Notwithstanding this, she took four new pupils in singing, who offered themselves, (for her music began to be talked of as something out of the common) and tried to think it a matter of no importance when she found that every lesson left her with a pain in her chest, and a feeling of exhaustion, which prevented her from uttering an unnecessary word for hours afterward.
William did not return as soon as she expected, but he wrote the most entertaining and affectionate letters imaginable. At last, an old acquaintance of his father's found him occupation in working out sketches, and drawing designs on stone, intended to illustrate an extensive scientific work about to be published. He wrote to Abby that the job would occupy about three months—perhaps not as long, and that it would be necessary for him to remain where he was. But as the time was so short, and the business probably not a permanent one, he thought, if she found herself comfortable, she had better remain where she was.
And Abby thought so too, and toiled patiently, morning after morning, through the dull round of lessons, feeling quite happy if she received a letter at night from her talented husband, who seemed to be enjoying himself very much. Sometimes, looking back on her past life, she wondered if it had not been all a dream, that she had been her uncle's pet and her aunt's pride, envied by all around her, and knowing no more of care than her own Canary. It seemed so very long ago that she and Olive had been school-girls together, their greatest anxiety centred on gaining a prize, their greatest anxiety keeping Charlotte in a good humor, or begging some of the little ones off from a merited punishment. But she never allowed herself to repine or be fretful, and a love-letter from her husband, or a smile or caress from her beautiful baby repaid her for all. Verily that love which passes the love of woman must be wonderful indeed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.
BASSWOODS gave Olive a rather more cordial reception than usual when she returned. In fact, Mrs. Merton's visit had done her a great deal of good. People are very apt to set a greater value on what they perceive to be prized by others, and the good people of Basswoods suddenly thought much more of Miss McHenry, on discovering that she had an uncle and aunt who were such very superior people, and who were evidently so much attached to her.
The school filled up at once, and even with Isabella Lambert's assistance, Olive found her hands very full. Isabella's talents were of a higher order than her sister's, and she had studied more, and Olive found her a valuable coadjutor, as well as a pleasant companion.
Melissa Tucker, having finished her education, had returned to her aunt's house, improved in nothing, but on the contrary more malicious, more conceited, and more fond of tattling than ever. Her aunt, however, thought her nothing short of perfection, and paraded her sayings and doings upon all occasions. No sooner did Melissa find herself comfortably settled at home than she began to look about for something whereon to exercise her talents, and she soon came to the conclusion that she could not be better employed than in making mischief between Miss McHenry and her friends.
She knew better than to address herself to Olive, whom she felt understood her perfectly, so she began her attack by calling upon Mrs. Prendergrass and Isabella, professing great regret that there had been any misunderstanding, and a desire to be friends, an advance that was cordially met by the two girls, who had always disliked the idea of a quarrel. Once established there, she began by wary insinuations of "patronage," "intermeddling," etc., to try to poison their minds against Olive. If she had been open in her abuse, they would have met her at once. But her covert attacks were not so easily warded off; and they began to have their effect, especially upon Isabella. She was, at first, not quite so successful with Maria, who cared nothing at all about being patronized, and knew that Olive did not meddle. So she changed her points of attack.
"Cousin Maria," she said one day, in her softest accents, "don't you think Mr. Prendergrass thinks a great deal of Miss McHenry?"
"So we all do," was the brief reply.
"Of course. It is natural you should, perhaps; especially after what happened before you were married, you know."
"I don't know what you mean, Melissa. What happened before we were married?" asked Maria, her curiosity a little excited.
"Why, don't you know? Oh! I am sorry I said any thing, but I supposed you knew all about it. It was so commonly talked of in the village. But if I had had any idea that you did not know it, I would not have spoken for the world."
"I can not conceive what you refer to," said Maria, seriously annoyed.
"Why, only that Mr. Prendergrass was so much attached to Miss McHenry. It was in every one's mouth, but nobody blamed him, for of course they all knew that she drew him on. It was about the same time that she was spreading her nets for Mr. Landon, and I really don't suppose she meant any thing worse than to amuse herself, and perhaps have another string to her bow, in case one failed. But it was well-known that he offered himself to her, and that she refused him more than once. I am sorry I told you, but it was so generally talked of, that I supposed, of course, you would have known it."
And, having fulfilled her mission, Miss Tucker departed, congratulating herself on the idea that she had at last succeeded in sowing dissension between Miss McHenry and her most devoted adherents. She had never forgiven or forgotten her first rebuff in attempting to carry tales to Miss McHenry in school, and moreover, she felt a mean jealousy of Olive's popularity, being one of those amiable persons who think every consideration bestowed upon another just so much taken from themselves.
As it turned out, she was completely baffled, and that not by any ingenuity upon Olive's part, but by simple plain dealing. She soon perceived, that something was the matter—that Isabella's manner toward her grew haughty and distant, and that any little favor was received most ungraciously, if at all; while at Maria's house, which she had always looked upon as a second home, she met a reception so cold as almost to amount to an insult. She took no notice of it at first, thinking it but a passing cloud, but the change soon became too much marked not to force itself upon her attention, and she determined to investigate the matter.
Accordingly, one evening, after tea, she called at Maria's, accompanied by Augusta, and received any thing but a welcome, while a most cordial greeting was bestowed upon her companion. Mr. Prendergrass indeed was the same as ever, and his cordial manners gave Olive more courage to proceed.
"Maria," she said, after a few moments of indifferent conversation, "I have not come without an errand, as you may imagine after the reception you gave me the last time I was here, but I am determined, if possible, to be at the bottom of this business. It is evident that both you and Isabella think you have some good reason to be offended with me, and I think, in all Christian kindness, you are bound to tell me what it is."
Olive spoke kindly but decidedly.
Isabella flushed up to her temples, and Maria seemed just ready to cry, while Mr. Prendergrass laid down his book, and stared first at one, and then at another, in undisguised amazement.
Maria at last murmured something about "not being aware—"
"That is simply impossible, Maria. Both you and Isabella must be aware that you have treated me very differently for three weeks past, from what you have done before. I think I have a right to demand the cause of offense that I may make amends if I have been wrong, and take measures to justify myself if I have been slandered. I have aimed to treat you as a sister," she continued, her voice faltering a little, "from the first time that you came to me, and I have done the same by Isabella, but it is possible, that by some inadvertence, I may have wounded you. If so, I am very sorry."
Mr. Prendergrass here interrupted her. "Miss McHenry, I can not conceive it possible, ma'am, that any of my household can have treated you with disrespect, so much attached to you as we all are. If so, I shall insist upon an immediate apology."
"It is not an apology that I want, Mr. Prendergrass," replied Olive. "I presume Maria thinks I have injured her in some way, and I am only anxious to get at the truth. I suspect some one has been telling stories about me, and—"
The look that passed between the sisters convinced her at once that she was right, and she went on with fresh courage.
"If this is so, I hope you will tell me at once both the name of the storyteller and the substance of the story."
"I am sure I never thought of such a thing," said Maria, beginning to sob, "till I was told that—that—"
"Well—that what?" said Olive encouragingly.
"That you—that Mr. Prendergrass had—had—"
A sudden light burst upon Olive's mind, and she exclaimed: "You little goose! You don't mean to say any one has been trying to make you jealous!"
Maria sobbed more than ever.
"I dare say that some obliging person has been telling you that your excellent husband was a little taken with me at one time, which was very true, and a great compliment I felt it, though, as he will tell you, it was one I would rather have dispensed with. But that was long before he saw you. When you came, he almost forgot that such a person as I ever existed."
"But they say that you encouraged him, and—and—"
"Did I ever encourage you, Mr. Prendergrass?" asked Olive, turning to him.
"No, Miss McHenry," he replied. "You never gave me one particle of encouragement. I regret very much that my dear wife has been so weak as to cherish suspicions injurious, not only to herself and you, but to her husband, who has never had a thought separate from her since he first knew her."
"You see, my dear Maria, how unfounded your ideas have been—do you not? I was engaged to Mr. Landon three months before Mr. Prendergrass ever said any thing to me, and I have been engaged to him ever since. Now, tell me, did I ever say an unkind word to either of you since I first knew you?"
"No," said both the sisters at once.
"Did I ever speak harshly or slightingly of you to any one?"
"You said I was a good sort of a girl, if I were educated," said Isabella, half-indignantly, half-laughing.
"I do not see any thing very slanderous in that, even if it were true," observed Olive. "But I do not remember saying so. When was it?"
"At Mrs. Jones's—at the society."
"Augusta, do you remember my saying that Isabella was a good sort of a girl, if she were educated?" asked Olive, with due gravity.
"Nothing of the kind," replied Augusta. "I remember Miss Tucker asking you if you did not think Miss Lambert would be a pretty girl, if she were not so uncultivated. I can not say I have any recollection of your making any reply whatever."
"Why, Melissa told me herself that you said so!" exclaimed Isabella, unguardedly.
"Oh! Ho! I thought we should get at the bottom of the business before long. So Miss Tucker has been having a hand in it. But, Maria, I thought you knew the whole family too well to attach any importance to their sayings and doings."
"Melissa said you called me a serpent," sobbed Maria, now as much ashamed as she had before been angry.
"I assure you, my child, if I had ever thought so, I should acquit you now. You have shown conclusively that you have little of the wisdom attributed to that animal, or you could not allow yourself to be made uncomfortable by the speeches of a professed mischief-maker. But let by-gones be by-gones. Is there any more?"
Maria and Isabella could not think of any thing else that amounted to aught but vague insinuations, except that Melissa had declared that Miss McHenry had told Mr. Gregory, in her hearing, that Mr. Prendergrass was a great fool to marry a poor girl, who had her reasons for being glad to jump at the chance of having him.
"That is neither more nor less than an unmitigated lie!" said Olive, provoked into using a strong word. "I don't see, Maria, how you could believe such a story for a moment. I am not much in the habit of using such elegant expressions—am I? But we won't say any thing more about it," she added. "I see you are convinced that you are wrong, so we will let the whole matter drop, and consider it as a joke."
"Don't go!" begged Maria. "Stay and spend the evening with us, if it is only to show that you are not angry with us. I am sorry I was so very silly, and so is Isabella, I am sure. Pray do stay—won't you?"
Olive laughed, and suffered her bonnet and shawl to be captured, and herself to be set down in the most comfortable chair in the room. It seemed as if the girls could not do enough to show their penitence and good-will, while she, on her part, set herself to obliterate any uncomfortable impression that might have been left upon their minds. They were in the midst of a great frolic over a game of "twenty questions," Mr. Prendergrass replying with a caution which would have been becoming to a diplomatist, to the severe examination of the ladies, when the door opened, and in walked Miss Melissa herself.
She looked both startled and puzzled at the scene which greeted her eyes, but in a moment recovered herself, and came forward with her usual caressing manner. Miss McHenry and Mrs. Tower greeted her with great politeness—the latter especially was remarkably gracious. Maria and her sister looked provoked and uneasy, and Mr. Prendergrass was as immovable as Mont Blanc. It was impossible for Miss Tucker not to perceive that something was wrong, but she made great efforts to appear as usual.
"How pleasant it looks here!" she observed, in her smoothest way. "It is really delightful to find you all so sociably engaged."
"You know how to appreciate such things, Miss Tucker," said Augusta, in her most silvery tones. "I am really delighted that you came in."
"But I must really call you to account for little mistake you made," added Olive, taking up the ball. "How did you come to tell Miss Lambert that I said she would be a good sort if she were only educated, when you know very well you yourself asked me if I did think so?"
If a glance could have killed Isabella, she would have fallen dead upon the spot, but Miss Tucker did not answer. She did not exactly know what to say. Olive went on:
"Moreover, you told Mrs. Prendergrass that I made remarks about herself and her husband which you know very well I never did make. I do not know how you can reconcile it with your conscience to tell such falsehoods, nor does it particularly matter to me. I am sorry, however, that you should do it, under the mask of a high religious profession, both for your own sake, and for that of the cause. I must tell you that if you are leaning for salvation upon any principle which allows you to do such things, you are leaning upon a broken reed which will fail you in the day of trial. Let me entreat you to examine your own state at once and honestly, and repent of the slanders of which you have been guilty before it is too late, and you are brought into judgment for them. I am not much afraid of your injuring me, but I must tell you that unless you stop these covert attacks I shall take some measures to defend myself, and these measures may not be very agreeable to you. I hope this is all that is necessary for me to say."
Miss Tucker had stood like a statue during this address, and for a moment after it was concluded, then recovering herself she said, blandly, but with a deep sigh:
"Dear Miss McHenry, I am sorry to see you so angry and for such a trifle. I am much obliged to you for your advice, and for your threats I am not at all troubled at them. If Maria has been weak enough to betray a friend who meant to do her a service, I pity her from the bottom of my heart, and regret that her confiding disposition should be so abused." And she glanced in an unmistakable way from Olive to the gentleman.
"Did you mean to do her confiding disposition a service when you told her that Miss McHenry made insinuations against her character to my father?" inquired Mrs. Tower. "Permit me to tell you that I shall inform him of the way you have used his name in this matter in order that he may take such steps as he thinks best."
Miss Tucker heard this with another sigh, as though in pity for such deep depravity, but she did not seem inclined to say any more, and walked in a dignified manner out of the room. The next thing heard of her was that she had gone to spend some time with a school-mate who lived at the West, somewhere about Green Bay.
Olive was very glad, for she disliked very much the idea of a collision, and feared further mischief. The Lamberts, heartily ashamed of being influenced by such a person, were more her friends than ever, and Olive took pains to show them by every means in her power that she did not cherish any resentment. Isabella improved in usefulness every day, and Olive grew more and more attached to her the more she knew her.
Olive's Sunday-school class at last began to reward her for the pains she had taken. When Mr. Gregory announced an approaching confirmation, four of the oldest girls gave in their names at once. Julia stood aloof for the time. She seemed very anxious to make a profession of her faith, but was afraid she should not always persevere, and that she would be the means of bringing discredit upon her profession.
"But Julia," said Olive, "you are not required to persevere always all at once. Every duty has its day, and for every day strength will be provided according to the need. It is not as if you were dependent on yourself, you know, and is it not something like a distrust of God's mercy to doubt his giving you that power which he has promised?"
Julia pondered.
"It is such a little time since I began to think about such things. Miss McHenry, I used to think I was so much superior to the rest of the girls because I did not care for going to church, and religious books and such things."
"But you do not feel so now, Julia."
"No indeed! I can not tell you how ashamed and humbled I am when I look back at that time. It is more that than any thing else which discourages me now, for fear that I should go back and be as proud and careless as ever."
"I do not think there is much danger of that, Julia. You could never forget that feeling of unworthiness, and of the mercy which brought you to the knowledge of it."
"Perhaps not; and yet people do become careless, you know."
"Yes; and they are much more likely to become so if they have nothing outward to prevent them. You will have the communion, coming at least every month, to make you examine your self, to remind you of your Saviour's dying love and mercy, to renew your self-consecration to himself and his Church. Will not this be a great help to you in maintaining a Christian character?"
Julia thought so, but she still seemed to feel that she was unworthy.
"So are we all, my dear. There never was a communicant yet who was worthy of the mercy of God. But if, with all your unworthiness, you have not hesitated to accept the salvation of which the communion is only the outward and visible sign, why should you be stopped by the sign itself?"
Julia thought and considered, and finally made up her mind to take the step. She had left school, but still continued to be a frequent visitor, and Olive was very fond of her, though she had given her more trouble than any other girl in school. But there was something about her so truthful and hearty, and so far removed from the aimless frivolity that wearied her life out in so many of her other pupils, that she was ready to forgive a good deal of willfulness.
If Julia was sometimes conceited, and now and then rebellious, she learned her lessons and took an interest in them, and in things which illustrated them. She really thought and talked, instead of dreaming and chattering. Then she was eminently truthful, and resorted to none of the mean artifices which some of the other girls used to conceal their faults. She would have scorned to bring in a false excuse for being late in the morning, or to lay a plot for getting called out of school half an hour before it was over, or pretend a headache or weak eyes as an excuse for neglecting a lesson.
With many of Olive's pupils, seriousness upon any subject whatever, seemed all but out of the question. Senseless chattering and equally senseless giggling seemed their only idea of social intercourse, and any attempt to develop or employ their higher faculties only made them sullen. Educating these young persons was almost out of the question. The only thing that could be done was to drag them perseveringly through a course of lessons in hopes that some knowledge would stick to them which might afterwards bear fruit. This was hard work enough, and thankless enough, but now and then one would come out from her companions, and after a while attain to a respectable degree of learning, and these few examples encouraged Olive to persevere.
Olive's warm friendship with Ruth and Augusta continued and increased, and it did them all good. In Mrs. Tower indeed the improvement was not so apparent, but in Ruth every one saw it. She was as cheerful and useful as ever, but she was much gentler, and did not say nearly so many sharp things. Moreover, she was more careful in her manners and dress. Her superb hair was put up with some attention to the becoming, as well as to the shortest possible time in which it could be put up, and her general appearance was much improved.
The Milton and Tennyson war still waged sometimes, but with diminished force. Olive had learned to see new beauties in the English classics, and Ruth allowed that not many poems were superior to the "Palace of Art," and that Dryden never wrote any thing equal to "Œnone." Ruth even treated the ingenious Mr. Ruskin with something short of absolute contempt, a degree of toleration at which Augusta never expected her to arrive. And Augusta, who had a secret leaning to candlesticks, allowed that in the present state of the world, it would be better worth while to build four churches worth four thousand dollars a piece and leave the rest of the money for parish purposes than to erect one edifice costing fifty thousand.
They had been studying German together during the last winter, Olive acting as teacher, and they found a new source of pleasure as they learned to read it with some degree of facility. Together they admired and pitied Egmont, and heartily detested Wilhelm Meister, and set critics at defiance by alternately ridiculing and railing at Faust. They studied the beloved Schiller, laughed over "Puss in Boots," and regretted that Goethe's years of life had not been granted to the good and pure Fouqué and Novalis.
Mr. Gregory shook his head sometimes over these German raptures, and wished that they would spend the time upon Greek. And Mrs. Felton was made very uneasy on their account, having imbibed the idea that all the Germans since Luther's time were either infidels or transubstantialists—meaning probably trancendentalists—but as Ruth lost none of her fondness for the Bible and religious reading, and seemed to enjoy her lessons very much, her fears gradually subsided, and she regarded the obnoxious volumes with more complacency, even when opened in her presence.
But before long an event happened which for some time put an end to their studies. One evening the three friends were sitting over their books in the pleasant little study at the parsonage which looked out upon the road. It was a warm spring evening, and the long windows were thrown open to their full extent to admit the spring air and the last lingering rays of the sun.
"Decidedly it is too dark for study," said Augusta, closing her book.
"I have been looking for you to find that out," replied Ruth; "I have been unable to tell one letter from another for the last half-hour."
"There is nothing very strange in that," answered Augusta, laughing. "You never will be able to tell your 'B's and your 'V's apart, even in broad daylight. If we were to study two years, I should expect to find you looking for 'beugen' among the 'v's."
"There is some one coming to see your father," remarked Olive, glancing out of the window; "do you know who it is?"
"It is no one I ever saw before, I am sure," said Augusta. "How miserably ill he looks! Bless me, Ruth, what is the matter? You look as if you had seen a ghost."
Ruth was indeed extremely pale. She stood looking at the stranger, who came straight across the grass to the study-windows, as though familiar with the ways of the place. He was a respectably-dressed man, tall and large, but looking very pale and ill. The girls glanced from him to Ruth in surprise, seeing nothing in his appearance to cause alarm. But before they could speak, he reached the window.
Ruth sprang forward to meet him, and seemed as though she would have fallen, but he caught her in his arms.
"God bless you, Ruth!" he exclaimed. "You knew me, if no one else did."
Augusta caught his hand and looked in his face.
"Frederick! Can it be possible?"
"I did not think I was so altered that no one could recognize me," he said mournfully. "Yes, Augusta, I have come back to see if there is a corner of the old house left for me—to die in," he added in a lower tone, as he sank upon the sofa. "Where are my father and mother?"
"Shall I go and find them?" asked Olive in a low tone. And without waiting for an answer, she hurried away.
She met Mr. and Mrs. Gregory sauntering slowly homeward through the deepening twilight, the one burdened with a basket of early radishes and lettuce from a neighbor's hotbeds, the other with a bunch of flowers.
"Where are you hurrying at such a rate?" asked the lady in wonder.
"I was going to look for you," replied Olive breathlessly, though trying to conceal her agitation. "There is a gentleman at the house that wants very much to see you."
"Why, child, how flurried you are!" exclaimed Mr. Gregory. "Is it Walter?"
"It is no one I ever saw before," said Olive, as they walked along more quickly, "but Augusta and Ruth know him, and sent me to look for you."
"Augusta and Ruth! Husband, can it be—!" And Mrs. Gregory quickened her steps almost to a run, to keep pace with her husband's long strides.
Olive followed at a distance, thinking she might be needed, and sat down in the parlor. She heard a faint scream, an exclamation from Mrs. Gregory, and then the door closed between them. She sat patiently for half an hour, struggling against a forlorn kind of feeling of being a stranger, and out of place. Why is it that this feeling so often comes to us in the presence of joy in which we have no share, and so seldom when the scene at which we are present is one of sorrow? She was just wondering what Mrs. Felton would imagine had become of them, when she heard Augusta's voice calling to her.
"What—are you sitting here in the dark? Come in, do. I am afraid we have not been very hospitable, but we have been so surprised with Frederick, that—"
"That you have forgotten me," said Olive smiling; "and no wonder. How is Ruth?"
"She hardly knows, herself, I believe. Was it not wonderful that she should have known him the first moment? It is six years since we have any of us seen him. Poor fellow! He is sadly worn and tired now, but I hope he will be better to-morrow."
"Where has he been all this time?" asked Olive.
"Oh! In many places here and there. Mostly in the Indian Ocean. He has come home quite a rich man he says."
Olive could not so much wonder at Ruth's recognition of her long-absent lover, when she looked at him as he sat between his father and mother on the sofa. He was so exactly like Augusta, despite his beard and moustache, and all other differences, she thought she should have known him anywhere. He looked pale and worn, for all his bronze complexion, and there was a languor in his manners which seemed to indicate either illness or great fatigue. One hand was clasped in his mother's, the other rested on his father's arm. But his eyes seemed all for Ruth, who sat leaning back in the rocking-chair, looking pale, but with an expression of intense yet subdued happiness that fully transfigured her face, and made Olive wonder how she could ever have thought her plain.
Augusta was the only one of the party who looked sad. Her brother had left them in the beginning of her engagement, and since then she had been a beloved wife, a widow, and a childless mother.
"Ruth, what will your mother think has become of us?" asked Olive, after a while. "We ought to have been at home by eight, and it is now eleven."
"We must go," said Ruth, rousing herself. "I had no idea that it was so late. I wonder what mother will say?" she continued, as they were walking homeward by themselves, having declined Mr. Gregory's escort. "Would you mind telling her about it, Olive, and letting me go up-stairs? I want so much to be alone."
Olive consented, of course, and as they found the door open, Ruth went straight to her own apartment, and Olive went into the sitting-room, where she found Mrs. Felton asleep on the sofa.
"Bless me. Olive!" she said peevishly, as she roused herself and rubbed her eyes. "Where have you been all this time? Here I have been sitting up for you till my eyes are fairly out of my head. Where is Ruth?"
"She is gone up-stairs," replied Olive. "I am sorry we kept you up, but we could not help it very well. They have had rather an exciting evening at the parsonage. Frederick has come home."
"Why, do tell!" exclaimed Mrs. Felton, wide awake at once. "Well, if I ever! You don't say he has come home! Why, every one thought he was dead long ago. And so he has come back! When did he get here? Tell me all about it, won't you?"
Olive complied, making her tale as circumstantial as possible. When she mentioned the circumstance of Ruth's being the first to recognize the stranger, Mrs. Felton exclaimed: "There now! That is just like her! I never did see such a girl. I dare say she would have him now if he asked her, though she has refused so many good offers."
"He does not seem to me as though he were likely to have any body," said Olive. "I think he looks very ill indeed, but that might have been only fatigue and agitation."
"I wonder if he has come home to be a burden on the old folks in the evening of their days?" Mrs. Felton went on to say. "I think it will be really too bad if he has."
"He told Augusta that he had come home quite a rich man," answered Olive, "but even if he had not, I know they would not feel it a burden."
"Quite a rich man, eh? Well now, I'd never expect that of Fred Gregory. But any way, I am glad he has come home if he has reformed. It will be a comfort to their minds to see him once more. What did the old lady say to him when she came in?"
"I don't know. I was not in the room. I thought they would rather be by themselves."
Mrs. Felton seemed to think this a very remarkable piece of self-denial on Olive's part, and promised herself the pleasure of going over to sympathize with Mrs. Gregory, the first thing in the morning. The hint that Olive had given respecting Frederick having acquired property, was sufficient to set her imagination at work, and she lay awake half the night, arranging a romance wherein Mr. Gregory the younger played the part of an immensely wealthy nabob, come home expressly to marry her daughter, and to die shortly afterward, leaving Ruth a rich widow.
"We can go on living together just the same," her reverie went on, "only in more style, of course. Black always was becoming to Ruth. I wonder whether she will wear caps?" And in deciding whether these caps should be of muslin or crape, Mrs. Felton finally lost the thread of her reflections in sleep.
It did not appear, however, that any part of her romance was likely to be realized, except that which related to her hero's death. In the morning, he was so ill that he was unable to leave his room, and for two or three weeks he lay between life and death, in a fever. No one seemed to think it strange that Ruth was constantly at the parsonage, and indeed made it her home, till Frederick began to improve a little.
There was a great deal of talk about his unexpected return, and considerable speculation as to the amount of his property, and people wondered whether he would marry Ruth in case he got well enough, and whether she would have him. Mrs. Tucker thought that she would refuse him with disdain if she had an atom of proper pride about her, as, of course she had not, or she would not be at the parsonage so much. She did not think it at all proper, for her part.
Meantime, the objects of all this conversation paid very little attention to any thing beyond themselves. The prodigal was happy in being at home again, at peace with himself, the world, and his God, and looking forward with humble confidence to that city which hath foundations, where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. The peace that passeth all understanding brooded over Ruth's heart and mind. She felt that it was well with her lover, and whether she enjoyed his society in this world, or looked forward to it in the next, was comparatively a matter of small concern. It was enough that he was faithful, repentant, forgiven, safe; that she could minister to his wants, both of body and mind; that he loved to have her by him; that he always knew her, even when his father and mother seemed like strangers to him; that he was at last worthy of her love.
After a time, he recovered sufficiently to ride out, and even to walk to church. But he continued feeble and suffering, and all felt that his life hung upon a thread. He had earnestly requested Doctor Gordon's true opinion, and that opinion was freely given. The physician told him that he could never recover, even though he might live some time. His disease was one of the heart, which might terminate his life at any moment.
Frederick received the announcement calmly and cheerfully, and set about finding some employment which should occupy without fatiguing him. This was found in the cataloguing and arranging a large quantity of East-Indian and Chinese curiosities, which he had picked up in his travels, and which he proposed to present to the academy. Thus he spent his time quietly and peacefully, happy in the society of those he loved best in the world, and awaiting the summons to his heavenly rest.
This was the state of things when Olive went down to New-York to visit Laura, who would not hear of her stopping anywhere else first.
CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.
OLIVE found Laura established in a fine house, in a fashionable street, with abundance of fine furniture, fine visitors, fine servants, every thing, in short, which had formerly constituted her idea of perfect happiness. Mrs. Witherington welcomed her sister with much more cordiality than usual, and seemed to think she could not do too much to make her comfortable. Olive had never slept in a room so splendidly furnished as that which Laura assigned to her. The pretty trifles that covered her dressing-table cost more than all Olive's wardrobe put together, and the price of the mantel-ornaments would have supported a Western missionary and his wife for a year. The whole decoration of the house was upon the same lavish scale, and seemed so extravagant to Olive that she was glad to learn that it had been furnished before her sister came into it.
Laura appeared to enjoy it all wonderfully, and Mr. Witherington appeared to think nothing too good or too expensive for her. The first evening was spent quietly at home, Laura issuing an order to be denied to visitors, and giving up a party to which she was engaged, for Olive's sake.
"It is quite a sacrifice, I assure you," she said, laughing; "for I was expecting to make a very splendid appearance."
"I am sure, my dear, I enjoy the prospect of spending an evening quietly and rationally at home, and going to bed at a reasonable hour," observed Mr. Witherington, "especially as we are to be in town but a few days longer. I think there is no greater bore upon earth than continual parties."
"But we have not been to a party in nearly five days," said Laura, pouting a little; "and the last one was a wedding, too, you know. Besides, you know this will be the last one."
Mr. Witherington sighed, but did not make any reply, and Olive thought he looked annoyed and uncomfortable. She could not wonder, when she found how Laura spent her time, and how little of it was given to her home and her husband.
True there were no more parties, but something else came along to fill up every evening. One night a concert, then the opera, where a star of the first magnitude was then rising, then a few friends at home, fifty being Laura's most contracted definition of the word few. They were to go to the country the next week, and then Olive hoped there might be some respite.
"Confess, now, Olive," Laura said, one morning when they were driving together, "that with all your philosophy you would like to exchange with me. Is not this better than school-teaching from day to day, with no recreation, only now and then a sewing society?"
"I have never had much experience of your way of life, Laura," Olive replied, "but from what I have observed since I have been here, I would rather spend my life in teaching district-school from one year to another, than spend my life as you do. I am sure it would not be any more fatiguing, and I should at least have the comfort of thinking that I was bringing something to pass."
Laura looked incredulous.
"I am very sure I never was so tired after the hardest day I ever spent in school, as I was the morning after Mrs. Blank's party, and you seemed equally so; and what have you to show for it, after all? Suppose you pass the whole of next winter in this way—what will it amount to? You have no time to read or study, and very little, as far as I can see, to attend to your household. And then, at the end of life, how will it look as it is passed in review?"
"There is no use in bringing that in," said Laura, abruptly. "If we were always thinking how things would look when we come to die, we should never do any thing."
"I don't know about that," said Olive. "I think we should do some things a good deal better."
"But not any thing we want to do," persisted Laura. "If we were always thinking upon death, we should have no pleasure in things that are very agreeable now, because we should all the time feel that we must go and leave them."
"Perhaps we should only set a more just value upon them. You know the lines Mr. Witherington was reading last evening from his favorite, Southey:
"'O Monarch! only in the hour of death,
We learn to value things like these.'
"But at any rate, it does not seem wise to fix one's mind entirely upon things which we may be called upon to leave at any time, and must inevitably give up before a good while."
"I declare, Olive, you are a capital preacher!" said Laura, forcing a laugh. "I hope Walter will accept of your help in writing his sermons. And by the by, when is that young gentleman to be expected? I thought he was going to meet you here."
"I expect him to-day or to-morrow—possibly this evening."
"Is he as much given to preaching as yourself, my dear? Because if he is, I shall be quite afraid of him. You have made me quite blue, already."
"I don't mean to make you blue, my love," replied Olive affectionately, "but I do wish I could persuade you to think a little. You have so much to be thankful for—youth, health, fortune, an excellent husband—I can not bear to have you ungrateful for it all."
"Well, Olive, he 'is' a good husband," said Laura feelingly. "You don't know how good he is. I am sure I did not till I came to see him every day. I did not believe any man could be so thoroughly excellent as he proves himself. Since we have been married, I have never known or seen him do or say a thing that I would wish otherwise. I only wish I were more worthy of him, but some how one's conscience and one's wishes are so terribly at variance."
"But since it is conscience that must decide the matter at last, would it not be well to bring one's wishes a little more into harmony with its teachings?" asked Olive. "At least would it not be worth while to try?"
Laura did not reply, and Olive thought she had said enough.
The remainder of the drive was rather a silent one. When they arrived at home, they found Walter awaiting them. He brought the pleasant news that his studies would be finished by the next spring, and then—
"Then comes ordination," said Olive.
"Yes, and something else after it," said Walter. "I hope it will not be long before I am settled somewhere, and I assure you I have no idea of boarding or keeping bachelor's hall."
"And have you no desire of remaining for a short time that interesting creature, an unmarried clergyman?" asked Olive mischievously. "Just think how much you will lose if you settle down so soon as a family man."
"I really can not say I wish to fill that trying position, Olive. I think it is one in which it is exceedingly difficult to appear to advantage. But when have you heard from M., and from Mrs. Forester?"
"It is three weeks since I have had a letter from Abby," returned Olive, "and I am growing very anxious about her. Mr. Forester has been in Boston for some time—in fact, nearly all summer, and they are boarding. But her constant excuse is that she has so much to do. I can not understand it."
Walter looked surprised.
"Did you not know Abby was giving music lessons? I heard so early in the summer. I understand she has a good many pupils."
"She has never said a word about it to me," replied Olive. "How did you hear of it?"
"Some of us were talking of music one day, and one, a young man from B., spoke of his sister's music-teacher as singing wonderfully well, and called her Mrs. Forester. This aroused my curiosity, and from his description of her husband, I satisfied myself that it could be no one else than Abby."
"What did he say about her husband?" asked Olive.
"Why, really, my love, his description was so far from complimentary that I should not care to repeat it."
"You need not be afraid," said Olive, coloring. "I could hardly think worse of him than I do. And so that is the secret of her want of time. Poor child! She is wearing her life out giving music lessons, while he is enjoying himself at Boston, in an artistic fashion. Why could he not stay at home and take care of her? My uncle found him an excellent place, where he had a good salary."
"So Hitchcock said. I believe it was his father or some relation that employed him. But he said Mr. Forester was always behindhand, and could not be depended upon for any thing, and they had an explosion one day, and Mr. Forester went off. Do you know where he is now?"
"The last I heard, he was preparing illustrations for some book or other, but very likely he has become tired of it by this time. There is, as your friend says, no dependence upon him. With all his fancied intellectual superiority, he is as meanly selfish as any man I ever knew."
"I saw a sister of his once, who seemed a very nice girl," remarked Walter. "I fancy she is older than Forester."
"Yes, his sister Emma. Abby thinks all the world of her, and she has always been the main stay of the family. But I think they all look down upon her, and consider her a person of no talent whatever. I am sure William does—though she has more in her little finger than goes to his whole composition. But to think of that poor little thing giving music lessons!" Olive almost cried at the very idea.
"But why is it so much worse for her than for you?"
"Because she is so utterly unfitted for it, Walter. And then it is such a disappointment—such a contrast to what she expected when she was married. She thought she was going to be perfectly happy, only because she married the man she loved—and such an accomplished person. Much good his accomplishments do him or any one else, except to make him think himself superior to all the rest of mankind, and that every one else is bound to work for and wait upon him."
"Does he profess to be in any degree a religious man?"
"Oh! No, indeed. He is quite too grand for that. He says, so far as I can get at his ideas, that he worships God in beauty—that every thing beautiful must have good in it—and that art is religion."
"A very convenient faith for those who like to escape from all restraints upon their conduct."
"Oh! Yes. You should hear him discourse upon the trammels of convention, and the narrow-minded views of those miserable dogmatists who would shackle the grasping genius of such minds as—George Sand, for instance, that 'large-souled woman and large-hearted man,' as he is fond of calling her. I asked him one day point-blank if he did not think her a very bad woman."
"What did he say?"
"He politely replied that my views of morality were too narrow to enable me to judge of a character like hers. For my part, I can not say that I have any desire for wider views of morality than those taken by the Author of the Ten Commandments."
"And Abby—does she sympathize in all these large views?"
"I think there was a time when she did, in some degree," replied Olive, "but I am sure she is very much changed in that respect. In one of her letters, she told me how she loved to think of the lessons she learned at her mother's knee, though she was a very little child then, and how much she enjoyed the idea of teaching them over again to little Emma.
"'I put her dear little hands together and say a prayer for her every
night and morning,' she wrote, 'and it seems as if she knew what I
meant already, she is so still.'
"And I am sure, though she does not say so, that she prays a great deal herself. The whole tone of her letters shows that she is very much changed in that respect."
"Let that give you comfort, my dearest Olive," said Walter tenderly. "If, in the midst of her troubles, she has learned to love God, we have the very highest assurance that all things work together for good. No real harm can happen to her while she is faithful to Him, though in his wisdom he may call upon her to glorify him, even in the fires."
Olive was silent for a few moments, and then said: "I wrote to her this morning, and I really think, if I do not have an answer in two or three days, I must go on there directly, instead of going to the country with Laura. I do not like the idea of losing a moment of our time together either, but I feel so anxious about her."
"Wait a little," said Walter; "we may hear again soon, and then you can decide better what course to take."
Walter's prediction was verified, for Mr. Witherington brought in a letter at dinner-time, addressed to Olive. It was from Charlotte, and contained the startling intelligence that Abby was at home, and very ill.
"You will be surprised to hear that Abby is with us," she wrote, "and,
indeed, it hardly seems real to any of us yet. It appears that Mrs.
Granger had been away, so that she had not seen Abby for some time.
As soon as she came home she went to visit her, and found her so very
unwell, and so very uncomfortable, that she wrote to father about it,
without telling Abby what she was going to do. As soon as we received
the letter, father and mother set out directly, and they found her so
very unwell, and so very uncomfortable, that they thought the only
thing to be done was to bring her home at once, and she was very glad
to come. She is a little more comfortable to-day, but Dr. M. does not
give us much encouragement, and she is so very anxious to see you, that
mother thinks you had better come home directly. She wants Walter to
come with you and finish his visit here. Telegraph, that we may know
when to expect you.
"P. S.—Mammy has taken possession of little Emma, and will hardly allow
any one else to look at her. She is a sweet little creature, and seems
healthy."
Olive handed the letter to Laura. "I must go to-morrow," she said, "or to-night, if it is not too late."
"You will gain nothing by leaving to-night," said Mr. Witherington, as soon as he understood the matter. "It will be better to take the early morning-train. I shall be very sorry to have you leave us, but I can not ask you to stay."
Laura's eyes were full of tears, as she followed Olive to her own room.
"Poor Abby! Poor child! But I am thankful she is at home again. I think she will get better—don't you?—now that she has a comfortable place to live in."
"I don't know," said Olive. "Charlotte would not have written so if she had not been very much alarmed. She does not make a fuss for nothing, and I think Abby must have felt herself very ill before she consented to go. Poor child! I suppose she thought she might at least die at home."
"Don't talk about that," said Laura. "I am sure she will get well. Just think how strong she always was!"
"She has never been well since Emma was born," said Olive, shaking her head, "and if her lungs were affected, as aunt feared last spring, there would be nothing worse for her than singing lessons. I declare, Laura, I never thought it would be hard for me not to hate any one, but it is hard for me to have any other feeling toward that man—"
"And the worst of it was, in my mind," said Laura, "that I never believed he really cared much for her, except for having his own way. You know I insinuated to you that he offered himself to me."
Olive nodded.
"He did so again, and from what I heard afterward, I was pretty sure he was engaged to Abby even then. I taxed him with his attentions to her at the time, but he laughed, and said all he cared for was her music. If she had refused him, he would have been dangling after some one else in two weeks' time. Then after, there was so much opposition made by the family, I suppose he persuaded himself that he really loved her, and was determined to have her at any rate."
"He is—but there is no use in talking about that. I should like to forget him entirely, if I could. Do you think you shall go to the country to-morrow?"
"Probably not till Thursday now. I shall be able to go to M. as easily from Briars as from here, if it is necessary. If she gets better, so that change of air is considered desirable for her, we will come and take her down there. You must be sure and let me know of her state as often as you can. Does it not seem strange that this news should come just as we were talking about death this morning?"
"'In the midst of life we are in death,'" repeated Olive, almost involuntarily. "But if it must be one or the other, I should rather it were Abby than you."
"You think she is better prepared. But, indeed, Olive, I am going to try and be more serious after this. You and my husband make me ashamed of being such a butterfly. But you know I was brought up to it."
"I know it," said Olive, "but don't make that an excuse for your present course of life, if you feel that you are wrong, Laura. You can act for yourself, and you are bound to do it."
"But what shall I do, Olive? Suppose I become convinced of the uselessness and emptiness of all these things—how shall I break off from them? I can not go into a convent."
"And it would be of no use if you did, so long as you carried an unchanged heart with you. The same desires and objects of life would be just as sinful if they were not gratified, as though they were. It is not the circumstances, but your heart, that wants changing first, and when that is right, never fear but the way will be plain before you."
The next morning, Walter and Olive began their journey, and arrived at home in the middle of the afternoon. Charlotte met them at the door.
"She is much more comfortable to-day," was her reply to Olive's hurried query, "but you must expect to see her much changed. She had a terrible turn of suffering last night, from which she was relieved by a severe hemorrhage at the lungs this morning. She says it is the third she has had since June. You can not go up now," she added, checking Olive's eagerness. "She has just fallen asleep for the first time in twenty-four hours."
Olive inquired for the baby.
"Mammy has taken her out to walk. She is the only one who can coax her away from her mother, but Emma seemed to take to her honest black face at once. She will sit upon the bed as still as a mouse, hours at a time, if we will let her. I never saw such a child! Mr. Collins came yesterday to pray with Abby, and when he began, the little thing put her tiny hands together, and held them up as though she understood it all. It was quite too much for mother—I never saw her so affected. She was obliged to leave the room."
"How does Abby seem to feel herself?"
"She is quite composed most of the time, and complains very little. The only thing that comes to trouble her, is her anxiety about her husband. She is afraid he will not get here—"
"Has any one written?" asked Olive, as Charlotte paused without completing the sentence.
"Father wrote the day they came home, but we have received no answer. I think, though she does not say so, that she is afraid he will be displeased at her coming. I do not see why he should. She could not stay there alone, and in such an uncomfortable place, too."
"How was she when uncle found her? I have heard nothing yet, except what you said in your letter."
"That is pretty much all. Father got a letter from Mrs. Granger, saying that she thought Abby was very ill—more than she herself was aware. Mrs. Granger did not say that she had bled at the lungs; perhaps she did not know it. But her description of the symptoms she had observed alarmed father and mother so much that they determined to set out for there directly.
"When they got there, the woman who lived in the lower part of the house told her that she thought Mrs. Forester was dying of consumption, and had been all summer. They found her up-stairs, in a room as hot as a furnace, with the western sun full on the windows. She was lying on the sofa, partly dressed, and a little girl was trying to put the room in order. It seemed that was the only place she had to stay, and she lay there from one day to another, unable to go down-stairs most of the time.
"Of course she was very much surprised to see them. She tried to make out that she was only tired and sick. But, partly by questioning her, and partly by inquiring of the woman of the house, (who seemed disposed to be as kind as she knew how, mother said) they found that she had been giving lessons in singing and on the piano all summer, and had only stopped the latter when she grew too hoarse to speak.
"Mrs. Hines said that Mr. Forester had been there twice, and staid four days each time. She thought he took some money from Mrs. Forester when he went away. She said she had tried to alarm him about Mrs. Forester's state of health, but he seemed to think she was not very sick.
"'Nonsense, Mrs. Hines!' he had said. 'How can you think of her being sick with such a splendid color as she has? It is nothing but a cold.'
"'I was mad enough at him to knock him down,' the good woman said, 'but I don't think he meant to neglect her. It was only his foolishness—'"
"It has been his foolishness which has done all the mischief, from beginning to end," said Olive bitterly. "But go on, Charlotte."
"There is little more to tell," replied her cousin. "She was unwilling to come at first, though mother said she evidently wished it very much. But she yielded at last, upon father's assurance that he would write to Mr. Forester directly. She bore the journey better than was expected, and seemed so happy when she was carried in and laid upon her old bed. She appeared just as much like a child as ever at first. And Edward would let no one carry her in but himself, and the good old fellow laughed and cried till I did not know but he would go into hysterics outright. Mammy seized upon Emma, who went to her directly, and she has kept her ever since, except when she has been cooking something nice to tempt 'Miss Abby' into eating.
"Almost every one we know has come to inquire for her—even aunt Dimsden seems to have forgiven her completely. She has been here two or three times a day, and sat up with her last night. Indeed, no one in the house went to bed till almost morning."
Mrs. Merton now entered the room to greet Olive and Walter. She was stately and elegant as ever, but looked worn and anxious.
"Abby is still asleep, my dear. Come and get some refreshment, for I am sure you must both need it. Mr. Landon, how well you are looking. I think your change of employment must agree with you." She continued: "I assure you sir, I was very angry with you for a time, till this romantic girl begged a peace for you. How could you give up all your splendid prospects so suddenly?"
"Simply because I thought it was right, dear Mrs. Merton," said Walter, "and I have never found reason to alter my opinion, though I can not deny that at the time I felt it a great sacrifice."
"I should think so indeed. With your talents, you might have become so distinguished and been so useful."
"I hope what talents I have may be a hundredfold more useful in the calling I have chosen," replied Walter; "and as for distinction, pardon me, but I do not think a Christian has any right to make that an object. The servants in the parable were commanded to employ that committed to their charge, whether it were ten talents or one, not to their own advantage but to that of their master; and if they were rewarded afterward, it was only by the grace of their lord. I do not believe that at the last hour I shall at all regret the loss of worldly distinction."
"But according to that view you remove one of the greatest spurs to human action," remarked Charlotte.
"True, but only to substitute a stronger and better one in its place. The man who is moved to employ his time and talents because they are gifts from the Being best loved in the universe, to be employed to His honor and consecrated to Him, will, I think, be far less likely to go wrong than he who uses his gifts only to his own advantage, and that he may obtain the praise of men."
"But are all men capable of being influenced by such motives?" inquired Charlotte incredulously. "Are they not above the reach of common minds?"
"Since they are offered by the Lord of all alike to all minds, we are bound to believe that they are suited to all. I believe more people are actuated by them than the world chooses to believe. How many men and women one sees discharging monotonous and painful duties from year to year and from day to day with nothing visible to sustain them, yet cheerful and even happy under their burdens, because they have a faith that looks above and beyond them to a region of rest and happiness."
Charlotte sighed.
"I wish I had it then, I am sure," she said in a weary tone not unmixed with bitterness. "But the more I struggle for it, the more unattainable it seems."
Mammy now appeared to say that Miss Abby was awake, and Olive and her aunt withdrew.
"Miss Merton," said Walter, after a moment's silence, "will you permit me to ask you a question upon your last remark? Of course I can not claim an answer, but it may lead to something satisfactory to you perhaps. You say that you have sought such a faith—but how?"
"By study," replied Charlotte, "I have examined all the evidences for the authenticity and authority of the Scriptures, and perfectly satisfied myself on that point. Then I began to review the articles of our Church, comparing them with the Bible, and, as far as I have gone, I am convinced that they are perfectly scriptural."
"But still I understand that you have not yet attained to what you really want. You have collected the materials, but they are only dead matter after all. You have acquired knowledge, and now you want faith to make that knowledge available."
"Yes, I suppose so. But how is that to be attained?"
"By prayer. My dear Miss Charlotte, in this matter I can give you no other advice than I would give to the youngest child in my Sunday-school class. Seek God in prayer; beg of him to enable you to see yourself exactly as you are. Let me ask you what you will think a common-place question: Have you felt yourself to be a great sinner?"
"I can not say that I ever have," replied Charlotte frankly. "Of course, I know that I have done wrong sometimes, but it seems to me that I am about as good as people in general."
"That is at least an honest answer. Let me ask you again to entreat of God to see yourself just as you are. Pray for correction of your own unworthiness, and then compare yourself with the requirements of His law and Gospel. That is the first step, and when you have attained to that, believe me, you will no longer care whether you are as good as other people or not. I do not hesitate to tell you that you must come to feel yourself a lost sinner, utterly without any plea in the sight of God, and deserving of nothing but his anger, before you can arrive at peace."
"That is just what I have heard preached all my life, Mr. Landon, and it has done me no good yet."
"You have heard it preached all your life because there is nothing else to preach," replied Walter. "We have no right to make a new Gospel for the use of the first families exclusively. The reason that you have derived no good from it has been that you have not yielded to it. Beware that pride in your own talents and refinement does not prevent you from yielding to this Gospel which you have heard all your life, till it be too late. Only open your mind to conviction, be willing to see the truth as it is, and after a while you will find rest to your soul."
"You have spoken plainly, Mr. Landon, and I thank you for it," said Charlotte, after a moment's silence. "I tell you plainly that I do not believe I shall ever come to see myself such an utterly lost creature as you think me, though I suppose you have the same opinion of all the rest of mankind and I will endeavor to follow your advice, and perhaps I shall profit by it."
Olive found Abby supported by piles of pillows, and breathing with difficulty. She was fearfully changed. The rosy flushed skin had become white as paper, and a scarlet spot burned in each cheek, while her eyes looked twice as large as ever, and perfectly transparent.
Much as she felt the necessity of calmness, Olive could hardly command her voice as she spoke to her.
Abby had been forbidden to speak, but she whispered:
"I am so glad you have come. Have you heard from William yet?"
"Not yet, but I presume he will be here to-night. He might have started for home you know, and in that case the letter would have met him on the road."
This supposition, which no one had thought of, seemed to comfort Abby, and she lay back with a more contented expression. Olive gave Laura's messages, which seemed to give her pleasure, and she whispered:
"Thank her."
They sat for some time in silence, and then seeing that her aunt had left the room, Abby said with effort:
"I must say one thing, Olive, in case I get worse. If any thing happens to me, you must take Emma, if Walter is willing. Bring her up like your own, in the fear of God. Will you?"
"I will, love, God helping me. But indeed you must not talk now, you will be better to-morrow."
"I hope so. I should like very much to get well if God pleases. Do you think it is wrong?"
"No indeed, dear child. But try and be willing to have it either way." Olive could say no more.
"I am, I hope, Olive," said Abby. "I have learned where and who He is, Olive. We are not strangers."
"You must not say another word," said Olive. "Let me read you something."
"Not now. Just sit still, and let me look at you."
She took Olive's hand in her own, and leaned back with her eyes fixed upon her. Gradually her eyes closed, her grasp relaxed, and she fell into a tolerably quiet sleep, which lasted till dark.
Her physician came in the evening, and pronounced that there was a slight improvement.
Olive followed him down-stairs to learn his opinion of her sister's case.
"Please tell me the exact truth, Doctor," she said, as he made her some evasive reply. "It can not be worse than my fears."
"My dear Olive, you know all about it now as well as I can tell you," said the good old man. "She may get well, but humanly speaking there is hardly a possibility of it. I shall not be surprised to see her comparatively comfortable again, and she may even be able to be up again, but that is all. She must be kept quiet, and indeed she keeps herself so. I never saw any one in a better state of mind, and that of itself does a great deal. If she sleeps to-night, as she seems inclined, I shall expect to see her a great deal better in the morning."