University of Virginia Library

THE SULLIVAN LOOKING-GLASS.

AUNT LOIS,” said I, “what was that
story about Ruth Sullivan?”

Aunt Lois's quick black eyes gave
a surprised flash; and she and my
grandmother looked at each other
a minute significantly.

“Who told you any thing about
Ruth Sullivan,” she said sharply.

“Nobody. Somebody said you knew something
about her,” said I.

I was holding a skein of yarn for Aunt Lois;
and she went on winding in silence, putting the ball
through loops and tangled places.

“Little boys shouldn't ask questions,” she concluded
at last sententiously. “Little boys that ask
too many questions get sent to bed.”

I knew that of old, and rather wondered at my
own hardihood.

Aunt Lois wound on in silence; but, looking in her
face, I could see plainly that I had started an
exciting topic.

“I should think,” pursued my grandmother in her
corner, “that Ruth's case might show you, Lois, that
a good many things may happen, — more than you
believe.”

“Oh, well, mother! Ruth's was a strange case;
but I suppose there are ways of accounting for it.”

“You believed Ruth, didn't you?”

“Oh, certainly, I believed Ruth! Why shouldn't
I? Ruth was one of my best friends, and as true a
girl as lives: there wasn't any nonsense about Ruth.
She was one of the sort,” said Aunt Lois reflectively,
“that I'd as soon trust as myself: when she said a
thing was so and so, I knew it was so.”

“Then, if you think Ruth's story was true,” pursued
my grandmother, “what's the reason you are
always cavilling at things just 'cause you can't understand
how they came to be so?”

Aunt Lois set her lips firmly, and wound with grim

resolve. She was the very impersonation of that
obstinate rationalism that grew up at the New-England
fireside, close alongside of the most undoubting
faith in the supernatural.

“I don't believe such things,” at last she snapped
out, “and I don't disbelieve them. I just let 'em
alone. What do I know about 'em? Ruth tells me
a story; and I believe her. I know what she saw
beforehand, came true in a most remarkable way.
Well, I'm sure I've no objection. One thing may
be true, or another, for all me; but, just because
I believe Ruth Sullivan, I'm not going to believe,
right and left, all the stories in Cotton Mather,
and all that anybody can hawk up to tell. Not I.”

This whole conversation made me all the more
curious to get at the story thus dimly indicated; and
so we beset Sam for information.

“So your Aunt Lois wouldn't tell ye nothin',” said
Sam. “Wanter know, neow! sho!”

“No: she said we must go to bed if we asked her.”

“That 'are's a way folks has; but, ye see, boys,”
said Sam, while a droll confidential expression
crossed the lack-lustre dolefulness of his visage, “ye

see, I put ye up to it, 'cause Miss Lois is so large and
commandin' in her ways, and so kind o' up and
down in all her doin's, that I like once and a while to
sort o' gravel her; and I knowed enough to know
that that 'are question would git her in a tight place.

“Ye see, yer Aunt Lois was knowin' to all this 'ere
about Ruth, so there wer'n't no gettin' away from it;
and it's about as remarkable a providence as any o'
them of Mister Cotton Marther's `Magnilly.' So if
you'll come up in the barn-chamber this arternoon,
where I've got a lot o' flax to hatchel out, I'll tell
ye all about it.”

So that afternoon beheld Sam arranged at full
length on a pile of top-tow in the barn-chamber,
hatchelling by proxy by putting Harry and myself to
the service.

“Wal, now, boys, it's kind o' refreshing to see how
wal ye take hold,” he observed. “Nothin' like bein'
industrious while ye'r young: gret sight better
now than loafin off, down in them medders.

“But, Sam, if we work for you, you must tell us
that story about Ruth Sullivan.”

“Lordy massy! yis, — course I will. I've had the
best kind o' chances of knowin' all about that 'are.
Wal, you see there was old Gineral Sullivan, he lived
in state and grande'r in the old Sullivan house out to
Roxberry. I been to Roxberry, and seen that 'are
house o' Gineral Sullivan's. There was one time
that I was a consid'able spell lookin' round in Roxberry,
a kind o' seein' how things wuz there, and
whether or no there mightn't be some sort o' providential
openin' or suthin'. I used to stay with Aunt
Polly Ginger. She was sister to Mehitable Ginger,
Gineral Sullivan's housekeeper, and hed the in and
out o' the Sullivan house, and kind o' kept the run o'
how things went and came in it. Polly she was a
kind o' cousin o' my mother's, and allers glad to see
me. Fact was, I was putty handy round house; and
she used to save up her broken things and sich till I
come round in the fall; and then I'd mend 'em up,
and put the clock right, and split her up a lot o' kindlings,
and board up the cellar-windows, and kind o'
make her sort o' comfortable, — she bein'a lone body,

and no man round. As I said, it was sort o' convenient
to hev me; and so I jest got the run o' things
in the Sullivan house pretty much as ef I was one on
'em. Gineral Sullivan he kept a grand house, I tell
you. You see, he cum from the old country, and felt
sort o' lordly and grand; and they used to hev the
gretest kind o' doin's there to the Sullivan house.
Ye ought ter a seen that 'are house, — gret big front
hall and gret wide stairs; none o' your steep kind
that breaks a feller's neck to get up and down, but
gret broad stairs with easy risers, so they used to say
you could a cantered a pony up that 'are stairway
easy as not. Then there was gret wide rooms, and
sofys, and curtains, and gret curtained bedsteads that
looked sort o' like fortifications, and pictur's that
was got in Italy and Rome and all them 'are heathen
places. Ye see, the Gineral was a drefful worldly
old critter, and was all for the pomps and the vanities.
Lordy massy! I wonder what the poor old
critter thinks about it all now, when his body's all
gone to dust and ashes in the graveyard, and his
soul's gone to 'tarnity! Wal, that are ain't none o'
my business; only it shows the vanity o' riches in a
kind o' strikin' light, and makes me content that I
never hed none.”

“But, Sam, I hope General Sullivan wasn't a
wicked man, was he?”

“Wal, I wouldn't say he was railly wickeder than
the run; but he was one o' these 'ere high-stepping,
big-feeling fellers, that seem to be a hevin' their portion
in this life. Drefful proud he was; and he was
pretty much sot on this world, and kep' a sort o' court
goin' on round him. Wal, I don't jedge him nor nobody:
folks that hes the world is apt to get sot on it.
Don't none on us do more than middlin' well.”

“But, Sam, what about Ruth Sullivan?”

“Ruth? — Oh, yis! — Ruth —

“Wal, ye see, the only crook in the old Gineral's
lot was he didn't hev no children. Mis' Sullivan, she
was a beautiful woman, as handsome as a pictur';
but she never had but one child; and he was a son
who died when he was a baby, and about broke her
heart. And then this 'ere Ruth was her sister's child,
that was born about the same time; and, when the
boy died, they took Ruth home to sort o' fill his place,
and kind o' comfort up Mis' Sullivan. And then

Ruth's father and mother died; and they adopted
her for their own, and brought her up.

“Wal, she grew up to be amazin' handsome. Why,
everybody said that she was jest the light and glory
of that 'are old Sullivan place, and worth more'n all
the pictur's and the silver and the jewels, and all
there was in the house; and she was jest so innercent
and sweet, that you never see nothing to beat it.
Wal, your Aunt Lois she got acquainted with Ruth
one summer when she was up to Old Town a visitin'
at Parson Lothrop's. Your Aunt Lois was a gal then,
and a pretty good-lookin' one too; and, somehow or
other, she took to Ruth, and Ruth took to her. And
when Ruth went home, they used to be a writin'
backwards and forads; and I guess the fact was, Ruth
thought about as much of your Aunt Lois as she did
o' anybody. Ye see, your aunt was a kind o' strong
up-and-down woman that always knew certain jest
what she did know; and Ruth, she was one o' them
gals that seems sort o' like a stray lamb or a dove
that's sort o' lost their way in the world, and wants
some one to show 'em where to go next. For, ye see,
the fact was, the old Gineral and Madam, they didn't

agree very well. He wa'n't well pleased that she
didn't have no children; and she was sort o' jealous
o' him 'cause she got hold o' some sort of story about
how he was to a married somebody else over there
in England: so she got sort o' riled up, jest as wimmen
will, the best on 'em; and they was pretty apt
to have spats, and one could give t'other as good as
they sent; and, by all accounts, they fit putty lively
sometimes. And, between the two, Ruth she was
sort o' scared, and fluttered like a dove that didn't
know jest where to settle. Ye see, there she was in
that 'are great wide house, where they was a feastin'
and a prancin' and a dancin', and a goin' on like
Ahashuerus and Herodias and all them old Scriptur'
days. There was a comin' and goin,' and there was
gret dinners and gret doin's, but no love; and, you
know, the Scriptur' says, `Better is a dinner o' yarbs,
where love is, than a stalled ox, and hatred therewith.'

“Wal, I don't orter say hatred, arter all. I kind o'
reckon, the old Gineral did the best he could: the
fact is, when a woman gits a kink in her head agin
a man, the best on us don't allers do jest the right
thing.

“Any way, Ruth, she was sort o' forlorn, and didn't
seem to take no comfort in the goin's on. The Gineral
he was mighty fond on her, and proud on
her; and there wa'n't nothin' too good for Ruth. He
was free-handed, the Gineral wuz. He dressed her
up in silks and satins, and she hed a maid to wait
on her, and she hed sets o' pearl and dimond; and
Madam Sullivan she thought all the world on her,
and kind o' worshipped the ground she trod on. And
yet Ruth was sort o' lonesome.

“Ye see, Ruth wa'n't calculated for grande'r.
Some folks ain't.

“Why, that 'are summer she spent out to Old
Town, she was jest as chirk and chipper as a wren, a
wearin' her little sun-bunnet, and goin' a huckleberryin'
and a black-berryin' and diggin' sweet-flag,
and gettin cowslops and dandelions; and she hed a
word for everybody. And everybody liked Ruth,
and wished her well. Wal, she was sent for her
health; and she got that, and more too: she got a
sweetheart.

“Ye see, there was a Cap'n Oliver a visitin' at the
minister's that summer, — a nice, handsome young

man as ever was. He and Ruth and your Aunt Lois,
they was together a good deal; and they was a ramblin'
and a ridin' and a sailin': and so Ruth and the
Capting went the way o' all the airth, and fell dead
in love with each other. Your Aunt Lois she was
knowing to it and all about it, 'cause Ruth she was
jest one of them that couldn't take a step without
somebody to talk to.

“Captain Oliver was of a good family in England;
and so, when he made bold to ask the old
Gineral for Ruth, he didn't say him nay: and it was
agreed, as they was young, they should wait a year
or two. If he and she was of the same mind, he
should be free to marry her. Jest right on that, the
Captain's regiment was ordered home, and he had to
go; and, the next they heard, it was sent off to India.
And poor little Ruth she kind o' drooped and pined;
but she kept true, and wouldn't have nothin' to say
to nobody that came arter her, for there was lots and
cords o' fellows as did come arter her. Ye see, Ruth
had a takin' way with her; and then she had the
name of bein' a great heiress, and that allers draws
fellers, as molasses does flies.

“Wal, then the news came, that Captain Oliver
was comin' home to England, and the ship was took
by the Algerenes, and he was gone into slavery there
among them heathen Mahomedans and what not.

“Folks seemed to think it was all over with him,
and Ruth might jest as well give up fust as last.
And the old Gineral he'd come to think she might do
better; and he kep' a introducin' one and another,
and tryin' to marry her off; but Ruth she wouldn't.
She used to write sheets and sheets to your Aunt
Lois about it; and I think Aunt Lois she kep' her
grit up. Your Aunt Lois she'd a stuck by a man to
the end o' time ef't ben her case; and so she told
Ruth.

“Wal, then there was young Jeff Sullivan, the
Gineral's nephew, he turned up; and the Gineral he
took a gret fancy to him. He was next heir to the
Gineral; but he'd ben a pretty rackety youngster in
his young days, — off to sea, and what not, and sowed
a consid'able crop o' wild oats. People said he'd
been a pirating off there in South Ameriky. Lordy
massy! nobody rightly knew where he hed ben or
where he hadn't: all was, he turned up at last all

alive, and chipper as a skunk blackbird. Wal, of
course he made his court to Ruth; and the Gineral,
he rather backed him up in it; but Ruth she wouldn't
have nothin' to say to him. Wal, he come and took
up his lodgin' at the Gineral's; and he was jest as
slippery as an eel, and sort o' slid into every thing,
that was a goin' on in the house and about it. He
was here, and he was there, and he was everywhere,
and a havin' his say about this and that; and he got
everybody putty much under his thumb. And they
used to say, he wound the Gineral round and round
like a skein o' yarn; but he couldn't come it round
Ruth.

“Wal, the Gineral said she shouldn't be forced; and
Jeff, he was smooth as satin, and said he'd be willing
to wait as long as Jacob did for Rachel. And so there
he sot down, a watchin' as patient as a cat at a mousehole;
'cause the Gineral he was thick-set and short-necked,
and drank pretty free, and was one o' the sort
that might pop off any time.

“Wal, Mis' Sullivan, she beset the Gineral to make
a provision for Ruth; 'cause she told him very sensible,
that he'd brought her up in luxury, and that it

wa'n't fair not to settle somethin' on her; and so the
Gineral he said he'd make a will, and part the property
equally between them. And he says to Jeff, that,
if he played his part as a young fellow oughter know
how, it would all come to him in the end; 'cause they
hadn't heard nothing from Captain Oliver for three
or four years, and folks about settled it that he must
be dead.

“Wal, the Gineral he got a letter about an estate
that had come to him in England; and he had to go
over. Wal, livin' on the next estate, was the very
cousin of the Gineral's that he was to a married when
they was both young: the lands joined so that the
grounds run together. What came between them
two nobody knows; but she never married, and there
she was. There was high words between the Gineral
and Madam Sullivan about his goin' over. She
said there wa'n't no sort o' need on't, and he said
there was; and she said she hoped she should be in
her grave afore he come back; and he said she might
suit herself about that for all him. That 'are was the
story that the housekeeper told to Aunt Polly; and
Aunt Polly she told me. These 'ere squabbles somehow

allers does kind o' leak out one way or t'other.
Anyhow, it was a house divided agin itself at the
Gineral's, when he was a fixin' out for the voyage.
There was Ruth a goin' fust to one, and then to t'other,
and tryin' all she could to keep peace beteen 'em; and
there was this 'ere Master Slick Tongue talkin' this
way to one side, and that way to t'other, and the old
Gineral kind o' like a shuttle-cock atween 'em.

“Wal, then, the night afore he sailed, the Gineral he
hed his lawyer up in his library there, a lookin' over
all his papers and bonds and things, and a witnessing
his will; and Master Jeff was there, as lively as a
cricket, a goin' into all affairs, and offerin' to take
precious good care while he was gone; and the Gineral
he had his papers and letters out, a sortin' on
'em over, which was to be took to the old country, and
which was to be put in a trunk to go back to Lawyer
Dennis's office.

“Wal, Abner Ginger, Polly's boy, he that was
footman and waiter then at the Gineral's, he told me,
that, about eight o'clock that evening he went up with
hot water and lemons and sperits and sich, and he see
the gret green table in the library all strewed and

covered with piles o' papers; and there was tin boxes
a standin' round; and the Gineral a packin' a trunk,
and young Master Jeff, as lively and helpful as a rat
that smells cheese. And then the Gineral he says,
`Abner,' says he, `can you write your name?' — `I
should hope so, Gineral.' says Abner. — `Wal, then,
Abner,' says he, `this is my last will; and I want you
to witness it,' and so Abner he put down his name
opposite to a place with a wafer and a seal; and then
the Gineral, he says, `Abner, you tell Ginger to come
here.' That, you see, was his housekeeper, my Aunt
Polly's sister, and a likely woman as ever was. And
so they had her up, and she put down her name to
the will; and then Aunt Polly she was had up (she
was drinking tea there that night), and she put down
her name. And all of 'em did it with good heart,
'cause it had got about among 'em that the will was
to provide for Miss Ruth; for everybody loved
Ruth, ye see, and there was consid'ble many stories
kind o' goin' the rounds about Master Jeff and his
doin's. And they did say he sort o' kep' up the strife
atween the Gineral and my lady, and so they didn't
think none too well o' him; and, as he was next o'
kin, and Miss Ruth wa'n't none o' the Gineral's blood
(ye see, she was Mis' Sullivan's sister's child), of
course there wouldn't nothin' go to Miss Ruth in way
o' law, and so that was why the signin' o' that 'are
will was so much talked about among 'em.”

“Wal, you see, the Gineral he sailed the next
day; and Jeff he staid by to keep watch o' things.

“Wal, the old Gineral he got over safe; for Miss
Sullivan, she had a letter from him all right. When
he got away, his conscience sort o' nagged him, and
he was minded to be a good husband. At any rate, he
wrote a good loving letter to her, and sent his love to
Ruth, and sent over lots o' little keepsakes and things
for her, and told her that he left her under good protection,
and wanted her to try and make up her mind
to marry Jeff, as that would keep the property together.

“Wal, now there couldn't be no sort o' sugar
sweeter than Jeff was to them lone wimmen. Jeff
was one o' the sort that could be all things to all
wimmen. He waited and he tended, and he was as
humble as any snake in the grass that ever ye see;
and the old lady, she clean fell in with him, but Ruth,

she seemed to have a regular spite agin him. And she
that war as gentle as a lamb, that never had so much
as a hard thought of a mortal critter, and wouldn't
tread on a worm, she was so set agin Jeff, that she
wouldn't so much as touch his hand when she got
out o' her kerridge.

“Wal, now comes the strange part o' my story.
Ruth was one o' the kind that hes the gift o' seein'.
She was born with a veil over her face!”

This mysterious piece of physiological information
about Ruth was given with a look and air that
announced something very profound and awful; and
we both took up the inquiry, “Born with a veil over
her face? How should that make her see?”

“Wal, boys, how should I know? But the fact is
so. There's those as is wal known as hes the gift o'
seein' what others can't see: they can see through
walls and houses; they can see people's hearts; they
can see what's to come. They don't know nothin'
how 'tis, but this 'ere knowledge comes to 'em: it's a
gret gift; and that sort's born with the veil over
their faces. Ruth was o' these 'ere. Old Granny
Badger she was the knowingest old nuss in all these

parts; and she was with Ruth's mother when she was
born, and she told Lady Lothrop all about it. Says
she, `You may depend upon it that child 'll have the
“second-sight,'” says she. Oh, that 'are fact was wal
known! Wal, that was the reason why Jeff Sullivan
couldn't come it round Ruth tho' he was silkier
than a milkweed-pod, and jest about as patient as a
spider in his hole a watchin' to get his grip on a fly.
Ruth wouldn't argue with him, and she wouldn't
flout him; but she jest shut herself up in herself, and
kept a lookout on him; but she told your Aunt Lois
jest what she thought about him.

“Wal, in about six months, come the news that the
Gineral was dead. He dropped right down in his
tracks, dead with apoplexy, as if he had been shot;
and Lady Maxwell she writ a long letter to my lady
and Ruth. Ye see, he'd got to be Sir Thomas Sullivan
over there; and he was a comin' home to take 'em all
over to England to live in grande'r. Wal, my Lady
Sullivan (she was then, ye see) she took it drefful
hard. Ef they'd a been the lovingest couple in the
world, she couldn't a took it harder. Aunt Polly, she
said it was all 'cause she thought so much of him, that

she fit him so. There's women that thinks so much
o' their husbands, that they won't let 'em hev no
peace o' their life; and I expect it war so with her,
poor soul! Any way, she went right down smack,
when she heard he was dead. She was abed, sick,
when the news come; and she never spoke nor smiled,
jest turned her back to everybody, and kinder wilted
and wilted, and was dead in a week. And there was
poor little Ruth left all alone in the world, with
neither kith nor kin but Jeff.

“Wal, when the funeral was over, and the time
app'inted to read the will and settle up matters, there
wa'n't no will to be found nowhere, high nor low.

“Lawyer Dean he flew round like a parched pea on
a shovel. He said he thought he could a gone in the
darkest night, and put his hand on that 'ere will; but
when he went where he thought it was, he found it
warn't there, and he knowed he'd kep' it under lock
and key. What he thought was the will turned out
to be an old mortgage. Wal, there was an awful
row and a to-do about it, you may be sure. Ruth,
she jist said nothin' good or bad. And her not
speakin' made Jeff a sight more uncomfortable than

ef she'd a hed it out with him. He told her it
shouldn't make no sort o' difference; that he should
allers stand ready to give her all he hed, if she'd
only take him with it. And when it came to that
she only gin him a look, and went out o' the room.

“Jeff he flared and flounced and talked, and went
round and round a rumpussin' among the papers, but
no will was forthcomin', high or low. Wal, now
here comes what's remarkable. Ruth she told this
'ere, all the particulars, to yer Aunt Lois and Lady
Lothrop. She said that the night after the funeral
she went up to her chamber. Ruth had the gret
front chamber, opposite to Mis' Sullivan's. I've been
in it; it was a monstrous big room, with outlandish
furniture in it, that the Gineral brought over from an
old palace out to Italy. And there was a great big
lookin'-glass over the dressin'-table, that they said
come from Venice, that swung so that you could see
the whole room in it. Wal, she was a standin' front
o' this, jist goin' to undress herself, a hearin' the rain
drip on the leaves and the wind a whishin' and whisperin'
in the old elm-trees, and jist a thinkin' over
her lot, and what should she do now, all alone in the

world, when of a sudden she felt a kind o' lightness
in her head, and she thought she seemed to see
somebody in the glass a movin'. And she looked behind,
and there wa'n't nobody there. Then she
looked forward in the glass, and saw a strange big
room, that she'd never seen before, with a long
painted winder in it; and along side o' this stood a
tall cabinet with a good many drawers in it. And
she saw herself, and knew that it was herself, in this
room, along with another woman whose back was
turned towards her. She saw herself speak to this
woman, and p'int to the cabinet. She saw the woman
nod her head. She saw herself go to the cabinet,
and open the middle drawer, and take out a bundle
o' papers from the very back end on't. She saw
her take out a paper from the middle, and open it,
and hold it up; and she knew that there was the
missin' will. Wal, it all overcome her so that she
fainted clean away. And her maid found her a lyin'
front o' the dressin'-table on the floor.

“She was sick of a fever for a week or fortnight
a'ter; and your Aunt Lois she was down takin' care
of her; and, as soon as she got able to be moved, she

was took out to Lady Lothrop's. Jeff he was jist
as attentive and good as he could be; but she
wouldn't bear him near her room. If he so much as
set a foot on the stairs that led to it she'd know it,
and got so wild that he hed to be kept from comin'
into the front o' the house. But he was doin' his
best to buy up good words from everybody. He paid
all the servants double; he kept every one in their
places, and did so well by 'em all that the gen'l
word among 'em was that Miss Ruth couldn't do
better than to marry such a nice, open-handed gentleman.

“Wal, Lady Lothrop she wrote to Lady Maxwell
all that hed happened; and Lady Maxwell, she sent
over for Ruth to come over and be a companion for
her, and said she'd adopt her, and be as a mother to
her.

“Wal, then Ruth she went over with some gentlefolks
that was goin' back to England, and offered to
see her safe and sound; and so she was set down at
Lady Maxwell's manor. It was a grand place, she
said, and such as she never see before, — like them old
gentry places in England. And Lady Maxwell she

made much of her, and cosseted her up for the sake
of what the old Gineral had said about her. And
Ruth she told her all her story, and how she believed
that the will was to be found somewhere, and that
she should be led to see it yet.

“She told her, too, that she felt it in her that
Cap'n Oliver wasn't dead, and that he'd come back
yet. And Lady Maxwell she took up for her with
might and main, and said she'd stand by her. But
then, ye see, so long as there warn't no will to be
found, there warn't nothin' to be done. Jeff was the
next heir; and he'd got every thing, stock, and lot, and
the estate in England into the bargain. And folks was
beginnin' to think putty well of him, as folks allers
does when a body is up in the world, and hes houses
and lands. Lordy massy! riches allers covers a multitude
o' sins.

“Finally, when Ruth hed ben six months with
her, one day Lady Maxwell got to tellin' her all
about her history, and what hed ben atween her
and her cousin, when they was young, and how they
hed a quarrel and he flung off to Ameriky, and all
them things that it don't do folks no good to remember

when it's all over and can't be helped. But she
was a lone body, and it seemed to do her good to
talk about it.

“Finally, she says to Ruth, says she, `I'll show
you a room in this house you han't seen before.
It was the room where we hed that quarrel,' says
she; `and the last I saw of him was there, till he
come back to die,' says she.

“So she took a gret key out of her bunch; and she
led Ruth along a long passage-way to the other end
of the house, and opened on a great library. And the
minute Ruth came in, she threw up her hands and
gin a great cry. `Oh!' says she, `this is the room!
and there is the window! and there is the cabinet!
and there in that middle drawer at the back end in a
bundle of papers IS THE WILL!

“And Lady Maxwell she said, quite dazed, `Go
look,' says she. And Ruth went, jest as she seed herself
do, and opened the drawer, and drew forth from
the back part a yellow pile of old letters. And in
the middle of those was the will, sure enough. Ruth
drew it out, and opened it, and showed it to
her.

“Wal, you see that will give Ruth the whole of
the Gineral's property in America, tho' it did leave
the English estate to Jeff.

“Wal, the end on't was like a story-book.

“Jeff he made believe be mighty glad. And he
said it must a ben that the Gineral hed got flustered
with the sperit and water, and put that 'ere will in
among his letters that he was a doin' up to take back
to England. For it was in among Lady Maxwell's
letters that she writ him when they was young, and
that he'd a kep' all these years and was a takin'
back to her.

“Wal, Lawyer Dean said he was sure that Jeff
made himself quite busy and useful that night, a tyin'
up the papers with red tape, and a packin' the Gineral's
trunk; and that, when Jeff gin him his bundle to
lock up in his box, he never mistrusted but what he'd
got it all right.

“Wal, you see it was jest one of them things that
can't be known to the jedgment-day. It might a ben
an accident, and then agin it might not; and folks
settled it one way or t'other, 'cordin' to their 'pinion
o' Jeff; but ye see how 'mazin' handy for him it

happened! Why, ef it hadn't ben for the providence
I've ben a tellin' about, there it might a lain
in them old letters, that Lady Maxwell said she
never hed the heart to look over! it never would a
turned up in the world.”

“Well,” said I, “what became of Ruth?”

“Oh! Cap'n Oliver he came back all alive, and
escaped from the Algerines; and they was married in
King's Chapel, and lived in the old Sullivan House, in
peace and prosperity. That's jest how the story was;
and now Aunt Lois can make what she's a mind ter
out on't.”

“And what became of Jeff?”

“Oh! he started to go over to England, and
the ship was wrecked off the Irish coast, and
that was the last of him. He never got to his
property.”

“Good enough for him,” said both of us.

“Wal, I don't know: 'twas pretty hard on Jeff.
Mebbe he did, and mebbe he didn't. I'm glad I
warn't in his shoes, tho'. I'd rather never hed
nothin'. This 'ere hastin' to be rich is sich a drefful
temptation.

“Wal, now, boys, ye've done a nice lot o' flax,
and I guess we'll go up to yer grand'ther's
cellar and git a mug o' cyder. Talkin' always
gits me dry.”