University of Virginia Library

1. I.
THE ADOPTED SISTER.

IT was three years since old Abel Dane laid down
the compass and the chisel on his work-bench in
the old shop, and himself on his bed in the new
house which he had so lately built for his comfort,
and which he never left again until he was carried
out by his neighbors.

“To be sure!” moralized one of the pall-bearers, on
that occasion, — a pale, meagre, bald little man, John
Apjohn by name, and a cooper by trade, — “it's with
houses as 'tis with every other airthly blessin'. We're
no sooner ready to enjoy 'em than either they go or we
go. Here's neighbor Dane, been so busy building houses
for other people all his life that he never had time till
now to build one for himself; and to think on 't!” said
the cooper, with mournful, wondering eyes, “there the
house is, and here he is a-goin' to his final home, and
leavin' everything to his heir! To be sure, to be sure!”
and he shook his head solemnly at the decrees of fate.

The heir mentioned was Abel Dane the younger, who
inherited his father's trade, the old shop, the new house,
and a faithful foster-sister.

It was three years since that dark day in autumn; and
now just such another dark day in the fall of the year
was drawing to a close; and Abel's foster-sister, having
set the supper-table, took her favorite place at the window
to watch for his coming. And there, sitting in the
cheerful room, which would soon be made more cheerful
by his presence; remembering the sad day of the funeral,
so like this day; thinking of all God's mercles to
her, before and since, — to her, a poor orphan, so unworthy
such a home and such a brother; looking across
the gloomy common, whose very bleakness enhanced her
sense of life-warm comfort in house and heart, she saw,
through thick tears of happiness, which magnified him
into a glimmering seraph, with irregular, shining wings,
her “more than brother,” returning.

Across the brown common, under the wild elm-boughs
swinging in the wind, he came rapidly walking.
He stopped to leave some tools he carried at the shop,
and that gave the little housekeeper time to get the tea
and toast on the table. Then she drew up the invalid's
chair, beat the cushion, and helped the invalid to her
seat, — for this was another important item of Abel's
inheritance which we have neglected to mention, namely,
a paralytic mother. She was a cheerful old Christian,
with the most benignant of double chins, in the full possession
of her mental faculties, but physically shattered.

She had suffered two or three strokes, the last of which
had produced a singular effect upon her organs of
speech.

“Thank you, Gridiron,” said she, — for this was the
oddity of it, that sometimes she could not speak at all,
and sometimes she suddenly shot out the most unexpected
and irrelevant speeches quite involuntarily; and
sometimes when she meant to say one word, another
ludicrously inappropriate would drop out in its place,
as much to her own astonishment as anybody's. The
name of her adopted daughter was Eliza; but the nearest
she could come to it at that moment was Gridiron.

Abel washed his stout carpenter's hands at the sink,
kicked off his boots, slipped on his slippers, and the
three sat around the little table together, Abel opposite
Eliza, — a goodly young man and a strong, brown-cheeked
and chestnut-haired, with a countenance not
lacking in brightness generally, and particularly radiant
on this occasion.

Eliza noticed his gayety, and was glad. They were
not lovers, though she loved him. She had never confessed
to herself that she hoped in her inmost heart to
be nearer and dearer to him some day than she was now.
To be to him what she was seemed happiness enough, —
his sister, his servant, — his, whom it was so sweet to
serve: preparing his meals, which it was her meat and
her drink to see him eat with appetite; making his bed
and smoothing his dear pillow, with hands magnetic

with affection; stealing his boots, and blacking them,
with the delight which love lends to the meanest occupation;
reading to him evenings and Sundays, or hearing
him read from the books that gave her a twofold
pleasure because he enjoyed them; living thus day
after day and year after year in the nourishing atmosphere
of his out-going and in-coming, and satisfied to
live on thus forever.

And now, without questioning what made Abel so
joyous, she was joyous too; for this is the blessedness
of love, that it annihilates selfishness, and makes us
happy in others' happiness. Filling the cups, she poured
her own thankful spirit into them with the fragrant beverage,
and sweetened them, not with sugar only, but
with her own spiritual sweetness, which both Abel and
his mother tasted in the tea she made and gave them,
and missed in that which others made and gave them,
without comprehending the subtle cause.

“Have another cup, mother?”

“No, my dear,” said the old lady. “But I'll thank
you for a piece of the contribution-box.”

She meant to ask for cheese. Then she laughed at
herself, half-vexed. Abel roared with mirth. And Eliza
said, — for Eliza was the wit of the family, —

“I'm sure, old cheese bears a strong resemblance to a
contribution-box; for when it is passed around, you
often find a few mites in it.”

Upon which Abel flashed his beaming eyes upon his
foster-sister. He was going to compliment her wit; but

something better than that, — something glowing in her
face, — attracted his attention.

“Why, 'Liza! how handsome you are to-night!”

Now Eliza was not handsome, and she knew it. She
knew that she was a plain little girl. She did not doubt,
however, but that Abel saw something pleasing in her
face just then, and the delicious consciousness made her
blush like a rose.

“Positively beautiful! ain't she, mother?” cried Abel,
with fond enthusiasm.

“She is always beautiful to me, she is always so good,”
the old woman managed to say, without a slip.

“A beautiful soul makes a beautiful face, they say,”
added Abel. “Consequently a beautiful face indicates
a beautiful soul, don't it?” — with a gay, triumphant
smile, which Eliza did not understand till two hours
later, — thinking, poor child, that his words referred to
her.

But, two hours later, Mrs. Dane having fallen asleep
in her chair, and Abel having shut the book he was
reading, and taken Eliza's work out of her hand, they
two sat together before the fire, which blazed up
brightly with shavings from the shop, and Abel looked
into her face with ardent eyes.

“'Liza, I'm going to tell you something.”

A sweet tremor rippled all over her, as if she had
been a fountain, and his breath the warm south wind.
She looked through his eyes into his soul, and saw love
there; while he looked — not into her soul.

“It is my heart's secret,” he went on; for she was
dumb with fear and gladness. “I have wanted to tell
you; I hope it will make you happy. We can't live always
in the way we do, you know; and I never can
think of parting from you, 'Liza.”

How she trembled! And now she felt a growing
terror in her joy; for, to one whose daily life is blessed,
the thought of a great change, whether for good or evil,
comes like a portentous shadow.

“So I have concluded it is best to be married. I am
going to be married, 'Liza. When we were talking of
faces, do you know whose face I was thinking of? The
most beautiful face in all this world! Her face who
wrote this letter which I got to-day, and which has
made me the happiest of men. You may read it, 'Liza.”

He placed it in her hands. It dropped from them to
the floor. She sat rigid, speechless, pallid — a spasm of
misery in her face, something like death in her heart.

“Won't you read it?” He stooped to pick up the
letter. “Don't think her coming into the family will
make any difference with you. We will all live here
together. You will always have a home here with us;
you will love her; you can't help it, Eliza.” He regarded
her a minute in silence, his brows darkening.
“You disappoint me,” he added, heavily; “I didn't
expect you would receive the news in this way. Don't
you like Faustina?”

“I think — she is — very pretty,” poor Eliza forced
her despairing lips to say.

“Why, then, do you object to her?”

“I? object? Oh, I don't! — if you can make her
happy.”

“What made you look so, then, when I told you?
It made my heart sick. And now that smile is worse
yet — such a wretched smile! I see you don't approve
of my choice,” turning away resentfully. “I wanted
you, of all persons, to love and welcome her. But never
mind.”

“Oh, Abel!” she chokingly said, “don't blame me.
I can't bear it. I — I am glad — I will be glad — for
your sake.”

“You act glad, surely!” grinned Abel, sarcastic; for
he thought her unreasonable, unkind; and so he stabbed
her with a look to punish her.

“Mother — I think of her,” gasped the miserable
girl; “so old, with her infirmity, which every person
will not bear with, and cherish her all the more tenderly
for, as we do.” And covering her face, she shook with
a violent, convulsive breath, but did not sob.

Abel frowned at what he considered a mean insinuation
against his beautiful Faustina; and, holding the
letter in his hand, looked moodily at the fire, utterly ignorant
and regardless of the agony in the weak woman's
breast at his side. “A girl's caprice; a little trait of
envy, — angry, perhaps, because I haven't consulted her
before; but she'll be sorry for it; and if she isn't, why,
I shall be independent of her” — with such a glorious
young creature for his wife! And the young man selfishly

calculated the slight loss it would be to him, even
if Eliza should carry her resentment so far as to leave
his house; not, of course, seriously supposing such an
event possible.

Eliza conquered her agony, uncovered her face, and
quietly resumed her work. And there they sat by the
fire, in silence, with such different thoughts! Silence
which rose like a rock in their hitherto united lives, its
hardness and coldness sundering them, — two separate
streams henceforth, with leagues of misunderstanding
and estrangement broadening between them. Did you
never feel such a rock rise between you and one you
loved? and see the stream of his future flow toward
flowery embowered vistas of hope, while yours took a
sudden plunge into some chilly, unsunned, melancholy
cave?

“Well, children,” said the old lady, waking, “I guess
I'll — night-cap!”

“Go to bed?” said Abel.

“Yes, — I believe I was almost asleep; but I didn't
quite lose myself, did I? Evenings are growing longer.
Interesting story — where did you leave off? I'm so”
— touching her forehead — “what do you call it? —
jewsharp.”

“Absent-minded,” suggested Abel.

That was the word. And so she went off to bed, trying
to recall the story they had been reading; but catching
not even a hint of the drama they had been acting
before her face. Such is life; and such are its spectators.

Daily and nightly, in street and dwelling, even
under the roofs where we abide, and in the very rooms
where we meet to laugh and sing away the hours together,
tragedies are acting in that little theatre, the
heart, and we catch so seldom any hint of them!

Eliza conducted Mrs. Dane to her chamber; nor did
she return to sit a little while alone with Abel as usual,
but went to her own room, unlighted, and shut herself
up there with the dark and cold.

And now once more kneeling, with her throbbing head
pressed against the casement, she looked across the
bleak common, where the wild elm-boughs were swaying
in the wind, and the pallid moonlight fell. The
loose leaves rustled along the ground under the window.
The gables moaned and thrilled, and the lone
crickets sang. And remembering how lately the outdoor
desolation had enhanced her idea of life-warm
comfort within, she thought her heart would burst.

Leaves of the dying autumn! moonlight spread so
white and cold over the face of the night! crickets
and whistling wind! who gave you your power over the
human soul? and why do you pierce and wring the
heart of a poor girl, pierced and wrung enough already
with unrequited love? No wonder our forefathers
thought the moonlight fairy-haunted, and deemed the
waving elder-boughs the beckoning fingers of elves.

The next day, just a little paler than usual, but quite
self-possessed, Eliza went about her household-work.
She was the same to Abel, in most outward things, as she

had ever been; but oh, the hidden mind! This Abel
could not see. He resented her last night's conduct, and
waited for her to come to him humbly and ask his forgiveness,
when he intended to pardon her magnanimously,
after administering a fitting rebuke, and then be again
to her the kind brother he had always been, and always
meant to be, in spite of her faults. He had even pondered
what he ought to say to her on that occasion. And in
the mean time he treated her with very proper reserve.

The days passed, the leaves all fell from the trees; it
was now November; and Eliza, having worked industriously
to prepare the house for the coming bride, when
all was done, requested Abel, one Sunday afternoon, to
grant her a few minutes' conversation. The generous
young man put aside his newspaper, and appeared quite
ready to receive her penitent confession.

“Well, Eliza, what is it?” he said, encouragingly,
trying to recall his speech.

“I thought you ought to know,” she began, in a very
low, slightly tremulous voice, “that I — am going away
to-morrow.”

Abel forgot his speech, — opened his eyes.

“Going! where?”

“I think — to Lowell.”

“To Lowell! what for? Not to stay?”

“Yes,” she answered, quietly, “if I can find work in
the mills.”

“The mills!” ejaculated Abel, frowningly. “What
are you talking of work in the mills for?”

“Because I shall not be needed here any more, and I
must get my living.”

“Eliza,” said Abel, sternly, “you are a strange girl!
Can't you understand me? Haven't I told you that you
could always have a home here? And now what is this
absurd notion about getting your living?”

“Don't be angry. You will do very well without
me. You won't miss me, after a few days. I go to-morrow.”

Abel looked at her a minute, with fixed teeth. Her
subdued, calm, independent way exasperated him.

“You are a stubborn, ungrateful girl!”

“I hope not,” she murmured.

“To leave us at this time!” he exclaimed; though he
did not like to own that he needed her to receive and
attend his bride. “I can't understand such perverseness!”

Cut to the heart, Eliza did not answer, and he stalked
away.

What gave edge to his reproof was the consciousness
that she was acting unreasonably. Why not stay till the
wedding, and welcome the beautiful Faustina, like a
sensible girl? Simply because she could not. It was
not jealousy, but something far deeper than jealousy
that set her soul against this marriage. The entire
instinct of the woman rose up and prophesied the unsuitableness
of Abel's chosen bride. Not solely for
her own sake, but for Abel's also, and equally for
his mother's, she must regard the wedding-day as an evil

one to them all; and to join in the festivities of that occasion,
to mask her misery with smiles, to kiss and congratulate
and witness the joy over an event which was
worse than death to her, would have been too terrible a
mockery. And so, even at the risk of seeming ungrateful
and perverse, she must depart before the bride
came.

Did you ever leave a place that had been all that
home could be to you, and go forth shivering into the
dark future? Some dreary November afternoon, you
take down the pictures from the walls which you may
never see again; empty the familiar drawers and shelves
which you will use no more, but which somebody else
to whom you give place will cheerfully occupy after
you; pull out the wretched trunk from its hiding-place,
and commence packing. Here are old letters to be destroyed.
Here are keepsakes you hardly know whether
to take with you or return, Ophelia-like, to the giver
who has “proved unkind,” they are still so precious to
you, while they make your heart so ache and sicken.
For relief you turn away and look out upon the bleak
sky of November. Small comfort you derive from the
drifts of gray clouds that lie like sandbars in the blue,
cold ocean of infinity, type of the sea you are about to
sail. It is insupportable! The very roots of your being
seem torn up by this change. How golden are the days
that are no more! How like iron the grim gates of the
morrow! Where will these miserable trifles you are
packing up be next unpacked? Upon the walls of what

lonely room will you hang this little Madonna, and this
print of the Saviour? Among what unsympathizing
strangers will your solitary, toilsome lot be cast?
There is One who knows; and what is best for you, he
knows far better than you.