University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

In the breakfast room the table was neatly spread, Aunt Judy
wondering much, “what had got into marster that he would
have the best cheeny dishes and the damson table-cloth.”
Doubts of his sanity had entered her mind, and when he ordered
her to arrange the table for four, she muttered to herself,
“Wonder if he 'spects any of the dead to come back to
breakfast.”

“Yes, I do,” said he.

“Which one?” asked Judy, wishing to humor his whim.

Uncle Joshua waited until the pile of china coffee cups
were set upon the table, and out of all danger of being broken,
and then he answered, “Your young Miss Julia.”

Judy's worst fears were now confirmed, and she said
pityingly, “Poor dear marster! Trouble's done driv him
clearn mad.”

“I am not mad,” answered Uncle Joshua, “I am in earnest.
Julia never was dead, never was drownded. She has
come back, and is up stars in the best room.”

“Gone clearn mad!” was Judy's only answer, and Uncle
Joshua's stock of patience, which even now was not remarkably
large, was fast oozing out, when Fanny appeared in the
room, and at her father's request, corroborated what he had
said.

Had a powder mill exploded near Judy's feet, she could
not have been more startled. Retreating to the kitchen she
repeated what she had heard, with many little embellishments
of her own. Surprise and alarm were depicted on
every face as Aunt Judy told her story, which she ended
with, “I wonder what possessed her to come back. 'Pears
like marster and I have as much trouble now as we can bar
without her. Why couldn't she lie still like other folks when
she was dead, and not be a gittin' up and comin' back where
she ain't wanted.”

Aunt Katy tried to reason the case, saying, “It was perfectly
nateral, for she never did do nothin' like nobody else,
and if she took a notion not to be dead 'twan't in natur that
she should be.”

Here the conversation was interrupted by Mr. Middleton,
who screamed out, “Ho, Judy, gals, fetch in your vittles.”
He had first asked Fanny to go for her sister, and she arose
to obey him. Overcome with fatigue and excitement, Julia,
immediately after her father left her on the preceding
night, had fallen into a deep sleep, which was unbroken till
long after day dawn. Then she was aroused by her father
calling up the negroes. Her first impression was that it was
Miss Dillon's harsh, unwelcome voice, and, hastily starting
up, she looked around her. That pleasant room, with its
handsome furniture, and those downy pillows with their fine
white linen, belonged not to Miss Dillon, and for a moment
Julia strove to recall what had happened. Soon she remembered
all, and burying her face in the pillows, she
sobbed out, “Father, I thank thee; the prodigal is at last
at home.” It was not Julia's first prayer, for since Jenny's
death, Lucy Brown had learned to pray.

Hastily arising she proceeded with her toilet, which was
nearly completed when Fanny tapped gently at the door,
and immediately entered the room, saying, “Good morning,

dear Julia. I am so glad you really are here, and that it is
not a dream. But come, breakfast is waiting and so is father,
and so is,—so is,—George.”

“Oh, I can't see him, I can't,” said Julia, and Fanny
answered, “Oh, never mind him. I have told him all about
it, and he is ready to receive you as a sister.”

Julia's eyes were fixed upon Fanny's face, and for the
first time she seemed to discover how greatly she had improved
in looks. The exceeding paleness of her cheek was
gone, and the bright, healthful bloom which had taken its
place, though differing in shade, was equally as beautiful as
the roses of which Julia once had boasted. Her hair, too,
which after her illness had nearly all fallen off, had grown
out greatly improved in beauty, being now a rich golden
brown; and Uncle Joshua had frequently lamented that he
had lost his little yellow-haired girl. They were standing
together before a long mirror, and involuntarily Julia glanced
at the faces which it revealed. The contrast affected her
painfully, and instead of replying to what Fanny had said,
she asked, “Am I indeed so greatly changed, or is it you
who have grown so beautiful?”

Fanny, too, looked in the glass, and guessing the cause
of her sister's thoughts, placed her arm around her neck
and said, “Never mind that either. You have had a hard
time, somewhere. Now that you are at home, you will
grow strong and handsome again. But come, father does
not like waiting for breakfast any better than he used to.”

So saying she led the reluctant girl down the long staircase,
through the wide hall to the door of the breakfast room,
where Mr. Middleton stood waiting for them. His tones
and manner were very, very affectionate, as he kissed the
wanderer and said, “I am so glad you're here.”

Julia could have wept, but she would not. There was
yet another to meet, and choking down her tears she nerved

herself to the trial. Of what occurred next she knew nothing
until her cold hand was clasped by another so warm, so
life-giving in its touch, that she raised her eyes and met the
calm, quiet gaze of Dr. Lacey. Neither of them spoke until
Julia, averting her eyes, said, “Am I forgiven?”

“You are,” was the answer, and then Uncle Joshua exclaimed,
“Thar, that'll do. Now come to your breakfast,
children, for I'm mighty hungry, and shan't wait another
minute.”

After breakfast Julia was greatly surprised at seeing her
father take from the book-case the old family bible, on whose
dark dusty cover she remembered having many a time written
her name. All was now explained. Her father's gentleness
of look and manner was accounted for; and as, for
the first time in her life, she knelt by his side and heard him
as he prayed, her heart swelled with emotion, and she longed
to tell him, though she dared not hope she was a Christian,
she was still trying to lead a different, a better life.

That afternoon in her chamber were seated Mr. Middleton
and Fanny, while Julia recounted the story of her wanderings.
“The idea of leaving my home,” said she, “was
not a sudden impulse, else had I returned sooner, but it was
the result of long, bitter reflection. In the first days of my
humiliation I wished that I might die, for though the thought
of death and the dread hereafter made me tremble, it was
preferable to the scorn and contempt I should necessarily
meet if I survived. Then came a reaction, and when our
angel mother glided so noiselessly around my sick room;
when you, darling Fanny, nursed me with so much care, and
even father's voice grew low and kind as he addressed me,
my better nature, if I have any, was touched, and I thought
I would like to live for the sake of retrieving the past. But
the evil spirit which has haunted me from infancy, whispered,
that as soon as I was well all would be changed.

You, Fanny, would hate me, and father would treat me as
he always had, only worse.”

“Poor dear child! I didn't or'to do so, I know,” said
Uncle Joshua, and Julia continued: “Then I thought how
the world would loathe, and despise, and point at me, until
I was almost maddened, and when Dr. Gordon said I would
live, the tempter whispered suicide; but I dared not do
that. About that time I heard rumors of a marriage which
would take place as soon as I was well; and, Fanny, will you
forgive me? I tried to be sick as long as possible for the sake
of delaying your happiness.”

A pressure of the hand was Fanny's only answer, and
Julia proceeded: “I could not see you married to him. I
could not meet the world and its censure, so I determined
to go away. I had thirty dollars in my purse, of which no
one knew, and taking that I started, I knew not where. On
reaching the school-house something impelled me to enter
it, and I found there a young girl about my own size. Under
other circumstances I might have been frightened, but
now utterly fearless, I addressed her, and found from her answers
that she was crazy. A sudden idea entered my brain.
I would change clothes with her, and thus avoid discovery.
She willingly acceded to my proposition, and in my new
attire I again started towards Lexington, which I reached
about four in the morning. I had no definite ideas as to
where I wanted to go, but the sight of the Cincinnati stage,
drawn up before the Phœnix, determined me. I had purposely
kept my own bonnet and veil, as the maniac girl
wore neither. Drawing the latter over my face, I kept it
there while securing my seat in the coach, and until we
were many miles from the city. Passengers entered and
left, and some looked inquisitively at me and my slightly
fantastic dress.

“We reached Cincinnati about ten in the evening, and

with a long glad breath I stepped from the coach, and felt
that Kentucky and my notorious character were behind. I
stopped at the — Hotel, and the next two days were
spent in procuring myself a decent outfit. Each night I
went to a different house, for the sake of avoiding suspicion,
and as my bills were promptly paid, no questions were ever
asked. At the D— House I saw in a paper an advertisement
for a teacher in a school in one of the interior towns.
I had formed some such plan for the future, and instantly
determined personally to apply for the situation. I did so,
but credentials were required, and I had none to give.
Somewhat weary of my adventure I returned to Cincinnati,
and in passing through one of the streets, my eye caught the
sign `Fashionable Dressmaking and Millinery.' I knew I
had a taste for that, and I concluded to offer myself as an apprentice.”

Then she told them how in the unwholesome atmosphere
of Miss Dillon's crowded shop, she had toiled on day after
day with dim eye and aching head, while thoughts of home
and remorse for the past preyed on her heart.

“But why did you not come back?” asked Fanny.
“We would have received you most gladly.”

“I felt that I could not do that,” said Julia. “I knew
that you thought me dead, and I fancied that father at least
would feel relieved.”

“Oh, child,” groaned Uncle Joshua, “don't say so. I
was mighty mean I know, but I never got to that.”

After a moment Julia continued: “In those close, heated
rooms, there was a ray of sunlight, which in its gentle love
for me, reminded me of Fanny.” And then she told them
of poor Jenny, of her sufferings, and early death. “After
Jenny's death,” said she, “I was desolate indeed. She
seemed constantly before me, and I was haunted by the
thought, `What if it had been I, with all my load of guilt?'

Among Jenny's books was a Bible, which I had frequently
seen her read. When her clothes were sent to her mother,
I kept the Bible, reading it at first for Jenny's sake, and afterward
for the precious truths it contained, and now, though
I may not hope I am a Christian, I am changed in more
points than one.”

Then she told them of the letter she had heard Florence
read, and which had determined her to return home. “We
reached Lexington,” said she, “about nine o'clock in the
evening, and as I thought my baggage might incommode
me, I purposely left it there, but hired a boy to bring me
home. When we reached the gate at the entrance of the
woods, I told him he could return, as I preferred going the
remainder of the way alone. He seemed surprised, but complied
with my request. I had never heard of the new house,
and as I drew near I was puzzled, and fancied I was wrong;
but Tiger bounded forward, at first angrily, then joyfully,
and I knew I was right. All about the house was so dark,
so still, that a dreadful foreboding filled my heart,—a fear
that mother might be dead. I remembered the little grave-yard,
and instantly bent my steps thither. I saw the costly
marble and the carefully kept grave, and a thrill of joy ran
through my veins, for they told me I was kindly remembered
in the home I had so darkened. But another object riveted
my attention. It was a fresh mound, and I knew full well
who rested there. Never have I shed such tears of anguish
as fell upon the sod which covers my sainted mother. In
the intensity of my grief I was not conscious of Fanny's approach
until she stood near me. The rest you know; and
now, father, will you receive to your home and affection one
who has so widely strayed?”

“Willin'ly, most willin'ly,” said Uncle Joshua, as he folded
her to his bosom, “and if I'd done as I or'to, a heap of this
wouldn't have happened. Oh, I didn't or'to do so, I didn't;

and I ain't goin' to, any more. You shall live with me when
Sunshine's gone; and we would be so happy, if your poor
mother could only see us and know it all.”

From that time, nothing could exceed Uncle Joshua's
kindness to his daughter. He seemed indeed trying to make
up for the past, and frequently would he whisper to himself,
“No, I didn't or'to do so. I see more and more that I
didn't.” Still his fondness for Fanny was undiminished, and
occasionally, after looking earnestly at both his children, he
would exclaim, “Hang me, if I don't b'lieve Sunshine is a
heap the handsomest;” but if these words caused Julia any
emotion, 'twas never betrayed.

From Julia's story, there could be no doubt that the
maniac girl was laid in the grave, which Uncle Joshua had
thought belonged to his daughter. No tidings of her had
been heard, although one gentleman thought that he once
had met with a girl answering to her description in the stage-coach
between Lexington and Cincinnati. All search in that
quarter was unavailing, and over her fate a dark mystery
lay, until Julia suddenly appeared and threw light upon the
matter. The afflicted father (for she had no mother) was
sent for, and when told where his child was laid, asked permission
to have her disinterred and taken to his family burial
place. His request was granted, the grave was opened, and
then refilled and levelled with the earth. The monument
Julia took care to have carefully preserved as a memento of
the olden time.

As will be supposed, Julia's return furnished the neighborhood
and surrounding country with a topic of conversation
for many weeks. At first nearly all treated her with
cool neglect; but as she kept entirely at home, curiosity to
see one who had, as it were, come back from the dead, triumphed
overall other feelings; and at last, all who came to
see Fanny asked also for her sister.

Among the few who at once hastened to give the penitent
girl the hand of friendship, was Kate Miller; and as she
marked her gentle manners and the subdued glance of her
still somewhat haughty eyes, she wound her arm about her
neck and whispered, “I shall in time learn to love you dearly
for the sake of more than one.”

Julia comprehended her, or thought she did, and answered,
“Oh, Mrs. Miller, that one dreadful crime has troubled
me more than all the rest. I killed him, your noble
brother, and from the moment I deliberately determined to
do so, I became leagued with the tempter, who lured me
madly on. But I outdid myself, and was entangled in the
snare my own hands had laid.”

“It is ever so,” answered Kate. “Our most secret sins
will in the end surely find us out.”

Lest the reader should think us guilty of exaggeration,
and so credit nothing we have written, we must tell them
that Julia was not wholly and entirely changed. But that
good influences were at work, no one would doubt who had
seen her once and who saw her now. Even Judy, who had
predicted all manner of evil for her colored brethren, when
Julia should be sole mistress of the house, now changed her
mind, and admitted that “though Miss Julia wasn't to be
named the same day 'long of Sunshine, she done pretty well,
considerin'.” Occasionally flashes of her hasty temper appeared;
but, like “heat lightning,” they did no harm, and
were followed by no thunder, Uncle Joshua having ceased
to act in that capacity!

Before Dr. Lacey and Fanny returned to New Orleans,
they saw Florence Woodburn, with a happy, loving heart,
give her hand to Frank Cameron, who ever cherished for
his young wife a tenderness as deep as he ever could have
felt for Fanny Middleton. When he took his bride to New-York,
she was received by his mother and sister with a profusion

of love, so perfectly overwhelming, that poor Florence
was guilty of several misdemeanors. We cannot do better
than to give a part of a letter which she wrote to Fanny
two weeks after her arrival in the city.

The next letter which came from Florence brought the
intelligence that Gertrude was married to a Mr. Somebody
and gone Somewhere, Halifax perhaps; that Florence and
Frank were keeping house, and that Mrs. Senior came around
every day to see who had called, and if Mrs. Junior had a
cold.

Two years after Florence again wrote that Mrs. Grandma
now came twice a day and petted little Frank until he actually
began to look and act just like her!

The reader is perhaps anxious to know whether back
across the Atlantic, Ashton brought his Spanish bride. Yes,
he did. Mr. William Middleton accompanied him to the house
of Sir Arthur Effingham, whom they found to be dying; his
property was gone, and he feared that he must leave the
youthful Inez to the cold charities of the world and a miserly
brother. When Mr. Middleton made himself known, the
dying man pointed to Inez and said, “You once loved the
mother; care for the daughter when I am gone, will you?”

“I will,” answered Mr. Middleton, “on condition that

you consent to having a young friend of mine share the care
with me.” At the same time he presented Ashton.

Sir Arthur recognized him immediately and answered,
“Willingly, most willingly, I was a fool to spurn you once
as I did.”

In a few hours Sir Arthur was dead, and Inez was an
orphan. But her grief was soothed by the presence of Ashton,
who, a few days before sailing for America, made her his
wife. During the voyage Mr. Middleton informed Ashton
that as soon as he reached home he intended making his
will, by which he should bequeathe his property to Inez. Said
he, “I have spent so many years of my life in India, that I
find the climate of New Orleans more congenial to my feelings
than a colder one would be, consequently I shall purchase
a house in that city, and as I look upon you and Inez
as my children, I shall insist upon your living with me if
you have no objection.”

Ashton had never looked for such good fortune. Years
before, he had been of rather reckless, dissipated habits and
his appearance still showed marks of having lived too fast.
But recently he was very much changed, and with a Nellie
for a sister and Inez for a wife, he became a substantial and
highly respectable man. Mr. Middleton purchased for a
winter residence a house near Dr. Lacey's, and between
Fanny and Inez there sprang up a strong ardent affection.
Inez had never had a sister and she readily turned to Fanny,
who reciprocated her love.

The spring following Dr. Lacey's return to New Orleans,
Uncle Joshua was thrown into a great ferment by a letter
from Fanny, in which she said it would be impossible for
them to visit Kentucky that summer, and that they would
spend the season near the Lake, where she urged her father
and Julia to join them. This last proposal was out of the
question, as Mr. Middleton was sure he could not exist in a

climate where the thermometer stood a degree higher than
it did in Kentucky, and Julia felt a decided aversion to New
Orleans. So for two weeks Uncle Joshua fretted because
Fanny could not come, wondering what was in the wind,
and making himself and every body else generally uncomfortable.

At last Julia, whom her father now honored with the
appellation of his “Gale,” suggested that as they could not
see Fanny and would not go to New Orleans, they might
take a trip through the Northern States, saying that she
knew her Uncle William would be pleased to accompany
them. “Well, we'll see,” said her father, who seemed rather
pleased with the idea.

The result of his seeing was that about the middle of
June a party of three stepped from the Diana at Cincinnati,
and took the morning train for Cleveland. In the features
and dress of one of the individuals we readily recognize Uncle
Joshua, who, with a little pardonable pride managed to
let more than one fellow-traveller know that “he was a heap
richer than he looked to be;” that “he owned fifty niggers
and as many horses;” that “the handsome young lady with
the dark blue travelling dress, buttoned with real gold buttons,
was his daughter;” that “she had a sister married to
Dr. Lacey, of New Orleans;” and lastly, that “the gentlemanly
looking man, who accompanied them and seemed to
know so much more about marners and travellin' than he
did, was his brother Bill, who made his fortin' in the Indies
and was now livin' on the interest on't.”

They were an interesting group and attracted the attention
of many, who wondered why Julia should seem so sad
and her father so frequently called her his “Gale.” They
went through the Northern States, visiting the principal
cities and watering-places, where it required all of Julia's
watchfulness and forbearance to keep the father straight.

Twice the old gentleman lost his temper, because she insisted
upon his having a clean collar every day. “No use on't,”
said he, the morning after their arrival at Saratoga, as on
the piazza they were reasoning the matter. “No use on't,
I never wore none at home, and they make me feel so starched
up and stiff like.”

This was said in the hearing of two ladies, both of whom
were coolly inspecting our friend through an opera glass.
With a suppressed giggle they turned to enter the house, the
eldest of them saying, “Do, Gertrude, try and find your father
and ask him who that old savage is?”

“Ho, my fine madam,” said the “old savage,” “I can
tell you and save you the trouble. I'm Josh Middleton,
from Kentucky, and this is my daughter Julia.”

“Fanny Middleton's father,” said Mrs. Cameron, immediately
changing her manner and offering her hand, while
Gertrude flew to Julia's side, overwhelming her with a thousand
questions concerning “Cousin Kate,” and Fanny, the
latter of whom, “we were so delighted with.”

But neither Mr. Middleton nor his daughter could be
talked over, and before they left the Springs Mrs. Cameron
decided that the father was “not half civilized,” and the
daughter “quite ordinary looking.”

About the middle of September our friends started to
return home. At Cincinnati they called upon Miss Dillon,
who was delighted at again seeing “Lucy Brown.” Several
of the old girls were there, but they seemed somewhat
awed by the elegant appearance of their former companion.
Before leaving the city Julia and her father visited Jenny's
grave. On it there bloomed a fair white rose, which Julia
gathered and still preserves as a memorial of her young
friend.

The last week in September they reached home, greatly
to Uncle Joshua's satisfaction, as he said, “he'd been so

cramped up and purlite, that he hadn't more'n half enjoyed
himself, and it had cost him a heap of money too.” For a
long time after his return he tried hard to introduce upon
his plantation the same conveniences, order, and thrift, which
had pleased him so much at the North, but like all other
slaveholders he was obliged to give it up, saying, that “if
he would have niggers, he s'posed he must put up with nigger
fixin's.”

During the winter, Fanny wrote frequently to her father,
urging him to visit her; but this he declined doing, and early
the following May, he stood one evening impatiently
awaiting the arrival of Ike, who had gone to Frankfort with
the expectation of meeting Fanny and her husband. Every
thing had been put in readiness. The parlors and best
chamber were opened and aired. The carriage and carriage
horses had been brushed up, a new saddle had been bought
for Fanny's pony, and a new dress for each of the black women,
and every thing and every body seemed expecting a
joyful time. With praiseworthy perseverance Julia had at
length coaxed her father into one of the offending collars,
and for the twentieth time he had in the same breath declared,
that “he wouldn't war it, and that he'd gin up looking
for Sunshine, for she wasn't coming,” when from the group
of woolly heads perched on the fence in the rear of the
house, there came the glad cry, “Thar, that's Ike. Somebody's
with him. They're comin'.”

In an instant the collar was forgotten, and as the carriage
approached the house, Uncle Joshua looked wistfully towards
it, trying to catch a glimpse of “Sunshine,” whom he
had not seen for nearly a year and a half. But only the
face of a little negro girl was seen looking from the window,
and Uncle Joshua exclaimed, “Now, what's possessed them
to fetch that yaller gal! I've got niggers enough to wait
on 'em.”

But the “yaller gal” knew very well why she was there,
and so ere long did Uncle Joshua. The steps were let down,
and there, blithesome and gay as ever, Fanny sprang from
the carriage and ran into the arms of her father, who kissed
her again and again, holding her off to look at her and then
again drawing her to him and saying, “You're handsomer
than ever.”

During this process the yellow girl, Rose, had brought
from the carriage a mysterious looking bundle of flannel
and white cambric, which now in Dr. Lacey's arms, was
crowing with delight as its little nurse bobbed up and down,
making at it all sorts of grimaces.

“What the —, no, I forgot, I didn't mean so. But,
what-is-that!!” said Uncle Joshua, releasing Fanny and advancing
towards Dr. Lacey, who proudly placed in his arms
a beautiful nine months old baby, saying, “We have brought
you a second Sunshine.”

Then through the house there echoed a laugh so long
and loud that all the blacks, who were not on the spot,
hastened thither and on learning the cause of the disturbance,
they, too, joined in the general joy with noisy demonstrations.
“Oh, a baby, a little live baby, and Miss Fanny's
baby too! How funny!” said Bob, as his heels flew into
the air, and he went through with a set of gymnastic exercises,
which would have done credit to the most practised
circus performer.

Meantime little Anna Lacey, on whose account all this
rejoicing was made, was amusing herself by burying her little
chubby hands in her grandfather's hair. Fanny remonstrated,
but her father said, “Let her alone;—let her work.
She may pull every hair out of my head if she wants to.
But what made you keep it so still? Why didn't you write
about it?”

“Because,” answered Fanny, “we at first thought you

would surely visit us in the winter, and we wished to surprise
you; but you did not come, and then I took a fancy to
keep it from you until we came home, so I did not write,
and I made Inez and Uncle William promise not to. Perhaps
it was wrong, but I shan't do it again, for I did so want
to tell you.”

“All right, all right,” said Uncle Joshua, “and to-morrow
I'll go after Kate and her boy, and have 'em all here
together.”

But when the morrow came he found it impossible to
leave his new Sunshine, and Ike was sent for Mrs. Miller,
who came gladly to see her old friend. All that afternoon
Uncle Joshua sat with his grand-daughter on one knee and
little Dick Wilmot on the other, dancing them up and down
in a manner highly alarming to their mothers and highly
pleasing to the babies. The next day Kate returned home.
As she was stepping into the carriage Uncle Joshua placed
in her hands a sealed package, saying, “Wait till you get
home before you open it.” She did so, and then found it
to be a deed to little Richard of a house and lot which Mr.
Middleton owned in Frankfort. Accompanying the deed
was a note, in which was written, “Don't hurt yourselves a
thankin' me, for it's Julia's doin's. She first thought on't
and put me up to it, though she don't want you to know it.
I reckon she did it because the boy is named after poor
Dick.”

When next Mr. Middleton went to Frankfort, both Mr.
Miller and Kate remonstrated at receiving so much at his
hands, but he replied, “You may as well take it, for if poor
boy Dick had lived I should have gin him a heap more,
and a house won't come amiss to you and Katy. I s'pose
you're too good abolitionists to own niggers, so I'll lend you
Luce, who'll be mighty tickled to come and live with you,

for she thinks there's only two ladies in the world; one's
Sunshine and t'other's Kate.”

In a few days Mr. William Middleton, Inez and her husband,
came from New Orleans. The greater part of the
summer they spent at the house of Uncle Joshua, where, together
with Dr. Lacey and Fanny, they formed as happy a
party as one will often find.

Julia alone seemed not to share the general happiness.
She could not forget the past, and whenever Dr. Lacey was
present, seemed under a painful restraint. Frequently she
would steal away, taking with her Anna, and if he were
present little Richard, whom she seemed to love even better
than she did her niece. For hours she would amuse them
in her own room, much to the satisfaction of the little negro
girls who had the charge of them, and who spent the
time in a manner far more congenial to their tastes.

During the summer Lida Gibson wrote to Fanny, saying
that Mabel Mortimer, having lost both the Doctor and Mr.
Ashton, had at last taken up with her brother John, who
had danced attendance upon her for several years. “As
for me,” said Lida, “I have reached the advanced age of
twenty-two without ever having had an offer, so I have
given up in despair and am looking forward to a long life of
single-blessedness.”

“Fetch her up with you next summer,” said Uncle Joshua,
“and if Bill Jeffrey is alive she'll have a chance to
brag of at least one offer.”

In November Dr. Lacey again went South. Uncle Joshua
accompanied them as far as Frankfort, clinging till the
last to little Anna, whom he had petted till she was nearly
spoiled. Dreary and desolate indeed seemed the house
when the old man returned to it. Every thing reminded
him of the absent ones, and when he accidentally came upon
a bauble with which Anna had played, he was entirely

overcome, and laying his head upon the table, cried like
a child.

Softly a dark-eyed girl approached him, and throwing
her arm across his neck and wiping away his tears, said,
“Father, don't do so. They'll come again, and besides that,
you are not all alone, for I am left, and you love me a little,
don't you?”

“Yes, yes!” said he, and drying his eyes, he drew her
near to him, and added, “thank God, who restored you
to me, my Tempest, my Gale, my Julia.”