The old Stanfield house

CHAPTER FOURTH.

CASSIUS.

THE school was closed rather earlier than usual next day, and Calista walked home. She hesitated for a moment when she came to the place where the two roads divided, and then took the lower road, which ran near the bank of the river, and a good deal of the way through oak-scrub and deserted clearings. Calista had been used to walking to and from the village alone for half a dozen years, but it cannot be denied that she felt a little nervous as she went on for one stretch of the road after another, meeting nobody and seeing no human habitation. What if she should meet with wild hogs or cattle? Or, worse still, with some of the more than half-wild "pine rats," who were to be found here and there in the wilderness which thus stretched a great part of the way from Cohansey River to the Atlantic Ocean.

"Pshaw, what a goose I am!" she said to herself impatiently, as she found herself starting at a sudden rustle in the bushes. "I haven't anything worth stealing, and I don't believe any one would want to hurt me."

Nevertheless she felt a thrill of uncomfortable fear as a man pushed his way through the bushes, carrying a gun and followed by a large dog, and she was not a little relieved when the new-comer proved to be a negro, who touched his hat civilly as he said good-afternoon.

"This is the road to the Mills, is it not?" asked Calista, returning the old man's greeting.

"Yes, Miss, this is one road." Then, as he walked along by her side, he said, with a little hesitation, "Beg pardon, Missy, but isn't this the old General Stanfield's grandchild?"

"Yes; I am General Stanfield's grandchild, the daughter of Mr. Richard Stanfield. Did you know my father?"

"Reckon I did," said the man, taking off his hat and bowing again. "Many's the time I've rode your pa on my back, and took him out fishing on the creek. I was with your grandpa through great part of the old war, and all the time afterward till he died. He was a fine old gentleman, and I wouldn't never have left him, but I couldn't run with Miss Priscy after he was gone; so I bought a piece of land and set up farming for myself."

"And how do you get on?" asked Calista, much interested.

"Oh, first-rate," answered Cassius, cheerfully. "We's had our ups and downs, of course. I've been laid up with the rheumatiz some, and the old woman has her poor spells, but we rub on. I sell a good deal of truck in the village; and we keep lots of chickens, and ducks, and geese. Then I fish and shoot some in the season—I've got a real nice boat—and altogether we make out to lay up a little against the hour of need. For the rest, why we has food and raiment, and we's learned to be therewith content, as the good Book says."

"Have you any children?" asked Calista.

"Only two boys, Missy. They's both doing well; one's living out in Princeton, and one in Philadelphia; both in nice gentlemen's families. We had two nice girls, but the Lord took them both. His will be done." And the old man lifted his hat again.

"That was hard on you," said Calista.

"Yes, it did seem hard, Missy; but He knew best. I tell my old woman they's just as much ours as ever they was, only the Lord's keeping them for us. Won't you stop in a minute and see Sally? She'll be dreadful glad to see you."

"I am afraid I ought not to stop to-night, Cassius," replied Calista, looking, with rather longing eyes, at the neat little house, where stood Sally in the cleanest of turban handkerchiefs and aprons, curtseying, and showing her white teeth in a smile of welcome. "But I mean to come and see you some time. I should like to hear about my father."

Sally was not to be cheated, however. She came down to the gate to speak to Calista; gave her a handful of lilies-of-the-valley, from her neat flower garden, and insisted on filling her basket with delicate, fresh-baked ginger-nuts, which Calista would have refused.

"Please do take 'em, Missy," said Sally. "I know young ladies is fond of ginger-nuts, and it ain't every one that can make 'em like me, though I say it that shouldn't."

She emptied her plate into Calista's basket, and then said something in an undertone to her husband, of which Calista only caught the words "Old Zeke."

"I'm a-going," said Cassius.

"Well, Missy, I won't urge you to stay, as it's growing late; and young ladies of good family shouldn't ought to be out in lonesome places after sundown. I've got to go your way a piece, so I'll just see you past the woods."

"What did Sally say?" asked Calista, as they walked on together.

"Oh, she was speaking about an old fellow that hangs about here sometimes; they call him Old Zeke. I don't really suppose he'd do you any harm; but he's a rough customer, and might scare you. And if you'll excuse the freedom, Missy, I wouldn't come this way unless you are driving. It's rather too lonesome a road for a young lady; and some of these pine rats is apt to be hanging round, fishing or something. There's Zeke now. Don't be scared, Missy, he won't hurt you."

Calista looked up, and as she confronted the old man, she was glad she had not encountered him alone.

He was a very tall and powerful man, a good deal bent, with a shock of grizzled hair that fell on his shoulders, and shaggy brows, under which looked out a pair of fierce light-blue eyes. He was dressed in an indescribable mass of rags and tatters; but over his shoulder he carried a good, serviceable looking gun.

"Evening, Zeke," said Cassius, good-naturedly.

The old man returned a surly sort of nod, and honored Calista with a fixed stare, which lasted till a turn of the road hid him from sight.

"That's a queer old fellow," said Calista. "I am glad I did not meet him alone."

"Well, I don't reckon he would have hurt you—indeed, I can't say as he ever hurt any one; but he is a queer body, as you say, Missy, and his wife is queerer still, if all tales are true. The folks round here do say that they know more than they've got any business to."

"More about what?" asked Calista.

"Oh, they say the old folks are in league with spirits and that they know how to find treasures, and lost money, and so on."

"I should not think they could have found much, to judge from his appearance," said Calista.

Cassius laughed. "Well, you can't always tell from the outside who has money and who hasn't, but I believe it is true that they do spend a good deal of time seeking for the money that folks say the pirates buried along the creek here in the time of the old French war. Old Mrs. Tyerson began talking to me about it one day, but says I,—

"'You go along with your pirates and their money. Suppose'n you did find it, 'twould be bloody gold, and never bring you nothing but ill luck,' says I. 'Don't covet an evil covetousness to your house, Sister Tyerson,' says I. 'Let Old Zeke and his spells alone. I don't want his money. I've got enough to eat and drink and wear, and something to give to my Master besides, and when you've got that, it ain't money, nor the want of money, that makes folks well off or bad off,' says I."

"But money is a good thing," said Calista, struck with the old man's remarks.

"It is a good thing when it comes with the blessing of God, and in the right way, Missy," said Cassius, solemnly. "So is everything else. But when it comes any other way, it is nothing but a curse and a judgment. Well, here we are within sight of the house, so I'll bid you good-night."

"Good-night, and thank you, Cassius. I shall come and see you again some time when I have the horse."

Calista hastened homeward, and entering at the back door, ran up stairs to her room without meeting any one. She hid away her basket of ginger-nuts in a safe place, brushed her hair, and went down stairs.

"Now for it!" said she as she put her hand on the lock of the parlor door. "I wonder what kind of mood she is in?"

Miss Priscilla and Miss Druett had apparently just taken their seats at the tea-table.

Miss Priscilla was a small, delicate woman, with a trim, upright figure, reddish-brown hair, hardly touched with gray, and greenish hazel eyes. She was dressed neatly, though with the utmost plainness, and would have been pretty but for her eager, suspicious expression, and the nervous restlessness of her eyes, which seemed not to be still for a moment. As Aunt Chloe said, Priscilla looked as if she saw ghosts, or was afraid she should see them. Her greeting to Calista was characteristic.

"Well, what has brought you home now? I didn't expect to see you till after supper. You would have had plenty of time to walk home afterwards."

"She is late enough as it is," observed Miss Druett, not unkindly. "Get yourself a plate, Calista; Chloe has not provided one for you."

Calista did not answer either observation. She brought herself a plate and knife, accepted the cup of tea Miss Druett handed her, and helped herself to a slice of bread and some butter. A small dish of fried fish stood at Miss Priscilla's plate, and there was nothing else on the table.

"Oh, don't be bashful!" said Miss Priscilla, in a bitterly sarcastic tone. "Take all the butter on the plate, do. Perhaps you would like some of my fish?"

A spark of fun gleamed in Calista's eyes.

"Thank you, aunt; since you are so kind, I won't hurt your feelings by refusing. My walk has given me an appetite." And she coolly helped herself to the smallest of the fish.

Miss Priscilla looked helplessly irritated at seeing herself taken at her word, and regaining possession of the dish, she hastily set it on the other side of her plate.

Miss Druett suppressed a smile, and shook her head at Calista.

"Well, and what is going on in town?" asked Miss Druett, presently. "Haven't you any news to tell us?"

"There is a good deal going on in one way," said Calista. "The ladies are all very busy about this fair for furnishing the new parsonage house."

"Rubbish!" said Miss Priscilla.

"The girls are all going to work for it," continued Calista. "Miss McPherson gives them Wednesday afternoon, and they are each to make something for the sale."

"Oh," said Miss Priscilla, with an unusually polite display of interest, "that seems a very nice plan of Miss McPherson's. I suppose she furnishes the materials?"

"Of course she furnishes the materials for most of the girls' work. She buys all their silks and crewels, and so on, in Philadelphia."

"And makes a good profit on them, no doubt. Trust a Scotch woman for that."

"I don't know how that is," replied Calista. "She wanted Mr. Clapp to keep fine working materials, but he said the profit was not worth the risk and trouble. He does keep netting, thread, and silk, and a few other things."

"Oh," said Miss Priscilla, again; "and what part do you intend to take in this notable display of industry and charity?"

Calista made no answer, but passed her cup for some more tea.

"One cup of tea is enough for a girl like you," said Miss Priscilla. "Do you hear me, Druey? I say one cup is enough."

"Nonsense!" was the reply. "Let the child have her tea. I am sure it is not strong enough to hurt her."

And she coolly filled the cup and returned it to Calista.

"Oh, very well; of course it is for you to say. Perhaps, Miss Calista Stanfield, you will condescend to answer my question. What part are you intending to take in this matter?"

"That is for you to say, Aunt Priscilla," replied Calista, in unruffled good humor. "You know very well that I have nothing of my own. I thought if I had some fine knitting cotton, I might knit a bureau cover, or something of that sort."

"Oh! And how much might this same fine knitting cotton cost?"

"About a quarter of a dollar, I suppose; perhaps thirty or forty cents."

"Oh, indeed! Then I can tell you, Miss Calista Stanfield, you will have no twenty-five or thirty cents to spend on any such purpose. Twenty-five or thirty cents, indeed! Why not ask at once for twenty-five or thirty dollars?"

"I might about as well, I suppose," said Calista. "I should not have mentioned the matter at all if you had not asked me."

"Don't be pert, miss. I suppose you want to show off your charity at my expense; but you must make up mind to be mortified for once."

"For once!" thought Calista. But she said, cheerfully: "Oh, it won't mortify me at all, Aunt Priscilla. All the girls will know that it is your doing and not mine, and so will every one else."

"You might let the child have a little money for once," said Miss Druett.

"Money indeed! You talk as if I were made of money!" said Miss Priscilla. "Money to furnish the parsonage! Let Mr. Lee furnish his own parsonage. Money indeed! Money!"

The party relapsed into silence, which was maintained till Chloe came to take the tea-things.

Miss Priscilla, with her own hands, carefully removed some infinitesimal particles of butter from the plates and replaced them on the dish.

"There is enough for your supper and David's," said she, anxiously. "You won't need to use any more."

Chloe sniffed the air contemptuously, but made no reply.

"What made you so late coming home?" asked Miss Druett.

"I came by the river road," replied Calista.

"Why did you do that? It is longer and very lonely."

"Yes, I know, and I don't think I shall try it again; at least on foot."

"Did you see anybody?"

"Yes, I saw old Cassius and his wife, and had quite a talk with him."

"Cassius—what about Cassius?" asked Miss Priscilla.

"Nothing, aunt, only I was saying I saw him and had a little talk with him."

"I won't have you talking with every one you meet," said Miss Priscilla, sharply; "you are just such another as your father—hail fellow, well met, with half the vagabonds in the country."

"I should not call Cassius a vagabond," said Calista, too much accustomed to Miss Priscilla's remarks about her father to mind them as another girl would. "He has a nice little farm, with everything comfortable about him, and seems as contented as the day is long. But I did meet a vagabond, Miss Druett," said Calista; "the queerest-looking old fellow I ever saw. Cassius calls him Old Zeke. He says the old man and his wife are treasure-seekers, and know more than they ought to. Do you know anything about him, Miss Druett?" she asked, seeing, or fancying, that Miss Druett looked uneasy.

"A little," replied Miss Druett. "He used to hang about here, years ago. He and his wife are miserable cheats and impostors. I hope poor Cassius is not taken in by him."

"I should say there was no danger," said Calista. "Cassius says that, even if they did find the pirate's money, it would be bloody gold and would bring ill luck; and besides, he has enough without it."

"Has he? He must be rich, then!"

"I don't think it always takes riches to make people contented," observed Calista; "just see Miss Hannah and Miss Betsy, how happy they are!"

"So they ought to be—such prices as they ask for their weaving and spinning," said Miss Priscilla. "What do you know about them, pray?"

"I went with Mary to see them about some towels they are weaving for Miss Alice, and they asked us to stay to tea."

"Oh, Miss Alice is too fine a lady to do her own spinning, I suppose!"

"Not at all, aunt. Miss Alice spins beautifully fine thread, but she sends it to Miss Hannah to be woven. She is having a set of towels made of her own spinning for the new parsonage."

"Oh, she is! And you tell of it, thinking I will be moved to do the like."

"Not at all, aunt. I never thought of such a thing."

Miss Priscy muttered something about sly minxes, as she sank back in her chair for the nap she always took between her early tea and her game of cribbage or backgammon.

Calista waited till her eyes were closed, and then addressed herself in a low tone to Miss Druett.

"Do you know anything about these people—Zeke and his wife?"

"Why should you think I know anything about them?" said Miss Druett, answering, as she often did, one question by another.

"I thought you looked so."

"You are a sharp observer. Yes, I have known something about them."

"Do they really set up for supernatural knowledge, and all that sort of thing?"

"They really do, and perhaps believe a little in their own devices, though I hold them to be miserable swindlers and cheats. They have done mischief enough in these parts before now. I am very sorry to hear that they have appeared again. Their father was in the same way, and it was said that he did really discover a sum of money. It was quite true that he went to Philadelphia, and was seen there dressed like a gentleman and spending a great deal. But his prosperity did not last long. He spent all he had, and the next any one knew, he was back again living in his hole on the river bank. Zeke and his wife Jael were acquainted with your aunt at one time, and had anything but a good influence upon her. I should be sorry to have her fall in with them again."

Miss Druett said these words in a low whisper.

"You don't mean to say that she engaged with them in any treasure-seeking!"

Miss Druett nodded.

"How perfectly absurd! Especially for one who does not pretend to believe in anything."

"There is nothing strange in that. A great many people believe in witchcraft who don't believe in the Bible. You can see how very unlucky it would be for her to fall in with them again."

"Yes, indeed. I am sorry I mentioned seeing the old man. He is a horrid-looking object. I should not like to meet him alone."

"You must never run the risk," said Miss Druett. "I am very glad old Cassius was with you."

"Have you done anything about my frocks?" asked Calista, after a little silence.

"Not yet, but I hope to."

"I need some books," said Calista. "Miss McPherson says I must have a dictionary and grammar, and a book to write exercises in."

"Then you may tell Miss McPherson that you won't have anything of the sort!" said Miss Priscilla, rousing herself and speaking with a sharpness and suddenness which made Calista start. "You have had books enough already. Always something to extort money. I won't let you go to school another day. You shall stay at home and work for a living, and save me the expense of a servant, instead of going to school all day and then coming home and sitting for an hour with your hands before you doing nothing. I say you shall not go to school another day."

"Very well, aunt," replied Calista, coolly. She had heard the threat too often to be alarmed at it.

"Nonsense!" said Miss Druett, in her trenchant way.

"Get the backgammon board, Calista, and tell Chloe to bring candles."

Calista did so, and then betook herself to her own room. It was anything but a sumptuous apartment. There had once been a handsome paper on the walls, but it was stained with damp and hanging loose in some places. The pieces of carpet by the bedside and before the glass were trodden into shreds despite Calista's mending, and the bed covering was old and faded. Forlorn as the room was, it was Calista's only place of refuge, and she had done her best to make it look pleasant. The floor was clean and the old furniture well dusted. Calista's few books were neatly disposed on the mantlepiece. The window, which looked to the east, was open, and a full flood of yellow moonlight poured in at it. A mocking-bird was singing in the pine trees which bordered one side of the old graveyard, and frogs and beetles piped a not unmelodious chorus. Calista drew a chair into the deep window recess and sat down, leaning her arm on the sill.

"How lovely it all is!" said she to herself. "If Judge Settson or even Aunt Hannah had this place, what a paradise they would make of it! As for Aunt Priscilla, she might as well be in the poor-house as here for all the comfort she takes or lets any one else take. I wonder if it really is religion that makes the difference. To be sure there is Antoinette Diaments—she pretends to be a Christian, and she is as mean as Aunt Priscilla in a different way. But, then, she is only one.

"I verily believe it is as Mary says, that it is not money that spoils people, but the love of it. If I thought it would make me like Aunt Priscilla, I am sure I would never think of being rich again. Oh dear, how hungry I am!"

And then Calista bethought herself of Sally's basket of ginger-nuts, and, taking them from their concealment, she made a hearty supper. The spicy gingerbread made her thirsty, and taking her cracked jug she went down to the well for some water. As she was drinking from the bucket, she saw that her handkerchief had fallen from the window. As she went to pick it up, she heard Miss Druett say inside,—

"You might let her have some new frocks and a little money for this work nonsense. I tell you, Priscilla, you are making yourself the town talk, and if you push the child to the wall, she will rebel."

"I can't," said Miss Priscilla. "I shall die in the poor-house."

"You might let her have her mother's things, at least. She has a right to them, and she is quite old enough—"

Calista heard no more, for a movement within awoke to the fact that it would not be well for her to be caught listening, and she hastened back to her room. She had heard enough to give her food for reflection and wonder.

Her mother's things! What did Miss Druett mean? She went back to her childish days when she lived with Miss Malvina, and tried to recall everything that the old lady had said to her. There was a vision floating before her of some boxes carefully put away, and of Miss Malvina showing her several things, and especially a beautiful book, and saying something about her dear mother. But think as she could, the vision would not assume any distinctness.

"Oh dear, if I could only remember!" said she at last. "If I could only remember my mother! But I can't. All I can think of is a pale lady lying on a sofa, or something, and dressing a doll for me, and then holding me on her lap and teaching me to say, 'Now I lay me down to sleep.' Oh, if she had only lived, wouldn't I have worked my fingers off for her! I do think it was very hard I could not have a father and mother like other people. Mary would say I had a Father in heaven, but that does not seem the same at all."

Then came one of those vivid flashes of memory which do come unbidden, though they will seldom obey the will. She saw herself seated upon Miss Malvina's lap by the side of the great open fireplace filled with generous logs, before which stood a row of roasting apples. She could see the very smoothing-irons on the mantlepiece, the stand with the great Bible in the corner, the patchwork cushioned chairs, and Miss Malvina's chintz short-gown and quilted petticoat, and heard the old lady's tremulous voice as she said, "That was your dear mother's favorite hymn, Calista, my love. Never forget it; never forget that your dear mother was a true Christian, if a Christian ever lived. The Lord was her shepherd, and he will be yours too, and lead you home to himself and to her if you will only give your heart to him."

"Then my mother is in heaven now!" said Calista to herself, with a feeling of awe. She sat a few minutes longer, and then lighting her very small end of candle, she got out her old ragged Bible and opened it at random.

   "'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.'" (Matt. 11: 28, 29).

Calista sighed. She knew that she was not meek or lowly. She tried again, and opened to the third of Colossians, where she read,—

   "'Set your affection on things above, not on things on the earth.'"

There was not much comfort in that either, but she read the chapter to the end, and then knelt down and repeated the Lord's Prayer and "Now I lay me down to sleep."

She could not have told exactly what she expected to gain by the action. It was simply an act of obedience. God had told people to pray, and she would pray. But by so doing, she had made a great step. She had recognized and confessed a conscious relationship of some kind between herself and her Creator. Hereafter, the world would never be quite the same to her.

CHAPTER FIFTH.

CALISTA ASKS A QUESTION.

CALISTA was up and dressed early as usual. She had heard the threat of taking her out of school too often to be much impressed by it, and she went down to her breakfast with Miss Druett cheerfully enough. Miss Priscilla usually breakfasted in bed, and as Calista passed the door of her room she heard her scolding Chloe for putting so much butter on the toast.

"There she goes," thought Calista; "I do wonder why Chloe stays here, when she might go away if she pleased."

Breakfast was the only comfortable part of her home life to Calista. Miss Druett gave her a fair share of the food, such as it was, and often shared her own cup of coffee or chocolate with her, and she could eat without feeling that every mouthful was watched. She dispatched her basin of bread and milk with an appetite. Miss Druett was not unkind, and gave her a liberal supply of coffee, but she did not seem inclined to talk, and Calista fancied that her face wore an unusual shade of care.

"Am I to go to school, Miss Druett?" asked Calista, when she had finished her breakfast.

"To school!" said Miss Druett, starting. "Yes, of course; why not?"

"You know what aunt said last night; and, really, there is not much use in my going unless I can have books. I need a dictionary and a Bible to use in school."

"A Bible!" said Miss Druett, in a tone of as much surprise as if Calista had said she needed an Arabic lexicon. "What do you want of a Bible?"

"To read in. We read round every morning now. Besides, we are to have a Bible-class three times a week, and Miss McPherson wishes all the girls to join it."

"Oh! Well, I will see what can be done; but I don't know. I can't promise anything."

"Aunt Priscilla grows harder every day, I think," observed Calista.

"That is to be expected. Calista!" said Miss Druett, with sudden animation. "Whatever you do, never, never set your heart upon money—upon being rich. It is a love that once hatched in the heart is like the cow-bird in the robin's nest: it turns everything else out that it may devour all for itself. I love you, child—you may not believe it, but I do—and I would rather see you in your coffin than see you setting your heart on being rich."

Calista was standing by Miss Druett, and as the lady finished speaking, she did what she had hardly ever done before: she stooped down and kissed Miss Druett.

"I do believe you love me, Miss Druett, and I love you. I wish I could love Aunt Priscilla, but she won't let me."

Miss Druett returned the kiss, and her eyes were suspiciously bright as she said,—

"Pity her then, child; you can do that. Now get ready for school, and go into Priscilla's room before you set out. She has a message to send to Mr. Settson. Don't say anything to her about your books. Ask Miss McPherson to provide for you what is absolutely needful, and if Priscilla won't pay the bill, I will contrive to do it myself."

Calista went away and got ready for school as she was bidden, and then opened the door of her aunt's room. Miss Priscilla, with a shawl round her shoulders, was sitting up in bed examining an account-book, and looked up impatiently as Calista entered.

"What do you want here?" was her polite salutation.

"Miss Druett said you wanted to send some message by me," returned Calista, with equal conciseness.

"Oh! Well, you may go and see Mr. Settson and tell him I think he must foreclose that mortgage of Simpson's. He will never pay in the world."

"His wife is sick so much," said Calista, she hardly knew why.

"What is that to you, miss? Are you going to set up to direct my business affairs? Take the message as I tell you."

"Very well," answered Calista, dryly; "anything else?"

"Anything else! No, nothing else. I suppose you would like to have me give you a commission to buy yourself a silk dress and an India shawl, wouldn't you?"

"An India shawl would hardly be suitable for me, but I should like the dress very much," said Calista, with the mischievousness which no amount of snubbing had ever subdued. "Shall I get black or colored, aunt? Clapp has a lovely dark blue, which would be just the thing for me. Shall I bring you a sample?"

Miss Priscilla seized the book which lay before her in a way which made Calista dodge, as if she expected to have her ears boxed with it—a thing which had happened before—but Miss Priscilla, if such were her design, relinquished it and contented herself with a threatening shake of her head.

Calista went away laughing; but her laugh was suddenly checked.

"I ought not to enrage her so," she said to herself. "There is no telling what she might do. But the temptation is so strong to take her at her word. I wonder what she would say if I did. Anyway, I shall have a chance to see Mr. Settson."

Calista walked to school—not by the river road, however—and arrived just in time to save a "tardy" mark.

At recess the girls were of course engaged in discussing the question of the sale.

"What are you going to make, Calista?" asked Antoinette Diaments of Calista, as the latter stood near Miss McPherson, in the school-house porch. She had purposely chosen her time with the amiable intention of mortifying Calista before her schoolmistress; but her scheme failed; and, moreover, involved herself in unexpected trouble.

"I don't suppose I shall make anything," said Calista, coloring. "My aunt has her own ideas about such things, and she has not said yet that she will give me any money."

"Oh!" said Antoinette, sarcastically. "How sorry you must be!"

Before Calista had time to reply, Belle Adair came up in a great hurry.

"Oh, Antoinette, I am glad I have found you," said she. "Tessy has asked me to buy some netting cotton and a needle for her; and she told me to ask you for the money you owe her, as she has none."

"I haven't any change," said Antoinette, coloring and looking daggers at Belle.

"Eh, my dear! What is that?" asked Miss McPherson.

"Nothing, ma'am; only Antoinette owes Tessy four and sixpence, and Tessy told me to ask her for it; but Antoinette says she has no change. Perhaps you can let her have some, ma'am," said Belle, as demurely as a kitten bent on mischief.

"Certainly," said Miss McPherson, producing her purse. "What do you wish to have changed, Antoinette?"

"There is no hurry," said Antoinette.

"Why, yes, I think there is," returned Belle. "You know, Antoinette, Tessy has asked you for the money several times, and you could not pay her because you had not the change. But, as Miss McPherson is so kind—"

Miss McPherson smiled, and frowned a little at the same time. She was used to girls, and saw through Belle's little plot on the instant. She also saw through Antoinette's evasion, and she detested meanness. Her tone was, therefore, somewhat sharp as she said,—

"Antoinette, did you hear me? Give me the bill you wish to have changed, this moment."

Startled out of her presence of mind, Antoinette pulled her purse out of her pocket. As she did so, the clasp gave way and let out a handful of silver and copper, which fell on the floor. The girls exchanged glances as they assisted in picking it up.

"Give that money to me!" said Miss McPherson. Then, as she counted it over, "What did you mean by saying that you had no change, Antoinette? Here are more than ten shillings in silver."

"I—I forgot," murmured Antoinette.

"Why did you not look to see? I must say it is difficult to believe you could forget, with all this weight of silver in your pocket. Anabella, here is Theresa's money. Are you going to lay it out for her?"

"Yes, ma'am. Miss Jessy said I might, as she had no netting cotton of the proper size, and Tessy cannot go out on account of her lame ankle."

"Oh, very well. I presume you will use very good judgment. Anything else?"

"Please, ma'am, may I walk down with Anabella?" said Calista. "I have an errand for my aunt."

"Certainly; only do not be late for dinner; and, my love, I should like you to perform a commission for me. Have you any work on hand that you particularly wish to do?"

"No, ma'am," answered Calista, with a beating heart.

"Then perhaps you will undertake some. I have no time for fancy work, at present, and I believe I must make you and Jenny Rose my deputies. What say you? Will you knit a bureau cover for me? I know you are an excellent knitter."

"Oh, thank you, ma'am. I should like to do it so very much," replied Calista, with a rush of love and gratitude which brought the unusual tears very near her eyes.

"Very well, that is settled. Ask Miss Jessy what you will need, and I will give you an order for the materials. But remember, I shall expect something quite out of the common, that will be a credit to both of us. Now go, or you will have no time."

"Isn't she a dear?" said Anabella, as they walked away.

"Indeed she is. You might say so if you were in my place. But, Belle, you have got Antoinette into a scrape."

"Yes, a worse one than I meant, though she deserves it for the way she treats little Tessy. Think of her keeping the poor child out of her money all this time!"

"Antoinette can't bear to part with money: all the girls know that," said Calista. "I wonder if I should be so mean if I were rich."

"It is not being rich. Look at Elizabeth Howell. She hasn't a mean thing about her. Are you going to buy your cotton to-day?"

"No, I must see Miss Jessy first; and, as I said, I have a message from my aunt to Mr. Settson."

"Good-bye, then, till I see you again."

Calista found the old gentleman alone in his office. She delivered her message, and then plunged into the subject of which her own head was full.

"Mr. Settson, I should like to ask you a question, if it is not improper."

"Ask it," said Mr. Settson, smiling, "and then I shall know whether it is improper or not."

"It is about my grandfather's will," said Calista. "Miss Betsy told me the other day that grandfather told her he had altered his will and done justice to his son Richard and his wife. She said he told her and Miss Hannah so only two or three days before he died. I am not a child any more," said Calista. "I think I have some right to know about the affairs of my own family. There is no use in asking anything of Aunt Priscilla or Miss Druett. Miss Druett thinks I am no more than a baby, and I don't know but aunt would kill me outright if I were to say anything to her about business."

Mr. Settson leaned back in his chair, took a pinch of snuff, and regarded his young visitor with a critical glance.

Calista was, as I have said, a very handsome girl, and had an expression of vigorous health and strength somewhat uncommon at that time, when it was considered a mark of gentility to be "delicate." She carried herself remarkably well, and spoke with a ladylike tone and accent, and though her manner was decided, it was modest and womanly.

Mr. Settson's first remark was apparently irrelevant, to say the least of it.

"Take off that poke bonnet, child; I want to look at you."

Calista found it somewhat hard to repress a movement of impatience, but she did repress it, and took off her bonnet as desired, showing the beautiful black hair, which no amount of brushing would keep from curling and waving in its own way.

"Humph!" said the old gentleman. "A thorough Stanfield. Did any one ever tell you that?"

"Yes, sir. Miss Betsy and Miss Hannah said so, and old Cassius."

"Well, my dear child, I quite agree with you that you have a right—a moral right at least—to know the particulars concerning your late grandfather's estate; but the story is not to be told in five minutes. Have you half an hour to spare?"

"Oh, yes, sir, an hour, if necessary," answered Calista, with a beating heart, but outwardly quite composed. If her life with Miss Priscilla had taught her nothing else, it had at least taught her self-control.

"Very well. To make you understand matters, I must begin some way back. You know, probably, that your grandmother was a second wife. She was a Miss Howell, related to the Howells at Graywich, and possessed of some property, which went into your grandfather's hands, as there were no special settlements. General Stanfield was somewhat advanced in life, and Priscilla, the only child of his first wife, was nearly as old as his bride. When Richard came, he was naturally the object of great affection, and I do not hesitate to say that his father was most injudiciously, even culpably, indulgent to him.

"The boy was permitted to run wild, so far as any government was concerned. He associated with all sorts of people, and was given an almost unlimited command of money. This was particularly the case after his mother died, which she did, unfortunately, when your father was only ten years old. Under such circumstances, it is a wonder that your father grew up no worse than he did. I do not mean to say that he was addicted to low vice or dissipation, for such was never the case, but he was extravagant and self-indulgent, and totally without any guiding principle, religious or otherwise. Your grandfather had unfortunately taken up with those notions of the French philosophers which Mr. Jefferson had made fashionable."

Mr. Settson then gave an account of her father's college life, his marriage, and the displeasure of her grandfather, and added: "A few days about ten, I think—before his death, as I was riding out of town to keep an appointment, I met General Stanfield, who had been away for two or three weeks. He directed Cassius, who was with him as usual, to go on, while he turned his horse and rode by my side for some distance, talking on various subjects. Just as we were about to part, he said:

"'Settson, I have made a new will.'

"'Indeed!' said I.

"'Yes,' said he. 'I have thought the matter over, and I believe I have been wrong, so I have made a new will, giving the homestead and all in Cohansey to Dick and his children, if he has any, with a due allowance to his wife. I shall bring the papers in to you in a few days, and we will consult on the best way of obtaining intelligence.'

"If I had had any suspicion of what was coming, I should have asked for more particulars; but your grandfather's horse was very restive, and I was in a hurry to keep my appointment. Just as your grandfather turned back to go home, he said, 'I have made you and Fabian executors and guardians.'

"I was out of town for several days," continued Mr. Settson, "and the very day after my return, I heard of your grandfather's death. Of course I caused a proper search to be made for the will, but it was not to be found. Cassius, whom I questioned closely, knew nothing of the matter, not even when or where the will should have been made. His master had been in New York, Philadelphia, and several other places, but he had never known of his visiting a lawyer's office. And though I was at a good deal of trouble and expense, I could never find out anything about the matter."

Calista sat silent a moment; then she asked, in a tone which was singularly calm and business-like,—

"In what year was this, Mr. Settson?"

"In 1817."

"But did not grandfather know that his son was dead and had left a child?"

"No, he knew nothing of either circumstance. Your parents never wrote to him, or he never received their letters. Shortly after your mother's death, Priscilla informed me, through Miss Druett, that she had learned that Richard had left a daughter who was now an orphan, and that as soon as the spring opened, she intended to send for the child and give it a home, though, as she was careful to state, she was under no legal obligation to do so."

"Then if the last will could be found, would the old place and the rest be mine?"

"Without doubt; but I fear it never will be found."

"Mr. Settson," said Calista, with flashing eyes and pale lips, "do you suppose Aunt Priscilla could have destroyed that last will?"

Mr. Settson was so startled by the question that it took a very large pinch of snuff to restore his equanimity.

"My dear Calista, you should think twice before even hinting at an accusation of such a crime against your aunt. No, I do not believe her capable of such an action—at least at that time. At present I do not hesitate to say that I should hardly be surprised. I believe the love of money has grown to be a disease with her, as it does with most people who indulge in it. Never let it get hold of you, my dear child."

"There seems no great danger of my having any money to love," said Calista, rather bitterly.

"Oh, but you may love money without having it," said Mr. Settson. "I suppose as many poor people love money as rich people—perhaps more in proportion."

"I am taking up a great deal of your time," said Calista, becoming suddenly aware of the fact, and rising as the church clock struck.

"You are welcome to it, my child. Sit down again for a moment; I have something more to say to you."

Calista sat down, wondering what was coming.

"My dear Calista, I have always been interested in you," began Mr. Settson, "for the sake of your grandfather, who was my father's friend and mine, as well as for your own sake, and also because I consider myself as your guardian by your grandfather's appointment. When Miss Druett brought you home, I applied to Miss Priscilla Stanfield for permission to take you and bring you up as my own, but this she refused, and for some reason, which I do not understand, has always refused. I have, however, kept my eye upon you. Thus I prevailed upon your aunt to send you to school—"

"I thought that was Miss Druett's doing," interrupted Calista, surprised.

"It was, in a great degree; that is, I should never have carried my point but for her. What I wish to say is, that you may always come to me for any advice or help you need. Consider me as standing to you in the place of a father."

"Thank you, sir," said Calista, gratefully; "I am sure you are very good. It is a comfort to think I have even one friend to look to."

"'You have one Friend far more powerful than I am, my child, if you will only seek him. Try to cultivate a sense of personal religion. Do you do so?"

"No, Mr. Settson," answered Calista, with the perfect frankness which was one of her best traits. "I don't even know exactly what you mean by personal religion."

"I mean personal loyalty to a personal God and Saviour," said Mr. Settson, emphatically. "You can understand that."

"Yes, sir; but I am afraid I don't feel it. Mr. Settson, will you just tell me one thing?"

"If I can, certainly."

"Do you really and truly, I don't say believe, but feel and realize it, that God is your own Friend and Father, and loves you so that he really cares for what you do and what happens to you?"

"I most certainly do!" answered the old lawyer, with an earnestness equal to her own. "I don't say that I am able to realize the fact at all times alike, but I know and believe it as firmly as I do in my own existence. Calista, I have had a reasonably prosperous and happy life, but I solemnly declare that, only for my children, if I believed this life was all, and that there was no God, or that God did not love and care for me, I would give up life as a bad business, and be rid of the trouble."

"But would that be right?" asked Calista.

"Perhaps not; but I fear the idea of right and wrong would not be very strong with me under such circumstances as I have supposed."

"What about Mr. Simpson's mortgage?" asked Calista, as she rose to go.

"Oh! Tell Miss Priscilla that the man has been sick and unfortunate, but he is sure to pay in the end, and I think she had better give him a little more time. The investment is safe enough."

"Please write it," said Calista. "She will only rave at me."

"Perhaps it would be better." Mr. Settson wrote his note.

Calista put it in her pocket and walked away, with her head fuller of thoughts than it had ever been before. She was so absent in school, and made so many mistakes that Miss Jessy observed to Miss Meeks that Calista's head was far too full of her fancy work, and Miss Meeks returned with a sarcastic smile, that she had never expected anything else.

CHAPTER SIXTH.

THE SECRET DRAWER.

FOR several days Calista went about like one in a dream. She was so absent that Miss Druett wondered what had come over the child; and she made so many blunders in school that she brought down on her head a sharp reprimand from Miss Meeks.

"It is just what I predicted when this nonsense fair was first gotten up," said that lady. "Your head is so full of your fancy work that you can think of nothing else."

"Eh! What is that?" asked Miss McPherson.

"It is that Miss Stanfield is so careless that there is no bearing it, ma'am," answered Miss Meeks. "Her exercise is just a disgrace with blots, and the writing looks as if a powowet * had wagged over it." Miss Meeks was apt to get to her Scotch when excited. "I tell her, ma'am, it is a poor return for your kindness about the knitting work," pursued the teacher; "verra ungrateful, I must needs say."

* A tadpole or pollywog, as we call it hereabouts.

"It was not the knitting work," said Calista, very much hurt, but trying to speak civilly, as she knew how Miss McPherson was vexed by any rudeness to poor Miss Meeks. "I have had a great deal to think of this week, Miss Meeks, and I know I have been careless, but I will try to do better. I handed you the first copy of the exercise instead of the second—that is all. Here is the right one."

Miss McPherson took it from her hand and looked it over. "That is not bad," said she; "but you should not allow yourself to write carelessly at any time. However, Miss Meeks will excuse you this once."

"Of course," said the teacher, not very graciously however, and as she went away, she murmured something about favorites and absurd indulgence.

Miss McPherson only smiled. She understood Miss Meeks's good qualities, and she knew that the poor lady's irritability had a better excuse than that of most people.

"Really, Calista, my dear, you must try to do better, for your own sake," said she, gently. "Remember that you are losing opportunities which you may not have very long, and for which you are responsible. Whatever it is that's occupying your mind, put it aside in school time and give your whole attention to your lessons."

Calista felt the wisdom of the advice, and tried to follow it in school hours, but out of school, all her thoughts were occupied about what Mr. Settson had told her. Then the old Stanfield place was really hers, by right. Her grandfather had meant her to have it; he had made a will to that effect, and her aunt had either hidden or destroyed it. Of that Calista had no doubt, and conviction embittered her feeling towards Miss Priscilla to an almost intolerable degree.

"Oh, if I could find a chance, wouldn't I take one good look into grandfather's room?" she said to herself, looking up at the shutters, which she had never seen unbarred since she lived in the house.

The room in question opened from the now never used back parlor, and had been the General's private office. The back parlor was high and spacious, and contained two or three tall book-cases, at which Calista often gazed with longing eyes. They were always kept locked, and the faded green silk linings of the glass doors hid their contents effectually. The front parlor was kept in some sort of order, but the shutters were always closed, and the room was forbidden ground to Calista.

It was Wednesday, and the afternoon session of school was to be devoted to working for the much-talked-of fair. Calista had asked to be excused, and had come home. To her surprise, she found no one in the sitting-room.

"Where are my aunt and Miss Druett, Chloe?" she asked, going into the kitchen.

"Gone to town to see about some law business, I expect," was the answer. "What brings you here at this time of day?"

Calista explained.

"Oh, all right. Honey, you won't be afraid to stay in the house alone a little, will you? I want dreadful bad to run over and see Sally a little. She's got some stuff for the rheumatism, and I want to get the receipt. You can lock the doors, you know, if you are afraid. You won't be scared, will you?"

"No, of course not," replied Calista, inwardly rejoiced at being left alone in the house; "but you know what aunt will say if she comes home and finds you gone."

"Let her say," returned Chloe; "anyhow, I shall be back before she will. But I'd lock the doors if I were you."

There was no danger of Calista's neglecting this precaution. She had no mind to be surprised in the work she proposed to herself.

With a beating heart, she betook herself to the back parlor. She found the book-cases all locked but one, which seemed to contain nothing, only odd bound volumes of magazines and old newspapers. From these, Calista extracted some numbers of the "Gentleman's Magazine" and a couple of volumes of "La Belle Assemblée," which she laid aside, intending to carry them to her room. She then closed the doors and proceeded to examine the drawers under them. They contained nothing but rubbish—bits of old fancy work and such like—but in one of them she discovered a pretty leather working-case or equipage, as is used to be called, containing a still serviceable pair of scissors. This she put in her pocket, not without some misgivings.

Then she went out to the kitchen, and finding all still, she returned and tried the door of her grandfather's room. It was locked, as she expected, but as she gave the door a push, something fell within, the lock turned in her hand, and the door opened. Astonished and almost terrified at her own success, she examined the door, and perceived that the socket which held the bolt had fallen through the decay of the wood.

She looked round her. The room was almost dark, but a little light came through the round holes in the top of the shutters, enough to show her the old mahogany desk and arm-chair, the silent clock, and the once rich Turkey carpet which partly covered the floor, and from which quite a cloud of little moths rose up as she stepped upon it. Over the mantlepiece hung a portrait which she supposed to be that of her grandmother, and under it a beautiful painted miniature of a little boy.