University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
A FLIRTATION AND A FINGER-RING.

EARLY after breakfast the next morning, I saw Mrs.
Van Leer prowling up and down the beach in front
of my lodgings, ostensibly looking for sea-shells, but
casting various sidelong glances toward my windows. She
had perhaps got over her little alarm of the previous evening,
and was willing to try another round or two of flirtation.
Please to wait, thought I, until Beau Somerville arrives, or
somebody else who has nothing on his mind, and would like
to be amused by a trifle; and accordingly, she waited, while I
watched her tranquilly through an opening between my curtain
and the window-frame. She held her skirts very high,
as if to keep the dry sand from soiling them, and showed
such fresh finely-filled stockings, such small neatly-fitting
bootees, as would have excited a sensation even in that paradise
of the femme bien chaussée, the Boulevard des Italiens.
Ma Treat came to the window once in process of making
up my room, and turned away with a sniff that was vigorously
significant.

“What do you think of that lady?” said I, hardly able to
repress a prophetic smile at what I knew would be the answer.

“Well, Lewy, I don't want to say nothing against nobody;
but—I can't abide her. She don't know how to behave herself.
`A foolish woman is clamorous; she is simple and
knoweth nothing;' Proverbs, ninth, thirteenth. I wouldn't
have her to board in my house, not for silver and gold. The

capers she's capable of cutting up would disgrace a poor old
brown house like our'n, though I 'spose they don't hurt a great
splendid white mansion, with four chimneys and a portico.
Just see the critter a-hoisting her coats. I tell you, Lewy, I
think she's a regular New York fashionable hussy, there!”

Mrs. Treat, beginning with a resolution not to speak evil
of any one, had waxed stronger and stronger in disparagement,
until it did not seem that there was much left of Mrs.
Van Leer's character. How often have the best of people
opened a conversation, or even a sentence, at the top of the
moral stairway, and finished it at the bottom! I laughed
silently at the spiritual incoherence of my worthy nurse, but
read her no stupid lecture on the sin of uncharitableness;
simply proceeding to guess what was Mrs. Van Leer's opinion
of herself, and then to decide what was my opinion of her.
In her own estimation, doubtless, she was a superlatively
attractive creature, witty, perfectly acquainted with the ways
of the world, mistress of herself, much sought after by men,
an overmatch for the best of them, and in no danger of
coming to ill. In my estimation she was lively without being
brilliant, and extremely imprudent without being demoralized.
She often said smart things, but it was chiefly because she
said a great many things, and did not check herself from
saying anything, however free or impertinent. She never
stopped to reflect; an idea scarcely entered her head before
it bounded out again; she could not keep one long enough
to combine it with another; and thus her little rattle-box of a
skull was always pretty nearly empty. Neither good nor
bad, neither wise nor very foolish, she stuck in what might
be called an unhappy medium.

While I philosophized thus, I smoked my cigar and watched
her coquetries with the mussels. She got out of patience at
last, let go the folds of her raiment, threw away her shelly
booty in a heap, and walked slowly toward Seacliff, “with
many a longing, lingering look behind.” An hour afterwards
I followed in her little footsteps.

“How are you?” said Bob, who met me on the veranda.
“Got up here too late, old feller. She's gone.”

“Who is gone?” I asked, with some disquietude, for guiltless
as I was of any intentional flirtation with Mrs. Van Leer,
I had a vague fear that my last evening's conversation with
that indiscreet female would bring me into trouble. Many a
youthful conscience, before now, has suffered a sort of remorse
because of the stains on brother or sister consciences.

“Why, Genevieve,” replied Bob. “So your cake's dough,
this morning. She's gone to New York, with Mary and
Mrs. Westervelt,—about some shopping, of course. But you
needn't feel much cut up; she'll be back again to-night. I
say, how infernal stupid I was last evening! There I sat
and sat, like a confounded fool, while you was talking to
Genevieve, and couldn't think what you was after. If I had
thought, you know, that you wanted to make up to her, I
would have put off and left you alone. Why the old boy
couldn't you wink at a feller?”

“Never mind,” said I, tempted first to laugh in his face,
and second to pull his ears until they should be as long as
those of other asses. “No great harm done, under the circumstances.
But what will you do to-day?”

“Oh, fishing. Going out in the yacht after dinner. Henry
was going to New York with the ladies; but when he found
what a grand day it was for sharking, he backed out, and sent
Hunter with 'em. Sis was going down, too; but she's backed
out, as well.”

“Has she!” said I. My vanity suggested why Mrs. Van
Leer had concluded to remain at Seacliff; but I resolved not
to bite at her hook, no matter how temptingly she might bait
it with her French bootees.

“So we've got to take her along with us,” added Bob,
with the look of a much bored individual. I hate to have
women on hand when I'm busy fishing; they make me mad
with their little squealings and fol-de-rol. I've tried it two
or three times, and it don't pay. I tell you, fishing is a thing

that I want to give up my mind to. But you are a good-natured
feller, Fitz Hugh; you'll bait hooks for Sis, and keep
her out of the way, won't you?”

“Thank you, I should be happy to do it; but the fact is
that I have some writing on hand, and I don't think that I
can go.”

“Oh, that's too bad, now!” groaned Bob. “Oh, I'd
counted on your going along.”

“Very sorry, indeed,” said I. “Good-morning. I must
go right at my business.”

I had got a little distance away, when he roared after me,
“I say—I guess you wouldn't have found your business quite
so pressing if she had been going with us—haw haw haw!”

I knew that he meant Genevieve, but did not answer
further than by casting a grin of contempt at him over my
shoulder. I spent the rest of the forenoon in filling up the
points of a ballad about a gentleman, who rescued a lady,
who was being borne away by a black steed, who was supposed
to be Lucifer incarnate in horseflesh. About eleven
o'clock Mrs. Van Leer appeared on the beach, and resumed
her conchological investigations; and, after a while, I heard
her voice down stairs, discoursing in dulcet tones to my glumly
responsive landlady. She stayed some time, talked insinuating
gossip, offered to give instructions in various mysteries
of the toilet, and only retreated before the inhospitable remark
that it was “most dinner time, and the pot a bilin.”

At two o'clock I saw the yacht glide out of the creek, with
Somerville and the two brothers on deck, but no Mrs. Van
Leer. In half an hour thereafter she was busy in her old
field of natural history; then sauntered onwards to a little
wooded point, called The Cedars; then strolled slowly and
languishingly back again. Seeing her approach the house, I
ran down stairs, hurried across the garden, leaped the rail-fence,
and took a walk in the country; for I was resolved not
to be left alone with her, chiefly, I believe, for fear that her
consuming little fire of a tongue might destroy whatever

chance I had of standing well with Miss Westervelt. On returning,
I met Ma Treat in the back doorway, smiling the
smile of the cruel.

“Ah!” she snuffed, emphatically, “I'm glad you was
gone. That critter has been here, and had the face to ask
for you. I told her you wan't here, and I did long to say
I was precious glad on't. She meant to ask for you this
morning; but she dasn't. I didn't tease her to stay all the
afternoon, I reckon.”

“You don't mean Mrs. Van Leer?” I inquired, innocently.
“What could she want of me?”

“Well, I shouldn't like to know what she wanted. I didn't
ask her what she wanted. She'd better be to home, darning
her husband-that's-as-stupid-as-a-block's stockings, instead of
running round to see young gentlemen at their lodgings.”

“Why, you don't know anything really bad of Mrs. Van
Leer, I hope?”

“Well, Lewy, Pa Treat has the same opinion of her that
I have; he says that he's afraid she's a real wild heifer.
You keep shy of her, Lewy, or she'll make trouble for you.
She's a regular New York character; she don't know how
to wear her clothes decent; that's what she don't.”

A significant motion at her neck and shoulders explained
Ma Treat's meaning.

Was this inconsiderate woman in love with me? Not a
bit of it, most probably; she only meant to amuse herself.
But why had she not tried her coquetry on me before? It
is difficult to say; we are a freakish set, men and women;
we are subject to whims as unreasoning as dreams. Have
not I, in my bachelor life, known this or that young lady for
weeks, months, years, and never thought of flirting with her,
and, all of a sudden, the caprice has come upon me, and
I have flirted? Is an author bound to understand everything
that everybody does, and present sufficient reasons therefor?
Why, people are not always able to give an account of
their own actions. For poesy's sake, let the world occasionally

accept a circumstance that is mysterious, that is
unpremeditated, that is incalculable. For my own part, I
do not pretend to see through the half of what happens.
Well, was Mrs. Van Leer to blame for her nonsense? Of
course; but so was her husband partly to blame for it; he
had no business to spend nearly all his time in fishing,
hunting, playing euchre and drinking mint-juleps. He unquestionably
admired and loved his wife; but he was too
“hossy” a character to endure a drawing-room long, even
for the sake of her company; and so he left her more than
was prudent to seek her pleasure in society that was often
detrimental to the purity of her manners, if not of her soul.

About the middle of the afternoon, the long-drawn shriek
of the New York express train came to me like music. I
ran to a back window, which commanded the Rockford road,
and leaned out of it for twenty minutes or more, until I saw
the Westervelt carriage, brimming over with bonnets and
feminine drapery, spin through the dusty hollow, and disappear
behind the maples which flanked the bluff. Of course, I was
in the Seacliff veranda at a ridiculously early hour of the
evening. Mrs. Van Leer received me with a curt nod and a
curious little grimace, which seemed to say, “You have behaved
shamefully, and thrown away an opportunity that will
not be offered you again.” Almost any young man feels
cheap when he has laid himself open to a charge of lacking
in spirit and gallantry; and, accordingly, I tried to gloss over
my conduct with an apology, which, like many apologies, was
only founded on fact.

“So, you did not go in the yacht, Mrs. Van Leer? I am
really glad of it, for a very selfish reason. It relieves the
regret which I felt at not having gone in it, myself.”

“I wish I had gone,” she replied, energetically. “I have
been mis—erably lonesome all this afternoon. I was actually
reduced to call at your lodgings, and ask for you, in hopes
that you would devote a few mo—ments of your useless existence
to my amusement.”

“Oh—ah—yes,” said I. “Mrs. Treat told me that you
inquired about me; but then, you know,—why, of course, I
felt obliged to consider it a mere inquiry of friendship.”

“Not in the least; no benev—olent feeling at all, sir; not
a bit anxious about either your health or happiness. I wanted
you simply for my own recreation, till the family got back.
So, you were out on a walk?”

“Yes; the adverse gods had inveigled me away just a few
moments before your call. I hope you found Mrs. Treat
pleasant company.”

“The company of Mrs. Treat is no treat at all. She is a
pure unadul—terated tartar! a perfect dose! I wouldn't
live under her roof for any—thing, and I wonder you dare
do it. I don't believe she would stick at mur—der, if she
took a spite at a person.”

I could hardly help laughing outright, as I compared the
opinions which these two ladies had formed of each other on
the briefest and most imperfect opportunities for mutual observation.
Women eternally judge of character by instinct;
and their instinct is a wonderfully sure shot, I admit, as long
as it is unbiassed by feeling; but no archers can be worse
than they when their hearts are interested whether by affection
or anger. We men judge coldly, phlegmatically, repeatedly,
and, after a long while, correctly.

Mrs. Westervelt and the two young ladies presently joined
us. I dreaded to meet the eye of the elder sister, for fear
that Mrs. Van Leer had described to her our interview of
the previous evening, and so impressed upon her the idea
that I was a wild youth, of extremely naughty manners, and
dissolute conversation. No such charge had been preferred
against me; or, if preferred, it had been charitably disbelieved.
Those blue eyes were kindly, and that dimpled
smile spoke welcome. I placed a cane settee for her in such
a way that the trembling leaves and drooping trumpets of
the honeysuckle might encircle her head, and the last florid
light of the west might tint her cheek with a more than incarnate

beauty. Mrs. Van Leer posted herself beside Mary,
and watched us both with a quizzing sauciness which was
undisguised, rampant. The rest of us fell into the iron
chairs of imitation rustic work. Genevieve looked tired,
complained of a headache, said little, and would have been
downright waspish, I imagine, but for my presence. Don't
we men control our passions before the ladies, and even play
the amiable, when we are cross enough to kick a little boy
down stairs?

The Van Leer sloop was close in shore, followed at a short
distance by a yacht schooner. The dying breeze of sundown
favored the smaller vessel, which gradually drew ahead, and
ran into the creek, while its competitor, giving up the race,
veered away in the direction of Rockford. When the Van
Leers and Somerville appeared, they immediately ordered
out the double carriage, and invited Mr. Hunter and myself
to join them in a drive to Rockford.

“What are you going to Rock—ford for? Now what is
the use?” demanded Mrs. Van Leer.

“Oh, just a supper; chicken salad and champagne; that's
all,” said her husband, as if it were very little. “That was
Buster's yacht that we come in with. We beat him, and he
treats. Perhaps we shan't be home till late, my dear; not
till about ten.”

“That means twelve, or two, I suppose,” remarked the
lady, snappishly. “Well, what are we women to do? Suppose
rob—bers attack us, now?”

“Why, it appears that Mr. Fitz Hugh chooses to remain,”
interposed Somerville. “I wish I had the grace to be half
as gallant a man. If the Forty Thieves chalk your door,
Mr. Fitz Hugh will immediately chalk all the doors along
the sea-coast. That will keep them busy otherwheres until at
least morning.”

“And if the robbers come, why just keep a stiff upper
lip, my dear,” said the husband. “Give 'em a piece of your
mind, and hit 'em across the face with your fan.”

“Indeed, I shan't resist,” replied the lady, half jesting,
half sulky; for she was a most sociable creature, and disliked
to see people go out of her presence. “I shall do my
best to be per—fectly fas—cinating. I give you my word
that, if the robber chief is hand—some, I'll elope with him.”

At this sally Henry roared with delight, as he always did
when his wife said anything particularly reckless or saucy.
In a minute more the wheels of the carriage grated over the
gravel of the road, rattled down the hill, and went droning
away, faintly, fainter still, in the evening distance.

Meantime the ladies had begun to talk of dress. Mrs.
Van Leer put the Westervelts through a catechism concerning
the day's shopping: what they had seen and where, what
they had bought and what refused to buy, what was worn and
who wore it: a conversation of divers stuffs and many colors,
silks, berages, muslins, pink, rose, blue, green, and crimson.

“Well! I declare that Mr. Fitz Hugh is the most im—pudent
of men,” suddenly observed Mrs. Van Leer. “There
he is, laughing at us for talking about the bare necessaries
of life. Only last evening he was abusing the strong-minded
women to me. Now he is sneering at us for weak-minded
women. There is no pleasing these men; and I, for one,
can't bear them.”

“I hope Mr. Fitz Hugh is charitable,” said Miss Westervelt.
“I hope he will consider that we have to make our
own dresses, or at least to plan them.”

“Certainly; it is an all-sufficient explanation,” I admitted.
“If manifest destiny, or whatsoever other great law of nature
had obliged me to fashion my own raiment, I don't doubt
that I should have given much meditation to coat-collars,
cuffs, and gaiters. My soul would not have been above buttons.
I am duly grateful to the star of man's fortune, that it
has furnished the world with tailors.”

“Why, what a charm—ing theory!” said Mrs. Van Leer.
“Act—ually, I never understood before why women care so
much for dress, and men so little. How clever you are, Mr.

I—dler, and how well you have improved your lazy time!
Come, you shan't be left there moping alone any longer; you
shall walk in the garden with me.—Now, see how easily I
am distracted from the lesser moralities,” she continued, in a
whisper, as she rose and took my arm. “It is my du—ty to
sit still and think of my absent hus—band; but it is my
pleas—ure to prome—nade with you.”

She was beginning to court me again, and I grew desperate.
“But, I thought that you lived solely to love, honor,
and obey,” said I.

“Never! I have nothing to do with those obsolete notions.
I feel quite hurt that you should suppose it. Come along.
How slow you walk!”

She had got me to the other end of the veranda, and was
about to spirit me away into the shadows and silences of the
garden, when I heard the front gate open, and saw two
figures enter it.

“Ah! here is amusement, Mrs. Van Leer; here is a gratification
for you,” said I. “Your friend, Mrs. Treat, and her
grandson have come to call on the quality, as she styles you.
Let us get our seats again before the audience opens.”

She was but half pleased at the idea, but I hurried her
back to the settee.

With a brief but solemn courtesy, at the same time ducking
Johnny's head with her hand, Ma Treat entered the
veranda. “Good-evening, Mrs. Westervelt; and, good-evening,
young ladies; and good-evening to you, Mr. Fitz
Hugh,” said the nice old person, with something of a bashful
flutter in her voice, yet retaining the presence of mind to
scorn and crush Mrs. Van Leer with the very curtest of
speechless recognitions. I handed her a chair, for which she
thanked me as formally as if we were perfect strangers. She
was evidently a trifle more embarrassed than she meant to be
in the presence of the quality, and needed that counsel with
regard to a stiff upper lip which Mr. Henry Van Leer was
accustomed to dispense among his acquaintance. Miss Westervelt

put her a little more at ease by calling up Johnny, and
treating him to the hospitality of sugar-plums.

“Much obleeged to ye, Miss Mary, though I seldom allow
him to eat 'em, because they are so bad for the stomach,”
said Ma Treat. “Johnny, tell her much obleeged, and make
a bow.”

Johnny gave vent to an inarticulate mutter of gratitude,
and made a bow from the nape of his neck upward.
He then craftily retreated behind Miss Westervelt to craunch
his gum-drops, knowing full well that if he came within reach
of his grandmother, they would be seized upon by her, and
laid up until some future time, perhaps as distant as the millennium,
when he should be a good boy.

“Really it is so hard to teach these young ones manners,”
observed Ma Treat. “If manners were only vouchsafed
them as freely as appetites, what a mercy it would be! But
that ain't what I come here to say, Mrs. Westervelt. I suppose
you're kind of almost surprised to see me here, now.”

It was known that Ma Treat felt a little sore at not being
urged and pushed daily to make herself intimate at the mansion;
and therefore Mrs. Westervelt threw an uncommon
stress of friendship and hospitality into the tone of her reply.

“Surprised! Dear me! no, Mrs. Treat. It seems quite
natural to see you here. I am delighted that you have made
us a call, now really.”

“Well, I'm much obleeged to you, to be sure. But I didn't
exactly come to make you a call, nuther. Perhaps you've
lost something valuable lately, some of you ladies.”

“Lost? Oh! now Mrs. Treat has found my emerald,”
exclaimed Genevieve. “Haven't you, Mrs. Treat? A ring
with a bright green stone in it, wasn't it? Oh, I'm so delighted!
Where was it? Is it broken?”

With a look of vast pleasure and consequence, Ma Treat
drew out of her pocket a small white handkerchief, rather
coarse but clean, untied a corner of it in silence, and held up
between her thumb and forefinger a handsome emerald ring.

“That's it, that's it,” said Genevieve, springing forward to
receive it. “Oh, I'm ever so much obliged to you. Where
did you find it?”

“Why, you see, Miss Genevieve, it was found this evening.
Johnny here run down to the crick to see the sloop
come in; and when the gentlemen got ashore, he followed
'em a'most up to the house; and he picked up the ring, he
says, right in the path, as he was going back. But as he
didn't see anybody drop it, he didn't know whose it was, and
so he run right to his gramma with it, for he's a good little
boy—.” Here she checked herself, and added in a glum
voice, meant to bring down Johnny's spiritual pride,—“Sometimes
he's a good boy; not always.”

“Oh, Johnny! why, come here, Johnny,” said Mrs. Westervelt,
dulcetly. “I must make you a present, Johnny.”

She drew a port-monnaie from her pocket; but Mrs. Treat
waved Johnny back with proud resolution.

“No, I thank you, mum,” she said. “I'd ruther not,
mum. He's our little boy, and we've taught him not to take
coppers from nobody.”

Looking in her face with a laugh of friendly defiance, Mary
Westervelt seized the port-monnaie, picked out a quarter-eagle
and handed it to the craunching juvenile behind her,
who took it with the same nod and grunt with which he
would have accepted a gum-drop. “There, Johnny, take
that; and tell your grandpa to give it to Santa Claus for you;
and when Christmas comes, hang up both your stockings and
see what the old fellow will bring you. Hold on to it tight,
Johnny.”

“Oh, Miss Mary! well, you do come round a person so!”
said Ma Treat, yielding in the most docile manner imaginable,
and supposing, as I afterward learned, that the piece was
sixpence or a shilling. “Well, I reckon he must have it.
Johnny, say much obleeged and make a bow; and you may
kiss Miss Mary's hand, too, I guess.”

Johnny kissed the little white hand with a resounding

smack that made the ladies laugh, and filled me with
envy.

“Well, mamma, I suppose you won't give me any more
jewelry, since I lose it so easily,” remarked Genevieve laughingly.
“Mamma gave it to me five days ago, and I lost it
yesterday,” she explained to me. “I don't see how it could
have got down by the creek, though; I haven't been there
since we had our last sail. Mamma, I am perfectly sure that
I left it in your room; yes, perfectly sure. You must have
put it on, and lost it yourself.”

“No, Genevieve! I am positive not,” replied Mrs. Westervelt
earnestly. She had a troubled air, and I did not wonder
at it, for she must have suspected, as I did, that the ring had
been in the possession of Somerville. How was it possible
that this mystery, this hateful intrigue, black and blind and
incredible as it was, could writhe its folds, day after day,
through her household, and she not be aware of it?

At this moment Willie Westervelt danced into the veranda,
closely pursued by his nurse, who was bent on putting
him to bed.

“Why, Willie!” exclaimed Mary; “up yet! Why, Willie,
go to bed; run off quick; go to Bridget.”

Mary governed Willie very nicely; his mother never tried
to govern him at all; Genevieve sometimes snubbed him,
sometimes petted and spoiled him.

“No, no! don't want to go;—don't want to go,” whimpered
the little fellow. “Wanto see Gramma Treat; wanto
see Gramma Treat and Johnny.”

“Yes, yes, he sall see his Gramma Treat,” said my landlady,
drawing him up to her knees. “He sall set up a little
minute and see his Gramma Treat, the dear little creetur!
He calls me Gramma, you know, Miss Mary, because Johnny
does. Johnny being the oldest boy is a kind of an ensample
to him. Ah, Johnny! Johnny! I wish you felt your responsibilities.
You don't know how much you've got to answer for.”

The hardened young sinner regarded his grandmother with

blockish,—shall I say fiendish?—indifference to his responsibilities,
and continued to suck a gum-drop. She shook her
head at him with an air which seemed to say that his impenitence
alone was enough to postpone the restoration of the
Jews to Canaan. Willie meanwhile climbed into her lap as a
place of refuge from Bridget, and peered into her serious,
good-natured old face, with that tranquil, shrewd, humorous
smile of his, which gave his small mouth such an individuality.
He seemed to be gauging her character, and speculating
how far he could venture upon her credulity.

“Gramma,” said he, “I'll tell you a 'tory.”

“Willie! Willie! be careful!” interrupted sister Mary.

“Yes, yes; he sall tell his 'tory,” cried Ma Treat; “the
dear little man sall tell his 'tory; and his gramma and
Johnny sall hear it. Johnny come to me and hear Willie
tell his 'tory.”

Thus provided with an appreciative audience, the young
improvisatore struck out boldly. “Once there was two
fools—”

“Well that's like enough, anyhow,” observed Ma Treat
cheerfully. “`Fools make a mock at sin:' Proverbs, fourteenth,
ninth; and there's crowds of such, I'm afraid. Go
on, little man.”

“Once there was two fools,” resumed Willie. “One was
a man and the other was a woman, and they got married.”

“Dear me, what awful fools!” laughed Mrs. Van Leer.

“They couldn't help getting married,” continued Willie,
solemnly; “it was ordained they should get married.”

“Matches made in heaven,” said Mrs. Van Leer, excessively
amused.

“And they had some children, and all the children were
fools,” the infant went on.

“`He that begetteth a fool doeth it to his sorrow:' Proverbs,
seventeenth, twenty-first,” quoted Ma Treat.

“And finally a naughty gentleman ran away with the
woman fool, and then the man fool killed himself, and then

the children used to eat their victuals on the floor, and finally
they hadn't any more victuals,—and so—and so they all
'tarved to death.”

“Dear me! dear me!” exclaimed the good woman, quite
shocked. “That's an awful story, to be sure. Verily, fools
die for want of wisdom: Proverbs, tenth, twenty-first. But
where in the world did that happen, Miss Mary?”

“Ah, Willie!” said Mary, “go to bed, now. I told you
not to tell any more stories. You tell such naughty stories,
Willie!”

“But how on earth did the child get hold of that ridiculous
idea of foreordination?” broke in Mrs. Van Leer. “Who
ever thought of a baby five years old talking about things
being foreordained? I never heard anything so ridic—
ulous?”

“I told him that, if you please, mum,” returned Ma Treat,
with severity. “I instructed him in that blessed doctrine, mum;
and a great comfort I believe it will be to him, mum. Ridiculous
or what not, it's in the Bible, mum, and you can't get it
out. For there were certain men who were before of old
ordained to this condemnation: Jude, fourth. And as many
as were ordained to eternal life, believed: Acts, thirteenth,
forty-eighth. I told him whatever is to be, Providence ordains
that it shall be; and I say Amen! mum; and I'm very
glad the little creetur agrees to it, if his elders don't.”

Having withered Mrs. Van Leer, Ma Treat addressed the
rest of us with conspicuous mildness. “But it's dreadful cur'ous
to remark the blindness of the nateral man to spiritual
truths. I saw an instance of that awful blindness in this
dear little creetur himself. One day he was down to our
house when there was a funeral went by. And so I undertook
to tell him what death was, and how there was a dead
man in the coffin, and how they were going to put him in the
ground and bury him. But, says I, they can't bury the
whole of him: they've only got the body inside of the coffin,
says I; all the rest of him has gone to heaven. (For it was

our good Deacon Church-that-lived-at-Swampcut's funeral;
and I knew that he'd got to the right place at last; though
he was cur'ously out of place in the deaconship, because he
wasn't a very smart man.) Well, about a month after that,
it happened that Willie was down to our house when another
coffin went by; and I overheard him explaining the whole
thing to Johnny here. Johnny, says he, they've got a dead
man in that coffin; they're going to bury him up in the
ground; but, Johnny, says he, they ha'n't got the whole of
him; they've only got the body inside of the coffin; the head
and legs have gone to heaven.”

We burst into a shout of laughter. Ma Treat looked astonished
that we could find anything humorous in what was to
her an instance of the blindness of fallen man and the deceiving
malice of the devil. Her only remark, however, was that
it was high time the little creetur should learn to say his
catechism. Curiosity presently revived, and she added:
“But, Miss Mary, what was that, now,—that story about the
fools? Where on earth did such an awful thing happen?”

“Inside of Willie's head,” responded Mrs. Van Leer, delighted
to discomfit her late reprover. “Nowhere else, you
may be sure, Mrs. Treat. He is forev—er fooling people
with his little fic—tions.”

Ma Treat's countenance swelled with astonishment and
shrunk with mortification, settling down at last into an
expression of anger, half religious, half secular, like the
letter-press of the New York Observer. She saw the jeering
triumph of Mrs. Van Leer, and she remembered, perhaps,
that the child had told her many other wonderful stories, and
that she had always granted them unlimited credence. Willie's
cunning smile disappeared before her awful frown, as a
playful kitten whisks out of sight at the approach of a bulldog.

“What! and does this little boy tell lies?” she exclaimed,
in her theological tone. “Does he make up naughty, wicked
lies, and tell them to his mother and sisters and gramma?

Oh, naughty little Willie! What if the father of lies should
come after him! What if the great roaring lion, the devil,
should come after him! And all liars shall have their part
in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: Revelations,
twenty-first, eighth.”

Willie struggled down from her lap in great haste, and
sought refuge from the lion in Bridget's apron.

“The devil! the great wicked devil!” repeated Ma
Treat, as grimly as if she were that roaring personage. “He
owns all the naughty boys that tell lies, and he will come
after them; for he walketh about seeking whom he may devour:
First Peter, fifth, eighth.”

Willie burst into a whimper, and rushed toward his room,
followed by Bridget. Mary ran after him, and we heard her
trying to comfort his frightened little heart with the promise
that she would stay by his bed till he was asleep. At the
sweet sounds of that pitying voice, Mrs. Treat melted and
began to apologize.

“Why, I'm sorry I made the poor creetur cry so,” said
she. “I guess I was a leetle too hard on him, not knowing
his tender feelings; for Johnny here ain't a bit tender. I
can't scare him with the devil. Oh, I wish to goodness I
could! The fact is, I was piously educated in the good old
way, Mrs. Westervelt; and I suppose I'm a leetle stiff in my
ideas,—a mite too severe perhaps.”

“Not at all,—not at all, Mrs. Treat,” said Mrs. Westervelt
amicably. “Very proper, I am sure. Willie certainly is very
singular,—a most extraordinary child,—and I have no doubt
he ought to break off that habit.”

“Well, I must be going,” replied Mrs. Treat. “Come,
Johnny; tell the ladies good night. And good night for myself
too, ladies. Kiss the poor little creetur for me, Miss
Genevieve, and ask him to forgive his old gramma for talking
so harsh to him.”