University of Virginia Library

CHANCES AND CHANGES;
OR, A CLERICAL WOOING.

This disquisition upon some of the different phases of that sweet
sin—idleness, has no particular reference to the little story that
follows, except so far as it was suggested by the subduing influences
of the delicious season at which the incidents here related
are supposed to have occurred. It must be a dry and impracticable
mind, indeed, that is not filled to overflowing with the beauty
of our Indian summer; when every winding valley, every
softly swelling upland, in the picturesque “openings,” is clothed
in such colours as no mortal pencil can imitate, blended together
with such magical effect, that it is as if the most magnificent of
all sunsets had fallen suddenly from heaven to earth, and lay,
unchanged, on forest, hill, and river. Not a tree, from the almost
black green of tamarack and hemlock, to the pale willow
and the flaunting scarlet maple, the crimson-brown oak and the
golden beech—not a shrub, however insignificant its name or
homely its form — but contributes to the general splendour.
Frequent showers, soft and silent as the very mist, cover the
leaves with dewy moisture; and upon this glittering veil shines
out the tempered autumn sun, calling forth at once glowing hues
and nutty odours, which had been lost in a drier and less changeful
atmosphere. Low in the bosom of almost every valley lies
either a little lake ready to mirror back the wondrous pageant,
or a bright winding stream, seldom musical here where scarce a
stone of any size is to be found, but always crystal clear, and
watched over by bending willows, or parting to give place to tiny
islands loaded with evergreens. The sharp crack of the rifle or
fowling-piece seems like sacrilege in such scenes; yet the multitude

of wild, shy, glancing creatures, that venture forth to enjoy
the balmy air and regale themselves upon the abundance of nature
at this season, tempts into the woods so many of those to
whom the idea of game is irresistible, that we must take the
sportsman with his fine dogs, his glittering gun and his gay hunting
gear, as part of the picture, if we would have it true to the
life; and we cannot deny that he makes a picturesque adjunct,
though we hate the “barbarous art” that brings him to these
sweet solitudes.

But not alone on the wild wood and the silent lake does the Indian
summer shed its tender light, making beautiful what might
else have seemed rough and common-place. The harvest has
been nearly all gathered, and the ploughing for next year's crop
has made some progress, as the deep rich brown of some fields
and the plough itself slowly moving in others can tell us. See
those unerring furrows, those ridges, sometimes curving a little
round some lingering stump, but always parallel, be the area
ever so extensive. Or look yonder, beyond the line of crimson
and brown shrubs that line the rough fence, at the sower, pacing
the wide field with the measured tread of the soldier, that each
spot may get its due proportion of the golden treasure; and
keeping exact time with foot and hand, his own thoughts furnishing
his only music. No hireling or giddy youth is entrusted with
this nice operation. The foundation for next year's riches is laid
by the master himself; but you may perhaps see the harrow
which follows his footsteps attended only by one of the younglings
of the house, whose little hands wield the slender willow wand
which urges on old Dobbin; and whose shrill piping tones are a
far off imitation of the gruffer shouting of the elder. The adjoining
field is like a fairy camp, with its ranges of tent-like stacks
of corn, and a young maple left standing here and there as if on
purpose to supply the flaring red banners necessary to the illusion.
“Fallows gray” are not wanting, to temper the general gorgeousness,
nor parties of “huskers” to give a human interest to the
picture. Here and there a cluster of hay-stacks of all sizes,
covered with roofs shaped like those of a Chinese pagoda, give
quite an oriental touch; while, close at hand, a long shambling
Yankee teamster, coaxing and scolding his oxen in the most uncouth

of all possible voices, will recall the whereabout, with a
shock, as it were; reminding one that the prevailing human tone
of the region is any thing but poetical.

One very striking feature in our autumn scenery is one that
was undreamed of in the days when people ventured to be poetical
upon rural themes. Cowper sings with homely truth—

But he would listen in vain for the flail at the West, at least during
the autumn. The threshing-machine has superseded all
slower modes of extracting the grain from the ear; and though a
“machine” has a paltry sound, the operation of this mighty instrument
gives rise to scenes of the greatest animation and interest.
Half a dozen horses and all the stout arms of the neighbourhood
are kept busy by its requisitions. One of the more active
youths climbs the tall stack to toss down the sheaves; the
next hand cuts the “binder,” and passes the sheaf to the “feeder,”
who throws it into the monster's mouth. Round goes the
cylinder, at the rate of several hundred revolutions in a minute,
and the sheaf comes from among the iron teeth completely crushed;
the grain, straw, and chaff in one mass, but entirely detached
from each other—the work of a whole day of old-fashioned threshing
being performed in a few minutes. Several persons are busied
in raking away the straw from the machine as rapidly as
possible; and shouts and laughter and darting movements testify
to the excitement of the hour. A day with the machine is considered
one of the most laborious of the whole season; yet it is
a favourite time, for it requires a gathering, which is always the
signal for hilarity in the country.

So tremendous a power does not work without danger; and,
accordingly, the excitement of the occupation is heightened by
the fear of broken arms, dislocated shoulders, torn hands, and the
like—even death itself being no unusual attendant on the threshing-machine.
But no one ever hesitates to use it on this account;

since rail-road speed is as much the foible of the backwoodsman
as of his civilized brother. No inconsiderable portion of the grain
is wasted by this tearing process; and the straw, considered so
important by the thorough farmer, is rendered nearly useless;
but the lack of barns in which to store the grain for the slower
process of threshing, and the desire to have a great job finished
at once, reconciles the farmer to all this. The birds profit by it,
at least.

The “making a business” of marriage, which forms the nucleus
of the following story, is by no means peculiar to the new
country, though it is certainly better suited to a half savage tone
of manners, than to society which pretends to civilization. Strange
to say, marriages contracted without any previous acquaintance
between the parties, are almost confined to a class which, of all
others, is bound to teach the sacredness of the tie. For such to
treat marriage as a mere business contract, without the least
reference to the undivided and exclusive affection which alone
can make it holy and ennobling, is indeed a marvel; and I trust
that so coarse a form of utilitarianism may become less and less
popular among us. If I appear to have done any thing in the
following little sketch calculated to make the practice seem less
revolting, let it be ascribed to the state of society in which the
circumstances are supposed to have occurred. Among isolated
and uneducated people, we may tolerate what should be held unpardonable
where greater advantages and greater pretensions entitle
us to look for a higher degree of refinement.

1. CHAPTER I.

These western colonies, gatherings as they are from the four
corners of the earth, of people whose manners, habits, and ideas
are various as their origin, present a thousand little oddities of
custom and character, sometimes amusing and sometimes vexatious
enough to the looker-on, whose own peculiarities afford in
turn their share of marvel and diversion. The Yankee smiles
when the Scotsman asks for “a few o' they molasses” for his
cake; the Scot stares in his turn when the man of Connecticut
calls that cake a “griddle” or a “slap-jack.” The Englishman
describes gravely a machine which is to be “perpelled by the
hair;” and the Maineman who indulges a joke at his expense
will talk the next moment of his “ca-ow,” which, with an indescribable
twang, he will declare to be “the beatermost critter under
the canopy.” And in actions as well as words—in modes as
well as manners—is this variety constantly presenting itself.
We may see glimpses of half our United States within the compass
of a school-district. We may travel without stirring from the
cottage fireside, and, in one sense, (not the poet's,)

An odd affair which occurred last autumn within our bounds
gave rise to these reflections, though perhaps the critical reader
may decide that the association is not a very obvious one. A
slender thread serves sometimes to string female reveries, and it
is doubtless best they should not aim too much at “consecution
of discourse,” lest they be accused of lecturing. I shall tell my
little story “promiscuous like,” claiming my feminine privilege.

The occasion was a nutting-party—a regularly planned and
numerously attended expedition in search of hickory-nuts; a coldblooded

conspiracy against the domestic comfort of the squirrels,
whose despairing sighs probably swelled the soft southern breeze
which we enjoyed so thoughtlessly. But this nutting is a wondrous
pleasant kind of laborious idleness. Leaving out of view
the desirableness of the spoil—forgetting the talk-promoting influence
of a dish of well-cracked nuts placed on the little table before
the fire at Christmas-tide, or in some bitter evening in February,
when the snapping and cracking of the more distant articles of
furniture tell of the struggle between the frosty influences without
and the glowing warmth within,—the gathering is a toil to be
coveted for its own sake. It is a mode of getting at the very essence
and heart of a delicious autumn day, when the misty air
glows with an indistinct diffusion of sunlight, so softened and so
universal that we can scarce point out the spot whence it emanates,
and all the tints of earth are blended and neutralized into
a perfect harmony with this enchanting atmosphere. Green is
almost or quite gone; scarlet has sobered into crimson, and that
again into a golden brown. The leaves still hang in isolated
clusters upon the oaks, dry, and rustling ever and anon with a
melancholy, sighing music; but the hickory trees stretch their
long branches and lift their lofty heads, denuded of every thing
but their fragrant fruit, which, looked at from below, dwindles
to the size of dots on the rich sky.

This is the time, of all others, for long rambles; and when
October brings it round, we moralizers upon the thriftless and vagrant
habits of certain of our neighbours, are disposed to be at
least as idle as the idlest, and think no day better, or at least more
delightfully spent, than that on which we repair to a strip of untouched
forest land a mile or two from our village, and there
waste the short afternoon in such sport as fascinates the truant
schoolboy, until the declining sun, and the chilly breeze of approaching
night, warn us off, tired trespassers upon nature's blest
domain. Is it possible any body ever had the heart to whip a
truant boy in such weather, when the forest was accessible?

Oh! the pleasures of the cart ride, even with its unfailing accompaniment
of shrieks of pretty terror, as the patient oxen draw
us up and down and sidling through hills on whose impracticable
roughness no horses could be trusted! Then comes the racing

search after the oldest trees, which are always supposed to promise
the largest nuts, and then the scramble when some strong arm
shakes down a rattling shower on the unequal floor formed around
the foot of the tree by means of shawls and cloaks and buffalo-robes,
spread on the ground lest the thick bed of leaves should hide
the falling treasure. Many is the wild shout of youthful glee
when some older or less accustomed face is unwarily turned upward
for a moment to ask another shower, and receives, perchance,
a billeted bullet on the tip of its nose. And not a little consoling
is required by the infant heroes upon whom the bounties of autumn
descend too copiously, administering more and harder
thumps than their green philosophy has yet been trained to endure.

These frolics are not without their perils, however, and those
more serious than a bruised nose or a thumped shoulder; and
the especial nut-gathering of which I began to tell, will, I am
sure, be long remembered by all concerned, though perhaps for
very various reasons.

Our party was a large one, and as merry as it was large.
Three great wagons, drawn by oxen, were our vehicles; and
into these were crammed as many giggling girls as possible, with
a few older heads by way of ballast. Three stout farmers went
along, to shout at the teams, and to pilot us safely over hill and
hollow—no sinecure, as I before hinted. These were to officiate
also as shakers or pounders; for, be it known, whenever the attendants
on these occasions are too old or too lazy to climb, they
make their services effectual by upheaving great stones, which
they throw against the tree with main force, producing concussions
which might bring down toppling cliffs, let alone hickory-nuts.
Our friends, Haw and Gee, were of the order of the elephant,

and could not be induced to climb; but they were admirable
pounders, and we were soon well pelted with nuts, and busily engaged
in freeing them from their aromatic wrappers—an operation
which we of the West call “shucking.”

Among our bright-eyed company were the twin-daughters of a
worthy neighbour of ours, generally known among the villagers
by the title of Deacon Lightbody, though I believe he has not
any other clain to the dignity than that which rests upon a particularly
grave face, and a devoted attention to the secular affairs
of his church. He always makes the fire in the meetinghouse—sees
to the sweeping and lighting—asks the minister to
dinner—hands up all notices—turns out the dogs that sometimes
intrude during service—and does all necessary frowning and
head-shaking at the unlucky urchins who laugh when the said
dogs howl just outside the door. All this Mr. Lightbody does,
not for the lucre of gain, but from pure love of what he calls the
“good cause,” though I doubt he deceives himself a little as to
the catholicity of his regard for religion. Yet he declares he
does try to have charity for those who do not think as he does in
matters of faith, though it is certain that no Christian can object
to any of his favourite doctrines, since they are Bible truths and
nothing else. We must leave the worthy deacon to reconcile
these incongruities, as they have no immediate bearing on our
little story, and were introduced solely for the purpose of making
our reader acquainted with Mr. Lightbody's turn of mind.

Those twin-daughters of his were “as like as two peas”—
sweet peas—or pea blossoms rather. Such cloudless azure eyes
—such diaphanous complexions—such dimpling roses and such
sunny hair! If one should undertake to describe them, nothing
but superlatives would do. Yet their hands had handled
the churn-dasher too often to be very satiny in the palm, and
their feet, having never been coaxed into shoes of the size and
shape of a scissors-sheath, were unfashionably well-proportioned.
Charming fairies were they, nevertheless, and wonderfully alike,
yet with a difference, perceptible enough to their intimates. Ruth
was the demure fairy—Elsie the tricksy sprite. Ruth was born a
careful, tidy housewife; Elsie an incorrigible shatter-brain. Ruth
never did wrong, while Elsie had to atone for all sorts of offences

against good order and good government twenty times a day. Yet
she made up so sweetly, and was withal so kind and loving, that
her father, who meant to be considered a stern stickler for family
discipline, could seldom find it in his heart to scold her for her
faults, except when she laughed in meeting, which always cost
her a laborious pacification.

These two lilies of the valley were arrayed in white, as was
meet: Ruth's ribands being lilac, and Elsie's pale green, for the
convenience of being known apart. As an offset to their wood-nymph
costume, we had Miss Cotgrave in a purple silk, with her
coal-black locks brought down to her chin, and then wound round
her large ears, and a pinch-back brooch by way of ferronière.
Then there was Ellen Shirley, prepared for a game at her dearly
beloved romps, wisely preferring a pink gingham dress to any sort
of finery; and Patty Chandler grasping her great basket and
staring silently with round eyes, seemingly full of nothing but
anxiety lest she should not manage to secure her share of the
spoils. These, with half a dozen or more of little folks, who
were any thing but personnages muets, made up our “load,” and
the other vehicles carried crews neither less numerous nor less
noisy.

The young ladies talked and laughed moderately, for there
were no beaux; and Miss Cotgrave said she rejoiced that it was
so, for she did hate to have a parcel of young men hanging about.

It could not have been long after we left the village that two
sober-looking individuals, drest in comely and reverend black,
greeted the pleased eyes of Deacon Lightbody as he stood at his
own door, looking at the meeting-house, (as was his habit,) and
noting the curious effect of the level beams of the afternoon sun,
which shone through and through the little building, making it
glow like a lantern. Light brought warmth to mind, and the

deacon, by a natural transition, began thinking that the very next
week he must bestir himself and get up a “bee” to bank up his
beloved meeting-house.

Are there any of my readers so benighted as not to take the
sense of this home-bred phrase? Then I must stop to tell them
that a “bee” is a collection of volunteers who agree to meet at
some specified time to accomplish any object of public or private
utility which requires the concurrence of numbers. And
“banking up” is a service rendered very necessary by the severity
of our winters and the slightness of our dwellings, and
consists in piling earth round the foundations, so as to prevent the
frosty winds from intruding below the floor. All this has nothing
at all to do with our important history, but is merely a private
hint for the enlightenment of the unlearned.

The deacon, then, was devising liberal things for the good of
his dear meeting-house, when the two suits of black, with faces
to correspond, (not to match,) crossed his line of vision and brought
a pleased expression into his solemn countenance. The gentlemen
alighted, and proved to be—one a church-officer from a
neighbouring town, and the other a young clergyman, who being
just come there, and likely to officiate within our bounds occasionally,
was an object of the first interest to Mr. Lightbody.

After a short prelude, Mr. Poppleton, the elder gentleman,
began. “I called, Mr. Lightbody, to introduce this reverend gentleman
to your acquaintance.”

Mr. Lightbody shook hands, and then shook hands again, and
asked the gentlemen to walk in.

Mr. Poppleton, with a somewhat impatient wave of the hand,
as much as to say he had come on business, and had no time for
ceremony, proceeded in his speech.

“This gentleman, sir, is Mr. Hammond,—the reverend Mr.
Hammond, sir—who is going to be with us for a spell, and perhaps
longer—and as he thinks some of settling at the West, he
judges it best, and so do we all—that he should take a wife, and
so keep house, for you know it isn't pleasant for a minister to be
boarding round. And he has been recommended—”

The young man upon this turned, Deacon Lightbody says, “as
red as a fire-coal,” (as well he might,) and stammered out something

about his having heard that Mr. Lightbody had two daughters.
“Why, yes, sir—yes,—I have so”—said the deacon—a
snug parsonage appearing at the end of a short vista in his imagination—“I
have so—and the neighbours do say that they are
pretty likely girls—but walk in—walk in;” and the guests were
ushered in with reverential alacrity.

In the “keepin-room” they found Mrs. Lightbody, with her
hearth scrupulously swept and her white apron shining with
cleanliness, and her fair hair most primly arranged under a
transparent cap, which was yet not so clear as her complexion.
The ceremony of introduction having been repeated, Mr. Poppleton,
with very little circumlocution, gave Mrs. Lightbody to
understand the especial purport of the visit.

The good lady shared her husband's reverence for all that
belonged to the church, but she was a woman and a mother, and
she coloured deeply,—almost painfully, at this abrupt reference
to the disposal of a daughter. But Mr. Poppleton had come on
business, and he knew only one way of doing it; and Mr. Hammond
said but little, having, indeed, but little opportunity. After
some ineffectual attempts, he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the
floor while his mouth-piece set forth his claims and enlarged upon
his plans and prospects.

In Mr. Lightbody's mind, however, all was sunshine. To have
a minister for a son-in-law, was all that his ambition coveted;
and to do the candidate justice, his countenance and manner,—
setting aside the unmanageable awkwardness of his present position—were
much in his favour.

“As far as I'm concerned,” said Mr. Lightbody in winding up
the conference, “as far as I'm concerned, I'm perfectly agreeable.
I give my consent, and I dare say Miss Lightbody won't
say no—you can take your choice—airy one of 'em—airy one of
'em—that is—if they are agreeable, you know! I shouldn't put
any force upon 'em, nor over-persuade 'em—but if they're agreeable
I am!”

Thus encouraged, the principal and his double took leave, in
spite of pressing invitations to stay tea. They were on their
way to some convocation of their order, and were to call as they
returned. But meanwhile, as their way onward lay near the

nutting-ground, Mr. Hammond suggested that it might not be
amiss to make some small tarry in that vicinity. Perhaps he
thought his choice need not be restricted to the deacon's fair twins
—or perhaps—but they came—saw—

In the midst—the very acme—of our frolic, when Ruth was
swinging in a grape-vine which had been slung so conveniently
by the freakish hand of Nature that it needed very little aid from
man,—and Elsie, shrieking like a Banshee, was flying through
the dry leaves, pursued by Patty Chandler, whose basket she had
mischievously abstracted—this was the time, of all others, when
the two sober-looking horsemen rode up the hillside and presented
themselves to the view of our abashed damsels, who had forgotten
that there were any grave people in the world. A wet blanket!
and all our fire was extinguished accordingly. Every body fell
to picking up nuts with an air of conscious delinquency.

Mr. Poppleton was acquainted with most of the party, and gave
his companion a general introduction; singling out Ruth and
Elsie, however, and endeavouring, by sundry not very far-sought
questions, to make them shine out for Mr. Hammond's encouragement,
just as we pat and coax a shy horse when we wish to
show his paces to advantage. But the twins were more than
shy, and could not be brought to say any thing but yes and no, so
that Mr. Poppleton, discouraged by the result of this his first
effort at a more diplomatic mode of proceeding, fairly called them
aside, leaving Mr. Hammond staring and unprotected among a
parcel of giddy girls.

The reverend youth had no long trial, however, for it was but
a moment before Mr. Poppleton returned, and with a grave sigh
beckoned him away.

It took us a good while to find the fair sisters, and when they
did show themselves, Ruth looked primmer than ever, and Elsie

had certainly been shedding tears, though her face gave us no
small reason to suspect they had been tears of laughter.

“What did Mr. Poppleton want?” was the question of half a
dozen pairs of lips.

“Who is that handsome young man? Is he a minister?”
asked not a few.

The answers to these questions were very vague. Ruth, and
even Elsie seemed seized with a fit of the silents, and conjecture
was left to float wide and pick up all sorts of things.

“I'll tell you!” said Miss Cotgrave, whose thoughts were a
good deal turned towards matrimony, “I'll tell you all about it!
I see it all now! Old Pop is looking for a wife for that young
man. He always takes care of the young ministers, and he's
been to Deacon Lightbody's to speak for one of his girls!”

The truth thus blurted out was almost too much for the heroines
of Mr. Poppleton's anti-romance. They blushed, they laughed,
they made up all sorts of improbable stories, and to escape from
the storm of raillery, began seeking for nuts with renewed industry.

“How provoking that we have no one to climb the trees!”
said Elsie; “the nuts hang on the upper boughs after all the
shaking!” and at the word, the best climber in the country was
at her elbow.

Joe Fenton, a son of the forest, dark-eyed and ruddy-cheeked,
and withal slender and elastic as a willow wand, had long been
suspected of a bashful liking for Elsie, and yet no one,—not even
Miss Cotgrave,—had ever been able to ascertain whether there
had actually been any “love-passages” between them or not.
The principal ground for any suspicion of partiality on the side
of the young lady was an over-scrupulous avoidance of Master
Fenton upon every occasion. This, Miss Cotgrave says, is “a
sure sign.”

Joe had been ploughing in a neighbouring field, (Burns has
made ploughing glorious, O gentle reader!) and hearing the merry
shouts of the nut-gatherers, could not resist the temptation to
come and see if his help was not needed.

“Oh! climb the tree, Joe!” said the little folks, for the grown
damsels were somewhat ceremonious, although Joe was in his

every-day clothes, and did not look half the beau he appears on
Sundays and high occasions.

Not another word was needed, and it was scarcely a moment
before Joe was poised on a bough which it made one dizzy to look
up at. Down came the pelting showers on all sides, and we
were fain to run away until the rain had ceased from the exhausted
condition of the reservoirs. Baskets were filled, and
bags were brought from the wagons. Another and another tree
did young Fenton climb, and with equal success, until Miss Cotgrave,
in pursuing her running changes upon her favourite
theme, inflicted a cruel pinch upon Ruth's arm, asking her
whether the young parson was in treaty for herself or her sister.

A scream from Ruth at the moment when Fenton was making
a perilous transit from one branch to another, caused him to miss
his hold, and the next instant he lay on the ground at her feet—
dead, as we all supposed. His lips were colourless, and his
breathing had ceased entirely.

It were vain to tell of the consternation, the distress which followed.
Ruth's grief was terrific. The poor girl, feeling that
she had been the cause, though innocently, of this sad accident,
hung over him, wringing her hands in helpless anguish, beseeching
him to open his eyes and speak to her, and this in tones
which could hardly fail to awaken life if a glimmering remained.

We had begun to despair of the success of the simple remedies
which were within our reach when a deep-drawn sigh from the sufferer
relieved us. As one of the company observed, “The minute
he ketch'd his breath, his cheeks begun to look streaked,” and the
red streaks soon overpowered the white ones. Our efforts were
now renewed, and Ruth—the prim, the demure Ruth,—transported
beyond herself by the first violent emotion she had ever
experienced, was as profuse in her exclamations of hope and joy,
as she had before been in those of agonizing self-reproach. It was
at this moment that Elsie made her appearance for the first time
since the accident. She was pale, but most of us were so, and
no one seemed so little inclined to assist in recovering poor Joe's
scattered senses.

“La!” said Miss Cotgrave, “if nobody had cared any more

about Joe Fenton than you did, Elsie, he might have been dead
by this time!”

Joe turned his opening eyes full upon Elsie.

“Are you much hurt?” she inquired, with an indifferent air.
Ruth replied for him, with a most eloquent exposition of the danger,
and the terror, and the joy; but Elsie turned away as if she
had not heard the words.

We got our patient into a wagon by the aid of our stout teamsters;
we had him bled when we reached home, and he felt almost
well before bed-time,—well bodily, we mean, for Elsie's
coldness had found a very sensitive spot in his heart, and the
poor boy could hardly think of it without shivering.

In two days Joe Fenton's lithe limbs were as active as ever,
but the bleeding had done nothing for the blow on his heart. He
had never, we are assured, told his love to Elsie, but he thought
she knew all about it, and now to be treated in this killing sort of
way! It was plain that he must have deceived himself entirely;
and, lacking courage to encounter Elsie's frigid looks again, he
resolved to make Ruth the confidant of his troubles, and to engage
her good offices with her less approachable sister.

As to his shy Doris, she had been gloomy and reserved with
her sister, but more than once closeted with Miss Cotgrave, who
had made her several long calls. Calls are sometimes very useful
in enlightening us as to the character and intentions of particular
friends who do not happen to be present, and Miss Cotgrave was
conscientiously anxious to disabuse Elsie's mind on the subject of
Fenton's attachment. For this benevolent purpose, the occurrence
in the wood afforded excellent material. Elsie, who had
witnessed the accident from a distance, was at first unable to
move toward the spot, and afterward deterred by some pangs of
maidenly jealousy awakened by the passionate grief of her sister.

We do not like that others should display too much interest in
those who ought to love us and us only; and the instinctive feeling
of resentment is apt to extend itself even to the objects of
such impertinent affection. So poor Elsie, whose brain was none
of the clearest after that unhappy tumble, came at once to the
conclusion that she must either have been deceived throughout,
or that her young admirer had proved inconstant; and her uneasiness
took the form of high displeasure at both parties concerned,
with some share of the same feeling towards all the rest of the
world, including her own silly self.

Fenton knocked at Mr. Lightbody's door, and Elsie ran and hid
herself in the garden. Here she shed tears enough to have watered
a heavier sorrow, and in the very tempest of her passion she
saw her false love and her cruel sister going out as for a walk,
engaged in earnest conversation. The thing was certain, and
the blue eyes were proudly dried—to be swimming again the very
next moment.

“Elsie! Elsie!” It was her father's voice; and summoning
new resolution, she wiped away the intrusive tears and hastened
to the house. In the keepin-room she encountered Mr. Poppleton
and his youthful reverend. Mr. and Mrs. Lightbody sat by, but
Mr. Poppleton was again the spokesman.

“Which of you is it?” asked the good man after brief salutation
to the April-faced maiden; then checking himself, he added,
“But that isn't it—are you the one that had the green string
around her neck t'other day? That was the one we wanted.”

Elsie answered mechanically, “Yes.”

“Why you don't look so chirk as you did then. You ain't
sick, be ye?”

This brought a mechanical “No.”

“Oh! only a little peakin, eh! Well! now you see, we've
come on particular business. Mr. Hammond stands in need of a
helpmate; and after consulting with his friends, and also getting
the consent and good-will of your honoured father, he wishes to
know if you could be agreeable to undertake the journey of life
with him,—that is, if you think you could pitch upon him for a
husband?”

“Mr. Poppleton,” began the blushing Mr. Hammond, as soon

as he could edge in a word, “you embarrass the young lady, sir!
Allow me a few minutes' conversation—”

“Mr. Hammond,” rejoined the elder, with rather a severe air,
“missionaries and missionaries' wives must not be fancy-led like
the vain world. This young woman has been well brought up,
and showed her duty in all things, and now the only question
seems to me to be, whether she can make up her mind to renounce
vanity and folly, and spend the rest of her life in doing good.”
And upon this text spoke Mr. Poppleton for something like half
an hour, aided very warmly now and then by Mr. Lightbody,
but uninterrupted by any body else. His discourse had so much
the air of a sermon that it would have seemed impertinent,—so
Mr. Hammond thought, we dare say,—to have attempted to refute
or modify any of its positions. Even a sermon must have an end,
however, and when the orator had gone over and over, and round
and round the subject till he felt satisfied with his exposition of it,
he turned to Mrs. Lightbody with a very complacent, “Well,
ma'am, what do you say?”

Mrs. Lightbody remembered, though she did not tell, that she
had for some time past observed certain almost intangible indications
of a liking for somebody else, and she therefore referred the
matter to Elsie herself, only observing that a good minister's wife
was a great blessing to the people.

What was her surprise when Elsie, who had been gazing out
of the window, turned suddenly to her father, and gave an unconditional,
and almost impetuous consent.

“Why, Elsie!” said Mrs. Lightbody.

“She's right!” said the deacon, rubbing his hands.

“I hope she'll be a burning”—began Mr. Poppleton. But Mr.
Hammond, looking at the agitated countenance of the beautiful
girl, motioned to his ally to cease, and taking her hand desired
her to compose herself, saying, stiffly enough, but yet kindly,
that he would give her no further trouble at present, but would
call again in a day or two.

And with the usual adieux these odd negotiators departed.

That very evening, when the two fair sisters retired to their
chamber, did Ruth, drawing encouragement from Elsie's tearstained
cheeks, open her mission—how different from the other!

It was a tale of such passionate protestation—such humble
suing,—on the part of the hero of the hickory-nutting—that Elsie,
stung with compunction for her blind precipitancy, called and
thought herself the most wretched of human beings; and almost
frightened her more placid sister by the vehemence of her sorrow.
Fenton loved her then, after all; and she—what had she done!
“Why, Elsie, dear!” said the soft-voiced Ruth, as the stricken-hearted
girl sobbed upon her bosom, “what can be the matter?
I used to think you liked Joe Fenton—”

“Oh! Ruth! I have promised—promised that odious old Poppleton—that
hateful young minister,”—and here tears stopped
the sad story.

“Promised what, dear?” said Ruth, who was a matter-of-fact
little body.

“Oh! promised to be a missionary—to go and live in the woods
—to marry that—oh dear! oh dear!”

“To marry that young clergyman! Why, Elsie! how can
you call him hateful! He is as much handsomer than Joe Fenton
as—”

“Handsome! I don't care for his being handsome! I hate
him! I wish I had never seen him! Oh! that miserable nutting!”
And her tears poured afresh.

Ruth sat in musing silence. She could not find it in her heart
to condole with her sister upon the prospect of becoming the help-meet
of so attractive a missionary; and she was unconsciously
balancing in her own mind the various points of difference between
Mr. Hammond and Joe Fenton, when Elsie suddenly started
up.

“Ruth! why won't you take him yourself?”

“I!” said Ruth, bridling up a little, “why, because he has not
asked me!”

“Oh! but—dear, dear sister—you know we are so much alike
that strangers never can tell us apart. Now do! there's a darling
good girl! do save me from all this misery! I can never
love him—I shall hate him—and that will be so wicked for a missionary's
wife!”

Ruth shook her head very discouragingly. She could not think
of offering herself, even to a minister.

“Ah! but you know, Mr. Poppleton only asked for the one that
wore the green riband, and if you would just change with me,
nobody would know the difference except father and mother; and
they would not tell. Oh! Ruth, if you love me one bit you can't
refuse! You are just the very thing for a minister's wife! so
much better than poor me! Dear, dear Ruth—won't you? You
have never loved any body else; and I'm sure this young minister
is good as well as handsome. You don't know how kindly he
spoke to me,”—and Elsie stopt for want of breath.

“You said just now that he was hateful,” said Ruth, with her
most demure air.

“Ah! but I was thinking of poor Joe, then—I mean I was
thinking how he loved me—you told me yourself, you know—oh!
I should be so miserable—but I never will marry him, and then
father will be so angry!” And with a profusion of tears and
kisses she besought her sister to say yes, but in vain. All that
Ruth could be brought to promise was, that she would talk to her
father and mother about it, though she could scarcely withstand
the sobs which continued to burst from Elsie's heart long after
she had fallen asleep.

Upon consulting with the higher powers, Mrs. Lightbody was
soon persuaded into thinking with Elsie, that if Ruth would take
her place, the young minister would never observe the difference;
but Mr. Lightbody had the dignity of the cloth too much at
heart to allow of this attempt at deception. He persisted in his
opinion that since Elsie had made an engagement, she ought certainly
to fulfil it.

“And let Fenton take Ruth, if he's a mind to,” concluded the
old gentleman with his peculiarly solemn air. “Joe's a good

young man, and he's got a good farm too—that is—he will have
when it's cleared up—and Ruth will likely have a sight more of
worldly goods than Elsie, though she won't have a minister, to be
sure—I hold that a young woman that's got a minister hasn't got
much to wish for.”

“But, father,” said Elsie, who was almost writhing under this
business-like estimate of the matter,—“what will poor Joe say?”

“Say! why that's pretty good! Didn't you tell me just now
that the reverend Mr. Hammond would just as leave marry one
as the other? Is Joe Fenton to set up to be more difficult than a
minister, I should like to know?”

Yet Elsie did not desist in despair. She was accustomed to
victory upon easier terms, it is true, but she spared neither tears
nor coaxing until she brought her father to a compromise.

It was agreed that when Mr. Hammond paid the critical visit
both sisters should wear green ribands, and let the young divine
make a choice, which was to be considered final.

The toilet of youth and beauty ought never to cost much time,
and the ordinary costume of the fair twins was simpler than the
simplest; yet the reverend Mr. Hammond had been in the parlour
for a long nervous half hour, and Mr. Lightbody had given
several Blue-Beard-like calls at the foot of the stairs, before Ruth
and Elsie made their appearance on the day of destiny. The
interval had been spent in the most minute and anxious comparison
of every several ringlet—every article of dress—and particularly
every knot and wave of the talismanic green riband.
When all was done they could scarce be sure each of her own
blushing image in the mirror, so perfect was the resemblance.

“But oh! dear, dear Ruth!” said Elsie, “I am so afraid you
will not be able to speak like me! Do try to be a little wild and

saucy! I fear that will betray us, after all. I can be as still as
you, but you will not talk, I know!”

“I will do my best, since I have promised,” said Ruth, with
a sigh; “but oh! Elsie, if you were not such a dear, good sister—”

“Oh! come, come—don't let us wait a moment longer! There
is father calling again!” And she hurried her sister along till
they stood in the dreaded presence.

Mr. Hammond, who had fortunately or wisely left his Achates
at home this time, arose to receive the fair sisters as they entered
the room side by side. He cast his eyes wonderingly from one to
the other, and finding himself totally at a loss, gravely resumed
his seat with an air of painful embarrassment. It might embarrass
a bolder man to find that he could not tell his betrothed
“from any other true-love.”

“Which of these young ladies have I seen before?” said he at
last, with straightforward simplicity.

“You have seen us both!” exclaimed Elsie hastily.

The young man smiled, very quietly, and at once drew his
chair near Elsie's, with so evident a recognition of the voice and
manner that the poor child had much ado to restrain her tears.
She looked imploringly at Ruth, but Ruth could do nothing but
blush, and the catastrophe seemed inevitable, when Miss Cotgrave
came sailing into the room.

She made her best and most sweeping courtesy to the young
minister, and cast a very searching glance at our two agitated
damsels. The young lady's eye was more than piercing—it was
screwing—yet it was at fault now. Mr. Hammond was thrown
out too, for in the process of receiving the new guest, Ruth and
Elsie had changed their places, and Elsie, warned by past mischance,
was resolutely silent.

“Dear! how dark you do keep your room, Mrs. Lightbody,”
said Miss Cotgrave, who, being intuitively aware of a matrimonial
cloud in the horizon, was determined to have more light on
the subject. “I declare, coming in out of the light I can scarcely
see any body!”

“The western sun shone in so dazzling”—Mrs. Lightbody said.
But Miss Cotgrave was not so to be baffled.

“Do you like the fashionable style of dark rooms, sir?” said
she, appealing to Mr. Lightbody.

Fashion! at Deacon Lightbody's! The word “dance” did
not galvanize douce Davie Deans more severely than did this
unlucky term our worthy friend.

“No, indeed!” he exclaimed, with solemn earnestness; and in
less than half a minute he had conscientiously withdrawn every
curtain and thrown wide every blind, letting in the whole crimson
flood of a gorgeous sunset, and adding an angelic radiance to the
beautiful faces of his daughters.

“Why, Ruth! I didn't know you!” exclaimed Miss Cotgrave;
“you and Elsie are more like each other than you are like yourselves!”
Then in a lower tone to Elsie—“Poor Joe Fenton's
shot, eh!”

A trained belle in a “fashionable” boudoir could not have
fainted more gracefully than did our simple Elsie at these words.
All was flutter, as is usual on such occasions, and nobody was
half so frightened as poor Miss Cotgrave.

“Mercy on us! what is the matter? I wasn't in earnest—I
only meant that he had got the bag to hold! Elsie, Elsie! don't!
I was only joking because you had given him the mitten!”

During the time occupied in giving voice to these choice figures
of speech, Elsie's scattered wits had been recalled by the abundant
aid of cold water, and when she seemed quite recovered,
Miss Cotgrave took her leave, a good deal mortified by the awkward
result of her humorous effort, yet overjoyed to have come
into possession of a secret, and above all, anxious to get somebody
to help her keep it.

The young divine had stood gravely aloof during this scene.
Inexperienced as he was in the matter of female whims, he was
not yet so blind as to need telling that emotion, and not the illness
which Elsie tried to pretend, had in reality caused her swoon.
So, like a good and sensible Timothy as he was, he took the
readiest and simplest way to relieve his gathering perplexities.

“Father!” said he, approaching Mr. Lightbody, who sat
twirling his thumbs in a paroxysm of fidgets at Elsie's perverseness,
“you have kindly consented to entrust me with one of your
daughters, and I had hoped that the one I had the pleasure of

seeing here before, was disposed to listen to me with some degree
of favour. If this is so, if the young lady does feel willing to
undertake the toils and hardships of a missionary life—will you
yourself bestow her upon me? for I confess that the wonderful
resemblance between them leaves me entirely at a loss.”

Mr. Lightbody gave a deep hem! sensibly relieved.

“Come here, Ruth, my dear!” said he, drawing the blushing
damsel to him very gently, and with a manifest softening of the
aspect which he usually considered becoming; “come here and
tell your father if you think you could learn to be happy with this
reverend gentleman,” (his reverence was three-and-twenty,) “and
whether you are willing to make the sacrifices that a minister's
wife must make in this new country, and devote yourself to the
service of religion and the advancement of sound doctrine?” He
paused for a reply, but none came. Perhaps Ruth was thinking
over these sacrifices, which form a standard topic on these occasions,
though they are not, practically, very obvious, especially
to people who have been accustomed to a country life.

Taking silence for assent, her father placed her passive hand
in that of Mr. Hammond, and pronounced an emphatic blessing
on them both. And, when this was done, her mother embraced
her, and murmured in her ear some words of exhortation or
encouragement, and then gave place to Elsie, who, after her own
manner, kissed and cried, and whispered her thanks and blessings.
And then the minister, whose views did not seem to accord in all
respects with Mr. Poppleton's, (that gentleman would probably
have judged it superfluous to remain after the business was settled,)
drew his gentle fiancée to the garden-door, and thence into
the garden, though it was already twilight, and there contrived to
make her understand his plans and prospects much better than he
could have done by proxy, even though that proxy had been Mr.
Poppleton.

It was after they had vanished, that our hero of the nutting-party
made his appearance upon the tapis, having been inspired
by Miss Cotgrave with an irresistible desire to know what was
really going on at Deacon Lightbody's. He could hardly have
“happened in” at a more fortunate juncture. Elsie, to be sure,
was “weeping-ripe,” but the awful deacon was walking the floor

in a most complacent humour, and Mrs. Lightbody's mild eyes
seemed to beam with unusual kindness.

Master Fenton was a man of few words, but those which he
mustered for this occasion were very much to the purpose; and
if Mr. Lightbody did not experience the same swelling of the
heart as when he bestowed Ruth upon a minister, he gave his
darling Elsie to the young farmer with very good will, and a
blessing which came warm from the heart.

There was not a second garden for Fenton and Elsie, but they
were old acquaintance; and, as the evening closed in, Mr. Lightbody
rang the bell for family worship, and then, in the midst of
happy hearts, reverently returned thanks for the manifold blessings
of his earthly lot.

Mr. Hammond is fortunately settled in our neighbourhood, for
the present at least; and he has the ueatest little cottage in the
wood, standing too under a very tall oak, which bends kindly
over it, looking like the Princess Glumdalclitch inclining her ear
to the box which contained her pet Gulliver. This cottage possesses
among its recommendations that of being at the extremity
of a charming walk through the forest, and this circumstance
makes it especially precious to Elsie and Fenton, who are very
attentive to the dominie's lady. Farmers cannot marry so speedily
as ministers, but after next spring's business is finished, we shall,
may be, have another wedding to record.