University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

The poor conceited blackguards of this ungracious earth,
have a fancy that there must be huge confusion and a
mighty bobbery in nature, corresponding with that which
is for ever going on in their own little spheres. If we have
a toothache we look for a change of weather; our rheumatism
is a sure sign that God has made his arrangements to
give us a slapping rain; and should the white bull or the
brown heifer die, look out for hail, or thunder-storm, at
least, as a forerunner of the event. Nothing less can possibly
console or satisfy us for such a most unaccountable,
not to say unnatural and unwarrantable, a dispensation.
The poets have ministered largely to this vanity on the
part of mankind. Shakspeare is constantly at it, and Ben
Jonson, and all the dramatists. Not a butcher, in the
whole long line of the butchering Cæsars, from Augustus
down, but, according to them, died in a sort of gloom-glory,
resulting from the explosion of innumerable stars
and rockets, and the apparitions of as many, comets!—
“Gorgons, and hydras, and chimeras dire,” invariably
announced the coming stroke of fate; and five or seven
moons of a night, have suddenly arisen to warn some
miserable sublunarian that orders had been issued, that
there should be no moon for him that quarter:—or, in
military and more precise phrase, that he should have no
“quarters” during that moon. Even our venerable and
stern old puritan saint, Milton,—he who was blessed with
the blindness of his earthly eye, that he should be more
perfectly enabled to contemplate the Deity within, has
given way to this superstition when he subjects universal
nature to an earthquake, because Adam's wife followed the
counsels of the snake.

A pretty condition of things it would be, if stars, suns
and systems were to shoot madly from their spheres on
such occasions. Well might the devil laugh if such were
the case! How he would chuckle to behold globes and
seas, and empires, fall into such irreverend antics because

some poor earthling, be he kingling or common sodling,
goes into desuetude, either by the operation of natural
laws, or the sharp application of steel or shot. Verily, it
makes precious little difference to the Great Reaper, by
what process we finally become harvested. He is sure of
us, though no graves gape, no stars fall, no comets rush
out, like young colts from their stables, flinging their tails
into the faces of the more sober and pacific brotherhood of
lights. But, denied the satisfaction of chuckling at such
sights as these, his satanic majesty chuckles not the less
at the human vanity which looks for them. Nay, he himself,
is very likely to suggest this vanity. It is one of his
forms of temptation—one of his manœuvres; and we take
leave, by way of warning, to hint to those worthy people,
who judge of to-morrow's providence by the corns of their
great toe, or their periodical lumbago; or the shooting of
their warts; or the pricking of their palms; that it is in
truth the devil which is at the bottom of all this, and that
the Deity has nothing to do in the business. It is the
devil instilling his vanities into the human heart, in that
form which he thinks least likely to prove offensive, or
rouse suspicion. The devil is most active in your affairs,
Mrs. Thompson, the moment you imagine that there must
be a revolution on your account, in the universal laws of
nature. At such a moment your best policy will be to have
blood let, take physic, and go with all diligence to your
prayers.

There was no sort of warning on the part of the natural
to the moral world, on the day when Alfred Stevens set
forth with the worthy John Cross, to visit the flock of the
latter. There was not a lovelier morning in the whole
calendar. The sun was alone in heaven, without a cloud;
and on earth, the people in and about Charlemont, having
been to church only the day before, necessarily made their
appearance every where with petticoats and pantaloons
tolerably clean and unrumpled. Cabbages had not yet been
frost-bitten. Autumn had dressed up her children in the
garments of beauty, preparatory to their funeral. There
was a good crop of grain that year, and hogs were brisk,
and cattle lively, and all “looking up,” in the language of
the prices current. This was long before the time when
Mr. Memminger made his famous gammon speeches; but
the people had a presentiment of what was coming, and

to crown the eventful anticipations of the season, there was
quite a freshet in Salt river. The signs were all and every
where favourable. Speculation was beginning to chink his
money-bags; thirty new banks were about to be established;
old things were about to fleet and disappear; all
things were becoming new; and the serpent entered
Charlemont, and made his way among the people thereof,
without any signs of combustion, or overthrow, or earthquake.

Every body has some tolerable idea of what the visitation
of a parson is, to the members of his flock. In the
big cities he comes one day, and the quarterly collector
the next. He sits down with the “gude wife” in a corner
to themselves, and he speaks to her in precisely the
same low tones which cunning lovers are apt to use. If
he knows any one art better than another, it is that of
finding his way to the affections of the female part of his
flock. A subdued tone of voice betrays a certain deference
for the party addressed. The lady is pleased with such a
preliminary. She is flattered again by the pains he takes
in behalf of her eternal interests; she is pretty sure he
takes no such pains with any of her neighbours. It is a
sign that he thinks her soul the most becoming little soul
in the flock, and when he goes away, she looks after him
and sighs, and thinks him the most blessed soul of a parson.
The next week she is the first to get up a subscription
which she heads with her own name in connexion
with a sum realized by stinting her son of his gingerbread
money, in order to make this excellent parson a life member
of the “Zion African Bible and Missionary Society,
for Disseminating the Word among the Heathen.” The
same fifty dollars so appropriated, would have provided
fuel for a month to the starving poor of her own parish.

But Brother Cross gets no such windfalls. It is probable
that he never heard of such a thing, and that if he did,
he would unhesitatingly cry out, “Humbug,” at the first
intimation of it. Besides, his voice was not capable of
that modulation which a young lover, or a city parson can
give it. Accustomed to cry aloud and spare not, he usually
spoke as if there were some marrow in his bones, and
some vigour in his wind-bags. When he came to see the
good wife of his congregation, he gave her a hearty shake
of the hand, congratulated her as he found her at her spinning-wheel;

spoke with a hearty approbation, if he saw
that her children were civil and cleanly; if otherwise, he
blazed out with fury and boldness, by telling her that all
her praying and groaning, would avail nothing for her
soul's safety, so long as Jackey's breeches were unclean;
and that the mother of a rude and dirty child, was as sure
of damnation, as if she never prayed at all. He had no
scruples about speaking the truth. He never looked about
him for the gentle, easy phrases, by which to distinguish
the conduct which he was compelled to condemn. He
knew not only that the truth must be spoken, and be
spoken by him, if by any body, but that there is no language
too strong,—perhaps none quite strong enough, for
the utterance of the truth. But it must not be supposed,
that John Cross was in any respect an intolerant, or sour
man. He was no hypocrite, and did not, therefore, need
to clothe his features in the vinegar costume of that numerous
class. His limbs were put into no such rigid fetters
as too often denote the unnatural restraints which such
persons have imposed upon their inner minds. He could
laugh and sing with the merriest, and though he did not
absolutely shake a leg himself, yet none rejoiced more
than he, when Ned Hinkley's fiddle summoned the village
to this primitive exercise.

“Now, Alfred Stevens,” said he, the breakfast being
over, “what say'st thou to a visit with me among my
people. Some of them know thee already; they will all
be rejoiced to see thee. I will show thee how they live,
and if thou should'st continue to feel within thee, the
growing of that good seed whose quickening thou hast
declared to me, it will be well that thou should'st begin
early to practise the calling which may so shortly become
thine own. Here mightest thou live a space, toiling in
thy spiritual studies, until the brethren should deem thee
ripe for thy office; meanwhile, thy knowledge of the people
with whom thou livest, and their knowledge of thee,
would be matter of equal comfort and consolation, I trust,
to thee as to them.”

Alfred Stevens expressed himself pleased with the arrangement.
Indeed, he desired nothing else.

“But shall we see all of them?” he demanded. The
arch-hypocrite began to fear that his curiosity would be
compelled to pay a heavy penalty to dullness.

“The flock is small,” said John Cross. “A day will
suffice, but I shall remain three days in Charlemont, and
some I will see to-day, and some to-morrow, and some on
the day after, which is Wednesday.”

“Taken in moderate doses,” murmured Stevens to himself,
“and one may stand it.”

He declared himself in readiness, and the twain set
forth. The outward behaviour of Stevens was very exemplary.
He had that morning contrived to alter his costume
in some respects to suit the situation of affairs. For
example, he had adopted that slavish affectation which
seems to insist that a preacher of God, should always
wear a white cravat, so constructed and worn as to hide
the tips of his shirt collar. If they wore none, they would
look infinitely more noble, and we may add, never suffer
from bronchilis. In his deportment, Stevens was quite as
sanctified as heart could wish. He spoke always deliberately,
and with great unction. If he had to say “cheese
and mousetrap,” he would look very solemn, shake his
head with great gravity and slowness, and then deliberately
and equally emphasising every syllable, would roll forth
the enormous sentence with all the conscious dignity of
an ancient oracle. That “cheese and mousetrap,” so
spoken, acquired in the ears of the hearer, a degree of importance
and signification, which it confounded them to
think they had never seen before in the same felicitous
collocation of syllables. John Cross was not without his
vanities. Who is? Vanity is quite as natural as any
other of our endowments. It is a guaranty for amiability.
A vain man is always a conciliating one. He is kind to
others, because the approbation of others is a strong desire
in his mind. Accordingly, even vanity is not wholly evil.
It has its uses.

John Cross had his share, and Alfred Stevens soon discovered
that he ministered to it in no small degree. The
good old preacher took to himself the credit of having
effected his conversion, so far as it had gone. It was his
hand that had plucked the brand from the burning. He
spoke freely of his protégé, as well before his face as behind
his back. In his presence he dwelt upon the holy
importance of his calling; to others he dilated upon the
importance of securing for the church a young man of so
much tatent, yet of so much devotion: qualities not always

united, it would seem, among the churchlings of modern
times. Alfred Stevens seemed to promise great honour to
his teacher. That cunning which is the wisdom of the
worldling, and which he possessed in a very surprising
degree, enabled him to adopt a course of conduct, look and
remark, which amply satisfied the exactions of the scrupulous,
and secured the unhesitating confidence of those who
were of a more yielding nature. He soon caught the
phraseology of his companion, and avoiding his intensity,
was less likely to offend his hearers. His manner was
better subdued to the social tone of ordinary life, his voice
lacked the sharp twang of the countryman; and, unlike
John Cross, he was able to modulate it to those under
tones, which, as we have before intimated, are so agreeable
from the lips of young lovers and fashionable preachers.
At all events, John Cross himself, was something more
than satisfied with his pupil, and took considerable pains
to show him off. He was a sort of living and speaking
monument of the good man's religious prowess.

It does not need that we should follow the two into all
the abodes which they were compelled to visit. The
reader would scarcely conceal his yawns though Stevens
did. Enough, that a very unctious business was made of
it that morning. Many an old lady was refreshed with
the spiritual beverage bestowed in sufficient quantity to
last for another quarter; while many a young one rejoiced
in the countenance of so promising a shepherd as appeared
under the name of Alfred Stevens. But the latter thought
of the one damsel only. He said many pleasant things to
those whom he did see; but his mind ran only upon one.
He began to apprehend that she might be among the flock
who were destined to wait for the second or last day's visitation;
when, to his great relief, John Cross called his
attention to the dwelling of the widow Cooper, to whom
they were fast approaching. Stevens remarked that the
dwelling had very much the appearance of poverty—he
did not fail to perceive that it lacked the flower-garden in
front which distinguished the greater number of the cottages
in Charlemont; and there was an appearance of coldness
and loneliness about its externals which impressed
itself very strongly upon his thoughts, and seemed to
speak unfavourably for the taste of the inmates. One is
apt to associate the love of flowers with sweetness and

gentleness of disposition, and such a passion would seem
as natural, as it certainly would be becoming, to a young
lady of taste and sensibility. But the sign is a very doubtful
one. Taste and gentleness may satisfy themselves
with other objects. A passion for books is very apt to
exclude a very active passion for flowers, and it will be
found, I suspect, that these persons who are most remarkable
for the cultivation of flowers are least sensible to the
charms of letters. It seems monstrous, indeed, that a
human being should expend hours and days in the nursing
and tendance of such stupid beauties as plants and flowers,
when earth is filled with so many lovelier objects that come
to us commended by the superior sympathies which belong
to humanity. Our cities are filled with the sweetest
orphans—flowers destined to be immortal; angels in form,
that might be angels in spirit—that must be, whether for
good or evil—whom we never cultivate—whom we suffer
to escape our tendance, and leave to the most pitiable ignorance,
and the most wretched emergencies of want. The
life that is wasted upon dahlias, must, prima facie, be the
life of one heartless and insensible, and most probably,
brutish in a high degree.

But Alfred Stevens had very little time for farther reflection.
They were at the door of the cottage. Never did
the widow Cooper receive her parson in more tidy trim,
and with an expression of less qualified delight. She
brought forth the best chair, brushed the deer-skin seat
with her apron, and having adjusted the old man to her
own satisfaction as well as his, she prepared to do a like
office for the young one. Having seated them fairly, and
smoothed her apron, and gone through the usual preliminaries,
and placed herself a little aloof, on a third seat, and
rubbed her hands, and struggled into a brief pause in her
brisk action, she allowed her tongue to do the office for
which her whole soul was impatient.

“Oh, Brother Cross, what a searching sermon you give
us yesterday. You stirred the hearts of every body, I
warrant you, as you stirred up mine. We've been a needing
it for a precious long time, I tell you; and there's no
knowing what more's a wanting to make us sensible to the
evil that's in us. I know from myself what it is, and I
guess from the doings of others. We're none of us perfect
that's certain, but it's no harm to say that some's

more and some's not so perfect as others, There's a difference
in sin, Brother Cross, I'm a thinking, and I'd like
you to explain why, and what's the difference. One won't
have so much, and one will have more; one will take a
longer spell of preaching, and half the quantity will be a
dose to work another out clean, entire. I'm not boastful
for myself, Brother Cross, but I do say, I'd give up in despair
if I thought it took half so much to do me, as it
would take for a person like that Mrs. Thackeray.”

“Sister Cooper,” said Brother Cross, rebukingly—
“beware of the temptation to vain-glory. Be not like the
Pharisee, disdainful of the publican. To be too well
pleased with ones self is to be displeasing to the Lord.”

“Oh, Brother Cross, don't be thinking that I'm over
and above satisfied with the goodness that's in me. I
know I'm not so good. I have a great deal of evil; but
then it seems to me there's a difference in good and a difference
in evil. One has most of one and one has most of
another. None of us have much good and all of us have a
great deal of sin. God help me, for I need his help—I
have my own share; but as for that Mrs. Thackeray, she's
as full of wickedness as an egg's full of meat.”

“It is not the part of Christianity, Sister Cooper,” said
John Cross mildly, “to look into our neighbours' accounts
and make comparisons between their doings and our own.
We can only do so at great risk of making a false reckoning.
Besides, Sister Cooper, it is business enough on our
hands, if we see to our own short-comings. As for Mrs.
Thackeray, I have no doubt she's no better than the rest
of us, and we are all, as you said before, children of suffering
and prone to sin as certain as that the sparks fly
upward. We must only watch and pray without ceasing,
particularly so that we may not deceive ourselves with the
most dangerous sin of being too sure of our own works.
The good deeds that we boast of so much in our earthly
day will shrivel and shrink up at the last account to so
small a size that the best of us, through shame and confusion,
will be only too ready to call upon the rocks and
hills to cover us. We are very weak and foolish all, Sister
Cooper. We can't believe ourselves too weak, or too
mean, or too sinful. To believe this with all our hearts,
and to try to be better with all our strength, is the true
labour of religion. God send it to us, in all its sweetness

and perfection, so that we may fight the good fight without
ceasing.”

“But if you could only hear of the doings of Mrs.
Thackeray, Brother Cross, you'd see how needful it would
be to put forth all your strength to bring her back to the
right path.”

“The Lord will know. None of us can hide our evil
from the eyes of the Lord. I will strive with our sister,
when I seek her, which will be this very noon, but it is
of yourself, Sister Cooper, and your daughter Margaret
that I would speak. Where is she that I see her not?”

This was the question that made our quasi hierophant
look up with a far greater degree of interest than he had
felt in the long and random twattle to which he had been
compelled to listen. Where was she—that fair daughter?
He was impatient for the answer. But he was not long
detained in suspense. Next to her neighbours there was
no subject of whom the mother so loved to speak as the
daughter, and the daughter's excellencies.

“Ah! she is up stairs, at her books as usual. She
does so love them books, Brother Cross, I'm afraid it 'll do
harm to her health. She cares for nothing half so well.
Morning, noon, and night, all the same, you find her
poring over them; and even when she goes out to ramble,
she must have a book, and she wants no other company.
For my part I can't see what she finds in them to love so;
for except to put a body to sleep I never could see the use
they were to any person yet.”

“Books are of two kinds,” said Brother Cross gravely.
“They are useful or hurtful. The useful kinds are good,
the hurtful kinds are bad. The Holy Bible is the first
book, and the only book, as I reckon it will be the book
that'll live longest. The Life of Whitfield is a good book,
and I can recommend the sermons of that good man, Brother
Peter Cummins, that preached when L was a lad, all
along through the back parts of North Carolina, into South
Carolina and Georgia. I can't say that he came as far
back into the west as these parts; but he was a most
faithful shepherd. There was a book of his sermons
printed for the benefit of his widow and children. He
died, like that blessed man, John Rogers, that we see in
the primer books, leaving a wife with eleven children and
one at the breast. His sermons are very precious reading.

One of them in particular, on the Grace of God, is a very
falling of manna in the wilderness. It freshens the soul
and throws light upon the dark places in the wilderness.
Ah! if only such books were printed what a precious
world for poor souls it would be. But they print a great
many bad books now-a-days.”

The natural love of mischief which prevailed in the bosom
of Alfred Stevens now prompted him to take part in
the conversation at this happy moment. The opportunity
was a tempting one.

“The printers,” said he, “are generally very bad men.
They call themselves devils, and take young lads and
bring them up to their business under that name!”

The old lady threw up her hands, and John Cross, to
whom this intelligence was wholly new, inquired with a
sort of awe-struck gravity,—

“Can this be true, Alfred Stevens? Is this possible?”

“The fact, sir. They go by no other name among
themselves; and you may suppose, if they are not ashamed
of the name, they are not unwilling to perform the doings
of the devil. Indeed, they are busy doing his business
from morning to night—and night to morning. They
don't stop for the Sabbath. They work on Sunday the
same as any other day, and if they take any rest at all it
is on Saturday, which would show them to be a kind of
Jews.”

“Good Lord deliver us!” ejaculated the widow.

“Where, O! where?” exclaimed Brother Cross with
similar earnestness. The game was too pleasant for Alfred
Stevens. He purshued it.

“In such cities,” he continued, “as New York and
Philadelphia, thousands of these persons are kept in constant
employ sending forth those books of falsehood and
folly which fill the hearts of the young with vain imaginings,
and mislead the footsteps of the unwary. In one of
these establishments, four persons preside, who are considered
brothers; but they are brothers in sin only, and
are by some supposed to be no other. They have called
themselves after the names of saints and holy men; even
the names of the thrice blessed apostles, John and James,
have been in this fashion abused; but if it be true that the
spirits of evil may even in our day as of old embody themselves
in mortal shape for the better enthralling and destruction

of mankind, then should I prefer to believe that
these persons were no other than the evil demons who
ruled in Ashdod and Assyria. Such is their perseverance
in evil—such their busy industry, which keeps a thousand
authors (which is but another name for priests and prophets)
constantly at work to frame cunning falsehoods and
curious devices, and winning fancies, which when printed
and made into books, turn the heads of the young and unwary,
and blind the soul to the wrath which is to come.”

The uplifted hands of the widow Cooper still attested
her wonder.

“Lord save us!” she exclaimed, “I should not think it
strange if Sister Thackeray had some of these very books.
Do ask, Brother Cross, when you go to see her. She
speaks much of books, and I see her reading them whenever
I look in at the back window.”

John Cross did not seem to give any heed to the remark
of the old woman. There was a theological point
involved in one of the remarks of Alfred Stevens which
he evidently regarded as of the first importance.

“What you say, Alfred Stevens, is very new and very
strange to me, and I should think from what I already
know of the evil which is sometimes put in printed books,
that there was indeed a spirit of malice at work in this
way, to help the progress and the conquests of Satan among
our blind and feeble race. But I am not prepared to believe
that God has left it to Satan to devise so fearful a
scheme for prosecuting his evil designs as that of making
the demons of Ashdod and Assyria take the names of mortal
men, while seeming to follow mortal occupations. It
would be fearful tidings for our poor race were this so.
But if so, is it not seen that there is a difference in the
shapes of these persons. If either of these brothers who
blasphemously call themselves John and James, after the
manner of the apostles, shall be in very truth and certainty
that Dagon of the Philistines whom Jehovah smote before
his altar, will he not be made fishlike from the waist downwards,
and will this not be seen by his followers and some
of the thousands whom he daily perverts to his evil purposes
and so leads to eternal destruction?”

“It may be that it is permitted to such a demon to put
on what shape he thinks proper,” replied Stevens; “but
even if it was not, yet this would not be the subject of any

difference—it would scarcely prevent the prosecution of
this evil purpose. You are to remember, Mr. Cross—”

“John Cross—plain John Cross, Alfred Stevens,” was
the interruption of the preacher.

“You are to remember,” Stevens resumed, “that when
the heart is full of sin, the eyes are full of blindness. The
people who believe in these evil beings are incapable of
seeing their deformities.”

“That is true—a sad truth.”

“And, again,” continued Stevens, “there are devices of
mere mortal art, by which the deformities and defects of an
individual may be concealed. One of these brothers, I am
told, is never to be seen except seated in one position at
the same desk, and this desk is so constructed, as to hide
his lower limbs in great part, while still enabling him to
prosecute his nefarious work.”

“It's clear enough, Brother Cross,” exclaimed the
widow Cooper, now thoroughly convinced.

“It's clear enough that there's something that he wants
to hide. Lord help us! but these things are terrible.”

“To the weak and the wicked, Sister Cooper, they are,
as you say, terrible, and hence the need that we should have
our lamps trimmed and lighted, for the same light which
brings us to the sight of the Holy of Holies, shows us the
shape of hatefulness, the black and crouching form of
Satan, with nothing to conceal his deformity. Brother
Stevens has well said that when the heart is full of sin, the
eyes are full of blindness; and so we may say that when
the heart is full of godliness, the eyes are full of seeing.
You cannot blind them with devilish arts. You cannot
delude them as to the true forms of Satan let him take any
shape. The eye of godliness sees clean through the mask
of sin, as the light of the sun pierces the thickest cloud,
and brings day after the darkest night.”

“Oh! what a blessed thing to hear you say so.”

“More blessed to believe, Sister Cooper, and believing,
to pray with all your heart for this same eye of godliness.
But we should not only pray but work. Working for God
is the best sort of prayer. We must do something in his
behalf: and this reminds me, Sister Cooper, that if there is
so much evil spread abroad in these books, we should look
heedfully into the character of such as fall into the hands
of the young and the unmindful of our flock.”

“That is very true; that is just what I was thinking of,
Brother Cross. You cannot look too close, I'm thinking
into such books as you'll find at the house of widow
Thackeray. I can give a pretty 'cute guess where she
gets all that sort of talk, that seems so natural at the end
of her tongue.”

“Verily, I will speak with Sister Thackeray on this
subject,” responded the pastor,—“but your own books,
Sister Cooper, and those of your daughter Margaret,—if
it is convenient, I should prefer to examine them now
while I am here.”

“What! Margaret's books! examine Margaret's books!”

“Even so, while I am present and while Brother Stevens
is here, also, to give me his helping council in the way
of judgment.”

“Why, bless us, Brother Cross, you don't suppose that
my daughter Margaret would keep any but the properest
books? she's too sensible, I can tell you, for that.
She's no books but the best, none, I'll warrant you, like
them you'll find at widow Thackeray's. She's not to
be put off with bad books. She goes through 'em
with a glance of the eye. Ah! she's too smart to be
caught by the contrivances of those devils, though in place
of four brothers there was four thousand of 'em. No, no!
let her alone for that—she's a match for the best of 'em.”

“But as Brother Stevens said,” continued John Cross,
“where sin gets into the heart, the eye is blinded to the
truth. Now—”

“Her eye's not blinded, Brother Cross, I can tell you.
They can't cheat her with their books. She has none but
the very best. I'll answer for them. None of them ever
did me any harm; and I reckon none of them 'll ever hurt
her. But I'm mistaken, if you don't have a real burning
when you get to Mrs. Thackeray's.”

“But, Sister Cooper—” commenced the preacher.

“But, Brother Cross;” replied the dame.

“Books, as I said before, are of two kinds.”

“Yes, I know,—good and bad—I only wonder there's
no indifferent ones among 'em;” replied the lady.

“They should be examined for the benefit of the young
and ignorant.”

“Oh, yes, and for more besides, for Mrs. Thackeray's
not young, that's clear enough; and I know there's a good
many things that she's not ignorant of. She's precious

knowing about many things that don't do her much good;
and if the books could unlearn her, I'd say for one let her
keep 'em. But as for looking at Margaret's books,—why,
Brother Cross, you surely know Margaret?”

The preacher answered meekly, but negatively.

“Ain't she about the smartest girl you ever met with?”
continued the mother.

“God has certainly blessed her with many gifts,” was
the reply, “but where the trust is great, the responsibility
is great also.”

“Don't she know it?”

“I trust she does, Sister Cooper.”

“You may trust every bit of it. She's got the smartness,
the same as it is in books—”

“But the gift of talents, Sister Cooper, is a dangerous
gift.”

“I don't see, Brother Cross, how good things that come
from God can be dangerous things.”

“If I could see the books, Sister Cooper;—I say not
that they are evil—”

John Cross began in tones that denoted something like
despair; certainly dissatisfaction was in them, when Alfred
Stevens, who had long since tired of what was going on,
heard a light footfall behind him. He turned his eyes and
beheld the fair maiden, herself, the propriety of whose
reading was under discussion, standing in the doorway.
It appeared that she had gathered from what had reached
her ears, some knowledge of what was going on, for a
smile of ineffable scorn curled her classic and nobly
chiselled mouth, while her brow was the index to a very
haughty volume. In turning, Alfred Stevens betrayed to
her the playful smile upon his own lips,—their eyes met,
and that single glance established a certain understanding
between them.

Her coming did not avail to stifle the subject of discussion.
John Cross was too resolute in the prosecution of
his supposed duty, to give up the cause he had once undertaken.
He had all the inveteracy of the stout old puritan.
The usual introduction over and he resumed, though he
now addressed himself to the daughter rather than the
mother. She scarcely heard him to the end.

“The books were my father's, Mr. Cross; they are
valuable to me on that account. They are dear to me on

their own. They are almost my only companions, and
though I believe you would find nothing in them which
might be held detrimental, yet I must confess, if there
were, I should be sorry to be made acquainted with the
fact. I have not yet discovered it myself, and should be
loth to have it shown by another.”

“But you will let me see them, Margaret?”

“Yes, sir, whenever you please. I can have no objection
to that, but if by seeing them you only desire an
opportunity to say what I shall read and what not, I can
only tell you that your labour will be taken in vain.
Indeed, the evil is already done. I have not a volume
which I have not read repeatedly.”

It is needless to add that Brother Cross was compelled
to forego his book examination at the widow Cooper's,
though strongly recommended there to press it at widow
Thackeray's. Alfred Stevens was a mute observer during
the interview, which did not last very long after the appearance
of Margaret. He was confirmed in all his previous
impressions of her beauty, nor did the brevity of the conference
prevent him from perceiving her intense self-esteem,
which under certain influences of temperament is
only another name for vanity. Besides they had exchanged
glances which were volumes, rendering unnecessary much
future explanation. She had seen that he was secretly
laughing at the simple preacher, and that was a source of
sympathy between them. She was very much in the
habit of doing the same thing. He, on the other hand,
was very well satisfied that the daughter of such a mother
must be perverse and vain; and he was moralist enough
to know that there is no heart so accessible to the tempter
as the wilful heart. But few words had passed between
them, but those were expressive, and they both parted,
with the firm conviction that they must necessarily meet
again.