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

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"I have no work to go to," replied Robert.

UPWARD AND ONWARD;

OR, THE

History of Rob. Merritt.

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

AUTHOR OF "IRISH AMY," "ALICE AND BESSIE,"
ETC., ETC.

NEW-YORK:

ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH, 683 BROADWAY
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1 8 5 6.

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by

ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New-York.

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                           JOHN A. GRAY

                   PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER

                      95 and 97 Cliff st., N. Y.

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CONTENTS.

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CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

UPWARD AND ONWARD.

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CHAPTER I.

"AND now," concluded Mr. Vanderburgh, "you are acquainted by name at least with all the families in Grandville—all that you are likely to come in contact with."

"But, who lives in this house?" asked Mr. Ellison. "You have said nothing about them, have you? They must be poor enough to need attention, judging from the outside of the dwelling and its surroundings."

Mr. Ellison was the new minister. He had arrived in Grandville only the day before, and in company with two prominent members of his church, he was now taking a walk through the village, and making his own observations upon what he saw, while Mr. Vanderburgh amused himself and his companions with a kind of "catalogue raisonné" of the family inhabiting each house which they passed.

Mr. Vanderburgh's remarks were shrewd and amusing enough, and perhaps sufficiently tempered with the spirit of kindness, but a tolerably acute observer would have had no difficulty in discovering that they had one prominent aim, namely, to exalt himself in the eyes of the new minister, and to show conclusively, that the Vanderburgh family, in all its branches, constituted the most important part of the congregation. Mr. Vanderburgh was a short and rather thick-set man, with a partially bald head, blue eyes, and a sharp, shrewd, and withal a pleasant countenance; he wore gold-rimmed spectacles, and carried a handsome cane with an ivory top, which he seemed to use simply for the purpose of giving emphasis to his conversation.

Dr. George Huntley, the minister's other companion, was of quite a different stamp, and never said more than one word to Mr. Vanderburgh's six. He was very tall and large in proportion, with curling chestnut hair and whiskers, partially striped with gray, fine eyes, and a grave, serious, abstracted manner, which, however, gave place to a smile full of kindness and gentleness whenever he was addressed. He was Mr. Vanderburgh's brother-in-law, and they were firm friends, though they often disagreed, and sometimes rather warmly.

The house which they were passing, and to which Mr. Ellison had referred, was, indeed, rather discouraging in its appearance. It was a long, thin, two-story house, and seemed to have had some few pretensions to gentility in its day, but it was now dilapidated and weather-worn. The paint was almost entirely washed off, and the color of the boards was farther diversified with green moss and weather stains. The porch, or stoop as it was called, had lost one of its pillars, and was propped up with rails in a very insecure-looking fashion, while two of the steps were entirely missing. Some attempt seemed to have been made towards keeping the lower story habitable, as the windows were mended with paper in some places, and bits of board in others, but the upper floor was evidently abandoned to the weather. A few old lilacs and cinnamon roses were trying to make a living in the yard, and in one corner, protected by a few boards and rails, were some patches of corn, peas, and potatoes, which seemed to have been carefully attended to, and presented quite a thriving appearance. A girl, apparently about fifteen years old, holding a sickly-looking baby in her arms, was standing at the gate, but turned into the house as the party approached, while two or three other children peeped out at the window, or round the corner of the house.

"You have said nothing of these people," said Mr. Ellison again. "Who and what are they?"

"A miserable set, sir, a miserable set," replied Mr. Vanderburgh, with emphasis, "the less we say about them the better. Merritt is a dissolute, drunken creature, who drinks more than he earns every day of his life, and abuses his wife, who is the best of the set, shamefully. Her children are up to every species of mischief, and Bob especially, who is the eldest, is at the bottom of half the trouble that goes on in Grandville."

"That is a sad state of things, certainly," said Mr. Ellison, "but can nothing be done to improve it?"

"Nothing, sir, nothing. We have tried every way to reform the man, and finally to break up the family, but all in vain. They seem to hang together in spite of every thing."

"Some body seems to have tried to make a garden," observed Mr. Ellison, "and to have taken a good deal of pains with it."

"That is Bob's doing, I presume," replied Mr. Vanderburgh, "he is a smart boy enough, when his own interests are concerned, I assure you."

"The boy is just what you might expect a boy to be under such circumstances, no better and no worse," remarked Dr. George. "It would be strange, indeed, if he should have any very clear ideas of right and wrong, considering how he has been brought up. He is smart and active, and does more than his father for the support of the family, though not always in the most creditable way. He is fond of his mother, and takes a good deal of pains to make her comfortable, with very little encouragement on her part."

"But he is a bad boy, George, you can not deny that. He swears like a young dragoon."

"Dragoons do not always swear," interrupted the Doctor.

"He swears like a trooper," continued Mr. Vanderburgh, disregarding the interruption, "robs hen-roosts and orchards, goes in swimming, when he ought to be in church and at Sunday-school, and raises the mischief generally."

"What is the father like?" inquired the minister.

"Like a good-for-nothing, drunken loafer," replied Mr. Vanderburgh. "He is a painter by trade, and might easily earn enough to support his family, if he did not spend all he earned, and more too in drink. His father was a respectable man, a man of property, sir, and owned the place they live in, with about twenty acres of land. Titus was his only child, and began the world with quite a nice little property besides this house; but it is all gone now, scattered to the four winds, and this would have gone with it, only it is so secured that he can not sell it till the children are of age."

"Was the father a temperate man?" asked Mr. Ellison.

"Why, yes; he was, and he was not. He was not a total abstinence man, by any means. He took his glass or two of brandy every day, and on extra occasions, such as election or Thanksgiving day, he would be a little merry; but I don't think any one ever saw him really the worse for liquor. But Titus always seemed to take to it more than his father."

"And can nothing be done to reform him?"

"Nothing, sir, nothing. We have talked to him time and again, but it does no good. I expect he will go to destruction, and his son after him. They are a hard set, sir, a very hard set, indeed."

The minister said no more, but walked on with a sad and thoughtful countenance, not seeming to pay as much attention as at first to Mr. Vanderburgh's sprightly remarks. Perhaps he was thinking of the last words of his companion: "He will go to destruction, and his son after him." And indeed, when one considers what is the fate, both in regard to this world and the next, which awaits the drunkard, it does seem rather an awful thing to prophecy in regard to a brother man. Perhaps he was contriving in his own mind some way of getting at these unfortunate people, and making an impression on them. However it might be, he excused himself at the next corner, and turned towards his boarding-place, leaving his companions to pursue their walk together, if they were so inclined.

Mr. Vanderburgh returned to his office, feeling very well satisfied with the new minister, the prospects of the parish, and above all, with himself. And in the excess of his complaisance, informed his clerk that he might take that afternoon to go home if he pleased: it was almost too fine to be shut up in the office. "And, Webster, you may as well call and see what has become of Allan; he ought to have paid his interest the day before yesterday."

Mr. Vanderburgh's description of the Merritt family had one more auditor than he was aware of. As the party passed on their way, Robert Merritt descended from the old cherry tree where he had been ensconced, and where he had heard every word of the conversation. Robert was a pale, thin boy, with light brown hair, and dark eyes, and an expression of face much too old for his years. His clothes had evidently seen long and hard service though they were mended, if not very neatly yet with considerable ingenuity, and his hat looked as though it might have served alternately the office of foot-ball and water-dipper for several years. Robert might with justice be called a pretty hard-looking boy, but yet there was, on close inspection, something in his face which promised the elements of a good character, if he could have been placed in circumstances at all favorable to its development. He now stood for some minutes, leaning on the end of the broken stone wall, and looking after the retreating party.

"A pretty character Old Vanderburgh gives to the new parson," he muttered. "I must say I think he might as well have let him find out for himself; if he has been giving him the history of the whole congregation in the same style, they won't thank him much, I reckon. And yet he is a clever man too, and didn't say a word more than what was true: we are a hard set, and I don't blame any one for saying so; but if Old Vanderburgh had only had such a father as mine, he wouldn't have been so very much better. I think I should like to change places with some boy that had a decent father for a little while, just to see how it would seem. Here is poor Celia, too, as good a girl as ever was; she might be getting a good education, or learning a trade, only no body will take her, because they don't want father coming round; so she just drags about the children from morning till night, learning nothing that can do her any good, and getting just as tired every day as though she was working for a living. And Ben and Mark will grow up in the same way, I suppose, learning nothing but mischief, and very likely coming to the State's prison, or worse. I do declare, it's too bad!"

Bob did not look like a very hard boy, just then, as he leaned his head on the wall, and the tears dropped on his brown and dirty hands. "I wish I was dead," he sobbed. "I wish we all were; though if all the parsons say is true, some of us would not gain much. Mr. Ellison's a real kind, clever-looking man, any how, and I mean to go and hear him preach to-morrow; I can get into the gallery without any one's seeing me. But I promised to go a-fishing with Dick Childs and Joe Adams in the morning; I believe I'll go to church in the evening. I do mean to try and make something of myself if I can."

Bob remained for a long time leaning on the wall and apparently absorbed in thought. His meditations did not seem to be of a very pleasant nature, for it was with a deep sigh, and an impatient exclamation, that he roused himself at last, and turned towards the house.

As he came in sight of it, he uttered an oath and quickened his steps into a run; the rails that surrounded his garden, his cherished garden, were broken down or displaced, and the cow and pig were busy in the midst of his vegetables, the one pulling at the luxuriant pea—vines and the other rooting among the potatoes. It was the work of a moment to drive them out of the yard, and securing the rickety gate as well as he could, Bob returned to ascertain the extent of the mischief and to repair the damaged fence, but as he cast a glance over the beds and saw the uprooted potatoes and trampled corn, his courage seemed to forsake him entirely, and sitting down on the fence, he again burst into tears.

"Don't cry, Bob," said a gentle voice behind him, and Celia sitting down by his side put her arm round his neck. "It is a real shame, any way, but I wouldn't cry."

"Isn't it enough to make any one cry, after all the pains I have taken, to have it all spoiled? How came the cow in there?"

"Father put her in," replied Celia, now crying in her turn; "he has come home just as tipsy as he can be, and broken half the dishes we had left. He turned them in to get their own supper, he said, and then he whipped Mark because he ran to drive them out. Mother has taken the baby and gone over to Mrs. Smith's, and the boys are in bed, and now father lies on mother's bed and swears at me every time I stir. I am afraid to go in till he goes to sleep."

"I wish he would go to sleep and never wake up again," muttered Bob between his teeth.

"O Bob! Don't say so," said Celia starting, "remember he is your father after all, and if you wish he was dead, it is the same as being a murderer."

"Well, I won't then, if I can help it, but I feel as though I could not stand it much longer. I was up in the cherry tree in the orchard this afternoon when the new parson came along with Mr. Vanderburgh and Dr. Huntley, and I heard him ask who lived here. Then Mr. Vanderburgh up and told him all about us; how father got drunk and abused his family, and he said we were a hard set; those were the very words he used, and that I was the hardest of all. But then Dr. George put in his word and said, I wasn't any worse than any one would expect, and that I did more for the family than father. But Vanderburgh stuck to it, and said I used to go swimming Sundays, and that I robbed orchards and so on, and then he said again that we were a hard set."

"What did Mr. Ellison say?"

"Nothing, but he looked rather sorrowful I thought; I like his looks very well, and I wish, Celia, you would go to church with me to-morrow; I have taken a great notion to hear him preach."

"I would, Bob, but to tell you the simple truth, I haven't a decent suit to wear."

"But can't you fix up something? Wash out the frock that Mrs. Huntley gave you, and mend it up, and it will do very well. We will sit in the gallery where no body will see us. Come, Sis, do try to go; it isn't often that I take such a notion."

"I'll try what I can do," said Celia, after a moment's reflection; "I guess I can make out some way."

They sat in silence for some minutes, when Bob asked, though without looking up: "Sis, do you think I could ever make any thing of myself if I was to try?"

"How do you mean?" asked Celia.

"Whether I could ever make a man like Dr. George or Mr. Metwood, if I were to begin now. I have heard that some of our best men were poor boys once."

"I don't know why you could not," replied Celia. "I am sure you are smart enough, if that is all; but, Bob," she continued, with some hesitation, "I think you would have to leave off some things that you do now."

"What things?"

"I am afraid you won't like it if I tell you?"

"Yes, I shall, and it's no matter if I don't. Come, tell me what you mean, though I guess I know pretty well beforehand what you are thinking about."

"Well, for one thing, what Mr. Vanderburgh said, going a-fishing and in swimming on Sundays. I've always noticed that it is only real hard cases, like Childs and Adams, that practise such things. Respectable people never do, and I don't think Dr. Huntley or Mr. Metwood would want to hire any body that had such ways."

"I'm sure Dr. Huntley goes out riding on Sundays, and that is just as bad," said Bob in rather a sulky tone.

"Not for the fun of it, he don't, only to see his patients, and he is obliged to do that. And George Huntley, though he is so daring at other times, and goes everywhere and does every thing, yet you never hear of his hunting or fishing on Sundays."

"I don't see that people are any better for being so very religious, though. They don't do any more for their neighbors as I see."

"Well, I don't know, I think they do. Who have done the most for us lately? Hasn't it been religious people, and members of the church, such as Dr. George and his wife, and Miss Metwood, and the Lyatts, all church members? Don't you remember how Miss Jane Lyatt came and sat up two nights when Benny was sick last summer, and what nice things Mrs. Huntley used to send us? Don't you know how Mr. Vanderburgh gave each of the little boys a pair of shoes last fall, and Mr. Hyde sent us a load of wood?"

"That's true enough, so they did; and I don't know that Childs or Adams or any of that set ever did any thing for us, except Charley Brown. He has been right clever, Sis, you must allow."

"I like Charley Brown the best of them all, I must say," replied Celia; "he is so good-hearted. But if I was you, I would leave off going out Sundays, and go to church and to Sunday-school, and then try to get something to do. If you are steady this summer, perhaps you can find a place in the winter where you can work for your board and go to school."

"I suppose I might," replied Robert, musingly; "well, Sis, at any rate, we will go and hear the new minister to-morrow, and after that I'll see what can be done. Now, let me put the garden in as good order as I can again, though there is not much encouragement to do it," he added sadly.

Just as he had finished his work, and was securing the rails round his beloved garden, now looking, if possible, neater than ever, he heard his name called, and looking up, saw two young men leaning over the wall and watching his proceedings.

"How wonderfully busy you are, Bob," said one of them; "I have called you three times without getting any answer. I began to think you were getting too grand to speak to us."

"I have been very busy," replied Bob, finishing his work without noticing the interruption. "The old cow got in and turned every thing topsy-turvey, but I believe it is all right now."

"You take a mighty deal of pains with that lot of garden stuff," remarked the other boy. "How much do you expect to get out of it?"

"Not a great deal more than we want to eat ourselves," replied Robert, "though I shall have some green corn and tomatoes to sell. We have had nice radishes and greens already."

"You must be fonder of them than I am to take so much pains about them. But, come, are you going fishing with us to-morrow? It promises to be a first-rate day."

"I guess not," replied Bob, in rather an embarrassed manner. "I don't think I can go to-morrow very well."

"Nonsense! What is there to hinder?"

"Nothing very particular, only I don't want to."

"That's clever, any way, when you have been promising all the week, and we have depended on you. Oh! Come, don't use a fellow that way."

"Don't go, Bob," whispered Celia, "I wouldn't."

"You are not going to turn saint, and be too good to go a-fishing Sundays, are you?" continued Adams.

"None of your business," replied Bob, angrily.

"That's it, get mad the first minute. I wouldn't sit up for a deacon, Bob; it won't pay, and besides, it don't run in the family. Come, now, don't be a fool! You know we shall have glorious times."

"Don't urge him, Adams," said the other young man, who was much better dressed than his companion; "if he won't go, there are others that will; only I'll just thank you, Bob Merritt, not to make a promise another time unless you mean to keep it; and by the bye, I wish you would pay me the three dollars I lent you more than two months ago. You promised to let me have it in a week, and I can't afford to let it run any longer."

"I would if I could, Childs," replied Bob coloring, "but I haven't a cent now. I'll pay you as soon as I can get any thing. I shall have green corn to sell the first of any body, and then you shall have your pay."

"So you said six weeks ago, and I don't choose to wait any longer."

"But how can I pay you unless I have the money?"

"You must get it, that's all?"

"I've got ten shillings, Bob," whispered Celia, "you are welcome to that, I am sure."

"That you saved to buy yourself a decent frock with—no indeed. I'm not so mean as that, I hope, if I 'am' a hard case."

"Come, Bob, I can't be standing here all night; hand over, will you?"

"I tell you, Childs, I have not got it, and how can I pay it?"

"You shall find some way to pay it, or I will make you wish you had never seen it. As long as you behaved yourself decently, you were welcome to it, but now that you are getting too grand to associate with me, you may borrow your money somewhere else."

"Who said I was too grand to associate with you? I'm sure I didn't."

"Why won't you go fishing with us, then? Now, I'll tell you what it is, Bob: if you have a mind to go with us to-morrow, and behave yourself, I'll say no more about the money at present, but if not, just pay down! There you have it in a nutshell."

"Come, Bob," said Adams, persuasively: "come along, and we'll settle it some how. I don't like to have you go unless you want to, but you see we depended on you, and Charley's sick a-bed. Come, there's a clever fellow, and we'll have a good time."

Thus urged, Bob gave a reluctant consent, and the young men went on their way.

"So you are going after all," said Celia, as they departed, and Robert returned to his labors with the rails.

"I don't see but I must. Childs has got such a hold on me with that confounded three dollars. I'll pay it next week, at any rate, if I have to steal it."

"It is too bad," replied Celia, looking just ready to cry. "I thought we should go to church to-morrow, like decent people, for once in our lives.'

"So you can; what hinders you?" said. Bob, rather gruffly. "You are not afraid to go alone, are you?"

"I don't want to go alone," replied Celia; "and, besides, Bob, I tell you, you will never be any body, unless you leave off going out on Sundays with those boys. It is no use for you to try."

"It is no use for me to try, any way. I may as well give it up first as last. Every thing goes against me."

"What a pity you borrowed that money of Childs!"

"You needn't twit me with that," returned Bob; "if it had not been for that three dollars, you would all have gone to the poor-house. It didn't do me much good."

"I didn't mean to twit you with it," said Celia, gently, "only I wish we could pay it. Can't we earn the money some way, I wonder?"

"I shall try next week. But do you go to church in the morning, there's a good girl, and tell me how you like the minister. I'll go with you in the evening, if we get home in time. If it wasn't for you and mother, I'd run away, and never show myself here again. But I can't leave you to go to the poor-house as long as I can help it."

CHAPTER II.

CELIA MERRITT had just returned from church, and was engaged, with some assistance from her little brothers, in getting ready the scanty dinner. Mrs. Merritt was sitting in a easy rocking-chair, trying to keep her fretful baby quiet that it might not awake her husband, who was sleeping off his debauch in an adjoining room: she knew well enough, poor woman, what kind of treatment they must all expect, if he awoke before he had fairly slept himself sober. The dinner was just placed upon the table as Bob came in, looking heated and weary, and without any fish.

"Why Bob, I did not expect you so soon," said Celia, "and where are your fish?"

"I only caught two or three, and I gave them to Childs," was the short response, as Bob threw his cap into a corner.

"Do hush, my son, and not wake your father," remonstrated Mrs. Merritt. "I think you might as well bring your fish home, if you will go fishing Sundays, and not give them to people who have enough without. I can't be reconciled to this Sabbath-breaking, Robert: it isn't the way I was brought up, and I am sure we shall never prosper as long as it goes on."

"Well, mother, I won't go again if I can help it. I did not mean to go to-day. Let's have what dinner there is, and say no more about it."

The dinner, consisting principally of potatoes, was placed upon the table, and the children sat down with little ceremony, helping themselves to what they wanted. After an interval of silence, Mrs. Merritt asked Celia how she liked the new minister.

"Very much indeed," replied Celia, with some animation. "I never heard any one preach that I liked so well. His sermon was so plain that any child could understand it, and yet it sounded beautifully, and then he had such a pleasant face, that it does one good just to look at him. I wish you would go and hear him to-night, mother!"

"My child, I should be ashamed to be seen there; but you and Bob can go if you like. I think you had better do so."

"Why are you ashamed to be seen there, pray mother?" asked Bob.

"Because I feel whenever I go, as though every body was looking at me. I really have hardly decent clothes to wear, and I can't help thinking all the time how different it used to be when I was a girl, and sang in the choir, and felt myself as good as any one," and Mrs. Merritt sighed bitterly, as she remembered the days of her girlhood.

She had married entirely contrary to the wishes of her parents, who both died soon after. The little property they had left her, had been long since dissipated by her husband; her brothers tired of supporting the family, had moved away, and she had almost lost sight of them. She often said with tears that she had not a friend in the world.

"But I should like very much to have you and Celia go," she continued, "it looks so much more respectable than to be hanging over the gate, or going in swimming."

Accordingly at the hour of evening service, Robert and his sister might have been seen walking soberly towards the church. Robert looked about him rather uneasily as he turned into the main street. He was apprehensive of meeting some of his ordinary companions, and being laughed at for being such a fool as to spend his evening in church, instead of by the river-side; but the people he dreaded were all absent or otherwise engaged, and they reached the church door without encountering any one they knew. They were rather too early, and as they were standing on the steps, Mr. Ellison and Dr. Huntley, or Dr. George as he was frequently called, entered together.

"Good evening, Robert," said the Doctor kindly. "I am glad to see you at church. Mr. Ellison, this is Robert Merritt, of whom I was speaking to you yesterday. You remember we noticed the neatness of his garden."

Mr. Ellison shook hands with Robert and his sister, and expressed his pleasure at meeting them. "I hope we shall become well acquainted," said he; "I wish all my young people to feel that I am their friend, as well as their minister, and I shall come and see you very soon."

"How pleasant he is," remarked Celia to her brother, as they were walking homewards together.

"I don't know what mother will say about his coming to see us, though," said Bob. "She does not much like to have visitors, and she never seemed pleased when Mr. Hyde called."

"I suppose she was ashamed of the state of the house, and no wonder," replied Celia. "Then, he was always asking her why the boys did not go to Sunday-school, and why she did not go to church herself. I know she was very much put out, because he told her that the children would grow up to destruction unless she took better care of them."

"I don't see how she could do any more very well. She don't have much to do with."

"That's true, but I suppose what he meant was that they ought to mind better, and not be so saucy. They might go to school, too, only they won't."

Robert sighed, but made no other reply, and they walked on in silence. He was thinking how he could possibly manage to earn three dollars in the course of the week, with which to pay Childs, but no way seemed to present itself. He felt at times almost tempted to leave home altogether, and make the effort to get a living and a character in some other place, but as often as the idea presented itself, the thought of his mother and sister drove it away, and he felt that he must stay with them. He was determined not to obtain the money in any improper way, such as he had sometimes resorted to; for the desire of respectability which had been aroused in his mind by the conversation he had overheard, grew stronger every minute, and he had seen enough to see that in order to be respected, he must be honest.

The more he thought about it, the more hopeless seemed the case, and he went to sleep at last, feeling wearied out with thinking, and utterly unable to arrive at any result. He had never been taught to seek for help and strength from above; all his ideas on that subject were dark and confused, and he would as soon have thought of asking help from the Emperor of Austria, as from Him who giveth liberally, and upbraideth not. So he slept without prayer at night, and awoke in the morning without one thought of Him who had preserved him through the hours of darkness.

But God does not always wait for his erring creatures to seek Him. He often comes to meet them, and leads them by a way which they know not, into his wondrous light and truth. Poor Robert was as yet afar off, and groping for the way as the blind, but his Heavenly Father saw and had compassion on him. As he was leaning over the gate next morning after breakfast, moodily pondering over his desires and plans, a friendly hand was laid on his shoulder, and a pleasant voice said:

"Good morning, Robert. I was afraid I should not find you, but I see you have not gone to your work yet."

"I have no work to go to," replied Robert, looking both pleased and confused at Ellison's salutation. "I only wish I had."

"Then I am doubly glad to have come so early. I noticed the other day, how very neat your garden was, and I want you to come and help me put mine in order, at the parsonage. It looks like the garden of the slothful at present; the weeds are so numerous that it looks as if there were nothing else. I am going there now, and should be glad to take you with me."

Here was just the opportunity that Robert wanted. He knew that he understood the kind of work required, and felt that he could give satisfaction. He could not help thinking it very strange that Mr. Ellison should want to employ him, after hearing the character given to the whole family by Mr. Vanderburgh, but he felt doubly obliged to him on that very account, and he inly determined to do nothing to forfeit that good opinion of the minister.

The parsonage had been vacant for three months, and the garden did indeed look like a wilderness; but it contained many choice plants and trees, which maintained themselves amid their worthless neighbors, and which needed only care and attention to produce abundantly their proper fruits. Robert set to work under Mr. Ellison's direction, and by his assistance the plot of ground began by degrees to assume quite a different appearance. The straggling shrubs were pruned and trimmed into comeliness, the weeds pulled out, the grass-plots restrained within their proper limits, and the vines and running roses furnished with sufficient supports. To conclude, a number of flowering verbenas, heliotropes, salvias, and other flourishing plants were transplanted into the flower-beds under the parlor and study windows.

Robert worked with a hearty good will, he was pleased with the prospect of earning something wherewith to pay his debts, he was interested in the work itself, for which he had a natural fondness. Especially he was gratified that Mr. Ellison should have selected him as an assistant, and he felt, perhaps for the first time in his life, the desire of truly meriting esteem. He was rather shy at first, and answered the minister's questions with some reserve; but he became by degrees more communicative—and Mr. Ellison was surprised to see how much miscellaneous information the boy had contrived to pick up. He found indeed that his ideas on many important subjects were vague and perverted, but he perceived a strong capacity for good in him, and inly determined to do all in his power to foster that capacity.

As they were busily working and talking together, the garden-gate was opened, and Mr. Vanderburgh and his brother-in-law, Dr. Huntley, walked in.

"So you are working in your garden already, Mr. Ellison," was the salutation of the former gentleman, "and how much you have accomplished, to be sure. But why did you not apply to me? I could have furnished you with an excellent and trustworthy gardener." And then in rather a lower tone, "You will have to look sharply after that boy: he is not to be trusted any farther than you can see him. You had better get rid of him, and I will send my gardener to you as soon as I return home."

Robert partly heard, and partly guessed at the purport of this speech, and the rather proud smile with which he had responded to Dr. Georges kindly greeting, died away, and was succeeded by an expression of sullen resentment. The pleasing vista that had been opened before him, seemed suddenly closed again, and his heart swelled with grief at his disappointment, and anger at him who had thus wantonly destroyed his bright prospects.

"I am much obliged to you," Mr. Ellison replied aloud; "but it will not be necessary, Mr. Vanderburgh; Robert has done exceedingly well this morning, as you may see by the results of his labor, and I am quite sure he will do his best to please me. You may go round to the other side now, if you please, Robert, and weed that strawberry-bed."

Mr. Vanderburgh felt a little vexed. He was not much accustomed to having his counsels rejected, and he felt moreover, that there was a mild reproof conveyed in the minister's answer. He did not feel at all disposed to give up the point.

"But sir—but Mr. Ellison, you must not get that boy fastened upon you. He is a regularly hard case—a young vagabond, sir, that is well known, and the whole family are no better than so many pests to the community. And besides," he continued, waxing warm, as he saw that his remonstrance produced no effect, "I must tell you, sir, that I think it does not look well for the minister to be employing and countenancing a boy who is well known as a daring Sabbath-breaker. It won't do, sir, it will have a very bad influence in the parish. You must send him adrift, sir, it won't do at all."

Mr. Ellison's face flushed, and his lips were a little compressed: he was naturally rather a warm-tempered man, and the dictatorial tone assumed by his parishioner decidedly grated on his feelings. But while he was hesitating for a reply, Dr. George saved him the trouble.

"I can not agree with my brother-in-law, sir," he said. "I am very glad you have taken up the boy, and shall be most happy to second you in any efforts you may make for his benefit. I have been always desirous to do something for him, myself, but I am very much occupied with my business—perhaps too much so—and moreover, I have not known exactly how to set about it."

"Well, I am sure, enough has been done for him," persisted Mr. Vanderburgh, still more annoyed at finding himself in the minority. "I have told him twenty times that he would come to the gallows, if he did not mend his ways and go to work honestly."

"Did you ever offer to employ him?" asked Mr. Ellison.

"Who, I? No, indeed, I would not have him about my place. I should not expect to have a peach or a melon left, and every body in town thinks the same."

"If that is the case, you can scarcely wonder that he does not go to work honestly, as you say. He has shown that he can work well and thoroughly, and certainly his kindness to his step-mother and her children is much to his credit. But as your twenty times repeated warning seems to have had no effect, suppose we try some other plan—for instance, setting an honest living, and a respectable station in the world before him, instead of the gallows, and see how that will act. There are some animals, you know, which can not be driven by any amount of force, but which may be made, by coaxing, to perform a great amount of work."

Mr. Vanderburgh was silent, and the Doctor replied: "I think you are right, sir, in your opinions. I remember very well how I felt when I was a boy myself; and I really do not think I should have been driven an inch by being told that I was going the gallows. It is no doubt true, as my brother Vanderburgh says, that Robert has been a bad boy, and his associates are among the worst in the town, but it has been partly the fault of his unfortunate position. I have thought sometimes of taking him into my own family, where I could easily find work enough for him to keep him fully employed: but I have, as you know, a son about his own age, and I feared lest he should be unfavorably influenced."

"George seems a very reliable, steady boy," remarked Mr. Ellison.

"He has been so, hitherto; I have never seen in him any inclination to low company or low vices, and I believe him to be actuated to some extent by right and true motives. I am not sure that Robert would do him any harm. The best thing for the boy, however, would be to place him with some sensible and kind farmer, at a considerable distance from here—the farther the better—where he would be out of the way of temptation, and removed from the influence of his old associates. If this could be done, I think he would be likely enough to turn out well."

"And why can it not be done?"

"I presume it could, sir. I am not aware that such a measure has been proposed to him."

"He would not agree to it," said Mr. Vanderburgh, doggedly. "He is too fond of loafing about the streets and bar-rooms, and being ringleader in all the mischief that goes on in the village."

"If you think, Doctor, that such a place could be provided, it might be well to speak to the boy about it."

The Doctor had no manner of doubt on the subject, and accordingly Robert was called, and the project submitted to him by Mr. Ellison. Robert listened in silence, and then shook his head. "It wouldn't do, sir," he said.

"I told you so!" said Mr. Vanderburgh, with some exultation. "I knew he would not be willing to leave the village!"

"But why do you think it would not do, Robert?" asked the Doctor without noticing the remark. "Are you afraid of being lonely in the country?"

"No, indeed, sir! I'm not afraid of being lonely anywhere, so long as I have enough to do; but there is a reason why I must stay here. Mother and the children-can't get along and live unless I am here to provide for them."

"But you could send them your wages, could you not?"

"It would not do, sir. I must spend what little I earn for them myself, or it will do them no good. Father would get hold of it, and then you know well enough how it would go."

"But suppose it could be kept out of his hands, as I think it might," persisted the Doctor.

"Still I could not leave them, sir. When I am at home, I stand between them and a good deal from which they would have no protection if I were away."

"The long and the short of it is, you don't want to go into the country," said Mr. Vanderburgh, losing all patience at what he considered the boy's unthankfulness. "Here we are all trying to contrive some way to do you good, and to help you, and to do something for your benefit," (Mr. Vanderburgh was fond of presenting an idea in several different shapes, when he wished to be impressive) "and all the answer you make is, that you won't go."

"I didn't say so," returned Robert, sullenly.

"You said much the same thing; and I tell you, as I have often told you before, that you will go to the gallows; and more than that, if I catch you in my garden again, I will send you as far as the House of Refuge, myself."

Robert threw down the rake he had all the time held in his hand, and with a fearful oath, turned towards the gate. But before he could reach it, a detaining hand was laid on his arm, and Mr. Ellison said: "Stop Robert, my boy! Do not go off in a rage! I do not at all wonder that you are angry, but I can not have you leave me so. Go back to your strawberries, there's a good fellow, and we will talk more about this matter some other time. Above all, don't add worse to bad, by taking God's holy name in vain. Finish the strawberry-beds, and by that time, you will be able to think more coolly about the whole affair."

Mr. Vanderburgh was confounded when he saw Mr. Ellison occupied in soothing the boy, and prevailing on him to resume his work, and still more so when, in reply to his again-repeated offer to send an experienced and honest gardener to finish what remained to be done, Mr. Ellison thanked him, but decidedly avowed his intention of keeping Robert Merritt. He bade the minister good evening rather coolly, and walked home in any thing but an agreeable frame of mind. He began to think the parish had made a sad mistake in their choice of a pastor, and that a man so opinionated and obstinate as Mr. Ellison would be a great misfortune to them.

But as the evening wore on, and he thought the matter over, his feelings began to take quite another direction. He saw that he had been rather unjust to Robert—had in fact, given him some provocation: he acknowledged to himself that it was hardly fair, when the boy was working hard for once, to try to have him discharged on account of his past offenses, thus bringing up his former bad character against him, at the very time when he was trying to retrieve it. He could not but confess, upon thinking it over, that there was some show of reason, in what he had said about going into the country, and he now regretted very much that he had spoken so harshly to him. Mr. Vanderburgh was a conscientious man in spite of his peculiarities, and though his conscience did not always awake in time to prevent him from doing acts of injustice, it always prompted him to repair them as fully as possible, and tormented him grievously, when that reparation came, as it often did, too late to do any good. He now resolved that he would make it up to Robert, if possible, and thus reconciled himself to himself in some degree.

Mr. Ellison made no allusion to what had passed, when he again saw Robert. He perceived the neatness of his work, told him he should need his services for two or three days longer, and offered him the money for his day's work, which Robert declined receiving.

"I would rather leave it in your hands till I get through, sir, and then take it altogether."

Mr. Ellison was rather surprised, but he returned the money to his pocket without any remark, and Robert went home, feeling more like being happy than he had done for a long time.

CHAPTER III.

AFTER thinking the matter over a good deal, Mr. Vanderburgh came to the conclusion that the best way he could make amends to Robert for his hasty speech, would be by employing him in his own garden, and thus showing that he was willing to trust him, notwithstanding what he had said about it. Accordingly, before he went to his office in the morning, he walked over to the parsonage, thinking to find the boy at work there. But as he turned into the street in which it was situated, he unexpectedly overtook Robert, who was proceeding to his day's labor. He quickened his steps as Mr. Vanderburgh approached, and seemed inclined to get away without replying to his salutation.

"Come, come, Robert, don't be in such a hurry! I have a job of work I want you to do for me, when you get through at the parsonage."

"I don't want any of your work, Mr. Vanderburgh," replied Robert, coloring. "You have done all you could to injure me, and set Mr. Ellison against me, and I don't want any thing more to do with you."

Mr. Vanderburgh had not anticipated being met in this way. He had supposed that Robert would be very ready and very glad to take up with his offer, and he was decidedly taken aback by this refusal. A moment's reflection, however, told him that it was no more than he ought to have expected, and he determined not to be discouraged, in his attempts at conciliation.

"Oh! Come, Robert, don't bear malice, my boy! I was wrong in speaking to you so, I confess, and I have felt sorry ever since. I came out this morning expressly to find you, and get you to work for me. Come, now, shake hands and be friends."

Robert was not proof against this unlooked-for kindness on Mr. Vanderburgh's part; he very cordially accepted the offered hand, and they walked on together towards the parsonage.

"I was angry last night, Mr. Vanderburgh, and no mistake," said Robert. "I thought it very hard that just as I was trying to do better, and had found a friend to help me, you should come and spoil it all; for I thought to be sure Mr. Ellison would not want to have any more to do with me, after what you said. I know as well as any body that I have been a bad boy, but it has not been altogether my fault. I have not had a great deal to make me good in my life-time."

"But yet you knew better than to do a great many things that you have done, Robert, I am sure. Now didn't you?"

"Well, yes—I knew better, perhaps; but then—didn't you ever do wrong when you knew better, Mr. Vanderburgh? And then I only acted just like my companions, and I had such hard times at home, I thought I had a sort of right to have fun whenever I could get it. But I do mean to break off with them, and be better if I can, and if I only succeed in getting a little money beforehand, I rather think I can make it out."

"What has your getting money beforehand to do with it?" asked Mr. Vanderburgh.

"I owe some of them," replied Robert; "I have borrowed money of them, and that gives them a kind of hold on me. If I can only get that paid, I think I shall do well enough."

"Ah! Yes! Very bad thing to borrow money. The borrower is servant to the lender, you know the good Book says. Never borrow money if you can help it, my boy. But never mind that now; don't be discouraged, and we will try and keep you in work. Come round to my office when you get through here, and we will see what can be done for you."

"So you and Mr. Vanderburgh have been having a little talk, have you?" said Mr. Ellison, as Robert came into the garden.

"Yes, sir. He wants me to come and do some work for him, when I get through here."

"Indeed! I am glad to hear you have a prospect of employment. I suppose you were quite willing to undertake it, were you not?"

"Why, not at first, sir! I was rather provoked at him, for speaking so to me yesterday, and at first I would not have any thing to say to him; but I saw he was sorry, and so I agreed to do it. It is not in my nature to be angry at any one a minute after I see that they really want to make friends; and besides, though he is such a quick-tempered man, he has been very kind to mother."

"I believe him to be a good man, in spite of his hastiness," said Mr. Ellison; "and I am glad to hear you say that you do not bear malice, which is worse than being hasty, though that is bad enough: now we will go to our work in the orchard."

Robert worked two days longer for Mr. Ellison, and then three days for Mr. Vanderburgh, so that by the end of the week he had earned not only the three dollars necessary to pay his debts, but a dollar over, which last he intended to lay out in necessaries for the family. Moreover—and this gave him even more pleasure than his wages—both gentlemen had highly commended his neatness and steadiness, and Mr. Vanderburgh had promised to recommend him as a good gardener. Mr. Ellison paid him as soon as he finished his work, but Mr. Vanderburgh seemed very much engaged when Robert entered his office on Saturday evening, and as he did not want to use the money till Monday morning, he concluded to let it remain in his employer's hands till that time. He expended his spare dollar on some flour, which he carried with him when he returned from his work.

"So you have really got some flour," said his mother as he entered; "but why didn't you buy more at a time? It isn't good economy to get so little at once."

"I know it, mother, but I spent all the money I had to spare."

"Why, you must have earned four or five dollars, I should think, you have worked so steadily this week; but I suppose you are laying it up for some grand frolic, or perhaps you are going off on a journey, and mean to have enough to pay your travelling expenses. Any thing rather than lay it out on your own family."

Mrs. Merritt felt irritated and discouraged herself; and, as is often the case, especially with weak people, she vented her discomfort on the first person that came in her way.

Robert felt very keenly the injustice of her words. With all his faults, he had never been indifferent to the welfare of the family, and indeed had almost supported them for three or four years.

"I am sure you need not accuse me of spending much on myself; mother," he replied; "I might perhaps have been better off for some things if I had done so now and then," casting a glance at his ragged clothes as he spoke. "I did earn five dollars; but three of it must go to pay borrowed money, and I can not spend it for any thing."

"Oh! I am so glad you have got it!" exclaimed Celia, joyfully. "Now you can pay Childs, can't you?"

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Merritt. "Childs is well enough off; and can afford to wait for his pay, better than Celia and I can afford to wait for shoes. Don't be so foolish as to give your money to him, Robert."

"I can wait well enough, mother," interrupted Celia; "and I am sure I can mend yours, if you will let me try. I know Robert wants to pay this money very much."

"Oh! Well, if you like to go barefoot, I have nothing to say against it; only when I was a girl, I should have been ashamed to be seen with my shoes in such a state. Children used to mind their parents then, and have some respect for them, but that is all out of fashion now."

Robert was tempted to ask whether it had been in fashion at the time when she married his father against the wishes, command, and entreaties, not only of her parents, but of all her other friends. Though quite young when it happened, he was old enough clearly to remember the circumstance, and the talk there was about it. He exchanged a glance with Celia, but said nothing.

Just as they were sitting down to supper, Mr. Merritt came in, rather more sober than was usual for him on Saturday night, and in consequence disposed to quarrel with every body and any body that came in his way.

"What's all this?" he exclaimed, as the bag of flour met his eye. "Who has been buying all this stuff?"

"I have," returned Robert, shortly.

"The — you have! And where did you get the money, I should like to know?"

"Earned it!" was the brief response.

"Was that all you earned?"

"No."

"Where's the rest, then?"

"It's safe, father," and the expression of the boy's face finished the sentence—"safe where you won't get hold of it."

"What do you mean by that, you young scapegrace? What have you done with it, hey?"

"I've a right to use my own earnings as I please, I suppose," returned Bob; "I shan't give it to you, you may depend upon that."

"Are you not ashamed to speak so to your father, Robert?" said his mother, taking part with her husband, as she sometimes did when she was vexed with the elder children. "Don't you know that he has a right to take your earnings till you are twenty-one?"

"I suppose you would like to have him take the money, and have a spree on it, wouldn't you?" returned Bob, whose temper was now thoroughly excited. "You would like to have him come home drunk at twelve o'clock, and thrash you with the broom-stick, as he has done before now. He shall not have a cent of it, nor you either," he continued, buttoning his jacket; "and more than that, if I hear much more about it, I'll go away where I can live in peace and comfort, and not have any one hanging on me, and eating up every thing I can earn or steal, without so much as saying, Thank you, at last. If it had not been for Celia, I would have gone long ago."

Mrs. Merritt burst into tears, an exercise in which she frequently indulged, and which had usually the effect of quieting Robert's "tantrums," as she called his occasional fits of temper. Mr. Merritt rose from his seat, apparently determined to obtain what he wanted by force, but meeting Robert's determined eye, he seemed to change his mind; he told Robert he should do what he pleased with his money, if he would not be so saucy about it, and commanded his wife to stop her whimpering, and sit down to supper peaceably. Thus the meal passed off without any farther disturbance.

After supper, when Celia had washed up the dishes and put the house a little in order, she went out to where Bob was working in his garden, weeding and hoeing, and enjoying the luxuriance of his melon-beds and winter-squashes. He ceased his labors as she approached, and the two sat down on the fence together.

"Don't you give that money to father, or mother, either," said Celia, "but keep it to pay Childs, and then you will be out of his power. I can't think what made mother act so, only she was worried, I suppose, and did not feel very well. It is warm weather now, and I can as well as not go without shoes when I am about the house. Perhaps by the time cold weather comes, I may get a place where I can earn something for myself."

"I don't mean to give it up, I promise you," replied Robert, passing his arm around her; "I don't much mind what mother said, because I know she don't really mean it, only it is rather discouraging to be met in that way when a fellow has been working hard from morning till night."

"You didn't have any dinner, did you?"

"Yes, Mrs. Vanderburgh gave me some. Oh! She is such a nice woman. I wish you could go and live there, Sis."

"I wish I could," said Celia, sighing; "but there is no hope of my going to live anywhere just now, I suppose. Will you go to church to-morrow?"

"Yes, I think I must! Mr. Ellison has been so good to me, it would look rather mean for me to stay away. I hardly look decent to go into such a place, but I believe I will venture. Every body knows I hain't much of a chance to dress well. But it is a real shame that you have nothing better to wear; for you would be as pretty a girl as any in the church, if you were only just dressed up nicely."

Celia blushed and smiled, and looked prettier than ever, at this compliment from her brother. "I should like to have some good clothes, that is a fact; but after all, Robert, one does not go to church to show one's self."

"No, I suppose not; and yet after all, Sis, what 'do' people go to church for? I know that I go because Mr. Ellison has been kind to me, and I think it will please him, and he goes himself because that is his business; but all the rest of the people—what takes them there?"

"I suppose because they want to hear the preaching," said Celia; "and because they think they must. It seems to do some people a deal of good, too. I remember when old Mrs. Miner's son died, some of the neighbors tried to persuade her not to go to church, because she was so feeble, but she said: 'I must go! I feel as though it would do me more good than any thing else,' and she seemed to come home quite cheerful."

"Well, we will go to-morrow any way; and now I am for getting to bed, for I am about tired off my feet. Good night, Sis; if it was not for you, I should feel as though it was not worth while to live."

Robert was indeed much fatigued, and slept soundly; but about the middle of the night, he was half aroused by an unusual noise, and dreamed that there was some one in his room. He was finally quite awakened by the thought that the door was being opened and shut, and sitting up in bed, he looked around the apartment; there was no one there—the moon was shining broadly in at the uncurtained windows, and the house was all still. He listened a few moments, and then lay down and went to sleep.

As Celia was getting breakfast ready next morning, Robert came running down stairs, and flung the door open with such violence, that the whole house shook. He was only half-dressed, and had his jacket in his hands, and his face was as pale as ashes.

Celia dropped her knife and fork, and gazed at him in astonishment and alarm.

"Where is father?" was his first question. "Don't stand there staring, child, but answer—where is father?"

"He has gone out," said Celia, recovering herself; "he said he should not wait for breakfast, but took a piece of bread, and went off. O Bob!" she exclaimed, as a sudden thought flashed across her mind. "He has not got your money, has he?"

"He has!" replied Bob, throwing down his jacket. "It is all gone, Sis, every cent, except some little change that I had in my other pocket. I thought I heard some one in the room, but I could not wake up enough to be sure. And now it is all gone, and I shall never see it again."

He laid his head down on his folded arms, and cried bitterly, and Celia wept with him. All his hopes—all his prospects of independence, seemed again dashed to the earth, just as he was on the point of realizing them. His week of faithful labor was worse than thrown away, for he knew very well that all would go for liquor, and that his father would never be well again so long as the money lasted. How could a boy with such a parent be any thing else than a vagabond? The poor fellow was completely disheartened, and felt as though he could never make another effort.

"But you have not lost all, Bob!" said Celia at last. "There is the money Mr. Vanderburgh owes you."

"True!" exclaimed Robert, starting up. "I never thought of that! I will go and ask him for it this very minute."

"I wouldn't," said Celia, rather hesitatingly; "perhaps he would not like to be asked for it on Sunday, for you know they are very particular about such things. You can get it to-morrow just as well."

"And after all, it is only twelve shillings, and that is but half enough. There is no use in paying him, unless I pay all." And Robert laid his head down again.

"The long and the short of it is," said Celia, "you must just take that money of mine, and make it up. You are going to have work enough now, and will soon be able to give it back to me, and if not, it is no matter. Come now, just take it, and then the affair will be settled and off your mind."

"But it looks so mean, Celia, to take your money to pay my debts, and to such a rascal as Childs, too. If it was only going to a decent man, I should not care."

"That don't matter, so long as you owe it honestly," replied his sister; "and as to it's being mean, it is no more so than for me to live on what you earn. But you can pay it back to me, you know, if you make such a point of it. Come now, do take it, and free yourself."

"Well, Sis, since you are so kind, I will take it, and pay you just as soon as I get any thing. And I promise you, if ever I have the means, you shall have the prettiest dress that can be bought for money."

"And you will go to church with me?"

After a little consideration, Robert consented, making up his mind that he would discharge his debts the first thing on Monday morning, lest some other accident should happen. The remembrance that all his money was not gone, and the kindness and sympathy of his sister, comforted him a little, but he felt deeply depressed and sick at heart. He had naturally strong feelings and warm affections, and was inclined to attach himself strongly to those about him. He could remember a time when his father was not so debauched as at present—when he would have shrunk in horror from such an action as he had just committed.

If any one else had taken the money, he would no doubt have been very angry, and would immediately have taken steps to recover it; but here the thief was his own father, and what could he do? He knew enough of the law to be aware that his father had a legal right to his earnings till he was twenty-one, and even supposing this not to be the case, how could he go before a magistrate, and accuse his own father of robbing him? He was now fifteen, and unless he could be in some way set free, it would be six years before his time would be his own. Meantime, the family would be sinking lower and lower, and he should share their disgrace; and Celia, too—pretty and attractive as she was—he could not bear to think of that. Whichever way he turned, the prospect seemed dark and gloomy.

He went to church with Celia, and though he was thinking more of his lost treasure than of the service, yet there was something in the prayers and singing, in the subdued light and brooding quiet, which soothed him, and prepared him to listen with more attention to the sermon. It was a very plain one, on the text, "Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest;" and it spoke of the weariness of the world and its service, and of the consolations and refreshment to be found in Christ. Robert listened with pleasure and interest, and though he had no very definite ideas of coming to Christ at that time, he felt that he should like to do so some time or other.

Mr. Ellison and Mr. and Mrs. Vanderburgh spoke kindly to him, as they came out of church; so did Dr. Huntley and his wife; and Robert went home feeling comforted and refreshed.