University of Virginia Library

Rice Corner.

1. CHAPTER I.
RICE CORNER.

Yes, Rice Corner! Do you think it a queer name?
Well, Rice Corner was a queer place, and deserved a
queer name. Now whether it is celebrated for anything
in particular, I really can't, at this moment, think, unless,
indeed, it is famed for having been my birth-place!
Whether this of itself is sufficient to immortalize a place,
future generations may, perhaps, tell, but I have some misgivings
whether the present will. This idea may be the
result of my having recently received sundry knocks over
the knuckles in the shape of criticisms.

But I know one thing,—on the bark of that old chestnut
tree which stands near Rice Corner school-house, my
name is cut higher than some of my more bulky cotemporary
quill—or rather steel—pen-wielders ever dared to
climb. To be sure, I tore my dress, scratched my face,
and committed numerous other little rompish miss-demeanors,
which procured for me a motherly scolding.
That, however, was of minor consideration, when compared
with having my name up—in the chestnut tree, at
least, if it couldn't be up in the world. But pardon my
egotism, and I will proceed with my story about Rice
Corner.

Does any one wish to know whereabouts on this rolling

sphere Rice Corner is situated? I don't believe you can
find it on the map, unless your eyes are bluer and bigger
than mine, which last they can't very well be. But I can
tell you to a dot where Rice Corner should be. Just
take your atlas,—not the last one published, but Olney's,
that's the one I studied,—and right in one of those little
towns in Worcester county is Rice Corner, snugly nestled
among the gray rocks and blue hills of New England.

Yes, Rice Corner was a great place, and so you would
have thought could you have seen it in all its phases,
with its brown, red, green, yellow, and white houses, each
of which had the usual quantity of rose bushes, lilacs,
hollyhocks, and sunflowers. You should have seen my
home, my New England home, where once, not many
years ago, a happy group of children played. Alas! alas!
some of those who gave the sunlight to that spot, have
left us now forever, and on the bright shores of the eternal
river they wait and watch our coming. I do not expect
a stranger to love our old homestead as I loved it, for
in each heart is a fresh, green spot—the memory of its
own early home—where the sunshine was brighter, the
well waters cooler, and the song-bird's carol sweeter than
elsewhere they are found.

I trust I shall be forgiven, if, in this chapter, I pause
awhile to speak of my home,—aye, and of myself, too,
when, a light-hearted child, I bounded through the meadows
and orchards which lay around the old brown house
on my father's farm. 'Twas a large, square, two-storied
building, that old brown farm-house, containing rooms,
cupboards, and closets innumerable, and what was better
than all, a large, airy garret, where, on all rainy days,
and days when it looked as if it would rain, Bill, Joe,
Lizzie and I, assembled to hold our noisy revels. Never,
since the days of our great-grandmothers, did little spinning

wheel buzz round faster than did the one which, in
the darkest corner of that garret, had been safely stowed
away, where they guessed “the young-ones would n't
find it.”

“Would n't find it!” I should like to know what
there was in that old garret that we did n't find, and appropriate,
too! Even the old oaken chest which contained
our grandmother's once fashionable attire, was not
sacred from the touch of our lawless hands. Into its
deep recesses we plunged, and brought out such curiosities,—the
queerest looking, high crowned, broad frilled
caps, narrow gored shirts, and what was funnier than all,
a strange looking thing which we thought must be a side-saddle,—any
way, it fitted Joe's rocking horse admirably,
although we wondered why so much whalebone was
necessary!

One day, in the midst of our gambols, in walked the
identical owner of the chest, and seeing the side-saddle,
she said, somewhat angrily, “Why, children, where upon
airth did you find my old stays?” We never wondered
again what made grandma's back keep its place so much
better than ours, and Bill had serious thoughts of trying
the effect of the stays upon himself.

In the rear of our house and sloping toward the setting
sun, was a long, winding lane, leading far down into
a wide-spreading tract of flowery woods, shady hillside,
and grassy pasture land, each in their turn highly suggestive
of brown nuts, delicious strawberries, and venomous
snakes. These last were generally more the creatures of
imagination than of reality, for in all my wanderings over
those fields, and they were many, I never but once trod
upon a green snake, and only once was I chased by a
white ringed black snake; so I think I am safe in saying

that the snakes were not so numerous as were the nuts
and berries, which grew there in great profusion.

A little to the right of the woods, where, in winter,
Bill, Joe, Lizzie, and I dragged our sleds and boards for
the purpose of riding down hill, was a merry, frolicking
stream of water, over which, in times long gone, a saw-mill
had been erected; but owing to the inefficiency of its
former owner, or something else, the mill had fallen into
disuse, and gradually gone to decay. The water of the
brook, relieved from the necessity of turning the spluttering
wheel, now went gaily dancing down, down into
the depths of the dim old woods, and far away, I never
knew exactly where; but having heard rumors of a jumping
off place, I had a vague impression that at that spot
the waters of the mill-dam put up!

Near the saw mill, and partially hidden by the scraggy
pine trees and thick bushes which drooped over its entrance,
was a long, dark passage, leading underground;
not so large, probably, as Mammoth Cave, but in my estimation
rivaling it in interest. This was an old mine,
where, years before, men had dug for gold. Strange
stories were told of those who, with blazing torches,
and blazing noses, most likely, there toiled for the yellow
dust. The “Ancient Henry” himself, it was said, sometimes
left his affairs at home, and joined the nightly revels
in that mine, where cards and wine played a conspicuous
part. Be that as it may, the old mine was surrounded
by a halo of fear, which we youngsters never
cared to penetrate.

On a fine afternoon an older sister would occasionally
wander that way, together with a young M. D., whose
principal patient seemed to be at our house, for his little
black pony very frequently found shelter in our stable by
the side of “old sorrel.” From the north garret window

I would watch them, wondering how they dared venture
so near the old mine, and wishing, mayhap, that the time
would come when I, with some daring doctor, would risk
everything. The time has come, but alas! instead of being
a doctor, he is only a lawyer, who never even saw
the old mine in Rice Corner.

Though I never ventured close to the old mine, there
was, not far from it, one pleasant spot where I loved
dearly to go. It was on the hillside, where, 'neath the
shadow of a gracefully twining grape-vine, lay a large,
flat rock. Thither would I often repair, and sit for hours
listening to the hum of the running water brook, or the
song of the summer birds, who, like me, seemed to love
that place. Often would I gaze far off at the distant,
misty horizon, wondering if I should ever know what
was beyond it. Wild fancies then filled my childish
brain. Strange voices whispered to me thoughts and
ideas, which, if written down and carried out, would, I
am sure, have placed my name higher than it was carved
on the old chestnut tree.

I was a strange child, I know. Everybody told me so,
and I knew it well enough without being told. The wise
old men of Rice Corner and their still wiser old wives,
looked at me askance, as 'neath the thorn-apple tree I
built my play-house and baked my little loaves of mud
bread. But when, forgetful of others, I talked aloud to
myriads of little folks, unseen 'tis true, but still real to
me, they shook their gray heads ominously, and whispering
to my mother said, “Mark our words, that girl will
one day be crazy. In ten years more she will be an inmate
of the mad-house!”

And then I wondered what a mad-house was, and if
the people there all acted as our school teacher did when
Bill and the big girls said he was mad! The ten years
have passed, and I'm not in a mad-house yet, unless, indeed,
it is one of my own getting up!

One thing more about Rice Corner, and then, honor
bright, I'll finish the preface and go on with the story. I
must tell you about the old school-house, and the road
which led to it. This last wound around a long hill, and
was skirted on either side with tall trees, flowering dog-wood,
blackberry bushes, and frost grape-vines. Halfway
down the hill, and under one of the tallest walnut trees,
was a little hollow, where dwelt the goblin with which
nurses, housemaids, hired men, and older sisters were
wont to frighten refractory children into quietness. It
was the grave of an old negro. Alas! that to his last
resting place the curse should follow him! Had it been
a white person who rested there, not half so fearful would
have been the spot; now, however, it was “the old nigger
hole” — a place to run by, if by accident you were
caught out after dark — a place to be threatened with, if
you cried in the night and wanted the candle lighted—a
landmark where to stop, when going part way home with
the little girl who had been to visit you, and who, on
leaving you, ran no less swiftly than you yourself did,
half fearing that the dusky form in the hollow would rise
and try his skill at running. Verily, my heart has beat
faster at the thoughts of that dead negro, than it ever has
since at the sight of a hundred live specimens, “way down
south on the old plantation.”

The old school-house, too, had its advantages and its
disadvantages; of the latter, one was that there, both
summer and winter, but more especially during the last
mentioned season, all the rude boys in the place thought

they had a perfect right to congregate and annoy the
girls in every possible way. But, never mind, not a few
wry faces we made at them, and not a few “blockheads”
we pinned to their backs! Oh! I've had rare times in
that old house, and have seen there rare sights, too, to
say nothing of the fights which occasionally occurred.
In these last, brother Joe generally took the lead of one
party, while Jim Brown commanded the other. Dire
was the confusion which reigned at such times. Books
were hurled from side to side. Then followed in quick
succession shovel, tongs, poker, water cup, water pail,
water and all; and to cap the climax, Jim Brown once
seized the large iron pan, which stood upon the stove, half
filled with hot water, and hurled it in the midst of the enemy.
Luckily nobody was killed, and but few wounded.

Years in their rapid flight have rolled away since then,
and he, my brother, is sleeping alone on the wild shore
of California.

James Brown, too, is resting in the church-yard, near
his own home, and 'neath his own native sky.

2. CHAPTER II.
THE BELLE OF RICE CORNER.

Yes, Rice Corner had a belle, but it was not I. Oh, no,
nobody ever mistook me for a belle, or much of anything
else, in fact; I was simply “Mary Jane,” or, if that was
not consise enough, “Crazy Jane,” set the matter all
right. The belle of which I speak was a bona fide one—
fine complexion, handsome features, beautiful eyes, curling
hair and all. And yet, in her composition there was
something wanting, something very essential, too; for
she lacked soul, and would at any time have sold her best
friend for a flattering compliment.

Still Carrie Howard was generally a favorite. The old
people liked her because her sparkling eye and merry
laugh brought back to them a gleam of youth; the young
people liked her, because to dislike her would seem like
envy; and I, who was nothing, liked her because she was
pretty, and I greatly admired beauty, though I am not
certain that I should not have liked a handsome rose-bud
quite as well as I did Carrie Howard's beautiful face, for
beautiful she was.

Her mother, good, plain Mrs. Howard, was entirely unlike
her daughter. She was simply “Mrs. Capt. Howard,”
or, in other words, “Aunt Eunice,” whose benevolent
smile and kindly beaming eye carried contentment
wherever she went. Really, I don't know how Rice Corner
could have existed one day without the presence of
Aunt Eunice. Was there a cut foot or hand in the neighborhood,
hers was the salve which healed it, almost as soon
as applied. Was there a pale, fretful baby, Aunt Eunice's
large bundle of catnip was sure to soothe it and did a sick

person need watchers, Aunt Eunice was the one who,
three nights out of the seven, trod softly and quietly
about the sick-room, anticipating each want before you
yourself knew what it was, and smoothing your tumbled
pillow so gently that you almost felt it a luxury to be
sick, for the sake of being nursed by Aunt Eunice. The
very dogs and cats winked more composedly when she
appeared; and even the chickens learned her voice almost
as soon as they did the cluck of their “maternal
ancestor.”

But we must stop, or we shall make Aunt Eunice
out to be the belle, instead of Carrie, who, instead of
imitating her mother in her acts of kindness, sat all day
in the large old parlor, thumping away on a rickety piano,
or trying to transfer to broadcloth a poor little kittie,
whose face was sufficiently indicative of surprise at finding
its limbs so frightfully distorted.

When Carrie was fifteen years of age, her father, concluding
that she knew all which could possibly be learned
in the little brown house, where Joe and Jim once fought
so fiercely, sent her for three years to Albany. It was
currently reported that the uncle with whom she boarded,
received his pay in butter, cheese, potatoes, apples, and
other commodities, which were the product of Capt.
Howard's farm. Whether this was true or not, I am
not prepared to say, but I suppose it was, for it was
told by those who had no ostensible business, except to
attend to other people's affairs, and I am sure they ought
to have known all about it, and probably did.

I cannot help thinking that Captain Howard made a
mistake in sending Carrie away; for when at the end of
three years she had “finished her education,” and returned
home, she was not half so good a scholar as some
of those who had pored patiently over their books in the

old brown house. Even I could beat her in spelling, for
soon after she came home the boys teased for a spelling-school.
I rather think they were quite as anxious for a
chance to go home with the girls as they were to have
their knowledge of Webster tested. Be that as it may,
Carrie was there, and was, of course, chosen first; but I,
“little crazy Jane,” spelled the whole school down! I
thought Carrie was not quite so handsome as she might
be, when with an angry frown she dropped into her seat,
hissed by a big, cross-eyed, red-haired boy, in the corner,
because she happened to spell pumpkin, “p-u-n pun k-i-n
kin, punkin.” I do not think she ever quite forgave me
for the pert, loud way in which I spelled the word correctly,
for she never gave me any more calicoes or silks,
and instead of calling me “Mollie,” as she had before
done, she now addressed me as “Miss Mary.”

Carrie possessed one accomplishment which the other
girls did not. She could play the piano most skillfully,
although as yet she had no instrument. Three weeks,
however, after her return, a rich man, who lived in the
village which was known as “Over the River,” failed, and
all his furniture was sold at auction. Many were the surmises
of my grandmother, on the morning of the sale, as
to what “Cap'n Howard could be going to buy at the
vandue and put in the big lumber wagon,” which he
drove past our house.

As the day drew to a close, I was posted at the window
to telegraph as soon as “Cap'n Howard's” white horses
appeared over the hill. They came at last, but the long
box in his wagon told no secret. Father, however, explained
all, by saying that he had bid off Mr. Talbott's
old piano for seventy dollars! Grandma shook her head
mournfully at the degeneracy of the age, while sister
Anna spoke sneeringly of Mr. Talbott's cracked piano.

Next day, arrayed in my Sunday red merino and white
apron—a present from some cousin out west—I went to
see Carrie; and truly, the music she drew from that old
piano charmed me more than the finest performances since
have done. Carrie and her piano were now the theme of
every tongue, and many wondered how Captain Howard
could afford to pay for three years' music lessons; but this
was a mystery yet to be solved.

3. CHAPTER III.
MONSIEUR PENOYER.

When Carrie had been at home about three months,
all Rice Corner one day flew to the doors and windows
to look at a stranger, a gentleman with fierce mustaches,
who seemed not at all certain of his latitude, and evidently
wanted to know where he was going. At least, if he
didn't, they who watched him did.

Grandma, whose longevity had not impaired her guessing
faculties, first suggested that “most likely it was Car'line
Howard's beau.” This was altogether too probable
to be doubted, and as grandmother had long contemplated
a visit to Aunt Eunice, she now determined to go
that very afternoon, as she “could judge for herself what
kind of a match Car'line had made.” Mother tried to
dissuade her from going that day, but the old lady was
incorrigible, and directly after dinner, dressed in her bombasin,
black silk apron, work bag, knitting and all, she departed
for Captain Howard's.

They wouldn't confess it, but I knew well enough that
Juliet and Anna were impatient for her return, and when
the shadows of twilight began to fall, I was twice sent into
the road to see if she was coming. The last time I was
successful, and in a few moments grandmother was among
us; but whatever she knew she kept to herself until the
lamps were lighted in the sitting-room, and she, in her
stuffed rocking-chair, was toeing off the stocking only
that morning commenced. Then, at a hint from Anna,
she cast toward Lizzie and me a rueful glance, saying,
“There are too many pitchers here!” I knew then just
as well as I did five minutes after, that Lizzie and I must
go to bed. There was no help for it, and we complied
with a tolerably good grace. Lizzie proposed that we
should listen, but somehow I couldn't do that, and up to this
time I don't exactly know what grandmother told them.

The next day, however, I heard enough to know that
his name was Penoyer; that grandma did n't like him;
that he had as much hair on his face as on his head; that
Aunt Eunice would oppose the match, and that he would
stay over Sunday. With this last I was delighted, for I
should see him at church. I saw him before that, however;
for it was unaccountable what a fancy Carrie suddenly
took for traversing the woods and riding on horseback,
for which purpose grandfather's side-saddle (not
the one with which Joe saddled his pony!) was borrowed,
and then, with her long curls and blue riding skirt floating
in the wind, Carrie galloped over hills and through valleys,
accompanied by Penoyer, who was a fierce looking
fellow, with black eyes, black hair, black whiskers, and
black face.

I couldn't help fancying that the negro who lay beneath
the walnut tree, had resembled him, and I cried for fear
Carrie might marry so ugly a man, thinking it would not

be altogether unlike, “Beauty and the Beast.” Sally, our
housemaid, said that “most likely he'd prove to be some
poor, mean scamp. Any way, seein' it was plantin' time,
he'd better be to hum tendin' to his own business, if he
had any.”

Sally was a shrewd, sharp-sighted girl, and already had
her preference in favor of Michael Welsh, father's hired
man. Walking, riding on horseback, and wasting time
generally, Sally held in great abhorrence. “All she
wished to say to Mike on week days, she could tell him
milking time.” On Sundays, however, it was different,
and regularly each Sunday night found Mike and Sally
snugly ensconced in the “great room,” while under the
windows occasionally might have been seen three or four
curly heads, eager to hear something about which to tease
Sally during the week.

But to return to Monsieur Penoyer, as Carrie called
him. His stay was prolonged beyond the Sabbath, and
on Tuesday I was sent to Capt. Howard's on an errand.
I found Aunt Eunice in the kitchen, her round, rosy face,
always suggestive of seed cake and plum pudding, flushed
with exertion, her sleeves tucked up and her arms buried
in a large wooden bowl of dough, which she said was going
to be made into loaves of 'lection cake, as Carrie was
to have a party to-morrow, and I had come just in time
to carry invitations to my sisters.

Carrie was in the parlor, and attracted by the sound of
music, I drew near the door, when Aunt Eunice kindly
bade me enter. I did so, and was presented to Monsieur Penoyer.
At first, I was shy of him, for I remembered that
Sally had said, “he don't know nothin',” and this in my estimation
was the worst crime of which he could be guilty.
Gradually, my timidity gave way, and when, at Carrie's

request, he played and sang for me, I was perfectly delighted,
although I understood not a word he said.

When he finished, Carrie told him I was a little poet,
and then repeated some foolish lines I had once written
about her eyes. It was a very handsome set of teeth
which he showed, as he said, “Magnifique! Tres bien!
She be another grand Dr. Watts!”

I knew not who Dr. Watts was, but on one point my
mind was made up—Monsieur Penoyer knew a great deal!
Ere I left, Carrie commissioned me to invite my sisters to
her party on the morrow, and as I was leaving the room,
M. Penoyer said, “Ma chere Carrie, why vous no invite
la petite girl!”

Accordingly I was invited, with no earthly prospect,
however, of mother's letting me go. And she didn't
either; so next day, after Juliet and Anna were gone, I
went out behind the smoke-house and cried until I got
sleepy, and a headache too; then, wishing to make mother
think I had run away, I crept carefully up stairs to Bill's
room, where I slept until Sally's sharp eyes ferreted me
out, saying, “they were all scared to death about me, and
had looked for me high and low,” up in the garret and
down in the well, I supposed. Concluding they were
plagued enough, I condescended to go down stairs, and have
my head bathed in camphor and my feet parboiled in hot
water; then I went to bed and dreamed of white teeth,
curling mustaches and “Parlez vous Francais.”

Of what occurred at the party I will tell you as it was
told to me. All the elite of Rice Corner were there, of
course, and as each new arrival entered the parlor, M.
Penoyer eyed them coolly through an opera glass. Sister
Anna returned his inspection with the worst face she could
well make up, for which I half blamed her and half didn't,

as I felt sure I should have done the same under like circumstances.

When all the invited guests had arrived, except myself,
(alas, no one asked why I tarried,) there ensued an awkward
silence, broken only by the parrot-like chatter of M.
Penoyer, who seemed determined to talk nothing but
French, although Carrie understood him but little better
than did the rest. At last he was posted up to the piano.

“Mon Dien, it be von horrid tone,” said he; then off
he dashed into a galloping waltz, keeping time with his
head, mouth, and eyes, which threatened to leave their
sockets and pounce upon the instrument. Rattlety-bang
went the piano—like lightning went Monsieur's fingers,
first here, then there, right or wrong, hit or miss, and oftener
miss than hit—now alighting among the keys promiscuously,
then with a tremendous thump making all
bound again, — and finishing up with a flourish, which
snapped two strings and made all the rest groan in sympathy,
as did the astonished listeners. For a time all was
still, and then a little modest girl, Lily Gordon, her face
blushing crimson, said, “I beg your pardon, Monsieur,
but haven't you taught music!”

The veins in his forehead swelled, as, darting a wrathful
look at poor Lily, he exclaimed, “Le Diable! vat vous
take me for? Von dem musique teacher, eh?”

Poor Lily tried to stammer her apologies, while Carrie
sought to soothe the enraged Frenchman, by saying, that
“Miss Gordon was merely complimenting his skill in
music.”

At this point, the carriage which carried persons to
and from the depot drove up, and from it alighted a very
small, genteel looking lady, who rapped at the door and
asked, “if Capt. Howard lived there.”

In a moment Carrie was half stifling her with kisses, exclaiming,

“Dear Agnes, this is a pleasant surprise. I did
not expect you so soon.”

The lady called Agnes, was introduced as Miss Hovey,
a school-mate of Carrie's. She seemed very much disposed
to make herself at home, for, throwing her hat in
one place and her shawl in another, she seated herself at
the piano, hastily running over a few notes; then with a
gesture of impatience, she said, “O, horrid! a few more
such sounds would give me the vapors for a month; why
don't you have it tuned?”

Ere Carrie could reply, Agnes' eyes lighted upon Penoyer,
who, either with or without design, had drawn
himself as closely into a corner as he well could. Springing
up, she brought her little hands together with energy,
exclaiming, “Now, heaven defend me, what fresh game
brought you here?” Then casting on Carrie an angry
glance, she said, in a low tone, “What does it mean?
Why didn't you tell me?”

Carrie drew nearer, and said coaxingly, “I didn't expect
you so soon; but, never mind, he leaves to-morrow.
For my sake treat him decently.”

The pressure which Agnes gave Carrie's hand seemed
to say, “For your sake, I will, but for no other.” Then
turning to Penoyer, who had risen to his feet, she said
respectfully, “I hardly expected to meet you here, sir.”

Her tone and manner had changed. Penoyer knew it,
and, with the coolest effrontery imaginable, he came forward,
bowing and scraping, and saying, “Comment vous
portez vous, Mademoiselle. Je suis perfaitement delighted
to see you,” at the same time offering her his hand.

All saw with what hauteur she declined it, but only one,
and that was Anna, heard her as she said, “Keep off, Penoyer;
don't make a donkey of yourself.” It was strange,
Anna said, “how far into his boots Penoyer tried to draw

himself,” while at each fresh flash of Agnes' keen, black
eyes, he winced, either from fear or sympathy.

The restraint which had surrounded the little company
gave way beneath the lively sallies and sparkling wit of
Agnes, who, instead of seeming amazed at the country
girls, was apparently as much at ease as though she had
been entertaining a drawing room full of polished city
belles. When at last the party broke up, each and every
one was in love with the little Albany lady, although all
noticed that Carrie seemed troubled, watching Agnes narrowly;
and whenever she saw her tete-a-tete with either of
her companions, she would instantly draw near, and seem
greatly relieved on finding that Penoyer was not the subject
of conversation.

“I told you so,” was grandmother's reply, when informed
of all this. “I told you so. I knew Car'line
warn't goin' to make out no great.”

Juliet and Anna thought so too, but this did not prevent
them from running to the windows next morning to
see Penoyer as he passed on his way to the cars. I, who
with Lizzie was tugging away at a big board with which
we thought to make a “see-saw,” was honored with a
graceful wave of Monsieur's hands, and the words, “Au
revoir, ma chere Marie.”

That day Phoebe, Aunt Eunice's hired girl, came to
our house. Immediately Juliet and Anna assailed her
with a multitude of questions. The amount of knowledge
obtained was, that “Miss Hovey was a lady, and no mistake,
for she had sights of silks and jewelry, and she that
morning went with Phoebe to see her milk, although she
didn't dare venture inside the yard. “But,” added Phoebe,
“for all she was up so early she did not come out to
breakfast until that gentleman was gone.”

This was fresh proof that Penoyer was not “comme il

faut,” and Anna expressed her determination to find out
all about him ere Agnes went home. I remembered “Dr.
Watts” and the invitation to the party, and secretly
hoped she would find out nothing bad.

4. CHAPTER IV.
COUSIN EMMA.

Agnes had been in town about two weeks, when my
home was one morning thrown into a state of unusual excitement
by the arrival of a letter from Boston, containing
the intelligence that Cousin Emma Rushton, who had
been an invalid for more than a year, was about to try
the effect of country life and country air.

This piece of news operated differently upon different
members of our family. Juliet exclaimed, “Good, good;
Carrie Howard won't hold her head quite so high, now,
for we shall have a city lady, too.” Anna was delighted,
because she would thus have an opportunity of acquiring
city manners and city fashions. Sally said, snappishly,
“There's enough to wait on now, without having a stuck-up
city flirt, faintin' at the sight of a worm, and screachin'
if a fly comes toward her.” Mother had some misgivings
on the subject. She was perfectly willing Emma should
come, but she doubted our ability to entertain her, knowing
that the change would be great from a fashionable
city home to a country farm-house. Grandmother, who
loved to talk of “my daughter in the city,” was pleased,
and to console mother, said, “Never you mind, Fanny;

leave her to me; you find victuals and drink, and I 'll do
the entertaining.”

Among so many opinions it was hard for me to arrive
at a conclusion. On the whole, however, I was glad, until
told that during Cousin Emma's stay our garret gambols
must be given up, and that I must not laugh loud, or
scarcely speak above a whisper, for she was sick, and it
would hurt her head. Then I wished Cousin Emma and
Cousin Emma's head would stay where they belonged.

The letter was received on Monday, but Emma would
not come until Thursday; so there was ample time for
“fixing up.” The parlor-chamber was repapered, the
carpet taken up and shaken, red and white curtains hung
at the windows, a fresh ball of Castile soap bought for
the washstand, and on Thursday morning our pretty
flower beds were shorn of their finest ornaments, with
which to make bouquets for the parlor and parlor-chamber.
Besides that, Sally had filled the pantry with cakes,
pies, gingerbread, and Dutch cheese, to the last of which
I fancied Emma's city taste would not take kindly. Then
there was in the cellar a barrel of fresh beer; so everything
was done which could be expected.

When I went home for my dinner that day, I teased
hard to be allowed to stay out of school for one afternoon,
but mother said “No,” although she suffered me to wear
my pink gingham, with sundry injunctions “not to burst
the hooks and eyes all off before night.” This, by the way,
was my besetting sin; I never could climb a tree, no matter
what the size might be, without invariably coming
down minus at least six hooks and eyes; but I seriously
thought I should get over it when I got older and joined
the church.

That afternoon seemed of interminable length, but at
last I saw father's carriage coming, and quick as thought

I threw my grammar out of the window; after which I
demurely asked “to go out and get a book which I had
dropped.” Permission was granted, and I was out just
in time to courtesy straight down, as father, pointing to
me, said, “There, that's our little crazy Mollie,” and then
I got a glimpse of a remarkably sweet face, which made
the tears come in my eyes, it was so pale.

Perhaps I wronged our school teacher; I think I did,
for she has since died; but really I fancied she kept us
longer that night on purpose. At least, it was nearly five
before we were dismissed. Then, with my bonnet in
hand, I ran for home, falling down once, and bursting off
the lower hook! I entered the house with a bound, but
was quieted by grandmother, who said Emma was lying
down, and I mustn't disturb her.

After waiting some time for her to make her appearance,
I stole softly up the stairs and looked in where she
was. She saw me, and instantly rising, said, with a smile
that went to my heart: “And this must be Mary, the little
crazy girl; come and kiss your Cousin Emma.”

Twining my arms around her neck, I think I must have
cried, for she repeatedly asked me what was the matter,
and as I could think of no better answer, I at last told her,
“I didn't like to have folks call me crazy. I couldn't help
acting like Sal Furbush, the old crazy woman, who threatened
to toss us up in the umbrella.”

“Forgive me, darling,” said Emma, coaxingly, “I will
not do it again;” then stooping down, she looked intently
into my eyes, soliloquizing, “Yes, it is wrong to tell her so.”

In a few moments I concluded Emma was the most beautiful
creature in the world; I would not even except Carrie
Howard. Emma's features were perfectly regular,
and her complexion white and pure as alabaster. Her
hair, which was a rich auburn, lay around her forehead in

thick waves, but her great beauty consisted in her lustrous
blue eyes, which were very large and dark. When
she was pleased they laughed, and when she was sad
they were sad, too. Her dress was a white muslin
wrapper, confined at the waist by a light blue ribbon,
while one of the same hue encircled her neck, and was
fastened by a small gold pin, which, with the exception
of the costly diamond ring on her finger, was the only ornament
she wore.

When supper was ready, I proudly led her to the dining-room,
casting a look of triumph at Juliet and Anna,
and feeling, it may be, a trifle above grandmother, who
said, “Don't be troublesome, child.”

How grateful I was when Emma answered for me,
“She doesn't trouble me in the least; I am very fond of
children.”

Indeed, she seemed to be very fond of everybody and
everything — all except Sally's Dutch cheese, which, as I
expected, she hardly relished. In less than three days
she was beloved by all the household; Billy whispering to
me confidentially that “never before had he seen any one
except mother, whom he would like to marry.”

Saturday afternoon Carrie and Agnes called on Emma,
and as I saw them together I fancied I had never looked
on three more charming faces. They appeared mutually
pleased with each other, too, although for some reason
there seemed to be more affinity between Emma and Agnes.
Carrie appeared thoughtful and absent-minded,
which made Anna joke her about her “lover, Penoyer.”
As she was about leaving the room, she made no reply,
but after she was gone, Agnes looked searchingly at
Anna and said, “Is it possible, Miss Anna, that you are
so mistaken?”

“How—why?” asked Anna. “Is Penoyer a bad man?
What is his occupation?”

“His occupation is well enough,” returned Agnes. “I
would not think less of him for that, were he right in
other respects. However, he was Carrie's and my own
music teacher.”

“Impossible,” said Anna, but at that moment Carrie
reëntered the room, and, together with Agnes, soon took
her leave.

“Penoyer a music teacher, after all his anger at Lily
Gordon, for suggesting such an idea!” This was now
the theme of Juliet and Anna, although they wondered
what there was so bad about him—something, evidently,
from Agnes' manner, and for many days they puzzled
their brains in vain to solve the mystery.

5. CHAPTER V.
RICHARD EVELYN AND HARLEY ASHMORE.

Emma had not long been with us, ere her fame reached
the little village “over the river,” and drew from thence
many calls, both from gentlemen and ladies. Among
these was a Mr. Richard Evelyn and his sister, both of
whom had the honor of standing on the topmost round
of the aristocratic ladder in the village. Mr. Evelyn, who
was nearly thirty years of age, was a wealthy lawyer, and
what is a little remarkable for that craft, (I speak from
experience,) to an unusual degree of intelligence and polish
of manners, he added many social and religious qualities.
Many kind-hearted mothers, who had on their hands

good-for-nothing daughters, wondered how he managed
to live without a wife, but he seemed to think it the easiest
thing in nature, for, since the death of his parents, his
sister Susan had acted in the capacity of his housekeeper.

I have an idea that grandmother, whose disposition
was slightly spiced with a love for match-making, bethought
herself how admirably Mr. Evelyn and Emma
were suited for each other; for, after his calls became frequent,
I heard her many times slily hint of the possibility
of our being able to keep Emma in town always. She,
probably, did not think so; for, each time after being
teased, she repaired to her room and read, for the twentieth
time, some ominous looking letters which she had
received since being with us.

It was now three weeks since she came, and each day
she had gained in health and strength. Twice had she
walked to the woods, accompanied by Mr. Evelyn, once
to the school-house, while every day she swung under the
old maple. About this time Agnes began to think of returning
home, so Juliet and Anna determined on a party
in honor of her and Emma. It was a bright summer afternoon;
and, for a wonder, I was suffered to remain
from school, although I received numerous charges to
keep my tongue still, and was again reminded of that excellent
old proverb, (the composition of some old maid, I
know,) “children should be seen and not heard;” so,
seated in a corner, my hand pressed closely over my
mouth, the better to guard against contingencies, I looked
on and thought, with ineffable satisfaction, how much
handsomer Cousin Emma was than any one else, although
I could not help acknowledging that Carrie never looked
more beautiful than she did that afternoon, in a neatly-fitting
white muslin, with a few rose-buds nestling in her
long, glossy curls.

Matters were going on swimmingly, and I had three
times ventured a remark, when Anna, who was sitting
near the window, exclaimed, “Look here, girls, did you
ever see a finer looking gentleman?” at the same time
calling their attention to a stranger in the street. Emma
looked, too, and the bright flush which suffused her cheek
made me associate the gentleman with the letters she had
received, and I was not surprised when he entered our
yard and knocked at our door. Juliet arose to answer
his summons, but Emma prevented her, saying, “Suffer
me to go, will you?”

She was gone some time, and when she returned was
accompanied by the stranger, whom she introduced as
Mr. Ashmore. I surveyed him with childish curiosity,
and drew two very satisfactory breaths when I saw that
he was wholly unlike Monsieur Penoyer. He was a very
fine looking man, but I did not exactly like the expression
of his face. It was hardly open enough to suit me, and I
noticed that he never looked you directly in the eye. In
five minutes I had come to the conclusion that he was not
half so good a man as Mr. Evelyn. I was in great danger,
however, of changing my mind, when I saw how
fondly his dark eye rested on Emma, and how delighted
he seemed to be at her improved health; and when he,
without any apparent exertion, kept the whole company
entertained, I was charmed, and did not blame Emma for
liking him. Anna's doctor was nothing to him, and I
even fancied that he would dare to go all alone to the old
mine!

Suddenly he faced about, and espying me in the corner,
he said, “Here is a little lady I've not seen. Will some
one introduce me?”

With the utmost gravity, Anna said, “It is my sister,
little crazy Jane.”

I glanced quickly at him to see how he would receive
the intelligence, and when, looking inquiringly first at me
and then at Emma, he said, “Is it really so? what a
pity!” the die was cast—I never liked him again. That
night in my little low bed, long after Lizzie was asleep, I
wept bitterly, wondering what made Anna so unkind, and
why people called me crazy. I knew I looked like other
children, and I thought I acted like them, too; unless,
indeed, I climbed more trees, tore more dresses, and burst
off more hooks.

But to return to the party. After a time I thought
that Mr. Ashmore's eyes went over admiringly to Carrie
more frequently than was necessary, and for once I regretted
that she was so pretty. Ere long, Mr. Ashmore,
too, went over, and immediately there ensued between
himself and Carrie a lively conversation, in which she
adroitly managed to let him know that she had been
three years at school in Albany. The next thing that I
saw was that he took from her curls a rose-bud and appropriated
it to his button hole. I glanced at Emma to
see how she was affected, but her face was perfectly calm,
and wore the old sweet smile. When the young ladies
were about leaving, I was greatly shocked to see Mr.
Ashmore offer to accompany Carrie and Agnes home.

After they were gone, grandmother said, “Emma, if
I's you, I'd put a stop to that chap's flirtin' so with Car'line
Howard.”

Emma laughed gaily, as she replied, “Oh, grandma, I
can trust Harley; I have been sick so long that he has
the privilege of walking or riding with anybody he
pleases.”

Grandmother shook her head, saying, “It was n't so
with her and our poor grandfather;” then I fell into a fit
of musing as to whether grandma was ever young, and if

she ever fixed her hair before the glass, as Anna did when
she expected the doctor! In the midst of my reverie,
Mr. Ashmore returned, and for the remainder of the evening
devoted himself so entirely to Emma that I forgave
him for going home with Carrie. Next day, however,
he found the walk to Capt. Howard's a very convenient
one, staying a long time, too. The next day it was the
same, and the next, and the next, until I fancied that even
Emma began to be anxious.

Grandma was highly indignant, and Sally declared,
“that, as true as she lived and breathed, if Mike should
serve her so, he'd catch it.” About this time, Agnes
went home. The evening before she left, she spent at
our house with Emma, of whom she seemed to be very
fond. Carrie and Ashmore were, as usual, out riding or
walking, and the conversation naturally turned upon them.
At last, Anna, whose curiosity was still on the alert, to
know something of Penoyer, asked Agnes of him. I will
repeat, in substance, what Agnes said.

It seems that for many years Penoyer had been a teacher
of music in Albany. Agnes was one of his pupils, and
while teaching her music he thought proper to fall over-whelmingly
in love with her. This, for a time, she did
not notice; but when his attentions became so pointed as
to become a subject of remark, she very coolly tried to
make him understand his position. He persevered, however,
until he became exceedingly impudent and annoying.

About this time there came well authenticated stories
of his being not only a professed gambler, but also very
dissipated in his habits. To this last charge Agnes could
testify, as his breath had frequently betrayed him. He
was accordingly dismissed. Still he perseveringly pursued
her, always managing, if possible, to get near her in
all public places, and troubling her in various ways.

At last Agnes heard that he was showing among her
acquaintances two notes bearing her signature. The contents
of these notes he covered with his hand, exposing to
view only her name. She had twice written, requesting
him to purchase some new piece of music, and it was these
messages which he was now showing, insinuating that
Agnes thought favorably of him, but was opposed by her
father. The consequence of this was, that the next time
Agnes' brother met Penoyer in the street, he gave him a
sound caning, ordering him, under pain of a worse flogging,
never again to mention his sister's name. This he
was probably more willing to do, as he had already conceived
a great liking for Carrie, who was silly enough to
be pleased with and suffer his attentions.

“I wonder, though, that Carrie allowed him to visit
her,” said Agnes, “but then I believe she is under some
obligations to him, and dare not refuse when he asked
permission to come.”

If Agnes knew what these obligations were, she did not
tell, and grandmother, who, during the narration had knit
with unwonted speed, making her needles rattle again,
said, “It's plain to me that Car'line let him come to make
folks think she had got a city beau.”

“Quite likely,” returned Agnes; “Carrie is a sad flirt,
but I think, at least, that she should not interfere with other
people's rights.”

Here my eye followed hers to Emma, who, I thought,
was looking a little paler. Just then Carrie and Ashmore
came in, and the latter throwing himself upon the sofa by
the side of Emma, took her hand caressingly, saying,
“How are you to-night, my dear?”

“Quite well,” was her quiet reply, and soon after, under
pretense of moving from the window, she took a seat
across the room. That night Mr. Ashmore accompanied

Carrie and Agnes home, and it was at a much later hour
than usual, that old Rover first growled and then whined
as he recognized our visitor.

The next morning Emma was suffering from a severe
headache, which prevented her from appearing at breakfast.
Mr. Ashmore seemed somewhat disturbed, and made
many anxious inquiries about her. At dinner time she
was well enough to come, and the extreme kindness of
Mr. Ashmore's manner called a deep glow to her cheek.
After dinner, however, he departed for a walk, taking his
accustomed road toward Capt. Howard's.

When I returned from school he was still absent, and as
Emma was quite well, she asked me to accompany her to
my favorite resort, the old rock beneath the grape-vine.
We were soon there, and for a long time we sat watching
the shadows as they came and went upon the bright green
grass, and listening to the music of the brook, which
seemed to me to sing more sadly than it was wont to do.

Suddenly our ears were arrested by the sound of voices,
which we knew belonged to Mr. Ashmore and Carrie.
They were standing near us, just behind a clump of alders,
and Carrie, in reply to something Mr. Ashmore had said,
answered, “Oh, you can't be in earnest, for you have only
known me ten days, and besides that, what have you done
with your pale, sick lady?”

Instantly I started up, clinching my fist in imitation of
brother Billy when he was angry, but Cousin Emma's arm
was thrown convulsively around me, as drawing me closely
to her side, she whispered, “keep quiet.”

I did keep quiet, and listened while Mr. Ashmore replied,
“I entertain for Miss Rushton the highest esteem,
for I know she possesses many excellent qualities. Once
I thought I loved her, (how tightly Emma held me,) but
she has been sick a long time, and somehow I cannot

marry an invalid. Whether she ever gets well is doubtful,
and even if she does, after having seen you, she can
be nothing to me. And yet I like her, and when I am
alone with her I almost fancy I love her, but one look at
your sparkling, healthy face drives her from my mind —”

The rest of what he said I could not hear, neither did I
understand Carrie's answer, but his next words were distinct,
“My dear Carrie forever.”

I know the brook stopped running, or at least I did not
hear it. The sun went down; the birds went to rest;
Mr. Ashmore and Carrie went home; and still I sat there
by the side of Emma, who had lain her head in my lap,
and was so still and motionless that the dread fear came
over me that she might be dead. I attempted to lift her
up, saying, “Cousin Emma, speak to me, won't you?”
but she made me no answer, and another ten minutes went
by. By this time the stars had come out and were looking
quietly down upon us. The waters of the mill-dam
chanted mournfully, and in my disordered imagination,
fantastic images danced before the entrance of the old
mine. Half crying with fear, I again laid my hand on
Emma's head. Her hair was wet with the heavy night
dews, and my eyes were wet with something else, as I
said, “Oh, Emma, speak to me, for I am afraid and want
to go home.”

This roused her, and lifting up her head I caught a
glimse of a face of so startling whiteness, that throwing
my arms around her neck, I cried, “Oh, Emma, dear Emma,
don't look so. I love you a great deal better than I
do Carrie Howard, and so I am sure does Mr. Evelyn.”

I don't know how I chanced to think of Mr. Evelyn,
but he recurred to me naturally enough. All thoughts
of him, however, were soon driven from my mind, by the

sound of Emma's voice, as she said, “Mollie, darling, can
you keep a secret?”

I didn't think I could, as I never had been entrusted
with one, so I advised her to give it to Anna, who was
very fond of them. But she said, “I am sure you can do
it, Mollie. Promise me that you will not tell them at
home what you have seen or heard.”

I promised, and then in my joy at owning a secret, I forgot
the little figures which waltzed back and forth before the
old mine, I forgot the woods through which we passed,
nor was the silence broken until we reached the lane.
Then I said, “What shall we tell the folks when they ask
where we have been?”

“Leave that to me,” answered Emma.

As we drew near the house, we met grandmother, Juliet,
Anna and Sally, all armed and equipped for a general
hunt. We were immediately assailed with a score of
questions as to what had kept us so long. I looked to
Emma for the answer, at the same time keeping my hand
tightly over my mouth for fear I should tell.

“We found more things of interest than we expected,”
said Emma, consequently tarried longer than we should
otherwise have done.”

“Why, how hoarse you be,” said grandmother, while
Sally continued, “Starlight is a mighty queer time to see
things in.”

“Some things look better by starlight,” answered Emma;
“but we staid longer than we ought to, for I have
got a severe headache and must go immediately to bed.”

“Have some tea first,” said grandmother, “and some
strawberries and cream,” repeated Sally; but Emma declined
both and went at once to her room.

Mr. Ashmore did not come home until late that night,
for I was awake and heard him stumbling up stairs in the

dark. I remember, too, of having experienced the very
benevolent wish that he would break his neck! As I expected,
Emma did not make her appearance at the breakfast
table, but about ten she came down to the parlor and
asked to see Mr. Ashmore alone. Of what occurred during
that interval I never knew, except that at its close
cousin looked very white, and Mr. Ashmore very black,
notwithstanding which he soon took his accustomed walk
to Capt. Howard's. He was gone about three hours, and
on his return announced his intention of going to Boston
in the afternoon train. No one opposed him, for all were
glad to have him go.

Just before he left, grandmother, who knew all was not
right, said to him,—“Young man, I wish you well; but
mind what I say, you'll get your pay yet for the capers
you've cut here.”

“I beg your pardon, madam,” he returned, with much
more emphasis on madam than was at all necessary, “I
beg your pardon, but I think she has cut the capers, at
least she dismissed me of her own accord.”

I thought of what I had heard, but 't was a secret, so I
kept it safely, although I almost bit my tongue off in my
zealous efforts. After Ashmore was gone, Emma, who
had taken a violent cold the evening before, took her bed,
and was slightly ill for nearly a week. Almost every day
Mr. Evelyn called to see how she was, always bringing
her a fresh bouquet of flowers. On Thursday, Carrie
called, bringing Emma some ice cream which Aunt Eunice
had made. She did not ask to see her, but before
she left she asked Anna if she did not wish to buy her old
piano.

“What will you do without it?” asked Anna.

“Oh,” said Carrie, “I cannot use two. I have got a
new one.”

The stocking dropped from grandmother's hand as she
exclaimed—“What is the world a comin' to! Got two
pianners! Where'd you get 'em?”

“My new one was a present, and came from Boston,”
answered Carrie, with the utmost sang froid.

“You don't say Ashmore sent it to you!—how much
did it cost?” asked grandma.

“Mr. Ashmore wrote that it cost three hundred and
fifty dollars,” was Carrie's reply.

Grandmother was perfectly horror stricken; but desirous
of making Carrie feel as comfortable as possible, she
said, “Sposin' somebody should tell him about Penoyer?”

For an instant Carrie turned pale, as she said quickly,
“What does any one know about him to tell?”

“A great deal—more than you think they do—yes, a
great deal,” was grandma's answer.

After that, Carrie came very frequently to see us, always
bringing something nice for Emma or grandma!

Meanwhile Mr. Evelyn's visits continued, and when at
last Emma could see him, I was sure that she received
him more kindly than she ever had before. “That'll go
yet,” was grandma's prediction. But her scheming was
cut short by a letter from Emma's father, requesting her
immediate return. Mr. Evelyn, who found he had business
which required his presence in Worcester, was to
accompany her thus far. It was a sad day when she left
us, for she was a universal favorite. Sally cried, I cried,
and Bill either cried or made believe, for he very industriously
wiped his eyes and nasal organ on his shirt sleeves;
besides that, things went on wrong side up generally.
Grandma was cross—Sally was cross—and the school
teacher was cross; the bucket fell into the well, and the
cows got into the corn. I got called up at school and set
with some hateful boys, one of whom amused himself by

pricking me with a pin, and when, in self-defense, I gave
him a good pinch, he actually yelled out—“She keeps a
pinchin' me!” On the whole, 'twas a dreadful day, and
when at night I threw myself exhausted upon my little
bed, I cried myself to sleep, thinking of Cousin Emma and
wishing she would come back.

6. CHAPTER VI.
MIKE AND SALLY.

I have spoken of Sally, but have said nothing of Mike,
whom, of all my father's hired men, I liked the best. He
it was who made the best cornstalk fiddles, and whittled
out the shrillest whistles with which to drive grandma
“ravin' distracted.” He, too, it was who, on cold
winter mornings, carried Lizzie to school in his arms, making
me forget how my fingers ached, by telling some
exploit of his school days.

I do not wonder that Sally liked him, and I always had an
idea how that liking would end, but did not think it would
be so soon. Consequently, I suspected nothing when Sally's
white dress was bleached on the grass in the clothes'
yard, for nearly a week. One day Billy came to me with
a face full of wonder, saying he had just overheard Mike
tell one of the men that he and Sally were going to be
married in a few weeks.

I knew now what all that bleaching was for, and why
Sally bought so much cotton lace of pedlars. I was in
ecstacies, too, for I had never seen any one married, but
regretted the circumstance, whatever it might have been,

which prevented me from being present at mother's marriage.
Like many other children, I had been deceived
into the belief that the marriage ceremony consisted
mainly in leaping the broomstick, and, by myself, I had
frequently tried the experiment, delighted to find that I
could jump it at almost any distance from the ground;
but I had some misgivings as to Sally's ability to clear
the stick, for she was rather clumsy; however, I should
see the fun, for they were to be married at our house.

A week before the time appointed, mother was taken
very ill, which made it necessary that the wedding should
be postponed, or take place somewhere else. To the first,
Mike would not hear, and as good old Parson S—,
whose sermons were never more than two hours long,
came regularly every Sunday night to preach in the school-house,
Mike proposed that they be married there. Sally
did not like this exactly, but grandmother, who now
ruled the household, sait it was just the thing, and accordingly
it took place there.

The house was filled full, and those who could not obtain
seats took their station near the windows. Our party
was early, but I was three times compelled to relinquish
my seat in favor of more distinguished persons, and I began
to think that if any one was obliged to go home for
want of room, it would be me; but I resolutely determined
not to go. I'd climb the chestnut tree first! At last I
was squeezed on a high desk between two old ladies,
wearing two old black bonnets, their breath sufficiently
tinctured with tobacco smoke to be very disagreeable to
me, whose olfactories chanced to be rather aristocratic
than otherwise.

To my horror, Father S— concluded to give us the
sermon before he did the bride. He was afraid some of
his audience would leave. Accordingly there ensued a

prayer half an hour long, after which eight verses of a
long metre psalm were sung to the tune of Windham.
By this time I gave a slight sign to the two old ladies
that I would like to move, but they merely shook their
two black bonnets at me, telling me, in fierce whispers,
that “I must n't stir in meetin'.” Must n't stir! I wonder
how I could stir, squeezed in as I was, unless they
chose to let me. So I sat bolt upright, looking straight
ahead at a point where the tips of my red shoes were visible,
for my feet were sticking straight out.

All at once, my attention was drawn to a spider on the
wall, who was laying a net for a fly, and in watching his
maneuvers I forgot the lapse of time, until Father S—
had passed his sixthly and seventhly, and was driving furiously
away at the eighthly. By this time the spider
had caught the fly, whose cries sounded to me like the
waters of the saw-mill; the tips of my red shoes looked
like the red berries which grew near the mine; the two
old ladies at my side were transformed into two tall black
walnut trees, while I seemed to be sliding down hill.

At this juncture, one of the old ladies moved away
from me a foot at least, (she could have done so before,
had she chosen to,) and I was precipitated off from the
bench, striking my head on the sharp corner of a seat below.
It was a dreadful blow which I received, making
the blood gush from my nostrils. My loud screams
brought matters to a focus, and the sermon to an end.
My grandmother and one of the old ladies took me and
the water pail out doors, where I was literally deluged;
at the same time they called me “Poor girl! Poor Mollie!
Little dear, &c.”

But while they were attending to my bumped head,
Mike and Sally were married, and I did n't see it after all!
'Twas too bad!

7. CHAPTER VII.
THE BRIDE.

After Sally's marriage, there occurred at our house
an interval of quiet, enlivened occasionally by letters from
Cousin Emma, whose health was not as much improved
by her visit to the country as she had at first hoped it
would be; consequently, she proposed spending the winter
south. Meantime, from Boston letters came frequently
to Carrie Howard, and as the autumn advanced,
things within and about her father's house foretold some
unusual event. Two dress-makers were hired from the
village, and it was stated, on good authority, that among
Carrie's wardrobe was a white satin and an elegantly embroidered
merino traveling dress.

Numerous were the surmises of Juliet and Anna as
to who and how many would be invited to the wedding.
All misgivings concerning themselves were happily
brought to an end a week before the time, for there came
to our house handsome cards of invitation for Juliet and
Anna, and—I could scarcely believe my eyes—there was
one for me too. For this I was indebted to Aunt Eunice,
who had heard of and commiserated my misfortunes at
Sally's wedding.

I was sorry that my invitation came so soon, for I had
but little hope that the time would ever come. It did,
however, and so did Mr. Ashmore and Agnes. As soon
as dinner was over, I commenced my toilet, although the
wedding was not to take place until eight that evening;
but then I believed, as I do now, in being ready in season.
Oh, how slowly the hours passed, and at last in perfect
despair I watched my opportonity to set the clock forward

when no one saw me. For this purpose I put the
footstool in a chair, and mounting, was about to move the
long hand, when—

But I always was the most unfortunate of mortals, so
'twas no wonder that at this point the chair slipped, the stool
slipped, and I slipped. I caught at the clock to save myself;
consequently both clock and I came to the floor with a terrible
crash. My first thought was for the hooks and eyes,
which, undoubtedly, were scattered with the fragments of
the clock, but fortunately every hook was in its place,
and only one eye was straightened. I draw a vail over
the scolding which I got, and the numerous threats that
I should stay at home.

As the clock was broken we had no means for judging
of the time, and thus we were among the first who arrived
at Capt. Howard's. This gave Juliet and Anna an
opportunity of telling Agnes of my mishap. She laughed
heartily, and then immediately changing the subject, she
inquired after Cousin Emma, and when we had heard
from her. After replying to these questions, Anna asked
Agnes about Penoyer, and when she had seen him.

“Don't mention it,” said Agnes, “but I have a suspicion
that he stopped yesterday at the depot when I did.
I may have been mistaken, for I was looking after my
baggage and only caught a glimpse of him. If it were
he, his presence bodes no good.”

“Have you told Carrie?” asked Juliet.

“No, I have not. She seems so nervous whenever he
is mentioned,” was Agnes' reply.

I thought of the obligations once referred to by Agnes,
and felt that I should breathe more freely when Carrie
really was married. Other guests now began to arrive, and
we who had fixed long enough before the looking glass,
repaired to the parlor below. Bill, who saw Sally married,

had convinced me that the story of the broomstick was a
falsehood, so I was prepared for its absence, but I wondered
then, not more than I do now, why grown up people
should n't be whipped for telling untruths to children,
as well as children for telling untruths to grown up
people.

The parlor was now rapidly filling, and I was in great
danger of being thrust into the corner, where I could see
nothing, when Aunt Eunice very benevolently drew me
near her, saying, I should see, if no one else did. At last
Mr. Ashmore and Carrie came. Anna can tell you exactly
what she wore, but I cannot. I only know that
she looked most beautifully, though I have a vague recollection
of fancying that in the making of her dress,
the sleeves were forgotten entirely, and the neck very
nearly so.

The marriage ceremony commenced, and I listened
breathlessly, but this did not prevent me from hearing
some one enter the house by the kitchen door. Aunt
Eunice heard it, too, and when the minister began to say
something about Mrs. Ashmore, she arose and went out.
Something had just commenced, I think they called them
congratulations, when the crowd around the door began
to huddle together in order to make room for some person
to enter. I looked up and saw Penoyer, his glittering
teeth now partially disclosed, looking a very little
fiendish, I thought. Carrie saw him, too, and instantly
turned as white as the satin dress she wore, while Agnes,
who seemed to have some suspicion of his errand, exclaimed,
“impudent scoundrel!” at the same time advancing
forward, she laid her hand upon his arm.

He shook it off lightly, saying, “Pardonnez moi, ma
chere; I've no come to trouble you.” Then turning to

Ashmore he said, pointing to Carrie, “She be your wife,
I take it?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Ashmore haughtily. “Have you
any objections? If so they have come too late.”

“Not von, not in the least, no sar,” said the Frenchman,
bowing nearly to the floor. “It give me one grand
plaisir; so now you will please settle von leetle bill I have
against her;” at the same time he drew from his pocket
a sheet of half-worn paper.

Carrie, who was leaning heavily against Mr. Ashmore,
instantly sprang forward and endeavored to snatch the
paper, saying half imploringly, “Don't, Penoyer, you
know my father will pay it.”

But Penoyer passed it to Mr. Ashmore, while Capt.
Howard, coming forward, said, “Pay what? What is all
this about!”

“Only a trifle,” said Penoyer; “just a bill for giving
your daughter musique lessons three years in Albany.”

“You give my daughter music lessons?” demanded
Capt. Howard.

“Oui, Monsieur, I do that same thing,” answered
Penoyer.

“Oh, Carrie, Carrie,” said Capt. Howard, in his surprise,
forgetting the time and place, “why did you tell
me that your knowledge of music you acquired yourself,
with the assistance of your cousin, and a little help from
her music teacher, and why, when this man was here a
few months ago, did you not tell me he was your music
teacher and had not been paid.”

Bursting into tears, Carrie answered, “Forgive me,
father, but he said he had no bill against me; he made no
charge.”

“But she gave me von big, large mitten,” said the
Frenchman, “when she see this man, who has more

l'argent; but no difference, no difference, sar, this gentleman,”
bowing toward Ashmore, “parfaitement delighted
to pay it.”

Whether he were delighted or not, he did pay it, for
drawing from his pocket his purse, while his large black
eyes emitted gleams of fire, he counted out the required
amount, one hundred and twenty-five dollars; then confronting
Penoyer, he said, fiercely, “Give me a receipt for
this, instantly, after which I will take it upon me to show
you the door.”

“Certainement, certainement, all I want is my l'argent,”
said Penoyer.

The money was paid, the receipt given, and then, as
Penoyer hesitated a moment, Ashmore said, “Are you
waiting to be helped out, sir?”

“No, Monsieur, si vous plait, I have tree letters from
Madame, which will give you one grande satisfaction to
read.” Then tossing toward Ashmore the letters, with a
malicious smile he left the house.

Poor Carrie! When sure that he was gone, she fainted
away and was carried from the room. At supper, however,
she made her appearance, and after that was over,
the guests, unopposed, left en masse.

What effect Penoyer's disclosures had on Ashmore we
never exactly knew, but when, a few days before the
young couple left home, they called at our house, we all
fancied that Carrie was looking more thoughtful than usual,
while a cloud seemed to be resting on Ashmore's brow.
The week following their marriage they left for New
York, where they were going to reside. During the winter
Carrie wrote home frequently, giving accounts of the
many gay and fashionable parties which she attended, and
once in a letter to Anne she wrote, “The flattering attentions

which I receive have more than once made Ashmore
jealous.”

Two years from the time they were married, Mrs. Ashmore
was brought back to her home, a pale faded invalid,
worn out by constant dissipation and the care of a
sickly baby, so poor and blue that even I couldn't bear to
touch it. Three days after their arrival Mr. Evelyn
brought to us his bride, Cousin Emma, blooming with
health and beauty. I could scarcely believe that the exceedingly
beautiful Mrs. Evelyn was the same white faced
girl, who, two years before, had sat with me beneath the
old grape-vine.

The day after she came, I went with her to visit Carrie,
who, the physicians said, was in a decline. I had not seen
her before since her return, and on entering the sick-room,
I was as much surprised at her haggard face, sunken eyes,
and sallow skin, as was Mr. Ashmore at the appearance
of Emma. “Is it possible,” said he, coming forward, “Is
it possible, Emma—Mrs. Evelyn, that you have entirely
recovered?”

I remembered what he had once said about “invalid
wives,” and I feared that the comparison he was evidently
making would not be very favorable toward Carrie. We
afterwards learned, however, that he was the kindest of
husbands, frequently walking half the night with his crying
baby, and at other times trying to soothe his nervous
wife, who was sometimes very irritable.

Before we left, Carrie drew Emma closely to her and
said, “They tell me I probably shall never get well, and
now, while I have time, I wish to ask your forgiveness for
the great wrong I once did you.”

“How? When?” asked Emma, quickly, and Carrie
continued: “When first I saw him who is my husband, I
determined to leave no means untried to secure him for

myself; I knew you were engaged, but I fancied that
your ill health annoyed him, and I played my part well.
You know how I succeeded, but I am sure you forgive
me, for you love Mr. Evelyn quite as well, perhaps better.”

“Yes, far better,” was Emma's reply, as she kissed
Carrie's wan cheek; then bidding her good-by, she promised
to call frequently during her stay in town. She kept
her word, and was often accompanied by Mr. Evelyn,
who strove faithfully and successfully, too, to lead into
the path of peace, her whose days were well nigh ended.

'Twas on one of those bright days in the Indian summer
time, that Carrie at last slept the sleep that knows no
awakening. The evening after the burial, I went in at
Capt. Howard's, and all the animosity I had cherished for
Mr. Ashmore vanished, when I saw the large tear-drops,
as they fell on the face of his motherless babe, whose
wailing cries he endeavored in vain to hush. When the
first snow flakes came, they fell on a little mound, where
by the side of her mother Mr. Ashmore had laid his baby,
Emma.

And now, dear reader, after telling you that, yielding
to the importunities of Emma's parents, Mr. Evelyn, at
last moved to the city, where, if I mistake not, he is still
living, my story is finished. But do not, I pray you,
think that these few pages contain all that I know of the
olden time: