University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

On reaching the St. Nicholas, and seating themselves in the
sumptuous parlor, they found a notice of arrangements made for
a private box at the opera, with invitations for two or three dinner
parties, cards from people they had never met with, nor
heard of before, and the daughters of a family they had known
abroad, with their maiden aunt, all waiting for them, on their way
to Stewart's, where they assured Miss Julia she would find the
loveliest India shawls, and the latest fashioned silks, selling at
half price, and the richest of laces to be had for the asking.

“Why! would you believe it! Miss Parry,” said the eldest of
the party, — an over-dressed woman of threescore, with half a
dozen little parcels in her lap,“— everybody is failing; the most
beautiful things you ever saw, real bijouterie, I assure you, are
just about given away; silk dresses we used to pay fifty, seventy-five,
or a hundred dollars for, may now be had for one half; at
our own price, indeed, for that's what they all say, — don't they
Sallie? And if you'll believe me, even Alexandre's gloves are
now selling for seventy-five cents a pair!”

“Can it be possible!” whispered Cousin Arthur to Julia,
without looking up, or turning his head.

The elderly gentlewoman heard the whisper; stared, fidgetted,
and just as two or three exclamations followed, such as, “Not
Alexandre's, Aunty!” — “Seventy-five cents a pair! how much
is that?”—“Six shillings, my love,” &c. &c.,— dropped one of the
parcels, and before Arthur, who sprang from the chair with uncommon
alacrity, could pick it up, let fall another, and then, with
great seriousness and benignity, assured him, upon her honor,
that she knew it to be a fact, having herself “laid in” a whole
dozen but a day or two before, at the price mentioned.

“And then, too,” added Sallie, a large, dark-eyed, showy brunette,
with a saucy, self-satisfied air, but so listless, and so languishing,
and so changeable in her adaptations, whenever she
found herself under the eyes of any comme il faut personage, of
the available gender, that they who best knew her were most
amazed at her altered manner — “and then, too, only to think
of it! All the banks failing, all your friends giving up their
carriages, and discharging their servants, and the largest wholesale
houses turning retailers — I declare it is quite sad.”

“Very sad, very! What will become of us?” exclaimed another
of the party, with a flourish of her perfumed handkerchief.

“A question I have heard repeated fifty times a day since I
have been here,” said Uncle George, looking up from a newspaper
large enough to cover the table. “Here is the failure of a
Wall Street brokerage for four millions, I see; and — why, bless
my heart! can it be possible! — here is the assignment of a
great railway company, after the expenditure of forty millions!”

“Ah, indeed! — well, I declare!”

“But then,” added Sallie, with a sort of lisp, very fashionable
at the time, not only in our large cities, but, like the Jenny Lind
curtsy, dip and wriggle, in some of our manufacturing villages
and `back settlements,'—“there is no saying but silks, and laces,
and gloves, may be had for next to nothing, or less, before the
week is over;” and then there was a giggle.

“Gloves! my dear? not gloves, I will answer for it; not Alexandre's,
you may be sure,” said Aunt Marie, as she insisted on
being called, from the day our hearty, old-fashioned English
names of Mary and Elizabeth and Sarah had been superseded
by Marie and Lizzie and Sallie, and other like pitiful substitutions
of bad French, — always bad at the best, but unbearable,
as now spoken or written.

“Well, well, Aunty.”

Aunty gave her a look, and then bridling up, and rustling all
over, added, “No, no, my dear, not Alexandre's; never, never!”

“And why not, pray? Why shouldn't gloves come down, as
well as other things?”

“Because, my dear, and you'll pardon me for saying that
where a man has a monopoly — a monopoly, child,”— glancing

triumphantly at Uncle George, who was evidently wide awake,—
“and supplies all the rest of the dealers, like Stewart, why, of
course, he may command his own price. You are old enough to
understand that, my love?”

“No, Aunty, not quite, I'm afraid.”

“To be sure,” added Arthur, very much as if thinking aloud,
or talking to himself, and glancing at Julia, who understood him
too well to afford him any encouragement, — “Nothing could be
clearer; and what charmingly familiar and easy lessons one
gets, not only in household management and thrift, but in the
higher branches of political economy, and in all the mysteries of
demand and supply, when such things happen every day.”

Sallie stared. The boyish looking whipper-snapper, whom she
had hitherto overlooked, and wholly misunderstood, must have
something in him, after all, she thought; for he puzzled her, and
instead of being taken off his feet by her strangeness of speech,
was in a fair way of taking them all off their feet, with his.

Julia understood his drift, and shook her head, in reply, being
somewhat apprehensive he might go too far, and then added in a
low sweet voice, “Undoubtedly, for some things are only to be
learned in this way; and, perhaps, if the banks are all failing, and
the largest dealers are becoming retailers, these rich laces, and
gloves, and shawls, and trinkets, may be no such great bargain,
after all.”

Uncle George seemed rather pleased, though a shadow flitted
athwart his fine countenance, and there was a troubled look of
the eyes, whenever he was left to himself, or they wandered to
the newspaper for a moment, which lay wide open before him.

“How so, Miss Parry? I do not understand you.”

“Money being so much harder to get, and worth so much
more, of course.”

“Money worth more, Miss Parry! How can money be worth
more at one time than at another, I should be glad to know!”
continued Aunt Marie.

“Other property being worth so much less, my dear madam, I
might have said; but I beg your pardon.”

“Oh, certainly; I understand you, now.”

“When money is tight,” added Arthur.

Aunt Marie did not much like the tone, though the manner
was unexceptionable, for, as he spoke, he laid another parcel in
her lap, which had just rolled off, without her knowledge; the
lady's plumptitude being somewhat remarkable, and by no means
adapted to the transportation of a large assortment of haberdashery,
even while sitting. The fact is, Aunt Marie had no lap.

Growing a little red, as she pulled at her glove, with a correspondent
nervous twitching of the mouth, she snapped out, —
“You will excuse me, Sir, but really, Sir, I must be allowed to
say, as I have said before, that I do not well see why money
should be worth more at one time than at another; more, when
it is tight — tight, I think you called it, Sir, than at other times,
where a lady” — giving her head a toss, and adjusting her shawl
— “has a regular income, for example.”

It was evidently high time for Uncle George to interfere.
“You are right, madam,” said he, interrupting Arthur, just as he
was about to answer. “Although, as you may satisfy yourself
at any time, by looking into these papers, that money commands
a much higher rate of interest at one time than at another — just
now, for example, when it is worth two per cent a month, and
from that to five — still, if the lady's income is so secured, as
never to be affected by the depreciation of stocks — or rents —”
Aunt Marie began to grow a little nervous — “nor by fluctuations
in the money market — or failures —”

Aunt Marie could bear this no longer. “Why, bless my
heart, Mr. Pendleton!” said she, growing very pale, “what do
you mean? Failures! stocks! rents! I declare, I never thought
of the matter in this way. Sallie, my dear.”

“Well, Aunty.”

“Please don't call me Aunty.”

“I beg your pardon, Aunt Mary.”

“Aunt Marie, child, if you please.”

“Certainly, by all means, — Aunt Marie.”

“If you have no objection, my dear, I should like a — a —
pulling out of her bosom a large, heavy old-fashioned gold watch
— a —a — to see Mr. Jessie for a few minutes this morning.”

“Jessup, you mean.”

“Well then, Jessup.”

“Before we go to Stewart's?”

“I shall not go to Stewart's this morning, my dear.”

“Indeed!”

“No, my love, I have just remembered a little business I have
with our agent. Good morning, ladies; good morning, Major
Pendleton; I wish you a very good morning, Mr. Maynard.
We ladies have to do most of our own business in this country,
you know, gentlemen.” Moving toward the door, as she spoke, but
being somewhat flurried, she dropped another of the little parcels,
and then a glove, which Arthur picked up, and was handing to
her, when Miss Sallie snatched it from him with a ringing laugh,
while her aunt was taking leave of the ladies, and turning down
the wrist, called Julia's attention to the mark. Julia did not appear
to understand her. “Not Alexandre's, after all,” said she,
loud enough to be overheard by Arthur. “Hush!”

While poor Julia was wondering what all this could mean,
Sallie, the malicious thing, turned to her aunt with a look of innocent,
almost childish playfulness, and asked her how Stewart
came to sell her such a great bargain in gloves, if he had a monopoly,
as she called it.”

“Stewart's, my love! did I say Stewart's? I meant Bowen's,
— Bowen and Macnamee;” snatching the glove out of her hand;
“but they are just exactly as good — not to be distinguished —
not a pin to choose.”

“But they are large wholesale importers, Aunt Marie.”

“To be sure they are, and that's the reason they cost me only
five shillings a pair, instead of eight.”

“Oh, I understand you; I thought you said six shillings.”

“Five shillings, my dear;” growing very red in the face, and
twitching again at her glove. “And then you know, Miss
Parry, all these stories about Alexandre's gloves are just a trick
of the trade; there's no such glove-maker in Paris, you know;
and the name of Alexander, Frenchified to Alexandre, is only
that of Mr. Stewart himself, you know, the prince of retailers.”

“Indeed! I was not aware of the fact,” said Julia, with a
look of deep interest, dying away at last into a faint smile, not to
be mistaken.

“What on earth do you trouble yourself with all these bundles

for?” said Sallie, as another fell out of her aunt's arms. “Why
don't you make the people send them after you?”

“It is not always safe to do so. Good morning, ladies; good
morning, gentlemen. Of course we shall meet you at the opera
this evening,” said her aunt; “and then, to-morrow, if you
please,” turning to Julia, and glancing at two or three other
unspeakable creatures upon the sofas and lounges, who had not
opened their mouths, and were evidently watching and listening,
with a somewhat supercilious air, “to-morrow we will drop into
Stewart's, if you say so, my dear, and tumble over the great bargains
we hear so much of, and judge for ourselves. We needn't
buy a shilling's worth, you know; they don't expect you to buy,
these dreadful times,” glancing at Uncle George. “What are
you laughing at, Sallie Webb? You ought to be ashamed of
yourself! Come along, my love;” and then lowering her voice,
and twitching violently at the flounce of that “superb mantilla”
which had so long been the boast of her niece, and oftentimes of
herself, among strangers from the country, she added, “come
along, you spiteful thing, you! Good morning, all; good-bye!
can't stop another minute; bye bye!” and away she sailed under
a cloud of — crinoline.

“Bye bye,” said Miss Sallie, sailing after her with a swing
that swept the whole passage-way like a gust of summer wind.
“Good morning; bye bye!” — with a delicate lisp, — “bye bye,
Mith Parry;” looking back over her shoulder, and imitating her
aunt, so as to set the youngest of the strangers giggling with all
her might.

Poor Julia was thunderstruck. On lifting her eyes to Uncle
George, and then to Arthur, she saw at once that all the rapid
changes of manner and voice, and all that had been most painful
and trying to her, even the counterfeit playfulness, and simpering
and lisping, had not only been observed and well understood
by both, although by each in a different way, and for a different
purpose, but would be remembered by both; by Uncle George,
with sorrow and pity, and by Arthur, for future use in some
way, — perhaps in a magazine article, or a lecture.

After a dreary, though short silence, Uncle George rose and

took the morning paper, and seemed about to sink into a large,
deep, luxurious chair — a sort of lounge — when Julia proposed
withdrawing to their own private parlor, where they would feel
more at home, and where he might read that “everlasting newspaper,”
as Cousin Arthur called it, at his leisure.

“Or loll about, as you like, with none to molest or make you
afraid,” whispered Arthur.

“Cousin Arthur!” said Julia, somewhat reproachfully, taking
her uncle's arm as she spoke, while Arthur followed with the
notes and cards, wondering what made Uncle George so very
serious, and so very thoughtful just then.

“Oh, ho!” said he, “I know; it all comes of that confounded
prayer-meeting. Always the way! These Christians, as they
call themselves — Methodists I call them — if they think they
are making other people better or happier, by looking so unhappy
themselves, will find themselves wofully mistaken, I fancy, when
they come to settle up. Ah, my dear Sir, I am glad to see you,”
he added, on hearing somebody cough in the doorway. It was
the very stranger they had met with near the chief entrance of
Burton's theatre.

“What have I been saying?” continued Arthur to himself.
“Hope he did'nt hear me, — and yet, how troubled he looks.
Won't you step in, Sir, and be seated, while I send up for Uncle
George. Your visit is to him, perhaps?”

“No, my young friend, it is to thee.”

Arthur bowed.

“Although,” continued the stranger, “I should be glad to see
thy uncle at another time, and that comely young woman I saw
with him and thee. My name is Bayard, William Bayard”—

“And mine, Sir, is Maynard, Arthur Maynard.”

“The only son of Harper Maynard, I believe.”

“Yes; did you know my father, Sir?”

“Know thy father, young man! He was the dearest friend
I had on earth, and one of the best men I ever knew; and I
hope thee may be like him, Arthur.”

“But he was not a Quaker, Sir, as I see you are.”

“We call ourselves Friends.”

“To be sure! I beg your pardon; but my father lived and

died an Episcopalian; a Church of England man, as I believe you
would call him.”

“None the worse for that, friend Arthur. Everywhere, he
that worketh righteousness and feareth the Lord is accepted.”

“But Mr. Bayard, my dear Sir”—

“Perhaps thee had better call me William, as thy father always
did, to the day of his death.”

Arthur tried, faltered, blushed, laughed — and gave it up for a
bad job.

“No, no, you must excuse me. I cannot call a man of your
age, or an old friend of my father, William.”

“Well, well, never mind now.”

“But are not these liberal views rather at variance with the
opinions of your early writers, William Penn, Job Scott, and
Robert Barclay, for instance?”

“Not if rightly understood; not if patiently sifted to the bottom.
Their testimony was against the corruptions of the Church
of England, the pomp and ceremony, the popish ritual, and such
things; but how happens it, I pray, that thou art acquainted
with the opinions of such men as Robert Barclay, and William
Penn, and Job Scott? Has thee ever read `No Cross no
Crown?'”

“Yes, and more than once.”

“Indeed! Yet thee seems very young, and perhaps worldly,
and if I may judge by what I see, fashionable.”

This was said so good naturedly, and with such a pleasant
voice, that Arthur could not help smiling, as he thought how
Cousin Julia would enjoy the idea of his being called worldly,
and perhaps fashionable.

“My dear Sir,” said he, “let me explain this. In my father's
library, there were many books relating to the early history of
your faith, from George Fox down; I was fond of journals and
travels, and from a very early age used to read almost everything
that fell in my way. Seeing my poor father often looking
into these old fashioned books, I felt a desire to know what there
was in them, and in this way became a little acquainted perhaps
with what otherwise I should have been ignorant of — the
history of the Quakers.”

“The history of the people called Quakers, thee would say.”

“Certainly, I beg your pardon, Sir.”

“Were the old fashioned books thee saw thy father looking
over so often, were they” — hesitating, and then with great
earnestness, adding — “were they all covered with white parchment?”

“Yes, all, if I remember aright; and I am very sure, as to
those I have mentioned.”

The stranger wiped his eyes, and there was a slight trembling
about his mouth, which bespoke a deep, though subdued emotion.

“Allow me to ask you, my dear Sir, if you remember these
books?”

“Are they still in thy father's library?”

“They are now in mine, Sir.”

“In thine!”

“Yes, at any rate, they were so, when I left England.”

“But how came they to be in thy library?”

“Well, Sir, I suppose I may as well own up. My father took
it into his head that I was very fond of them — all a mistake, my
dear Sir; but as they were the gift of an old friend of his youth,
and associated, as he told me, with events which had changed the
whole current of his life, and sent him abroad an outcast and
adventurer, I had'nt the heart to undeceive him.”

“Arthur Maynard, is thy mother living?”

Arthur was about to reply, when the stranger rose hurriedly
from his chair, and went to the window, and threw it up, as if to
breathe more freely.

“God bless me! Are you faint, Sir?”

The stranger made a motion with his hand, but gave no
answer, till he dropped into a chair by the open window, and
then, after a short struggle, he added, in a sweet, calm, low voice,
“thee did not answer my question, I believe?”

“No Sir, but my dear mother is living and well, or was when
we left her, less than three months ago.”

The old man clasped his hands, and looked up, as if in prayer,
with his chin quivering.

“If thee will open the books thee mentioned, Arthur Maynard,
thee will find the name of William Bayard on the title-page.”

“As I live, my dear Sir, I remember it! And you are that
William Bayard — are you! — that dearest friend of my father,
and perhaps of my mother?”

“Perhaps of thy mother, dear youth; but I must go now; I
hope to see thee again, however.”

“But you would like to see Cousin Julia, and Uncle George,
before you go; shall I send up for them?”

“No, not now, not now;” pressing both hands upon his
chest, and trembling from head to foot. “Some other day;
farewell.”

“One moment, Sir. You said, if I remember, that your
errand was for me.”

“For myself, rather.”

“How so? — I don't understand.”

“Nor will thee, dear youth, until thee knows everything.
Hereafter, when I have satisfied myself upon two or three
points, which may deeply concern thee, I shall endeavor to explain
myself.”

The old man had reached the door, and was fumbling at the
lock, as if undetermined what to do. At last, after another short
struggle, he turned to Arthur, and taking both hands into his,
and looking at him as if he were about to say, farewell forever
and ever, he murmured —

“The very image of his mother!”

“I have been told so, from my earliest childhood.”

“One thing, dear Arthur, I may tell thee now. It was the
likeness to thy mother, when I saw thee with thy hat off, thy collar
open, and thy plentiful brown hair blowing about thy face, while
standing over that wretched man, who had just fallen before thee,
wherein thy father's temper, before he was a changed man, broke
forth so suddenly, that led me to follow thee here;” looking round
upon the rich hangings and showy furniture, “a place I was
never in before; and now, it may be, that hereafter I shall follow
thee, as I did thy dear mother, when the dew of youth was upon
me, like her shadow, till thou, too, art changed.”

The next moment he was gone — like a shadow.

Arthur was bewildered. Though touched by the signs of deep
feeling, and heartfelt earnestness of the old man, he could not

help fancying that, perhaps, he might be in his dotage, or a little
beside himself. True enough, he remembered — he was quite
sure he remembered — the name of William Bayard in the books;
and that his father, and he now began to believe, as he thought
over all the circumstances, that even his mother had always
spoken of them as the gift of a very dear friend; he thought he
remembered too, as he went back, year by year, over the past,
and recalled the mysterious happenings, and associations of his
early youth, of a very dear friend, too, under circumstances
never to be forgotten.

Determined to satisfy himself at once, he hurried up to their
private parlor, where he found Uncle George, sitting by a table,
and leaning his face upon his hands, with heaps of old papers
about him.

He had barely time to see, that, although most of them were
in files, and carefully arranged, others were lying open, scorched,
and shrivelled, and weather-stained, as if they had been gathered
from a lumber garret, or snatched from the fire; and was about
to withdraw, as he found the Major did not look up, nor move,
when Julia shook her head mournfully, he thought, and pointed
to a chair.

Arthur obeyed the signal, wondering what the strange, deep
stillness meant. Was Uncle George asleep, or lost in thought,
or praying silently, as he sometimes did, at the table? He
began to feel uneasy, and was almost afraid to move or breathe,
when he looked at Julia, and saw the trouble in her eyes, the
trembling of her hands, the paleness that had settled upon her
sweet face, and the slight nervous twitching about her mouth, as
of a long continued, earnest, inward struggle.

“What could be the matter with her? was it only fatigue and
weariness? or a little reaction after her fright in Broadway?
He was afraid to ask, afraid even to think of the possibilities involved.
Among strangers, at a crowded hotel, away from all the
soothing associations of home, with nobody to watch over her
but the chambermaid she had brought with her from England,—
the house they had bargained for undergoing changes and repairs,
and his own dear mother afar off, and waiting for them to
be settled, — what would become of the poor thing, if she should

give way at last? How beautiful she was, to be sure! how gentle,
how affectionate, and how truthful!”

After a long silence, which grew more and more painful and
trying, the longer it continued, Arthur began to feel somewhat
alarmed, as he looked at Mr. Pendleton, who did not appear to
breathe, and made a sign for Julia to speak to him.

But instead of speaking, she went softly up to him, and after
listening for a moment, she turned to Arthur with a smile, and
then laid her little soft hand gently, very gently, upon her uncle's
forehead, but instantly withdrew it, and looked more frightened
than ever. The hair was damp, and the flesh so cold as to send
a chill to her heart.

A slight scream escaped her at the touch; and she was turning
to Arthur with such a piteous look of terror, that he sprang for
the bell-rope, when the startled sufferer withdrew her hands from
his face, looked about him with a bewildered air, and after a
few moments of labored breathing, appeared to recollect himself;
and putting his arm around poor Julia's waist, he drew her up to
his heart, and kissing her forehead, thanked her with a smile for
disturbing him.

“I did not mean to disturb you, dear uncle, I only wanted to
smooth your hair, and see for myself whether you were asleep.”

“Asleep! my love, no, no, not so bad as that, I hope; not altogether
asleep, I believe; but I might as well have been asleep, I
see, for I had forgotten that you were here, Arthur; but I thank
you both for disturbing me, dear children. I have not slept well
of late, and I often lose myself, not so much from sheer exhaustion,
as from weariness of spirit.”

“Dear uncle!” whispered Julia.

“Is there nothing I can do for you, Sir?” inquired Arthur.

“Nothing, my dear, noble-hearted boy, but,” — with great seriousness,
— “but you may do much for yourself.”

Arthur looked at Julia, who appeared to understand what was
meant, for explanation, but she turned away her head, as if unwilling,
or perhaps unable to answer.

“But this will never do!” continued the Major, gathering up
the loose papers, and thrusting them into a large drawer, of
which he took the key; and then glancing at the clock, he added, I

must abroad into the open air; they keep their houses too warm
here, altogether too warm, I cannot breathe freely in such an atmosphere;”
taking up his hat, and going towards the door.

“Shall I go with you, Sir?” said Arthur, in obedience to a
look from Julia.

“No, no, thank you, I shall not be gone long, — just a turn
or two around the Park.”

“Union Park, Sir?”

“Or up Madison Avenue, or down to the river, I hardly know
myself; anywhere, though, for a mouthful of fresh air.”

“We shall see you at dinner, Uncle George?”

“Certainly, my love.”

“We are engaged for the opera, you know, Sir,” added
Arthur.

“For the opera? Oh, yes, I remember now, I had wholly forgotten
the engagement. Hand me one of the tickets, Julia, so
that if anything should happen to detain me from dinner, I may
meet you there; and may I not hope to see you looking happier?”

“Happier, Uncle George! happier at an opera, where I never
go, but for your sake, and you never go but for mine, I believe.”

“Ah, but you are so passionately fond of the opera, Julia,”
added Arthur.

“Passionately! Cousin Arthur? No, no, not so bad as that, I
hope. That I am fond of opera music, and of the great masters,
Meyerbeer, and Mozart, and Von Weber, I acknowledge; but I
have serious objections to the opera, and really am not altogether
satisfied with myself when I give way to my passion for
music, as you call it, Cousin Arthur.”

“Oh, ho! I understand you, my little preacher,” said Uncle
George. “You cannot, for the life of you, see the difference between
the theatre and the opera; but good-bye; we'll discuss that
subject hereafter, and at our leisure, if you say so, — good-bye; but
stop though, I see by the bill that we are to have Robert le Diable.
Did I not understand you to say Don Giovanni, my dear?”

“Yes, and it was only for that reason that I consented to take
a part of the box, without consulting you; for you told me last
week, if you remember, that they were going to perform it for
the first time in America, as written.”

“All a mistake!” said Arthur, looking at an ivory tablet in
his hands, “all a mistake! we are to have Robert le Diable to-night,
and after this week Don Giovanni.”

“Provoking!” said Julia.

“But we are in for it now, and may as well go.”

“I have no desire to go, Cousin Arthur.”

“Julia,” said Uncle George, stopping in the door-way, for a
moment; “I hope you will go nevertheless. I want your help in a
matter of importance, and you may depend upon having me with
you before it is over—Deo volente. Good-bye!”

“Follow him, dear Arthur, follow him without being seen, I
pray you; and, for your life, don't lose sight of him!”

“Why, what's the matter Julia? You frighten me.”

“I don't know, but something is going to happen, I feel sure.
I have had such terrible misgivings to day.”

“Why, Cousin Julia! are you growing superstitious, or is it
only nervousness?”

“I don't know, Arthur. I don't know what it is, nor what ails
me, but I am excessively anxious about Uncle George. I never
saw him so before, and I hardly know what I am afraid of; there
is a shadow, like that of another world upon me; I feel it growing
heavier and heavier, — No, no, don't touch the bell!”

“I am afraid to leave you alone, Julia. Hadn't you better
ring for Bessie? She will at least be a —”

“Not another word, Arthur, — run, run, I beseech you.”

Arthur hurried away, and poor Julia, staggering to a chair,
and covering her face with her hands, began expostulating with
herself, but all to no purpose. The awful shadow would not be
conjured down, the darkness grew heavier and heavier; she tried
to breathe a prayer, but her apprehensions were so vague, her
thoughts and feelings of such a changeable and bewildering
character, that she hardly knew what to pray for; and so she
started up, after a long struggle with herself, and began pacing
the room, stopping for a moment, as she passed the window, to
see how fast the snow was falling; then she pulled out her watch,
and compared it with a clock over the mantel-piece, which had
stopped long before; and with the little gold key in her hand,
stood listening and breathless at every passing footstep, without

remembering her first purpose, and murmuring now and then a
few broken words of prayer — “Father, dear Father, have pity
on us! thou see'st our trouble! O, help and deliver! forsake
us not, O most Merciful! help, or we perish!”

Overcome by her feelings at last, the poor child fell upon her
knees, and burying her face in the cushions of the sofa, sobbed
aloud, hoping and almost believing, in her anguish and terror,
that the Spirit was “making intercession for her, with groanings
that could not be uttered,” and that, when she added “Nevertheless,
not my will, but thine be done, O righteous Father!” some
answer would be vouchsafed, in her utter self-abandonment and
helplessness. Nor was she altogether disappointed.

A gentle tap at the door, and the poor child sprang to her feet,
as if ashamed to be caught upon her knees.

“Come in,” she cried, in a very faint voice.

The rap was repeated, somewhat louder.

“Come in, if you please.”