University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
SUNDAY AND SUNDAY EVENING.

Saturday night the Mills did not run, and Richard
enjoyed a regular sleep. Sunday he went to Church; he
went with his brother's family. He wore his strong surtout,
and his warm red shirt. He had cotton shirts, but at
this season of the year he did not like to risk a change, and
at home he always wore such a shirt to Church in winter.

In the afternoon he said he would like to go to another
Church; he named Dr. Broadwell's.

“That is aristocratic,” replied his sister, “and your shirt
will not be tolerated there.”

“I might sit in a back pew,” added Richard.

“I would be as good as anybody,” rejoined his sister,
“or I would not go at all.”

“We are as good as anybody, at your Church, Roxy?”

“We stand with the first class, there, and have a centre
pew.”

“They are better than we are, at Dr. Broadwell's?”

“They think they are; that is their conceit, — that is
their silly pretension.”

“The real difference between us is the shirt.”

“I guess,” said Munk, “that is about all. There may be
a slight odds in the thickness of the hand, but not much.
At any rate, the advantage is on your side. Your shirt is
as clean as theirs, and it is certainly warmer, and it cost
more; and there is quite as much human nature in your
hand, brother, as in theirs.”

“Well, Richard,” — so his sister appealed to him, — “if
you will drag the truth out of me, and excruciate me to tell
the whole, Mrs. Tunny, the grocer's wife, goes to Dr. Broadwell's,
and she has invited us to her house, and I should not
like to have her see you at Church in such trim.”

“You did not use to talk and feel like this, when you
were at home, Roxy.”

“The city is not the country, Richard, and you cannot
do here as you do there. I have learned many things since
I came here; I have learned more of the deceitfulness of
the human heart. Elder Jabson is a very different preacher
from Parson Harold. You cannot be so independent here,
with everybody looking at you, and commenting upon you,
and so many slanderous tongues about, and so much depending
on propriety and taste. I have changed in some
things, and I hope for the better.”

“I will compromise matters,” replied Richard; “I will
not go to Elder Jabson's, for, in fact, I am not accustomed to
such a service, nor such discourse. Nor will I go to Dr.
Broadwell's, lest my shirt should give you offence. I will
find some other place.”

Richard joined the currents of people that came from
every direction, and went in every direction, — as if nobody
wished to have it known where he was going, as if everybody
was in pursuit of something which he would hide
from everybody; — up this street and down it, plunging
into that lane and coming out of it, avoiding one another on
the crossings, plumping into one another round the corners,
disappearing in large doors where nobody else went; — as if
heaven was a gold mine, of which each one had had a
dream, and snugging the dream in his own thought, he followed
its secret intimation; or as if religion were a game
of hide and coop, which the whole city was out playing;

and presently you would see these people, joyous and loving,
rushing from their retreats to some central spot of
Christian feeling!

Richard, with no intelligent bent of his own, except to
keep clear of Dr. Broadwell's and Elder Jabson's, adhered
to a bevy of people in which he happened to find himself,
and in their wake entered the first Church he came to. It
was a large Gothic door into which he went; and in the
porch whom should he see but Nefon! Now, Nefon had
evidently repented him of his sins. It was Sunday, and it
was sacrament day, and there was good reason for his doing
so. The glare of life was gone, and the encroachments of
traffic had abated; and his feelings were calmer, purer,
truer. He had found his heaven of enlarged, humane, all-encircling
sentiment; and he was stirred with great kindness
and brotherliness towards Richard, and took him cordially
by the hand. “Show me a back seat, — the negro's
seat, if you have one,” said Richard. “Come with me,”
replied the Bookseller, in a quick but significant way he
had, meaning more than he said; and most likely haunted
by the recollection of his former dereliction, he led Richard
to his own pew, which was as conspicuous as any in the
Church. Richard could not have appeared to better advantage
in Nefon's eye than he did, with his cap off, in meeting,
that afternoon. We speak not now of how he appeared
to the Omniscient eye, or to the eye of the simple
Spirit of Truth. But Nefon saw that his manner was devout
and earnest, his expression spiritual and intellectual, and
that in worship and instruction his heart was engaged. He
saw, moreover, that in the distribution of the sacred elements;
Richard was a recipient and he was touched, Nefon
was, and he loved Richard more than ever. There was

little sectarianism in this, — little of mere wonder or admiration.

The religious tie is perhaps as strong as can bind two
hearts together; the tie that comprises time and eternity,
God and man; that has for its basis the most solemn
and liberal, the most simple and magnificent, exercises of
the soul: that sweeps the earth in quest of objects to pity
or to save, and still finds in the nearest and homeliest duties
the repose of contentment, the affluence of satisfaction, and
the lustre of fame; that moves with Destiny, and reposes
on Providence; that loves Love, exults in the Pure, and
swells in the Light as the new-starting bud of the spring
anemone.

Nefon saw no more of Richard's red shirt; it had disappeared
utterly, — the flame of his virtues burned and consumed
it. We will not say Richard stood naked before
Nefon; rather he appeared in the glory and the amiability
with which Christ clothes his disciples. Nefon remembered
Richard after this; not that he had entirely forgotten him
since he saw him in his shop, but he had thought of him by
inch-meal and flittingly. Now he appeared to him more as
an incarnate, well-favored tangibility.

The after part of the Sabbath, and the twilight, and the
evening, are very pleasant. It is a free, tranquil, cheerful
time. It is an hour favorable to domestic reünions and
social communion. The laboring classes — and that, in
fact, means all classes except professed vagabonds — make
great and very reasonable account of it. The hurly-burly
and wish-wash of existence it visits with a genial humor
and purifying serenity. It is a zephyr that fans the feverishness
of the week, and soothes excitement and replenishes
exhaustion. In the most boisterous weather, when no one
goes to meeting, the whole Sabbath has a summery feeling,

and many flowers and green leaves of piety, hope, repentance,
show their tender faces, which Monday morning is
too apt to nip as an untimely frost. There is a reconciliation
with God and with one another, at these times, which
it is delightful to experience and painful to lose. Heaven
then lets down a golden chain, on which every one loves to
fasten a prayer, and see it drawn up. Even Memmy felt
something of this, for she said to her mother, “How it
seems, Sundays, don't it?”

Asa Munk was of the firm of Munk and St. John, and
their business was with horses. They kept a livery-stable,
did some teaming, owned hackney-coaches and an omnibus,
and were interested in a stage-route. Their stand was near
the Factories, and their business grew naturally out of the
rise and increase of the New City.

It will be supposed Munk enjoyed his Sabbaths. He
loved to be at home with his wife and children. He loved
the enfranchisement and the comfort of the Sabbath. Munk
took life easily, though he worked hard. He used to say,
“I am always happy, and Prince Albert can't say more.”
“Bless God for Memmy and Bebby!” he said, this afternoon,
as the children played round him. “Bless God for
Papa!” echoed Memmy.

The heads of this family could not both he absent to
Church at the same time. One must stay with the children,
and it had been Munk's turn to do so this afternoon.

“You should have heard the Elder,” observed his wife;
“he was solemn.” “I have great peace of mind in my
children,” replied Munk. “Children cannot save your
soul,” said she. “They have been preaching to me all
day,” said he. “We need something more powerful, more
searching,” she added. “Children are eloquent, — so Pastor
Harold says,” interposed Richard, “for the Scripture declares

`out of the mouths of babes and sucklings Thou
hast ordained praise.' Children, he says, are standards; for
Christ instructs that we must become like them, in order to
enter the kingdom of heaven.”

“I hope you will not compare Memmy and Bebby with
Elder Jabson,” returned Mrs. Munk, with a slight tartness
of manner, that betokened considerable internal roil.

“The Elder,” answered her husband, in a patient, peace-making
way, “is meat, strong meat; and the children are
nuts and raisins, after it.”

There was a point in which Munk was lame, — at least, his
wife and Richard both thought so. He let horses on the
Sabbath. He qualified this statement, indeed, and extenuated
it. Richard replied, quoting Pastor Harold, that the
use of horses on the Sabbath should be confined to occasions
of necessity and mercy. Munk said the factory-girls
and mill-men had no leisure except Sundays; and
hinted at their need of recreation. Mrs. Munk said scores
of them had been to dancing-schools that winter. Richard
observed there were ample woods, the margin of streams,
and pleasant roads, where they could walk. Munk said
they must visit their friends. Richard asked if they did not
go to taverns in the neighborhood, and squander the sacred
hours in dissipation. “Even,” he continued, “has not
Clover had one of your horses to-day for such a purpose?”
Munk had not reflected. Munk would not permit such a
thing again.

Mrs. Munk was getting tea. Memmy could toast the
bread, and so could Bebby; at least she could play at it, —
she could hold the empty toast-iron to the fire, and her father
put a chip in, which he said she did brown. Memmy
could set up the chairs, and so could Bebby. There was a
dispute whether Bebby could carry a plate from the closet

to the table. “There is one thing we can all do,” said
Munk; “we can eat. Let us bless God for that!” “Can't
everybody eat?” asked Memmy. “No,” replied Munk;
“some folks can't eat.” “I should think it was very funny,”
answered Memmy. “If you could eat properly,”
said her Mother, after they were seated at the table, “I
should be glad! You have slobbered your bib, and spilt
milk on the table-cloth! It was span clean this morning!
I should like to keep a cloth clean, one day! I should like
to see such a thing, where there are children! It should be
published in the newspapers! I would send the cloth to
Barnum's!” Memmy could feed herself, and Bebby could
want to; and she got a spoon and held lustily to it, in spite
of her Mother's efforts to remove it. “Do you feed her,
Asa,” enjoined the Mother; “I always said, if ever I had a
child, it should not feed itself.” “You seem to have laid
out pretty largely beforehand,” added her husband. “I
have had experience enough to teach me, at any rate,” she
rejoined. “Perhaps our children are precocious,” suggested
Munk, in his pleasant way; “who knows? — and we can't
expect them to do as other children do.” “You have got
them into the pulpit,” returned his wife, with a demi-sarcasm,
“and of course they must be masters of themselves
at table. Elder Jabson says we can't be too strict with
children.” “The Elder,” said Munk, “has driven the children
from the pulpit, and possibly he would not let them
come to the table at all. He never touched a child but he
seemed to be taking up a caterpillar.”

Munk took things by the smooth handle; but sometimes
the handle was rough, and sometimes there was no handle
at all; then he seized the vessel bodily. So now, after
tea, he put his arms about his wife, and drew her into his
lap, and kissed her. But the children — munificent little

sly-boots! — thought this was not enough, — that his pitcher
might be a little more brimming; and Memmy climbed up
after her Mother, and Bebby, betwixt lifting and scrambling,
got to the same spot, and Munk had his pitcher overflowing;
and it was so large he could hardly get his arms
around it. But it was all nectar to him, — a glass of joy and
hope, that hummed and chirped, — and he crushed it handsomely.
“Let us be good, and happy,” he said to his wife;
“let us not borrow trouble; don't keep your spirits spotted
as a painter's shop, but clean and bright as your own little
kitchen. God has given us many comforts; let us be grateful
and enjoy them, as Pastor Harold used to say. Let us
be just to ourselves, by wisely improving what we have, and
not eat the crib when we have plenty of sweet fodder.”
“O!” sighed his wife, “it is such a responsibility!” “It
is heavier,” he rejoined, “because you let it weigh on you.
Put it out of your heart a little; it gets water-soaked in
your feelings, and sinks. We have house-room enough;
let it play about now and then. We have chairs enough;
see if it will not sit down and rest itself. Try and make it
stand on its own feet, dear, and you will be easier, and just
as good.” His wife threw herself on his neck, and cried;
he pressed his arm about her very softly and warmly, and
kissed her cheek, and the little ones kissed their Mother, and
then their Father kissed them.

Richard, meanwhile, went to visit the Orphans at Whichcomb's.
Here he found a lady to whom he was introduced
as Miss Dennington, daughter of the Governor's. It was
Melicent. She was dressed in a blue satin bonnet with
bird-of-paradise feathers, and a purple velvet sack. Did he
recognize this dress? He had seen it before. Did she
remember having seen him? — That she was on an errand
of mercy, appeared in her sitting by the sick-bed, and laying

her hand on the head of Violet, to whom she spake in soft,
low tones; and likewise in the fresh oranges and an
unbroken glass of jelly on the small table at the head of the
bed, which she must have brought.

Violet was no better, and she would never be in this
world; but she was without pain, mental or bodily, and she
had that look of transparent, moon-light repose, which, if it
be ominous of death, is beautiful as life. Junia, pale with
waching and confinement, was still of patient, perennial,
sisterly love and devotion. The Old Man romanced with
the fire, making it seem how he could graduate it exactly to
the necessities of the room, and the state of the wood-box;
showing his skill in using from the scant pile, and not
diminishing it.

“You achieved a great deed in the street, the other day,”
said Junia to Richard.

“I owe my deliverance to you,” added Melicent, “and I
know not but my life. Father said it was a narrow escape.”

“I did not know who it was in the sleigh,” replied
Richard. “The horse showed good pluck. I never had
the handling of one before so set on making music out of
my bones.”

“Were n't you hurt?” asked Melicent.

“I should have been,” he replied, “but that my mother,
probably anticipating some accident to her son, had encased
his flesh in stout wrappages.”

They were interrupted by the entrance of the mistress of
the house with the tray. “How do you do, Miss Dennington?”
she said. “How is the Governor? We heard he was
unwell; we could not afford to lose him. Elder Jabson is
having a Reformation; well, there is need enough of it, — we
are all bad enough. I do not expect to get to Heaven on
my own merits, according to Parson Smith's doctrine; —

I hope I may have none of that sin to answer for. I am
ready to help the sick and the destitute, though they are
ungrateful. Madam has sent some jelly; my own is most
gone, we have had so much sickness, and there is so much
call for chicken-soup, and nice steaks, and arrow-root, and
lemonade, and jellies, which we never mean to be out of for
a moment; for who knows when another will be taken down,
and all the things in the house called for?” She took the
paper cover from a jelly-glass that looked as if Noah's wife,
in her haste to disembark, had put it away unwashed in a
closet of the ark, and it now made its appearance for the first
time in Mrs. Whichcomb's tray. But no — it was not its first
appearance; three times a day, for as many months, that
identical glass, with its identical contents, had been brought
into the chamber on that tray. “I do feel for the unfortunate,”
she added, as she offered the venerable cordial to the sick one.
“Would your sister, Miss Junia, relish a slice of ham, and
a few griddle-cakes, or a dish of stewed oysters, which are
so innocent? or must we still keep her on the cracker-water
the Doctor recommended? It is not easy, Miss Dennington,
to know what will agree with the sick, which I have had
some experience that way for thirty years.”

Mrs. Whichcomb was complaisant and deferential in
presence of Miss Dennington, and she forebore her gibes
and quirks with Richard. And when she saw Melicent
and our friend freely conversing together, she even went so
far as to commend Richard to her ear. “The coldest night
that ever was,” says she, “this young gentleman brought
wood to these poor folk; and many is the time since, he has
taken their basket to the Saw-mill and filled it, which he
did not know that we had a plenty of it, and country boys
is apt to do. And he has sent his sister, Mrs Munk, to
watch; and he has got other women to come and spell Miss

Junia; and he is almost a stranger in the city, himself;
which shows goodness, if it does not lead to pride, which is
apt to be, as Charley Walter could not think.”

Mrs. Whichcomb retired. Melicent, with an ill-suppressed
smile, said to Richard, “Is Asa Munk's related to
you?” “Mr. Munk is my brother-in-law,” replied Richard.
“Did you find it, that night?” she asked. “I found
it,” he answered, “the night I came to Woodylin.” “You
must be the person we encountered on the Bridge,” she continued.
“And you of the party that was frightened by a
drunken man,” he rejoined. “We were in quite a gale.
The darkness of the Bridge is wont to create a giddy, rattling
reäction in the spirits of all who cross it.” “You must
be Transcendentalists, if I understand Pastor Harold's account
of that thing,” said Richard. “Very likely we are,”
she added. “Have you attended the Athenæum Lectures?”
she asked. Richard said he had not; that he did not know
of them. “Have you ever worshipped at the Church of the
Redemption?” she asked. “What is that?” Richard
queried. “In which Parson Smith officiates,” she replied.
Richard answered that he was there this afternoon. “This
must be the young man,” she said, turning to Junia, “that
defended your Grandfather so ably at his trial.” “I have
no doubt of it,” replied Junia. “He has been as a brother
to us, and that when we were entire strangers to him.” Richard
replied that he had only done what he felt to be his duty.
Melicent commended his generosity, and hoped he would
persevere in the practice of usefulness, and ever maintain
those principles of virtue which he seemed to have adopted.

Richard left with a new impression in his heart, — that
light-spirited, lyrical impression, which the approbation of a
refined, high-bred, religious woman is fitted to produce.

At the foot of the stairs he met Miss Eyre, who drew

him into the parlor, and seated herself near him. She had
been weeping; her face was flushed, and her eye swollen.
She was subdued by an apparent melancholy. She looked
at him tenderly and beseechingly. She said, “Mr. Edney,
you have shown the goodness of your nature by your attentions
to the sick; you will exhibit the greatness of your
spirit by commiserating the distressed. Some have disease,
some have sorrows. You know this, — I need not assure
you of it. Have I ever appeared harsh, or resentful, or
haughty, may God forgive me. I can be depressed, — I
am depressed. But why should I say it? Yet how can a
woman help being weak at times? I would dash away this
tear, but it is best you should see it. You do see it,
and none but you shall see it. Have you pity, — can
you pity?” Richard replied that he could, though clearly
he did not know as an answer was expected. “I have then
only to ask your friendship. I cannot relate my sorrows;
't is no matter what they are. You will be my friend.”
“Certainly,” said Richard; “I am your friend.” “I can rely
on you, then.” She rose as she said this, and stood like
one on the point of departing. “I shall appeal to you, — I
shall have confidence in you.” With her face towards
him, she slowly retreated. “Remember,” said she, raising
her jewelled finger, “that you are my friend.” “Of
course,” rejoined Richard, “I am your friend.”

The pleasant impression which Melicent had left in his
soul was not effaced by this rencontre with Miss Eyre;
albeit a slight confusion of thought was thereby engendered;
but not sufficient to prevent the calm serenity of the setting
Sabbath sun exerting its full effect, or to darken the many-tinted,
lustrous dew-drops that glittered through the green
wood of his sensibilities.

That affair was like a high suspension-bridge over a dark

gulf; but he crossed it rapidly, and was soon on the safe
side of his home. And here he was very happy; not happier,
indeed, than when he went away; but it seemed as if
the lamp of his feelings had been turned up a little, and he
gave a little stronger light; or this may have been the mere
reflection of the light and happiness that was about him;
for his sister was more heartsome, the children more blithe,
and Munk was always sunshine. Moreover, they had
opened the parlor, and the little air-tight was busy as a bee
in summer, filling it with sweetness and pleasantness. The
neighbors, and others, were dropping in, including Tunny, the
Green Grocer, and his wife, Mr. Gouch, head-stock man, and
Mrs. Grint, an aunt of Munk's. There was a heavy stamping
in the entry, and an audible wheezing; and Munk said
it was Winkle, and the children knew it was Winkle, and
Winkle it was. Now, there was not, probably, on all this
polyzonal orb, a pleasanter, we mean a more pleasure-giving
face, and coat, and hand, than Winkle's; and whip too,
— for he brought his whip into the parlor, — and cap, and
muffler. He was one of Munk and St. John's drivers, and
was employed on a mail route that extended some fifty
miles into the country. He was inclined to corpulency, and
his face was full-blown, and so were his lips, and red as a
tomato; and his skin was varnished with the cold and the
storms he every day encountered. He wore a blue, shaggy,
lion-skin overcoat, margined with black. But face, coat and
all, were radiant with delight, — we mean everybody felt
delighted where they came. The totality of the man
was a self-working decanter, perpetually discharging satisfaction
into the breasts of all whom he encountered. There
was this difference between Munk and Winkle, — the first
was a subjective, the other an objective, delight. Munk was
always happy in himself. Winkle made everybody else
happy. In other respects they had a good deal in common.
But we cannot say all we ought of Winkle here. What a
man he was, and how he communicated so much joy, and
how people liked him, are matters that would cram a dozen
pages; and none that knew him would be satisfied with
what we have now said, and we must compound with these
friends of his by a promise of more hereafter.

But, sakes alive! what are we doing? We are in the
midst of Memmy-and-Bebby-dom; and what have we to do
with Winkle, or anybody else? Winkle has gone, disappeared,
swallowed up in a teknocratical tempest. The children
control the parlor, and the hour. They are sovereigns,
— they are empire. Under the guns of their fort every
vessel that enters must lie to; they are as big as Cæsar
Augustus; all the world pays tribute to them; you can't
approach them without bowing as many times as you do to
the Chinese Emperor. Attractive as Winkle is, dry as Aunt
Grint is, proud as Mrs. Tunny is, strong as Mr. Gouch is,
and selfish, independent, consequential, vain, preöccupied,
as everybody is, all cotton to Memmy and Bebby. Even
Winkle's great whip, that four as smart horses as there were
in the county ran from, and all the cows were afraid of, and
dogs leaped stone-walls to get out of the way of, yielded
to them. Winkle himself, weather-seared, porpoise-limbed
as he was, went capering and rigadooning about them, as if
they were tarantulas, and had bitten him, and kept him
dancing for their amusement. Aunt Grint, chromatic,
grum, hard-mouthed, who looked as if she had been kilndried,
and all her natural juices evaporated off, — how she
sweetened to the children, and tiddled them, and caroled to
them! She was always believing something was going to
happen; — she had seen a strange-looking, corpse-shaped
substance in the yolk of an egg; and when a member of the

family had died a while ago, they did not hang crape on
the bee-hive. But the children had happened, and there was
no help for it; they were the event, and Aunt Grint was
confounded before it. Then she thought Munk was no
Christian, because he let his coach carry ladies to balls; but
good a Christian as she was herself, she could not help loving
him when she looked at his children. Then there was Mrs.
Tunny, a sleek, round, fubby piece of mortality, with
bunches of ribbons in her hair, and bunches in her neck,
who owned a broad-aisle pew in Dr. Broadwell's Church,
— had been to a party at Judge Burp's, — hired a piano for
her daughters, — boasted of a cousin in New York, — who
exchanged bows with the Mayoress, whom she did not
know, and who would not bow to a great many people that
she did know; — even she, all engulfed in a huge cotton-velvet
sack, paid her duty to the children, — stooped to
them, and toadied about them.

So we might go round the room, and tell how these dear
despots worked their cards, lording it everywhere; and nobody
could look at anything else, or talk of anything else,
or do for anything else, but them.

Richard and Munk were of course in their glory, for their
countenances seemed to say, “See there! Just what I told
you; the children are mighty little things; no matter what
Elder Jabson says, they have a masterly power on the human
heart.”

There was Tunny, a little man, diffident, white-faced, as
if he had grown up under the shadow of his wife, — how
richly he colored when he held Memmy in his arms, — how
his lank knees puffed and swelled when he trotted her!
Mr. Gouch, who seemed never to have been properly kneaded,
so loose he was in his joints, so tripping in utterance,
so quivering in the muscles of his face, as if he had done

nothing all his days but hop over logs, dodge Silver, and
peer after Clover, — came completely into requisition, and
displayed the education of his life in leaping over the children
on the floor, bopeeping to them behind the sofa, and
mouthing with Bebby.

The children, of course, did their best; and being in state,
it behoved them to magnify it. Memmy got on the floor,
on all fours, and Winkle trod on her, and tickled her with
his foot; and Bebby got down too, like a frog, on the floor,
and, like the frog in the fable, she swelled up under his
feet; and he repeated all he had done to Memmy; and how
archly she looked up to him, and how she laughed, and
how they all laughed! Memmy whispered something to
Uncle Richard, as if he was her Prime Minister; and
Bebby likewise sought his ear, and mummed at it; then she
retreated, and came back again, and mummed some more;
and there were additional peals of laughter. Bebby could
not talk; but she could dummy and warble and crool and
caw, and look with her eyes and point with her finger; and
this was a sort of high-born language, which the commonalty
around her were not expected to understand; but it
puzzled them, and set them to surmising and gossiping, as
the actions of the great are wont to do.

Uncle Richard got the singing-books, and they sang
psalm-tunes; and Memmy and Bebby sang too, — and
did n't their singing attract more attention than all the rest?
Bebby, one would think, had learned to sing in that other
state of existence in which metempsychosis places us all;
and she was not yet familiar enough with our modes of utterance
to make herself intelligible; but all agreed that it
was very wonderful. While the others were singing,
Memmy got up little concerts of her own, and introduced,
with an originality peculiar to herself, a medley of stanzas,

beginning, “My Bible leads to Glory,” “Get out of the
way, Old Dan Tucker,” “Mary had a little Lamb,” “Wild
roved the Indian Girl, bright Alfarata.”

“I fear we are too happy,” said Aunt Grint; “oh, I do!”

“You don't?” answered Mrs. Munk, startled.

“Jabson preaches at the school-house to-night, and we
are not prepared for it,” continued the Aunt.

“I know I love the children too well,” replied Mrs. Munk.

“There 's it,” rejoined the other. “You make idols of
them, and something will happen to them. Jabson looked
very solemn when he went by our house to-day, and I know
it 's a death. It must be a death. He looked so the night
John Creely was taken.”

“Come, Aunt,” interposed Munk, “let Roxy alone this
time. She has not digested all you have told her before;
and it is n't best to overload, body or mind.”

“I only want you to attend to what I tell you, Asa,” she
rejoined, “before it is too late, and not let the children draw
off your affections so.”

“I see through you, Aunt,” returned Munk; “I understand
it all, and you know how 't is, only you are modest,
and won't say so. The more my affections are drawn off,
the more they keep pouring in; and I have such a pile of
them here, I don't know, Aunt, but I should go crazy, if I
had n't you to love. Bring in Jabson; I would love him
to-night. Roxy has been so bad here, this afternoon, getting
into my lap, and kissing me, and looking so smiling,
and being so happy,” — he pinched his wife's ear, — “oh, if
she had n't any children, how good she would be!”

“Bad man!” replied Aunt Grint; “bad Asa, you won't
believe anything till you see it; and when it comes, you say
it is n't there.”

“I could see better if it were not so dark, Roxy,” he said;

“you must light the solar, — then it will be all as plain as a
pipe-stem.”

No sooner did Memmy hear the clinking of the glass
shade than she said, “I can light the taper,” and was permitted
to demonstrate her ability. She thrust the taper
through the register of the air-tight; but when she attempted
to draw it out, the flame was sucked in and extinguished.
She burned her face, and almost her hand, in the undertaking,
and had to give it up. Memmy-and-Bebby-dom was
over! Their reign was ended. It is the misfortune of
greatness that, like the Legalist, if it fail in one point, it is
guilty of all, and can indemnify its blunders only by retirement.
The children must go to bed. Papa unhooked and
untied Memmy, and Mamma undid Bebby; but even now,
in disgrace, as it were to show the true imperiality of their
natures, before they could be reärranged for the bed, they
slipped away, and recommenced their tantrums about the
room. But they were pursued, seized, endued with the costume
of obscurity, and thrust into the truckle-bed.

Aunt Grint exhaled a long sigh, and breathed easier; and
expressed her sense of relief in these words, “I am glad it
is over!”

“What is over?” asked Munk.

“The children,” she replied.

“That is not over,” rejoined Munk; “it has only begun,
I go at it to-morrow, and keep it up all the week.”

“If you would only go to the meetings,” said his aunt;
“the Reformation is commenced, and they are to be held
every day, as long as the Lord will.”

“I am going to the meetings,” added he; “Roxy is
going, Winkle is going, — we are all going.”

“Not Tunny and I,” exclaimed Mrs. Tunny.

“Yes; Tunny and you,” replied Munk.

“Not Tunny and I,” retorted the lady; “they are noisy,
riffraffy, and smell of cowheel and codfish, — uncomfortable
to polite minds, disrelishable to respectable society, and dangerous
to genteel young ladies. Faustina shall not go, nor
Theodoric. Dr. Broadwell does not approve of them, nor
Parson Smith, and they are men of taste.”

“Yes, all,” continued Munk; “we have begun to-night,
and we will go on, press on, pray on, sing on. Come, Uncle
Richard, help us to some more music.”

“I can't let the chance pass,” said Aunt Grint, “without
saying to Mrs. Tunny that what the Lord approves is good
enough for her to approve, and that the souls of the righteous
will shine at the last day, when some other souls will
not look quite so well.”

Mrs. Tunny nodded to Aunt Grint, and smiled.

“All,” pursued Munk, as he turned the leaves of the
Psalm-book, “all go to meeting, all sing, all good, all happy.
Bless the Lord for what we have, and are, and can be,
and is always a being, and a happening; bless him for Dr.
Broadwell, Parson Smith, and Elder Jabson, and Memmy
and Bebby!”

They sang, and softened down; and becoming very musical,
they sang more. Aunt Grint thought they might have
some praying; and if nobody else would pray, she would.
Richard prayed, and they parted.