Even the old gentleman started as she looked up, for pale as her face had been before, it was positively ashy now, and her eyes glared at him like a young lioness at bay. Somewhat amazed the old man rose and approached her; but she started back, threw the card at his feet, crying chokingly with a frantic gesture of her hands:

"Go away, go away, don't touch me,—oh, how I hate you!" and vanished through the door as if she had been shot.

"God bless my soul!" cried the astonished man, dropping into his chair and apostrophizing the fire with startled energy. "If I ever saw the like,—where's my snuff-box,—I never did to be sure; streak of insanity, must be attended to; fine eyes, but ferocious young woman; hum, ha!—I'll sit here till somebody comes."

A movement of several persons in the room above, would indicate that the family were gathered there; as indeed they were, sitting around mother, feeling nearer and dearer than ever in their mutual loss, each one drying her eyes slowly, as she talked lovingly of the dead, trying to make them feel as did she, that father was not lost, but just gone home a little sooner than they. Into this peaceful, loving group came Olive, with ashy lips, and excited eyes, and a few minutes later, the old gentleman down stairs, arose from his waiting seat, as the door opened, and a lady came towards him. Just while she crossed the little distance lying between them, he scrutinized her, with almost savage intentness, and his survey ended in a slightly astonished, "humph," as she paused before him, and bent her head slightly, but with due respect for his age.

"Mr. Congreve. Will you be seated, sir?"

"Humph! Well, I suppose I will," and down he sat, with more force than was necessary, perhaps, but then he was excited.

"I'm too late for Robert's funeral, I hear," he said, in a moment, as gruff and short as though she were to blame for the fact, and he was come to deliver a verbal chastisement.

"Yes, sir, a few hours."

"Humph! His death was very sudden."

"Very sudden indeed."

"Humph!"

Very plainly, Mr. Congreve did not know exactly what to say next. He hadn't expected this kind of a widow; his mind had pictured one in bushels of crape, with a drenched, woe-begone face, who would scream when she saw him, fall on his neck, in lieu of his purse, and gasp out dramatically: "Dear, dear Uncle Ridley, now all my troubles are over," after which, he would have to pet her into quietude, when there was nothing, next to walking out of the window in his sleep, that he dreaded more than a crying woman; then he would have to kiss all the children, and so greatly did he object to such an osculatory performance, that after the act he looked as though he had made way with a quart of alum. Now, there was the pleasing, but slightly astonishing fact, that nobody was going to want to kiss him, and this pale, sweet-faced woman, with her quiet eyes and determined mouth was Robert's widow, that he would have to talk to; and it was very evident, that if he had anything to say, she was waiting quietly to hear it.

"You have quite a large family,—madam," he said, hurriedly rushing in to break a pause.

"Yes, sir, six daughters."

"Six! Bless my soul,—six girls," and Mr. Congreve hastily took some snuff to settle his nerves. "Astonishing, I declare. Pity they're not boys,—great pity."

"I would not have it otherwise than it is, sir."

"Humph! well, they're your burden, not mine," said the old man, testily, and twisting uneasily in his chair.

"A burden I am happy and grateful to bear, if burden it be," answered the widow, calmly. "I am thankful they are all mine, my comforts and helps at all times."

"One of them is lame, is she?" and as he spoke, the old man's voice softened, as it had done when he called to Jean.

"Yes, sir, my little one, lame from babyhood."

Mr. Congreve resorted to his handkerchief again, and waved its scarlet folds back and forth in much agitation for a few seconds, then, as he put it back in its capacious pocket, and sniffed once or twice, as if in defiance to some internal commotion, Mrs. Dering remembered that he had once had a little lame girl, who died before reaching womanhood.

He was regarding her intently, and now as she lifted her eyes, softened with this sudden remembrance, he bounced out of his chair, and set his cane down sharply on the hearth.

"Elizabeth Dering, you're not the woman I thought you were. You're not like your father, and I'm glad of that. I came here to offer you help, because I know for a certainty that Robert was in trouble, and I see that you are no more pleased to see me, than I was at the prospect of seeing you. That I have been angry with my nephew for many years, you know well enough, but there's no use denying that his sudden death has touched me, and I want to do something for his family. To-night you are in no condition to talk, no more am I; so if you will show me my room I will go to it immediately."

Mrs. Dering arose also, with relief plainly visible in her face, and after finding that he had taken an early supper before leaving the city, excused herself to arrange for his comfort during the night.

Several hours later, when the household had forgotten its grief in slumber, and nothing disturbed the stillness of the night, but an occasional frog, and the lonesome sighing of the wind through the bare trees, two persons found it extremely difficult to sleep. In Mrs. Dering's room the fire lay in dying embers on the hearth, and in a low chair before it, sat the pale mother and widow, with no need now to hide her grief, lest other hearts were made sad, for no one was near but Jean, and she slept soundly, with sorrow lost in the oblivion of dreams. So feeling for the first time, the liberty of tears, that poor, aching heart broke its stern control, and burying her face, the sorrowing woman wept, praying, as the tears rolled down her cheeks, that they might not be shed in bitterness or rebellion, and that her heart, through all its pain, might still feel and know, "what is, is best." When the violence of her grief had expended itself, and she could lift her face to view calmly her loss and new responsibilities, the unvoiced prayer of her heart was: "O God, help me; I cannot work alone; let me know what to do; help me to think and act aright, and strengthen my trembling faith, that whatever may come to me, I can say: 'God knows it is for the best.'"

Even as she prayed, help came to her, for Olive could not sleep, and feeling assured that her mother was awake, had come noiselessly in, and now stood by her.

"Mama, I cannot sleep either; let me stay with you."

"Olive, my child, it is past midnight."

"I know, mama," and as Olive spoke, she pushed a stool to her mother's feet, and sat down, for something in the voice assured her that she was welcome.

"Why couldn't you sleep, dear?"

"Thinking," answered Olive, gravely. "And I wanted to talk to you, mama, when we could be quite alone."

"Yes, dear."

"Will you tell me about Mr. Congreve, please?"

No curiosity prompted the question; that her mother knew; so, looking down into the grave, thoughtful face, she lowered her voice, and began:

"Mr. Congreve took papa when he was left an orphan at eight years old, and raised him, expecting to make him his heir, as he is very wealthy. When Mr. Congreve and my father were boys they were great friends; but in early manhood, had a bitter quarrel that has never been forgiven either side, and they have hated each other fiercely ever since. When Mr. Congreve found that his nephew was in love with his enemy's daughter, he was furious with anger, and my father also objected to the match, but not so bitterly and blind to reason, as his enemy. Your father was threatened, plead with, and sworn at; but while he remained firm to his intention of marrying me, he really loved his fiery uncle, and disliked to come out in open rebellion; but a final move of Mr. Congreve's was more than he could bear. He locked him up. Of course no man of age and reason could stand such an indignity as that, so, making his escape at night, he left without a word of any kind, and has never seen his uncle but once since. A little while after we were married, we received a letter from him, very short and bitter, saying that he could tread the path he had chosen unmolested; that we were no more to him than strangers, and that his new will left his property entire, to a cousin's child, Roger Ridley Congreve, his namesake. He says now, that when he saw papa's death in the paper, that he was touched by it, and that he has come to help us, though I don't see how he knows we need it."

"I do, mama."

"You, Olive?"

"Yes, mama." Olive's fingers were interlaced nervously and her eyes were flashing warmly as she lifted them from the low fire to her mother's face. "I know all about it, mama. Do you remember the night I talked with papa in the study about two months ago?"

"Yes."

"Well, he told me a great deal that night about his business, that he never told you, because he said he did not want to worry you with it unless he had to; he had a note of six thousand to meet in sixty days, and he was trying every way to raise it without touching your money in the bank. He said if he could not pay it, the store would go, that the home was ours, and must never go for his debts. Just a few days ago a letter came, and he snatched it so eagerly, that I knew it was very important; it was very short, and when he finished reading it he laid his head down and groaned. He didn't know I was near, and I did not speak then, but that letter has haunted me ever since, and yesterday when you thought I was asleep, I was down at the store, and I found it in his private drawer. O mama, it was from Mr. Congreve, and so short and cruel, oh, so bitterly cruel, and I tore it all to shreds, and burnt it, and never meant to tell you, at least, not for awhile. He refused to loan papa a cent, and said he didn't care if he lost both business and home, and when I read it I believe I could almost have killed him. To-night when he came and gave me his card I threw it in his face, and told him I hated him!"

"Olive! Olive!"

"I did, I did, and I'm glad; I felt as if it would choke me to sleep with him in the house to-night, and I never want to look at him again. I would rather work my fingers off than ever have you take one penny of his money, or let him help us in any way," cried Olive, excitedly, almost forgetting the sleeping household in her energy.

Mrs. Dering put her hand to her head, bewildered with the sudden news, and Olive saw, and comprehended the look of startled trouble that rested on her face.

"We are very poor now, aren't we, mama?"

"Yes, child, yes; indeed I am quite bewildered," exclaimed Mrs. Dering, anxiously. "Did you say sixty days, Olive?"

"Yes, mama, the time is out next Friday."

"Is it possible? What shall we do!"

"Isn't letting it go, the only thing we can do?" asked Olive.

"I suppose so, but really I can hardly think, it all seems so sudden," and truly her sad, troubled face echoed her words.

"I have been thinking about it so long," said Olive, as though relieved to speak her thoughts. "The home is ours, and you have four thousand in the bank. It seems to me a very little for seven people to live on, but we are all strong and well, and can work."

"Yes, all strong and well but Jean," and Mrs. Dering's eyes went wistfully to the little unconscious face resting on the pillow. "She will have to be so neglected in more ways than one, if home is broken up and every one's hands and work belonging to some one else."

"Dear me," cried Olive, reproachfully. "How could I forget her! There's something more to think over, now."

"But you must think no more to-night, dear, nor must I, or we will not be fit for to-morrow's work and thought. Go to bed, and remember, God will not send us more than we can bear; we must only do the best we can and all that is left, He will provide a way for us. Good night, dear."

Next morning after breakfast, Mr. Congreve stood pulling his gloves on and eyeing the six girls from under his fierce, bushy brows, and there was something almost like amusement in the quizzical look as it swept from one face to the other.

Whatever he thought, he put it into no words, but caught up his cane, then stooped down over Jean, lying on the lounge, and whispered something in her ear. It must have been something magical, indeed, for Jean got up, took her shawl and crutch, and walked with him down to the gate, and there the astonished girls, who all rushed to the window, saw them pause, and the old gentleman lifted Jean up on the post, put her shawl up over her head, and then began talking earnestly.

"Did you ever!" cried Kittie, falling back at the amazing sight. "I thought she was afraid of him!"

"She is the only one that he has looked at kindly," said Bea, with some indications of resentment in her voice. "Was he always so fierce and queer, mama?"

"Always," answered Mrs. Dering, who was watching from another window. "He has a kind heart, but a most exceedingly violent temper, which he seems to have under no control.

"If thwarted or vexed, he stops at nothing, but most always repents his rash acts as soon as they are committed, and, sometimes, if the humor so strikes him, there is nothing he will not do as reparation."

Olive, understanding that this little explanation was especially for her, shut her lips tightly, whereupon Kate exclaimed, "You never looked at him when you were introduced, Olive, and if you could have seen the way he frowned and glared at you, you would have shook all over."

"I don't care how he looked, nor how much he frowned. I don't like him, and I wish he was back in Virginia."

"If he isn't stingy as a miser, he'll give us something, and perhaps ask us to visit him," said Ernestine, who looked languid and pale from excessive and violent weeping, and really seemed to be the only one who was not trying to be cheerful for the others' sake.

"I should like to see where papa lived when he was a boy, but I wouldn't care to have Mr. Congreve there," said Bea, who had that morning began being more womanly than usual by relieving mama of coffee-urn duties.

"He's gone!" exclaimed Kittie, from the window. "Now for the secret! What did he say, Jean?"

"I'm not to tell," answered Jean, looking quite excited and rather pale, as she hurried in; then amazed them all again by hiding her face in Mrs. Dering's dress and bursting into tears.

"What ever has he done?" cried Kat, bouncing excitedly out of her chair. "Was he cross?—or perhaps he pinched you or something."

"No, he didn't," said Jean, trembling but smiling through her tears. "He was very good and kind, and didn't look near so cross as he did in here. He said that a great many years ago he had a little girl just like me, and he kissed me, too."

"Did I ever!" cried Kat, quite carried away by curiosity. "And is that all that he said?"

"No, but I can't tell the rest, now, but he's going to bring me some candy and I'll give you all some."

Perhaps it was because Mrs. Dering turned her head away just then, finding control of her face impossible; or because Jean looked so pathetic, as she gave her little promise; at any rate, Ernestine broke into a quick sob, and the next moment they were all crying, while Kittie threw herself on the lounge, and hid her face, as though she never cared to show it again, and Kat followed her example in the rocking-chair.

For several minutes the sound of weeping filled the room, then Mrs. Dering wiped her eyes and tried to steady her voice.

"Children, do you think it would make papa happy to see us all so miserable and wretched?"

Something in the voice hushed the sobs, and caught attention, except from Ernestine, who continued to cry wailingly.

"If papa had gone to Europe, made a great fortune, and built a grand, beautiful home for us all to come to, would we all sit down and cry about it, and say it wasn't right?"

Even Ernestine listened a little at this, and Kittie lifted her drenched face to look in amaze at her mother.

"I don't think we would, but that our happiness would hardly wait for the time 'till we started to join him. Now, instead of going to any country to build us a home, he has gone home himself, to the beautiful glorious home that was waiting for him, and waits for us; and isn't it lovely to think how glad he'll be to see us when we come, and it may not be long, either. I can almost imagine how happy he is to-night, and I should hate to feel that we made him sad by sitting here and crying, as though we regretted his perfect joy. We miss him sadly indeed, but it will make our time of waiting seem shorter, if we busy ourselves in doing what we know he would have approved and enjoyed, had he stayed with us. You, my girls, know how proud and fond he was of you; you know just which of your little faults grieved him, so work to overcome them, and try to become the noble, splendid women he always prayed you might be. As for me, I know how he always trusted me in raising our girls, and now that he has gone home, and left it all to me, don't you suppose it is a duty made doubly precious? None of us can complain of idle hands, and so with busy hearts we can find no time to complain and weep. Now let's go to our morning work, and all be as happy and cheerful as you can; just remember, God loves us so much that He has put some one who is dear to us all in our home above, so that we cannot forget it, even if we are tempted to do so."

There was a general putting away of handkerchiefs, and many resolves written on the girlish faces, that were facing their first grief, and found it hard to do so with a patient faith. As they all left the room for morning duties, Bea lingered behind the others, and throwing her arms about her mother, looked up with full eyes and a loving smile. "Mama, you are such a comfort; you talk about heaven and papa, as if they were just around the corner, and make me feel as if he knew, and was interested in all that we did, just as much as ever. I know what will make him the happiest, and that is for us to be just like you, for he did love and trust you so perfectly."

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CHAPTER VII.

MR. CONGREVE SURPRISES HIMSELF AND EVERYBODY ELSE.

"How I just hate to go back there, I do; seven women,—God bless my soul! and I'll wager my best hat they're all crying like water-spouts, and haven't made my bed yet. I won't sit down in a room that isn't cleaned up, and bless my soul,—where's my snuff box? I'd sit out doors, sooner than be in the room where they're all sniffling, with the curtains pulled down, as if Robert's going into eternal bliss, was a thing to turn yourself into a wailing dungeon over;" and, ending his mutterings with a revengeful snap of the gate, he stamped fiercely up the walk, scattering the gravel right and left, and scaring a stray cat almost into fits, by the way he swung his cane at her. Something in the looks of the house when he glanced up, brought him to a sudden stand still. The blinds were all open, with the sun shining warmly on the glass, one window was thrown up, and through it came the merry whistle of a bird, giving forth a musical defiance to the coming of winter, and when Mr. Congreve rather slowly opened the front door, there met him a warm, cheery odor, and,—yes, actually; some one laughed upstairs! In the sitting-room a jolly fire leaped and shone in the shining grate, the piano stood open, the room was full of sunshine, and under Mr. Dering's large portrait, was a bracket, and there on it, a graceful little vase filled with pansys and a tea-rose, from Jean's little window garden in the dining-room.

Mr. Congreve gave a surprised and emphatic "humph," and tramped away to his own room, which was in apple-pie order, then tramped back, without having seen any one but Huldah flying around on the back porch.

Presently Jean came through the hall, and seeing him sitting there and frowning at the fire, as though trying to study out some new and astonishing puzzle, she stopped at the stairs to call,—"Mr. Congreve is here, mama."

"Humph! Mr. Congreve, if I ever, if I ever," exclaimed that gentleman, with some energy, and whirling about in his seat.

"Come here, Jeanie; here's your candy."

It really was quite astonishing how his voice could change when he spoke to her, and how his face brightened when she came in without hesitation and received the package with a pleased,—"Thank you, sir."

"Well, I declare,—quite right, to be sure; but don't you know who I am, and what my name is?"

"Yes, sir, you're my papa's uncle, and your name is Mr. Congreve," answered Jean, just a little startled at being lifted on to his knee, and having his arm around her.

"So I am, to be sure; quite true; but if I'm your papa's uncle, I'm your great-uncle, and there isn't such an immense amount of difference; don't you suppose you had better call me Uncle Ridley, as he did?"

"Why, I don't know, perhaps I had. I'll ask mama," answered Jean in earnest simplicity.

"Well, you do that, and tell her if she's not busy, I'd like to talk with her awhile. Do you remember what I said to you this morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'm going to talk to her about it now."

Jean slipped down in a hurry, and departed with her big bundle of candy, looking both pleased and frightened.

Mrs. Dering came down in a moment, and not having entirely given up his imaginary widow, Mr. Congreve looked up in some trepidation to see if she was crying. But no; her face, though pale and sad, was perfectly tranquil, and her dress was cozy, comfortable brown.

After a few remarks about his walk, and the attractions of Canfield, conversation sank into an uneasy pause, and for some unknown reason, Mr. Congreve grew as red as a lobster. He had expected when he came that all he would have to do would be to fill out a check for several thousand, assure the demonstrative widow that she should never want, graciously allow the children to call him Uncle Ridley, submit to be kissed at coming and going, then get out of the way, and confine his further acquaintance with them to the medium of occasional checks and a few letters, when,—well, did you ever!—here he sat, blushing like the most bashful lover in Christendom, and couldn't get up his courage to offer the widow help of any kind; had actually requested the youngest child to kiss, and call him Uncle Ridley, and was now entertaining an idea, which, had it been broached to him before leaving home, would have aroused his fiercest ridicule and amaze.

"You know, perhaps," he began, with a preparatory and strengthening sniff of snuff, "that I heard from Robert, some days ago?"

"Yes, sir, but I did not know it until last night."

"Humph!" he remembered his first greeting, and looked at her sharply. "Perhaps you did not know until then, just how his affairs stood?"

"No, sir, I did not. Our daughter Olive was her father's book-keeper and confidante; she knew all; but with his ever thoughtful consideration, he hoped to settle his business difficulty without worrying me, and I did not know until after I left you last night, how deep had been his trouble."

"Olive,—hum, ha!" said Mr. Congreve, nodding decidedly, and really looking pleased. "She's the one that said she hated me last night; good! I'll wager my hat she saw my letter; I like her spunk; she's a thorough Congreve. Your oldest, I suppose?"

"Oh no, she's quite a child in years, not yet sixteen."

"God bless my soul! you don't say so; only fifteen, and a book-keeper, and shares her father's troubles, and flies like a tiger into a man's face who don't do to suit her!—hum!

"I should like to see her again. I should, indeed."

Mrs. Dering could not restrain a smile at the utter amazement depicted in his face. He looked like a man who was undergoing a constant shower-bath, and didn't know what to make of it.

"I am very sorry," she said. "It grieves me that Olive has an exceedingly peculiar and unforgiving disposition. She was devoted to her father, and you are quite correct in your supposition that she saw your letter."

"And consequently don't want to see any more of me," said Mr. Congreve, with a quick nod, and as Mrs. Dering made no denial, he got up, and seizing his cane, began to walk up and down the room, and Mrs. Dering watching his face, saw therein a struggle of some kind. In truth, he was turning over in his mind a confession, which his obstinate pride struggled against, but which a new, strange feeling, that told him he did not want this family's contempt and hatred, claimed and conquered. He stopped in his restless walk, and faced her suddenly.

"I have been angry with my nephew for years, you know that, and you know my nature," he said sharply, all the more so to hide his feelings. "When I wrote that letter I meant every word of it, and as many more of the same kind, but some womanish weakness afterwards possessed me, and on the day that I heard of his death, I had a letter written to him, containing the check for six thousand."

Knowing him, as she did, Mrs. Dering well understood the feelings attendant upon this confession, and her face softened wonderfully as she said:

"I most regret, Mr. Congreve, that Robert did not live to know that you repented the cruel words that so grieved him. You know how proud and sensitive he was, and what a struggle it must have been to ask help of you. Your kindness, though too late, we all appreciate sincerely."

"Too late? The time is not out."

"But I shall let the store go. I have no sons, and I cannot have the care of it on my mind."

"Humph! May I ask what you intend to do?"

"Certainly. I have some money, four thousand in the bank, which will only be taken out in great necessity. As soon as possible, myself and children will begin to work. I am quite sure that I can secure a situation in the seminary three miles out of town, perhaps one also for Beatrice, my oldest daughter, and I hope before long to find something for the others."

Mr. Congreve opened his lips to speak, but was amazed beyond all comprehension, to find that he had no voice, he tried it again, then again, then broke abruptly into a hurried walk up and down the room, and flourished his scarlet handkerchief furiously.

"It was very kind of you to undertake such a long tiresome journey for our sakes, Mr. Congreve," said Mrs. Dering, beginning to feel a strange sympathy for the old gentleman who could not hide how deeply he was moved.

"Not half what I ought to do," sputtered the inconsistent old man. "I always want to help where I see it is so worthy. I am proud indeed, to see,—where's my snuff-box—that Robert's wife and daughters are so worthy of him; I—I—will you allow me to settle four thousand per annum on you and your children?"

"Oh, no; thank you so gratefully; but I could not, so long as we are well; we can work and live quite comfortably, but if I am ever in trouble, if sickness drains our savings low, I will come to you gladly, and Robert will be so pleased."

It was no use to try and hide a sniff, so Mr. Congreve made a savage thrust at his eyes and wiped them both, blew his nose long and earnestly, coughed several times without any apparent necessity, and then subsided into a chair.

"I suppose you are right, Elizabeth Dering, and I like you better for it, though,—God bless my soul!—to think of you and the little girls working for bread and butter, while I count my hundreds of thousands and lay up in ease and laziness. Why, it makes me feel as I never supposed I could feel over any sorrow or privation that might come to Daniel Lathrop's daughter. But you're not like your father, no, you're not, and I'm glad of it, and if I had it to do over again, I would not banish Robert for marrying you."

If Mrs. Dering felt any resentment at the thrust against her father, she gave no evidence of it, but only thought with a quiet joy, mingled with a little longing, "If Robert was only here to hear him say it."

"I want to make another offer to you," said Mr. Congreve, tapping his stick lightly on the floor, and keeping his eyes averted, "and before I make it, I want to ask that you do not decide too quick. Take all the time you want, and whatever your decision will be, it will affect my happiness quite as much as it does yours."

He stopped there, and looked at her closely, as though contemplating a possible refusal; then went on interrogatively:

"You are going to work at something that will take all of your time, and, perhaps, keep you away from home; your daughters are going to work, such of them as are able, but, from my observation, there are three of them who can do nothing in a business line. Two of them, the twins, are strong and healthy and can look after themselves, but the third, Jean, what will you do with her?"

"You have touched the point that constitutes my greatest worry and perplexity," answered Mrs. Dering, quite unconscious of the thoughts in his mind. "Jean is so delicate and frail that she requires constant attention; she is a child, and must be amused, and because of her affliction she can never be unattended. I have always taught her, and being fond of her books, she is much farther advanced than most children of her age, and I regret beyond all expression that she will have to fall behind now, she——"

"No, she won't," cried Mr. Congreve, who had been growing more excited as the speech progressed, and who now jumped out of his chair with every indication of breaking into a jig. "I assure you she won't, only let me have her; she shall have the best governess and attendant that money can bring. Every luxury and comfort that can be thought of, every wish gratified as soon as expressed and I—I—"

He was obliged to stop to get his breath, and grow a little more quiet, for Mrs. Dering was leaning back in her chair, quite white with amaze and contending emotions; so Mr. Congreve settled abruptly into a chair and smoothed his voice and manner down several degrees.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he continued. "I know it is sudden and, indeed, I am quite as astonished as you are; I am, indeed; but the moment I looked at the child last night, there was something in her face and manner, that reminded me so strongly of my own little Mabel, that my heart, old and dried up as it is, went right out to her. You know, Elizabeth Dering, how I loved my child. She would have been a woman now had she lived, but the Lord saw fit to take her, and—and—I—where's my snuff-box?—I suppose, of course, 'twas best; but here's your little one, yours and Robert's, afflicted like my little Mabel, and I am able to do everything by her that the sick and afflicted need. She shall travel, have the best of medical attention, and if the dear good Lord sees fit, perhaps she may be cured."

His fierce gray eyes were completely softened and full of tears, and the way that scarlet handkerchief flew about would have puzzled the closest watcher, but Mrs. Dering saw nothing, heard nothing but his last words:—"perhaps she may be cured." Almost unconsciously she stood up and held out her hands.

"Oh, Mr. Congreve, do you mean it, indeed?"

"God bless my soul! mean it? Yes, I do, indeed. I do, with all my heart. I'll feel like there was something for me to live longer for, and it will put new, strong life into my dried-up old being, to see a child's sunny face around my quiet home and to know that it is for her good that I live. Ha! mean it? Yes, my dear madam; I should rather say I did mean it."

It really seemed as though Mrs. Dering could not speak for the many emotions that oppressed her, but after one or two glances at her face, which caused the old gentleman to scout at the idea of her refusing, he exclaimed with a fatherly benignity which sat oddly on his crusty abruptness:

"There, there, dear child, go right off up stairs and think about it. I'll just take a snooze right here by the fire, and then after awhile we'll talk again. I don't think the little girl will object. I said a few words to her this morning, and the idea pleased her, I am quite sure."

So Mrs. Dering retired after a few inarticulate words of thanks or joy, and after taking a tremendous tiff of snuff with such haste that it nearly strangled him, Mr. Congreve settled into a comfortable, dreamy state, where a face, long since gone from his home, looked out at him from the fire with a smile, and then beside it came another, sweet and patient, with soft eyes, and the two seemed to know each other, and as they smiled, the one that was now an angel faded slowly and left the other there looking at him with beseeching eyes.

There was the greatest commotion up stairs when Mrs. Dering told the assembled girls of Mr. Congreve's proposition. Jean instantly hid her face and began to cry, and influenced by this, the girls instantly pounced upon Mr. Congreve, and declared it should not be.

"Why do you cry, dearie?" asked Mrs. Dering.

"I don't know," answered Jean, somewhat bewildered, as she looked around on the indignant faces. "Because it seems so queer, I guess. I always thought I would be crooked, and have to go on a crutch, and Uncle Ridley,—he asked me to call him that,—says, perhaps, all the doctors can cure me, and—and it seems so good that I don't know how to be glad enough, so I just cry, you see."

Everybody "saw," figuratively speaking, for actual sight was quite impossible with the quick sympathetic tears that sprang to every one's eyes. Opinions flew about like papers in the wind, and Mrs. Dering could not make herself heard in the babel of tongues.

"Wait, girls, listen a moment," she exclaimed at last, and the commotion quieted, somewhat, to hear what she had to say.

"You know," she began, drawing Jean to her side, "I have been telling you this morning how very differently we would have to live, now; it will take all of us, working hard, to keep home comfortable, for the expenses of a family of such size are very heavy. Since realizing this, I have prayed long and earnestly to know what was best to do about Jeanie, for if I can secure the position at the seminary, I can only come home twice a week, and in the meantime, I could not bear the worry of her being here alone with you girls, even though I know you would be faithful and careful of the trust. Now comes Mr. Congreve's offer, with the promise that she shall have every attention, care and luxury, and better than all, that she shall see eminent and skillful physicians, whom we could never afford. I feel as though it was God's answer to my prayer, and that it is wicked to hesitate a moment, however much we all love our little girl, and hate to have her go so far away."

"But, oh, mama," cried Jean, with a sob of ecstatic joy and excitement, "just to think of my being straight and well, like Kittie and the rest! I would feel like I never could thank God and Uncle Ridley enough. Oh, I may go, mayn't I?"

"Yes, darling, you shall go."

So briefly was it settled.

Everybody was in raptures excepting Olive. She frowned severely, and looked bitterly pained, but she said nothing until the rest had left the room, then she came to Mrs. Dering's side. "Oh, mama, are you really going to let her go?"

"Yes, dear."

"How can you? Such a cruel, selfish, unfeeling—"

"Hush, Olive."

Olive did so instantly, and stood with her hands folded and eyes down, the very picture of bitter defiant distrust, and Mrs. Dering saw in an instant that any thing she might say in Mr. Congreve's behalf, would be wasted words, as Olive was fully prepared to misconstrue anything that the old gentleman might say or do. Nevertheless, she laid her hands on those tightly folded ones, and said gently: "Olive dear, we must be charitable and forgiving. Remember, Mr. Congreve is old and very peculiar; he always was, and one's peculiarities increase as they grow older. You heard what I said about him this morning, and you see he must be kind at heart, to have taken such a long journey, just for our sakes."

Olive made no answer, and her mother sighed a little.

"In regard to the estrangement between him and papa, I think he went to extremes, as hot passionate tempered people are apt to do; and yet, he is not wholly at fault, for I grieve very much to say, that in the quarrel between my father and Mr. Congreve, father was much to blame; he did very wrong, and it was quite natural for Mr. Congreve to feel a violent hatred for all his family, and to object to his nephew marrying into it. That Mr. Congreve has many times repented his harsh treatment, I know to a certainty; but he is proud, as well as hasty, and pride in an old man is harder to battle with than in a young one. In speaking of papa a few minutes ago down stairs, he could not restrain the tears. He says he wrote that letter, and meant it, but that on the day he heard of papa's death, he had another letter, and the required check ready to send to him."

"I don't believe it!" interrupted Olive passionately. "If he did, he wrote it after he heard, just so as to tell you so."

"Oh, my child!" exclaimed Mrs. Dering, sadly, "how your hasty, distrustful spirit grieves me. You cannot conceive of the misery it will cause you, when you are brought to face the world, where there is so much to distrust, and so much that must be overlooked and blindly believed in. Can't you allow for others, some of the pride, the wilful temper and bitter hastiness that you know so well what it is to battle against, when I tell you that the greatest point of difference between your own and your great-uncle's disposition, is, that he is as hasty one way as you are the other; can't you be more charitable to him?"

"Oh, mama! I, like him?" cried Olive.

"Yes, dear, except that when you are once angry or hurt, you nurse your pride, and repel every advance towards a reconciliation. Mr. Congreve is more generous; if he really sees he is wrong, he is as impulsive to mend as he was passionate to break. He is bitter and distrustful from a long and often sad and disappointed struggle with the world; you are bitter and distrustful—for what, my dear child, I never could imagine, for we all love you most tenderly, and in this grief and trouble which God has sent for some good reason, you have been an inexpressible comfort to us all."

Olive withdrew her hand from her mother's clasp, and hurried away without a word. Mrs. Dering thought she was hurt, perhaps angry, and sighed deeply; but Olive had gone to hide her tears, and resolve to do differently, but all her resolves were made without asking for higher strength and help.

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CHAPTER VIII.

ODDS AND ENDS.

"Bless the people, but isn't it cold, though. Whew! Jupiter Ammons! What a relief it is to say something when you're most friz. You don't look cheerful, sister mine."

"I don't care; it's your week to build the fire and mine to set the table, and I think you were real mean, to go to sleep again, when you know Olive has to have her breakfast at seven," grumbled Kittie, flying about distractedly, while Kat sat on the floor and whistled "Down in a coal-mine," as she laced her shoes.

"That's the truth, my dear, melancholy like the present days. But you just skip into the dining-room and set your table, and I'll have a few words to say to this stove in private, if I don't freeze stiff beforehand;" and Kat jumped up briskly, having compromised on a lace with one shoe, by tying the strings about her ankle. "No kindling to begin with! Oh, this is bliss! Now for a trot to the woodshed," and away went Kat flying down the yard and back again in a minute with her arms full.

"I'll be late," said Olive, putting her head in the door, just as the fire began to snap with its new supply of kindling.

"Sorry, but doing the best I can," answered Kat, pausing a minute to warm her numb fingers. "Can you get along on bread and coffee for this morning?"

"I suppose I'll have to," answered Olive, none too graciously, and shut the door again with a snap.

"Cross-patch, draw the latch, sit at the fire and spin," sang Kat; then the door opened again, and Ernestine came in.

"Dear me, how cold it is in here, and Bea hasn't got the sitting-room fire built either. I'd just as soon be out doors."

"Go on, and let's see how long you'll stay," said Kat, shaking an egg into her coffee. "If the fires don't get along fast enough to suit you, pitch in and build one of them; there's piles of difference between that and standing around watching some one else."

Ernestine chose to ignore the remark, and stood warming her fingers, while she contemplated the frosty window-pane.

"To-day's lesson-day, so of course I hate it," she said, with an air of settled resignation. "I never thought I'd teach music, that's sure. I never was cut out for it, so neither the children, nor I, get along well. Is there anything I can do to help out here?"

"No, breakfast is ready; just trot the bread in to the table. I'll bring the butter, and the coffee will be done in a few minutes; that's all we've got for breakfast this morning," said Kat, vanishing down the cellar stairs.

"I could eat two hundred and fifty griddle cakes, I know!" exclaimed Kittie, as they collected about the table, and Bea began rattling the cups, and the bread started around.

"Come down a hundred and seventy-five," laughed Ernestine who had taken time, despite all depressing circumstances, to twist a rose-colored ribbon in her sunny hair. "I believe it's going to snow real hard; don't I wish those children wouldn't come to-day. You all can't imagine how horrible it is to teach music."

"Well, you have the easiest time of any of us," said Kittie.

"You ought to cook and wash dishes awhile," cried Kat.

"Or keep the house," added Bea.

"Or have to stay all day long in the dreariest store in town and keep books," echoed Olive.

"I thought you loved to work so?" said Ernestine, in answer to this last comparison. "You're always preaching independence."

"So I do," answered Olive, setting her cup down with crackable force. "I never would be idle, but I could choose more pleasant kind of work than sitting in Mr. Dane's office all day; it's the dreariest place I ever got into."

"Well, anyhow, Christmas is coming," said Bea, nodding cheerfully over the coffee-urn.

"More's the pity," said Kittie disconsolately. "We're not going to get anything; it'll be awful poky."

"But mama'll be home for ten days; oh, bliss!" cried Kat, waving her teaspoon, and every cloudy face brightened. "Can't we give her something, girls?"

"I don't see how," said Ernestine. "It takes every cent we all earn to keep things going. Who ever thought we'd be so poor? Just think of last Christmas, how glorious!"

Everybody remembered, and faces saddened again. How gay the house had been in evergreens! how mysterious the locked parlors, where all knew, a tree stood, branching up to the ceiling; how blissfully happy everybody had been during the two weeks when the world becomes one in spirit and truth, and the god of good-will wields the sceptre and wears the crown! Father had been with them, dear, unselfish, great-hearted papa, whose every exertion had been to make them all happy and whose dearest hope and prayer had been that his girls might be noble, splendid women, with pure, true hearts and the spirit of God therein.

"Olive, will you bring some butter when you come home? This is the last drop," said Kittie, scraping the dish, and collecting the silver, after the meal was finished, as it was very soon, for breakfasts were hurried now-a-days.

"Yes; two pounds? That's the third time this month; our bill will be pretty big. If I'm very busy I will not be home to dinner."

"Sha'n't I fix some lunch for you?"

"I haven't time to wait. Where's my rubbers?"

"I don't know. Kat, did you have Olive's rubbers last night?"

"Yes, and I don't know any more than Adam where I put them. Look in the closet, Olive, and I'll run up stairs and see," answered Kat, departing in haste.

"Well, I wish you would let my things alone," said Olive testily, throwing down her mittens and veil, and diving into the closet; the general closet, as it was called, where everything, from the kitchen stove-hook to the girls best Sunday-go-to-meeting bonnets, were apt to find a lodging at odd times. "I never can be on time," she muttered, slamming things around and comparing various odd rubbers. "This closet looks like a demented bedlam. I'd be ashamed, that's what I would."

"I can't do everything," answered Bea in a hurry, feeling that the thrust was meant for her. "Because I'm housekeeper, it doesn't rest on me to keep everything in perfect order, when you all help to muss up."

"It's like distraction without mama, anyhow," declared Kittie, departing for the kitchen, with her hands full of dishes, and scowling defiantly at the stove, where the fire was sizzling with a lazy sputter, while the dish-water taking advantage of the lull in heat, cooled at leisure.

"Pretty near as bad without Huldah," was Ernestine's comment. "I'm nearly starved for a splendid good meal like we used to have, when we could eat all we wanted, and didn't have to think how much it cost, or worry with cooking it."

"You do less than anybody towards getting it," said Olive, coming flushed and impatient from her vain search. "If Kat doesn't leave my things alone, I'll—"

"Let not your angry passions rise," cried Kat, coming in with a rubber whirling on each hand, and quoting her copy-book with cheerful disregard for any one's anger. "Here's your rubbers, my dear, and I found them right where I put them, on the end of our mantel-piece, where I put them in plain sight so as not to forget to bring them down this morning, as my prophetic soul felt a row in the air if they were not in sight at six and a half, sharp."

"You talk like a lunatic," was Olive's sole response as she drew them on.

"It's my only talent, dear," answered Kat cheerfully, beginning to work on the table, where she made the dishes rattle.

Bea trailed slowly through the room with her broom and dust pan, and a rather discontented face. Olive tied on her veil and hurried away to her daily business; Ernestine went to practice a new piece 'till the first scholar should arrive; and Kittie and Kat were left to the bliss of dish-washing and kitchen work. So began the day.

This was several weeks after events last recorded, and all things in the Dering household had changed much.

Jean had not gone to Virginia at once. Her wardrobe had needed complete repairing, and during the time so occupied, Mr. Congreve spent much of it in the city, sending therefrom various and beautiful things for Jean, and a dress for each of the girls, doing so without permission, knowing, that if asked, it would be refused him.

Kittie and Kat had been withdrawn from school, and studied at home with the older girls. Their part of the work fell in the kitchen. With Mrs. Dering and Huldah for teachers, they had studied the easier branches of cooking, and the crooks and by-ways of that department of general work. They proved apt and merry pupils, and learned their tasks quite readily, so, that while the girls missed the wonderful dishes that Huldah had been able to "knock up," they were daily fed on very palatable food, considering the age and newness of the young cooks.

Bea was chief housekeeper, kept an eye over general affairs, sat at the head of the table, and had commenced doing her hair in a most dignified way; filling with much girlish satisfaction, the position of "Miss Dering," and "lady of the house."

Olive was book-keeper in Mr. Dane's store, and really more head of the family than Bea, as she kept all accounts, settled the bills, and was frequently consulted on some questionable matters, involving the home expenses. To Ernestine fell the easy lot of four pupils in music.

Affording her no opportunities of display, or avenue for compliments or praise, she thought it very hard indeed, and found it bitterly uncongenial, to her ideas of independence, if, indeed, she had ever possessed any really tangible ones. She wanted to help, as a matter of course, especially as all the rest did; but such an ordinary, self-denying way was sadly distasteful to her, and she still had a vague, but pleasing, idea of becoming a great prima-donna and electrifying vast concourses of people, who would praise, admire, and pay her largely. Unfortunately, however, such positions do not lie around in wait, and invite some one to honor them with an acceptance; but, in spite of such a discouraging fact, Ernestine held tenaciously to her pleasing idea, and spent much time in thinking how delightful all things would be, when that time arrived.

Mrs. Dering had secured the desired position in the seminary, three miles out of Canfield, and had a flourishing class in both music and languages. The stage came in twice a week after mail, and at these times the anxious mother made hurried trips home, and these few hours were snatches of greatest joy and comfort to all parties, and especially comforting to the girls, who found the first few weeks of the new life very trying, and oftentimes discouraging.

On the next Tuesday evening, when the stage came in, Mrs. Dering found a thick, tempting letter, with the Staunton post mark, and Jean's prim, childish hand writing. There had come several short letters from the little girl, who said she would wait until she saw everything about her new home before writing a very long letter to describe it; so it was evident now that the long letter had come, and with this extra joy for herself and the girls, Mrs. Dering hurried home, where everything was radiantly bright for her reception, and where the girls looked and felt as though care had rolled from them for the time, or was at least so lightened, that it seemed quite gone.

They did not read the letter until after supper, and on the evenings when mother was with them, this meal was always a long one, for there was so much to talk about, and somehow it seemed so natural and old-time like, to linger about the table, that they invariably did so.

After awhile they went into the sitting-room, leaving the dishes until later, when mama said they would all help; and seating themselves, with many smiles and nods of satisfaction, about the fire, prepared to hear all that Jean had to say about her new home.