 | A MODERN CINDERELLA;
OR, THE LITTLE OLD SHOE.
HOW IT WAS LOST. Hospital sketches and Camp and fireside stories |  |
5. A MODERN CINDERELLA;
OR, THE LITTLE OLD SHOE.
HOW IT WAS LOST.
AMONG green New-England hills stood an ancient
house, many-gabled, mossy-roofed, and quaintly
built, but picturesque and pleasant to the eye; for a
brook ran babbling through the orchard that encompassed
it about, a garden-plot stretched upward to the whispering
birches on the slope, and patriarchal elms stood sentinel
upon the lawn, as they had stood almost a century
ago, when the Revolution rolled that way and found
them young.
One summer morning, when the air was full of country
sounds, — of mowers in the meadow, blackbirds by
the brook, and the low of cattle on the hill-side, the old
house wore its cheeriest aspect, and a certain humble
history began.
“Nan!”
“Yes, Di.”
And a head, brown-locked, blue-eyed, soft-featured,
looked in at the open door in answer to the call.
“Just bring me the third volume of `Wilhelm Meister,'
there's a dear. It's hardly worth while to rouse such
a restless ghost as I, when I'm once fairly laid.”
As she spoke, Di pushed up her black braids, thumped
the pillow of the couch where she was lying, and with
eager eyes went down the last page of her book.
“Nan!”
“Yes, Laura,” replied the girl, coming back with the
third volume for the literary cormorant, who took it with
a nod, still too intent upon the “Confessions of a Fair
Saint” to remember the failings of a certain plain sinner.
“Don't forget the Italian cream for dinner. I depend
upon it; for it's the only thing fit for me this hot weather.”
And Laura, the cool blonde, disposed the folds of her
white gown more gracefully about her, and touched up
the eyebrow of the Minerva she was drawing.
“Little daughter!”
“Yes, father.”
“Let me have plenty of clean collars in my bag, for I
must go at three; and some of you bring me a glass of
cider in about an hour, — I shall be in the lower garden.”
The old man went away into his imaginary paradise,
and Nan into that domestic purgatory on a summer day,
— the kitchen. There were vines about the windows,
sunshine on the floor, and order everywhere; but it was
haunted by a cooking-stove, that family altar whence such
varied incense rises to appease the appetite of household
gods, before which such dire incantations are pronounced
to ease the wrath and woe of the priestess of the fire,
and about which often linger saddest memories of wasted
temper, time, and toil.
Nan was tired, having risen with the birds, hurried,
having many cares those happy little housewives never
know, and disappointed in a hope that hourly “dwindled,
peaked, and pined.” She was too young to make the
patient to be burdened with the labor others should have
shared, too light of heart to be pent up when earth and
sky were keeping a blithe holiday. But she was one of
that meek sisterhood who, thinking humbly of themselves,
believe they are honored by being spent in the service of
less conscientious souls, whose careless thanks seem
quite reward enough.
To and fro she went, silent and diligent, giving the
grace of willingness to every humble or distasteful task
the day had brought her; but some malignant sprite
seemed to have taken possession of her kingdom, for
rebellion broke out everywhere. The kettles would boil
over most obstreperously, — the mutton refused to cook
with the meek alacrity to be expected from the nature of
a sheep, — the stove, with unnecessary warmth of temper,
would glow like a fiery furnace, — the irons would
scorch, — the linens would dry, — and spirits would fail,
though patience never.
Nan tugged on, growing hotter and wearier, more
hurried and more hopeless, till at last the crisis came; for
in one fell moment she tore her gown, burnt her hand,
and smutched the collar she was preparing to finish in
the most unexceptionable style. Then, if she had been
a nervous woman, she would have scolded; being a
gentle girl, she only “lifted up her voice and wept.”
“Behold, she watereth her linen with salt tears, and
bewaileth herself because of much tribulation. But, lo!
help cometh from afar: a strong man bringeth lettuce
wherewith to stay her, plucketh berries to comfort her
withal, and clasheth cymbals that she may dance for joy.”
The voice came from the porch, and, with her hope
who stood there with a basket on his arm; and as
she saw his honest eyes, kind lips, and helpful hands, the
girl thought this plain young man the comeliest, most
welcome sight she had beheld that day.
“How good of you, to come through all this heat, and
not to laugh at my despair!” she said, looking up like a
grateful child, as she led him in.
“I only obeyed orders, Nan; for a certain dear old
lady had a motherly presentiment that you had got into
a domestic whirlpool, and sent me as a sort of life preserver.
So I took the basket of consolation, and came
to fold my feet upon the carpet of contentment in the
tent of friendship.”
As he spoke, John gave his own gift in his mother's
name, and bestowed himself in the wide window-seat,
where morning-glories nodded at him, and the old butternut
sent pleasant shadows dancing to and fro.
His advent, like that of Orpheus in Hades, seemed to
soothe all unpropitious powers with a sudden spell. The
fire began to slacken, the kettles began to lull, the meat
began to cook, the irons began to cool, the clothes began
to behave, the spirits began to rise, and the collar was
finished off with most triumphant success. John watched
the change, and, though a lord of creation, abased himself
to take compassion on the weaker vessel, and was
seized with a great desire to lighten the homely tasks
that tried her strength of body and soul. He took a comprehensive
glance about the room; then, extracting a
dish from the closet, proceeded to imbrue his hands in
the strawberries' blood.
“Oh, John, you needn't do that; I shall have time
these things. See, I'm getting on finely now, — you're a
judge of such matters; isn't that nice?”
As she spoke, Nan offered the polished absurdity for
inspection with innocent pride.
“Oh that I were a collar, to sit upon that hand!”
sighed John; adding, argumentatively, “As to the
berry question, I will merely say, that, as a matter of
public safety, you'd better leave me alone; for such is
the destructiveness of my nature, that I shall certainly
eat something hurtful, break something valuable, or sit
upon something crushable, unless you let me concentrate
my energies by knocking off these young fellows' hats,
and preparing them for their doom.”
Looking at the matter in a charitable light, Nan consented,
and went cheerfully on with her work, wondering
how she could have thought ironing an infliction, and
been so ungrateful for the blessings of her lot.
“Where's Sally?” asked John, looking vainly for the
energetic functionary who usually pervaded that region like
a domestic police-woman, a terror to cats, dogs, and men.
“She has gone to her cousin's funeral, and won't be
back till Monday. There seems to be a great fatality
among her relations, for one dies, or comes to grief in
some way, about once a month. But I don't blame poor
Sally for wanting to get away from this place now and
then. I think I could find it in my heart to murder an
imaginary friend or two, if I had to stay here long.”
And Nan laughed so blithely, it was a pleasure to
hear her.
“Where's Di?” asked John, seized with a most unmasculine
curiosity all at once.
“She is in Germany, with `Wilhelm Meister,' but,
though `lost to sight, to memory dear'; for I was just
thinking, as I did her things, how clever she is to like all
kinds of books that I don't understand at all, and to write
things that make me cry with pride and delight. Yes,
she's a talented dear, though she hardly knows a needle
from a crow-bar, and will make herself one great blot
some of these days, when the `divine afflatus' descends
upon her, I'm afraid.”
And Nan rubbed away with sisterly zeal at Di's forlorn
hose and inky pocket-handkerchiefs.
“Where is Laura?” proceeded the inquisitor.
“Well, I might say that she was in Italy; for she is
copying some fine thing of Raphael's, or Michael Angelo's,
or some great creature's or other; and she looks so picturesque
in her pretty gown, sitting before her easel, that
it's really a sight to behold, and I've peeped two or three
times to see how she gets on.”
And Nan bestirred herself to prepare the dish wherewith
her picturesque sister desired to prolong her artistic
existence.
“Where is your father?” John asked again, checking
off each answer with a nod and a little frown.
“He is down in the garden, deep in some plan about
melons, the beginning of which seems to consist in stamping
the first proposition in Euclid all over the bed, and
then poking a few seeds into the middle of each. Why,
bless the dear man! I forgot it was time for the cider.
Wouldn't you like to take it to him, John? He'd love
to consult you; and the lane is so cool, it does one's
heart good to look at it.”
John glanced from the steamy kitchen to the shadowy
industry, —
“I couldn't possibly go, Nan, I've so much on my
hands. You'll have to do it yourself. `Mr. Robert of
Lincoln' has something for your private ear; and the
lane is so cool, it will do one's heart good to see you in
it. Give my regards to your father, and, in the words
of `Little Mabel's' mother, with slight variations, —
This day I cannot run,
For the pots are boiling over
And the mutton isn't done.”'
“I will; but please, John, go in to the girls and be
comfortable; for I don't like to leave you here,” said Nan.
“You insinuate that I should pick at the pudding or
skim the cream, do you? Ungrateful girl, leave me!”
And, with melodramatic sternness, John extinguished
her in his broad-brimmed hat, and offered the glass like
a poisoned goblet.
Nan took it, and went smiling away. But the lane
might have been the Desert of Sahara, for all she knew
of it; and she would have passed her father as unconcernedly
as if he had been an apple-tree, had he not
called out, —
“Stand and deliver, little woman!”
She obeyed the venerable highwayman, and followed
him to and fro, listening to his plans and directions with
a mute attention that quite won his heart.
“That hop-pole is really an ornament now, Nan; this
sage-bed needs weeding, — that's good work for you girls;
the cool of the evening, after I'm gone.”
To all of which remarks Nan gave her assent; though
the hop-pole took the likeness of a tall figure she had seen
in the porch, the sage-bed, curiously enough, suggested
a strawberry ditto, the lettuce vividly reminded her of
certain vegetable productions a basket had brought, and
the bobolink only sung in his cheeriest voice, “Go
home, go home! he is there!”
She found John, — having made a Freemason of himself,
by assuming her little apron, — meditating over the
partially spread table, lost in amaze at its desolate appearance;
one-half its proper paraphernalia having been forgotten,
and the other half put on awry. Nan laughed
till the tears ran over her cheeks, and John was gratified
at the efficacy of his treatment; for her face had brought
a whole harvest of sunshine from the garden, and all her
cares seemed to have been lost in the windings of the lane.
“Nan, are you in hysterics?” cried Di, appearing, book
in hand. “John, you absurd man, what are you doing?”
“I'm helpin' the maid-of-all-work, please marm.”
And John dropped a courtesy with his limited apron.
Di looked ruffled, for the merry words were a covert
reproach; and with her usual energy of manner and
freedom of speech she tossed “Wilhelm” out of the
window, exclaiming, irefully, —
“That's always the way; I'm never where I ought to
be, and never think of anything till it's too late; but it's
all Goethe's fault. What does he write books full of
smart `Phillinas' and interesting `Meisters' for? How
can I be expected to remember that Sally's away, and
people must eat, when I'm hearing the `Harper' and little
my work, instead of shaking me and telling me to do it
myself? Take that toasted child away, and fan her like
a Chinese mandarin, while I dish up this dreadful dinner.”
John and Nan fled like chaff before the wind, while
Di, full of remorseful zeal, charged at the kettles, and
wrenched off the potatoes' jackets, as if she were revengefully
pulling her own hair. Laura had a vague
intention of going to assist; but, getting lost among the
lights and shadows of Minerva's helmet, forgot to appear
till dinner had been evoked from chaos, and peace was
restored.
At three o'clock, Di performed the coronation ceremony
with her father's best hat; Laura retied his old-fashioned
neck-cloth, and arranged his white locks with an eye to
saintly effect; Nan appeared with a beautifully written
sermon, and suspicious ink-stains on the fingers that
slipped it into his pocket; John attached himself to the
bag; and the patriarch was escorted to the door of his
tent with the triumphal procession which usually attended
his outgoings and incomings. Having kissed the female
portion of his tribe, he ascended the venerable chariot,
which received him with audible lamentation, as its
rheumatic joints swayed to and fro.
“Good-by, my dears! I shall be back early on Monday
morning; so take care of yourselves, and be sure
you all go and hear Mr. Emerboy preach to-morrow. My
regards to your mother, John. Come, Solon!”
But Solon merely cocked one ear, and remained a fixed
fact; for long experience had induced the philosophic
beast to take for his motto the Yankee maxim, “Be sure
not right; therefore he did not go ahead.
“Oh, by the way, girls, don't forget to pay Tommy
Mullein for bringing up the cow; he expects it to-night.
And, Di, don't sit up till daylight, nor let Laura stay out
in the dew. Now, I believe, I'm off. Come, Solon!”
But Solon only cocked the other ear, gently agitated
his mortified tail, as premonitory symptoms of departure,
and never stirred a hoof, being well aware that it always
took three “comes” to make a “go.”
“Bless me! I've forgotten my spectacles. They are
probably shut up in that volume of Herbert on my table.
Very awkward to find myself without them ten miles
away. Thank you, John. Don't neglect to water the
lettuce, Nan, and don't overwork yourself, my little
`Martha.' Come —”
At this juncture Solon suddenly went off at a trot,
and the benign old pastor disappeared, humming “Hebron”
to the creaking accompaniment of the bulgy
chaise.
Laura retired to take her siesta; Nan made a small
carbonaro of herself by sharpening her sister's crayons,
and Di, as a sort of penance for past sins, tried her
patience over a piece of knitting, in which she soon
originated a somewhat remarkable pattern, by dropping
every third stitch, and seaming ad libitum. If John had
been a gentlemanly creature, with refined tastes, he
would have elevated his feet, and made a nuisance of
himself by indulging in a “weed”; but being only an
uncultivated youth, with a rustic regard for pure air and
womankind in general, he kept his head uppermost, and
talked like a man, instead of smoking like a chimney.
“It will probably be six months before I sit here
again, tangling your threads and maltreating your
needles, Nan. How glad you must feel to hear it!”
he said, looking up from a thoughtful examination of the
hard-working little citizens of the Industrial Community
settled in Nan's work-basket.
“No, I'm very sorry; for I like to see you coming
and going as you used to, years ago, and I miss you
very much when you are gone, John,” answered truthful
Nan, whittling away in a sadly wasteful manner, as her
thoughts flew back to the happy times when a little lad
rode a little lass in the big wheelbarrow, and never spilt
his load, — when two brown heads bobbed daily side by
side to school, and the favorite play was “Babes in the
Wood,” with Di for a somewhat peckish robin to cover
the small martyrs with any vegetable substance that lay
at hand. Nan sighed as she thought of these things,
and John regarded the battered thimble on his finger-tip
with increased benignity of aspect as he heard the sound.
“When are you going to make your fortune, John,
and get out of that disagreeable hardware concern?”
demanded Di, pausing after an exciting “round,” and
looking almost as much exhausted as if it had been a
veritable pugilistic encounter.
“I intend to make it by plunging still deeper into
`that disagreeable hardware concern'; for, next year,
if the world keeps rolling, and John Lord is alive, he
will become a partner, and then — and then —”
The color sprang up into the young man's cheek, his
eyes looked out with a sudden light, and his hand
seemed involuntarily to close, as if he saw and seized
some invisible delight.
“What will happen then, John?” asked Nan, with a
wondering glance.
“I'll tell you in a year, Nan, — wait till then.” And
John's strong hand unclosed, as if the desired good were
not to be his yet.
Di looked at him, with a knitting-needle stuck into her
hair, saying, like a sarcastic unicorn, —
“I really thought you had a soul above pots and
kettles, but I see you haven't; and I beg your pardon
for the injustice I have done you.”
Not a whit disturbed, John smiled, as if at some
mighty pleasant fancy of his own, as he replied, —
“Thank you, Di; and as a further proof of the utter
depravity of my nature, let me tell you that I have the
greatest possible respect for those articles of ironmongery.
Some of the happiest hours of my life have been
spent in their society; some of my pleasantest associations
are connected with them; some of my best lessons
have come to me from among them; and when my
fortune is made, I intend to show my gratitude by taking
three flat-irons rampant for my coat-of-arms.”
Nan laughed merrily, as she looked at the burns on
her hand; but Di elevated the most prominent feature
of her brown countenance, and sighed despondingly, —
“Dear, dear, what a disappointing world this is! I
no sooner build a nice castle in Spain, and settle a smart
young knight therein, than down it comes about my
ears; and the ungrateful youth, who might fight dragons
if he chose, insists on quenching his energies in a saucepan,
and wasting his life on a series of gridirons. Ah,
if I were a man, I would do something better than that,
and prove that heroes are not all dead yet. But, instead
temper with absurdities like this.” And Di wrestled
with her knitting as if it were Fate, and she were paying
off the grudge she owed it.
John leaned toward her, saying, with a look that made
his plain face handsome, —
“Di, my father began the world as I begin it, and
left it the richer for the useful years he spent here, —
as I hope I may leave it some half-century hence. His
memory makes that dingy shop a pleasant place to me;
for there he made an honest name, led an honest life,
and bequeathed to me his reverence for honest work.
That is a sort of hardware, Di, that no rust can corrupt,
and which will always prove a better fortune than any
your knights can win with sword and shield. I think
I am not quite a clod, or quite without some aspirations
above money-getting; for I have a great ambition to
become as good a man, and leave as green a memory
behind me, as old John Lord.”
Di winked violently, and seamed five times in perfect
silence; but quiet Nan had the gift of knowing when to
speak, and by a timely word saved her sister from a
thunder-shower and her stocking from destruction.
“John, have you seen Philip since you wrote about
your last meeting with him?”
The question was for John, but the soothing tone was
for Di, who gratefully accepted it, and perked up again
with speed.
“Yes; and I meant to have told you about it,” answered
John, plunging into the subject at once. “I saw
him a few days before I came home, and found him more
disconsolate than ever, — `just ready to go to the deuce,'
as well as I could, telling him his wisest plan was to defer
his proposed expedition, and go on as steadily as he had
begun, — thereby proving the injustice of your father's
prediction concerning his want of perseverance, and the
sincerity of his affection. I told him the change in
Laura's health and spirits was silently working in his
favor, and that a few more months of persistent endeavor
would conquer your father's prejudice against him, and
make him a stronger man for the trial and the pain. I
read him bits about Laura from your own and Di's letters,
and he went away, at last, as patient as Jacob, ready
to serve another `seven years' for his beloved Rachel.”
“God bless you for it, John!” cried a fervent voice;
and, looking up, they saw the cold, listless Laura transformed
into a tender girl, all aglow with love and longing,
as she dropped her mask, and showed a living
countenance eloquent with the first passion and softened
by the first grief of her life.
John rose involuntarily in the presence of an innocent
nature whose sorrow needed no interpreter to him. The
girl read sympathy in his brotherly regard, and found
comfort in the friendly voice that asked, half playfully,
half seriously, —
“Shall I tell him that he is not forgotten, even for an
Apollo? that Laura the artist has not conquered Laura
the woman? and predict that the good daughter will yet
prove the happy wife?”
With a gesture full of energy, Laura tore her Minerva
from top to bottom, while two great tears rolled down
the cheeks grown pale with hope deferred.
“Tell him I believe all things, hope all things, and that
I never can forget.”
Nan went to her and held her close, leaving the prints
of two loving, but grimy hands upon her shoulders; Di
looked on approvingly, for, though rather stony-hearted
regarding the cause, she fully appreciated the effect; and
John, turning to the window, received the commendations
of a robin swaying on an elm-bough, with sunshine
on its ruddy breast.
The clock struck five, and John declared that he must
go; for, being an old-fashioned soul, he fancied that his
mother had a better right to his last hour than any
younger woman in the land, — always remembering that
“she was a widow, and he her only son.”
Nan ran away to wash her hands, and came back with
the appearance of one who had washed her face also, —
and so she had, but there was a difference in the water.
“Play I'm your father, girls, and remember it will be
six months before `that John' will trouble you again.”
With which preface the young man kissed his former
playfellows as heartily as the boy had been wont to do,
when stern parents banished him to distant schools, and
three little maids bemoaned his fate. But times were
changed now, for Di grew alarmingly rigid during the
ceremony; Laura received the salute like a grateful
queen; and Nan returned it with heart and eyes and
tender lips, making such an improvement on the childish
fashion of the thing, that John was moved to support his
paternal character by softly echoing her father's words,
— “Take care of yourself, my little `Martha.”'
Then they all streamed after him along the garden-path,
with the endless messages and warnings girls are
at his heart, went away, as many another John has
gone, feeling better for the companionship of innocent
maidenhood, and stronger to wrestle with temptation, to
wait, and hope, and work.
“Let's throw a shoe after him for luck, as dear old
`Mrs. Gummidge' did after `David' and the `willin'
Barkis!' Quick, Nan! you always have old shoes on;
toss one, and shout `Good luck!”' cried Di, with one
of her eccentric inspirations.
Nan tore off her shoe, and threw it far along the dusty
road, with a sudden longing to become that auspicious
article of apparel, that the omen might not fail.
Looking backward from the hill-top, John answered
the meek shout cheerily, and took in the group with a
lingering glance: Laura in the shadow of the elms, Di
perched on the fence, and Nan leaning far over the gate,
with her hand above her eyes and the sunshine touching
her brown hair with gold. He waved his hat and turned
away; but the music seemed to die out of the blackbird's
song, and in all the summer landscape his eye saw nothing
but the little figure at the gate.
“Bless and save us! here's a flock of people coming!
My hair is in a toss, and Nan's without her shoe; run!
fly, girls! or the Philistines will be upon us!” cried Di,
tumbling off her perch in sudden alarm.
Three agitated young ladies, with flying draperies and
countenances of mingled mirth and dismay, might have
been seen precipitating themselves into a respectable
mansion with unbecoming haste; but the squirrels were
the only witnesses of this “vision of sudden flight,” and,
being used to ground-and-lofty tumbling, didn't mind it.
When the pedestrians passed, the door was decorously
closed, and no one visible but a young man, who snatched
something out of the road, and marched away again,
whistling with more vigor of tone than accuracy of tune,
— only that, and nothing more.
HOW IT WAS FOUND.
Summer ripened into autumn, and something fairer
than
In Annie's garden grew.”
where as a child she had read her fairy tales, and now
as a woman turned the first pages of a more wondrous
legend still. Lifted above the many-gabled roof, yet not
cut off from the echo of human speech, the little grove
seemed a green sanctuary, fringed about with violets,
and full of summer melody and bloom. Gentle creatures
haunted it, and there was none to make afraid; wood-pigeons
cooed and crickets chirped their shrill roundelays,
anemones and lady-ferns looked up from the moss that
kissed the wanderer's feet. Warm airs were all afloat,
full of vernal odors for the grateful sense, silvery birches
shimmered like spirits of the wood, larches gave their
green tassels to the wind, and pines made airy music
sweet and solemn, as they stood looking heavenward
through veils of summer sunshine or shrouds of wintry
snow. Nan never felt alone now in this charmed wood;
for, when she came into its precincts, once so full of solitude,
all things seemed to wear one shape; familiar eyes
looked at her from the violets in the grass, familiar words
that an unseen influence filled the air with new
delights, and touched earth and sky with a beauty never
seen before. Slowly these May-flowers budded in her
maiden heart, rosily they bloomed, and silently they
waited till some lover of such lowly herbs should catch
their fresh aroma, should brush away the fallen leaves,
and lift them to the sun.
Though the eldest of the three, she had long been
overtopped by the more aspiring girls. But, though she
meekly yielded the reins of government, whenever they
chose to drive, they were soon restored to her again; for
Di fell into literature, and Laura into love. Thus engrossed,
these two forgot many duties which even bluestockings
and innamoratas are expected to perform, and
slowly all the homely humdrum cares that housewives
know became Nan's daily life, and she accepted it without
a thought of discontent. Noiseless and cheerful as
the sunshine, she went to and fro, doing the tasks that
mothers do, but without a mother's sweet reward, holding
fast the numberless slight threads that bind a household
tenderly together, and making each day a beautiful
success.
Di, being tired of running, riding, climbing, and boating,
decided, at last, to let her body rest, and put her
equally active mind through what classical collegians
term “a course of sprouts.” Having undertaken to read
and know everything, she devoted herself to the task with
great energy, going from Sue to Swedenborg with perfect
impartiality, and having different authors as children
have sundry distempers, being fractious while they lasted,
but all the better for them when once over. Carlyle appeared
for, being anything but a “passive bucket,” Di became
prophetic with Mahomet, belligerent with Cromwell, and
made the French Revolution a veritable Reign of Terror
to her family. Goethe and Schiller alternated like fever
and ague; Mephistopheles became her hero, Joan of Arc
her model, and she turned her black eyes red over Egmont
and Wallenstein. A mild attack of Emerson followed,
during which she was lost in a fog; and her
sisters rejoiced inwardly when she emerged, informing
them that
Her wings were furled.”
Poor Di was floundering slowly to her proper place;
but she splashed up a good deal of foam by getting out
of her depth, and rather exhausted herself by trying to
drink the ocean dry.
Laura, after the “midsummer night's dream” that
often comes to girls of seventeen, woke up to find that
youth and love were no match for age and commonsense.
Philip had been flying about the world like a
thistle-down for five-and-twenty years, generous-hearted,
frank, and kind, but with never an idea of the serious
side of life in his handsome head. Great, therefore,
were the wrath and dismay of the enamored thistle-down,
when the father of his love mildly objected to seeing her
begin the world in a balloon, with a very tender but very
inexperienced aeronaut for a guide.
“Laura is too young to `play house' yet, and you are
too unstable to assume the part of lord and master,
Philip. Go and prove that you have prudence, patience,
but not before. I must seem cruel, that I may be truly
kind; believe this, and let a little pain lead you to great
happiness, or show you where you would have made a
blunder.”
The lovers listened, owned the truth of the old man's
words, bewailed their fate, and — yielded: Laura for
love of her father Philip for love of her. He went
away to build a firm foundation for his castle in the air,
and Laura retired into an invisible convent, where she
cast off the world, and regarded her sympathizing sisters
through a grate of superior knowledge and unsharable
grief. Like a devout nun, she worshipped “St. Philip,”
and firmly believed in his miraculous powers. She fancied
that her woes set her apart from common cares, and
slowly fell into a dreamy state, professing no interest in
any mundane matter, but the art that first attracted
Philip. Crayons, bread-crusts and gray paper became
glorified in Laura's eyes; and her one pleasure was to sit
before her easel, day after day, filling her portfolios with
the faces he had once admired. Her sisters observed
that every Bacchus, Piping Faun, or Dying Gladiator
bore some likeness to a comely countenance that heathen
god or hero never owned; and, seeing this, they privately
rejoiced that she had found such solace for her
grief.
Mrs. Lord's keen eye had read a certain newly-written
page in her son's heart, — his first chapter of that romance,
begun in Paradise, whose interest never flags,
whose beauty never fades, whose end can never come
till Love lies dead. With womanly skill she divined the
secret, with motherly discretion she counselled patience,
a healthful herb, its worth lay in its bitterness.
“Love like a man, John, not like a boy, and learn to
know yourself before you take a woman's happiness into
your keeping. You and Nan have known each other all
your lives; yet, till this last visit, you never thought you
loved her more than any other childish friend. It is too
soon to say the words so often spoken hastily — so hard
to be recalled. Go back to your work, dear, for another
year; think of Nan in the light of this new hope; compare
her with comelier, gayer girls; and by absence
prove the truth of your belief. Then, if distance only
makes her dearer, if time only strengthens your affection,
and no doubt of your own worthiness disturbs you, come
back and offer her what any woman should be glad to
take, — my boy's true heart.”
John smiled at the motherly pride of her words, but
answered, with a wistful look, —
“It seems very long to wait, mother. If I could just
ask her for a word of hope, I could be very patient
then.”
“Ah, my dear, better bear one year of impatience
now than a lifetime of regret hereafter. Nan is happy;
why disturb her by a word which will bring the tender
cares and troubles that come soon enough to such conscientious
creatures as herself? If she loves you, time
will prove it; therefore, let the new affection spring and
ripen as your early friendship has done, and it will be all
the stronger for a summer's growth. Philip was rash,
and has to bear his trial now, and Laura shares it with
him. Be more generous, John; make your trial, bear
your doubts alone, and give Nan the happiness without
and wait.”
The young man's eye kindled, and in his heart there
rose a better chivalry, a truer valor, than any Di's
knights had ever known.
“I'll try, mother,” was all he said; but she was satisfied,
for John seldom tried in vain.
“Oh, girls, how splendid you are! It does my heart
good to see my handsome sisters in their best array,”
cried Nan, one mild October night, as she put the last
touches to certain airy raiment fashioned by her own
skilful hands, and then fell back to survey the grand effect.
Di and Laura were preparing to assist at an “event
of the season,” and Nan, with her own locks fallen on
her shoulders for want of sundry combs promoted to her
sisters' heads, and her dress in unwonted disorder for lack
of the many pins extracted in exciting crises of the toilet,
hovered like an affectionate bee about two very full-blown
flowers.
“Laura looks like a cool Undine, with the ivy-wreaths
in her shining hair; and Di has illuminated herself to
such an extent with those scarlet leaves, that I don't
know what great creature she resembles most,” said Nan,
beaming with sisterly admiration.
“Juno, Zenobia and Cleopatra simmered into one,
with a touch of Xantippe, by way of spice. But, to my
eye, the finest woman of the three is the dishevelled
young person embracing the bed-post; for she stays at
home herself, and gives her time and taste to making
homely people fine, — which is a waste of good material,
and an imposition on the public.”
As Di spoke, both the fashion-plates looked affectionately
at the gray-gowned figure; but, being works of
art, they were obliged to nip their feelings in the bud,
and reserve their caresses till they returned to common
life.
“Put on your bonnet, and we'll leave you at Mrs.
Lord's on our way. It will do you good, Nan; and perhaps
there may be news from John,” added Di, as she
bore down upon the door like a man-of-war under full
sail.
“Or from Philip,” sighed Laura, with a wistful look.
Whereupon Nan persuaded herself that her strong
inclination to sit down was owing to want of exercise,
and the heaviness of her eyelids a freak of imagination;
so, speedily smoothing her ruffled plumage, she ran down
to tell her father of the new arrangement.
“Go, my dear, by all means. I shall be writing, and
you will be lonely if you stay. But I must see my girls;
for I caught glimpses of certain surprising phantoms flitting
by the door.”
Nan led the way, and the two pyramids revolved
before him with the rigidity of lay-figures, much to the
good man's edification; for with his fatherly pleasure
there was mingled much mild wonderment at the amplitude
of array.
“Yes, I see my geese are really swans, though there
is such a cloud between us that I feel a long way off, and
hardly know them. But this little daughter is always
available, always my `cricket on the hearth.”'
As he spoke, her father drew Nan closer, kissed her
tranquil face, and smiled content.
“Well, if ever I see picters, I see 'em now, and I declare
bit. Miss Di, with all them boughs in her head, looks
like the Queen of Sheby, when she went a-visitin' What's-his-name;
and if Miss Laura ain't as sweet as a lally-barster
figger, I should like to know what is.”
In her enthusiasm, Sally gambolled about the girls,
flourishing her milk-pan as if about to sound her timbrel
for excess of joy.
Laughing merrily, the two girls bestowed themselves
in the family ark, Nan got up beside Patrick, and Solon,
roused from his slumbers, morosely trundled them away.
But, looking backward with a last “Good-night!” Nan
saw her father still standing at the door with smiling
countenance, and the moonlight falling like a benediction
on his silver hair.
“Betsey shall go up the hill with you, my dear, and
here's a basket of eggs for your father. Give him my
love, and be sure you let me know the next time he is
poorly,” Mrs. Lord said, when her guest rose to depart,
after an hour of pleasant chat.
But Nan never got the gift; for, to her great dismay,
her hostess dropped the basket with a crash, and flew
across the room to meet a tall figure pausing in the
shadow of the door. There was no need to ask who the
new-comer was; for, even in his mother's arms, John
looked over her shoulder with an eager nod to Nan, who
stood among the ruins with never a sign of weariness in
her face, nor the memory of a care at her heart, — for
they all went out when John came in.
“Now tell us how, and why, and when you came.
Take off your coat, my dear! And here are the old
so soon? How have you been? and what makes you so
late to-night? Betsey, you needn't put on your bonnet.
And — oh, my dear boy, have you been to supper
yet?”
Mrs. Lord was a quiet soul, and her flood of questions
was purred softly in her son's ear; for, being a woman,
she must talk, and, being a mother, must pet the one
delight of her life, and make a little festival when the
lord of the manor came home. A whole drove of fatted
calves were metaphorically killed, and a banquet appeared
with speed. John was not one of those romantic
heroes who can go through three volumes of hair-breadth
escapes without the faintest hint of that blessed institution,
dinner; therefore, he partook copiously of everything,
while the two women beamed over each mouthful
with an interest that enhanced its flavor, and urged upon
him cold meat and cheese, pickles and pie, as if dyspepsia
and nightmare were among the lost arts.
Then he opened his budget of news and fed them.
“I was coming next month, according to custom; but
Philip fell upon and so tempted me, that I was driven to
sacrifice myself to the cause of friendship, and up we
came to-night. He would not let me come here till we
had seen your father, Nan; for the poor lad was pining
for Laura, and hoped his good behavior for the past year
would satisfy his judge and secure his recall. We had
a fine talk with your father; and, upon my life, Phil
seemed to have received the gift of tongues, for he made
a most eloquent plea, which I've stowed away for future
use, I assure you. The dear old gentleman was very
kind, told Phil he was satisfied with the success of his
if all went well, should receive his reward in the spring.
It must be a delightful sensation to know you have made
a fellow-creature as happy as those words made Phil
to-night.”
John paused, and looked musingly at the matronly
tea-pot, as if he saw a wondrous future in its shine.
Nan twinkled off the drops that rose at the thought of
Laura's joy, and said, with grateful warmth, —
“You say nothing of your own share in the making
of that happiness, John; but we know it, for Philip has
told Laura in his letters all that you have been to him,
and I am sure there was other eloquence beside his own
before father granted all you say he has. Oh, John, I
thank you very much for this!”
Mrs. Lord beamed a whole midsummer of delight
upon her son, as she saw the pleasure these words gave
him, though he answered simply, —
“I only tried to be a brother to him, Nan; for he has
been most kind to me. Yes, I said my little say to-night,
and gave my testimony in behalf of the prisoner at the
bar, a most merciful judge pronounced his sentence, and
he rushed straight to Mrs. Leigh's to tell Laura the blissful
news. Just imagine the scene when he appears, and
how Di will open her wicked eyes and enjoy the spectacle
of the ardent lover, the bride-elect's tears, the stir,
and the romance of the thing. She'll cry over it to-night,
and caricature it to-morrow.”
And John led the laugh at the picture he had conjured
up, to turn the thoughts of Di's dangerous sister from
himself.
At ten Nan retired into the depths of her old bonnet
it, and John, resuming his hat, mounted guard.
“Don't stay late, remember, John!” And in Mrs.
Lord's voice there was a warning tone that her son interpreted
aright.
“I'll not forget, mother.”
And he kept his word; for though Philip's happiness
floated temptingly before him, and the little figure at his
side had never seemed so dear, he ignored the bland
winds, the tender night, and set a seal upon his lips,
thinking manfully within himself, “I see many signs of
promise in her happy face; but I will wait and hope a
little longer for her sake.”
“Where is father, Sally?” asked Nan, as that functionary
appeared, blinking owlishly, but utterly repudiating
the idea of sleep.
“He went down the garding, miss, when the gentlemen
cleared, bein' a little flustered by the goin's on.
Shall I fetch him in?” asked Sally, as irreverently as if
her master were a bag of meal.
“No, we will go ourselves.” And slowly the two
paced down the leaf-strewn walk.
Fields of yellow grain were waving on the hill-side,
and sere corn-blades rustled in the wind; from the orchard
came the scent of ripening fruit, and all the garden-plots
lay ready to yield up their humble offerings to their master's
hand. But in the silence of the night a greater
Reaper had passed by, gathering in the harvest of a
righteous life, and leaving only tender memories for the
gleaners who had come so late.
The old man sat in the shadow of the tree his own
leaves still whispered the low lullaby that hushed him to
his rest.
“How fast he sleeps! Poor father! I should have
come before and made it pleasant for him.”
As she spoke, Nan lifted up the head bent down upon
his breast, and kissed his pallid cheek.
“Oh, John, this is not sleep!”
“Yes, dear, the happiest he will ever know.”
For a moment the shadows flickered over three white
faces, and the silence deepened solemnly. Then John
reverently bore the pale shape in, and Nan dropped down
beside it, saying, with a rain of grateful tears, —
“He kissed me when I went, and said a last `goodnight!”'
For an hour steps went to and fro about her, many
voices whispered near her, and skilful hands touched the
beloved clay she held so fast; but one by one the busy
feet passed out, one by one the voices died away, and
human skill proved vain. Then Mrs. Lord drew the
orphan to the shelter of her arms, soothing her with the
mute solace of that motherly embrace.
“Yes, we are poorer than we thought; but when
everything is settled, we shall get on very well. We
can let a part of this great house, and live quietly together
until spring; then Laura will be married, and Di can go
on their travels with them, as Philip wishes her to do.
We shall be cared for; so never fear for us, John.”
Nan said this, as her friend parted from her a week
later, after the saddest holiday he had ever known.
“And what becomes of you, Nan?” he asked, watching
the patient eyes that smiled when others would
have wept.
“I shall stay in the dear old house; for no other
place would seem like home to me. I shall find some little
child to love and care for, and be quite happy till the
girls come back and want me.”
John nodded wisely, as he listened, and went away
prophesying within himself, —
“She shall find something more than a child to love;
and, God willing, shall be very happy till the girls come
home and — cannot have her.”
Nan's plan was carried into effect. Slowly the divided
waters closed again, and the three fell back into their old
life. But the touch of sorrow drew them closer; and,
though invisible, a beloved presence still moved among
them, a familiar voice still spoke to them in the silence
of their softened hearts. Thus the soil was made ready,
and in the depth of winter the good seed was sown, was
watered with many tears, and soon sprang up green with
the promise of a harvest for their after years.
Di and Laura consoled themselves with their favorite
employments, unconscious that Nan was growing paler,
thinner, and more silent, as the weeks went by, till one
day she dropped quietly before them, and it suddenly
became manifest that she was utterly worn out with
many cares, and the secret suffering of a tender heart
bereft of the paternal love which had been its strength
and stay.
“I'm only tired, dear girls. Don't be troubled, for I
into the anxious faces bending over her.
But the weariness was of many months' growth, and
it was weeks before that “to-morrow” came.
Laura installed herself as nurse, and her devotion was
repaid fourfold; for, sitting at her sister's bedside, she
learned a finer art than that she had left. Her eye grew
clear to see the beauty of a self-denying life, and in the
depths of Nan's meek nature she found the strong,
sweet virtues that made her what she was.
Then remembering that these womanly attributes were
a bride's best dowry, Laura gave herself to their attainment,
that she might become to another household the
blessing Nan had been to her own; and turning from the
worship of the goddess Beauty, she gave her hand to
that humbler and more human teacher, Duty, — learning
her lessons with a willing heart, for Philip's sake.
Di corked her inkstand, locked her bookcase, and went
at housework as if it were a five-barred gate; of course
she missed the leap, but scrambled bravely through, and
appeared much sobered by the exercise. Sally had
departed to sit under a vine and fig-tree of her own, so
Di had undisputed sway; but if dish-pans and dusters
had tongues, direful would have been the history of that
crusade against frost and fire, indolence and inexperience.
But they were dumb, and Di scorned to complain, though
her struggles were pathetic to behold, and her sisters
went through a series of messes equal to a course of
“Prince Bedreddin's” peppery tarts. Reality turned
Romance out of doors; for, unlike her favorite heroines
in satin and tears, or helmet and shield, Di met her fate
in a big checked apron and dust-cap wonderful to see;
shouldered her gun, and marched to her daily martyrdom
in the kitchen with as heroic a heart as the “Maid of
Orleans” took to her stake.
Mind won the victory over matter in the end, and Di
was better all her days for the tribulations and the triumphs
of that time; for she drowned her idle fancies in
her wash-tub, made burnt-offerings of selfishness and
pride, and learned the worth of self-denial, as she sang
with happy voice among the pots and kettles of her conquered
realm.
Nan thought of John; and in the stillness of her
sleepless nights prayed Heaven to keep him safe, and
make her worthy to receive, and strong enough to bear,
the blessedness or pain of love.
Snow fell without, and keen winds howled among the
leafless elms, but “herbs of grace” were blooming beautifully
in the sunshine of sincere endeavor, and this
dreariest season proved the most fruitful of the year; for
love taught Laura, labor chastened Di, and patience
fitted Nan for the blessing of her life.
Nature, that stillest yet most diligent of housewives,
began at last that “spring-cleaning” which she makes
so pleasant that none find the heart to grumble as they
do when other matrons set their premises a-dust. Her
handmaids, wind and rain and sun, swept, washed, and
garnished busily, green carpets were unrolled, appleboughs
were hung with draperies of bloom, and dandelions,
pet nurslings of the year, came out to play upon
the sward.
From the South returned that opera troupe whose manager
is never in despair, whose tenor never sulks, whose
matinées were held, to which buttercups and clovers
crowded in their prettiest spring hats, and verdant young
blades twinkled their dewy lorgnettes, as they bowed
and made way for the floral belles.
May was bidding June good-morrow, and the roses
were just dreaming that it was almost time to wake,
when John came again into the quiet room which now
seemed the Eden that contained his Eve. Of course
there was a jubilee; but something seemed to have befallen
the whole group, for never had they all appeared
in such odd frames of mind.
John was restless, and wore an excited look, most
unlike his usual serenity of aspect. Nan the cheerful
had fallen into a well of silence, and was not to be extracted
by any hydraulic power, though she smiled like
the June sky over her head. Di's peculiarities were out
in full force, and she looked as if she would go off like a
torpedo at a touch; but through all her moods there was
a half-triumphant, half-remorseful expression in the
glance she fixed on John. And Laura, once so silent,
now sang like a blackbird, as she flitted to and fro; but
her fitful song was always, “Philip, my king.”
John felt that there had come a change upon the three,
and silently divined whose unconscious influence had
wrought the miracle. The embargo was off his tongue,
and he was in a fever to ask that question which brings
a flutter to the stoutest heart; but though the “man” had
come, the “hour” had not. So, by way of steadying his
nerves, he paced the room, pausing often to take notes of
his companions, and each pause seemed to increase his
wonder and content.
He looked at Nan. She was in her usual place, the
shabby little chair she loved, because it once was large
enough to hold a curly-headed playmate and herself. The
old work-basket was at her side, and the battered thimble
busily at work; but her lips wore a smile they had never
worn before, the color of the unblown roses touched her
cheek, and her downcast eyes were full of light.
He looked at Di. The inevitable book was on her
knee, but its leaves were uncut; the strong-minded knob
of hair still asserted its supremacy aloft upon her head,
and the triangular jacket still adorned her shoulders in
defiance of all fashions, past, present, or to come; but
the expression of her brown countenance had grown
softer, her tongue had found a curb, and in her hand lay
a card with “Potts, Kettel & Co.” inscribed thereon,
which she regarded with never a scornful word for
the “Co.”
He looked at Laura. She was before her easel, as of
old; but the pale nun had given place to a blooming girl,
who sang at her work, which was no prim Pallas, but a
Clytie turning her human face to meet the sun.
“John, what are you thinking of?”
He stirred as if Di's voice had disturbed his fancy at
some pleasant pastime, but answered with his usual sincerity,
—
“I was thinking of a certain dear old fairy tale, called
`Cinderella.' ”
“Oh!” said Di; and her “Oh” was a most impressive
monosyllable. “I see the meaning of your smile now;
and, though the application of the story is not very complimentary
to all parties concerned, it is very just and
very true.”
She paused a moment, then went on with softened
voice and earnest face, —
“You think I am a blind and selfish creature. So I
am, but not so blind and selfish as I have been; for
many tears have cleared my eyes, and sincere regret has
made me humbler than I was. I have found a better
book than any father's library can give me, and I have
read it with a love and admiration that grew stronger as
I turned the leaves. Henceforth I take it for my guide
and gospel, and, looking back upon the selfish and
neglectful past, can only say, Heaven bless your dear
heart, Nan!”
Laura echoed Di's last words; for, with eyes as full
of tenderness, she looked down upon the sister she had
lately learned to know, saying, warmly, —
“Yes, `Heaven bless your dear heart, Nan!' I never
can forget all you have been to me; and when I am far
away with Philip, there will always be one countenance
more beautiful to me than any pictured face I may discover,
there will be one place more dear to me than
Rome. The face will be yours, Nan, — always so patient,
always so serene; and the dearer place will be this
home of ours, which you have made so pleasant to me
all these years by kindnesses as numberless and noiseless
as the drops of dew.”
“Why, girls, what have I ever done, that you should
love me so?” cried Nan, with happy wonderment, as the
tall heads, black and golden, bent to meet the lowly
brown one; and her sisters' mute lips answered her.
Then Laura looked up, saying, playfully, —
“Here are the good and wicked sisters; where shall
we find the Prince?”
“There!” cried Di, pointing to John; and then her
secret went off like a rocket; for, with her old impetuosity,
she said, —
“I have found you out, John, and am ashamed to look
you in the face, remembering the past. Girls, you know,
when father died, John sent us money, which he said
Mr. Owen had long owed us, and had paid at last! It
was a kind lie, John, and a generous thing to do; for we
needed it, but never would have taken it as a gift. I
know you meant that we should never find this out; but
yesterday I met Mr. Owen returning from the West,
and when I thanked him for a piece of justice we had
not expected of him, he gruffly told me he had never
paid the debt, never meant to pay it, for it was outlawed,
and we could not claim a farthing. John, I have laughed
at you, thought you stupid, treated you unkindly; but I
know you now, and never shall forget the lesson you
have taught me. I am proud as Lucifer, but I ask you
to forgive me, and I seal my real repentance so — and
so!”
With tragic countenance, Di rushed across the room,
threw both arms about the astonished young man's neck,
and dropped an energetic kiss upon his cheek. There
was a momentary silence; for Di finely illustrated her
strong-minded theories by crying like the weakest of her
sex. Laura, with “the ruling passion strong in death,”
still tried to draw, but broke her pet crayon, and endowed
her Clytie with a supplementary orb, owing to the
dimness of her own. And Nan sat, with drooping eyes
that shone upon her work, thinking, with tender pride, —
“They know him now, and love him for his generous
heart.”
Di spoke first, rallying to her colors, though a little
daunted by her loss of self-control:
“Don't laugh, John — I couldn't help it; and don't
think I'm not sincere, for I am, — I am! and I will
prove it by growing good enough to be your friend.
That debt must all be paid, and I shall do it; for I'll
turn my books and pen to some account, and write stories
full of dear old souls like you and Nan; and some
one, I know, will like and buy them, though they are not
`works of Shakspeare.' I've thought of this before,
have felt I had the power in me; now I have the motive,
and now I'll do it.”
If Di had proposed to translate the Koran, or build a
new Saint Paul's, there would have been many chances
of success; for, once moved, her will, like a battering-ram,
would knock down the obstacles her wits could not
surmount. John believed in her most heartily, and
showed it, as he answered, looking into her resolute
face, —
“I know you will, and yet make us very proud of our
Di. Let the money lie, and when you have made a fortune,
I'll claim it with enormous interest; but, believe
me, I feel already doubly repaid by the esteem so generously
confessed, so cordially bestowed, and can only say,
as we used to years ago, — `Now let's forgive and forget.'
”
But proud Di would not let him add to her obligation,
even by returning her impetuous salute; she slipped
away, and, shaking off the last drops, answered, with a
curious mixture of old freedom and new respect, —
“No more sentiment, please, John. We know each
other now; and when I find a friend, I never let him go.
our wigwams and bury the hatchet. Where were we
when I lost my head? and what were we talking about?”
“Cinderella and the Prince.”
As he spoke, John's eye kindled, and, turning, he
looked down at Nan, who sat diligently ornamenting
with microscopic stitches a great patch going on, the
wrong side out.
“Yes, — so we were; and now, taking pussy for the
godmother, the characters of the story are well personated
— all but the slipper,” said Di, laughing, as she
thought of the many times they had played it together
years ago.
A sudden warmth stirred John's heart, a sudden
purpose shone in his countenance, and a sudden change
befell his voice, as he said, producing from some hiding-place
a little worn-out shoe, —
“I can supply the slipper; — who will try it first?”
Di's black eyes opened wide, as they fell on the
familiar object; then her romance-loving nature saw the
whole plot of that drama which needs but two to act it.
A great delight flushed up into her face, as she promptly
took her cue, saying, —
“No need for us to try it, Laura; for it wouldn't fit
us, if our feet were as small as Chinese dolls'; — our
parts are played out; therefore, `Exeunt wicked sisters to
the music of the wedding-bells.' ” And pouncing upon
the dismayed artist, she swept her out, and closed the
door with a triumphant bang.
John went to Nan, and, dropping on his knee as reverently
as the herald of the fairy tale, he asked, still
smiling, but with lips grown tremulous, —
“Will Cinderella try the little shoe, and, — if it fits, —
go with the Prince?”
But Nan only covered up her face, weeping happy
tears, while all the weary work strayed down upon the
floor, as if it knew her holiday had come.
John drew the hidden face still closer; and, while she
listened to his eager words, Nan heard the beating of the
strong man's heart, and knew it spoke the truth.
“Nan, I promised mother to be silent till I was sure
I loved you wholly, — sure that the knowledge would
give no pain when I should tell it, as I am trying to tell
it now. This little shoe has been my comforter through
this long year, and I have kept it as other lovers keep
their fairer favors. It has been a talisman more eloquent
to me than flower or ring; for, when I saw how worn it
was, I always thought of the willing feet that came and
went for others' comfort all day long; when I saw the
little bow you tied, I always thought of the hands so
diligent in serving any one who knew a want or felt a
pain; and when I recalled the gentle creature who had
worn it last, I always saw her patient, tender, and
devout, — and tried to grow more worthy of her, that I
might one day dare to ask if she would walk beside me
all my life, and be my `angel in the house.' Will you,
dear? Believe me, you shall never know a weariness or
grief I have the power to shield you from.”
Then Nan, as simple in her love as in her life, laid her
arms about his neck, her happy face against his own,
and answered softly, —
“Oh, John, I never can be sad or tired any more!”
| A MODERN CINDERELLA;
OR, THE LITTLE OLD SHOE.
HOW IT WAS LOST. Hospital sketches and Camp and fireside stories | |