University of Virginia Library

21. XXI.
THE GRAYLE FAMILY.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 301. In-line Illustration. Image of a man and a boy walking in driving snow or rain, they are both behind a single umbrella.]

IT was a lucky day for
Cheesy when he made the
acquaintance of the Grayle
family. He was very bashful
at first, on entering the
house of his friend; but
it was not long before he
began to feel quite at home
there, and it seemed the most natural
thing in the world for him to run in
of an evening, and play with the children,
or listen to the pleasant stories
of Uncle Joseph, the carpenter.

Uncle Joseph — commonly called Uncle Joe — was a brother
of Mrs. Grayle; a big, rosy-complexioned man, with a vast waistcoat,
a liquid, bubbling voice, an inexhaustible fund of humor, and
a good deal of amiable self-conceit. His home was near by; and
he used to drop in now and then, as he termed it, to cheer up his
sister, who was inclined to be down-hearted, and to tell a moral
story for the edification of the children. Uncle Joe had been
wild in his younger days; but he was now a deacon, and it was
his delight to recount his youthful follies, in order that the young

might profit by his experience. Yet it was whispered by the
sagacious neighbors that the stout carpenter had other reasons for
frequenting his sister's house; hints of a shrewish wife at home
were liberally thrown out; and it was well known that pious Uncle
Joe loved what he termed “the ways of peace and pleasantness.”

The family had one other regular visitor. Every Sabbath
evening he used to come in and sit an hour: he had his allotted
seat in the corner; he was always expected, and he never failed
to make his appearance at the usual time. He was an eccentric
mortal; but every one respected his strangeness. Sometimes he
would sit out his hour without speaking, and finally depart in
silence. Again, he would exchange a few words with old Grayle
and his wife, crack a dry joke with Uncle Joe, and talk a little
with the children; but this was always done in an absent-minded
way, and, as it were, under a cloud. All seemed to understand
him, and he was generally beloved, notwithstanding his eccentric
humor. Between him and Mr. and Mrs. Grayle there evidently
existed a sympathy too deep for idle speech.

“He 's a strange fellow,” said Uncle Joe, mysteriously, to
Cheesy, as they went out together one evening from the book-keeper's
house.

“So he is!” exclaimed Cheesy. “What 's the matter with
him, anyway?”

“Hush!” replied the carpenter, in his rich, moist whisper.
“I 'll tell ye. That George used to be as decent a young man as
you 'd wish to meet. He was a little wild, perhaps, — that was
bad!” said Uncle Joe, with a shudder; “but I 've charity to
cover that; I was wild myself, in my younger days; I was a
chief of sinners,” added the broad carpenter, with unction. “I
used to drink liquor,— all night, sometimes. I prided myself on

drinking all the young fellows drunk. I could beat the best of
'em playing billiards and rolling nine-pins, them days. Take
warnin' by me, and avoid all such dissipation. You never drink,
nor play, I 'm sure; you 're too good a boy.”

Cheesy was almost ashamed to confess his innocence. Pious
Uncle Joe gave such a heroic savor to the story of his early dissipations,
that young people were apt to infer that wildness was
only an indication of spirit, and that every whole-souled fellow was
expected to rush into folly at some period of his life.

“But, as I was sayin' about George. He did a handsome
business once, — that was arter he had sowed his wild oats.
Young men will sow their wild oats, spite of everything. They
don't realize they 've got a soul to lose. Ha!” ejaculated the
ponderous carpenter, smacking his lips, as with a strong relish of
the reminiscence, “I have experienced what hot blood is! I used
to play jokes on the minister, — sendin' him a present of a bottle
of brandy, or callin' him out of his bed at one o'clock at night on
some Tom Fool's errand. Once I sent word that Calvin West —
Cal West, we used to call him — a hard case!” said Uncle Joe,
letting the words bubble up from his moist throat, with an air of
enjoyment; “up to all sorts of mischief! — that Cal West lay on
his death-bed, and wanted to talk with him about his soul. So
the good Mr. Kerby jumps out of bed at midnight, and tramps
through the muddy streets to Cal West's house, — rings up the
old folks, and asks if the repentant sinner is still livin', — ha, ha,
ha!” — the carpenter shook with laughter, — “while all the time
Cal and I stood under the archway listenin' for the fun. But
these things are too horrible to laugh at,” he added, with humorous
solemnity.

Cheesy did not think so. He relished the story so well that he

was exceedingly curious to hear the rest of the adventure, — to
know what Cal's folks said, how the minister bore the joke, and
whether the boys got found out and punished.

“Ah! it 's too bad to tell!” said the carpenter, gratified. “It
was n't very smart in us boys — do you think it was? Bad boys
— bad boys — we was, in them days. But, as I was sayin',
George was doin' well, until his disappintment. That broke
him down. He lost all ambition, and got to be melancholic,
as you see him. He failed in business; he give up society too,
— for George was quite a genteel fellow, at one time. It 's a
great pity his disappintment did n't produce an awakenin' in his
soul, — lead him into the paths of peace and pleasantness,” said
Uncle Joe, complacently. “I should rejoice to see George truly
pious.”

“What was his disappintment?”

“Have n't you observed how Robert Grayle is all broken down,
too? And don't you see that his wife is all the time frettin'
about something? Sister Emily did n't use to be so. She was
as bright and cheerful a creatur' as you ever see, till the disappintment
took her down. Now, she 's all the time in trouble.
Fact, I don't know what she 'd do, if she had n't me to cheer her
up, now and then.”

“What did you say the disappintment was?” asked Cheesy.

“Ah!” said the portly carpenter, with a long liquid rattle in
his throat, “that is holy ground! It must n't be profaned by idle
feet. But listen, and I will tell ye a story. In a family I once
knowed there was a cherished flower,” — Uncle Joe delighted in
mystery and metaphor, — “the sweetest, pootiest rose that ever
was. It made the hull house fragrant; it stood for everything
good, and beautiful, and — and sublime,” added the carpenter,

conscious that no word was too fine to express his meaning. “It
seemed as though the sun could n't a shone if it had n't been for
that 'ere flower. It was poetry, and grace, and love itself. I can't
begin to tell how everybody doted on it, — especially a foolish old
uncle of the family, a man about my age and habit of body, who
could n't sleep nights if he did n't get a peep at that 'ere sweet
flower afore he went to bed. Sometimes she used to come —
I mean, the flower used to come — into the shop where he was
to work, and leave an odor behind her — behind it — that was
delicious — that used to make his heart light and happy all day
long. That 'ere flower could n't a been sot more by, skurcely, in
the family where it belonged, than it was by me, — I mean, by
the foolish old uncle. Wal, it grew and grew; other roses
come arter it, sweet and pooty, but none so sweet and pooty as
that. It was the fust and best — as if natur' had made her great
effort, and could n't quite come up to it agin. Of course, the
rose that all was praisin' — there was plenty to covet it; but
only one could have it and wear it; and it was promised to one
who was every way worthy, — a young man 'at you would n't find
his equil in hundreds, — no, nor in thousands. Wal, the time
was sot when he was to take the flower and transplant it into his
own garden, when, one mornin', I stepped in to git a smell of my
favoryte, — and it was gone,” said the carpenter, softly laying his
great hand on Cheesy's shoulder, and drawing him sympathetically
towards him. “It had been stole away in the night. The
house was a house of mournin'. 'T was as if death had been
there. And it has been somehow holler and empty to this day;
't an't all right there, and never will be, for all the flowers that
remain. The trouble broke the hearts of both parents — 't would
a broke the uncle's heart too, but he was stayed up by the Christian's
faith. It went hardest of all, though, with poor George
— I mean with that 'ere worthy young man; for it was —
think of that!” exclaimed the carpenter, dramatically, — “it
was a friend he had trusted that stole away the flower! At a
blow he lost everything; and always arter that he used to go
once a week regular into that 'ere house where the flower was,
and set thinkin' it all over, as if it was a dream he was tryin' to
realize, but could n't somehow git holt on exactly.”

“Was Mr. Leviston going to marry the girl who run away?”
asked the incautious Cheesy.

“Who 's said anything about a girl running away?” demanded
Uncle Joe, in a moist growl.

“That 's what you mean, an't it?” faltered the boy, conscious
of having committed an indiscretion.

“You 're treadin' on holy ground,” said the carpenter, in his
hoarse whisper. “Who has been tellin' you about it?”

“Sol Civett, in the store; but I did n't know whether it was
true.”

“Look here —”

Uncle Joe took Cheesy solemnly by the collar, and, raising his
cane in an impressive attitude, stood ready to impart a piece of
profound wisdom for his benefit. But the carpenter was too near
home; he was, in fact, standing upon his own door-step. At that
moment the door opened abruptly, and a thin, sharp-featured
female demanded, in a shrill voice, why “father” did n't come
into the house, — she should think it was time.

“Wal, wal, mother,” replied Uncle Joe, in a conciliatory tone;
“I 'm comin' right in.”

“Why can't you come now? I 've been waitin' for you this
hour and more. Don't stand talkin' in the street all night, father!”

“Anything for peace,” whispered Uncle Joe. “Good-night,
my young friend, good-night.”

Cheesy dreaded the sound of Mrs. Kevill's voice, and was ready
enough to go. As for the carpenter, his broad bulk passed
through the doorway, the door was closed behind him, and his
young friend could hear, as he ran down the street, the sound of a
stormy tongue, that rattled its sharp hail in volleys upon the good
old gentleman's resigned and peaceful pate.

A few days after, Cheesy was invited to take tea with the
Grayle family. This was the first time the honor had been extended
to him, and he was highly elated by it. He accordingly
put on a clean shirt at noon, and went to the store, prepared to
walk home with the book-keeper.

It was a memorable day for Cheesy. First, there was the
storm, — the wildest of the season, — which produced an exhilarating
effect upon his spirits. Then, in the afternoon, when he was
out on an errand, he met with a surprise in the shape of an old
acquaintance. It was the inebriate, Caleb Thorne. He grasped
Cheesy with a suddenness and energy which gave him quite a
fright.

“Don't, now! What do you want with me?” gasped the boy.
“Say, Mr. Thorne! don't! I han't done nothing to injure you,
have I? — say!”

But the poor man meant no harm. Almost frantic in the hope
of hearing from his lost child, — almost fierce in his eagerness to
press out of Cheesy some information that would lead to her discovery,
— he did not observe that his grasp was rumpling his
clean collar, and subjecting his throat to an uncomfortable
pressure.

“Le' go, and I 'll tell you all about it,” said Cheesy. “She 's

with Mr. Mer'vale; they 're boarding to Mr. Wormlett's, in
Portland-street. I 'll direct you so 's 't you can't miss your
way.”

Having succeeded in ridding himself of that nightmare of a
man, the boy hurried back to the store, through the storm. His
nerves were quite unstrung; but the excitement of the event was
soon forgotten in his anticipations of the evening; and he had
quite recovered his equanimity when he set out to walk home
with old Grayle.

The storm had not abated. On the contrary, it had increased
in violence since the night set in. The air was full of a fine,
sharp snow, which came in whirling clouds and swift-darting
squads, careering through the streets. The wind blew in fitful,
angry gusts. It shrieked and whistled and roared. In places, the
pavements were quite bare, while in every nook and corner sheltered
from the blast, smooth drifts swept up in graceful curves,
and cones, and delicately-turned ridges, — a wild profusion of
architecture, whose fantastic beauty no artist's hand could ever
reproduce. In protected spots under the lee of house-walls, by
door-steps and archways, on casements and railings, white wreaths
were lavishly displayed. Here and there the walks were covered
with heavy banks intersected by narrow footpaths, where half-blinded
pedestrians struggled past each other, with garments fluttering,
and with straining and creaking umbrellas.

With his coat buttoned to his chin, and his collar turned up
about his ears, Cheesy accompanied old Grayle, — sometimes
plunging into the whirling snow-clouds before him, now trotting by
his side, and again following breathless, with his head down, at
his heels. When they reached the house in Pleasant-street, both
were a good deal exhausted; but the door flew open before them;

they were welcomed into a warm and cheerful room, and ready
hands took their hats and coats, and swept their snowy feet.

“Gracious!” said Cheesy, “this is one of the nights, an't it?
How my ears begin to burn! How did you stand it, Mr.
Grayle?”

The book-keeper, pulling off his boots by the stove, and putting
on a pair of slippers Ellen brought him, made answer, with
his subdued smile, that he had seen too many storms, in his day,
to be much troubled by a little flurry of snow.

“There was one blast,” returned Cheesy, “I thought would
a knocked me over. It was ten minutes before I could breathe.”

“Ten minutes!” exclaimed Benjie, in the corner, incredulously.
“A man can't live ten minutes without breathing.”

“Hush, Benjie!” said Ellen. “You 're always trying to show
folks how much you know. Attend to your geography.”

“I 've got my lesson!” cried the boy, shutting his book, and
beginning to dance around the room. “Now I 'm ready for
some fun, with the rest of ye. An't it about time for Uncle Joe
to be along?”

“Come, don't make so much noise,” said Ellen. “There! I
knew you would knock that chair over. You 'd better be careful.
It went right on Cheesy's foot.”

“Did n't hurt,” spoke up Cheesy, grinning.

“I must do something to make you scold, Nell; and I may as
well knock over the chairs as anything,” said Benjie. “Look
out!” — he pushed the chair adroitly before her as she was going
across the room. “There! I knew you would trip your foot.
You should look out.”

“Father! I wish you would make this boy behave himself,”
complained Ellen. “He 's all the time up to some sort of mischief.

I came pretty near falling against the stove, through his
nonsense.”

“Why can't you behave yourself, my son?” mildly asked old
Grayle.

“'Cause it an't in me, I suppose,” replied Benjie. “I hurried
to get my lessons, and now I want some fun. Ellen feels grand
'cause it 's her birth-day, and she 's fourteen years old!”

“Come, come, children! What will Cheesy think of you, if
he sees you always quarrelling?”

“It is n't my fault,” insisted Ellen.

If it was, it made no difference with Cheesy. It was easy to tell
what he thought of her. The air of authority she had learned to
assume towards the younger children impressed him with admiration,
and whether she smiled or frowned, spoke sharply like her
mother, or softly like herself, or laughed her gay and silvery
laugh, he was always charmed. No matter how many faults she
had, he could see in her nothing but beauty and perfection.

“Hettie, come away from that window, will you?” she cried,
impatiently. “What have you got the curtain up for, after the
lamp is lighted?”

“You had it up yourself, half a minute ago, when you expected
father and Cheesy,” retorted the child, with her fair cheek pressed
against the pane. “I 'm looking for Uncle Joe. O, goodie!
there comes somebody through the gate! I guess it 's him.”

“It 's Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucia!” exclaimed Benjie, putting
his face over her shoulder. “That 's real mean! It 'll just spoil
our fun to-night. I was in hopes she would n't come.”

“That 's a pretty way to talk about your relations,” observed
Ellen. “I should think you 'd be ashamed.”

“I don't care; I heard you say, yourself, just before dark,

you did hope we should n't see Aunt Lucia here to-night, — the
very words you used.”

“Children! children!” said Mr. Grayle, in a tone of gentle
reproof. “Go and open the door, Benjie, and don't let me hear
any more of your foolish talk.”

The arrival of the Kevills was an event of some magnitude.
The ponderous bulk of Uncle Joe, accompanied by his broad,
good-natured face, came crowding through the door-way, while
Aunt Lucia followed close behind, scolding him for taking her out
in such a storm.

“Fie, fie!” said Uncle Joe, in his best humor; “you know I
did n't urge you to come. `Do jest as you please about it,' says
I. `It 's such a stormy night,' says I, `that Robert's folks won't
think hard if you don't go,' says I.”

“I should n't think they would!” whispered Benjie.

“The wind liked to a blowed me away half a dozen times,”
complained Mrs. Kevill. “If I 'd a knowed anything about what
the weather was, I 'm sure I should n't a ventered out.”

“Well, well, my dear,” said Uncle Joe, “the wust is over;
and now le' 's enjoy the visit. As for the weather — I told you
what it was. You did n't believe me, though. You thought I
did n't want you to come, and so took that way to discourage you;
but you wan't goin' to be frightened out of a pleasant evenin'
that way, you said.”

“I did n't say no such thing!” burst forth Aunt Lucia, shrilly.
“You provoke me to death, when you talk so. I said I did n't
think you wanted me to go, — I wan't sayin' anything about
the storm. You never like to have me spend the evenin' with
you; and you would n't a asked me to come to-night, if you had n't
a knowed that I 'd git blowed to pieces.”

“Come, come, mother,” remonstrated Uncle Joe. “Don't git
excited. We 're here now in Robert's comfortable sett'n'-room.
Nothin' to prevent our bein' happy, 'cept the memory of two other
shinin' eyes, — brighter 'n your'n, Nellie, — that should a been
here to-night,” he added, softly, — “but never 'll be here no more,
I 'm afeared. Forgive me, Rob: I could n't help the allusion.”

“Bring the big chair for Uncle Joseph, Benjie,” observed Mr.
Grayle, in a tremulous voice, while his eyes glistened. “Your
aunt's side-comb has dropped out, Ellen. Why don't you help her
find it before it gets trod on?”

“Don't trouble yourself, miss, I beg of you,” said Mrs. Kevill,
in a tone of bitter irony, as she searched the floor. “I can take
care of myself. I 'm used to 't. You 'd better set down and be a
lady, — it 'll be much more becomin', I 'm sure. It an't ginteel
to wait on old people now-days, I understand.”

“How should I know what you dropped?” demanded Ellen,
indignant. “Here it is.”

She picked up the comb, and gave it to her aunt with not a
very good grace, putting out her pretty lips in a manner which
made the admiring Cheesy grin from ear to ear.

“Well, Benjie, how does school go?” asked Uncle Joseph,
anxious to divert attention from his wife's ill humor. “Are you
a pretty good boy now-days, eh? You never play truant, I
hope. Only naughty boys do that, — and they 're always sorry
for 't in after years. Ah!” in his liquid, guttural voice, “I don't
know what I would n't give, if I 'd 'tended to my book as I ought
to 've done, when I was a boy.”

“Did you use to play truant?” inquired Benjie, who delighted
to hear his uncle's reminiscences of youthful scrapes.

“I used to be up to all sorts of mischief, — the more shame for

me!” said Uncle Joe, with a thin veneering of humility outside of
the carnal timber of vanity, of which no small share entered into
the composition of his character. “I used to run away and go
coastin', when I should a been larnin' my spellin'-book and jography.
Then what stories I made up! I remember once, arter
I 'd been off three days, and expected to be licked within an inch o'
my life, I went and told the teacher 'at I 'd only jest come for
my books, cause our folks had moved, and I was goin' to another
school. So he gi'n me an honorable what-ye-call-it — dismissal,
and was glad to git red of me, too, for he could n't do nothin'
with me, I was so full of mischief. Ha! what a bad boy
I was!” — with a solemn grimace. “I was off playin' with
wicked companions three weeks 'fore our folks knowed but what
I was goin' to school reg'lar, and gitt'n' all my lessons like a
paragon. I got found out, though, as all bad boys do, —
remember that, Benjie; all bad boys gits found out, sooner or
later. The teacher stopped some of our folks, one day, to ask how
I was doin' at my new school, when, of course, the cat was all
out of the bag. We had n't moved at all, you know; so I was
sent back to the old school — but I managed, somehow, to git clear
of the lickin'. Took me to look out for that.”

“Was n't that slick?” cried the delighted Benjie.

“It was very naughty,” replied Uncle Joe, in a self-reprobative
tone. “You must n't never go and do nothin' of that sort. Mind
what I tell ye.”

At that moment, Mrs. Grayle, flushed and excited with her
cooking, made her appearance from the kitchen.

“How do you do, this evening, Lucia?” she asked, in a depressed
manner, sinking upon a chair Ellen hastened to place for her.

“I 'm as well as I could reasonably expect to be,” replied Mrs.

Kevill, still rocking to and fro in the unhappy state of feeling
occasioned by the incident of the comb. “But I an't well. I 've
everything to worry me; and, more 'n all that, I suppose I always
shall have.”

“I can't conceive how that is. Your children are all well married
off, and you 've a nice little property to live on in your old
age. I don't see what should worry you, I 'm sure. Ellen,” added
Mrs. Grayle, heaving a sigh, “pass me my handkerchief off
the bureau.” She wiped her eyes, with an air of melancholy
resignation, and proceeded: “If you 'd seen my trouble, I doubt
if you 'd be alive this day. How I 've lived through it, is more
than I know. But I won't complain. The Lord's will be done.”

“Amen!” said the pious carpenter, in a deep voice, as if he
enjoyed it.

“Ellen,” resumed Mrs. Grayle, “go out and see to the biscuit.
I think I smell them.”

“I should think you 'd keep that great girl in the kitchen
more 'n you do,” observed Mrs. Kevill, in her sour way. “You
make too much of a lady of her.”

“O, Ellen is very good to help,” sighed Mrs. Grayle.

“No, but you pet her too much; she 's gitt'n' to be quite stiff
and proud. She 'll be goin' the way of the other one, if you don't
look out.”

At this allusion, Robert Grayle's head dropped sadly on his
breast, and his wife began to weep. Ellen, who stood in the
kitchen-door, waiting to hear what was said, flushed crimson, and
disappeared from Cheesy's admiring gaze, as if ashamed.

“Come, come, mother,” spoke up Uncle Joe, with Hettie on his
knee, “don't open the wounds afresh. Don't spile this 'ere
birth-day of Ellen's with allusions to her poor sister.”

“I han't said nothin' 't I did n't feel it my duty to say,” was
Aunt Lucia's sharp retort. “When I see a young person in
danger, I must speak about it. Forewarned, forearmed. Ellen 's
jest like her sister; and the great fault with her sister was, she
was made too much a lady of. You know that, as well as I do.
I 've heard you speak on 't time and time agin; and you can't say
the contrary; so, there!”

“Well, well,” said Mrs. Grayle, weeping, “I suppose you will
continue to think as you please, and make your remarks just as
you please. I 've not a word to offer. Though, Heaven knows,
I never meant to spoil my poor, misguided child; and I don't
think I did. It 's very true, she did n't like the kitchen over and
above well; and I don't blame her, for we were better off then
than we are now.”

“There wan't the necessity of her takin' holt,” cried the carpenter,
soothingly. “And young folks an't apt to be right down
smart, without they 're drove to 't. I remember how it was with
me, when I was a boy. I was one of the greatest scapegraces you
ever heard on, Benjie. Think of your sober old uncle inventin'
all sorts of tricks to git red of work! Dear me! what headaches,
and lame backs, and phthisics, I used to have! I could play ball,
and go a fishin', though, when I was the sickest. Ah! I was a
bad boy — a bad boy, I was, Benjie, till long arter I went to larn
my trade. Han't you noticed how much better grammar your
mother talks 'n I do? It all comes of my bein' with evil companions,
when I should a been to school.”

“Give me that newspaper, Benjie,” said Mrs. Grayle, in a
feeble voice. “I must cool off a little, or I can't eat a mouthful
of supper. Being over that stove takes away all my appetite.
Well,” she continued, fanning herself with the paper, “I suppose

we may as well go out pretty soon. How are the biscuits,
Ellen?”

“They 're burnt, just the least mite in the world, on one side,”
replied Ellen.

“You should seen to them biscuit, without bein' told,” remarked
the dictatorial aunt. “If you 'd been anyways thoughtful, as a
great girl like you should be, they would n't a been burnt.”

“I guess they are not spoilt,” retorted Ellen, with spirit. “If
they are, nobody 's obliged to eat them, as I know of.”

“Ellen, my child!” said Mrs. Grayle.

“Come, come; the biscuit an't hurt, I 'm sure,” cried the carpenter,
jovially. “So don't fret, mother. And, if they was, Ellen
would be excusable, seein' it 's her birth-day. Give your rough
old uncle one kiss, my pooty, then we 'll go to supper.”

The company adjourned to the kitchen, where the table was set,
— Uncle Joe and the fair Ellen leading the van, and Cheesy and
Aunt Lucia bringing up the rear.

“Sit right down where it comes handy,” said Mrs. Grayle, taking
the tea from the stove. “Ellen, you 'd better dish the preserves.
I put that cold meat on the table, thinking your Uncle
Joseph might like some. Perhaps Cheseboro' would like a little,
too.”

“We 'll see about that, mother,” replied old Grayle, with his
subdued smile. “Take a seat here, Cheesy.”

“O!” exclaimed Cheesy.

He came forward, bashful and grinning, and occupied the chair
between Ellen and her father. He acted as if he hardly knew what
to do with himself generally, and seemed altogether at a loss how to
dispose of his hands in particular. Aunt Lucia was feeling much
aggrieved because she had been left behind with Cheesy and the

children; Benjie was angry, because, Ellen having told him he must
put on his coat before coming to the table, his father had upheld
her authority; and Hettie cried because she could not sit next to
Uncle Joe. Furthermore, Mrs. Grayle was full of unhappy apologies,
designed, probably, to lead her guests to expect little from
her board, in order that they might be agreeably surprised.

“I never can do anything to suit me, in this house,” she complained,
dejectedly. “Before we moved, I used to think I could
set a decent table; but somehow the charm was broken, the day
we came into Pleasant-street. I have n't that to do with I had
then, and I suppose that has a good deal to do with it. I ought
to make good biscuit, though, any time and anywhere.”

“Good biscuit?” cried Uncle Joe. “I han't seen so jolly a
biscuit as this is, for many a day.”

“To be sure, we never have anything good to home!” said Aunt
Lucia, in her bitterest tone.

Uncle Joe was a great lover of the delights of the table. His
countenance radiated with good humor over his cold meat, hot
biscuit and tea, in a manner which defied depressing influences of
any kind. He seemed but to glow and dilate the more for every
unhappy look and for every sour word let fall around him. His
geniality was magnetic. His hearty laughter was contagious.
The smiles of his broad red face were inspiring. The undulation
of his vast waistcoat was suggestive of mirth, though nothing was
said. Cheesy forgot his conscious awkwardness, and Benjie forgot
the disgrace he had suffered at Ellen's hands, in listening to
the carpenter's jokes and stories. Even cross Aunt Lucia became
susceptible to cheerful influences, inspired by her husband's conviviality,
and Mrs. Grayle's vigorous tea. The book-keeper appeared
quite lively and talkative, for him, and his wife was in

unusually good spirits. Hattie was in high glee, and Ellen was
radiant with happiness.

After supper the pious carpenter produced a birth-day present
he had brought in his great-coat pocket. It was a handsome
Bible, with gilt edges and a brilliant clasp, and showy enough for
the most ostentatious Christian in the world. Ellen, who had no
lack of Bibles, could have better appreciated some more secular
gift, perhaps; yet she received it with a grace which quite
charmed her old uncle.

“Father would n't tell me how much that 'ere Bible cost,” —
Mrs. Kevill broke in upon the flow of good feeling on the occasion,
— “but, you see, Ellen, it 's a very costly present; better 'n
he could afford to make, I told him; and enough on 't better 'n
any one of our children ever got from uncle or aunt. But he had
his way, and I only hope you 'll try to show a proper gratitude
for it. I was goin' to make you quite a handsome present of
some kind, myself; but, arter he got the Bible, I did n't feel as
though I was able to do much that way; so I hope you 'll take
the will for the deed, and be satisfied with a bran-new pin-cushion
and a knitt'n'-sheath that was your cousin Sally's. Here they
be, if I can git 'em out of my pocket. Why, what ails my
dress?” Aunt Lucia began to wax impatient. “I never see
the beat on 't! This pocket never did suit me. Here they come,
arter so much fuss.”

She produced a cotton handkerchief tied up into a big knot,
and took out the articles in question. The pin-cushion, a thick,
awkward, ill-shaped article, — at a short distance it looked like
a toad, — she handed Ellen with a triumphant air, asserting that
she had made it with her own hands expressly for her niece.
Ellen laughed, and thanked her, and put the presents away with

others she had that day received. Benjie had given her something;
so had her parents, and so had Hettie; a circumstance
which made Cheesy feel so miserable and mean, on account of his
poverty, that he wished he had something to make a present of,
though it were nothing more than a fat pin-cushion.

At eight o'clock, William, the oldest son, a youth of nineteen,
made his appearance, and brought his present, — a handsome
work-box. William kept in an apothecary-shop, and could not
leave his business earlier, even on his sister's birth-day. He had
been expected with impatience; and now the children ran delightedly
to meet him, his parents received him with pride and pleasure,
and Uncle Joe welcomed him boisterously. William was a
fellow of capital spirits. He always had fun enough for the children,
and his hopeful face was cheering to his father and mother.
He was a violent reformer, and some of his arguments with his
conservative uncle were exceedingly spicy; the heavy broadsides
of the stout old gentleman's dogmatism being altogether unequal
to the young man's sharp-shooting radicalism and quick-flashing
wit. But this evening William was not himself. A settled care
clouded his brow and checked his mirth.

“I want to see you in the other room a minute, father,” said
he, after shaking the snow from his clothes.

Robert Grayle retired with his son. After a brief absence he
returned with a troubled face, and whispered to his wife.

“I 'd like to know what 's going on,” said Aunt Lucia, peevishly,
as Robert and Mrs. Grayle started together for the kitchen. “I
hate this whispering — whispering.”

“Fie, fie, mother!” replied Uncle Joe. “If it 's anything concerns
us, we shall hear on 't; if it an't, it 's none of our business.
Well, sis, who beats this time?” to Ellen, who was playing backgammon
with Cheesy.

“O, it is n't decided yet, quite,” said Ellen.

“She beats me, all holler!” exclaimed Cheesy, grinning. “I
can't begin to play with her. I guess you don't want to have
another game, do ye?”

“O, yes,” cried Ellen. She was wondering what William
could have to communicate to her parents, and appeared a little
absent-minded. “I 'm pretty sure you 'll beat me this time.”

“I can't never beat you!”

“You must n't be discouraged. You are a new beginner, you
know. — Benjie!” cried Ellen, putting down her foot, with her
charming authoritative air, “come away! Do you hear?”

The boy was stealing into the kitchen, moved by a curiosity to
hear what William was telling his parents.

“It 's nothing to you, if I do go in there,” he muttered.

“Yes, it is,” said Ellen, firmly. “They 'll let you know when
you 're wanted. — Your first throw, Cheesy. Double-sixes!
You 'll be sure to beat me this time. Benjamin!”

“Well, I an't going in there; you need n't trouble yourself!”

In the mean while, Uncle Joe, diverting Hettie from the kitchen,
by showing her the interior of his huge silver watch, manifested
his enjoyment at the innocent stratagem by winking complacently
over her head at Ellen and Cheesy. Aunt Lucia, on the other
hand, rocked herself to and fro, with an injured air, and kept
muttering to herself, until the guilty conspirators — as she appeared
to consider them — returned from the kitchen. Old Grayle
was pale and thoughtful, and his wife was weeping fitfully. William's
face was still clouded; and all three were silent on the
mysterious topic.

Suddenly Aunt Lucia put away her knitting-work, arose from
her chair, with compressed lips and a toss of her head, and began
to put on her bonnet and shawl.

“You are not going?” said the subdued voice of old Grayle.

She made no answer, but compressed her lips more firmly, gave
her head another toss, and commenced tying her bonnet-strings.

“Come, come, mother,” cried Uncle Joe; “don't be so techy.
Set down, and le' 's have a good time, now William has come.
Be a Christian, mother; be a Christian.”

“Do you mean to tell me I an't?” demanded Aunt Lucia.

“Fie, fie, mother! keep your temper.”

“Keep my temper! — Don't I keep my temper? I 'd like to
know who does, if I don't! I don't believe there 's another so patient
a woman in the world as me! There 's no tellin' how much
I suffer, and keep silent,” she added, peevishly. “I 'm trod on,
and run over, and knocked about, every way, and no word of complaint
do I ever utter. But there are things an angel could n't
bear. There is a pint where forbearance ceases to be a virtew.”

Uncle Joe gathered up his brows, shrugged his shoulders, and
favored his sister with certain mysterious winks and gestures,
indicating that she was expected to say something of a soothing
nature, to pacify his wife.

“I don't know who has insulted you, Lucia,” sighed Mrs.
Grayle, under her handkerchief. “If I have, I 'm sorry. Like
as not, I have; for I 'm well-nigh distracted; I hardly know what
I 'm about.”

Mrs. Kevill went on, hooking her cloak, with a determined
look, without making any reply.

“Why do you go?” insisted Mrs. Grayle.

“Let her go, — I would!” whispered Benjie.

“I don't want to be in anybody's way!” cried Aunt Lucia,
stiffly. “I 've got a home to go to, thank Heaven! I an't
obleeged to intrude on nobody's privacy.”

“Privacy? You don't intrude on any privacy here.”

“O, I don't, then! I thought I did. I thought somebody
went into the other room, 'cause they had secrets that wan't for
my ear. It 's all right, of course! I don't complain. Only I
don't like to be in the way, and put people to so much trouble.
Come, father; be gitt'n' on your gre't coat.”

Upon this, Mrs. Grayle burst into a flood of tears. Uncle Joe
began to remonstrate.

“Never mind,” said William, with an exasperated look. “I 'll
go home with you with pleasure, Aunt Lucia. Sit still, Uncle
Joe. You don't want to go yet, I know.”

He threw on his coat in a resolute manner, which quite had
the effect of reducing the good woman's spirits. She began to
falter, and apologize, and declare that she should n't have thought
of going, if she had n't supposed she was in the way.

“You are not in the way; and we have no secrets we desire to
keep from you,” broke forth Mrs. Grayle, sobbing. “I did n't
like to speak of it before the children; but I shall have to, I suppose,
and I may as well do it first as last. My poor, misguided
child has come back to Boston; that 's all.”

“Come back! Clara come back!” echoed Uncle Joe, starting
forward eagerly in his chair.

Mrs. Grayle wept; her husband hung his head, with patient
sorrow; and William's dark eyes sought the floor.

“Dear me!” cried Aunt Lucia; “where is she? Who has
seen her?”

“William saw her to-day,” replied Mrs. Grayle, in her most
distressed voice. “She went by the old house, he says, looking
up at the windows. It was in the storm; she was all wrapped
up; she acted as if she was afraid of being seen, but waited to

see some of us; — she probably did not know that we had moved,
poor child!”

“Did you speak to her?” demanded the excited carpenter.

“No,” replied William. “She saw me, and ran away.
Whether she knew me or not, I cannot say.”

“O, dear!” groaned Uncle Joe, “why did n't you take arter
her? Why did n't you ketch her, and tell her that she has still
got a home to go to, and friends to love her? If I should have a
glimpse of that sweet face of her'n, do you think I would leave
her track till I 'd fairly got her in my arms, and kissed that
cheek that used to be so innocent and sweet, and told her
she 'd got an old uncle that dotes on her more 'n ever? Not I!”
exclaimed the flushed carpenter; “not I! Only give me one
glimpse of her, and you 'll see!”

Uncle Joe was not aware how soon an opportunity might occur
to test the validity of his speech.

It required some time for the excitement occasioned by the
intelligence William brought to subside. At length, however,
there was a hush. Mrs. Grayle sat with her handkerchief to her
eyes. Her husband's face was sad and downcast. Cheesy and
Ellen finished their game of backgammon, conversing in whispers,
while William looked on listlessly. Benjie and Hettie hearkened
to Uncle Joe, who was relating a solemn story of his boyish
indiscretions, speaking in a low growl. Only Aunt Lucia ventured
to raise her voice to its usual pitch, — which, we need not
say, was a high one, — and moralize on the painful subject
that had been broached.

“Did n't the bell ring?” asked Hettie.

“Yes, it did,” said Ellen. “Benjie, go to the door.”

“Wait, Uncle Joe; don't tell any further till I come back.”

Benjie hastened to the entry, to answer the bell, and a moment
later the figure of a woman, all covered with snow, appeared in
the doorway.

“There 's a man with a blind girl at your door,” she articulated,
almost breathlessly. She threw back her veil, and exposed
a pale, careworn, but still beautiful face. “I found them out here
perishing, and —”

Her eyes, becoming accustomed to the light, fell upon the
figures in the room; she started back, with a wild look and a
stifled cry, endeavoring hurriedly to hide her face; then turned
and fled. It was like an apparition. She vanished in the night and
storm, before one present could utter a word, or lift a hand to stay
her flight. The children huddled together, pale with terror. Uncle
Joe was the first to recover his self-possession. He rushed out,
unmindful of hat or coat. “Stop! stop!” he cried. “Clara!
don't you know your old uncle?”

The storm drowned his voice. Old Grayle and William followed;
but at the door they found the poor inebriate, endeavoring
to lift the frail form of his perishing child, whom the stout carpenter,
in passing, had thrown down in the drifts. They took her
up and bore her into the midst of the excited group; the father,
bewildered, reeled in after them; the lamplight fell upon his haggard
features and disordered dress, and revealed, to the astonished
beholders, the sweet face of his child.

“By gracious!” whispered Cheesy, hoarsely, in Ellen's ear;
“if it an't Caleb Thorne and the little blind girl!”