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

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

SCHOOL-DAYS IN 1800;

OR,

Education as it was a Century Since.

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY.

AUTHOR OF

"IRISH AMY," "COMFORT ALLISON," "OPPOSITE NEIGHBOURS,"
"NELLY, OR, THE BEST INHERITANCE," "TWIN ROSES," "ETHEL'S TRIAL,"
"RHODA'S EDUCATION," "THE TAME TURTLE," ETC.

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The UNION PRESS
Philadelphia.

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by the

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

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              —————————

         WESTCOTT & THOMSON,

 Stereotypers and Electrotypers, Philada.

PREFACE.

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   I HAVE tried in these pages to give a faithful record of a state of manners the memory of which is fast passing away. I have drawn my materials from original sources for the most part, and I am specially indebted to Mrs. Chloe Sheldon, an old lady who died in Rochester last summer in her hundred and fourth year. She was a woman of uncommonly acute mind, and retained her faculties to the very last. The story, such as it is, carries its own moral.

L. E. G.

GRANDMOTHER'S PREFACE.

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   MY great-grand-daughter Alice Brown, who is at present confined to the house by a sprained ankle, has persuaded me to repeat to her some passages of my early life that she may write them down. She thinks the doing so will be an amusement both to herself and me, and she is pleased also to say that she believes a record of such early times will be worth preserving. Alice is a good child, and so kind and attentive to me when she is able to be about that it is no more than fair I should give her a pleasure when it is in my power. And Alice says also what is quite true—that the memory of those old times is fading day by day. I never was one of those who are always saying that the former times are better than these, but I cannot think it well that the young folks of the present day should think (as some of them seem to think) that their ancestors were all ignorant and half savage.

   I know that a great deal more is made of education now than was ever the case in my time, but I am not sure that any more is learned. On the whole, it seems to me that people use the word "education" wrongly when it is made to mean only what is learned out of books. I think when I was teaching my daughter Rachel, Alice's grandmother, to spin wool and flax and to sew and make butter and cheese, I was carrying on her education as much, and perhaps as usefully, as if I had been teaching her geometry and metaphysics. Not that I have any objection to having girls learn mathematics and all the other sciences if they have the time and the health. When I had a young ladies' school of my own, I always tried to give my girls "hungry minds" for all kinds of knowledge. But if they must either give up the science or give up helping at home, I know which I think ought to go. But this is by the way.

   I have chosen to write this introduction with my own hand, for I am thankful to say that, though I am ninety years old this very day, I can still write and sew and thread my own needle with the help of my glasses. But I find my hand somewhat stiff when I try to write long at a time, and also, I think, Alice will be amused with setting down the words as I shall dictate them to her. I have had many blessings in my long life for which to be thankful, and it is not one of the least of these that my grandchildren, upon whom I am dependent (if not for my support, yet for that kindness, care, and cherishing love without which life is worth little), have trained their children also to follow in their footsteps, and to pay me that respect which the Bible says is due to age and gray hairs.

OLIVIA BROWN.

NOTE BY ALICE BROWN.

   I HAVE tried to set down this memoir or story just as grandmother dictated it to me, and on that account there will be found, perhaps, some words and expressions which, although not incorrect, are not in use at the present day. I remember when we studied grammar with our dear Miss Hilliard she made us understand the difference between words and expressions which were obsolete or old-fashioned and those which were ungrammatical or vulgar. But I have thought the story would be more interesting if I wrote it in the dear old lady's own words. I have often tried to persuade her to write a memoir of her own life or let me do so, but I do not suppose the work would ever have been commenced if I had not sprained my ankle in running across the road to save Mrs. Bell's baby, which was just under the feet of Mr. Antis's horse. I am sure I don't regret saving the baby as I did, but I was a good deal vexed about the sprain, which seemed to be one of those which grandma calls unnecessary accidents, because, if Lucinda Bell had been minding the baby instead of scolding Jeduthun Cooke because her chickens ate his tomatoes, the thing would not have happened. But I am almost reconciled to sitting still and being waited on, since my want of amusement really brought grandmamma to the point of letting me write down some of her early recollections.

ALICE BROWN.

   BOONVILLE, August, 1874.

CONTENTS.

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CHAPTER

I.—EARLIEST DAYS

II.—EARLY RECOLLECTIONS

III.—GOING TO SCHOOL

IV.—THE TREASURE-SEEKERS

V.—SUNDAY

VI.—THE GREAT BREAK

VII.—AUNT BELINDA

VIII.—MY NEW HOME

IX.—THE DOLL'S TRAGEDY

X.—BOSTON DAYS

XI.—NEW CHANGES

XII.—ELMINA'S FORTUNE

XIII.—NEW SCENES

XIV.—NEW EXPERIENCES

XV.—ENGLISH DAYS

XVI.—ENGLISH SCHOOL-DAYS

XVII.—HOME AGAIN

XVIII.—HOME

XIX.—THE WEEKS OF SECLUSION

XX.—CONCLUSION

SCHOOL-DAYS IN 1800

GRANDMOTHER'S SCHOOL-DAYS.

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CHAPTER I.

EARLIEST DAYS.

I WAS born in the town of Lee, Massachusetts, on the nineteenth day of October, 1781. The day of my birth was the anniversary of my father's forefathers' landing on this continent one hundred years before, and also of the surrender of Cornwallis at Yorktown—a surrender which really closed the Revolutionary war. My father, who was a dragoon all through the Revolution, was present on that occasion, and has often described the scene to us, telling us how the Germans wept as they laid down their arms, and how the British officers showed their bitter feelings by saluting the French officers on the American side, but refusing even to return the salutes of the Americans. It was hard for them, of course, but they certainly made the matter no better by such an undignified display of temper.

My father's name was Richard Corbet. His family came from Devonshire, and was a branch of a very old family in that country, as I was told when I was in England. Our first ancestor in this country was named Richard Corbet, like my father, and came over to Dorchester in 1680, bringing with him his family and a very respectable property. He first settled in Dorchester, where he was much respected, and from thence his descendants spread over the country. It is said truly that no man's worth depends on his ancestors; but yet I think it is very natural to wish to know something of one's progenitors, and to take a little pride in them if they are respectable people. (Alice says "progenitors" is a long word, but I tell her everybody has a dictionary in these days.)

I do not know that my father's family were remarkable for anything but a kind of sturdy, determined perseverance and honesty and a somewhat warm temper, of which I inherited my full share. They were always a good deal given to both reading and writing, and we have several journals kept by some of them which are very pleasant reading.

My mother's family were also of English descent, but came over at an earlier date. My mother was a daughter of Mr. David Evans of Salisbury, in Connecticut—a gentleman who was extensively engaged in iron works in that place. Before the Revolution he was accounted wealthy for those times and that country, but he gave very largely to the patriotic cause, besides lending a good deal to the government which he never got back again. However, he was always "well off," as the saying is, and gave his children, both boys and girls, an excellent education. He had two boys and three girls, all of them rather distinguished for beauty and talent, and of these children my mother was the youngest. I have never seen a more lovely woman than my mother, nor a woman with a more cultivated mind and taste, though she knew nothing of many things which girls study nowadays. She was rather quiet and retiring—not so brilliant as her sister, my aunt Lydia. But her cultivated mind was the least of her graces. I have never known a more consistent Christian than she showed herself in every walk of life, nor one who did more to make those happy who came in her way. Her health was never good. She had worked too hard when she was young, taking care of her grandmother, who was a helpless paralytic for many years, and she was always subject to nervous attacks and severe fits of sickness. People talk a great deal of the decay of female health in these days, but I never see any one have such hysteric fits now as used to be very common when I was young. But with all her hindrances, my mother accomplished more work than a great many who have the whole use of their time.

My father settled on a farm in Lee just before the breaking out of the Revolution, and built himself a very good house. When he was married, he took his bride home directly, without any wedding journey such as is the fashion now. Her father had furnished her with everything necessary in great abundance, and nobody could begin married life with better prospects, though even then there was a cloud of war hanging low in the sky, and certain mutterings of thunder which made wise folks foretell a storm. In the second year of their marriage the storm broke and separated my father most of the time for seven long years from his wife and child, for he went into the first regiment of dragoons which was raised in New England, and continued in the same till the end of the war, only coming home now and then for a few weeks at a time. He was in a great many engagements, passed through the disastrous winter at Valley Forge, and "assisted," as the French say, at the surrender of Lord Cornwallis, which virtually put an end to the war; yet he never had a serious wound nor a dangerous fit of sickness. During his absence my mother lived part of the time in her own house in Lee, and the rest with her father in Salisbury.

When the troops were disbanded, and things were once more in a settled way, my father and mother went to house-keeping again, and shortly afterward I was born, and named Olivia, after my mother's mother, and Yorktown, after a fancy of my father's, since I first saw the light, as I have said, on the very day and hour of the surrender. My mother has told me that she wished to call me Olivia Landon, after a favourite aunt of her own, but my father would not consent, because my uncle Landon's people were Tories. Uncle Landon adhered to the English side during the war, and was so much in earnest that, rather than not live under the king, he sold all his property and moved away to Halifax, after which we lost sight of the family. It certainly showed that he was sincere in his principles, for he had a beautiful place, for which he never got half its value, and he gave up a very good business. I don't think, either, that Halifax could ever have been a pleasant place of residence. Mother was very fond of her aunt Landon, and used sometimes to say that I resembled her—a remark which always rather annoyed my father, who could see no good in a Tory.

My two Evans aunts married after my mother, and both did very well. Aunt Lydia went to New York State. Her husband was a man of great influence, a large land-owner and much respected. Aunt Roxana, who was the youngest of my aunts, went to New Bedford on a visit to some cousins, and there she fell in with Roger Swayne of Nantucket, captain of a whaler, and married him out of hand. I have heard that her father was not exactly pleased with the match—not that he had anything against Roger Swayne, who was a most respectable man and well-to-do, but he did not quite like the idea of his daughter marrying a sailor, and a Quaker, as Roger was, at least by descent. However, he made no opposition, seeing that the young people were bent upon it, but gave her the same setting-out as he had done to her sisters.

I can just remember Roger Swayne and his wife being at our house on a visit shortly after their marriage. I thought he was the nicest uncle that ever lived, because he told us sea-stories and made us many curious things with his knife—ships and boats, and some more useful articles, for he whittled out a whole set of cedar clothes-pins for my mother, and mended her spinning-wheel for her.

Shortly after Roxana's marriage, Grandfather Evans died, and the family at Salisbury was broken up. Uncle David lived in the old house, it is true, but Uncle William went to Boston, where he married a rich widow, and succeeded to her first husband's business and property. He never came to see us after his marriage, and indeed lived only a little while.

My father's family mostly lived down in Connecticut, and were well-to-do farmers and mechanics. We used to exchange letters now and then, but postage was dear and mails very irregular. Father was always talking of taking mother to visit them, but a convenient time never came.

CHAPTER II.

EARLY RECOLLECTIONS.

I THINK young children begin to notice and remember at a very much earlier age than people generally suppose. I am sure I recollect perfectly well my first going to meeting, though I was not more than three years old, from this circumstance: I was standing up during prayer, as the custom was then, on a little cricket, or foot-stool; and not being well balanced, the stool slipped from under me, and I fell, bumping my chin with considerable force on the edge of the book-board, which caused me to bite my tongue; yet I was so impressed with the necessity of not crying in meeting that I never made a sound. My mother lifted me up and pressed my head against her, and a lady in the next pew, Miss Temperance—or, as she was usually called, Miss Tempy—Hutchinson smiled approvingly, and handed me her fan, I suppose to divert me from my pain and grief. At any rate, it had that effect. It was a very splendid fan, large and wide, with gilt sticks and a painted picture of a gentleman in full court costume bowing to a lady very gayly dressed, and with real gold spangles sewed on her gown. I was so much impressed with this work of art, and with Miss Tempy's kindness in entrusting to my hands anything so valuable, that I quite forgot my grief, though I had a lump on my chin which lasted for several days. After that I went to meeting regularly; and though I often got very tired and sometimes went to sleep, I should have considered it a great punishment to be left at home.

Our house was very pleasant and comfortable. There were two rooms in front, with a hall and stairs between. In one my father and mother slept, and usually the two younger children had a trundle-bed—an article of furniture much in use in those times, but seldom seen nowadays. The room on the other side was the parlour, or keeping-room, as it was called in some places, because, I suppose, it was "kept" and seldom used except for grand occasions—weddings, funerals, and solemn tea-drinkings. It had a large fire-place, with bright brass and irons to hold the wood, a handsome striped carpet, and other suitable furniture, among which I remember specially a very tall mahogany secretary or bureau, with a book-case on the top, a desk at a convenient height for writing, and a great many drawers, both large and small, which seemed to my youthful imagination to contain untold treasures, though I believe its contents were chiefly table- and house-linen, of which my mother had great store. The book-case was well filled with valuable books, among which was that set of the "Rambler" which is still in your father's possession, and which was given to my mother for a wedding-present by that same uncle Landon who went away to Canada. Both my father and mother were reading people, and came from families who were very fond of reading and study.

At the back was the kitchen, running nearly the whole width of the house, with a small bed-room and large pantry taken off one end, and a larger bed-room and the cellar and kitchen stairs at the other. I do not know how it would appear to me now; but as I look back at it that kitchen seems to me the pleasantest room I can remember. It was floored with narrow, hard boards which were always kept white as snow, and the walls were finished to the height of one's elbow with painted woods. In the middle of one side was the great fire-place, so wide that I have often of an evening looked up through the chimney and seen the stars. Over the fire were the crane and trammels on which the dinner-pots were hung, and at one side was a large brick oven. It was quite a piece of engineering to make the fire in this fire-place. First, there was the backlog—a log indeed, so large that it often required all a man's strength to get it in place. On this was laid the back-stick, a smaller log, and in front, on the and-irons, the fore-stick. This was the foundation of the fire, to which lighter fuel was added as required; and the fire was never suffered to go out in cold weather. In summer, however, we did the cooking in an outer kitchen or shed, where there was a small fire-place, and that in the kitchen was filled with asparagus bushes and other green things. Once I remember mother made a bed of garden-mould in the hearth, and planted some nasturtium seeds, which grew and blossomed very nicely, to my great admiration. Over the fire-place always hung a gun, and some crook-necked squashes and special ears of corn reserved for planting.

On one side of the fire-place was the settle, on the other the table and sink, where mother washed her dishes and did her baking and other cooking work. There were plenty of straight-backed, splint-bottom chairs, one or two arm-chairs, and a low sewing- and nursing-chair with rockers which belonged specially to my mother. There were also the dining-table and two small stands; one was my mother's sewing-stand, while the other held the great Bible in which father read at prayers morning and evening. This Bible had pictures in it, and contained the Apocrypha, which was one of our great resources on Sundays when the weather was too bad to go to church. The rest of the house consisted of the two bed-rooms I have mentioned, the outer kitchen, two or three rooms up stairs, one of which was a spare bed-room, and a large garret or store-room.

I must not forget to mention the spinning-wheels which almost always stood either in the kitchen or in my mother's room. There were two of them, the large one for wool and the smaller for flax, and on these were spun most of the clothing of the family. Another wheel stood in the garret, and was brought down when we had a spinning-girl, for mother never liked to have any one use her wheel but herself.

Out of doors we had in front of the house a door-yard where mother always had two or three flower-beds and some lilac and rosebushes. The back yard was mostly given up to the wood-pile and the hens. There were two barns, one near the house, the other some little distance away. Back of these the ground sloped rather rapidly down to a meadow which lay along the river, and was the most valuable part of the farm. My father kept two horses and a saddle-horse, besides several cows and a good many sheep. Besides this live-stock, we had both hens and ducks in great plenty, an old yellow-and-white cat which always seems to me to have had two kittens, and a big yellow dog, named Bose. He was a fine, good-natured fellow and a capital watch-dog, but he came to a very sad end. This tragedy of Bose was my first trouble in this world.

Our family, when I first remember, consisted of my father and mother, my two brothers, older than myself, a baby sister named Ruth, and an adopted child named Jeanne Dupont. Besides these, there was an elderly coloured woman named Rose who really belonged to mother, having been left her with other property by her grandfather, but who lived sometimes with us and sometimes with Uncle David's family, as she was most wanted, or, I suspect, as the fit took her. Latterly, however, she lived entirely with us. We children were very fond of her, and were always sorry to have her go away; for though she never spoiled us, she was always contriving ways to give us pleasure, being specially kind when we were sick or in any trouble, and was one of the best storytellers I ever heard. She had belonged to my great-grand-mother, and had many tales to tell of that lady's exploits in spinning, weaving, and working generally. She always ended by telling Jeanne and me that we never should be as smart or as handsome as our mother—a prophecy which did not trouble us at all, for I think we both considered our mother too far above us for us ever to think of emulating her virtues.

But Rose did not approve of all grandmother's ways. I remember once, when Mrs. Hyde came to spend the afternoon, mother showed her a piece of table-linen which she spun and wove before she was twelve years old.

"Ah," said Mrs. Hyde, turning to Jeanne and myself, "do you think, girls, you will ever be as smart as that?"

"Not it I's 'round dey won't," said Aunt Rose, who never hesitated to put in her word. "I allers thought Miss Rachel's weak back and her nerves all came from her doing so much work when she was young, a-setting at her wheel and in the loom when she was weak and growing. That 'ere linen cost more than it come to, according to my way of thinking. Some kinds of work is all very well for girls if they don't do too much, spinning wool, and churning, and such like—makes 'em grow straight and strong; but not setting over the flax-wheel or in the loom."

Mrs. Hyde looked sober at this, I remember, and said very quietly, "I dare say you may be right, Rose."

And mother glanced at Rose in a way that silenced even her. Afterward I learned that Mrs. Hyde had a young daughter in consumption, which was brought on, as every one said, by doing so much fine work and sitting so steadily over her books. Her father was a minister and a very learned man, and he was determined she should have a boy's education, as he had no boys, while her mother was equally determined to make her a prodigy in the house-keeping line. She was to be the eighth wonder of the world, only, unluckily, she took the consumption, lingered a few years, and died.

Jeanne Dupont was six years older than I, and came into our family in an odd way. Her father was one of the French soldiers who came over with La Fayette, and a very brave man. He had only the one little daughter, who, having no mother to care for her, he had sent for to this country and placed at a convent school in the city of Baltimore, the only place in the colonies at that time, I believe, where there were any convents. Sergeant Dupont died at Yorktown from the breaking out of an old wound. He commended his daughter to the care of my father, whose life he had saved on the occasion when he got his wound (I am sorry to say I don't know when or where it was), and his last act was to write a letter to the superior of the convent authorizing my father to take the little girl away. Father said the nuns were very loath to give her up, and well they might be, since they knew nothing about him, save that he was a heretic. However, they let her go at last with many tears and blessings. My father brought her home, and I can truly say she never was anything but a comfort from the time she came into the house. She took to all our ways directly, learned English very fast, though she always spoke it with a little foreign accent, and by her winning ways took captive the hearts of all the family, even of Rose, who had begun by being very jealous of the foreign interloper. To me she was play-mate, guide, teacher, and everything; and when the great break up came of which I shall speak presently, I grieved as much in parting from Jeanne as from my parents.

Our mode of life was very simple in those days. We had breakfast at six in summer, and half-past seven in winter. This last hour was reckoned very late, but my father did not like getting up early in cold weather. He used to say he had had enough of that in the army. In winter we had prayers before, in summer after, breakfast. All who could read had Bibles or Testaments. We read each a verse or two in turn, and then my father finished the chapter and made a prayer. (On Sundays we always sang part of a Psalm or hymn.) Then my father and the boys, and the man if we had one, went about the farm-work in winter. In summer they were often out at work two hours before breakfast. My mother and Rose attended to all the kitchen work. Jeanne, with my help as soon as I was big enough, made the beds, swept and dusted, fed the hens, and brought in eggs, the latter being reckoned rather a pleasure than a task.

Mother always churned and took care of the butter herself, and now and then made a cheese. She also did the brewing, for every one in those days made home-brewed beer and drank it freely. Hence comes the saying, "As you brew so you must bake;" for if the beer turned out badly, there was no good yeast. Twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays, Rose baked—such immense bakings!—bread, both rye and Indian and wheat, pies, gingerbread, and loaf-cake, and always either a little saucer pie, a turn-over, or a cake for each of us children. The house-work was usually all done and out of the way by ten o'clock. Then, or a little before, the great dinner-pot went on the fire, with a piece of salt beef and another of pork, potatoes, beans, turnips, and all together. Sometimes we ate salt meat for two or three weeks at a time, varied only by a chicken now and then. At twelve dinner was on the table, and we all sat down, except Rose, who had an odd fancy for always eating alone, which she did sometimes in the shed, sometimes on the door-step or in the pantry, but never by any chance at the table.

When dinner was out of the way, my mother invariably changed her dress. When I first remember her, she used to wear in the morning a pressed flannel petticoat of home manufacture, a short gown, made usually of checked linen in summer and some thicker stuff in winter, and drawn in with strings or pleats, very much like what your cousin calls a "French waist." She had also a checked linen apron. In the afternoon she wore usually a petticoat of some glossy black stuff; a chintz, or on extra occasions a white short gown, and an apron and neck-handkerchief of fine linen lawn, sometimes with narrow stripes of yellow or blue. When mother was dressed, she usually lay down and rested for about an hour, for, as I said, she was never strong. This was her great reading-time, when she devoured every book that came in her way. At that hour I usually stayed with Rose or played with little Ruth if she were awake.

When she got up, mother used to go to her spinning, either flax or wool, or take her sewing, but even then she was apt to keep a book open near her and glance at its contents. In that way she stored her memory with a great deal of matter, especially of poetry. She knew Dr. Young's "Night Thoughts," his satires, and his tragedies almost by heart, and could repeat many favourite scenes from Shakespeare and more modern dramatists; and I well remember, when Rose was away and Jeanne at school, how she used to keep me quiet and contented with rocking the baby by repeating long passages from "Venice Preserved," and from "Julius Cæsar," as she paced back and forth at her wheels. Of course I did not understand a tenth part of what I heard, but the music of my mother's sweet voice, accompanied by the purring of the wheels, was a never-ending delight. I enjoyed what I did understand, and what I did not at least afforded food for my imagination.

We had supper at six, and prayers directly afterward, always singing in the evening. The ringing of the nine o'clock bell sent every one to bed; and so ended our day.

But I see Olive thinks I am running on rather too long with this chapter, so I will bring it to an end by relating the history of my first grief—the tragical end of poor Bose. It was a kind of era in my life, being, as I think, the very first occasion of my realizing the existence of trouble and evil in this world.

Bose was, as I have said, a fine dog, large and strong, with a great head and neck of a deep yellow, with a good deal of black about his muzzle. He was afraid of nothing and nobody, and had once saved the life of a woman who was attacked by our bull when crossing our pasture by actually holding down the creature's nose till some men in the next field came to his assistance; but his temper was so perfect that the youngest child might safely play with him. Our cat and he were on the best of terms, and the kittens made game of him, jumping after his tail, mounting on his back, and stealing his dinner; nor did I ever see him resent these liberties in any other way than by sometimes laying his paw on one of the little creatures and holding it down while he licked it with his great red tongue—a bit of discipline at which the old cat would look on approvingly.

Bose and I were the best of friends, and as soon as I was old enough my mother committed to me the care of feeding him. It was one of her maxims that children could not learn too early that they had duties to perform, and each of us, as soon as we were old enough to understand, had our allotted task, for which we were always held accountable. One morning, when I went to take Bose his breakfast, I found him lying at the door of his house looking very heavy and stupid, nor would he take any notice of either me or his food. His eyes were red and he had foam hanging round his jaws. Something—not my own sense, I am sure, for I had never heard of a mad dog at that time—kept me from touching him, but I went in and told mother the state of the case, adding that I believed Bose had hurt his mouth, for he kept his teeth going all the time.

I remember how my mother turned pale on hearing this news. She stopped me as I was going toward the door; and bidding me stay where I was, she went to the window and looked out. Poor Bose had left his kennel, and was staggering about the yard, now and then running against something, as if he could not see very well, and snapping fiercely. Rose came and looked over her shoulder.

"The dog is mad," said my mother, quite quietly. "Rose, what shall we do? Mr. Corbet is over on the mountain with Ulric, and the boys are at school. The poor thing must be killed, but who is to do it?"

"I had better run down and get John Schneider to come up with his gun," said Rose.

I began to cry at this, and begged my mother not to let poor Bose be killed, but to try and cure him.

"Hush, my child; you don't understand," said my mother. "Yes, go, Rose, if you are not afraid, and be as quick as you can."

At that minute Ruth, who was not well, began to cry, and my mother went to her, charging me on no account to open the door. But for once I was disobedient. I could not endure the thought of having good, kind Bose killed. I knew no meaning to "being mad" except the one in which children use it—that is, being out of temper—and I thought, if Bose were ever so much displeased, I could pacify him with a little coaxing. So I opened the kitchen door and softly called him. Miserable as he was, the poor creature knew my voice, and came staggering toward me. I should have had my arms round his neck in another minute, when I was sharply pulled back by my mother, who had heard the door opened and returned to the kitchen just in time.

"Olive, you are very naughty," said she, more sternly than I ever heard her speak. "Go into your bed-room and shut the door."

I knew there was no appeal. I rushed into my room, slammed the door, and buried my head in the pillow, but I could not help hearing Rose come back, John Schneider's Dutch accent asking, "Vere is the tog?" and then the crack of the rifle. Poor Bose gave one sharp yelp, and then all was still.

I crept to the window and looked out. John was going toward the orchard, wheeling something on the barrow which I could not distinctly see, but I knew it was the body of my poor old friend. Mother and Rose were out with the fire shovel and a pan of ashes, which they were scattering thickly wherever the dog had lain. I went back to the bed, and throwing myself down cried and sobbed as if my heart would break. People sometimes make light of the afflictions of children, but I think such people must have very short memories. If a pint cup is full, it is just as much full as if it held a gallon.

Poor Bose gave one sharp yelp.

Presently mother came in and sat down on the bed beside me, laying her hand on my head.

"Olive," said she, "don't you know it was naughty in you to open the door when you were told not to do so?"

"Yes, mother," I sobbed, "but—but you said Bose was mad, but I knew he would not be mad at me, and I thought I could make him good-natured if I coaxed him."

"You did not understand," answered mother. "If I had not come just in time to pull you back, Bose would probably have bitten you, and you would have died a dreadful death." And then she explained the matter to me and made me understand how it was only merciful to put the poor dog out of pain and out of the way of doing harm. Mother had always a very impressive way with her when she was talking seriously to us children, and as she made me see what might have happened I shuddered and laid my face on her shoulder, for she had lain down beside me on the bed.

"You see now," added mother, "how needful it is that children should do just as they are told, even when they do not understand the reason."

"Yes, mother," said I; and indeed it was a lesson I never forgot. She talked to me a long time very kindly, and then, when I had calmed down a little, she proposed that I should dress myself and go with Rose over to the carding-machine to see about some rolls which ought to have been sent home; and as it was quite a walk, we should take some lunch and eat it on the bank of the river under the trees.

I knew mother meant to divert me from my grief; and I am sure her kindness affected me more than any punishment would have done, for I began to be very sensible how naughty I had been in opening the door. I bathed my eyes and dressed myself neatly, and we set out on our walk, Rose carrying a basket containing our lunch.

The carding-machine was nearly half a mile away. We went, not by the road, which was warm and dusty, but "across lots," down to the river, and then along the bank, where grew many fine elms, all run over and tangled together by wild vines. Rose told me they bore grapes called frost grapes, because they only ripened after the frost had touched them. We had a delightful walk, for Rose exerted herself to entertain me, and I could hardly believe it when we arrived at our journey's end.

Carding-machines were rather new in those days. They took a great deal of work off the hands of the women, for before that time all the wool was carded at home and by hand, which was no joke. Some people thought the rolls made by the machine did not spin as well as those made by hand, but my mother was not of that opinion.

The man who managed the machine lived close by the mill in a little red house with white window-frames—I think the smallest house I ever saw. His wife came out to speak to Rose and me; and hearing of our trouble in losing Bose, she asked Rose some questions in an under-tone, and then, going into her house, she presently came out with a beautiful tortoise-shell kitten, the first one I ever saw, and gave it to me to keep.

CHAPTER III.

GOING TO SCHOOL.

IT was a good many days before I recovered my spirits after the shock which poor Bose's death had given me.

I suppose I was an odd child. I remember hearing father say that with nine children out of ten one could tell pretty well what they would do, but I was the tenth, of whom there was no saying how I would take anything. The truth was I had got a great shock which threatened seriously to affect my health. I moped about and could not eat, and every little thing made me cry, which was very uncommon with me. I could not bear to see a dog, and I hated the very sight of good, kind-hearted John Schneider, who had killed Bose. He was one of the Hessian soldiers employed by the English government, and at the conclusion of the war, instead of returning home, he concluded to remain in this country, bought a little piece of land, and settled down to earn his living by farming and shoe-making.

Father and mother talked the matter over, and it was finally decided that it would be best for me to go to school. I hardly know how it happened that my schooling had been put off so long, for most of the children began at five, and some a good deal younger. I had lost no time, however. Jeanne taught me my letters, and she or mother used to hear me read every day that winter, so that by spring I could manage words of two syllables pretty well. The summer school was to open the next Monday, and it was decided that I should go.

Accordingly, upon Monday morning I set off; walking demurely by Jeanne's side, my mind divided between joy and awe. I had been at the school as a visitor once or twice, and I had always retained a vast admiration for Miss Temperance Hutchinson, the teacher, ever since the memorable day that she diverted me from my trouble in church by lending me her fan; but then there were the strange girls and boys, of whom I stood a good deal in fear, for I was a shy child and but little used to mix with children of my own age. On the whole, however, I think the joy was the stronger. I remember I was dressed in a dark-red pressed flannel petticoat—home-made, of course, but by no means coarse or ugly—a short gown made of a bit of "new" chintz—a circumstance of which I was rather proud—and a blue checked linen apron. I carried a bag containing my spelling-book, my thread and thimble, and a square of patch-work ready basted, also an apple to be eaten in recess. Jeanne had a similar bag, and carried besides a basket containing our lunch of bread and butter, cheese, and dough-nuts, for we lived too far from the school-house to permit us to return home at noon.

As we came in sight of the school-house, and I saw the large and noisy group of children assembled about the door, my heart sunk considerably, and I dare say that I squeezed Jeanne's hand very tight, for I remember her saying, "Don't be scared, Olive; they won't hurt you."

"I am not scared," I answered, promptly enough; but I rather think I would have given a good deal to be safely at home. However, I was determined to put a good face on the matter, and did not tremble much when Jeanne led me up to Miss Tempy, who welcomed me kindly, and calling a pretty little girl about my own age told me that I should sit beside her.

"Cannot Olive sit with me to-day, Miss Tempy?" asked Jeanne, answering the imploring look that I turned toward her with an encouraging glance. "She is very shy."

Though Miss Tempy could be firm, and even stern, as I soon found out, she knew how to be gentle and yielding on occasion; so she answered, graciously,—

"Yes, she may do so—till recess at least. After that I will see about it."

This concession confirmed my previous notion of Miss Tempy's goodness; and being now seated at my ease, I began to look about me. I remember as if I had seen it yesterday the appearance of the school-room. It was rather a large, low room, with beams running across the ceiling. Almost the whole of one end was taken up by an immense fire-place with a brick hearth capable of receiving a quarter of a cord of wood at once. There was no fire now, however, and the space was occupied by a large broken-handled pitcher filled with green branches. This was a fancy of Miss Tempy's, who liked to have everything neat and pretty about her. The other three sides were taken up by long desks fixed to the wall, having a shelf underneath to hold books. Before these desks stood benches without backs, for the convenience of having the scholars face inward or outward, according as they were writing, studying, or reciting. These desks and benches belonged exclusively to the writing scholars. Inside of these stood another somewhat lower set of benches, and still another, these last being low enough to accommodate the "a, b, c" class. The teacher's chair and table stood in the middle of the room, the latter accommodating an ink-stand, a large work-basket, two or three books, and a ruler—all Miss Tempy's private property—and a small hand-bell. Here also was placed an object which we little ones at least regarded with peculiar veneration—namely, a silver watch which had been given to Miss Tempy's father by the great general Wolfe himself.

Miss Tempy, having consulted the watch, rang her bell, and the scholars came into the room in a very orderly manner, and took their seats according to their rank. The Testaments being produced and the places found, the boys and girls read each a verse. I remember the chapter that morning was the eighth of Matthew. When all had read, Miss Tempy finished the chapter and made a short prayer, and then school was begun.

I do not know that I remember the exact order of exercises, only that the oldest class read first in a reader called the "Third Part" —of what I don't know to this day; I suppose of some series of school-books. It was made up of selections from different English writers, papers from the "Rambler" and "Spectator," some scenes of Shakespeare, and other poetical extracts. Doubtless it contained many things far above the comprehension of its readers and altogether foreign to their experience, but at least it had the advantage of showing the boys and girls who used it that there were other worlds than the little one in which they lived, and also in many cases of waking up a degree of curiosity concerning the books from which these extracts were taken. The lesson this morning was the "Vision of Mirza," to which I listened eagerly, and was quite grieved when the lecture came to an end. I had no time to think about the matter, for the moment the class was dismissed Miss Tempy called me to her side, and opening the spelling-book and pointing with her scissors to the first column of "ba, be," etc., asked me what that was.

Was there ever such an affront? I, that could spell "baker," and even such hard words as "abase" and "abate," to be set to read in "ba!" My eyes fairly filled with tears, and I felt my face grow crimson. Nor was the matter mended by Miss Tempy's saying in the kindest tone,—

"Oh, you must not be frightened; I am sure you can tell what 'ba' spells."

I should have burst out crying in another minute had not Jeanne interposed. She had been watching my first lesson with great anxiety, and now spoke up in my behalf:

"Please, Miss Tempy, Olive can spell in two syllables and read in easy reading."

"Oh, ho! That alters the case," said Miss Tempy; and she turned over to the first reading-lesson, which consisted of such sentences as this: "No man may put off the law of God. My joy is in his law all the day."

My wounded pride being thus healed, I acquitted myself very well, to my own satisfaction, and still more to my sister's. Miss Tempy gave me a spelling-lesson to learn, and I retired to my seat very well pleased with my first experience. I studied diligently till recess, after which I was called up to spell.

"Very good!" said Miss Tempy, when the lesson was finished. "But now you must go to your own seat. Sally Millar and Jane Hyde will make room for you."

I knew Jane Hyde, who lived near us, and was not sorry to have her for a neighbour. She moved obligingly and welcomed me with a pleasant smile, but Sally Millar's lip curled with contempt, and she whispered as I took my place.

"Why don't she sit with the babies, where she belongs?"

"What did you say, Sally?" asked Miss Tempy, mildly, but at the same time placing her hand on the ruler which lay on the table.

Sarah did not answer at first; but on the question being repeated with a little more emphasis, she replied, sulkily enough,—

"I didn't say nothing."

"Is there no room for Olive?" was the next question.

Sarah did not reply in words, but she moved to accommodate me, which she had declined to do before.

"Very well," said Miss Tempy. "If you are crowded, Sarah, you can take that stool by the door."

Sarah did not answer; but taking advantage of a moment when Miss Tempy's back was turned, she whispered to me,—

"See if I don't pay you off, miss."

I did not answer except by a glance as full of contempt as her own, and taking out my patch-work began to sew very busily, though my attention was considerably diverted from my work by what went on around me.

I don't think any teacher in these days is kept so constantly busy as Miss Tempy used to be. There were no steel pens or copperplate copies, and consequently the scholars all wrote with quills, which required constant mending, and from written copies, which the teacher must supply. Then all the girls brought their sewing to school. Miss Tempy was renowned for her skill in all that pertained to the needle. No lace stitches were too fine, no patterns too intricate, for her keen eyes and skilful fingers, and she could teach the mystery of marking in all the known forms of the alphabet. If she had any favourites, it was certainly among those who were skilful with their needles, and she was said to show considerable partiality to my sister Jeanne on that account.

But she was an excellent teacher in every respect. I do not know that I have ever met with a better. She commanded to a remarkable degree the love and respect of those under her care. I never knew more than two or three who did not like her, and they were among the worst and lowest with whom she had to deal. She had several times taught the winter school when a suitable master could not be procured, and it was remarkable that, though a frail little woman, she kept better order among the big boys and girls who attended at that season than any master had ever been able to do.

You would have supposed that, her school-duties over, Miss Tempy might have considered herself entitled to rest, but nobody in the whole town was more ready with neighbourly service to the sick and the afflicted; and amid all her other employments she had found time to teach poor Elnathan Crum to read, write, and cipher, and many of her evening hours were spent in beguiling the sick boy of his weariness by reading aloud to him. The Cruets thought her perfect, and I suppose she was really as nearly so as poor feeble mortals ever become in this life.

I must not dwell too long on this part of my history. Suffice it to say that I was soon quite at my ease in the school, and able to go by myself whenever Jeanne was detained at home to help mother. Before the end of the summer I was promoted to the Testament class; for in those days the New Testament was used in all the schools as a regular class-book. This plan had its advantages and its drawbacks; for if; on the one hand, we gained a very familiar acquaintance with the text of Scripture, there was danger, on the other, that this very familiarity might destroy some of our regard for the same. I was also placed in a spelling-class composed, for the most part, of girls older than myself; where I kept my place at the head for a fair share of the time.

My first downfall in the class was connected with a lesson which I never forgot. I had been at the head of the class for more than a week, and was straining every nerve to keep my position, carrying home my book, and even studying on my way to school. One day, however—one dreadful day—I missed—missed a word which I knew perfectly well; and Jenny Hyde went above me. This was bad enough, but it was not all; for owing to the disturbance of my spirit, I missed again, and actually went down two places.

Here was a misfortune. I returned to my place crying and declining to be comforted; and when noon came, I refused to either go out or eat my luncheon. Jeanne was trying in vain to persuade me, when Miss Tempy said gently,—

"Run away, Jeanne; I wish to talk with Olive myself."

The teacher's lightest word was law, and Jeanne had no choice but to obey; so she went away, and I prepared myself to resist Miss Tempy's comfortings as I had done those of my sister.

"Olive," said Miss Tempy, rather severely, "don't you know that you are showing a very wrong spirit?"

I looked up in such amazement that I quite forgot to cry. To be blamed for my grief was the very last thing I expected.

"You are very selfish," proceeded Miss Tempy. "Don't you think the other children like to be at the head as well as you? Why should you wish to have the best place all the time?"

This was an entirely new view of the matter, and I did not know what to say to it. Miss Tempy followed up her advantage:

"Only this morning you were reading in the New Testament that we are not to desire the highest places, but it seems you cannot be suited with any other. You pretend to love Jenny Hyde very much, but you could not cry any more if she were dead than you do because she is a little better off than yourself."

"I—I didn't mean that," I stammered.

"What did you mean?" asked Miss Tempy, severely.

But in truth I was not prepared to say what I meant. In my own heart I had thought I was doing a very fine thing in thus grieving over my downfall, but Miss Tempy had opened my eyes and made me feel very small indeed.

"Now," continued Miss Tempy, "I advise you to stop crying, wash your face, and eat your dinner; and when Jenny comes back this afternoon, tell her you are sorry you were so cross to her."

For I forgot to say that I had utterly refused to speak to Jenny when school was out.

Very much humbled, I obeyed. Jenny was a gentle-spirited little thing, and we were soon as good friends as ever; but the lesson was one I never forgot.

CHAPTER IV.

THE TREASURE-SEEKERS.

I HAD only one serious trouble in school, and that trouble's name was Sarah Millar. I cannot even now explain the influence she had over me. She was not handsome or specially bright, and certainly she was not amiable. I cannot say I ever liked her, and at times I almost hated her, yet I really think she led me into all the serious scrapes in which I was ever involved before I was nine years old. I don't think she cared a pin for me personally. I believe she took that way to annoy Jeanne, whom she hated because she said Jeanne "felt above her."

One of these scrapes I specially remember, because it was the means of breaking off my intercourse with Sarah. It came about in this way. One day late in the fall my father and mother went away on a visit to some cousins in Lanesborough, taking with them Jeanne and Ruth, but leaving my brothers and myself at home under the care of Rose. They were to be gone several days, and mother enjoined me to be very good, to go to school every day, and mind what Rose told me; promising if she heard a good account of me on her return to bring me something pretty from my cousin's store in Lanesborough.

But I did not feel at all like being good. I was vexed at being left at home, and thought myself hardly treated. True, I had my mother's promise that I should go next time she went anywhere, and I knew that mother's promises were as sure as any human thing can be; but who knew when "next time" would come? Perhaps not in all winter. It was with a very ill-used feeling that I saw my friends depart on their journey and obeyed the somewhat imperative summons of Rose:

"Don't stand there in the cold, honey, without nothing on your head. Come in and get ready for school."

"I don't want to go to school alone," I answered, sulkily enough; "I'm going to stay at home till mother comes back—or to-day, at any rate," I added, reflecting that I might, after all find staying at home rather tiresome.

"You ain't going to stay to home to-day nor no other day," was the decided reply. "Your mother told me you was to go regular every day just the same as if she was at home. So you just put all such nonsense out of your head. Go and brush your hair and lace up your boots real nice, and I'll put up a first-rate dinner for you. I baked a little pumpkin pie yesterday just on purpose, and you shall have the piece of loaf-cake that was left last night. Come, now; better be stirring before I come there."

Moved by this judicious mixture of sweet and acid arguments, I did really go and get ready for school, relenting somewhat from my sulkiness when I discovered by peeping into my basket that Rose had more than fulfilled her promise with regard to my dinner. During my long and lonely walk, however,—for Ezra and Tom had, as usual, gone off without concerning themselves about me,—the rebellious thoughts again came uppermost, and I was trudging along in a very discontented state, when I was joined by Sarah Millar.

"Seems to me you look dreadful discontented and out of sorts," was her salutation. "What's the matter?" Then, without waiting for an answer, "Pa saw your folks driving up toward Pittsfield this morning, and I supposed, of course, that you'd be along. Why didn't you go?"

"Mother said I should go next time," I answered, not very directly. "It was Jeanne's turn this morning."

"Oh!" said Sarah, in a peculiar tone. "It generally is 'Jeanne's turn,' isn't it?"

I had never thought of it in that way, but now that I was reminded of the circumstance it did seem to me that "Jeanne's turn" had come pretty often lately.

"I'm sure you are dreadful good to think so much of that French girl as you do," pursued Sarah, in whose vocabulary the word "dreadful" answered the same purposes that are now subserved by "awful." "I know 'I' shouldn't like to have a strange girl coming in and taking my place with my father and mother. Only for her you would be the eldest daughter, wouldn't you?"

It had never occurred to me that it was any hardship "not" to be the eldest daughter, but I immediately began to think of it in that light; which was no doubt just what Sarah intended, for she was a born mischief-maker.

"But never mind that now," said she. "What are you going to do while they are away?"

"I'm sure I don't know," I answered, in a melancholy tone. And then, recollecting myself and brightening up a little, "Only, Rose says she will begin to teach me to spin; and Jenny Hyde and I mean to make a new play-house."

"Dear me! I should think you'd be ashamed!" said Sarah, contemptuously—"A great girl like you to be making play-houses and rag-babies with Jenny Hyde! And I would not be in a hurry to learn to spin, either. Once you know how, they will keep you at it all the while, and you won't get any time to play at all. I'll tell you what to do: come home with me after school and stay all night."

"Rose won't let me," I answered.

"Pshaw! Who's Rose, I should like to know, that you should mind her? I guess I wouldn't be ordered by an old woman like Rose."

"Mother wouldn't let me if she were at home," said I, abandoning Rose. "She never does let me go home with any of the girls except Jenny Hyde."

"Oh yes, your folks think a great deal of Jenny Hyde. Guess, if your mother knew how Mrs. Hyde talked about her—But never mind that. Anyhow, your mother isn't at home, and she won't know it. Come, Olly; come home and stay with me, and we will have such fun."

"Well, I'll ask Miss Tempy," said I, yielding more and more.

"Ask Miss Tempy! Olive Corbet, I do think you are too silly for anything! Of course Miss Tempy won't let you go. She hates me like poison because my folks are poor and live on the mountain. But never mind! Just wait a little," said Sarah, nodding her head and compressing her lips—"just wait a while, and then see who'll have their silk dresses, and gold watches all set with diamonds, and gold finger-rings and ear-rings. She won't be so proud of her old silver watch then. Why, I wouldn't speak to her after that—not if she was to go down on her knees to me."

"After what?" I asked, very much interested, but unable to picture to myself such an event as Miss Tempy's going down on her knees to Sarah Millar.

"Never mind. It's a great secret, but perhaps I'll tell you if you'll go home with me. Come, say you will, and show that you are not afraid of an old black woman, and that you can have some good times as well as that Jeanne Dupont."

All day long as she had opportunity Sarah plied her arts of persuasion, and at last I yielded. My brothers had never taken any care as to my comings and goings, and it happened that Jenny Hyde, with whom I usually walked home, was not at school that day; so, as seems so often to happen with young transgressors, every hindrance was taken out of my way. Except, indeed, my own misgivings. These grew stronger and stronger at every step which I made away from home and in the direction of Beartown Mountain, at the side of which Sarah Millar's father lived.

It was a pretty long walk, and I was not very strong, and lagged behind in a way which caused Sarah to speak sharply to me more than once. The last time this happened I took a sudden resolution:

"I am not going any farther, Sarah; I have changed my mind. I remember something I want to do at home."

I expected Sarah would begin to urge me, and was very much surprised when she answered, coolly,—

"All right. I'm sure I don't care if you are not afraid. 'I' am in a hurry to get home before dark, and there isn't any time to spare, either. However, you had better hurry, and 'perhaps' you won't see any."

"Any what?" I asked, conscious of a certain chilliness at her words, for I was by no means distinguished for courage.

"Father heard one on the mountain last night," continued Sarah; "but maybe it won't come down—unless a storm should come up," she added, looking at the clouds, which did seem rather threatening.

"Heard what?" I asked, impatiently.

"Oh, nothing much—only a painter, that's all."

Now, painters, or panthers, were the most terrible beasts of which I had any knowledge. Many tales were told of their courage, ferocity, and cunning, and we children dreaded them with much the same kind of feeling that I suppose German children entertain toward the wehr-wolves, considering them as a kind of supernatural monsters.

"Won't you go part of the way with me?" I asked, feeling my heart sink within me at the prospect of the long, lonely walk and the painter, who might be even then lying in wait for me.

"Not I, indeed!" returned Sarah, beginning to walk on very fast. "Good-night, Olive. I hope there won't anything catch you—I 'hope' there won't."

I shall never forget how utterly despairing was the feeling that came over me there by the road-side in that lonely place under the shadow of the wild mountain, deserted as I seemed to be by all the world, even by my temptress herself. I sat down on a stone and began to cry bitterly.

"Oh, come! Don't sit there and cry," said Sarah, returning to my side. "Come along, and we'll be at our house long before dark. It is only a little farther—just past that great hollow tree where they killed the bear when I was a little girl. Come, make up your mind quick," she added, impatiently.

There seemed to be nothing left but to go on as I had begun. I arose and walked with Sarah up the road, which began now rapidly to ascend, and we soon reached her father's house. It was a low, unpainted structure, standing on the edge of a deep ravine which indented the mountain side, and through which ran a small stream. This stream was usually only a trickling, purling brook; but when swelled by rain or snow, it often became a noisy, roaring torrent.

The house consisted of only two rooms below and a garret above, and was more rudely finished than any I had ever seen at that time, the ceiling being only the rough boards which formed the floor of the garret, and all the furniture and wood-work being of the rudest description. There was no mantel-piece to the chimney, which seemed now and then to draw the wrong way, and sent great puffs of smoke out into the room. An old woman, whom I took to be Sarah's mother, but who I found out was her grandmother, sat in the chimney-corner smoking, and there were two grown-up girls in the room, one of whom was spinning and the other preparing supper.

"Now, Sally, what in the world have you brought that young one here for?" was the salutation of the elder sister, whose name I found was Melinda. Then, turning to me, with more kindness in her tone, "And how did you happen to come, child? I don't believe your mother knew it."

"Suppose she didn't?" said Sarah, pertly. "I guess my folks are as good as hers any day. Come, Olive, take off your bonnet and make yourself at home. Let's go up stairs."

Up stairs we went; but as to making myself at home, it was wholly out of my power. Though it was well on in October, the weather was sultry and close, and the garret was oppressively hot, the air therein being rendered more stifling still by the odour of various herbs hanging up to dry, and by the smell of tobacco ascending from the regions below.

"My! How hot!" said Sarah, going to the window. "Come here, Olive, and look out."

I obeyed, and started back in surprise and some alarm. The house stood on the very edge of the ravine I have mentioned, which was here very deep, precipitous, and dark, with hemlocks and other evergreens growing in the bottom below. As we looked out a screech-owl not far away set up his horrid, quavering scream, more like the noise made by a woman in a fit than anything else I can think of. I started back in alarm.

"You needn't be scared," said Sarah; "he won't hurt you. He has been here ever since we have."

"What is it?" I asked.

"Won't you never, never tell as long as you live and breathe?" asked Sarah, solemnly.

I gave the required promise.

"Well, father says, but you must be sure not to tell, that that bird—it's an owl—is a money-watcher, and not a real owl at all."

"'A money-watcher'!" I repeated. "What is that?"

"Why, a money-watcher—a thing that stays round where treasure is buried to watch it and scare folks away. Just as soon as father heard that thing, he guessed it was a money-watcher, and he went to somebody that knows about such things, and he said there was a great deal of gold and jewels buried somewhere in this ravine, and if any one should look for it in the right time and the right way, he would get every bit of it. And he told father that there were great chests full of money and pearls diamonds and great bowls and cups of gold and silver. So then we'll see who'll have the silks and satins," concluded Sarah, in a tone of triumph.

"But he hasn't found the treasure yet, and perhaps he won't," said I.

"Oh yes, he will. The wise man said he might fail a good many times, but he would come nearer every time; and so he has. But he can only try at a particular time of the moon and when everything is right."

"Suppose somebody finds the treasure before your father?" said I.

"Then father 'll kill him; or if he don't, I will," said Sarah, with sudden fierceness. And then, with a curious alteration in her tone, "Sometimes I've wished pa hadn't known anything about the treasure, because then he might have had a farm or learned a trade, and we could have lived in a nice house and had things decent. But then, when I think of the treasure, I don't care. Melinda don't believe in it at all, and says she don't expect ever to have any money but what she works for, but Malviny and granny and I, we believe in it. But mind, now, you don't ever tell. If you do, something dreadful will happen to you."

The conversation was interrupted by a call to supper, and we went down stairs. My mother was an unusually skilful house-keeper even for New England, and always took special pains to have her table neat and pleasant as well as abundant; but it may be guessed that the Millars were not so particular. There was no table-cloth, and the table itself was by no means clean, while the dishes were set on anyhow. There was nothing for supper save some very black rye-bread and very white and soft butter, till Malvina, placed before me a little cup of milk. But the table was not what surprised me most. In all my life I had never seen any one sit down to eat without first asking a blessing, and I naturally waited for the same thing to be done here.