Fern Leaves from Fanny's Portfolio, series one (Auburn: Derby & Miller, 1853)
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MINNIE.
"I wish I could extract the secret of Minnie's happiness," said the languid Mrs. Grey, as she lounged upon the sofa. "Such a world of trouble as she has had, first and last,--enough to annihilate a dozen women, yet, she is quite embonpoint, and always smiling and joyous. Well dressed,--nobody knows how,--never troubling her head about what this, or that, or the other person says;--flitting round, bee-fashion, gathering only honey. I declare, she's beyond my penetration to sound. Miss Prue Pry made a special errand over there, the other day, to tell her something that ought to have worried her half to death; but I don't believe she heard half she said; or, if she did, it did n't move her any. She is contented anywhere, while I am ennuyed to death."
Ah, Mrs. Grey, Minnie sings with the poet, "My mind to me a kingdom is!" Your eye is quick to detect a camel's hair shawl, a mock diamond, or a ruinous lace. You know the damage of an upholsterer's permit to remodel and drapery your parlors; the very last new mode for toilette; who is, and who is not, of the charmed "upper ten," and how to graduate your bows
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accordingly. You understand "keeping tradespeople in their proper place," and never make a mistake in selecting the shade of a silk, or a ribbon. You were brought up with an eye to "an establishment," and you have fulfilled your destiny!
Minnie, the happy Minnie, lives in a world of her own creating, and people it to her own taste. Sunshine and rainbows come at her bidding. Poor, yet rich! "Her mind to her a kingdom is!" A golden-tinted cloud, a whispering zephyr, a twinkling star, a silver moon-beam, a rippling wave, a child's carol, a bird's song, a dewy flower! Behold Minnie's dower!
Ah, Mrs. Grey, you never closed your world-dazzled eyes to listen to fairy whispers; you never walked with shadowy forms invisible to other eyes; you never heard music inaudible to other ears; you never shed delicious, happy tears at the magnetic bidding of minstrel or poet! These charmed lines are written in an unknown tongue to you!
Take, I give it willingly;
For, invisible to thee,
Spirits twain have crossed with me!"
And so, smile on, joyous Minnie! Your alchemist touch turns dross to gold. Your altar-flame shall never die out;--the star you gaze at shall never dim. Sing "Eureka!" Minnie.
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SWEET-BRIAR FARM.
"Dear father, I am so sick of brick and mortar! Have pity on me, and exile me to the woods, where I can hear the birds sing, and catch a glimpse of blue skies and green fields."
"Can't spare you, Kitty," said old Mr. Kaime. "Who'll attend to my gouty old foot; and keep the flies away when I take my nap; and hand me my cane? And whom shall I lean on when I go to walk? And who'll read me the newspaper--politics and all--over my coffee? And what will all your lovers do, little puss?"
"Let her go," chimed in dear, homely, cheerful Aunt Mary; "I'll take care of you. Let her stay till she is stick of it; and, as to the 'lovers,' they must take care of themselves."
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"Wife," said Farmer Moore, as he sat eating a huge bowl of bread and milk at the kitchen table, "I've had a letter from Cousin Walter, and he wants his daughter to come and make us a visit."
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"She can't come," said Mrs. Moore, in a peevish tone. "I hate these city folks, with their thin shoes and fine manners, and flounced dresses and furbelows. She'd set me distracted with her airs. What did you tell him?"
"I told him to send her along," said blunt old Uncle Tim, setting his bowl down with an extra flourish, as if he had quite made up his mind on the subject.
Aunt Betsey Moore drew a long sigh, as if she was regularly victimized. She was an inefficient, dawdling, nervous, fidgety woman, taking no interest either in house or farm; always fancying herself "just gone" with some incurable complaint; exacting, peevish and fretful; making everybody as uncomfortable as herself. Uncle Tim bore it like a philosopher, availing himself of every stray gleam of sunshine which shone across his path, among which Kitty was brightest. His heart turned to love, like a flower to the sunlight, and his cheerfulness brought its own reward. His two sons, Jonathan and Pete, had brought themselves up, and were straight-limbed, strong-minded, "go-ahead" specimens of Yankeeism, profoundly ignorant of the last D'Orsay cravat tie, and quite benighted as to the most fashionable cut for dress coats and pantaloons; more learned in hay-making than in Greek and Latin; and quite well satisfied with the rustic Venuses which graced the village church of a Sunday. They made it their
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home in the kitchen, year in and year out,--Aunt Betsey having no desire to superintend the sweeping of another room. The "best parlor" was consequently given over to its green paper curtains, and yellow wooden chairs, except on such time-honored occasions as Thanksgiving and Fourth of July, when Uncle Tim persisted in brushing down the cobwebs, and letting in a little daylight.
Pete and Jonathan were raking hay, in front of the house, when the stage drove up with Kitty. They had cased themselves in an impenetrable armor of reserve, determined to take as little notice as possible of their city cousin. Kitty sprang lightly to the ground, and Pete, being the boldest man of the two, advanced to give her a welcome. There was no withstanding her gay, good-humored smile, and no resisting the dainty little hand that was extended to clasp his rough palm. Pete's reserve vanished in the sunshine of her smile; he thought her "a little the prettiest girl he ever saw," and for the first time in his life distrusted his ability to "make an impression." Aunt Betsey smiled a grim dyspeptic welcome, and Kitty, nothing daunted, seated herself on the kitchen doorstep, among a brood of chickens, and began fanning herself with a huge plantain leaf. "How very delicious this all is!" said she, as the cool breeze lifted the curls from her forehead. "What a charming little brook that is yonder! and what a fine tree! and, O,
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that must be Uncle Tim coming up the lane with the hay-cart! I do love to ride on a hay-cart." And away she bounded to meet him. Pete looked after her in a sort of amazed bewilderment, and wished he was as old as his father when he saw her kiss him! Uncle Tim was delighted with his niece, and even Aunt Betsey's muscles began to relax when Kitty insisted on turning out tea and waiting on her uncle. The next morning she was up with the lark, had sketched the great tree under the window, trained a stray rosebush over the door-way, and taken a general survey of the premises, including the mysterious "best parlor."
When Uncle Tim came home, weary, to his dinner, Kitty handed him a glass of milk, cool and sweet; brought him a basin to lave his hands and face, and then drew him gently toward the best parlor. What a metamorphosis! The stiff green paper curtains had disappeared, and simple white muslin was gracefully looped in their place. A vase of wild flowers, exquisitely arranged, stood on the little table. A distorted drawing of "Time with his scythe and hour-glass" was skilfully concealed under a frame of evergreen. The blinds were but partially closed, and every breeze wafted in a fragrant shower of rose-leaves; and, better than all, Aunt Betsey sat in the corner, with her knitting and footstool to her mind, and something very like her old smile playing round the corners of her mouth.
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"I wish we could keep you here always," said Uncle Tim, as his brown hand rested on her white forehead. "You are a ray of sunshine yourself!"
"I never'll say any more agin city folks," said Aunt Betsey, "except that they are not all like Kitty."
Days flew by like magic, and Kitty was here, and there, and everywhere; skimming the ground like a swallow on the wing; down in the meadow with Uncle Tim, "taking after;" then in the barn with Pete, petting the pony; now in the garden culling flowers; then, with her dimpled arms bare, preparing some little dainty "for Uncle Tim's supper." Aunt Betsey forgot her "last complaint;" the boys grew fond of staying in the house, and Kitty had a general admiration for everything on the farm, down to the speckled chicken. Meanwhile, her city adorers grew desperate at her long absence, and one, more determined than the rest, made up his mind to try if his wooing would not be more prosperous in the country than in the city. A shrewd calculation, Mr. Frank! there were ugly, crooked stiles to be helped over! There were dim, fragrant old woods to traverse, in search of wild flowers; there were cool, delicious sunsets, and balmy, still moonlight evenings; and little Miss Kitty began to think Frank had "improved wonderfully;" and that it would be very ridiculous for her to keep up stiff city manners at "Sweet Briar Farm." Uncle Tim saw "which way the wind blew,"
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as he said, but wisely kept his own counsel; and when Frank, proud and happy, drove off triumphantly with their pretty cousin, Pete and Jonathan both agreed that very nice, warm-hearted people might be "raised" even in the artificial atmosphere of a city.
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"THE ANGEL-CHILD."
Little Mabel had no mother. She was slight, and sweet, and fragile, like her type, the lily of the valley. Her little hand, as you took it in yours, seemed almost to melt in your clasp. She had large, dark eyes, whose depths, with all your searching, you might fail to fathom. Her cheek was very pale, save when some powerful emotion lent it a passing flush; her fair, open brow might have defied an angel's scrutiny; her little footfall was noiseless as a falling snow-flake; and her voice was sweet and low as the last note of the bird ere it folds its head under its wing for nightly slumber.
The house in which Mabel lived was large and splendid. You would have hesitated to crush with your foot the bright flowers on the thick, rich carpet. The rare old pictures on the walls were marred by no envious cross-lights. Light and shade were artistically disposed. Beautiful statues, which the sculptor, dream-inspired, had risen from a feverish couch to finish, lay bathed in the rosy light which streamed through the silken curtains. Obsequious servants glided in and out, as if
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taught by instinct to divine the unspoken wants of their mistress.
I said the little Mabel had no mother; and yet there was a lady, fair and bright, of whose beautiful lip, and large, dark eyes, and graceful limbs, little Mabel's were the mimic counterpart. Poets, artists and sculptors had sung, and sketched, and modelled her charms. Nature had been most prodigal of adornment. Rhere was only one little thing she had forgotten,--the Lady Mabel had no soul.
Not that she forgot to deck little Mabel's limbs with costliest fabrics of most unique fashioning. Not that every shining ringlet on that graceful little head was not arranged, by Mademoiselle Jennet, in strict obedience to orders; not that a large nursery was not fitted up luxuriously at the top of the house, filled with toys which its little owner never cared to look at; not that the Lady Mabel's silken robe did not sweep, once a week, with a queenly grace through the apartment, to see if the mimic wardrobe provided for its little mistress fitted becomingly, or needed replenishing, or was kept in order by the smart French maid. Still, as I said before, the little Mabel had no mother!
See her, as she stands there by the nursery window, crushing her bright ringlets in the palm of her tiny hand. Her large eyes glow; her cheek flushes, then pales; now the little breast heaves; for the gorgeous west is one sea
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of molten gold. Each bright tint thrills her with strange rapture. She almost holds her breath, as they deepen, then fade and die away. And now the last bright beam disappears behind the hills, and the soft, gray twilight comes creeping on. Amid its deepening shadows, one bright star springs suddenly to its place in the heavens. Little Mabel cannot tell why the warm tears are coursing down her sweet face; or why her limbs tremble, and her heart beats so fast; or why she dreads lest the shrill voice of Mademoiselle Jennet should break the spell. She longs to soar, like a bird, or a bright angel. She had a nurse once, who told her "there was a God." She wants to know if He holds that bright star in its place. She wants to know if heaven is a long way off, and if she shall ever be a bright angel; and she would like to say a little prayer, her heart is so full, if she only knew how; but, poor, sweet little Mabel,--she has no mother!
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NOT A "MODEL MINISTER."
What a pity people will not fulfil their destiny, and stay in their own proper niche in this world's gallery! Why will they mistake their vocation? Now don't think this is a great portico before a little building, for the matter I am about to speak of is a "crying evil."
Yesterday was a beautiful Sunday,--just such a day as makes one feel devotional, whether or no;--quiet and still, soft and balmy. Little children,--the flowers and poetry of life's wayside,--looking fresh and sweet as if the Saviour's hands had just blessed them; and fathers and mothers, forgetting life's cares and turmoil, to look heavenward; the dim, subdued light of the time-honored chapel; the grand, solemn voluntary on the organ,--all were suggestive and impressive. The clergyman rose, and read that beautiful hymn,--
"There is a land of pure delight."
Shade of Watts!--how it was murdered! Commas, semicolons and periods, of no account at all. The perspiration stood in drops on my forehead. I could have rushed through the eye of a needle, had I as many humps
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on my back as a camel! Well, the singing brought me to a little;--revived me in time for a fresh--crucifixion! Why need he have selected the beautiful story of the little ewe lamb? Such a sledge-hammer, wooden delivery! His voice and right hand went up and down together, as if they were keeping time on a wager. I could not stand it;--I took up the hymn-book to read, till I remembered that I should respect "the Master," though I might dislike the messenger. "O, your heart was not right!" I beg your pardon;--I started fair; never felt so good in my life, till he knocked it all in the head! O, I so love beauty and harmony in everything! A very good, careful merchant was spoiled when that black coat was put on; somebody ought to tell him of it,--I dare not! He was as much out of place in that pulpit, as I should be commanding a ship of war. O-o-h, that hymn is ringing in my ears yet!
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A HAPPY CHRISTMAS.
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"MERRY CHRISTMAS!--HAPPY CHRISTMAS!."
How it flew from one laughing lip to another!--trembling on the tongue of decrepitude; lisped by prattling infancy, and falling like a funeral knell on the ear of the grief-stricken!
Little, busy feet were running to and fro, trumpeting the fame of "good Santa Claus." The pretty blue-eyed maiden blushed, as she placed her Christmas gift on the betrothal finger. Yes, it might have been ten times colder than it was, and nobody would have know it, everybody's heart was so warm.
See that great house opposite! How bright the fire-light falls on those rare old pictures; on marble, and damask, and gold and silver! Now, they are decking a Christmas-tree. Never a diamond sparkled brighter than those children's eyes. 'T is all sunshine at the great house.
Kathleen sits at her low, narrow window. She sees it all. There are no pictures on her walls; though she has known the time when they were decked with the rarest. There is nothing there, now, that the eye would look
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twice upon, save the fair, sad face of its inmate. But it is not of gilded splendor she is thinking.
Last Christmas the wealth of a noble heart was laid at her feet. Now she is written widow! How brief a word to express such a far-reaching sorrow! Walter and she were so happy. "Only one voyage more, dear Katie, and then I will turn landsman, and stay with you on shore;" and so Kathleen clung, weeping, to his neck, and bade him a silent farewell. And since! * * * O, how wearily pass time's leaden footsteps, to the watchful eye and the listening ear of love! "Her eyes were with her heart, and that was far away."
Day after day crept on. Then came, at last, these crushing words,--"All on board perished!"
With that short sentence, the light of hope died out in her heart, and the green earth became one wide sepulchre. The blight fell early on so fair a flower. There were many who would gladly have lit again the love-light in those soft, blue eyes; but from all Kathleen turned, heart-sick, away to her little, lonely room, to toil, and dream, and weep, and pray.
And now the twilight has faded away, and the holy stars, one by one, have come stealing out, to witness her sorrow. There she sits, with a filling eye and an aching heart, and watches the merry group yonder. Life is so bright to them; so weary to her, without that dear arm to lean upon. Could she but have pillowed that dying
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head; heard him say but once more, "I love you, Kathleen." But that despairing struggle with those dark, billowy waves; that shriek for "help," where no help could come; that strong arm and brave heart so stricken down! Poor Kathleen!
Blessed sleep!--touch those sad eyes lightly. Torture not that troubled heart with mocking dreams. See, she smiles!--a warm flush creeps to her cheek, and dries away the tear. Sleep has restored the dear one to her. Dream on while you may, sweet Kathleen!
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"That is the house, sir. God bless me, that you should be alive! That one, sir, with the small windows. No light there. Find the way, sir?"
Tap, tap, on the window! Kathleen wakes from that sweet dream to listen. She does not tremble, for grief like hers knows neither hope nor fear. She is soon apparelled, and, shading the small lamp with her little hand, advances to the door. Its flickering ray falls upon the stalwart form before her. What is there in its outline to palsy her tongue, and blanch her cheek? This torturing suspense! If the stranger would but speak!
"Kathleen!"
With one wild cry of joy, she falls upon his neck.
Ah, little Katie! Dreams are not always a mockery! A merry Christmas to you!
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LETA.
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
"Be careful, dear father," said Leta, as she smoothed the old man's gray locks, and placed a little basket in his hand. "Mind the crossings,--you are so hard of hearing, and the streets are so crowded. If you would but wait till I get this work done."
"Never fear," said the old man, taking his staff from the corner; "I shall be back before you hardly know I'm gone. These old limbs won't carry me far. My work is most done, Leta. I shall have my six feet of earth before long, and that's all the richest man in the land can hold at the last."
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Hurry, drive and bustle; coaches, wheelbarrows, carts and omnibuses, dogs and children, ladies and shop-girls, apprentices and masters, each one at tip-top speed, as if they were going to sign a quit- claim to life the next minute. Everybody looking out for number one, and caring little who jostled past, if their rights were not infringed. Very gay the ladies looked in their rainbow dresses; the
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school-room, flushed with delight at their temporary emancipation, and their little owners were trying the strength of their respective lungs in a way that made the old man's deafness a very questionable affliction. The overtasked sempstress, in her shabby little bonnet, looked on hopelessly at the moving panorama. She had become habituated to brick pavements and Babel sounds, an aching side, weary eyes and a dull, dead weight at her heart; and so she creeps home from her daily task,--home to her gloomy attic, to look at the patch of blue sky from her roof window. Now and then a blade of grass, that has forced its way through the brick pavements, brings to her mind the fragrant hay-field, and sunny meadow, and dim old woods of her country home; and she wonders if the little wild-flowers still grow in their favorite nook; and if the little brook, where she bathed her feet, goes babbling on as musically as ever; and if the golden moss blossoms out on the rock clefts; and if the wind makes sweet leaf-music in the tall tree-tops; and if the bright sunset clouds still rest like a glory on the mountain-brow; and if the little lake lies like a sheet of silver in the clear moonbeams; and if her old father sits in the honeysuckle porch, that the wind may lift the silver hairs from his heated temples; and if her little brother and sister still sit under the old shady oak, making tea-sets of acorns.
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Hurry, bustle and drive!--on they go, and the little sempstress disappears around the corner with the crowd.
A shriek, a shout! Poor, old man!--there he lies under the horses' hoofs, his gray hairs trampled in the dust, struggling, with what strength he may, for the remnant of his poor life. The coachman "was not to blame." Nobody is ever "to blame," now-a-days! So he swore as he dismounted, and dragging the old man, covered with dust and blood, to the sidewalk, jumped on his coach-box, cracked his whip, and thanked his stars it was "nothing but an old beggar-man, whom nobody cared for." And the young physician, whose maiden sign was that morning hung out the door, popped his head out the window, took a professional bird's-eye view of the case,--sighed, as he returned to this cigar, that accidents always seemed to happen, now-a-days, to people from whom one could not get a fee. It was a case he did not feel called upon to notice. His net was spread for golden fish.
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THE MODEL STEP-MOTHER.
Gratifies every childish desire, how injurious soever, or unreasonable, and yet maintains the most perfect government;--is perfectly willing her step-children's relatives should feed them to surfeiting, with pickles, preserves, and sugar,--meekly holding herself in readiness for a two months' siege by a sickbed rather than venture a remonstrance;--has no objection to their being stopped on the way to school, by a self-appointed committee of Paul Prys in petticoats, to pass an examination as to the fitness of their shoe-strings, pinafores and satchels;--always lets "the children" take papa's two hands going to church, and walks behind herself, if the neighbors think best;--is quite charmed to welcome a stage-load of their relatives, who come on a foraging expedition, to see "how the dear children are treated;"--looks as sweet as a June morning, when she finds them peeping into tea-caddies, and punching their knuckles into the bread, "to see if it has riz;"--goes through the catechism, without flinching, from the price of brown soap and the wages of her cook, to the straw mat in the
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entry, and the trimming on her Sunday gown;--is perfectly willing to see them holding little, private caucuses with the juveniles, who are keen enough to see which way they are expected to answer;--shuts her own children up in a dark room, if they make any objection to being used for a pincushion, or to being scalped, one hair at a time, by the strange brood;--after wearing herself to a skeleton trying to please everybody, has the satisfaction of hearing herself called "a cruel, hard-hearted step-mother!"
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A PAGE FROM A WOMAN'S HEART;
OR, FEMALE HEROISM.
"How did you come in possession of this?" said a young man, directing the pawnbroker's attention to a small, ruby pin in the show-case.
"That? O, that was brought here last night, by a prettyish young woman, who seemed to be in a great fluster about the money; and so I bought it of her."
"How did she look? Had she blue eyes? Was she tall and slender?"
"Lord bless your soul!" said the pawnbroker, "I has hundreds of 'em in here every day; I never looks twice at 'em. She was a broken-down lady, I reckon. Somebody said she lived up that court yonder. Like to redeem the brooch, sir?"
"Yes, certainly," said Ernest; and, paying the extortioner five times what he had given for it, he deposited it in his vest pocket.
"Good God! that Agnes Kearn should come to this!" was his first exclamation on reaching the street. "That brooch, that I have seen sparkle on her snowy neck thou-
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sands of times, when I could have kissed the very ground her little foot trod upon! Agnes in a pawnbroker's shop!" And he reeled and leaned for support against a jutting wall of the old building. Just then, a little girl tripped past, and, striking her foot against the curbstone, fell heavily against him. Ernest raised her in a moment, and kissing her little, innocent face, was about releasing her, when the thought struck him that she might assist him in his search for Agnes.
"Where do you live, pretty one?" said he, looking into her bright blue eyes.
"I can't tell," said the child, blushing; "my mamma bids me not talk to strangers. Won't you please put me down, sir?"
"Yes, certainly," said Ernest, as he saw her little lip begin to quiver; "only tell me your name first."
"I can't tell," said she again, with a womanly decision that would have amused him at any other time. So, putting her gently down upon the pavement, he prepared to follow her at a distance. There was something in the expression of her face that interested him,--that reminded him of one he had loved, O, how deeply! And then he counted the weary years that had intervened since her marriage. Yes; it might be her child.
On she went, little Minnie, turning corner after corner, with the speed of an antelope, then disappeared up the
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small, dingy court, into the doorway of a small, black house, never once turning her graceful little head.
Ernest followed; she opened a small door, and, for getting in her haste to close it after her, he heard her say,--almost breathless from speed and agitation,--"I did n't tell mamma; I did n't tell. The gentleman asked me my name, and where I lived; but,--kiss me, mamma,--I certainly did n't tell him."
"Dear child," said the mother, as she gave her a kiss.
That voice! there was but one in the wide world that could so thrill him.
"O, mamma, here he is!" said Minnie, as she tried to close the door. "I certainly did n't tell him," and she began to sob piteously.
"Agnes! Ernest!" They were simple words to convey so much meaning! "You husband, Agnes, is he dead? Why do I find you here?" She shook her head, and turned deadly pale.
"What then?" said Ernest, drawing himself up as if he were already called upon to protect her.
"Dead to me," said Agnes, in a low voice.
Ernest took from his pocket the small brooch. "You must have suffered much, ere you would have parted with this, Agnes. It has told me a silent tale of misery, that I will not pain your heart to echo. I ask you not of him. It is enough for me, that he is living, while you
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are suffering here. I will not curse him in your presence; but, Agnes, you must give me the right of an old friend to care for you; you must leave this wretched place;" and he looked first at her, then at the miserable surroundings.
"Your father, Agnes! does he know of this? Is money still his god?"
Agnes replied only by her tears.
"Tell me,--how have you lived?" said Ernest.
She pointed to a small escritoire in the corner of the room.
"Slow starvation!" said he contemptuously. "This is folly, Agnes. Just look at your position; deserted, from avaricious motives, by those who should rally around you in your hour of trial; wasting your youth and health in humbling yourself for employment to those who can neither understand your position nor appreciate yourself. Agnes, give me,--if I may claim no dearer title,--a brother's right to provide and care for you."
Agnes Kearn rose from her chair, pale, but calm. "Listen to me, Ernest. What I have been, you know; what I am now, by God's dark providence, you see. That I have suffered more keenly than even you, who read my heart so well, can dream, I acknowledge. Nothing that meets my eye here that is not coarse and repulsive. I have deprived myself of food, that my child might not hunger. I have toiled till morn-
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ing for my daily bread. I have no earthly father save in name; but through all this, Ernest, I have maintained my self-respect, and I would rather die than take one dollar, even as a loan, from you. Nay, hear me out," said she, laying her hand upon his arm, as he strode impatiently across the room. "This poor, weary heart is tried and tasked to the utmost. Like Noah's dove, it finds no resting-place. Nay, spare your reproaches, and be generous. Think you it costs that heart nothing to turn coldly away, and say Nay?" and her voice trembled, and her eyes filled. "Ernest, my heart may not echo back your words of kindness; the love that is born of sorrow is strong, and wild, and deep. Leave me, Ernest. Do not deceive yourself; it is not a brother's heart you offer me. I must toil on, unaided by you. The night has been long, tedious and starless; the morning must dawn ere long. I will wait and trust. If I forsake not myself, God will not forsake me."
"Once more,--shall I leave you, Agnes?" said the young man, as he took her hand.
"God wills it," was her low reply.
The door closed upon Ernest's retreating figure; then her woman's heart gave way. Covering her face with her hands, she wept long and bitterly; then came a holy calm,--a peace which only those may know who are self-conquerors.
And where was that "earthly father?" He ate and
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drank and slept, careless who befriended his child; careless of the more than mortal strength she needed to keep that warm and tried heart from yielding to the pressure of poverty, temptation and despair. "Like as a father pitieth his children" were unmeaning words to poor Agnes.
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"This is a very correct translation," said the pedantic Professor Boggs; "very well done, madam; could n't have done better myself; and that's the highest praise I can bestow upon it. I suppose you expect to be well paid for it, like all the rest of our applicants for this sort o' thing."
"I need all you can give me," said Agnes dejectedly; "it has cost me a week of unremitting labor."
"V-e-r-y p-o-s-s-i-b-l-e," said the professor, looking at her through his glasses; "I'm told you are the daughter of old Mr. Kearn; he is a man who is well off; how came you to be reduced to this extremity?" (Cruel, avaricious father! the dagger again driven home to that suffering heart by your neglectful hand!)
Agnes replied, "You will excuse me, sir, from entering into the details of my private history. If the translation pleases you, I shall be happy to dispose of it; if not, I must look elsewhere."
Mr. Boggs returned it, with a stately bow. Agnes
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found her way into the open air. The excitement of her interview with Ernest, fasting and fatigue, "told" at last. Her steps became unsteady, her sight failed her; she reeled, and fell upon the pavement.
"Drunk!" said one of the bystanders, with a sneer.
"A fallen angel!" said another.
"Take her to the watch-house," said a third.
"Here, little girl," said a rowdy lad, seizing a child, who seemed quite bewildered by the crowd, "don't you want to get a sight of the drunken woman?"
"No, no," said the child, struggling to free herself as he lifted her above their heads; then, with a piercing shriek, as her eyes fell on the prostrate form, "O, it is my mamma! my own dear mamma! she's dead! my mamma is dead!" and making her way to her side, she kissed her pale lips, and sobbed, and clung to her neck, till there was not a dry eye in the crowd.
"Mr. Kearn," said a little, dapper man, as he touched that gentleman's gold-headed cane, "do you see that crowd yonder?"
"Yes--yes--what of it? A crowd is nothing. What of it?"
"Nothing in particular,--only they are looking at your daughter Agnes, who has fainted from fasting and hard work; and your little grandchild is sobbing over her as if her heart would break. Now, look here, sir! I respect gray hairs; but if it was n't for that, I would call
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you (what your Bible calls those who fail to provide for their own households) 'worse than an infidel!' Now I am a rich, childless old man, and I'm going to take her off your hands. She told my nephew, Ernest, when she nobly refused his assistance, that 'if she did not forsake herself, God would not forsake her;'--and He has not! She is my daughter from this day, sir, and may God forgive your avarice!"