University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
THE EMIGRANTS.

“What makes you keep that big blue sun-bonnet drawn so
closely over your face? are you afraid of having it seen?”

The person addressed was a pale, sickly-looking child
about nine years of age, who, on the deck of the vessel Windermere,
was gazing intently towards the distant shores of
old England, which were fast receding from view. Near her
a fine-looking boy of fourteen was standing, and trying in
vain to gain a look at the features so securely shaded from
view by the gingham bonnet.

At the sound of his voice the little girl started, and without
turning her head, replied, “Nobody wants to see me, I
am so ugly and disagreeable.”

“Ugly are you?” repeated the boy, and at the same time
lifting her up and forcibly holding her hands, he succeeded in
looking her fully in the face. “Well, you are not very
handsome, that's a fact,” said he, after satisfying his curiosity;
“but I wouldn't be sullen about it. Ugly people are

always smart, and perhaps you are. Any way, I like little
girls, so just let me sit here and get acquainted.”

Mary Howard, the child thus introduced to our readers, was
certainly not very handsome. Her features, though tolerably
regular, were small and thin, her complexion sallow, and her
eyes, though bright and expressive, seemed too large for her face.
She had naturally a fine set of teeth, but their beauty was impaired
by two larger ones, which, on each side of her mouth,
grew directly over the others, giving to the lower portion
of her face a peculiar and rather disagreeable expression.
She had frequently been told that she was homely, and often
when alone had wept, and wondered why she, too, was not
handsome like her sister Ella, on whose cheek the softest
rose was blooming, while her rich brown hair fell in wavy
masses about her white neck and shoulders. But if Ella was
more beautiful than Mary, there was far less in her character
to admire. She knew that she was pretty, and this made
her proud and selfish, expecting attention from all, and growing
sullen and angry if it was withheld.

Mrs. Howard, the mother of these children, had incurred
the displeasure of her father, a wealthy Englishman, by marrying
her music teacher, whose dark eyes had played the
mischief with her heart, while his fingers played its accompaniment
on the guitar. Humbly at her father's feet she
had knelt and sued for pardon, but the old man was inexorable,
and turned her from his house, cursing the fate which
had now deprived him, as it were, of his only remaining
daughter. Late in life he had married a youthful widow,
who after the lapse of a few years died, leaving three little
girls, Sarah, Ella, and Jane, two of them his own, and one a
step-daughter and a child of his wife's first marriage.

As a last request Mrs. Temple had asked that her baby
Jane should be given to the care of her sister, Mrs. Morris,

who was on the eve of embarking for America, and who
within four weeks after her sister's death sailed with her
young niece for Boston. Sarah, too, was adopted by her
father's brother; and thus Mr. Temple was left alone with
his eldest daughter, Ella. Occasionally he heard from Jane,
but time and distance gradually weakened the tie of parental
affection, which wound itself more closely around Ella;
and now, when she, too, left him, and worse than all, married
a poor music teacher, the old man's wrath knew no
bounds.

“But, we'll see,” said he, as with his hands behind him,
and his head bent forward, he strode up and down the room—
“we'll see how they'll get on. I'll use all my influence
against the dog, and when Miss Ella's right cold and
hungry, she'll be glad to come back and leave him.”

But he was mistaken, for though right cold and hungry
Ella ofttimes was, she only clung the closer to her husband,
happy to share his fortune, whatever it might be. Two years
after her marriage, hearing that her father was dangerously
ill, she went to him, but the forgiveness she so ardently
desired was never gained, for the old man's reason was gone.
Faithfully she watched until the end, and then when she
heard read his will (made in a fit of anger), and knew that his
property was all bequeathed to her sister in America, she
crushed the tears from her long eyelashes and went back to
her humble home, prepared to meet the worst.

In course of time three children, Frank, Mary, and Ella,
were added to their number, and though their presence
brought sunshine and gladness, it brought also an increase
of toil and care. Year after year Mr. Howard struggled on,
while each day rumors reached him of the plenty to be had in
the land beyond the sea; and at last, when hope seemed dying
out, and even his brave-hearted Ella smiled less cheerfully

than was her wont to do, he resolved to try his fortune in the
far-famed home of the weary emigrant. This resolution he
communicated to his wife, who gladly consented to accompany
him, for England now held nothing dear to her save
the graves of her parents, and in the western world she
knew she had two sisters, Sarah having some years before
gone with her uncle to New York.

Accordingly the necessary preparations for their voyage
were made as soon as possible, and when the Windermere
left the harbor of Liverpool, they stood upon her deck,
waving a last adieu to the few kind friends, who on shore
were bidding them “God speed.”

Among the passengers was George Moreland, whose parents
had died some months before, leaving him and a large fortune
to the guardianship of his uncle, a wealthy merchant residing
in Boston. This uncle, Mr. Selden, had written for his
nephew to join him in America, and it was for this purpose
that George had taken passage in the Windermere. He
was a frank, generous-hearted boy, and though sometimes a
little too much inclined to tease, he was usually a favorite with
all who knew him. He was a passionate admirer of beauty,
and the moment the Howards came on board and he caught
a sight of Ella, he felt irresistibly attracted towards her, and
ere long had completely won her heart by coaxing her into
his lap and praising her glossy curls. Mary, whose sensitive
nature shrank from the observation of strangers, and
who felt that one as handsome as George Moreland must
necessarily laugh at her, kept aloof, and successfully cluded
all his efforts to look under her bonnet. This aroused his
curiosity, and when he saw her move away to a distant part
of the vessel, he followed her, addressing to her the remark
with which we commenced this chapter. As George had
said, he liked little girls, though he greatly preferred talking

to pretty ones. On this occasion, however, he resolved to
make himself agreeable, and in ten minutes' time he had so far
succeeded in gaining Mary's friendship, that she allowed him
to untie the blue bonnet, which he carefully removed, and
then when she did not know it, he scanned her features attentively,
as if trying to discover all the beauty there was in them.

At last gently smoothing back her hair, which was really
bright and glossy, he said, “Who told you that you were
so ugly looking?” The tears started to Mary's eyes, and
her chin quivered, as she replied, “Father says so, Ella says
so, and every body says so, but mother and Franky.”

“Every body doesn't always tell the truth,” said George,
wishing to administer as much comfort as possible. “You've
got pretty blue eyes, nice brown hair, and your forehead, too,
is broad and high; now if you hadn't such a muddy complexion,
bony cheeks, little nose, big ears and awful teeth,
you wouldn't be such a fright!”

George's propensity to tease had come upon him, and in
enumerating the defects in Mary's face, he purposely magnified
them; but he regretted it, when he saw the effect his
words produced. Hiding her face in her hands, Mary burst
into a passionate fit of weeping, then snatching the bonnet from
George's lap, she threw it on her head and was hurrying
away, when George caught her and pulling her back, said,
“Forgive me, Mary. I couldn't help plaguing you a little,
but I'll try and not do it again.”

For a time George kept this resolution, but he could not
conceal the preference which he felt for Ella, whose doll-like
face, and childish ways were far more in keeping with his
taste, than Mary's old look and still older manner. Whenever
he noticed her at all, he spoke kindly to her; but she
knew there was a great difference between his treatment of
her and Ella, and oftentimes, when saying her evening prayer,

she prayed that George Moreland might love her a little,
just a little.”

Two weeks had passed since the last vestige of land had
disappeared from view, and then George was taken dangerously
ill with fever. Mrs. Howard herself visited him
frequently, but she commanded her children to keep away,
lest they, too, should take the disease. For a day or two
Mary obeyed her mother, and then curiosity led her near
George's berth. For several minutes she lingered, and was
about turning away when a low moan fell on her ear and
arrested her footsteps. Her mother's commands were forgotten,
and in a moment she stood by George's bedside.
Tenderly she smoothed his tumbled pillow, moistened his
parched lips, and bathed his feverish brow, and when, an hour
afterward, the physician entered, he found his patient calmly
sleeping, with one hand clasped in that of Mary, who with
the other fanned the sick boy with the same blue gingham
sun-bonnet, of which he had once made fun, saying it looked
like its owner, “rather skim-milky.”

“Mary! Mary Howard!” said the physician, “this is
no place for you,” and he endeavored to lead her away.

This aroused George, who begged so hard for her to
remain, that the physician went in quest of Mrs. Howard,
who rather unwillingly consented, and Mary was duly
installed as nurse in the sick room. Perfectly delighted
with her new vocation, she would sit for hours by her
charge, watching each change in his features and anticipating
as far as possible his wants. She possessed a very sweet,
clear voice; and frequently, when all other means had failed
to quiet him, she would bend her face near his and taking
his hands in hers, would sing to him some simple song of home,
until lulled by the soft music he would fall away to sleep.
Such unwearied kindness was not without its effect upon

George, and one day when Mary as usual was sitting near
him, he called her to his side, and taking her face between
his hands, kissed her forehead and lips, saying, “What can
I ever do to pay my little nurse for her kindness?”

Mary hesitated a moment, and then replied, “Love me
as well as you do Ella!”

“As well as I do Ella!” he repeated, “I love you a
great deal better. She has not been to see me once. What
is the reason?”

Frank, who a moment before had stolen to Mary's side,
answered for her, saying, “some one had told Ella that if
she should have the fever, her curls would all drop off; and
so,” said he, “she won't come near you!”

Just then Mrs. Howard appeared, and this time she was
accompanied by Ella, who clung closely to her mother's skirt,
looking cautiously out from its thick folds. George did not
as usual caress her, but he asked her mockingly, “if her hair
had commenced coming out!” while Ella only answered by
grasping at her long curls, as if to assure herself of their
safety.

In a few days George was able to go on deck, and though
he still petted and played with Ella, he never again slighted
Mary, or forgot that she was present. More than once, too, a
kind word, or affectionate look from him, sent such a glow
to her cheek and sparkle to her eye, that Frank, who always
loved her best, declared, “she was as pretty as Ella any day
if she'd break herself of putting her hand to her mouth
whenever she saw one looking at her,” a habit which she had
acquired from being so frequently told of her uneven teeth.

At last after many weary days at sea, there came the joyful
news that land was in sight; and next morning, when the
children awoke, the motion of the vessel had ceased, and
Boston, with its numerous domes and spires, was before them.

Towards noon a pleasant-looking, middle-aged man came on
board, inquiring for George Moreland, and announcing himself
as Mr. Selden. George immediately stepped forward,
and after greeting his uncle, introduced Mr. and Mrs. Howard,
speaking at the same time of their kindness to him during
his illness.

All was now confusion, but in the hurry and bustle of
going ashore, George did not forget Mary. Taking her
aside, he threw round her neck a small golden chain, to
which was attached a locket containing a miniature likeness
of himself painted a year before.

“Keep it,” said he, “to remember me by, or if you get
tired of it, give it to Ella for a plaything.”

“I wish I had one for you,” said Mary; and George replied,
“Never mind, I can remember your looks without a
likeness. I've only to shut my eyes, and a little forlorn, sallow-faced,
old-looking girl, with crooked teeth—.”

He was prevented from finishing his speech by a low cry
from Mary, who, pressing his hands in hers, looked beseechingly
in his face, and said, “Oh, don't, George!—don't talk
so.”

He had not teased her about her looks for a long time,
and now just as he was leaving her, 'twas more than she
could bear. Instantly regretting his thoughtless words,
George took her in his arms, and wiping away her tears, said,
“Forgive me, Mary. I don't know what made me say so,
for I do love you dearly, and always will. You have been
kind to me, and I shall remember it, and some time, perhaps,
repay it.” Then putting her down, and bidding adieu
to Mr. and Mrs. Howard, Frank, and Ella, he sprang into
his uncle's carriage, and was rapidly driven away.

Mary looked after him as long as the heads of the white
horses were in sight, and then taking Frank's hand, followed

her parents to the hotel, where for a few days they had determined
to stop while Mrs. Howard made inquiries for her
sister.

Meantime, from the richly curtained windows of a large
handsome building a little girl looked out, impatiently waiting
her father's return, wondering why he was gone so long,
and if she should like her cousin George, or whether he was
a bearish looking fellow, with warty hands, who would tease
her pet kitten and ink the faces of her doll babies. In the
centre of the room the dinner table was standing, and Ida
Selden had twice changed the location of her cousin's plate,
once placing it at her side, and lastly putting it directly in
front, so she could have a fair view of his face.

“Why don't they come?” she had said for the twentieth
time, when the sound of carriage wheels in the yard below
made her start up, and running down stairs, she was soon
shaking the hands of her cousin, whom she decided to be
handsome, though she felt puzzled to know whether her kitten
and dolls were in any immediate danger or not!

Placing her arm affectionately around him, she led him
into the parlor, saying, “I am so glad that you have come to
live with me and be my brother. We'll have real nice
times, but perhaps you dislike little girls. Did you ever see
one that you loved?”

“Yes, two,” was the answer. “My cousin Ida, and one
other.”

“Oh, who is she?” asked Ida. “Tell me all about her.
How does she look? Is she pretty?”

Instantly as George had predicted, there came before his
vision the image of “a forlorn-looking, sallow-faced child,”
whom he did not care about describing to Ida. She, however,
insisted upon a description, and that evening when tea
was over, the lamps lighted, and Mr. Selden reading the

paper, George told her of Mary, who had watched so kindly
over him during the weary days of his illness. Contrary to
his expectations, she did not laugh at the picture which he
drew of Mary's face, but simply said, “I know I should like
her.” Then after a moment's pause, she continued; “They
are poor, you say, and Mr. Howard is a music teacher.
Monsieur Duprês has just left me, and who knows but papa
can get Mr. Howard to fill his place.”

When the subject was referred to her father, he said
that he had liked the appearance of Mr. Howard, and would
if possible find him on the morrow and engage his services.
The next morning Ida awoke with an uncomfortable impression
that something was the matter with the weather. Raising
herself on her elbow, and pushing back the heavy curtains,
she looked out and saw that the sky was dark with
angry clouds, from which the rain was steadily falling,—not
in drizzly showers, but in large round drops, which beat
against the casement and then bounded off upon the pavement
below.

All thoughts of Mr. Howard were given up for that day,
and as every moment of Mr. Selden's time was employed for
several successive ones, it was nearly a week after George's
arrival before any inquiries were made for the family. The
hotel at which they had stopped was then found, but Mr. Selden
was told that the persons whom he was seeking had left
the day before for one of the inland towns, though which one
he could not ascertain.

“I knew 'twould be so,” said Ida rather fretfully;
“father might have gone that rainy day as well as not.
Now we shall never see nor hear from them again, and
George will be so disappointed.” But George's disappointment
was soon forgotten in the pleasures and excitements
of school, and if occasionally thoughts of Mary Howard came

over him, they were generally dispelled by the lively sallies
of his sprightly little cousin, who often declared that “she
should be dreadfully jealous of George's travelling companion,
were it not that he was a great admirer of beauty,
and that Mary was terribly ugly.”