part to run smoothly.

After the party came something not quite so pleasant,—namely, paying the bills. The next Sunday evening Joseph came over to Number Nine, in great perturbation, and asked to see John.

"That fellow Carr has sent in his bill. He gave it to me yesterday. Do you believe? He has asked me six hundred and eighty dollars!—Just twice what he said the building would cost. I wish you would go over the bill with me, and tell me what you think of his charges. I am sure they are enormous."

"I will," replied John,—"but not to-night."

"Why not?" asked Joseph, surprised.

For John was sitting, without even a book in his hand, apparently doing nothing except keeping an eye on little Alick.

"It is Sunday," replied John, quietly.

"Oh!" said Joseph, a little disconcerted. "But this is not work, John."

"I think it is,—and not very easy work either. I find looking over bills and estimates about the hardest things I have to do. But, hard or easy, I make it a rule never to attend to any business on Sunday. 'Thou shalt do no manner of work,' is the commandment, you know."

"But, John, you don't always act up to it, as it seems to me. You and Letty were down at Mrs. Jones's all Sunday afternoon; and when I passed the house I saw you cutting wood, and Letty washing out some things in the shed, as busy as a bee. Isn't there some inconsistency in that?"

"I think not. You know Mrs. Jones was taken suddenly ill last Sunday morning. There was no one to take care of her, except her little daughter, who came running up here in great distress while we were at dinner, declaring that her mother was dying. You know she has not the best character in the world, and none of the neighbours will have any thing to do with her. But Letty has spoken to the little girl now and then, and I have given her things out of the garden,—nothing of any account to be sure, but enough, I suppose, to make her feel kindly towards us.

"Of course we went straight down there; and we found the woman in a deplorable state, sure enough, with no fire and no wood, and nothing else, in short, except some whiskey. So I chopped up some boards to make a fire; and Letty set to work to make the woman and her house decent before the doctor came;—not a very pleasant task, as you may guess.

"Now, that was a thing which could not be put off; and I think it came under the head of 'works of necessity and mercy,' like our Saviour's healing the sick. But this bill can be examined just as well to-morrow as to-day."

"Well, I suppose you are right," said Joe, reluctantly. "I know I don't think enough about these things. But, you see, he gave it to me last night, and I put it in my pocket and never thought of it again till just now. Then there is that party. I never thought it was going to cost so much. Agnes had her mind set upon it, and I hated to refuse her. She thinks a great deal of that sort of thing. If a thing is only fashionable, why, she must have it, cost what it will; and her mother is just so, exactly."

"Now, Joe, I won't hear you abuse my relations," said John, smiling; "and, above all, I won't hear you find fault with your wife. You know it is not right; and, besides, in this matter there is not a pin to choose between you. You were just as fierce for the party and the new parlour as she was; and you know you were vexed at me for advising you against them."

"Well, but I never thought they were going to cost so much. If I had had any idea—"

"Well, we won't talk about that now. It is time for church."

"I didn't think of going to church," said Joe.

"Oh, yes; you will go with me. Letty stays at home with the youngster now-a-days: so I am alone in the evenings. I should like to have you hear our new minister. I am sure you will like him."

"Well, I will; but I must go home and fix up a little."

And Joe actually went to church, instead of spending the Sunday evening in idleness or in fretting over his bills, and came home in much better humour.

Agnes would not go. She was tired out with the party; and, besides, as she said, she had nothing decent to wear. She did not see what possessed Joe all of a sudden. She hoped it would do him good; that was all. She was sure there was abundant room for improvement.

It was an odd thing, Letty thought, but Agnes always seemed vexed when her husband showed any inclination towards seriousness. Perhaps she felt it a reproach.

"Bring your papers to-morrow evening, and I will go over them with you," said John, as they parted; "but don't make up your mind beforehand that you have been cheated. And, Joe, think over what you have heard this evening before you go to sleep. It will do you no harm."

Monday evening brought Joseph and his papers.

John went over the bills carefully, and scrutinized every item.

"Well?" said Joseph, eagerly, as he laid down the papers.

"Well," repeated John, "really, Joe, I don't see any fault to find with the bill. Some of the items were rather high, perhaps; but in general, he asks no more than I should have asked for the same work."

"But he agreed to do it all for three hundred dollars."

"I understand that was the original contract."

"Yes."

"Have you it here?" Joe produced the contract, and John compared it with the bill. "You see, Joe, there are so many extras; and every one adds something to the cost. At first you meant to have the bedroom open from the parlour; then you concluded to have closets between; then you decided to have one of them with a window, and the other fitted with shelves and drawers, and so on; then you connected the bedroom with the kitchen by a passage—"

"Well, well, I know," interrupted Joseph, impatiently; "but surely all that could not make such a great difference."

"Then you had the parlour finished very differently from the style you proposed to me," pursued John. "You had a cornice,—and an expensive one at that,—and windows down to the floor, and long blinds, and large panes. No, Joe, I don't think Carr has cheated you; though he ought to have told you, as he went along, how much each of these alterations would cost."

"There it is!" said Joe. "He kept saying,—'Oh, that won't make much difference; that will be a mere trifle;' and so on. I didn't know,—how should I? The fact is, John, I ought not to have had Carr. I was a fool for my pains: that's all." He was silent for a few minutes, and then said, gloomily, "So you think I have nothing to do but to pay the bill?"

"I think so."

"And so all that money goes; and for what? Why, for things we might just as well have done without, after all. What are we the better for having a grand parlour?"

John did not say, "I told you so!" That was not his way. He only remarked,—

"Why, the parlour is a very pretty parlour, and the bedroom is certainly convenient, and will save Agnes a good many steps in the course of the day; and, if you wished to sell the house—"

"But I don't want to sell it," said Joe, rather impatiently. "I want a house to call my own and have my children grow up in and remember as home. And, after all," he continued, brightening up a little, "there is no hurry about the matter. Carr is willing to wait,—even to take a second mortgage, if we don't want to pay him directly."

"Now, Emerson, don't you go to doing any such thing as that!" said John, impressively. "Pay the money while it is in your hand, and then the place will be, as you say, your own. You will never find a time when it will come any easier."

"But, I tell you, that and the furniture and this wretched party together will take the whole of Aunt Eunice's legacy. We sha'n't have more than a hundred dollars left for ourselves."

"You will have the house left for yourself, won't you?" said John, a little impatiently. "You cannot eat and have your cake, fix it as you will. Take my advice. Pay Carr in the first place; then pay for your furniture, if you have not done so already; and let Grayson have the rest, as a payment on the house. That will leave you comparatively free; and, with economy, you will easily make up the rest."

"I hate economy," said Joe, sullenly;—"always scrimping here and pinching there; you cannot afford this, and you cannot afford that: there is no comfort in it."

"I confess I do not love economy for its own sake," said John, smiling. "I like to spend money as well as you,—though perhaps in a different way; but any thing is better than being in debt."

"And even if I wanted to be economical, it would be of no use," said Joe. "Agnes does not know how to save: I believe it is not in her. She wastes more provisions in a week than your wife does in a year; and, after all, we have never any thing fit to eat. Her only notion of economy is locking up the sugar-bowl. I should think her mother might have taught her something about housekeeping."

"Now, Emerson, I won't listen to any such talk as that," said John, in good humour, but decidedly. "All these expenses were as much your doing as hers; and, if I may speak plainly—"

"Go ahead."

"I think it is a downright sin for a man to talk of his wife's faults to other people. You promised in your marriage to love and honour her; and the Bible expressly commands a man to give honour to his wife. Now, it is not honouring her to expose her weakness to other people. You took her 'for better, for worse;' and you must just take the worse with the better. It would be an excellent thing both for you and Agnes if, instead of each fixing your thoughts on what the other ought to do, you would learn to think more of what you ought to do yourselves. You know we that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of the weak, and not to please ourselves. If you are wiser than Agnes,—and I don't deny it,—you ought to let that make you more forbearing and gentle, and not more exacting, towards her."

Joe took this lecture in good part. He really loved his wife, though he was often unreasonable with regard to her; and he was not ill pleased to have forbearance and gentleness urged on the ground that he was the stronger of the two. He sat silent a while, and then went back to the papers.

"There is another thing about paying this money, John. You know more will be coming by-and-by from Mrs. Train."

"It is ill waiting for dead men's shoes, Joe. Mrs. Train is as likely to live as you or I; and, besides, I am sure you would not like to feel that you were speculating on her death."

"That is true. I should feel mean about it; for the old lady has always been a good friend of mine. Well, John, I believe I will take your advice;—that is, if Aggy is willing."

Joseph went home in a very good humour, and quite determined to take John's advice.

Agnes, however, was not very well pleased. She said the money was hers, and she didn't want it all shut up in a house. Joe could pay Carr half his bill, if he wished to, and the rest could wait: they should want the money for other things.

And Joe, to whom paying money for what he had had and enjoyed was something like throwing it away, let the matter drop, saying to himself, by way of salvo, that the money really did belong to Agnes and she ought to have the use of it. There would be plenty of time. His wages were rising every day, times were good, and, if they could not make both ends meet, they might take some boarders. So that their indebtedness was really increased, instead of lessened, by Aunt Eunice's legacy.

About the middle of the winter, Agnes's second baby was born. It was a fine little boy, and really did look like her: so she was quite satisfied this time. She had been content with her mother's attendance before; but now nothing would serve but a regular nurse, recommended by Mrs. Van Horn as having a very genteel connection.

Mrs. Train was at first a good deal hurt, but satisfied herself with the idea of the gentility of the thing. She was now very comfortably off, thanks to Aunt Eunice; but the habit of complaining was too deeply fixed to be uprooted by any change of circumstances, and she mourned continually over the fact that the money was so tied up that she could not touch it. It was so hard upon her not to be able to help dear Agnes; and, after all, what did the income from three thousand amount to? It was just an aggravation,—nothing more.

It was the first of August. John's young peach and plum trees were coming into bearing, and the apricot tree, by the kitchen door, was covered with fruit, just growing to perfection. The garden was more fruitful than ever, and John had carried early cucumbers and tomatoes to market, besides using all he wanted himself; while Letty's flower-beds were the envy and admiration of the neighbourhood, and threatened to eclipse Mrs. De Witt herself.

Every thing was in order at Number Nine. Not a nail was loose, not a board hung awry, not a speck of paint was needed anywhere about it. Every one who came through Myrtle Street said, "What a pretty place!"

One warm evening, Letty was standing at the gate, looking for her husband, who was a little later than usual. The short baby, looking shorter still in his abbreviated petticoats, was rolling on the grass. Ginger, now grown a magnificent cat, was prancing around him, keeping a sharp look-out for a fresh grasshopper. Letty turned from her watch for a moment, and looked around her.

"How lovely every thing is!" said she to herself. "How much we have to be thankful for! We have had nothing but mercies from the beginning till now. May God make us grateful!"

She turned again to the gate, and saw John coming slowly up the street.

The moment he came in sight, she perceived that something was the matter. Still, she was not alarmed. John was constitutionally subject to fits of gloom and depression which almost amounted to hypochondria; and while they lasted, he was totally unable to take a cheerful view of any thing.

Letty used to be very much distressed by these fits at first; but she learned, after a while, how to treat them, and even, to some extent, to guard against them, by inducing her husband to take certain precautions in regard to diet and repose, which, left to himself, he was too apt to neglect.

"John has got one of his blue fits," said she to herself. "I thought he was working too hard."

Not to seem as though she were watching him, she took up Alick and went into the house to have tea all ready.

John did not enter at once; and, looking out to see what had become of him, she saw him leaning over the well, breaking bits off a certain choice shrub, a present from Mr. De Witt, which grew close by.

"Why, John, what are you doing?" she exclaimed. "You are spoiling that beautiful rose-acacia."

"Am I?" said John, rousing himself, and looking around. "Well, Letty, I beg your pardon. I did not know what I was about; and that is the truth."

"Do come in and have some tea," said Letty, passing her arm through his. "You look tired out."

"I am!" said John, emphatically.

He sat down to the table, but could not eat a mouthful. The prattle of the baby, now beginning to talk, seemed to annoy him; and, for the first time in his life, he spoke sharply to the child and bade him be quiet.

Alick looked astonished and distressed, and put out his lip to cry.

Letty hastened to divert his attention, and set him down on the floor to share a piece of cake with Ginger.

John soon rose from the table, and, going out, sat down on the step.

Letty hastened to get her dishes out of the way, put the baby to bed, and then went out and sat down beside her husband.

"Is any thing the matter more than weariness, John?" she asked, earnestly.

"Yes, Letty." He paused again, and then went on, in a firmer voice: "Your legacy is all gone!"

"Gone!" repeated Letty. "What do you mean?"

"It is hopelessly gone," said John, "and all my year's earnings with it!" He threw his pipe from him with such force that it was broken into a hundred pieces, and, as if relieved by the action, added, more calmly, "Beckman's bank has failed. Why don't you say, 'I told you so'?" he added, bitterly.

Letty was one of those peculiarly constituted persons with whom there is no medium between entire calmness and extreme agitation. She was aware of this; and it had given her a habit of self-control, and of enduring in silence any sudden blow or discomfort. This peculiarity had its disadvantages, and more than once had she been called sullen or cross, for going about with compressed lips when her heart was overwhelmed with grief or with a sense of injury. At present she sat quite still, with her eyes fixed on the western sky, for some minutes.

"Are you sure? Who told you?" she asked, presently.

"Of course I am sure. Should I bring you such a piece of news if I were not sure?" asked John, in a tone of irritation. "It is all over town. His office is shut; and they say he has run off."

"Well," said Letty, after another interval of silence, "if it is gone, it is gone; that is all. It might have been worse: there is that about it."

"I don't see how."

"You might have deposited all the money, instead of using part of it to pay our debt. What is in the house is safe. You acted for the best, and that is all any one can do."

"That is what cuts me to the heart, I did not act for the best. I knew all the time that there was a risk in it; but I was so greedy after the few additional dollars of interest that I would not consider it. Mr. Trescott advised me against it, too. He said he did not believe Beckman understood his business. But no:—I must have the last penny; and now I have lost your money as well as my own. If it had been only mine, I would not care; but to rob you—"

"Well, then, John, we will at least get a lesson out of the trouble," said Letty, trying to speak cheerfully. "Perhaps we have both been growing too fond of money,—too careful for the things of this world. 'Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth,' you know," she added, in a lower tone; "and, after all, he has left us far more than he has taken away. We can never be very poor so long as we have each other."

John took her hand and kissed it; and Letty nestled close to his side. They were still sitting in silence, when Mrs. De Witt came through the garden-gate, her eyes red with crying. Mrs. De Witt was one of those who cry easily and find great comfort in it.

"Are you talking about Beckman's failure?" said she. "Of course you are: no one can think of any thing else. A'n't it a shame, though? And such a man as he was thought to be! He was a member of your church: wasn't he?"

"That's the worst of it," said Letty; "and people talk so about such things."

"Exactly," said John, rousing himself; "and they have a right to talk. People talk about this and that hurting the cause of religion. I do verily believe that the thing which hurts it most and is the greatest hindrance to the conversion of sinners is the downright dishonesty, in such matters, of people who pass for Christians. How many do we know, active in the church and at prayer-meetings, who have made failures which no stretch of charity can call any thing but dishonest!"

"What do you call a dishonest failure?" asked Letty, glad of the chance to effect a little diversion.

"I call it a dishonest failure when a man puts his property out of his hands to save it from his honest creditors. I call it a dishonest failure when a man goes on living in all the comfort and luxury to which he has been accustomed, when he owes money to tradespeople and merchants which he does not try to pay, or with whom he has compounded for fifty cents on a dollar. I call it the meanest kind of dishonesty when a man pleads usury to get off from paying back money which he has borrowed and used. And I say that these things, happening as they do among members of the church, are a shame and a disgrace, and put a stumbling-block in the way of really sincere people; while they make a ready excuse for hardened sinners. And I do not believe God looks with more favour upon the prayers of such a man than if he had come to meeting with his pockets full of counterfeit bills which he meant to pass."

"That is just the way my husband talks," said Mrs. De Witt. "He feels worse than you do about this matter, I can tell you. He says he led you into it, and that you would never have gone to Beckman's but for him, and that he has robbed you and your child. I never saw him go on so. You would not think it was in him. I feel really concerned about him, lest he should get a brain-fever, or something. It a'n't his own loss he thinks of,—though that is enough,—but yours. He declares he shall be ashamed ever to look you in the face again."

"Nonsense!" said John, rising. "He mustn't talk like that. Where is he?"

"At home, in the kitchen," replied his wife, wiping her eyes. "I tried to make him come over here; but he wouldn't."

"Then I must go to him: that's all," said John. He looked round for his pipe; and, not seeing it, turned inquiringly to Letty, who silently pointed out the pieces lying on the door-stone.

John smiled, nodded, and went his way.

"There! That's just what I wanted!" said Mrs. De Witt. "I thought, 'If I can only get them two men together, they will smoke and talk, and kind of comfort each other.' Mr. De Witt does feel dreadful bad; but I tell him we are young yet, and don't owe a cent, and, with the Lord's blessing, we will make it up somehow to ourselves and you too. Has your gladiolus blowed out yet?"

"I really don't know," replied Letty. "It had not opened early this morning; and I have been so busy since, I have not looked at it."

"Let us go and see," said Mrs. De Witt.

Letty did not feel as though she cared much about flowers just then; but she felt the intended kindness, and rose to follow her friend to the spot where the valued lilies (six varieties) stood in a cluster, lifting their stately spikes of exquisitely shaped flower-buds. Two of them were expanded, and shone in full beauty.

"A'n't they lovely, though?" exclaimed Mrs. De Witt, with all the enthusiasm of a florist. "Just look at the colour of those large leaves! Mr. De Witt tries to make me say petals; but I never can remember. Do you call it crimson, or scarlet, now?"

"I should say it was between the two," said Letty, interested in spite of herself. "See the beautiful turn of the lip and the shape of the half-opened bud! How perfect!"

"The things that God makes are always perfect, seems to me," said Mrs. De Witt. "He don't slight any of his work. Think of the beautiful things deep down in the sea and hid away in lonesome places of the earth, where no man will ever see them! It seems as though he must take pleasure in them himself: don't it?"

"'The Lord shall rejoice in his works,' the Bible says," observed Letty.

"That's true." She stooped once more to look at the flowers, and added, "There's a verse about these very lilies that you and I ought to take to heart at this present time:—'Consider the lilies of the field,' you know. Mr. De Witt says some of our most beautiful flowers come from Palestine."

"Every thing puts you in mind of something in the Bible: doesn't it?" said Letty.

"To be sure. As I was telling Agnes, you know, that's what it is for. But there was a good while, when I was young,—about Gatty's age,—that I was very fond of reading; and the Bible was almost the only book we had. My parents died when I was a baby, and left me to my grandmother's care. She was old and almost blind; and I used to read the Bible to her over and over again, till I came to know it almost by heart; and I can repeat whole chapters. Grandmother used to point out these very things to me,—how that nothing ever did or could happen to us that we did not find something just to match it in the Bible. So I got into the habit of it, you see."

"I am sure it is an excellent habit," said Letty. "Aunt Eunice was just so. The Bible was her daily food. Didn't I hear our gate shut?"

The new-comers were Agnes and Joseph, who had heard the news down-town, and now came to sympathize with their cousins in their trouble. Agnes, as usual, began on the wrong tack. Priding herself on her tact and management, she was sure to say the wrong thing, or to say the right thing in the wrong place, simply because she had no capacity for entering into the feelings of other people.

"How vexed you must be, Letty! If John had only taken your advice, all this would not have happened. But I believe all men are alike about that: they would rather be influenced by anybody else than their own wives."

"You are much mistaken, Agnes," said Letty, with more spirit, perhaps, than was absolutely called for. "I gave no advice on the subject, simply because I knew nothing about the matter, one way or the other. John said he would do as I wished; but I preferred to leave it to him. He acted for the best, however it has turned out; and that is all any one can do."

"Then you didn't say, 'I told you so'?" said Joe, with a tone of great interest.

"Of course not! How should I? I did not tell him so; and, even if I had, I should not be apt to cast it up to him, now that he is in trouble."

Joe clapped his hands. "There, Agnes! You have lost your bet. You will have to hand over. I made a bet with Aggy that you wouldn't say so, and she bet you would. You have lost your new dress this time, Aggy."

"I will thank you not to make me the subject of any more bets," said Letty, good-humouredly. "I don't believe in betting: it is entirely against my principles."

"Well, I won't," said Joe. "But this was too good. But, Letty, I am very sorry about this matter. Can nothing be done? Is it a dead loss?"

"I suppose it is."

"Where is John? How does he bear it?"

"Why, as well as you could expect. He blames himself for not putting the money in the savings-bank; but I tell him there is no use in that now. He has gone over to see Mr. De Witt, who feels much worse than we do."

"So he ought!" exclaimed Agnes. "If I were you, I would never speak to him again."

"Oh, Agnes!"

"Indeed I would not; nor his wife either. I always knew that no good could come of your intimacy with such low, vulgar people. He has gained such an influence over John that he can wind him round his finger; and he has just drawn him into a trap,—that is all. It is just what you might expect from a psalm-singing man like him."

"Agnes, stop!" said Letty, with emphasis. "Mr. and Mrs. De Witt are among the kindest friends we have; and I will not hear them spoken of in that way. Mr. De Witt made a mistake by which he has lost fully as much as my husband, if not more. What possible object could he have in such a course as you impute to him? What could he gain by it?"

"None so blind as those that won't see!" said Agnes, significantly. "I don't believe his losses will hurt him much. We have all heard of decoy-ducks."

"Let me advise you not to repeat any such remarks," said Letty. "You do not know any harm of the De Witts; and you would look rather silly if they should call for your proof in court, some day."

"Dear me! What did I say?" returned Agnes, rather alarmed. "You do make such a fuss about nothing! However, scold away, if it does you any good. I suppose you are afraid to give it to your husband, and so you take it out on me. I am used to it: that is one thing. I have never in my life tried to sympathize with and console any one, without meeting ingratitude in return."

"I don't wonder at it, if that is your usual style of consolation," said Joe. "Come, Letty; never mind! We all know Agnes has her ways. But I am sorry for your loss. You might better have taken the comfort of this money as you went along, like us. Now it is all gone, and you have had no good of it at all."

"Oh, yes, we have,—a great deal of good," replied Letty, recovering her good humour. "What we gave for the house and our improvements is safe, you know; then John has just paid his life and fire insurance, and we owe no man a cent: so we are in no one's power."

Joe winced a little at this. He had been dunned that very day by Carr the builder, who declared that he would wait on him no longer.

"There is Mr. Trescott coming in," said he, willing to change the subject. "Shall I call John?"

"Do!" said Letty. "And Joe, don't say a word to De Witt: he feels badly enough now."

"Not I," said Joe. "I am no hand to shy stones at a lame dog."

He went off whistling, and came back with John before Mr. Trescott had done greeting Letty and Agnes.

"I want to tell you one thing, Caswell," said Mr. Trescott, at once. "I don't believe Beckman has intended to act dishonestly. He is a thick-headed man, and utterly unfit for the business he undertook; but I do not believe he meant to wrong any one."

"I don't see what difference that makes," said Joe. "If the money is lost, it is lost; and that is all about it."

"I beg your pardon, Emerson; it does make a great deal of difference," said John. "One of the hardest things to me in the whole affair was the thought that a man who was a member of the church, and so active too, should have laid a plan to rob others. I felt like David:—If it were an enemy, 'I could have borne it.' You have taken a great load off my mind, Mr. Trescott. But is it true that he has gone to Europe?"

"No: he is at home, sick in bed with jaundice. He sent for me to come and talk with him this afternoon; and really, Caswell, if you had seen him, I don't think you would find it hard to forgive him. The man is completely broken down. All his old pompous way is gone. He cried like a little child when I spoke to him; and when I came away, he grasped my hand and sobbed,—

"'Trescott, if you see any of those poor people, beg them to try and forgive me.'

"Think of such a speech as that coming from Beckman!"

"Poor man!" said Letty, with tears in her eyes. "I am sure we will forgive him: won't we, John?"

"I should have tried to do so, at any rate," replied John. "If you think it will do him any good, Mr. Trescott, please tell him so."

"I will: All his property, without exception, has been placed in the hands of Street & Brothers, to see if any thing can be done towards satisfying the creditors. They will clear matters up, if any one can; and perhaps it will not be a dead loss, after all; though Mr. Street tells me he never saw such confusion as the accounts and papers are in. There is the trouble.

"Beckman would not be content to go on quietly in a business which he thoroughly understood: he must make money fast. And, moreover, what I think influenced him even more than the desire of making money,—he wanted to be fashionable. Mr. Beckman the banker sounded much better in his ears than Mr. Beckman the soap and candle maker."

"Any thing to be genteel," said John. "I hate the very sound of it. I wish there wasn't any such word in the language."

"They say his wife was very extravagant," observed Agnes. "Mrs. Van Horn says she never saw such lace as she wears; and I have noticed that myself," she added, hastily, as a smile went round the circle.

"I do not think she has been greatly to blame," said Mr. Trescott. "Mr. Beckman never allowed his wife or daughter to know any thing about his affairs. I heard him say, once, it was a maxim of his that no woman should know any thing of his business. His wife doubtless supposed him to be immensely rich, and regulated her expenses accordingly."

"It will be hard for her to come down if they have to give up every thing," said Agnes.

"I do not think she will mind it so much. She was sensibly brought up; knows how to work, and is strong and active. I fancy she will lay down all these fine things as easily as she took them up. She said to me this afternoon,—

"'For myself I do not care. I shall be glad to go back to my little house in Green Street. We were happier there than we have ever been since; and if my husband's credit is saved, I shall have nothing to regret.'

"But, Caswell, I want to talk over a little business with you. Are your hands full of work?"

"Not at present. Indeed, I am doing very little."

Mr. Trescott entered at once upon his business. He wanted three first-class houses built upon some lots belonging to his wife, and if John would undertake them, he should be very glad to give him the job.

"And I shall be glad to take it," said John; "but I shall have to ask you to advance part of the money, as all my capital is swept away."

"That I shall do, of course. Come up to my office early to-morrow morning, and we will talk about it. Meantime, Letty, think of what you have left, more than of what you have lost."

"Oh, I do," said Letty, smiling. "I tell John we are richer than when we were married, by a house and a baby."

"That is the right way to look at it. Good-night; and God bless you!"

CHAPTER VIII.

BABY.

BUT a greater trial than the loss of money was hanging over the homes in Myrtle Street. The summer had been an unhealthy one for children. At many a door the black crape tied with white ribbon (as was the custom of the place) announced that there were aching hearts within, and drew a sigh from many a mother who saw the token. Myrtle Street had thus far escaped better than most parts of the city; but its time was to come; and one morning in September it was told among the neighbours that the Wilbur children had the scarlet fever.

Letty had the greatest horror of this disorder. She had seen enough of its effects in the Trescott family to make her regard it as more to be dreaded than the plague. She kept Alick closely within the limits of her own premises, and watched him with a vigilant eye, that the malignant disease, if it appeared, might at least be taken in time; but as yet the little boy seemed as well as a mother could wish.

There were two or three deaths in the neighbourhood, and then the cloud seemed to pass away.

One cold, raw, damp day towards the end of October, Agnes came into Number Nine, bringing Madge, who was now considerably grown.

"I wish you would let Madge stay here while I go down-town," she said. "I don't know how it is, but she has been so fractious the last two or three days that there is no living with her. I know if I leave her with Mary there will be trouble all the time; but she is always good with you."

Letty made no objections, and Madge was soon playing on the floor with Alick. She was usually a merry child, and as active as a kitten; but to-day she seemed tired and languid, and when Alick was taking his usual noonday nap, she crept up and lay down beside him, and was soon asleep.

Letty glanced at the children two or three times as she went about her work, and thought what a pretty picture they would make.

After a long nap, Madge awoke, crying. Her hands were hot and dry, her lips parched, and her eyes bloodshot and heavy. Letty took her up without waking Alick, and, as she still complained of being thirsty, set her in the rocking-chair, while she went for some cool water. When she came back, Madge was dozing again. Presently Agnes came in, full of all she had seen.

"Do look at this child," said Letty. "Isn't her throat swollen?"

"Yes, I know," replied Agnes, warming her feet composedly. "It was so yesterday; but she did not seem to be sick,—only cross."

"Yesterday!" repeated Letty, in amazement. "You don't mean to say that her throat was so yesterday, when you had her out in the damp and cold half the afternoon? Why, you are crazy!"

"Nonsense!" said Agnes, lightly. "She is used to the open air, and as tough as a knot. I suppose it is the mumps."

"Well, I should think that was enough to call for more care; for if a child takes cold with them it goes very hard, I can tell you. I must say, Agnes, it was presumption to take Madge out under such circumstances. At any rate, you might have reflected before you exposed Alick to the disease. You would not be very well pleased if I had done so by you."

Agnes looked a little ashamed. "Well, Letty, to say the truth, I forgot all about it, I know she was out of sorts yesterday; but she seemed well enough this morning, only that she was fretful. They say children never are very sick when they are cross, you know."

"I believe that is a great mistake," said Letty. "A pleasant child like Madge seldom or never becomes cross and fretful without some good reason."

"Oh, I don't know. Children take all sorts of fits. Mrs. Van Horn wanted me to go down-town with her and see Rosenblatt's opening of fall fashions,—the loveliest bonnets you ever saw, only so very small: they hardly come on the head at all, and are perfectly covered with lace and flowers; you never saw any thing so pretty."

"Well, well, never mind the bonnets," said Letty, a little impatiently. "What are you going to do about Madge?"

"Dear me, Letty, you need not be so short! One would think I had made the child sick on purpose. I am sure I think as much of my children as you do of yours, if I don't make quite such a parade about it. What had I better do?"

"Take her home and send for your physician at once."

"Come, Madge; come with mother," said Agnes, rising,—"your naughty mother, who don't care any thing about her children."

But Madge would not come. She cried, and declared she could not walk; and Agnes was obliged to carry her. Towards evening she came over again, looking very much frightened.

"Madge is really sick. I wish you would come and look at her."

Alick was playing with Gatty; and Letty ran across the road with Agnes. Madge was crying and very restless; and the moment Letty looked at her, she felt as though she should drop.

"It is scarlet fever!" said Letty, in a trembling voice. "Oh, Agnes, how could you be so careless? And she was playing with Alick all this morning!"

"How could I tell?" said Agnes, the impulse to blame some one else being uppermost, as usual. "You ought to have known yourself. You had seen scarlet fever, and I never had. But you cannot think of a thing but yourself and your baby! So selfish!"

Letty could not trust her voice to answer.

"And what will Joe say?" pursued Agnes. "It will all be my fault, of course: every thing always is! And I dare say she will die, and the baby too. I am the most miserable woman on earth!" And Agnes burst into tears, thereby frightening Madge, whose sobs became shrieks.

"Listen to me, Agnes," said Letty, who by this time had regained in some measure her usual self-control. "Madge is very sick, and you must put by every thing else and take care of her: keep her quiet, and let Joe go for the doctor as soon as he comes home."

"But don't go, Letty!" sobbed Agnes. "Do stay all night. I am sure you ought to. I never can take care of Madge alone."

"You forget that I have Alick to attend to. He has been exposed just at the worst time to catch the disease; and I must be careful that he takes no cold, and does not eat any thing improper for him. If the fever cannot be kept off, at least it may be lightened by proper care."

"Yes; that is always the way," said Agnes. "Every one thinks of herself, and no one thinks or cares what becomes of me. I never saw such selfishness."

"Of whom did you think when you ran off with Mrs. Van Horn, looking after millinery, and left Madge to any one who chose to take care of her?" asked Letty, thoroughly exasperated. "Of whom did you think when you exposed my delicate little boy to the chance of mumps,—to say nothing of scarlet fever,—merely to gratify your own senseless curiosity about the fashions? You have always gone on, pleasing yourself and caring for nothing and nobody else, ever since you were born; and now you reap the consequences. It will be well if your self-pleasing does not cost the lives of two innocent children; for, to say nothing of this morning, it was nothing short of murder to expose Madge as you did yesterday."

Never, since Letty was a passionate little girl, had Agnes seen her so roused.

"I will do what I can for you," continued Letty, speaking more calmly; "but you must not expect me to leave my own boy to attend upon you. You had better send for your mother to come and stay with you."

"I know she won't come; and it won't do any good if she does," said Agnes, recovering herself. "I know she will die, and the baby, too; and Joe will say it is all my fault."

But Letty was beyond the reach of her voice; and she found herself compelled to attend to Madge.

When Joe came home, there was the usual scene of recrimination,—which, however, was cut shorter than common by his going after the doctor and Mrs. Train.

Madge was very ill from the first; and Dr. Woodman looked very grave when he saw her. In a few days the baby sickened. He had always been a sturdy little fellow; and every one hoped he might have the disease lightly; but the hope was destined to disappointment. The fever ran its course in a wonderfully short time; and in four days the little boy was in his coffin. On the same day with the baby, Alick came down, and was pronounced very ill.

For once, Letty had neither thought nor feeling for another's trouble. She would not leave Alick for a moment,—not even when Agnes's baby died. Indeed, it was not easy for her to do so; for he cried after her the moment she left the room, and would hardly take food or medicine from any one else. She went about her duties outwardly calm, but with a heavy burden on her heart and with one thought in her mind:

"I can never forgive Agnes!—Never! Never!"

She could not think. She could not pray. She could not rest in any of those divine promises which had heretofore been her stay in times of trouble. She walked in darkness and saw no light. She felt that the whole universe was cruel to her,—even God himself. For once she was self-willed. Mrs. De Witt would have persuaded her to lie down and take some rest while the child slept; but she would, not go,—not even for John's entreaty. She had naturally a strong, passionate nature; and its whole force rose in rebellion against the threatened stroke. She could not and would not submit.

Of course this could not go on. Little Alick died after some days' illness,—died on Thanksgiving-day, which seemed to make the trial harder to endure. Letty went through the funeral service with the same outward composure which had alarmed her friends from the beginning; but on returning from the grave, she fainted away several times, and the next day was too ill to sit up.

In this emergency, Mrs. De Witt came out in all her strength. If ever a woman contrived to be in several places all at once, she was that woman. Her own house was as orderly as ever, and her husband's meals always ready and comfortable: yet she contrived to find time for the care of Letty and her house. She was nurse, housekeeper and mistress to both families at once; and she did it all well.

She had an efficient help in Gatty, who had been trained in ways of usefulness from her cradle. Mrs. De Witt had thought at one time of sending her into the country, to be out of harm's way; but she changed her mind, and contented herself with keeping the child away from Alick during his illness. The reasons she gave for her course were characteristic:—

"You see, it a'n't as if she hadn't been exposed already. She has; and she may come down any time. If she is here, I can keep watch of her; and I know what's what. I sha'n't think she has got the fever every time she sneezes, and I sha'n't send her out in the cold for a walk because her head aches with the rash coming out. Garrett's wife is like enough to do either, or both. Besides, if she is here, she can see to the dinner and wait upon her father, while I am taking care of Alick and helping Mrs. Caswell."

At the end of a week Letty was able to sit up and come down-stairs; but when she tried to take up her household work again, she found it out of her power. She could not work. She had overtaxed her strength, and was now paying the penalty. She struggled in vain against her weakness.

Her strength was becoming less every day; and she could do little but lie on the sofa and think. The doctor came to see her, and prescribed tonics; but nothing seemed to do any good; and every one began to fear that she would soon follow her child.

One day Dr. Woodman came in and found her alone, weeping. A Testament was lying by her, but she was not reading. After a few inquiries, the doctor went to the door, sent away his horse, and then came back and sat down by Letty's side. After a few minutes' silence he took up the Testament.

"You have a good companion here," said he. "I hope you find comfort in it?"

Letty involuntarily shook her head, and the tears started afresh.

"My dear Letty," said the doctor, "it may appear like a strange remark to make to a woman who has just lost her only child, but it seems to me that you are suffering from something more than grief for your little one. Tell me: do you feel that God is with you in this sorrow?"

"No," replied Letty. "He is not. I am alone. God has forsaken me, and refuses to hear my prayers. I am all alone, and must be alone. There is no comfort for me anywhere, and I can never look forward to seeing my child again: I have no hope, and am without God in the world!" Her voice was lost in sobs.

"God can never forsake or forget us, though we forsake and forget Him," said the doctor. "Tell me: have you not given yourself to God to be entirely his?"

"I thought I did, once," said Letty.

"Never mind what you did once. Very likely you did; but you can no more live upon past religious experience than you can upon what you ate last year. Can you give yourself to him NOW?"

"What do you mean by giving myself to him, doctor?" asked Letty.

"I mean that you should put yourself, your hopes and fears, your troubles, sorrows and sins,—all, in short, that goes to make up yourself,—into God's hands. Submit yourself to his will. Lay yourself as it were on the altar before him, and trust that he will accept you. That is what I mean. Can you do that?"

"I have tried," said Letty, sorrowfully; "but—"

"But what?"

"It makes no difference. I cannot feel that I am accepted. I know that I am not."

"How do you know it? Excuse me if I ask very close questions," continued the doctor, as Letty did not answer. "We are old friends, and I want to help you if I can. Let me ask you if you are sure that no cherished sin is keeping you from God?"

"That is it," said Letty. "I know there is." She paused a moment, and then added, abruptly, "I cannot forgive Agnes! I feel as though she had murdered my Alick. I would not forgive her, at first. I would not even go to see her when her child died, though my conscience upbraided me and I felt that I ought to overcome that feeling. And now I cannot forgive her!—I cannot!"

"Do you wish to forgive her?" said the doctor, with one of his penetrating looks. "Would you do so if you could?"

"I don't know."

"But you do know," returned the doctor, in a kind but decided tone; "or you can know if you will. Don't try to deceive yourself. You know that God can give you the power to forgive Agnes. Observe, I don't say that you feel it or realize it; that is quite another matter. But you do know it, because you know that he can do all things."

"Yes," said Letty: "I know it, certainly."

"Well, now, are you willing he should do it? Are you willing to forgive Agnes if he gives you the power to do so?"

Letty was silent for a few minutes.

The doctor saw the struggle, and prayed, inwardly, that grace might conquer.

At last she spoke.

"Yes," said she: "I think I am willing."

"God be praised for that!" said the doctor. "Now think whether there is any thing else."

"I do not know that there is," replied Letty; "but still I do not feel that God will accept me."

"Do you believe that God speaks the truth?"

"Of course," said Letty,—surprised at the question.

"And that the Bible is his word?"

"Yes; certainly."

"Well, then, listen," said the doctor, with energy. "Here is just one brief, simple promise of his, which is all you want:—

"'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.'

"That ought to be enough for you. But here is another:—

"'If two of you shall agree on earth as touching any thing that they shall ask, it SHALL be done for them of my Father which is in heaven.'

"Those are God's own words. Cast yourself upon the veracity of God. Pray for yourself, and I will pray for you. There are two of us agreed. Come to God just as you are. Give yourself wholly to him, and then believe that he has accepted you. I must leave you now; but I will pray for you, and do you pray for yourself; and be sure that, as there is a God in heaven, so surely he will accept you and make you his own."

A day or two after, the doctor came again. He found his patient more comfortless than ever.

"No light yet?" said he.

Letty shook her head. "No," said she. "I have no light. I have tried to give myself up to him, as you say. I have done it. If I know myself at all, I have done it; but I have no evidence in myself that I am accepted of him."

"Are you not refusing to believe what God has spoken? God says in his word that he will receive you; and that should be enough to satisfy you that he has received you, whether you feel it or not. It is because the way is so easy that you miss it. Why, suppose I tell you that a certain medicine is good for you: you believe me,—don't you?—although you do not feel any immediate effect. Well, just believe God in the same way,—because he says so."

"I am afraid that I do not forgive Agnes, after all. I went over to see her last night."

"Good!" said the doctor. "That shows that you are in earnest; and it ought also to show you that God is with you. Well?"

"But, when I came back, I felt just as hardly towards her as ever. She did not appear glad to see me at all; and it really seemed that she was more distressed at my coming across the road in my 'coloured calico dress,' as she said, than at any thing else."

"Agnes is bound up in dress and fashions; and more's the pity. But you say you found you had all your work to do over again?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, do it over again; or, rather, be quiet, and let God do it for you. You can no more make yourself forgiving than you can make one hair white or black; but, if you are willing, God will do it for you. Only just believe,—that is all. The inward witness will come in God's own time, if you are content to take his simple word: never in any other way. Now, tell me, cannot you do this?"

Letty was silent.

"Yes," said Letty, with a tone and look of decision. "Yes; I can believe him. I am his. I am not alone or cast-off. Oh, yes; I do believe his word."

"Remember, from this time, that it is only the sense of God's presence that you lose,—not his real presence. God never forsakes his children. Have faith; and do not think of faith in God as some strange, mysterious thing. It is simply believing in God just as you believe in any one else. Take all his promises to yourself, just as if there were no other person in the world to whom they can apply. Don't be too anxious after inward evidence and consolation. Let God send that in his own time. It is a blessed thing when it comes; but it is not the ground of your assurance: that is found in God's word."

CHAPTER IX.

CHANGES.

WHEN John came home that night, he saw at once that there was a change in Letty. Her eyes were still heavy and her face pale; but the expression of her face was altered; the hard look of stubborn endurance was gone. Other little signs showed a change in Letty's state of feeling. Her hair was again neatly and becomingly arranged; the blinds of the sitting-room were thrown open once more; and a bouquet of the latest lingering flowers was on the table in Alick's little silver cup,—a gift from Mr. Trescott. The supper-table was again set in inviting order, instead of having the dishes thrown on anyhow, as was Jane's fashion. Moreover, Letty met him at the door,—a thing she had not done before since Alick's death.

John felt the change. He was not a man of many words at any time; and any strong feeling only made him more silent. He kissed Letty.

"God bless you, my darling!" said he.

That was all; but Letty felt she was understood.

After supper, John sat down by the window, as usual; but he did not take his pipe.

"Where's the pipe?" asked Letty.

"Well," replied John, "I have about come to the conclusion, Letty, that I shall not smoke any more. It is an expensive habit, and, they say, not a very healthy one,—though I don't know that it has ever hurt me; but I don't want to make myself a slave to any sensual indulgence: so I have a mind to see how I can do without tobacco, just for the trial's sake. I suppose you will not be very sorry to miss the pipe?"

"Why, no," said Letty. "I did not wish to interfere with your pleasures; but I never did like the pipe; and I used sometimes to think how I should feel to see—" she pauses a moment, and then went bravely on,—"to see Alick, perhaps, at thirteen or fourteen, sucking a cigar or smoking a pipe."

"True," replied John; "I thought of that, too. Have you seen Agnes to-day?"

"Yes; I went over there a few minutes after Dr. Woodman had gone. I am afraid they have a great deal of trouble before them, John."

"I am afraid they have, in more ways than one," replied John. "Joe is making up his mind to give up his present situation."

"That seems a pity, just as he has received such an advance," remarked Letty. "I thought his position at the chemical works was all that could be desired. He is foreman: is he not?"

"Yes; and with a good salary. With a little economy, he might easily clear off the encumbrance on his house and lot; but the business is not genteel enough to suit him. He talks of going into the cigar and liquor business with Mr. Van Horn."

"Well, it seems to me, making harmless perfumes and useful chemicals and medicines is a much more respectable business than selling liquors."

"So it seems to me; but in the one case he is only foreman in a manufactory, while in the other he will be a partner."

"But such a business, John! And I don't suppose Joseph knows any thing about it."

"No,—no more than I; but he says Van Horn does. He has been engaged in it before."

"I don't like that man," said Letty. "I cannot exactly say why; but I have no confidence in him. Besides, it is such a calling!—Making money out of the sin and misery of one's fellow-mortals; for that is what selling liquor amounts to."

"So I told Joe; but he thinks my notions very old-fashioned and narrow. He says some one must sell liquor, and it may as well be him as any one else; and, besides, they will only sell at wholesale,—never by the glass."

"What nonsense!" exclaimed Letty. "How would the dram-sellers obtain their supplies, if not from the wholesale dealers?"

"I am afraid they will make a bad business of it in more ways than one," said John. "I don't like to have a man give up the work he is used to, for that which he does not understand, unless there is some very good reason for it. People much more commonly lose than gain by such a course."

"But how can he do it?" asked Letty. "Joe has no capital."

"Not a penny; but Van Horn has some part of what is needed, and they mean to borrow the rest,—upon what security I do not know; for Joe's house is mortgaged for all that it will carry already, and Van Horn has no real estate that I can hear of. Joe did not seem inclined to be very communicative. He appeared to be wonderfully lifted up, I thought, and was quite inclined to be condescending."

"So was Agnes this afternoon. You should have heard her advising me about my dress, and talking of the usages of good society," said Letty, with a little of her old playfulness. "I did not tell her so, but I could not help thinking that I had seen quite as much good society as herself. Aunt Train was lamenting again that she had no control over her own property. She is going to give up her house and live with Agnes altogether."

"I am sorry for that," said John. "I know how it will end,—in her having all the work of the household thrown upon her shoulders."

"There is likely to be work enough for everybody," said Letty, sighing. "I am very much troubled about Madge. Dr. Woodman told me, he thought there was something the matter with her back; and I have been observing her closely this afternoon. She has no use of her lower limbs at all."

"May not that be mere weakness?"

"I think not. She can use her arms and hands when she is lying down. She was playing with her doll this afternoon; but I tried her in various ways, and she does not move her feet in the least, nor can she hold herself upright. Agnes does not seem to see that there is any thing wrong, and I did not talk to her about the matter; but I cannot help fearing that she will be helpless a long time,—if she ever walks again. Aunt Train said she was coming over this evening to ask your advice on some matter of business. She did not tell me what."

"I hope she is not thinking of selling her house and putting the money into Joe's new business," said John. "I certainly shall not advise her to do that. But I am sorry to hear such an account of the little girl. What does the doctor say?"

"It was he who first spoke to me of her being in a bad way," said Letty. "He asked me to observe her. What will they do if Madge should turn out like Emily Trescott?"

"It would be very hard upon them, no doubt, and hard also for the child," said John. "Agnes does not seem like the woman to devote herself to a helpless child."

"Oh, you cannot tell. It may change her entirely."

"How does she seem affected by the baby's death?"

"Why, really, John, it seems a hard thing to say, and I would not say it to any one but you, but really Agnes seems to me to think more of her mourning-dress than any thing else. She talked, all the time I was there, about whether she ought to put on crape for so young a child; but concluded by saying that, as there had been two deaths in the family, it would not be out of the way. She gave me quite a lecture about wearing my old coloured calico in the morning, and, as I said, was very superior and condescending. She seems to think, somehow, that she has a great deal to forgive me for:—indeed, she said that if I had not been sick and in trouble, she could not have overlooked my conduct."

"Conduct in what?" asked John.

"I don't know. I suppose, in not going there while the baby was sick."

"A good many women would never have spoken to her again, after what she did," said John. "I confess I find it a good deal easier to forgive her when I don't see her than when I do."

"I shall always feel that she was very much to blame," said Letty. "I hope I have forgiven her; but I never can justify her conduct. The best way is not to think of the matter more than one can help. I told her I thought there was a good deal to forgive on the other side; but she could not see what. I do not think she has the least idea that she has been to blame; and she seems to consider that our trial is nothing to hers. She says I do not feel things as she does, and that—But there is no use in repeating what she says. The simple truth is that Agnes and I do not suit each other. We have different ideas and feelings,—different ways of looking at every thing. I sometimes think we should have been better friends if we lived farther apart."

"It may be so. I have sometimes thought that it was not altogether a good thing for married relations to be settled too near each other. You remember John Burns and his brother-in-law? They were very good friends so long as they lived at opposite ends of the town; but by-and-by they took a fancy to build houses on the same lot, and after that there was no more peace. The families were always in hot water."

"I think it depends a good deal upon the relations," remarked Letty. "You do not think we should ever have quarrelled with Aunt Eunice, do you,—even if we had lived under the same roof?"

"No, probably not; nor will we quarrel with Agnes. If we must come to that, we will simply let her alone. I am glad to hear you say that you forgive Agnes."

"I never could have done it alone," replied Letty. "It was Dr. Woodman who showed me the way out of my trouble."

"And that was—"

"'The Way,'" said Letty, softly. "'The Way, the Truth and the Life.' He showed me how to throw all the burden of my sins on Jesus, and let Him do his own work in saving me from it. I have been very wrong, John; I have been hard and ungrateful to God and you and every one; but I hope things are better now. I have so much left. And my boy is not lost! He is being kept safely for me, where I shall see him never to lose him again. And, oh, John, I can be thankful that he was not left to suffer,—as Emily Trescott did, and as I fear Madge is destined to suffer. Agnes was right,—though she did not know what she was saying:—my trial is nothing to hers. I cannot be angry with her, when I think what is before her."

"These last days have been very dark to me," said John; "but I trust now all is well."

As he saw Mrs. Train coming in, he added, "Here comes Aunt Train. I suppose she has done like other people who ask advice,—made up her mind beforehand, and now wants confirmation in her resolution. She will never get it from me, I am sure of that."

It soon appeared that John was in the right Mrs. Train was evidently dazzled by the prospect of Joe's going into business for himself, and with such a grand person as Mr. Van Horn. She had, as John said, made up her mind before asking counsel; and she looked very much disappointed when he strongly advised her to keep her house in her own hands.

"But what is the use of my keeping the house in my own hands, when I have made up my mind to live with Agnes?" said she, peevishly. "It will only be a burden to me."

"You can easily rent it," said John. "Such houses never go begging. Besides, you may not always wish to live with Agnes. I do not like to have you give up your independence."

"You talk as though you thought my children were determined to cheat me," said Mrs. Train. "I don't like such suspicions: they look as if folks judged others by themselves."

"Not at all," returned John, with unruffled temper, while Letty flushed and looked indignant. "I have a good opinion of Joe's honesty."

"Then it is Mr. Van Horn, I suppose. What do you know to his disadvantage?"

"I know nothing at all about him, except that he and his wife have very expensive habits," replied John. "But the very fact that I know nothing about him is enough to make me uneasy at seeing all your capital put into his hands."

"It is not all my capital," replied Mrs. Train. "There is the money Aunt Eunice left me."

"A life-interest is not capital, exactly," said John, dryly; "and two hundred a year, without your house, is hardly enough to support you."

"It would have been more than a life-interest if I had had my right," said Mrs. Train, sharply. "I shall always think there was something wrong about that affair."

"I do not well see what there could wrong about it," said John. "I suppose Aunt Eunice's will was a surprise to everybody. I am sure it was so to me; and I think it must have been to you; for I remember your telling me, before I was married, that the old lady had only a life-interest in her husband's estate, and that she could not have saved much, for she was always giving away. I see nothing in the will to cause surprise, since Letty was as nearly related to her as Agnes, and had always seen a great deal more of her."

"Well, well, all that does not matter now," said Mrs. Train, rather impatiently. "She had her own way; and that is all about it. The question is, whether I shall put what I have now into Joe's new business. He says he is sure to double the amount in a few years."

"And I have no doubt at all that he thinks so. Joe is naturally sanguine, and apt to be taken with new enterprises just because they are new; but he is going into a business which he does not understand, with a partner of whom he knows little or nothing and about, whom I cannot find out that any one else knows any more. I confess, I have very great fears for his success. Besides, I have another reason. I look upon the business in itself as wrong, and especially dangerous to young men. You would not like to have your money go to help make Joe, or any one else, a drunkard?"

Mrs. Train winced a little. "I do not think there is any danger," said she. "Joe has always been steady."

"If there is no danger to himself, there is plenty to other people," said Letty.

"But some one must sell liquor—"

"I don't see the necessity," interrupted Letty.

"And it is not the wholesale dealers who make the drunkards," pursued Mrs. Train. "It is those miserable little dram-sellers."

"Who supplies the dram-sellers?" asked John. "Is it any better for a man to furnish Weapons which he knows will be used for murder, than it is to do the murder himself?"

"Drinking is not murder," said Mrs. Train.

"Very commonly it is the worst kind of murder," replied John. "Do you remember poor Harry Welles? Would it not have been better for Harry to be killed at once than to run the career he did? The man who kills another has no more that he can do; he cannot hurt the soul of his victim, which may pass at once to God; but he who makes a man a drunkard helps to cast body and soul into hell!

"Can you think with any complacency of seeing at the left hand of God even one poor soul whom your money has helped to send into the place of torment? Suppose that Joe were ever so successful: would any income of capital compensate you for that sight? What will money be to you then? Remember what is said of him who offends one of God's little ones!"

"Then you think every one who deals in liquor is no better than a murderer?" said Mrs. Train. "I think you judge very uncharitably."

"I do not judge at all: it is God's word which judges," replied John. "But, to answer your remark: I do not see how the man who makes a living out of the sin and ruin of his neighbour is any better than a murderer. Is it not much worse to be the means of the soul's death than of the death of the body?"

"But a great many people in the best society both sell and drink liquor."

"There was a time when all the best society went to see women stripped and thrown naked to wild beasts," said John. "Did that make it right? The usage of the world is not the standard of Christians."

"But Joe is not a Christian, you know; he is not a member of any church."

"If he is not, he ought to be. He cannot excuse himself, when he is called to his final account, by saying, 'O Lord, thou knowest I never pretended to serve thee; and therefore I am not to blame.' Neither is there one standard for church-members and another for the rest of the world. What is right is right, and what is wrong is wrong."

"I don't like this new fashion of mixing religion with every thing," said Mrs. Train. "It seems to me too sacred to be used in that way."

"If so, we are not responsible; since we are told, upon the best authority, that even eating and drinking are to be done to the glory of God."

"Well," said Mrs. Train, with an air of superiority, "I shall consider what you have said,—though I think you are entirely governed by your prejudices. I suppose, however, it is only natural that you and Letty should feel a little sore at seeing Joe and Agnes going before you, after all your scrimping and saving. Now, you needn't flash out in a passion, Letty: I am sure that is not very Christian."

"I have not said any thing," said Letty, smiling.

"No; perhaps not: it would be better if you did. I would much rather people would say out what is in their minds than that they should keep it in and brood over it, as you do. But you will always be the same, Letty, to the end of your days."

"I hope so," said John. "I should not like to have any other Letty in her place. As to Joe's going before us, I can honestly say that I should like to see him with a hundred thousand dollars in his purse, provided he acquired it in any lawful business. But, for the reasons I have given you, I cannot look upon liquor-selling in any other light than that I have put it in. I would as soon see Joe keeping a gambling-house as a liquor-store."

"You had better tell him so."

"I have told him so. I felt bound to give him my full and honest opinion when he asked for it. I am glad to say that he was not in the least offended. Joe is naturally an amiable person, I know; which makes me the more anxious that he should not be misled."

As Mrs. Train left, she said, "I am glad to see you looking so much better and more cheerful, Letty. It is a happy thing when people can throw off their troubles and forget them so easily."

"I do not forget," said Letty, gently, while the tears gathered in her eyes. "I have no desire to forget; but I try to remember what I have left, as well as what I have lost for a time. So long as John and myself are left to each other with undiminished love and respect, we should be very wrong to give way to despair. God has been very good to me all my life; and I do believe he is so still,—though I cannot understand the reason of all that he does."

"'What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter,'" said John. "He could not cease to be good, unless he ceased to be God."

"Well," said Mrs. Train, more gently, "I will say for you, and for Letty too, that you seem to take real comfort in your religion. I wish I could do as much."

"Perhaps you could, if you had the right kind," said John. "I should suppose that a religion which will not bear mixing up with the common affairs of life could not give much comfort to anybody. For my own part, I want a religion that I can carry with me to the workshop and the lumber-yard, and build into the new houses I am putting up. I hope you are not offended with my plain speaking?"

"Oh, no; I am not offended," replied Mrs. Train. "I can make allowances."

"And will you not think about what I have said?" urged John, as he went down and opened the gate for Mrs. Train. "Depend upon it, my view is the right one."

"Oh, yes; I will think of it," said Mrs. Train; "but there is no great use in that. Indeed, I all-but told Mr. Gardiner this morning that he could have the house. I suppose he considers it a bargain."

"I told you so," said John, when he returned to the house. "She has made a bargain for her place already. However, I have spoken my mind, and my hands are clear. I am glad you kept your temper."

"Somehow, I did not care," said Letty. "I felt so sorry for her, I could not be angry."

"She is going to make a bad business of it," said John. "I am afraid they will lose all they have in the world; and I shall be glad if that is the worst of the affair."

CHAPTER X.

RESTITUTION.

"WELL, Letty, I have come to make you a farewell call," said Agnes, as she entered. "I don't suppose either you or John will ever have any thing to do with such wicked people as we are."

"How so?" asked Letty.

"Oh, Joe has concluded to go into business with Mr. Van Horn, and, of course, you will never associate with wicked liquor-dealers. They have taken a store on Gay Street,—a splendid place. All the fittings of the bar are of cut glass and silver."

"I thought the business was to be wholesale," said Letty.

"Wholesale and retail," replied Agnes, arranging her veil. "Mr. Van Horn makes the purchases, and Joe sells,—or superintends the sales, at least. I don't suppose he will have very much to do with them otherwise. I am so glad to get rid of that horrid chemical business, which I never did like. I should think you would try to make John go into some mercantile business, it is so much more genteel than a trade."

Opposite Neighbours.
"Wholesale and retail," replied Agnes, arranging her veil.

"Oh, I am very well content," said Letty, smiling. "We are well off as we are, and making money. John understands and likes his trade, and it is growing better every day."

"To be sure, he is getting into business as a builder,—which is rather better," remarked Agnes. "But you never had much regard to the opinions of the world,—not half enough, in my judgment."

"I was not brought up in that way."

"No: to be sure, you never had any great chance. You never were in society at all."

"Don't you call Mrs. Trescott and the Miss Daltons pretty good society?" asked Letty, laughing in spite of herself. "I do not think you will find much better in this town. That is one advantage of living out as I did,—associating constantly with superior people. But we won't mind about my social advantages, Agnes: I am very well satisfied with them, and so is John; and, that being the case, I don't know that any others need to trouble themselves much about the matter. Well, Harry," she added, as a pale little boy, with a crutch under his arm and a card of spelling-lessons in his hand, opened the door, and stood hesitating whether to come in. "Have you come to say your lesson?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied the little fellow coming forward to Letty's side and leaning upon her lap. He was a pretty child, some six or seven years of age, but pale and thin, and with one leg shrunken and twisted so as not to touch the floor.

"Who in the world is that?" asked Agnes.

"This is Harry Mercer," said Letty, "the son of our next door neighbour. His mother happened to say to me, some days ago, that she regretted very much she had no time to hear his lessons, and dared not send him to school. I told her she might send him to me for an hour in the morning, and I would see what I could do for him. I have a great deal of time on my hands now," she added, rather sadly.

"Well, I declare, you do beat all for getting acquainted with the neighbours!" said Agnes. "Why, I never even knew who lived there. I don't visit a single family in the street, except Mrs. Van Horn; and I don't mean to, either."

"How long is it since you made that determination?" asked Letty. "When you first came here, you were glad enough to have the neighbours call upon you."

"Well, but there have been a great many changes since then,—changes in us and in everybody," said Agnes. "I can't make neighbours of people, and take an interest in them, merely because I happen to live alongside of them."

"I think the simple fact that I live alongside of them is a tolerably strong indication of Providence that I ought to take an interest in them," replied Letty. "According to the Saviour's definition, any one to whom I can do good is my neighbour."

"Oh, if you begin to talk in that style, I have done," said Agnes, to whom all religious conversation was cant. "I am no match for you there. And I am sure I don't care if you choose to put yourself on such terms with every sort of people: it is no concern of mine. It is a queer taste: that's all. Only, I should not think you would like to have such a melancholy little object as that about you. If I were his mother, I should want to hide him away where nobody could see him. I should feel so ashamed of him, I fear, I should wish he was dead, every hour in the day."

"Oh, Agnes! Don't say so!" exclaimed Letty, shocked by this thoughtless speech, as she remembered Madge. "I am sure you would never love Madge the less if she were to turn out helpless and deformed?"

"My mother loves me just as much as if I wasn't lame," said the little fellow, looking up with a flush on his pale face; "and so does Willy, and so do you: don't you, Mrs. Caswell?"

"To be sure I do," replied Letty. "I love you all the better."

"Who would have thought of his taking notice?" said Agnes,—rather ashamed.

"He notices every thing," replied Letty. "He is very bright, though he has had but little teaching. It is hard upon his mother to be so much occupied. She has to give all her time to her shop, and she does not like to have Harry with her, for fear of his taking cold: so he is alone a good deal,—more than is good for him."

"I like to live here," said Harry. "You are very good to me. When we lived over the store, we didn't know any one, hardly, and there was the no place for me to play out-of-doors, only in the street."

"When summer comes, you shall have a little garden, and some seeds to plant in it," said Letty. "That will be nice: won't it?"

"Well, I leave you to your missionary labours," said Agnes, rising. "Come and see us when you have time; though, as we don't want any particular good done to us, I suppose you don't consider us as neighbours. You might do some good, by the way, if you could persuade Madge to get on her feet again. She seems to think because she has lain in bed while she was sick, she can always lie there; and, all I can do, I cannot persuade her to sit up or try to walk."

"I do not think she can sit up or walk, Agnes," said Letty. "If I were you, I would not urge her over-much. Her back is weak from the fever; and I am afraid it will be a very long time before she will walk again."

"You don't think there is any thing really the matter?" said Agnes, sitting down again. "I thought it was only because she had fallen into the habit of lying in bed. Oh, what would become of me if Madge should turn out a cripple!"

"We will hope for the best," said Letty, kindly; "but I fear you have a sad time before you. I thought you knew what Dr. Woodman's opinion was."

"He did say something about her not walking; but I did not pay much attention to him," replied Agnes. "He is always croaking and whining. I dare say it is all his fault," she continued, finding relief, as usual, in blaming somebody else. "He is too full of his religion to attend to his patients. He is just what Celia Van Horn called him,—a smooth, psalm-singing hypocrite."

"He cannot sing a note to save his life," said Letty, amused in spite of Agnes's provoking words; "and I am sure no one ever accused him of smoothness before. I think he has been very attentive to Madge; and you know he is universally allowed to be at the head of his profession in the city. I hardly think—"

"Well, I shouldn't think you would be so ready to defend him, after he has been the death of your little boy," interrupted Agnes.

Letty answered, calmly, "I do not think, Dr. Woodman is answerable for my boy's death. Every thing was done for him that could be done; but the case was a bad one, and Alick was naturally delicate: I had very little hope of his living, from the first."

"I am sure you cannot have much feeling about it, or you would not speak of him in that quiet, indifferent manner," said Agnes. "But I suppose you think it is the will of the Lord," she added, in a tone of affected solemnity; "and that makes it all right."

"I do," replied Letty, firmly. "It is the only comfort I have. If I did not believe that this trial was sent to me by One who loves me and my child, and who cannot do wrong, I should lose my senses. If I could blame myself in any way—"

"Oh, of course you can't! You never were to blame in all your life!"

"In this case I certainly was not," said Letty. "I have the comfort of thinking that no child ever was better cared for than my Alick."

"He was a great deal too well cared for, in my opinion," said Agnes. "I dare say he might have lived if he had not been so cosseted and coddled."

"Come and read, Harry," said Letty to the little boy, who was quite absorbed in looking at the pictures in a new magazine. "Mother will be home to dinner; and then she will want her boy. Now, I hope you can spell every word this time, so we can go on to a new lesson to-morrow."

Agnes was quite offended by this evident design of Letty to cut off her further speech, which grew more and more violent.

"Never mind the lady, Harry: she is not talking to you," said Letty, as Harry looked up in amazement. "Now try that word once more. That is it. Now we will go to the next lesson," continued Letty, determined not to answer Agnes, since she well knew that, ii she trusted herself to reply, she should say too much. "There: that will do. Now you may go home; and be sure you ask mother to send the wool for the afghan, that I may begin it this afternoon."

"Oh, she has sent it!" exclaimed Harry. "Willy brought it down, and asked me to carry it over; but I forgot. I will run and fetch it this very minute."

And away he limped; while Letty went into her bedroom, put on a clean white linen apron and washed her hands.

"I dare say you let Madge run out and get cold that day she was here," said Agnes, who seemed bent on provoking Letty. "I dare say you did not take the least care of her; and now she is ruined for life. You could coddle your own boy enough; but you could not spare any care for my poor child. Do you mean to answer me, Letty Caswell? Or don't you?"

Letty was silent. She did not mean to answer.

Agnes went on, growing more and more violent; till Letty was very glad to hear Harry's crutch on the walk outside, hoping that what he brought would make a diversion; and so it proved.

"Here is the worsted," said Harry, opening the door and bringing in a great basket piled up with gay-coloured wool. "Shall I hold the skeins, Mrs. Caswell? I always hold mother's for her."

"Yes, if you like; but I shall not wind them all at once."

Now, afghans were new things in those days. Agnes had heard of them as something wonderfully elegant and fashionable, but she had never seen one; and the appearance of the wool excited a violent conflict in her mind. She wanted to find out what Letty was going to do; but she did not know how to do it consistently with her dignity.

Letty sat winding her balls as composedly as if nothing had been said by her cousin.

At length Agnes broke the silence.

"What very pretty work that is!" she exclaimed,—curiosity getting the upper hand at the sight of an afghan-needle, then a rare novelty. "Where did you learn it?"

"Mrs. Mercer taught me," replied Letty, "I am doing this for her. She has orders for two; and she cannot find time for much work in the shop. It is, as you say, very pretty work, and does not try my eyes, which have been rather weak lately."

"You don't mean to say you are doing it for the shop?" exclaimed Agnes. "I thought to be sure it was for yourself. Why, Letty Caswell!"

"Thank you: we are not quite as rich as all that," said Letty, smiling. "When I can afford to pay ten dollars for worsted, I will tell you."

"Well, if you are not the queerest person! I do hope you won't let every one know that you work for the shop. I should be mortified to death."

"I shall not publish it in the papers," replied Letty; "but, if any one asks me, I shall be apt to tell the truth. Why not?"

"If you don't see the reason yourself, there is no use in talking about it. Pray, how does John like your employing yourself in this manner?"

"Oh, he does not object. He lets me have my own way in most things, you know,—though he does set up once in a while, as he did about my having Jane to work."

"Yes, I know," replied Agnes, with an ostentatious sigh. "You are a happy woman, Letty: you ought to be very thankful."

"I am, I hope," said Letty. "God has been very good to me," she added, with tears in her eyes. "He has left me far more than he has taken away."

"Oh, yes: it is very easy to say so as long as you have every thing in your own way. Wait till you are tried as I am, and then see. But, I declare, I never saw any thing so pretty! How do you put it together? I mean to buy some worsted and begin one this very afternoon. You will show me about it: won't you?"

"Certainly," said Letty, suppressing a smile. "And, Agnes, suppose you bring Madge over with you."

"Mary can bring her over, I suppose. I should not like to be seen carrying her myself."

Letty accompanied her cousin to the door, and, to her surprise, saw John.

"What in the world brings you home in the middle of the day? You will get no dinner: I can tell you that."

"Never mind," said John, smiling. "Good news will do for dinner. Beckman will pay off all the creditors of the 'Penny Savings-Bank.' No one will lose a cent by him, after all."

"That is good news indeed," replied Letty. "How glad I am!—Not only for the money, but for the sake of Mr. Beckman himself. The poor man will be able to hold up his head again."

"Well, I declare! So you have got it all back," said Agnes. "What luck some people do have! But how came Beckman to pay?"

"Because he had a large legacy, and thought it right, I suppose, to pay his debts," replied John. "You see, Mr. Trescott was correct in saying that Beckman did not mean to be dishonest: he was only foolish in undertaking a business which he did not understand."

"Well," said Agnes, "I am glad you have your legacy back, I am sure. I only hope you will keep your money in your own hands this time, and not be misled by designing people, as you were before. Good-by, Letty. I shall be over about four."

"What has she been about?" asked John, when Agnes was out of hearing.

"Oh, never mind. Tell me when you heard all this good news."

"Mr. Street called me into his office and told me just now. He says all the claimants will be satisfied to the very last penny. Some of Beckman's friends say it would be a great deal better for him to use the money in setting himself up again in business, and that by that means he could pay off his indebtedness by degrees without such a sacrifice to himself; but he would not listen to them for a moment. He put the whole into Mr. Street's hands, that he might have it out of his own power."

In the afternoon Agnes came over, punctually, with her balls and skeins of worsted, and was soon at work on her afghan, as pleasant and cordial as possible. Like some other passionate people, she never remembered a word that she had said, after her passion was over, and wondered very much that any one else could.

Letty was not disposed to remember it, either. She knew her cousin of old; and moreover, Letty had lately found a well of peace springing up in her own heart, independent of outward circumstances,—a fountain whose clear waters no storms could disturb. God kept her mind in perfect peace, because it was stayed on Him. She was conscious that this calm light might not always be vouchsafed to her; but that did not hinder her from rejoicing in the Bridegroom's presence so long as the Bridegroom was with her.

Mary's stout arms carried Madge across the street and deposited her upon Letty's sofa. It was curious and touching to see how the strong, rough girl, who used to quarrel with and tease her from morning till night, had softened towards the child in her helpless condition. She was never weary of walking with Madge, or of cooking nice little things for her; and she would have devoted her whole time to her, if Agnes had permitted it.

"Joe told me to say he would come over to tea, Letty, if he will not be in your way. He wants to talk with John."

"Perhaps your mother would come too."

"Oh, she is busy," said Agnes, carelessly. "She could not spend the time."

"Sure, Mrs. Emerson," said Mary, "I might finish the quinces and let the old lady come over."

"You will do nothing of the kind: you have all your own work to do," returned Agnes. "It is so hard to make her know her place," said Agnes, as Mary went out. "That is the great trouble with servants in our country."

"You should be your own servant, as I am, and then you would be sure not to have any trouble in that way," said Letty.

"Why, don't you mean to keep Jane?"

"Oh, no! She only came to stay while I was sick. John insists on my having her to wash and iron, and I have no objection to that; but as to any thing else I have to do, Jane is more plague than profit. I am of the Widow Scudder's opinion about girls: I want them to stand out of my way and let me get done."

It turned out that Joe's business was to try and borrow the money which John was soon to receive from Mr. Beckman. He proposed to secure it by a mortgage on a house of Mr. Van Horn's, and by some means or other to pay eight per cent. interest.

John listened with so much attention that Joe made sure of his object; and he was quite taken aback when John said, quietly,—

"That would be usury, Joe."

"Well, what if it is? I don't suppose you will pretend to say that there is any morality concerned in taking one rate of interest more than another. I have heard you say myself that you could see no more sense in a law regulating the hire of money than in one to regulate the price of horses."

"I do not," replied John. "But, while there is such a law, whoever lends money on more than legal interest runs the chance of losing the whole. Besides, I don't like money transactions between relations; and, more than all, I would never lend money to anybody to put into the liquor business."

"Pshaw! Why need you know what the money is used for? I suppose the long and the short of it is that you want to put the money into your own business."

"Not at all. I have no intention of putting it into any business. I mean to salt it down, as they say,—invest it in some good, safe stock, and let it alone. There is something pleasant in the idea of having a sum laid aside out of the risk of business—a kind of nest-egg."

"But, Caswell, you don't consider the security. That fine house and lot on a good street. Why, it rents for two hundred and fifty dollars a year."

"And quite free from incumbrance?"

"Oh, yes;—that is—well, you can hardly call it an incumbrance. The builder has some claim on it, I believe."

"He has a mortgage on it," said John. "I know; for he wanted to sell it to me, and I would not take it."

"The house is worth three times the amount of the mortgage."

"Possibly; but I don't think so."

"Well, what security will you take, then?" asked Joe, evidently disappointed and vexed, but not willing to give up the point.

"There is no use in talking, Joe. You know what my opinion of the whole business was from the beginning."

"Oh, very well," said Joe, stiffly. "Take your own way. I am sure I did not think I was asking such a very great favour in offering to borrow a paltry sum on good security. No doubt it will be easy to find it somewhere else. Every one is not so strait-laced. I shall not be likely to trouble you again very soon. Come, Agnes; it is time we were at home. What on earth did you bring that child out for?"

"Didn't you say yourself that it would be a good thing for her?" replied Agnes.

"What ails Joe?" asked Letty, when they had taken their leave.

"He is vexed because I won't lend him this money to invest in his business. I am sorry he is angry; but I cannot help it. I dare say he will forget it before long, and be just as pleasant as ever."

CHAPTER XI.

FURTHER CHANGES.

FROM this time forward, a coolness grew up between the two families in Myrtle Street.

Joe was very much vexed about the money. Still, he was naturally placable, and, if left to himself, would, no doubt, soon have forgotten his annoyance; but there was a skilful hand at the bellows, keeping up the fire of anger in his mind.

Mr. Van Horn was jealous of John Caswell. John was the Mordecai sitting in the gate of Myrtle Street, who had always refused to bow down to his greatness. Moreover, he had reasons of his own for disliking to have his affairs observed by any one so quick-sighted as the grave, slow-spoken carpenter. He knew that Joe had been in the habit of telling his cousin all about his business affairs; and he made up his mind that, under present circumstances, such openness would not be desirable. He therefore set himself to work, now by insinuations, now by sarcasm, and now by open abuse, to poison the mind of Joe and his wife against their relations across the road.

In this work he had an efficient coadjutor in his wife, to whom mischief-making was as her daily bread, and who, under an appearance of the greatest simplicity, and even silliness, concealed as much cunning as her grave and artful husband.

Agnes soon became distant and cold to her cousins. She ceased to run into Number Nine a dozen times a day, to borrow something, to ask help about her work, or to look at Letty's new magazine. If Letty called at Number Ten, she was received with the most chilling ceremony, or with abundant hints about people minding their own business and keeping their own place. For some time Letty persisted in going to see her cousin, in spite of this treatment; but the manner of both Joe and Agnes at last became so offensive that she had nothing to do but to stay away. Even Madge was no longer allowed to visit her cousin and thus the poor child was deprived of her greatest solace. Letty grieved deeply over the estrangement, and tried in every way to remedy it; but in vain. The more she tried, the worse the matter grew; and she was at last fain to let things take their course, hoping that time would bring Agnes to her senses.

But Letty regretted many things in her cousins' ways more than their conduct to herself. Living opposite, as she did, she could not help seeing the increased expenses of the family, the growing extravagance of Agnes's dress, the hired carriages, the late ball and theatre goings, the card and supper parties. She mourned, too, over the change in Joe's appearance. He had always been rather a sober and steady man, even in his bachelor days, and since his marriage he had become still more so; but Letty could not but notice how red his face was becoming, and how loudly he sometimes talked when he came home late in the evening.

The Alhambra, as he called his place of business, began to be noted for its good liquors and cigars, and the excellence of the free lunches it set forth on festival-days. It had a great run of custom, and people began to whisper that the sale of liquors was not the most profitable business carried on there; that back of the grand billiard-saloon on the first floor, the windows of which blazed with light at the latest hours, there was another apartment, the windows of which did not blaze with light,—which had, in fact, no windows at all, and where the visitors pursued these amusements with closed doors and were waited upon by Mr. Van Horn himself.

Meantime, Mrs. Van Horn Was getting into society, as she called it, very rapidly. Mrs. Van Horn's acquaintances were, of course, Agnes's: they belonged mostly to what was called "the fast set,"—people who made many expensive parties, played cards for money, and prided themselves on doing startling things.

Agnes was very good-looking, and somewhat elegant in her appearance, and her manners were rather above than below those of most of the people whom she met in this set: nevertheless, she was subject to many mortifications. She fancied that every one knew she had once been a shop-girl,—and, indeed, Mrs. Van Horn kindly took care that every one should know it,—and she was always thinking that people threw out hints about her former way of life. Mrs. Butler and Mrs. Lamb, the principal personages of her "set," sometimes patronized and sometimes snubbed her.

And, finally, she was aware that there existed in T— a much finer "set" than her own, to which she and Mrs. Van Horn had no more chance of access than they had of being presented to the man in the moon:—a quiet set, who did not dress extravagantly, nor drive fast horses, nor give many large parties, but who interested themselves in poor people, who managed the Orphans Asylum and the Old Ladies' Home, and who constituted the Club,—the Book Club,—strictly limited as to numbers, and on which many people cast longing eyes who had never read through a book in their lives. Why, it would be hard to say, except that it seems to be human nature for people to desire what they cannot have, simply because it is unattainable.

What made Agnes's exclusion the harder was, that Letty seemed to be creeping into this very set, and that by no effort of her own, but simply, as it were, by the force of mutual attraction. Letty's natural disposition led her to seek comfort in her own sorrows by trying to relieve those of other people; and after the death of her little Alick she accepted the post of district visitor of the Charitable Society. Her coadjutor in the work was no other than Mrs. Mark Campion, wife of the only author of whom the town of T— could boast, and a person of great consideration on her own account.

By this means, Letty was naturally brought into the society of the other visitors; and one morning Agnes, looking out of her window: was greatly amazed to see Mrs. Campion coming out of Letty's house in company with Mrs. Street,—the Mrs. Street, whom "not to know argued one's self unknown," but whom Agnes and Mrs. Van Horn had hitherto beheld at an awful distance. Agnes had not been inside her cousin's door for three months, and it cost her a little sacrifice of dignity to run over now; but curiosity proved too strong for pride, and she went.

Letty received her cousin just as if they had met the day before; but Agnes fancied that she could trace suppressed amusement in her cousin's cordial manner. Letty was amused, for she knew exactly what had brought Agnes round; but she chatted on easily about the garden, Madge, and the last novelty in worsted-work. At last Agnes had to come to the point herself.

"You had some company this morning?"

"Yes," replied Letty.

"I did not know you were acquainted with Mrs. Street."

"Oh, yes: I have known her all my life. She was very intimate with Mrs. Trescott."

"I suppose she came to inquire for a girl, or some such thing?" said Agnes.

"No: she is not at housekeeping, and she keeps the same old lady's maid she has had these twenty years. Good old Casey! She taught me a deal of pretty work when I was a little girl; and when I was married she gave me no end of good advice, besides a wonderful needle-book and pincushion. Did I ever show them to you?"

Agnes could have boxed her cousin's ears with a good will; but she put a strong constraint on herself, and said,—

"Now, Letty, don't be provoking. What do I care about old Casey? I want to know what brought Mrs. Street here; for of course she did not come to make a call."

"Why of course?"

"Oh, because she never would call on any one who lived in Myrtle Street. I tell Joe every day that we shall never have any society as long as we live down here out of the world."

"Now, I think Myrtle Street a very nice place," said Letty. "It is so open and airy, and the lots are so large. I would not change our garden for the grandest place on the Avenue."

"Sour grapes, Letty!"

"May-be so. It is at least a good thing to think one's own grapes sweeter than any other."

"But come, now, tell me: what did Mrs. Street come for?"

"They are about to add a children's department to the Home; and, knowing that I am fond of children, she and Mrs. Trescott put their heads together and invited me to take a share with them in the oversight of it."

"Well, I declare!—To be with Mrs. Street and Mrs. Townsend and all that set of grand people, meeting them at committees and every thing!"

"Yes; I suppose so, if I accept. I told Mrs. Street I must consult my husband before I gave her a positive answer. If I decide to do it, I am to meet all the ladies at Mrs. Townsend's to-morrow afternoon, to talk over matters."

"If you accept! It's not very likely you will refuse, I guess."

"I do not think I shall refuse if John has no objection," replied Letty, quietly. "It is a kind of work that I like,—even better than knitting double wool," she added, smiling; "and, then, one makes pleasant acquaintances."

"Oh, there is no danger of his refusing. He never objects to what you wish to do, just because you do wish it. There is the difference in people. What are you making now?"

"A scarf," replied Letty, displaying her work. "Don't you want the pattern? It is quite new, and very pretty."

"I should like it of all things," said Agnes, examining the scarf, "but, the truth is, I have such a bill at Mrs. Mercer's now, that I don't dare to go there. I am in terror every day lest she should send in the bill to Joe. You need not look so shocked," she added, with an affected laugh: "I dare say you have your own little private accounts that you don't tell your husband of."

"Never! Never!" said Letty, warmly. "I should not dare to look him in the face if I did."

"Well, well: people are different, as I said; and so you would find out if you had Joe to manage. Come in and see me, Letty: you never come near me now-a-days."

"Because I thought you did not want me," said Letty, frankly. "I kept on going till you gave me clearly to understand that my room was better than my company."

"Nonsense! You are always taking offence," said Agnes, in a superior tone. "Of course, with all my engagements, and moving in such very different circles as we do, I cannot run in every day, as I used to when things were different: you ought not to expect it."

"I don't," said Letty, dryly; "but, Agnes, you might let Madge be brought over and see me now and then: she is not old enough to be injured by our inferior associations, you know; and I should really be glad to have her; I am sure a change would be better for her than lying all the time in that dull back room."

"Yes, of course she can come, if you want to be plagued with her," said Agnes. "I don't know what I am to do with the child: she's becoming a great care; she just wants me or some one devoted to her every minute, reading to her or playing with her; and it is very inconvenient."

"She has so few resources,—poor thing!" said Letty. "It is not as if she could run about and amuse herself like other children, you know."

"I am sure she has resources enough, if that is all," said Agnes. "Joe never comes in without bringing her something, and she is never out of his arms while he is in the house; and mother is just as bad. As sure as I want her to do any thing, the excuse is that she cannot leave Madge. For my part, I don't believe in having all the well people in the house put out of the way for the sake of one sick one."

"Mrs. Trescott used always to say that well people could wait," remarked Letty. "But, if you send her over here, she will be out of every one's way for a while, at least. Mary can bring her over, and John will take her home when he comes to tea."

"Well, I don't mind:—only be careful of her, and don't let her take cold, as you did before;" for Agnes always kept up the fiction that it was Letty's neglect which had caused Madge's ill health, and Letty had become so used to the accusation that she never thought of replying to it.

Agnes departed at last, going at once to Mrs. Van Horn to tell her news and express her amazement.

Mrs. Van Horn wondered too, and finally decided that the affair must somehow grow out of the fact that Mr. Caswell had the contract for building the new wing of the Home. She expressed a good deal of astonishment that Agnes should have gone to see Letty, after the way she had been treated and the remarks Mrs. Caswell had made. It was no part of her plan to have Agnes renew her former intimacy; and she used so well her ordinary weapons of insinuation and falsehood that, when Letty returned her cousin's visit, she found Agnes frozen up stiffer than ever.

The quarrel did not, however, extend to Madge. Agnes found it very convenient to get rid of the child for two or three afternoons in the week, that Mrs. Train might be at liberty to help Mary: consequently, Madge often enjoyed the change of a visit to Cousin Letty, where she had Gatty to amuse her and where she could experience, the marvellous and unaccustomed pleasure of behaving herself well and doing what she was bidden. She was still quite helpless so far as walking was concerned, though she could sit up a little while if properly supported; but she was becoming quite deformed. She was uncommonly bright and thoughtful, though terribly spoiled, and as ignorant as a little New Zealander of any thing she ought to have known. She was never satisfied in the matter of reading aloud, and really taxed her friends severely.

Presently, Letty represented to her that, if she would only learn to read, she would be quite independent in that respect and could amuse herself when she liked. Madge seized on the idea with enthusiasm, and begged Cousin Letty to teach her. She learned surprisingly fast, and was soon able to read an easy book for herself. She improved in other ways,—learned to put some restraint on herself and to help herself more easily. Letty thought she suffered from lack of exercise; and so she often laid her on the floor instead of on the sofa, and encouraged her to roll about as much as possible. Madge enjoyed these changes; and Letty was even not without hopes that the child might recover in some degree the use of her limbs.

In the course of the next year, however, Agnes accomplished her long-cherished purpose of removing from Myrtle Street. Number Ten was sold, and Joe bought a fine new house quite at the other end of the town, where a fashionable district was rapidly filling up. Joe was, apparently, growing rich very fast. He spent money freely, and assumed all the airs of a man of wealth and consequence. He really seemed to be touched with Letty's kindness to his unfortunate child, as he called her,—thanked her in the most condescending manner when he went away, and made her a present of a very expensive and really valuable book,—though John was a little inclined to be vexed with Letty for accepting it.

"But, John, where was the use of making a fuss?" said Letty. "As to any obligation, Madge's board for the last year would come to many times the price of the book, not to speak of any thing else; and I wish to keep on good terms with them for the sake of the poor child. As to Joe's airs, they are simply amusing. I could hardly help laughing all the time he was here."

"I suppose that is the best way of looking at the matter," said John. "I cannot conceive how it is that they go on; though I suppose there is no doubt that they make a great deal of money."

"Don't you regret now that you did not put our legacy into the concern?" asked Letty, mischievously. "Just think! You might have been quite a rich man by this time, and Joe would have introduced you into society!"

"Thank you," said John: "I don't think Joe's circle of society would suit me at all. I am afraid some of it is of a kind that will lead him into a deal of trouble, some day or other. I see him in company with men whom I know to be regular gamblers; and it is said—I don't know how truly—that Van Horn has a resort of that kind, where a great deal of his money is made."

"Surely," said Letty, "Joe would never be engaged in such a business as that?"

"I am not so clear," replied her husband. "Joe has good impulses enough, but he has no principle,—nothing to keep him from being led away by any one who chooses to take the trouble. Van Horn flatters him and makes him think that he is going to be a great man directly. I fear he will be his utter destruction before all is done."

They had scarcely finished this dialogue, when Aunt Train came in, looking pale and weary.

"I am tired," said Mrs. Train, with emphasis, as she dropped into Letty's easy-chair. "I am worked off my feet, and just ready to drop, with all this fuss of moving, and the rest; but I thought I could not go away without coming to see you once more, Letty."

"You know it is no fault of mine that we have not seen more of each other," said Letty, gently.

"I know; I know," replied Mrs. Train, hastily. "I have no fault to find with either you or John. You have always been kind and respectful to me, Letty,—always: I will say that for you. How nice and pleasant you look here!" said Mrs. Train, glancing around. "Your wife has that trait of a good housekeeper, John. She knows how to make every part of her house pleasant and inviting. She does not have one grand parlour for company, and the living-rooms anyhow and every-how."

"I never have any but living-rooms," said Letty, smiling. "I never want a house larger than I can use. How do you like the one where you are going?"

"All show and outside," replied Mrs. Train. "It is handsome, too,—very handsome. But I do think it rather hard upon my old bones to have to mount up to the third story to sleep, or else up with a little hole of a room in the basement. I am not used to stairs, and they are very hard upon me. The fact is, the house is not nearly so convenient as the one we are in, especially with a helpless child like Madge to take care of; but, then, Joe and Agnes think the situation makes up for every thing; and perhaps it does."

"I don't myself see the great advantages of the situation," said John, dryly. "The land is, a great deal of it, made by filling in, and the lots are very small. The houses have no gardens, and they are all up-stairs and down-stairs."

"Yes; but, then, we never do any thing with a garden. If we had forty acres, we should only raise just so many more weeds. Joe says a garden does not pay."

"Mine pays, I can assure you," said John. "Think of all the fruit we have had this year,—strawberries and raspberries and grapes more than we could use, and almost all the summer vegetables we have needed. Joe's garden is as good as mine if he would work it as I do."

"Why, aunt, you used to be fond of a garden," said Letty. "I remember what a nice one you always had at the old North Street house."

"I used to have a good many things in the old North Street house that I shall never have again," said Mrs. Train, rather bitterly. "Take my advice, Letty, and keep your own roof over your head as long as you can. There is no great comfort in living in other people's houses."

"So I think," said Letty.

"I used to think I worked hard at home; and so I did," continued Mrs. Train; "but, at any rate, I had the comfort of what I did. I had my own way, and nobody interfered with me. But now I work like a slave from morning till night, doing what no one else wants to do, and, after all, I get no thanks for it. I brought Agnes up like a lady," she continued, wiping her eyes: "I never let her put her hands to a bit of hard work. I laboured day and night that she might have advantages,—that she might go to school and dress and appear like a lady; and what is the consequence? She looks down upon her old mother, and wants to keep her out of sight. She grudges me decent clothes,—though she has the use of all my little income, and expects me to do all the work that Mary can't or won't do."

"You know I always disliked the idea of your putting your property out of your own hands," said John.

"I know," said Mrs. Train. "You were right; and I was an old fool,—that is all."

"But, aunt, if you are so uncomfortable, why not take lodgings of your own?" asked Letty. "Mrs. Mercer, next door, has a nice, large front room and bedroom which she would like to rent. She is a very good woman, and there would be no children to annoy you, except poor little Harry, who is no trouble to any one. Then you would be near us; and we could see that you were comfortable. John would attend to your coal, and all that, and I would help you a great deal."

Mrs. Train shook her head. "It wouldn't do, Letty. Thank you all the same; but it would not do. You see, I cannot work at fine sewing as I used to, and my little income is not enough to support me without my house. And, besides, there is poor Madge. What would become of her without granny?"

"True," replied Letty. "She could hardly spare you, I suppose."

"No, no," said Mrs. Train. "There is no help for it now. I have made my bed, and I must lie in it: that is all. I don't like to ask you to come and see me, Letty, after all that has passed; but I shall always think of you kindly. Good-by; and God bless you!"

"Poor aunt!" said Letty, as she closed the door. "I do wish she could be made more comfortable."

"I don't see how it can be done at present," replied John. "If it were not for Madge, we might ask her here; but what would become of the child?"

"My stepmother used to say, long ago, that aunt was laying up trouble for herself by the way she brought up Agnes," said Letty. "She said what I believe to be true,—that spoiled children never are grateful to those who spoil them. I have more than once seen aunt hanging out clothes or sifting ashes on a freezing day, while Agnes was hanging over the fire with a story-book or some nonsensical piece of embroidery.

"Mother was always indulgent enough to me in the way of giving me playthings and time to play with them; but then she would always make me help her, ever since I can remember,—even when my help must have been much more a plague than a profit. I cannot remember when I had not certain duties to perform every day. I used to think myself hardly used,—quite a little martyr; but I am thankful to her now for all she did. I am very, very sorry for Aunt Train."

CHAPTER XII.

THE WILL [Part II].

FOR the next year all went prosperously with the inmates of Number Nine. John's business increased more and more, and became altogether that of a builder. The number of his contracts, and the necessity of being, as it were, in three or four places at once, obliged him either to hire a horse or to keep one; and he thought his increasing income justified him in purchasing a useful horse and buggy.

This establishment was a terrible eyesore to Agnes, who had the habit of looking at every new acquisition of her acquaintances as so much taken from herself; and she never rested till she persuaded Joe into purchasing a much more splendid establishment. Agnes imagined that Letty would be greatly annoyed by the contrast in the two carriages; but in this she was mistaken. Letty's only thought about the matter was that now poor Madge would be able to get out again.

Letty, for her own part, was very happy,—happy in her husband, in her pleasant home and kind neighbours, in congenial occupations and congenial society,—happy, above all, in that well-spring of peace within which flows only from the source of an entire daily consecration to God. No longer making the common mistake of living on past experience, she felt the necessity and experienced the blessing of that daily renewing of the Holy Spirit for which we are taught to pray. She had learned the precious lesson how to lift up her heart to God in all places and at all times,—not carrying all day the burden of any sin or sorrow, and allowing it, like a thorn neglected, to rankle and irritate still more, but going at once to the source of healing, and laying her trouble or her transgression, great or small, on Him who bears the burdens of us all.

Letty found increasing pleasure in her charitable ministrations. True, she saw much to mourn over and much to condemn, and she rarely met with that exalted virtue which people, who know little about the matter, are fond of attributing to the very poor. She did not find the daughters of thieves and street-walkers expressing exalted sentiment in pure English; nor did she come across any of those wonderful old apple-women and evangelical scissor-grinders of whom we occasionally read.

But she found and rejoiced in many opportunities of helping the distressed, comforting the sorrowful and instructing the ignorant; and she was able in some instances to rescue children from destruction. The little ones at the Home were a daily pleasure to her, as she watched their bodily growth, their rapid improvement and their intense enjoyment of the warm nursery and airy play-room. Then, too, Letty found great enjoyment in the society of the other visitors, with whom she was naturally thrown in contact. They were mostly cultivated women, who had thought and read for themselves and who knew how to appreciate thought and earnestness in other people.

Mrs. Trescott had always encouraged Letty in reading and study: she had given her time for such pursuits and afforded her every assistance; and Letty had never supposed that her education was at an end because she was married. John always kept up his subscription to the library, and spent many a dollar upon new books as they came out. Mrs. Campion soon discovered that Letty kept up, as well as most people, with the literature of the day; that she dared to have opinions of her own, which she expressed moderately and temperately and in good English. Moved by these considerations, she placed Letty's name on her books; and, two or three vacancies occurring about that time in the Book Club, Mrs. Caswell was proposed and voted in without one dissenting ballot.

It was a bitter day for Agnes when she called at the house of a mutual acquaintance and found in a Club-book lying on the table the name of Mrs. Caswell, of Myrtle Street, as a member; nor was the bitterness at all assuaged by the further discovery that the Club had actually met at Number Nine and spent a very pleasant evening. Agnes went home that day with the firm conviction that she was the most miserable, ill-treated woman in all T—. She wondered if Mrs. De Witt was invited, and surmised that, if she was, Letty must have been finely mortified by her company; and, if she was not, Mrs. De Witt would never speak to her again.

Agnes was mistaken in all these particulars. Letty did not invite Mrs. De Witt, feeling, with her usual tact, that, as a new member of the Club, it did not become her to take liberties; and Mrs. De Witt was not in the least offended. On the contrary, she gave Letty a great deal of valuable help in preparing the simple entertainment permitted by the laws of the Club, and also insisted on lending her precious old china and silver spoons, which were greatly admired by those who understood their value.

The beginning of the next year brought with it two important events,—the birth of a little girl to Letty, and the death of Mrs. Train.

The new-comer, whom they called "Alice Gertrude," was a healthy, good-natured creature, wonderfully bright and full of play, and reigned like a queen over her grave father, whose admiration of her was almost boundless.

But, though Letty loved her little daughter as only mothers can love, there was a still place in her heart of hearts which the new-comer never entered,—a secret shrine reserved for the gentle, fair-haired angel who was kept safely waiting for her in another world.

Mrs. Train died—very suddenly, it was said—shortly after Letty's recovery from her confinement, and she went at once to call upon her cousin. Agnes received her with great cordiality,—with much more than ordinary kindness. It was perhaps no more than natural that her heart should be softened by such an event, and Letty rejoiced that it was so; but she could not help being surprised at the change in Mrs. Van Horn, who was busy in ordering Agnes's mourning. She had always treated Letty as a being of an inferior order; but now she fawned and coaxed and deferred to "dear Mrs. Caswell's judgment."

Letty wondered what had come over them both. Agnes was chiefly concerned, as usual, for herself. She did not see how she was to live without her mother to take care of Madge and attend to the housekeeping. Her health had lately become delicate, and she found the cares of her household quite too much for her. She did, indeed, look ill, and she had a slight—very slight—hacking cough, which startled Letty when she heard it.

"How long have you had that cough?" she asked.

"Why, a good while, off and on. It does not seem to be exactly a cold. I suppose it comes from some irritation of the throat."

"You ought to attend to it," said Letty. "Such a little dry cough is often harder to cure than one which sounds much worse."

"Oh, it is nothing," said Agnes, lightly. "I should not mind it at all, if it did not seem to reduce my strength."

Madge was the person on whom Mrs. Train's death fell with the greatest force. Her grandmother had been her constant attendant, and the poor, helpless thing was warmly attached to her. The child seemed utterly beside herself, and repeated over and over again, in piteous accents, "I want to die and go to my grandmother! Oh, please let me go to my grandmother!"

She entreated Letty to stay all night with her; and, when made to see that it was impossible on account of the baby, she begged earnestly that she might be allowed to go home with her cousin.

Mrs. Van Horn, to whom Agnes referred the question, admitted that it would be unusual—quite unusual—for any of the family to leave the house before the funeral; but, then, dear Mrs. Caswell was so kind, and such a good nurse, and had so much influence over the poor child, and it was such an uncommon cases altogether, that she did not think any one would notice it as being out of the way. She was sure dear Mrs. Caswell was very kind, to undertake such a charge; but it was quite in character with her well-known benevolence.

Letty could not help feeling that something was concealed under all this; but she was glad to take Madge home with her, intending to keep her till after the funeral.

Madge was somewhat comforted to find herself once more in her aunt Letty's house.

"Oh, it is so nice here!" she said, after Letty had taken off her things and laid her on the sofa. "I can't think how it is that some people's houses are so different from other people's."

"A change is always pleasant, especially to sick persons who are much confined to one room."

"Oh, Aunt Letty, I can never bear to think of going back to that room, now granny is gone!" said Madge, crying afresh. "Granny was the only person that loved me or took care of me, except father; and I hardly ever see him now-a-days. He hardly ever gets home till ever so late; and then he act queer that I cannot bear to have him come into the room."

"But your mother, my dear?"

"She doesn't love me any more," said Madge, shaking her head sadly. "She think I am so much trouble; and so I am, and always shall be. I never can play, or run about, or go to school, like other little girls; and I don't see, Aunt Letty, what God ever made me for."

"My dear child, God made you to do the work he has set for you in this world, and after that to live with him for ever and ever,—never to have any more pain or sorrow or weariness or trouble, but to be happy with him in heaven. That is what God made you for. But if you wish to live with him hereafter you must try to live for him here and to do his work."

"I don't see how I can do any work," said Madge. "I cannot even dress myself."

"No: your work is of a different kind. Your work is to try and suffer patiently, and not complain and fret, and make no more trouble than you can help, to be considerate of other people and careful of their comfort. If you try to be faithful in this work,—if you ask God's help in it, and read and study and think about his word, that you may know your duty,—God will perhaps send you something else to do."

"Granny used to read the Bible a great deal after she was sick," said Madge. "She said it was all the comfort there was in the world for her, and she had let it alone too long. And oh, Aunt Letty, a great many times when she wanted to read the Bible, I used to make her read story-books to me. It was very selfish: wasn't it? If I had always been good to her, I should not feel half so badly now."

"My dear, that is the way we all feel," said Letty. "It ought to make us very careful in our treatment of our friends while they are with us, to think how sorrowfully we shall look back at all our selfishness and unkindness when they are gone."

"I tried to be good to grandmother while she was sick, and I felt sorry for her when she used to say that something was the matter with her heart, and that she knew she should die suddenly some day; and father used to talk to her about making a will. He was at her about it for ever so long; and one day he brought a paper, which she signed, and Mrs. Van Horn signed it after her."

All at once the solution of Mrs. Van Horn's civility and Agnes's extra kindness flashed across Letty's mind. Joe had persuaded his mother-in-law to make a will, giving to Agnes all the money that Aunt Eunice had left for her use. Joe and Agnes had always been in the habit of talking about this money as though it rightfully belonged to them; and no doubt they would try to make use of this will in persuading Letty to give up her claim to the property. She mentioned her suspicions to John after Madge had gone to bed.

"Joe must be aware that such a will is not worth the paper it is written on," said John. "Nevertheless, I do not doubt that they will try to coax you into giving up your claim."

"I shall not do so," said Letty, decidedly. "If Agnes were poor, I might think of it; but not under present circumstances."

The event proved that John was right. The day after the funeral, Agnes sent for Letty to come into her room, where she sat arrayed in her new mourning apparel.

"I suppose you don't know, Letty, that my poor mother made a will?" she began, after Letty was seated.

"I heard so," replied Letty.

"She has left me all her property:—perhaps you heard that too?" answered Agnes.

"I supposed she would, of course," said Letty: "it was the only natural arrangement."

"There! I told Joe I knew you would say so," said Agnes. "You are always reasonable, Letty. But Joe says that it will be necessary for you to sign some paper giving up your claim. It is of no consequence, you know,—only a form that the lawyers like to go through."

"I don't at all see how that can be necessary," said Letty, coolly. "I never made the least claim to your mother's property. Why should I?"

"You shouldn't, of course; but Joe says that, unless you sign this paper, Mr. Trescott may make a disturbance with Aunt Eunice's will. As it was worded, you would seem to have an equal claim with myself to the money she left mother, and which mother has left to me."

"But how could your mother leave you that money, Agnes, when it was never hers?" replied Letty, gently, but decidedly. "Aunt Eunice did not leave it to her, but merely the use of it during her life. She had no more right to leave it to you than she had to leave you Mr. Trescott's house or the City Hall."

Agnes's face flushed; but she made a great effort at self-command.

"Now, Letty, don't be unreasonable. You must see that, having taken care of poor mother, as we did, during all the latter part of her life, we have the best right to this money. If you had ever done any thing for her, it would be different; but she has lived with us for the last five years, as you well know, and—"

"During which time she has done fully work enough to pay for her board, besides the fact of having all her money embarked in Joseph's business," said Letty. "You could not find a woman to do for Madge what your mother has done, for less than two dollars a week."

"That is no business of yours," said Agnes, sharply.

"Except when you undertake to found a claim upon it."

"Now, Letty, do be sensible!" said Agnes. "I don't want to quarrel with you, if you will only give up quietly; but, if you don't, we shall be compelled to go to law about it: that's all."

Agnes evidently endeavoured to make a great impression by this threat.

But Letty answered, calmly,—

"Do you imagine you would gain any thing by that?"

"Of course we should: there is not a doubt of it," replied Agnes, confidently. "But it is very disagreeable to have a lawsuit between relations, and would make no end of costs for you. It is much better that you should give up at once."

"Better for you, no doubt; but I tell you at once and decidedly that I shall do nothing of the kind. The property is legally and rightfully mine, and I intend to keep it. If you were poor, it would perhaps be different; but, as things now are, I shall have no hesitation in claiming my own."

"Now, Letty, see here!" said Agnes. "You have always pretended to be a wonderful saint and Christian. I am no great believer in such pretensions myself; but now is the time to prove their truth. If you are what you profess to be,—a Christian,—you will give this matter without any more words; if you don't, I shall think you're a hypocrite: that's all."

"And what harm will it do me if you do think me a hypocrite?" said she. "You will no doubt injure yourself greatly; but I do not see how I shall be the sufferer. It is not by your judgment I stand or fall, or by that of any man or woman, but by my own Master's. As to your thinking me a hypocrite, that is just as you please. I know that neither you nor Joe would think any better of me for giving up my just rights in this matter; but whether you do or not is of small consequence to me."

"I should like to know how you found out any thing about the will," said Agnes, angrily. "I suppose you got it out of Madge, the mischief-making little story-teller! I can tell you this is the last time she enters your door, Letty Caswell; and I'll pay her well for her meddling. I will make her rue the day she ever went tattling to you or anybody else. I'll make you rue it too: see if I don't. You have been trying your best to make that child over after your own pattern; but I'll drive it out of her. I want no saints of your stamp spying and sneaking about me." Agnes paused from lack of breath.

"Agnes," said Letty, rising and speaking in a tone which made her angry listener keep silence in spite of herself, "you can act as you like, so far as I am concerned. I care nothing for what you may say or do; but, if you vent your spite towards me on that afflicted child, you will do a most wicked thing, for which God will bring you into judgment as sure as you stand there,—if not in this life, yet in the life to come. His eye is over the helpless and the innocent, and his ear is open to their prayer. For what you have said to me, may God forgive you, as I do; but beware how you offend one of these little ones; for I tell you, on his authority, that it would be better for you that a mill-stone were hanged about your neck and that you were drowned in the depths of the sea."

Letty left the room as she finished speaking. At the foot of the stairs she encountered Joe, who had evidently been waiting the result of her interview with Agnes.

"So you've seen Agnes,—hey? I suppose she has told you all about mother's will,—hey?"

"If you have any thing to say on that subject, I prefer that you should talk to my husband," said Letty.

"What! So you and Agnes have had a brush?" said he, with a disagreeable laugh. "I might have known she would make a mess of it, with that temper of hers. But never mind that: you and I can be reasonable, I hope; and, of course, Letty, you will at once see the justice of our claim."

"I prefer to have you talk to John," replied Letty. "I have no more to say on the subject."

"Why John?" said Emerson. "What has he got to do with it?"

Letty attempted to pass by him to the door; but Joe placed himself before her.

"Now, look here, Letty Caswell: you are not going off so. You are going to give up your claim upon this property before you leave the house. If you don't, I will make you."

"How do you propose to make me?" asked Letty, looking him full in the face.

If she had not known Joe before, she might have been frightened; but she was well aware that he was at heart an arrant coward. As she took a firm step to pass him, he saw at once that he better yield the point; and she was soon outside of the door.

When Van Horn heard the result of the conference, he said they were a pack of fools. He'd have the money, he said, or part of it at least: he'd be bound, he would. Accordingly, he contrived to join John on his way home one day.

He understood that Joe had been founding a claim to the property of the late Mrs. White upon that foolish affair of Mrs. Train's. He and Mrs. Van Horn had signed the paper as witnesses, merely to gratify a whim of the old lady, who was evidently in her dotage. But, as long as that fact could not be proved, he supposed Mr. Caswell knew the will was good in law, though perhaps not in equity. There was no doubt whatever that if Joe should bring a suit, he would gain it, and he (Caswell) would have all the costs to pay. Would it not be better to come to some arrangement? Perhaps a compromise could be made which would save all trouble and prevent ill feeling. He had no interest in the matter, he added,—none in the world,—except that his natural disposition always led him to act as peace-maker. True, it was a thankless office in most cases; but he did not care for that, if he could only do good and prevent mischief.

It seemed likely to be equally thankless in this case. John heard all this palaver, as he thought it, without interruption, and then quietly informed the peace-maker that the whole affair was in the hands of Mr. Trescott, who was Mrs. White's executor and would manage the matter as he thought proper.

Mr. Van Horn was sorry to hear it. Mr. Trescott was doubtless a smart man; but still he was a lawyer; and every one knew that lawyers liked to make business for themselves: he was sorry to say it; but he had too much reason to know. He had always had the highest opinion of Mr. Caswell's judgment; but it would certainly be lowered if he persisted in involving himself in such a lawsuit, when all the facts of the case were plainly against him, simply because he was afraid of his wife.

Mr. Caswell was of opinion that he could endure a fall in Mr. Van Horn's good graces without breaking any bones; and, being now at his own gate and disinclined to hear further arguments, walked into the house and shut the door after him.

It is needless to add that the suit never was brought. Mr. Van Horn knew very well how it would end; and he had no notion of letting any of his partner's money be spent in useless litigation.

CHAPTER XIII.

MISCHIEF-MAKING.

THE breach was now complete between the two families.

Agnes avoided Letty entirely when they met in the street, and gave all her acquaintances to understand that she had been deeply injured by her cousin, who had attempted to defraud her of half her mother's property. A few people who did not know Letty believed the story. But others argued that Mr. Trescott would not probably be engaged in any disreputable matter,—and, further, remembered that Mrs. Emerson was never happy unless she had a grievance, and that, of the two, Caswell was far more likely to be in the right than Emerson.

In truth, the firm of Van Horn & Emerson was not growing in respectability. They were making money fast enough, no doubt,—at least they had the credit of so doing. Their establishment increased in splendour every year, and Mr. Van Horn had entered into partnership with some wealthy distillers; but, for all that, people looked somewhat askance upon them. It was well-known that the billiard-room of their splendid marble building was really their concern, though held in the name of another; and people said that billiards made the smallest part of the business carried on there.

Now, T—, though it was called a city, and boasted of a mayor and corporation, a court-house and a public library, and manufactured to the amount of some ten or twelve millions annually, was, after all, a primitive sort of place, where people went to church, as a matter of course, on Sundays and Wednesday evenings, kept regular hours, and looked upon respectability in general as a thing to be desired instead of ridiculed. People began to say openly that a great deal of mischief was growing out of frequent card-parties,—that young men began the evening with whist and wine at Mrs. Emerson's and Mrs. Van Horn's, and finished it with faro and brandy at the Alhambra,—which was true enough; and they said still harder things about traps and decoy-ducks,—which were somewhat unjust so far as Agnes was concerned, but of which she felt the effects nevertheless; and so it came to pass that Agnes did not find so much sympathy as she desired in her quarrel with her cousin.

Letty, for her part, regretted the breach for several reasons, but chiefly on account of Madge, who she feared would be sadly neglected now that her grandmother was gone. It was a comfort to know that Agnes continued to keep Mary, whose attachment to the child would probably preserve her from actual suffering. But her heart ached as she thought of the poor little girl alone, hour after hour, in her third story room, unable even to reach the window without help, and with no amusement but her books and her little dog.

She met Mary in the street one day, and eagerly inquired for Madge.

"Well, indeed, ma'am, 'tis not much I can say for her," replied Mary. "She does not improve at all, that I can see, and she is very lonely without the old lady. I stay with her all I can; but then I have my own work to do, and no small matter of it, now we have so much company. 'Deed, ma'am, and if I had a child like that, I'd not be leaving her to a girl. And she so fond of her mother, too, and watching every time she hears her come in, to see if she isn't coming up-stairs."

"But I suppose Mrs. Emerson does spend a good deal of time with Madge, after all?" said Letty, anxious to get at the truth, but not quite liking to question Mary.

"She can't be in two places at once," replied Mary. "She can't be making calls and shopping, and out every night or else having company at home, and be in the nursery at the same time. If she spends an hour a day with Madge, 'tis a wonder."

"And how does the poor child employ herself?" asked Letty.

"Oh, she reads a deal,—especially in the Bible; and you'll laugh, ma'am, when I tell you she has taught me to read. Not a word could I make out a year ago; and now I can read pretty well. And there's a young lady next door who comes to see her sometimes,—a Miss Cutler,—who has taught Madge to do crochet-work and embroidering; and that keeps her busy. She begs money of her father, and sends me out to buy wool, and so on, for her; and there she sits propped up in bed, and works away as though her life depended on it. She has made a beautiful sofa-cushion and a pair of footstools for the parlour, already. I think sometimes she works too much; but it is a great comfort to her,—poor child!"

"Does she ever speak of me?" asked Letty.

"Oh, yes, many a time, and wants to see you; but she don't dare say a word to her father or mother, they feel so against you and Mr. Caswell. Mr. Emerson told her never to speak your name. You never saw a body so changed as he is. He used to be such an easy-going kind of man, you know; and now he is dreadful violent when he gets into one of his tantrums. They have changed cooks a dozen times since we moved into that house; and I'd 'a' gone away many a time if it hadn't been for leaving that child."

"Don't go if you can help it, Mary," said Letty, earnestly. "Think how sad it would be for the poor child to be left to the care of strangers."

"True for you, ma'am. It is that which keeps me; for I could have got better places a dozen times; but I can't leave the child, as long as I can stand it to stay there."

Letty gave Mary a present, and sent a great many messages to Madge, which the girl promised to deliver. She had little hope of a reconciliation at present. She knew that Joe must feel very much ashamed of his attempt to make her give up her rights; and she was well aware how hard it is for most people to forgive those whom they have injured.

She did, however, make one more attempt to put an end to the quarrel. Hearing, through a mutual acquaintance, that Agnes was about to be confined, she worked the prettiest baby-blanket that wit could devise or hands crochet, and at the birth of her little boy, she sent it to Agnes with a kind note.

The parcel was carried up to Agnes, who opened it herself. Her eyes sparkled at the sight of such a beautiful piece of work; and, to do her justice, her heart was really touched by what she could not but feel to be the undeserved kindness of Letty's note and present.

"Well, really, I must say it was very pretty in Letty!" she said, displaying the blanket to Mrs. Van Horn, who was spending the morning with her. "I do think she really has the most forgiving temper in the world."

"It is easy for people who have no feeling to be forgiving," said Mrs. Van Horn.

"That is not the case with Letty, at any rate," returned Agnes. "She may not feel things as deeply as I do,—indeed, few people are like me in that respect,—but it is not right to say that she has no feeling. She has always been very kind to Madge."

"Oh, yes, because she could make use of her as a spy to find out what was going on in the family," said Mrs. Van Horn. "But I am surprised that you should talk of her being forgiving, Agnes. You don't mean to say, I suppose, that she was in the right all along, and that you and your husband were in the wrong?"

"No; of course not," replied Agnes. "But there were hard things said, and Joe treated her very improperly, that must be confessed: and, right or wrong, it shows a good spirit in her that she should be willing to make the first advances. And then the blanket is so very pretty!" she added, spreading it out. "I never, in all my life, saw any thing in more perfect taste. It is much prettier than the one Mrs. Booth had made in New York."

"Pretty or not, it is rather a pity that you should sacrifice your dignity to such a trifle," said Mrs. Van Horn; "and, I must say, you will do so most decidedly if you accept a present from such a source."

"I can take care of my own dignity, thank you," said Agnes, with some asperity.

"Oh, very well. I am sure I don't want to interfere,—only I don't think Mr. Emerson will be very well pleased with what you are doing."

"It is not absolutely necessary that Mr. Emerson should know all about my baby-things," said Agnes, considerably vexed, and determined to hold her own, as she said. "I don't want any one telling me how to behave to my husband."

"Oh, well, you mustn't excite yourself," said Mrs. Van Horn, soothingly: "that would be very bad both for you and the baby. I am sure it is very amiable in you to accept this present,—a very pretty one it is, to be sure,—and, as you say, Mr. Emerson need not know about it."

Nevertheless, Mrs. Van Horn was fully determined in her own mind that it should not be her fault if Mr. Emerson did not know all about the matter directly. Accordingly, she made an errand to the counting-room, as Joe called a little glass case with a private entrance at the back of the store.

"I have been spending the morning with your good wife, Mr. Emerson," she began "How nicely she is getting on! And what a splendid little fellow the baby is getting to be! He will look just like you: that is plain to be seen already."

"Yes; I flatter myself there is not a nicer boy of his age in town," replied Joe. "And how is Aggy? Do you think she is going on pretty well?"

"Oh, yes, indeed: I left her very happy over a present she had just received from her cousin,—the prettiest thing of the kind I ever saw!"

"From her cousin!" said Joe, with a darkening brow. "You don't mean to say that Mrs. Caswell has had the impudence to send her a present, and that she has been fool enough to accept it?"

Mrs. Van Horn shrugged her shoulders a little.

"Dear me! What a forgetful creature I am! I quite forgot that I was to say nothing about it. Dear Agnes is so placable and so forgiving: she thought she would accept the present and say nothing to you. And here I have let the cat out of the bag the very first thing: you see I am so unused to having secrets. But, pray, Mr. Emerson, don't tell Agnes that I betrayed her. It certainly is a beautiful present, and must have been very expensive,—rather too much so for Mrs. Caswell's means, I should say; but, then, I presume, she thought she could afford to stretch a point for the sake of gaining her ends."

"She will find that she has not gained her ends this time," said Joe, angrily.

"Oh, I don't know. She always had a great knack of gaining an influence over people. She has always regularly hoodwinked Mrs. Trescott, and even Mrs. Campion, who fancies herself so shrewd; and she can turn poor, dear Madge round her finger, you know. But, pray, Mr. Emerson, don't betray me!" Then she said to her husband, after Joe was out of hearing, "I flatter myself that was rather well done."

"Yes, it was; and it will never do to let Emerson come under Caswell's influence just now. He is restive as it is; was talking this very morning about conscience and honour and all that, because I wanted him to bring young Haskins to our house to-night; but soon brought him to terms. He is the easiest person in the world to manage, if you only go to work right."

Joe's previous dispute with his partner had no tendency to make him more amiable. He went directly up to Agnes's room and demanded at once to see that rag Mrs. Caswell had had the impudence to send her, and asked her how she dared receive a present from that woman. Agnes prevaricated and cried, and finally went into hysterics; but Joe was inexorable. With his own hands, he wrapped up the blanket in a newspaper and sent it back to Mrs. Caswell with an insulting message,—which, however, the man had the discretion not to deliver.

On returning to his wife's room, he found he had done no little mischief. Agnes was in hysterical convulsions, and the nurse was frantically sending all the people in the house after the doctor, and declaring that Mr. Emerson had murdered his wife and his child too.

The doctor looked very grave when he came, turned Joe at once out of his wife's room, and stayed so long that he began to be thoroughly scared and to wish he had let the matter alone. The most profound quiet was enjoined, the doctor declaring that he would not answer for the consequences of another attack.

It was several days before Joe was allowed to enter his wife's room; and when he did so, he brought with him a peace-offering,—a silver cup for the baby and an Indian shawl for Agnes, the object of her lifelong ambition: so that he was received again into favour.

Agnes had a pretty sharp quarrel with Mrs. Van Horn upon the occasion; and, though a peace was finally patched up by their husbands, they were never so intimate afterwards.

There was some excuse for Joe's irritable temper. He was, in fact, a very unhappy man; and he was growing more and more so every day. He was, as John Caswell said, a man of good impulses and of a kind and amiable disposition. He could not shut his eyes to the difference between right and wrong. He knew that his business was an injurious one; that it was doing great harm in the community,—even the open and avowed part of it, and much more that branch which was concealed. He knew that his fine house and his good-looking wife and his pleasant little suppers were used by Van Horn as "pits to catch vain-glorious fools withal," as John Bunyan says; to attract that prey which furnished the best part of their profits. His pride, as well as his better feeling, revolted against such a use; and he and his partner had had more than one dispute, in which he was always conquered by Mr. Van Horn's superior coolness.

That very morning there had been a sharp altercation between them on the subject of young Haskins, the only son of Joe's former employer at the chemical works,—a somewhat weak-minded young man, too well supplied with money, but quite deficient in brains. George Haskins had just come from college, where he had been rather "fast," and where he had acquired a decided taste for wine and cards.

Mr. Van Horn insisted that Joe should renew his acquaintance with this lad, and bring him to one of Mrs. Van Horn's card-parties. Joe resisted, well knowing how the matter would end, and feeling bound by former kindness received from the elder Mr. Haskins. He resisted, and was conquered as usual; and very mean did he appear in his own eyes, as he did the bidding of his partner and called upon the poor victim to invite him to his house,—so mean that an extra glass of brandy was required to quiet the twinges of conscience and restore him to the place he desired to hold in his own esteem. These extra glasses were becoming every-day matters with Joe; and Van Horn had more than once cautioned him that he was drinking too much.

"You will get the horrors some day, if you are not careful. You will by-and-by think you can't do without it, and then you will go to the dogs."

"I went to the dogs when I first went into this business," said Joe, with an oath. "I wish the whole concern had been sunk before I ever saw it! There is poor little Mrs. Hazel turned out of her boarding-place this morning,—so Williams tells me. All her pretty things and bridal presents kept by the landlord to pay for their board."

"That is a pity; but such things will happen," replied Mr. Van Horn, coolly. "Hazel has no moderation. I suppose he lost every cent of his pay, and more besides, the last time he was here. He had a run of bad luck; but he would keep on playing till he was cleaned out."

"Yes, and we got it all; and there is that poor little woman left without a home."

"She can go to her father's," said Mr. Van Horn. "The old man is rich enough. However, it is none of our business, that I know of. But I tell you it will be your business—and a bad business, too—if you don't let that brandy alone."

But Joe could not let the brandy alone. It had already become necessary to him. Every morning he awoke with a throbbing head and a heavy heart, loathing the day's work before him, loathing himself for submitting to it, feeling himself disgraced in his own eyes and condemned before God. For, however much he might wish it, Joe had never been able to make himself an unbeliever. He might laugh as he pleased at Parson Williams's fire-and-brimstone stories (as he called them) and Dr. Woodman's pious speeches; but in his heart of hearts he knew the future they spoke of was an awful reality, to which every day brought him nearer. Van Horn, while he professed great respect for religious observances, and attended public worship once every Sunday, really succeeded in putting the matter entirely out of his thoughts and acting as if there was no God.

Joe, though he never went to church, and professed himself an utter skeptic, lived in constant dread of that unseen Being whose existence he all-but denied, and whose interference in the affairs of men he treated as a ridiculous fable. Every morning he awoke with a load upon his mind and conscience which made him wretched and morose; and it was not till he had taken his glass of spirits—conveniently disguised with aromatics, and going under the name of somebody's "bitters"—that he was at all easy or comfortable.

Agnes herself was almost afraid to speak to him till he had taken his morning dram. She was, as we know, neither very wise nor very clear-sighted; but even she began to be seriously uneasy, as she watched the growth of her husband's evil habit, and perceived that he was falling into the snare that he had been so long setting for others. She even ventured to speak to him about the matter, but was met with such a torrent of abuse and reproach that she never ventured to repeat the experiment.

"If I ever am a drunkard, it is you who will have made me so," were Joe's concluding words. "You would not let me alone till you dragged me into this business; and now you may take the consequences."

Her infant, who was really a beautiful boy, had waked up something of the mother in her heart. Madge had never been a favourite with her mother. She knew that she had not done her duty by the child, whose helpless condition was a perpetual reproach; and she disliked her accordingly. It annoyed her when people asked for Madge; and she would never allow her to be seen, if she could help it. While little Herbert was produced for admiration on every occasion, and all the money his mother could procure was lavished upon his dress and equipage, poor Madge seldom stirred from her room on the third floor, except when kind-hearted Mary carried her down into the back veranda, for a little air, while her mother was out shopping or visiting.

But Madge had found a friend in Fanny Cutler, who lived next door and took a warm interest in the poor, lonely little sufferer, from the first day that she made her acquaintance over the back fence. The Cutlers were by far the richest and most fashionable people in the neighbourhood, and Agnes did not care to offend them: so Fanny was allowed free access to the nursery, as Madge's room continued to be called.

Fanny was a kind-hearted, sensible girl, who had been well brought up by a painstaking mother. She understood all sorts of needlework, plain and ornamental; and she taught Madge the use of needles and knitting-pins, with which the poor child beguiled many a weary hour. Fanny had lately become interested in a sewing-school established by the directresses of the "Home;" and Madge was never weary of hearing of the sayings and doings of the children.

"How I wish I could do something for the poor little things!" said she, one day. "I would not so much mind being sick, if I could only do any thing to help other people."

"Suppose we let Madge prepare the patchwork," said Mrs. Cutler, when her daughter repeated Madge's remark. "You can soon show her how. It will be easy work for her, and will really take a great deal off our hands, while at the same time it will afford her the pleasure of making herself truly useful."

Badge was delighted with the idea, and soon learned to fit and baste the pieces with required accuracy. A great deal of patchwork was needed; for the school was large and contained many new beginners.

It happened one day that Madge received the now rare pleasure of a morning visit from her father. She was surrounded by piles of pieces of all sorts and qualities, and had no time to put them away.

"And what is all this for?" asked Joseph. "Have you grown tired of your worsted-work and taken to piecing bed-quilts?"

"It is for the sewing-school," replied Madge, not without fear and trembling; for she was never certain of her father's mood. "Mrs. Cutler and Fanny have classes, and I am basting the patchwork for them. The children are all very poor, and have no work of their own, you know," she continued, timidly watching her father's face as she spoke; "and it is so nice to feel that I am helping somebody."

"Poor child!" said her father, abruptly. "I wonder where you got your disposition?"

"You don't mind: do you, father?" asked Madge.

"Mind! No, child! Any thing to amuse you. You may have this to buy something for your poor children," said he, throwing a ten-dollar note into her hands. "Better it should go that way than in buying things to—" He did not finish his sentence.

Opposite Neighbours.
"Poor child! I wonder where you got your disposition?"

"There! I have at least done one good thing to-day," he said, as he descended the stairs.

Agnes grudged every penny bestowed upon Madge, regarding it as so much taken from Herbert, who, she declared, had hardly decent clothes to wear. If Madge was so fond of sewing, she might work for her little brother. She was sure embroidering and braiding his dresses and petticoats was prettier work, and ought to be much more agreeable to her sisterly feelings, than sewing for a parcel of children who were no-way related to her.

And, besides, Agnes had a special spite towards the Home because Letty was one of the managers. Madge's charitable labours would have come to an untimely end but for her father's interference. He declared the child should work at what she liked and for whom she liked.

CHAPTER XIV.

A REMOVAL.

JOHN CASWELL'S business was by this time greatly extended, and he began to be favourably known outside of his native city. The Sisters' Hospital, the new wing of the Old Ladies' Home, and the new High-School building, were all models in their way; and people who were planning similar structures came from a distance to see them.

Beginning life as a simple carpenter's apprentice, John had put his whole heart and soul into his business, and never lost an opportunity of acquiring knowledge upon subjects connected with it. By the time he was out of his apprenticeship, he had accumulated quite a little library of books upon architecture, and some very rare and valuable illustrated works.

John was known as an architect of taste and science, as well as an honest and reliable builder; and so it came to pass that he was offered the contract for certain costly public buildings in a flourishing Western city, which would keep him busy for at least a year.

A good many things inclined John to accept the offer. Business was rather dull in T— just at that time; he was not unwilling to travel and see a little more of the world; he had an opportunity of renting his place advantageously to a careful tenant; and he believed the change would be good for Letty, who had never been quite strong since the death of her little boy.

Accordingly, the furniture was safely stored, and the books were left in care of Mrs. De Witt and Gatty, who also took charge of Ginger. He was now a veteran among cats, and growing very infirm; but Letty would almost as soon have thought of parting with a child as of having Ginger put out of the way. He had been little Alick's first and favourite playfellow, and was a memento of the last visit of Aunt Eunice; and Gatty promised that he should never want for meat so long as she had any herself. The new tenants—a middle-aged clergyman and his wife, without children—promised to take care of the garden; and the lady assumed the charge of Letty's poor-district and Sunday-school class.

Letty would gladly have gone to see poor Madge, to bid her good-by; but she knew it would be vain to attempt such a thing, and contented herself with sending her, through Fanny Cutler, a great many loving messages, and a calico frock to be converted into patchwork.

Letty found herself very pleasantly situated in her new home. She had letters to some friends of the Campions, who were cultivated people and interested in all sorts of charities; and she soon found herself engaged much as she had been before, in visiting the sick poor and teaching a class in a large mission-school. Her health improved by the change; and her little girl grew stout and rosy every day.

Gatty proved an excellent correspondent, giving all the news of the town and neighbourhood, the Home and the church.

And Letty was not sorry when John asked her if she would be willing to remain another year.

"It would be an advantage to me in every way," said he. "I should not only have my jobs here, but I should be able to take a large contract in M—, where they want me to build a church and some school buildings. Dr. Marvin will be glad to keep the house, and the furniture is as safe as possible."

"Oh, I am quite satisfied," replied Letty. "I don't know but I feel as much at home here as though I had lived here all my life. The only thing that I miss is my house and garden. I must confess I am growing tired of boarding."

"I have been thinking about that," replied John; "and I have been making some inquiries. I find we can rent a furnished house in the suburbs, where there is a nice old garden, at a very reasonable rate. It is an old-fashioned place both in fittings and furnishing; but it is roomy and sufficiently convenient."

"I should not mind the fashion, if it is only comfortable and pleasantly situated," remarked Letty. "I have rather a fondness for old-fashioned houses."

"Let us go and see it," said John.

It proved to be a large brick house, with upper and lower verandas, commanding a fine view and possessing a spacious garden overrun with vines and large old shrubbery and filled with all sorts of flowers, both rare and common. Letty fell in love with it at once.

"This is charming!" said she. "How I shall enjoy putting the garden in order! There is every thing here, and nothing is needed but to reduce it to some kind of system."

"You will hardly care to do much to a rented place," remarked the next door neighbour, who had charge of the keys. "One cannot take much interest in a garden which one expects soon to leave."

"As to that, we are all tenants at will," said John. "If the place were my own, I should have no assurance of keeping it a single week."

"True," said Letty, thoughtfully; "and yet one does feel differently about a place of one's own. It is pleasant to think that we can leave the work of our hands to our children."

"And how many people in this country do so?" asked John. "Our improvements will go to somebody's children, if not to our own; and, meanwhile, we have the pleasure of seeing them."

The house was taken; and Letty, rejoiced to find herself once more with a house and garden of her own, set herself to work in earnest to remedy, by all sorts of contrivances, the deficiencies of the furniture, and to weed and put in order the neglected flower-beds. The place soon assumed a pleasant, cheerful aspect; and here Letty's third child was born,—a fine, stout boy.

It was when the new-comer was two or three months old that John one day brought in a paper directed in Gatty's handwriting.

"There must be something special in it," said Letty. "Look and see if there is any place marked."

John looked, and uttered an exclamation of horror as the paragraph met his eye. Letty read over his shoulder:—

"FRIGHTFUL ACCIDENT AND LOSS OF LIFE.—We are grieved to announce the death of the infant son of our well-known townsman, Mr. Joseph Emerson. It appears that Mr. and Mrs. Emerson had been out late at a party, and on coming home went, as usual, to the nursery to see their boy. They were horror-struck at seeing the room full of smoke, and, rushing to the crib, found their little one almost reduced to a cinder. Terribly injured as he was, the child survived several hours. There was a small open fire in the room; and it is supposed that during the momentary absence of the nurse a spark must have fallen into the crib."

Letty sat down, too much shocked to speak.

"What a frightful accident!" said John. "But does it not seem very strange that the child's clothes should have been set on fire that way?"

"I do not believe that is the true story," said Letty. "There has been some horrible carelessness, you may depend upon it. Poor Agnes! What will become of her?—She was so bound up in that boy. Mrs. Cutler told me she hardly ever saw a child so idolized."

"Perhaps her heart may be turned towards poor Madge," remarked John. "I am afraid, from all I hear, that she has a great deal of trouble before her. I met Mr. Williams on the cars the other day, and he told me that Van Horn's establishment is gaining a very bad character, and that they are hardly considered respectable. He says Joe lives very hard."

"I believe I will write to Agnes," said Letty, after some further conversation. "It can, at any rate, do no harm; and her heart may be softened by her troubles. Oh, if she might only be led to the true source of consolation!"

Letty wrote accordingly; but she received no answer, and remained in doubt whether Agnes ever received her letter. She heard indirectly that they were increasing their expenses and making more and more show in dress and equipage, and that Mrs. Cutler had removed from the neighbourhood,—a circumstance which she very much regretted, on account of poor Madge. Of Madge herself she could learn nothing whatever.

At the end of two years, John decided to sell out all his property in T— and remove permanently to his Western home. It was not without some pangs that Letty made up her mind to this step. Her affections had taken very deep root in the little place in Myrtle Street, where her married life began and where her Alick was born and died; but she saw that her husband's heart was set upon it, and she could not but own that it was best. She was obliged to admit that her own health was improved by the change to a milder climate; the children were very well, and she had now no special ties to their old home.

So it was finally decided that they should return to T— for two or three months, to settle to their affairs, sell the place and superintend the packing and removal of the furniture. And, as Dr. and Mrs. Marvin were going away for a few weeks, they took up their quarters in their own house for that length of time.

Letty could not but admit that the house seemed very small and confined, and the garden very little, after the place to which she had been lately accustomed. And, though she refused to confess as much to John, she was obliged to own to herself that she should be very glad to find herself back again.

It chanced, one day shortly after her arrival, that she went with little Eunice—or Una, as she was called—into Williams's grand restaurant of the little city of T—. She noticed a lady standing at the counter as she entered, but did not observe her particularly.

As she paused at the counter and ordered some ice-cream and sponge-cake for herself and Una, the stranger turned quickly round. She was dressed in the height of the fashion; but her countenance was careworn and haggard, and her complexion was of a dead, livid paleness.

After a few moments' apparent hesitation, the stranger spoke to her.

Letty started and turned round. The voice was surely familiar.

"Agnes! Is it possible this can be you?"

"Even so," replied Agnes, returning the greeting with some appearance of affection. "I thought you did not mean to speak to me, Letty."

"I did not know you," said Letty, "you are so thin and pale. Are you ill?"

"I am as usual, thank you," said Agnes. "I know I am very much altered, but I did not think of your not recognizing me. I could hardly expect you to speak to me, after all that has passed."

"Let by-gones be by-gones," said Letty. "I am very glad to have met you. I have asked about you several times, but could hear nothing. How is Madge?"

"She is about the same. There is very little change in her, that I can see," replied Agnes, in an indifferent tone. "She has been at Dr. Woodman's establishment for the last year, and seems very happy there. You know he has bought the old Bingham place and set up a sort of private hospital."

"Yes; so I heard. I am very glad Madge is under his care, as I have the greatest faith in his skill."

"Is that your little girl? A fine child: isn't she?"

"She is very healthy," said Letty. "She has never known a day's illness in her life. Una, this is the mother of Cousin Madge, of whom I have so often told you."

"You have another child, have you not?" she asked, after another interval of silence.

"Yes; a fine little fellow, over a year old."

"I suppose you heard how I lost my boy?" said Agnes.

"Yes; Gatty De Witt sent us a paper containing the account. I wrote to you as soon as I heard of it."

"I never received the letter," said Agnes. "I had a feeling that you would write if you heard; though I hardly know what reason I had to expect it."

"It was a terrible accident, and seemed a very mysterious one," said Letty, thinking she saw a desire on the part of Agnes to continue the conversation. "Did you have a wood-fire in the nursery?"

"There was no fire of any kind," said Agnes, abruptly. She paused, looked around, and then drew close to Letty. "Letty, that child was murdered!—Murdered by his own father!"

"Agnes! What do you mean?" said Letty. "You don't know what you are saying!"

"It is true!" said Agnes. "Just as I say. We came home late, and Joseph was half drunk, as usual. I was detained down-stairs, looking for a ring; which I drew off with my glove. He went straight to the nursery, lighted a cigar at the lamp, and threw the burning paper into the baby's cradle. It was a warm night; the child was covered only with a cotton spread, and the mosquito-bars were partly down. I caught a sight of the blaze from the stairs; but before I could get to him, the whole crib was a sheet of flame;—it was too late! He recognized my voice, and stretched out his arms to me. He lived six hours afterwards; but they gave him chloroform, and he never knew me again!"

Letty did not know what to say. Agnes spoke rationally,—too rationally for her to doubt the truth of the narrative, even if it had not been in itself quite probable. Nothing astonished her more than the change in Agnes herself. There was nothing of the old fretful excitability and emphatic manner of talking even about trifles. She spoke in a low, dull tone, almost as if she were talking in her sleep.

"Joseph told his own story," she continued, "and I was too much occupied with the child to contradict him, even if it had been worth while. He is very much changed,—more than I am. He is mad with brandy half the time. Even Madge had lost her influence with him, and he was glad to get her out of the house."

"Poor Madge!" said Letty.

"Oh, she is happy enough," returned Agnes, indifferently. "She had no love for her home, and they take very good care of her. It seemed cruel that she should be spared, while my noble, healthy boy was destroyed. If she had been the one—"

"Oh, Agnes, don't say so!" interrupted Letty. "Madge is your own child, your first-born, and has a double claim upon your affection in her helplessness. She might be a great comfort to you, if you will only feel it so."

"Perhaps so," said Agnes; "but I am past all feeling. I think I should like to see your boy, Letty."

"Why will you not come home and spend the day with me, Agnes?" asked Letty. "You need see no one,—not even John, if you do not wish it."

"I cannot go to-day; though I should like it," said Agnes. "But Joseph is going to New York to-night, to be away some days, and I may come while he is gone,—that is, if you care to have me."

"What has become of Mrs. Van Horn?" asked Letty.

"I never see her," replied Agnes. "We quarrelled long ago, and we do not speak when we meet. You were quite right in your estimation of those people, Letty. It was an evil day for us when we first saw them."

"So I rather supposed; but we will let that go with the rest, Agnes. There is no use in recalling old grievances. I wish I could see you looking better. I am sure you must be suffering. Do you have that cough all the time?"

"Whenever I am tired, or take a little cold. But good-by! I have stayed too long here."

CHAPTER XV.

AGNES.

IT was with a sad heart that Letty returned to her home.

The more she thought of the story she had heard, the more probable it appeared. But the change in Agnes herself was what weighed most painfully upon her; and the more she reflected, the more she was struck with the alteration. It hardly seemed possible that the pale, emaciated phantom she had seen could be the blooming creature she once knew. Then Agnes had always been so hasty, so eager, so excitable upon the smallest occasions. Now she seemed, as she herself had said, almost without feeling: whether she talked of her child's tragical death, her altered position in society, or the change in her husband, all was spoken in the same dull, even tone and with the same look of utter apathy. It almost seemed to her that the real Agnes who used to live in Number Ten was dead, and that this was some strange spirit which had assumed her form.

When John came home to dinner, Letty told him the story of her meeting with her cousin.

John looked a good deal disturbed.

"I suppose it cannot be helped," said he; "but I almost wish you had not encountered her. People tell terrible stories about them. No one visits them but the most dissipated set in town; and the establishment in Gay Street is becoming infamous. I am very sorry for Agnes, however."

"You could not help pitying her if you should see her," said Letty. "I never saw such a change in any one in my life. I had not the least idea who she was, till she spoke to me; and the alteration in her manner is as great as that in her face. It seems as though she had lost all hope or interest in life."

"Did she say any thing about Madge?" asked John.

"Only that she was at Dr. Woodman's, and quite happy. I can imagine that she finds the change a pleasant one from her lonely, neglected state at home. Agnes seemed to think there was no improvement in her health, and that none was to be looked for; but she spoke in the same indifferent tone of Madge as of every thing else."

"Well," said John, "they are our own relations, after all, and we cannot help it; and I am sure I shall be glad to do any thing I can to help Agnes."

The next day Letty stayed at home, expecting her cousin; but Agnes did not make her appearance.

About one o'clock a carriage came to the door, and the driver gave Letty a note. Agnes was too unwell to venture out, but would be very glad to have Letty come and see her, and had sent the carriage for that purpose.

John demurred a little at letting her go, but yielded at last to her earnest desire; and Letty was taken to her cousin's house at the South End.

The door was opened to her by a smart coloured waiter, who showed her at once to her cousin's room, saying that Mrs. Emerson had not been down-stairs that day.

Letty, glancing into the parlours in passing, saw that the rooms were furnished in the height of the fashion, and apparently in the most expensive manner possible; but the furniture was all in confusion, and a slatternly-looking housemaid was just beginning to put it in order.

Letty found Agnes lying on a couch in her own room, which was as lavishly decorated as the rest of the house.

"It was very good in you to come and see me," said Agnes. "I hardly expected it when I sent for you. I did not believe John would let you come. Now take off your bonnet, that I may see how you look."

Letty complied, and sat down by her cousin's couch.

Agnes regarded her earnestly.

"You are very little altered," said she. "You look as if you had been very happy."

"I have," replied Letty. "God has been very good to me."

"Those very words show that you are not altered," said Agnes. "You are just as religious as ever."

"More so every day, I hope," said Letty, earnestly. "The things belonging to God and heaven become more and more realities to me the longer I live and the more I see of the world."

"Joseph said you would get over all that when you moved West and went into society and into business," remarked Agnes. "He said John would not find the pious dodge—as he called it—answer with Western folks; but I think it seems to have answered pretty well with both of you."

"If it had been only a dodge, as you say, it would not have answered either there or here. John's religion is no mere question of expediency: it is a part of himself."

"I believe you speak the truth, Letty, far as you and John are concerned; but a great deal of religion does seem to me as much a matter of fashion as the clothes that people wear. I have often wished I had been differently brought up in these matters, even if it is all a delusion. Not that I think it all a delusion," she added. "I believe in a God; but I believe he is a very different God from yours. However, we won't enter into a theological discussion: the subject is not a pleasant one to me. Madge will talk to you about it by the hour together. She is more religious than ever since she fell into Dr. Woodman's hands. I sometimes think she is a little wild upon the subject; but it is, at any rate, a more amiable derangement than some others. But you have had no luncheon, Letty. If you will be so kind as to ring the bell, they will send up something."

Letty complied, wondering and grieving more and more over the change in her cousin.

Agnes was dressed in a plain white wrapper, which showed still more plainly her extreme thinness. Her hair, which was combed carelessly back from her face, showed many white threads; her cheeks and temples were sunken and wrinkled, and the skin seemed to hang loosely on the bones; while cheeks and lips were alike destitute of colour. She spoke in a hollow, forced tone, as though every word cost her an effort; and in her appearance, as in all she said and did, there was an indescribable expression of real heart-suffering.

The luncheon was served with great elegance upon a silver tray, with abundance of the most beautiful glass and china. The waiter brought Agnes a glass of ale, into which she dropped some medicine from a bottle which stood upon her dressing-table.

"Do you take medicine all the time?" asked Letty, when the waiter was gone.

"Yes," replied Agnes, drinking her ale: "it is all that keeps me alive."

Letty took up the bottle.

Agnes made a movement as if to prevent her; but she had already read the label.

"Black drop!" she exclaimed. "Surely, Agnes, you do not take this every day, and in such doses?"

"Two or three times a day," said Agnes. "It is a bad habit, perhaps; but there is no help for it now. I must keep up, at any price."

"But you will not keep up long, at that rate," said Letty. "You are killing yourself as fast as you can."

"Well, I suppose I am; but what can I do? I must keep up, as I said; and it is the only thing which gives me any ease. Don't talk of it now, Letty: it is of no use. You cannot judge for me, any more than I can for you."

"This is just such a room as you used to plan for yourself when we were little girls together, Agnes," said Letty, looking around her. "Do you remember how we used to sit under the trees in our back-yard, and talk about what we would have when we grew up? I recollect your saying that you would have plenty of pretty little bottles with sweet things in them, and a bed with worked-muslin curtains lined with pink. It is not often that a castle in the air is so literally built."

"Yes; I have been filled with the fruit of my own desires," said Agnes. "'He has given me my heart's desire, and sent leanness withal into my soul.' I have learned several things since then:—among others, the fact that beds with worked curtains are just as disagreeable to lie awake in, as beds with patchwork coverlets, and that something more is necessary to one's happiness than the mere having no sewing to do,—which I remember used to be your idea of perfect felicity."

"What do you do, Agnes?" asked Letty, anxious to get at some particulars of her cousin's life. "How do you employ your time?"

"Oh, one day is very much like another. We rise late to a late breakfast, and I go out and do shopping, or order things for dinner and supper, as the case may be, or make some calls; though my calling acquaintance has grown very small since you went away. Joseph never comes home till dinner, and not always then unless we have company; and I take a nap in the afternoon, whenever the pain in my chest will let me sleep. We always have company in the evening, and then Joe expects me to entertain them. You would be surprised, Letty, to see how well I look when I am up for the evening."

"But what company do you have?"

"No one that you would care about meeting," said Agnes, with a strange laugh. "They are men and women who come to play cards and eat game-suppers and drink wine and brandy punch,—women whom your friend Mrs. Trescott would not admit within her doors or see in the street, but who are very merry and jolly nevertheless.

"I wish you could see my husband when the people are gone and he has lost money, or has not won quite as much as he expected. Would you like a specimen of his language at such times? Look here!" Agnes turned back her loose sleeve as she spoke, and showed her arm, black and bruised from the shoulder to the elbow. "That is his parting gift to me," she said. "I expect he will kill me, some time. What do you say? Will you change places with me?"

"God forbid!" said Letty, shuddering. "But I always thought Joseph was kind-hearted and fond of you, whatever else he might be."

"So he was," said Agnes: "I will do him that justice, at least. He was naturally amiable and easily influenced; and if I had been any thing else than the fool I was, I might have done any thing with him. But it is too late now. Brandy and remorse together have made a devil of him. I dare not cross him in the least, and do not know when to fear him most,—at night, when he is drunk, or in the morning, when he is sober.

"Add to all this that I suffer night and day with the tortures of a growing cancer, and that, sleeping or waking, the image of my murdered child is never out of my mind for ten minutes at a time, and then wonder, if you can, that I take opium."

"But how is all this to end, Agnes?" said Letty, finding her voice at last. "This cannot go on forever."

"Not exactly in the same shape, perhaps," replied Agnes. "I don't suppose there will be any opium or brandy THERE," she added, with a fearful smile and a tone which was almost too much for Letty's firmness. "My children will at least be happy, though I shall never see them:—that is my only comfort. Madge's infirmity has kept her out of the way of contamination, and my baby was an angel even in this life. I only wonder how such a child ever came to be given to a creature like me."

"He was sent to lead you back to God," said Letty, with tears. "Oh, Agnes, don't reject God's mercy. Your treasure has been taken to heaven, as you say; let your heart go there also. Repent and turn to God, and he will have mercy upon you. Oh, believe me, he will!"

"It's too late," said Agnes.

"No! No! It is never too late,—never in this life. Agnes, all may yet be well."

"I tell you it can never be well," said Agnes. "My life has been all one sin, one steady rebellion against God, from beginning to end. I have destroyed myself and my husband. I have murdered one child, and all-but murdered the other. I have hardened my heart against all the reproofs and warnings I have had, till my conscience is dead,—dead, and I cannot even feel. It's too late!"

"Agnes, it is never too late while life lasts," said Letty. "I do not deny that you have been a great sinner; but that does not shut you out of the hope of God's mercy. The blood of Jesus cleanseth from all sin. He died for such as you,—for you; and he now lives in heaven to intercede for you. Christ will save you, if you will but consent to be saved. He gave his only Son to die for you."

Agnes looked at her for a moment, and then burst into a passionate fit of tears and sobs.

Letty rose in some alarm; but Agnes put out her hand to detain her.

"Don't," said she. "Let me cry! Oh, it is such a blessed relief!"

Letty knelt on the floor beside her cousin's couch, speaking all the tender and endearing words she could think of, repeating promises of Scripture and broken sentences of prayers, while Agnes wept on as though her tears would never cease.

"Oh, it is such a comfort to cry!" said she, at last. "Do you know, Letty, I have hardly shed one tear since my baby died! My tears seemed all turned to fire."

"How you have suffered!" said Letty. "But, Agnes, the worst may be over now, if you will. Do but turn to God and cast your heavy burden on him. He will not reject you. He will sustain and comfort you."

"I cannot believe it," said Agnes; "and yet, when I see you here by me, Letty, and remember how you were treated the last time you were in this house, it does not seem so very incredible. But don't deceive me with vain hopes, Letty."

"I would not do so for the world," said Letty, earnestly. "I do not give you one promise or invitation that is not in the Bible. But, as truly as I know that you are alive, I know that God is ready and willing to receive you, if you are willing and repent. You need not be in this despair one moment longer. Only pray for yourself; only ask him, from the bottom of your heart, to have mercy on you and receive you through Jesus Christ,—and then believe."

"How could I break off my present life?" asked Agnes.

"God will open a way for you," replied Letty. "He will make your path plain before your face, even though it be beset with thorns and briers. Oh, Agnes, don't grieve the Holy Spirit by rejecting him again! Don't harden your heart, Agnes! Think of your child in heaven, and of your mother—"

"Hush, Letty!" exclaimed Agnes. "You bring my sins to remembrance when you talk of mother. I was a wicked and undutiful child. I believe she might have lived till this time if she had had decent care; but I let her work herself to death for me, and disregarded her complaints. Oh, it can never be that such a creature as I can be forgiven! It is only mocking God to ask it,—only adding awful presumption to my other sins!"

"It would indeed be awful presumption in any of us to come to God as we do, if he had not expressly invited us,—if he did not call us individually to come," said Letty; "but, since he does, the presumption is in doubting his word and refusing to believe his promises."

"It may be so," said Agnes.

"Try him," said Letty, with animation. "Only take him at his word, and see. Ask him to give you repentance and his Holy Spirit."

"But, if I should ask him, how shall I know that I have an answer?"

"Because he has said he will answer," replied Letty. "Just believe his plain words in the Bible, without waiting for any special sign. Try him, and see. Promise me, Agnes, that you will."

"Ask him for me, Letty," said Agnes, in a low tone. "I can believe that he will hear you."

Letty knelt by her cousin's side and poured out her whole heart in prayer for the poor wanderer—that she might be led back to the Father's house whence she had strayed; that the eyes of her understanding might be opened to see, and her heart to receive, the Son of God crucified for her; that she might have true repentance and faith to accept the mercy which is so freely promised.

Agnes wept, and answered with an earnest "Amen."

When Letty rose after an interval of silent supplication, she could not but think that the expression of her cousin's face was changed and softened. It might be the mere physical relief of weeping.

Presently a carriage stopped, and a ring was heard at the door.

Agnes started nervously.

"I cannot see any one," said she, hurriedly. "Tell Prince not to let any one in."

"It is nobody but John," said Letty, peeping through the blind. "He promised to call for me at four, and take me up to Mount Faith. I wish you were able to go."

"I wish I were; but it would not do," replied Agnes. "Do you know, Letty, I have never seen my child's grave since he was buried? I could not bear it. It seemed like looking at the wall which separated us forever."

"But you will not look at it any more in that way," said Letty. "Think of it now as a closed door, which indeed divides you for a time, but which will open to let you in to the same peace and glory which he is enjoying."

"If I could but think it possible!" said Agnes. "I believe I could endure any thing if I had but the hope of seeing my child once more. But I cannot believe that such a sinner as I am can turn round and be good all at once. I have always laughed at sudden conversions."

"That is because you confound two separate things," said Letty. "You cannot be good all at once; but you can turn round all at once. Suppose a man, walking over a prairie on a cloudy day, loses his way and among sloughs and quagmires: presently the sun comes out and shows him that he is going exactly in the wrong direction. It may take him a long time to get out of the quagmire upon firm ground and to retrace the steps he has taken amiss; but the turning round is the work of a moment."

"That sounds like one of Dr. Woodman's Sunday-school illustrations," said Agnes.

"It may be so," replied Letty, smiling. "I have been indebted to him for so many ideas, that it is not strange if I do not always know which are his and which are my own. Have you consulted him about the pain in your chest, Agnes?"

"No: I have never consulted any one,—partly, I believe, from a dread of hearing the truth, and partly because I had no particular desire to get well. I have little doubt myself of the true state of the case."

"I think, however, you should have advice," said Letty. "You may be making matters worse than they are. At all events, you might have something for that cough. Let me send Dr. Woodman up to see you: we can easily drive out there from Mount Faith."

"Not to-day," said Agnes. "I want to be quiet, and think. But, Letty, if you will do one thing for me,—stop somewhere down-town and send me up a Bible or Testament. I am ashamed to say I do not know where to put my hand upon one. Let it be in large print; for my eyes are very weak. God bless you for coming to see me! Joseph will not be at home till the last of next week, and I shall be quite alone. Do come again."

"I will come, to be sure," said Letty. "But, Agnes, don't depend upon me. Go to God! Oh, I feel as if so much depended on the present hour! Pray don't put this subject away till you have settled it once for all. Oh, Agnes, don't forget that there is such a thing as being too late!"

"I will not, Letty. I feel myself as though this were the turning-point. I have tried hard to make myself an unbeliever; but the old Sunday-school and Bible-class lessons would stick to me in spite of myself. After my child died, however, I did not try any longer. I could not bear to think that he had ceased to exist,—that there was no longer any Herbert. I liked to think of him as happy in heaven, even though I should never see him there."

"But you will see him there," said Letty. "You may make that sure this hour,—this moment,—if you will. You have only to accept of God's mercy in Jesus Christ, give yourself to him, and believe, on the authority of his word, that he accepts you, and all will be well. Why should you delay? It is not as if you wanted to be convinced of the truth of these things: you believe them already. Why not make them yours?"

"Mr. Caswell is waiting, ma'am," said Prince, opening the door.

"I forgot to ask you about Mary," said Letty.

"She is at Dr. Woodman's," replied Agnes. "She went with Madge; and I understand they make her very useful. Poor Madge! She is another monument of my insane folly. Do you remember how I blamed you for her misfortune?"

"That is another of the by-gones. And now I must be a by-gone myself, and not try the patience of my much-enduring husband one moment longer."

CHAPTER XVI.

MRS. VAN HORN AGAIN.

LETTY did not fail to do Agnes's errand, sending her a Testament and Psalms in large print and in soft light binding, which would be easy for her to read while lying down. She repeated to John her conversation with her cousin, concluding with,—

"Now, are you not glad that I went?"

"I am indeed," said John. "It shows that one ought never to be weary in well-doing. I little thought, the last time you left that house, that you would ever enter its doors again."

"Agnes spoke of that," said Letty. "I could not remember it against her, when I saw how she felt about the matter. Indeed, I always regarded Agnes as living in a sort of dream, from which she would awake some time to see things as they really are. I am deeply thankful that the awakening has come before it is too late."

"I trust it may indeed be an awakening," remarked John, "and not a mere passing emotion."

"But even that is better than no feeling at all," replied Letty. "It shows there is life and sensibility remaining; and where there is life there is hope. Even a convulsion may be an encouraging sign, in some circumstances.

"But I cannot help thinking it is more than that with Agnes. For one thing, she seems to take such a rational view of matters. She does not accuse herself in extravagant generalities; but she sees that she has special sins to repent of, such as her neglect of her mother and Madge, and her treatment of her husband. She feels that she is in a great degree responsible for Joseph's present position."

"And so she is," said John. "Joe would never have left Mr. Haskins if Agnes had thrown her influence upon that side; but she was not satisfied till she had him engaged in some genteel business, as she called it. Joe might have been Mr. Haskins's partner, and a respectable man to this day, if they had known when they were well off."

"Agnes feels all that now," said Letty; "and they have gained nothing by the change. From what Agnes tells me, I can see that they have very few respectable visitors; though they have a great deal of company, such as it is. Poor Agnes! She will have a hard path to walk in, if she should turn to the right way. I do not at all wonder that she is discouraged at the prospect before her. She has need of all our prayers."

"The path may be made easy for her in some way that we do not now see," remarked John. "God's ways are not as our ways, and there are no impossibilities with him."

How often we say and hear and think over and over all these things, till they become trite, and we attach no meaning to them, and then all at once they become earnest, vivid realities to us, even the very anchors by which we hold fast to life!

Poor Agnes's path was indeed to be made plain to her,—but not in the way Letty had imagined. She pictured to herself Agnes with active health, going humbly about her life's work, fulfilling the long-neglected duties of a mother to her unfortunate child,—perhaps becoming the means of her husband's conversion,—and using her influence for good to all around her. Such was not God's plan.

Two or three days after Letty's visit, as she and John were at their late tea with some strawberries from their own garden, Dr. Woodman came in. He had opened a health-establishment—a sort of private hospital—in one of the large, fine old places with which the neighbourhood of T— abounded, and had his hands so full with his in-door cases that he seldom visited any but his old patients in the city.

"Here you are with your teapots!" was his first salutation. For an inveterate prejudice against "the cup that cheers but not inebriates" was one of the good doctor's harmless superstitions. "Teapots, and water-pitchers, and milk-jugs! Why don't you have some coffee and chocolate into the bargain?"

"I can make you some coffee and chocolate in a moment, doctor," said Letty, mischievously. "I would have had them ready if I had known you were coming."

"I have just been to see your cousin Agnes," said he, after a few minutes of desultory conversation. "She tells me you spent some time with her the other day."

"I am very glad," said Letty. "I very much wished Agnes to have advice, and tried to make her send for you at that time. How did you find her?"

"She is very ill," replied the doctor, gravely.

"She complains very much of pains in her chest and side, and seems to have quite made up her mind that she has a cancer," said Letty. "I thought the pain might proceed from some other cause. Agnes was always subject to neuralgia, you know."

"It is not a cancer," said Dr. Woodman. "There is an internal abscess. She may live a few weeks longer, or she may die at any moment; but her death-warrant is signed. There is no possibility of doing any thing for her. Her strength has been wonderfully kept up by opium and other stimulants; but she is past even that now."

"Is she at all aware of her condition?" asked John.

"Yes: she guessed at once, and would have me tell the exact truth. She seemed much relieved to find that the disease was not what she had supposed. Her great desire seems to be that she may live to see her husband again: and I have telegraphed for him. I shall send Mary in to stay with her; for she should not be left alone a moment, and their servants, I imagine, are not of the sort to be useful in a sick-room."

"I will go to her to-morrow,—or to-night, if it is best," said Letty.

"I would not go to-night," said the doctor. "She has had excitement enough; and I shall send Mary back directly. The coloured waiter—who seems the most civilized person about the house—promised to stay with his mistress till Mary came."

"How does she seem to feel?" asked John.

"She is very humble and penitent,—poor child!" replied the doctor. "She seems bowed down with the burden of her past offences, and hardly dares to think she can be forgiven; but I think she was more hopeful before I left her. She had her Testament on the bed; and the servant told me, with tears, that she had been reading, or making him read to her, all day. She said to me, 'You may think it strange that I should like to have him about me; but he is a handy, kind-hearted creature, and the only person in the house over whom I have any influence; and I should like to feel that I have done some good in the world before I leave it.'"

"That seems a hopeful sign: does it not?" said John. "It seems as though she were in earnest."

"She is sufficiently in earnest:—there is no doubt about that," returned the doctor. "I have strong hopes for her so far as another world is concerned; and really, all things considered, one can hardly wish to detain her in this. She would have but a sad prospect, poor thing! She seemed much impressed by your kindness, Letty, and said to me,—

"'When she looked at me in Williams's shop, I thought she knew me and did not wish to speak; but I was entirely taken by surprise when she put out her hands and spoke to me. I thought I was past feeling any thing; but her voice and manner went to my heart: it seemed to loosen some chain which had kept me from breathing for ever so long.'"

"I wonder if Joseph will come home," said Letty. "I almost hope he will not, she seems so much afraid of him. He must be greatly changed."

"He is possessed with a devil,—the brandy-devil," said the doctor. "He will not live long, unless he changes his course. Van Horn has been the ruin of him, as he and his wife have been of so many others. She had the impudence to accost me in a store the other day, to ask about Madge, and took occasion to remark that she was very sorry: she had once seen a good deal of poor Mrs. Emerson; but, as things were now, she could not possibly think of going there. There were sad reports; and she feared Mrs. Emerson had been very imprudent, to say the least."

"The hypocrite!" exclaimed Letty. "The whole mischief is more of her doing than that of any one else. What did you say to her?"

"I gave her a piece of my mind," said the doctor, with grim significance. "I don't think she will speak to me again very soon. I have seen a good deal of wickedness and its effects among men in my day; and it is my firm conviction that no man on earth can be so wicked or so mischievous as a bad woman."

"She did Agnes more harm than any one else," said Letty. "Agnes was brought up to think dress and fashion and outside show of more consequence than any thing else in life. I remember when we were children and went to Sunday-school together, poor Aunt Train could never find time to see that Agnes had her lessons, though she could spend hours in ruffling and working her drawers and petticoats and flouncing her dresses, that she might look as nicely as Bessie and Jenny Dalton.

"My stepmother spent very few hours in ornamenting my clothes; but she always found time to go over my lessons with me and to be sure that I understood every word; and she was always ready to answer my questions, as far as she was able. Aunt used to say she neglected me, because I went so plainly dressed, and that it was very hard upon me to require a certain amount of work and sewing from such a little thing every day. Sometimes I thought so too, and envied Agnes her idleness; but, after all, I loved Mother Esther far better than Agnes did her own mother.

"But Agnes was much more serious about the time that Madge was born. She really seemed to wake up, in some degree, to the true meaning of life. And I think she might have been very different if Mrs. Van Horn had not got hold of her."

"I shall send Mary back to take care of poor Agnes to-night; and you had better go and see her to-morrow."

"I suppose Agnes ought not to talk a great deal?" said Letty.

"Talking will not hurt her, unless she grows too much excited," replied the doctor. "She will be the better for relieving her mind. What I most dread for her is her husband's return. I really wish he would stay away; but she was so anxious to see him once more, and her life hangs on such a thread, I could not deny her request to send for him. After all, nothing can make much difference. Good-night."

Early the next morning, Letty hastened to her cousin's bedside. She found Mary reigning supreme over the sick-room, which had greatly improved under her administration. The perfume-burner was banished, and the air came in fresh and sweet from the open window; while a look of order and tidiness had replaced the former crowded condition of the apartment.

Agnes was in bed, raised high with pillows; for she could no longer lie down: There was a great change in her appearance. Her face was even paler than before, and her features were shrunken and sharpened as if with great pain; but the hard, mask-like look was gone; her eyes had lost their fixed, vacant expression; and she welcomed Letty with a sweet, natural smile.

"I am glad you have come again," said she, as Letty kissed her. "I wanted to see you once more; but I know you must be very busy."

"My business can wait," replied Letty. "I mean to stay with you as long as you want me."

"You are very good," said Agnes; and then, after a pause, "Have you seen the doctor?"

"Yes: he came to our house last night on his way home," said Letty, wishing to spare Agnes the repeating of his opinion. "He told me what he thought, and that he should send Mary."

"He was very gentle and kind," said Agnes. "It was a great relief to hear his opinion. I have so dreaded a long illness, such as I must have endured if my opinion had been correct! Now the way seems made so plain and easy before me! I feel so peaceful, so satisfied! I am sometimes afraid it must be wrong."

"I don't think it can be wrong," said Letty. "When God sends peace, no one can give trouble."

"Nothing disturbs or troubles me now but the harm I have done to others," continued Agnes, "I do hope—I cannot help hoping—that God has accepted me. But oh, Letty, when I think of my poor husband and the mischief I have done him, I think I can hardly be happy, even in heaven. He would never have been engaged in this vile business but for me. He was very much impressed by what John said to him about the matter, and came home almost persuaded to give up the whole affair and remain where he was. I believe a word from me would have turned the scale; and I did turn it,—the wrong way. My insane desire to be genteel—how I do hate the word!—pushed me on. I thought it would be so grand for Joe to be engaged in a wholesale business."

"That is something I never could understand," said Letty. "Why should it be more genteel to sell by the piece or bale than by the yard?"

"I am sure I do not know,—nor any one else, I suspect. But my head was full of such notions. Aunt Eunice might well call me silly. And, then, Celia Van Horn pushed me on. I do not want to speak unkindly of any one; but she is a wicked woman,—far worse than you know. She has drawn more than one poor, silly young man on to his destruction. It was a long time before I had my eyes fairly opened; but I did at last, and then we quarrelled. But I won't think about her now. Oh, if I could but live to undo some of the mischief I have done, I should be content!"

"You must not excite yourself, Agnes," said Letty, gently. "That is bad for you; and you will need all your strength."

"True," said Agnes. "I have something to do yet, and I must keep what little force I have for that purpose. I seem to have drooped very much within a day or two. I suppose I miss the stimulants I have been taking. The doctor would not let me give up ale; but I could not take opium any longer. I have hated it this long time; but I could not keep up without it. Oh, Letty, after the life I have been leading, you don't know the blessed relief it is just to give up and be sick!"

"I can imagine it," said Letty; "but you must not talk any more now. Let me read to you, and perhaps you may fall asleep."

"One thing more I must say, and then I will rest," returned Agnes. "Letty, I have a great favour to beg of you and John,—a favour so great that I should not dare to ask it if you were any other than yourselves. I want you to take Madge for your own. Carry her home with you, away from here, and keep her. I hardly think her father will object: he seems to have taken a dislike to the child, though he used to be so fond of her. I think he feels her presence in the house a kind of reproach; though she never says a word of the sort, so far as I know. She loves you dearly, and will be very happy with you; and I don't think she makes a great deal of trouble, for one so helpless. Still, I know it is asking a great deal."

"John and I were talking the matter over last night," said Letty, eager to set the poor mother's mind at rest, "and we agreed, if you and Joseph were willing, we would take charge of Madge. We can give her a pleasant room on the ground-floor, opening on a veranda, where she can have plenty of fresh air and sunshine, and be more like one of the family than if she were away up-stairs. I think we can make her very happy. I am glad you do not object; for we have quite set our hearts upon having her."

"You are very good," said Agnes. "It is the greatest possible relief to my mind to think she will be safe with you. But, Letty, I dare not promise that Joseph will do any thing towards her maintenance. Things are going badly with him; and, unless I am much mistaken, there will be a grand crash before long."

"Never mind that," said Letty. "We are rich enough and to spare. John has prospered in every thing he has put his hand to. The land we bought with our house has proved a fine investment, and we have already sold building-lots enough to pay for the whole. C— is a very growing place, and whole streets seem to spring up in a night, like mushrooms. I am almost afraid the place will become too valuable for us to keep. So do not let any such consideration trouble you, but think of the matter as settled, so far as we are concerned. Now let me read you to sleep."

The days passed on, and Agnes continued to grow weaker and to suffer more and more as the disease advanced. She talked very little, but lay quietly, sometimes reading a few words or listening to Letty's repetitions of hymns and passages of Scripture.

Nothing was heard of Joseph, though both John and the doctor telegraphed again and again to the address he had given in New York. Agnes seemed very anxious to see him, at the same time that she dreaded his coming home. She watched daily; and a ring at the door, or any unusual noise in the house, produced a degree of agitation as distressing as it was dangerous.

Madge had been brought home, at her mother's request, and spent many hours of every day lying on her mother's bed or sitting in a great chair by her side. She had improved so far as to be able to sit up a good part of the time.

It was touching to see how in the last hours of her life the mother's heart turned towards her long-neglected child. It seemed as though she could not bear to lose one of those precious minutes still accorded to them; and Letty had to use a little gentle authority to prevent them from injuring each other. Her heart swelled with thankfulness as she thought how precious these last hours with her mother would become, in the retrospect, to the orphan child.

"They say Emerson's wife is dying, Cilly," said Mr. Van Horn to his wife. "The Caswells have got hold of her again, and old Woodman is going there every day. Hadn't you better call and see her?"

"I don't think I could venture to go where I shall be likely to meet Dr. Woodman and the Caswells," replied the lady. "They have really been too insulting."

"Still, it might be worth your while. She has lots of handsome things, you know," said her husband.

"Yes, poor thing!—She was always extravagant. She bought that onyx-and-pearl set that I wanted so much; and she must have a great many ornaments besides. And, then, there is that splendid India shawl. Well, I don't know, after all, but it is my duty, as you say, to overlook every thing and visit her in her affliction."

Mrs. Van Horn always kept up a good appearance, even when she had no spectator but her husband,—perhaps because hypocrisy had become a second nature. Having despatched her household affairs, she dressed herself in her usual taste, and prepared to do her duty (as she said), by calling on her former friend, in whose India shawl she felt such a warm interest.

Prince met her at the door with no friendly face. He had become devoted heart and soul to his mistress, and did not look upon Mrs. Van Horn with any great favour.

"Missis is too sick to see any one," said he grimly, keeping his hand upon the door. "The doctor has prohibited any one from going up-stairs, and says she mustn't be flustrated on no account whatever."

"But she will see me," said Mrs. Van Horn, in her most insinuating manner. "I am an old friend of hers, you know; and I have been wanting to see her this long time."

"Seems to me you have stood it so long, you can stand it a little longer," replied Prince, totally unmoved by these blandishments. "Doctor said Missis wasn't to see no one."

"But you can go and ask, Prince," said Mrs. Van Horn, seeming not to hear the first part of the remark. "Mrs. Emerson sent me word, a day or two since, that she particularly wished to see me but I have been too unwell to go out of the house."

Prince wavered a little.

"I'll go and ask," said he, at last; "though I know she won't see anybody."

Mrs. Van Horn, as we know, was famous for carrying her points, and did not suffer from the restraints of delicacy. She followed Prince up-stairs, and her silvery voice was heard speaking over his shoulder.

"You really must let me in, dear Agnes. I will not tire you by talking; but I positively cannot pass another night without seeing you."

And, taking advantage of the man's astonishment, she pushed him aside, and entered the chamber, saying, "I am sure, dear, you must want some one to cheer you up—"

She stopped short, dismayed, in spite of her effrontery, partly by finding herself face to face with the two people she most dreaded to meet,—Letty and Dr. Woodman,—and partly at the change in Agnes. However, she recovered her voice in a moment.

"My poor child, how ill you look!" she cried, advancing to the bed. "I had no idea you were confined to your room. How dull you must be here, shut up from everybody! Your servant was not going to let me in; but I was determined to see with my own eyes that you were comfortable,—though of course you must be so, with such an excellent nurse as your cousin. My dear Mrs. Caswell, how remarkably well you are looking!—Positively younger than you did ten years ago! And how are the dear children?"

Letty was silent. She could not make up her mind to reply. The doctor's lip was compressed and his brows contracted. With all her impudence, Mrs. Van Horn was somewhat taken aback by her reception.

"Mrs. Van Horn," said Agnes, raising herself upon her pillow, "I cannot pretend to guess what has brought you here; but, as a dying woman—"

"Oh, my dear, don't talk about dying!" said Mrs. Van Horn, in a soothing tone. "I am sure you have no need to entertain such gloomy thoughts."

"They are not gloomy thoughts," said Agnes. "I thank Heaven I am ready to be gone. But do not interrupt me. You have seen fit to come unasked into my sick-room, and you must submit to hear the truth for once. Celia Van Horn, you and your husband have been the ruin of me and mine. I say it in all soberness. You have ruined my husband, body and soul; and it is not your fault nor your husband's if you have not done as much to me.

"I was weak and silly enough when you found me; but I was beginning to learn better. You took advantage of my weakness, prejudiced me by your lies against my best friends, alienated my heart from my duties, and made me your instrument in your vile schemes for living on the sins of others. That I have been a thousand times worse is no thanks to you: you did what you could to bring it about.

"You are a wicked woman; and, unless you repent, you have nothing but eternal woe before you. It is not too late; but it soon will be. I have tried hard to forgive you and to pray for you, and I trust I have done so; but, if you have any thing of the woman left about you, you will go away, and trouble my dying hours no more."

"Poor child! You don't know what you are saying!" interrupted Mrs. Van Horn, soothingly. "I would not talk in that way. Your mind is wandering a little, my dear!—That is all. Now, positively, I shall take off my bonnet and stay a while. I am sure you need some one to cheer you up and drive these gloomy thoughts out of your head."

"Celia! Celia! What are you made of?" said Agnes. "How dare you come here and talk to me in this way? You know that I speak the truth. For Heaven's sake, leave the house and let me alone. My hours are numbered. Let me die in peace; and remember that your own time is coming,—you know not how soon. My eyes are opened now to see things as they are; and I tell you that heaven and hell are awful realities. Your feet are standing on slippery places," she stopped, exhausted, and looked imploringly at the doctor, who made one step forward and laid his hand on the intruder's arm.

"Go!" said he, briefly and sternly. "Go quickly, or I shall find means to make you. I will not suffer any patient of mine to be disturbed in this way. Go; and repent, if haply the mercy of God may be extended even to you; but beware how you enter this house again."

"I am going," said Mrs. Van Horn, meekly. "I came here in the spirit of Christian charity, to—"

"Never mind how you came," interrupted the doctor, sharply. "I suppose you came to see what you could pick up, like other vultures under the same circumstances. What I want of you is to leave; and I propose to see you out of the house myself;" which was forthwith done.

Burning with rage, she went to her husband to complain of the way in which she had been treated.

"Actually turned out of the house by that wretch, Dr. Woodman!"

"Pocket the affront, Cilly," said Mr. Van Horn, philosophically. "It won't do to make a fuss about it just now. We shall make the place too hot to hold us, if we are not careful. I wouldn't go there again, if she didn't like it," he added. "It isn't lucky to quarrel with dying folks. I'll get you something prettier than any thing of hers, the next time I go to New York."

"I wonder what Emerson will say to all these goings-on when he comes home?" said Mrs. Van Horn, spitefully. "See if I don't stir him up a little: that's all!"

"Oh, no: I wouldn't," replied her husband. "Let the poor thing die in peace, and have her friends about her, and her prayers and her psalm-singing, if they are any comfort to her. You will only make a fuss, and perhaps bring some ill luck upon us. Better let her alone."

CHAPTER XVII.

PEACE AT LAST.

IT was not appointed that Agnes should see her husband again. As the days passed on, and nothing was heard from Joseph, she grew very anxious. She busied herself, as she was able, in writing a letter to her husband, in which she stated her wishes concerning Madge, and entreated him to consent that the child should be given to her cousins. She read this part of the letter to Letty, and also a paragraph relating to the disposition of her clothes and trinkets.

"I want your boy to have my Herbert's silver cup," said she; "and there is a gold necklace for Una; and, Letty, I should like you to take all Herbert's clothes. They are in that camphor-wood box. You can use them for your child. Let Madge have all the rest of my things as she needs them. I have written all about it to Joseph; and I do not think he will object.

"Give him the letter some morning when he is sober, and tell him that I died praying for him. Oh, how different he and every thing else might have been, if I had only done my duty! But we were all wrong from the first. I had no idea what I was about when I married. I thought I was going to be rid of all trouble and have some one to wait upon me and take care of me for the rest of my life. How I used to laugh at you and John for your sober ways of thinking and acting! But you were far wiser than we were."

"I have to thank Mrs. Trescott for most of my wisdom," remarked Letty. "I have always been grateful that, by a kind providence, I fell into such hands when I was obliged to leave home."

"Yes: if all ladies were like her!" said Agnes.

"It is not all the fault of the ladies," returned Letty. "I believe a great many employers would be glad to do all in their power for those who work for them. But suppose a girl takes up the common idea that her mistress has no business with her after her work is done,—that she has a right to go where she pleases, and associate with whom she likes, and give an account of herself to nobody: what can her mistress do? That is the trouble with most of the young girls who go wrong. They set up for independence and will not submit to be guided by anybody.

"Do you remember Jenny Green, who lived at the Daltons'? She was in our Sunday-school class a while. Miss Dalton took her in, more from charity than any thing else, because she had actually no place to which to go. She did pretty well till she fell in with Cornelia Beadle, who lived with Mrs. Garland. Cornelia was a bold, impudent thing, who cared for nobody. She led Jenny into going out at night and staying late, and persuaded her that it was a fine thing to be independent, and Miss Dalton had no right to restrain her.

"Of course she fell into undesirable company; and the end of it was that she and Cornelia went off to the Springs with two young men, and were gone all night and all day. Miss Dalton tried all ways to reclaim her, but it was of no use; and the end of the matter was that Jenny died in the poor-house hospital, a poor, abandoned wretch. You see, as long as ladies have no power over those they employ, they cannot be accountable for them. What teacher would undertake to be responsible for a child whom he was not allowed to control?"

"I suppose that is one reason why so many girls prefer sewing or working at trades to living in families," said Agnes. "They like to be independent. A good many women earn a poor and precarious living in that way, who might have good wages and comfortable homes in respectable families. I believe, as you say, that the idea of independence and freedom from control leads away more girls than almost any thing else."

"It leads away a great many: I have no doubt of that," said Letty. "In the very nature of things, young girls cannot know, and ought not to know, the nature of the restrictions laid upon them. They ought to be willing to take them upon trust. But, instead of doing so, they make up their minds that all these restraints are unjust and tyrannical, and go on their own wilful way, till they are led to take some step which ruins their character forever. I don't suppose Jenny had the least idea what she was doing when she went away to the Springs in that fashion. She only thought it would be a fine thing to have frolic and do as she liked.

"Mrs. Trescott made it an absolute condition with all her girls that they should be accountable to her for all their comings and goings. She always said she would not have a young person in her house upon any other terms,—whether it were a young lady in the parlour or a domestic in the kitchen."

"She is a good woman," said Agnes. "It would have been much better for me if I had fallen into such hands. I remember very well how mother and I used to fret about your living out, and how mother used to tell every one that you only did sewing and taught the children. I remember, too, how distressed we were when you went into the kitchen to work."

"It was an excellent thing for me," remarked Letty. "If I had a dozen girls, they should all be taught to work."

"Have you begun in that way with Una?" asked Agnes.

"Oh, yes: she is quite a housekeeper already," replied Letty, smiling. "You would be amused to see her flourishing her little duster and to hear her remarks upon the subject. If I am spared to teach her, I mean she shall learn to do all sorts of housework in the best manner. It is much easier to learn before one is married than afterwards."

"I fully believe that," remarked Agnes. "I remember what a difference there was between you and me when we were first married. Your work did not take up half your time,—indeed, I never could tell when you did it; while mine was under my feet all day. I worked hard and tired myself out, and, after all, nothing was ever done as it ought to be."

"My own work was so light, in comparison with what I had been used to, that it seemed as nothing to me," replied Letty; "and there was Mrs. De Witt always at hand to help me in any emergency."

"She was always a good soul," said Agnes. "I remember the biscuits she baked and carried over to you the night you were married. It was a curious wedding present: wasn't it? No one but Mrs. De Witt would ever have thought of such a thing."

"It was a most acceptable present," said Letty, and laughing. "We had plenty of cake, preserves, and all that; but no one had thought of the bread. I well remember John's blank face when I asked about the flour."

"And do you recollect Aunt Eunice's visit? I always believed the state of my kitchen and myself that unlucky day was the real cause of the good old lady's will. I remember how kindly she talked to me that day when I told her my grievances. I recollect your dinner, too, Letty, and how jealous I was because they all praised your cooking, and how Mrs. De Witt washed up the dishes, and how vexed I was when you asked her to tea, until I saw the little silver jug with the coat-of-arms. Your mother was a silly woman in those days, Madge."

Letty could not help fearing that Agnes was talking too much; but she seemed to find so much pleasure in recalling old scenes, and telling Madge about her early life, that she had not the heart to check her. Indeed, Dr. Woodman himself had said that nothing could make any great difference, and that she might as well be allowed her own way.

At last, towards sunset, Agnes fell asleep.

But it was but an hour or two afterwards that her breathing became oppressed, and alarming tokens of approaching death were given. Letty rang the bell for Prince, that she might send for John; but, before she had time to give the message, all was over.

She gasped for breath once or twice; a look of repose came over her face, and her eyes closed on all things below the sun.

"What is it?" asked Madge, bewildered, and but half comprehending.

"Your mother is in a better world, I hope, my child," said Letty, taking her in her arms. "God has taken her to himself."

The grief of Madge was very bitter. She had always loved her mother, despite her neglect and coldness; and the last few weeks had greatly deepened the affection. It seemed as if she could not let her mother go without her.

"Oh, if I could only go too!" she sobbed. "What is the use of my staying here when they are all gone,—grandmother, and mother, and little Herbert, and all? Why can't I go with them?"

"My love," said Letty, "God will let you go when his time comes. If he keeps you in this world, it is because he has work for you to do which no one else could do as well."

"But I cannot do any thing," said Madge. "Such as I am are of no use to any one."

"That is a mistake," said Letty. "A great deal of good has been done by just such as you. I expect you will help me in teaching Una and Jack, if your father allows you to come and live with us."

"I hope he will," said Madge. "But what will father do when he comes home and finds that mother is dead?"

Letty could not guess what he would do. She had a presentiment of a terrible scene, and exerted herself to get Madge to bed and to sleep, at the top of the house, before there was a possibility of her father's arrival. She succeeded better than she expected. Madge was worn out with grief and excitement, and her year at Dr. Woodman's had taught her to be docile to authority: so that Letty soon had the satisfaction of seeing her sound asleep.

Mary and the servants had by this time finished the last solemn duties to the dead. Letty was preparing to go home to her children; and she and John were standing looking at the quiet sleeper who would never again be disturbed, when the front door was noisily opened, and some one was heard speaking in a thick, indistinct way.

"It is Joseph, and he is drunk," said Letty. "What shall we do?"

"He seems in a good-natured mood for once," said John, going towards the stairs, where Prince had already met his master and was trying to keep him from going up; but he made his way somehow to the side of the bed, where the body lay.

The moment the wretched man entered the apartment, he seemed to have a dim idea that all was not right.

"Is she sick? Is she dead?" he asked, in an awe-struck whisper. "You don't mean to say she is dead and I not here?"

"She died only a few hours since," replied John. "We telegraphed for you several times, but could hear nothing of you. She was very anxious to see you once more, and wrote you a long letter. She died happily, Joseph,—the death of a true child of God, repenting of her sins and trusting in her Saviour."

"She had nothing to repent of," said Joseph, fiercely. "She was as good a wife and as good a woman as ever lived. They told me stories about her, and I was fool enough to believe some of them. I was cruel to her! I abused her! Oh, Aggy, Aggy! Only once come back, and see how happy we will be!"

"She is happy where she is," said Letty. "She has suffered very much for some time past; but her death was without a struggle. She will never know pain or sorrow again."

"Oh, if I had only been here!" he exclaimed, with violent sobs. "If I could only have told her how sorry I am! I ill-treated her in every way. The very day I went away, I was cruel to her; and now she is gone, and I shall never see her again!"

John persuaded him to go to his own room; and after a while he got him to bed, promising to stay all night in the house.

The next day John found Joseph altogether sober and rational; but though perfectly friendly with his wife's relations, and apparently pleased to have them in his house, he was not disposed to talk. He asked some questions about his wife's illness, and expressed his gratitude to Letty for her care, saying it was more than he had a right to expect; but he was very silent, for the most part.

Directly after the funeral, Joseph packed, with his own hands, all Agnes's valuables, including their very handsome china and silver, and sent them to Mr. Caswell's address in C—. He then leased his house, sold all his furniture at auction, and went to board at a hotel.

John and Letty, having finished their arrangements, returned to C—, taking with them Madge and Mary, who was delighted with the idea of living with Mrs. Caswell and taking care of her poor darling, as she always called Madge.

John had laboured in vain to penetrate the reserve in which Joseph had wrapped himself, so as to find out what he intended to do, and whether he had any thought of abandoning his present business; but Joseph, though always friendly enough, absolutely declined any such conversation: so that his relatives were left entirely in the dark as to his future prospects.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A LAST GLIMPSE.

WE need not follow the Caswells far into their subsequent life. A visitor might have found them, not many years afterwards, sitting on their broad veranda, looking down over the pretty suburbs of the city to the great river on which it lay.

Madge, still helpless as far as walking is concerned, but with a look of health in her face which shows how much she has improved, occupies the wheeled-chair, where she sits nearly all day, and in which she goes all over the garden and the ground-floor of the house.

Una and Jack, now a great boy and girl, lean upon the arms of her chair, listening to an interminable account of a certain Prince Arthur, whose adventures have occupied them for many evenings, and whose journeyings extended all over the world. A second little girl, rather more than a year old, is carried off to bed by Mary, who pauses a few minutes to hear the end of a terrific combat with lions and elephants in which the prince is at present engaged.

Letty sits at a little distance, listening, while John reads the papers, and she is knitting,—not, as of old, on an afghan or a shawl, but on a substantial blue sock; for it is the first year of the war, and all hands are busily engaged in furnishing clothes and provisions for the soldiers.

John's hair begins to be a little gray, and he reads his paper with the help of glasses. His business has prospered beyond all expectation; and his purchases of land have turned out so well that he is, beyond all dispute, a rich man. People wonder that he does not pull down that great square pile and erect a handsome Gothic or Italian house in its stead; but John only smiles, and says his wife has old-fashioned notions about houses, and, besides, it is well-known that no builder could ever make a decent house for himself. So the old house remains unaltered, save by the insertion of some modern conveniences in the shape of bathing and heating apparatus.

Madge, as we have said, is much improved in appearance. She is now nearly seventeen. Her general health is good, and she seems to have outgrown her childish predisposition to brooding melancholy; for she is as bright and merry as the day is long. Letty, often calls her the sunshine of the house. She has an insatiable appetite for books of all sorts,—especially books of travel and adventure; and it is necessary to put some check upon the supply, lest she should injure herself by too close application. She has learned to draw, and shows great talent for the art. It is she who taught the two elder children to read and write, and hears their daily lessons; and she has lately occupied some hours of every day with a class of children from the neighbourhood, whose parents do not like to send them to the public school.

Letty at first feared that the work would be too much for her strength; but Madge seems so much to enjoy the occupation, and also the feeling that she is earning something, that she has not the heart to oppose her.

Years have passed since Madge has heard any thing from her father. They had learned from Gatty De Witt (now Mrs. Henry Woodman) that the establishment in Gay Street was broken up, and that the Van Horns had left the city and, it was supposed, had gone South; but they could hear no tidings of Joseph.

And here our story ends. We have seen Joseph and Agnes Emerson begin their married life under much the same circumstances as John and Letty Caswell. If there was any difference, the first couple had the advantage; for Joseph was earning higher wages than John, and he had better natural abilities. But there was from the first a radical difference between the two families.

John and Letty made the resolution, at the outset, never to run in debt if debt could possibly be avoided. Their house was, as far as practicable, paid for before they went into it; their furniture, when it was purchased. If they had no money to buy what they wanted, they went without. Letty did her own work, and knew, from previous training, how to turn every scrap and crumb to advantage. She did not think it beneath her to save odds and ends of grease and make her own soap, or to weed her own beds of cucumbers, lettuce and tomatoes, thereby saving many a shilling and sixpence which would otherwise have gone to the market-man and the pedlar.

Agnes had little knowledge of household work. Her mother had always taken all such matters into her own hands, in order, as she said, that her daughter might grow up a lady and not a drudge. Agnes thought it mean and stingy to save, and a derogation of her dignity to do the work of her own household.

John and Letty were always thinking what each could do to make the other happy and to lighten necessary toil. Joseph and Agnes were each thinking what the other ought to do, and each trying to throw upon the other the responsibility and the burden. If they fancied any thing, they bought it, and never troubled themselves about pay-day till the bill was actually presented,—when it was always found to be larger than any one supposed. They felt it incumbent on them to maintain as much show in dress and furniture as persons who had twice their income.

And Joseph was always delighted when people noticed the elegance of his wife's dress; but at the same time, she was never fit to be seen while about the house. Letty's nice dresses lasted three times as long as her cousin's, because she did not wear them to work about the stove or in the garden; while at the same time she always looked like a lady, whatever she might be doing. She cared nothing for being thought fashionable, and was not ashamed to wear the same simple straw bonnet two summers running; while the eight or ten dollars saved in this way was much more satisfactorily invested.

But there was a still greater difference,—one which lay at the bottom of all the others. John and Letty Caswell set up their household in the fear and love of God. They acknowledged him in all their ways, and besought him to direct their paths. They had given themselves to God, and he, in return, had drawn nigh to them, according to his covenant. True, they had known sorrow; but that affliction had worked in them comfort and peace, because they looked not at the things which were seen, but at those which were unseen. They had lived for God and for eternity, feeling that they had already entered upon that eternal life which the Son has secured for them that love him; and their path was as the path of the just,—a shining light, shining more and more unto the perfect day.

To Joseph, Sunday was distinguished as a day when he did not have to go to the shop, and might lie abed in the morning as late as he liked; when he had a better dinner than ordinary, and time to read the papers, look over accounts and smoke half a dozen extra pipes. He seldom went to church, because he said he could not afford to buy or rent a pew,—though the cost of the concert and theatre tickets in which he indulged would have more than defrayed it twenty times over. To Agnes it was a day for extra cooking; for sitting behind the blinds and watching the passers-by; for reading any stuff she could lay her hands on, and for an extra long afternoon nap. Once in a great while she went to church when she had any thing new in the way of dress to display, and came home prepared to give a full and particular account of every bonnet, dress and shawl within reach of her eyes. She had no time, she said, to go to church Sundays and weekdays, as Letty did:—she must stay at home and attend to her family. God was not in all her thoughts; and, if she did remember him, it was with an uneasy feeling, as of some one who was spying out her shortcomings, and might one day take her to task for them, unless he was propitiated in time by a better service. When her first child was born, she was much more serious for a while, and Letty began to have great hopes of her; but then the Van Horns came in with their influence, and her last state was worse than the first. Agnes became wholly occupied with the things of this world; in their poorest and most unsatisfactory forms. She withdrew herself from all sacred influences, and seemed actually to forget that there is a God.

And, now, what was the end? Agnes had died,—died in the very prime of life, a brokenhearted woman,—penitent, indeed, and hopeful, but weighed down with a sense of the irreparable mischief she had done to those nearest and dearest to her. Joseph was a wretched fugitive. Their only child was a confirmed crippled invalid, dependent for support upon those whom her parents had once despised; while John and Letty were independent and prosperous, happy in their children and in each other, good and doing good to all about them; and, better still, having the assurance that their present happiness was but the beginning of that eternal felicity which should endure as long as the throne of God in heaven. TRULY, GODLINESS WITH CONTENTMENT IS GREAT GAIN, HAVING THE PROMISE OF THE LIFE WHICH NOW IS, AND OF THAT WHICH IS TO COME.

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Table of Contents

- OPPOSITE NEIGHBOURS;

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHAPTER XII.

- CHAPTER XIII.

- CHAPTER XIV.

- CHAPTER XV.

- CHAPTER XVI.

- CHAPTER XVII.

- CHAPTER XVIII.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE