University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

Jane hoped for some favourable change in her condition, or
some slight alleviation of it, from the visit of David Wilson,
who had just arrived from college, to pass a six-weeks' vacation
with his family. At first, he seemed to admire his
cousin; and partly to gratify a passing fancy, and partly
from opposition to his mother and sisters, he treated her with
particular attention. Jane was grateful, and returned his
kindness with frankness and affection. But she was soon
obliged, by the freedom of his manners, to treat him with reserve.
His pride was wounded, and he joined the family
league against her. He was a headstrong youth of eighteen;
his passions had been curbed by the authority of his mother,
but never tamed; and now that he was beyond her reach, he
was continually falling into some excess; almost always in
disgrace at college, and never in favour.

Mr. Lloyd was made acquainted with the embarrassments
in Jane's condition, by Mary Hull. He would have rejoiced
to have offered Jane a home, but he had no right to interfere;
he was a stranger, and he well knew that Mrs. Wilson would

not consent to any arrangement that would deprive her of
Jane's ill-requited services,—such services as money could
not purchase.

It was, too, about this period, that Mr. Lloyd went, for
the first time, to visit Philadelphia. Jane had passed a day
of unusual exertion, and just at the close of it she obtained
her aunt's reluctant leave to pay a visit to Mary Hull. It
was a soft summer evening: the valley reposed in deep shadow;
the sun was sinking behind the western mountains, tinging
the light clouds with a smiling farewell ray, and his last
beams lingering on the summits of the eastern mountain, as
if “parting were sweet sorrow.” Jane's spirits rose elastic,
as she breathed the open air; she felt like one who has just
issued from a close, pent-up, sick room, and inspires the fresh
pure breath of morning; she was gayly tripping along, sending
an involuntary response to the last notes of the birds
that were loitering on “bush and brake,” when Edward Erskine
joined her; she had often seen him at her aunt's, but,
regarding him as the companion of her cousins, she had
scarcely noticed him, or had been noticed by him. He joined
her, saying, “It is almost too late to be abroad without a
companion.”

“I am used,” replied Jane, “to be without a companion,
and I do not need one.”

“But, I hope you do not object to one? It would be one
of the miseries of human life, to see such a girl as Jane
Elton walking alone, and not be permitted to join her.”

“Sir?” said Jane, confounded by Edward's unexpected
gallantry.

Abashed by her simplicity, he replied, “that he was going
to walk, and should be very happy to attend her.”

Jane felt kindness, though she knew not how to receive

gallantry. She thanked him, and they walked on together.
When Edward parted from her, he wondered he had never
noticed before how very interesting she was, “and what a
sweet expression she has when she smiles; and, oh!” added
he, with a rapture quite excusable in a young man of twenty,
“her eye is in itself a soul.”

“Jane,” said Mary Hull to her, as she entered her room,
you look as bright as a May morning, and I have that to tell
you, that will make you yet brighter. Mr. Evertson has been
here, inquiring for Mr. Lloyd. I had my surmises, that it
was something about you, and though Mr. Lloyd was gone, I
was determined to find out; and so I made bold to break
the ice, and say something about the exhibition, and how
much Mr. Lloyd was pleased with the school, &c., &c.—and
then he said, he was quite disappointed to find Mr. Lloyd
gone; he wanted to consult him about a matter of great importance
to himself and to you. Mr. Lloyd was so kind, he
said, and had shown such an interest in the school, that he
did not like to take any important step without consulting
him; and then he spoke very handsomely of those elegant
globes that Mr. Lloyd presented to the school. He said,
his subscription was so much enlarged, that he must engage
an assistant; but, as he wished to purchase some maps, he
must get one who could furnish, at least, one hundred dollars.
His sick wife and large family, he said, consumed nearly all
his profits; and last, and best of all, Jane, he said, that you
was the person he should prefer of all others for an assistant.”

“Me!” exclaimed Jane.

“Yes, my dear child, you. I told him you was not quite
fifteen; but he said, you knew more than most young women

of twenty, and almost all the school loved and respected
you.”

“But, Mary, Mary,” and the bright flush of pleasure died
away as she spoke, “where am I to get a hundred dollars?”

“Mr. Lloyd,” answered Mary, “I know would furnish
it.”

“No, Mary,” replied Jane, after a few moments' consideration,
“I never can consent to that.”

“But why?” said Mary. “Mr. Lloyd spends all his
money in doing good.”

Jane could not tell why, but she felt that it was not delicate
to incur such an obligation. She merely said, “Mr.
Lloyd's means are well employed. If any man does, he certainly
will, hear those blessed words, `I was hungry and ye
fed me, naked and ye clothed me, sick and in prison, and ye
visited me.”'

“I do not eat the bread of idleness, Mary; I think I
earn all my aunt gives me; and I am not very unhappy
there; indeed, I am seldom unhappy. I cannot tell how it
it, but I am used to their ways. I am always busy, and have
not time to dwell on their unkindness; it passes me like the
tempest from which I am sheltered; and when I feel my
temper rising, I remember who it is that has placed me in
the fiery furnace, and I feel, Mary, strengthened and peaceful
as if an angel were really walking beside me.”

“Surely,” said Mary, as if but thinking aloud, “The
kingdom is come in this dear child's heart.”

Both were silent for a few moments. Jane was making a
strong mental effort to subdue that longing after liberty, that
lurks in every heart. Habitual discipline had rendered it
comparatively easy for her to restrain her wishes. After a
short struggle, she said, with a smile, “I am sure of one thing,

my dear, kind Mary, I shall never lose an opportunity of advantage,
while I have such a watchful friend as you are, on
the look-out for me. Oh! how much have I to be grateful
for! I had no reason to expect such favor from Mr. Evertson.
Every one, out of my aunt's family, is kind to me; I
have no right to repine at the trials I have there; they are,
no doubt, necessary to me. Mary, I sometimes feel the rising
of a pride in my heart, that I am sure needs all these
lessons of humility; and sometimes I feel, that I might be
easily tempted to do wrong—to indulge an indolent disposition,
for which you often reproved me; but I am compelled
to exertion, by necessity as well as a sense of duty. It is
good for me to bear this yoke in my youth.”

“No doubt, no doubt, my dear child; but then you know
if there is a way of escape opened to you it would be but a
tempting of Providence not to avail yourself of it. It is right
to endure necessary evils with patience, but I know no rule
that forbids your getting rid of them, if you can.” Mary
Hull was not a woman to leave any stone unturned, when she
had a certain benefit in view for her favourite. “Now, dear
Jane,” said she, “I have one more plan to propose to you,
and though it will cost you some pain, I think you will finally
see it in the same light that I do. I always thought it was
not for nothing Providence moved the hearts of the creditors
to spare you all your dear mother's clothes, seeing she had a
good many that could not be called necessary; nor was it
a blind chance that raised you up such a friend as Mr. Lloyd
in a stranger. Now, if you will consent to it, I will undertake
to dispose of the articles Mr. Lloyd sent to you, and
your mother's lace and shawls, and all the little nick-nacks
she left; it shall go hard but I will raise a hundred dollars.”

“But, Mary,” said Jane, wishing, perhaps, to conceal from

herself even the involuntary reluctance she felt to the proposal,
“Aunt Wilson will never consent to it.”

“The consent that is not asked,” replied Mary, “cannot
be refused. It is but speaking to Mr. Evertson, and he will
keep our counsel, for he is not a talking body, and when all
is ready, it will be time enough, not to ask Mrs. Wilson's
leave, but to tell her your plans; you owe her nothing, my
child, unless it be for keeping the furnace hot that purifies
the gold. I would not make you discontented with your situation,
but I cannot bear to see your mind as well as your
body in slavery.”

Mary's long harangue had given Jane a moment for reflection,
and she now saw the obvious benefits to result from the
adoption of her judicious friend's plan. The real sorrows
that had shaded her short life, had taught her not to waste
her sensibility on trifles. She doubtless felt it to be very
painful to part with any memorials of her mother, but the
moment she was convinced it was right and best she should
do so, she consented, and cheerfully, to the arrangement.
Mary entered immediately upon the execution of her plan.

Those who have been accustomed to use, and to waste,
thousands, will smile with contempt at the difficulty of raising
a hundred dollars. But let those persons be reduced to
want so mean a sum, and they will cease to laugh at the
obstacles in the way of getting it. Certain it is, that Mary,
anxious and assiduous, spent four weeks in industrious application
to those whom she thought most likely to be purchasers
in the confined market of—. The necessity of secrecy
increased the difficulty of the transaction; but finally, zeal
and perseverance mastered every obstacle, and Mary, with
sparkling eyes, and a face that smiled all over in spite of its habitual
sobriety, put Jane in possession of the hundred dollars.

“This is indeed manna in the wilderness,” said Jane, as she
received it, “but, dear Mary, I am not the less thankful to
you for your exertions for me.”

“My child you are right,” replied Mary; “thanks should
first ascend to Heaven, and then they are very apt to descend
in heavenly grace upon the feeble instrument. But something
seems to trouble you.”

“I am troubled,” answered Jane; “I fear, Mary, this sum
cannot all have come from the articles you sold; you have
added some of your earnings.”

“No, my dear child; some, and all of my earnings, would
I gladly give to you, but you know my poor blind sister takes
all I can earn; while God blesses me with health, she shall
never want. The town has offered to take her off my hands,
as they call it, but this would be a crying shame to me; and
besides,” she added smiling, “I can't spare her, for it is more
pleasant working for her than for myself. Thanks to Mr.
Lloyd, she is now placed in a better situation than I could
afford for her. No, Jane, the money is all yours; I have
told Mr. Evertson, and you are to enter the school on Monday,
and I have engaged a place for you at Mrs. Harvey's,
who will be as kind as a mother to you. Between now and
Monday you will have time to acquaint your aunt with the
fortune you have come to, and to shed all the tears that are
necessary on this woful occasion!”

Jane had now nothing to do but to communicate these
arrangements; but so much did she dread the tempest she
knew the intelligence would produce, that she suffered the day
to wear away without opening her lips on the subject. The
next day arrived; the time of emancipation was so near, she
felt her spirits rise equal to the disagreeable task. The family
were assembled in the `dwelling room;' Mrs. Wilson was

engaged in casting up with her son David some of his college
accounts, a kind of business that never increased her good
humour. Martha and Elvira were seated at a window, in a
warm altercation about the piece of work on which they were
sewing; the point of controversy seemed to be—to which the
mother had assigned the task of finishing it. The two
younger children were sitting on little chairs near their mother,
learning a long lesson in the `Assembly's Catechism,'
and every now and then crying out—“Please to speak to
David, ma'am, he is pinching me;”—“David pulled my hair,
ma'am.” The complainants either received no notice, or an
angry rebuke from the mother. Jane was quietly sewing,
and mentally resolving that she would speak on the dreaded
subject the moment her aunt had finished the business at
which she was engaged. Mrs. Wilson's temper became so
much ruffled that she could not understand the accounts; so
shuffling the papers altogether into her desk, and turning the
key, she said angrily to her son, `her eldest hope,' “You will
please to bear in mind, sir, that all these extravagant bills
are charged to you, and shall come out of your portion—not
a cent of them will I ever pay.”

This did not seem to be a very propitious moment for
Jane's communication, but she dreaded it so much, that she
felt impatient to have it off her mind, and laying down her
work, she was fearfully beginning, when she was interrupted
by a gentle tap at the door. A mean-looking woman entered,
who bore the marks of poverty, and sorrow, and sickness.
She had a pale, half-starved infant in her arms, and two other
little ragged children with her, that she had very considerately
left at the outer door. She curtsied very humbly to
the lady of the house—`hoped no offence'—she had a little
business with Miss Wilson—she believed Miss Wilson had

forgotten her, it was no wonder—she did not blame her,
sickness and trouble made great changes. Mrs. Wilson either
did not, or affected not to recognize her. She was aware
that old acquaintance might create a claim upon her charity,
and she did not seem well pleased when Jane, who sat near,
pushed a chair forward for the poor woman, into which she
sunk, as it appeared, from utter inability to stand.

“Who do you say you are?” said Mrs. Wilson, after embarrassing
the woman by an unfeeling stare.

“I did not say, ma'am, for I thought, may be, when you
looked at me so severe, you would know me.”

“Let me take your baby, while you rest a little,” said
Jane.

“Oh miss, he is not fit for you to take, he has had a dreadful
spell with the whooping-cough and the measles, and they
have left him kind-o' sore and rickety; he has not looked so
chirk as he does to-day since we left Buffalo.” Jane persisted
in her kind offer, and the woman turned again to Mrs.
Wilson—“Can't you call to mind, ma'am, Polly Harris, that
lived five years at your brother Squire Elton's?”

“Yes, yes, I recollect you now; but you married and
went away; and people should get their victuals where they
do their work.”

“I did not come to beg,” replied the woman.

“That may be,” said Mrs. Wilson; “but it is a very poor
calculation for the people that move into the new countries
to come back upon us as soon as they meet with any trouble.
I wonder our Select Men don't take it in hand.”

“Ah! ma'am!” said the woman, “I guess you was never
among strangers; never knew what it was to long to see your
own people. Oh it is a heart-sickness, that seems to wear
away life!”

“Whether I was, or was not, I don't know what that signifies
to you; I should be glad to know what your business
is with me, if you have any, which I very much doubt.”

“I am afraid, ma'am, you will not see fit to make it your
business,” said the poor woman; and she sighed deeply, and
hesitated, as if she was discouraged from proceeding, but the
piteous condition of her children stimulated her courage.
“Well, ma'am, to begin with the beginning of my troubles,
as I was saying, I lived five years with your brother.”

“Troubles!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilson, “you had an easy
life enough of it there; you was always as plump as a partridge,
and your cheeks as red as a rose!”

“I had nothing to complain of but that I could never get
my pay when I wanted it. There never was a nicer woman
than Miss Elton. I believe she saved my life once when I
had the typus fever; but then every body knew she never had
the use of much money; she never seemed to care any thing
about it—when she had any I could always get it; I hope
no offence, but every body knows the Squire was always a
scheming, and seldom had the money ready to pay his just debts.
I am afraid the child tires you, miss;” she continued, turning
to Jane, who had walked to the window to hide the emotion
the woman's remarks produced.

“No,” replied Jane, “I had rather keep it;” and the
woman proceeded—

“It lacked but six weeks of the five years I had lived
at the Squire's, when I was married to Rufus Winthrop.
When Rufus came to a settlement with the Squire, there was
a hundred dollars owing to me. We were expecting to move
off at a great distance, beyond the Genesee, and Rufus
pressed very hard for the payment: the Squire put him off
from time to time: Rufus was a peaceable man, and did not

want to go to law, and so the upshot of it was, the Squire
persuaded him to to take his note—

“That's a very likely story,” said Mrs. Wilson, impatiently
interrupting the narrative—“I don't believe one word of
it.”

“Well, ma'am,” replied Mrs. Winthrop, “I have that
which must convince you;” and she took from an old pocket-book
a small piece of paper, and handed it to Mrs. Wilson—
“there is the identical note, ma'am, you can satisfy yourself.”

Jane cast her eye on the slip of paper in her aunt's hand;
it was but too plainly written in her father's large and singular
character. Mrs. Wilson coldly returned it, saying, in a
moderate tone, “It is as good to you now as a piece of white
paper.”

“Then I have nothing in this world,” said the poor woman,
bursting into tears, “but my poor sick, destitute children.”

“How came you in such a destitute condition?” inquired
Mrs. Wilson, who, now that she saw the woman had no direct
claim on her, was willing to hear her story.

“Oh,” answered the poor creature, “it seemed as if every
thing went cross-grained with us. There was never a couple
went into the new countries with fairer prospects; Rufus had
tugged every way to save enough to buy him a small farm.
When we got to Buffalo, we struck down south, and settled
just on the edge of Lake Erie. We had a yoke of oxen, but
one of them was pretty much beat out on the road, and died
the very day after we got to our journey's end: there was a
distemper among the cattle the next winter, and we lost the
other ox and our cow. In the spring, Rufus took the long
ague, working out in the swampy ground in wet weather, and

that held him fifteen months; but he had made some clearings,
and we worried through; and for three years we seemed
to be getting along ahead a little. Then we both took the
lake fever: we had neither doctor nor nurse: our nighest
neighbors were two miles off; they were more forehanded
than we, and despert kind, but it was not much they could
do, for they had a large sick family of their own. The fever
threw my poor husband into a slow consumption, and he died,
ma'am, the 20th of last January, and that poor baby was born
the next week after he died. It seemed as if nothing could
kill me, though I have a weakness in my bones 'casioned by
the fever, and distress of mind, that I expect to carry to my
grave with me. Sometimes my children and I would almost
starve to death; but Providence always sent some relief.
Once there was a missionary put up with us; he looked like
a poor body, but he left me two dollars; and once a Roman
Catholic priest that was passing over into Canada, gave me
a gold piece, and that I saved, till I started on my journey.
While my husband was sick, he had great consarn upon his
mind about Squire Elton's note; we had heard rumours like
that he had broke; but Rufus nor I could not believe but
what there would be enough to pay the note, out of all his
grandeur, and so Rufus left it in strict charge with me to
come back as soon as I could after the spring opened. And
so, ma'am, as soon as the roads were a little settled, I pulled
up stakes and came off. My good christian neighbours helped
me up to Buffalo. I have been nine weeks getting from
there, though I was favoured with a great many rides”—

Here Mrs. Wilson interrupted the unfortunate narrator,
saying,—“I cannot see what occasion there was for you to be
nine weeks on the road; I have known persons to go from
Boston to the Falls, and back again, in three weeks.”

“Ah, ma'am!” replied the woman, “there is a sight of
difference between a gentleman riding through the country
for pleasure, with plenty of money in his pocket, and a poor
sickly creature, begging a ride now and then of a few miles,
and then walking for miles with four little children, and one
a baby.”

“Four! your story grows — I thought you had but
three.”

“I have but three, ma'am; I buried my only girl, the
twin to the second boy, at Batavy. She never was hearty,
and the travelling quite overdid her.” The afflicted woman
wiped away the fast gathering tears with a corner of her
apron, and went on. “At Batavy I believe I should have
gived out, but there was a tender-hearted gentleman from the
eastward, going on to see the Falls, and he paid for my passage,
and all my children's, in a return-stage, quite to Genevy.
This was a great relief to my spirits, and easement to the
children's feet; and so after that, we came on pretty well,
and met with a great deal of kindness; but, oh! ma'am, 'tis
a wearisome journey.”

“And here you are,” said Mrs. Wilson; “and I suppose
the town must take care of you.”

“I did not mean to be a burden to the town,” replied the
woman. “If it pleased the Lord to restore my health, and if
I could have got the hundred dollars, I would not have been
a burden to any body. I calculated to hire me a little place,
bought a loom, and turned my hand to weaving—I am a master
weaver, ma'am.”

“I am sorry for you, good woman,” said Mrs. Wilson.
“Here,” said she, after rummaging her pocket and taking out
a reluctant nine-pence; “Here is a `widow's mite' for you.
I can't give you the least encouragement about my brother's

debt. He left nothing but a destitute child that I have had
to support ever since his death.”

“Is that little Jane?” exclaimed the woman, for the first
time recalling to mind the features of our heroine. “Well,”
added she, surveying her delicate person with a mingled expression
of archness and simplicity, “I think it can't have
cost you much to support her, ma'am. I wonder I did not
know you,” she continued, “when you took my baby so
kindly. It was just like you. I used to set a great store by
you. But you have grown so tall, and so handsome; as to
the matter of that, you was always just like a Lon'on doll.”

Jane replaced the child in the mother's lap, and said to
Mrs. Winthrop, “I recollect you perfectly, Polly. You were
very good to me.”

I could not help it, for you was always as pleasant as a
little lamb, and as chipper as a bird; but,” said she, observing
the too evident traces of tears on Jane's cheeks, “I am
sorry if I have touched your feelings about the money. I
never mistrusted that it was you.”

“Do not be uneasy on that account,” replied Jane. “I
am glad I have heard your story, Polly.”

She had listened to the unfortunate woman's history
with the keenest anguish. There is no feeling so near of kin
to remorse as that which a virtuous child suffers frrom the
knowledge of a parent's vices. The injustice of her father
appeared to Jane to have either caused or aggravated every
evil the poor woman had suffered. Each particular was
sharper than a serpent's tooth to our unhappy orphan. She
had not that convenient moral sense, quick to discern and
lament the faults of others, but very dull in the perception of
our own duties. It was the work of an instant with her to
resolve to appropriate her newly acquired treasure to the reparation

of her father's injustice; and with the hasty generosity
of youth, she left the room to execute her purpose.
But, when she took the pocket-book from its hiding-place, and
saw again that which she had looked upon with so much joy,
as the price of liberty and the means of independence, her
heart misgave her; she felt like a prisoner, the doors of
whose prison-house have been thrown open to him, who sees
the inviting world without, and who is called upon, in the
spirit of martyrdom, to close the door, and bar himself from
light and hope. Those who have felt the difficulty of sacrificing
natural and virtuous wishes to strict justice, will pardon
our heroine a few moments' deliberation. She thought
that, as the money had been chiefly the avails of the articles
given her by Mr. Lloyd, it could not be considered as derived
from her father. She thought how much Mary Hull had exerted
herself, and how disappointed she would be; the engagement
with Mr. Evertson occurred to her, and she was
not certain it would be quite right to break it; and, last of
all, she thought, that if her present plans succeeded, it could
not be very long before she might earn enough to cancel the
debt. Jane had not been used to parleying with her duties,
or stifling the voice of conscience; and in a moment the recollection
of her father's dishonesty, and the poor woman's
perishing condition, swept away every selfish consideration.
“Oh, Lord!” she exclaimed, “if I have not compassion on
my fellow-servant, how can I hope for thy pity.”

We would recommend to all persons, placed in similar
circumstances, to all who find almost as many arguments for
the wrong as for the right, to bring to their aid the certain
light of Scripture, and we think they will be altogether persuaded
to be like our heroine, not “saving her bonds.” Sure
we are, that she was never more to be envied than when, at the

sound of the closing of the parlour door, she flew down stairs,
joined Mrs. Winthrop just as she was saying, half sobbing, to
her children, “Come, boys—I am poor now, for my hope is
all gone;” and walking a little distance, till a sharp angle in
the road concealed them from the house, she said, “Polly,
here is a hundred dollars. I know the debt my father owed
you amounts to a good deal more now, but this is all I have,—
take it. It is not probable that I shall ever be able to pay
the rest, but I shall never forget that I owe it.”

Mrs. Winthrop was for a moment dumb with surprise;
then bursting into tears of gratitude and joy, she would have
overwhelmed Jane with thanks, but she stopped her, saying,
“No, Polly, I have only done what was right. I have two
favours to beg of you—say nothing to any body in the world,
of your having received this money from me; and,” added
she, faltering, “do not, again, tell the story of the —” injustice,
she would have said, but the word choked her. “I
mean, do not say, to any one, that my parents did not pay
you.”

“Oh! Miss Jane,” replied the grateful creature, “I'll
mind every thing you tell me, just as much as if it was spoken
to me right out of Heaven.”

And we have reasons to believe, she was quite as faithful
to her promise as could have been expected; for she was
never known to make any communication on the subject, except
that, when some of her rustic neighbours expressed their
surprise at the sudden and inexplicable change in her circumstances,
she would say, “She came by it honestly, and
by the honesty of some people too, who she guessed, though
they did it secretly, would be rewarded openly.” And when
she heard Jane Elton's name mentioned, she would roll up
her eyes and say, “That if every body knew as much as she

did, they would think that girl was an angel upon earth.”
These oracular hints were, perhaps, not quite so much heeded
as Polly expected; at any rate, she was never tempted to
disclose the grounds of her opinion.

Jane had a difficult task in reconciling her friend Mary
to her disappointment. While she felt a secret delight in
the tried rectitude of her favourite, she could not deny herself
the indulgence of a little repining.—“If you had but waited,
Jane, till Mr. Lloyd came home, he would have advanced the
money with all his heart.”

“Yes, but Mary, you must recollect Mr. Lloyd is not to
return these six weeks; and, in the mean time, what was to
become of the poor woman and her starving children? No,
Mary, we must deal justly while we have it in our power. Is
it not your great Mr. Wesley who says, `It is safe to defer
our pleasures, but never to delay our duties?”'

“It seems to me, Jane,” replied Mary, “you pick fruit
from every good tree, no matter whose vineyard it grows in.
Well, I believe you have done right; but I shall tell the
story to Mr. Evertson and Mrs. harvey with a heavy heart.”

“Tell them nothing,” said Jane, “but that I had an
unexpected call for the money, and beg them to mention
nothing of the past, for I will not unnecessarily provoke
aunt Wilson.”

“Jane,” said Mary earnestly, “you must not deny me the
satisfaction of telling how you have laid out the money.”

“No,” replied Jane, “you cannot have that pleasure without
telling why I was obliged thus to lay it out.—Oh,” added
she with more emotion than she had yet shown, “I have
never blamed my father that he left me penniless; had he
left me the inheritance of a good name, I would not have
exchanged it for all the world can give!”

Mary consoled her friend as well as she was able, and then
reluctantly parted from her, to perform her disagreeable duty.
Mr. Evertson was exceedingly disappointed; he said he had
an offer of a very good assistant, who could furnish more
money than he expected from Jane; he had preferred Jane
Elton, for no sum could outweigh her qualifications for the
station he wished her to fill. He was, however, obliged to
her for so promptly informing him of her determination,
as he had not yet sent a refusal to the person who had solicited
the place.

Mrs. Harvey, not content with deploring, which she did
sincerely, that she could not have Jane for an inmate, wondered
what upon earth she could have done with a hundred
dollars! and concluded “that it would be just like Jane Elton,
though it would not be like any body else in the world,
to pay one of her father's old debts with it.” Will not our
readers pardon Mary, if Mrs. Harvey inferred from the smile
of pleasure that brightened her face, that she had sagaciously
guessed the truth? Let that be as it may; all parties promised,
and what is much more extraordinary, preserved secrecy;
and all that was left of Jane's hopes and plans was the consciousness
of having acted right—from right motives. Could
any one have seen the peacefulness of her heart, he would
have pronounced that consciousness a treasure that has no
equivalent.

Thus our horoine, placed in circumstances which would
have made some desperate, and most discontented; by
`keeping her heart with all diligence,' proved that `out of it
are the issues of life;' she was first resigned, and then happy.
She was on an eminence of virtue, to which the conflicts and
irritations of her aunt's family did not reach.