Walter Harland

As time passed on, I became accustomed to the duties of my position, and performed them much more easily than at the first. The feeling of diffidence with which I entered Mr. Baynard's family soon wore-away, by the kindness extended toward me by every member of the family. I spent no money needlessly, being anxious to lay by as much as possible. I wrote often to my friends at Elmwood as well as to Charley Gray, and received long letters in return which afforded me much pleasure. My mother's letters often enclosed one also from my sister, which gave me many choice scraps of news concerning my old school-companions, and many trifling matters which doubtless possessed more interest for me than they would have done for any one else. I presume Charley felt our separation more keenly than I, our natures were so unlike.

Hurrying along Great St. James Street one afternoon with a heavy package of goods under my arm, I struck against a youth, who was walking in the opposite direction, with such seeming rudeness that I paused to apologize, and when I raised my eyes found myself standing with my old friend and companion at Fulton Academy, Robert Dalton. Our meeting was not more unexpected than joyful: he had been in Montreal for the past six months, but had failed to inform me, indeed Robert was not a good correspondent, it was no lack of friendship but for some reason or other, writing letters was always a task to him. Meeting unexpectedly as we did our former intimacy was soon renewed. He was employed in a large druggist's shop in Notre Dame Street, and boarded with another clerk whose home was in the city, and we were much together when released from the business of the day. Learning from Robert's employer that he was a young man of good principles, Mr. Baynard did not object to our intimacy, indeed he looked upon him as a kind of safe-guard to me, owing to his being three years my senior and possessing more experience and knowledge of the world; and from what he had learned of the young man, he was aware if he exercised any influence over me it would be for good; and many pleasant evenings we passed together in Mr. Baynard's family; Robert was fond of music, and was considered a good singer and often his rich voice mingled with the notes of the piano in Mr. Baynard's parlor. Since then, in looking back to that time, I have often thought if business men, who often have young men in their employ whose homes are far distant, would be at a little pains to afford them social pleasures of an elevating nature, it might have a decided effect for good upon their characters, in after life.

It is unnecessary and would prove tedious to the reader as well as to myself, were I to give a detailed account of the two first years of my residence in the city of Montreal. It had been understood that I was to remain two years, before visiting my friends at Elmwood, and although I became happy and contented, I looked forward with impatience to the time when I could visit my mother and sister. The two years was nearly past, and I began to count the weeks and days as the time drew nigh for the expected visit. I had become as one of the family in the house of my employer, and had enjoyed much pleasure in the society of my friend Robert Dalton; the more I saw of him the more I valued his companionship, indeed he had become to me as an elder brother. He often amused me by relating incidents of his childhood, and in my turn I talked freely to him of my distant home and friends.

If Charley Gray left home two years ago in a fit of the sulks, it did not interfere with our correspondence which had been sustained regularly on both sides. It was now nearly three years since we had met, and I looked forward eagerly to our expected meeting, for he was to spend the holidays at home. When I reached my native village, Charley was the first to welcome me, having begged the privilege of driving to the depot to meet me. He had changed much during the two past years. He had grown tall and manly looking, and a glance at his broad full brow at once told one that he possessed a powerful intellect; but he was pale and thin from close application to study, for from a mere boy Charley was a hard student. As we rode homeward we had much to tell of what had taken place since our last meeting. I received a joyous welcome from my mother and sister, and with a feeling of pride I placed in my mother's hand a considerable sum of money which I had saved carefully for her use, hoping it might enable her to live without the unceasing toil which had been her lot for several years. The month I was to spend at home sped swiftly away, and we all made the most of each passing day. Charley Gray seemed so cheerful and happy that I began to hope he had outgrown that jealous and unhappy temper which had formerly been so characteristic of him; but in this I was mistaken as I soon had abundant cause to realize. That serpent in his bosom was not dead, but only slumbered till aroused by some slight provocation. We were one evening engaged in a long and familiar conversation, he related many incidents connected with his school-life, and I also spoke of many things concerning my home in Montreal; among others I mentioned Robert Dalton, and spoke of the friendship between us which began at Fulton Academy and which was so pleasingly renewed in the city of Montreal. I had for the moment forgotten Charley's peculiar and exclusive nature, and dwelt at considerable length on the good qualities of my absent friend, till checked by the dark frown which suddenly gathered upon Charley's countenance, and the angry flash which shot from his eyes. Rising to his feet, he said in a voice of deep displeasure: "Since you are so fond of a new friend, I suppose you no longer consider an old one worth retaining, so I will trouble you no longer." I attempted to reason with him, saying I could not see why a new friendship should alienate us who had been friends from our childhood; but by this time he had worked himself into a fearful passion and made use of very violent language. I had learned long ago that when his anger was excited, he was not master of either his words or actions. I stepped forward, and laying my hand upon his shoulder tried to recall him to himself, but he threw off my hand as if my touch had been contamination, and without another word walked from the room. As I looked after his retreating form as he walked hastily down the street I could not help a feeling of pity for him, that he should suffer himself to be governed by such an unhappy temper, for I knew that when his anger became cooled he would bitterly repent of his conduct. To the reader who has never met with one possessing the unhappy disposition of Charley Gray, his character in these pages will seem absurd and overdrawn; but those who have come in close contact with a like nature will only see in this sketch a correct delineation of one of the most unhappy dispositions which affect mankind. Charley was endowed with rare gifts of mind and intellect, and was manly and sensible, and setting aside this one fault it was hard to find a more agreeable and pleasant companion. His absurd conduct was often a matter of after-wonder to himself, and he made frequent resolutions of amendment, which only held good till some cause roused his old enemy. I suppose no more proper name could be found for this unhappy disposition than exclusiveness, for what ever or whoever he liked, he wanted all to himself. He was respectful and courteous to all, but intimate only with a very few, and for those few his affection went beyond the bounds of reason, inasmuch as it was a source of unhappiness to himself and all connected with him.

I cherished no resentment toward Charley, knowing him as I did, but I knew the folly of trying to reason with him in the state of mind in which he left me. It must have been a hard struggle with his pride, for Charley was very proud, but his good sense prevailed, and he came to seek me. "You are freely and fully forgiven," said I, in reply to his humble acknowledgment of wrong-doing; "but do Charley for your own sake as well as that of others try and subdue a disposition which if not conquered, will render you unhappy for life. If I am your friend does it follow that I must have no other, and the making of other friends will never diminish my regard for you, the earliest and best friend I have ever known." "I am sensible," replied he, "of all and more than you can tell me of the unreasonableness and absurdity of my own conduct, and again and again have I resolved to gain the mastery, and often, when I begin to have confidence in my own powers of control, this exclusive jealous disposition will suddenly rise and put to naught all my resolutions of amendment. If you could know what I endure from it you would pity instead of blame me. But let us part friends, and I will try to exercise more reason for the future." We talked long together, for the morrow would again separate us, and it might be long before we would meet again. I had spent a happy month in the cool shady village of Elmwood, and returned to my labors with body and mind both strengthened and refreshed.

About the middle of October, Robert Dalton was taken ill. His disease seemed a kind of low fever, and in a short time he was completely prostrated. All the leisure I could possibly command I spent at his bedside, and many hours did I forego sleep that I might minister to his wants. The family with whom he boarded were very attentive, but I knew he was pleased with my attention, and exerted myself to spend as much time with him as possible. Several days passed away with little apparent change in his symptoms, but he grew extremely weak. His physician was of the opinion that he was tired out from long and close application to his business; but thought he would soon recover under the necessary treatment. One evening, when he had been about two weeks ill, I went as I had often done to sit by him for a portion of the night; after the family had all retired, I administered a quieting cordial left by the doctor, and shading the lamp that the light might not disturb him, I opened a book, thinking he would sleep. He lay very quiet, and I supposed him to be asleep, and was becoming interested in the volume before me when he softly called my name. I stepped quickly to his bedside, he took my hand saying, "sit down close to me Walter, I have something to say to you." I took a seat near him, and after a few moments' silence he said: "You may perhaps think I am nervous and fanciful, when I tell you I feel certain I shall never recover from this illness; the physician tells me I will soon be up again, but such will not be the case." Observing that I was much startled, he said, "Do not be alarmed Walter, but compose yourself and listen to me. My parents and one sister live at a distance of four hundred miles from here. I have deferred informing them of my illness, as my employer, who has much confidence in the skill of my physician, thought it unwise to alarm them needlessly, and I now fear that I have put it off too long, for I think I shall not live to see them. I intend in the morning requesting my employer to send a message for my father to hasten to me at once, but I fear it is too late." Much alarmed, I enquired if he felt himself growing worse, or if he wished me to summon his physician. He replied, "I feel no worse, but from the first I have had the impression that I should never recover; and should I not live to see any of my friends. I have one or two requests to make of you, knowing that you will attend to my wishes when I shall be no more." I became so much alarmed that I was on the point of calling some of the family; but he arrested me saying: "I am quite free from pain, and when I have finished my conversation with you shall probably sleep." He continued, "I know my father will hasten at once to me when apprised of my illness, but should I not live till he arrives, tell him I have endeavored to follow the counsels he gave me when I left home; for I know it will comfort him when I am gone to know that I respected his wishes. Tell him, also, he will find what money I have been able to save from my salary deposited in the Savings Bank. Tell him to remember me to my mother and sister Mary, and could I have been permitted to see them again it would have afforded me much happiness, but that I died trusting in the merits of my Redeemer, and hope to meet them all in Heaven, where parting will be no more." His writing-desk, which was a very beautiful and expensive article, he requested me to accept of as a token of affection from him. I promised faithfully to obey all his wishes should his sad forebodings prove true, yet I could not believe he was to die. At the close of our conversation he seemed fatigued, I arranged his pillows and gave him a cooling drink, and I was soon aware by his regular breathing that he slept soundly. As he lay there wrapped in repose my memory ran backward over all the happy time I had spent with him; he was the only one outside of Mr. Baynard's family with whom I was at all intimate, and the bitter tears which I could not repress, as I gazed upon his changed features, made me sensible how dear he had become to me. A hasty letter was written next morning to Mr. Dalton, informing him of his son's illness, and of his urgent request that he should hasten to him as soon as possible; but poor Robert lived not to see his father again. The next day after the letter was written a sudden change for the worse took place in his disease, and it soon became evident that he could live but a few hours. He expressed a wish that I should remain with him to the last, and before another morning dawned Robert Dalton had passed from among the living. A short time before his death, his eyes sought my face, and his lips moved as though he wished to speak to me; I bowed my ear to catch his words, as he said in a voice which was audible to me only: "When my father arrives remember all I said to you, and tell him I died happy, feeling that all will be well with me." After this he spoke no more, and an hour later he died with my hand clasped in his own. When, two days after, his father arrived, and found that he was indeed dead, his grief was heart-rending to witness. Never before did I see such an agony of grief as was depicted upon his countenance as he bowed himself over the lifeless body of his only son. As soon as circumstances permitted, I repeated to Mr. Dalton the conversation Robert had held with me a short time before his death. Among other things I gave him his watch which he had entrusted to my care. He pressed me to keep the watch, saying, "From the frequent mention my son made of you in his letters, I almost feel that I know you well, and knowing the strong friendship he entertained for you, I beg of you to accept of his watch for his sake as well as mine, and should we never meet again, bear in mind that I shall ever remember you with gratitude and affection." It was a small but elegant gold watch which to Robert had been a birthday gift from an uncle who was very fond of him, and to this day it is to me a valued keepsake.

When Mr. Dalton left the city, bearing with him the lifeless remains of his son, for interment in the family burial-place, a deep gloom settled over my mind, and for a long time, I could hardly rouse myself to give the necessary attention to my daily duties. Since that period I have made other friends and passed through many changing scenes, both of joy and sorrow; but I have never forgotten Robert Dalton, and his image often rises to my mental vision, as memory recalls the scenes and friends of my youthful days.

With the reader's permission I now pass over a period of six years. I am still residing in the city of Montreal, as Mr. Baynard, when I reached the age of twenty-one, saw fit to offer me a partnership in his business, which the fruits of my former industry, added to a generous gift from my Uncle Nathan, enabled me to accept. Many changes have taken place in my early home in the village of Elmwood. Many old friends and neighbors have been laid to rest in the quiet churchyard, and many with whom I attended the village school have gone forth from their paternal home to seek their fortune in the wide world. The cottage home of my mother has undergone many improvements since we last looked upon it. It has been enlarged and modernized in various ways, and its walls are no longer a dingy brown, but of a pure white, and its windows are adorned with tasteful green blinds. From a boy it had been my earnest wish to see my mother placed in a home of ease and comfort, and that wish is now gratified. Time has not dealt severely with my mother, for she looks scarcely a day older than when we last saw her six years ago. My sister Flora is finishing her education at a distant boarding school, where I am happy to say my brotherly affection and generosity placed her. Good Doctor Gray and his kind wife are still alive; but they are really beginning to grow old. But what of Charley, for surely the reader has not forgotten Charley Gray; he graduated from College with the highest honors, and is now studying medicine in the city of New York, as, agreeable to the ideas of his boyhood, he has decided upon becoming a physician. I have met with him only twice during the past six years. Does his old unhappy disposition cling to him still? we shall learn that bye and bye.

During all the years of my residence in Montreal, Mr. Baynard had enjoyed uninterrupted health, but he was now seized with a sudden and alarming illness; his disease was brain fever in its most violent form. His physician found it impossible to break up the fever, and with his afflicted family I anxiously awaited the result. A deep gloom overshadowed the dwelling, the family and servants moved with noiseless steps and hushed voices through the silent apartments. He was delirious most of the time. The doctor often tried to prevail upon Mrs. Baynard to leave him to the care of some other member of the family and seek rest, but she could not think of leaving his bedside even for a short time, and only did so when rest was an absolute necessity. The two daughters had been absent at school for two years, and just at this time they returned to their home, having finished their term of study, and they were almost heart-broken thus to find their father stretched upon a bed of sickness, and could not but entertain fears as to the result. All my attention during the day was required at the store, as the whole oversight of the extensive establishment devolved upon me.

The days that Mr. Baynard lay prostrated by suffering passed wearily by: the frequent visits of the physician, the perpetual silence, and the air of gloom which prevailed through the dwelling, told but too plainly that there was sorrow and suffering within its walls. His wife would often bend over the suffering form of her husband, and her tears would fall fast while he still lay unconscious of her presence or watchful care; and she feared he might in this state pass away and leave no token of recognition or remembrance. At length the time allotted for the disease to run its course arrived. This time had been anxiously waited for by the physician, and with much greater anxiety, by his sorrowing family. On the night of the crisis of the disorder, Mr. Baynard was so extremely weak that the question of life and death was evenly balanced, and it was hard to separate probabilities of the one from the other. Mrs. Baynard requested that I would not return to the place of business after tea, but remain with them. The physician never left the room during all that night; and O! what a long and dreary night it was: the house was silent as a tomb, even the ticking of the watch which lay upon the stand seemed too loud. Finally the breathing of the sick man seemed entirely to cease. The doctor stepped hastily forward, felt his pulse and placed his hand over his heart. "Is he dead?" said Mrs. Baynard, in a calm voice, but her face was pale as marble. The doctor made no reply but raised his hand as if to enjoin silence, and he quickly applied powerful draughts to the soles of his feet: if these took effect they might have hope. In a short time the patient made a slight movement as if from pain, and the physician hastily called for wine, saying, "Life is still there, and if it can for a short time be sustained by stimulants, he may rally." Ere the morning sun rose, the doctor expressed a hope that the crisis was past, and that he would recover. For several days, he lay weak and helpless as an infant; but the doctor assured us that he was slowly but surely recovering. Soon after he was so far recovered as to spend a portion of each day at our place of business.

I received a letter from Charley Gray informing me that he intended spending several weeks of the summer at Elmwood, and urgently requesting me to meet him there. I had intended visiting Elmwood before receiving his letter; I had only been once there during the three past years, and I felt the need of a respite from the cares of business. My sister also expected this summer to return home, having spent four years at school, and I looked forward with much pleasure to the time when we should meet again in the dear old home at Elmwood. Time had worked a great change in me since I left that home eight years before. Providence had smiled upon my efforts to assist my widowed mother and sister. Through my means my mother was now placed in a home of comfort and affluence, and my sister had received a thoroughly good education. I was still prospered, and of late was fast accumulating money. Never before, since leaving the paternal roof, had I felt so strong a desire to rest for a time beneath its shelter, and as the time drew nigh I could hardly control my impatience. At home again! I realized this happiness in its truest meaning, when I found myself again beneath the roof that had sheltered my childhood. Flora too was there, but so much changed that I could hardly recognize the little sister who had ever looked up to me for protection and love. The very evening after my arrival Dr. Gray called. His call surprised us a little as the hour was late. He came in with his old good-humored laugh, saying: "Do not be alarmed, for this is not a professional visit, and for once I have left my medicine-case at home; but when I went home quite late in the evening and learned that Walter had arrived I thought I should sleep all the more soundly for coming over to welcome you to Elmwood again. By the bye," continued he, "I hear Walter that you are fast becoming rich; well I am glad to hear it, and I am pretty sure you will make a good use of your money." I assured him I was far enough from being rich. "Modest as ever," replied he, "but no matter, better that than forward and boastful, no fear but you'll get along. I am expecting Charley to arrive every day," said he, "and then won't we have the good old-fashioned times again." I was very happy to meet my old friend again in such good spirits. The next day while, conversing with my mother, I suddenly remembered Farmer Judson, and I enquired if his temper was improved any of late. My mother looked serious as she replied, "I had forgotten to tell you, Mr. Judson has been ill for a long time. He first had lung-fever from which he partially recovered, but he now seems like one in a slow consumption; I have not as yet called to see him, as I hear he is very irritable and does not care to see people, and I feared he would take my visit as an intrusion. I very much pity his poor wife, who is almost worn out with attending upon him, and would gladly aid her were it in my power." As a boy I had cherished anger toward the farmer; but that had all passed away and I felt sorry to hear of his illness.

Two days after my arrival, Charley Gray came. Our meeting could not be otherwise than happy. He was, I believe, the most changed of the two; and I thought at the time I had never before seen so perfect a type of manly beauty. "What a pity," thought I, "that one so highly gifted, and noble looking, and whose manner was at times so attractive and winning, should allow himself at other times to be so morose and disagreeable from a foolish and unreasonable temper." He had now completed his studies, and had come home for a short time before entering upon the practice of his profession. When I left the city, Mr. Baynard advised me to spend at the least two or three months at home, for so long and industriously had I applied myself to business, that he thought a season of rest and recreation would be very beneficial to me; and all our old friends at Elmwood seemed anxious to add to the enjoyment of Charley Gray and myself during our stay. My mother was one who seldom left her home, and she surprised me one day by saying, "If Charley and I would take a journey to Uncle Nathan's, she and Flora would accompany us," and that very evening I wrote to my uncle and aunt informing them of our proposed visit, and asking them if they would be willing to entertain so large a party; and an answer soon arrived informing me that nothing would afford them more pleasure than our visit, and "they were very sure they could find room for us all." I had only paid one hasty visit to Fulton since I left it, and I anticipated much pleasure from again meeting my uncle and aunt with many old friends of my school-days at Fulton.

I did not intend writing a long story, and will not trouble my readers with the particulars of our journey, nor of the hearty welcome we received when we arrived at the old farm house of Uncle Nathan. Let it suffice that nothing was wanting to render our stay agreeable. My uncle and aunt looked scarcely a day older than when I left them eight years since. Upon my remarking how lightly time had set on them, my uncle replied with his old manner of fun and drollery, "Don't you know, Walter, that old bachelors and old maids never grow old, they get kind o' dried in just such a way and keep so for any length of time," and I could not help thinking there was some truth in his remark. I enquired with much curiosity for Cousin Silas and his family. "O!" replied Aunt Lucinda, "upon the whole they have done better than one could have expected when they first came here. Silas will never do much anyway, they still live on the Taylor place, and Nathan manages one way and another to get some work out of him. Nathan intends at some time to deed the place to the family in such a way that Silas can't squander it away; but he has never told them so yet. Somehow or other, after mother's death, I felt drawn toward the family, and did all I could to help them along. I kept the little girls with me by turns, and encouraged them to attend school, and took pains to learn them habits of order and industry, and I found after a time that my labor was not entirely thrown away, for as they grew older they carried the habits which I tried to teach them into their own home, and to say the least of it, they live much more like other people than they used to; and I begin to think that even an old maid can do a little good in the world, now and then, as well as any one else. Of course you remember the boys, and what an awful trial it used to be to have Ephraim about the place; well, he settled down after a while, he always said the whipping his father gave him for cutting up my clothes-lines and then lying about it was what made a man of him. He attended school for three years, and then not wishing to work on the farm, he struck out into the world for himself; he obtained a situation in a mercantile house in Toronto, and I hear bids fair to make a successful business man. George Washington has not entirely ceased to grumble and look sulky; but there has been a wonderful change in one respect, for there is now no harder working youth in the neighborhood; he likes farming, and early and late may be found at his work. I don't know but Nathan may have given him a hint that the old Taylor place may one day be his own. I don't know how it is, the neighbors say it was your Uncle Nathan and I who ever made any thing of those children. Nathan said: 'Silas would never do much any way, and we had better try and make something of the children,' and I certainly have done my best; but it was uphill work for a long time; and I am glad that they have profited by our efforts for their good."

Dr. Oswald was still the teacher of Fulton Academy, and many happy hours were passed in the interchange of visits during our stay at Uncle Nathan's; and I suppose I must inform my readers of a sentimental scene which took place in Mr. Oswald's garden on a delightful evening in midsummer, when, at my earnest entreaty, lovely Rose Oswald renewed the promise made to me on that very spot just eight years ago; for my boyish fancy had ripened into the strong man's love, and I felt that Rose Oswald, as my wife, was all that was wanting to render me as happy as one can reasonably expect to be in this world of change and vicissitude. "If you are willing to resign yourself to my keeping," said I, "there is no need of a long engagement, and when I leave Fulton I must take you with me as my wife." "So soon, Walter." "Yes, Rose, just so soon. I have long looked forward to this day, and now I almost count the minutes till I can claim you as all my own," and so the matter was settled. When Aunt Lucinda was informed of this arrangement she opened her eyes wide in astonishment, and when she learned that the marriage was to take place within a few days, she was highly delighted, "for", said she, "the sun never shone on one like Rose Oswald before; in fact, she was far too good for any one but you Walter, so if you had not chanced to fall in love with her, she must have died an old maid."

It was a bright morning, early in September, that a small wedding party was assembled at Mr. Oswald's residence; the few guests invited were all old friends. I sent an urgent message for good old Dr. Gray and his wife, and although they seldom left Elmwood, they responded to my call, and made what, to them, was quite a long journey, that they might be present at my marriage. That same evening we set out on our wedding tour, while my mother and Flora, with Charley Gray, returned to Elmwood; and, after travelling for several weeks, we found ourselves at my mother's home, where we were to spend a few weeks longer before returning to the city, which was to be our permanent home. Soon after my return to Elmwood, I received an urgent message to visit Mr. Judson, who was said to be fast failing. I felt a degree of reluctance to go, having never once entered his dwelling since the memorable day on which I left it years ago, but I felt it my duty to comply with his request. I found him much weaker than I had expected. He seemed much overcome, when I softly entered the room, and extending my hand, enquired how he found himself. "I am very weak," he replied, "and feel that I have but a short time to live. I have felt very anxious to see you, and I feared you would not arrive in time to see me alive. I hope you will forgive my unkindness and harshness to you when a boy. I did not then know that I was so unkind, but it has come back to me since. At that time my whole desire and aim was to accumulate riches, and it was that which caused me to be harsh and unfeeling. I have become rich, but riches will avail me but little, as I stand upon the brink of eternity, and the way looks dark before me, but it will afford me some comfort to hear you say you forgive me, before I die." I took his hand within my own, as I said: "Any resentment I may once have cherished toward you, Mr. Judson, has long since passed away. I was but a boy when I resided with you, and very likely at times taxed your patience severely, and you have my entire forgiveness for any harshness I may ever have experienced at your hands. I am sorry to find you so ill, and hope you will soon be better." "No, Walter;" he replied, "that will never be, and I am now sensible that in my anxiety for the things of time, I have neglected the all-important matters of eternity. Since I have lain upon this sick-bed I have tried to repent, and I trust I do feel sorry for my sins; but, somehow, I do not find the comfort I seek. Would that you could tell me what to do Walter." Can this softened and subdued man, thought I, be the same of whom I once stood in so much fear. As well as I was able I directed him to the sinner's only hope, the merits of a merciful Saviour; while, at the same time, I referred him to many comforting Bible-promises; which, when I had read, he said: "Do you think, Walter, those promises can be meant for me, who have neglected my Bible and been careless and worldly all my life long?" For answer, I directed his attention to the promise which says: "He that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out." He requested me to pray with him. I have never before prayed save in the retirement of my own room, and I felt a degree of diffidence at the thought of praying in the presence of others, but I overcame the feeling, and, kneeling down, I forgot the physician as well as others who listened to me, and lifted up my voice in solemn earnest prayer. I forgot everything but the God before whom I pleaded. I prayed that were it the will of Providence, he might be restored to health; but, if not, that he might, in believing on the Saviour, find a comfort which would enable him to triumph even over the terrors of death. When I rose from my knees, he seemed more composed, and, after remaining silent for a short time, he addressed me with much earnestness, saying: "It seems to me, Walter, that I must see my two boys, before I die. Send for them at once. I drove them from me by my harshness, years ago. Send for them at once, and I hope my life maybe spared to see them once more." He held my hand long at parting, saying: "You have done me good, Walter, and I do begin to have a hope that my Heavenly Father will have mercy upon me and receive me, not for any merit of my own, but through the merits of that Saviour who died for the salvation of repentant and believing sinners." Learning the address from Mrs. Judson, I at once dispatched a telegraph message to the two sons, and four days later they arrived, to mingle their tears at the death-bed of their father, from whom they had so long been estranged. It was evident, from day to day, that Mr. Judson was failing fast; but, as his bodily strength wasted away, a most happy change came over his mind, during the last few days of his life.

I was summoned from my pillow at midnight to stand by his death-bed. His death was calm and full of hope; but, to the last, it was to him a matter of regret, that he had neglected, through life, those things which afforded him any hope in death. Among his last words to me, he warned me against setting my heart upon riches, in a way that would prove a snare to any soul. "Riches," said he, "are a great blessing when rightly used, but ought not to be the chief aim and object of life." Before the morning dawned, his spirit passed away, and it was my hand that closed his eyes in the dreamless sleep of death. The next day I called, in company with my mother, and entered the darkened room where lay his lifeless remains, now habited for the grave. I gazed long and silently upon those features now stamped with the seal of death. Reader, if there lives one against whom you cherish angry and bitter feelings, pause a moment and consider what your feelings would be if called to stand by their coffin; for, be assured, your anger will then give place to sorrow that you ever indulged anger toward the poor fellow-mortal now extended before you in the slumber of death. I attended the funeral of Mr. Judson, and saw his body consigned to the grave. He sleeps in the village churchyard at Elmwood, and a marble slab marks his resting-place. When, after the funeral, his will was read, the large amount of the property left was a matter of wonder to many. In his will he gave largely to several benevolent and religious institutions, and to me he left the sum of one thousand dollars. I could see no reason why he should have done this, but as his will was drawn up in legal form and properly attested I thought it right I should accept of the generous gift; and, indeed, it was but a small sum out of the large property left by Mr. Judson. Besides his liberal gift to me, he also gave largely to different benevolent and religious causes. Half the remainder of his large property was to go to his surviving widow, and the remainder was to be equally divided between the two sons. Before his death it was settled that Reuben, the youngest son, was to remain on the home place to care for his mother in her old age, while the eldest was to return to their former business; and thus Mrs. Judson's declining years were rendered happy and contented through the care and love of her favorite son. And so Rose and I at length bade adieu to our friends, after a protracted visit, and returned to the city, where, by my direction, a pleasant and tasteful house already awaited us. Rose liked not to reside in the noisy city, so our home is in one of the most pleasant suburbs in Montreal. Should any of my readers be curious enough to enquire if Rose and I are happy, I would cordially invite them to pay us a visit, and judge for themselves, the first time they pass our way. The evening before we were to leave Elmwood, I was seated beneath my favorite tree in my mother's garden, and leaning backward against its grey trunk, with its thick and wide-spreading canopy of green branches above my head, I indulged in a long and deep reverie. Memory ran backward over the careless happy days of my childhood, the struggles of my youth, and the exertions of mature manhood; and although bereft, at a very early age, of my earthly father, I could not fail to observe the guiding hand of a Heavenly Father who had smiled upon my youthful efforts to assist my widowed mother, and had prospered my undertakings, and crowned my mature years, by giving me, as a life-partner, the one who had been my first and only choice, and almost unconsciously to myself, I repeated aloud the following verse from what was Grandma Adams' favorite psalm: "Commit thy way unto the Lord, trust also in Him; and He shall bring it to pass."

So busily was my mind occupied that I failed to notice the approach of my sister Flora, till she seated herself close to my side, and leaning her head upon my shoulder said in a constrained hesitating voice: "There is one thing I must tell you, Walter, before you go away: Charley Gray has told me he loves me, and asks me to be his wife." This did not surprise me much for I had noticed with secret anxiety the growing intimacy between Charley and my sister. "What shall I tell him, Walter," said my sister, "for I must not, dare not act without the counsel of my only brother?" I looked up in my sister's face with all the affection which welled up from my heart and said, "you love him then, Flora?" "How can I help loving him, who is so gifted, so noble," was her reply. "And," continued she, "on account of his reserved nature, I believe few give him credit for the real goodness of heart he possesses." As Flora had said, Charley possessed a kind heart, and was just and honorable in every respect, but I trembled for the woman who placed her happiness in his keeping; and how much more so, when that woman was my beloved and only sister. "You do not answer me," said Flora; "mamma would give me no reply till I had consulted you." "My dear sister," said I, "Charley is all that you say, just, honorable and good; but with all this he has qualities which, if not brought under subjection, will sadly mar his own happiness and that of all who love him. He is exclusive and jealous even of a friend, how will it be with a wife? Suspicion and jealousy is inherent in his very nature, for did not Doctor Gray tell me years ago that a suspicious, jealous nature was hereditary in the family of Charley's mother and he therefore begged me not to blame Charley too severely for a fault which he could not help saying 'he feared the cloud which hovered over Charley's cradle would follow him to his grave.' I doubt not Charley's affection for you, Flora; but the very depth of his affection will, I fear, prove a source of unhappiness to you both, for you are aware as well as I that Charley's affection, like his anger when roused, goes beyond the limits of sober reason. From your childhood, Flora, you have been petted and indulged, and a life of continual watchfulness and restraint will be something entirely new for you; for I never knew even a friend of Charley's who could act themselves when he was present, and unless there has been a wonderful change, as his wife, you will be forced to guard your every word and look lest you offend him; you must be pleased only with what pleases him, in short his will must be yours in all things." "You are my brother," said Flora, "and I need not blush to tell you I love Charley Gray better than I once thought it possible for one to love another, and I know from his own lips that he loves me equally in return, and as his wife the confidence between us will be so full and entire, there will be no room left for doubt and suspicion." "Well, little sister" said I, "knowing Charley as I do, I could not help uttering those warning words, but I shall not seek to hinder your marriage. I love and respect Charley more than any other friend I have, but I am very sensible of his faults. A heavy responsibility will devolve upon you as his wife, but love works wonders, and all may be well; but remember, Flora, you have a most peculiar nature to deal with, but it may be your privilege to exorcise the dark spirit from the breast of Charley Gray." That same evening the engagement ring glittered upon Flora's finger; and six months later, amid a small company of friends, they uttered their marriage vows in the old church at Elmwood; and by many they were called with truth a beautiful and noble looking couple; and immediately after their marriage they set out for their new home in one of the large cities of the Western Provinces, where Charley was to begin the practice of his profession. They left us under seeming summer sky, and I breathed a prayer, that no cloud might arise to mar its serenity.

About a year after Flora's marriage I received a letter from Aunt Lucinda with a pressing invitation that we should go at once to Fulton; she wished me also to write, requesting my mother to join us at Montreal and accompany us. This letter surprised me not a little, but I was well aware that Aunt Lucinda must have some particular reason for this sudden and unexpected invitation; and I at once wrote to my mother, informing her of her request, and two days later she arrived at my home in Montreal. We enjoyed a pleasant journey, and again my eyes rested with delight upon the familiar scenes of the village of Fulton. Uncle Nathan met us at the railway station, looking as hale and hearty as ever. On our way to the farm I ventured to inquire what had caused our invitation to visit them at this particular time; he answered me only by repeating the old saying, "Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies," and so we made no further inquiries. When Aunt Lucinda came forward to welcome us, I at once noticed the remarkable change in her appearance; one would have supposed that at least ten years had been taken from her age since I last saw her, and her whole manner was so cheerful and sprightly that I was at a loss to understand what could have happened; but I never dreamed of the truth till after tea, when Aunt Lucinda rose and said: "I want to see you, Walter, alone in the parlor." I followed her, secretly wondering what wonderful revelation I was to listen to. When we were seated, she said with her old abrupt manner, "Well, Walter, you have heard Nathan talk about Joshua Blake, he has come back and we are going to be married to-morrow and I have sent for you to attend the wedding. You may well look astonished to hear an old woman like me talk about getting married; and the land knows what Deacon Martin's folks will say; but as long as they have liberty to say whatever they please, they needn't complain. You remember hearing Nathan laugh about Joshua Blake and his red hair years ago, perhaps you thought there was no such person in the world but there was. Joshua was an only child, his parents lived over at the village, and we went to school together. His hair was not a real blazin' red but only a dark auburn, for all of Nathan's nonsense about it. Well, we loved each other, when mere children. As we grew older I could see but one fault in Joshua, he was inclined to be unreasonably jealous, and that was the beginning of our trouble. I was young and giddy, and much as I loved him rather enjoyed teasing him, and doing trifling things which I knew would vex him, while at the same time I cared for no one else in the world; and I am now ashamed to say I often accepted of the attentions of others for the mischievous delight I took in making him angry and seeing him look cross, and it may be there was a lurking pride in knowing that I had the power to make him jealous. Truly, Walter, the human heart is a singular compound of good and evil. I shall ever remember the last evening we spent together, it was at a party. I know not what spirit of mischief possessed me, but I took particular pains to annoy Joshua by my giddy and frivolous conduct. When we were ready to return home he offered me his arm without speaking, this made me angry and I walked proudly by his side. We walked on in silence till we reached the gate at my own home. As he was turning away he said, 'I suppose, Miss Adams, it will cause you no sorrow if I tell you this is probably the last time we shall ever meet.' I know that even then, had I answered him differently the matter would not have ended as it did, but my spirit rose proud and defiant, and I said with a tone of mock levity, 'How long a journey do you purpose taking, Mr. Blake? is it to the grist-mill, or to the sawmill, which is a little farther away?' 'You may make light of my words, if you choose,' replied he; 'but I am in no mood for jesting. The truth is, Miss Adams, that I can no longer endure this life of suspense and torture, and it is evident you care more for a giddy throng of admirers than for the love of one who has loved you from childhood. I leave here to-morrow morning, trusting to time and distance to assist me in forgetting you.' He looked earnestly in my face, in the bright moonlight, as he said these words, but could read there nothing but self-will and defiance. It is even now a matter of wonder to me what caused me to act as I did, against my own feelings. He held out his hand, saying: 'Let us at least part as friends, Miss Adams.' I gave him my hand, saying lightly: 'I hope, Mr. Blake, you won't be like the boy who ran away from home and came back to stay the first night.' I turned and walked toward my own door, and he went away without speaking another word. I watched him in the clear moonlight till a turn in the road hid him from my view. Had I entertained the slightest idea that he would fulfil his threat of going away, I know I should have acted differently; and it was not till I learned, the next day, that he had left Fulton and gone no one knew whither, that I realized what I had done. I knew not whether his parents had a suspicion of the cause of his sudden departure, if they had they never named it to me. I told my sorrow to no one but my mother, but Nathan always said he knew well enough without being told by any one. I can tell you, Walter, my sin did not go unpunished; for, inconsistent as my conduct has been, I loved Joshua Blake with a deep affection, and when my tortured mind pictured him as a wandering exile from his home, through my absurd and foolish conduct, you may be sure he did not suffer alone. And if I hadn't turned kind of cross and crusty, I am afraid I should have gone crazy, and it was certainly better to be cross than crazy. That is twenty-five years ago. As I was employed in the garden one morning a few weeks ago, an acquaintance from the village passing by said to me: 'Have you heard the news, Miss Adams, that has almost turned every one's head over at Fulton: Joshua Blake, whom every one had given up for dead years ago, has come home.' I grew cold as ice, and I never could tell how I reached the house. I could hardly believe it, and yet something told me it was true, and that very evening he came over here; but, instead of the youth who went away, I saw, a middle-aged man with gray-hair, which Nathan said was an improvement, allowing that some gray looked better than all red. It sounds foolish enough for young people to talk love, but for old people like Joshua Blake and I, it is unpardonable. He told me he had resolved never to return to his native land again, till, by the merest chance, he met a man in Australia who informed him of the death of his father, and that his father had said upon his death-bed, that all that gave him the least anxiety was his aged partner, who, at his death, would be left quite alone in the world. 'Then,' continued he, 'I thought of the sin I had committed in so long neglecting my parents, and I resolved to atone for my past neglect, by hastening home to care for my mother, should I find her still alive; and the happiness is yet left me of watching over the declining years of my aged mother.' For awhile I refused to listen to him when he spoke about marriage, and told him it was better we should remain only as friends; but he talked and talked, and kept saying that, as we loved each other in youth, we could yet spend the evening of our lives together; and I at last said yes, only to stop his talking, and if we should happen not to agree, we shall have less time to quarrel than if we had got married twenty-five years ago; but, I rather think we have both got sobered down, so we can get along peaceably. And now, Walter, you go right off to bed, for you must get up bright and early to-morrow morning, to assist in the preparations for the wedding." Aunt Lucinda looked very becoming in her bridal dress of gray silk with its rich lace trimming, and she looked younger and handsomer than I had ever seen her before, when Joshua Blake placed the marriage ring upon her finger; he was a fine-looking man, but I could not help thinking that the mixture of gray in his auburn locks was more of an improvement than otherwise. He had returned to Fulton a rich man, and on the same spot where stood his father's old house, he erected and furnished a beautiful residence, which every one allowed was an ornament to the village; and removed thither with his wife and aged mother a short time after his marriage. My aunt's marriage made quite a change in the home arrangements at Uncle Nathan's, but he finally persuaded my mother to sell her old house and Elmwood, to come and reside with him. It was some time before my mother could make up her mind to leave her old home, hallowed by so many associations of the past; but, judging the lonely situation of the brother, who had done so much for me, she at length consented; and my uncle's home is now presided over by my mother, who was always his favorite sister. Cousin Silas's eldest daughter, now an intelligent girl of eighteen, stays with my mother, as an assistant companion; and the summer gathering of friends from the dusty city is now held at Uncle Nathan's farm-house instead of my mother's old home at Elmwood.

Some of my readers may inquire what kind of a husband my old school-mate Charley Gray made; some will be ready to suppose that his young and light-hearted wife at once worked a great and wonderful change in his disposition; others, that failing in her endeavors to do so, she became disappointed, sorrowing and unhappy. Neither of these conclusions is entirely correct. Flora did not all at once change her husband into a genial and social being; but her affectionate devotion inspired a confidence in her which gradually extended to others, and has now strength to say to the tumultuous waves of jealous passion "Thus far shalt thou come, and no further," and I am happy to say that my sister's cheerful and happy countenance does not indicate a sorrowful and disappointed heart. Yes, Charley Gray is a changed man, and there are deep lines of thought in his face, and a serene expression on his brow, and a clear happy light in his eye, which all speak of the battle fought and the victory won over the dark passions of his own heart. This summer we are all together at Uncle Nathan's, and our time is about equally divided between the old farm-house and the more elegant home of Aunt Lucinda. All the usual accompaniments of such a season of joy and festivity are here but the tremblings of emotion, the out-gushings of the heart, the thanksgivings and gratitude, as we blend the sometimes dark past with the bright present, and the rosy hue of the future, I am quite unable to describe. Years have come and gone with their scenes of sunshine and shadow since that glad reunion, we have each grown older and I trust wiser. Sorrow has been experienced and tears shed, but gentle hands have wiped away our tears and loving voices soothed our sorrows, and now, dear reader, I leave the actors who have appeared in the simple scenes of my story to pass onward, and perform their allotted parts in the great drama of life.