University of Virginia Library

THE COUNTRY COUSIN.

“Oh, mother, mother! father has sold old Brindle and her
calf, don't you think!—sold her for twenty-five dollars—a good
deal of money, ain't it? There she goes, now; just look up
the lane and see her; how she shakes her head and bawls.
She don't wish to go, but her calf runs like everything—it
don't care—look quick, Hannah; look Nancy, or you won't
see her, she is just going out of sight, now;” and little
Willie Davidson ran out of the house as he finished telling the
news, and climbed to the top of the gatepost for a last glimpse
of old Brindle. Nancy ran to the gate too, asking Willie if
he was quite sure of what he said, straining her eyes to catch
one more look of the cow she had milked so often, and that
seemed to her almost like a friend. She did not return to the
house at once, but fell to digging about some pink roots—perhaps
to divert her thoughts.

Mrs. Davidson stitched faster on the work she was sewing,
and the moisture gathered in her soft blue eyes as she did so,
for she was a kind-hearted woman, and could not have even a
dumb creature about her that she did not love.

“Oh, mother!” shouted Willie, “all the cows have seen

that Brindle is going, and they are scampering across the field
towards her, as fast as they can; Spot is tearing up the ground
with all her might. Do you suppose cows can feel bad, mother?
If they can't, what makes them act so?”

“Oh, I don't know, my child, never mind,” replied the
mother, her voice choked and her eyes running over by this
time. Hannah called Willie in presently, and asked him if he
was sure Brindle was sold and if he really knew what money
she had brought; and when he said that he saw the man
count twenty-five dollars into father's hand, she smiled and
burst into a merry song, as she skipped about the work,
for the sun was going down, and it was time for the evening
chores.

Nancy remained digging about the pink roots, and thinking
of Brindle a long time, and of the pretty little calf whose
silken ears she had held so softly in her hands, only that morning.
The last sunshine faded from the brown gable of the old
homestead—the chickens began to gather in quiet groups and
talk soberly of bedtime; the turkeys to gobble their last
news; and the geese to waddle slowly homeward, when she
looked down the lane the way Brindle was gone, knowing she
would not see her, but feeling impelled to look she knew not
why. The dust was all settled on the path she had gone, and
quiet stretched the long road as far as she could see—quiet,
but not all deserted; slowly and wearily as it seemed, she saw
coming in the distance a foot traveller, his coat swung over
one arm, and a bundle on his shoulder. How often we look
at our future fate, and suspect it not. Certainly Nancy
dreamed not that poor traveller was anything to her.

Tired, very tired, from his work in the field, and slow,

behind the plough which he held sideways, for he did not care to
turn a furrow now, came Mr. Davidson—the chains of the harness
dragged heavily and rattled noisily as he came; and the
old work-horses walked soberly enough, for they were tired
too. Perhaps the smoke going up from the homestead chimney
looked pleasant to the young man, and doubtless the smile
and salutation of the farmer were kindly as he overtook him
and slackened his pace, to make some inquiry about the nearest
inn, and the prospects of obtaining employment thereabouts.

“What work can you do?” asked Mr. Davidson, letting the
plough fall to the ground as he spoke.

The young man raised it up and held it steadily aslant as he
replied that he had been used to farm-work and could do anything
that a farmer would be likely to require.

“Come in,” said Mr. Davidson, “and we will talk further
about the matter.”

Nancy had seen him holding the plough for her father as they
came along, and she waited and gave him a sweet smile as he
entered the gate—a smile that brought a deeper color to his
cheek than had ever been there before, for the youth was a
poor, hard-working youth, and not much used to woman's
smiles. Hannah gave him a careless nod, but did not break
off her song for his coming. She did not see the heightened
color of his cheek, nor the tenderness in his blue eyes. When
it was milking time, Timothy Linley, for that was the young
man's name, offered to do the milking.

“I will assist him,” said Nancy, for she and Hannah were
used to doing all; but Hannah made no such offer; on the
contrary, she remained in the house teasing her mother for a
new gown and bonnet.

When Mr. and Mrs. Davidson sat on the cool stones at the
door, in the deep shadow of the twilight, she told him how
good the girls had been—how they had stayed at home all summer,
and spun and milked and churned and now it was coming
fall, and they deserved a little leisure and reward—in short,
she wanted them to have some money, what he could spare,
and spend a week in town with their aunt Martha. Just as a
good husband and father would have done, Mr. Davidson
counted into his wife's hand half the price of the cow, saying—

“Will that do?”

“We must not both leave mother for a week,” said Nancy;
“you may go, Hannah, in my place, I shall be quite well satisfied
with what you buy for me; and as for visiting Aunt Martha,
I will do that some other time.”

Never once said Hannah, “we will both go and stay three
days—that will make a nice little visit, and you must choose
your new dress yourself.”

Timothy said Nancy must go—he would help her mother
all he could—he would churn and draw all the water, and make
the fires, and do many other chores; but Nancy made excuses,
for she felt how ill she could be spared, and Hannah went
alone.

When the market-day came round, and Mr. Davidson went
to town with the expectation of bringing home Hannah, with
all the new things, mother and daughter were very busy—baking
in the brick oven was done, and the house all set in order
as for a stranger guest; it was quite an event for Hannah to
come from town with so much to tell and so many new things.
Towards nightfall, when all eyes were straining down the road to
catch the first glimpse, the white faces of the horses were seen.

“There they come!” shouted Willie from the gate-post.
Nancy raised herself on tip-toe, while the good mother hastened
to lay the cloth—but no, only the father was there. Great
anxiety prevailed, and the wagon seemed to be an hour coming
through the hollow and over the hill. Nancy ran to the gate
to learn what was the matter.

“Nothing, Nancy, nothing,” said the old man, smiling; but
it was a very sad smile, and he added, “Hannah has found
better friends than any of us, that is all.”

Seeing how sad Nancy looked, Timothy managed to milk all
the cows except one—it was not hard work at all, he said, he
always liked to milk; and when the last chores were done, it
was not yet dark, and one of the mildest and sweetest of the
October days—so mild and so sweet, that Timothy ventured to
say, blushing bashfully, and looking down, that a walk in the
orchard would be pleasant. So, taking a basket as an excuse,
Timothy and Nancy went to the orchard together. The knolls,
cushioned softly with grass, beneath the trees, invited to repose,
and the heavy and curtaining silence to confidence. Every
heart knows its own sorrows, and every heart desires that some
other heart shall know them, and as naturally as the leaves fell
in their lap, fell their words of gentle complaint and appeal for
sympathy—not in vain.

A few days after this, Hannah came home, riding in a fine
carriage, and with a fine gentleman beside her. She was a
girl of fresh impulsive feelings, of a showy style, and easily
charmed by flattery. And she had given and received admiration,
if not affection.

In her new bonnet, with its gay ribbons, and new dress, ruffled
and flounced, the plainer mother and sister hardly knew Hannah.

I am sorry to say, that the disposition she had made of the
money was not a little selfish—Nancy's dress and bonnet were
not only less gay, but evidently a good deal less expensive
than her own.

When the apples hung their red cheeks down another year,
and the mists were like dim shadows along the yellow leaves of
the woods, the old homestead had a quieter and soberer look—
Nancy and Hannah were married. Timothy, a slender and
delicate youth, was the husband of one, and a healthy, hale
man, who counted his money by thousands—the same who
brought Hannah home in the fine carriage—was her husband
now. She was gone to live in a great city, to be surrounded by
fashion and friends, and wear fine morning dresses and evening
dresses, and forget her playmate and workmate, poor
Nancy.

November midnight lay black over the town, and black over
the country; spires gleamed faintly through the rain; roofs
stretched wide and wet over the sleeping and waking multitude,
and the street lamps, burning dimly, lighted only now and then
some home-going coach or solitary wanderer. The lamps in
the halls and at the doors of the great houses had been put
out, and only here and there, through windows closed against
the rain, shone a little light. Some exceptions there were, it is
true; mirth will not always let the November rain put out its
fires, and melancholy will have its lights and watchers, too—
life will come to life in its time, and death will claim its own at
midnight, as well as at noon. So, here and there, in the rainy
darkness, stood some, lighted from basement to chamber,
but only with one have we to do. The lamps at the door
blaze over the broad steps, and the glittering chandelier in the

hall shines up the broad and elegantly-furnished staircase.
Coaches wait at the door, and the silver mounting of the harness
is gemmed with rain—there is no noise of music or dancing
within; and yet, from the quick-moving steps and variously
flashing lights, the occasion seems to be mirthful. Let us go in
and see. In the drawing-room the lights are not brilliant, but
the table in the refectory is spread as for a holiday, and we
hear voices, suppressed, but joyful. Ah, here in the softened
light of these rich and carefully drawn curtains, we learn the
secret—a child is born to wealth and honor, and friends are
come through the November rain to rejoice with the mother,
and to kiss the bright-eyed little one, who as yet knows nothing
of the quality of the new world into which it has come.

We will leave them now, for their lives have been “a cake
unturned,” and have hardened in the perpetual sunshine of
prosperity.

The rainy clouds of that midnight stretched far beyond the
roofs of the city, over cultivated fields and dreary reaches of
woods; over warm sheltered homesteads; great farms, where
the housed cattle listened to the rain on the roof; along the
grass-grown and obscure road, where the mover had drawn up
his wagon beneath the sheltering beech tree, and wakeful,
watched his log fire struggling with the storm; and over the
settler's cabin and clearing—and this last chiefly interests us
now. Scarcely at all shines the light from the small window
against the great background of wet, black woods; and the
rain soaks noiselessly in the mellow ground of the small patch
of clearing where the house stands—if house, so small and rude
a habitation may be called. But its heavy beating is heard
distinctly by the anxious watchers by the bedside—for between

them and the clapboards of the roof there is no floor nor ceiling.
In the rough stone fireplace some oak wood is burning,
and two tallow candles on the mantel-shelf make the light,
which is shaded from the bed by a temporary screen. No
splended draperies soften the light to the eyes, that for the first
time have opened upon the pain and sorrow of the world. The
country doctor sits dreamily by the fire, hearing imperfectly
the neighing of his rain-beaten horse, at the door; the murmured
voices of the women, and the moans of the mother, who
has come to a deeper than midnight darkness, and must enter
it alone.

The crying of the little daughter beside her makes to her understanding
no woeful picture of orphan struggles and sorrows
—she hears it not; let us hope she hears the welcoming songs
of the angels.

Gloomily and wet came the day, and the kind-hearted women
trod softly about the bed—not that there was any fear of
waking the sleeper—if the crying of her baby disturbed her
not, how should the treading of their footsteps? Yet her smile
was so like life, they could not but tread softly as they came
near her—the hair was so bright and sunny, you could not
believe the cheek beneath it was so hard and cold—the feet
had been so quick to do good, it was hard to believe they were
straightened for the last time; the eyes had but yesterday
shone with such tenderness and love for every living thing—
how, oh, how could they be darkened forever? So the women
trod softly and folded the sheet softly down about the bosom
that, beyond all other chilling, Death had chilled.

The brightest of the sun's light stayed behind the clouds, and
the rain fell and fell—most dismally over the two men who had

left all more cheerful work for the digging of a grave—the red
brier-leaves clung about the mound, by the side of which they
were digging—it had not been there long, for no grass was
grown on it as yet, and not a bit of moss dimmed the lettering of
the head-stone—“Timothy Lindley, aged twenty-five years,” is
all that is graven there—what need of more—all his goodness
was known to the soul that has gone to meet him; for it is the
grave of poor Nancy the two men are making. No spot could
be more gloomy than that where she was laid, a new and seldom-travelled
road on the one side, and a thick wood standing
in everlasting shadow on the other.

When the baby was a week old, a man and woman, a plain-looking
and tearful pair, journeyed that way, and took her with
them. Many times they kissed her, naming her Orpha, and in
the old house where her mother had lived she grew to womanhood,
a great comfort to them—her grand-parents—almost all
the comfort they had, in fact, for Willie had gone out into the
world, and quite—no, not quite—but nearly forgotten he was
ever a boy, and sat on the gate-post, with tears in his eyes,
looking after old Brindle. He was a man, with all a man's
aims and ambitious, and though he still loved and reverenced
his parents—the love was no longer primary, and sometimes
for months and months no letter came to inquire of their welfare,
or say what were his own hopes and fears. And Hannah
was living, and prosperous and happy, and yet so different was
her life from theirs and so far had she grown away from them,
that they thought almost as sadly of her as Nancy.

Her fine house was only a day's journey from the old homestead,
and yet for seven years she had not made it a visit, so
absorbed with travels otherwhere, and with the thick-crowding

gaieties of her life, had she been. A sense, if not the feeling
of filial affection, was not quite lost to her, however, and
prompted, mostly by duty, she one day wrote a letter to the
old folks, and with a tact which, in their simplicity, they interpreted
as the spontaneous opening of her heart, spoke of the
old life at the homestead, in terms of tender endearment,
almost of regret—she began with “my much loved parents,”
and closed with “your ever dutiful and affectionate child.”
She was careful to make no account of her present mode of
living, further than to say they had been blessed and prospered
abundantly, and lived very comfortably, thank Providence.
She did not say so in so many words, but the general
tone of her letter implied that we were all poor suffering sinners
together, travelling to the same goal, but not by precisely
the same road. Her oldest daughter, Anna, who it was pretended
was named for herself, was shortly to be married, she
intimated, very advantageously, into one of the oldest and
most respectable families in the country. She really wished
she could see the dear faces of her good old father and mother
again, but really her motherly duties were so stringent that she
found herself still obliged to hold the pleasure in reserve.
Upon what little chances fate seems to turn—when that letter
was sealed and superscribed, Hannah threw it down with a
yawn, mingled with a sigh of satisfaction, saying to herself,
“Thank my stars, the dreaded task is done for another
year!”

Could that good old father and mother have heard that
exclamation, their cheeks would not have flushed with the
happy glow of much younger men and women, as they did
when sweet-voiced Orpha stood up before the candle, between

the blessing and the meat of the supper-table, and read that
letter aloud. Orpha had been to school a good deal more
than they, and could read writing as well as print.

“Oh, isn't it strange,” she exclaimed, when she had finished
the reading, “that cousin Anna is to be married? Why, she
is only just as old as I am;” and like the child she was, she
wondered whether Anna could make bread and pies, and was
thoroughly accomplished in the beautiful art of house-keeping.
Aunt Hannah did not say, but she supposed that was to
be taken for granted, for Anna was an accomplished singer,
embroidered well, and could ride on horseback, and play chess
admirably—all this Orpha knew, and of course the more necessary
instruction of sewing and cooking had been given first.
Her little head was quite turned with wonder as to what Anna
would wear when she was married, and in what sort of fashion
the dress would be made. She supposed her uncle could afford
to give her a hundred dollars, if she wanted it, to buy wedding
clothes with; but for her part, she could not well see how so
much could be spent. Once, when her grandfather had given
her twenty-five dollars, she went to the near village and bought
everything she needed, and carried fifteen dollars home with
her.

For a few moments she sat quietly, seeing the serious happiness
in the faces of her grandparents, and then bursting into
a merry laugh at the idea, she said—

“Wouldn't it be a pleasant surprise to Aunt Hannah, and all
of them, to see me coming into their house some night, when
they had not been told anything about it, and you grandfather,
and you too grandmother. Oh, wouldn't it be delightful?”

And as she clapped her little brown hands in glee, her grand-parents

could not tell whether it were she or the candle that
made the room so light.

“I suppose likely Anna will go away off somewhere,” said
Mrs. Davidson, “and we shall never have another chance of
seeing them altogether.”

She said no more—there was no need that she should say
more; and after a thoughtful silence, the good-hearted husband
and grandfather said—

“If there should come a good snow, now—seems to me the
air feels like it.”

“Well, grandfather, suppose there should, what of it—say,
grandfather?”

“Oh, nothing, pet,” replied the old man, trying to look
serious—“it would be nice sleighriding, that's all.”

Orpha pouted a very little, and broke the piece of bread she
held in her hand into small crumbs on her plate, till catching
the reassuring glance of her grandmother, her pretty cheeks
dimpled and blushed for shame—for well enough she knew
what her grandfather was thinking about. A good girl was
Orpha, petted a great deal, and spoiled a little, of course, but
with a heart of unsuspecting innocence, and soft and warm as
the sunshine. As she lay in bed two hours later, in her chamber
next the roof, she held her eyes fast shut with her fingers,
but in vain—they would not be sleepy. She kept saying to
herself she did not see what was the reason, for useless as the
effort is, we are always trying, all of us, to deceive ourselves;
and though Orpha held her eyes so close, her ears were sensitive
to every sound. She heard her grandparents talking by
the fire below stairs, and thought it not improbable they were
planning a visit to Aunt Hannah's. How she wanted to know

what they said; to be sure, grandmother would tell her in the
morning—but what of that, it was twenty years till morning.
Presently, she became almost sure she heard the snow sifting
against the windows in the wind. She raised her head on her
hand, and looked out, and though she was almost sure it was
snowing fast, she could not rest, and in another moment was
pattering across the floor in her bare feet—never had snow
heartier greeting, than when its white flakes fell in her hand.
No little bird under its mother's wing ever felt more comfortable
and happy than she that night in her own warm bed. Not
selfishly happy—but how could she help being glad, when her
grandparents and she were going to give Aunt Hannah and
the young ladies such a surprise of pleasure. To be sure, she
wanted to see Anna's wedding dresses and all her fine things,
and felt a little curiosity to know what manner of husband she
had chosen—whether his eyes were blue or black; if he wore
his beard, and if he were worthy; but surely he was, for her
Cousin Anna would never marry a man who was not both very
wise and very good.

The voices of the old folks by the fire had been still a good
while, and in the distance she heard the roosters crow for midnight,
as she glided from dreams to dreams, the sleeping less
delusive than the waking ones.

It was well for Orpha that she did not hear what the old
folks said, as laying the embers together, they trimmed the candle,
and spelled through Hannah's carelessly written letter—
it was well she did not see the tears that wet it as they
reproached themselves for their long neglect of their darling
child—they had sent her presents of apples and potatoes and
flour every year, but they had never once gone to her house;

fifty miles seemed a great journey, and so the faces of their
grandchildren were strange to them. They had thought (they
were sorry for it now)that Hannah would not care about seeing
her old-fashioned father and mother in her stylish house in
town. They never once saw, as they spelled through the letter,
that she did not say, “come to me,” after the “I cannot
go to you;” nor did they notice that Orpha's name was not
once in the letter. Hannah could not help wishing to see
Orpha, and loving her when she knew how pretty and how
good she was; they knew that; and to the dear child it would
be like a journey to paradise—that they might well be assured
of—so they said, as they folded the letter carefully and laid it
next to the picture of little Samuel, between the leaves of the
big Bible.

“We are growing old now, and if we ever go to see Hannah,
there will not come a better time—it will be a tiresome
day's ride; but for Orpha's sake we must make ourselves
strong enough to endure the fatigue.”

It was well Orpha did not see their tears, and learn that it
was more for her sake than theirs the visit was planned.

How sleepy she was in the morning, when her grandmother
said, “Come, Orpha!” It seemed as if she had but just come
to bed; she could hardly open her eyes, and the “Yes, grandmother,”
was a good deal fainter than common; but when
“Come, Orpha,” was repeated, with the added words, “it's
time to get up, pet, if you want to go to Aunt Hannah's with
your grandfather and me,” she was wide awake, and sitting
straight up in bed in a moment. She saw the snow piled
against the window, white and high—the candle in her grandmother's
hand, for it was not daylight yet, and her own fresh

and smoothly-ironed clothes over her arm. “Oh, grandmother!”
that was all she could say for the happy, happy
tears.

Redder than a clover field in June was all the east, when
having carefully secured the doors, and sprinkled the hickory
sticks in the fire-place with water, they set out, breaking and
ploughing their way through the deep snow, in the old wood-sled.
Nobody would notice that it was not the best sleigh in
the world, Orpha thought, for grandfather had tied the newly
painted wagon body on the sled, and that was filled with straw,
and overspread with the nicest coverlet of all the house.

What a pretty pink the clouds made on the snow—she was
never weary of looking at it, and how strangely the cattle
looked in pastures of snow, and the haystacks, crusted like
pound-cakes. Grandfather's horses would be the admiration
of all the city, she was sure, so gay and fine they looked, their
manes loose in the wind, and their ears trembling with the
exhilaration of the snow-drive.

For the seven first miles the scene was quite familiar—she
had twice been that distance on the road—once with her
grandfather to mill, and once to a funeral, but the strange
country into which they went, after crossing the creek where
the mill was, afforded new and surprising interest. The sleigh-ride,
in itself, was a perfect delight; to watch the snow dropping
from the bent boughs, the birds dipping into it with such
merry twitters, and to lean down over the sled-side and plough
a tiny furrow with her hand, were a great joy, without the
crowning fact that it was to end in the evening by arrival at
Aunt Hannah's.

Now she came forward to the front of the sled and held

grandmother's hands in hers, wondering why they were so cold;
now she turned up the collar of grandfather's overcoat, brushing
back the grey hair that the wind blew about his eyes; and
now, wrapping his hands in her woolen shawl, and taking the
reins for a little while, she could drive as well he, she said;
upon which he smiled, patting her cheek, but not telling her
that the horses were so well trained, and so sobered now with
the distance already travelled, that they would go straight along
without any guiding at all. Now they went through a wide
brawling creek where the water ran fast through brown sandstones
and cakes of broken ice, and Orpha trembled a little as
grandfather walked out on the tongue of the sled and loosened
the bridle reins so that the horses could drink. Cold as it was,
their sides were all wet, and they breathed very hard and fast
between the drinking. At length, grandfather pulled off his
blue mitten, and pulled out his big silver watch and said it was
two o'clock, and a little while after that, where a painted sign
erected at the forks of the road, and a curious old house, having
no fence in front of it, stood, they stopped to procure an hour's
rest, and some refreshments for themselves and their horses.
There was a great fire in the big room into which they were
shown, before which sat half a dozen travellers, eating apples
and cakes, and drinking cider and whisky; across the middle
of the floor a long table was spread, and, at one end of it, there
sat a young man, sipping tea and writing, alternately. He
looked up from the sheet before him, on the entrance of our
party, and having made a friendly salutation, such as country
folks, though strangers, are in the habit of giving one another,
resumed his pen and was presently quite absorbed; his heavy
black hair fell over and partly concealed a smooth fair forehead,
as he wrote, and a smile of extreme sweetness played
round the month, betraying no irresolution, but seeming rather
the outward shining of firm and good principles. The healthful
glow of his cheek was in fine contrast with the blackness of
his full curling beard, and the pearly teeth, sound and even,
with the ripe redness of the lips.

Orpha thought she had never seen so handsome a man in her
life, and in verity, she never had seen beauty cultivated and
matured under the refining influences of intellect and art. She
could not tell why, but there was an indefinable air of superiority
about him, that made even the schoolmaster and the village
clergyman seem commonplace in comparison with him.
When her thoughts reverted to her Cousin Annie, she could not
imagine how she could have fallen in love with any one, not
having seen the young traveller. But how much did his beauty
increase in her eyes, when, looking up as he folded his letter,
he made haste to offer her grandfather (who was sitting on a
hard bench) the leather-cushioned chair in which himself had
been sitting, and with a gesture and a word, not rude, but
anthoritative, caused the men at the fire to dispose themselves
in half the room they had previously occupied, so
giving her grandmother and herself a warmer feeling of
the fire from which, till then, they had almost been shut
out.

“How for is it to the town of —,” said the old man to
the landlord, as he entered with hot doughhuts and a fresh pot
of eider; but the question was too modestly low for that blustering
personage to hear.

“It is twenty-two miles, sir,” replied the young man, who
had heard the question.

“Are you much acquainted there?” Mr. Davidson ventured
timidly to inquire.

The young man answered that he knew the city pretty thoroughly,
and had indeed a large personal acquaintance with the
inhabitants.

“Then, perhaps, you know or have heard of my son, Joseph
C. Pettibone,” suggested the old man, his face aglow with animation.

“Oh, yes, sir—no one in the whole city better—an admirable
family.”

“Why, isn't it strange!” exclaimed the father, turning to his
wife. “This young man here knows Mr. Pettibone. I am
glad I have met you,” he continued, offering his hand to the
stranger, and he went on ingenuously—“we are on our way to
Mr. Pettibone's house—my wife here, and this little girl—we
haven't seen any of them these twenty years, nor they us.
Indeed, Orpha, our little grand-daughter, has never seen her
Aunt Hannah Pettibone at all, and you may be sure she is
happy enough, having a sleighride and a chance to see the
town and her aunt and cousins;” and tenderly he patted the
cheek of Orpha, already blushing painfully with the attention
called to her. “And so you know Mr. Pettibone, and Hannah
and all of them”—a new thought seemed to strike the old gentleman—and
he continued, “maybe you know a young man
of the name of Hammond, who is shortly, Hannah writes me,
to be married to her daughter, Annie.”

There was a confused heightening of color in the cheek of
the handsome stranger, and he bit his lip, to which, however,
the accustomed smile came back with unwonted brightness as
he replied, that he had some acquaintance with the young man

and was just returning from a visit to his father's family, but
that he was quite ignorant of the proposed marriage.

“A family of position and influence, I suppose, from what
Hannah says,” mused the grandfather aloud; “she seemed to
think it would be a fine match for her girl—what do you
think? Was the young man at home when you were at his
father's?”

“Why, yes,” replied the stranger, “he was there, but in
fact I did not converse with him much.”

“Well, do you think Annie is going to do pretty well?” continued
the grandfather, perseveringly: “great fathers don't
always have great sons, nor even good ones.”

The young man replied that he hardly knew what to think,
and hastened to interrupt the conversation by inquiring of the
landlord what time the coach would arrive.

That personage raised himself on tip-toe, and looking from
the window, said the coach was just coming in sight; and taking
out his watch, he continued in a tone that indicated especial
felicity—

“She is making good time to-day—that coach is; but, young
man, your chance of getting aboard is slim, mighty slim, sir—
black as she can be with passengers on the outside,” and this
additional fact evidently gave him increased happiness.

“I have provided against that,” said the young man (a
shadow crossing his face as he spoke), “in part, at least;” and
giving a letter into the landlord's hand, he begged that he
would see it forwarded.

“You were designing to reach the city to-night?” said Mr.
Davidson, again addressing the young traveller.

“Yes,” he replied, “Mrs. Pettibone has a kind of birthnight

merry-making at her house to-night, and I had promised myself
the pleasure of being with them;” and he went on to say his
horse had fallen lame that day, and he had proposed leaving him
in the landlord's care, and going forward in the coach.

“You are very welcome, sir, to a seat with us,” said the
grandfather, cordially; and surveying the fashionable exterior
of the young man he added: “we have only a sled; but our
horses are in good order, and we move pretty fast and very
comfortably.”

Half an hour after this, the horses having been regaled with
oats and an hour's rest, our party, with the accession of the
young man, were gliding briskly through the snow.

The variedly amusing talk of the young man kept the old
people from feeling the cold as they did in the morning; and
then he was so kind, taking his fine comforter from his neck
and wrapping it about that of the old farmer, and quite forcing
Mrs. Davidson to wear his plaided shawl, and taking the reins
for an hour when the hands of the old man became numb.

Not one word spoke Orpha, but such smiles dimpled the
cheeks that were nestled among brown curls and almost hid in
her deep hood, with every attention bestowed on her grand-parents,
that no words were needed to assure the young man
of her goodness of heart. The old folks grew tired after a
while, and sat silent, wishing the journey at an end, and the
stranger singing—it may have been to himself, it may have
been to Orpha—

They moved on and on, and at last to its lullaby sound, Orpha
nestled down in the coverlet and fell asleep.

When she awoke it was night, and the sled standing still
before the finest house she had ever seen—all brilliant with
lights and musical with voices. Lamps were shining down the
street, carriages and beautiful sleighs moving to and fro, and
houses and people as far as she could see.

“Well, petty, we have got there,” said the grandfather; and
taking the handkerchief from her face, she sat up; and, in her
bewilderment, said almost sadly:

“I am sorry, I wish it was further.”

“So do I,” said the young stranger, “from my heart;” and
he almost lifted Orpha out of the sled.

“I wonder whether Mr. Pettibone has any stable?” asked
Mr. Davidson of the young man; adding, as he patted the
neck of his horses caressingly—“poor fellows, you are tired,
aint you?”

“I know where he keeps his horses,” replied the young man;
“go right in, and I will attend to them, if you will trust me,”
and he ran up the steps and gave the bell a vigorous pull.

“See they don't drink while they are so warm, if you
please,” said the careful farmer, availing himself of the young
man's kindness; “and that they have plenty of meal and oats,
and I will see you by and by here, at my son's house, and
thank you.”

“I guess we have got to the wrong place, like enough,” he
said, looking inquiringly at his wife, as he saw the grin
in the face of the negro who opened the door, and the
number of black men and women moving through the great
hall.

“Does Mr. Pettibone live here?” he inquired.

“Yes, sah.”

“Joseph C. Pettibone?” repeated the old man, still in
doubt.

“Yes, sah; who shall I announce?”

“Why I will announce myself,” said Mr. Davidson, indignantly;
“Mrs. Pettibone is my daughter. Will we find her in
here where the frolic seems to be?” And with his good wife
beside him, he made his way to the open door of the brilliant
drawing-room, poor Orpha, trembling like a frightened bird,
nestling close to her grandmother's skirts.

A stylish and richly dressed woman advanced as their
shadows crossed the threshold, and started, retreating slightly,
and a kind of blank surprise taking the place of the welcoming
smile she had assumed, when she saw the persons who
came behind the shadows.

The mother's heart, rather than her eyes, told her that
was Hannah, and with the sobbing cry of “my daughter!”
she would have taken her in her arms; but the white-gloved
hand of the lady motioned her back—the lights dazzled, and
the wonderstruck faces repelled her; staggering, rather than
walking, she retreated.

“Hannah, Hannah,” said the old man, giving one reproachful
look, and with his head dropping on his bosom, and the
tears making everything dim in spite of the much light, he
retraced solemnly and slowly the way he had come.

At the door they were overtaken by Mr. Pettibone, whose
strong common sense had been outraged by his wife's reception
of her parents, though perhaps his feelings had little to
do with his manner, which was cordial enough.

He reminded them how long it was since they had met,
adding that a child might be forgiven for forgetting even her

mother, in the course of twenty years. Hannah would be as
rejoiced as himself when she knew it was her own father and
mother were come. All they could do, however, the old folks
could not feel what the man's words implied. “And this little
body,” he said, shaking the trembling hand of Orpha, “who is
she?”

“Nancy's child, to be sure,” answered the old man.

“Nancy, Nancy; who is she? Oh, I remember now, the
one who went to the new country,” for Mr. Pettibone felt it
incumbent on him to remember something, and believing he
had struck the right vein, continued: “I was under the
impression that Nancy's children were all boys. Well, how
does she like the new country?”

“We don't know,” the father said, wiping his eyes; “poor
Nancy has gone to the country from whence no traveller returns.”

Half believing and half disbelieving that Hannah had in
truth failed to recognize them, the old folks suffered themselves
to be conducted to one of the chambers, furnished so luxuriously
and warmed and lighted so comfortably, that if anything
could have made them forget the chilly air which rustled
out of Hannah's brocade, they would have forgotten it.

In the second meeting with her parents, she hid her face for
a moment in her lace handkerchief, but the tears, if she shed
them, left her eyes dry; and though she said she was never
so happy, she looked distressed and mortified, and seemed not
to know what to do or say.

Her children were brought and introduced to their dear grandpapa
and grandmamma, and to pretty cousin Orpha, and having
kissed the cheeks of the old folks, retired very properly—

gay butterflies that they were. Orpha, in her close-fitting
woollen frock, feared they would catch cold with bare neck and
arms, but she dare not say so; as with admiring eyes
(for they looked very pretty) she watched them leaving the
room.

Annie, a tall, slender girl, with a colorless and expressionless
face, and thin, flaxen hair, insisted that Orpha should wear
one of her dresses and accept the services of her maid—she
could easily be dressed before midnight, and that was quite
early enough.

Mrs. Pettibone could not leave her guests—Mr. Hammond
would of course be greatly annoyed by Annie's absence, her
dear parents must excuse them—they would hasten to join
them the earliest moment at which they were at liberty. Some
wine, sweetmeats and cake were sent up, very unlike the substantial
supper they had hoped to take with their dear children
and children's children.

Orpha was not hungry, she said; but climbing to her grandfather's
knee, smoothed his long, silver hair, and nestling her
cheek against his home-made coat, than which she had
thought, till that night, nothing could be finer, she fell asleep,
thinking in her heart she did not care what anybody said, her
grandfather was just as good as any one. And she was right
—good little Orpha.

Having seen the sled and horses of his new friend properly
cared for, our young traveller made haste to present himself at
Mr. Pettibone's, wondering how those dimpled cheeks would
look outside the muffling hood.

To his surprise, he neither saw nor heard anything of the
country people—he feared it was all a dream, and seating himself

apart in the shadow of a curtain, recalled minutely all the
circumstances of the afternoon. Surely he was not mistaken;
we come so much nearer guileless natures, the impression they
leave upon us is deeper than all the artificial devices in the
world are able to leave. He could almost hear the voice of the
grandfather and see his benignant smile, and no matter at what
beauty he looked, his eyes could not see it for the dimples of
Orpha. He was not long left to his quiet meditations—Mrs.
Pettibone soon joined, and having rallied him on the sentimental
seriousness of his mood, protested that it quite baffled her
powers to dissipate; and, having deputed her daughter, Anna,
whose skill she hoped would be more effective, she playfully,
let us hope not designedly, retired.

To any one except the young lady addressed, Mr. Hammond
would have been delightfully entertaining; but to her he was
particularly unsatisfactory—he said not, in short, what she had
expected him to say.

When Orpha awoke in the morning and looked about the
fine chamber, she could not at first tell where she was, and
with memory came a strange, sad, home-sick feeling that she
had never in her life known till then. When she was dressed
in her brown flannel frock, she looked at herself in the great
looking-glass, before her, with painful dissatisfaction. Afterwards
she seated herself at the window and looked into the cold,
dreary street. Few persons were stirring yet, for it was early;
the snow was driving before the wind in dismal gusts—all
looked strange and dreary, dreary; despite all she could do,
the tears kept dropping and dropping on her little brown hands,
folded together in her lap. When the first sunshine touched
the window, she held up her handkerchief to dry the tears in

its light. Why did she blush and smile and tremble all at once?
it is not her own name wrought with black silk thread that
she sees—Richard Hammond is written there in clear black
characters. How came she by it? Ah, she remembers now that
when she awoke from sleep in the sled last night, she found her
face covered with a handkerchief—could this have been the one?

Richard Hammond rose early too—it was not his habit, but
that morning he could not sleep—of course he could not
imagine why, and the thought came to him that a little exercise
before breakfast might be beneficial, and with no defined
plan or motive, he bent his steps in the direction of Mr. Pettibone's
house; he saw those tearful eyes at the window, and
intuition told him why they had grown so dim since yesterday,
and his heart knocked tumultuously to get out of his bosom
and go up to that window and comfort her.

Two hours later, he was ringing the bell, and inquiring for
Mr. Davidson. It was his duty to tell the old gentleman how
well his horses were doing and where they were.

“I am glad you have come,” said the old man, “our folks
think they have been in town long enough;” but the light
which beamed in his face said very plainly how pleased he, too,
was with the prospect of going home.

“Not to-day, surely,” said the young man; but the farmer
thought he would get up the horses, drive about a little and
show his folks the town, and then start home—they would have
a full moon to light them, he said, and if they were a little
late in getting there, why no matter.

Mr. Hammond knew the town well; everything that was
worth seeing he would be happy to show his new friends, if
they would accept his guidance.

They could not think of making him such trouble, the old
man said; but it was evidently not a trouble, and when, some
minutes later, the horses came prancing up to the door, it was
Richard Hammond who was driving them.

Neither Mrs. Pettibone nor Anna came near the front door
to see their guests go away—they were afraid of the chilly air
of morning; but what was their astonishment and confusion
when, on looking from the window, they saw Richard Hammond
almost lifting Orpha into the sled, and with a tenderness of
manner which they had never seen till then.

He saw them—smiled and kissed his hand gaily as they
drove off, and the last their wonder-struck vision saw of him
he was carefully wrapping the coverlet about the young girl's
feet. No, not the last they saw of him—the following winter,
looking handsomer and happier than ever, they chanced to see
him at the opera, and beside him, the sunny lengths of
her hair rippling over her dimples and half down her snowy
cloak, a young woman whose beauty was evidently the admiration
of the house.

“I wonder what Hannah and her proud daughters think of
their country cousin now!” said Grandfather Davidson, as he
snuffed the candles, and heaped high the fire, the while his wife
polished the silver tea-pot, and adjusted the pound-cake and
custard cups, on the evening “the children” were expected
home from their bridal visit in town.

The two pins in the sleeve of the grandmother's black silk
dress, were not straighter and brighter than everything else
about the house; and the hearts of the old folks were not
happier their own-marriage day than when the joyous barking of
the watch-dog at the door told them “the children” were come.