University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
JOSEPHINE.

The house which Uncle Isaac Clayton, the shoemaker
of Snowdon, called his, was an old brown, gable-roofed
building, containing wide fire-places, huge ovens, ash-pits
of corresponding magnitude, and low rooms, where the
bare rafters looked menacingly down, strikingly suggestive
of bumped heads, especially to those who, being above
the medium height, carried their heads too high. Then
there were the little narrow windows, so far from the
floor, that every time a wagon was heard, the six red-backed,
splint-bottomed chairs were brought into requisition
by Uncle Isaac's six white-haired boys, all eager to
know “who's goin' by!”

It was in the same room which contained these six red-backed
chairs, that Josephine first opened her eyes on
the light of a fair September morning, and, in the same
room, too, the six white-haired boys, on tip-toe, stole up
to the bed to see the novelty, for never before had a
daughter graced Uncle Isaac's domestic circle.

“She makes up just such faces and looks just as ugly
as Jim did when he was a baby,” said Frank, the oldest
of the boys; and with a whistle which he meant should

be very indifferent, he walked away, followed by all his
brothers save Jimmy, who lingered longer to look at the
stranger, who so unceremoniously had usurped his rights
and privileges as the youngest. Though cradled in the
lap of poverty, a more restless and ambitious being has
seldom sprung into existence than was she, whose soft cheek
and tiny fingers Jimmy so lovingly caressed. Yes, Jimmy,
love her now, lavish upon her all the affection of your
noble heart, for the time will come when she, a haughty,
beautiful woman, will turn her back on you, ashamed to
own that once beneath the old gable-roof she called you
brother.

Over Josephine's early days we will not linger, or stop
to tell how both early and late Uncle Isaac's pegs and
long waxed-ends flew, to meet the increased demands for
money which the new comer made, nor how Jimmy, in
order that his sister might have the bright pink dress,
which so well became her rosy cheeks and silken curls,
went, with generous self-denial, without the new Sunday
coat, wearing the old patched one, until it was hard to
tell which piece belonged to the original article.

It was no ordinary love which Jimmy Clayton bore
his only sister; and as she grew older and he saw her
passion for dress, he carefully hoarded every penny
which he earned, and then when she least expected it,
poured his treasure into her lap, thus, with mistaken
kindness, gratifying a fondness for dress far above her
means. Though possessing less of it than most small villages,
Snowdon had its ton, its upper set, who, while
they commented upon the marvelous beauty of Josephine,
still passed her by as one not of their number.
This was exceedingly mortifying to her pride, and when
at the school which she attended, Mabel Howland, the
lawyer's child, spoke sneeringly of “the poor shoemaker's

daughter,” her spirit was fully roused, and she resolved
to leave no means untried until money was within her
reach. Accordingly, when sixteen years of age, she was
willingly apprenticed to a milliner in the city, with the
understanding that at the end of six months she should
return home for a short visit. Many articles which were
absolutely necessary for the coming winter, did Mrs.
Clayton deny herself, that a decent outfit might be procured
for the thankless girl, who, without a tear, left the
humble home she so much despised.

But, in spite of her faults, she left behind her loving
hearts, which many long days missed her bright, handsome
face and bounding footstep. Darker than ever
seemed the dark old kitchen at Snowdon, while the cricket
'neath the large flat stones which served as a hearth,
mournfully chirped, “she's gone,” as on the first evening
after her departure Mr. and Mrs. Clayton and Jimmy
gathered around the frugal board. The other five boys,
now grown to manhood, were away, three of them being
respectable farmers, and the other two mechanics.

Jimmy had always been a home boy, and he remained
with his mother, learning his father's trade, and working
in the little shop which had been built in the rear of the
house. In his childhood he had thirsted for more knowledge
than could be obtained by a yearly attendance of
five months at the district school of Snowdon, but, taught
by his father to believe that education was only for the
rich, he hushed the desire he had once had for something
noble and high, and patiently, day by day, he toiled uncomplainingly
in the shop, thinking himself sufficiently
rewarded by the smile of approbation with which his
mother always greeted him, and the few words of kindness
which his sister occasionally gave him. But in that
close, smoky shop was the germ of a great mind. The

scholar and statesman was there, who one day would
stand forth among the great men of the land.

But not with Jimmy must we tarry. Our story leads
to the noisy city, where already had Josephine's uncommon
beauty been the subject of remark, drawing to Mrs.
Lamport's shop many who were attracted thither by the
hope of seeing the beautiful apprentice girl, who was frequently
sent to wait upon them. “What a pity that she
should be a milliner,” had more than once been whispered
in her hearing, and ere three months of her apprenticeship
had expired, she was devising schemes by which to
rise to the level for which she believed nature intended
her; and fortune, or rather ill fortune, seemed to favor
her wishes.

Among the millionaires of the city was a Mr. Hubbell,
who, with a gouty foot, restless mind, and nervous, sickly
daughter of eighteen, managed to kill time by playing
chess, reading politics, giving dinner parties, humoring
his daughter, visiting every fashionable watering place,
cursing the waiters, and finding fault generally. Not always,
however, had Mr. Hubbell possessed so peculiar a
disposition. Late in life his quiet bachelor habits had
been broken by a young, joyous creature, on whom he
doted with an almost idolatrous love; but the same sun
which first shone on him, a happy father, left him at its setting,
a stricken, desolate mourner. Anna, his cherished
girl-wife, had left him forever. He had not thought she
could die, and when they told him she was dying, with
the shriek of a madman he caught her in his arms, as if he
would contend with the king of terrors for the prize he
was bearing away. She died, and from the quiet, easy
husband, Enos Hubbell became a fault-finding, fretful, disconsolate
widower.

His daughter Anna had, in her childhood, been subject

to severe and protracted fits of sickness, and now, at
eighteen, she was a pale, delicate, kind-hearted girl,
though rather peculiar in her likes and dislikes, for upon
whatever object her affections chanced to fasten, she clung
to it with a tenacity which nothing could weaken. For
one thing in particular she was famous. She was always
discovering people whom she thought “far below their
position in life.” These she generally took under her
special notice, and as might be expected, usually succeeded
in making them both discontented and unhappy.

Josephine had been in Mrs. Lamport's employment
nearly three months, when she was one morning sent to
wait upon Miss Hubbell, who came on some trifling errand.
Something in the face and appearance of the apprentice
girl deeply interested Anna, who felt sure that
for once she discriminated rightly,—that she had at
last found one really worthy of being her protege,—in
short, Josephine was discovered! Many were the visits
made to Mrs. Lamport's, until the intimacy between
Anna and Josephine became a subject of gossip among
the shop girls, each of whom, according to her own pretensions
for beauty, was jealous of her handsome rival.

Anna Hubbell's nature was largely spiced with romance,
and she had long sighed for a companion near her age,
who would be the confidant of all her thoughts and feelings,
and in Josephine Clayton, she fancied she had
at last found the desired friend. She believed, too, it
would be an act of kindness to lend her a helping hand,
for Josephine had often insinuated that reverse of fortune,
alone, had placed her where she was. To her father
Anna first communicated her plan, seizing her opportunity
when he was not only free from gout, but had also
just beaten her at chess three times out of four. First
she descanted on Josephine's extreme beauty and natural

refinement of manner; next she spoke of the misfortune
which had obliged her to become a milliner, and finished
her argument by telling how lonely she herself was,
when obliged by ill health to remain in the house for
weeks.

Mr. Hubbell heard her through, and then striking the
ashes from his cigar, said, “Why don't you come to the
point at once, and say you want this girl to pet, flatter,
and make a fool of you generally?”

“And if I do,” answered Anna, “you have no objections,
have you?” And Anna wound her arms around
her father's neck, until a twinge of the gout suddenly returning,
he threw her half way across the room, exclaiming,
“For pity's sake and the old Harry, lug in a wash-woman
for all of me, if you wish to!”

So the matter was settled, and in the course of an hour,
a note was dispatched to Josephine, bidding her come
that evening, if possible, as her friend had something
pleasant to communicate. Just as the street lamps were
lighted, Josephine ascended the marble steps of Mr.
Hubbell's stately dwelling, and in a moment was in Anna's
room, where she soon learned why she was sent for.
So unexpected was the proposal, that for a time she was
mute with surprise, and then on her knees she thanked
Anna Hubbell for the great good she was doing her.

The bells of the city were tolling the hour of nine ere
Josephine returned to her pleasant room at Mrs. Lamport's,
which now looked poor and humble, compared
with the elegant home she was soon to have. When
Mrs. Lamport was informed of the plan, she refused to
release Josephine until the term of her apprenticeship
should have expired, alleging, as one reason, that Josephine
might sometime find her trade of great service to
her. Accordingly, though much against her will, Josephine

was obliged to remain until the end of the six
months; but she resolved not to go home, and about the
time when she would be expected, she wrote to her parents,
telling them of her future prospects, and saying
that, as Miss Hubbell wished for her immediately, she
should be obliged to forego her expected visit.

Owing to some mistake, this letter did not reach its
destination, and Jimmy, all impatient to see his beloved
sister, started for the city on purpose to accompany her
home. Going to Mrs. Lamport's, he was told that “Josephine
had gone out shopping.” “Gone to buy some
presents for mother, I presume,” thought he, as he retraced
his steps through the crowded streets. Coming
to a jeweler's shop, he concluded to step in, as he had
long contemplated the purchase of a watch. At the further
end of the store were seated two young ladies, surrounded
by jewelry, from which they were making selections.
As Jimmy entered the door, one of the young ladies
glanced at him; their eyes met, and involuntarily
Jimmy started forward, half exclaiming, “Josephine!”
but the lady's lip curled scornfully, and a dark frown lowered
on her brow as she turned quickly away. Jimmy
was puzzled, and glancing, for the first time, at the young
girl's dress, he thought, “Of course 't is n't Josephine;
what a blunder I should have made!”

Just then the clerk asked him to step into an adjoining
room, where they would show him the kind of watches
he wished for. As he was passing the two ladies, the one
whose face he had not seen looked up at him. He would
have thought no more of this occurrence, had he not overheard
her say to her companion, “Why, Josephine, that
young man looks enough like you to be your brother.”

The reply, too, he distinctly heard, uttered in Josephine's
well remembered voice: “Oh fie, Miss Hubbell!

pray, don't take that clownish clod-pole to be my
brother!”

Jimmy instantly turned toward the speaker, but with
her companion she was leaving the shop. Mechanically
declining to purchase anything, he also left, and, going to
the hotel, called for a room, where, locking himself in, he
burst into a flood of tears. “Josephine, his sister Josephine,
was ashamed to own him,—had denied him!”
For half an hour he wept bitterly; then over him a reäction
stole, and rising up, he rapidly paced the room, saying,
“Ashamed of me!—she shall see the day when she
will be glad that I am her brother.” Then in that little
room was a resolution made, and a course of life marked
out which made for America a son of whom she has since
been proud.

That evening Jimmy met his sister at Mrs. Lamport's,
but not as in the olden time. A change had come over
him, which even Josephine noticed, although she scarcely
regretted it. He offered no remonstrance when told that
she would not accompany him home; but, after bidding
her good-by, he turned back, and with a scarcely steady
voice, said, “When I return home, and mother, your
mother, weeps because you do not come, shall I tell her
that you sent no word of love?”

“Why, Jim,” said Josephine, “what a strange mood
you are in to-night! Of course, I send my love to all of
them. Have n't I told you so? If I have n't, it was because
I forgot it.”

“One of us, at least, will not forget you so easily,” answered
Jimmy, but he told not what fresh cause he had
for remembrance.