University of Virginia Library

28. XXVIII.
A WEEK AT THE PARSONAGE.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 448. In-line Illustration. Image of a young man and girl sitting relaxed on the ground.]

HOW many days have I been
sick, Leviston?” asked Martin.

“Some ten days,” replied
his faithful friend and attendant.

“I think that will do!
Ten days! And I should
have written a sketch for the
True Standard, an editorial
article for the Streamer of the
Free, — Chaffer has been on a time since the Fourth, — besides
finishing a story I had begun for the Squib Review, while I have
been lying here. Well, sir, I don't think you or any other man
can persuade me to be sick any longer.”

And Martin resolutely began to dress himself after the fashion
of well people, in the face of his friend's remonstrance.

“In twenty-four hours you 'll be down sick again,” insisted
George. “Your constitution is worn out. What a state you
were in ten days ago! You had wasted yourself to the thinness
of a shadow by continual thinking. I don't wonder that a little
excitement at the fire brought on this attack.”

“A little excitement?” echoed Martin. “Did n't I perform
a labor of Hercules? Did n't I rush through seas of fire?
Was n't I a Shadrach-Meshach-and-Abnego — three heroes in
one? I have tried to persuade myself, lying here, that some such
case might be made out. But, jesting aside, — it was not the
excitement you speak of, nor the slight scorching I got, that laid
me open to this attack; but the disappointment and vexation that
followed. I don't think I can ever forgive Cheesy for losing
Alice.”

“You 've talked about that enough. I 've no doubt she is
safe somewhere. Think of something else.”

“I must, I suppose. I must think of my writing. Help me
clear this table; I will dash off an article this morning.”

Leviston tried in vain to dissuade him. As a last resort, he
sought to divert his mind by producing a couple of letters from
his pocket-book.

“Letters! for me!” exclaimed Martin.

“The one superscribed in a lady's hand came five or six days
ago,” said his friend. “I was afraid to give it to you in your
weak state. I knew it was from that young woman — Miss Murray
— out by Summer Hill, and you are so excitable —

Martin interrupted him with a strong expression of indignant
disapproval. At the same time his eager fingers opened the letter.
In an instant his countenance changed, lighting up joyfully.

“O, your misguided friendship!” he exclaimed. “Why did
you keep this back? Its contents would have cured me, had I
been ten times sicker than I was. It 's from Martha Doane.
Alice and her father are at her house! I will go out there this
very day!”

“Nonsense; you are not able,” replied George. “I am as
glad as you are to hear from Alice; but I don't go wild about it.
Take at least a minute to reflect, and read the other letter the
while. It came yesterday.”

“Better and better!” cried Martin. “O, Leviston! shall I
be angry with you? This alone would have cured me, when
everything else had failed. It 's from Junius Murray. He speaks
of Alice, and Miss Doane's letter, and reminds me of a promise
I made him to spend a week at the parsonage this summer. Now
he thinks is a favorable time for the visit; and so do I. My
valise shall be packed at once.”

“Now, look here,” said his thoughtful friend. “You know
your temperament — or ought to — as well as I do. It is n't to be
trusted. I know just how it will be, if you go out there. That
Miss Murray — ”

“Hush — stop there! Not another word. You enrage me
beyond the forbearance of friendship.”

Martin was more than half in earnest. Yet Leviston could not
refrain from giving him some wholesome advice, seeing that he
was intent on rushing into temptation. He abused him — Martin's
term for the treatment — in his harshest manner, at the
same time lending him money, and assisting to pack his valise.

The news spread with rapidity among the boarders that Martin
was going to the country. Some congratulated him on his decision;
two or three warned him against imprudence; and Miss
Clove, the lady supposed to have had her wits shattered by an early
disappointment, shed tears at his departure. She had been like
a Sister of Charity to him during his illness, bringing him all sorts
of delicacies, such as a sick man should never touch, and talking
to him most kindly and tediously when he wanted to sleep; and,

in remembrance of her attentions, he presented her with a copy of
“The Lady of the Lake,” at parting. Miss Befflin, too, whom he
had never before seen at so early an hour of the day, came languishingly
from her chamber, in sylph-like attire, to bid him good-bye.
She simpered and sighed, and gave him her hand with the
tenderest look; wished him the speedy recovery of his health and
a speedy return; confessed how lonely the house would seem
during his absence; suggested that a letter from him would be
held precious; and made such a motion of putting up her lips,
that, notwithstanding the repugnance inspired by visible cosmetics,
Martin could not refuse the expected kiss. But when he
advanced with lips all charged and primed, she uttered a modest
little scream, and covered her face.

“Excuse my boldness,” said he, glad to withdraw.

“O, dear! how silly I am!” She assumed a resolute air and
gave him a mincing smack. “Adieu,” she added, with a French
accent; “adieu, maw namee! Num ooble-ay paw, a retoorney
byang-tow.”

“Disgusting!” muttered Leviston, as he carried his friend's
valise down stairs.

“O, beware, my lord, of jealousy,” whispered Martin. “It
is the green-eyed monster that doth make — and so forth. By
the way,” he added, gravely, “let me give you a little advice
before I go. You know that your temperament is not to be
trusted. Now don't commence making love to Miss Befflin as soon
as I am out of the way. Your head is too full of romance yet.
You don't know what you want yourself. You 'd better avoid
Cicily, and be safe.”

“Hush! hush!” whispered George. “There 's her mother.”

Martin thought his joke spoiled by a most disastrous chance.

He had been overheard by Mrs. Befflin, under the stairs. He
reddened, expecting to see her justly indignant at the light manner
in which her daughter's name had been spoken; but he was
spared that mortification; she was never so gracious before;
doubtless regarding his mock-advice to George as serious counsel,
and a high compliment to Cicily's charms. He took leave of her
civilly, and restrained his feelings until he had got into the coach
at the door.

“Good-bye, Leviston!” he cried. “Take the advice of a
friend, and beware of —”

“Keep your head inside, or you 'll take cold,” growled George,
not well pleased at being thus cheated, by a jest, out of a sincere
last word of warning he had been meditating for Martin.

Twenty minutes later, seated in the cars, Martin was travelling
at high railroad speed into the country. The day was fair and
sweet; the summer verdure of the woods and fields charmed his
eye, and the breezes that blew in at the windows inspired him
with new health and strength. Eager as he was to meet his
friends, the journey seemed brief; the station was reached, and
he found himself in the village stage-coach, before he had recovered
from the first exhilaration of breathing the country air.

This time, Martin rode inside and kept his hat on his head; yet
with no small degree of interest did he look out to discover
the scene of his well-remembered chase across the fields. O,
miracle of nature! how, with the seasons, had the country changed!
Where were the snow-drifts, the blinding volleys of the furious
storm, the wild, bleak mountain-side? Martin saw nothing but
pleasant slopes, covered with waving corn and billowy rye,
meadows and pasture-lands stretching far away, and fair groves
shaking their green banners in the summer wind.

The stage-coach was almost empty. Martin had but two companions
— a middle-aged female, in a faded bonnet, and a redfaced,
corpulent old gentleman, in a vast, double-breasted, black
satin waistcoat, and a heavy, well-preserved, old-fashioned dress-coat,
with an enormous high collar and steel buttons. The woman
divided her attention about equally between her companion and
her handkerchief, — talking mournfully one minute, and shedding
tears the next, — while he seemed constantly aiming to console
her.

“Everything to be thankful fur! everything to be thankful
fur!” he exclaimed, in a rich, liquid voice. “Only think on 't!
How much wus it might 'a' been! It 's the happiest day of my
life — this is; I 'm so thankful. Providence has done wonders
for us! So cheer up, cheer up, sister! Don't be down-hearted.
Le 's try to show her a cheerful face, anyhow. She needs it, of
all people — poor, poor girl!”

Joyful as he was, the eyes of the corpulent gentleman overflowed,
and, to hide his emotion, he pretended to be diverted by
jolly sights visible from the coach-window.

Martin had directed the stage-driver to set him down at the
door of Mr. Doane's cottage; and, arrived there, he was surprised
to see his companions make preparations to alight with
him.

“Ha! you stop here, my friend!” cried the occupant of the
black satin waistcoat, evidently much excited, and talking at random.
“Cheer up, sister, now! Cheer up! We 're here! She 'll
be lookin' for us. Put on your brightest face, sister. Go ahead,
young man, and tell 'em we 're comin'. Won't she be glad to see
her old uncle? Toss our things down here anywheres; they 're
of no consequence, driver. Come, sister! cheer up, cheer up!”

Martha Doane at that moment made her appearance, hastening
down to the road. She first greeted Martin affectionately, and
then turned, with a countenance full of sympathy, to receive the
other visitors.

“How is my child?” sobbed the female.

“She is not quite as well as when I sent for you,” replied
Martha. “But it will do her good to see you. She wants sympathy
and charity — O, so much!”

“There! what did I tell ye?” cried the owner of the big coat-collar.
“The dear, dear girl! We 'll put heart into her! I am
as jolly as a rope-dancer,” he added, with tears running down his
honest face. “Show the way. Bless me, how the wind and dust
pesters my eyes! There! it 's all right now.”

Mrs. Grayle had so little control over her feelings, that Martha
thought it best for her brother to go in first and prepare Clara for
meeting her mother. She accordingly left the latter with Martin
in the sitting-room, and entered the adjoining chamber with Uncle
Joe, who bore up stoutly, until he saw his darling lying so pale
and emaciated — so worn and changed — on the couch, and looking
towards him with those strange, burning eyes. He made one
last attempt to appear happy and speak cheerfully, then rushed
forward, with great sobs, and caught her in his big arms, and
kissed her again and again, pouring out tears like rain upon her
wasted cheeks.

“Is n't your name Merrivale?” asked Mrs. Grayle of Martin,
in an interval of grief.

“That is my name. I thought I had seen you before, when I
first observed you in the cars, but could n't guess where. I
remember now.”

“When you see Mr. Leviston — will you tell him?”

Without waiting for a reply, she hastily dried her eyes, suppressed
a sob or two, and followed her brother, — entering the
chamber just as Miss Doane was coming out.

“You need not be alarmed for Alice,” said Martha, as soon as
she could speak to answer Martin's questions. “Her father is at
work for us, and appears as industrious as his miserable health
will permit. Her greatest trouble now is that her brother Martin
does not come and see her. Did n't Junius write you that
she was at his father's?”

“At the parsonage! There 's not a word about it in his letter,”
cried Martin. “I think I will lose no time, if my presence
is needed to cheer her precious heart.”

“I will not detain you,” replied Martha, smiling at his eagerness.
“There are others at the parsonage who will be glad to see
you. I have these good people here, or I might be selfish enough
to detain you. But I feel certain that you will make us a long
visit before you return to town.”

There was such a fine magnetism in her warm nature, and
Martin felt its softening influence so strongly, that he was but too
happy to promise what she asked. So, charging him to remember,
she let him go, and watched him with a countenance full of
solicitude, relieved with bright gleams of hope and joy, as he disappeared
in the direction of the parsonage.

The young man had quite forgotten that he was an invalid.
His step was elastic, his eye bright, his cheek glowing. Rapid
beats of heart, too, he experienced, as he approached the minister's
quiet brown house, nestled among shrubbery and trees. He
opened the gate, softly, and passing into the cool green yard, saw
the parson at his study window, reclined in his easy-chair, with
Margaret brushing his venerable head. The latter, looking out

as he approached the door, started visibly and suppressed a
cry.

“What have you found?” demanded the parson.

She made no reply, but ran out impulsively, and presently
reäppeared, accompanied by the excited Martin.

“Ho! ho! our old friend!” cried Mr. Murray, benignantly.
“What a start you gave me, Margaret! I thought you had
come upon an invading monster in my gray hair. I am right
glad to see you, sir! How well you are looking!”

“I ought to look well. I have had my share of sickness
lately,” replied Martin.

“Prophetic Alice!” exclaimed Margaret. “She told us five
days ago that she could see you on a sick bed.”

“And how is she herself?”

“Quite feeble; but I can see that she grows stronger and
stronger every day. She is out with Junius somewhere. I will
go and bring her.”

“Let me go with you — and surprise her.”

“O, yes! I should have proposed it but for your recent
illness.”

“I was never better in my life!” exclaimed the exhilarated
Martin.

Through a fair garden, and across a shady orchard, he followed
Margaret's guidance, until they came out upon an undulating
meadow. Their path led to a poplar-tree on the sloping bank of
a clear running stream; and there, upon the shaded grass, where
the flowing water mingled its music with the rustling of the
leaves, sat Junius and Alice.

“It is a favorite spot,” whispered Margaret; “I thought we
should find them here.”

Junius. who was reading, with his elbow upon the grass and his
chin upon his hand, while the child sat by with her hands folded
upon her breast and her face clothed in a sweet veil of pensiveness,
looked up from his book, and saw his sister and Martin
watching them from above. Martin placed his finger on his lips,
and came forward, stepping softly.

“What are you dreaming, Alice?” said Junius.

“When all men are good,” replied the blind girl, “there will
be no more snakes.”

“Where did you get that idea?”

“It came to me as I was wondering why such ugly things are
in the world. They are first in our own hearts, and nature only
shows us pictures of ourselves.”

“What put reptiles into your mind here?”

“When some persons come near me, I see weeds and crawling
things, just as I see doves, and robins, and flowers with others.
I was thinking about that.”

As she spoke, Alice arose to her feet, drew a quick breath,
and passing her hand across her forehead, stood, with a startled
expression, as if listening to far-off voices. Junius asked what
she heard; but, without answering, she turned her face towards
Martin, extending her hands, and began to climb the
bank.

“Did you hear me laugh?” said Margaret, stepping between
her and her companion.

“O, don't vex me! He is here — I know he is!” cried Alice.
“Don't hold me! don't!”

The next moment Martin had her in his arms; she nestled in
his bosom like a bird, embracing his neck and weeping joyfully.

“Where is the shadow that stood between us?” he asked,

fondly, after a lapse of several minutes, during which much had
taken place that need not be reported.

“I do not see it any more,” said Alice.

“Then what is there henceforth to come between your heart
and mine, my child?”

Her head drooped, a sigh stirred her bosom, and for a time she
seemed dreaming. At length, with a faint smile, she extended
her hands, and having found one of Margaret's and one of Martin's,
she joined them, and gliding from the young man's arms,
laid herself down quietly upon the grass at their feet.

“What is the meaning of this?” faltered Martin, trembling
with a fearful joy.

“This is my place; I shall be so happy here!” murmured
the child.

Behold now our convalescent in a fair way to mend! He shall
eat no more drugs; the parsonage is better than a hospital; the
intercourse of friends, joy, and sympathy, and hope, minister to
his mind diseased, while the winds of summer breathe a fresh,
warm, spring-tide life into his veins. Were ever days so golden?

Martin feels quite at home at the parsonage. His room
appears to have been waiting for him ever since he slept there,
one memorable night, months ago. It is neat and airy; it looks
out upon the sunrise through the dark foliage of maple-trees; and
all day long bees hum and birds sing before the windows. More
than this, Margaret — whose mother lies in the little grave-yard
just visible over the hill — is the busy housekeeper at the parsonage,
and her presence seems to have left a perfume and a
charm in Martin's chamber.

Were ever days so golden? Storms keep aloof; only light
clouds, white as whitest wool, float lazily in the sky; yet from

[ILLUSTRATION]

ALICE AT THE BROOK SIDE. p. 458.

[Description: 731EAF. Illustration page. Image of a couple walking in the country. A young girl is kneeling at the man's feet, her arms around his kneew. Another man is watching from a distance.]

recent rains the earth is steeped in moisture. To a sick body
and a tired mind, late imprisoned in the city's sultry walls, this life
brings intoxication. Our convalescent drinks it in deep, delicious
draughts. He exults in the sunshine like young kittens. The
breezes fan him; birds, and brooks, and whispering leaves lull
him with their music; the refulgent woods and fields and grand
old hills delight his eye with pictures, while mother earth cradles
him to softest dreams on her voluptuous lap.

He hath the range of the fields: sometimes he goeth forth alone,
and may be seen, in the heat of the day, lying in the shade of
trees, or standing with his feet in running streams, like cattle.
But most frequently he taketh a companion. Now he leadeth
Alice by the hand; they go by the brook-sides, through sweet-smelling
meadows, and under the leafy canopy of the groves,
talking of love and dreams. Now he is accompanied by the good
pastor himself, who delighteth in nature as a child; and their
conversation is of life, literature, and spiritual laws; or the genial
old man relates portions in his past experience, of which the
young author will make use in future compositions.

“Your profession is a worthy one,” says Mr. Murray; “but it
is fraught with peril. Next to the ministry, I know of none
more dangerous to the soul of a young aspirant. We are apt to
forget our mission, — which is to pour the oil of love into the
wounds of this world, — and live mere sensual, selfish lives.
It grieves my soul to see writers and preachers cold and careless,
when on every side a suffering humanity is crying out for reforms.
O, sir! in all we do, let us not forget our responsibility — let us
not forget what we owe to God and man.”

With Junius Martin takes long rambles, which are attended
with much satisfaction to his soul. The son is more enthusiastic,

more radical, and possesses a finer insight into the life of things,
than the father. Martin thinks he has genius, and should write.

“If I could not be a preacher, I should prefer literature before
all things else,” exclaims the youthful student. “When I arrive
at the perception of a truth, with the joy it brings comes the
desire to communicate it to others. I could not write books
from ambition only; first and foremost would be the impulse to
pour out generous waters for this thirsty age; to inspire the
hearts of men with some little nobility of nature, with love and
faith. But to do this from the pulpit! to abandon your tongue
to the utterances of the ever-present Spirit — I can conceive of
no more glorious occupation.”

“How you shame me for the frivolous work I do!” answers
Martin. “I have longed to achieve something worthy of the
soul, but a low necessity balks me. From week to week I must
fritter away what little talent I have in writing paltry sketches
for a still more paltry pay.”

“A useful apprenticeship, let us trust,” replies his friend.
“Premature success is the most unfortunate thing which can happen
to an author.”

“I know that rough discipline is often the best friend to our
powers,” says the comforted author. “I thank heaven for all I
have had. I see now that, had my poor Beggar of Bagdad made
me the fame and fortune I hoped for, it would have proved a
lasting damage to me.”

Many excellent people err, with the best intentions, in respect
to the treatment of guests. If you visit at their house, they consider
their honor pledged that you should be continually entertained.
You must not be allowed a moment's quiet, a moment's
repose, except in your bed at night. They take you, one after

another, and harry you with incessant talk, until kindness becomes
tyrannical, and your oppressed bosom sighs for a little freedom,
a little peace. It is not so at the parsonage. Martin is privileged
to go or come, to talk, or read, or write, or range the fields,
as he may be in the mood. Crowds of company are not called in
to exercise him in the dull routine of etiquette. Nor is he
expected to pay for the hospitality he enjoys by making calls
with his friends. He visits the Doanes — nobody else; not even
his uncle's family. Louise Merrivale, who rides down to the
parsonage with her invalid brother, and is on the best of terms
with her cousin Martin, will not urge him to come up to the
Hill, on account — she says it boldly — of her hateful mother:
“she don't blame him at all for staying away.”

Nor do the Murrays fall into the other extreme of neglecting
their guest. Absorbed as Junius is in his studies, he finds ample
time for converse with his friend, and the parson himself, with an
infinite future before him, as he expresses it, can give him an
hour at any time of the day. Only Margaret seems chary of
her attentions. She is not only her father's housekeeper, but his
scribe also, writing nearly all his letters for him, and copying
out his sermons in a plain, neat hand. Yet she has many hours
for their guest; but he is exorbitant; his appetite for her society
is not to be satisfied. Ah, fickle youth! is Sophronia all forgotten?
Sophronia! she was but a flashing meteor; Margaret is
his fixed and everlasting star. There is a union of souls here,
a rushing together of two lives in one glad stream, — so he
fondly trusts, — not a meeting of lips merely. Indeed, their lips
have scarcely met thrice. There is an atmosphere of purity surrounding
Margaret which overawes her lover. He trembles if her
dress but brushes by him; the touch of her hand is electrical, —

a kiss is too sacred a fruit to be carelessly plucked from that fair
tree. The first taste thereof creates an era in his existence. Ah,
golden afternoon! day of all days in the year! Sitting under a
hedge, picking berries, they playfully feed each other, until the
kisses Martin's crimsoned fingers take away have made him desperate
with delicious pain.

“Ah! that is selfish!” cries Margaret, as, having tempted her
to open her lips for a plump berry, he places it laughingly
between his own.

Audacious youth! is this premeditated strategy? He bends
forward, — and O, such perilous glances as he pours into her deep
eyes! — and offers her the berry in his lips, at the same time
holding her hands. She receives it graciously — it unites their
mouths like glue; and the subtle poison of its juice — can it be
aught else? — creeps through all their veins. But fie on such
details!

“Are you jealous now, my child?” Martin whispers into the
blind girl's ear.

“O, no! the more you love her, the more I love you!” is her
sincere reply. “Her influence is so beautiful. It was different
with Sophronia —”

“Hush! don't speak so loud!” Martin places his finger on
his lips, for Margaret is within hearing.

On the Sabbath, — a still warm day, so peaceful and so pure
that the cackling of the hens hath a strange sound, — Martin goes
to church with the family. The village meeting-house is not far
off; so the little party proceeds on foot; and blind Alice walks
between Margaret and Martin, while Junius and his father come
more slowly after.

“Why do you weep, darling?” Margaret asks.

“My father — I am afraid for him!” murmurs the blind
girl. “I don't know why, — I don't know what it is, — but
something is going to happen; I see it like a dark, dreadful
shape, creeping towards him. I must go to him this afternoon.”

Encouraging her, as best she can, Margaret conducts her
friends up the meeting-house steps, under the silent porch and
through the cool aisle, and seats them in the minister's pew —
Alice between her and Martin. Two or three voices in the choir
are chanting; the organ pours forth its subdued thunder; and
over all is heard the great bell clanging in the steeple. A pleasant
gloom rests upon the calm faces and the empty seats which
Martin sees around him. How strange the effect! Indefinable
sensations creep over him, and floods of memory rush upon his
heart, till tears dim his sight, and his head sinks upon the back
of the pew before him. When the organ is silent, and the voices
of the choir appear to have floated up and dissolved in the listening
ear of heaven, and the rustling of dresses has ceased; when
only the fluttering of fans is heard, with now and then a half-suppressed
cough in the congregation; when the pulsations of the
tolling bell have died, like circular waves, on the wide lake of
silence; — Martin looks up. He is just in time to see Mrs. Merrivale
sweep with a great stir into the slip before him, followed
by Louise, while the colonel, far more gentle and reserved than
his wife, stands patiently holding the pew-door.

Mr. Murray is not a man of brilliant eloquence. No fine
intellectual vigor distinguishes his prayer or the discourse that
follows. But there is a clearness, strength, and earnestness of
heart, in whatever comes from his lips, which combine to give
him a power over his hearers, not seldom enjoyed by ministers of
the day. Then his words are winged with love, and they find

many a nest in many an empty heart, where they shall inhabit,
until the serpent of selfishness steals in and stings them with his
deadly fangs. Martin's soul is fed, and, under the inspiration of
the sermon, he pencils the following lines on a blank leaf of Margaret's
hymn-book, and gives them to her to read.

Junius sits with the choir, and Martin recognizes his voice in
the singing. Also another voice, of singular beauty, clear, soaring,
joyous, strikes his ear with a familiar sound.

“It was Miss Doane,” Margaret assured him, on the way
home. “Her voice is like her spirit — full of purity and sweetness.”

“I am never tired of studying her face,” returned Martin.
“What goodness in its expression! Is she not much beloved?”

“No one else has such warm friends. There has been a great

cloud upon her life, but it has lifted gloriously. She is a true
and noble woman.”

“Whoever is true and noble will send forth a light into the
world; the good will rejoice at it, and the worst will be
benefited.”

“Her example,” Margaret went on, “has done wonders in our
society. It has inspired the poor and despised with hope, the
proud with charity, and all of us with faith.”

“And, her brother — is he not an admirable character?”

“He is a hero! I don't know where you will find such
another; one of the few persons in this wide world who know
how to make a sacrifice.”

“They have their reward,” said Martin. “Truly, I never saw
two hearts more filled with the glad spirit of nature. What
sweet wisdom, too, flows from them.”

“It is because they have relied upon principle — upon God,”
replied Margaret. “To such God reveals himself; around such
I believe there is always a goodly company of angels.”

“I have seen such strange pictures of Miss Doane!” said
Alice, who had been very thoughtful all this time. “There was
one — I think I know now what it meant. I saw her — O, so
sad and distressed! — going a lonely road; and her tears had
made the clayey ground so wet and soft that her feet left a deep
impression at every step. It seemed so cruel! but in a little
while I saw that the clay hardened and became like a rock behind
her, with every footprint as distinct as if it had been chiseled.
Then she was glad, for her progress had been so true and sure,
that others could follow in her steps.”

Martin's stay at the parsonage was abbreviated somewhat by an
unexpected occurrence. This was no less an event than the

arrival of the Rev. Mr. Mowle and lady, of boarding-house memory.
These excellent people were travelling for the gentleman's
health; and, as they always made it a point in journeying never
to stop at a hotel when the house of a brother clergyman was
convenient, the parsonage was not to be slighted. Accordingly,
one fine afternoon, a covered wagon, filled with trunks, bandboxes
and travelling-bags, and drawn by one horse, made its appearance
at Mr. Murray's door.

“Sit still a moment, dear,” said Mr. Mowle, having got out of
the wagon with much labor and many groans; “I 'll go in and
introduce myself, and then come for you.”

“Mr. Mowle, dear!” cried the lady, beckoning him back, as
he was opening the gate.

“What is it, dear?”

“An't that Mr. Merrivale, who boarded at Mr. Wormlett's?”

“Where, dear? With that young lady in the garden? I
don't know. It is a providential circumstance if it is he; I
shall be saved the awkwardness of introducing myself.”

Thus it happened that Martin was pressed into the service.
The reverend man dragged him forward like a culprit, and forced
from him an introduction which gave two additional guests
to Mr. Murray's house. This was bad enough; but what
vexed Martin most was the delight those good people evinced
at meeting him. Had he been a nephew or cousin of dear
memory, they could not have assumed more familiar terms of
friendship.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Mowle to her husband at the tea-table,
“I think it 's a good sign to see our young friend in a clergyman's
family. I shall begin to think my prayers have been
answered.”

“Undoubtedly,” replied Mr. Mowle. — “There, dear! I forgot
my Ramshorn Cordial! Had I better take a spoonful of it
now? I think I 'll let it go, however, this time. Yes, I am glad
to see our young friend here; he only needs good influences to
work upon him to become a useful member of society. Miss
Murray, your tea is so good that I don't care if I trouble
you for another cup. This is n't my third, is it, dear? Only
half a cup, then, Miss Murray. I have to be careful of my diet.”

The hot biscuit Mr. Mowle ate that night brought him such
distress that he was unable to sleep; in consequence of which he
appeared low the next day, and remarked, at the breakfast-table,
that he was afraid it would be necessary for him to intrude upon
Mr. Murray's hospitality one night longer. The good parson
smiled a welcome, and Mrs. Mowle said, “yes, dear; she thought
they had better stay.”

Hence the haste with which Martin that same forenoon
deserted the parsonage, and went to hide his remorse and mortification
in the neighboring farm-house. Clara Grayle had been
removed to Boston by her friends; Alice was at Miss Doane's,
where she had been since Sunday, on account of her father's illness;
and Martin thought no better time could be chosen for the
“long visit” he had promised.

He was accompanied across the fields by Junius. They were
met half-way by Mr. Jared Doane.

“I am going to fetch Mr. Murray,” said the farmer. “Caleb
Thorne is worse this morning, and Martha thought it best that
your father should see him.”

“Then let me surrender Mr. Merrivale to your keeping,” cried
Junius, “and go back myself with the errand. You will be needed
at home.”

Having changed companions, Martin proceeded on the way at
a quick pace.

“Caleb has not been a well man since the day he came to my
house,” observed the tall Jared, taking long strides along the
path. “I have not let him work much; but his mind was in
such an unsettled state that I thought it best for him to be kept
pretty well employed. This morning, however, he happens to be
badly off. Dr. Pinworth came in about an hour ago, and gave
him some medicine; but no effect is discernible as yet. If there
is any change, it is for the worse. Alice is so much distressed
that I wish she had happened to be absent at this crisis.”

“I doubt if she could be kept away,” replied Martin. “She
was troubled about him all day Sunday. Before a word was
breathed about his sickness, she said she must come to him.”

Martin found Caleb in greater peril, and Alice in deeper distress,
than he had expected. Indeed, matters had been rapidly
growing worse since Jared left the house.

“O, my brother Martin!” cried the blind girl, clinging to her
friend, — “I am so glad you have come! My poor father! —
you can do him some good, can't you? Speak to him — call him
to himself!”

“I will do what I can, dear child! There — don't cry so!”

“Just now he did not know me,” Alice went on, endeavoring to
speak calmly. “He called me Sally Hicks, — a girl that used to
live with us, and stole my mother's ring. I said, `Dear father,
it is your own dear, dear Alice.' But he did n't know me.” —
Her heart swelled up again with a wild passion of grief. — “He
said, `Don't fool me. I know where my darling is. The
pond is full of water, and she lies in the bottom.' O, tell him I
am here!”