University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

It was a day of unusual rejoicing in the establishment over
which Miss Dillon presided as fashionable dressmaker, milliner,
&c., in Cincinnati. Faces which for many weeks had
scarcely worn a smile when in the presence of their grim
mistress, now broke forth in merry peals of laughter,
and backs which for the same length of time had bent in a
sort of half-circle over brocades, silks, and satins, were now
erect, while needles which should have been better employed,
now stuck stiff and straight in the mammoth pincushion on
the little workstand. The cause of all this change was
this: Miss Dillon, the crabbed, cross-grained, parsimonious
proprietor of the shop, had gone for two weeks to the country,
leaving her affairs in the charge of her foreman, Lizzie
Copeland, a chubby, good-natured girl, whom nobody feared,
and everybody loved.

Hardly had the last tones of Miss Dillon's harsh voice subsided
in the workroom, ere a dozen girls exclaimed at once,
“Oh, good! now what shall we do, and what shall we have
nice to eat, whilst the stingy old thing is gone?” There
was, however, one drawback to their pleasure. A large
quantity of work was on hand, to finish which somebody
must labor both early and late.

“Dear me,” said Jenny Carson, as before the glass she

brushed and admired her bright auburn hair, “how I wish
some raw apprentice who knows how to sew, would happen
along! Wouldn't we make her work while we rested?” and
Jenny threw herself on the faded calico lounge with the air
and manner of one who had nothing to do, and no wish to
do it.

The girls looked at her and then at Lizzie Copeland, who
was about to reprove the notoriously lazy Jenny, when tingle,
tingle went the bell in the front shop, and out went Miss
Copeland to see what was wanted. In an instant Jenny was
on her feet, saying, “Who knows but it's the apprentice
I was wishing for!” Then up to the little glass door she
stole, and lifting one corner of the curtain, peeped cautiously
out at the stranger, who was talking with Lizzie.

“Shame on you, Jenny,” said one of the older girls.
“Come back to your work and behave yourself.”

But Jenny paid no heed to her companion, and continued
her espionage, until suddenly starting back she exclaimed,
“Laws of mercy! what horrible eyes, and she saw me looking
at her, too.”

This brought up half a dozen more girls, who crowded
round the glass door, curiously eyeing the stranger, who
seemed desirous of coming amongst them. One of Miss
Dillon's last orders to Lizzie was, that if during her absence
two or three decent-looking girls should apply for situations,
she should engage them, and the girl who now stood before
Lizzie was certainly decent-looking, yes, and more than that,
for humble as was her dress and appearance, there was something
about her that inspired Miss Copeland with a feeling
slightly akin to awe. She gave her name as Lucy Brown,
and said she was from the country. After a little further
conversation, Lizzie concluded to receive her, and she was
ushered into the workroom through the glass door, from
which the half-dozen girls beat a precipitate retreat, Jenny

falling down and upsetting the pile of bonnet boxes, which
rolled promiscuously over the floor.

When order was somewhat restored, twenty pair of
eyes were turned towards the new comer. She was a young
girl apparently eighteen or twenty years of age. Her face
was pale, almost startlingly so, and her glossy black hair was
cut short in the neck, giving her a strange, unusual appearance.
Her most remarkable feature was her large, black,
glittering eyes, whose glance was so proudly defiant that
Jenny at once despaired of making her presence any way
subservient to her wishes.

Jenny had a great fancy for tracing back one's origin and
ancestry, consequently the name of the stranger girl, Lucy
Brown, was not a little displeasing. “It might as well be
John Smith,” thought she, “for who is ever going to be at
the trouble of running through the whole race of Browns
for the sake of alighting upon her great-grandfather. However,
I'll make her acquaintance, and question her a little.”

Accordingly she moved towards the corner where Lucy
sat quietly sewing on a black skirt, which Lizzie had given
her to make. She commenced the conversation with, “I
suppose you have made skirts before, haven't you?”

“No,” was the laconic reply.

“What! Never made a skirt?”

“Never!”

“That's queer! Why, you must be as old as I, are you
not?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, I'm seventeen; are you older than that?”

“Yes.”

Jenny was puzzled, but determining to persevere, she
said, “Are you always so quiet and still as you seem to be
now?”

“Very seldom,” was the reply, while the fiery flash from

her glittering eyes made Jenny conclude not to question her
any more for the present.

Scarcely was the conclusion formed when the ringing
of the door-bell was heard, and up bounced Jenny, saying,
“Let me go this time, for my head aches so I can't see any
way.” Away she ran, but soon returned bringing the Daily
Cincinnati Commercial in her hand, and saying, “Won't I
have a nice time now, reading the rest of that story.”

The girls well knew it was impossible to make Jenny
work when Miss Dillon was absent, therefore they listened,
nothing loath, to the conclusion of a story, which had been
in progress for several days. That being finished, Jenny
looked the paper over and suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, girls,
don't you remember the advertisement which appeared two
weeks ago concerning Julia Middleton, of whom cousin Mary
told us so much?”

“Yes, what of it?” asked a dozen voices, while Lucy
Brown accidentally dropped her thimble, occupying quite a
little time in finding it.

Jenny answered, “She's dead,—drowned! But let me
read it,” and in a few moments she read the first notice,
headed, “Supposed Suicide.”

Jenny was a kind-hearted girl, and as she finished reading,
two large tears dropped from her eyes and fell upon the
paper.

“Oh, Jenny Carson,” said one of the girls, “I do believe
you're crying for that bag of deceit! If what your cousin
Mary told us about her were true, she deserves drowning a
dozen times.”

“Perhaps she does,” answered Jenny; “but then she
was so young, so handsome, and then you know her father
was not so kind to her as he was to the other one, the one
he called Sunshine. Now if he had been better to Julia,
she might have been better to him. Don't you think so?”

“I don't think any thing about it,” said her companion.
“I only know I'm glad she's getting her pay for all her badness.”

“Oh, awful!” said Jenny. “Not even willing that she
should live until she had time to repent.”

Here the conversation ceased. Lucy Brown certainly
couldn't have liked her seat; for while the girls were talking,
she moved uneasily, and at last turned entirely around,
sitting with her back to them. Upon what had been said
she made no comment; but most wonderfully she unbent
towards Jenny, who, when next she made advances, was
pleased to find herself met more than half-way.

It was strange how strong a friendship soon sprung up
between the cold, silent Lucy, and the merry, romping Jenny.
It was not unlike the friendship which might be supposed to
exist between a playful, though somewhat indolent kitten and
a fierce mastiff, or between a dove and an eagle, or better
yet, between a sunbeam and a lowering cloud laden with
gleams of lightning.

Jenny looked up to Lucy with feelings of love and fear,
while Lucy looked down upon Jenny with a mixture of
love, censure, and contempt;—love for her affectionate nature,
censure for her notorious laziness, and contempt for
suffering herself to be so easily led and influenced by others;
but in no way was this last fault so clearly manifested as in
the power which she herself soon possessed over her. She,
better than any one else, could coax Jenny to work, although
she did it not so much by words as by the glance from her
black eyes, which Jenny greatly feared.

Once, when both words and eyes had failed, the little
dark hand was for an instant buried in the soft, plump flesh
of Jenny's round, plump shoulder, who, sinking into a chair
thought, “I do believe Lucy is the old one himself.”

Jenny would have sworn that these thoughts were not

expressed in words, but they were, and Lucy stooping down,
whispered, “Others have thought so, too.”

Jenny was confounded, and Lucy's power over her
greatly increased. To do Lucy justice, we must say that
during her stay at Miss Dillon's, the influence she exerted
over Jenny was seldom used to her injury, but many times
after Jenny was asleep, would Lucy stitch away on a piece
of work which had been assigned to her friend, and which
otherwise would have been unfinished at the appointed time.

Two weeks had passed since Lucy had been in the shop,
when one morning Jenny exclaimed, “To-day the Madam
comes home, and oh, my—won't Jenny Carson have to work
for the next three months!” She was right in one conjecture
at least; for about noon Miss Dillon came, bringing a
little girl ten or twelve years of age. Her first inquiry was
for Lizzie Copeland, whom she took aside and questioned
concerning what had been done during her absence. Lizzie
told her of Lucy whom she described as quite a treasure,
saying, “that she already did as much work as a girl and a
half.” This put Miss Dillon in fine spirits; and as it was
her custom to appear amiable in the eyes of each new girl,
she entered the workroom, where she not only shook hands
with, but kissed each girl until she came to Lucy, who
haughtily drew back from the offered familiarity, merely extending
her white slender fingers. Miss Dillon reddened and
turning away, went in quest of the little girl, whom she introduced
as “My niece Lottie.” She was an ugly-looking,
sour-faced child; and ere she had been in the house twenty-four
hours every girl was her enemy. For several weeks
she continued to be a perfect pest, hiding the girls' spools
and scissors, nudging their elbows, pulling their hair, repeating
to Miss Dillon every word they said, and annoying them
in various ways.

One day her pranks seemed to have reached their crisis.

For three hours she had been in the workroom playing off
all manner of tricks upon the girls. As yet she had never
dared molest Lucy, but now sidling up to her she jogged
her elbow just in time to send the sharp-pointed needle far
under the thumb nail! Up sprang Lucy, and seizing the
little wretch, she shook her furiously, at the same time dealing
her a few sound cuffs, and finishing up by sending her
through a window which chanced to be open! Lottie's outcries
brought in Miss Dillon, whom, with flashing eyes and
fiercely set teeth, Lucy confronted, and explained the cause
of the disturbance.

Miss Dillon's face was livid with rage, but Lucy was too
valuable to be discharged, as many another girl would
have been; so she partly suppressed her wrath, and said,
“It is your first offence, Lucy, so I overlook it; but if it is
repeated, you will leave my employ. Do you understand?”

“I shall probably not repeat it,” answered Lucy, and
Miss Dillon somewhat cooled, and wishing to conciliate Lucy,
said, “I am sure you will not. You have too much good
sense.”

“You mistake me, Madam,” interrupted Lucy. “I probably
shall not repeat it, because there will be no occasion;
but if that piece of impudence is not kept out of here, or
if she does not behave when in here, I'll—”

“What will you do, Miss?” asked Miss Dillon, again
towering high with indignation.

“I'll shake her twice as hard, and if the top window
chances to be open instead of the lower one, I'll hurl her
through that!”

Nothing but Lucy's tact at turning off work readily,
saved her from being discharged; but from that time Miss
Lottie kept out of the way, or managed to behave when she
was in the way.

On a few more occasions did Lucy's temper boil over.

Once she made an assertion to which one of her companions
replied, “That's a lie.” Quick as thought the big shears
were thrown at the offender's head, which they missed, and
passing on stuck in the wall!

Always after these ebullitions, Lucy would relapse for
weeks into a silent, moody fit, answering in monosyllables to
every one save Jenny. And yet she was a favorite, although
the girls united in saying that she was a strange, inexplicable
girl.

The story of Julia Middleton had several times been
brought up and discussed; and once, several months after
Lucy's arrival, Jenny said, “Ever since Lucy has been here
I've been trying to think who she resembles, and now I've
thought.”

“Who is it?” asked Lucy, and Jenny answered, “To be
sure I never saw her, but from what cousin Mary said, you
must look like Julia Middleton, only not quite so well.”

Two crimson spots burned on Lucy's cheeks, and Jenny,
clapping her hands, said, “That's it,—now I am sure you
look exactly like her.”

“And do I act like her?” asked Lucy.

“No, not exactly,” returned Jenny; “and yet when you
threw Lottie through the window, and the shears at Sarah's
head, I thought of her.” Then as a new idea entered her
brain, she said, “Oh, girls, won't it be nice when Miss Dillon
goes away, to have some more tableaux, and take that
wedding for the scene. You know a lady who was present
told cousin Mary all about it, and she has described it accurately
enough for us to imitate.”

Tableaux was the favorite amusement of these overworked,
half-fed girls, and the place which they were in offered
many inducements to such pastime, as every needful
article of dress could generally be procured. Accordingly
Jenny's suggestion was readily received, and ere bed-time

the girls of two or three other shops were notified of the
coming event. In a few weeks Miss Dillon went away, and
the third night of her absence was fixed upon for the play.
Jenny Carson, never idle when fun was afoot, was chosen
mistress of ceremonies.

“Now,” said she, “let us choose characters. I will be
Fanny, because I've got curly hair. Lizzie Copeland shall
be the minister,—she's just good enough for that. Sarah
Burnett shall be Dr. Lacey, because Bill Dillon's clothes fit
her so well; and now,” said she, looking over the girls,
“who'll be the bride?”

“Why, Lucy of course,” said three or four voices. “You
say she looks like her.”

“So she does,” answered Jenny, “but somebody has got
to be the old man. He, you know, will rave, and shake
Julia, and Lucy can do that so well.”

“Yes, I can personate him to perfection,” said Lucy,
somewhat bitterly.

But Jenny was overruled, and Lottie, who was large of
her age, was appointed to personate Mr. Middleton, whose
six feet and a half would have felt insulted at being represented
by a girl of twelve.

“Yes, that will do,” said Jenny, “for next to Lucy,
Lottie is most of a spitfire.”

After some more talk it was decided that Lucy should
be the bride, to which she consented rather unwillingly.
Wednesday evening came, and Jenny was appointed to dress
the bride, which she did with a great deal of care, continually
lamenting Lucy's obstinacy in wearing her hair
short in her neck.

“Now if 'twere only long,” said she, “I could arrange
it beautifully.”

“Never mind, Jenny,” said Lucy. “I am July Middleton
enough without the hair.”

At last all was ready. To be sure Lottie's clothes did
not fit exactly, but the wrinkles and cavities were filled out
with aprons, towels, &c.; so that when her toilet was completed,
she was a tolerable good picture of a short, redfaced,
portly old man. Near the door stood Lizzie Copeland,
with black dressing-gown and prayer book. Two or
three times Jenny had nearly spoiled the scene by running
downstairs to see the fun go on. At last through the door
came Sarah Burnett and Lucy, and as the latter swept into
the room, all marvelled at the whiteness of her face. Greatly,
too, did their wonder and admiration increase at the facility
with which she acted her part; Julia herself could not have
done better; and when at the final winding up Joseph
Dunn appeared, she fainted and fell to the floor “so naturally.”

Meantime Jenny came tripping in, and Sarah Burnett instantly
caught her in her arms. Either by mistake or design,
Jenny called out, “Come, Sally, that will do. Put
me down. You've squeezed me most to death now,” and
the whole party burst into a loud laugh.

Lucy still lay upon the floor, and Jenny, who bent down
to speak to her, screamed out, “Oh, girls, mercy,—she's
cold,—she's dead,—or fainted, one or the other.”

Half out of their senses with fright, the girls lifted her
up, and carrying her to her room, placed her upon her
bed. She soon opened her eyes, and glancing at the
bridal dress in which she was still attired, shuddered as
she said, “Come, girls, help me off with this foolery.”

They did so, and in a short time she was able to sit
up talking and laughing about the tableaux and her fainting
fit, saying she was accustomed to them, and had felt
sick and dizzy all day.

In two weeks time Miss Dillon returned, bringing with
her, as Jenny said, the Cholera,—not that she actually

brought it in any one of her numerous trunks or bandboxes,
but on the same day that she returned, the first case of cholera
was reported in the city. Rapidly the disease spread, and
one by one Miss Dillon's girls went home, until none were
left save Lucy and Jenny;—the former stayed because she had
no home to go to, she said;—Jenny's mother was a widow
and lived with a married son in Sandusky, where the disease
was making fearful ravages. Consequently it was as safe for
Jenny to stay in Cincinnati as it was to venture home.

Nearer and nearer came the pestilence, and more and
more terrified grew Miss Dillon, until at last she, too, was
smitten. If she had valued Lucy Brown as a workwoman, how
much more did she now prize her as a nurse! Utterly fearless
of the disease she stood with untiring patience by Miss
Dillon's bedside, while in the farthest attic of the house
Jenny held camphor to her nose, or entirely suspended her
respiration, if by chance she was obliged to pass Miss Dillon's
door. Alas, poor Jenny! Up in that little attic the
destroyer found her. With an agonizing shriek of terror
she threw herself into Lucy's arms, exclaiming, “I've got it!
I've got it! I shall die! Oh, my poor mother! If I could
see her again!” Terrible were her sufferings. For three
long hours Lucy stood by her, and when at last the little
parched hand fell heavily at her side, and o'er the laughing
eyes the heavy eyelids closed, when the last spasm came and
went, she lay in Lucy's arms, and as falls the rain in the
dark November days, so fell Lucy's tears on the face of the
pale, dead Jenny!

More than a year had passed since the curtain fell upon
Jenny, cold and still, and Lucy weeping passionately over
her. In Miss Dillon's workroom are assembled nearly all
our old friends, though one seat,—the little stool by Lucy's
side is vacant, and in the common grave-yard is a grassy

mound, on whose plain marble slab, is the single word,
“Jenny.” The girls do not play at tableaux now, for the
moving spirit of fun is gone, and the motto at Miss Dillon's
seems to be “Work, work, till the eyes grow dim.”

On this afternoon several of the girls are engaged upon
an elegant party dress, which must be finished by sunset.
Among them is Lucy, who, since Jenny's death has grown
more grave and taciturn, seldom asking a favor, though often
doing one. At last the dress was completed, neatly folded
and placed in a bandbox, while Lucy asked permission to
carry it home. Her request was granted, and with the dress
and Miss Dillon's bill, she started for Mr. Graham's, which
was distant nearly a mile. It was dark when she reached
the house, where she was seated in the hall while the servant
took the dress and bill to Miss Woodburn, who was in the
adjoining parlor with her friend Alice Graham.

“Here, ma'am, is your dress and a note,” said the girl.

“My dress,” exclaimed Florence, for she it was. “Oh,
Allie, isn't it beautiful! But where is the girl? Is she waiting
to be paid?”

“Yes, ma'am,—in the hall.”

“Well, she wants to rest, and I want to finish reading my
letter, so ask her to wait a moment.”

Lucy merely bowed to the message which the girl delivered,
and then listened eagerly while Florence read aloud
a letter which she had just received from Nellie Stanton. In
the letter Nellie said that Mrs. Middleton, whose health had
long been failing, was not expected to live; that Dr. Lacey
and Fanny had come from New Orleans and were now with
her; that Mr. William Middleton and Ashton had gone to
England, ostensibly to attend the World's Fair, but in reality
on a wild goose chase after a little Spaniard! When Florence
appeared in the hall, Lucy's green veil was drawn closely
over her face and after receiving the money she immediately
departed.

That night Miss Dillon was surprised when Lucy requested
the payment of a part or all of her wages then due, saying,
she was intending to take the morning stage for Lexington.
At first Miss Dillon was angry, but Lucy persisted,
saying by way of explanation that she had that night heard
something which made it necessary for her to go, that she
was not what she seemed, neither was her name Lucy Brown.
“But do not question me,” said she. “'Twill do no good,
and some time I will tell you all.”

The stars were still shining in the sky of a September
morning, when the stage-coach stopped before Miss Dillon's
gate. A group of pale, sickly-looking girls assembled in
the hall, and with many tears bade their companion good-bye.
Miss Dillon warmly pressed Lucy's hand, and in a low
voice said, “Will you not tell me who you are?”

Lucy whispered in her ear a name which made her reel
and fall backward upon the stairs. When she recovered,
the stage was far down the stony street and Lucy was gone.

In Uncle Joshua's home there were sad, troubled faces
and anxious hearts, as the husband and daughter watched
by the wife and mother, whose life on earth was well-nigh
ended. From her mother's family Mrs. Middleton had inherited
the seeds of consumption, which had fastened upon her.

Day by day they watched her, and when at last she left
them, it seemed so much like falling away to sleep that Mr.
Middleton, who sat by her, knew not the exact moment
which made him a lonely widower. The next afternoon
sympathizing friends and neighbors assembled to pay the
last tribute of respect to Mrs. Middleton, and many an eye
overflowed, and more than one heart ached as the gray

haired old man bent sadly above the coffin, which contained
the wife of his early love. But he mourned not as one without
hope, for her end had been peace, and when upon her
face his tears fell he felt assured that again beyond the dark
river of death he should meet her.

The night succeeding the burial, Mr. Middleton's family,
overcome with fatigue and grief, retired early to their rooms,
but Fanny could not sleep, and between ten and eleven she
arose and throwing on her dressing-gown nervously walked
up and down her sleeping-room. Through the closed shutters
the rays of a bright September moon were stealing, and
attracted by the beauty of the night, Fanny opened the
blinds and the room was filled with a flood of soft, pale light.
From the window where she stood she could distinguish the
little grave-yard, with its cypress and willow trees, and its
white monument gleaming through the silvery moonlight,
and near that monument was a darker spot, the grave of
her beloved mother. “If all nights were as lovely as this,”
thought she, “it would not seem half so dreary to sleep in
the cold dark grave,” and then Fanny fell into a fit of musing
of the night that would surely come when she would
first be left alone in the shadowy grave-yard.

In the midst of her reverie her attention was attracted
by a slight female figure, which from some quarter had approached
unperceived, and now upon the newly made grave
was bowing itself and apparently weeping. The size and
form of the girl were so much like Luce, that Fanny concluded
it must be she, at the same time wondering how,
with her superstitious ideas, she dared venture alone near a
grave in the night-time. In a moment, however, she saw
that Tiger, the watch-dog, was with her, and the same instant
the sound of a suppressed sob fell on her ear. “Poor
Luce,” said she, “I did not think she loved my mother so
well. I will go to her, and mingle my tears with hers.”

In a short time Fanny was in the open air, and on her
way to the grave-yard. As she approached her mother's
grave, she said, gently, “Luce, Luce, why are you out so
late?”

The person addressed partially raised her head and answered
hurriedly, “Oh, Fanny, Fanny, do not be frightened,
and leave me; I am not dead, and never was buried in that
grave as you suppose, but am here to-night, a living, repentant
woman,” and throwing back her bonnet, the thin,
white face of Julia Middleton was in the bright moonlight
perfectly distinguishable to Fanny, who at first recoiled in
fear and leaned for support against the marble pillar near
which she was standing.

She, however, soon recovered her self-command and
glancing at the object on the grave, saw that she was caressing
Tiger, who seemed trying various ways to evince his joy
at finding one whom he had long missed, for he had ever
been Julia's favorite. Their fiery natures accorded well!
Again Julia spoke, “Fanny, dear Fanny. In an adjoining
State I heard of mother's illness and hastened to see her, but
I am too late. Now do not think me a phantom, for see,
Tiger recognizes me and welcomes me home, and will not
you?”

An instant Fanny wavered, then with a half fearful, half
joyful cry she went forward, and by the grave of the mother
that day lowered to the dust, the sisters met in a long, fervent
embrace.

Into the best chamber of their father's house Fanny led
the weeping, repentant girl, and gently removing her bonnet
and shawl, bade her lie down upon the nicely-cushioned
lounge, while she went for their father. As she was leaving
the room Julia arose and laid her small, bony hand on
Fanny's shoulder. It had rested there before, for in the
grave-yard, with their buried mother between them, Julia's

arms had encircled her sister's neck; but the first excitement
was over, and now involuntarily Fanny shrank from that
touch, for spite of all her courage, she could not help associating
Julia with the grass-grown grave, and the large white
monument.

“What is it, Julia?” she said calmly. “Do you not wish
to see father?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” answered Julia, “but not him, the other
one;—at least not to-night. You understand.”

“I do,” said Fanny, and she glided down the stairs towards
her father's room. He was awake, for ere her hand
touched the door knob, his sonorous “Who's thar!” fell on
her ear This somewhat disconcerted her, for she had intended
stopping near his door, to devise the best means by
which to break the intelligence. But “Who's thar!” was
again repeated, and entering the room she said softly, “It's
I, father.”

“Why, sure enough,” said he, and then as the light from
her lamp fell on her features, he exclaimed, “Why, how
white you be! What's the matter? Who's up stars? Is
George sick?”

“No, George is not sick,” said Fanny, “but —,” and
then as well as she could she told him all she knew.

Uncle Joshua's nervous system was unstrung, and his
physical health impaired by long nights of watching with
his wife, and now when this fresh shock came upon him he
fell back half fainting upon his pillow. Then rousing himself,
he said, “Alive, and come back! I didn't desarve this.
But where is she? I will go to her.”

Fanny directed him where to find her, and then returned
to Julia, whither her father soon followed. Uncle Joshua
was not prepared for the change in his daughter. He did
not even think of her as he saw her last, wasted by sickness,
but in imagination he beheld her as she was in her days of

health and dazzling beauty, when with diabolical cunning
she had brought Dr. Lacey to her feet. Now, however, her
face was thin, white, and haggard, for a life at Miss Dillon's
had never conduced to the beauty and health of any one,
except the merry Jenny, who was too indolent to grow poor.
Her eyes, sunken in their sockets, and swollen with recent
weeping, looked frightfully large and wild, and to complete
the metamorphose, her beautiful, glossy hair was now cut
short in her neck, and pushed far back from a brow, across
which lay more than one premature wrinkle.

The sight of her for a time unsettled the old man's reason.
Taking her in his arms, he alternately cried and laughed
over her, saying, “I knew you'd come. I expected it.
I've waited for you,” and then in a whisper he added, “Why
didn't you bring your poor mother? Didn't she tell you
how lonesome I was, and didn't she say that I did love you,
more'n you thought I did?” Then laying her down, he
turned to Fanny, who was alarmed at his manner, and said,
“Come, Sunshine, darling, go to the grave-yard agin, and
mebby you'll fetch Nancy this time. Oh, I wish you would,
I'm so sorry and sick without her.” Seeing that Fanny did
not move, he continued more imploringly, “Oh, Sunshine,
do go. You can bring her back, if any body can. Tell
her how dark 'tis here at home, and how long I've lived
since she went away.”

“Poor dear father!” said Julia, while Fanny, winding her
arms about his neck, said, “Oh, father, father, don't talk so,
mother's in heaven. You wouldn't have her back, would
you?”

His daughter's sympathy made him weep, but tears relieved
him, and his mind again became calm and clear.
Still Julia's altered appearance troubled him, and drawing
her head down upon his bosom, and laying his hand on her
thin white face, he said, “Poor child, what has changed

you so, and whar have you been; and who did I buy that
big stun for if 'twasn't for you?”

“Not to-night, dear father,” answered Julia. “Let me
rest to-night, and to-morrow I will tell you all.”

Uncle Joshua arose to leave the room, but at the door
he turned back and said, “Are you sure you won't clamber
out o' the window, and be gone in the mornin'?”

“Perfectly sure,” was the reply, and then Julia was
alone.