DEAR Mother: You've no idea how things have
gone on within a short time. I have been so excited
and so busy, and kept in such a state of constant
consultation, for this past week, that I have had no time
to keep up my bulletins to you.
Well, dear mother, it is at last concluded that we are
to have two weddings on one day, the second week after
Easter, when Alice is to be married to Jim Fellows, and
Angie to Mr. St. John.
Easter comes this year about the latest that it ever
does, so that we may hope for sunny spring weather, and
at least a few crocuses and hyacinths in the borders, as
good omens for the future. I wish you could choose
this time to make your long-promised visit and see how
gay and festive we all are. Just now, every one is overwhelmed
with business, and the days go off very fast.
Aunt Maria is in her glory, as generalissimo of the
forces and dictator of all things. It is for just such
crises that she was born; she has now fairly enough to
manage to keep her contented with everybody, and everybody
contented with her—which, by-the-bye, is not always
the case in her history.
It is decreed that the wedding is to be a morning
one, in Mr. St. John's little chapel; and that, after the reception
at mamma's, Jim will start with Alice to visit his
family friends, and Angie and St. John will go immediately
on the steamer to sail for Europe, where they will
spend the summer in traveling and be back again in the
autumn. Meanwhile, they have engaged a house in that
part of the city where their mission work lies, and of
course, like ours, it is on an unfashionable street—a
thing which grieves Aunt Maria, who takes every occasion
to say that Mr. St. John, being a man of independent
fortune, is entitled to live genteelly. I am glad,
because they are within an easy distance of us, which
will be nice. Aunt Maria and mamma are to see to
getting the house all ready for them to go into when they
return.
Bolton is going over with them, to visit Paris! The
fact is, since I opened communication between him and
Caroline, her letters to me have grown short and infrequent,
and her letters to him long and constant, and the
effect on him has been magical. I have never seen him
in such good spirits. Those turns of morbid depression
that he used to have, seem to be fading away gradually.
He has been with us so much that I feel almost as if he
were a member of our family, and I cannot but feel that
our home has been a shelter and a strength to him.
What would it be to have a happy one of his own? I
am sure he deserves it, if ever kindness, unselfishness,
and true nobleness of heart deserved it: and I am sure
that Caroline is wise enough and strong enough to give
him just the support that he needs.
Then there's Alice's engagement to Jim. I have long
foreseen to what her friendship for him would grow, and
though she had many hesitations, yet now she is perfectly
happy in it; and only think how nice it is! They
are to take half the old Vanderheyden house, opposite
to us, so that we can see the lights of each other's hearths
across from each other's windows.
Mother, does n't it seem as if our bright, cosy, happy,
free-and-easy home was throwing out as many side-shoots
as a lilac bush?
Just think; in easy vicinity, we shall have Jim and
Alice, Angie and St. John, and, as I believe, Bolton and
Caroline. We shall be a guild of householders, who hold
the same traditions, walk by the same rule, and mind
the same things. Won't it be lovely? What nice
“droppings in” and visitings and tea-drinkings and consultings
we shall have! And it is not merely having
good times either; but, Mother, the more I think of it,
the more I think the making of bright, happy homes is
the best way of helping on the world that has been discovered
yet. A home is a thing that can 't be for one's
own self alone—at least the kind of home we are thinking
of; it reaches out on all sides and helps and shelters
and comforts others. Even my little experiment of a
few months ago shows me that; and I know that
Angie's and St. John's home will be even more so than
ours. Angie was born to be a rector's wife; to have a
kind word and a smile and a good deed for everybody,
to love everybody dearly, and keep everybody bright and
in good spirits. It is amazing to see the change she has
wrought in St. John. He was fast getting into a sort of
stringent, morbid asceticism; now he is so gracious, so
genial, and so entertaining,—he is like a rock, in June, all
bursting out with anemones and columbines in every
rift.
As to Jim and Alice, you ought to see how happy
they are in consulting me about the arrangements of
their future home in the Vanderheyden house. And the
best of it is, to see how perfectly delighted the two old
ladies are to have them there. You must know that
there was a sudden failure in Miss Dorcas's income
which would have made it necessary to sell the house
had it not been for just this arrangement. But they are
as gracious and kind about it as if they were about to
receive guests; and every improvement and every additional
touch of brightness to the rooms seems to please
them as much as if they were going to be married themselves.
Miss Dorcas said to me that our coming to live in
their neighborhood had been the greatest blessing to
them that ever had happened for years—that it had
opened a new life to them.
As to Maggie, dear Mother, she is becoming a real
comfort to me. I do think that all the poor girl's sorrows
and sufferings have not been in vain, and that she
is now a true and humble Christian.
She has been very useful in this sudden hurry of
work that has fallen upon us, and seems really delighted
to be so. In our group of families, Maggie will always
find friends. Angie wants her to come and live with
them when they begin housekeeping, and I think I shall
let her go.
I shall never forget the dreadful things I saw the
night I went after her. They have sunk deep into my
heart; and I hope, Mother, I see more clearly the deepest
and noblest purpose of life, so as never again to
forget it.
But, meantime, a thousand little cares break and
fritter themselves on my heart, like waves on a rock.
Everybody is running to me, every hour. I am consulter
and sympathizer and adviser, from the shape of a bow
and the positions of trimming up to the profoundest
questions of casuistry. They all talk to me, and I divide
my heart among them all, and so the days fly by with
frightful rapidity, and I fear I shall get little time to
write, so pray come and see for yourself
