University of Virginia Library

ANNIE HEATON.

The moon, nearly at the full, was going down behind the
withered woods—for it was late in October—and thick shining
gum leaves lay here and there in red and heavy masses, while
the lighter foliage of the maple surged, as the gust rose and
fell, now in eddying heaps, now in long wavering drifts, and
now like a cloud of birds, fluttering and filling all the air.

The moon, as I said, was sinking in the west, and the woods,
to which I refer, skirted a lot of damp low meadow-ground,
along the eastern declivity of which ran the narrow grass-grown
road, leading to a neighboring market-town, near which, in a
little hollow, stood a small and antiquated farm-house, the location
of which must have been decided on account of a spring
of fresh, ever-flowing water, that, running through an ample
brick milk-house, with steep mossy roof, and door of slabs,
fastened with chain and padlock, had more than once facilitated
the making of the premium butter for the county fair.

The homestead was simply and roughly built, of unhewn logs
in the rear, though the front, or parlor, was of squared timber,
and two stories high, with a very narrow and high door, painted
a dark, brown red, on either side of which was a window, nearly
square with casings of the same color. Along the whole front
ran a low portico, supported at each end by an apple-tree, answering
the double purpose of shade and column, around which
still twined the blackened vines of the morning glory; but the
beautiful blue flowers were gone, and the leaves crisped and
withered, though evincing yet the care of gentle and loving

hands, whose little attempts at grace may in some sort render
a habitation, however rude, homelike and pleasant.

Nearly in front of the house, and divided from it by the public
road, was the large barn, surrounded with cribs, stack-yards, &c.,
all of which evinced the proprietor a man of means and enterprise;
while the lean rough-haired colts, and drove of starving
cattle, told of a master's hand less accustomed to distribute
than to acquire. And near, in the edge of a scrubby and untrimmed
orchard, was the cider-press, serving, in the winter, to shelter
the wagon, with yokes for the oxen, plows, hoes, sythes, and
all the various implements of farming. Here, too, was the receptacle
of all useless household furniture, which, I have observed,
some families preserve with pious attention; and this
particular cider-press was always well supplied with such articles.
In one place hung a bottomless chair, and in another a little
old-fashioned side-saddle, worn out, and broken in such a manner
that it never could be repaired, though it had been thus
preserved ten or fifteen years—an illustration of some peculiar
feeling that I never could define. Ranged along the beams,
wisely kept for show, no doubt, were various pieces of broken
crockery; also, children's shoes, and men's boots, stiffened by
time and covered with mildew; old hats, of a variety of styles;
all of which were examined once or twice a year, and carefully
replaced—kept, as the owner was wont to say, for the good they
had done. Really, a lover of antiquities might find the scene
worth visiting.

The master of the barn, the cattle, colts, and cider-press, and
the occupant of the log-house, was Joseph Heaton, a man who
might truly be denominated a worker—one who worked
not only for the love of gain, but for the mere love of work.
Early and late, winter and summer, he was busy; and every
man, woman, and child, who did not engage in toil to the same
degree he did himself, was esteemed by him not only a useless
appendage of society, but a vile creature, whom he was bound
by every consideration of duty to despise.

A helpmeet for him, was Mrs. Heaton—a woman after his
own heart. Whether the memory that the cow and side-saddle
were the only marriage portion she had brought her husband,

while he was the proprietor of all that parcel of land on which
they still resided, filled her heart with an overwhelming sense
of gratitude, or whether it was the consciousness of her husband's
unapproachable wisdom, or it was a combination of these
causes, I know not, but she was ever submissive and obedient,
to that degree which esteems servility a privilege. It
was not the habit of Mr. Heaton to make known his wishes by
the voice—he had no such vulgar habit—but the cold blue eyes
of his wife could readily interpret his signs, and words were
seldom necessary between them. When she saw him in the
inevitable black cravat and drab-colored vest, and observed
signs of getting out the carriage, she knew his intention to visit
the city, and accordingly named over to him such little articles
as housekeeping makes necessary to be procured from time to
time; only expecting, however, that he would bring the smaller
part of them—it being a convenient habit of Mr. Heaton's to
forget, when remembrance made necessary a disbursement of
money.

At night, when he laid aside the Bible or the newspaper—
and he never read save in one or the other—Mrs. Heaton put
away her work, and silently covered the embers, when the whole
family retired: this part of the domestic discipline being usually
enforced about eight o'clock. No marvel that the children of
such parents felt their presence a restraint, being in some way
compelled to keep down, under their observance, all natural
emotions of joy or sorrow, and thus learning, in youth, those first
lessons in hyprocrisy, which might be learned in the cradle, if
the infant mind were sufficiently capable of retaining impressions.

If ever, by any possibility, it chanced that Laughter, holding
both his sides, found ingress to the domicile of the Heatons,
they felt themselves outraged, their dignity trampled on, and
their parental authority wrested away; and on all such occasions
the observance of a more rigid discipline followed, for a
fortnight at least, in order to bring under due subjection the
spirit of such rebellion.

Every day, “long ere the morn, in russet mantle clad, walked
o'er the dew of the high eastern hills,” a rap on the door of

the chamber dispelled all dreams, and called the inmates back
to cheerless toll—that saw, down the long future, no mitigation,
or hope of reward. If ever they wearied of the dull routine,
they were asked, reproachfully, if in that way they expected to
repay their parents for the trouble and anxiety they had occasioned.

There are sufferings to be endured in the world, that take no
shape, and have no name. Living witnesses of this were the
children of Joseph Heaton—Samuel, and Annie, and Mary;
but there was another inmate of the family—Binder, as everybody
called him, from his being an apprentice, but whose real
name was Mills Howard—who might also have testified of these
things.

But that setting of the moon, referred to in the beginning of
this chapter, was to usher in a happy day for him—a day that
would see him a man, and a freeman. No wonder he could
not sleep that night: he was too happy. Perhaps, too,
there was another cause to keep sleep from his pillow; he
sighed, as the moon went down on the last night of his bondage,
and half wished the coming day were not so near.

Nor was he the only one who watched the sinking of the
moon, till it was quite lost in the thick woods, where so many
autumns he had gathered ripe nuts and red hawthorn apples to
pour into the lap of Annie or Mary; for, whether or not he
liked one of the young girls better than the other, he never
failed to present any such little offering to the one he first met,
though, when given to Annie, he always said, “for you and
Mary;” while, when Mary received the gift, he rarely mentioned
the name of Annie. Her deep-blue eyes, from the chamber
adjoining his, watched the going down of that moon. She was
not like

for her voice had almost a startling distinctness, though very
low, as laying her hand caressingly on the snowy shoulder of
her sister, she called twice or thrice, “Mary,” ere the latter
drowsily answered, “Did you call, Annie? Is it morning?”

“No, it is not morning. Forgive my calling you; but I

could not sleep; I don't know why; and I thought perhaps you
might be awake,” she said, as she suffered her head to slip
almost from the pillow, till her long, black tresses, falling loosely
down, swept the floor. In certain states of mental restlessness,
we find a sort of relief in making ourselves physically
uncomfortable. Something of this feeling was, perhaps, hers;
for, without changing her position, she continued, as if talking
to herself, “I wish the moon was down. To me, there is
always something lonesome in the moonlight;” and, pushing
aside the muslin curtains of her bed, the light streamed broad
and full over the faces of the sisters. They were not beautiful,
except to the degree that youth and health constitute beauty.

Annie, the elder, was slightly formed, with deep-blue melancholy
eyes, long, heavy tresses of jetty black hair, and that peculiar
cast of countenance which made her seem the saddest when
she smiled. Her manner was quiet and subdued; ordinarily the
result, as most persons would suppose, of unambitious contentment,
but arising, in fact, from a want of interest in the things
about her, and a consciousness of the utter hopelessness of
all effort. She was a dreamer; and under her calm exterior
lay a heart ever rocking on the stormiest waves of passion.
She rarely spoke of what she felt; when she did, it was with
a deep earnestness that moistened her eyes, and with that faint,
sad smile, which she seemed to put on as an assurance to herself
that she was stronger than she appeared.

Only for the eyes of one had she put off the deceitfulness of
her accustomed manner, and shown herself as she really was,
giving utterance to

In hearing of successful endeavor, in listening to eloquence,
in reading chance fragments that embodied her own feelings,
she found all her happiness. Sometimes she found a delight in
exaggerating the evils of her position, fighting battles with
imaginary difficulties. Sometimes the glory of a sunset, the
beauty of autumn woods, or the plenty smiling from a field,
threw over her heart a spirit of adoration, and she poured out all
her soul in prayer. But, in other moods, the beauty of the

world seemed to her a mockery; and if she prayed at all it was
with an eagerness that demanded to be answered, and with outstretched
hands, that would have pressed open the gates of
paradise.

Mary, younger by several years, was of a gayer temperament,
with black, mischief-loving eyes, and glossy ringlets, the
beauty of which she was wont to set off with knots of bright-red
flowers, or the shining berries of the honeysuckle—the striking
contrasts producing a pleasing effect. Fond of showy dress,
and a little given to coquetry, she would have been as happy as
her nature was capable of being, if the means of gratifying
these propensities had been placed within her reach. As it was,
she was disposed to make the best of circumstances; and,
when they were most against her wishes, she had always a reserve
force of laughter. She did not often dare indulge her
mirthfulness; but the knowledge of its being forbidden made
the inclination irrepressible, and often, in the presence of her
father, screened from his observant eyes by closet, door, or friendly
curtain, she would take what she termed a “benefit.” Often
she gave utterance to feelings she dared not express in her own
language, in pious quotations from psalms and hymns, which
she gave with arch expression and reverent voice. In this way
she was fond of giving flow to her exuberance of spirit when
Binder was at hand, as he never failed, by look or gesture, to
assure her that her tact was appreciated. Even Annie was
thus sometimes cheated into a smile. But so opposite were the
sisters in character and disposition, that, though all in all to
each other now, neither would have been much dependent on
the other for happiness, could they have been placed in circumstances
agreeable to their tastes.

So there they lay—those two sisters—under the silver
tissue of the moonlight; the black tresses of Annie sweeping
from the pillow, and the little white hands of Mary locked behind
her own moist curls, revealing a bust of peculiar grace,
rounded to the perfect fulness of beauty.

They talked of dreams. Mary had dreamed that a strange
man came to the house, while she was without shoes, in her
hurry to obtain which she ran over her father's great chair, and

for so offending was shut up in the smoke-house; and with the
fright of her imprisonment she awoke. “And,” she continued,
with greater animation, “I dreamed that Binder was gone, and
that, as he was going, he asked me for this very curl,” pulling
one from her forehead, and winding it about her fingers.
“Wasn't it an odd dream, Annie?”

“I don't know,” was the half-pettish answer. “But what
makes you call him Binder? I am sure he always calls you
by your right name.”

“No, he don't. He calls me gipsy, and deary, and what
not, when father don't hear him.”

“I was not aware of his fond titles to you.”

“Well, I was,” was the provoking reply, and they relapsed
into silence, which was broken at last by Mary, who, conscious
of the annoyance her words had caused her sister, said kindly,
“What are you thinking of, Annie?”

“I was thinking, as I watched that little glimmer of moonlight
on the wall, and saw it lessening, and fading out, before
the dark, how much it was like all my hopes—gleaming for a
moment, and then lost in the darkness.”

“You must not think so; or, even if your hopes be like that,
remember it is only gone for a little while, and to-morrow
night—for the moon is not yet full—will come back larger and
brighter than before. I am sure your hopes will grow brighter
and brighter: you are so good, so wise.”

The fountain of her heart was full, and it only needed a kind
word to make it overflow, and, she buried her face in her pillow.
The moon went down, and when, at length, Annie looked up,
the moonlight had ceased to glimmer on the wall, and all was
dark. But folding her arms tightly over her bosom, as if she
held beneath something the powers of darkness should not
wrest away, she said, “You are right, Mary; I will hope.”

What a relief to Mary were those words! she was forgiven;
and she turned over in her mind a thousand offices of kindness,
she meant to perform as an atonement. She knew she had
purposely wounded the sensitive nature of her sister, and she
determined to make reparation, without any open confession.
Perhaps she was not aware herself of this, as the morning came,

bending over Annie, she gathered the heavy tresses away from
her forehead, and wound them into the simple knot, in which
she was accustomed to wear them, not failing, as she did so, to
praise their beauty. When she had smoothed them all away,
she said abruptly, as though the thought had just occurred to
her, “Oh, this is the day that Mills is going to leave us! How
lonesome we shall be! But Annie, he will sometimes write to
you, won't he?”

“He says so; but perhaps he will forget it, when he is away.
He will be gone a long while, you know—five years; that is
long enough to forget us all, I am sure.”

“Long enough, perhaps; but I defy him to forget me in that
time. I expect to be the same laughing girl, when he comes
back, that I am now—not much wiser, I am afraid, but so happy
to see him! I wish the time were all gone, and this were the
day of his return. Let me see: in five years I shall be just
twenty-one—as old as he is now.”

“And I,” said Annie, with an ill-boding sigh, “shall be
twenty-five.”

Stealthily the light of the morning brightened; and as it was
followed by the accustomed summons, the sisters rose, Annie
in silence, and Mary saying, laughingly,

Passing the door of the freed apprentice's chamber, she said, in
a suppressed whisper, “farewell, Binder! Good morning Mr.
Mills Howard: I hope, sir, you are very well;” and as she ran
laughingly by Annie, she added, “I wish I had told him to
pray for father, he has been so good to him.”

“What do you say?” said Mr. Heaton, who stood combing
his iron-gray hair, at the foot of the stairs.

“I said,” replied Mary, readily, “it was good to get up
early;” and hurrying by him, she screened her face behind the
accustomed curtain, whence, as soon as her laughter subsided,

she emerged, making some commonplace observation about the
beauty of the morning.

Not many minutes were required for making ready the
breakfast, the honors of which were done in silence by Mrs.
Heaton, except for Mr. Heaton, who always prepared his own
coffee. Meals were announced by blowing a horn, which always
hung on the same nail at the end of the portico, and over which
Samuel invariably deposited his hat, while eating, and on Sundays.
He was a precise youth. When Binder appeared in the
breakfast-room, he talked with unusual spirit, as though going
out alone and friendless into the world were a very trifling
matter; in fact, he thought nothing about it. But he was not
in his usual work-day dress, and this must have made him painfully
conscious of his new position; but was arrayed in his
“freedom suit,” the material of which was of a bluish-gray
color, home-made; and the workmanship of a country tailoress;
of a coarse, heavy texture, it sat so ungracefully, that the form
and likeness of the man were quite lost. But, though appearing
in this guise, and bringing with him all his worldly effects,
which, in fact, consisted of a stout walking-stick of hickory, and
some articles of clothing tied in a yellow-and-red cotton handkerchief,
no remark relative to his departure was elicited from
the elder Heatons; and only a quiet exchange of glances,
among the younger group, showed that they, though silent,
were not unobservant.

Mills seemed to relish the breakfast unusually well, speedily
passing his cup for coffee, though he never drank more than one
cup before; but the mirth was gone from the lips of Mary, and
Annie had no appetite that morning. Mills, as he appeared in
his new clothes, must have provoked a smile from any uninterested
beholder; but what was it to them? They only
thought of his honest heart—his generous sacrifices in their behalf.
They had trodden together a long, rough way, which
was often smoothed by his genial humor or kind encouragement;
they had eaten at the same table, and slept beneath the
same roof; he had known all their sorrows, and shared them;
and now, it would never be so any more!

In parting, even from persons for whom we have no particular

liking, we feel some degree of sorrow; we find they had a hold
on us of which we were not till then aware; sometimes we
even watch the passing traveller with an almost painful interest,
arising from the very fact that we shall probably never
see him again; but when we part from those we love, especially
if there be few who love us, few whom we love, the burden is
increased a thousand-fold. How, at such times,
a shadow over all the world! and for a time, in “the waste of
feelings unemployed,” we cease to build about us the walls of
hope; for, as there is no glory in the grass, and no splendor in
the flower, only the explusive power of a new affection can
bring back the sunshine.

“I hope,” said Mr. Heaton, as he took leave of Mills, “I
hope, young man, you may never go to jail: a Heaton was
never in jail, sir, never;” and having delivered himself of this
speech, the longest he was ever known to make, he took up his
axe—he always kept it in one corner of the best room—and proceeded
to the woods. He had no time to spend in useless
ceremonies.

It was now Mrs. Heaton's turn to take leave, and taking the
proffered hand, much as she would have taken the broomstick,
she hoped he would remember the advice of Joseph Heaton.
But the frank grasp of Samuel seemed to impart to him something
of its own strength; and the cordial “good-bye” and
“God bless you” came to him like a benediction.

Poor Mary—there were a thousand kind wishes for his happiness
in her heart; but she had no words, and turning away,
she hid her face in her hands, and burst into tears, that made
tremulous the lip which whispered, “You are a good, kind
girl, Mary, and may Heaven bless you!”

Defiant of the cold, blue eyes of her mother, Annie tied on
her bonnet, and announced her intention of accompanying Mills
as far as the elm-tree. For some minutes they walked on in
silence, for the hearts of both were full, and the elm-tree was
reached almost before they had interchanged a word. Pausing
in the shadow that fell thin and brokenly across the road, and

taking in his the trembling hand of Annie, he said, “My past
life has been a very hard one, and perhaps I have sometimes
thought it more so than it was; for it seems to me, now, that I
could be almost happy there, in the old house which I used to
think so desolate. Yes, I am sure I could be happy any where
with you.”

“You think so now,” replied the young girl, half mournfully,
half reproachfully, “but after you have been gone a little while
you will forget me. No one remembers me or loves me long;
and, indeed, there is no reason why they should. I am not
pretty, nor accomplished, nor attractive in any way;” and with
tears starting to her eyes, she turned away, and would have
left him, but that, drawing her to his bosom, and kissing her
cheek and forehead, he told her how much her doubts of his
fidelity did him wrong. He had nothing, he said, to live for
but her, and he would live for her and be worthy of her. In
five years—five little years—he would come back, and they
would be so happy!

“And you will think about me, sometimes?”

“Often; and I know, dear Annie, you will think of me also;
and whenever life seems weary and hopeless, forget not the
happiness that waits for us in the future.”

“I will think of you always, love you always, pray for you
always: you know that, Mills,” she said, “you know it well;”
and placing in his hand a small package, she told him not to open
it till he reached the place of his destination: “It will at least
remind you of me.”

He placed it in his bosom, kissed, passionately, the now unresisting
lips, and, with a “God bless you!” falteringly uttered,
was gone; and there in the thin shadow of the elm stood the
almost heart-broken girl, watching his receding form.

Once, and only once, he paused, looked back, and seeing her
still standing just as he left her, turned quickly away, and was
soon hidden by a winding of the road from her view.

“My dear sister!” said Mary, running to meet her as she
returned, “do not cry: it makes me so sad to see your tears!”
and putting her arm about her neck she did all she could to
soothe and encourage her; and whether she was or was not

soothed and encouraged, she seemed to be so, and from that
day went about her household tasks much as usual; but though
she oftener smiled that sad smile, her step was more listless,
her thin cheek more colorless, than before. And the time wore
on. The last leaves faded off from the woods, that rose, naked
and desolate, against the cold sky; the cattle stood shivering
about the stack-yards; and the winds moaned in the apple-trees
at the door, all day and all night; then came the snows
drifting far and near; and it was dreary and desolate winter.

The hickory logs crackled and glowed on the hearth-stone.
Mrs. Heaton busied herself with her knitting. Mr. Heaton
mended the old harness, and repaired the farming implements
against the coming spring. They should have, he often said, to
work harder now; Binder had been of some use to them, and
now they must depend upon themselves. The Heatons had
always made enough to keep out of jail.

During the winter, Samuel, a youth of nineteen, and Mary,
went to the district school, so that all domestic care devolved
on Annie. For her there was no school-time and no holiday.
She had, her father was accustomed to tell her, more learning
than her mother, and could not do half so much work. Books
would not keep any body in bread. Samuel, in a spirit of unbounded
liberality, he designed to educate: that is, to send him
to school for three months every winter, till he should be
twenty-one. At the end of that time, if education could do any
good, he hoped Samuel could take care of himself. But
Samuel usually forgot, in the course of the nine months of hard
labor, what he learned in the three devoted to study. And so
each succeeding winter they plodded over pretty much the
same ground. But, notwithstanding their slight educational advantages,
the children of Mr. Heaton were not without very respectable
acquirements, obtained, it is true, “in the sharp
school of want,” for they had never a sufficiency of any thing
save coarse food; but naturally intelligent and observant, and
disposed to avail themselves of every opportunity for the acquisition
of knowledge, they were, to a degree, self-educated.

And all this while Mills had not been heard of. One day,
when her father was going to the post-town, or when, from

sundry indications, she suspected such to be his intention,
Annie, after various efforts, gathered courage to ask him if he
would inquire at the post-office for a letter for her. He made
no answer—did not even look up from his work, which was the
smoothing of an ax-helve with a broken piece of glass; and
after waiting some time for an answer, she resumed her interrupted
task, wondering if he heard her, and if he did, if he
would do as she desired; and whether there would be a letter.
But the solution of none of these wonders being possible, she
tried to wait patiently. For three hours he was busily engaged
with the ax-helve, turning it from side to side, and smoothing
the same places over and again. At the end of that time, however,
cutting his hand on the piece of broken glass, he took up
his hat, and hastily left the house; and Annie, half glad of the
accident, for she thought he would delay his going no longer—
called to him, “Stop, father! let me get a piece of linen, and
bandage your hand: only see how it is bleeding!” but taking
no notice whatever of the kindly offer, he hurried toward the
barn, to get the horse. Annie thought “he is going!” and her
heart beat quicker.

After an hour, however, when she began to think he would
soon be home again, he entered the house, not having been
away, took up the paper, and began reading at the first article,
with the evident intention, as his custom was, of reading it all.
The clock struck four: “there is not time to go before tea,”
thought Annie; “I will prepare it early, and perhaps he will go
afterward.” Acting upon this suggestion, she had partially
effected her arrangements, when Mary came from school, and
with her face all aglow, inquired if her father had been to the
office.

“No,” said Annie; “and he is not going;” and she related
his very provoking conduct.

“I'll see about that: there is a letter there, and you shall
have it.”

“How do you know there is a letter?”

“Because I feel it in my heart; and I intend to see it with my
eyes. Now, what are we out of?” and running to the pantry,
she rumaged through boxes and bottles, exclaiming, directly,

“Good! here is no saleratus, and only two or three drawings
of tea! Where is mother?” and away she ran to the milk-house,
saying, “Mother, father is going to the village, and we
are out of saleratus and tea. Shall I tell him to get them?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Heaton. “It seems to me we are out very
soon. Tell him to get a quarter of tea, and ten cents' worth of
saleratus.”

“I don't care how little!” thought Mary; and hurrying back,
she said to her father, “if you are going to the village, mother
wants you to get some tea and saleratus.”

“Mother can make known her own wants,” said that gentleman,
and continued reading.

“Mother told me to tell you,” said Mary, determined not to
be baffled; “and I don't know as there is tea enough for
supper.”

Now Mr. Heaton liked a cup of tea, and Mary knew she had
resorted to the last means in her power, and so withdrew, feeling,
too, that he would make no motion while she observed
him. After some further delay, and when the supper arrangements
were nearly completed, he set out. It was long after
dark before he returned. They had waited two hours for him;
the biscuits were nearly cold, and heavy, and every body, and
Annie in especial, out of patience. At last he came; but it
was some time before his horse was cared for. Then, laying
aside his great-coat, he seated himself before the fire, and
spreading his hands over the blaze, waited till twice or thrice
called, before going to the table. Annie looked inquiringly at
Mary, and Mary at Annie, but neither ventured to ask what
both were so anxious to know; and the supper was concluded
in silence.

“If he has a letter for me,” thought Annie, “he will certainly
give it to me; but he has none; I am sure he has not.” But
to Mary the suspense had become intolerable, and taking up
the sugar-bowl, to remove from the table, she said, “Father,
did you go to the post-office?” After a minute's silence, he replied
that he did, but said nothing further. Toward the close
of the evening, however, he arose, and taking up his great-coat,
began fumbling in the pockets. Both the girls were on tiptoe,

but destined to disappointment; for, taking thence the little
packages of tea and saleratus, he resumed his seat. Despair
came down on the hearts of the sisters, and they sat before the
fire in solemn silence till the evening was quite spent; that is,
till Mrs. Heaton covered the embers.

“Come, girls,” said Mr. Heaton, “don't be wasting candles
to-night and sunlight in the morning;” whereupon he and his
spouse retired.

“Ah, Mary!” said Annie, when they were gone, “you said
there was a letter.”

“And I believe there is,” said Mary; “father, I thought, was
half disposed to hand it to you, when he took the tea from his
pocket; he had something in his hand, once, I am sure;” and
seizing the great-coat, she thrust her hand, first in one pocket,
then in the other. Annie was smiling her old, sad smile, and
looking at Mary, who, sure enough, drew forth a letter, and
holding it up to the light, exclaimed, exultingly, “Post-paid!
`Miss Annie Heaton,' etc.”

“O, let me see!” exclaimed Annie, eagerly. “Yes, it is his
writing! No, it is a much fairer hand; it can not be his.”

“Break the seal, and see,” said Mary, impatiently.

But, as if to torment herself to the last, Annie continued
turning it in the light, and examining it in every point of view.
Mary trimmed the light, and drew her chair close to that of
Annie, who, unsealing the letter, read as follows:

And with some tender and impassioned words, and promises
to write often, entreaties of punctual responses, and assurances
of unending devotion, the letter closed.

Lighter than it had been for a long while, was the heart of
Annie Heaton that night and the next day, and for many a day
thereafter. Through her agency the way had been brightened, the
wishes facilitated, for one dearer to her than all else in the world.
Annie bore the name of her maternal grandmother, and for this
honor the good old lady, on her death-bed, did solemnly bequeath
and give to her most beloved granddaughter Annie, a
silver watch, which had been the property of her deceased husband.
This bequest, not, it is true, in the fashion of our days,
was, nevertheless, of some value. A thousand little schemes,
all based on this legacy, Annie, at different times had revolved
in her mind. None, however, had been put in execution; and
when she saw Binder dismissed friendlessly on the world, her
woman's instinct was quick to suggest that it might be of use
to him; and, through means of this—trifle as it was—his present
fortunate position had been obtained. What a crown of
beauty, hiding away from remembrance a thousand weaknesses
and frailties, making bright the saddest eyes, and sweet the
faintest smile, is the love of woman! What were home without
it! what were life, what the world, or what all we conceive
of heaven without it!

Late one afternoon of the summer which followed the opening
of this simple history, as the two girls sat together in the shadow
of one of the apple-trees, on the portico—one reading the
painfully interesting story of Eugene Aram, the other attaching
a knot of bright ribbon to a snowy and carefully crimped frill,
which, by way of trying the effect, she occasionally put round
her neck, smiling, as she did so, in a way that indicated no very
deep absorption in the tale to which she pretended she was
listening—their attention was arrested by the sudden drawing
up of a very handsome equipage before the gate. The new-comers—a
middle-aged, self-sufficient looking man, in spectacles,
and a pale-faced woman, slightly lame, wearing a dress of
black, and inordinately heavy and large earrings—proved to
be relations of Mrs. Heaton, residents of one of the eastern
cities, wealthy, and what is termed fashionable people, who,

now visiting the neighboring town, had taken a fancy to ride
into the country, regale themselves with bread and milk, and
see how prospered their poor connexions.

Mrs. Heaton, not a little proud of their appearance, received
them with unusual courtesy, laying her best table-cloth, and
untying the honey-jar. Mr. Heaton was not slow in imparting
to them the fact that he had enough to keep him out of jail; to
which the gentleman in spectacles said, “O, yes, sir; yes, sir;
we should think so.” The lame lady, “Yes, indeed,” and Mrs.
Heaton, that “Joseph had enough, she was sure—if he hadn't
quite so much as some folks—to keep him out of jail.” “Certainly,
madam, certainly,” said the gentleman in spectacles;
and the lame lady repeated, “Certainly.”

Annie, she scarce knew why, felt half insulted by this visit.
Their air, manner, even their dress, indicated a strata of society
so different from hers—so superior, as she felt, to hers, that she
was dissatisfied with herself, and dissatisfied, of course, with
them. All their affable overtures she regarded as condescensions,
and received them with ungracious reserve. “They
would not like me, do as I would, and I will make no effort to
please them.” Accordingly, she kept apart from them, bitterly
repeating to herself,

Annie was a dull girl, they thought, suited to her position;
but Mary was sprightly—quite pretty—and it was a pity she
had not greater advantages! She, of course, was delighted,
when, toward the conclusion of their visit, she was invited to
accompany them home. Mr. Heaton said “Mary was of little
use; Annie would do more work without her;” and Mrs.
Heaton concurred, “Yes; Annie would do better without her.”
Mary said, “It would not be much harder for one than both.”
So it was determined she should go. Such little preparations
as could be were soon made. Annie, wiping tears from her
eyes, looked over her own scanty wardrobe, and selected whatever
was better than the rest, saying, “Take these, too, Mary;
I shall not need them; I shall never go from home, now.”

When the motes were dancing in the sunbeams that stretched
from the western woods to the old house, Annie was alone.
Dimmer and dimmer fell the shadows; darker and darker the
night; and dimmer and darker than either were her thoughts;
when her reverie was broken by Samuel, whom she beheld,
pale, and staggering toward her, with one hand bandaged in his
pocket handkerchief, through which the blood was streaming,
held up in the other. “Oh, Samuel! Samuel!” she said, running
to meet him and supporting him into the house, “what is
the matter? what have you done?”

He had been reaping in the harvest-field, when a slip of the
sickle had nearly severed two of the fingers of his hand. Wrapping
his handkerchief about it as he best might, he started to
go to the house, when, seeing a gay equipage at the gate, he was
impelled to stop. His natural bashfulness, always painfully
embarrassing, was increased a thousand-fold by the remembrance
of his torn straw hat and patched trowsers; and taking
some sheaves for a pillow, he lay down in the shadow of some
briers, to await the departure of the guests, which not occurring
till nearly night, he was, as may be supposed, almost fainting
from loss of blood, on reaching the house. The village doctor
was sent for, and the fingers amputated; and the next morning
Samuel was burning with a fever, that grew more fierce and
dangerous the next day, and the next, and the next. For six
long weeks Annie was his constant watcher and attendant. At
the end of that time he began to grow better; but her own
overtaxed strength gave way, and for her sick-bed there were
no kind hands. True, her mother did what she thought her
duty; but duty, with her, required punctual attendance on all
domestic affairs, to the neglect of her sick child. “If you want
any thing, Annie,” she would say, “you can call me. I can
do no good by staying here;” and so the poor girl lay alone
frequently for hours.

She had nothing to live for, she often said; no desire to live;
yet at the end of three months she began slowly to recover, and,
at the end of six, was quite restored to health, though with the
loss of her long black tresses, and with partial blindness. Sometimes
she was cheered by a letter from Mills, who always wrote

kindly, but, as the years wore by, spoke less often of the future,
and less definitely. He had left the Academy, and engaged in
some mercantile pursuit, which promised better for the future
than he had ever dared to hope. So the time passed on, and
the summer faded into the autumn of his return. Mary was
coming, too. What a happy meeting they would have! and
Annie, despite her distrustful and desponding nature, gave her
heart once more to hope.

Mary came first. Scareely might you recognise, in the well-bred,
showily dressed woman, with her shoulders so graceful in
their contour, covered only with a flood of ringlets, and her fair
round arms, gleaming with bracelets, the simple country maiden
of five years ago.

“Do not, Annie, quite crush me,” she said, as, on her arrival,
she drew herself, coldly, almost haughtily, from her embrace.
From that hour she had no need of similar reproach.

“In a week more,” thought Annie, “Mills will be here, and
I shall find consolation;” and a long week was gone, and the
long, long anticipation was over. Mills was come; but was he
the same Mills from whom she parted in the broken shadows
of the old elm? Was her dream realized? From their first
meeting his manner to her was kindly, very kindly, but unsatisfactory.
He spoke often of his deep indebtedness to her,
of his everlasting gratitude, but said little of the future—nothing
definite. His time, in fact, was so occupied with rambling through
the beautiful autumn woods, playing at graces and the like,
with her sister, that he had little time for serious thought.

One day, seeing them seated together under an orchard tree,
Annie tied on her bonnet, and went out to join them. She
walked softly, thinking to surprise them; and as she came
near, Mills, coqueting the while with one of the bright, graceful
curls of Mary, said, “I wish, Mary, that Annie were more like
you; she is quite too staid and serious; but I suppose she
feels the loss of earlier attractions. And, Mary, I wish you
would give her some lessons in the mysteries of the toilet:
that bright-colored dress of hers is positively shocking!”

Annie waited to hear no more. The last illusion of her
dream was past. And when Mary's visit at home was ended,

she was not surprised to hear Mills announce his intention to
accompany her back. Only for one moment her heart beat
quicker, and hope threw over her its mocking glow, when, as
he took leave, Mills put into her hand the self-same envelop
which inclosed her parting gift five years before; but, alas! it
contained only a note of similar value, reiterations of gratitude
for the past, and many kind hopes and wishes for the future—a
mockery all!

And Annie Heaton lived on—hopelessly, aimlessly. Few
persons knew her—none loved her. All that autumn, and for
many succeeding autumns, she saw the moonlight stealing
through her window, gleaming and trembling on the opposite
wall, and at last fading out before the darkness, thinking ever,
“Yes, it was like my hopes!”