Woodcliff

CHAPTER VIII.

BOSTON RELATIVES.

"Which way, Maddy, this vacation?" asked Mr. Hamilton.

"What do you think of Boston, papa? I have not seen Aunt Clara so long; may I not go there? I don't remember her at all."

"That is what I was thinking of, Maddy; your aunt has written so often. I am afraid, however, that you will have a sober visit, for Aunt Clara is a very religious woman."

"I have cousins in Boston, papa, and they will make my time pass pleasantly."

"Well, you shall go, Maddy, and then your cousins may visit you at Christmas."

"What kind of a looking person is Aunt Clara, papa?"

"She used to be a pleasant looking woman when she was young, not very handsome, Maddy; but since she has lost her children she has also lost all her bloom, and lives entirely secluded from the world."

Maddy was full of anticipated pleasure; but there was one drawback—she did not like to leave her friends at the cottage.

"I came to bid you good-bye, Mrs. Bruce," said the child. "I am going to Boston to spend the holidays; but I shall not find such good friends there, I am sure."

"There is one request I have to make, Madeline."

"What is that, Mrs. Bruce?"

"That you will bring me back your likeness."

"That I will, if you want it."

Roland, Effie and Maddy started to pay their last visit for some time to the sea-shore.

"Shan't I miss the old ocean, Roland? I do so love to hear the music of its waves."

"We shall miss you, Maddy," said Effie. "Only think, you will be gone three whole months, and when you get to Boston, you may forget your country friends."

"That's what I never do, Effie," replied the child, with a glowing cheek. "I do not fancy very many people, but I never grow cold to those I once love. I hate warmly, and I love with all my heart."

Roland sat very still, for secluded as their lives were, there was but one source of pleasure to them outside the cottage walls, and that was the society of our impulsive little Madeline.

"Papa told me to say to you, Roland, that you may come up to Woodcliff every Saturday, and get any book you want to read."

"Thank you, Madeline; that is very kind. It will help to pass my leisure time until you return."

Madeline mounted the highest rock, and, standing by the flag-staff, she spread out her arms towards the sea, saying, "Good-bye, old ocean, until I come back. I shall find nothing so grand as this, go where I may."

They parted at the cottage door, and next morning, Aunt Matilda was busily employed in packing up all the finery that she could gather for her little niece. Handsome dresses, and pretty tasty waists, several new bonnets, and every variety of adornment that she could devise, were heaped upon the child.

"Now, Madeline, I do hope that you will not be such a wild little thing in Boston. If you want to be like a young lady, you must not race about so—it tumbles your curls, and disarranges your dress. No young lady is ever noisy or boisterous. When you are invited out, you must always wear gloves, and make a courtesy when you come in and when you go out."

"I am afraid, Aunty, that I shall often forget these rules; I shall never stop to think of half of them."

"I hope, Madeline, that you will not mortify me by any breach of etiquette."

"A fig for etiquette, Aunt Matilda; I am only a little girl, and I am sure that Aunt Clara don't want me to be a little woman."

In due time, Maddy, accompanied by her father, started on her trip.

She had some dread of Aunt Clara, for she had heard so much about her sorrows, her piety, and her gravity, that she really expected to see a woman solemn as the grave, and demure as a cloistered nun. Towards evening, they arrived at Mrs. Edmonds'; and when Maddy entered the parlor, nothing could exceed her surprise on meeting a small lady of middle age, with a serene aspect and peculiarly sweet smile around her mouth; her almost youthful innocence of expression would have misled one, were it not for the silver hair which lay upon her fair forehead in rippling waves, falling in a few light curls around her face, and speaking so deeply of grief and sundered ties. A black silk dress, and white lace cap and collar—simple, but costly, was the costume which at all times, distinguished Aunt Clara. A pretty little foot, and delicate hands, especially attracted Madeline's attention. The only ornaments she wore, were a mourning pin containing her children's hair, her wedding ring, and a plain gold watch.

Aunt Clara folded Maddy affectionately in her arms, and turning to Mr. Hamilton, with much feeling, remarked—

"What an image of Julia! I shall love you, Madeline, for my dear sister's sake."

"It is so, Clara; she grows every day more and more like her mother. Just as impulsive; just as warm-hearted."

Maddy decided at once that Aunt Clara was charming. After a hasty toilet, Maddy was conducted to the family room. Everything was so genial and cheerful, that she really enjoyed her tea out of the bright silver urn; and the old family plate seemed to shine with such a polish under the gas-light, that she wondered if it was brought out in compliment to the strangers. It really did smile a bright welcome. The family consisted of Aunt Clara, and an orphan child, the daughter of a dear friend, who had died when she was an infant. Ever since, Mrs. Edmonds had supplied a mother's place to Lucy, who bore her mother's name.

Madeline was introduced to the young girl, who appeared about fourteen. She soon found that Lucy was gentle and attractive in her manners, with a degree of seriousness unusual in a girl of her age.

Lucy Edmonds was drawn towards the bright and beautiful child, who prattled so sweetly around the supper table; for not being possessed of many personal charms, she was a warm admirer of it in others. Lucy's chief attraction was a profusion of glossy black hair, that lay in heavy folds around a remarkably fine head; a pale complexion, ordinary features, and soft dark eyes, made up the rest.

As soon as tea was over, Madeline drew Lucy into the parlor, and seating herself upon the sofa by her side, she rattled away with questions, for which she scarcely waited for an answer.

"Do you ever see Lavinia Raymond? What a conceited piece she is! Is she just as fond of dress as ever? When she was at our house, all she thought about was changing her dress, and walking up and down before the glass. I suppose that I must be polite to her, for her mother is my father's sister; but I know I shall like you better, Lucy."

Lucy was amused at the perfect openness of Madeline's remarks, but she had been taught better lessons, and merely replied,

"Lavinia comes to see us occasionally; our doings are not pleasing to her; but mamma does not like me to make unpleasant remarks about people. Lavinia has never been taught anything better. We ought to be sorry for her."

"Well! well! you are a good little Lucy, I see that. I am afraid that you will not like my plain-spoken words."

"I like truth, Madeline; but it is not well, mamma says, to express all that we think about people. Charity should lead us to hope the best of everybody."

"I do believe that you are a Methodist, Lucy; that's the name that is given to very good people, is it not, Lucy?"

"There are very good people among all Christians, Madeline; but I think that my mamma is the best of all."

"Lucy, will you give us some music?" said Aunt Clara.

She did not need any coaxing, but went forward to the instrument with the calm self-possession of one that had been taught to think but little of herself.

Lucy Edmonds had a sweet voice, and sang several songs most charmingly.

"That's what I like, Lucy," remarked little Mad-cap. "Now there was Lavinia Raymond, who has had the very best masters; it was the greatest act of condescension for her to play one piece, and then it was done in such an affected style, that I really used to feel sick when she sat down to the piano. Here! this was the way;" and Madeline seated herself at the instrument, and, being a perfect mimic, commenced rolling her eyes, and mincing her words in imitation of her cousin.

"Madeline," said Aunt Clara, "did not Lavinia stay with you some months?"

"Yes, ma'am, she was at Woodcliff three months."

"Is it kind, Maddy, to ridicule her? You know that she is your cousin, and has been your guest. Never mind Lavinia, Maddy, I would rather hear some of your music."

"I would play willingly, Aunt Clara, but I only know a few simple songs."

She sat down with such an artless, winning manner, that Aunt Clara listened with peculiar delight, not only on account of the manner with which she complied, but with feelings of deep emotion, as the rich music of her remarkable voice reminded her of the sister whom she had lost.

"Do you like Scotch songs, Aunt Clara?"

"Yes, my dear; will you sing one?" and Maddy sang with peculiar sweetness—

"Ye banks and braes o' bonny doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair,"

but when she sang in her own touching way,

"I am wearing awa', Jean,"

Mrs. Edmonds could not restrain the starting tears, for it was her sister's favorite song.

About nine o'clock, a bell was rung, which assembled the family for prayers. The two servants, with Mr. Hamilton, Lucy, and Madeline, composed the worshipers. Lucy took her seat at the piano, and played an evening hymn, in which all present joined; and Aunt Clara's soft impressive voice read the Scriptures, and a solemn form of evening prayer, which committed all present to the care of the Good Shepherd. All was serious, and yet there was a sweet cheerfulness about the whole household, which had a most harmonizing influence upon our little girl.

"Good-night, my love," said the kind aunt, as she kissed the niece; "Lucy will show you to your room."

There was a dear little chamber adjoining Aunt Clara's room, which had been fitted up for Madeline. It was a gem of a child's sleeping-room—a pretty green carpet, the dearest little bedstead and wash-stand, the prettiest little bureau, and neatest chairs, a hanging-shelf filled with such nice books—pure white curtains, the sweetest toilet set, and pictures of domestic scenes of innocent and happy childhood. It was charming! So thought Madeline as she looked around. And when she saw the little Bible and hymn-book, which were placed upon a table near her bed, she felt that Aunt Clara had forgotten nothing that could make her good and happy.

The first bell awoke our little girl, and in a few minutes, Lucy peeped in to see what progress she was making. She was soon dressed, and, after a few verses in the Bible, and a short prayer of simple words, Maddy met good Aunt Clara in the breakfast-room. Smiling and serene, she kissed her little niece; and, after the morning devotions and breakfast were over, Aunt Clara, taking Madeline by the hand, went up to her chamber.

"Now, my dear niece, there are a few things which I wish you to do, after the chambermaid has attended to the ordinary care of your room. I want you to keep everything in perfect order, putting up your comb and brush, hanging up your dresses, and putting away everything that you are not using; neatness is invaluable to a woman, and I hope that you have been accustomed to these things."

Maddy smiled, and said, "I don't think that I ever hung up a dress in all my life; Nanny did everything of that kind for me; but I'll try to remember, if I can."

"So I suppose, Madeline; but it is a good thing to learn to wait upon yourself. After a while, we will take a ride; I want to show you the environs of Boston."

The child was enchanted with all that she saw; her innocent expressions of delight amused Aunt Clara, and brought back many a train of tender thought, as her enthusiasm recalled the image of her mother.

When she reached home, she found that Lavinia Raymond had been to see her.

"Is not this foolish, Aunt Clara, for Lavinia, who is only a little girl, to leave her card for her cousin? She is a real dunce to put on such airs."

"Stop, Madeline; it is your cousin, and you should not indulge in such free remarks."

"But, Aunt Clara, I would not say one word behind her back, that I would not to her face; I've told her many a time that she was a simpleton."

"Do you expect to go through this world, Maddy, telling everybody what you think of them?"

"If I don't by my words, I must by my manners; for I cannot, for the life of me, be polite to people whom I do not like; that seems deceitful, Aunt Clara."

"No, Maddy, you are mistaken; courtesy is due to all—you may form very erroneous opinions of people; and there could be no social intercourse if all the thoughts that pass through our minds, are to be obtruded at all times upon persons whom we may not choose to fancy."

Next day, Lucy and Madeline called upon Lavinia.

"What did you mean, Lavinia, by leaving your card the other day?"

"Why, Madeline, that is the fashionable way of paying visits!"

"Poh! Lavinia, we are nothing but little girls; and it is just ridiculous for us to be playing the woman."

Lucy could not but smile at her homely bluntness, and thought that her mamma would have some trouble before she could tame the spirits, or discipline Madeline's voluble tongue.

In a day or two, Aunt Clara invited a few choice little girls to take tea with our young friends. They were pleasant children, just such as Madeline liked, fond of play, and not too old to talk about dolls. Lavinia, who was one of the party, looked down upon the rest with supreme contempt, and when asked to join in their childish plays, could only answer, "No, I thank you; pray excuse me."

Lucy Edmonds exerted herself to the utmost: joined in their plays, and when they wanted to dance, played several cotillons for their amusement. Aunt Clara brought out some childish games, and in her own sweet winning manner, made one of the company.

Madeline passed a delightful evening. After the children had gone, she hung around her aunt, as if wanting to say something.

"What is it, Maddy? Have you not something to tell me?"

Seating herself on a little stool at her aunt's feet, she said, "How is it, Aunt Clara? I heard that you were so stern and cold, and that you thought it a sin even to smile. I thought that I should be so afraid of you; then you let us dance, and I always thought that good people did not dance. I am not at all afraid of you, Aunt Clara, and I love you so much more than I do Aunt Matilda."

"You have made some common mistakes, Madeline; the world likes to cast reproach upon the children of God, and so they represent us as dull and gloomy; but the Bible does not, Maddy. The righteous there are always spoken of as the only happy people in the world—merriment belongs to the days of childhood, Madeline, and if the joy of the spirit leads the feet to a dancing motion, let it be so; only let it stop when childhood has passed away; more serious duties, cares, and joys then have claims upon us."

"You let Lucy dance, then, Aunt Clara?"

"Yes, Madeline, here at home if she wishes to; but dancing-schools and children's balls, and all these foolish displays, I entirely discourage."

"What will you do, aunt, when Lucy is a grown-up lady?"

"I am trying all that I can to give Lucy a strictly religious education, and, by the blessing of God, I expect that she will be a Christian; that will regulate all the rest, Madeline. Lucy will not then need the vain amusements of the world to make her happy—when the butterfly bursts its shell, it feeds no more upon the food which satisfied the grub, but honeyed sweets alone suits its new nature; so with the child of God, Maddy, who can say,

"Let worldly minds the world pursue,
    It has no charms for me;
Once I admired its follies too,
    But grace has set me free."

"Well, dear aunt, if all pious people were just like you, I think that everybody would want to be Christians; but there was Miss Molly Tibbs, with a face as long as my arm, and a mouth drawn up like a persimmon, she thought it was a sin to laugh, and that pink was a wicked color; just think of that, Aunt Clara, the sweet color of the lovely rose wicked! Did you ever hear such stuff? But wasn't she a vixen! scolding from morning till night—tormenting her little brothers and sisters, and making everybody unhappy around her."

"Poor lady! What a pity that she had not studied the character of our blessed Master, whose whole errand upon the earth was to make men happy."

On the first Sunday after her arrival she accompanied Aunt Clara and Lucy to church. It was a solemn service, and the minister was an earnest, faithful preacher of the simple gospel. When the sweet organ rolled through the church with its swell of heart-stirring music, Madeline was carried away, for she was not accustomed to the organ in their humble village church.

"Was not that lovely music, Aunt Clara?" asked the child; "it is so different from our country choir. I could listen all day to music like that; and the voices, Oh! how that lady's sounded; it seemed to ring, Aunt Clara, just like a sweet bell, and then it rolled up and up, and I could follow it all round the roof—it seemed to carry us right up to Heaven."

Sunday was a happy day at Aunt Clara's. She wore her brightest smile on that blessed day, and everything around her household breathed of the sweet calm within that holy bosom. In the corner of the parlor stood a harp closely covered. Madeline had often wondered who played upon the instrument, and at last ventured to ask Aunt Clara.

"I was very fond of the instrument, Madeline, and used to play upon it in the happy days when my husband and children were with me; but since then I have never touched it."

"Will you not let me hear some of its sweet strains, Aunt Clara? I never heard the harp," asked Madeline.

"It is out of tune, Maddy; but to-morrow I will send for the tuner, and you shall be gratified."

"Whose pictures are those, Aunt Clara?" asked the child, as she stood gazing at the portraits of two lovely children, a boy of twelve, and a girl of nine years of age.

"That is my Edward, Madeline, and that is my sweet Agnes; they have been among the blessed ones seven years now; they were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided. Only one week separated them. Edward was taken first with scarlet fever, and Agnes followed him in one short week. Oh! Madeline, these were dark hours when I laid my darlings in the grave; but they were lambs of Jesus' flock, Maddy, and the comfort came. Jesus healed my wounds with his own gracious hand. I can say now, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.'"

"What a sweet face Agnes has! She looks so pure, just like a sweet lily of the valley."

"That's what we used to call her, Maddy, for she was just as lovely as those sweet lilies. Look here, my child," and Mrs. Edmonds opened a little book which contained a number of dried flowers. "These she gathered the last year of her sweet life, and pressed them for her mother; they are so precious, Madeline. Come up stairs, my dear, I want to show you something else," and Aunt Clara led the way to a small room that was always locked. "This was my darlings' play-room, Maddy."

A baby house, a rocking horse, some hanging shelves filled with books, several dolls, a little bureau filled with dolls' dresses, and a box of carpenters' tools—all these sweet mementoes were there. But that which touched Madeline most, was the last Christmas tree that the mother had ever dressed. There it was, with all its little keepsakes from various friends.

"Oh! Aunt Clara, did it not break your heart to part with both?"

"It would have done so, my child, but for the grace which bade me look upward, when the first storm of grief had passed, and I could look up at the crown of glory, the palms of victory, and the white robes of the upper world; then by degrees my grief was stilled, and I have found comfort in lightening the griefs of my fellow-sufferers, and spreading the flowers of love along the path of other children, as I would have done for my own darlings."

"That's what makes you so good to Lucy, dear aunt," answered Madeline.

"Lucy is a great blessing, dear; she is so thoughtful for her years. I think she never forgets my sorrow, and is always trying to make up for the loss of those who have gone before."

"Why, aunt, I never should have thought that you had seen so much trouble, you are always so smiling and happy."

"Maddy, there are some of the marks of the grief that wrung my heart," and she pointed to the silver hair, so fine, so soft, "it turned white in one night, my child."

Madeline felt a deeper reverence for her dear aunt from that day, and by every means in her power tried to show her love for her afflicted relative. And in return, Aunt Clara learned to love most tenderly the wild child of nature committed for a time to her care. The next day, the tuner was sent for, and in the evening, Aunt Clara entertained Madeline with some exquisite sacred music on the harp.

"I have often heard papa talk about the harp, he is so fond of that instrument. Would it not be a great surprise if I could learn the harp without his knowledge? he would be so delighted."

"We will see about it, Maddy."

Next day, Mrs. Edmonds engaged one of the best teachers in Boston, and laid out a daily plan for her little niece as well as Lucy, for she well knew that idleness is the bane of happiness.

"Line upon line, and precept upon precept," was, however, the discipline which she had constantly to exercise in training the wayward nature of her interesting charge.

One day Aunt Clara looked over the banisters, and saw her little niece talking very earnestly to a poor woman at the front door.

"Come here, Madeline, I want to speak to you."

"Wait a minute, aunt," said the child, "I will be there directly."

"Who is that woman, Maddy?"

"I don't know, aunt; but she is so poor and ragged. She has five children, and no husband, and they are starving to death."

"How do you know that, my child?"

"Why, aunt, she said so," replied Maddy, with an earnest look.

"What did you give her, my child?"

"All that was in my purse, aunt."

"And how much was that?"

"Only two dollars, aunt, and that is so little to buy clothes and food for so many."

"You had better not give money in that way, my child."

Mrs. Edmonds went to the door, took the woman's address, and promised to call upon her the next day. Accordingly she went, but no such person lived there, or could be heard of in the neighborhood. Madeline was sadly chagrined, when she found that the woman had told such a dreadful falsehood.

"So you see, my dear, it is not best to give money at the door; it is always advisable to visit such cases."

"What a shame! Aunt Clara, for that woman to be so wicked; she might prevent us from giving to one who is really deserving."

"So it is, my dear; but we have to learn some very sad lessons in this wicked world."

Madeline frequently visited Lavinia, not because she wished to do so, but simply on the ground of relationship, and Lavinia frequently sent for her. One morning, a servant rung the bell, and left cards for Madeline and Lucy, from Lavinia Raymond for the next Tuesday evening, announcing herself at home at eight o'clock.

"Aunt Clara, must we go? I don't want to go to any such parties of would-be men and women."

"I suppose that you must go, Maddy; you will give great offence to your Aunt Raymond, if you do not."

"I am not going to dress up in anything but a simple muslin, aunt, and if she don't like it, I don't care."

"That is the most becoming for a little girl; it is what Lucy will wear."

The evening arrived, and Lavinia was quite shocked at the plebeian simplicity of Madeline and Lucy.

"Why did you not wear one of your silk dresses, Madeline? this is a full dress party. I think you might have paid me the compliment."

"I came as a little girl, Lavinia, not as a young lady."

"You are the greatest simpleton that I ever saw, Madeline, with a father rich enough, and indulgent enough to give you anything you want, and you care no more for dress than a little country girl."

"That is just what I am, Lavinia."

The sight of so many over-dressed children aping all the airs and graces of grown men and women amused our little girl, and no sooner was she at home, than she commenced mimicking the folly that she had witnessed.

"Aunty, there was one of the most terrible gluttons there among these would-be ladies that I ever met with. She ate of everything upon the table, every variety of ice-cream and cake, and jelly, and confectionery; she ate oysters, and drank champagne; and to crown all, she filled her pockets with choice bon-bons; and when the candied fruit-basket was broken, took her share of that. I wonder how she got home; I know that she was deadly sick, for she looked as pale as a ghost. I'd rather sail on the lake back of our house with two or three little girls, than go to a dozen grand parties like that. You ought to have seen Lavinia, Aunt Clara, flounced to the waist, quantities of jewelry, hair dressed by a fashionable hair-dresser, and she bowed and courtsied about all the evening, as if she were twenty-one, instead of thirteen."

"My dear Madeline, will you ever remember that you were entertained last evening by Lavinia, and that you should not indulge in such free remarks?"

"I can't help it, Aunt Clara; I hate affectation, and despise flirts; a flirting child is perfectly horrid."

"These are strong expressions, my dear child; I do not think that the occasion calls for them."

"I expect, aunt, that I shall have to take Lavinia home with me. Aunt Raymond hinted it last night; but I must have Lucy; shan't I, Aunt Clara?"

"We will see, my dear; I should like Lucy very much to spend a few weeks in the country. I think that she needs the change."

"Will you go with me to-morrow to a good artist? I promised to take some of my likenesses home. Mrs. Bruce would be so disappointed."

"And who is Mrs. Bruce, Maddy?"

"She is one of my best friends, but she is very poor, aunt; she has to do plain sewing, and go to market for her living; she has two such good children, one named Roland, he is so good and so wise; they have taught me so much, Aunt Clara; and then she has a daughter Effie, such a dear girl; they are Scotch people, aunt, you would like them so much."

"Is Mrs. Bruce a lady, Maddy?" asked her aunt.

"A lady, aunt! I don't know what to say; she has nothing that any other lady has; she has a very mean home, common clothes, and they are one of the poorest families around Woodcliff; but there is something about her, aunt, not at all like the common poor; she is educated, refined, polite, pious—yes, aunt, she must be a lady—sometimes I think Roland must have been a relation to the great Bruce, he is such a hero."

Madeline succeeded in getting some really good pictures of herself; giving one to Aunt Clara, and one to Aunt Raymond, she reserved the remainder for dear friends at home.

"Here is a letter, Aunt Clara, from dear papa; he will be here in two weeks, and says that Lavinia and Lucy must be ready to go home with us—you will not object, dear aunt?"

"No, Maddy, Lucy can go." Madeline was very happy at the idea of returning to Woodcliff, though sorry to leave her beloved aunt. She had made surprising improvement on the harp, and regretted the loss of her lessons.

Mr. Hamilton had but a short time to stay; therefore, on the next morning after his arrival, the party turned their faces towards Woodcliff.

"Good-bye, dear aunt," sobbed Maddy; "I shall not soon forget the sweet lessons I have learned here; you will keep my secret, won't you, aunty?"

"You'll come to me, Maddy, should sorrow overtake you; Aunt Clara always has a warm corner at her hearthstone for her little niece."

CHAPTER IX,

HOME AGAIN.

And so they drove off. Arrived at Woodcliff, Maddy returned to her old pursuits and pleasures. It was a happy little group that gathered that evening at the widow's cottage. Madeline, anxious to take the promised picture, invited her cousins to accompany her.

"Not I," answered Lavinia; "you must really excuse me; Lucy can do as she pleases, but I have no taste for such plebeian associates."

"Every one to her taste," replied Maddy. "Come, Lucy, let us go."

It was a warm welcome that was extended to them, and when Madeline handed her picture to Mrs. Bruce,

"Thank you, my dear child," was the quick answer; "you could have brought me nothing which I shall so much value; it is such a perfect likeness."

"I am glad that you are pleased, Mrs. Bruce; and I am so happy to be at home again."

"Have you had a pleasant visit, Madeline?"

"Yes, indeed, I have learned such sweet lessons from my precious Aunt Clara; she is so good, and so happy. She lives religion, Mrs. Bruce; she does not talk it as some people do; but pray excuse me, and here is my cousin Lucy who has come down to stay with me."

"I am glad to see her for your sake, Madeline; but here come Roland and Effie; how glad they will be!"

"I'll just hide behind the door, don't tell;" and in a minute she had concealed herself, until the children were fully in the house.

Suddenly springing out from her concealment, Effie could not restrain her joy, and folded Maddy in a heart-warm embrace, while Roland, with beaming eyes, extended both hands, and said, with deep emotion, "You are welcome, Maddy, back among us. Woodcliff is nothing without you."

Madeline kept her young friends constantly busy going from place to place, and showing them all the amusements around the Hall.

Lucy was enchanted; for, being simple-hearted, nothing pleased her so much as the charming scenes of nature; but Lavinia's tastes were so much perverted, that green trees, shady lanes, quiet skies, and even the grand and glorious ocean, had no charms for her.

One afternoon, the three girls, accompanied by Hector, took their accustomed walk to the sea-shore. Madeline was in high spirits, and mounted the highest rock, leading her cousins after her; she skipped about from point to point, and at last clambered down the sides of the little cove, which was easily crossed at low tide. In the excitement of their play, running races with Hector, they had rambled far up the beach, forgetting entirely the rising tide. Maddy, in her wild frolic, had taken off her shoes and stockings, and had amused herself by wading in the water. Evening was approaching, and when they returned, they found it impossible to cross; the tide had risen so high, that the cove was entirely impassable. Madeline was now alarmed, for there was no other way of return but by the cove; fortunately, she had left her hat tied to the flag-staff, and with the quickness of thought she called Hector, and throwing a stick across the cove, sent him in search; he dashed through the water, and stood barking loud upon the other side, for he seemed to understand their danger—up and down he ran, then up to the top of the rock as if to search for some one; at last, he came bounding back, as if to tell good news; his bark was no longer one of alarm, it was one of joy.

"Hector has found some one," said Madeline; "I know his ways, he does everything but talk."

Lavinia began to wring her hands. "What shall we do? we can't stay here all night."

"I should not like it much, Lavinia," replied Maddy; "but I think that somebody is coming."

In another minute, Roland appeared on the top of the rock.

"Don't be alarmed; I'll bring help soon;" and, dashing through the water, he took Madeline in his arms, saying,

"Don't be afraid, I can carry you; it is not far across, and nothing else can be done."

The water by this time had reached his armpits, but as Madeline kept quiet, he succeeded in landing her in safety on the other side. It was not so easy to carry the others. Lucy was older and larger, but willing to be directed by Roland, she also crossed in safety; and Hector manifested his joy at each landing, by barking loudly and licking the hands of the young ladies, especially his pet Madeline.

But Lavinia's folly had nearly cost her life; first by her ridiculous airs while the water was rising, then her fears about her delicate dress, then her squeamishness about allowing Roland to carry her. At last, he had to say,

"There is not another minute to lose," and, seizing Lavinia without her consent, he commenced the crossing. The water was now above his shoulders; Lavinia writhed, and struggled, and screamed; Roland tried to pacify her, but in vain.

"I cannot hold you, miss, unless you are quiet."

But it was all in vain—and in the struggle, Roland tripped in the water, and Lavinia fell from his arms; for a moment, she disappeared; Roland, too, in his efforts to reach her, was struggling under the water. Hector sprang into the water, and in another minute, was carrying the silly girl to the shore.

Madeline was in agony, her cheek pale as death, for Roland had not yet risen; in another second, her fears were relieved; he regained his feet, and soon reached the shore in safety.

Lavinia was dreadfully frightened; her mouth filled with sea-water, and her clothes drenched with the bath.

"How did you find us, Roland?" asked Maddy.

"Hector's bark alarmed me; I traced you by your shoes on the rock, and your hat upon the flag-staff."

"How can we thank you, Roland?" continued the child; "what should we have done without you?"

Lucy too, returned her thanks; but Lavinia, in whose behalf he had incurred the most risk, coldly replied:

"How could you let me drop, sir? I have spoiled my handsome dress, and my new shoes."

Roland did not answer; but Madeline replied with a flashing eye,

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Lavinia Raymond? when Roland really risked his life to save yours. Have you no thanks?"

"Thanks for what? spoiling my beautiful dress?"

"Lavinia Raymond, you are a fool! I have no patience with you!"

"Oh, Maddy! don't talk so; think of dear Aunt Clara," said Lucy.

"She makes me so mad, I can't help it."

Roland, by this time, had disappeared, having gone to one of the cottages on the beach, and found that Lavinia could get dry clothes there.

There was no time to be lost; the party hurried to the hut; Lavinia had to endure the mortification of being dressed in the clothes of the fisherman's daughter, and all the party to ride home in an old cart. There was nothing else to be done, and by this time, our changing, impulsive Maddy had forgotten all her indignation towards Lavinia, and was in a perfect gale of merriment at the ludicrous figure which they made in the old ricketty cart.

"Really, Miss Raymond, no one would know you in this queer dress. We would make a fine tableau, would we not, Lucy?"

It was some time before Madeline escaped again to the shore, for her father was really alarmed at the result of this dangerous excursion.

Maddy began to long for her harp lessons. Having confided her secret to Aunt Matilda, they began to wonder how they should continue to go on without Mr. Hamilton's knowledge. Most unexpectedly, an opportunity offered.

"What says my little daughter about parting with papa for a few months?" said Mr. Hamilton.

"Why, papa; where are you going?" replied the child.

"I am called, suddenly, to Europe, and will be gone four or five months."

"How can we do without you, papa?"

"The time will pass very rapidly, Maddy; you will still continue at school, and Mademoiselle will go on with the French lessons at home."

The next week Mr. Hamilton departed. Aunt Matilda hired a harp from Boston, and engaged the same teacher to come twice a week to give lessons, as there was a railroad sufficiently near to make this practicable. Madeline devoted herself most assiduously to her music lessons, for she was determined to surprise her father on his return. Her talent was remarkable, and progress accordingly rapid.

She was so much occupied, that she saw but little of the Bruces, for during the stay of her cousins, her father had given her permission to stay from school. Roland missed his little friend, and wondered what was keeping her so long away. Still, occasionally he met her on her accustomed walks and rides, but always in company with her young friends, and a passing bow or smile was all that he received.

One autumn evening, however, in his rambles, Madeline suddenly stood before him.

"How do you do, Roland?" said the child, extending her hand, "it seems so long since we have had one of our pleasant chats."

"How long will your friends stay, Maddy?"

"Some weeks longer, Roland, and I am so busy; do you know that I am taking harp lessons to surprise papa? He will be gone some months yet, and when he returns I shall be able to play. Would you like to hear me, Roland?"

"Yes, Madeline, if it were possible."

"How did you spend your time when I was in Boston, Roland?"

"I went regularly to Woodcliff every Saturday, and took advantage of Mr. Hamilton's permission to use his library, and all the leisure moments I had, I employed in reading; it was not much, but I used to sit up one hour later, and thus read a great deal."

"What books did you choose, Roland?"

"The lives of wise and good men, Maddy, especially such as had to endure hardships in their youth; and I found that most of these great men had to struggle in their early years; and I found too, Maddy, that those who left the brightest mark in the world were believers in the blessed Bible; others made impressions while they lived, but they are almost forgotten now; but Christian philosophers and statesmen are those whom God honors."

"How is it, Roland, that all your thoughts and words seem filled with the Bible? Other boys are not like you."

"Because it was my daily food; rising up, and lying down, in the house, and by the wayside, it is, Maddy, our household book; and you need not wonder that all my life has been so constantly under the power of its heavenly truths."

"I wish that I loved the Bible as you do, Roland; I have seen so much of its power at dear Aunt Clara's—she is such a lovely Christian; but I love to read other books so much better—will you come up next Saturday, Roland?"

"Yes, Maddy, I have a book to bring home—will you not let me hear some of your music then?"

"Certainly—I know two or three pretty pieces which I think you will like so much."

"I must go now, Maddy, for my mother will want me; good-bye, get ready to come to school soon;" and with these words, Roland turned towards his home.

Saturday came, and Madeline was tuning her harp at an early hour, in expectation of her young friend.

When Roland arrived, she was practising one of her sweetest pieces, and calling him into the parlor, she played all that she knew, while Roland stood enchanted with the music that he had never heard before.

"I have learned one hymn, Roland, for you, because I knew that you like sacred music;" and she sang with touching sweetness an evening hymn.

Lavinia Raymond was watching outside of the piazza the performance in the parlor, and as Roland passed out on his way home, the sneer with which she greeted him, was but a repetition of the insolence of other meetings.

"Madeline, are you really such a dunce as to let yourself down to that beggar boy?" asked Lavinia, as she entered the house.

"Listen to me, Lavinia; the Bruces are my friends, poor as they are; I honor and love them all, and you shall not sneer at them when I am near—you are not worthy to mention even the name of a Bruce."

"Quite theatrical, Madeline!—you would make an excellent actress; the flashing eye, the glowing cheek, the lofty head, and the proud step would very well suit a queen."

"Be silent, Lavinia, I will not submit to your insolence;" and Madeline haughtily left the room.

In a few minutes she entered, and extending her hand, said,

"Lavinia, forgive me; I was very rude to a guest, but you provoked me."

"You may enjoy your friends for me, Madeline; but I must say that I am sorry to see you throwing your attentions away upon plebeians."

"I am not doing so, Lavinia; it makes me happy to do anything for people so good as they are, for I do believe that they are the real children of God. I would that I were half so good."

CHAPTER X.

SUNSHINE AT THE HALL; SHADOWS AT THE COTTAGE.

Morning, noon, and night, was Madeline inventing some new scheme of fun and frolic, never, however, neglecting her harp.

Mademoiselle generally managed to get about half of her lessons; Aunt Matilda did not interfere, for Maddy had company, and could not be expected to study much.

"You know, aunt, that it would be the height of impoliteness, and I could not expect the girls to take lessons; to be sure, Lucy does, as a matter of choice."

This was sufficient, and Madeline's all-powerful arguments prevailed.

Poor M'lle Fouladoux was often sorely tried, and Fanfan was her only comfort.

Occupied with her young friends, Madeline knew but little of the shadows gathering over her friends at the cottage.

It was all sunshine at Woodcliff; for thus far, Maddy's life had been all a bright summer day; but it would have been quickly dimmed, if the young heiress had known the sorrows that were threatening her humble friends.

Mr. Hamilton had formerly lived in the South, and having freed the servants who lived with him, he had brought his house-domestics to his Northern home. They were strongly attached to their master's family, and Madeline, especially, was their idol.

Nanny thought nothing could surpass her young mistress in beauty, or grace, or smartness, and many a cup of flattery was administered by this faithful, but foolish servant.

"Girls, I think that we shall have some rare sport this fall; Jim, the coachman, is quite smitten with our Nanny; they shall have a wedding, and I'll be mistress of the ceremonies. You ought to see the darkies dance;" and Madeline mimicked to the life what she had often seen in the kitchen.

"Will they be married here?" inquired Lavinia.

"Yes, indeed; they shall be married in our dining-room, and I'll dress Nanny's head myself."

Madeline watched her opportunity, and questioned Nanny about the affair.

"Lor' bless you, young missus, what put this ere in your head? Jim is jest a perticelar friend."

"Yes, I know, Nanny; you need not try to deceive me," answered the child.

"Well, Miss Maddy, what do you all think of Jim?"

"He's a clever fellow, Nanny, and we are all willing."

"Well, then, Miss, I mout as well tell; we are gwan to be married in about a month."

"You shall have a nice wedding, Nanny; I'll give you your wedding suit; you shall be married in the dining-room; get your bridesmaids and groomsmen, and you shall have a grand time, Nanny."

Maddy was a busy little bee during the next month; the evening at length arrived, and the guests assembled in the dining-room waiting for the bride and groom. Maddy had been superintending the bride's dress; but having completed that, with her cousins, joined the company in the parlor. The minister stood waiting at the head of the room. At length the bridesmaids and groomsmen appeared, then Nanny and the groom. She was dressed in white, with low neck and short sleeves, and her head encircled by a wreath of large red roses. The ceremony proceeded. When about half through, Jim, supposing it ended, turned to kiss his bride.

"Not yet," said the minister.

"Oh, well! so far, so good. Go on, Massa."

When the ceremony was ended, they took their seats among the congratulations of their numerous colored friends, and with the imitative quickness of their race, the manners of ladies and gentlemen were most amusingly copied in Mr. Hamilton's dining room.

"Why, Miss Nanny, you're quite brilliance to-night," said one of the groomsmen.

"Who are you calling Miss Nanny, Bill?" said the other groomsman, tittering, "that is Miss Roberts now."

Nanny hung her head bashfully, and, looking up at Jim, said,

"That name sounds mighty quar."

About ten o'clock, a nice supper was announced in the servants' sitting room, and it was really amusing to our young folks, to see the airs with which the colored gentlemen handed out the belles to the supper table.

"We're much obliged to you, Miss Madeline," said Jim, "for this party, for we know that you got it up for us."

"I hope that you will make Nanny a good husband, Jim, for she is a good girl. I won't let you be cross to her."

After supper, a number of songs enlivened the evening, and a serenade at a late hour, in which four voices joined, wound up the affair.

Madeline had heard nothing of the Bruces for several weeks, excepting by a few casual words in the Sunday-school room, for Lucy and she still attended. On the following Sunday morning, Maddy thought that Roland looked very sad, and Effie was not present.

"What is the matter, Roland?" asked the child.

"Oh, Madeline! dear mother is so sick; she seems to be growing weaker every day."

"Don't get disheartened, Roland; you know what you have often said to me, 'Look up for help.'"

"Yes, I know, Madeline; but the loss of my mother would be such a great calamity, that I cannot always look up. Sometimes, I cannot trust the promises; then I get so weak, I can scarcely hold up my head."

"I am sorry, Roland. Is there anything that I can do for her?"

"Come and see her, Madeline, that would cheer her up."

"I have been detained by company, Roland, that is all the reason."

"Yes, I know that; we can't expect you to leave them often."

"I will come soon, Roland; I am so very sorry."

Madeline kept her word, but her high spirits were suddenly saddened, when she saw the pale face and trembling hands of her kind friend. Mrs. Bruce was sitting up endeavoring to sew, but the marks of languor were so apparent, that a chill settled around Maddy's heart, and she feared that Roland must soon lose this dear mother.

"You are not well, Mrs. Bruce," said the child, as she took her friend's extended hand.

"No, my dear, flesh and heart are failing; but 'God is the strength of my heart, and my portion for evermore.' While he is left, I am perfectly at peace."

Madeline looked upon the placid face, and the sweet smile of trusting faith that lit the features of her friend, and thought how precious was that holy trust.

"I know now, Mrs. Bruce, what you mean by looking up; how happy you must be."

"If I looked down upon myself, Maddy, with all my weakness and sin; or if I looked upon my dear children, who may soon be left motherless, my heart would sink; but when I look upward at the rest in store for those who love God, and at the sure promises to the children of the righteous, I can even rejoice in tribulation, because, my dear, they work patience, experience, and hope."

Madeline glanced at Roland and Effie—the former was regarding his mother with a look of loving reverence, as though he partook of her lofty hope; but poor, delicate Effie sat with her head bowed upon her hands, and the big tears rolling down her sweet face. Madeline drew the weeping child towards her, and, passing her arm around her, whispered,

"Don't cry so, Effie; your mother may get better, and we will always be your friends."

"I know that, Madeline; but where shall I ever find another mother?"

Maddy returned with a saddened spirit, for with all her sanguine nature, she could not but fear that deep sorrow was settling around the cottage household. Not a day passed, without some little delicacy from Woodcliff; sometimes by Madeline's own hand, or else sent by a servant.

Lucy frequently accompanied her cousin in her visits, but Lavinia never—she could not stoop to such a condescension.

In all her letters to her father, Maddy never forgot her humble friends, and, in return, Mr. Hamilton directed that every comfort should be supplied to the declining mother.

After a few weeks, Mrs. Bruce appeared to rally once more, and hope revived the spirits of all who loved her. Madeline especially was greatly elated, and was sure that her dear friend was recovering. With the revival of her hopes, her high spirits rose again.

"Don't be alarmed, Roland, your mother will soon recover," and Maddy yielded to the delusion with full confidence.

Roland was now called to bear a heavy burden, for the support of the family fell chiefly upon him. Busy in their little garden, he toiled with a cheerful spirit, and found his donkey and cart a great treasure, for now he could go into market three times a week with the produce of his little plot of ground. It pained him sorely to leave school, but duty called, and the obedient spirit submitted. The delicacies from the Hall kept his mother well supplied, and with the strong faith of a Gordon, he could labor, wait, and even rejoice. The boy of seventeen, under the discipline of trial, and the teaching of a holy mother, seemed to have reached the maturity of riper years; and Mrs. Bruce felt that she might lean upon him with affectionate trust, as the instrument which God had chosen to cheer her declining days.

Autumn was now rapidly closing around them, and Madeline, with her elastic step and bird-like voice, frequently crossed the door-sill of the cottage, always lighting it up with her bright, hopeful face, and leaving behind her the sweet echoes of her own joyous nature.

Full of hope for her friends, her merry spirit kept the family all alive at the Hall. Her young friends were to stay until Christmas, and Madeline promised them great sport should there be snow enough for a sleigh-ride.

Tony Willikins, her warm admirer at school, often stepped in at Woodcliff to pay his respects, and having seen Mademoiselle at church, and met her occasionally in her walks with Madeline, that prankish little girl had contrived to bring about quite an intimacy between the two. Many a bouquet that was sent for Madeline was conveyed to Mademoiselle, with Tony's compliments; and Tony himself was often chagrined, on seeing the French teacher innocently wearing the flowers intended for the roguish child.

Tony had somehow learned a few French phrases, and, much to the amusement of our young friends, he made a barbarous use of his slim stock of language, not at all aware of his false pronunciation.

His salutation of "Maddymorthelle," always set our young friend in a titter; and his persevering efforts taxed Mademoiselle's French politeness to the utmost.

Poor Tony was a complete butt for Madeline and Lavinia, and many a joke did they play upon the unconscious youth.

One afternoon, Tony paid them a visit in what he considered splendid costume.

He had been told that small-clothes were to be the fashion that winter, so, to be ahead of all others, had ordered a new suit of clothes; and presented himself at Woodcliff in black tights, with black silk stockings, pumps, silver knee and shoe buckles, and, to crown all, a pair of blue glasses, which he had been told was becoming; he wore also a fancy-colored guard ribbon, and a diamond pin. Tony thought himself irresistible; and when Madeline entered the parlor, and saw the ludicrous figure, it was next to impossible to restrain her laughter.

At that moment, fortunately, Fanfan performed some of her amusing pranks, which gave Maddy an opportunity of indulging her risible faculties, and if Tony had not been such a weak youth, he might have seen that the laugh continued much longer than Fanfan's oft-repeated tricks could call forth.

"Mith Madeline, I want to thow you my new guard ribbonth," and Tony opened a package which contained every imaginable color.

"Which do you think the prettieth, mith?"

"I like blue; that is my favorite color."

Immediately Tony changed his scarlet guard for a blue one; and, much to the amusement of the young girls, he continued,

"Blue ith my color now."

"Won't you sing, Tony?" asked Madeline.

"Yeth, if Maddymorthelle will play for me. What shall I thing, mith?"

"'How can I leave thee!'" answered Madeline, with a merry twinkle.

"That is tho affecting, mith; I am afraid that I can't get through it, but I'll try."

Mademoiselle took her seat at the piano, and Tony commenced with a lisping, languishing tone to sing. Madeline was convulsed with laughter; and Tony, who saw her handkerchief covering her face, thought that she was deeply affected, and said,

"We had better not finith the thong, Maddymorthelle; it affecth Mith Maddyth' nervth."

Madeline could stand no more; jumping up, she ran out of the room to indulge her burst of laughter, which could no longer be restrained.

Lucy did not sympathize with the jokes played upon Tony, for his weakness was his misfortune; and with her correct principles, she could no more ridicule that, than she could a blind, deaf, or lame man; but Madeline had not yet learned to ask about the right or wrong of an action, the impulses of the moment yet ruled the child. Sometimes, the thought would cross her mind, that it might not be just right, but the love of fun prevailed over her light scruples.

* * * * *

The cold increased, and one morning, Madeline ran into Lavinia's room, saying,

"Get up, Lavinia, here is a grand snow-storm! Now for our promised ride."

They watched the progress of the storm anxiously; all day and night it continued, and by the next morning, the sleighs began to fly around the neighborhood.

At that moment, a sleigh stopped, and Tony, dismounting, invited the young ladies to take a ride.

"I will call about four o'clock, and we will ride up to the White Houth, take thupper, and return by moonlight."

Maddy ran to her aunt to obtain her consent, which was given on condition that she should make one of the party.

Accordingly, at the appointed hour, furred, tippeted, and well protected from the cold, our party set off in high glee.

"You can manage those spirited horses, I hope, Tony?" said Aunt Matilda.

"Don't be afraid, ma'am; I have driven them many a mile, and never had an acthident yet."

The ride was splendid, Madeline in wild spirits, and the whole party affected by her merry sallies.

Arrived at the White House, Tony ordered a supper, and, after a lively dance in one of the parlors, in which all joined but Lucy, they sat down to a nice supper, and then started for home.

There was a number of sleighs on the road, all travelling at full speed; Tony's animals were not to be passed. A large sleigh came dashing by. Tony tried to check the wild animals, but all in vain—on they rushed. Miss Matilda was in an agony of terror.

Utterly unable to manage them, they galloped on madly, till, bringing up on a snow-bank, they upset the party on the road-side, and raced furiously on, until overtaken by several men, who came to the rescue, and, after some time, succeeded in quieting the excited horses.

Miss Matilda was in a state of dreadful alarm; Mademoiselle Fouladoux deploring the condition of little Fanfan, who had accompanied the party; Madeline laughing at the adventure; Lavinia provoked; and Lucy quietly awaiting the return of Tony.

When the youth at length appeared, Mademoiselle threw up her hands, exclaiming, piteously,

"Oh, Monsieur Willikins! take us home; ma pauvre Fanfan will take a dreadful cold."

Tony wrapped the dog up in his foot muff, and proceeded home as rapidly as they could go with safety.

"We have had a jolly time, Mademoiselle," exclaimed Madeline. "I think the upset was the best part; none of us were hurt, and it was only a good joke after all."

Little did Maddy know of the sorrow that was wringing the young hearts at the cottage. Not having heard for several days, the next morning Madeline started to see her friends. On entering the house, no one was visible; all was quiet, and she proceeded up stairs to the widow's chamber. Propped up with pillows, with a face as pale as the white sheet, and laboring for breath, she beheld her humble friend. Effie was sitting on one side of the bed, close to her mother, and Roland was reading the Bible to his declining parent.

"'Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in me; in my Father's house are many mansions.'" He stopped for one moment, but Madeline said, "Go on, Roland;" and, with his own rich voice, he proceeded to repeat a Psalm, "'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.'"

"My help cometh even from the Lord, who hath made heaven and earth," responded the mother, with uplifted eyes and hands clasped over her panting breast.

"Come here, Madeline, my dear child," said the fading Christian; "you see that it will not be long before I shall go home, and be no more seen; but remember what I tell you, that God is a sufficient refuge in this hour of trial, and the Saviour of sinners my all in all!"

"Can you look up still, dear Mrs. Bruce?" asked Madeline, with deep solemnity.

"Yes, my dear child; I know that he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. 'He will not suffer the sun to smite thee by day, nor the moon by night,' that is the promise, Maddy, and I believe it with all my heart; 'his rod and his staff they comfort me.'"

"You will get better yet, Mrs. Bruce, I am sure," answered the child, "for I know that Roland and Effie pray for you, and God has promised to answer prayer."