Saturday, October 24th. 

By half past eleven on the evening of this attack, Frank was so much relieved, that I felt it safe to go to bed, and slept sweetly for the first time for more than a week. The next morning he pronounced the difficulty entirely removed, but confessed that the powerful medicine, he had taken, made him very weak. I carried him some breakfast to the bed, after which I took my work and sat by his side. I would not allow him to talk, and was only too happy in the thought that all the coldness and reserve which had caused each of us so much unhappiness had passed, and now only appeared like a troubled dream. My heart was buoyant with hope and happiness, and as I ever and anon looked up from my work and met the eye of my husband fixed upon me with its former look of love, I felt that my Heavenly Father had answered my prayers, and restored unto me the heart, I feared, was estranged from me forever.

Aunt came up and sat down on the foot of the bed. After Frank had assured her that all the danger had passed, and that, with the exception of being weak, he was as well as ever, she began to say something of Fidelia. I had taken my breakfast late, and had not seen her since we parted at the dinner table yesterday. Now I thought I recognized her step in the entry, and looked with dread at the door. Aunt perceived my agitation and asked me what was the matter.

"I can't see Fidelia," I almost screamed, as I heard the latch move. Aunt stepped to the door and locked it, while Frank said, "There is more in this than I thought. There must have been some underhand work here." He stopped suddenly at a quick look from aunt.

"You will probably not see her again," she said gravely, "she has returned home."

"Would to God, she had never left it!" murmured Frank.

"When did she go?" I asked joyfully.

"About an hour since," was her reply. It was hard for me to conceal my joy at her unexpected departure.

About noon Frank arose and went below. Uncle and Joseph were very glad to see him; and when my husband sat down by me and put his arm about me, uncle said, "that is as husband and wife should be." He was obliged to get up and go to the window to wipe his glasses, before he could go on with his reading.

Joseph did not let the Doctor off quite so easily. "Cousin Frank," said he familiarly, "I've found out that if I don't want to be jealous of my wife, I must be so attentive to her as to exclude all others. Now if you had appeared like that all the time, why you see"—he hesitated—"I should have lost all the fun."

We all laughed at his comical manner, though I saw that Frank felt it keenly. "We'll talk of that by and by," he said gravely.

"Excuse me," resumed Joseph, "I really didn't mean anything, 'twas only a foolish way I have of turning everything into a joke."

"Yes, my son, you're very foolish," said aunt's voice; but her eyes told a different story as she looked over her glasses with the most tender affection upon her only child.

"By the way," continued the young man, coming and occupying a seat on the sofa near me, "have you plead my cause yet, Cora?"

"What cause?"

"Why in regard to the fair hand of your daughter Pauline." He then begged the Doctor's consent, saying, "if it will make any essential difference in the case, I will get on my knees before you; but if you could excuse it, as my pants are new, I shall be under the greater obligation."

Uncle and aunt laughed till they cried as he went on in the most ludicrous manner possible; sometimes standing before the mirror prinking and talking to his own image; and then practising "courting" upon his mother. Entirely forgetful of the newness of his pants he knelt before her, and in heart-rending tones besought her to be gracious to his suit; and when she nodded assent to his wishes, rapturously kissed her hands. Then with a low bow to the company, while brushing his fingers through his hair, he said in the gravest tone, "I find it necessary, ladies and gentlemen, to practise occasionally. There is nothing in this business like keeping one's hand in. Practice makes perfect."

After dinner, Frank told uncle he was desirous of seeing the family together at some convenient time, and uncle replied that he would arrange his business so that he could spend the evening at home.

Frank had told me before, that he wished to explain some things in his conduct, and thought he ought to do so before the family, as they had witnessed what had passed. During the afternoon he was so tender and devoted to me that I more than half determined to tell him all Fidelia's story to me, and have it settled at once, but before I had really decided, we had taken tea, and having attended prayers were all seated around the social hearth waiting for Frank to say what he wished. He commenced with the remark, it was extremely painful to him to be obliged to say anything unfavorable to the character of another; but, he continued, "in order to explain, I do not say extenuate, my conduct toward my wife, I must inform you that on the very first evening of my arrival, Fidelia succeeded in planting a thorn in my heart, and from that time until yesterday, she never ceased to suggest or hint at, ideas which made me fear that the affection of my wife for me, if not her very virtue, was endangered by her intimacy with her cousin."

Joseph started upon his feet, and I covered my face; but Frank said, "sit down, Joseph; you can well afford to hear; your conscience is at rest, while mine"—he stopped, he had evidently schooled himself for the interview. "After this," he continued, "it was astonishing how many trivial events occurred which appeared at the time to corroborate her story; and she failed not to make use of them. For instance, I saw you, cousin, take Cora's hand in what to my inflamed imagination seemed too familiar a manner; at another time I heard you say, you should wish a wife in all respects like her, and various other things which I should not condescend to name, were it not to show you that with her whisperings and hints, these had grown to such a magnitude in my mind, that I was prepared to believe anything."

Joseph interrupted him and began to make some explanations, but Frank would not allow a word to be said. "My dear cousin," he continued, "I know you will not insult me by offering an explanation for what existed only in my heated imagination, and which now that I have recovered my reason, I loathe myself for indulging. I thought it over in the night, and was astonished at my blindness; for you both were so perfectly open in your conduct, I do not at all wonder that my little Cora feared me as she did."

"Ah," said I, determining bravely to tell my story, "there is another side to that." They all looked at me in amazement, as I began at the beginning and related all I had felt and suffered. I confessed all my hard feelings toward Frank, and all my jealousy of Fidelia. It was now the Doctor's turn to start up in awful indignation. I told him how I had been led as in his case, to see everything through a false medium, and I had feared that the affection, she told me they had formerly felt for each other, had revived to such a degree as to make him regret that the marriage of both prevented their union.

The intensity of Joseph's feelings kept him silent. "Well," said uncle, at length, "Fidelia is rightly punished for her fiendish plot in trying to alienate your affections from each other."

"How?" I eagerly inquired.

He turned to aunt, who said, "I thought it best at the time to say nothing about it. I merely told them she was gone."

Uncle resumed his seat, and sitting very erect in his chair, said, "Mr. Schuyler went out soon after you were taken sick, and has not yet returned. His wife insisted that we should take no pains to bring him back. She said she wasn't going to have him think, she would run after him. But I could see, as hour after hour passed away, she grew anxious and impatient for his return. This morning, when we were seated at breakfast, a boy brought a note from him directed to me, in which he said that before that letter reached us he should be on his way to Germany, where he intended to pass the rest of his life. He enclosed fifty dollars for his wife, which he said was all she should ever have from him, and closed by saying it was her own fault that she had not a happy home and a devoted husband; and that if she had been willing to accede to his wishes, she would at least have been the owner of a handsome estate. That was true," added uncle, "he wished to buy a beautiful place on the Hudson which he offered to settle upon her, but she would not consent to live in so retired a situation. I used all my influence with her to no purpose."

"Where is she now?" I asked.

"When she received the note, or rather when I read it to her, and gave her the money, she was at first very angry, and thought he only wrote it to frighten her; but I soon convinced her that I thought otherwise, when she suddenly started for New York, where they had been boarding since their marriage, in the hope of detaining him."

Frank looked very thoughtful, but said nothing; and we all sat for a few moments thinking of the probabilities of her overtaking him, and of her success in obtaining his forgiveness. I who knew more of his feelings than any one present, doubted it, but I wisely concluded to keep my knowledge to myself.

At length Joseph jumped up, saying, "I should think we were in a Quaker meeting; let's play 'button, button, who's got the button?'"

"Wouldn't it be more pleasant," asked Frank, smiling, "to have Cora give you an account of a Quaker wedding we attended on our way here?"

"Yes, yes, that's just the thing; come let's act it out! Here, Cora, take my arm, tell me what to say, and I'll repeat it off just like a book. I believe they always kiss their lady first, don't they? Come, why don't you stand up and begin. It's placing a bashful young fellow, like me, in a very embarrassing situation, when his wife that is to be won't stand with him at the altar."

Though I could not help laughing, yet I would not consent to "act it out," as he said, unless Frank would officiate as bridegroom, but as uncle and aunt both joined in the request to see the ceremony, I persuaded my husband to gratify them. When we were through, Joseph said, we were so solemn about it, he felt just as thirsty as if he had been to a real wedding, and asked if there were not some wine in the house. Aunt shook her head, but he went out and soon brought in a waiter of wine glasses, filled however, with lemonade, after which the conversation passed naturally to other themes.

The remainder of the week passed delightfully; I gained every day in health; and the Doctor took me with him to many places of interest in the vicinity. Fidelia's name had not been mentioned in the week which had intervened since her departure, except in one remark Frank made to me on the Monday evening previous. He said, "You probably noticed that I gave no explanation of many of her statements; and though I deny ever having felt any affection for her, such as she describes, and hardly what the relationship warranted, yet I wish to defer any farther conversation upon the subject until we arrive home."

I told him, I should be glad to do so, but that I wanted him to promise me one thing; I was proceeding to tell him what, when he said "Anything, everything; I have the most entire confidence in you, my love." So we promised each other, that the past should only be remembered as a warning; we felt that our only security for happiness in the married relation was, next to our God, in entire confidence in each other, and we resolved never to lie down at night with one unkind thought treasured up, which each had not given the other an opportunity to explain.

On the day before we left aunt Morgan, a letter was received from Mrs. Schuyler, in which she said, she found on her arrival in New York city, that her husband had indeed taken passage for Europe, and that on the whole she considered it the most fortunate thing which could have happened for her, as his jealous disposition had always prevented her having any enjoyment. In a postscript she added, that she had been invited to go to the South and pass the winter with some delightful acquaintances, she had formed, and that she anticipated great pleasure in their society. She said, she now considered herself in every respect as a widow, and hoped her friends would never mortify her by any allusion to the man, she had called her husband. In a second postscript she requested that her trunks should be sent to the care of William Arnold, Esq.

When aunt had finished reading, Frank and I exchanged glances. That was the name of Lucy Lee's suitor, and we knew too much of him to expect she would profit much by his society.

We left our dear friends early on Tuesday morning, having obtained a promise from Joseph to make us an early visit. A day or two after we reached home, I noticed Frank in earnest conversation with mother; after which he requested me to go to her in the library. I went reluctantly, for indeed I was now so happy, I cared for no farther explanation. But as I saw Frank attributed my unwillingness to a wrong cause, I took Emily's arm and went at once to the library, where mother gave me the following account.

Fidelia Lenox was left an orphan at the age of fifteen, and was immediately received into her uncle's family, and treated in all respects as their own child. She was one year younger than Frank, and of course they were constantly in each other's society. But it was not long before mother perceived that from being willing and apparently pleased to be with his cousin, Frank avoided her as much as possible, and often refused positively to accompany her to parties of young people. Mother did not at first pay much attention to the circumstance until her son's conduct became so marked as to require a reproof, especially as she could perceive nothing in the deportment of her niece to elicit such dislike. She therefore appealed to him as a gentleman that it was in the highest degree impolite and unkind to treat his cousin otherwise than he would treat a sister.

For a long time Frank refused to give any explanation of his conduct; but at length told his mother that he would agree to treat her as a sister, if she would be content with that.

"What can she ask more?" inquired mother, in surprise.

Frank, like any boy of sixteen, blushed crimson, as he replied, impulsively: "She is altogether too sentimental for me. She can talk about nothing but love, and such nonsense. When the time comes for me to be married, I mean to do the courting myself."

Mother was silent, from amazement, and tried to recall a single circumstance to corroborate his statement. "I hardly know how to believe it of Fidelia," she at length replied.

"Mother," said Frank "if you do not believe me, enter suddenly and unexpectedly into the library or anywhere we may chance to be left alone a moment, and you will see enough."

"What?" she asked, under her breath.

"Why, she runs her fingers through my hair, and she sits by me and looks up in my face in a fawning manner. Bah!" he continued, "it's too disgusting. If she hears the least sound, she darts back to her seat, and there she sits as demure and proper as any old maid. I often wish," he added, half laughing, "she'd get caught at some of her fooleries."

After this, mother kept a strict surveillance of the conduct of her niece, and soon became convinced that she was a dangerous companion for her son, especially as she paid not the slightest regard to truth. She therefore sent her away to a family-school, where she was under the constant watch of her teacher. But she could not prevent Frank meeting her occasionally, as they both spent their holidays at home; and she confessed to me that she should have shuddered for the virtue of her son, had he not exhibited such a loathing for the character of his cousin. The time came when she must leave school, and her conduct had become so reprehensible that mother would not consent that Emily should be under her influence; and she has resided, until her marriage, with a distant relative in the State of New York.

It was thus that Frank had not met her for several years, and as they were both married, he had been willing to forget the past, and treat her at least with kindness. But having had reason to know her want of principle, he feels he had no excuse for giving heed to her cruel hints and falsehoods. We have tacitly agreed to let her name be forgotten, and I devoutly hope I shall never have occasion to remember it.

Tuesday, October 27th. 

My dear, dear mother, now that I have told you all the sorrows, trials and follies of the past month, I will turn to other and far more pleasing themes. My dear little Pauline was almost wild with joy to see papa and mamma at home again. I found her looking very chubby and rosy, having gained in strength since the cool weather.

This season is perfectly charming. It is called the Indian summer. I can give you no just description of the gorgeousness of the forest trees with which we are surrounded. As I was riding through a thick grove yesterday, on my way to Waverley, I could almost imagine myself in fairy land. The air was mild and balmy as in June, and there was a freshness and dryness in the atmosphere which was perfectly exhilarating.

I think I remarked to you near the commencement of my journal, that Mrs. Munroe, the wife of our clergyman, was absent from town. She returned while we were away. I called there yesterday, in company with Emily and Pauline. Mrs. Munroe is rather above the medium height, with a very intelligent, not handsome, countenance; and a splendid set of teeth. She impressed me as a very superior lady; there is a dignity, a quiet repose in her manner which I admire.

After conversing a few moments, I expressed a wish to see her infant; when she immediately went out and brought it to the parlor, accompanied by a sister who is visiting her. I don't think Pauline ever saw a baby before, and she looked at the little creature with a serious, thoughtful expression, frequently sighing from the intensity of her feelings. We all joined in a laugh at her expense. But when the baby began to cry, poor Pauline started, and grew very red. I didn't like to have her feel so, and I took the infant into my lap, and put its little soft hand in hers. When she had felt the velvety flesh, and came to the conclusion that it was really alive, she was pleased enough; and had to make a great effort to keep from crying that I did not bring it home with me.

I made early inquiries on my return as to the present situation of Squire Lee's family; and was happy to learn that in many respects Lucy's situation is far more comfortable than formerly. Her father still continues feeble in body and mind, but he has grown so dependent on his daughter, and is so pleased with her tender care, that he can hardly bear her out of his sight. She reads newspapers to him, combs his hair, and soothes him by the hour together. She hopes soon to interest him in the Bible, by reading daily, delightful selections from it. I fear the poor old gentleman has not enough sense to understand, as he often falls asleep in his chair, lulled by the sound of her sweet voice.

Joseph Lee has taken up his residence in the city, only returning occasionally to obtain his father's signature to a check. He swears that the house is just like a tomb ever since the "old fellow" was taken sick. As he has the last will safe in his possession, he gives himself no concern about Lucy.

A few mornings after my return I requested Ann to build a fire in my room, while I gave Pauline her morning bath; when she brought up a great quantity of brush which would light quickly. The sight of this reminded me of the children, Anna and Willie. I am ashamed to say, that with so many other subjects to occupy my thoughts my protegés had passed entirely out of my mind. I inquired concerning them of mother, and learned that they had made great advances in Phebe's good graces, by having completely filled the wood shed with the brush, which Cæsar had chopped early in the season, and had left in the orchard to dry. They had come regularly day after day, had taken their dinner at the house, and returned at night carrying a basket of food, or some useful article to their mother.

Frank and I are more delighted than we can express with the change in Emily. To be sure, she never has such high spirits as formerly; but she is cheerful and affectionate to mother and all of us.

When I recall to mind the sad forebodings, I had while in B——, thinking my happiness had gone forever, and then realize what a united, happy family we are, my heart is ready to burst with gratitude.

Our

Saturday, October 31st. 

Now that Frank knows my whole heart, I hope he will cease from self-accusation for what passed at B——. I was sitting at my desk writing when he came in. I looked up with a smile; but he only made a faint attempt to return it. I instantly shut my desk, and went unbidden to sit upon his knee. He put his arm about me, but did not speak. To divert his thoughts, I asked him about his patients.

"Cora, my dear wife," said he interrupting me, "I would give all I possess," ('including me,' I whispered,) "if you could open your heart to me as you do to your mother in that journal."

"Why, Frank, I will tell you all you would like to know. I can't think of anything I wish to conceal from you."

"Isn't there," he asked in an agitated voice, and hiding his face behind me, "Isn't there, away down at the bottom of your heart a feeling, which if brought out to the light, would read, 'I think I have been cruelly insulted by my husband, and I can never love and respect him as I once did?'"

"Frank," I exclaimed, starting to my feet, "let me feel your pulse. I will order draughts for your feet. You surely have had a return of your giddiness, or you would not insult your wife by such suspicions. When you are sufficiently recovered to bear it, you shall take the said journal of which you are so jealous, and retiring to the privacy of the library, you shall then and there learn all that your wife thinks of you."

"Dearest," he replied, "you will do me the greatest favor by allowing me to peruse that part of it relating to ——." I put my hand to his mouth, which he held there. Then I went to my desk, and separating the sheets containing the account of our visit to B——, I put them into his hand. When he had left the room, I could not help smiling at the look with which he took the papers. It was something like that of a boy who anticipates a pretty severe whipping. I began to feel sorry, I had written so much about jealousy, and feared he would think that I attached more importance to it than I do; for indeed I love my husband, if possible, better than ever.

It was four or five hours before I saw him again, and I started to go to him, when I heard Cæsar knock repeatedly at the library door without receiving an answer. I therefore waited with great impatience. At length my husband came to my room, where Pauline was playing about the floor, and I knew by his looks, he had been much agitated. I sprang to meet him, when he clasped me in his arms, saying, "Dearest and best of wives, tell me again, that you forgive me. How very inhuman I have been!"

"Are you sorry you read it," I asked?

"No, no!" he replied eagerly, "I thank you more than I can express."

"Well, then, will you promise never to think of it more?"

"Yes, except as a powerful motive to be a better, and kinder husband to the most affectionate and forgiving of wives." He added, "I have prayed, with the record of your sufferings before me, for pardon and strength for the future."

"Dear Frank, did you pray for me too?"

"Yes, love, I prayed that we might be spared many years; and that each year we might be increasingly happy in each other, and useful to our fellow creatures." Then lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, "I prayed too for one who endeavored to injure us, that she might find space for repentance."

CHAPTER XVII.

Wednesday, November 4th. 

I have been to the little hut occupied by William Reynolds and family, to see what had become of the children. Frank thinks it would be well to put them to school. It shall be my care to provide them suitable clothing. This, I can depend upon Miss Proctor to assist me in making up.

We found the poor woman seated in an old rocking-chair, and looking very miserable. Her husband beat her badly a few nights since, for interfering, when he was, as he said, administering proper chastisement to Willie. Since that time, she can hardly turn her head or see out of one eye. Her nearest neighbor, hearing a great noise, ran to the house, and secured William. The next day the same man brought a complaint against the inebriate for abuse of wife and children, and for refusing to provide for their support. He is now in the county jail, from which he is to be carried to the House of Correction for three months.

In the midst of their poverty, the children are really uncommonly prepossessing and intelligent. It is easy to see what they would have been if nurtured in a home of competence and comfort. At the time we entered, Anna was standing on an old stool behind her mother's chair, trying to smoother out the long auburn tresses, and twist them under the cap. I felt no repugnance to the act when I took the broken comb from her hand, and made a beautiful knot at the back of her mother's head. I then bathed her poor bruised temple; and promising to do something for her immediate relief, we left her.

I have become much interested in the history of this unfortunate family. Anna, the mother of my protegés, is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Ryland who lived in Waverley. Anna was the elder of four children, two of whom died in infancy, leaving only the subject of this sketch and Edward her younger brother to crown the hopes of their afflicted parents. Mr. Ryland was in the possession of a valuable farm, part of which was left him by his parents; but which he had greatly enlarged and improved by his own exertions. A new house had been erected on the site of the old one, and everything in and about it exhibited the appearance so common among the farmers of New England, of independence, comfort and respectability.

Anna and her brother had been educated with care, and after enjoying and improving the school advantages of the place, they had been sent in turn to academies at a distance.

Early in life Anna had become attached and affianced to William Reynolds, son of a neighboring farmer who was regarded as one of the most intelligent and enterprising young men in Waverley. Certainly his noble figure, and bright handsome face, made him a welcome guest, not only at the Ryland farm, but in every place where he chose to visit.

Mr. and Mrs. Ryland looked upon William with no little pride as the betrothed of their daughter, while she was at the same time the admiration and envy of the young people of her acquaintance. William Reynolds waited only long enough to be able to erect a neat comfortable cottage upon a spot of ground in Crawford, which had been his inheritance from his father's estate before he brought his Anna to be its presiding genius.

With Anna, there came to Rose Cottage, as the young bride styled her new home, wagon loads of the neatest of furniture purchased by her father. From the neatly finished attic to the well stored cellar, each apartment received its appropriate part of the new goods. White fringed curtains nicely looped aside with ribbon, were hung in her spare chamber, or the one set aside for company, while a gay carpet covered the floor of the parlor. Beside these two rooms on the lower floor, there was also a spacious kitchen, and a bed-room opening from it, which they intended for their own use, while beyond was a large shed connecting the house and barn. This, the neat housewife secretly determined, should, at least in summer, serve them for a kitchen, so that that apartment could be kept more tidy for the eating and sitting room.

As soon as they were settled, Anna's brother Edward was to constitute a part of their family. Not at all desirous to pursue the calling of his father, Mr. Ryland wisely concluded to allow him to follow the bent of his inclinations, justly supposing he would rise to greater usefulness by so doing. It must be supposed, however, that it was no small sacrifice for these excellent parents to part with their son from under the parental roof when he obtained a situation in Crawford, even though he would be under the care and influence of his sister.

Time passed on. The roses which had been transplanted from the old place, and which had given the name to their home, grew as if by magic. In his leisure hours, William under the direction of his tasteful wife, had made trellises a few feet from the window; and now the luxurious roses and vines almost reached the top. But within this sweet abode, in a cradle which had rocked her own infancy, there was indeed a new blown rose, unfolding its sweetness amidst the most tender care and love.

William, ever active and industrious, was accounted one of the most thriving farmers in the place; while Anna by her neatness, and good housewifery, had so won upon the good will of their employers, that whoever else returned from market, heavily laden as they went, with their own produce, William never failed to find customers, eager to purchase at an advanced price Anna's butter and cheese.

But about this time a little cloud arose in their horizon. Edward, who had been rapidly gaining upon the esteem and confidence of his employers, was by the sudden death of the head of the firm, thrown out of employment. His services however were eagerly sought as accountant, and book-keeper, in the great warehouse connected with the distillery, and belonging to Squire Lee. For a time nothing could be said but in praise of the new clerk; and the old gentleman, warned by the early dissipation of Joseph, that he could expect no aid from him, often hinted to Edward the promise of rapid advancement. But after a few months, Squire Lee noticed that Edward never tasted spirit of any kind; and he vowed to himself that he would get rid of a fellow whose conduct was a standing reproach to his own intemperance and to his business.

In fact, Ryland would have preferred a different situation, and had inwardly determined never to be a partner in an employment he could not approve. At that time, he did not realize as he did afterward, the curse that would surely follow those who engaged in the manufacture and sale of ardent spirits for unrighteous purposes. A great press of business about this period, postponed both in master and clerk, the separation contemplated.

Late one Saturday evening, Squire Lee visited his counting-room, where Edward was busily employed in making up the accounts for the week, that he might leave them in a state proper for inspection.

"That's a fine fellow!" said the Squire, clapping his clerk upon the shoulder, after he had watched him turning over the journal and ledger, and transferring accounts from one to another with great neatness and despatch. "That's something like, now!"

Edward made a passing remark about the amount of business the past week, and went on with his work.

"Yes," resumed the Squire, "that's exactly what I came to see you about. We've engaged a large amount of rum, our very best, to go out Monday morning; and as we shall make a great profit on it, I mustn't disappoint the man. He wants it for a new tavern somewhere down in ----."

Edward looked from his work a moment, as the old gentleman continued, "I know you like to go home and spend Sunday with the old folks. Some bright eyes watching for you, I suppose," said he, with a leering expression, and trying to be facetious, "but the fact is," bringing his heavy fist down on the desk, "them bills of sale have got to be made out; and you must give up going home this once, and take an extra day or so another time to give your gal a ride."

Young Ryland quietly laid the books upon the table, and turning round to look his employer full in the face, he said in a firm but respectful tone, "Squire Lee, I will remain here until midnight, and return at the same hour to-morrow night; but I have been taught to fear God and keep his commandments; and nothing could induce me to violate the Sabbath in the way you mention."

"Very well, sir," replied the Squire, in a voice of suppressed rage, "we shall soon see how that is. Don't the Bible teach young men to obey their masters?" he asked in a sneering tone. "Your parents had better have taught you that before they sent you here."

Edward stood perfectly calm and unmoved.

"If you don't recant, young fellow, and pretty quick too, you've earnt the last dollar you'll ever earn in my store;" and with a horrible oath he brought down his fist again upon the desk.

"In that respect, sir, I can never change," said young Ryland; "I have endeavored faithfully to do my duty since I have been in your employ. But, sir, to tell you the truth, I have stretched my conscience in your service by consenting to be employed in an establishment where liquors are manufactured; and it will be no disappointment to me to leave at this time."

Squire Lee in a frenzy, turned upon Edward with uplifted arm to strike him to the floor; but there was something in the expression of the young man's eye, which had not for a moment quailed, that restrained him; and he contented himself by pouring upon him a volley of abuse, intermingled with oaths and curses, such as it made Edward shudder to hear. He calmly turned, closed the books, placed them in the safe, passed the key to the old gentleman, saying, "In a few moments the business for the week would have been accounted for. I think you will find all correct, as far as I had gone." He took his hat and left, before the Squire had recovered his breath.

Whether the bills of sale were rendered in due season, or what he thought of Edward's conduct at that time is not known; but it is certain that after having in vain tried to fill Edward's place to his liking, the Squire took pains to ride out to Rose Cottage. He inquired his whereabouts, expressing a strong desire to get him back. "He was rather too fanatical about his religion, and all that sort of stuff, but a smarter, more faithful or accurate book-keeper I never had."

Mrs. Reynolds informed him that her brother, after leaving his store, had obtained recommendations from individuals acquainted with him while in the employ of the other firm, and had gone directly to New York, where he had speedily procured employment.

Squire Lee was so much disappointed, that Mrs. Reynolds added, that she would write to her brother whom it would be very pleasant to her to have again in her family.

"Tell him," resumed the Squire, "that I will make his salary just what he says."

This visit was the small cloud which gradually overspread the whole horizon of the gentle Anna Reynolds. That night when her husband returned home more than usually fatigued from his work, she communicated to him the purpose of the Squire in his call, expressing at the same time her conviction that her brother would never consent to return to his employ.

"Why couldn't I get the situation?" flashed through William's mind, but he said nothing to his wife until he had finished his out door work; and Anna had soothed her baby to sleep, laid it in the cradle—swept the hearth, and sat down to her sewing, with her foot upon the rocker.

"What are you thinking of, Willie?" she asked playfully. "You seem to be looking as earnestly into the fire, as if you were expecting your new cart and oxen to come walking out of it into the room."

William smiled as he turned to look at her; and after a moment's hesitation said, "Wife, I've been thinking it all over, about what Squire Lee said, and I've about come to the conclusion, to apply for the situation myself. That is," he continued, seeing her look of astonishment, "if Edward does not choose to come back."

Anna gazed intently at him for a moment, and then exclaimed, "William Reynolds, I really believe you are going mad. Aren't you well?" she asked, changing her tone.

William made a faint attempt to laugh as he said, "I expected you'd be astonished at first; but the fact is, you know I haven't felt well lately." Anna looked anxious, as this was the first intimation she had received of his sickness. "And to tell the truth, I always thought it was a foolish move in Edward to give up such a good place for so trifling a matter, and it was so pleasant having him here."

"It was, indeed," replied Anna with a sigh.

"If the whole must be known," resumed William, "when I went to market, and had been hawing and geeing all day, and called at the Squire's and saw Edward sitting there so cozy and comfortable with nothing to do, but just to write from morning till night; his salary sure, rain or shine, crops good or bad; I almost envied him."

"But what could you do with the farm?" interrupted Anna.

"I could get a man to take care of it. There's Joe Clark would take it to the halves, and be glad of the chance. I heard him talking so to a man not more'n a week ago."

Anna, however, was not easily convinced of the wisdom of this new movement; and it required all her husband's arguments to induce her to consent to his making the trial, in case he succeeded in obtaining the situation. He had when a boy, been at the head of the school in book-keeping, and had often assisted Edward in his accounts when obliged to be up late in the employment of the other firm. In representing to his wife, all the inducements to quit the farm for the counting-room, he did not mention the fact, that the hands employed by the firm, were allowed free access to the barrels of New England rum and whisky, piled up against the walls around the building. Indeed there were generally kept kegs especially for their use; and for them to treat those who came in upon business. It was during the frequent calls he had made upon Edward, that he had imbibed a taste for ardent spirits. Perhaps he thought this argument would not have much weight with his wife. Perhaps he was not himself aware of its power over himself, nor of the strength of his appetite.

True, it is, that having received a note from his brother-in-law, positively declining the offer of the Squire, accompanied by a note recommending him as competent to fill the place, and also a recommendation from the teacher of the school where he learned the art, Reynolds sallied forth in quest of Squire Lee. He did not think it necessary to exhibit to that gentleman, neither did he intend to show his wife, a kind note from Edward accompanying the other, begging him, by every motive he could urge, to avoid a place so fraught with danger. In the most brotherly manner, Edward told him that he had noticed with fearful anticipations the relish with which, on occasions of his calls at the distillery, he had accepted invitations to a glass from the workmen. He also added, that since he had been in New York, he had ascertained that public sentiment was farther advanced upon the subject of intemperance than he had supposed, and that the distiller was beginning to be regarded as an enemy to his brother man.

"If," he added at the close, "Squire Lee had proposed to take me as an equal partner into the firm, instead of the offer he made, I would not for an instant think of accepting it."

"All this was no doubt well meant in Edward," soliloquized William, as he walked to the counting room; "but I always knew he was too stiff in such matters; even Anna says that." But he could not help acknowledging that his wife, and her parents would view the matter in the same light as the writer, should they read the letter. So he considered it more prudent to say nothing about it, as he had made up his mind to take the situation if he could obtain it.

Unfortunately for him, and for all connected with him, he did obtain it, and entered at once upon his new duties; Joe Clark taking his place on the farm.

"Somehow," said Anna, "from the very first, everything seemed to go behind hand. Joe was not so much interested, or at home on the farm as my William; and then his pay had to come out of the produce, whether we made little or much; and though my husband satisfied his employers, and received a good salary, yet I didn't realize much help from it at the cottage. It also weaned him from home, and got him in a way of staying out very late at night; and at length all was gone; and he mortgaged our beautiful home to the Squire, when Willie was a baby, telling me he should soon work and get it back again. But every thing went and went, until I and my babes moved to this old shanty, with little more of my nice furniture than the bed on which I lie. Even this, I could have borne, had my husband been left to me. I could work, I would do anything for them; but I have no husband. A man calling himself William Reynolds lives here; that is, when he is not off on a drunken frolic; but he is not THE William Reynolds I married."

It will be readily seen that though William and his wife were, at the time of their living in Rose Cottage, moral, and upright in their characters; yet they were not actuated by the religious principles which were the governing motives of their brother's conduct. But it is to be hoped, that the death of her parents, together with the sad change in her own circumstances, had been blessed to the afflicted woman. Certainly she has been most careful to instil religious principles into the minds of her children.

"But where," I asked, "is Edward, her brother?"

"He has never been to Crawford since the death of his parents. William was very angry at his brother's interference, as he termed it, in matters which did not concern him; and Anna has not heard from him for several years."

CHAPTER XVIII.