University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
WAITING FOR SOME ONE TO TURN UP.

AND so the girls were condemned to idleness
and ennui, and they all came to suffer from
these as from a dull toothache, especially Laura and
Zell. Edith had great hopes from her garden, and
saw the snow finally disappear and the mud dry up,
as the imprisoned inmates of the ark might have
watched the abatement of the waters.

The afternoon of the council wherein Mrs. Allen
had marked out the family policy, Edith and
Zell walked to the village, and going to one of the
leading stores, made arrangements with the proprietor
to have his wagon stop daily at their house
for orders. They also asked him to send them a
carpenter. They made these requests with the
manner of olden time, when money seemed to flow
from a full fountain, and the man was very polite,
thinking he had gained profitable customers.

While they were absent, Rose stepped in to
see if she could be of any further help. Mrs. Allen
surmised who she was and resolved to snub
her effectually. To Rose's question as to their
need of assistance, she replied frigidly “that they
had two servants now, and did not wish to employ
any more help.”

Rose colored, bit her lip, then said with an
open smile,—

“You are under mistake. I am Miss Lacey,
and helped your daughter the first two days after
she came.”

“Oh, ah, Miss Lacey. I beg your pardon,”
said Mrs. Allen, still more distantly, “my daughter
Edith is out. Did she not pay you?”

Rose's face became scarlet, and rising hastily
she said, “Either I misunderstand, or am greatly
misunderstood. Good afternoon.”

Mrs. Allen slightly inclined her head, while
Laura took no notice of her at all. When she was
gone, Mrs. Allen said complaisantly, “I think we
will see no more of that bold faced fly-away creature.
The idea of her thinking that we would live
on terms of social equality with them.”

Laura's only reply was a yawn, but at last she
got up, put on her hat and shawl and went out to
walk a little on the porch. Arden, who was returning
home with his team, stopped a moment
to inquire if there was anything further that he
could do. He hoped the lady he saw on the porch
was Edith, and the wish to see her again led him
to think of any excuse that would take him to the
house.

As Laura turned to come toward him, he surmised
that it was another sister, and was disappointed
and embarrassed, but it was too late to
turn back, though she scarcely appeared to heed
him.

“I called to ask Miss Edith if I could do anything
more that would be of help to her,” he said
diffidently.

Giving him a cold careless glance, Laura said,
“I believe my sister wants some work done
around the house before long. I will tell her that
you were here looking for employment, and I have
no doubt she will send for you if she needs your services,”
and Laura turned her back on him and
continued her walk.

He whirled about on his heel as if she had
struck him, and when he got home his mother
noted that his face looked more black and sullen
than she had ever seen it before. Rose was open
and strong in her indignation, saying:

“Fine neighbors you have introduced us to!
Nice return they make for all our kindness; not
that I begrudge it. But I hate to see people get
all out of you they can, and then about the same
as slap your face and show you the door.”

“Did you see Miss Edith?” asked Arden
quickly.

“No, I saw the old lady and a proud pale-faced
girl who took no more notice of me than if I had
come for cold victuals.”

“I suppose they have heard,” said Arden
dejectedly.

“They have heard nothing against me, nor
you, nor mother,” said Rose hotly. “If I ever
see that Miss Edith again, I will give her a piece
of my mind.”

“You will please do nothing of the kind,” said
her brother. “She has not turned her back on
you. Wait till she does. We are the last people
to condemn one for the sake of another.”

“I guess they are all alike; but as you say,
it's fair to give her a chance,” answered Rose
quietly.

With his habit of reticence he said nothing
about his own experience. But it was a cruel
shock that those connected with the one who was
becoming the inspiration of his dreams, should be
so contemptible as he regarded them, and as we
are all apt to regard those who treat us with contempt.
His faith in her was also shaken, and he
resolved that she must “send for him,” feeling
her need, before he would go near her again.
But after all, his ardent fancy began to paint her
more gentle and human on the back-ground of
narrow pride as shown by the others. He longed
for some absolute proof that she was what he believed
her, but was too proud to put himself in
the way of receiving it.

When Edith heard how the Lacey acquaintance
had been nipped in the bud, she said with
honest shame, “It's too bad, after all their kindness.”

“It was the only thing to be done,” said Mrs.
Allen. “It is better for such people to talk against
you, than to be claiming you as neighbors, and all
that. It would give us a very bad flavor with the
best people of the town.”

“I only wish then,” said Edith, “that I had never
let them do anything for me. I shall hate to meet
them again,” and she sedulously avoided them.

The next day a carpenter appeared after breakfast,
and seemed the most affably suggestive man
in the world. “Of course he would carry out Mrs.
Allen's wishes immediately,” and he showed her
several other improvements that might be made at
the same time, and which would cost but little
more while they were about it.

“But how much will it cost?” asked Edith
directly.

“Oh well,” said the man vaguely, “it's hard to
estimate on this kind of jobbing work.” Then
turning to Mrs. Allen, he said with great deference,
“I assure you, madam, I will do it well, and be
just as reasonable as possible.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said Mrs. Allen majestically,
pleased with the deference, “I suppose that
is all we ought to ask.”

“I think there ought to be something more
definite as to price and time of completing the work,”
still urged Edith.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Allen with depressing
dignity, “pray leave these matters to me. It is not
expected that a young lady like yourself should
understand them.”

Mrs. Allen had become impressed with the idea
that if they ever reached the heaven of Fifth Avenue
again, she must take the helm and steer their storm-tossed
bark. As we have seen before, she was

capable of no small degree of exertion when the
motive was to attain position and supremacy in the
fashionable world. She was great in one direction
only—the one to which she had been educated, and
to which she devoted her energies.

The man chuckled as he went away. “Lucky
I had to deal with the old fool rather than that
sharp black-eyed girl. By jove! but they are a
handsome lot though; only they look like the
houses we build nowadays—more paint and finish
than solid timber.”

The next day there were three or four mechanics
at work and the job was secured. The day following
there were only two, and the next day none.
Edith sent word by the grocer, asking what was
the matter. The following day one man appeared,
and on being questioned, said “the boss was very
busy, lots of jobs on hand.”

“Why did he take our work then?” asked
Edith indignantly.

“Oh, as to that, the boss takes every job he
can get,” said the man with a grin.

“Well, tell the boss I want to see him,” she
replied sharply.

The man chuckled and went on with his work
in a snail-like manner, as if that were the only job
“the boss” had, or was like to have, and he must
make the most of it.

The house was hers, and Edith felt anxious
about it, and indeed it seemed that they were
going to great expense with no certain return in

view. That night one corner of the roof was left
open and rain came in and did considerable damage.

Loud and bitter were the complaints of the
family, but Edith said little. She was too incensed
to talk about it. The next day it threatened rain
and no mechanics appeared. Donning her waterproof
and thick shoes, she was soon in the village,
and by inquiry, found the man's shop. He saw
her coming and dodged out.

“Very well, I will wait,” said Edith, sitting
down on a box.

The man finding she would not go away, soon
after bustled in, and was about to be very polite,
but Edith interrupted him with a question that
was like a blow between the eyes,—

“What do you mean, sir, by breaking your
word?”

“Great press of work just now, Miss Allen—”

“That is not the question,” interrupted Edith,
“you said you would do our work immediately,
you took it with that distinct understanding, and because
you have been false to your word, we have
suffered much loss. You knew the roof was not all
covered. You knew it, when it rained last night,
but the rain did not fall on you, so I suppose you
did not care. But is a person who breaks his word
in that style a gentleman? Is he even a man,
when he breaks it to a lady, who has no brother or
husband to protect her interests?”

The man became very red. He was accustomed,

as his workman said, to secure every job he
could, then divide and scatter his men so as to
keep everything going, but at a slow aggravating
rate, that wore out every one's patience, save his
own. He was used to the annual faultfinding and
grumbling of the busy season, and bore it as he
would a northeast storm—a disagreeable necessity,
and quite prided himself on the good-natured equanimity
with which he could stand his customers'
scoldings; and the latter had become so accustomed
to being put off that they endured it also as they
would a northeaster, and went into improvements
and building, as they might visit a dentist.

But when Edith turned her scornful face, and
large indignant eyes full upon him, and asked practically,
what he meant by lying to her, and said
that to treat a woman so proved him less than a
man, he saw his habit of “putting off,” in a new
light. At first he was a little inclined to bluster,
but Edith interrupted him sharply,—

“I wish to know in a word what you will do.
If that roof is not completed and made tight to-day,
I will put the matter in a lawyer's hands and
make you pay damages.”

This would place the man in an unpleasant
business aspect, so he said gruffly,—

“I will send some men right up.”

“And I will take no action till I see whether
they come,” said Edith significantly.

They came, and in a few days the work was all
finished. But a bill double the amount they expected

came promptly also. They paid no attention
to it.

In the meantime Edith had asked the village
merchant, who supplied them with provisions, and
who had also become a sort of agent for them, to
send a man to plough the garden. The next day an
old slouchy fellow with two melancholy shacks of
horses that might well tremble at the caw of a crow,
was scratching the garden with a worn out plough
when she came down to breakfast. He had already
made havoc in the flower borders, and Edith
was disgusted with the outward aspect of himself
and team to begin with. But when in her morning
slippers she had picked her way daintily to
where she could look in the shallow furrows, her
vexation knew no bounds. She had been reading
about gardening of late, and she had carefully noted
how all the writers insisted on deep ploughing
and the thorough loosening of the soil. This man's
furrows did not average six inches, and with a
frowning brow, and dress gathered up, she stood
perched on a little stone like a bird, that had just
alighted with ruffled plumage, while Zell was on
the porch laughing at her. The man with his
shackly team soon came round again opposite her,
with slow automatic motion as if the whole thing
was one crazy piece of mechanism. The man's
head was down and he paid no heed to Edith.
The rim of his old hat flapped over his face, the
horses jogged on with drooping head and ears, as
if unable to hold them up, and all seemed going

down, save the plough. This light affair skimmed
and scratched along the ground like the sharpened
sticks of oriental tillage.

“Stop!” cried Edith sharply.

“Whoa!” shouted the man, and he turned toward
Edith a pair of watery eyes, and a face that
suggested nothing but snuff.

“Who sent you here?” asked Edith in the
same tone.

“Mr. Hard, mum.” (Mr. Hard was the merchant
who was acting as their agent.)

“Am I to pay you for this work, or Mr. Hard?”

“I guess you be, mum.”

“Who's to be suited with this work, you, Mr.
Hard or I?”

“I haint thought nothin' about that.”

“Do you mean to say that it makes no difference
whether I am suited or not?”

“What yer got agin the work?”

“I want my garden ploughed, not scratched
You don't plough half deep enough, and you are
injuring the shrubs, and flowers in the borders.”

“I guess I know more about ploughin' than you
do. Gee up thar!” to the horses, that seemed inclined
to be Edith's allies by not moving.

“Stop!” she cried, “I will not pay you a cent
for this work, and wish you to leave this garden
instantly.”

“Mr. Hard told me to plough this garding and
I'm agoin' to plough it. I never seed the day's work
I didn't git paid for yit, and you'll pay for this. Git

up thar, you cussed old critters,” and the man struck
the horses sharply with a lump of dirt; away went
the crazy rattling old automation round and round
the garden in spite of all she could do.

She was half beside herself with vexation which
was increased by Zell's convulsed laughter on the
porch, but she stormed at the old ploughman as
vainly as a robin remonstrating with a windmill.

“Mr. Hard told me to plough it, and I'm
a-goin' to plough it,” said the human phase of the
mechanism as it passed again where Edith stood
without stopping.

Utterly baffled, Edith rushed into the house
and hastily swallowed a cup of coffee. She was too
angry to eat a mouthful.

Zell followed with her hand upon her side that
was aching from laughter, and as soon as she found
her voice said,—

“It was one of the most touchingly beautiful
rural scenes I ever looked upon. I never had so
close and inspiring a view of one of the “sons of
the soil” before.”

“Yes,” snapped Edith, “he is literally a clod.”

“I can readily see,” continued Zell, in a mock
sentimental tone, “how noble and refining a sphere
the “garding” (as your friend, out there, terms it)
must be, even for women. In the first place there
are your associates in labor—”

“Stop!” interrupted Edith sharply. “You
all leave everything for me to do, but I won't be
teased and tormented in the bargain.”

“But really,” continued the incorrigible Zell,
“I have been so much impressed by the first scene
in the creation of your Eden, which I have just
witnessed, that I am quite impatient for the second.
It may be that our sole acquaintances in this
delightful rural retreat, the `drunken Laceys,' as
mother calls them, will soon insist on becoming
inspired with the spirit of the corn they raise in
our arbor.”

Edith sprang up from the table, and went to
her room.

“Shame on you, Zell,” said Mrs. Allen sharply,
but Laura was too apathetic to scold.

Impulsive Zell soon relented, and when Edith
came down a few moments later in walking trim,
and with eyes swollen with unshed tears, Zell
threw her arms around her neck and said,—

“Forgive your naughty little sister.”

But Edith repulsed her angrily, and started toward
the village.

“I do hate to see people sullenly hoard up
things,” said Zell snappishly. Then she dawdled
about the house, yawning and saying fretfully, “I do
wish I knew what to do with myself.”

Laura reclined on the sofa with a novel, but
Zell was not fond of reading. Her restless nature
craved continual activity and excitement, but it
was part of Mrs. Allen's policy that they should do
nothing.

“Some one may call,” she said, “and we must
be ready to receive them,” but at that season of

the year, when roads were muddy, there was but
little social visiting in the country.

So, consumed with ennui, Zell listened to the
pounding of the carpenters overhead, and watched
the dogged old ploughman go round the small garden
till it was all scratched over, and then the
whole crazy mechanism rattled off to parts unknown.
The two servants did not leave her even
the resource of housework of which she was naturally
fond.

Edith went straight to Mr. Hard and was so
provoked that she scarcely avoided the puddles in
her determined haste.

Mr. Hard looked out upon his customers with
cold hard little eyes that only changed their expression
in growing more cold and hard. The rest
of his person seemed all bows, smirks and smiles,
but it was noticed that these latter diminished and
his eyes grew harder as he wished to remind some
lagging patron that his little account needed settling.
This thrifty citizen of Pushton was soon
in polite attendance on Edith, but was rather
taken back, when she asked sharply, what he
meant by sending such a good-for-nothing man to
plough her garden.

“Well, Miss Allen,” he said, his eyes growing
harder but his manner more polite, “Old Gideon
does such little jobs around, and I thought he was
just the one.”

“Does he plough your garden?” asked Edith
abruptly.

“I keep a gardener,” said Mr. Hard with some
dignity.

“I believe it would pay me to do the same,”
said Edith, “if I could find one on whom I could
depend. The man you sent was very impudent.
I told him the work didn't suit me—that he didn't
plough half deep enough, and that he must leave.
But he just kept right on, saying you sent him,
and he would plough it, and he injured my flower-borders
besides. Therefore he must look to you
for payment.” (Mr. Hard's eyes grew very hard
at this.) “Because I am a woman I am not going
to be imposed upon. Now do you know of a man
who can really plough my garden? If not, I must
look elsewhere. I had hoped when you took our
business you would have some interest in seeing
that we were well served.”

Mr. Hard with eyes like two flint pebbles, made
a low bow and said with impressive dignity:

“It is my purpose to do so. There is Mr.
Skinner, he does ploughing.”

“I don't want Mr. Skinner,” said Edith impatiently,
“I don't like his name in reference to
ploughing.”

“Oh, ah! excellent reason, very good, Miss
Allen. Well, there's Mr. McTrump, a Scotchman,
who has a small green-house and nursery, he looks
after gardens for some people.”

“I will go and see him,” said Edith taking his
address.

As she plodded off to find his place, she sighed,

“Oh dear, it's dreadful to have no men in the family.
That Arden Lacey might have helped me so
much, if mother was not so particular, I fear we
are all on the wrong track, throwing away substantial
and present good for uncertainties.”

Mr. McTrump was a little man with a heavy
sandy beard, and such thick bushy eyebrows and
hair, that he reminded Edith of a Scotch terrier.
But her first glance around convinced her that he
was a gardener. Neatness, order, thrift, impressed
her the moment she opened his gate, and she perceived
that he was already quite advanced in his
spring work. Smooth seed-sown beds were emerging
from winter's chaos. Crocuses and hyacinths
were in bloom, with tulips budding after them,
and on a sunny slope in the distance she saw
long, green rows of what seemed some growing
crop. She determined if possible to make this
man her ally, or by stratagem to gain his secret of
success.

The little man stood in the door of his green-house
with a transplanting trowel in his hand.
He was dressed in clay colored nankeen, and could
get down in the dirt without seeming to get dirty.
His small eyes twinkled shrewdly, but not unkindly
as she advanced toward him. He was fond of
flowers, and she looked like one herself that spring
morning.

“I was directed to call upon you,” she said,
with conciliatory politeness, “understanding that
you sometimes assist people with their gardens.”

“Weel, noo and then I do, but I canna give
mooch time with a' my ain work.”

“But you would help a lady who has no one
else to help her, wouldn't you?” said Edith
sweetly.

Old Malcom was not to be caught with a sugarplum,
so he said with a little Scotch caution,—

“I canna vera weel say till I hear mair aboot
it.”

Edith told him how she was situated, and in
view of her perplexity and trouble, her voice had a
little appealing pathos in it. Malcom's eyes
twinkled more and more kindly, and as he explained
afterwards to his wife, “Her face was sae like a
pink hyacinth beent doon by the storm and a
wantin propin oop,” that by the time she was done
he was ready to accede to her wishes.

“Weel,” said he, “I canna refuse a blithe young
leddy like yoursel, but ye must let me have my
ain way.”

Edith was inclined to demur at this, for she had
been reading up and had many plans and theories
to carry out. But she concluded to accept the
condition, thinking that with her feminine tact
and coaxing she would have her own way after all.
She did not realize that she was dealing with a
Scotchman.

“I'll send ye a mon as will plow the garden and
not scratch it, the morrow, God willin,” for Mr.
McTrump was a very pious man, his only fault being
that he would take a drop too much occasionally.

“May I stay here awhile and watch you work,
and look at things?” asked Edith. “I don't want
to go back till that hateful old fellow has done his
mischief and is gone.”

“Why not?” said Malcom, “an ye don't tech
anything. The woman folk from the village as
come here do pick and pull much awry.”

“I promise you I will be good,” said Edith
eagerly.

“That's mair than ony on us can say of oursel,”
said Malcom, showing the doctrinal bias of his
mind, “but I ken fra' ye bonny face ye mean weel.”

“O Mr. McTrump, that is the first compliment
I have received in Pushton,” laughed Edith.

“I'm a thinkin it'll not be the last. But I hope
ye mind the Scripter where it says, “We do all
fade as a flower,' and ye will not be puffed oop.”

But Edith, far more intent on horticultural than
scriptural knowledge, asked quickly,—

“What were you going to set out with that
trowel?”

“A new strawberry bed. I ha' more plants the
spring than I can sell, sae I thought to put oot a
new bed, though I ha' a good mony.”

“I am so glad. I wish to set out a large bed
and can get the plants of you.”

“How mony do ye want?” said Malcom, with
a quick eye to business.

“I shall leave that to you when you see my
ground. Now see how I trust you, Mr. McTrump.”

“An ye'll not lose by it, though I would na like

a' my coostomers to put me sae strictly on my honesty.”

Edith spent the next hour in looking around
the garden and green houses and watching the old
man put out his plants.

“These plants are to be cooltivated after the
hill seestem,” he said. “They are to stand one
foot apart in the row, and the rows two feet
apart, and not a rooner or weed to grow on, or
near them, and it would do your bright eyes good
to see the great red berries they'll bear.”

“Shall I raise mine that way?” said Edith.

“Weel, ye might soom, but the narrow row
coolture will be best for ye, I'm thinkin.”

“What's that?”

“Weel, just let the plants run togither and
make a thick close row a foot wide, an' two feet
between the rows. That'll be the easiest for ye,
but I'll show ye.”

“I'm so glad I found you out,” said Edith,
heartily, “and if you will let me, I want to come
here often and see how you do everything, for to
tell you the truth, between ourselves, we are poor,
and may have to earn our living out of the garden,
or some other way, and I would rather do it out of
the garden.”

“Weel noo, ye're a canny lass to coom and filch
all old Malcom's secrets to set oop opposition to him.
But then sin' ye do it sae openly I'll tell ye all I
know. The big wourld ought to be wide enough
for a bonnie lassie like yoursel, to ha' a chance in

it, and though I'm a little mon, I would na be sae
mean a one as to hinder ye. Mairover the gardener's
craft be a gentle one, and I see na reason
why, if a white lily like yoursel must toil and spin,
it should na be oot in God's sunshine, where the
flowers bloom, instead o' pricking the bluid oot o'
ye're body, and the hope oot o' ye're heart, wi' the
needle's point, as I ha seen sae mony o' my ain
coontry lassies do. Gude-by, and may the roses in
ye'r cheeks bloom a' the year round.”

Edith felt as if his last words were a blessing,
and started with her heart cheered and hopeful;
and yet beyond her garden, with its spring promise,
its summer and autumn possibilities, there was
little inspiring or hopeful in her new home.

In accordance with their mother's policy, they
were waiting for something to turn up—waiting, in
utter uncertainty, and with dubious prospects, to
achieve by marriage the security and competence
which they must not work for, or utterly lose caste
in the old social world in which they had lived.

Be not too hasty in condemning Mrs. Allen, my
reader, for you may, at the same time, condemn
yourself. Have you no part in sustaining that
public sentiment which turns the cold shoulder of
society toward the woman who works? Many are
growing rich every year, but more are growing
poor. What does the “best society,” in the
world's estimation, say to the daughters in these
families?

“Keep your little hands white, my dears, as long

as you can, because as soon as the traces of toil are
seen on them, you become a working woman, and
our daughters can't associate with you, and our
sons can't think of you, that is for wives. No other
than little and white hands can enter our heaven.”

So multitudes struggle to keep their hands white,
though thereby, the risk that their souls will become
stained and black, increases daily. A host
of fair girls find their way every year to darker
stains than ever labor left, because they know how
coldly society will ignore them the moment they
enlist in the army of honest workers. But you,
respectable men and women in your safe pleasant
homes, to the extent that you hold and sustain this
false sentiment, to the extent that you make the
paths of labor hard and thorny, and darken them
from the approving smile of the world, you are
guilty of these girls' ruin.

Christian matron, with your husband one of the
pillars of church and state, do you shrink with disgust
from that poor creature who comes flaunting
down Broadway. None but the white-handed enter
your parlors, and the men (?) who are hunting such
poor girls to perdition, will sit on the sofa with
your daughters this evening. Be not too confident.
Your child, or one in whom your blood flows, at a
little later remove, may stand just where honor to
toil would save, but the practical dishonoring of it,
which you sustain, eventually blot out the light of
earth and heaven.

Mrs. Allen knew that even if her daughters

commenced teaching, which, with all the thousands
spent on their education, they were incapable of
doing, their old sphere on Fifth Avenue would be
as unapproachable as the pearly gates, between
which and the lost a “great gulf is fixed.”

But Mrs. Allen knew also of a very respectable
way, having the full approval of society, by which
they might regain their place in the heaven from
which they had fallen. Besides it was such a
simple way, requiring no labor whatever, though a
little scheming perhaps, no amount of brains or
culture worth mentioning, no heart or love, and
least of all a noble nature. A woman may sell
herself, or if of a waxy disposition, having little
force, might be sold at the altar to a man who
would give wealth and luxury in return. This,
society, in full dress, would smile upon and civil
law and sacred ceremony sanction.

With the forefinger of her right hand resting
impressively on the palm of her left, Mrs. Allen
had indicated this back door into the Paradise, the
gates of which were guarded against poor working
women by the flaming sword of public opinion,
turning every way.

And the girls were waiting yawningly, wearily,
as the long unoccupied days passed. Laura's cheek
grew paler than even her delicate style of beauty
demanded. She seemed not only a hot-house plant,
but a sickly one. The light was fading from her
eye as well as the color from her cheek, and all
vigor vanishing from her languid soul and body.

The resemblance to her mother grew more striking
daily. She was a melancholy result of that artificial
luxurious life that so enervates the whole
nature that there seems no stamina left to resist
the first cold blast of adversity. Instead of being
like a well-rooted hardy native of the soil she
seemed a tender exotic that would wither even in
the honest sunlight. As a gardener would say,
she needed “hardening off.” This would require
the bracing of principle, the incentive of hope, and
the development of work. But Mrs. Allen could
not lead the way to the former, and the latter she
forbade, so poor Laura grew more sickly and
morbid every day of her weary idle waiting.

Mrs. Allen's policy bore even more heavily on
Zell. We have all thought something perhaps of
the cruelty of that imprisonment which places a
young vigorous person, abounding in animal life
and spirits, in a narrow cell, which forbids all action
and stifles hope. It gives the unhappy victim the
sensation of being buried alive. There comes at
last to be one passionate desire to get out and
away. Impulsive, restless, excitable Zell, with
every vein filled with hot young blood, was shut
out from what seemed to her, the world, and no
other world of activity was shown to her. Her
hands were tied by her mother's policy, and she sat
moping and chafing like a chained captive, waiting
till Mr. Van Dam should come and deliver her
from as durance vile as was ever suffered in the
moss-grown castles of the old world. The hope of

his coming was all that sustained her. Her sad
situation was the result of acting on a false view
of life from beginning to end. Any true parent
would have shuddered at the thought of a daughter
marrying such a man as Van Dam, but Zell
was forbidden to do one useful thing lest it might
mar her chance of union with this resumé of all
vice and uncleanness, and though she had heard
the many reports of his evil life, her moral sense
was so perverted that he rather seemed a lion than
a reptile to her. It is true, she looked upon him
only in the light of her future husband, but that
she did not shrink from any relationship with such
a man, shows how false and defective her education
had been.

Edith had employment for mind and hand,
therefore was happier and safer than either of her
sisters. Malcom had her garden thoroughly ploughed,
and helped her plant it. He gave her many
flower roots and sold others at very low prices.
In the lower part of the garden, where the ground
was rather heavy and moist, he put out quite a
large number of raspberries, and along a stone
fence, where weeds and bushes had been usurping
the ground, he planted two or three varieties of
blackcaps. He also lined another fence with Kittatinny
blackberries. There were already quite a
large number of currants and gooseberries on the
place. These he trimmed and put in cuttings for
new bushes. He pruned the grapevines also somewhat,
but not to any extent, on account of the

lateness of the season, meaning to get them into
shape by summer cutting. The orchard also was
made to look clean and trim, with dead wood and
interfering branches cut away. Edith watched
these operations with the deepest interest, and
when she could, without danger of being observed
from the road, assisted, though in a very dainty
amateur way. But Malcom did not work to put
in hours, but seemed to do everything with a
sleight of hand, that made his visits appear too
brief, even though she had to pay for them. As
a refuge from long idle hours, she would often go
up to Malcom's little place, and watch him and his
assistant as they deftly dealt with nature in accordance
with her moods, making the most of the
soil, sunlight, and rain. Thus Malcom came to
take a great interest in her, and shrewd Edith was
not slow in fostering so useful a friendship. But
in spite of all this, there were many rainy idle
days that hung like lead upon her hands, and
upon these especially, it seemed impossible to
carry out her purpose to be gentle and forbearing,
and it often occurred that the dull apathy of the
household was changed into positive pain by sharp
words and angry retorts that should never have
been spoken.

About the last Sabbath of April, Mrs. Allen
sent for a carriage and was driven with her daughters
to one of the most fashionable churches of
Pushton. Marshalled by the sexton, they rustled
in toilets more suitable for one of the gorgeous

temples of Fifth Avenue, than even the most ambitious
of country churches. Mrs. Allen hoped to
make a profound impression on the country people,
and by this one dress parade, to secure standing
and cordial recognition among the foremost
families. But she overshot the mark. The failure
of Mr. Allen was known. The costly mourning
suits and the little house did not accord, and
the solid, sensible people were unfavorably impressed,
and those of fashionable and aristocratic
tendencies felt that considerable investigation was
needed before the strangers could be admitted
within their exclusive circles. So, though it was
not a Methodist church that they attended, the
Allens were put on longer probation by all classes,
when if they had appeared in a simple unassuming
manner, rating themselves at their true worth
and position, many would have been inclined to
take them by the hand.