West Lawn, and The rector of St. Mark's

There were two little graves now by Margaret’s, and in the house two vacant chairs, and two voices hushed, while Squire Russell counted four children where he had numbered six, and yet the unselfish man would hear of no delay to Dora’s marriage.

“Let it go on the same,” he said. “It will make me feel better to know that there are around me some perfectly happy ones.”

And so the day was appointed, and Bell and Mattie were summoned again from Morrisville, whither the latter had gone during the children’s illness. Judge Verner was lonely with both of his daughters absent, and as of the two he was most accustomed to Bell, he would have been quite content with having her back again if she had not told him how Jessie had turned nurse to Squire Russell’s children, and was consequently in danger of taking the disease. This roused him, and in a characteristic letter to Jessie he bade her “not make a fool of herself any longer by tending children with canker-rash and feeding them with sweetened water, but to pack up her traps and come home.”

To this the saucy Jessie replied that “she should not come home till she was ready; that the Judge could shut up, and what he called sweetened water was quite as strong as the medicine which once cured his colic so soon.” Then, in the coaxing tone the Judge could never resist, she added, “You know I’m just in fun, father, when I talk like that, but really I must stay till after Dora is married, and you must let me, that’s a dear, good old soul,” and so the “good old soul” was cajoled into writing that Jessie might stay, adding in postscript, “Bell tells me you say all sorts of extravagant things about that widower, and this is well enough as long as they mean nothing, but for thunder’s sake don’t go to offering yourself to him in a streak of pity. A nice wife you would make for a widower with six children,—you who don’t know how to darn a pair of stockings, nor make a bed so that the one who sleeps the back side won’t roll out of the front. Mind, now, don’t be a fool.”

“I wonder what put that idea into father’s head,” Jessie said, as she read the letter. “I would not have Squire Russell, let alone offering myself to him. And I do know how to darn socks. Any way, I can pull the holes together, which is just as well as to put in a ball and peek and poke and weave back and forth, and make lacework of it just as Bell does. It’s a real old-maidish trick, and I won’t be an old maid anyhow, if I have to marry Squire Russell,” and crushing the letter into her pocket Jessie went dancing down the stairs, whistling softly for fear of disturbing the sick children.

That afternoon Dora found her, with her face very red and anxious, bending over a basket of stockings and socks, which she was trying to darn after the method most approved by Bell. “Clem had so much to do that day,” she said, “that she had offered to help by taking the darning off her hands.” But it was a greater task than Jessie had anticipated, and Johnnie’s aid was called in before it was finished, the boy proving quite as efficient as the girl, and as Clem secretly thought, succeeding even better. This was before Letitia and Jimmie died, and since their death the Judge had made no effort to call her home, but suffered her to take her own course, which she did by remaining in Beechwood, where they would have missed her so much, and where, if she could not darn socks neatly, she made herself generally useful as the day for the wedding approached. It was arranged to take place on Christmas Eve, and it was Jessie who first suggested that the house should be trimmed even more elaborately than the little church upon the common, where the ceremony was to be performed. With Johnnie as her prime minister, Jessie could accomplish almost anything, and when their work was done, every one joined heartily in praise of the green festoons and wreaths, on which were twined the scarlet berries of the mountain ash, with here and there a blossom of purest white, purloined from the costly flowers which Squire Russell ordered in such profusion from the nearest hothouse. Dora took but little part in the preparations. She was very happy, but her joy was of that quiet kind, which made her content to be still and rest, after the turmoil and wretchedness through which she had passed. The doctor was with her constantly, and to Jessie, who saw the look of perfect peace upon his face and Dora’s, they seemed the impersonation of bliss, while even Bertie noted the change in Dora, saying to her once as she sat with the doctor:

“You don’t look now, Auntie, as you did when you was married to pa.”

Dora could only blush, while the doctor laughingly tossed the little fellow upon his shoulder and carried him off to the office. If Squire Russell suffered, it was not perceptible, and Jessie thought he had recovered wonderfully, while Dora, too, hoped the wound had not been so deep as even to leave a scar. He was very kind and thoughtful, remembering everything that was needful to be done, and treating Dora as if she had been his daughter. He wished her to forget the past; wished to forget it himself; and by the cheerful, active course he took, he bade fair to do so. He should give the bride away, he said, and when Mattie Randall, to whom he was a study, asked kindly if he was sure he was equal to it, he answered, “O yes, wholly so. I see now that Dora would never have been happy with me. I should have laid her by Madge in less than a year. I am glad it has all happened as it has.”

He did seem to be glad, and when, on the night of the 24th, the little bridal party stood waiting in the parlor for the carriages which were to take them to the church, his face was as serene and placid as if he had never hoped to occupy the place the doctor occupied. Through much sorrow he had been tried and purified, until now in his heart, always unselfish and kind, there was room for the holier, gentler feelings which only the peace of God can give. Not in vain had he in the solitude of his chamber writhed and groaned over the crushing pang with which he gave Dora up, while the tears wept over his dead children were to him a holier baptism than any received before, washing him clean and making him a noble-minded Christian man. Margaret’s grave had during those autumn months witnessed many an earnest prayer for the strength and peace which were found at last, and were the secret of his composure. Just before the sun-setting of Dora’s bridal day, he had gone alone to the three lonely graves and laid upon the longest the exquisite cross of evergreen and white wax berries which Jessie’s fingers had fashioned for this very purpose, Jessie’s brain having been the first to conceive the plan. There was also a bouquet of buds for each of the smaller graves, and Squire Russell placed them carefully upon the sod, which he watered with his tears; then, with a whispered prayer, he went back across the fields to where Dora, in her bridal dress, was waiting, but not for him. He was not the bridegroom, and he stood aside as the doctor bounded up the stairs, in obedience to Jessie’s call that he should come and see if ever anybody looked so sweetly as his bride, but charging him not to touch her lest some band, or braid, or fold, or flower should give way.

“It won’t be always so,” he said, standing off as Jessie directed. “By and by she will be all my own, and then I can hug her,—so!” and in spite of Jessie’s screams, he wound his arms around Dora’s neck, giving her a most emphatic kiss as his farewell to Dora Freeman. “When I kiss you again you will be Dora West,” he whispered, as he drew the blushing girl’s arm in his, and led her down the stairs.

The church was crowded to its utmost capacity, and it was with some difficulty that the colored sexton had kept a space cleared for the bridal party, which passed slowly up the aisle, while the soft notes of the organ floated on the air. Then the music ceased, and only the rector’s voice was heard, uttering the solemn words, “I require and charge you both,” etc.; but there was no need for this appeal, there was no impediment, no reason why these two hearts, throbbing so lovingly, should not be joined together, and so the rite went on, while amid the gay throng only one heart was heavy and sad. Robert West, leaning against a pillar, could not forget another ceremony, where he was one of the principal actors, while the other was Anna, beautiful Anna, over whose head the snows of many a wintry eve had fallen, and who but for him might have been now among the living. He had visited her grave and Robin’s, had knelt on the turf which covered them, and sued so earnestly for pardon, had whispered to the winds words of deepest love and contrition, as if the injured dead could hear, and then he had gone away to seek the man whom he had so wronged, and who for the brother’s sake had kept his sin a secret. Uncle Jason had forgiven him, had said that all was right, that every trace of his error was destroyed, and Robert had mingled fearlessly again among his fellowmen, who, only guessing in part his guilt, and feeling intuitively that he had changed, received him gladly into their midst.

Summoned by his brother’s letters, he had returned to Beechwood, and now formed one of the party, who, when the rite was over, went back to the brightly illuminated house, where the Christmas garlands, the box, and the pine, and the fir were hung, and where the marriage festivities proceeded rationally, quietly, save as Jessie’s birdlike voice pealed through the house, as she played off her jokes, first upon one and then another, adroitly trying to coax Bell and the young clergyman, Mr. Kelly, under the mistletoe bough, and then screaming with delight as her father and Mrs. David West were the first to pass within the charmed circle. Jessie was alive with fun and frolic, and making Bell sit down at the piano, she declared that somebody should dance at Dora’s wedding if she had to dance alone.

“Take Johnnie,” Dora said, and the two were soon whirling through the rooms, the boy’s head coming far above the black curls of the merry little maiden, who flashed, and gleamed, and sparkled among the assembled guests till more than one heart beat faster as it caught the influence of her exhilarating presence.

Robert West dreamed of her that night; so did Mr. Kelly, the rector; and so did Squire Russell; but the two first forgot her again next morning, as each said good-by to the handsome, stately Bell,—a far more fitting match for either than the black-eyed sprite who for a moment had made their pulses quicken. But not so with the Squire. To him the house was very desolate when he returned to it, after having accompanied the bride, and groom, and guests to the cars, which all took for Morrisville, whither they were going. It was Dora he missed, the servants said, pitying him, he looked so sad, while he too believed it was Dora; and still as he knelt that day in church, there was beside him another face than Dora’s,—a saucy, laughing, face, which we recognize as belonging to Jessie,—who, at that very moment, while keeping her companions in a constant turmoil and her father in a constant scold, was thinking of him and saying mentally:

“Poor Squire Russell! how I pity him,—left there all alone! and how I wonder if he misses me!”

The homestead where Dora’s childhood had been passed “could not be bought for love nor money;” so Robert, the negotiator, had reported to his brother on the morning following the latter’s marriage, and so Richard reported to Dora, as he sat with her at Mattie Randall’s, up in the chamber which Dora called hers, and where Anna had died. Mattie had wished to give the bridal pair another room, but Dora would take no other; and as Richard was satisfied, they occupied the one whose walls had witnessed so much sorrow in the days gone by. But there was no grief there now, nothing but perfect bliss, as Richard held his darling to his heart and told her for the thousandth time how dear she was to him, and how he thanked the Father of all good for giving her to him at last. In all his joy he never forgot his God, or placed Him second to Dora, who listened and smiled and returned his fond caresses until he told her of his plan to buy the homestead, and how that plan had been defeated by the refusal of the present proprietor. Then Dora hid her face in his bosom and wept softly to the memory of her old home, which Richard had tried so hard to buy back for her.

“You are so good, so kind,” she said, as he asked her why she cried, and pitied what he thought was her disappointment. “It is not that,” she continued, as she dried her tears. “It is your thoughtful love for me. I should be very happy at the old place, but, Richard, I am not sure that I should not be happier in Beechwood, where I have lived so long, and where you have so many friends. There John’s children would be nearer me, and I must care for them.”

And so it was arranged that Richard should buy the fine building spot to the right of Squire Russell’s, and that until the house he would erect should be completed, Dora should remain at home and care for the children.

This plan, when submitted to the Squire, met his hearty approval, and made the future look less dreary than before. He should not be left alone entirely, for Dora would be near to counsel and advise, and his face was very bright and cheerful as he welcomed the travellers back from their long trip, which lasted until February.

Towards the latter part of April, Jessie accepted of Dora’s cordial invitation to visit them again, and came to Beechwood, the same bright, laughing, gleeful creature as ever, the sunshiny being in whom, the moment he saw her seated again by his fireside, Squire Russell recognized the want he had felt ever since she left him the winter previous. He was so glad to have her back,—his eldest child he called her,—and treated her much as if he had been her father, notwithstanding that she made ludicrous attempts at dignity, on the strength of being twenty her next birthday, which was in June. Jessie was very pretty this spring, Squire Russell thought when he thought of her at all, and so thought the Rector of St. Luke’s, Mr. Kelly, who came nearly every day, ostensibly to talk with Mrs. Dr. West about some new plan for advancing the interests of the Sunday-school, but really to catch a glimpse of Jessie’s sparkling beauty, or hear some of her saucy sayings. But always, when he left the house and went back to his bachelor rooms, he said to himself, “It would never do. She is a frolicsome, pretty little plaything, who would amuse and rest me vastly, but she would shock my parishioners out of all the good I could ever instill into their minds. No, it won’t do.”

Robert West, too, whose pulse had beaten a little faster at the sight of Jessie Verner, had given himself to his country, so there was no one to contest the prize with Squire Russell, into whose brain the idea that he could win it never entered until Johnnie put it there. To Johnnie it came suddenly, making him start quickly from the book he was reading, and hurry off to Dr. West, asking if Deacon Bowles was not a great deal older than Mrs. Bowles, whom the villagers still called Amy, making her seem so youthful. The doctor thought he was, but could not tell just how many years, and as this was the point about which Johnnie was anxious, he conceived the bold plan of calling on Mrs. Amy to ascertain, if possible, her exact age, and also that of her husband. He found her rocking her baby to sleep and looking very pretty and girlish in her short hair, which she had taken a fancy to have cut off. Amy was fond of Johnnie, and she smiled pleasantly upon him, speaking in a whisper and keeping up a constant “sh-sh-sh” as she moved the cradle back and forth.

“What a nice baby,” Johnnie began, as if he had never seen it before; “but it seems funny to see you with a baby, when you look so like a girl. You can’t be very old.”

“Turned thirty. Sh-sh—” was the reply.

A gratified blush mounting Amy’s cheek, while Johnnie continued:

“Mother was thirty-two, and father was thirty-nine. He is most forty-one now. Is the deacon older than that?”

“Going on fifty-one. Sh-sh—” Amy replied, her “sh-sh’s” being more decided as baby showed signs of waking.

Johnnie had learned what he wished to know, and bidding Mrs. Bowles good morning, he ran home, repeating to himself:

“Turned thirty,—going on fifty-one. Ought from one is one, three from five is two. That makes twenty-one. Most twenty,—most forty-one. Ought from one is one, two from four is two. That makes twenty-one. Jemima! It’ll do, it’ll do!” and Johnnie ran on with all his might till he reached home, where he found Jessie, whom he astonished with a hug which almost strangled her.

“It will do! it will do!” he exclaimed, as he kissed her, and when she asked what would do, he answered, “I know, I know, but I shan’t tell!” and he darted off, big with the important thing which he knew and should not tell.

That night, as Squire Russell sat in his library, Johnnie came in and startled him with the question:

“Father, who will take care of us when Aunt Dora is gone? Her new house will be done in September.”

“I don’t know, my son;” and the Squire laid down his paper, for the question which Johnnie asked had also been troubling him.

There was silence a moment, during which Johnnie almost twisted a button from his jacket, and then he broke out abruptly:

“Why don’t you get married?”

“Married! To whom?” the Squire exclaimed; and Johnnie replied:

“You know. The nicest girl in all creation after Aunt Dora. She isn’t too young, neither. Amy Bowles is twenty-one years younger than the deacon, and Jessie ain’t any more.”

“Jessie! Jessie Verner!” the squire gasped, and Johnnie continued:

“Yes, Jessie Verner; I most know she’ll have you. Any way, I’ll make her. You break the ice, and I’ll pitch in! Will you, father? Will you have Jessie?”

“It would be better to ask first if she’ll have me,” the father replied, rubbing his head, which seemed a little numb with the sudden shock.

“I hear her. I’ll send her in! You ask her, father!” Johnnie exclaimed, darting to the door, as he heard Jessie in the upper hall whistling “three hundred thousand more.”

As he reached the threshold he paused, while he added:

“I guess Jessie will stand a huggin’ better than Aunt Dora, so you might come that game on her!” and Johnnie rushed after Jessie ere his father had time to recover his breath.

Jessie could not at once be found, and as Johnnie would not tell her what his father wanted of her, she was in no particular hurry to answer the summons, so that Squire Russell had time to collect his thoughts, and to discover that little Jessie Verner was very dear to him, and that though he had never entertained an idea of making her his wife till Johnnie suggested it, the idea was by no means distasteful, and if she were willing, why of course he was. But would she come? Yes, she was coming, for he heard her in the hall calling back to Johnnie:

“Mind, now, if you have played me a trick you will be sorry. I don’t believe he wants me.”

“Yes he does; you ask him,” was Johnnie’s reply, and advancing into the library, Jessie began innocently:

“Johnnie said you wanted me. Do you, Squire Russell!”

“Yes, Jessie, I do want you very much. Sit down while I tell you.”

He drew her chair near to himself, and wholly unsuspicious, Jessie sat down to listen, while he told her how he wanted her.

“May 31st, 1863.—I did not think when last I closed this book, that I could ever be as happy as I am now,—happy in everything, happy in Richard’s love, happy in the love of God, for my precious husband has been the means of leading me to the source of all happiness. He says I was a Christian before, but I cannot believe it. At least, it was a cold, tame kind of Christian, such as I never wish to be again! Dear Richard, how good and true he is, and how he tries to make me happy. Every day I see some new virtue in him, and the tears often come as I wonder why God should have blessed me above the generality of womankind. I know I have the kindest, and best, and dearest husband in the world. He has gone for a few days to Fortress Monroe, where Robert is at present with his men, while Mother West has gone into the hospital as nurse. She felt it was her duty, and we did not oppose her, knowing how much good she would do to the poor, suffering soldiers. My heart bleeds for them, and yet I cannot feel it the doctor’s duty to go. Somebody must stay at home, and when I see how his patients cling to him, and how useful he is here, I think it is his place to stay. If I am wrong and selfish, may I be forgiven.

“In the autumn our new house will be completed, and then I shall leave Margaret’s family, but not alone, for Jessie is actually coming to be John’s wife, and is now at home making her preparations. Does Margaret know? If so, she surely feels kindly now toward the little girl, who will make the best of mothers to the children.

“It was very strange, and though Richard and I had laughed together over the possibility, it took me wholly by surprise. I was sitting in my room one night last April, waiting for Richard, when Jessie came rushing in, her eyes red with weeping, and her frame quivering with emotion. I was startled, particularly as she threw herself on the floor beside me, and exclaimed:

“‘O Dora, I’ve done the silliest thing, and father will scold, I know, and call me a fool, and say I proposed, when I didn’t, though I am afraid I said yes too quick! Do you think I did? Tell me, do.’

“Then I managed to get from her that she was engaged to Squire Russell; that Johnnie inveigled her in by saying his father wanted her; that she asked if he did, and he told her, ‘Yes, he wanted her for his little wife; wanted to keep her always!’ and she was so frightened.

“‘Oh, you don’t know anything about it!’ she said. ‘I felt just as I did once when I took chloroform to have a tooth out, and acted just so, too, foolish like, for I talked everything and told him everything; how I was a little bit of a body who did not know anything, who had never learned anything, but had always done as I pleased and always wanted to; how I could not be sober if I tried, and would not if I could; how I was more fit to be Johnnie’s wife than his; how father was not as rich as some thought, but had two apoplectic fits ever so long ago, and might have another any time and die, while Bell and I would have to take care of ourselves,—go out governesses, or something; and, maybe, if he knew that he would not want me, but if he didn’t, and I ever had to be a governess, perhaps he would let me come here to teach his children, and that was so silly for me to say, and I knew it all the time, just like chloroform. And then, O Dora, how ridiculous the next thing was. He only laughed at the governess, and held me tighter, and I guess,—I am most sure,—he kissed me; and I am awfully afraid I kissed him back! Do you think I did?’

“I thought it quite likely, I said, and with a groan Jessie continued:

“‘The very silliest thing of all was my telling him I could not darn his socks, nor make his shirts, and he would have to wear big holes in them or go without; and,—oh, do you believe, he laughed real loud, and said he would go without? Do you think he meant it?’

“‘Yes, Jessie, undoubtedly he meant it,’ and Richard’s merry laugh broke in upon us.

“So absorbed had I been in Jessie that I had not heard the doctor, who entered in time to hear the last of Jessie’s confession, and who at the recital of John’s magnanimity could restrain himself no longer, but laughed long and loud, while Jessie wept silently. At last, however, we managed to draw from her that in spite of all her faults, every one of which she acknowledged, even to the fact that sometimes when going to parties she powdered her arms, and that four of her teeth were filled, John had persisted in saying that he loved her, and could not live without her; that as to powder, Margaret always used it; that he knew a place on Broadway where he could get the very best article in use; that most everybody’s teeth were either false or filled by the time they were twenty, and he guessed she was quite as genuine as any of the feminine genus.

“‘Did you tell him about the cotton?’ Richard asked, wickedly, but Jessie innocently replied:

“‘I don’t know what you mean, but if it’s the sheets and pillow-cases I am expected to furnish, Bell bought four pieces just before the rise, and I know she will let me have some. Any way, I shall not ask Squire Russell to buy them,’ and thus Richard was foiled and I was glad.

“‘And so it is finally settled, and you are to be my little sister?’ Richard said, and Jessie replied:

“‘Yes; that is I told him to ask my father, and please, Dr. West, will you write too and tell him how I did not do the courting, or ever think of such a thing? Father will scold, I know, and maybe swear. He always does, but I don’t care, I—’

“There was a call for Dr. West, who went out leaving us alone; and then winding my arm around Jessie, I said:

“‘And are you sure you love Squire Russell well enough to be his wife?’

This question threw Jessie into another impetuous outburst, and she exclaimed:

“‘That is just what he asked me, too; and if I had not loved him before I should have done so when he said, “I wish you to be certain, Jessie, so there need be no after-repentance. I have borne one disappointment,” and he looked so white and sad. “A second would kill me. If I take you now, and then have to give you up, my life will go with you. Can you truly say you love me, Jessie, and are perfectly willing to be mine?”

“I was foolish then, Dora, for I told him straight out how it was very sudden; but the knowing he loved me brought into life a feeling which kept growing and growing so fast, that even in a few minutes it seemed as if I had loved him all my life. He is so good and kind, and will let me do just as I please. Don’t you believe he will?”

“I had no doubt of it, and I smoothed her short curls while she told me how sorry she was that she ever thought Letitia stupid, or Jimmie less interesting than the others.

“‘It seems as if they died just to be out of my way, and I do so wish they were back.’

“Then she said that the wedding was to be the 25th of June, her twentieth birthday, that is, if her father consented; that John had promised to take her to Europe some time, but not this year, and they were going instead to the White Mountains, to Newport, and lots of places, and Johnnie was going with them. Then she settled her bridal trousseau, even to the style of her gaiters, declaring she would not have those horrid square toes, if they were fashionable, for they made one’s foot so clumsy, and she put up her fairy little feet, which looked almost as small as Daisy’s. Dear little Jessie, of whom I once was jealous! What a child she is, and what a task she is taking upon herself! But her heart is in it, and that makes it very easy. Had I loved John one half as well as she seems to love him, I should not now be Richard’s wife, waiting for him by the window as I wait for him many nights, knowing that though he chides me for sitting up so late, he is usually pleased to find me so, and kisses me so tenderly as he calls me a naughty girl, and bids me hurry to bed.

“June 28th.—The house is very still these days, for John and Johnnie are gone, and with them all the bustle, the stir, and the excitement which has characterized our home for the last few weeks. I invited Bell to return with me from the wedding, but her father said no, he could not spare both his daughters; and so she stayed, her tears falling so fast as she said to me at parting: ‘You cannot guess how lonely I am, knowing Jessie will never come home to us again, just as she used to come.’

“Poor Bell, I pity her; but amid her tears I saw, as I thought, a rainbow of promise. As the clergyman at Morrisville chanced to be absent, Mr. Kelly went down with us to perform the ceremony, and if I am not mistaken he will go again and again until he brings Bell away with him. The wedding was a quiet affair, save as Jessie and Johnnie laughed and sported and played. The bride and groom were, however, perfectly happy, I know, which was more than could be said for the Judge. At first he had, as Jessie predicted, said all kinds of harsh things about the match, but Bell and Jessie won him over, until he was ready to receive his son-in-law with the utmost kindness, which he did, acting the polite, urbane host to perfection, and only breaking down when Jessie came to say good-by. Then he showed how much he loved his baby, as he called her, commending her so touchingly to her husband’s patient care, because ‘she was a wee, helpless thing,’ that we all cried, Richard and all, while the Squire could not resist giving his fairy bride a most substantial hug, right before us all, as he promised to care for her as tenderly as if she were his little Daisy instead of his little wife. I have no fears for them. It is a great responsibility which Jessie has assumed, but her sunny nature, which sees only the brightest side, and the mighty love which her husband and Johnnie have given her, will interpose between her and all that otherwise might be hard to bear. God bless her. God keep her in all her pleasant journeyings, and bring her safely back to us, who wait and watch for her as for the refreshing rain.

“December 24th, 1863—Christmas Eve.—Just one year I have been Richard’s wife, and in that time I cannot recall a single moment of sadness, or a time when Richard’s voice and manner were not just as kind and loving as at first. My noble husband, how earnestly I pray that I may be worthy of him, and make him as happy as he makes me. We are in our new home now, and I cannot think of a single wish ungratified. Everything is as I like it. The furniture is of my own and Richard’s selecting, and is as good as our means would afford,—not grand and costly like Mattie’s and Jessie’s, but plain and nice, such as the furniture of a village doctor’s wife ought to be. And Richard’s mother is with us now, resting from the toils of life as nurse in the hospital. We would like so much to keep her, but she says ‘No, not till the war is over; then if my life is spared, I will come back to live and die with my children.’

“Captain Robert is coming to-night and to-morrow all take their Christmas dinner with me; I said all, meaning John and Jessie, with their four children, and Mr. Kelly, with his bride, Isabel. She has been here just a week in the parsonage, which the people bought and fitted up when they heard their clergyman was to bring his wife among them. Judge Verner, too, is there, or rather at Squire Russell’s, where the children call him grandpa, and where he seems very fond of staying. He will divide his time between his daughters, and if that apoplectic fit of which Jessie spoke ever does make its appearance, Richard will be near to attend him, for the Judge will have no other physician. ‘Homœopathy is all a humbug,’ he says, ‘but hanged if he will take any other medicine.’ He has great pride now in Mrs. Squire Russell, who certainly has developed into a wonderfully domestic woman, so that Richard even cites her for my example. Perfectly happy at home, she seldom cares to leave it, but stays contentedly with the children, to whom she is a mother and a sister both. Johnnie calls her Jessie, but to the others she is mamma to all intents and purposes, and could Margaret know, she would surely bless the whistling, hoydenish girl, who is all the world now to husband and children both.

“Dear Jessie! I might write volumes in her praise, but this is the very last page of my journal, kept for so many years. The book is filled; whatever there was of romance in my girl history is within its pages, and here at its close I write myself a happy, happy woman. From the church-tower on the common the clock is striking twelve, and Richard, coming in from his long cold ride across the snow-clad hills, bids me a merry Christmas; then glancing at what I have written, he says, ‘Yes, darling, God has been very good to us. Let us love Him through the coming year more than ever we have done before.’

“With a full heart I say Amen, and so the story is done.”