University of Virginia Library

34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
'LENA'S FATHER.

Two or three days before the morning of which we
have spoken, Uncle Timothy, who like many of his profession
had been guilty of a slight infringement of the
“Maine” liquor law, had been called to answer for the
same at the court then in session in the village of Canandaigua,
the terminus of the stage route. Altogether too
stingy to pay the coach fare, his own horse had carried
him out, going for him on the night preceding Durward's
projected meeting with 'Lena. On the afternoon of that
day the cars from New York brought up several passengers,
who being bound for Buffalo, were obliged to wait
some hours for the arrival of the Albany train.

Among those who stopped at the same house with Uncle
Timothy, was our old acquaintance, Mr. Graham, who

had returned from Europe, and was now homeward bound,
firmly fixed in his intention to do right at last. Many and
many a time during his travels had the image of a pale,
sad face arisen before him, accusing him of so long neglecting
to own his child, for 'Lena was his daughter, and
she, who in all her bright beauty had years ago gone
down to an early grave, was his wife, the wife of his first,
and in bitterness of heart he sometimes thought, of
his only love. His childhood's home, which was at the
sunny south, was not a happy one, for ere he had learned
to lisp his mother's name, she had died, leaving him to the
guardianship of his father, who was cold, exacting, and
tyrannical, ruling his son with a rod of iron, and by his
stern, unbending manner increasing the natural cowardice
of his disposition. From his mother Harry had inherited
a generous, impulsive nature, frequently leading him into
errors which his father condemned with so much severity
that he early learned the art of concealment, as far, at
least, as his father was concerned.

At the age of eighteen he left home for Yale, where he
spent four happy years, for the restraints of college life,
though sometimes irksome, were preferable far to the
dull monotony of his southern home; and when at last
he was graduated, and there was no longer an excuse for
tarrying, he lingered by the way, stopping at the then village
of Springfield, where, actuated by some sudden freak,
he registered himself as Harry Rivers, the latter being his
middle name. For doing this he had no particular reason,
except that it suited his fancy, and Rivers, he thought,
was a better name than Graham. Here he met with Helena
Nichols, whose uncommon beauty first attracted his
attention, and whose fresh, unstudied manners afterward
won his love to such an extent, that in an unguarded moment,
and without a thought of the result, he married

her, neglecting to tell her his real name before their marriage,
because he feared she would cease to respect him
if she knew he had deceived her, and then afterward finding
it harder than ever to confess his fault.

As time wore on, his father's letters, commanding him
to return, grew more and more peremptory, until at last
he wrote, “I am sick—dying—and if you do not come, I'll
cast you off forever.”

Harry knew this was no unmeaning threat, and he now
began to reap the fruit of his folly. He could not give
up Helena, who daily grew dearer to him, neither could
he brave the displeasure of his father by acknowledging
his marriage, for disinheritance was sure to follow. In
this dilemma he resolved to compromise the matter. He
would leave Helena awhile; he would visit his father, and
if a favorable opportunity occurred, he would confess all;
if not, he would return to his wife and do the best he
could. But she must be provided for during his absence,
and to effect this, he wrote to his father, saying he stood
greatly in need of five hundred dollars, and that immediately
on its receipt he would start for home. Inconsistent
as it seemed with his general character, the elder Mr.
Graham was generous with his money, lavishing upon his
son all that he asked for, and the money was accordingly
sent without a moment's hesitation.

And now Harry's besetting sin, secrecy, came again into
action, and instead of manfully telling Helena the truth,
he left her privately, stealing away at night, and quieting
his conscience by promising himself to reveal all in a letter,
which was actually written, but as at the time of its
arrival Helena was at home, and the postmaster knew of
no such person, it was at last sent to Washington with
thousands of its companions. The reader already knows
how 'Lena's young mother watched for her recreant husband's

coming until life and hope died out together, and
it is only necessary to repeat that part of the story which
relates to Harry, who on his return home found his father
much worse than he expected. At his bedside, ministering
to his wants, was a young, dashing widow, who prided
herself upon being Lady Bellmont. On his death-bed her
father had committed her to the guardianship of Mr. Graham,
who, strictly honorable in all his dealings, had held
his trust until the time of her marriage with a young
Englishman.

Unfortunately, as it proved for Harry, and fortunately
for Sir Arthur, who had nothing in common with his
wife, the latter died within two years after his marriage,
leaving his widow and infant son again to the care of Mr.
Graham, with whom Lady Bellmont, as she was pleased
to call herself, lived at intervals, swaying him whichever
way she listed, and influencing him as he had never been
influenced before. The secret of this was, that the old
man had his eye upon her vast possessions, which he destined
for his son, who, ignorant of the honor intended
him, had presumed to marry according to the promptings
of his heart.

Scarcely was the first greeting over, ere his father at
once made known his plans, to which Harry listened with
mingled pain and amazement. “Lucy—Lady Bellmont!”
said he, “why, she's a mother—a widow—beside being
ten years my senior.”

“Three years,” interrupted his father. “She is twenty-five,
you twenty-two, and then as to her being a widow
and a mother, the immensity of her wealth atones for
that. She is much sought after, but I think she prefers
you. She will make you a good wife, and I am resolved
to see the union consummated ere I die.”

“Never, sir, never,” answered Harry, in a more decided

manner than he had before assumed toward his father.
“It is utterly impossible.”

Mr. Graham was too much exhausted to urge the matter
at that time, but he continued at intervals to harass
Harry, until the very sight of Lucy Bellmont became hateful
to him. It was not so, however, with her son, the Durward
of our story. He was a fine little fellow, whom
every one loved, and for hours would Harry amuse himself
with him, while his thoughts were with his own wife
and child, the latter of whom was to be so strangely connected
with the fortunes of the boy at his side. For
weeks his father lingered, each day seeming an age to
Harry, who, though he did not wish to hasten his father's
death, still longed to be away. Twice had he written
without obtaining an answer, and he was about making
up his mind to start, at all events, when his father suddenly
died, leaving him the sole heir of all his princely fortune,
and with his latest breath enjoining it upon him to
marry Lucy Bellmont, who, after the funeral was over,
adverted to it, saying in her softest tones, “I hope you
don't feel obliged to fulfill your father's request.”

“Of course not,” was Harry's short answer, as he went
on with his preparations for his journey, anticipating the
happiness he should experience in making Helena the mistress
of his luxurious home.

But alas for human hopes. The very morning on which
he was intending to start, he was seized with a fever,
which kept him confined to his bed until the spring was
far advanced. Sooner than he was able he started for
Springfield in quest of Helena, learning from the woman
whom he had left in charge, that she was dead, and her baby
too! The shock was too much for him in his weak state,
and for two weeks he was again confined to a sick-bed,
sincerely mourning the untimely end of one whom he had

truly loved, and whose death his own foolish conduct had
hastened. Soon after their marriage her portrait had
been taken by the best artist in the town, and this he determined
to procure as a memento of the few happy days
he had spent with Helena. But the cottage where he left
her was now occupied by strangers, and after many inquiries,
he learned that the portrait, together with some
of the furniture, had been sold to pay the rent, which became
due soon after his departure. His next thought was
to visit her parents, but from this his natural timidity shrank.
They would reproach him, he thought, with the death of
their daughter, whom he had so deeply wronged, and not
possessing sufficient courage to meet them face to face, he
again started for home, bearing a sad heart, which scarcely
again felt a thrill of joy until the morning when he first
met with 'Lena, whose exact resemblance to her mother
so startled him as to arouse the jealousy of his wife.

It would be both needless and tiresome to enumerate
the many ways and means by which Lucy Bellmont sought
to ensnare him. Suffice it to say, that she at last succeeded,
and he married her, finding in the companionship of
her son more real pleasure than he ever experienced in her
society. After a time Mrs. Graham, growing weary of
Charleston, where her haughty, overbearing manner made
her unpopular, besought her husband to remove, which he
finally did, going to Louisville, where he remained until the
time of his removal to Woodlawn. Fully believing what
the old nurse had told him of the death of his wife and
child, he had no idea of the existence of the latter, though
often in the stillness of night the remembrance of the little
girl whom Durward had pointed out to him in the
cars, arose before him, haunting him with visions of the
past, but it was not until he met her at Maple Grove that
he entertained a thought of her being his daughter.

From that time his whole being seemed changed, for
there was now an object for which to live. Carefully had
he guarded from his wife a knowledge of his first marriage,
for he dreaded her sneering reproaches, and he could not
hear his beloved Helena's name breathed lightly by one
so greatly her inferior. When he saw 'Lena, however,
his first impulse was to clasp her in his arms and compel
his wife to own her, but day after day went by, and he
still delayed, hoping for a more favorable opportunity,
which never came. Had he found her in less favorable
circumstances, he might have done differently, but seeing
only the brightest side of her life, he believed her comparatively
happy. She was well educated, accomplished,
and beautiful, and so he waited, secure in the fact that he
was near to see that no harm should befall her. Once it
occurred to him that possibly he might die suddenly, thus
leaving his relationship to her a secret forever, and acting
upon this thought, he immediately made his will, bequeathing
all to 'Lena, whom he acknowledged to be his daughter,
adding an explanation of the whole affair, together
with a most touching letter to his child, who would never
see it until he was dead.

This done, he felt greatly relieved, and each day found
some good excuse for still keeping it from his wife, who
worried him incessantly concerning his evident preference
for 'Lena. Many and many a time he resolved to tell her
all, but as often postponed the matter, until, with the
broad Atlantic between them, he ventured to write what
he could not tell her verbally, and, strange to say, the effect
upon his wife was far different from what he had expected.
She did not faint, for there was no one by to see
her, neither did she rave, for there was no one to hear
her, but with her usual inconsistency, she blamed her husband
for not telling her before. Then came other thoughts,

of a different nature. She had helped to impair 'Lena's
reputation, and if disgrace attached to her, it would also
fall upon her own family. Consequently, as we have seen,
she set herself at work to atone, as far as possible, for her
conduct. Her husband had given her permission to wait,
if she chose, until his return, ere she made the affair public,
and as she dreaded the remarks it would necessarily
call forth, she resolved to do so. He had advised her to
tell 'Lena, but she was gone—no one knew whither, and
nervously she waited for some tidings of the wanderer.
She was willing to receive 'Lena, but not the grandmother;
she was voted an intolerable nuisance, who should never
darken the doors of Woodlawn—never!

Meantime, Mr. Graham had again crossed the ocean,
landing in New York, from whence he started for home,
meeting, as we have seen, with a detention in Canandaigua,
where he accidentally fell in with Uncle Timothy, who,
being minus quite a little sum of money on account of his
transgression, was lamenting his ill fortune to one of his
acquaintances, and threatening to give up tavern keeping
if the Maine law wasn't repealed.

“Here,” said he, “it has cost me up'ards of fifty
dollars, and I'll bet I hain't sold mor'n a barrel, besides
what wine that Kentucky chap has bought for his gal,
and I suppose they call that nothin', bein' it's for sickness.
Why, good Lord, the hull on't was for modicine,
or chimistry, or mechanies!”

This reminded his friend to inquire after the sick lady,
whose name he did not remember.

“It's 'Lena,” answered Uncle Timothy, “'Lena Rivers
that dandified chap calls her, and it's plaguy curis to me
what she's a runnin' away for, and he a streakin' it through
the country arter her; there's mischief summers, so I tell

'em, but that's no consarn of mine so long as he pays
down regular.”

Mr. Graham's curiosity was instantly aroused, and the
moment he could speak to Uncle Timothy alone, he asked
what he meant by the sick lady.

In his own peculiar dialect, Uncle Timothy told all he
knew, adding, “A relation of yourn, mebby?”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Graham. “Is it far to Laurel
Hill?”

“Better'n a dozen miles. Was you goin' out there?”

Mr. Graham replied in the affirmative, at the same time
asking if he could procure a horse and carriage there.

Uncle Timothy never let an opportunity pass for turning
a penny, and now nudging Mr. Graham with his elbow,
he said, “Them liv'ry scamps'll charge you tew dollars,
at the lowest calkerlation. I'm goin' right out, and
will take you for six shillin'. What do you think?”

Mr. Graham's thoughts were not very complimentary
to the shrewd Yankee, but keeping his opinion to himself,
he replied that he would go, suggesting that they
should start immediately.

“In less than five minits. You jest set down while I
go to the store arter some jimcracks for the old woman,”
said Uncle Timothy, starting up the street, which the
last Mr. Graham saw of him for three long hours.

At the end of that time, the little man came stubbing
down the walk, making many apologies, and saying “he
got so engaged the darned `liquor law,' and the
putty-heads that made it, that he'd no idee 'twas so late.”

On their way home he still continued to discourse on
his favorite topic, lamenting that he had voted for the
present governor, announcing his intention of “jinin' the
Hindews the fust time they met at Suckerport,” a village
at the foot of Honeoye lake, and stopping every man

whom he knew to belong to that order, to ask if they
took a fee, and if “there was any bedivelment of gridirons
and goats, such as the Masons and Odd Fellers had!”
Being repeatedly assured that the fee was only a dollar,
and that the initiatory process was not very painful, he
concluded “to go it, provided they'd promise to run him
for constable. Office is the hull any of the buggers jine
'em for, and I may as well go in for a sheer,” said he,
thinking if he could not have the privilege of selling liquor,
he would at least secure the right of arresting those who
drank it!

In this way his progress homeward was not very rapid,
and the clock had struck ten long ere they reached the
inn, which they found still and dark, save the light which
was kept burning in 'Lena's room.

“That's her chamber—the young gal's—where you see
the candle,” said Uncle Timothy, as they drew up before
the huge walls of the tavern. “I guess you won't want
to disturb her to-night.”

“Certainly not,” answered Mr. Graham, adding, as he
felt a twinge of his inveterate habit of secrecy, “If you'd
just as lief, you need not speak of me to the young gentleman;
I wish to take him by surprise”—meaning Durward.

There was no particular necessity for this caution, for
Uncle Timothy was too much absorbed in his loss to think
of anything else, and when his wife asked “who it was
that he lighted up to bed,” he replied, “A chap that
wanted to come out this way, and so rid with me.”

Mr. Graham was very tired, and now scarcely had his
head pressed the pillow ere he was asleep, dreaming of
'Lena, whose presence was to shed such a halo of sunlight
over his hitherto cheerless home. The ringing of the bell
next morning failed to arouse him, but when Mrs. Aldergrass,
noticing his absence from the table, inquired for

him, Uncle Timothy answered, “Never mind, let him
sleep—tuckered out, mebby—and you know we allus
have a sixpence more for an extra meal!

About eight Mr. Graham arose, and after a more than
usually careful toilet, he sat down to collect his scattered
thoughts, for now that the interview was so near, his
ideas seemed suddenly to forsake him. From the window
he saw Durward depart for his walk, watching him until
he disappeared in the dim shadow of the woods.

“I will wait until his return, and let him tell her,”
thought he, but when a half hour or more went by and
Durward did not come, he concluded to go down and ask
to see her by himself.

In order to do this, it was necessary for him to pass
'Lena's room, the door of which was ajar. She was
awake, and hearing his step, thought it was Mrs. Aldergrass,
and called to her. A thrill of exquisite delight ran
through his frame at the sound of her voice, and for an
instant he debated the propriety of going to her at once.
A second call decided him, and in a moment he was at
her bedside, clasping her in his arms, and exclaiming,
“My precious 'Lena! My daughter! Has nothing ever
told you that I am your father, the husband of your angel
mother, who lives again in her child—my child—my
'Lena?”

For a moment 'Lena's brain grew dizzy, and she had
well-nigh fainted, when the sound of Mr. Graham's voice
again brought her back to consciousness. Pressing his
lips to her white brow, he said, “Speak to me, my daughter.
Say that you receive me as your father, for such I
am.”

With lightning rapidity 'Lena's thoughts traversed the
past, whose dark mystery was now made plain, and as the
thought that it might be so—that it was so—flashed upon

her, she clasped her hands together, exclaiming, “My
father! Is it true? You are not deceiving me?”

“Deceive you, darling?—no,” said he. I am your
father, and Helena Nichols was my wife.”

“Why then did you leave her? Why have you so
long left me unacknowledged?” asked 'Lena.

Mr. Graham groaned bitterly. The hardest part was
yet to come, but he met it manfully, telling her the whole
story, sparing not himself in the least, and ending by asking
if, after all this, she could forgive and love him as her
father.

Raising herself in bed, 'Lena wound her arms around
his neck, and laying her face against his, wept like a little
child. He felt that he was sufficiently answered, and
holding her closer to his bosom, he pushed back the
clustering curls, kissing her again and again, while he said
aloud, “I have your answer, dearest one; we will never
be parted again.”

So absorbed was he in his newly recovered treasure,
that he did not observe the fiery eye, the glittering teeth,
and clenched fist of Durward Bellmont, who had returned
from his walk, and who, in coming up to his room, had
recognized the tones of his father's voice. Recoiling
backward a step or two, he was just in time to see 'Lena
as she threw herself into Mr. Graham's arms—in time to
hear the tender words of endearment lavished upon her
by his father! Staggering backward, he caught at the
banister to keep from falling, while a moan of anguish
came from his ashen lips. Alone in his room, he grew
calmer, though his heart still quivered with unutterable
agony as he strode up and down the room, exclaiming, as
he had once done before, “I would far rather see her
dead than thus—my lost, lost 'Lena!”

Then, in the deep bitterness of his spirit, he cursed his

father, whom he believed to be far more guilty than she.
“I cannot meet him,” thought he; “there is murder at
my heart, and I must away ere he knows of my presence.”

Suiting the action to the word, he hastened down the
stairs, glancing back once, and seeing 'Lena reclining upon
his father's arm, while her eyes were raised to his with
a sweet, confiding smile, which told of perfect happiness.

“Thank God that I am unarmed, else he could not
live,” thought he, hurrying into the bar-room, where he
placed in Uncle Timothy's hands double the sum due
for himself and 'Lena, and then, without a word of explanation,
he walked away.

He was a good pedestrian, and preferring solitude in
his present state of feeling, he determined to go on foot
to Canadaigua, a distance of little more than a dozen
miles. Meantime, Mr. Graham was learning from 'Lena
the cause of her being there, and though she, as far as
possible, softened the fact of his having been accessory
to her misfortunes, he felt it none the less keenly, and
would frequently interrupt her with the exclamation that
it was the result of his cowardice—his despicable habit
of secrecy. When she spoke of the curl which his wife
had burned, he seemed deeply affected, groaning aloud
as he hid his face in his hands.

“And she found it—she burned it,” said he; and it
was all I had left of my Helena. I cut it from her head
on the morning of my departure, when she lay sleeping,
little dreaming of my cruel desertion. But,” he added,
“I can bear it better now that I have you, her living image,
for what she was when last I saw her, you are now.”

Their conversation then turned upon Durward, and
with the tact he so well knew how to employ, Mr. Graham
drew from his blushing daughter a confession of the
love she bore him.

“He is worthy of you,” said he, while 'Lena, without
seeming to heed the remark, said, “I have not seen him
yet, but I am expecting him every moment, for he was to
visit me this morning.”

At this juncture Mrs. Aldergrass, who had been at one
of her neighbor's, came in, appearing greatly surprised at
the sight of the stranger, whom 'Lena quietly introduced
as “her father,” while Mr. Graham colored painfully as
Mrs. Aldergrass, curtsying very low, hoped Mr. Rivers
was well!

“Let it go so,” whispered 'Lena, as she saw her father
about to speak.

Mr. Graham complied, and then observing how anxiously
his daughter's eyes sought the door-way, whenever
a footstep was heard, he asked Mrs. Aldergrass for Mr.
Bellmont, saying they would like to see him, if he had
returned.

Quickly going down stairs, Mrs. Aldergrass soon came
back, announcing that “he'd paid his bill and gone off.”

“Gone!” said Mr. Graham. “There must be some mistake.
I will go down and inquire.”

With his hand in his pocket grasping the purse containing
the gold, Uncle Timothy told all he knew, adding,
that “'twan't noways likely but he'd come back agin, for
he'd left things in his room to the vally of five or six
dollars.”

Upon reflection, Mr. Graham concluded so, too, and
returning to 'Lena, he sat by her all day, soothing her
with assurances that Durward would surely come back,
as there was no possible reason for his leaving them so abruptly.
As the day wore away and the night came on,
he seemed less sure, while even Uncle Timothy began to
fidget, and when in the evening a young pettifogger, who
had recently hung out his shingle on Laurel Hill, came in,

he asked him, in a low tone, “if, under the present governor,
they hung folks on circumstantial evidence alone.”

“Unquestionably, for that is sometimes the best kind
of evidence,” answered the sprig of the law, taking out
some little ivory tablets and making a charge against Uncle
Timothy for professional advice!

“But if one of my boarders, who has lots of money,
goes off in broad daylight and is never heard of agin,
would that be any sign he was murdered—by the landlord?”
continued Uncle Timothy, beginning to think
there might be a worse law than the Maine liquor law.

“That depends upon the previous character of the landlord,”
answered the lawyer, making another entry, while
Uncle Timothy, brightening up, exclaimed, “I shall stand
the racket, then, for my character is tip-top.”

In the morning Mr. Graham announced his intention of
going in quest of Durward, and with a magnanimity quite
praiseworthy, Uncle Timothy offered his hoss and wagon
for nothin', provided Mr. Graham would leave his watch
as a guaranty against his runnin' off!”

Just as Mr. Graham was about to start, a horseman
rode up, saying he had come from Canandaigna at the request
of a Mr. Bellmont, who wished him to bring letters
for Mr. Graham and Miss Rivers.

“And where is Mr. Bellmont?” asked Mr. Graham, to
which the man replied, that he took the six o'clock train
the night before, saying, further, that his manner was so
strange as to induce a suspicion of insanity on the part of
those who saw him.

Taking the package, Mr. Graham repaired to 'Lena's
room, giving her her letter, and then reading his, which
was full of bitterness, denouncing him as a villain, and
cautioning him, as he valued his life, never again to cross
the track of his outraged step-son.

“You have robbed me,” he wrote, “of all I hold most
dear, and while I do not censure her the less, I blame you
the more, for you are older in experience, older in years,
and ten-fold older in sin, and I know you must have used
every art your foul nature could suggest, ere you won my
lost 'Lena from the path of rectitude.”

In the utmost astonishment Mr. Graham looked up at
'Lena, who had fainted. It was long ere she returned to
consciousness, and then her fainting fit was followed by
another more severe, if possible, than the first, while in
speechless agony Mr. Graham hung over her.

“I killed the mother, and now I am killing the child,”
thought he.

But at last 'Lena seemed better, and taking from the
pillow the crumpled note, she passed it toward her father,
bidding him read it. It was as follows:

Gradually as Mr. Graham read, he felt a glow of indignation
at Durward's hastiness. “Rash boy! he might at
least have spoken with me,” said he, as he finished the

letter, but 'Lena would hear no word of censure against
him. She did not blame him. She saw it all, understood
it all, and as she recalled the contents of his letter, her
own heart sadly echoed, “lost forever.”

As well as he was able, Mr. Graham tried to comfort
her, but in spite of his endeavors, there was still at her
heart the same dull, heavy pain, and most anxiously Mr.
Graham watched her, waiting impatiently for the time
when she would be able to start for home, as he hoped a
change of place and scene would do much toward restoring
both her health and spirits. Soon after his arrival at
Laurel Hill, Mr. Graham had written to Mr. Livingstone,
telling him what he had before told his wife, and adding,
“Of course, my daughter's home will in future be with
me, at Woodlawn, where I shall be happy to see yourself
and family at any time.”

This part of the letter he showed to 'Lena, who, after
reading it, seemed for a long time absorbed in thought.

“What is it, darling? Of what are you thinking?”
Mr. Graham asked, at length, and 'Lena, taking the hand
which he had laid gently upon her forehead, replied, “I
am thinking of poor grandmother. She is not happy,
now, at Maple Grove. She will be more unhappy should
I leave her, and if you please, I would rather stay there
with her. I can see you every day.”

“Do you suppose me cruel enough to separate you
from your grandmother?” interrupted Mr. Graham.
“No, no, I am not quite so bad as that. Woodlawn is
large—there are rooms enough—and grandma shall have
her choice, provided it is a reasonable one.”

“And your wife—Mrs. Graham? What will she say?”
timidly inquired 'Lena, involuntarily shrinking from the
very thought of coming in contact with the little lady,

who had so recently come up before her in the new and
formidable aspect of step-mother!

Mr. Graham did not know himself what she would say,
neither did he care. The fault of his youth once confessed,
he felt himself a new man, able to cope with almost
anything, and if in the future his wife objected to
what he knew to be right, it would do her no good, for
henceforth he was to rule his own house. Some such
thoughts passed through his mind, but it would not be
proper, he knew, to express himself thus to 'Lena, so he
laughingly replied, “Oh, we'll fix that, easily enough.”

At the time he wrote to Mr. Livingstone, he had also
sent a letter to his wife, announcing his safe return from
Europe, and saying that he should be at home as soon as
'Lena's health would admit of her traveling. Not wishing
to alarm her unnecessarily, he merely said of Durward,
that he had found him at Laurel Hill. To this letter
Mrs. Graham replied immediately, and with a far better
grace than her husband had expected. Very frankly
she confessed the unkind part she had acted toward 'Lena,
and while she said she was sorry, she also spoke of the
reaction which had taken place in the minds of Lena's
friends, who, she said, would gladly welcome her back.

The continued absence of Durward was now the only
drawback to 'Lena's happiness, and with a comparatively
light heart, she began to anticipate her journey home.
Most liberally did Mr. Graham pay for both himself and
'Lena, and Uncle Timothy, as he counted the shining coin,
dropping it upon the table to make sure it was not bogus,
felt quite reconciled to his recent loss of fifty dollars.
Jerry, the driver, was also generously rewarded for his
kindness to the stranger-girl, and just before he left, Mr.
Graham offered to make him his chief overseer, if he
would accompany him to Kentucky.

“You are just the man I want,” said he, “and I know
you'll like it. What do you say?”

For the sake of occasionally seeing 'Lena, whom he
considered as something more than mortal, Jerry would
gladly have gone, but he was a staunch abolitionist, dyed
in the wool, and scratching his head, he replied, “I'm
obleeged to you, but I b'lieve I'd rather drive hosses than
niggers!”

“Mebby you could run one on 'em off, and so make a
little sumthin',” slily whispered Uncle Timothy, his eyes
always on the main chance, but it was no part of Jerry's
creed to make anything, and as 'Lena at that moment appeared,
he beat a precipitate retreat, going out behind
the church, where he watched the departure of his southern
friends, saying afterward, to Mrs. Aldergrass, who
chided him for his conduct, that “he never could bid nobody
good-by, he was so darned tender-hearted!”