University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

Jane hoped for some favourable change in her
condition, or some slight alleviation of it, from the
visit of David Wilson, who had just arrived from
college, to pass a six-weeks vacation with his family.
At first, he seemed to admire his cousin;
and partly to gratify a passing fancy, and partly
from opposition to his mother and sisters, he treated
her with particular attention. Jane was grateful,
and returned his kindness with frankness and
affection. But she was soon obliged, by the freedom
of his manners to treat him with reserve.
His pride was wounded, and he joined the family
league against her. He was a headstrong youth
of seventeen; his passions had been curbed by
the authority of his mother, but never tamed; and
now that he was beyond her reach, he was continually
falling into some excess; almost always in
disgrace at college, and never in favour.

Mr. Lloyd was made acquainted with all the
embarrassments in Jane's condition, by Mary

Hull. He would have rejoiced to have offered
Jane a home, but he had no right to interfere; he
was a stranger, and he well knew, that Mrs. Wilson
would not consent to any arrangement that
would deprive her of Jane's ill-requited services,
—such services as money could not purchase.

It was, too, about this period, that Mr. Lloyd went,
for the first time, to visit Philadelphia. Jane had
passed a day of unusual exertion, and just at the
close of it she obtained her aunt's reluctant leave
to pay a visit to Mary Hull. It was a soft summer
evening; the valley reposed in deep shadow;
the sun was sinking behind the western mountains,
tinging the light clouds with a smiling farewell ray,
and his last beams lingering on the summits of the
eastern mountain, as if “parting were sweet sorrow.”
Jane's spirits rose elastic, as she breathed
the open air; she felt like one who has just issued
from a close, pent-up, sick room, and inspires the
fresh pure breath of morning; she was gayly tripping
along, sending an involuntary response to the
last notes of the birds that were loitering on “bush
and brake,” when Edward Erskine joined her;
she had often seen him at her aunt's, but, regarding
him as the companion of her cousins, she had
scarcely noticed him, or had been noticed by him.
He joined her, saying, “It is almost too late to be
abroad without a companion.”

“I am used,” replied Jane, “to be without a
companion, and I do not need one.”

“But, I hope you do not object to one? It
would be one of the miseries of human life, to see

such a girl as Jane Elton walking alone, and not
be permitted to join her.”

“Sir?” said Jane, confounded by Edward's unexpected
gallantry.

Abashed by her simplicity, he replied, “that he
was going to walk, and should be very happy to
attend her.”

Jane felt kindness, though she knew not how to
receive gallantry. She thanked him, and they
walked on together. When Edward parted from
her, he wondered he had never noticed before how
very interesting she was, “and what a sweet expression
she has when she smiles; and, oh!” added
he, with a rapture quite excusable in a young
man of twenty, “her eye is in itself a soul.”

“Jane,” said Mary Hull to her, as she entered
her room, “you look as bright as a May morning,
and I have that to tell you, that will make you yet
brighter. Mr. Evertson has been here, inquiring
for Mr. Lloyd. I had my surmises, that it was
something about you, and though Mr. Lloyd was
gone, I was determined to find out; and so I made
bold to break the ice, and say something about the
exhibition, and how much Mr. Lloyd was pleased
with the school, &c. &c.—and then he said, he was
quite disappointed to find Mr. Lloyd gone; he
wanted to consult him about a matter of great importance
to himself and to you. Mr. Lloyd was
so kind, he said, and had shown such an interest in
the school, that he did not like to take any important
step without consulting him; and then he
spoke very handsomely of those elegant globes that

Mr. Lloyd presented to the school. He said, his
subscription was so much enlarged, that he must
engage an assistant; but, as he wished to purchase
some maps, he must get one who could furnish, at
least, one hundred dollars. His sick wife and
large family, he said, consumed nearly all his profits;
and last, and best of all, Jane, he said, that
you was the person he should prefer of all others
for an assistant.”

“Me!” exclaimed Jane.

“Yes, my dear child, you. I told him, you was
not quite fifteen; but he said, you knew more than
most young women of twenty, and almost all the
school loved and respected you.”

“But, Mary, Mary,” and the bright flush of
pleasure died away as she spoke, “where am I to
get a hundred dollars?”

“Mr. Lloyd,” answered Mary, “I know would
furnish it.”

“No, Mary,” replied Jane, after a few moments
consideration, “I never can consent to that.”

“But why?” said Mary. “Mr. Lloyd spends
all his money in doing good.”

Jane could not tell why, but she felt that it was
not delicate to incur such an obligation. She
merely said, “Mr. Lloyd's means are well employed.
If any man does, he certainly will, hear
those blessed words, `I was hungry and ye fed me,
naked and ye clothed me, sick and in prison and
ye visited me.' ”

“I do not eat the bread of idleness, Mary; I
think I earn all my aunt gives me; and I am not

very unhappy there; indeed, I am seldom unhappy.
I cannot tell how it is, but I am used to their
ways. I am always busy, and have not time to
dwell on their unkindness; it passes me like the
tempest from which I am sheltered; and when I
feel my temper rising, I remember who it is that
has placed me in the fiery furnace, and I feel, Mary,
strengthened and peaceful as if an angel were
really walking beside me.”

“Surely,” said Mary, as if but thinking aloud,
“The kingdom is come in this dear child's
heart.”

Both were silent for a few moments. Jane was
making a strong mental effort to subdue that longing
after liberty, that lurks in every heart. Habitual
discipline had rendered it comparatively
easy for her to restrain her wishes. After a short
struggle, she said, with a smile, “I am sure of one
thing, my dear, kind Mary, I shall never lose an
opportunity of advantage, while I have such a
watchful sentinel as you are, on the look-out for
me. Oh! how much have I to be grateful for!
I had no reason to expect such favour from Mr.
Evertson. Every one, out of my aunt's family, is
kind to me; I have no right to repine at the trials
I have there; they are, no doubt, necessary to me.
Mary, I sometimes feel the rising of a pride in my
heart, that I am sure needs all these lessons of humility;
and sometimes I feel, that I might be easily
tempted to do wrong—to indulge an indolent
disposition, for which you often reproved me; but
I am compelled to exertion, by necessity as well

as a sense of duty. It is good for me to bear this
yoke in my youth.”

“No doubt, no doubt, my dear child; but then
you know if there is a way of escape opened to
you, it would be but a tempting of Providence not
to avail yourself of it. It is right to endure necessary
evils with patience, but I know no rule
that forbids your getting rid of them, if you can.”
Mary Hull was not a woman to leave any stone
unturned, when she had a certain benefit in view
for her favourite. “Now, dear Jane,” said she,
“I have one more plan to propose to you, and
though it will cost you some pain, I think you will
finally see it in the same light that I do. I always
thought it was not for nothing Providence moved
the hearts of the creditors to spare you all your
dear mother's clothes, seeing she had a good many
that could not be called necessary; nor was it
a blind chance that raised you up such a friend as
Mr. Lloyd in a stranger. Now, if you will consent
to it, I will undertake to dispose of the articles
Mr. Lloyd sent to you, and your mother's
lace and shawls, and all the little nick-nacks she
left; it shall go hard but I will raise a hundred
dollars.”

“But, Mary,” said Jane, wishing, perhaps, to
conceal from herself even the involuntary reluctance
she felt to the proposal, “aunt Wilson will
never consent to it.”

“The consent that is not asked,” replied Mary,
“cannot be refused. It is but speaking to Mr.
Evertson, and he will keep our counsel, for he is

not a talking body, and when all is ready, it will
be time enough, not to ask Mrs. Wilson's leave,
but to tell her your plans; you owe her nothing,
my child, unless it be for keeping the furnace hot
that purifies the gold. I would not make you discontented
with your situation, but I cannot bear
to see your mind as well as your body in slavery.”

Mary's long harangue had given Jane a moment
for reflection, and she now saw the obvious benefits
to result from the adoption of her judicious
friend's plan. The real sorrows that had shaded
her short life, had taught her not to waste her
sensibility on trifles. She doubtless felt it to be
very painful to part with any memorials of her
mother, but the moment she was convinced it was
right and best she should do so, she consented,
and cheerfully, to the arrangement. Mary entered
immediately upon the execution of her plan.

Those who have been accustomed to use, and
to waste, thousands, will smile with contempt at
the difficulty of raising a hundred dollars. But
let those persons be reduced to want so mean a
sum, and they will cease to laugh at the obstacles
in the way of getting it. Certain it is, that Mary,
anxious and assiduous, spent four weeks in industrious
application to those whom she thought most
likely to be purchasers in the confined market of
—. The necessity of secrecy increased the
difficulty of the transaction; but finally, zeal and
perseverance mastered every obstacle, and Mary,
with sparkling eyes, and a face that smiled all over
in spite of its habitual sobriety, put Jane in possession

of the hundred dollars. “This is indeed
manna in the wilderness,” said Jane, as she received
it, “but, dear Mary, I am not the less
thankful to you for your exertions for me.”

“My child, you are right,” replied Mary,
“thanks should first ascend to heaven, and then
they are very apt to descend in heavenly grace
upon the feeble instrument. But something seems
to trouble you.”

“I am troubled,” answered Jane, “I fear,
Mary, this sum cannot all have come from the articles
you sold; you have added some of your
earnings.”

“No, my dear child; some, and all of my earnings,
would I gladly give to you, but you know my
poor blind sister takes all I can earn; while God
blesses me with health she shall never want.
The town has offered to take her off my hands, as
they call it, but this would be a crying shame to
me; and besides,” she added, smiling, “I can't
spare her, for it is more pleasant working for her
than for myself. Thanks to Mr. Lloyd, she is now
placed in a better situation than I could afford for
her. No, Jane, the money is all yours; I have
told Mr. Evertson, and you are to enter the school
on Monday, and I have engaged a place for you
at Mrs. Hervey's, who will be as kind as a mother
to you. Between now and Monday you will have
time to acquaint your aunt with the fortune you
have come to, and to shed all the tears that are
necessary on this woful occasion!”

Jane had now nothing to do but to communicate
these arrangements; but so much did she dread
the tempest she knew the intelligence would produce,
that she suffered the day to wear away without
opening her lips on the subject. The next
day arrived; the time of emancipation was so
near, she felt her spirits rise equal to the disagreeable
task. The family were assembled in the
`dwelling room;' Mrs. Wilson was engaged in
casting up with her son David some of his college
accounts, a kind of business that never increased
her good humour. Martha and Elvira were seated
at a window, in a warm altercation about the
piece of work on which they were sewing; the
point in controversy seemed to be—to which the
mother had assigned the task of finishing it. The
two younger children were sitting on little chairs
near their mother, learning a long lesson in the
`Assembly's Catechism,' and every now and then
crying out—“ Please to speak to David, ma'am,
he is pinching me;”—“David pulled my hair,
ma'am.” The complainants either received no
notice, or an angry rebuke from the mother. Jane
was quietly sewing, and mentally resolving that
she would speak on the dreaded subject the moment
her aunt had finished the business at which
she was engaged. Mrs. Wilson's temper became
so much ruffled that she could not understand the
accounts; so shuffling the papers all together into
her desk, and turning the key, she said angrily to
her son, `her eldest hope,' “you will please to
bear in mind, sir, that all these extravagant bills

are charged to you, and shall come out of your
portion—not a cent of them will I ever pay.”

This did not seem to be a very propitious moment
for Jane's communication, but she dreaded
it so much, that she felt impatient to have it off
her mind, and laying down her work, she was fearfully
beginning, when she was interrupted by a
gentle tap at the door. A mean looking woman
entered, who bore the marks of poverty, and sorrow,
and sickness. She had a pale, half-starved
infant in her arms, and two other little ragged
children with her, that she had very considerately
left at the outer door. She curtsied very humbly
to the lady of the house, `hoped no offence,' she
had a little business with Miss Wilson—she believed
Miss Wilson had forgotten her, it was no
wonder—she did not blame her, sickness and trouble
made great changes. Mrs. Wilson either did
not, or affected not to recognise her. She was
aware that old acquaintance might create a claim
upon her charity, and she did not seem well-pleased
when Jane, who sat near, pushed a chair
forward for the poor woman, into which she sunk,
as it appeared from utter inability to stand.

“Who do you say you are?” said Mrs. Wilson,
after embarrassing the woman by an unfeeling
stare.

“I did not say, ma'am, for I thought, may be,
when you looked at me so severe, you would
know me.”

“Let me take your baby, while you rest a little,”
said Jane.

“Oh miss, he is not fit for you to take, he has
had a dreadful spell with the whooping-cough and
the measles, and they have left him kinder sore
and rickety; he has not looked so chirk as he
does to-day since we left Buffalo.” Jane persisted
in her kind offer, and the woman turned
again to Mrs. Wilson—“Can't you call to mind,
ma'am, Polly Harris, that lived five years at your
brother Squire Elton's?”

“Yes, yes, I recollect you now; but you married
and went away; and people should get their
victuals where they do their work.”

“I did not come to beg,” replied the woman.

“That may be,” said Mrs. Wilson, “but it is
a very poor calculation for the people that move
into the new countries to come back upon us as
soon as they meet with any trouble. I wonder
our Select Men don't take it in hand.”

“Ah, ma'am!” said the woman, “I guess you
was never among strangers; never knew what it
was to long to see your own people. Oh it is a
heart sickness, that seems to wear away life!”

“Whether I was, or was not, I don't know what
that signifies to you; I should be glad to know
what your business is with me, if you have any,
which I very much doubt.”

“I am afraid, ma'am, you will not see fit to
make it your business,” said the poor woman, and
she sighed deeply, and hesitated, as if she was discouraged
from proceeding, but the piteous condition
of her children stimulated her courage.
“Well, ma'am, to begin with the beginning of my

troubles, as I was saying, I lived five years with
your brother.”

“Troubles!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilson, “you
had an easy life enough of it there; you was always
as plump as a partridge, and your cheeks as
red as a rose!”

“I had nothing to complain of but that I could
never get my pay when I wanted it. There never
was a nicer woman than Miss Elton. I believe
she saved my life once when I had the typus
fever; but then every body knew she never had
the use of much money; she never seemed to care
any thing about it—when she had any I could always
get it; I hope no offence, but every body
knows the Squire was always a scheming, and seldom
had the money ready to pay his just debts.—
I am afraid the child tires you, miss;” she continued,
turning to Jane who had walked to the window
to hide the emotion the woman's remarks produced.

“No,” replied Jane, “I had rather keep him;”
and the woman proceeded—

“It lacked but six weeks of the five years I
had lived at the Squire's, when I was married to
Rufus Winthrop. When Rufus came to a settlement
with the Squire, there was a hundred dollars
owing to me. We were expecting to move off to
a great distance, beyond the Genessee, and Rufus
pressed very hard for the payment; the Squire put
him off from time to time; Rufus was a peaceable
man, and did not want to go to law, and so the

upshot of it was, that the Squire persuaded him to
take his note—

“That's a very likely story,” said Mrs. Wilson
impatiently interrupting the narrative—“I don't
believe one word of it.”

“Well, ma'am,” replied Mrs. Winthrop, “I
have that must convince you;” and she took from
an old pocket book a small piece of paper, and
handed it to Mrs. Wilson—“there is the identical
note, ma'am, you can satisfy yourself.”

Jane cast her eye on the slip of paper in her
aunt's hand; it was but too plainly written in her
father's large and singular character. Mrs. Wilson
coldly returned it, saying, in a moderated tone,
“It is as good to you now as a piece of white
paper.”

“Then I have nothing in this world,” said the
poor woman, bursting into tears, “but my poor,
sick, destitute children.”

“How came you in such a destitute condition?”
inquired Mrs. Wilson, who, now that she saw the
woman had no direct claim on her, was willing to
hear her story.

“Oh,” answered the poor creature, it seemed
as if every thing went cross-grained with us.
There was never a couple went into the new
countries with fairer prospects; Rufus had tugged
every way to save enough to buy him a small farm.
When we got to Buffalo, we struck down south,
and settled just on the edge of Lake Erie. We
had a yoke of oxen, but one of them was pretty
much beat out on the road, and died the very day

after we got to our journey's end; there was a
distemper among the cattle the next winter, and
we lost the other ox and our cow. In the spring,
Rufus took the long ague, working out in the
swampy ground in wet weather, and that held him
fifteen months; but he had made some clearings,
and we worried through; and for three years we
seemed to be getting along ahead a little. Then
we both took the lake fever; we had neither doctor
nor nurse; our nighest neighbours were two
miles off; they were more fore-handed than we,
and despot kind, but it was not much they could
do, for they had a large sick family of their own.
The fever threw my poor husband into a slow consumption,
and he died, ma'am, the 20th of last
January, and that poor baby was born the next
week after he died. It seemed as if nothing could
kill me, though I have a weakness in my bones
'casioned by the fever, and distress of mind, that
I expect to carry to my grave with me. Sometimes
my children and I would almost starve to
death, but Providence always sent some relief.
Once there was a missionary put up with us; he
looked like a poor body, but he left me two dollars;
and once a Roman Catholic priest, that was
passing over into Canada, gave me a gold piece,
and that I saved, till I started on my journey.
While my husband was sick, he had great consarn
upon his mind about Squire Elton's note; we had
heard rumours like that he had broke; but Rufus
nor I could not believe but what there would be
enough to pay the note, out of all his grandeur,
and so Rufus left it in strict charge with me to
come back as soon as I could after the spring
opened. And so, ma'am, as soon as the roads
were a little settled, I pulled up stakes and came
off. My good christian neighbours helped me up
to Buffalo. I have been nine weeks getting from
there, though I was favoured with a great many
rides”—

Here Mrs. Wilson interrupted the unfortunate
narrator, saying,—“I cannot see what occasion
there was for you to be nine weeks on the road;
I have known persons to go from Boston to the
Falls, and back again, in three weeks.”

“Ah, ma'am!” replied the woman, there is a
sight of difference between a gentleman riding
through the country for pleasure, with plenty of
money in his pocket, and a poor sickly creature,
begging a ride now and then of a few miles, and
then walking for miles with four little children, and
one a baby.”

“Four! your story grows—I thought you had
but three.”

“I have but three, ma'am; I buried my only
girl, the twin to the second boy, at Batavy. She
never was hearty, and the travelling quite overdid
her.” The afflicted woman wiped away the fast
gathering tears with a corner of her apron, and
went on. “At Batavy I believe I should have
gived out, but there was a tender-hearted gentleman
from the eastward, going on to see the Falls,
and he paid for my passage, and all my children's,
in a return stage, quite to Genevy. This was a

great lift to my spirits, and easement to the children's
feet; and so after that, we came on pretty
well, and met with a great deal of kindness; but,
oh! ma'am, 'tis a wearisome journey.”

“And here you are,” said Mrs. Wilson; “and I
suppose the town must take care of you.”

“I did not mean to be a burden to the town,”
replied the woman. “If it pleased the Lord to
restore my health, and if I could have got the hundred
dollars, I would not have been a burden to
any body. I calculated to hire me a little place,
bought a loom, and turned my hand to weaving—I
am a master weaver, ma'am.”

“I am sorry for you, good woman,” said Mrs.
Wilson; “here,” said she, after rummaging her
pocket and taking out a reluctant ninepence;
“here is a `widow's mite' for you. I can't give
you the least encouragement about my brother's
debt. He left nothing but a destitute child that
I have had to support ever since his death.”

“Is that little Jane,” exclaimed the woman, for
the first time recalling to mind the features of our
heroine. “Well,” added she, surveying her delicate
person with a mingled expression of archness
and simplicity, “I think it can't have cost you
much to support her, ma'am. I wonder I did not
know you,” she continued, “when you took my
baby so kindly. It was just like you. I used to set
a great store by you. But you have grown so tall,
and so handsome; as to the matter of that, you
was always just like a Lon'on doll.”

Jane replaced the child in the mother's lap, and
said to Mrs. Winthrop, “I recollect you perfectly,
Polly. You were very good to me.”

“I could not help it, for you was always as pleasant
as a little lamb, and as chipper as a bird; but,”
said she, observing the too evident traces of tears
on Jane's cheeks, “I am sorry if I have touched
your feelings about the money. I never mistrusted
that it was you.”

“Do not be uneasy on that account,” replied
Jane. “I am glad I have heard your story,
Polly.”

She had listened to the unfortunate woman's
history with the keenest anguish. There is no
feeling so near of kin to remorse as that which a
virtuous child suffers from the knowledge of a parent's
vices. The injustice of her father appeared
to Jane to have either caused or aggravated
every evil the poor woman had suffered. Each
particular was sharper than a serpent's tooth to
our unhappy orphan. She had not that convenient
moral sense, quick to discern and lament the faults
of others, but very dull in the perception of our
own duties. It was the work of an instant with
her to resolve to appropriate her newly acquired
treasure to the reparation of her father's injustice;
and with the hasty generosity of youth, she left the
room to execute her purpose. But, when she
took the pocket-book from its hiding-place, and
saw again that which she had looked upon with so
much joy, as the price of liberty and the means of
independence, her heart misgave her; she felt

like a prisoner, the doors of whose prison-house
have been thrown open to him, who sees the inviting
world without, and who is called upon, in
the spirit of martyrdom, to close the door, and bar
himself from light and hope. Those who have
felt the difficulty of sacrificing natural and virtuous
wishes to strict justice, will pardon our heroine
a few moments' deliberation. She thought that,
as the money had been chiefly the avails of the
articles given her by Mr. Lloyd, it could not be
considered as derived from her father. She thought
how much Mary Hull had exerted herself, and
how disappointed she would be; the engagement
with Mr. Evertson occurred to her, and she was
not certain it would be quite right to break it;
and, last of all, she thought, that if her present
plans succeeded, it could not be very long before
she might earn enough to cancel the debt. Jane
had not been used to parleying with her duties, or
stifling the voice of conscience; and in a moment
the recollection of her father's dishonesty, and the
poor woman's perishing condition, swept away
every selfish consideration. “Oh, Lord!” she exclaimed,
“if I have not compassion on my fellow-servant,
how can I hope for thy pity.”

We would recommend to all persons, placed in
similar circumstances, to all who find almost as
many arguments for the wrong as for the right, to
bring to their aid the certain light of Scripture,
and we think they will be altogether persuaded
to be like our heroine, not `saving her bonds.'
Sure we are, that she was never more to be envied

than when, at the sound of the closing of the
parlour door, she flew down stairs, joined Mrs.
Winthrop just as she was saying, half sobbing, to
her children, “Come, boys—I am poorer than
when I came, for my hope is all gone;” and walking
a little distance, till a sharp angle in the road
concealed them from the house, she said, “Polly,
here is a hundred dollars. I know the debt my
father owed you amounts to a good deal more now,
but this is all I have, take it. It is not probable
that I shall ever be able to pay the rest, but I shall
never forget that I owe it.”

Mrs. Winthrop was for a moment dumb with
surprise; then bursting into tears of gratitude and
joy, she would have overwhelmed Jane with
thanks, but she stopped her, saying, “No, Polly,
I have only done what was right. I have two favours
to beg of you—say nothing to any body in
the world, of your having received this money
from me; and,” added she, faltering, “do not,
again, tell the story of the—” injustice, she
would have said, but the word choked her. “I
mean, do not say, to any one, that my parents did
not pay you.”

“Oh! miss Jane,” replied the grateful creature,
“I'll mind every thing you tell me, just as much
as if it was spoken to me right out of Heaven.”

And we have reason to believe, she was quite as
faithful to her promise as could have been expected;
for she was never known to make any communication
on the subject, except that, when some
of her rustic neighbours expressed their surprise

at the sudden and inexplicable change in her circumstances,
she would say, “She came by it honestly,
and by the honesty of some people too, who
she guessed, though they did it secretly, would be
rewarded openly.” And when she heard Jane
Elton's name mentioned, she would roll up her
eyes and say, “That if every body knew as much
as she did, they would think that girl was an angel
upon earth.” These oracular hints were, perhaps,
not quite so much heeded as Polly expected;
at any rate, she was never tempted to disclose the
grounds of her opinion.

Jane had a difficult task in reconciling her friend
Mary to her disappointment. While she felt a
secret delight in the tried rectitude of her favourite,
she could not deny herself the indulgence of
a little repining—“If you had but waited, Jane,
till Mr. Lloyd came home, he would have advanced
the money with all his heart.”

“Yes, but Mary, you must recollect Mr. Lloyd
is not to return these six weeks; and, in the mean
time, what was to become of the poor woman and
her starving children? No, Mary, we must deal
justly while we have it in our power. Is it not
your great Mr. Wesley who says, `It is safe to
defer our pleasures, but never to delay our
duties'?”

“It seems to me, Jane,” replied Mary, “you
pick fruit from every good tree, no matter whose
vineyard it grows in. Well, I believe you have
done right; but I shall tell the story to Mr. Evertson
and Mrs. Harvey with a heavy heart.”

“Tell them nothing,” said Jane, “but that I
had an unexpected call for the money, and beg
them to mention nothing of the past, for I will not
unnecessarily provoke aunt Wilson.”

“Jane,” said Mary earnestly, “you must not
deny me the satisfaction of telling how you have
laid out the money.”

“No,” replied Jane, “you cannot have that
pleasure without telling why I was obliged thus to
lay it out.—Oh,” added she with more emotion
than she had yet shown, “I have never blamed
my father that he left me pennyless; had he left
me the inheritance of a good name, I would not
have exchanged it for all the world can give!”

Mary consoled her friend as well as she was
able, and then reluctantly parted from her, to
perform her disagreeable duty. Mr. Evertson
was exceedingly disappointed; he said he had already
had an offer of a very good assistant, who
could furnish more money than he expected from
Jane; he had preferred Jane Elton, for no sum
could outweigh her qualifications for the station
he wished her to fill. He was, however, obliged
to her for so promptly informing him of her determination,
as he had not yet sent a refusal to the
person who had solicited the place.

Mrs. Harvey, not content with deploring, which
she did sincerely, that she could not have Jane
for an inmate, wondered what upon earth she
could have done with a hundred dollars! and concluded
“that it would be just like Jane Elton,
though it would not be like any body else in the

world, to pay one of her father's old debts with
it.” Will not our readers pardon Mary, if Mrs.
Harvey inferred from the smile of pleasure that
brightened her face, that she had sagaciously
guessed the truth. Let that be as it may; all parties
promised, and what is much more extraordinary,
preserved secrecy; and all that was left of
Jane's hopes and plans was the consciousness of
having acted right—from right motives. Could
any one have seen the peacefulness of her heart,
he would have pronounced that consciousness a
treasure that has no equivalent.

Thus our heroine, placed in circumstances which
would have made some desperate, and most discontented;
by `keeping her heart with all diligence,'
proved that `out of it are the issues of
life;' she was first resigned, and then happy. She
was on an eminence of virtue, to which the conflicts
and irritations of her aunt's family did not reach.