CHAPTER III.
THE POOR WOMAN OF THE PLAIN—THE NOTE—MOURNFUL MUSINGS—THE CUP OF TEA—THE STRUGGLE—CHARITY AND SELF—EMMA'S HISTORY.
Seated upon her low door-stone was Mrs. Graffam, the poor woman of the plain. It was almost night; the sun had gone down, leaving a long red line upon the western horizon, which cast a lurid ray upon the gathering twilight. The poor children of that log-house were fast asleep: for all that day they had been out upon the plain, where the sun, from a cloudless sky, glared down upon them; and now the evening shade was beautiful, and so soothing too, that neither the hard pallet of straw, nor the hungry musquitoes could drive sleep from eyes so weary. The sick babe was asleep too: all day it had moaned in its comfortless little cradle, for the mother had work to do—hard work, and abundant—for a family so large and poor. Heavily sat poor Mrs. Graffam upon the door-stone, waiting, she could not tell for what. Many years before she had waited at twilight for her husband's return, and listened, as the wind rustled the leaves, because she loved to go out and meet him as he neared their home. But those years were gone, and with them the lovelight and beauty of both heart and home. The contrast between that barren, desolate plain and her former home, was not greater than the contrast between the glad heart of other years, and the one sinking despairingly as she sat upon the door-stone that night.
At last she heard a heavy step along the path leading from the narrow road to that lone hut; but the sound of that step only deepened the shadow that gloomed around her. She sat motionless; and there was something in her manner like the resignation of a stricken, but trusting heart: but it was not that; it was only the sullen gloom of despair. Nearer and nearer drew the footstep, and she rose from her seat, that her poor besotted husband might pass to his bed of straw; but he did not pass in,—he only looked at her for a moment, and then averted his eye, for very shame because she had perceived that he was not drunk. The bag which he had carried week after week to the mills and brought home every night empty, because he deemed rum more necessary for himself than food for his family, was now filled with flour; but he said nothing, and she too was silent, as she followed him into the hut, and took the large basket which he offered her. Opening this basket, she found a note, and returning to the door, read as follows:—
"MRS. GRAFFAM:—Dear Madam,—I was not able to come and fetch our good Dora to see you to-day; but your husband has kindly promised to call this evening, and take the little matters which I have put up for the dear sick baby; and to-morrow, if it please God, we will see you at your own house.
"Your friend, EMMA LINDSAY."
Graffam looked at his wife as she came in with the note, and, notwithstanding she had lately spoken very harsh words to him, he pitied her, and somehow felt as though she was not greatly to blame for calling him an "unfeeling brute." On the other hand, as Mrs. Graffam took the things from the basket, she glanced toward her husband, and thought to herself, "He is sober to-night, and it is all owing to the kind politeness of that dear girl. His self-respect is not entirely gone, for he would not appear drunk before Emma. If I could command patience to treat him with civility, there might be some hope in that;" so turning toward him she asked, "Have you taken supper, Mr. Graffam?"
The poor man hesitated. He was really hungry; for that which had proved to him both victuals and drink, was now wanting; but he feared to speak of his hunger, lest his wife should say, "The children have no rum to drink, and it takes all the food I can supply, to keep them from starving."
"Here is a nice loaf of bread," continued Mrs. Graffam, cheerfully, as she took the things from the basket, "and a paper of tea; Miss Emma could not have intended these for poor little Sammy: so, if you please, Mr. Graffam, just light a fire under the kettle, and I will make you a cup of tea."
"And a cup for yourself," said Graffam, as he lighted the dry sticks in the large stone chimney, and then peered into the corners of the room in search of his children.
"They are all asleep," said his wife; and the poor man turned quickly toward the fire again, for he feared that she would add, "The poor creatures have been out upon the plains all day: Heaven knows what we shall do when the berries are gone." But Mrs. Graffam said nothing more. She set out the pine table, and going to an old chest brought a white cloth; it was of bird's-eye diaper. Graffam remembered well who wove it; and a pleasant vision came along with that white table-cloth. He saw his mother, as in olden times, weaving; while he stood by her side, wondering at the skill with which she sent the shuttle through its wiry arch, and noticing how the little matter of adding thread to thread filled the "cloth beam" little by little, until the long "web" was done. "Such is life," thought Graffam; "the little by little of human action goes to fill up the warp of time, and decides the worth of what we manufacture for eternity." Then he looked sadly over his own work, and could but say to himself, "It is all loose ends, loose ends. What a web for eternity!"
"Supper is ready," said Mrs. Graffam, and the poor man turned toward the table. The white loaf was there, and a basin of the berries his little ones had picked from the plain. In a solitary cup (for it was the only one saved from their wreck of crockery) Graffam saw his tea, and offered to exchange with his wife for the broken mug, into which was poured a scanty portion for herself.
"No, thank you," said she, "this is very well;" and they were seated at the table.
It was upon the whole a cheerful meal. It seemed as though each one had been a long journey, and had just returned; they were pleased with each other, and talked of old acquaintances, and other days, themes upon which they had held no converse for a long, long time past.
As their supper was finished, the little one in the cradle moaned again, and Mrs. Graffam brought from the basket a long flannel dress, and put it upon "wee bit," gently rubbing its blue limbs; then, with something of the freedom and confidence of other days, she laid poor baby upon its father's knee, and going again to the friendly basket, brought thence a bottle, from which she dropped a little fine-flavored cordial into warm water. The babe opened its large eyes upon its mother, as though wondering what it could be that was so good upon its poor little tongue and lip; then rubbing its tiny hands up and down the flannel dress, it looked smilingly into the father's face, and uttered an expressive "goo!" The parent was not quite dead in that father's heart, though long buried beneath the waves of selfish indulgence. He looked upon that poor little creature, and wondered that he could ever forget one so suffering and dependent. "The baby feels better," said Graffam to his wife; and he thought to himself, "I too should feel better, could I break my chains and be a man."
Through most of that night Graffam thought the same thing, and wondered if it could be done. "I have dug my own grave," thought he, "and officious hands have helped me in; they have cast over me the dirt of scorn and ridicule, until I am well-nigh buried alive. O, if there was left in others one particle of respect, I might come forth from this grave! I know that I might, from the little of kindness and civility shown me this day. I was once respected, and so was my wife; but I have dragged her down, down with me. It is a shame, for she is worthy a better fate." Thus thought poor Graffam through many hours of that night, and in the morning he turned from his hut again, with but little hope of seeing it as he did then, with open eyes, from which his soul looked forth; thinking, hoping, fearing, yet ready to struggle once more for life.
It was a beautiful morning, and Emma sat beside the open window, less languid than she had been the day before. Dora was putting things in order, when Emma asked this question:—"Through what medium do we see people, Dora, when we discover nothing but their faults?"
"Through the medium of self," was the ready reply. "If there is anything offensive in a person, self is nettled on its own account, and in its excitement sees nothing but the offense."
"How would charity act toward a person whose manners are extremely rude?" asked Emma.
"Charity is always giving," replied Dora, "while it exacts nothing. It is never jealous of its own dignity. It never behaveth itself unseemly; but beareth, hopeth, and endureth all things, even from those who know nothing of its own sweet expression—courtesy."
"I must see Fanny Brighton again," thought Emma, "and ask Charity to lend me her eyes, that I may see if there is nothing good in her; or if I can manage to put out the eyes of self, by seeing nothing through this medium, perhaps charity will become eyes to the blind."
It was by the blessing of God upon the humble efforts of that pious old lady called Dora, that Emma had become what she was. Mrs. Lindsay was a worldly woman, and the time had been when she had no higher hopes for her children than to see them richly gifted with worldly accomplishments. Her two eldest daughters, Helen and Amanda, had been models in this respect; and for a season the mother rejoiced in this pride of her eyes. But there is a strange intruder often found where he is least desired, and never retiring simply because his presence is deprecated—that is death. Who has not entertained this uninvited guest?
When Helen and Amanda began to droop, as Emma now did, Dora was the oldest servant in Mrs. Lindsay's family, and highly esteemed, both on account of her fidelity and her pleasing manners. "There is something peculiar about Dora," Mrs. Lindsay would say, "she is never untruthful and never impolite; two ideas which, in the eyes of fashionable etiquette, seem antagonistic. It was not, however, until her daughters began to show symptoms of decline, that Mrs. Lindsay understood this peculiarity in Dora.
"You must turn that religious woman out of your house," said the physician, "or I cannot save your daughters." And Dora was severely reprimanded by her mistress for the extreme discourtesy of offering to read to the young ladies from the Bible.
"What can she think?" asked Helen, with concern. "The doctor says that I shall be well in a few days; but Dora looks serious, and offers to read to me from the Bible. You will not have me deceived, mamma?"
"No, love," said her mother, trying to persuade her own heart that there was no cause for alarm. "Dora is religious, and such people always have fits of being disobliging."
"She is extremely kind to me in everything else," said the poor girl; "it is only in this thing that she makes me unhappy."
"She shall make you unhappy no more; I will forbid her to approach your room." And so she did. Dora was accused of impertinence, and felt most keenly that truth and the world's etiquette were at war.
Days passed on, and there were serious faces, more than one, in that house where it was impertinent to speak of death and eternity. It is true, that for a time gay visitors were admitted to Helen's chamber, and there was hollow laughter there, as they talked of balls, parties, and new fashions, and told the poor girl that she was looking better every day: but Dora saw them whisper, and shake their heads to each other as they passed out; and she saw that every day the mother grew more fearful as it regarded the daughter, and kinder toward herself.
At last she was told that Helen wanted her; but she was charged to be careful, as the poor girl was extremely weak.
"Dora, Dora," said Helen, "you will tell me the truth. Mother said that I should not be deceived; but I have been, O, I have been cruelly deceived."
Dora talked soothingly of Him who is the resurrection and the life: but the poor girl had opened her eyes all too suddenly upon the startling picture of death; and now shrinking from his cold embrace, she could not hear of hope and comfort. Her dying words were to the mother fraught with keenest anguish, for she spoke of this cruel deceit unto the last. Amanda soon followed her young sister to the tomb; but the mother was spared the self-accusation and bitter sorrow attendant upon Helen's death. Early in her sickness Amanda was consigned to the care of Dora. It was in vain that the physician expostulated; Mrs. Lindsay feared nothing so much as again to hear words of reproof from a dying child for having deceived her. Dora kept her post with Christian fidelity, and Amanda entered the dark valley and shadow of death fearing no evil.
Emma was at that time five years of age, and Martha ten. "My dear madam," said Dora, "fashion has robbed you of a great treasure. Your daughters, predisposed to consumption, cannot safely obey its whimsical demands."
"Nonsense, Dora!" replied Mrs. Lindsay. But when alone, she thought seriously upon what the good woman had said. Memory brought before her mind pictures from which she could not turn. The thin-soled shoes, and silken hose, in which fashion had required her delicate daughters to promenade the damp walks of the city; the flimsy ball-dress, the prolonged dance, and joined with these, the sudden exposure to a wintry air, were shades upon the bright picture of pleasures past,—dark shades indeed, but awfully true.
"Perhaps Martha and Emma may be spared to me," said the mother to her fashionable friends; "but how can I think of the conditions!" and her friends talked over the matter among themselves, and concluded that, after all, a person's life was of but little value, if they must live secluded from the world; and they gave Mrs. Lindsay a remote hint, that it was best to let her daughters live while they lived.
Mrs. Lindsay, however, had more than once stood upon the threshold of another life, having followed a husband and two daughters to the silent tomb: and in her secret heart she suspected the small value of what she had purchased at so great a cost. It seemed hard indeed to deprive her beautiful children of a fashionable education, and the struggle was very severe; but the mother triumphed over worldly vanity, and Monsieur de la Beaumont was told that his services in the family as dancing-master were no longer desired.
"One strange ting!" said monsieur; and the world at large thought the same.
Mrs. Lindsay considered herself as having made a great sacrifice to affection, and sometimes feared that she might live to see the day when she should wish her little novices out of sight, somewhere. One thing she determined on, however; and that was to take as much of the world as she could get herself, and thus solace herself for what she was to lose in her daughters. It cannot be supposed, that with this resolution the mother would reserve time for the care and culture of these little ones, who were given over to Dora with but one hope—the forlorn one—that she would save them alive. This the old lady could not promise to do; for she understood that having the sentence of death in ourselves, we are not to trust human means and precautions, but only Him who raiseth the dead. She, however, cheerfully undertook the precious charge committed to her trust; glad from her heart that the poor lambs had been saved from the slaughter, and praying most earnestly that they might be claimed by the Great Shepherd, and gathered to his fold.
Martha was a very quiet, thoughtful child, with speech and manner much beyond her years; she was not, therefore, strictly confined to the nursery, but allowed to mingle freely with her mother's guests. Emma, on the contrary, was much younger, and full of wayward humors. She greatly needed a mother; but the sacred writer has declared, "She that liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth." How many little hearts have proved the bitterness of that truth! God in mercy saved little Emma from this sad experience, by raising up for her infancy and childhood such a friend as was the pious, faithful Dora.
"It is a promising bud," thought the good woman, "but it may wither even without the blight of fashion; so I will try to secure for it an immortal bloom."
Thus in the morning Dora sowed her seed, the "good seed" for an immortal harvest; and soon the tender blade began to appear—a most ungainly thing in the eyes of her mother; for the first fruit of Dora's good seed, as shown by little Emma, was a great love of truth—a love which as yet she knew not how to regulate or apply. She was a beautiful child; and for a time her mother's vanity was gratified by having her brought from the nursery to her drawing-rooms, to be caressed, admired, and praised for her smart speeches; but after a time her truth-telling propensity became too evident. The polite occupants of the drawing-room began to whisper among themselves that Miss Emma was a spoiled child, and had better be kept in the nursery.
Mrs. Lindsay was soon of the same opinion; for scarcely a day passed when Emma's truthfulness did not prove a nettle to her own vanity.
"The child is rude," she would say to Dora,—"insufferably so. She told Madame A. that she looked like an apple-tree; which might have been taken for a compliment, had not the saucy little sprite explained herself by pointing to that old tree in the garden which the flowering shrubbery has decked with every variety of blossom: Mrs. A. is extremely fond of fancy colors. And when I took her to Bowker's the other day, that sick Miss Ellenwood was examining his new French goods, and called my attention to a splendid piece of muslin, and asked if it was not of beautiful texture. 'Dear Miss Ellen-wood,' interposed Emma; 'you will not want a figured muslin for a coffin dress.' Think of that, Dora."
"Well, my dear madam," replied Dora; "the child heard some of your friends say that this vain sick girl, who is spending all her slender income in dress, would want money soon to pay for a shroud."
"Certainly, Dora, that has frequently been said; but the child should know better than give such a hint to the young lady herself! Several ladies were in the store, and I felt extremely mortified and shocked."
Such complaints were frequent; and at last the good Dora answered all, by begging the mother to have patience both with herself and with the child. "This truthfulness," said she, "is of excellent quality, but it is now rough from the quarry. By-and-by charity will make its rough places smooth; for love not only refines and purifies, but it polishes the hewn stone after the similitude of a palace."
Mrs. Lindsay did not understand these words, and derived but little comfort therefrom. She could not see how Emma's bluntness was to be refined, save by putting her into fashion's crucible; and this she more than once resolved to do, at any risk. With this resolution, however, there always came a fearfulness, which seemed a warning voice from the tomb, bidding her "beware;" and to this voice of warning she took reluctant heed.
Pursuing a quiet course of study under private tutors, Emma was still left morally and physically to the care of her pious friend. Dora planted in hope, and now the precious shoot was caused to spring forth by Him who giveth the increase. This precious shoot of moral strength, ungainly, and without form or comeliness to the world, she watered, tended, and watched, with earnest faith for the Husbandman, whose pruning knife should convert it into a goodly tree. Emma sometimes came to her friend with puzzling questions; among those most frequently asked were the following:—
"How mamma could be 'not at home,' when she was in her chamber?"
"How she could be extremely glad to see people who, she said, were 'bores, and not to be endured?'"
"Why it was more impolite to tell people what was foolish in their appearance, than to laugh about this appearance in their absence?"
It was difficult to answer these questions, without casting a shade over those whom Dora wished the child to love and respect. Sometimes she told the little girl that it would often hurt people's feelings and make them very miserable, to know just what others thought of them. And yet the child would reply: "You say that if we would listen to God's little voice in our hearts, it would tell us all that is wrong. Why does he want to hurt folks' feelings? You had me read in the Bible about the truth, how, if we come to love it, it would make us free; but mamma says it is often impolite to speak the truth."
Dora felt, as many under similar circumstances have felt, the earnest question pressing upon her heart: "Who is sufficient for these things?" and with greater trembling was it asked, as Emma grew in stature and increased in knowledge; for she saw that with the good seeds thorns had sprung up. Emma began to pride herself upon independent thought and action, and to show symptoms of haughty disdain toward those who stooped to the deceit of fashionable etiquette. Dora was often pained to hear her speak of things done and said, not for truth's sake, but because it plagued others. It was evident that she was beginning to exult in the embarrassment which she often occasioned, but saw not the wicked self hiding beneath her garb of truth. Dora tried hard to point out this inward foe, but, with the blindness of a natural heart, Emma, having eyes, saw not; and the good woman knew well, that the child could not see, unless He that openeth the eyes of the blind should say unto her, "Receive thy sight." She told her of that charity which hopeth, believeth, and endureth all things; which, giving no place to falsehood, still never behaveth itself unseemly. She warned Emma of the heart's Ishmaelite—that truth which, incased in the armor of human pride, ever turns its hand against its fellow: but Emma did not fear this "strong man armed;" so she was led captive by him at his will.
Thus she was growing up like a beautiful flower thickly set with thorns. There were, however, some among her mother's fashionable friends who professed themselves charmed with her wit and originality.
Martha had passed the age at which her young sisters began to decline, and gave evidence of established health. She was now allowed to attend evening parties, and was found very tolerably, though not what the world calls "highly accomplished." There were those, however, who thought that Martha's solid education, good judgment, good sense, and good taste, were accomplishments enough. Mrs. Lindsay could not help feeling very well satisfied with her discreet, amiable daughter, though she was not eligible to a place in the ball-room, having never learned to dance.
But it was not until people began to call Emma a comical little beauty, and beg her mother to fetch her to their select evening parties, that Mrs. Lindsay ceased to feel chagrined at the sacrifice made to affection. Emma was not long in learning by what pretty names she was called; and with this knowledge came the strong desire to sustain a reputation for wit and beauty. Dora saw the canker-worm at the root of that precious plant for whose perfection she had waited with long patience.
Emma sometimes came home and repeated her triumphs and comicalities to this faithful friend, but receiving no answering smile, but, on the contrary, a solemn word of reproof or warning, she would often burst into a flood of peevish tears, saying that Dora was getting cross, and did not love her as formerly. In this the good woman saw signs less fearful than those of moral disease, but no less true; saw that this exposure and excitement were rapidly wearing away the frail foundations of health; and all that she feared was frankly expressed to the mother: but Mrs. Lindsay having once more allowed the film of vanity to blind the maternal eye, saw not the danger. The question, however, came to a speedy issue; for, attending a party one evening where the rooms were newly papered, and where, notwithstanding she felt chilly, her mother would not allow of her being wrapped in a shawl, Emma took a violent cold, which was immediately followed by a cough, and many other symptoms of rapid decline. Greatly alarmed, Mrs. Lindsay consulted her former physicians, and was again flattered with the hope that change of air, change of scene, and other changes, would speedily produce a change of health.
Emma knew the history of her family, and understood well why she was hurried from land to sea, and from thence to other places remote from her home. Dora was not allowed to accompany her, because the physician said that her "long face" would be an incalculable injury; but that face, always beaming with the soul's deep interest and affection, was ever present to the sick girl. Through many a night-watch of suffering and feverish anxiety, those loving, earnest eyes seemed looking into her own; and Emma would say to her sister Martha, "Dear Dora! how I long to see her! she loves me, and prays for me; it seems to me that with Dora near I should not be afraid to die."
Thus Emma talked; and the sensible, affectionate Martha saw that change of air and change of scene could not benefit her young sister, while her mind was so fevered and tossed; she therefore entreated her mother to return home, and after a time succeeded in making her understand this to be the best course.
"O my dear Dora," said the poor weary child, as she found herself once more in her own room at home, with the good woman at her side, "I am so glad—so glad to see you. And now I want you to stay with me, and talk as you used to when I was a little child. O, it makes me miserable to think how my heart wandered away from you, and from the Saviour, Dora; for I used to feel when a little girl that he loved me."
"And he loves you still, dearest," replied the old lady, her heart swelling with gratitude to God. "He loves you, Emma, and will receive you freely, dear, without one word of reproach, if you will only come back."
"I think so," said Emma, while the tears ran freely down her pale cheeks. "I did not spend those long dreadful nights, Dora, without thinking of him; and though ashamed of myself, I ventured to ask him, over and over again, to pity my wretchedness, and love me still. One night—it was not long ago—he seemed to come to me, and say the very same things which you have just said,—that he would not cast me off; that he loved me, even then."
What a moment of joy to the faithful Christian, who had sowed in hope, but whose faith had been so severely tried.
The tranquillity of mind which followed Emma's return home, operated favorably upon her health, and in a few weeks she was able to mingle with the family as formerly. Her mother did not propose her going abroad for company; but Emma seemed to take pleasure in being one of their small parties at home. Very different, however, was this pleasure from that which she had formerly sought and experienced.
"What a change in Emma Lindsay!" was an exclamation frequent among her mother's friends. "Her pertness, repartee, and saucy witticisms are all gone. What have they been doing for her? This winning softness and grace of manner seems foreign to her nature."
"I never thought," said another, "that I should come to love Emma Lindsay; but I do, and cannot help it—she is so lovely, so polite, and yet so sincere." A mystery, indeed, to the worldly wise, how politeness and sincerity could be made to embrace each other.
The solemn subjects of death and eternity were matters of frequent and free conversation between Emma and her pious friend; and now, though there seemed some respite from the speedy execution of the sentence, "Thou shalt die, and not live," neither thought of the matter in any other light than that of a little time given for work important to be done. Happy for Emma that she took this view of the subject, since it saved her from that remissness too common among the followers of Christ.
"The Lord seems to have need of me," Emma would say to the good Dora; while she would answer, "Yes, dear, but be ready for him at his coming; be sure that you are able to say, 'I have finished the work thou gavest me to do.'"
Notwithstanding these favorable indications, as it regarded the health of her daughter, Mrs. Lindsay was sometimes roused from her security by symptoms less favorable, and at last resolved to follow the advice of Emma's physician, and take up a permanent residence in the country.
Hence their removal to Appledale.
CHAPTER IV.
THE LITTLE TIME—HOW IMPROVED—FITNESS FOR REFINED SOCIETY—MORNING REFLECTIONS—RUTH AND BOAZ—CHARITY AND COURTESY—THE VISIT.
The little time allotted Emma seemed important, not only as it regarded her duty to others, but also in respect to herself. She desired a complete fitness for the refined society which she was about to enter. She wished, above all things, to become meet for an inheritance with the saints in light; and for this fitness she strove, using with diligence every means relative to this end which God had placed within her reach; and, as a valuable means, she availed herself of the spiritual perception and Christian fidelity of good Dora, who was always ready to aid her.
"Tell me," she would say, "all that you see or fear that is wrong in me; help me to examine my motives, emotions, and affections:" and Dora covenanted with Emma to this effect,—a sacred covenant, and one that should be oftener made among those who would be made perfect.
It was in accordance with this covenant that Emma had spoken fully of her feelings and impressions respecting Fanny Brighton; and we have seen how faithfully this good woman kept her part of this covenant, by pointing out to Emma the judgment of charity and the judgment of self.
Emma still sat by the open window, upon that fine morning, thinking and feeling, as she long had done, of the heart's great depth of deceitfulness, which no man could know, and no human power could reach, when she saw Mr. Graffam coming along the road.
Poor Graffam, though in his sober senses, had been longer crossing the plain that morning than usual. Far down in the depths of his beclouded soul there was a love of the beautiful, and that love on this morning had been stirred within him. His eyes had been open to see the glittering dewdrops upon the tall wild flowers and green herbage of the plain, to see the giant trees stretch their green arms toward the sky; and his ears had been open to hear a sweet concert upon their topmost branches. Poor buried soul!—how it struggled for a resurrection; now leaping with joy at the thought of its own affinity for the pure and beautiful, and now sinking, sinking, sinking with the one blighting thought of human scorn richly merited.
Night after night had poor Graffam reeled from side to side of that grass-tufted road, while the plain seemed to him an interminable lake of fire, amid whose scalding waves there rolled and tossed poor wretches like himself; and morning after morning he had returned by the same road, feeling as though a frost-breath had passed over the lake of fire, leaving it rough and leaden like a lava-deluged plain. But now, whence came the wonderful beauty of the widespread landscape? He knew in part, and brushed his old jacket sleeve across his swollen eyes. He feared that the vision was fated to pass away, "For my character is gone," said he; "nobody respects me; they call me 'old Pete,' and I am doomed." But a new feeling now came over him. He was nearing Snag-Orchard. The old chimneys were seen among the tree-tops, and strange to himself, (for years had passed since he had cared for his personal appearance,) he found his right hand tucking up its brother's dirty wristband, and adroitly turning the torn part of his old hat-rim to the side opposite Appledale.
"Good-morning, good-morning, Mr. Graffam," was the cheerful greeting coming to him from a chamber window.
But lo! he has forgotten the torn rim, and now it is flapping most gracefully, as the hat descends from the head, and is waved toward the window.
"Stop, if you please," said Emma; and she ran down the stairway, and along the garden-walk, toward the gate.
"Why, who is Emma flying to see?" asked Martha, as she saw her sister's white dress flitting past the window.
One of the visitors looked toward the road, and, unable to speak for laughter, pointed out poor Graffam, who, standing with his crazy hat in his hand, and his long shaggy hair falling in tangled masses over his neck and forehead, was now examining his great red hand, to see if it was clean enough to shake the delicate little hand cordially offered him.
"How is your babe this morning?" asked Emma.
"Better, thank you," replied Graffam; and growing warm-hearted in her sunlight, he told her how the little thing had smiled, and crowed at him; or began to tell, and then stopped short, fearing that he should forfeit her respect.
"It is a dear child," said Emma; "and perhaps, Mr. Graffam, it may please God to restore him to health, and he may grow up to bless the world."
Graffam started. The idea that a child of his should grow up to bless the world seemed too marvelous; "and yet," thought he, "I was not made for a curse."
"I hope that he may live," said the poor man sincerely; and wondered how that hope came, for formerly the child's life had been a matter of utter indifference to him.
"If it please God," added Emma.
"It has pleased God," said Graffam, "to lay three of my children beneath the sod, and perhaps it were better if they were all there, for we are——"
"Are what, sir?"
"Poor and despised, miss."
"God does not despise the poor," said Emma. "When his Son came to live among men, the poor of this world were his chosen friends and companions."
"Perhaps so," the poor man said, and turned his head mournfully away: "if poverty were all——"
"He does not despise the sinner either," said Emma, softly; "so far from that, he delivered his only Son unto death for their sake."
Graffam lifted his eyes from the ground, and looked seriously into her face.
"There was a time, miss," said he, "when that was a precious thought to me. Then to know that God was my friend, was enough, and I was happy; but that time is passed. I parted with his friendship to gain that of the world, and now I have lost, hopelessly lost all—all!"
This was said in a tone of deep despair: so deep and sad, that it called tears of pity to Emma's eyes, as she earnestly replied,—
"O do not say that his friendship is hopelessly lost, Mr. Graffam; for you know, sir, that he does not hate what the world hates. He hates nothing but sin, and even from that his great mercy separates the sinner, and makes him an object of love. Jesus, Mr. Graffam, is the sinner's friend."
"Yes, miss," replied the poor man; though Emma saw that the faith of this great truth did not enter his heart. There was no room as yet for so pure a faith. The soul's great idol, whatever it be,—the "man of sin" sitting in the place of God,—must be dethroned before the Holy will enter in. Yet Emma's words stirred still more those powers of the soul which Graffam had felt that morning struggling franticly with their chains. There was a strange mixture of hope and despair in the expression of his countenance, as he turned away, bidding her a sad "good-morning."
"O," thought Emma, as she looked after him, "is there none to help? Poor Mr. Graffam might become a good and useful man: his family might live out among people, and be happy. I pity them from my very heart;" and thinking over the matter, Emma walked out into the road, wandering down the hill, across the bridge, beneath which the bright waters glided very soberly that morning. Here she paused awhile, looking over the wooden railing at the reflection of her own thin figure and pale face. "O Emma," she said, "what thou doest, do quickly; for there is neither work, knowledge, nor device in the grave, to which thou art hastening."
Slowly, and somewhat wearily, she ascended the opposite bank, and then away in his field, working busily, she saw friend Sliver. She knew him by the broad-brimmed hat, which now and then bobbed up above the wall as the old man picked up the stones, and then resumed his hoe.
Intent upon his work, he hoed long with his eyes upon the ground: but at last he paused, and holding the hoe in one hand, drew a checkered handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the perspiration from his face; in doing this, he glanced toward the road, and saw Emma leaning over the wall, apparently inspecting his work.
"Good-morning, Mr. Sliver," said Emma.
[Illustration: EMMA AND THE QUAKER.]
"Ah, how does thee do?" replied the good man, with evident pleasure. "I was not looking for thee in the potato field."
"I suppose not," replied Emma, smiling. "I am like Ruth, the Moabitess, who went to glean in the fields of Boaz: only she wanted grain, and I want counsel."
Friend Sliver laid down his hoe, and coming up to the wall, asked,
"What is it, child?"
"You know Mr. Graffam, sir?"
"Thee means Peter, who lives upon the plains?"
"Yes, sir."
"O yes, I have known him some years; given to drink, Emma."
"I know it," replied Emma; "but need he be lost, sir? He has a wife and four pretty children; can't he be saved?"
"I see but one way," replied the old gentleman; "and that is to get him employment away from the mills. Motley keeps spirit for his hands. I have tried to help Peter by employing him myself, but he is very sullen when not in drink."
"I will tell you the reason of that," said Emma; "the poor man has naturally great self-esteem, and people irritate and crush him by showing him no respect."
"People can't show what they have not," replied friend Sliver, with a slight twinkle in his bright gray eye. "Can thee respect a drunkard, Emma?"
"I can respect a soul, sir," replied Emma, warmly,—"a soul made in the image of God, though it were sunk in the very depths of pollution and wretchedness; and so can the 'Great and Holy One,' Mr. Sliver, or he never would have sent his Son to redeem the world."
The sly twinkle vanished from the good Quaker's eye, and he looked seriously, earnestly, into the face of that dear girl. "Emma," said he, "what would thee do for Peter and his family? Can I aid thee in any way?"
"You have done so already," said she, "by speaking of the temptations to which he is exposed. I think that I can persuade mother to employ him; and Mr. Sliver, as you are acquainted with the people here, you may do Mr. Graffam a good service, by persuading your neighbors to feel and to manifest some interest in himself and his family; ask them not to allow their children to call him 'Old Pete,' 'Old toper,' &c., and twit him of riding a high horse."
"I will," replied friend Sliver, "and I will do anything else in my power to help thee."
"Thank you," said Emma, smiling, and sliding from the fence; "I am greatly obliged to you; good-by, Mr. Sliver."
"Farewell!" replied the old man, as he once more watched her descending the hill, and thought of what Sarah had said about her "ripening for glory."
It was on the afternoon of that day that Dora and Emma set out for a visit to the plains. "I think," said the former, "that we had better ride around by 'Snow-Hill,' and inquire at Mr. Cotting's respecting this family." Mr. Cotting was the minister, and his wife was considered a very active woman, and such in truth she was. Sewing circles, Sunday-school exhibitions, donation parties, &c., had been quite unknown to that community until Mrs. Cotting came. It was said, too, that she had visited all the poor families around, and fitted out their children for Sabbath school.
"If," said Dora, "we succeed in getting this poor family of the plains to mingle with their fellows, Mrs. Cotting's help will be needed; she is directress of the sewing circle, and from that can obtain clothing for the children."
"Dear Dora," replied Emma, "don't propose any such thing, either to Mr. Graffam or his wife, now. It won't do—not yet. We will call and see Mrs. Cotting, if you please. She may know this family, and may be able to tell us how to manage. Here is the road which goes around by Snow-Hill: but stop a moment; there is Willie Graffam and his little sister, just coming from the plain.
"How do you do, Willie?" continued Emma, as the children, each carrying a basket of berries, drew nearer.
"Very well, thank you," said Willie, taking off his hat; and the little girl courtesied, without lifting her eyes from the ground.
"We are going over to see your mother," said Emma.
"Mother will be very glad to see you," replied the little boy; at the same time looking inquiringly at the horse's head which was turned toward Snow-Hill.
Dora smiled at the emphasis bestowed upon you, and asked Willie "if his mother would not be glad to see her."
"I guess so," was the reply; "but——"
"But what, Willie?" asked Emma.
The little fellow hung his head, and answered in a lower tone, "Mother don't want to see the minister's wife, for she has been at our house once."
"I am afraid," said Dora, as they passed on, "that this family is one whom it will be difficult to benefit."
"You will excuse me for keeping you in waiting so long," said Mrs. Cotting, as she entered the room where Dora and Emma had been seated for nearly an hour; "I understood the maid that it was Mrs. Lindsay herself, and I was in dishabille. My duties are so numerous and so pressing," continued Mrs. Cotting. "One might think that the cares of a family were sufficient for a wife and mother; but added to this, to have a whole parish upon one's hands." Here she paused and sighed.
"Your situation," replied Dora, "is indeed one of earnest duty and responsibility; but the abundant grace provided for our utmost need is found, I trust, sufficient for you."
Mrs. Cotting bowed, and Dora continued: "We will not take your time, madam, which must be fully occupied. We called to inquire respecting a family called Graffam, living upon the plain."
"I know them," said Mrs. Cotting, "as indeed I do every other poor family in town. These Graffams are very strange people. I called there with Mrs. Jefferson Motley, the wealthiest lady at the mills. Graffam had a child at that time lying at the point of death. He was at home, and, what is a rare thing, was sober; but neither he nor his wife seemed at all grateful for this attention from myself and Mrs. Motley. We were at that time hunting up children for the Sabbath school; and in our charitable work were not unwilling to visit the most degraded. We told Graffam and his wife so; and told them, moreover, that we were desirous to rescue their children from ignorance and infamy. I had a bundle of clothes for the children, which I offered to Mrs. Graffam, on condition that she would keep them clean; never allowing them to be worn in their own dirty hut, but saved expressly for the Sabbath school. Then I talked to her faithfully of her own evil ways, (for I had heard that she picked berries upon the Sabbath;) and what do you suppose the poor wretch did? Why she turned from the dying bed of her child, and looked Mrs. Motley and myself in the face, as though we were common acquaintances. 'Madam,' said she, 'your religion is not to my taste. I prefer our present ignorance, and even infamy, to what you have offered this morning. As for picking berries upon the Sabbath, I must refer that to Him of whom, I must confess, I know too little; but my parents taught me that God is just, and I believe that he will justly judge between the rich who pay their laborers in that which is neither money nor bread, and the mother who, for lack of bread, must break the Sabbath.' Think what an impudent thrust at Mrs. Motley!—her husband allows Graffam to take up the most of his wages in rum, I suppose. It was evident that this Mrs. Graffam was no subject for charity—she was too ungrateful and too insolent; so we came away, bringing the things with us. The child died, and they would not have Mr. Cotting to attend the funeral. Graffam went for old Mr. Sliver, who sat in silence with the family for about half an hour, and then was 'moved upon' to pray. The sexton said that Graffam and his wife sobbed aloud; but I have never ventured there again."
Dora and Emma now rose to depart, and in going away met Mr. Cotting at the door. Emma felt herself indebted to her minister, and, with the cordiality of true Christian friendship, returned his greeting.
"We are going to visit the family upon the plain," said she, as Mr. Cotting unfastened their horse, and was about to turn him the other way.
"Are you?" inquired he, "that is what I have not done myself, as yet; Mrs. Cotting received so ungracious a reception, that it rather discouraged me; if you are upon a visit of charity I hope that you will be better received."
"Charity ought to be kindly received everywhere," replied Emma, "since she is long-suffering and kind herself, not easily provoked, and certainly not provoking, because she never behaves herself unseemly."
"No," replied the minister, thoughtfully; "it is strange that true charity should be distasteful to any one." Then offering his hand, as he bade them good-by, he said to Emma, "I hope, my dear, that this charity abounds in you."
"O no," she replied, "it does not abound—although, I trust, it has a home in my poor heart."
Emma found the door of poor Graffam's hut open, and the mother sitting beside the cradle where lay the sick babe asleep.
"Walk in," said Mrs. Graffam, smiling as she advanced toward the door.
Dora was surprised at the ease of her manner, and the pleasant expression of her countenance, as she handed them chairs, and seemed really glad to see them.
"The babe is better," said she, as Emma advanced toward the cradle; and at that moment the little one awoke.
The good motherly Dora took the "wee bit" into her arms, and talked with Mrs. Graffam about the best course to be pursued with a feeble child like that, while Emma unpacked the stores which they brought, among which were many things not intended for baby, but which she delicately classed with the rest, calling the whole "medicine."
Mrs. Graffam was at first somewhat reserved; but as Dora talked to her as a friend and sister, the frost of her spirit melted away, and she spoke of her mother now dead, of brothers and sisters, some dead and some far away: and as she grew thus communicative, and the tears of fond recollection trembled in her eyes, Dora talked of Him, the dear unfailing friend, who sticketh closer than a brother; who, in all the afflictions of his people, is afflicted, and the angel of whose presence is with them to comfort and to bless.
Then poor Mrs. Graffam wept much, saying that she needed just such a friend. And when they went away, she wrapped the babe in a shawl, and, taking it in her arms, went with them to the road where they had left their horse.
"You will come and see me again, won't you?" she asked.
And Emma replied, "Yes, Mrs. Graffam; I will come as long as I am able, and when I am not, you must come and see me."
"I will," was the warm reply; "I would walk miles to see you, if you were sick."
CHAPTER V.
THE OLD PEDDLER—BITTER WORDS—THE MEEK REPLY—THE EFFECT—ACTING A PART—SOFTER FEELINGS—THE DEATH-SCENE—THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS—SIMPLE CHRISTIAN COURTESY.
"I know," said Fanny Brighton, "that there is not a word of truth in what you say. Peddlers are always liars. This ring is nothing but brass, and would turn black with a week's wearing."
"I bought it for gold," meekly replied the old man, as he placed his heavy box upon the ground, and wiped the large drops of sweat from his wrinkled face.
"What else have you?" inquired Alice, as she turned over a box of thimbles, and pulled out a large handkerchief. "What a splendid thing!" said Alice; but at the same time she winked at Fanny, and laughed.
[Illustration: THE GIRLS AND THE PEDDLER.]
"Half cotton," said Fanny; "and now pray tell me when you take time to split your skeins of silk."
"I never do such a thing!" said the old man, with some spirit.
"Perhaps not," was the reply; "I suppose your profits are enough to hire it done; but here is a shawl,—what is the price of it?"
"Five dollars, miss; and a good bargain at that." "Five dollars! O what a cheat!" and Fanny laid the shawl, all unfolded, upon the grass, where scissors, needles, buttons, tape, pins, &c., lay strewed in wild confusion. Once more the poor man wiped his forehead, and kept his patience. It is bad policy for the poor to lose their patience.
"There comes Mary Palmer, and the missionary of Appledale," said Fanny. "Mr. Cotting will have to give up his office, or take Miss Lindsay as colleague."
Fanny knew that Emma was near enough to hear these remarks, but she did not know for what intent the feeble girl had taxed her strength in walking so far to see her.
The old peddler was now sadly putting his things back into his box; and Fanny, looking at him a moment, felt the injustice of causing him so much trouble for nothing: so she said to him, "Wait a moment—I will take some of your knickknacks, though they are not worth buying;" and she put into his hand a bill to pay for some articles which she hastily selected.
The old man thanked her, and his hand trembled as he gave her the change. Then he took up his heavy box, and Emma handed him the straps which fastened it upon his shoulders.
"Is it very heavy?" she asked.
"Yes," was the reply, "it is; but I am used to heavy burdens."
"Well, the burden and heat of your life's day is almost over," said
Emma, as, assisted by Mary, she drew the strap firmly into the buckle.
"Then, sir, if you are a Christian, you will rest."
"I know it," said the old man; "I know it, child:" and he looked at
Emma, as though she had given him something better than silver or gold.
"Call at the large house, among the apple-trees," said Emma, "and tell the lady that her daughter sent you."
All this time Fanny stood as if counting her money, while the old peddler went along.
"He has cheated himself in making change," said she; "I owe him a quarter more."
"Never mind," said Alice; "you paid enough for the things, and that is clear gain."
Fanny paid no attention to Alice, but ran after the old man, and gave him all his due.
Emma saw this; and the charity in her heart which "rejoiceth not in iniquity, but in the truth," exulted as one that findeth great spoil. She forgot the bitter remark which Fanny had made respecting herself; forgot all, except the one joyful thing that Fanny was not wholly selfish.
"We walked over to see you for a little while," said Mary, as Fanny came back; and Emma was far from feeling it a rudeness, though Fanny did not say, "I am glad to see you." She, however, invited them into the house where her grandfather and grandmother lived—for Fanny was an orphan.
Emma was very tired, and Fanny brought a pillow, which she placed upon the old-fashioned lounge, and asked her if she would like to lie down. She saw that Emma was pale, and this little act of kindness was prompted by a momentary feeling of pity: yet Fanny was ashamed of this kindness, and afraid that Mary and Alice would think her anxious to show Miss Lindsay particular attention; so putting on her old "care-for-nobody airs," she said, "Don't you undertake to faint, Mary Palmer. We country girls are neither genteel nor sentimental enough for that."
"And not feeble enough, I hope," replied Emma. "You have much to be thankful for, and so have I; for if it please God to deprive us of health, he will not leave us comfortless—not if we trust in him."
Fanny was not naturally a hardhearted girl. Her aged grandparents had done much toward making her what she was. Left to them when she was but two years of age, Fanny found herself left also to the full sway of every selfish passion and desire. The old people believed from their hearts that such another child never lived—so bright, so witty, so smart, and fearless. They talked and laughed over her sayings in her presence, and, in the blindness of their fond affection, saw not that the child was impudent, even to themselves; yet there was a fountain of purer water in that young heart, though self-love was rapidly drying it up. Emma, however, had that day discovered a bright drop from that better fountain, and she believed that the wasted streams of affection might be unsealed, even in Fanny's heart; and the rude girl herself wondered at the feelings which came over her, as Emma replied so meekly to her unkind remark. "I did not know that you were out of health," said Fanny; and both Mary and Alice were surprised at the tone of her voice and the expression of her countenance. She arose too, propped the pillow under Emma's head, and begged to know if she could do anything for her.
"Nothing," said Emma; "only love me: if you can do that, Fanny, I shall feel better."
Fanny tried to laugh, though she felt more like crying. "I am not much like other people," said she; "and those who want to have anything to do with me, must take me as I am."
"O yes," replied Emma; "if the Saviour does not refuse to take us just as we are, I am sure we ought to receive others in the same way, and love them too, even as he has loved us."
Very pleasantly did that summer afternoon pass away. Emma, after she had rested awhile, thought of going home; but Fanny entreated her to stay. She wanted to show her the bee-house, her grandfather's new beehive, the flower-garden, and many other things. Mary dearly loved to be near Emma; but this good little girl possessed the very best kind of courtesy, because it was the fruit of a pure loving heart—that kind of heart always forgetting its own wishes, in gratifying the wishes of another. Mary was always happy, but it was a sweet reflex happiness. She loved Emma, and dearly loved to hear her talk; but she did not claim the right of keeping close to her side. She sometimes lingered far behind, as Fanny and Emma walked arm-in-arm; but there was neither envy nor jealousy in this. She knew that Fanny was ashamed of being kind and affectionate, and she thought it best that they should be left to themselves; so she kept with Alice, and tried to do her good.
That night, as the sun went down, Fanny might have been seen standing at the door, where she had bid Mary and Emma good-night. Alice was preparing to go, but Fanny seemed quite forgetful of her. She was still looking far down the road, where Mary and Emma, with an arm around each other's waist, were walking slowly along. Alice prided herself on being more genteel in her manners than was Fanny Brighton; but she had not Mary Palmer's self-forgetting courtesy. All the afternoon she had felt vexed, because she imagined that but little notice had been taken of herself; and now, as Fanny stood so absent-minded, picking a rose to pieces, as her eyes wandered far away, Alice hurriedly put on her bonnet, and said, in a tone of pique, "Good-night, Miss Brighton; I suppose you would like now to cut acquaintance with me."
"Nonsense," said Fanny. "Wait a moment, I am going a little way with you;" and as they walked along, Fanny tried to be herself again.
"There comes Graffam," said she: "now I hope that he is drunk; if so, we will make him tell about the times when he was major."
But in this Fanny was disappointed. Soberly, but sadly, the poor man of the plain came along, and shrunk from the gaze of those merry girls.
"O," said Fanny, "Uncle Pete is not tipsy; so we shall not hear from the major to-night."
Poor Graffam passed them quickly, for he heard this remark; and a deeper shade of gloom came over him. "What is the use of this dreadful struggle?" thought he. "What suffering this self-denial has cost me! and yet what is gained? Nothing, but to know that I am ridiculed and despised."
"It is the first time," said Fanny to herself, as she parted with Alice that night—"the first time that I have ever acted a part: but I would not have her suspect my feelings; and why do I feel so?"
Thus thought Fanny, as she sat down upon a rock by the roadside, and could not keep back the tears which came from a heart never so sad before. And why so sad? Fanny had been, for a few hours, in close converse with one who every day was becoming more and more meet for an inheritance with the saints in light. She had ridiculed and set at defiance the most common rules of politeness; but what was she to do with the self-forgetting, affectionate courtesy which she had seen, not forced nor constrained, but beaming forth so sweetly, so naturally, from those young disciples of Christ? Fanny felt that, however deceitful the world's polite intercourse might be, this was holy:—and how can sin approach purity without fear and trembling? She felt this mysterious fear. The reckless girl, whose highest boast had always been that she feared nothing, now trembled, as in imagination she changed places with Emma, and stood where she saw her standing,—upon the brink of the tomb.
It was on this evening that Emma was summoned to her mother's room. She found her mother sitting alone with Martha. There was no light there save moonlight, and Emma was glad, for she knew that her own countenance was deathly; and she had known that for weeks her mother had watched her narrowly.
"Emma, my dear," said Mrs. Lindsay, "you understand the reason of my coming to this place—that it was solely on your account."
"Yes, mamma," said Emma.
"I have invited some of the gayest of our young friends," continued Mrs. Lindsay, "to keep us company; and all this because I wanted you to make the most of being in the country. I have them here, my love, to talk, to ride, to run, and walk with you. This was the advice of your physician. He said that you would soon become healthy and happy, provided his directions were faithfully followed: but they are not; and how can we expect these favorable results? You neither ride nor walk with suitable company; not that I care much about your present associations. If they are conducive to health, that is sufficient: but I have reason to think, dear, that you spend a great part of your time alone—that you go into the woods, not with your gay young friends (as the doctor requires) to run and have a good frolic, but to sit down and read. Is it not so?"
"Yes, mamma," said Emma, "it is so. I cannot run now, and I get very tired in walking only a short distance; but it rests me, dear mother, to read the Bible."
"But how can I have you go away alone to read your Bible, and think sadly of—being so weak?" asked her mother.
"Not sadly," replied Emma; "I do not think sadly, mother, for all the sadness is gone; and if I have not become healthy, I certainly have become happy, very happy, since we came to Appledale. It is true that I see a great deal to be done now, and wish sometimes that those who have the prospect of years before them would undertake this work."
"I am glad that you mentioned this," said Mrs. Lindsay; "you have imbibed some of Dora's strange notions, my dear, about living for others. You may be assured, Emma, that I have not sacrificed so much for any object save that of your health. I did not leave the society of the refined and intelligent for the sake of benefiting the rude and ignorant; and I would have you remember what was my object. You have nothing to do with this community only with a view to your health. If such society amuses you, mingle with it freely, but waste no thoughts upon the people here. They have always taken care of themselves, and can do this still without any help from little Emma Lindsay."
This the mother said playfully, as she kissed her cheek, and added: "I did not give you a fashionable education, my dear; but it was not because I intended you for a missionary."
"My heavenly Father may have intended this," replied Emma; "and you would not oppose Him, mother, for he has purchased me with a great price. We may be unwilling to make the smallest sacrifice for our fellow-creatures, yet God gave his only Son a sacrifice for us."
"How that child talks," said Mrs. Lindsay, bursting into tears as Emma left the room.
"And yet," replied Martha, "if we cannot save her, mother, you would rather that she should be as she is."
The mother made no reply, for she knew not what to say.
Emma's first summer and winter at Appledale had passed away. It was a beautiful morning in May; Martha Lindsay was sitting beside a low couch where her young sister was sleeping so sweetly, so gently, that she had more than once placed her cheek close to those parted lips fearing that the breath was gone. Dora was in her little room adjoining Emma's, and with hands uplifted in prayer, was asking this one thing of the Lord, that as in life so in death, Emma might glorify him. Mrs. Lindsay was pacing the floor in her own chamber, now weeping as if her heart would break, and now striving in this hour of deep distress, to do as Emma had long entreated her to do, namely, to come weary and heavy laden to Him who in no wise will cast us out. Mr. Graffam was at work in the garden; but his eye, now clear and intelligent, often rested on the chamber windows where the curtains were folded so close and solemnly.
Susan Sliver had watched with Emma many a night, and now she had retired for a few moments while Emma slept. Susan no longer sighed for Olivet and Kedron, for in a Christian's earnest daily work she had found places equally sacred.
"I have come to hear thy dying testimony, Emma," said friend Sliver, as drawing his broad-brimmed hat more closely over his eyes, the old man took his seat beside the bed.
Emma smiled feebly. "Are any more of my friends here?" she asked.
"Fanny Brighton is in the keeping-room," said Martha.
"Call her," whispered Emma; and in a few moments Fanny was kneeling beside the bed sobbing violently, while Emma pressed her hand, but could not speak. But there was a bright triumphant smile upon her face as Mary Palmer came in; and Mary smiled too through her tears. She had spent many a day with Emma since that first summer at Appledale; and now, though a little girl, and a young Christian, she felt somewhat as did Elisha when he awaited the horsemen and chariot which were coming for Elijah.
Emma looked around the room and stretched her hand toward her mother, who had just entered with Dora. Mrs. Lindsay took that cold hand into her own, and then Emma repeated I Cor. xiii, 13, "And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity."
Emma's breath grew shorter, but she was able to add a verse which she had often read in Dora's hymn book:—
"This is the grace must live and sing
When faith and hope shall cease,
And sound from every joyful string
Through all the realms of bliss."
These were the last audible words uttered by Emma. When another morning came it found her cold and silent, dressed for the grave. The spring blossoms breathed their sweet fragrance into her open window, but Emma was gone—gone to the land of unfading bloom; yet her life, short and beautiful as the spring, had left in passing a more enduring fragrance than that of early blossom and flower.
Little by little does the husbandman cast the precious seed into the earth, and drop by drop comes the genial shower upon the green herb, yet who does not despise the day of small things? Young, feeble Christian, the world will never do thee justice, for in the great war of mighty deeds thy meek, noiseless charity is unheard and forgotten; but fear not, God keeps his own jewels. Do what thou canst, and thus provide for thyself "a treasure in the heavens that faileth not."
There are some things spoken of in the town where Emma died, things not wholly forgotten, but far back in the distance of years. It is said that Mr. Graffam, who is now a Church-member and a town officer, was once a complete sot, living in a log-hut upon the plain. So much for the temperance reform. It is said, too, that the pious, charitable old lady, Mrs. Lindsay, and her good daughter Martha, now living at Appledale, were once very thoughtless, fashionable people; that the gentle, amiable Mrs. Boyd was, when a girl and living with her grandparents, one of the rudest and most reckless creatures living; that Susan and Margaret Sliver, now earnest, efficient co-operaters in every good cause, were once vain, frivolous, and almost hopelessly sentimental. Many such things are said; but there are but few who trace the changes that have taken place in those characters to their proper cause. We think, however, that if these persons could express what their secret hearts feel, they would ascribe the changes they have experienced to the grace of God first influencing them through the medium of simple Christian courtesy.